‘Oh, yes, that’s my little jackdaw,’ Peg gushed. ‘I raised him from the egg and he’s lived with me ever since. I try to shoo him away but he always comes back. There’s no getting rid of him.’ She laughed and Ellen knew that Peg didn’t really want him to fly away. ‘Would you like a cup of tea now?’
‘I’d love one, thank you.’ The jackdaw watched her warily. ‘What’s he called?’
‘Jack,’ Peg replied, then laughed. ‘Not a very inspiring name, but it suits him.’ At the mention of his name, Jack flew onto the table to peck at the biscuit crumbs Peg had left for him. He was so big he dwarfed the biscuit tin.
‘You have lots of animals.’
‘I can’t say no, that’s the trouble, and everyone knows it. Any stray or hurt animal and they come knocking on my door.’ Peg handed her a mug of tea. ‘Milk is in the jug. Oswald comes in at six for a glass of wine. He can’t be doing with tea. I always keep a bottle of claret on the top of the fridge just for him, but if you’d like some, you’re very welcome to share it. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to Charlie the donkey, Larry the llama, my hens and sheep. I only have a dozen sheep. Snowdrop is my favourite; of course she’s a big girl now, but I raised her after the fox got her mother. She kept me up all night with her demands. Worse than the boys when they were babies!’
Ellen sipped her tea and felt instantly restored. ‘Besides the ghastly Waffle, Mother doesn’t like animals.’
‘Waffle’s a dog, I suppose. With a name like that, I hope it’s a dog.’
‘Yes, a very small one.’
‘Maddie was always worried about getting her clothes dirty, even as a little girl. I’m not sure people change all that much. She was like a swan among geese.’
‘You’re not a goose, Aunt Peg.’ Ellen laughed.
‘Compared to your mother, I most certainly am. She came out last but all the beauty was saved for her. Not that it matters. I’m old and wise now and know that beauty counts for nothing if a person’s not beautiful on the inside.’
‘I don’t think Mother cares too much what’s on the inside.’
‘Well, she did once. Still, as long as she’s happy.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you fancy another cigarette before Oswald gets here? He doesn’t like smoking so I try to have one a little before he arrives so that the place doesn’t smell.’
‘Yes, please,’ Ellen replied. It was true that Peg wasn’t a beauty like her sister, but she had the wide, friendly face of a person always ready to see the good in others. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you, Aunt Peg. To think, if I hadn’t rummaged through Mother’s letters, I might never have known you existed.’
Peg handed her niece the packet and Ellen placed a cigarette between her lips. ‘It’s never too late. All the rivers flow into the sea one way or another. She tried to keep us hidden but you’ve found us all on your own.’
They lit their cigarettes and sipped their tea in the cosy warmth of the kitchen. Peg chatted on about her family, her Irish accent curling around her words like pigs’ tails, and Ellen was lulled by the gentle rise and fall of her intonation. Bertie lay grunting in his sleep on the mat, while Mr Badger was snuggled up on his beanbag. Jack returned to his perch on the back of Peg’s chair but watched Ellen cautiously, still unsure of the stranger in their midst.
Ellen felt so comfortable in Peg’s kitchen it might as well have had arms to embrace her. In London, her parents’ kitchen was Mrs Leonard’s domain. The family ate in the dining room and Mrs Leonard cooked and cleared away. Being old, Mrs Leonard was of the generation that had grown up with the green baize door, which, since the eighteenth century, had been a feature of every staffed house, and as a consequence she was perfectly at home in her domain behind it. Besides Mrs Leonard there was Mrs Roland, the housekeeper, who lived in the basement flat, and Janey, a sprightly girl straight out of university who was Madeline Trawton’s personal assistant, though Ellen couldn’t imagine what she had to do all day as her mother didn’t have a job. Her father had a driver who spent most of his time chauffeuring her mother to boutiques in Bond Street and charity lunches. On reflection, her childhood had been dominated by Norland nannies in grey uniforms. She couldn’t remember a time when the house hadn’t been full of staff.
Ellen considered her home. It wasn’t really a home at all, but a showpiece, decorated and regularly updated by the famous French designer, Jacques Le Paon – and the kitchen, which Mrs Leonard occupied like a territorial hen, was a functional and impersonal place rarely visited by the family. Not like Peg’s. Ellen sat back in her chair and let the room absorb her. Peg’s kitchen was the very heart of the home and Ellen soaked up the love appreciatively.
After a while, Peg got up to open a window and boil a saucepan of black coffee to disguise the smell of smoke. She glanced at the clock on the wall as the big hand made its way slowly up to the twelve. At five to six, Peg took two wine glasses down from the cupboard and fetched the half-full bottle of claret from the top of the fridge. She pulled out the cork and balanced it on the log pile beside the Stanley to warm it. Five minutes later the front door opened and in strode a reed-thin man of about sixty-five, in a three-piece tweed suit, cap and spectacles.
‘Good Lord, is it that time already?’ he exclaimed jovially as he strode into the kitchen. ‘Ah, the lovely Ellen, all the way from the Big Smoke.’
‘This is Oswald, pet,’ said Peg, her smile almost swallowing her entire face.
Ellen stood up and extended her hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Oswald’s pale-grey eyes twinkled playfully as he shook her hand. ‘We artists are going to get along like a pair of geese on a pond,’ he announced. His English accent was as crisp as fine bone china. Ellen didn’t think he looked anything like a painter. His hands were soft and clean, his tweed suit and shirt perfectly pressed.
Peg hurried to the table with the glasses then returned a moment later with the bottle. Oswald sat down and let Peg pour him a large glass of claret.
‘Well, isn’t this nice.’ He took a sip then raised his glass to Ellen. ‘Welcome to the motherland.’
She laughed, liking Oswald already. ‘Thank you.’
‘This is the land of mermaids and magic. Don’t think that all the stories you’ve heard of Ireland are folklore. No, they’re absolutely true. If you look hard enough you’ll see little green leprechauns hiding out in the heather and stealing coins to put in the pot of gold at the bottom of the rainbow.’
‘Oh, really, Oswald. You’re a rogue.’ Peg laughed, handing Ellen a glass and sitting back in Jack’s chair, with a small glass of Jameson and a jug of water for herself. ‘Don’t believe a word he says, pet. He’s away with the fairies.’
‘And there are fairies, too,’ he added gravely, lowering his voice. Ellen wasn’t sure whether he was joking just to tease her aunt. ‘They hear everything,’ he mouthed, glancing warily around the room. ‘And they steal things, too, so you’d better watch out and keep your valuables locked away.’
‘He’s messing with you,’ Peg interjected. ‘And he’s only had a sip.’
‘It’s true. Come on, Peg. You’re constantly telling me how things have been mysteriously moved or vanished altogether.’
She shook her head. ‘With the house full of animals it’s hardly surprising. Bertie has a thing for shiny objects.’
‘Have you caught him in the act?’ Oswald demanded.
‘No, but I know it’s him.’
‘There, you see, no proof. I told you, it’s the fairies. Has she met Dylan yet?’
‘Not yet. Tomorrow, I suspect,’ Peg replied, a little uneasily, Ellen thought.
Oswald turned to Ellen to fill her in. ‘Dylan knows where all the leprechauns lie buried and he’ll tell you if you buy him a whiskey – he’s creative, like us, Ellen, and consequently a very sensitive soul, though sadly the drink has made him more eccentric than he once was. I’m not sure whether the leprechauns he claims to see aren’t really swimming
in the whiskey in that sodden head of his.’ He grinned, revealing two crooked eye teeth that made him look like a wolf. ‘But he still has a large dose of that famous Irish charm. One can’t help liking Dylan.’
‘All sounds good for my novel,’ said Ellen.
‘Oh, yes, you’ll be very inspired down here,’ Oswald agreed, raising his eyebrows. ‘What’s your book about?’
‘Love, mystery . . . you know,’ she replied vaguely. ‘I’m not really sure yet, to be perfectly honest.’
‘The less of an idea you have the better; that way you can soak up the atmosphere and let your imagination carry you to new and magical places. Leave your London stories behind, they have no place here in Connemara.’
Ellen felt uplifted by Oswald’s advice. She was used to her mother squashing her enthusiasm. She was looking forward to exploring the place and finding inspiration among the ruined buildings and craggy hills. While she hid out in this remote part of Ireland she could work out what she was going to do, in her own time. Peg seemed happy to have her stay; and William, their impending wedding, and her controlling mother, seemed reassuringly far away.
Oswald took off his tweed cap and stayed for dinner, which Aunt Peg called ‘tea’. Ellen presumed he always did. They ate stew, boiled cabbage and potatoes, which Peg called ‘spuds’ and put in the middle of the table to be individually peeled. For pudding she had baked a treacle tart, which was Oswald’s favourite, not that one could tell from the size of him. He looked like a bullrush with a mop of curly grey hair on top.
After dinner, he stepped out into the hall and showed Ellen the paintings he had given Peg, explaining that if he ever fell short in paying his rent, he presented her with a picture. ‘One day, they’ll be worth a fortune and Peg will be very rich.’
‘What good will that be to me?’ said Peg from the kitchen.
‘You don’t know what’s good for you.’
‘Money only brings trouble. I’ve been very content without, thank you very much.’
‘Money’s got nothing to do with happiness, I agree, but it sure makes life more comfortable while you’re looking for it!’ he replied. Then he lowered his voice and pointed to a painting of the lighthouse, before the fire gutted it. ‘There’s your mystery,’ he said, tapping it with his nail.
‘Peg told me about the fire.’
‘Dreadful business. Poor girl. She was only young, not that much older than you, and pretty, too. She had flowing red hair the colour of flame heather, green eyes, skin as white as cream and a wild yet fragile nature. There was something childlike about her. I suspect she was close to the fairies and leprechauns.’ He chuckled and lowered his voice. ‘But don’t tell Peg. She doesn’t like to admit that she believes in that sort of thing.’
‘Peg told me that the husband . . .’
‘Conor, yes, poor soul. If I was him I would have fled, with all the fingers pointing at me and murder unspoken on people’s lips. But he has a house hidden away on the estate and no one ever sees him. He keeps himself to himself and spends most of the time in Dublin, I think. He was a very successful film producer, but I’m not sure he’s managed to pull anything off since Caitlin died. The children go to school there now.’
‘I gather they lived in a castle.’
‘I’ve painted that, too. It’s quite something. Johnny and Joe will take you up there and you can have a look around. For a novelist it’s the perfect place to set a book.’
‘I’m feeling inspired already,’ she replied excitedly.
‘No boyfriend?’
‘No,’ she lied, folding her arms across her chest.
‘That’s a very defensive gesture,’ he observed thoughtfully.
‘I had one, but it’s over.’
‘Ah, you’ve left some poor man back in London brokenhearted, have you?’ He smiled kindly and peered at her over his spectacles. ‘It’s better to break his heart now than break both of your hearts further down the line.’ Ellen imagined her mother’s heart was breaking the most.
Ellen helped her aunt carry the tray of coffee into the sitting room. She had lit a fire and closed the curtains and the room smelt pleasantly of wood smoke. Mr Badger wandered in and climbed onto the sofa with the nonchalance of a dog simply carrying out his nightly routine. Peg and Oswald took their places at the card table set up in the bay of the window, while Ellen sat in the armchair beside the fire and watched as Jack flew in and positioned himself on the tallboy pushed against the far wall.
‘Would you like to play?’ Peg asked her niece.
‘No, thank you. I don’t play cards,’ she replied, wondering where the television was and whether her aunt had Sky.
Peg read her mind. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a television. I have a library of books in the little sitting room where you’re going to write your book. What do you like reading?’
‘Fiction mostly. Romance, mystery, beautiful places. Escapism, I suppose,’ she replied, considering all the things she needed to escape from. ‘And I love historical fiction, too, like Philippa Gregory. I’ve read all of hers.’
‘And you must read the classics,’ interjected Oswald; then he added wisely: ‘In the long run, men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, they had better aim at something high. There, that’s a quote for you. Read Oscar Wilde, Dumas, Maupassant, Austen, Dickens. Read the Greats, Ellen, and you might end up writing like them.’
‘Is that what you do with your paintings?’ she asked with a grin.
‘No, because I am old and I have reached my ceiling in terms of ability. You are young and have a long way to go.’
‘I’m not sure I believe that, Oswald. I don’t think one is ever too old to strive for greatness.’
‘Now you’re teasing me,’ he chuckled.
‘Don’t you think you deserve a little of your own medicine?’ said Peg, clicking her tongue and gazing at him lovingly.
‘Deal the cards, Peg, old girl, and let’s begin.’
Ellen realized that she would inevitably have to find a book to read, if they were going to play cards every evening and there was no television to entertain her. She wondered what Emily would think of that and smiled. She didn’t think Emily would last five minutes in a house without a television. She wasn’t sure she was going to last that long, either. But a house with two eccentric old people and no telly was certainly more desirable than home in London with a fiancé she didn’t love and a pushy mother urging her up the aisle for all the wrong reasons.
She sank into the sofa and stared at the fire thoughtfully. She knew she owed William more than a text – and she should really have been clearer. ‘I need to get away and have some time to think’ was not synonymous with: ‘I don’t love you so I don’t want to marry you.’ The date of the wedding was set for June, almost five months away. The Church of the Immaculate Conception at Farm Street was booked for Saturday 22nd and the reception at Claridges afterwards gave her mother an excuse to lunch there weekly with Mr Smeaman, the oleaginous events manager. She had already made an appointment with Sarah Burton, who had designed the Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress, because Madeline Trawton insisted she wanted a creation no less beautiful for her eldest daughter, although Ellen was quick to recognize that it had more to do with impressing her friends than pleasing her child. Leonora and Lavinia had both enjoyed lavish weddings, but when all was said and done, the brides had taken second place to their mother who had shone more radiantly than the two of them put together.
While Ellen ruminated on her predicament and Peg and Oswald played cards in the bay window, Jack began to squawk from the tallboy. ‘Kak-Kak,’ he went, frantically pacing the ledge where he perched. Then Mr Badger lifted his head and pricked his ears. He stiffened as if every one of his senses was alert to something only a dog can perceive. Ellen watched him absent-mindedly at first and then with growing interest. He began to wag his tail and follow some unseen thing with his eyes, as if it wandered about the room. Then he whined excitedly, his tail thumping on the cushio
ns. It was all most curious, but neither Oswald nor Peg seemed to notice. Ellen pushed herself up from her seat and knelt on the carpet to stroke him. He glanced at her a moment, acknowledging her presence, but was immediately distracted again by the unseen entity.
‘Aunt Peg, have a look at Jack and Mr Badger,’ she said. ‘They’re behaving very strangely.’
Aunt Peg glanced over and grinned. ‘They’re a little eccentric, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s the fairies,’ said Oswald, without taking his eyes off his hand of cards.
Peg shook her head. ‘Don’t you go scaring my niece, she’s only just arrived. I won’t have her fleeing back to London from the spooks.’
‘If it’s a spook, it’s a friendly one,’ said Ellen. Then, as Jack flew out of the room, she added, ‘I can’t vouch for your bird, but Mr Badger likes it. Look how he follows it with his eyes.’
‘Dogs like fairies,’ Oswald commented with an air of authority. ‘But they’re not so partial to leprechauns.’
‘Are you going to make your move, Oswald, or are we going to sit here and talk rubbish?’
He dealt his card. ‘There, old girl, that’ll put you in your place.’
Ellen stroked Mr Badger’s face and soon he calmed down and put his head between his paws. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily before drifting off to sleep beneath the rhythmic motion of her touch.
Ellen wondered what it was that had excited him so much. She didn’t believe in fairies and leprechauns, but thought it quite natural that there should be ghosts. ‘How old is this house?’ she asked her aunt.
‘Oh, it was built in the early eighteenth century,’ Peg replied.
‘So there might be ghosts?’
‘I told you, my dear, there are fairies. Lots of fairies,’ Oswald retorted before guffawing loudly. ‘There, you see, that was a clever move of mine, wasn’t it, Peg!’
‘Anyone died in here that you know of ?’ Ellen persisted. Neither Oswald nor Peg responded and she was too gripped by the idea of the house being haunted to notice Peg’s fingers hover hesitantly over her cards. ‘It’s quite possible, isn’t it, that you might have a resident ghost?’
Secrets of the Lighthouse Page 4