Coming Home to Seashell Cottage

by Jessica Redland

  ‘I hope you’re not here to seek forgiveness,’ he snarled. ‘What I said back then still stands. You’re dead to me, Clare. And to the rest of your family. You won’t be welcome here again. Ever.’

  He stared at me as if expecting a challenge. For years I’d dreamed of what I’d say to him if our paths crossed again. The scenes in my mind had ranged from a Harry Potter-and-Lord-Voldemort-style stand-off with fireworks and demons – ending with me striking him down, of course – right through to an emotional reunion where he begged for my forgiveness and welcomed me back into the fold with open arms, and pretty much everything in between. But none of my scenes involved me standing in the ruined farmhouse, shaking like a small child who’d just seen a ghost, completely dumbstruck.

  ‘I expect you’ll be leaving as soon as you’ve finished your trip down memory lane?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. Don’t be coming back.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I muttered, cursing myself for not being able to stand up to him.

  He turned to go, then stopped in the doorway. I shivered as he turned his dark eyes on me. ‘He never loved you, you know. He just used you.’

  ‘Daran?’ My heart dropped into my stomach as I whispered his name.

  Even in the gloom, I could see his face redden at the mention of Daran. ‘Some priest in training he turned out to be. He was getting up close and personal with most of the parishioners. You just happened to be the youngest and stupidest.’ Then he turned and left.

  I sank to the floor. Daran wasn’t like that. It was just Da striking out. Again. And it had worked. Seventeen years on and he still had power over me. Bastard.

  10

  Eighteen Years Earlier

  After the céilí, I made it my mission to introduce Daran to the stunning countryside around our village. Well, someone had to. He seemed keen to accept my offer. As we walked across the fields and through the woodland, I’d chat to him about his family and his life in Wicklow. I’d also talk about my family, how Ma hated me, how I was always in trouble with Da, and how I felt I didn’t fit in with any of their expectations of what a good Catholic girl should be. I also confessed that I was a Junior Certificate student, not Leaving Certificate.

  I knew it was cruel, given the career choice he was exploring, but I repeatedly painted a picture for him of what family life should be like – drawn from books and TV, rather than what I personally experienced from my own dysfunctional family – and what the love of a good woman, instead of just the love of God, might feel like. He laughed at first, but then he started to open up and talk about the family he’d dreamed of having before he’d started to think seriously about the priesthood.

  Our favourite place on our walks was a ruined farmhouse in the middle of a meadow. It was so peaceful and so beautiful, with woodland on three sides and open fields on the fourth. Butterflies danced amongst wildflowers and birds chirped in the trees. I liked to imagine it was our home, although I didn’t dare mention it to Daran in case I scared him off. I knew the boundaries. In all our conversations about family, I took care never to share my secret that he was the man who featured in my dreams.

  He only ever asked me about boys once, roughly a year after the céilí. It was late September, a little after my fifteenth birthday, and we’d spent a few days basking in an Indian summer. Lying in the meadow outside our farmhouse, we’d been spotting shapes in the fluffy clouds that bounced across the cornflower sky.

  ‘Why do you spend all your spare time with me, Clare?’ He turned onto his side to face me. ‘Do you not have a special boy in the village? Jamie Doyle, perhaps? He seems pretty keen on you.’

  ‘Jamie Doyle’s an eejit. He’s not for me.’ I shuddered at the thought, picturing his greasy, red hair and the way he always seemed to have white foam in the corners of his mouth as if he’d contracted rabies.

  ‘He’s not for you, is he not? Is there someone else who holds your heart, then?’

  I turned onto my side too and gazed into his eyes. ‘Yes, there is. There’s someone who holds my heart so tightly that I don’t think it could ever, or would ever, want to love anyone else.’

  His eyes widened. ‘And does he feel the same way about you?’

  ‘I think he does, but he’s torn because he has another love too. I keep trying to convince him there’s space for us both in his life, but he’s not ready to accept that. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Maybe he just needs time.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

  Daran turned onto his back again, staring at the sky. I hoped I hadn’t said too much, but surely he’d have left if I had. I turned over and lay on my back again too. As I came to rest, my hand lightly touched his. He didn’t pull away. We lay there in silence, hands touching, while my heart thumped faster and faster.

  One Saturday afternoon towards the end of February, thick snow encased the meadow and weighed down the branches of the trees to the point where many had broken under the pressure. My heart leapt as I spotted footprints in the deep snow leading up to the farmhouse. Daran was early. Grand. I grinned as I stepped easily into his larger prints and danced across them, my breath hanging in the cold winter air.

  ‘Daran?’ I called as I approached the entrance. No answer. ‘Daran?’ I hesitated for a moment. What if the footprints weren’t his? What if someone else had found our farmhouse?

  ‘Daran? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ I walked through the doorway. ‘I was starting to think that… Oh, sweet Jesus, what is it?’ I ran across to him. He was slumped on a pile of rocks with his head in his hands. He looked up. His eyes were red and tears streaked his face. ‘Daran? Are you sick?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Clare. I’m so confused.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re the problem.’

  ‘Me. What have I done?’

  ‘You’ve been you. Beautiful, funny, intelligent you.’

  My heart thumped at his words. Did this mean…? I hardly dared hope.

  He rubbed his cheeks and looked into my eyes. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I love you so much and every fibre of my body, mind and soul wants to be with you. I know it’s wrong, yet it feels so right.’

  He loved me? He really loved me? ‘That’s because it is right.’ I knelt down beside him on the cold floor, grabbed his icy hands and kissed them, my heart bursting with joy.

  He moaned softly at the gentle touch of my lips. ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘I’m sixteen this year. And I’m very mature for my age. You know I am, Daran.’

  ‘I know, but you’re still only fifteen now, Clare. You may not look or act like it but, technically, you’re still a child and I’m eight years your senior. I’m a qualified teacher who’s considering becoming a priest. Neither of those scenarios allows for me falling in love with a fifteen-year-old. I made a vow to God to serve Him, whichever career path I took.’

  ‘You can still serve God and be with me.’

  ‘But I couldn’t be a priest.’

  I kissed his hands again. ‘You could do missionary work. That was one of your options, wasn’t it? I could go with you. I know it’s hard for you, but it’s hard for me too. I love you too, Daran. I want to be with you forever. I want to kiss you and hold you and make babies with you.’

  He let out a shaky sigh. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I want all those things too. With you. Which means I can’t become a priest. I didn’t expect…’

  ‘You didn’t expect to fall in love, but it happened. We can’t control who we fall for.’

  ‘But your age…’

  I placed my fingers across his lips. ‘My age is just a number. I’ll be sixteen on September the fifth. I’m officially an adult then and I can do anything an adult can do. Anything.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not in Ireland you can’t. The age of consent here is seventeen.’
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  ‘Perhaps, but it’s just a number which changes in different countries, so don’t start thinking we’d be doing something wrong because, elsewhere, it wouldn’t be wrong. Other countries class me as an adult.’

  He stroked my cheek. I closed my eyes as I trembled at his touch.

  ‘What about God?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not me or Him, you know. You can have us both in your life. He won’t abandon you for choosing me instead of the priesthood, Daran. He’ll bless you for choosing love instead.’

  Daran wiped his eyes. ‘You make it sound so simple.’

  ‘It is! You love me. I love you. You love God. That’s all there is to it. We can make this work. We really can. Besides, if He really was calling you to be a priest, you wouldn’t have spent eighteen months living in Ballykielty exploring it, would you? You’d have joined the seminary and started your studies.’ I stroked his face and he leaned into my hand with his eyes closed. He looked so serene, so perfect, that I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. His mouth parted slightly as though he were about to speak, but no words came out. I expected him to pull away, but he didn’t move. I kissed him again and again until he started to kiss back, gently at first, then more urgently. He entwined his fingers in my long, loose hair as he kissed my lips, then my neck.

  Finally, he pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, Clare. I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t,’ he said firmly, guilt etched across his face. ‘Because my thoughts were taking me much further than a kiss and I can’t allow them to do that. Not yet. I’ll walk you back to the village. Now.’

  I cried myself to sleep that night, although the words ‘not yet’ gave me hope that, one day, he’d change his mind. And I’d be waiting for him.

  Three agonising days passed with no word from Daran. I went to our farmhouse every evening and waited for hours. On the fourth evening, he appeared in the doorway, unshaven, dark bags under his eyes.

  ‘I’ve barely slept,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be easier if I stayed away from you.’

  I remained slumped on the pile of stones, terrified that he’d come to end it before it had even started. ‘Easier for whom? You or me?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Has it been easy for you? Because it certainly hasn’t been easy for me waiting here for you night after night, not able to come round to your house in case anyone sees me, worried that something might have happened to you.’

  ‘Something has happened to me. I’ve made a decision. I finally know what I want to do with my life.’

  My heart sank. He’d chosen the priesthood. ‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’ I asked, my voice cracking.

  Daran took a few steps towards me. ‘Why would I go and do something stupid like that when all I want to do is be with you?’

  In a fraction of a second, I was in his arms, the place I’d dreamed of being since the day he’d been introduced to our congregation. As he kissed me and ran his hands through my hair and down my back, I knew he’d been worth the wait.

  11

  Present Day

  ‘How were the meetings?’ Ben heaved my case into the boot of his old Focus early on Wednesday evening.

  ‘Grand, thanks.’

  He slammed the boot shut. ‘Did you charm the pants off them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We got into the car and belted up.

  ‘So you saved the day?’ Ben asked.

  ‘They’re still a client.’

  ‘You might want to tone down the enthusiasm a bit.’

  I gave him a half-smile. ‘Sorry, Ben. It’s been a tough trip.’

  ‘Because it involved going back to Cork?’

  I sighed. I couldn’t lie to Ben. ‘Yes. Because it involved going back to Cork.’

  Ben started the engine. ‘Remember, I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.’

  ‘I know. I appreciate it.’

  He manoeuvred his car out of Leeds train station. ‘In the morning, I’m off to Birmingham with work and I won’t be back till the end of next week.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt quite uncomfortable at the thought of Ben not being around for a curry and a gossip.

  ‘You won’t be back for the weekend?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I need to work then too. You can phone me if you want to talk, though.’

  ‘Seriously, Ben, I don’t need to talk about New Year or Ireland, or anything else. I really don’t. Stop raising your eyebrows at me. I’m grand. Honest. What is this obsession with people wanting to talk all the time? Sometimes, things just need to be left alone.’

  ‘Okay. Message coming through loud and clear.’

  I stared out of the window in silence for the rest of the journey. If I’d opened my mouth to speak, I might have begged him to stay because, for the first time ever, I felt as if I might actually need to talk to someone about my past. And if I started talking about it, I might never stop.

  I abandoned my suitcase by the door of my apartment, headed straight for the fridge and poured myself a glass of wine. A very large one.

  Unlocking the patio door, I stepped out onto the balcony and sat down, breathing in the icy night air. The cold metal of the chair under my legs made me shiver but I needed to be outside. Hopefully the wind and the cold might help clear the fog in my head.

  I took a glug of my wine, then another. What a hideous start to the year. Could anything else go wrong? Staring out at the cityscape, I tried to focus on the sounds of a distant siren, honking horns, laughter, music – anything but the confrontation with Da, his suggestion about Daran’s infidelity, and whatever the hell had happened in the farmhouse right before he’d appeared.

  Could Daran really have slept around or had Da just said that to torment me? I wouldn’t put anything past him.

  A knock on the door made me jump. I reluctantly stepped back inside. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Lydia from next door. I’ve got a recorded-delivery envelope for you.’

  Bollocks. I couldn’t face anyone. ‘I’m just out of the shower. Thanks for taking it in but will you leave it outside and I’ll get it shortly?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I stared through the peephole. When I was confident Lydia had gone, I yanked the door open, grabbed the envelope and quickly shut it again.

  The large, brown, cardboard envelope was franked from the London head office. Inside was a white A4 envelope with my name and the London head-office address typed on it. A compliments slip paperclipped to it stated, ‘This arrived for you’. Removing the compliments slip, I ripped the envelope open and removed a stiff sheet of A4 cream paper with a fancy letterhead on it giving the address of a solicitor’s in Truro. My stomach churned. There could only be one reason why that a solicitor’s firm in Truro would be contacting me.

  Dear Ms O’Connell

  At Bowson, Higgs & Crane, we represent the estate of Mrs Nuala Sheedy, who passed away on 18th October. Our Lady of the Portal & St Piran Church in Truro has been the sole beneficiary of Mrs Sheedy’s estate. However, Mrs Sheedy requested that this letter be passed on to you, her great-niece.

  We are unaware of the contents of the letter. However, if we can be of further assistance to you, please do not hesitate to contact the office and ask for me, quoting Mrs Sheedy’s name.

  Yours sincerely,

  Angela Crane.

  I was right. So, the old bat was dead. How did I feel about that? Like I needed a drink! I poured another large glass of wine, then leaned against the fridge, sipping on it. What was in the letter? A plea for forgiveness, perhaps?

  Setting my glass down on the worktop, I retrieved Great-Aunt Nuala’s letter from the bottom of the solicitor’s envelope. A drawing of some rosary beads draped over a Bible filled the bottom-left corner of the small, peach envelope. How very Nuala. I stared at the envelope.

  ‘Do you know what, Great-Aunt Nuala, I don’t want to hear it. It’s
been a long few days. I’m off to my bed.’

  I retrieved my suitcase and tossed the letter onto the coffee table as I walked back through the lounge towards my bedroom.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured that damned peach envelope and Great-Aunt Nuala’s immaculate script. What if it wasn’t what I expected?

  ‘For feck’s sake,’ I cried, hurling back the duvet and storming into the lounge to get the letter.

  Crawling back into bed, I ripped open the envelope.

  12th June

  Dear Clare,

  I’m dying. The doctors have given me until next spring, at a push, but I don’t mind. I’m 76 and more than ready to meet both the Lord and my husband, who joined Him far too early.

  As you’d expect, I’ve spent a lot of time in Confession, preparing for the end. I have a lot to confess and my priest, Father Finnegan, has been very generous with his penance. I feel blessed and forgiven for all but my greatest sin. I have confessed this to Father Finnegan, but I cannot meet the Lord without confessing to you.

  Reaching the end of the page, I slumped back against the pillow. ‘Exactly as predicted. Please forgive me, Clare, for I have sinned, but only because you sinned first.’ I ran my fingers through my bob. ‘I’m a bloody eejit for expecting anything else.’

  I sighed and reluctantly turned over the page, bracing myself for a load of religious babblings.

  This is going to come as a huge shock to you and I can do nothing to soften the blow: Shannon did not die. It was a lie.

  I sat upright, gasping for breath. WTF? I reread the sentence again and again, my heart beating so fast, I thought it might burst. She isn’t dead? What? How? I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times before reading the rest.