Secrets of the Lighthouse (26 page)

She inhales deeply. ‘I hope you’re managing to get some work done, too.’

‘I’m good at multitasking. Julia, my secretary, has gone out to buy you a phone.’

‘What’s wrong with the landline?’

‘I want to be able to call you whenever I like without having to go through your chaperone.’

‘Ah, yes, well . . .’

‘Will I have to ride beneath your bedroom window in the middle of the night to steal you away?’

‘Not if you want me looking my best when you get me home.’

‘Oh, yes, your allergy. I forgot. I’ll have to use the car instead. Not as romantic, though, nor as quiet.’

‘You don’t have to tiptoe around Peg. She knows. I’ve been very honest with her. It’s the others I have to watch out for. Desmond in particular.’

He chuckles, for he couldn’t care less about Desmond Byrne. ‘I don’t think you have to watch out for anyone, Ellen. You owe them nothing.’

‘I know, but I have to be sensitive.’

‘How was Father Michael?’ he asks, changing the subject.

She lowers her voice. ‘You were right. Mum left Ireland because she was pregnant with me.’

‘So, you got him into the corner, then?’

‘Metaphorically speaking, yes. He was longing to talk about it.’

‘He’s only human and it’s a gripping story.’

‘You know, Mum must have confided in Peg, because Father Michael told me that it was Peg who told their mother. Can you imagine? I don’t know how Mother found out, but that could be
the reason they haven’t spoken in over thirty years.’

‘Now, why would Peg sneak to her mother?’

‘She must have had good reason. She’s not a malicious person. But it’s a terrible thing to do, considering her mother’s strong religious beliefs. She must have known how
she’d react.’

‘She would have been appalled that her daughter got pregnant out of wedlock. That’s an unforgivable sin.’

‘It seems so small-minded now, doesn’t it?’

‘There are still lots of small-minded people around, believe me. You come from London where things are very different. People are more tolerant. You can be anything you want to be in
London, but not in Ireland. Certainly not in a small town like Ballymaldoon. They’re very old-fashioned and set in their ways. It’s no surprise that your mother hasn’t come back.
Perhaps she never will.’

‘Time is a great healer,’ Ellen says wisely.

Conor sighs and smiles philosophically. ‘Yes, it is,’ he replies and I know that he’s thinking of me.

They chat on in the senseless way lovers do. They flirt and tease and neither wants the conversation to end. They both wish it was Thursday. But the conversation must end eventually. ‘So,
I’ll come and pick you up on Thursday afternoon?’ he says.

‘I can’t wait,’ she replies, no longer playing it cool.

‘I don’t think I can stand the anticipation.’

She laughs. ‘Oh, I think you can, Conor Macausland. You’re a patient man.’

‘That’s what I thought. You behave yourself now.’

‘I’m trying to write.’

‘Give me a story I can make into a film.’

‘No pressure, then!’

‘You said you were inspired down there.’

‘I am.’

‘Write about the ruined castle we went to see.’

‘You just want me to write about you.’

‘Surely it goes without saying that I’m your hero!’

‘Of course.’

‘Until Thursday, then.’

‘Until Thursday, Conor.’

‘I kiss you all over,’ he murmurs. She does not reply, but he can hear her gentle laughter like a whisper down the line.

He smiles and cuts off. He stares out of the window for a while, at the river that flows directly below his building, and contemplates the woman who stumbled so unexpectedly
into his life that day on the hill and transformed it. He is marvelling at the extent of the transformation in so little time. I could tell him that time is irrelevant. On the earth plane, time is
measured in minutes, hours, days and weeks – from where I stand I can see that there is only one eternal present. It matters not that they have known each other little more than a few days,
for love is not of the earth, but of the eternal present that cannot be measured. It is timeless. If their love is true, they might as well have known each other forever.

I should be pleased that Conor has at last found someone who makes him happy, but I am not. Jealousy eats away at my soul like a parasite. It feeds off me and grows strong. I feel powerless
where I am, unable to influence events or make people notice my presence. Only the birds respond, but I am determined to learn how to extend my power. After all, it seems that all creatures can see
Peg’s little girl as if she were alive. If she can do it, surely I can too. So I go to Connemara with that intention in mind, and look for her.

I find the little girl without any trouble, for she seems to hang around her mother most of the time. So far, I haven’t spoken to her. I am so used to existing alone in this strange limbo
that is neither heaven nor earth, that I am afraid to approach her. She looks like an angel, and as I near her, the brightness that surrounds her causes me pain. I don’t have eyes as I once
did, so it is not the usual pain that comes from looking at sunlight after hours of sitting in darkness. It is hard to describe the discomfort to those who have never been out of their bodies. All
I can say is that the light she is made of is too intense for me to bear.

But she smiles and as she does so her glow expands towards me. I want to bathe in it, but I can’t. I am too dark and fragile. I feel it would consume me like a moth in flame.

‘Caitlin,’ she says.

‘You know my name?’ I reply, astonished.

‘My name is Ciara.’

‘You’re an angel.’

She laughs. ‘No, I’m not. A human soul can never become an angel.’

‘Then what are you?’

‘A soul like you.’

How can she be a soul like me, when she shines so intensely? Why don’t I shine like that? ‘But why are you so bright?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I just am.’

Perhaps she really is an angel and doesn’t know it. ‘Why do you stay here?’ I probe.

‘Because my mother is not ready for me to leave her yet.’

‘Does she know you’re always with her?’ I ask, hoping that if Peg knows, then perhaps Ciara can tell me how to pass a message on to my own children.

‘No,’ she replies without sadness. ‘But I can help her from where I am in other ways besides her knowing.’

‘How?’

‘With love.’ As she says the word
love
her light expands again. ‘ We are all made of love, it’s only a shame that when we’re down here we forget. We forget
who we really are.’

‘Are you lonely?’ I ask, although I know it’s a silly question, because she is clearly not.

She frowns. ‘Lonely?’

‘Yes, I’m lonely. I’m very lonely.’ The words tumble out in a desperate rush.

She gazes at me with compassion. ‘But you’re not alone,’ she replies, and she looks surprised that I could think myself alone. Her gaze sweeps around me as if she is
contemplating other beings that I can’t see.

‘Oh, but I am,’ I groan, and saying it out loud makes me feel more isolated than ever. ‘I saw you stroke the dog,’ I venture. ‘How did you do that? Only the birds
seem aware of
me
. ’

‘All creatures are aware of you. It is only human beings who have lost the sensitivity to intuit what they can’t see with their eyes.’

‘But when you touched the dog, I saw his hair flatten. You actually touched him as if you had real hands. How did you do that?’

She laughs. ‘You can do it, too. You have to concentrate. Your mind is much stronger than your hands ever were. Your hands were so limited and clumsy. It is amazing what you can do with
your mind if you concentrate.’

‘Where did you learn all of this?’ I ask, for she doesn’t speak like a child at all.

‘When you decide to move on, you’ll go there, too, and when you do you’ll realize that home was never here, on earth. Home is where you come from.’

‘But I’m frightened to leave my family.’

‘You never leave them, Caitlin.’

‘I wouldn’t know the way to this home now, even if I wanted to go there.’

‘Yes, you would. It’s love, Caitlin. That’s all it is. Love.’

I leave her at Peg’s house and think myself into the field of sheep. Ciara is right about the mind; it is amazing that without the encumbrance of the physical body, my
mind will take me wherever I want to go. The thought is the deed and here I am among sheep. I stand with them and watch to see if they notice my presence. Of course, they wander right through me
because I am as immaterial as light. At first, I am frustrated. But I remember Ciara’s words and concentrate. I place my hand on their woolly backs and feel nothing. They graze away, unaware
of me. And then it occurs to me that perhaps it is not that they are unaware of me, but that I am like the wind and rain, and they accept me as part of nature. Could it be that? I ask myself.

I concentrate fully on the back of a sheep. I try to imagine the texture of her wool. I try very hard to focus. I kneel down and look her straight in the eye, rubbing my fingers up and down her
long nose. I practise without pause for I don’t know how long. I have no concept of time. Then suddenly, without warning, the sheep notices me and tosses her head. I am shocked. It has been
so long since I have been noticed. With a tremor of excitement I try again. At first, it doesn’t work; I have to concentrate as before, and practise. But then I master it. Mind over matter,
it is really very simple.

If I can stroke the sheep, surely I can stroke my children? If I can affect the living then I can put a stop to the flowering romance between Conor and Ellen. With the force of my will I can
drive them apart. But there must be limits, for surely if it were so easy to influence lives from where I am, then jealous, angry, resentful spirits bent on revenge would wreak havoc. They would
maim and murder without restraint. No, there must be limits to my power, but I will go as far as I am able. I’m not asking for much. I just want what is mine.

Ellen sat in front of her blank computer screen, chin in hand, dreaming about Conor. So far she hadn’t written a word. She was much too excited to concentrate. She
pictured his generous features and his wide, infectious smile, and found herself grinning as she recalled their telephone conversation line by line. She didn’t know how she was going to last
until Thursday.

Frustrated at the lack of inspiration, she went to find her aunt. Peg was moving the sheep into the next-door field, with the help of Mr Badger. ‘I thought you were meant to be
writing?’ Peg said when her niece approached.

‘I can’t think of my plot,’ Ellen replied.

‘Your head is full of other things,’ Peg said with a knowing smile. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk and clear your head of Mr Macausland?’

Ellen smiled. ‘I can’t, Peg.’

‘Well, sitting in front of your computer won’t do you any good either. At least you’ll get some fresh air.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll get lost again.’

‘And your knight in shining armour isn’t around to rescue you. I tell you what. If you walk along the coast you won’t get lost.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Keep to the path with the sea in your sights and you’ll always know where you are.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Ellen replied happily. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘If you don’t, I’ll send Oswald out to find you. And be sure to wear a coat, pet, that wall of cloud is coming this way.’

Ellen set off up the hill behind Peg’s house and joined a well-trodden path that cut through the grass like an old scar. It was a damp day. Light drizzle floated on the
breeze and every now and then a hole was burned through the cloud and the sun shone through, flooding the sea with soft pools of light. She listened to the birdsong and watched the slow wheeling of
gulls and allowed her mind to still in the quiet serenity of her solitude. The more time she spent in the countryside, the lighter her spirit grew. Her chest filled with a fizzy kind of joy she had
never experienced before in the concrete wilderness of London. Out here on the hills, she truly felt that anything was possible, even her novel, her burgeoning relationship with Conor, her newfound
independence, happiness. Somehow she sensed that everything would sort itself out.

After a while she turned a corner to see a pretty little chapel on the horizon. It looked old and abandoned from where she stood. There were gravestones dotted about and a surrounding stone wall
that protected them from the winds that blew in off the sea. A path led down the slope to a little wooden gate that had swung open. Curiosity propelled her forward and she hurried along the
path.

As she walked through the gate, a few blackbirds hopped about stones half buried in the long grasses. The sun shone a spotlight onto the chapel and Ellen noticed that the front door had been
carelessly left ajar. She took in the magnificent view of the ocean, which stretched out vast and wide to the end of the earth where it was swallowed up by cloud. It was a beautiful, tranquil spot
and she thought it a shame that the chapel appeared to have been neglected, like so many castles and houses that lay scattered on the hills like old bones.

Just then, a flash of scarlet caught the corner of her eye. The vibrant colour stood out brightly amidst the green grass and yellow heather. She took in the jar of red roses, surprised that
anyone had been laid to rest here in this forgotten corner of Ireland. They were placed against a gravestone near the wall and were clearly a few days old, for their petals had opened wide and one
or two had already wept like tears onto the ground. She wandered down to get a better look and was even more surprised when she read the name
CAITLIN MACAUSLAND
engraved on the headstone. She bent over and read the epitaph. So, this was the little chapel where Caitlin’s funeral took place, and where Conor was shunned by the locals.

Suddenly a familiar voice broke the silence and almost made her jump out of her skin. ‘That’s the grave of Caitlin Macausland.’ It was Dylan, striding down the slope towards
her.