Johnny interrupted. ‘She’s come here to write about the castle and its ghosts.’
‘A writer, eh? Fancy that,’ Dylan murmured, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch. ‘So, you chose to come here to write your book when you could have gone anywhere in
the world.’ He nodded to himself again and stabbed at the last piece of sausage. ‘Fancy that, eh?’
‘Fate,’ said Joe, winking at Ellen. ‘Dylan
knows
.’
‘Oswald says you know where all the leprechauns lie buried,’ Ellen said to Dylan. ‘Do you?’
‘Oswald is crazy,’ said Johnny. ‘But he makes Peg happy.’
‘He’s a rotten painter,’ Dylan added.
‘But he’s a demon at cards,’ interjected Joe.
‘He’s a character,’ Ellen said, picking up her glass of water. ‘Wonderful characters are rare and must be treasured. So many people are regular, like bread sauce without
any salt. I can’t bear ordinary and bland. Oswald is made of primary colours. He’s fabulously unique.’
‘You
are
a writer, aren’t you?’ Dylan mused.
Ellen felt a terrible fraud and blushed. ‘I’m afraid I’m not, really. I’ve had nothing published and I probably won’t.’
‘Yet,’ said Dylan. ‘You haven’t had anything published
yet
.’
‘Thank you for your encouragement.’
‘He’s a fortune-teller as well,’ Johnny joked, now flushed with stout. ‘Go on, Dylan. Tell her what’s in her future.’
‘You have writer’s eyes,’ Dylan continued, ignoring Johnny. ‘Deep and enquiring.’ She laughed, embarrassed. ‘And you have a beautiful smile,’ he added
wistfully. ‘Just like your mother.’
Chapter 6
Johnny dropped Ellen back at Peg’s after lunch. She noticed that her aunt’s car wasn’t in front of the house and presumed she must be out, shopping for
groceries perhaps. If Ellen were a proper writer she would now relish the opportunity of having some quiet time in the little sitting room in front of her laptop. As it was, she rather dreaded the
idea of starting a novel, having never attempted to write one before. She lingered outside the front door, wondering what to do. With Peg gone she could call Emily in London from the house
telephone and find out the news, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know that her mother was going crazy trying to track her down or that William was beside himself with anguish. She
hadn’t tossed her iPhone into the sea for nothing. She thrust her hands into her coat pockets and hunched her shoulders. The sky had clouded over, turning the air misty and damp. She could
see the lighthouse looming out of the fog like a ghostly galleon. It looked lonely and cold out there. She wondered what on earth had possessed Caitlin Macausland to row out so often, and at night.
She shuddered at the thought of being alone in the middle of the sea with only the gulls to talk to.
She decided to take a walk rather than face the empty house and her laptop, and set off into the field where Peg’s woolly llama and weathered donkey munched the grass alongside her sheep.
It was strange to be out of communication with her London life. She was so used to having access to her friends at the press of a button. Texts and emails had punctuated her days as often as commas
and full stops on the page of a book. But now she had no means of getting in touch other than Aunt Peg’s landline.
Connemara was so quiet. She could hear the cries of gulls, feel the wind on her face and the drizzle on her skin. She could hear the roar of the ocean and smell the salt and ozone that saturated
the air. And as she did so she became aware of a stillness inside that she hadn’t noticed before. In London, she was constantly on the run: running to get to work on time, running to a
meeting, running to get ready to go out – always running, against a backdrop of constant noise. There was never any time to just
be
. Even when she was staying with friends in the
countryside she was never alone like this: never alone and
‘A writer, eh? Fancy that,’ Dylan murmured, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch. ‘So, you chose to come here to write your book when you could have gone anywhere in
the world.’ He nodded to himself again and stabbed at the last piece of sausage. ‘Fancy that, eh?’
‘Fate,’ said Joe, winking at Ellen. ‘Dylan
knows
.’
‘Oswald says you know where all the leprechauns lie buried,’ Ellen said to Dylan. ‘Do you?’
‘Oswald is crazy,’ said Johnny. ‘But he makes Peg happy.’
‘He’s a rotten painter,’ Dylan added.
‘But he’s a demon at cards,’ interjected Joe.
‘He’s a character,’ Ellen said, picking up her glass of water. ‘Wonderful characters are rare and must be treasured. So many people are regular, like bread sauce without
any salt. I can’t bear ordinary and bland. Oswald is made of primary colours. He’s fabulously unique.’
‘You
are
a writer, aren’t you?’ Dylan mused.
Ellen felt a terrible fraud and blushed. ‘I’m afraid I’m not, really. I’ve had nothing published and I probably won’t.’
‘Yet,’ said Dylan. ‘You haven’t had anything published
yet
.’
‘Thank you for your encouragement.’
‘He’s a fortune-teller as well,’ Johnny joked, now flushed with stout. ‘Go on, Dylan. Tell her what’s in her future.’
‘You have writer’s eyes,’ Dylan continued, ignoring Johnny. ‘Deep and enquiring.’ She laughed, embarrassed. ‘And you have a beautiful smile,’ he added
wistfully. ‘Just like your mother.’
Chapter 6
Johnny dropped Ellen back at Peg’s after lunch. She noticed that her aunt’s car wasn’t in front of the house and presumed she must be out, shopping for
groceries perhaps. If Ellen were a proper writer she would now relish the opportunity of having some quiet time in the little sitting room in front of her laptop. As it was, she rather dreaded the
idea of starting a novel, having never attempted to write one before. She lingered outside the front door, wondering what to do. With Peg gone she could call Emily in London from the house
telephone and find out the news, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know that her mother was going crazy trying to track her down or that William was beside himself with anguish. She
hadn’t tossed her iPhone into the sea for nothing. She thrust her hands into her coat pockets and hunched her shoulders. The sky had clouded over, turning the air misty and damp. She could
see the lighthouse looming out of the fog like a ghostly galleon. It looked lonely and cold out there. She wondered what on earth had possessed Caitlin Macausland to row out so often, and at night.
She shuddered at the thought of being alone in the middle of the sea with only the gulls to talk to.
She decided to take a walk rather than face the empty house and her laptop, and set off into the field where Peg’s woolly llama and weathered donkey munched the grass alongside her sheep.
It was strange to be out of communication with her London life. She was so used to having access to her friends at the press of a button. Texts and emails had punctuated her days as often as commas
and full stops on the page of a book. But now she had no means of getting in touch other than Aunt Peg’s landline.
Connemara was so quiet. She could hear the cries of gulls, feel the wind on her face and the drizzle on her skin. She could hear the roar of the ocean and smell the salt and ozone that saturated
the air. And as she did so she became aware of a stillness inside that she hadn’t noticed before. In London, she was constantly on the run: running to get to work on time, running to a
meeting, running to get ready to go out – always running, against a backdrop of constant noise. There was never any time to just
be
. Even when she was staying with friends in the
countryside she was never alone like this: never alone and
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