Secrets of the Lighthouse Read Free

haunting those long corridors carpeted in scarlet and never guessed that I would be one of them, imprisoned by the longing in my heart. I never dreamed I would die young.
    I watch helplessly as most of the pieces I chose with such care are lifted and carried and piled high in the vans, supervised by our estate manager, Johnny Byrne, and his son Joe. It is as if
they are dismembering me, piece by piece, and placing my limbs into coffins all over again; but this time I’m sure I can feel it. The George VI pollard-oak library table; the parcel-gilt
mirror; the set of twenty George IV dining chairs I bought at auction from Christie’s. The marble busts, Chinese lamps, my maple writing desk. The ebony chests, the Victorian armchairs and
sofas, the German jardinières; the Regency daybed, the Indian rugs: they take them all, leaving only the pieces of no worth. Then they lift down the paintings and prints, exposing pale
squares on the denuded walls, and I cringe at how ungallant they are, as if these brawny men have robbed a lady of her clothes.
    I fear they are about to remove the greatest prize of all: the portrait of myself that Conor commissioned a little after we were married, by the famous Irish painter, Darragh Kelly. It takes
pride of place above the grand fireplace in the hall. I am wearing my favourite emerald-coloured evening dress, to match my eyes, and my red hair falls in shiny waves over my shoulders. I was
beautiful, that is true. But beauty counts for nothing when it lies rotting in a casket six feet beneath the ground. I rest my eyes upon it, staring into the face that once belonged to me, but
which is now gone forever. I want to weep for the woman I was, but I cannot. And there is no point tearing about the place as I did in the chapel, for no one will hear me but the other ghosts who
surely lurk about this shadowy limbo as I do. I’m certain of it although I have not seen them yet. I would be glad of it, I think, because I am alone and lonely.
    Yet they do not take it down. It is the only painting left in the castle. I cannot help but feel a surge of pride when the doors are bolted at last and I am left in peace to contemplate the
earthly beauty I once was. It gives me comfort, that painting, as if it is a costume I can slip on to feel myself once more.
    Conor and the children settle into Reedmace House, which is built down by the river, near the stone bridge where the goats and troll of my imagination dwell, and Conor’s mother, Daphne,
moves in to look after them. I should be pleased the children have a kind and gentle grandmother, but I cannot help but feel jealous and resentful. She embraces them and kisses them in my place.
She bathes them and brushes their teeth as I used to do. She reads them bedtime stories. I used to mimic the voices and bring the stories to life. But she reads plainly, without my flair, and I see
the children grow bored and know they wish that she were me. I know they wish that she were me because they cry silently in their beds and stare at my photograph that Conor has hung on the wall in
their bedroom. They don’t know that I am beside them all the time. They don’t know that I will be with them always – for as long as their lives may be.
    And time passes. I don’t know how long. Seasons come and go. The children get taller. Conor spends time in Dublin but there are no films to produce because he no longer has the will or the
hunger. The empty castle grows cold as the rocks on the hills, and is battered by the winds and rain. I remain constant as the plants and trees, with no one to talk to but the birds. And then one
night, in the middle of winter, Finbar sees me.
    He is asleep, dreaming fitfully. I am sitting on the end of his bed as I do every night, watching his breath cause his body to rise and fall in a gentle, rhythmic motion. But tonight he is
restless. I know he is dreaming of me. ‘It’s all right, my love,’ I say, as I have said so often,