Page 115 of The Love Letter

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On arrival at Cork airport, Joanna went to the car-hire desk and rented a Fiesta. Having furnished herself with a map and some Irish pounds, she followed the signs to the N71 and was surprised that the main road from the airport resembled a byroad from her native Yorkshire. The late-February day was sunny and she took in the fast-burgeoning green of the rolling fields on either side of her.

An hour later, Joanna found herself driving down a steep hill into Rosscarbery village. To her left, a deep estuary bordered by a low wall stretched into the sea far away. Houses, cottages and bungalows were dotted on either side of it. When she reached the bottom of the hill, Joanna stopped the car to take a better look. The tide was out and all manner of bird life was swooping down onto the sand, and a bevy of swans were floating gracefully on a large pool of water left behind by the tide.

After getting out of the car, Joanna leant against the low wall, breathing in deeply. The air smelt so different to that of London: clean, fresh, with a hint of salt that indicated that the Atlantic was less than a mile away. It was then that she saw the house. It stuck right out into the estuary at the end of a narrow causeway, built on a bed of rock with water surrounding it on three sides. It was large, covered in grey slate, a weathervane on the chimney spinning slightly in the breeze. From the description Marcus had given her of a big house out in the bay, surely this had to be it?

A cloud swept over the sun, casting a shadow across the bay and onto the house. Joanna shuddered suddenly, then walked back to her car, started the engine and drove off.

That evening, Joanna sat in the cosy bar of the hotel she had checked in to, and sipped a hot port by the fire. She felt more relaxed than she’d felt for weeks, and even though thoughts of Marcus – under whose name the reservation was made – filled her head, she had fallen asleep that afternoon on the big old double bed in her room. She’d only lain down on it to study the map of Rosscarbery, and the next thing she knew, it was seven o’clock and the room was in darkness.

It’s because I feel safe here, she thought.

‘Will ye be wanting to take your supper in the dining room or here by the fire?’

It was Margaret, wife of Willie, the jovial owner and landlord.

‘Here will do just fine, thanks.’

Joanna sat eating her bacon, cabbage and potatoes and watched as a trail of locals came through the door. Young and old, they all knew each other and seemed to be on intimate terms with the minutiae of each other’s lives. Feeling sated after her supper, she sauntered towards the bar and ordered a final pre-bedtime hot port.

‘You here for a holiday, so?’ a middle-aged man in overalls and wellingtons asked her from his perch by the bar.

‘Partly,’ she replied. ‘I’m also searching for a relative of mine.’

‘Sure, there’s always people coming over here looking for a relative. It might be said our blessed country managed to germinate half the Western hemisphere.’

This elicited chuckles from the other drinkers in the bar.

‘So, what would your relative be called then?’ asked the man.

‘Michael O’Connell. I’d reckon he was born here around the turn of the century.’

The man rubbed his chin. ‘There’s bound to be a few of those, being as it is such a common name hereabouts.’

‘Have you any idea where I could check?’

‘The register of births and deaths, next door to the chemist in the square. And the churches, of course. Or you could go into Clonakilty where your man has started up a business tracing Irish heritage.’ He drained his pint of stout. ‘He’s bound to find an O’Connell that’s related to you on his computer, long as you’ve paid him his fee.’ The man winked at his neighbour on the bar stool next to him. ‘Strange really, how times change. Sixty years ago we were bogmen who’d crawled out from under a stone. Nobody wanted to exchange the time of day with us. Now, even the President of the United States wants to be related to us.’

‘True, true,’ nodded his neighbour.

‘Do you by any chance know who owns the house sticking out into the estuary? The grey stone one, with the weathervane?’ Joanna asked tentatively.

An old woman dressed in an ancient anorak, a woollen hat covering her hair, studied Joanna from her seat in the corner with sudden interest.

‘Ah, jaysus, that old wreck?’ said the man. ‘It’s been empty as long as I’ve been living here. You’d have to be asking Fergal Mulcahy, the local historian, maybe. I think it was owned by the British once, long ago. They used it as a coastguards’ outpost, but since then . . . I’d say there’s a lot of property lying about these parts without an owner to tend to it.’

‘Thanks anyway.’ Joanna took the hot port from the bar. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Night, missus. Hope you find yer roots.’

The old woman in the corner stood up soon after Joanna left and headed for the door.

The man at the bar nudged his neighbour at the woman’s departure. ‘Should have sent her down to mad Ciara Deasy. She’d be sure to spin her a tale or two of the O’Connells of Rosscarbery.’

Both men chuckled and ordered another round of Murphy’s on the strength of the joke.

The next morning, after a big Irish breakfast, Joanna prepared to go out. The weather was filthy, the spring promise of yesterday forestalled by a grim, grey rain that shrouded the bay below her in mist.