Page 116 of The Love Letter

She spent the morning wandering around the fine Protestant cathedral and spoke to the friendly dean who let her look through the records of baptisms and marriages. ‘It’s more likely you’ll find your fella registered in St Mary’s, the Catholic church down the road. Us Protestants always have been a minority around here.’ He smiled ruefully.

At St Mary’s, the priest finished hearing confession, then unlocked the cupboard where the register books were kept. ‘If he was born in Ross, he’ll be in the records. There wasn’t a baby round these parts that wasn’t baptised here in those days. Now, it’s 1900 we’re after, is it?’

‘Yes.’

Joanna spent the next half an hour looking through the names of those baptised. There was not a single baby O’Connell in that year. Or the years before or after.

‘Are you sure you have the right name? I mean, if it was O’Connor, then we’d be in business,’ the priest said.

Joanna wasn’t sure about anything. She was over here on the apparent words of an old man, and the throwaway comment of a young boy. Chilled to the bone now, Joanna left the church and wandered across the square and back to her hotel for a bowl of soup to warm her up.

‘Any luck?’ asked Margaret.

‘Nothing.’

‘You should ask some of the old ones in town. They might remember the name. Or Fergal Mulcahy, as your man at the bar suggested last night. He teaches history up at the boys’ school.’

Joanna thanked her and that afternoon was annoyed to discover that the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths was closed. Seeing the rain had stopped and needing some fresh air and exercise, she borrowed a bicycle from Margaret’s daughter. She set off from the village and towards the estuary, the wind stinging her face as the bicycle juddered along with its sticky gears. The narrow causeway wound round for a good half a mile before the coastguard’s house came into view. When she drew near it, she propped up her bicycle by the wall. Even from here, she could see there were holes in the slate roof, the windowpanes cracked or boarded up.

Joanna took a step towards the rusting gate. It creaked open. She climbed the steps up to the front door and tentatively grasped the handle. The old lock may have been rusty, but it still knew how to keep out uninvited visitors. She wiped some grime away from the window on the left of it with her sleeve. Peering in, she could see nothing but blackness.

Stepping back from the house, she considered other means of entry. She noticed a broken windowpane overlooking the estuary at the back. The only way to get to it was to walk down into the estuary itself and climb up the high, sloping sea wall behind the house. Luckily the tide was out, so Joanna walked down the steps, slippery and green from seaweed, and onto the wet sand. She reckoned the wall stood about ten feet high, protecting the house from the water around it.

Managing to get a foothold in the crumbling brick, she clambered laboriously up the wall, and onto a ledge of about two feet wide. Just above her was the broken window. Pulling herself to standing, she peered inside. Even though there was little wind outside the house, she could hear the soft cry of it inside. The room through the window must have been the kitchen; there was still an old black range – rusty with neglect – along one wall and a sink with an old-fashioned water pump over it along the other. Joanna looked down and saw a dead rat in the middle of the grey-slated floor.

A door banged suddenly from somewhere inside the house. Joanna jumped in fright and almost fell backwards off the ledge. Turning round, she sat and dangled her legs off the edge to ease herself down before she jumped, landing in the soft, wet sand below. Dusting the sand from her jeans, she hurried back to her bicycle, climbed on and pedalled as fast as she could away from the house.

Ciara Deasy watched Joanna from the window of her cottage. She’d always known that one day, someone would come and she’d be able to tell her story at last.

‘This is your man, Fergal Mulcahy,’ announced Margaret, guiding Joanna over to the bar the next day.

‘Hello.’ Joanna smiled, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. She’d expected Fergal Mulcahy to be a fusty professor-type person with a thick grey beard. In fact, Fergal was probably not much older than her and was dressed very pleasantly in a pair of jeans and a fisherman’s jumper. He had thick black hair, blue eyes and reminded Joanna painfully of Marcus. Then he stood up and she saw he was much taller than her ex-boyfriend, with a far leaner frame.

‘Good to be meeting you, Joanna. I hear you’ve lost a relative.’ His eyes crinkled kindly as he smiled.

‘Yes.’

Fergal tapped the bar stool next to him. ‘Take a pew, we’ll have a glass and you can tell me all about it. A glass and a pint, Margaret, please.’

Joanna, who had never tasted stout in her life, found the creamy, iron taste of the Murphy’s very palatable indeed.

‘Now then, what’s the name of this relative of yours?’

‘Michael O’Connell.’

‘You’ve tried the churches, I suppose?’

‘Yes. He wasn’t on any of the christening entries. Or the marriages. I would have tried the registrar’s office but—’

‘It’s closed at the weekends, I know. Well, I can sort that. The registrar just happens to be my father.’ Fergal dangled a key in front of her. ‘And he lives above the shop.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And I hear you’re interested in the coastguard’s house?’

‘Yes, although I’m not sure it has anything to do with my missing relative.’

‘A grand old house it was once. My dad’s got photos of it somewhere. Sad it’s been left to rack and ruin, but of course none in the village would touch it.’