Page 75 of The Women at Ocean's End

As they stood over the newly filled-in grave, Heather thought of both women, buried here together, friends for as long as they’d been alive. She felt Ros’s arm link into her own.

She smiled across at this young woman who had come to mean so much to her.

‘Okay?’ Finbar asked. He had linked his arm into her free arm and they stood there, for a little while, watching the clouds cast shadows that moved across the patchy green fields of the island into the distance.

‘Fine,’ Heather said softly. ‘We’d better pay our respects at Maggie’s grave too, I think,’ she said to Ros. She had already decided to come down here one day next week and clean up both her grandmother’s and Maggie’s graves. It was the least she could do. Would she go and see if her grandfather’s remains were still at the bottom of that well? She really hadn’t decided about that at all, there had been far too much to think about these last few days.

50

Ros

Ros woke up the following Saturday morning to blue skies and the sounds of the swallows nesting in the drystone wall that surrounded the kitchen garden.

It was lucky for the birds that Constance did not have enough money to bring in a digger and huge excavation tools to sort out the little garden. Not that she’d ever have done anything to upset her precious birds. Instead, over the last few days, Ros had set to, clearing back ivy by cutting its thick roots and separating the growth from the ground. This at least meant that for this summer, the nesting birds could maintain their cover and it put an end to the ongoing choking growth of the ivy.

It was a surprise to find a long narrow glass house along one wall of the garden. The door had been wedged closed with time, but when Ros finally battled her way into it, she was rewarded with a thick grapevine growing along one wall and, even though the weeds had smothered much of what might have been planted years earlier, she could tell the soil was rich and free of any pesticides. In the deepest corner of it, she came across two ancient chairs and imagined Constance sitting there with her mother on wet afternoons with the rain pelting against the window while they read or sewed or just watched the clouds roll across the skies outside.

This morning, she had to push herself out of bed. It was, for the first time since she’d moved into the cottage, an effort. Sheknew why that was – it was the day they were to listen to the reading of Constance’s will. Ros had already organised with Jake to come to the house before lunch.

Constance had thought it all out and with exceptional kindness, or perhaps with typical generosity, she had secured not only the future of the home she treasured, her mother’s memory and a future for both Ros and Heather on the island if that was what they both wanted. Constance had literally given Ros the one thing she’d craved for such a long time: a home and a family to call her own. In the last few months, she’d learned that family was as much about what is in your heart as what was written on your birth certificate.

A knock on the door of the cottage jolted her from her thoughts.

‘Hello…’ came the familiar voice from outside. Jonah Ashe had taken to dropping by at odd hours. Somehow, over the course of the three-day-long funeral for Constance, the awkwardness between them had slipped past. Perhaps it had been smothered by the overwhelming grief of loss, but it felt as if they’d moved on, without actually moving on, in some fragile way.

‘Hey, come in,’ she called to him. The door was left on the latch mostly, in fact Ros had to remind herself to lock up at night time or if she left the cottage for any length of time – it was another thing she loved about living on the island.

‘This is…’ He stood in the doorway, his gaze drifting around the room for a moment and his expression was familiar. It was the same reaction everyone had when they first came into the cottage; probably the same as her own that first night. It was like walking into a doll’s house. Everything in miniature and yet, she had the practical conveniences she needed around her; in winter there would be an open fire, a comfortable chair to sit and a table at which to entertain if there was ever someone to invite over for a night.

‘I know, I’m so lucky,’ she said and she got up to switch on the kettle. It was one of those things she did automatically now, sometimes she felt as if she was turning into Constance, except, of course, she’d never be able to turn out a treacle loaf or an apple tart with such ease and expertise.

‘I just, ah…’ He paused as if considering what he might say next.

‘Go on,’ she said, because even though a short while ago she would have enjoyed seeing him struggle to find a word, today she knew none of that mattered. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, he was who he was and she would just have to rub alongside him now she was taking up her new job.

‘I was talking to Finbar,’ he said, as if this was some sort of explanation for him being here. ‘I was talking to Finbar and he told me what Mrs O’Brien told you.’

‘Ah.’ So, now, at least they didn’t have to pretend any more, perhaps that would be a good thing going forward.

‘It’s not true,’ he said simply.

‘What’s not true?’

‘My marriage, it didn’t end because I was unfaithful, it was the other way round. It ended when my wife had an affair, I came home and found them together. It was my heart that was broken. Mrs O’Brien was right when she said I ran away from it all, I came here to get over it.’ He looked at her now and she just knew he was telling the truth.

‘I’m… so sorry, I thought,’ she stammered, felt her cheeks flare up warmly under the misunderstanding. She’d spent all this time convincing herself there was a reason to dislike him and now just as certainly as outside in the garden the season was beginning to turn, she felt that their relationship was moving slowly into new ground.

‘The last thing I wanted coming here was to meet someone new – this is Pin Hill Island for heaven’s sake, it’s the back of thebeyond. I…’ He rolled his eyes and she could see the funny side of things. ‘I get it, I can see why you didn’t like me.’

‘So?’

‘So.’ He smiled now, his cheeks reddening too, then, as if he’d almost forgotten, he pulled a small packet from behind his back. ‘This is for you…’ he breathed shyly.

‘For me? Really?’ She hesitated: it looked suspiciously as if it had come from a jewellery shop. ‘You shouldn’t have, really.’ Now she thought about it, he’d already been so generous during the funeral. On the first day of the wake, he’d arrived at Ocean’s End with two giant cooked hams, sliced and ready to serve. It turned out they were from his own farm and he’d cooked them himself, covered them in honey and apple and stuck cloves in for good measure. The hams were delicious. They were polished off in record time, by mourners arriving at the house and helping themselves to a buffet table that never seemed to empty, thanks to the generosity of neighbours and friends.

‘It’s not that big of a deal. I was in Ballycove and I-I just – I saw it,’ he said, stammering slightly.

‘What is it?’

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