The Forgotten Secret. Kathleen McGurl

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter 1

      Clare, February 2016

      We rounded a corner, turned off the narrow country lane and onto a gravel track, drove past a little copse of birch trees and there it was. Clonamurty Farm, County Meath, Ireland. Old, tired, dilapidated and in urgent need of repair. But it was mine. All mine, and only mine, or soon would be. A little shudder of excitement ran through me, and I turned my face away so that Paul, my husband, would not see the smile that had crept onto my face.

      I think it was in that moment that I first realised my life could change, for the better. If only I was brave enough to seize the day.

      ‘What a godforsaken mess of a place. Good job this is a hire car. That track’ll be trashing the tyres,’ Paul grumbled, as he parked the car beside a rusty old piece of farm machinery that had waist-high thistles growing up through it.

      ‘I expect it could be renovated, with a bit of money and a lot of effort,’ I said. Already I could see its potential. With the weeds cleared, the stonework repointed, the rotten windowsills replaced and painted, and a new porch built around the front door it would be beautiful. A lazy Labrador sunning himself in the yard and a couple of cats nonchalantly strolling around owning the place would complete the picture.

      As if I’d conjured them up, two tabbies appeared around the corner, mewing loudly, tails held high, coming to see who we were and whether we had any food for them, I suspected. I smiled to see them, and bent down, hand outstretched, to make their acquaintance.

      ‘Clare, for God’s sake don’t touch them. They’ll be ridden with fleas and Lord knows what else.’

      ‘Aw, they’re fine. Aren’t you, my pretties? Who’s been looking after you then, since your daddy died?’ I felt a pang of worry for these poor, beautiful creatures. Though they weren’t especially thin, and their coats seemed in good condition.

      ‘Their daddy. Oh grow up, will you?’ Paul stomped away from me, towards the front door, and fished in his pocket for the key we’d picked up from the solicitor in nearby Blackstown. Actually the solicitor, Mr Greve, had handed the key to me. It was my uncle Pádraig who’d left me the farm in his will, after all. But Paul had reached out and snatched the key before I’d had the chance to take it. The farm wasn’t quite mine yet. I needed to wait for probate to be completed, but we’d had the chance to come over to Ireland for a weekend to view the property and make a decision about what to do with it.

      I followed Paul across the weed-infested gravel to the peeling, blue-painted front door, and watched as he wrestled with the lock. ‘Damn key doesn’t fit. That idiot solicitor’s given us the wrong one.’

      I peered through a filthy window beside the front door. ‘Paul, there are boxes and stuff leaning against this door. I reckon Uncle Pádraig didn’t use it. Maybe that key’s for another door, round the back, perhaps?’

      ‘The solicitor would have told us if it was,’ Paul said, continuing to try to force the key into the lock. I left him to it and walked around the side of the house to the back of the building. There was a door at the side, which looked well used. A pair of wellington boots, filled with rain water, stood beside the step. I called Paul, and he came around the house, his lips pinched thin. He never liked to be proved wrong.

      The key fitted this door and we entered the house. It smelled musty and unaired. It had been last decorated at some point in the 1970s, I’d say. I tried to bring to mind my memories of the house, from visits to Uncle Pádraig and Aunt Lily when I was a child, but it was a long time ago and I’d been very young then. My maternal grandmother – Granny Irish as I called her – lived here too in those days. I have clear memories of one of my cousins: David (or Daithí as he renamed himself after he became a committed Republican), hazy memories of his two older brothers but only vague impressions of a large rambling house. I have better memories of the barn where I used to love playing hide-and-seek with David among the bales of straw. Sadly, David and his brothers had all died young, which was why the farmhouse had been passed down to me.

      The door led into a corridor, with a grubby kitchen off to the right and a boot-room to the left. Straight ahead a wedged-open door led to the main hallway, which in turn led to the blocked-off front door, the sitting room and dining room. This area looked familiar. There’d been a grandfather clock – I looked around and yes, it was still there! – standing in the hallway. A memory surfaced of listening to it chiming the hour when I was supposed to be asleep upstairs. I’d count the chimes, willing it to chime thirteen like the clock in my favourite book – Tom’s Midnight Garden – and was always disappointed when it stopped at twelve.

      We peered into each room. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, a box-room and a bathroom. All felt a little damp, as though it had been months since they’d been aired or heated. As with the downstairs rooms, the decor was horribly dated. I expected Paul to make sneering comments about the state of the place – and to be fair, it was in a total mess – but he surprised me by commenting favourably on the layout, the size of the rooms, the amount of light that flooded through the large front windows. ‘It could be quite a house, this,’ he said.

      ‘It certainly could,’ I replied. ‘And we could come for holidays, let the boys use it and perhaps rent it as a holiday home in between, after we’ve done it up.’ I could see it now. Long, lazy weeks, using this house as a base to explore this part of Ireland. It was within easy reach of Dublin and the east coast, and the surrounding countryside of rolling farmland was peacefully attractive.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t do this place up. We live in London. And why on earth would anyone want to come here for a holiday? There’s nothing to do. No. Like I said earlier, we’ll sell it to some developer or other, and I have plans for what to do with the money.’

      ‘Can we at least discuss it?’ I couldn’t believe he was dismissing the idea of keeping the farm, just like that.

      ‘What’s to discuss? I’ve made up my mind. As soon as probate comes through, I’ll put it on the market. We can find suitable estate agents to handle it for us while we’re here.’ He smiled at me – a smile that did not reach his eyes but which told me the matter was closed. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find somewhere we can have a cup of tea. I’ve got to get out of this depressing house.’ Paul turned and walked along the passage towards the back door. Somewhere upstairs a door banged, as though the farmhouse was voicing its own disapproval of his words.

      As I followed Paul out, knowing there was no point arguing with him when he was in this kind of mood, I realised that he would not be able to do anything without my say-so. The house and all its outbuildings, Uncle Pádraig’s entire estate, had been left to me. Not to Paul, just to me. So if I wanted, I could refuse to sell it, and there’d be nothing Paul could do about it. Except to moan and snipe and make my life a misery, of course.

      It hadn’t always been like this. СКАЧАТЬ