Heartstones (34 page)

‘It was very common in those days, those landed-gentry types almost saw it as their prerogative; a pretty servant girl was theirs for the taking,’ Mrs Flannigan spoke with derision. ‘When my mother told him she was expecting his baby the money was suddenly found to send him back to London and my mother found herself dismissed. It was Dr Brennan that took her in. She appeared on his doorstep with stomach pains and bleeding. He gave her a bed; looked after her until the danger of a miscarriage had passed. Then he himself took her to Dublin to work for a friend – an actor who wasn’t shocked by a pregnant serving girl so long as she was prepared to turn a blind eye to the sort of late-night entertaining that would have got the man a prison sentence at the time. After I was born my mother came back to Carraigmore to work for Dr Brennan. I think, at the time, she secretly hoped Charles would come back to the village to find her.’ Mrs Flannigan laughed incredulously. ‘As if he ever would have; he probably didn’t even remember her! The war was on in England and my mother used to listen to the news and worry he’d be killed in action as much as if she’d been his wife. In the end Charles Shaw was killed, not in action but dancing with a Wren at the Café de Paris on the night it got hit by a bomb.

‘My mother was never the same. Now they’d probably say she had a breakdown or give her a condition with some complicated name, in those days she was simply suffering from her nerves. Dr Brennan was very good to her, kept her going with various pills and his support. She couldn’t cope when he left for Africa and then, what with me and the baby,’ Mrs Flannigan sighed, ‘by the time I came back from that godforsaken laundry the new doctor had had her put in the asylum.’

‘That’s awful,’ whispered Phoebe.

Mrs Flannigan shrugged. ‘I returned to Carraigmore with nothing – I’d lost my mother, my baby, and my home – my job at O’Leary’s had gone to someone who could read and write. It was no wonder I agreed to marry that old goat Fibber Flannigan when he asked me.’ The old woman stopped and her watery eyes followed a passing gull across the sky until it became a speck on the horizon and vanished. ‘I had eight miscarriages before Fibber and Mauve were born – each one a penance for what I had done.’

Phoebe touched her arm. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you, dragging up the past.’ The two women were silent for a while then Mrs Flannigan sniffed and pulled her cardigan around her chest. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve better things to be doing than sitting around chatting all afternoon, though I’m not looking forward to the steep walk back up that lane.

Phoebe tried to hand back the birth certificate. Mrs Flannigan shook her head.

‘You keep it, girl. It’s not as if I can read a word of it anyway.’ With difficulty she eased herself down from the slipway until she was standing on the sand.

‘Wait.’ Phoebe jumped down beside Mrs Flannigan. ‘Did Anna Brennan know that her uncle was your father?’

‘Oh yes – she told me that Gordon Brennan had told her when they got to Africa. I think that’s why she was so happy to take my baby; even if she never guessed that it was Michael’s she knew it was part of her family.’

‘Wait till I tell Nola she’s a Shaw after all.’ Phoebe smiled. ‘She’ll be so pleased.’

‘And you,’ asked Mrs Flannigan with unusual softness. ‘Are you pleased?’

‘Yes, yes I am. But isn’t it strange the way that things work out? I’m actually living in my ancestral home after all.’ They both looked up at the Castle. Honey and Boza and their kite had gone and the setting sun lit up the windows.

Mrs Flannigan let out a long breath. ‘Some things are meant to be.’

‘Come on,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll walk back to the pub with you. You can lean on me if you like.’ Phoebe put out her arm and Mrs Flannigan took it. Slowly they set off up the beach towards the lane with Poncho beside them. ‘I’ll see if Katrina will make us a cup of tea?’

‘If you like.’ Mrs Flannigan shrugged, then suddenly gave a little grin. ‘Rosa’s made her famous ginger and honey cookies. Ginger always helps if you’re feeling sick.’

Phoebe wondered how she knew. Lately she felt nauseous all the time.

Mrs Flannigan stopped suddenly. ‘What’s that?’ She kicked at something at her feet, half buried in the soft, dry sand. Phoebe pushed Poncho’s inquisitive nose away and bent to pick it up. Warmed by the sun and as smooth as new-born skin, the pale pink stone had been worn into the most perfect heart Phoebe had ever seen.

She looked at Mrs Flannigan, ‘You’ve found a heart stone, the best one ever.’

Mrs Flannigan grunted, but Phoebe could see that a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, ‘Keep it. It can be the first gift for your baby.’

‘My baby?’

‘The baby that you’re carrying. You must be three months gone, I’d say.’

Phoebe touched her stomach; it felt flat beneath the cotton of her dress. ‘How did you know? I haven’t even told Theo yet.’

Mrs Flannigan had started to walk on ahead with surprising speed. She stopped and turned back to Phoebe.

‘Haven’t you learned yet?’ She smiled and her eyes seemed nearly as glittery as her earrings. ‘You can never keep a secret in Carraigmore, even if they take a lifetime to come out.’

THE END

A Perfect Home
by
Kitty Glanville

Claire appears to have it all – the kind of life you read about in magazines; a beautiful cottage, three gorgeous children, a handsome husband, and her own flourishing vintage textile business. But when an interiors magazine asks to photograph Claire’s perfect home her rural dream begins to fall apart. The magazine article leads to a series of tragic events that will be the catalyst for Claire to change her life. This is a poignant love story set against the domestic idyll of roses, bunting, fairy cakes, and D.I.Y.

For more information about
Kitty Glanville
and other
Accent Press
titles
please visit

www.accentpress.co.uk

Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014

ISBN 9781783755493

Copyright © Kitty Glanville 2014

The right of Kitty Glanville to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN