The Ghostlights

Gráinne Murphy

Description

Can we ever truly escape our past?

The Ghostlights is the poignant story of a family of Irish women who are each looking for the real meaning of home. This is a novel about family, obligation, identity and small-town life, written with deftness and sensitivity by the author of Where the Edge Is.

When a stranger checks into a family B&B – in a small village in rural Ireland – no one takes too much notice... at least until his body is found in the lake four days later.

The identity of the unknown guest raises questions for polar opposite twin sisters Liv and Marianne and their mother Ethel, all of whom feel trapped by the choices they made earlier in life. They each find themselves forced to confront their past, their present and what they really want from their future.

The new novel from Gráinne Murphy, whose short fiction has been longlisted for 2021 Sunday Times Audible Short Story Award.

‘A tale of life’s disappointments with a delightfully wry humour’ The Times
‘Gloriously rich’ Sunday Independent
‘A satisfying read’ Irish Times
‘Beautifully observed’ WI Magazine
‘A subtle, penetrating delight’ Joanna Glen, Shortlisted for the Costa First Novel Award
‘Funny and moving’ Elske Rahill, author of An Unravelling
‘Unflinching look at the choices we make and their impact on those around us’ Damhnait Monaghan, author of New Girl in Little Cove

Sujets

• Fiction
• Small Town
• Literature
• Rural
• Literary

Informations

• Publié par: Legend Press
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781800319424
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE GHOSTLIGHTS
Gr inne Murphy
Legend Press Ltd, 51 Gower Street, London, WC1E 6HJ info legendpress.co.uk | www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents Gr inne Murphy 2021
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
Print ISBN 978-1-80031-9-417
Ebook ISBN 978-1-80031-9-424
Set in Times. Printing managed by Jellyfish Solutions Ltd
Cover design by Kari Brownlie | www.karibrownlie.co.uk
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Gr inne Murphy grew up in rural West Cork, Ireland. At university she studied Applied Psychology and Forensic Research. In 2011 she moved with her family to Brussels for 5 years. She has now returned to West Cork, working as a self-employed language editor specialising in human rights and environmental issues.
Gr inne s debut novel Where the Edge Is was published by Legend Press in 2020.
Visit Gr inne www.grainnemurphy.ie
Follow her on Twitter @GraMurphy
and Instagram @gramurphywriter
For Dee and all the sisters everywhere
AUTHOR S NOTE
In June 2009, a man s body was found on the beach in Co. Sligo. Despite checking into a local hotel under the name Peter Bergmann, that did not appear to be his real name and his identity remains unknown. The Ghostlights was inspired by the story of Peter Bergmann, but the characters, location and circumstances in the story are entirely fictional.
CONTENTS
GOOD FRIDAY
THREE DAYS EARLIER
HOLY TUESDAY - MARIANNE
HOLY TUESDAY - ETHEL
HOLY TUESDAY - LIV
HOLY TUESDAY - ETHEL
SPY WEDNESDAY - MARIANNE
SPY WEDNESDAY - LIV
SPY WEDNESDAY - ETHEL
SPY WEDNESDAY/HOLY THURSDAY - MARIANNE
HOLY THURSDAY - LIV
HOLY THURSDAY - ETHEL
GOOD FRIDAY - MARIANNE
GOOD FRIDAY - LIV
HOLY SATURDAY - ETHEL
HOLY SATURDAY - MARIANNE
HOLY SATURDAY - LIV
HOLY SATURDAY/EASTER SUNDAY - ETHEL
EASTER SUNDAY - MARIANNE
EASTER MONDAY - LIV
EASTER MONDAY - ETHEL
EASTER MONDAY - MARIANNE
TUESDAY - LIV
WEDNESDAY - ETHEL
WEDNESDAY - MARIANNE
THURSDAY - LIV
THURSDAY - ETHEL
FRIDAY - MARIANNE
FRIDAY - LIV
FRIDAY - ETHEL
SATURDAY - MARIANNE
SATURDAY - ETHEL
SATURDAY - LIV
THREE WEEKS LATER
FRIDAY - MARIANNE
FRIDAY/SATURDAY - ETHEL
SATURDAY - LIV
A note on Ireland s moving statues / Peter Bergmann
GOOD FRIDAY
It was too early for breakfast. Perhaps he didn t mind. After four days, who would miss another portion of poached eggs on soggy toast? Or perhaps something about the four triangles of toast held apart from one another in their silver rack saddened him. Reminded him of other places. Other times.
He didn t go directly to the lake. It was enough, at first, to know that it was waiting. Water had all the time in the world.
He might have hoped to meet someone but instead found himself outside alone, his face held up to the feeble morning sun as if for inspection. The wind held spring inside itself. A person could nearly hear nature stretch and wake.
The bag would have been the first thing to go, dropped into the black maw of the bin on the edge of the village, the plastic strings uncuffed from his red-ringed wrists. A feeling of freedom then, or something close to it.
He would have walked the length of the village to the hill where the statue stood. Her eyes the same blue as her cloak, cast resolutely upwards, seeing nothing but sky. No flicker of recognition in his direction. How long does a miracle take?
Another turn took him along the lake path, his pockets empty but for his hands. Clutched inside his fingers, the tags he cut earlier from his shirt and jumper, rubbing their edges together, feeling them slide and crack. As a child he likely had a comfort blanket. Long gone from him now but still somewhere. Little that is man-made can ever truly disappear. Except maybe man himself.
At the marshy corner, where the tadpoles were about their mysterious transformation, he would have released the tags, watching them flutter in the lift of the breeze and scatter like starlings from the eaves.
He could have continued on his way. Followed the path all the way around the lake, watching the swan in its solitary majesty. Then back to the house with the primroses around the door. Instead, he left the path and stepped towards the water.
His glasses he might have put in the bin, or, more likely, placed with careful habit on one of the rocks that hid among the reeds on the edge of the lake. Without them, everything was less distinct, but he could see well enough for today.
At first the water would have been a cold reproach. Welcome, in its way. An initial tightening, then loosening the sadness. Allowing a roll-call of his life, maybe. Of people and places and moments. With his eyes on the horizon, he saw low lights dancing. Sunrise, his brain told him, but his heart said they were the ghostlights. Like the girl said, lighting his way home.
The breakdown of the body is the most private thing. He persisted, and who knew but there was one final miraculous pleasure to be found in his own resolve. Deeper and deeper he went until he lost his footing and descended, clothed in the very lake itself.
THREE DAYS EARLIER
HOLY TUESDAY
MARIANNE
You never knew what you might find cleaning the rooms. That was why Marianne liked it, although that wasn t something she could ever admit without risking ridicule. Over the years she had found the oddest items - she would go to her grave remembering the baby octopus in a jar, its little purplish face pressed against the glass. Try as she might, she couldn t shake the idea it was pleading for help. What would drive a person to buy such a thing? And, having bought it, to pack it in a suitcase and bring it on holiday? You couldn t make it up, her dad used to say.
There was a certain satisfaction in observing the guests at the breakfast table, all the while knowing what she had seen of them in private. The woman putting the tiniest little spoon of low-fat yogurt onto her grapefruit as if she hadn t a suitcase full of Toblerones upstairs, the giant airport ones that people bought themselves as consolation for returning to their real lives. Or the couple barely speaking to one another, despite several condoms in their bathroom bin. There was simply no knowing until you looked below the surface. If the job had any kind of beauty, that was it.
What would her own room say about her? Since leaving Ed s apartment - whether technically or temporarily wasn t something she could even think about right now, not with his You can t take it out on me if you are unhappy ringing in her ears - that only left her childhood bedroom here for examination. A grim thought. No matter how well loved, a few dusty books and stones brought home in pockets from beaches up and down the west coast did not a successful picture paint.
What s seldom is wonderful, was all Liv had said last night by way of welcome. Marianne s feet and suitcase were barely inside the door and the smell of fresh laundry and furniture polish was threatening to take the legs from under her and throw her on the comfort of her sister s shoulder.
She was poised to retort that it had only been a few weeks and she had a busy life but bit her tongue. The last thing she needed was Liv to take offence at the idea that she herself wasn t busy.
I had a week s annual leave to use, so I thought I could come and help with the start of the season.
It s quiet, Liv warned. There won t be much to do.
Then there will be less for you to redo after me, Marianne joked and even if her sister didn t join her laughter, oh! the relief of coming back to the very place where all the jokes began.
She dragged her cloth along the windowsill, poking into the corners to dislodge any tendrils of web that might be invisible to the naked eye. Sorry, spiders, no home for you here.
Home is where the heart is.
Home is where they have to take you in.
Home is where the Wi-Fi connects automatically.
There s no place like home, Marianne told her reflection in the window. She clicked her heels together three times and waited. Nothing changed.
She gathered up her bucket of cleaning supplies and moved into the tiny en suite bathroom that Ethel had insisted on fitting back when they were fashionable rather than obligatory. That was her mother all over. Forever wanting to be that bit better than everyone else.
Marianne sprayed the bathroom surfaces and wiped until she was breathless. That was one of her father s tips when she railed at her mother s exacting standards. Keep going until you re good and warm, he advised. Let her see the work on you.
Today s most interesting find was a package of corn caps on the little glass shelf above the sink in the bathroom. Hardly worth noticing, although she did find herself taking a second glance at the neat size five shoes and wondering if the woman was really a reluctant six. She would have to get a look at her gait later.
There was nothing else left to do, but Marianne lingered in the room. If she went downstairs, Liv would be sure to work ostentatiously around her, her tight topknot quivering above her smock (and when, exactly, would her sister stop dressing like a college student?). At best, she would find somewhere else for Marianne to hoover, when all she really wanted was to curl up with a comforting book and na