‘Why’s that?’
Fergal sipped at his fresh pint. ‘Maybe you know how it is in small places. Myths and legends grow out of a small grain of truth and some mighty gossip. And being empty so long, that house has had its fair share of stories. I’d reckon it’ll be some rich American who’ll come along and steal the place for nothing.’
‘What were the stories, Mr Mulcahy?’
‘Come now, call me Fergal.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m a historian. I deal with facts, not fantasy, so I’ve never believed a word of it.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Except you wouldn’t find me down there around midnight on the eve of a full moon.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It is said around these parts that about seventy years ago or so, a young woman from the village, Niamh Deasy, got herself in trouble with a man who was staying at the coastguard’s house. The man left to return to his homeland in England, leaving the girl with child. She went stone mad with grief, so they say, gave birth to a dead baby in the house before dying soon after herself. There are those in the village believe the house is still haunted by her, that Niamh’s cries of pain and fear can still be heard echoing from the house on a stormy night. Some have even spoken of seeing her face at the window, her hands covered with her blood.’
Joanna’s own blood ran cold. She took a nervous sip of the Murphy’s and almost choked on it.
‘’Tis only a story.’ Fergal looked at her with concern. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No . . . You haven’t, really. It’s fascinating. Seventy years ago, you say? There must have been people around at the time who are still living today.’
‘There are indeed. The girl’s younger sister, Ciara, still lives in the family homestead. Don’t try talking to her, mind. She’s always been short of a few punts, since she was a child. She believes every word of the story, and adds her own finishing touches to it, I can tell you.’
‘So the baby died?’
‘That’s the story, although some say that Niamh’s father murdered it. I’ve even heard tell that the baby was taken off by the leprechauns . . .’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Try and envisage a time, not so long ago, without electricity, when the only form of sport was to gather together to drink, play music and swap stories, true or otherwise. News has always been like Chinese whispers in Ireland, each man vying with the other to make his story bigger and better. In this case, mind, ’tis true the girl died. But in that house, mad from thwarted love?’ Fergal shrugged. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Where does this Ciara live?’
‘Down in the pink cottage overlooking the bay, opposite the coastguard’s house. A chilling view for her, you might say. Well now, would you like to pop along the road and have a look through the records my father has?’
‘Yes, if it’s convenient for you?’
‘’Tis fine. No rush.’ Fergal indicated Joanna’s stout. ‘We’ll go when you’re ready.’
The small office that had recorded every birth and death in the village of Rosscarbery for the past one hundred and fifty years did not seem to have changed much in that time, apart from the harsh strip light illuminating the bog-oak desk.
Fergal busied himself in the back room, searching for the records from the turn of the century. ‘Right now, you take the births, I’ll take the deaths.’
‘Okay.’
They sat on each side of the desk, silently going through each entry. Joanna found a Fionnuala and a Kathleen O’Connell, but not a single boy born of that surname between 1897 and 1905.
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘No, not a thing. I have found Niamh Deasy – the girl that died – though. She was registered as dead on the second of January 1927. But there’s no note that her baby died with her, so let’s see if someone else registered the baby’s birth.’
Fergal went to fetch another ancient, leather-bound book and they both pored over the yellowing pages of births together.
‘Nothing.’ Fergal shut the book and a fug of dust flew into the air, making Joanna sneeze violently. ‘Maybe the baby was a myth after all. Are you sure now that Michael O’Connell was born here in Rosscarbery? Each townland or district kept their own records, you see. He could have been born a few miles up the road, in Clonakilty for example, or Skibbereen, and his birth would be registered there.’
Joanna rubbed her forehead. ‘To be honest, Fergal, I know nothing.’
‘Well now, it might be worth checking the records in both those towns. I’ll just close up here, then I’ll walk you back to the hotel.’
The bar was fuller than it had been the previous night. Another Murphy’s arrived in front of Joanna and she was drawn into a group that Fergal was talking to.
‘Go and see Ciara Deasy, just for the craic!’ laughed a young woman with dancing eyes and a mane of red hair, upon hearing of Joanna’s fascination with the coastguard’s house. ‘She terrified all of us kids with her talk. I’d say she was a witch.’
‘Stop that now, Eileen. We’re no longer peasants believing in such fantasy,’ admonished Fergal.
‘Doesn’t every land have its fables?’ Eileen asked, fluttering her eyelashes at Fergal. ‘And its eccentrics? Even the EU can’t ban those, you know.’
