Page 1 of Coming Home to Inishbeg Cove

Chapter 1

Penny

Leaving Dublin earlier had been like a dream. I still couldn’t believe I had done it. Hot tears burned in my eyes as I moved around Lucy’s room in a frenzy, grabbing whatever was nearest to hand and packing it into a small suitcase. Had it really been me who had, with trembling hands, put the case into the boot of the car then strapped our three-year-old daughter into the back seat? As I reversed out of the driveway, his cruel words still ringing in my ears, I didn’t look back at the house. I didn’t dare. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t have a destination in mind; I just knew that, at that moment, I needed to get as far away from him as possible.

I drove on autopilot through the maze of chaotic, traffic-filled suburbs that surrounded our home. Lucy sang along to the songs on the radio, oblivious to the pain I was feeling. My heart physically ached, as if my husband had taken it in his bare hands and twisted it until it was wrung dry. Tears spilled down my face and I couldn’t seem to stop them.

I kept going and soon found myself on the motorway. Fields whizzed past in a blur of green, and I realised that the singing coming from the back seat had stopped. I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see that Lucy had fallen asleep. Her head was tilted to one side, her mouth was open, and her lips were damp with drool. Wild blonde curls fell around her face – curls she refused to let me brush, which made them altogether wilder. Pain seared through me. She looked so like him. Every time I looked at my beautiful daughter, she was a reminder of all that had happened.

After I had been driving for a while, my mind felt clearer. It began to whirr with questions. If Joe loved me, shouldn’t he have begged me to stay? How had he let me walk out that door and take our daughter with me? Why hadn’t he tried to stop me? It was almost as if he had wanted me to go ... but surely even he wouldn’t want that? Would he?

After a couple of hours, I realised I had left the motorway far behind me and was climbing upwards on a narrow mountainous road – a road that, no matter how many times I drove along it, always made me nervous. I wiped away the tears that clouded my eyes. Although I knew the road well, it wasn’t the kind of road you could let your mind wander on. I took a deep breath to soothe the panic that was coursing around my body and drove slowly, meeting each twist and treacherous bend with my heart in my mouth. My car climbed ever higher, seeking out the crest of the mountain until soon we were so high that a thick mist descended upon us and I had to switch on my fog lights. Eventually, the car snaked down the other side again and we finally emerged from the fog. I breathed a sigh of relief when I caught my first glimpse of the brooding ocean in the distance. Its ominous shade of navy blue was streaked silver where it met the sunlight on the horizon. The view never failed to take my breath away. My heartbeat began to slow. I was nearly home.

Soon we left the mountainous roads behind as the road lowered to sea level. The wind whipped through the grassy sand dunes on either side of me. I drove on until I saw the signpost marking the turn-off for Inishbeg Cove, and I felt the peculiar mixture of emotions I always felt about the village of my birth.

I could still remember my nervous anticipation all those years ago when I had left Inishbeg Cove to go to university in Dublin, aged eighteen. My tummy had been full of butterflies as Dad drove us out of the village that day. I knew I would miss my parents and the way the sea sparkled on a warm summer’s day or how the water in the cove glinted orange just before dusk fell. Dublin seemed so far away – almost like another universe to me, a girl who had spent her whole life in Inishbeg Cove.

As I had slid my key into the lock of my student accommodation, eighteen-year-old me had felt heart-sore and overwhelmed. But after a few weeks of acute homesickness, I had discovered that Dublin life suited me. I loved the hustle and bustle of city life. I loved having so many places to go – there were endless cafés and bars right on my doorstep. The anonymity that Dublin offered was like freedom – everybody knew everybody in Inishbeg Cove. You couldn’t walk for a minute without meeting someone you knew. People knew your business, even the things you thought were secret, but in Dublin nobody noticed me, let alone cared what I did.

Even now, after all this time, whenever I returned to Inishbeg Cove, the village always seemed smaller than I remembered, as if it had shrunk in my absence. Although it was always lovely to see my parents, I would usually start to miss the Dublin conveniences after a couple of hours, and I would breathe a huge sigh of relief whenever I was on the road back to the city again. So, to find myself driving towards Inishbeg Cove was something of a shock. It was as though the village was calling me home, the words carried on the sea breeze.

I rounded the sharp bend that led into the village, passing the Welcome to Inishbeg Cove sign that – for some reason – was decorated with bunting today. I went around by the old shipwreck and continued down the main street. More colourful bunting hung in zigzags outside the village hall; it looked as though there was a party taking place. I vaguely recalled Mam telling me about some celebration that was happening that weekend when I had spoken to her the week before, but I couldn’t remember what it was for. I knew I was guilty of being wrapped up in my own life and not paying much attention to the village comings and goings that Mam was always so keen to share with me.

My parents’ house was near the end of the main street, in a terrace of what had originally been fishermen’s cottages. I pulled up outside, silenced the engine and felt my stomach flip-flop. What the hell was I doing here? What was I going to say to Mam and Dad? How would I explain it? They would be wondering why I hadn’t told them I was coming. I checked my face in the mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed and the make-up I had applied that morning was a mess. I found a baby wipe in my bag and cleaned up my face, then I turned around to the back seat and gently roused Lucy.

‘Wake up, baby girl. We’re here.’

I watched her face slowly register where we were as she transitioned from the world of sleep. I climbed out of the car, unbuckled Lucy’s straps and lifted her into my arms. Her breath was warm and comforting on my neck. I breathed in her sleepy scent mixed with briny sea air before walking up to the doorstep. I took a deep breath, pressed the doorbell and waited.

Mam flung open the door. ‘Penny! What on earth are ye doing here?’

‘Thanks for the warm welcome, Mam.’

‘Sorry, love, it’s just a surprise. Come on in.’ She stood back to let us in. ‘Why didn’t you ring to say you were coming?’

My visit had clearly thrown her. Hell, it had thrown me; I hadn’t expected to end up here either.

‘Lucy, a ghrá, how are you?’ my mother said as she took her out of my arms and cuddled her. I followed them into the kitchen.

‘Hi-lo, Ganny,’ Lucy said, and my mother beamed in adoration at her only grandchild.

‘Well, you’re after taking a stretch since I saw you last!’ Mam turned back to me. ‘Sure, it must be almost six months since ye visited.’

A wave of guilt floored me. Had it really been that long? My parents were getting on in years and I knew I should make the effort to visit more often. It was only then that I noticed Mam was wearing a turquoise dress with matching frock coat and an elaborate silver fascinator.

‘You’re very dressed up,’ I remarked.

‘I’m just heading out the door to the wedding.’

A wedding – that explained the bunting. The way she referred to it as ‘the wedding’ implied that I should know whose wedding it was but, although I racked my brains, I couldn’t for the life of me remember who the couple were.

‘Who’s getting married?’ I ventured.

‘Honestly, Penny, do you listen to a word I say?’ She tutted in exasperation. ‘I told you last week, Sarah O’Shea is marrying Greg the American.’

A-ha! I recalled listening to my mother telling me all about how Sarah had met the love of her life after he had travelled to Ireland in search of his ancestors, or something like that. ‘Oh, is that today?’

My mother nodded. ‘You should see them, Penny. They’re love’s young dream! There was Sarah, almost forty, all but given up hope of ever finding someone until Greg arrived here out of the blue. It just goes to show you’ – she wagged her finger at me – ‘no one knows what lies ahead for us. Love finds us, no matter how much you think you can hide from it.’