The Boatman's Wife(3)

By the sounds outside and by the light, it was late. She picked up her phone off the bedside table to see it was nine fifteen. To think she was stretching in their warm bed, and Connor been gone since four in the morning, joining her daddy and Ryan to go lobster fishing in her place.

She had wanted to drive him down to the port, but he’d insisted she stay put.

‘May as well make the most of your day off.’ He’d kissed her on the lips. ‘What time is your appointment again?’

‘Twelve,’ she’d said, feeling a pinch of anxiety in her stomach.

‘Wish I could come with you,’ he’d said, looking rueful.

‘I know.’ Lily had pulled him back down for another embrace. ‘But one of us has to go out with Daddy. He only has Ryan.’

In the first year of their marriage, Lily and her daddy had taken Connor out with them to lobster trap. She had been proud of how Connor had thrown himself into the work. Following her instructions, he’d helped her pull up the lobster traps, emptying the old bait bags and tying in the new ones. But he could never go fast enough for her daddy’s liking, and he often suffered from seasickness. Lily had known what her father was thinking: Connor wasn’t a born fisher like the rest of them.

Eighteen months ago, Connor had got a job as a chef in town, and just a few weeks ago, he’d found the perfect lease for his own seafood restaurant. He’d handed in his notice the same day.

‘Your dad will have to find someone else to fill in once I open the restaurant,’ Connor had said that morning. ‘And you might be otherwise occupied.’ He’d given her a serious look. ‘You sure about this, Lily?’

‘I want to try,’ she’d whispered.

She’d heard his pickup drive off, before drifting back off to sleep.

Lily swung her legs out of bed now and pulled on a sweater. Her body still felt wrapped in the sensuality of sleep. It was strange to be at home at this hour, rather than out fishing with her father.

Putting on some woollen socks, she pattered across the wooden floor to open the drapes. She could look at this view for the rest of her life, she reckoned. Their little wooden house was situated on a rocky ledge above a few other houses, including her parents’. It faced out to the small wharf, which was empty of boats right now; the yard, stacked with lobster traps which needed fixing; trucks belonging to her dad, Connor and Ryan; and the boathouse. Beyond was the bay, and an archipelago of tiny rocky islands, their contours fringed with granite and pine. From this window, she loved to watch all the seasons unfurl before her eyes. The snows fall and thaw, the spring blossoms erupt, and the dreamy calm of summer seas. Right now, in October, it was fall, and the whole world was burnished. Golden leaves reflected in the seas, burnt sienna sunsets, and big harvest moons. Today, though, the weather had turned from the day before, and dark clouds were beginning to stack in the sky, the ocean ruffling as the wind picked up. Lily had been out in choppy conditions plenty of times before. Yet as the sky darkened and it began to rain and then snow, she felt uneasy, a small spike of fear taking root in her belly.

It was a new feeling. As Lily hugged her sides, scrutinizing the cloud formations in the sky, she realised it was the first time she had not been with her father on rough seas. Not in all her years as a fisher. Not only that: Connor was out there, without her.

A gust of wind pushed through the chestnut tree outside the window, showering the ground with gold, green and brown leaves. The branches kept waving at her and she looked past them at the ocean. Trying to remain calm, as if the softness of her gaze could soothe the ocean’s swells.

Dear God, make the storm go away.

She counted the boats returning to port, but none of them was the Lily May. She kept trying to push her anxiety away, but the fact was they should have been back by now if the weather was turning bad. Connor hadn’t been out in the boat for weeks. Would he be able to cope with the conditions?

Lily remembered one of the pure days of rest they’d had, last winter out of season. She and Connor had risen in darkness and headed down to the wharf. Gone out in the boat with no agenda for the day. Just her and Connor, sailing to the island of Vinalhaven on a still January day.

There had been a bite in the air. The darkness filling them like cold soup, and then the joy of watching the sunrise together. Pink and orange seeping skyward above the blue horizon. Standing in the wheelhouse in silence, the putter of the engine as the boat churned frothy, icy water. The scent of gas wafting. Her hat pulled down to keep her ears warm. Connor had produced two pastries he’d made for them – almonds and marzipan – and a thermos of strong black coffee. He’d poured out two cups. The steam had twisted in the air as Lily had lifted it to her lips and sipped. Her first taste of morning brew: a little too sweet, but just how Connor liked it.

Lily pressed her forehead onto the cool glass of her bedroom window and closed her eyes. Listened to the wind stir the branches of the chestnut tree outside. Twigs tapping on the pane. She counted slowly to ten, willing Connor to come back to her across the ocean. But when she opened her eyes again to look at the boats bobbing in the harbour, the Lily May was still missing.





Chapter Two





Mullaghmore, Ireland, 8th July 1992





Birds sang all around her. Dawn was a cacophony of sound and movement. Swallows swooping right in front of Niamh’s bicycle, so she had to keep applying the squeaky brakes, afraid she’d knock into one. She tried to identify the bird songs, but she was bad at it. Her mam had tried to teach her when she was a little girl. Countrywoman that she was, she knew them as if they were family. Niamh recognised the blackbird, its consistent treble, and the wood pigeon, of course. Who didn’t know their distinctive coo? But there was another bird, so loud this morning. A persistent rattle. She recognised its song, but couldn’t quite remember the name. Her mam would know.