The Boatman's Wife(85)

The years passed in a gentle rhythm of devotion and gradual enlightenment. Bob’s hair grew whiter, his beard longer, and his blue eyes richer with compassion every time they talked. Niamh was surprised to see in her tiny hand mirror one day that her own hair was turning grey, and for a moment she felt a small, fleeting dart of sadness at the loss of her red locks, which Jesse had admired so much.

But soon she let her vanity go and moved on to gratitude. This had been her biggest challenge in all the years of the ashram. Every time she had talked with her guru, Bob, he had guided her towards feelings of gratitude. It had been a long journey to observe any blessings in her life. But slowly, she’d been able to feel them. A great love had once been hers. She had brought life into the world.

In the ashram, Niamh had found a tiny pool of peace to swim in. She had believed she would never leave. But this was not her destiny, and Bob had always warned her it would be so.

One March morning, as she sat in the grove of orange blossom trees in the ashram compound, painting a hummingbird as it fed on a red bottlebrush flower, Niamh sensed a shift in the air. A presence from old. Without even looking up, she knew she was here. Watching her. With her dripping paintbrush and easel still in hand, she turned around.

Her mam stood before her, behind her a girl with inky black hair she’d never seen before – and in her arms, a little baby boy. The child looked like Connor on the day she’d last seen him.

‘I’m sorry, Niamh,’ her mam said to her.

She looked into her mother’s eyes, then into the eyes of the girl carrying the baby who looked like Connor, and she knew.

Niamh dropped her easel and brush, the deep red pigment of the bottlebrush flower spattering the dusty earth. She fell on her knees onto the hard ground. She had always known. This was her price to pay for the past.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





Rockland, Maine, 8th July 2019





Lily was behind the wheel of the boat as they sliced through the cold clear waters of the Atlantic. The day was cloudy, with scattered showers. Warm, although once they got in the sea, the cold water was bracing on their hands, even in their wetsuits.

‘Stop here!’ Niamh called to her.

Lily turned off the engine and threw the anchor overboard, before joining the older woman in the stern of their small boat, named Connie. Lily pulled up the top of her wetsuit and zipped it over her swimsuit. Niamh was already in hers, and climbing into the small row boat they’d been towing across the smooth sea.

They rowed back towards shore a small way, where they could see a mass of brown bladderwrack, the polyps glossy, honey-toned, and nutrient-dense.

‘Good job,’ Lily said to Niamh at her choice of location.

The seaweed was so thick here, the opportunity for regrowth was optimum. They both clambered out of the boat, the water only reaching their waists at this point, and waded into the dense sea vegetables, cutting swathes of bladderwrack with their knives and loading it onto the rowing boat. The two women chopped away at the seaweed in companionable silence. It was hard work, but no chore, because they both loved what were they doing, and believed in the vision of their little company.

It was Rosemary who’d first given Lily the idea. She had never returned to her cottage in Mullaghmore. Willie was happy in his new home with Aisling, Noreen’s youngest, who had been minding him while she was away. When Lily had announced her pregnancy, Rosemary had realised there was more for her in America than in Ireland. But most affirmative of all was when they had found Niamh. After they’d hired the private investigator, it had been only a matter of days before Niamh had been traced to the ashram in Arizona. The perimeters of Lily’s family had expanded further. If the event of Connor’s death had been a golden leaf in fall, Lily was spinning in the air with it. Sometimes plunging into sorrow, and other times lifted in the light of small joys. And sometimes the bittersweet partnership of the two: like the day she’d given birth to her son, Cormac, named after Connor’s grandfather.

After Cormac had been born, Lily’s dad had tried to persuade her to return to lobster fishing with him, but her heart had gone out of the business. She went out with her father and Ryan just once more. As soon as they lost sight of land and the waves started picking up, Lily had been hit by a panic attack. She’d been stuck behind the wheel, trying to breathe, unable to help the men hauling in the traps and banding the lobster. It hadn’t even been a small storm, just a bit choppy. Her nerve had gone, now she was a mother herself. The idea of leaving Cormac orphaned was too much for her, and she told her daddy she was giving up lobstering.

‘But honey, I want to pass on my licence to you, and the new Lily May.’

‘Give it to Ryan,’ Lily said. ‘He deserves it. Works every day with you, risks his life for you.’

‘But what about little Cormac?’ her father protested. ‘I want to pass on the business to my grandson.’

‘Well, let’s just wait and see, Daddy,’ Lily told her father. ‘Cormac might have other plans.’

Her father had looked surprised. Lobstering was what Smyth men did – but lately, Lily had been realising that it was possible for people to change. What she was doing now with Niamh, with Rosemary’s help, was a new adventure. They’d built it up all on their own: Rockland Seaweed Bath Co. At first, they’d started out small. Selling little muslin bags of seaweed to friends and neighbours. Rosemary had shared her knowledge of aromatherapy with Lily and Niamh, and the women had experimented with different blends of oils, developing a line of bathing products which were hydrating and nourishing, and all natural. Suited for different generations. It turned out that Niamh was good at design, and they created a brand which evoked the sea. Their logo was a pale pink unicorn horn shell. The company had really taken off, with several hotels in Maine ordering their products, as well as lots of online sales.