Seven o’clock. The table is laid for dinner in the dining room. Freddy’s got supper covered, which means it’s a free half hour. I decide to pay a visit to the graveyard. The flowers need refreshing and tomorrow we’ll be run off our feet.
When I step outside the sun is just beginning to go down, spilling fire upon the water. It tinges pink the mist that has begun to gather over the bog, that shields its secrets. This is my favourite hour.
The ushers are sitting up on the battlements: I hear their voices floating down as I leave the Folly – louder and slightly more slurred than earlier, the work of the Guinness, I’ll bet.
‘Got to send them off with a bang.’
‘Yeah, we should do something. Would only be traditional …’
I’m half tempted to stay and listen, to check they aren’t plotting mayhem on my watch. But it sounds harmless. And I’ve only got this brief window of time to myself.
The island looks at its most starkly beautiful this evening, lit up by the glow of the dying sun. But perhaps it will never seem quite so beautiful to me as I remember from those trips we took here when I was a child.
The four of us, my family, here to stay for the summer holidays. Nowhere on earth could possibly live up to those halcyon days. But that’s nostalgia for you, the tyranny of those memories of childhood that feel so golden, so perfect.
There is a whispering in the graveyard when I get there, the beginnings of a breeze stirring between the stones. A harbinger of tomorrow’s weather, maybe. Sometimes, when the wind is really up, it seems to carry from here the echoes of women from centuries past performing the caoineadh, their keening for the dead.
The graves here are unusually close together, because true dry land is in short supply on the island. Even then, at the outer edges the bog has begun to nibble away at it, swallowing several of the graves until only
the top few inches remain. Some of the stones have moved closer still, leaning in toward one another as though sharing a secret. The names, the ones that remain visible, are common to Connemara: Joyce, Foley, Kelly, Conneely.
It’s a strange thing when you consider that the dead on this island far outnumber the living, even now that some of the guests have arrived.
Tomorrow will redress the balance.
There is a great deal of local superstition about the island. When Freddy and I bought the Folly a year or so ago, there was no other bidder. The islanders were always mistrusted, seen as a species apart.
I know the mainlanders view Freddy and me as outsiders. Me the townie ‘Jackeen’ from Dublin and Freddy the Englishman, a couple who don’t know better, who have probably bitten off more than we can chew. Who don’t know about Inis an Amplóra’s dark history, its ghosts.
Actually, I know this place better than they think. It is more familiar to me in some ways than any other place I have known in my life. And I’m not worried about it being haunted. I have my own ghosts. I carry them with me wherever I go.
‘I miss you,’ I say, as I crouch down. The stone stares back at me, blank and mute. I touch it with my fingertips. It is rough, cold, unyielding – so far from the warmth of a cheek, or the soft, springy hair that I recall so vividly. ‘But I hope you’d be proud of me.’ I feel it as I do every time I crouch here: the familiar, impotent anger, rising up in me to leave its bitter taste in my mouth.
And then I hear a cackling, from somewhere above me, as though in mockery of my words. No matter how many times I hear it, that sound will never cease to make my blood run cold. I look up and see it there: a big cormorant perched on the highest part of the ruined chapel, its crooked black wings hung open to dry like a broken umbrella. A cormorant on a steeple: that’s an ill omen. The devil’s bird, they call it in these parts. The cailleach dhubh, the black hag, the bringer of death.
Here’s hoping that the bride and groom don’t know this … or that they aren’t the superstitious sort.
I clap my hands, but the creature doesn’t budge. Instead it rotates its head slowly so I can see its stark profile, the cruel shape of its beak. And I realise that it is watching me, sidewise, out of its beady gleaming eye, as though it knows something I do not.
Back at the Folly, I carry a tray of champagne flutes through to the dining room, ready for this evening’s drinks. As I open the door I see a
I spot a couple on the sofa, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s the bride and another man—one of the pair Mattie brought over on the boat. They’re sitting very close, their heads nearly touching, murmuring to each other. They don’t jump apart when I enter, but they do shift a few inches away, and she removes her hand from his knee.
“Aoife,” the bride says, introducing me. “This is Charlie.”
I remember his name from the list. “Our MC for tomorrow, right?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Yes, that’s me.”
“And your wife’s Hannah, isn’t she?” I continue.
“Yes,” he replies, smiling. “Good memory!”
“We were just discussing Charlie’s duties for tomorrow,” the bride adds.
“Of course,” I say. “Sounds good.” I wonder why she felt the need to clarify. They seemed quite comfortable together on the sofa, but I’m not here to judge my clients’ choices. My role doesn’t allow for opinions or preferences; I’m meant to blend into the background. If all goes well, Freddy and I should remain unnoticed. We’ll only draw attention if something goes wrong, and I’m determined to prevent that. The bride and groom, along with their loved ones, should feel at home here, as if they’re the true hosts. Our job is to facilitate, ensuring the weekend flows seamlessly. Yet, I can’t be entirely passive. It’s a delicate balance. I’ll need to keep a watchful eye on everyone, anticipating any potential issues and staying one step ahead.
