The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl

his life as well as his work, and write a book on him. I know he was born here, had a spell in America where he first became noticed as an artist, then settled in London, although he continued to travel for his work. He mostly took commissions – he painted portraits of the rich for money.’

      ‘That’s fantastic, so it is, to write a book about him. Are you an artist yourself?’

      ‘Sort of.’ I told him about my job teaching art at adult education classes. There was something about Declan that made him easy to talk to. He was a good listener, and managed to ask questions that drew me out without him seeming nosy. I liked him instantly.

      ‘You’re here on your own?’ he asked, at one point.

      ‘It’ll be easier to get on with the research on my own. Dan would have distracted me, and I’d have spent half the time worrying he was feeling like he was wasting his holiday. So, yes, just me.’

      ‘Dan’s your partner?’

      ‘Yes.’ I poured myself another cup of tea, keeping my eyes down.

      He frowned slightly, as if my short answer had raised questions in his mind, but seemed to realise I was not going to elaborate on mine and Dan’s relationship. Although he was easy to talk to I didn’t feel I could tell him all my relationship problems within five minutes of meeting him. He took the hint and returned to asking about Michael McCarthy, a safer topic. ‘Your artist ancestor, should I have heard of him?’

      ‘Not really. He’s quite well known in academic circles, I suppose – if you were studying Victorian art you’d come across him. But he’s not well known to the general public. There are a few of his paintings in museums, and the National Portrait Gallery in London holds several but doesn’t often display them. I had to make special arrangements to see them when I did my degree. And I’ll need to do the same again for the book, I guess. There’s a little bit of a mystery surrounding him, actually.’

      Declan raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Go on.’

      I grinned. I loved telling people this story. ‘Many of Michael McCarthy’s portraits are of the same beautiful red-haired woman, in different settings. Some in Ireland, some in England, New York, Paris, all over.’

      ‘Someone he loved?’

      ‘They were all entitled “Kitty”. That was his mother’s name. The rumour is that she disappeared, and he spent much of his adult life searching for her but he never found her. Instead, he painted her from memory, wherever he travelled.’

      He gazed at me wistfully. ‘That’s a lovely mystery. Are you hoping that maybe you can find out what happened to Kitty while you’re here?’

      I nodded. ‘That’s my dream. She was my great-great-great-grandmother. She was stunning – at least, if Michael’s paintings are at all accurate.’

      ‘He must have really loved his mother to keep searching for her.’

      ‘Yes, he must have.’ I couldn’t imagine feeling like that about your mother. My own mother and I had very little to do with each other these days. If she went missing I’m not sure I’d spend that long looking for her. I’m not sure she’d want me to.

      Declan smiled. ‘I think it’s grand that you’re writing a book. Really interesting. The kind of thing I’d love to do myself if I wasn’t . . . so busy. Well now, if I can help at all in any way while you’re here, you’ve only to ask. I come in here most days, to keep an eye on old Paulie, there. Isn’t that right now, Paulie?’

      The old man grunted and raised his pint in Declan’s direction.

      ‘Ah well, I should leave you now. Your tea’s drunk, cake’s eaten and you’ll be wanting to take your things to your room. So, have a good day tomorrow exploring Kildoolin. There’s an ancient stone circle up there too, not far from the old village, but if you go off the tracks and across the moors watch out for the abandoned copper mines. There are a few mine entrances ought to be better protected than they are. They’re not a danger if you’re sensible, mind, and keep to the paths. So, will I see you in here tomorrow evening, perhaps? There’ll be some music later on, if you like that kind of thing. Aoife prefers heavy metal herself, but she tolerates traditional Irish music in the bar for the sake of the tourists. It’s good craic, anyways. You can tell me how you got on up at the old village.’

      ‘Sure. I’ll probably have my dinner in here tomorrow evening, catch you then.’ I grinned as Declan raised an imaginary hat to me and took his pint over to the bar to sit beside Paulie.

      Aoife came to clear away the tea and cakes. ‘Come on, I’ll show you up, now.’ She led me through the door beside the bar then up a narrow staircase panelled in dark wood. My room was at the top, surprisingly light and spacious after the dark bar and staircase. It had windows front and back, an uneven stripped wood floor, dark oak furniture and bright white bedlinen with lacy trim. Over the bed was a picture of Christ, his arms outstretched, his heart depicted exposed and shining. The room smelt of beeswax polish. The rain had stopped and weak sunshine was shining in at the back window. I put my bags down and smiled. It felt like the kind of room where you could really relax and sort yourself out – just what I needed. It had been a very difficult few days.

      ‘This is perfect, thanks. What time’s breakfast?’

      ‘Any time you want it, love. You’re my only guest this week so I can work around you. You’ll fit in nicely, I can see. You’ve already met two of my regulars, Declan and Paulie.’

      ‘Declan’s nice.’

      She chuckled. ‘Yes and he is that, to be sure, but don’t be getting ideas. You’ll not get far with that one.’ She laughed again, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

      I spent an hour or so unpacking, sorting out my room, and setting up my laptop on the dressing table. The pub had Wi-Fi and the signal was pretty strong, so I then began some Googling to find out more about Kildoolin. Should have done that before coming over, I suppose, rather than appearing an idiot in front of the locals for not realising it was a derelict famine village! Well anyway, now I knew, and was excited at the prospect of a walk up there tomorrow. The weather forecast online showed a bright day with just a chance of a few showers in the afternoon. If I got up and out early, perhaps I’d be able to avoid them.

      It’d be the perfect way to start my holiday and my research. But first, I thought I had better call Dan and let him know I had arrived safely. I took a deep breath before picking up my mobile. It might not be an easy call, given what had happened last night.

      He answered straight away.

      ‘Hi, Dan,’ I said. ‘Just letting you know I got here OK.’

      ‘That’s good.’ He sounded deflated, and I felt a pang of guilt. What had I done to him?

      ‘So, um, the pub where I’m staying seems nice.’

      ‘Great.’

      ‘You OK?’

      He sighed. ‘What do you think, Maria?’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ I sounded lame, even to myself. I realised there was no point trying to discuss things right now. It was too soon. We – or at least I – needed some time before we could talk. ‘Look, I’ll call you again soon, OK?’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘Bye then. Love you.’ I realised he’d already hung up. I did love Dan. I wasn’t just saying that from habit.

      I knew I’d hurt him, and I was sorry for it. It’s just . . . there was stuff I needed to think about, stuff to get my head around. Things he didn’t know about. Things I should have told him long before now.

      The mind is a funny thing. Something really big and important can be happening in your life, and yet if you don’t want to face it, you can sometimes simply let yourself forget all about it. For a while, at least, until it becomes too big to ignore. I knew I was in denial, but I didn’t care, and wasn’t ready to face