Mulligan's Cottage

By Anne Cartwright

This romantic novel transports us from the landscape of southern Ireland to chic St Martin de Ré in France. It is the story of Roisin Lanigan, the young and lovely daughter of shipbuilder Paddy, her Mother, the feisty Maggie and her brother Tommy. When an unexpected visitor arrives on the day of the local fair lives are turned upside down as sweeping changes are brought about. The Mulligan family rule the roost from their sumptous manor house, but even the rich and powerful do not escape tragedy and loss. Why does Roisin inherit Mulligan's cottage and why must she flee to France in order to guard a secret which will come to light years later when young Hannah Lanigan visits her family home in Kilroon, Ireland?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244838003

Book preview

Mulligan's Cottage

MULLIGAN’S COTTAGE

By Anne Cartwright

There is no such place as Kilroon and, to my knowledge, Mulligan’s cottage does not exist other than inside my head. All characters in this story are purely my own invention. The Île de Ré most definitely does exist, but the house in this story at St Martin is entirely fictional. I would like to record my gratitude to all those who have helped produce this book. Most notably to Michael Powell for sharing his skills and to Sylvia Teale for reading the first draft and urging me on. Nicola Goodbrand, Julie McGivern and Margaret Green for their invaluable input. Most of all, thank you to Colin Cartwright.

Roisin comes from the Latin ‘Rosa’ and has been used in Ireland since the sixteenth century, later becoming a poetic symbol in verse and love songs. Its meaning is little rose, and its English equivalent is Rose, Rosaline or Rosie. The best pronunciation guides advise ‘Rosheen’ as being correct.

Copyright © Anne Cartwright. 2019

Prologue

St Martin de Ré 2002

She, my darling Roisin that is, always called me Billy and I always called her Ro.

We somehow felt as though we had known one another forever, and later having been childhood sweethearts we knew without doubt that we were meant to be together. Oh yes! To be sure we were so much in love. She made up a little rhyme;

Wide as the sky

Deep as the sea

My love for you

Your love for me

And she was right.

And I still love her. My little Ro.

I'll tell you something else too if you have the time to listen to an old man. The passion, or rather the memory of that passion, never dies. That kind of love is a template for all others. The one true shining thing which is our benchmark, and against which we shall forever measure every emotional thought, every feeling, every idea of what loving should be. It's a wonderful thing alright but nothing in this life is perfect, and if you were paying attention in school you might also remember this clever saying; 'The course of true love never did run smooth.'

Now wasn't that written by a man who knew? I hope I have it right in this muddled old head of mine, and I apologise if I haven't! Something along those lines anyway .... Ro would have it off perfectly! Anyway, now’s the time to get a few things sorted out. Make things right before it’s too late. So, I'm going back.

But wait! For I'm getting ahead. Sure now, I realise that to some I’m Sir William Mulligan knighted by her Majesty for services to Art and painter of the painting of our time, (or so they keep telling me!) Yes! I am going back. I tell you now that it’s hard for me even after all these years and I only hope no one recognises me when I get there! It must be admitted it was that same painting 'Seascape with woman bathing’ that set the seal on my ‘celebrity.’ It's a dreadful expression so it is, don’t you think? And I can tell you we both of us loathed it, but after the picture had taken the world by storm and Ro's books hit the best seller lists, we couldn't escape the 'golden couple' label. We decided to stay here on the island in our old and quirky shipowner’s house. I’ve always loved France, and St Martin was always more my home than Kilroon had ever been. Strange, isn’t it, that we were both drawn to this place? You might say we had swapped one lot of boats for another! The house is quietly tucked away, and we hadn't even heard of the 'media' in those days! We managed to get away with giving few interviews and tried to melt into the background, our 'little bit of heaven on earth' as Ro called it. She went back home, of course, from time to time to see her family, and sometimes when she needed space to work on something difficult, but I was always content to stay put. Until now, when I know I must go back over there to Ireland. To Kilroon and to Mulligan’s cottage.

Mulligans. The home of the painting, for we could never sell it no matter what the experts said it was worth. We put it around, you know, that it’s a copy there at Mulligans but, well, you won’t be after telling now will you? I don’t mind admitting I’m dreading it. The place will be full of her and devoid all at the same time. But go back I must, for the time is right to uncover one or two things which have lain buried for far too long and besides, my old friend Tommy has need of me to be there for the telling. I know it won't be easy for him right enough. He ought to have done it long ago, but which one of us can say we have always done what we should, when we should? At least now we're just a couple of old men! Aye! Tommy and Billy past their prime and not worth a second look. That will suit us very well though for, as I think you will have guessed by now, I still don't feel comfortable with 'Sir William' even after all this time.

I've no doubt my mother would have been pleased by the honour, although I think I can guarantee she would not have told me so. For her I was always the one with no aspirations other than to paint, and therefore of no real value. I was the one she always wished had died instead of Brendan. There was never any doubt about that. Ah! Brendan. Well! You'll surely find out about him. But for now, it’s time to leave. To head off across the sea back to Kilroon. Back to Mulligan’s cottage where a story waits to unfold. And a young woman by the name of Hannah Lanigan who hasn’t the first idea about any of it. It’s a true story right enough, and it won’t make easy listening I’m afraid, although it’s a story filled with love. But time waits for no man, so they say, and the moment is come to recount it.

Chapter One      

Hannah.   2002

Hannah sat in the departure lounge impatiently waiting for information telling her which gate to go to. The airport was busy. ‘When isn’t it like this?’ she wondered to herself. People were squashed into the unsatisfactory chairs playing with mobile phones, and frazzled parents tried to amuse their children, all to no avail. She flicked through her magazine for a short while before realising that her flight to Ireland was about to board. She had managed to blank all the noise out and had become so engrossed in an article about a favourite celebrity chef that she'd barely noticed the changes being flagged up on the panel. She gathered up her things and before long was climbing the steps of the aircraft feeling a real sense of excitement mixed with just a little anxiety at the prospect of the dreaded take-off and landing. She could just about cope with the bit in between but she wished she hadn't opened the glossy publication and had instead saved the engrossing gossip about the handsome Italian kitchen pin-up for now! Hannah had been depressed of late, having just broken off her engagement to Paul although deep down she was convinced they had made the right decision. For both of them. Paul was a sweet man and beginning to do well in his career as a junior diplomat. The two had met whilst at university and drifted into a vaguely romantic relationship which was simply not destined to last. She knew they would always care and be friends with one another, but in truth their engagement had been complete folly and had only come about as a result of his father's fatal heart attack. In the midst of all Paul’s grief Hannah had been such a support and they had simply misread empathy for love. Great friends they had been, and they really ought to have stayed that way. Still, hindsight was a marvellous thing! She could hear her father's lilting voice saying those very words. Reaching her seat, she was surprised to find it already occupied. A man sat clutching a book and seemed totally oblivious to her presence. She tutted as someone behind her banged into her.

Sorry! she said over her shoulder to a well-padded young woman sporting an unlikely tan and a very small top. ‘Why must I always apologise when it isn’t me in the wrong?’ she thought. She leant over and addressed the person in her seat.

Excuse me, but you seem to be sitting in my seat. My ticket says eleven B

Hannah smiled as she spoke, and the man looked up at her, blinking behind a pair of rather owlish spectacles.

Sorry! I am? I mean, it does? he asked, closing the book, and then noticing that his page was being kept by his boarding card.

Oh! he said, removing his glasses to reveal dark brown eyes.

Hannah's first thought was how very unfair for a man to have such eyes! Those eyelashes were to die for! He fumbled about with his book and the boarding card peering closely trying to see the number.

I'm so sorry. New glasses! Can't see a thing, not used to them yet! Right I'll be off then. Sorry again!

Hannah was rather disappointed as she had hoped his seat would have been eleven A or C! Sadly not! The Ireland flight was a busy one and that was the last she saw of the nice-looking man.

Huh! Just my luck! she muttered, as she prepared herself for the next hour or so in the air.

The transfer from the airport passed off smoothly and it was not very long before she reached her destination. She had been amazed to discover that she'd inherited the cottage in Ireland following the death of her aunt Roisin, because she had really barely known her father's younger sister. Following her parents’ difficult divorce so many family ties had been abandoned that it now seemed strange. She had the feeling there might be lots to discover during the coming days in the small fishing village where her Irish family had lived. She understood a divorce in the Lanigan clan would have been nothing short of scandalous and it was said that grandma Maggie had never quite felt able to live down the shame. One of life's smilers and a natural optimist, Hannah tossed her ginger hair and shrugged her shoulders thinking,

Oh well! It's none of my doing, and if I can keep Mulligan's cottage in the family that's all to the good!

As the taxi rounded a bend along the coastal road, she felt her spirits soar. She took in the sight of a sleepy fishing village nestling on a small promontory which flowed naturally down to a tranquil bay. Small boats with brightly coloured sails bobbed about gently in the water and sea birds wheeled overhead. Not a glitzy kind of place, but picture postcard pretty all the same. She sighed as the taxi drew to a halt outside a whitewashed cottage. 'This must be it!' she thought, eagerly staring out of the window as the driver came around to the passenger side to let her out. She knew that she had visited as a toddler but had no memory of the place at all. It was the stuff of dreams! She had lived in overpriced and cramped London flats for years, and to think this was hers!

The house was perfectly symmetrical and reminded her of the ones in children's drawings. It had bright blue shutters which someone had pulled open and this seemed to indicate that a warm welcome awaited her. The palest of pale pink roses grew in profusion and a mass of white geraniums tumbled from pots by the door. She looked up and saw a ceramic plaque on the wall which said, 'Mulligan's Cottage'. She mused about the name wondering fleetingly about her aunt and why she had lived there all those years. She told herself there would be time for sitting and wondering once installed in her new property. If there was anywhere perfect for sitting and wondering in, then surely this had to be the place? She'd heard the driver pull away and she now stood quite alone feeling a little nervous as to what the inside would be like.

She had already fished the key out as she'd searched in her bag to find the cash to pay the driver with. She was just introducing the key into the lock when she became aware that someone was approaching and turned. A middle-aged woman stood before her and she found herself rather surprised as she quickly took in the woman's appearance. She was not at all the sort of person she had imagined when she thought of the fisher folk neighbours and their wives! This was surely no fisherman's wife. Not unless the fishermen here were all extremely well to do and could afford designer from head to toe! The woman smiled and spoke

"Hi there! You must be Hannah? My name's Lisa and I own the place two doors down from here. No! I'm not Irish but my other half is, and this is our holiday home. We’re thinking of settling permanently as we just love it so much. Anyway, I knew your aunt, actually my partner knew her better than me, but you have me to welcome you today. We were fond of Roisin and promised her that when the time came, one of us would look out for you. Just listen to me going on like an express train! You must be feeling