Secrets of the Lighthouse Read Online Free PDF

Joe will introduce you to everyone you need to know. Like I said, you have loads of cousins. They don’t all live here in Ballymaldoon, of course, but there are plenty who do.
You’ll be amused by the Pot of Gold. I think you’ll find a few characters for your novel in there.’ She chuckled to herself, as if she already had a few in mind.
    Peg drove down to the harbour, where fishing boats were tethered to the quay or tied to buoys, a little way out. Mounds of lobster pots were piled on the stones and one or two rugged-looking
fishermen in thick jerseys and caps sat smoking and chatting as they mended their nets. A skinny mongrel lay on the cobbles, shivering in the cold. Ellen thought it wouldn’t be long before
the men set off to the Pot of Gold for a Guinness and the dog for a warm place beside the fire. Ballymaldoon was a pretty little town but there were obviously no decent shops to tempt her. Just as
well, she thought, for she hadn’t saved much money and she couldn’t ask her parents after the note she had left them. She had certainly burnt her bridges in that respect. She wondered
how long it would be before she suffocated down here in Nowhere and returned to London, gasping for excitement like a fish out of water, repentant and compliant. As pretty as it was, there was
evidently not a lot going on.
    Aunt Peg drove on through the town and out the other side. A mile or so further down the coast she took a turning onto a farm track and motored up the hill between grey stone walls and lush
green pastures dotted with sheep, until they reached a pair of modest white farmhouses at the top. ‘It’s not much but it’s home,’ she said cheerfully, drawing up in front of
the cottage on the left. Ellen was disappointed. She had rather assumed her aunt would have a bigger house. But it was quaint and picturesque with a high thatched roof into which little dormer
windows had been cut and painted red to match the door. There were no trees to protect it from the elements, only the low stone wall, and Ellen imagined it had been built stout and sturdy in order
to withstand the ferocious winter winds.
    The house might have been a disappointment, but when she stepped out and turned around, the view took her breath away. There, twinkling through the evening mist, was the ocean, and right in the
middle, looming out of the twilight like a phantom, were the charred remains of a ruined lighthouse. She stood a moment and watched it. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the sparkling lights
of Ballymaldoon could be seen way off to the right, blending with the first stars that peeped through the cloud. Slowly, the lighthouse faded as the night and fog closed in around it, and then it
was gone, as if it had never been there.
    Ellen was drawn out of her gazing by the scampering sound of little paws. She turned to see Mr Badger, a black-and-white border collie, followed by a grunting ginger pig.
    ‘I hope you like animals,’ said Peg as she returned to the car to fetch Ellen’s suitcase.
    ‘Of course,’ Ellen replied, not knowing whether to pat the pig or run away.
    ‘Don’t be alarmed by Bertie, he’s a good boy and housetrained. See, he likes you,’ she added as Bertie thrust his nose between Ellen’s legs and grunted. Ellen
jumped back in panic. ‘Just stroke his ears, pet, he loves that.’ But Ellen ignored her aunt’s advice and hurried into the house.
    Inside it was warm and cosy and smelt of damp dog. The hall was tiled with square grey stones, the walls painted a soft white, decorated with amateur watercolours of the sea. In the kitchen a
dusty brown beanbag lay against the island for Mr Badger. A straw mat was placed in front of the yellow Stanley stove that was pushed into the chimney breast beside a neat pile of small logs. Ellen
presumed that was Bertie’s bed, if pigs had beds. The sideboards were cluttered with mugs and utensils, pots for teabags, coffee and pens. An old-fashioned-looking