It was early October.  Monica had just received a letter from Solicitors in Dublin that she had inherited a cottage.  She had to think at first who Kathleen Buchanan was.  Then she realised it was old Aunt Kate whom she hadn’t seen in years.  Monica was sitting at the kitchen table, the early summer sun streaming through the window.  She picked up her reading glasses, read the letter once, and put the kettle on to make a cup of tea.  She studied the letter again until she heard the kettle switch off.  After making her tea, she read the letter over again.  Her heart was beating a little faster with the shock and surprise.  She wanted to pick up the phone and ring Andrew, her husband.  On second thoughts, she decided to ring the Solicitors.

It had been at least 20 years since Monica and her mother called to see Aunt Kate, but she always sent a card at Christmas and Easter.  Aunt Kate would stand at the half-door of her two-bedroomed cottage watching for passers by and a chat.  On that last occasion Aunt Kate was standing by the door, her old dog Bobby outside, alerted to someone approaching.  Aunt Kate made us tea.  Monica watched as Aunt Kate took a tea-towel from around the bread.  She remembered being told, probably by her mother, that a damp tea-towel around the bread straight from the oven, kept the crust soft.  Aunt Kate cut a few slices of freshly baked soda bread, and butter Monica knew she had churned herself.  The smell of baking was still in the kitchen and the logs on the fire flickered and smouldered.  It was such a warm and cosy place. Aunt Kate made us feel so welcome.

It was finally the day to visit the cottage.  It was early May when Monica and Andrew set off on their journey to Mayo.   Andrew, who was tall and athletic, leaned his head forward from the glare of the bright sunshine.  It promised to be a good drive for their journey. They would stop for lunch somewhere along the way, but wanted to make as much headway as possible before then.  By the time they turned off the motorway and passed through the town of Tullaghan, Monica could feel the anticipation rising.  She glanced at Andrew, who stared ahead, weaving down the narrow road.  “If they didn’t find it soon, they’d end up in the sea”, she thought, as the sun shimmered between trees and bushes.

Andrew brought the car to a screeching halt.  “Sorry”, he said. “Is that it”. They glanced towards a cottage on the right hand side of the road.  They got out and saw a sad dilapidated house, surrounded by overgrown bushes, ivy growing around the windows.  The white paint on the window-frames and front door was faded and peeling. Yellowed lace curtains barely hung together.  Andrew had to push the door with his shoulder as he turned the key.  They walked into a large parlour with flagstone floor, a smell of mustiness assaulting their nostrils.  Andrew found the switch just inside the door but there was no electricity.  As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could see a table, covered with a plastic table-cloth, and four wooden chairs.  A black range dominated the room, with two armchairs on either side, upholstered in a brown and white jaded looking material.  Dust hung in the air.  A large dresser stood on one side of the room with a set of blue and white plates, cups and saucers. There was a window straight ahead, cobwebs decorating the corners, and an old wireless on the windowsill.  A square white sink was underneath, with a material curtain covering a few shelves. On the floor, was a bundle of old newspapers.  Monica looked at the one on top of the pile, The Connaught Tribune, 1995.  She had never heard that Aunt Kate had passed away, or the circumstances of her death.  “How careless we get when we are so wrapped up in our own lives”, she thought.  There were two bedrooms off the parlour, with double beds and wardrobes.  Each had a small table with jug and bowl on top, and a small mirror over one of them.  Pictures of landscapes were above the beds in both rooms.  The light from the small windows cast a shadow of dust onto the multi-coloured eiderdowns, but the rooms were neat, with wooden floors, and a well worn mat beside the beds.  The wardrobes were empty.  Andrew tried to open the windows to let some air in, but they wouldn’t budge.

Monica walked back into the parlour.  She felt down-hearted and sad.  The house felt bereft of the joy she remembered on her last visit so many years before.  She thought she heard a scuttle in the corner, near the fireplace, and grabbed Andrew’s arm.  There were old photographs above the mantelpiece, and a picture of the Sacred Heart with ‘Bless This House’ on the wall above.  She looked closer. It was Kate and her husband James on their wedding day.  There was also a photo of a young boy, holding a fishing rod beside the sea.  That must be Peter, their only child.

With a little effort and resistance, the back door creeked open.  The garden was over- grown. An apple tree with a rickety old chair underneath it, had already deposited its bounty onto the ground for the birds and whatever roamed in the undergrowth. In spite of neglect, there were the last of the bluebells and primroses dotted here and there. Daffodils had pushed themselves up effortlessly, competing with brambles and dandelions.  “What a view!” Andrew said pointing down towards the end of the garden. They slowly made their way through the wilderness as far as they could go, Andrew taking the lead. Suddenly, the Atlantic Ocean stretched out in front of them. Its calm blue waters softly rippling as far as the eye could see.  The evening sun spread out its rays of silver and diamonds.  Andrew took Monica’s hand as they stood together on the shore, mesmerized. The soft splash of waves licked the shore all at once and then here and there, lapping at their feet.   Monica felt this was as close to heaven as she had ever been on this earth.

Back in the house, Monica lifted up the newspapers.  A manuscript slipped out.  It was neatly written in pen and ink on yellowed foolscap sheets.  She flicked through the musty pages and read a few passages here and there.  “When we arrived in New York”, she read on one page.  “The house in Brooklyn was so noisy”. Further on “We had finally found our place in this city, when my life was turned upside down”.  Monica sat down in the nearest armchair, scanning through the pages.  Andrew was still looking around the house outside.  When he came back into the parlour, he said “Its time to head back to Dublin, Monica”. She looked up at him, smiling.  She said “Andrew, I’ve just found a manuscript written by Aunt Kate.  I had no idea she had lived in America. I knew her husband had died leaving her to bring up Peter on her own.  But I thought that all happened here”.  As they headed out the front door, Monica held the manuscript in her folded arms.  What would they do with the house?  It was already pulling at her heart-strings.