Acknowledgements
So here we are at the end of book number six and again, there are so many people to thank.
First off, thank you to everyone at Aria for making this a very special journey – particularly to Hannah Smith, my brilliant editor and her team, Vicky Joss, Nikky Ward, Lauren Tavella, Geo Willis, Helena Newton, Annabel Walker, Sue Lamprell, Leah Jacobs-Gordon, Lizz Burrell and David Boxell.
To Laura Palmer who took on this project as it was about to be born – I am very glad to have you on board!
To all at Gill Hess who have opened the gate – it’s very much appreciated.
A huge thank you to Judith Murdoch – this brilliant title is down to you, but also the ongoing editorial advice and unstinting optimism, you are a tonic!
To the bloggers, the librarians, the booksellers and anyone who has helped on the journey of this book into your hands – thank you.
I have the most fantastic support network of friends and colleagues locally – thank you.
To my wonderful family, Seán, Roisín, Tomás, Cristín, James – Mr H, Bernadine and Christine Cafferkey – thank you.
And finally, to my readers – I have undoubtedly, the loveliest readers in the world – the ones who’ve been around from day one and those who are new to the books – thank you!
Read on for a sneak peak of THE PLACE WE CALL HOME…
Prologue
Miranda
This place. This place, Miranda thought, as she looked across the bay, it was in her bones. From here, Ballycove had not changed, Miranda walked along this path for more years than she cared to remember. It grew only more breath-taking. Far out across the land, beyond the winding river, she could see the glitter of the sea and beyond, she could make out the shadow of Donegal’s rugged coastline two counties winding away in the far north. Miranda imagined that beneath the scrubby banks, shingle pebbles glittered in the low evening sun and in the deep of the water, she fancied a lifetime of memories were stored. So many of her memories played out against this riverbank.
Today, the air murmured into a timely heartbeat of the water’s current. It whispered a familiar chant. It always calmed her, walking along the river’s edge. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that so many decades had passed since she’d spent her summers along this sunny path. Today, as always it was exhilarating in its freshness, a landscape forever shifting and still its fabric remained the same for all time. The grey-green hills beyond the village were surely smaller than in her childhood, as though the weight of time had obliged them to crouch just a little lower with each passing year. Still, they stood, stony and sturdy, their lines of time a testament to their ability to keep Ballycove safe from winter storms.
The water, glittering blues and greens that reached much further than the eye could see, was as timeless as it was unending. It fed families and took fathers, sometimes it seemed with equal generosity and ferociousness. Miranda thought it had never looked more beautiful than now, but then she smiled, because no matter when she walked along this path, she thought the same. She stopped for a moment on the little track, cleared by goats and the chases of foxes and rabbits when no-one else was looking. Miranda had been looking forward to this walk all morning. She had to set things right. It was time.
And now, thinking of her own family, she knew that there was only one thing for it. She would have to pull them all together and lay the foundations for a new beginning.
1
The Past
Miranda Reilly clambered up the hill slowly. The heat made her cotton dress damp against her back, and the stitching cut into her narrow shoulders and arms. It was a size too small, but her mother insisted that another year could be knocked out of it. Her discomfort was heightened by the box of vegetables she carried in her arms, heavy and cumbersome and her excuse to escape the fraught atmosphere of home. It was worth being out of breath to make this short journey.
Most days, she ambled up to old Mrs Bridgestock’s cottage on an errand of some sort. It was only a short distance really, but it was such a delightful place it might as well have been in the next county, so far removed was it from the bleak tone of her upended home. It seemed to Miranda that Mrs Bridgestock could be the oldest person in the world. She wore her dresses long and black. Her hair, white and held with pins, framed her soft and lined face in the same fashion as it had some fifty years earlier in the wedding photo that sat on the sideboard. Although Mrs Bridgestock wore the marks of age in her stooped shoulders and slow walk, the woman in the photograph, staring lovingly at the man next to her, would always be who she truly was. There was that same generous glint in the old lady’s eye and no-one ever called but they weren’t offered the little her cupboards held to bolster them for whatever might come next. Miranda sometimes marvelled at the treats the old lady had put aside for her visits.