Free The Magdalen by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page B

islands, and it’s one of my favourites. My brother has put a few sheep over on it and wanted to see how they’re doing.”
    â€œSheep on the island, now that’s interesting.” The stranger had stood up, and Esther, embarrassed, smiled, recognizing Con, wondering would he remember her. They grinned awkwardly at each other. In broad daylight he looked different, not quite as handsome, though she was struck by his deep, piercing eyes and square, kind face. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself. I’ve a few lobster pots to lift, but can go out by the island if you fancy it?”
    Esther hesitated. The thought of an hour or two in his company, away from the house, feeling the salt spray on her face and breathing the fresh sea air, was appealing, but she was cautious after their previous meeting; after all, he was still a stranger, no matter how handsome and fanciable he was. She knew absolutely nothing about him.
    The young man seemed to read her mind, and pointed
in the distance. “Esther, do you know the old McGuinness Place?”
    She nodded, hiding her delight at his remembering her name. Dan McGuinness had been a friend of her father’s for many years. The two men lay buried near each other in the small local graveyard.
    â€œI work for his daughter Nuala, do you know her?”
    Nuala McGuinness was an acquaintance of her mother’s. She was an only child and had been left the rambling farmland and two-storey farmhouse about two years ago. Esther’s brothers did odd jobs round the place for her, but still the farm was slipping to rack and ruin. Nuala had never married.
    â€œAye,” she murmured.
    â€œLook, I’m just offering if you fancy it to come out in the boat.”
    Esther stared at him. At that moment if he’d said he was taking her to Timbuctoo she’d have gone with him. For some strange reason she trusted this stranger with whom she had danced. Awkwardly she stood on the beach, unsure of what to do or say next.
    â€œYou climb in and sit up the front end of the boat, and I’ll give us a bit of a shove off!”
    Esther climbed in over the side of the boat, settling herself on the small seat. She watched as Conor rolled up his trousers as he pushed the boat out into the water before jumping in, flinging his sweater and shoes on to the bench and grabbing an oar to push them into deeper water. His small engine spluttered a few times before starting.
    â€œThis used to be Dan’s boat. I’m trying to get it going again, though the engine’s not the best.”

    â€œMy father was always telling him to get a new one,” she volunteered, “but Dan wasn’t that interested in the fishing anyways.”
    â€œYour father was a fisherman—Nuala told me about him. You live up by the headland with your mother and a rake of brothers and a poor wee sister that’s not—” He stopped suddenly, embarrassed.
    â€œRight in the head,” she added flatly, admitting the truth to this stranger, wondering if the whole district knew their business.
    â€œI’m sorry, Esther,” he apologized. “I always say the wrong thing and put my foot in it.”
    She nodded. “There’s our house, look, I can even see our dog, Mixer!” she prattled on, trying to dispel the sudden silence.
    The boat moved on and Esther was content to sit in the sunshine, watching him in secret. They stopped about a mile out and she helped him to lift the lobster pots for a look.
    â€œOnly a few crabs!” he moaned, and Esther jumped out of the way as he chucked the large ones in the wicker crate on the floor of the boat. The rest he threw back into the salt water. “Not mad on crab myself, but I suppose they’ll do.”
    â€œWhereabouts are you from, Con?” asked Esther, curious about the strange softness of his accent.
    â€œWest Cork,” he announced proudly, “where the water is a hell of a lot