The House on Willow Street
The warm, engrossing new novel from the No. 1 bestseller, Cathy KellyWelcome to Avalon: a quaint, sleepy town on the Irish coast. Nothing has changed here for generations – least of all the huge mansion on Willow Street; the house in which sisters Tess and Suki Power grew up.Now, years later, Tess is trying to save her marriage protect her glamorous sister Suki who has come back home, dreams shattered. Similarly, Mara Wilson is seeking refuge from a broken heart at her Aunt Danae’s house. And Danae, the inscrutable postmistress, is hiding some dark memories of her own.Now that the big house is up for sale, change is blowing on the cold sea wind. But before they can look to the future, these four women must face up to the past…
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CATHY KELLY
The House on Willow Street
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012
Copyright © Cathy Kelly 2012
Cathy Kelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Source ISBN: 9780007373611
Ebook Edition © September 2012 ISBN: 9780007373642
Version: 2017-10-28
FIRST EDITION
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To my darling husband, John, and our wonderful sons, Dylan and Murray. And the Puplets of Loveliness, Dinky, Licky, Scamp, who were there for all of it.
Table of Contents
Danae Rahill had long since learned that a postmistress’s job in a small town had a lot more to it than the ability to speedily process pensions or organize money transfers.
She’d run Avalon Post Office for fifteen years and she saw everything. It was impossible not to. Without wishing to, the extremely private Danae found herself the holder of many of the town’s secrets.
She saw money sent to the Misses McGinty’s brother in London, who’d gone there fifty years ago to make his fortune and was now living in a hostel.
‘The building work has dried up, you know,’ said one of the little Miss McGintys, her tiny papery hands finishing writing the address she knew by heart.
Danae was aware the hostel was one where Irish men went when the drinking got out of control and they needed a bed to sleep in.
‘It must be terrible for such a good man not to have a job any more,’ she said kindly.
Danae saw widower Mr Dineen post endless parcels and letters to his children around the world, but never heard of him getting on a plane to visit any of them.
She saw registered letters to solicitors, tear-stained funeral cards, wedding invitations and, on two occasions, sad, hastily written notes informing guests that the wedding was cancelled. She saw savings accounts fall to nothing with job losses and saw lonely people for whom collecting their pension was a rare chance to speak to another human being.
People felt safe confiding in Danae because it was well known that she would never discuss their personal details with anyone else. And she wasn’t married. There was no Mr Rahill to tell stories to at night in the cottage at the top of Willow Street. Danae was never seen in coffee shops gossiping with a gaggle of friends. She was, everyone in Avalon agreed, discreet.
She might gently enquire as to whether some plan or ambition had worked out or not, but equally she could tell without asking when the person wanted that last conversation forgotten entirely.
Danae was kindness personified.
And yet a few of the more perceptive residents of Avalon felt that there was some mystery surrounding their postmistress because, while she knew so much of the details of their lives, they knew almost nothing about her,even though she’d lived in their town for some eighteen years.
‘She’s always so interested and yet …’ Mrs Ryan, in charge of the church cleaning schedule and an avid reader of Scandinavian crime novels, tried to find the right words for it, ‘… she’s still a bit … distant.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ agreed Mrs Moloney, who loved a good gossip but could never glean so much as a scrap of information from Danae. The postmistress was so tight-lipped that the KGB couldn’t have got any secrets out of her.
For a start, there was her name: Danae. Completely strange. Not a proper saint’s name or anything.
Dan-ay, she said it.
‘Greek or some such,’ sniffed Mrs Ryan, who was an Agnes and proud of it.
‘I don’t even know when her husband died,’ said Mrs Moloney.
‘If there ever was a husband,’ said Mrs Lombardy.
Mrs Lombardy was widowed and not a day passed without her talking about her beloved Roberto, who grew nicer and kinder the longer he was dead. In her opinion, it was a widow’s job to keep the memory of her husband alive. Once, she’d idly enquired after Danae’s husband, because she was a Mrs after all, even if she did live alone in that small cottage at the far end of Willow Street with nothing but a dog and a few mad chickens for company.
