“At such times, the nearby village seemed like an act of folly, its houses like barnacles on the cliffs. Local people told me that after a whole winter of wind-driven sand and salt water, their eyebrows grew into crusts. I missed Peppy. I had come to value the sight of her exercising a horse or walking down the causeway with a clump of birds in one hand, a gun in the other, or on a summer’s evening on an incoming tide, standing on an utmost rock, casting for sea bass. She had fashioned her o...wn world from Sibrille because she had had to. It was fitting, I thought, that she had died on her own terms. She would have felt nothing, the doctor said afterwards. Death had been instantaneous. Peppy’s estate was administered by her own solicitor, the Mr Coad who hunted. He had been Peppy’s legal advisor since she first came to Ireland and had helped her keep her finances quite separate from her husband’s. Her income, which now went to Langley and Ronnie, came from canny investments made by her English north-country father.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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