The Girl from Ballymor

by Kathleen McGurl

  I nodded. ‘Just these last couple of days, yes.’

  ‘That’s a very special feeling. I’m glad it is going well. If ever you have a day when there is no movement, please, go and get checked out. Just in case.’ She pressed her lips together and tipped her head slightly to one side. She was referring, I realised, to my stillborn brother, Jonathan. It was still so strange for me to consider I’d had a brother and, before him, a sister, who was presumably still out there somewhere.

  ‘I will, Jackie, I promise. I’m sorry about, you know, your baby. The one that died. And the other one that you had to give up.’ Without realising what I was doing I reached out a hand to her, and she mirrored the gesture. Briefly, we touched hands on the cushion that lay between us. She looked stunned, a multitude of emotions crossing her face – discomfort at the unaccustomed closeness, but also I thought I could see a hint of expectation.

  ‘Maria, I don’t want . . . I mean, there’s no need for us to discuss all that I told you in the email and agonise over what might have been. It’s all in the past, and I don’t want to have to go over the details or think about it too much. It’s too painful for me. But I felt you should know about it. In case you were thinking – I don’t know – that you might have inherited my bad-mother genes. It’s not my genes, it’s my background. If things had been different, who knows, I might have been quite a good mother. Not the best, but better than I was.’ She took a deep breath and gazed at me, and I saw it again in her eyes – an expression of cautious optimism about what the future might bring for us. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother. It’s a strange feeling. There’s going to be a new little person who’s partly made from me – if I hadn’t existed neither would he or she – yet the baby won’t be my responsibility the way you were. There’ll be a natural distance. It’s . . . well . . . I suppose it’s quite exciting, really.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, it is exciting.’

  ‘Pregnancy was never exciting for me. Just worrying, terrifying really. Well, I suppose history doesn’t have to repeat itself. You’re like me, but perhaps you don’t have to be the same as me. You can be a good mum, better than I was. And I can have a go at being a grandmother. Can’t promise I’ll be any use, though.’

  ‘Mum, you’ll be just fine.’ If you do it with love in your heart, I thought, but decided saying that might be a step too far.

  She stared at me. ‘You called me Mum.’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? It kind of . . . slipped out. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ll let you off, just this once.’ She smiled again.

  Dan came in then, with a mug of tea for each of us and a plate of biscuits. He sat down to join us after Jackie patted the chair next to her. As we drank our tea, we moved on to safer topics of discussion. I told her all about our adventures in Ireland – my book, my research into Michael McCarthy, rescuing little Sammy, discovering the bones, then finding out they probably belonged to Kitty McCarthy.

  ‘She’s your ancestor, is she?’

  ‘Yes, the woman in the portrait, that Dad had and now I have.’

  Jackie looked thoughtful. ‘It must be nice knowing your ancestry. I never had a family.’

  ‘You’ve got me. And Dan. And this little one.’ I patted my bump. I took a deep breath. She’d offered an apology of sorts for her maternal shortcomings. It was my turn now to give some ground. ‘Jackie, I’m sorry I was such a rubbish daughter after Dad died. I should have supported you more, instead of running away. I should have stayed and helped you through that horrible time.’

  ‘You were only a child.’ She took a tissue from her bag, and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes while pretending to blow her nose.

  ‘I was seventeen. Old enough. But I was too wrapped up in my own grief to realise that we could have used that as a way of starting again.’

  She stared at me. ‘Do you really think we could have?’

  I nodded and took her hand again. ‘Or we could try to start again now.’

  ‘Now that there’s a new generation just beginning, yes, it seems like a good time to try. For the baby’s sake.’ She smiled, a warm one, unlike any I’d seen on her face since Dad died. ‘He’d have been so proud of you, you know, and thrilled at the idea of becoming a granddad.’

  We sat in silence for a moment, remembering Dad. That was one thing at least we had in common – our love for him. That, and the new generation growing now in my womb, could be the starting point for our new, closer, more understanding relationship.

  Jackie shook her head slightly, as if to bring herself back to the present. ‘That little boy you rescued, was he all right in the end?’

  ‘Yes, he seemed none the worse for a night out in the open.’ I didn’t go into the detail of how he’d insisted a lady had kept him warm. It was too hard to explain, and anyway Jackie wasn’t the kind of person to believe in anything supernatural.

  ‘Well, that’s good then. Well done for finding him.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘I’m proud of you, Maria.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I looked at Dan, who grinned at me. He was right – Jackie’s email did look as though it’d be the beginning of a new closeness between us. Suddenly it dawned on me that it was our baby that had begun it all. Without my pregnancy she would never have written that email. This tiny, part-formed life inside me was building a family around itself.

  ‘We’ve other news for you too,’ Dan said. ‘I’ll let Maria tell you.’

  I held out my left hand to show her my ring. ‘We’re getting married. Not yet sure when, but you’ll be the first to know when we’ve set a date.’

  ‘Oh, that is very good news! And about time.’ She coughed slightly. ‘A child needs two parents, in case one of them turns out to be rubbish.’

  I couldn’t help myself. I leaned across the sofa and pulled her to me in a huge bear hug. I even kissed the side of her head – I could not remember ever kissing her before.

  She tolerated it for a moment and then gently pushed me away, picked up her bag and stood to leave. ‘I must be going now. Thanks for the tea. Keep well, Maria.’

  I stood too, and followed her out to the front door. As she opened it, she stopped and turned. For a moment I thought she was going to do something totally out of character and kiss me goodbye, but then she spoke. ‘I know it’s a way off yet but when your child is born, and begins to talk, I think I’d like him or her to call me Nana. Not Granny or Grandma – those make me sound so old. And Jackie wouldn’t be right. I rather like the sound of Nana.’

  And, with that, she turned and left without another word. I was left with the broadest grin on my face. My mother, who’d never let me call her Mum, wanted to be called Nana by her grandchild! She was definitely softening, and all because of my unborn baby. I felt so proud of our child – so much already accomplished and yet still in the womb!

  *

  The next day – Thursday – the sun was shining yet the air was cool, a perfect day for a walk. I had a mission to accomplish, and felt the need to do it alone. Dan had one more day off but was happy enough to stay at home and cook our dinner, while I set off by train and bus for Highgate Cemetery. I’d visited Michael McCarthy’s grave once before while working on my university thesis, so I had a vague idea whereabouts in the cemetery it was. I entered the East Cemetery through its gate, and wandered along the shady winding paths, past crumbling gravestones and tombs festooned with ivy and moss, each one commemorating a life hopefully well lived. It was a beautiful, evocative place and I had to stop myself from peering at every grave to see who was buried there and imagining their lives. I turned off the main path and headed up hill, towards the area where I knew Michael was buried. I recognised some graves from previous visits – one with an angel reclining full length on a tomb; another with ornate carvings of weeping angels; one with Grecian columns set around a huge family tomb.

  Finally, after checking the names on several gravestones, I found Michael’s. His was a relatively simple headstone, surmounted with a Celti
c cross as a nod to the land of his birth. The inscription was straightforward, too:

  Here lies Michael McCarthy, painter and portrait artist.

  Born 1831, died 1897.

  A devoted son, husband and father. Rest in peace.

  I knelt before the grave, and traced my fingers over the words.

  ‘I found her, Michael,’ I whispered. ‘She was right where you’d left her, when you went to America. In her cottage, by the hearth, waiting for you. Protecting children who needed help. Teaching her descendants about love and motherhood.’

  I put my hand into my pocket, and pulled out the blackened Celtic knot brooch. I’d considered cleaning it up, keeping it and wearing it, but the metal was bent, the pin was lost and it was only copper after all. More fitting that it should be buried with Michael, who’d included it in so many of his paintings. It must have meant something to him, for every ‘Kitty’ painting featured it somewhere. I dug a small hole in the dry earth with my fingers, right beside the gravestone, and pushed the brooch deep down into it.

  ‘So you can feel close to her,’ I told him. ‘She never stopped loving you – her firstborn child. And you, in your search for her, produced some beautiful pictures. I will try to tell your story, and its resolution, as best I can. You, and she, will never be forgotten. Rest in peace, now. She is found.’

  As I stood up again, stretching my legs, the baby kicked in that now familiar feeling. I smiled. I understood it now. That special, super-strong bond between parent and child.

  I was so looking forward to meeting our baby. The future was calling.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The famine (an Gorta Mór or Great Hunger) in Ireland lasted from 1845 to 1850, and is one of the defining events of Irish history. As Declan explains in my novel, the great tragedy is that although the potato crops failed for several successive seasons, Ireland was producing enough food to feed its people, but that food was being exported, mostly to England. While some English landowners were aware of the starvation of their workers and did what they could to help, many were either not aware or didn’t care. To absentee landlords, the plight of the Irish people was something distant that they did not want to be concerned with.

  The UK government and local authorities did, eventually, step in to help. Corn was imported and distributed, public works schemes were started, poorhouses built and soup kitchens set up. But in far too many cases it was too little, too late.

  It is estimated that a million people died during the famine either directly as a result of starvation, or due to disease, exacerbated by weakness from lack of food. As the starving people thronged closely together in the workhouses and soup kitchens, disease spread rapidly. In addition, a further one and a half million emigrated during this period, mostly to the United States or Canada. In the following years, Ireland’s population reduced still further by emigration – in total it fell from approximately eight million before the famine to a low point of around three million in 1900. The population has never fully recovered.

  In this novel I have taken a novelist’s liberty with the geography, and moved the hills, moors and copper mines of the west Cork peninsulas to within a couple of hours’ horse-and-cart journey of Cork city. Ballymor and Kildoolin are both fictional, although inspired by real places. Anyone who has visited Achill Island in County Mayo may have recognised the abandoned village of Slievemore in my descriptions of Kildoolin. And Ballymor is based on small towns such as Clonakilty and Skibbereen in County Cork.

  For those wanting to learn more about the Irish famine, I can recommend a visit to the Skibbereen Heritage Centre, which is a hugely informative if rather haunting experience.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to my editor, Victoria Oundjian, for recognising the potential of this story and pushing me to get the best from it. I think this is my favourite to date, although it was possibly the most difficult to research. Thanks also to the eagle-eyed Sandra Silcox whose attention to detail allowed me to get the dates and timelines right, eventually.

  Thanks are due also to my son Fionn McGurl, who was this book’s first reader, and whose feedback on the first draft was, as always, very helpful and encouraging.

  My husband is Irish, and it’s through him that I’ve come to know Ireland, its people and its ways. I adore the country, especially those remote peninsulas of west Cork. Thanks to my Irish in-laws for helping me develop an ear for the speech patterns, and an understanding of the Irish ways of looking at the world. I hope I’ve got them right in this book.

  While working on this novel I spent a fortnight touring Cork and Kerry, and was much inspired by the towns, countryside, museums and people there. The Heritage Centre at Skibbereen deserves a special mention for its informative displays about the famine. Also useful was the Cobh (formerly known as Queenstown) Heritage Centre.

  And finally, thanks to my husband Ignatius who gave me a very informative if rather dry book about the Irish famine when he first heard about my idea for this novel. Thanks too, of course, for his continued support and patience while I spend all my time writing and little of it with him. It’ll all be worth it in the end!

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

  Copyright © Kathleen McGurl 2017

  Kathleen McGurl 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.

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  Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9781474066679