The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  Brendan Graham

  THE WHITEST FLOWER

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by

  HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

  This edition 2016

  Copyright © Brendan Graham 1998

  Lyrics by Brendan Graham

  © Brendan Graham © peermusic UK, Ltd

  Reproduced by permission

  Brendan Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780008148133

  Version: 2016-01-04

  Ellen’s Country

  ........... Areas showing ground above 360 ft

  An Trá Ban lit. The White Strand, known locally as The Silver Strand

  Béal a tSnámha The mouth of the swimming place – now called the Ferry Bridge

  Bóithrín a tSléibhe The little road over the mountain

  Crucán na bPáiste Burial place of the children

  Leac Ellen’s ‘rock’

  Note: Maamtrasna in 1845 was in County Galway. The County boundaries were redrawn in 1896. Maamtrasna now resides in County Mayo.

  Ellen’s Journey.

  see detail opposite

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Maps

  An introduction to the 2016 edition

  Book One: IRELAND

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Book Two: AUSTRALIA

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Book Three: GROSSE ILE

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Book Four: BOSTON

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Book Five: IRELAND

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Glossary

  Quotations

  Author’s Note

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  An introduction to the 2016 edition

  When, almost twenty years ago, I walked into the boardroom of HarperCollins Publishers and told a roomful of executives the outline of what was to become this story, little did I realise the journey that particular morning would take me on.

  Three years previously in the summer of ’93, I had been made redundant. A manager in a clothing manufacturing company, at 48-years-old I wasn’t re-employable in what was then a shrinking industry in Ireland. Life as I had known it had stopped and I thought the world would cave in, but it didn’t. By default I became a full-time songwriter − what was once my hobby would now, I hoped, become my bread ’n’ butter!

  My ‘office’ became the poet, Patrick (Paddy) Kavanagh’s bench along the banks of Dublin’s Grand Canal, with the statue of the poet sitting to one side, offering room for any wandering soul needing respite from a weary world. Whether it was a statement of intent or whether I was hoping for Paddy’s inspiration and blessing, I am still unsure.

  The following year a bittersweet song about the changing nature of life and love became the unlikely winner of the Eurovision Song Contest. With Rock ’n’ Roll Kids, I began to earn a living again. Two years later, in 1996 another quite different song, The Voice, repeated the winning experience. A song of the elements … of the connectedness of all things, past, present and future, it was leading me in a particular direction − history.

  With time on my hands and lots of it, I began writing not one-off songs, but a series of connected songs set in the time of An Gorta Mór, Ireland’s Great Famine of the mid 1800’s. Why, I don’t know. I guess some things are preserved in a kind of national consciousness – even though at that time there was never much written in school text-books about the Great Famine. An even stranger thing was happening in these songs − a female character began to emerge, one who was the connecting force between them. She was edging me towards what was then the somewhat out-of-date notion of the ‘concept album’.

  At a meeting in London in 1996, with music publishers, Warner Chappell, they seemed fascinated by both the story and in Ireland’s Great Famine, of which they knew little more than I did, though I had already begun my research. Back in Dublin the following morning, the phone rang − it was Stuart Newton the A&R man at Warner Chappell.

  ‘Could you be back in London for a 9.00am meeting on Friday at HarperCollins? Oh, and could you send over that story you told us about the woman and the potato famine?’

  With nothing to send to anyone, I made some ungracious songwriter remark about publishers in general and said, ‘I’ll bring it with me!’

  For the next three days and nights, I scarcely darkened the bedroom door. Somehow I scratched out fifteen pages of a stream-of-consciousness story, which had no title but did have a beginning, a middle and an end. Most of all, it had Ellen Rua O’Malley, my mysterious ‘song-woman’, who now had a name.

  Arriving at the imposing headquarters of HarperCollins on Friday, I wondered what in God’s name I was doing there? Still only a fledgling songwriter trying to scrape out a living, here I was going in with a cobbled together story to read to these moguls of the publishing world. The foyer was even less becalming than the size of the building. There were books everywhere, No.1 bestsellers, famous authors; names I admired − books, books and more books. The boardroom didn’t help much either. Around a massive ‘table of doom’ sat seven people with seven sets of eyes all directed towards me.

  And so I began to tell them the story of Ellen, and one of the many strange occurrences that have been with me throughout this journey happened. A peaceful calm descended, all anxiety and nervousness he
ld at bay. It was like I was watching a slow-motion scene from a movie − one with me in it.

  Ellen’s story had moved the people in that room and I was offered a book deal on the spot. In that moment I had gone from manufacturing to full-time songwriter and now a novelist, and I had learned to be grateful for what is sometimes taken away, as much as for what is sometimes given.

  The writing of The Whitest Flower took two years and brought me from the mountains of Mayo to the Ngarrindjeri people of South Australia’s Coorong, to the ‘Irish Cemetery’ at Canada’s quarantine island of Grosse Ile and then to Boston. People everywhere were extraordinarily generous in their assistance and in sharing their history and I have thanked them in detail in the previous 1990 editions. However, there are a few people requiring special thanks. The late George Trevorrow, wise man and elder of the Ngarrindjeri people, unasked, gifted me with a dictionary of his people’s language and then gave me his people’s blessing. In Quebec, the late Marianna O’ Gallagher, who was involved in the creation of Grosse Ile as a National Historic Site, painstakingly guided me through the Irish story in Canada and corrected my errors of fact in Ellen’s story. In Boston, Eileen Moore Quinn, now professor of Anthropology at the College of Charleston, opened up the whole vista of women during the famine times and similarly read my manuscript, while Vincent Comerford, now retired Professor of Irish History at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth also kindly proof-read my manuscript for historical accuracy.

  My daughter, Niamh not only put all of my original handwritten text onto a word processor but all the re-drafts too! This was between organising trips, meetings, and generally co-ordinating all my efforts over the two years the novel took to write. Without her work, this book would never have come together.

  My editor at HarperCollins was the wonderful and legendary, Patricia Parkin, now sadly deceased and to whom I dedicate this new edition. Her obituary in the Guardian referred to her as ‘an endangered species’ and indeed she was of the ‘old school’ of publishing. Patricia came to Ireland, visiting all the places in ‘Ellen’s country’ about which I was writing. She had patience beyond the human and needed it with a first time novelist floundering under a 500-page novel. Only once did she snap. On the third and final book in the series, I had real difficulty getting off the blocks − not even a title for a long period. When I did get my title, The Brightest Day, the Darkest Night, I shot it over to Patricia in an email, hoping to stave off a publisher’s ire. I received back one of her succinct one-liners, ‘we all love the title − now where’s the book?’

  But there was as always a ‘good’ reason.

  During the publication of The Element of Fire, the second of the trilogy, I received a phone call. Norwegian composer, Rolf Lovland, one half of the successful group, Secret Garden, was working on the group’s second album. He had composed an instrumental melody called Silent Story for inclusion on this album. However, it seemed that this particular melody was not going to make the final cut, so Rolf decided to look for a lyric to his melody. That Christmas (2000), Irish violinist, Fionnuala Sherry, the other half of Secret Garden, had given him a present − The Whitest Flower. As the composer later described it, ‘the depth of that story moved me so much, I was so fascinated by it … I thought that if anybody could hear the story I was trying to tell in the melody … it was Brendan’.

  I had temporarily put aside writing songs to concentrate on my books when I got “the phone call”. It was one of those split second decisions − they were in Dublin. I went to hear Rolf’s Silent Story melody and it immediately captured my imagination.

  I came up with the title and wrote the chorus and bones of the song that very same day, then phoned them to come over later that night and in my cramped little garden study, I ‘sang’ for them the very first performance of You Raise Me Up. Did any of us that night have any inkling of the journey that song would take; from Super Bowl to Olympic Games, from Nobel Peace Prize to 9/11 Commemorations at Ground Zero and everywhere in between, crossing boundaries of culture, creed and country?

  And so, in the whirlwind of that song, books suffered and I let down many people by long-missed deadlines − my steadfast publishers and my loyal readers.

  Somehow Ellen Rua sustained on her own − so much so that, to my great surprise, HarperCollins decided to re-issue her story, seventeen years onwards. It is yet another twist to the story and in editor Kate Bradley, Ellen has found a new and enthusiastic champion, while Anne O’Brien, who worked on the original edition of The Whitest Flower, thankfully agreed to further tighten it up.

  Without my agent Marianne Gunn O’Connor − who always believes − none of this would have come to pass and I express my deep gratitude to her for her calmness and stoic support.

  My wife and family have previously lived through the ‘Ellen years’. Without their patience, understanding, fortitude and forbearance none of this journey would have happened … and be continuing.

  Buíochas óm’ chroí

  Co. Mayo,

  November 2015.

  The story of Ellen Rua O’Malley is just that − a story, but what she and her family experienced is largely based on actual recorded events of what happened to the poor in Ireland during the Famine years. I have tried as accurately as I could, to portray the Ireland of the times in which Ellen lived − the places, the political, religious, social and cultural background. Similarly for Australia, Grosse Île and Boston.

  For omissions, mistakes of fact, and novelist’s licence, I am totally responsible. This should not in any way reflect on the very many diligent people who helped me with research material and whose work and suggestions were invaluable in creating the historical backdrop to The Whitest Flower. To them all I am deeply grateful.

  In memoriam – John McDougall, HarperCollinsPublishers, June 1998

  This edition – In memoriam Patricia Parkin. HarperCollinsPublishers, March 2009

  DO

  MHÁIRE, DONNA, GRÁINNE,

  NIAMH, DEIRDRE agus ALANA

  Book One

  IRELAND

  1

  Ellen Rua O’Malley woke and immediately made the sign of the cross on herself. At the ‘Amen’ she pressed the thumb and forefinger of her right hand to her lips, then gently laid the hand in turn on the heads of her husband and three children. Unaware of her blessing, they continued to sleep – Michael, her husband, nearest the wall as was the custom; the children on the other side of the still-warm space she had occupied.

  Her benedictions complete, Ellen moved quietly to the door of the small cabin and stepped out into the dawn light of the Maamtrasna Valley.

  Roberteen Bawn, from his vantage point at the window of his parents’ cabin, watched Ellen appear. His mouth slowly widened in anticipation. This was the fifth morning in a row that she was up and about while all others in the mountainside village slept. All, that is, except for Roberteen.

  From that first time he saw the red-haired woman slip away to the lake five days ago, he’d known instinctively that she would repeat the ritual – rising each day with the sun as it appeared over the top of the mountain, brightening the dark waters of Lough Mask – and he would be ready, in his position by the window.

  Roberteen pressed closer to the cold stone of the window ledge, trying to keep his breathing under control. If his father – or, worse still, his mother – woke and caught him spying on the wife of Michael O’Malley, he’d be dragged by the ear-lug down the mountain to the priest in Finny. A chilling image of Father O’Brien denouncing him from the pulpit entered the boy’s mind. Still he could not drag himself away from the window and the sight of the red-haired woman.

  He followed her every move as she straightened to full height on leaving her cabin. Good – he tensed with delight – she wasn’t wearing the shawl. When her bare arms reached out to the sun it was as though the sun came to her, its light playing on the dark red hair that earned her the name Ellen Rua – red-haired Ellen. As she reached back with both hands to loos
e the tangled mass of hair, she turned her face in Roberteen’s direction. He drew back sharply, and waited a few moments before inching his face to the window again. She was standing with her back to him, looking down the valley towards Lough Mask. He could see the white nape of her neck where she had pulled the hair forward over her shoulders. She mustn’t have spotted me, he thought, rubbing his hands together.

  At nineteen, Roberteen Bawn was ripe for marrying. His mother, Biddy, was forever telling him so. ‘Oh! Roberteen,’ she would say, ‘if only you could get a girl like Michael O’Malley’s wife – she’d knock some spark o’ sense into you.’ If only she knew!

  Ah, with such a fine woman for a wife wouldn’t he be the talk of the valley – and of Finny and Tourmakeady too – just like Michael O’Malley was.

  Intent now on what the red-haired woman was doing, Roberteen’s thoughts broke off from his mother’s intentions for him. Ellen had not moved for some time now. She stood very still, gazing at the lake or perhaps at Tourmakeady far down along its western shore. Planning and scheming, most like; the red-haired women were notorious for it, and this one’s head was full of ideas she’d got from her father, the Máistir.

  He turned again to check on his parents. Still sleeping. Good, he was all right. When he turned to look at Ellen again, she had moved slightly. Suddenly it struck him. Sure, he should have known right away by the way she was standing so still, her hands joined. She was praying, that’s what she was at!

  This deflected him momentarily. It wasn’t a right thing to be looking at her that way, and she praying. But, then again, maybe she wasn’t praying, just looking at the lake and dreaming … dreaming of songs and poems and stories and all them things the Máistir had put into her head as a child.

  His conscience thus salved, Roberteen remained where he was, watching.

  Ellen felt the sun move down her body, searching her out, nourishing her with the warmth of its rays. It was difficult to pray this morning. It was always difficult on the mornings after the nights when she had turned to Michael, and, from deep in her throat, drawn out the soft, low words he loved to hear. It had been thus these past five mornings – ever since 15 August, Our Lady’s Day. It was almost as if the two strands of her love – her deep spiritual love of God and her deep physical love for Michael – should be kept apart, should not touch each other.