About the Author
KATHLEEN MCGURL lives near the sea in Bournemouth, UK, with her husband and elderly tabby cat. She has two sons who are now grown-up and have left home. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which the past can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.
You can find out more at her website: http://kathleenmcgurl.com/, or follow her on Twitter: @KathMcGurl, Instagram: @KathleenMcGurl or Facebook.
Also by Kathleen McGurl
The Emerald Comb
The Pearl Locket
The Daughters of Red Hill Hall
The Girl from Ballymor
The Drowned Village
The Forgotten Secret
KATHLEEN MCGURL
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Kathleen McGurl 2019
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.
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, downloaded, 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.
E-book Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008236991
Version: 2019-01-11
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Kathleen McGurl
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
To all my Irish in-laws
– this one’s for you
Historical Note
If you were educated in Ireland you’ll probably know all this already, in which case feel free to skip this section. Everyone else – please read on. I hope this will help provide some context for the novel. I’ll keep it as short as possible!
By the early twentieth century, Ireland had been ruled by England since Norman times. Over the years there had been various uprisings: notably Wolfe Tone’s United Irishmen rebellion of 1798. In response to this, the British Parliament passed the Acts of Union in 1800, formalising Ireland’s status as part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
Many Irish were still unhappy under British rule. Harsh penal laws against Catholics and the aftermath of the Great Famine of the 1840s led to ever greater hostility against English landlords. In the late 1800s and early 1900s there was much discussion in parliament about the possibility of ‘Home Rule’ for Ireland. By 1914 a Government of Ireland bill was making its way through the British parliament system when the First World War broke out. It was put on hold.
But Irish nationalists weren’t prepared to wait for the end of the war for discussion to resume. At Easter 1916 various Irish nationalist forces combined in an uprising, taking control of parts of Dublin. The Proclamation of the Republic was read out from the steps of the General Post Office, declaring Ireland’s independence. British troops soon quashed the uprising, and most of its leaders were executed.
In the parliamentary elections of 1918 just after the end of the war, Ireland’s primary nationalist party Sinn Fein won a large majority of the Irish seats in parliament. However, they refused to swear the required oath of allegiance to the King, and instead set up the first Dáil Éireann (Irish Council), declaring Ireland to be an independent nation. Thus, Ireland slid into war against Britain. (One Sinn Fein MP was Constance Markievicz, the first woman to be elected to the UK Parliament. She was in jail at the time, for her part in the 1916 uprising. Constance was also the founder of the Fianna Éireann, ‘Warriors of Ireland’, a kind of military boy scouts, whose alumni went on to join the Republican army.)
In the cities, British troops kept control but in provincial areas it was the paramilitary police force – the Royal Irish Constabulary – that was left fighting against the nationalist Irish Volunteers. The RIC was reinforced by the undisciplined Black and Tans, named for their mismatched ex-army and police uniforms.
The War of Independence was largely a guerrilla war, with atrocities committed by both sides. It was characterised by attacks and counter-attacks, shootings and reprisal actions, often against civilians. Towns were looted, homes and businesses were burned, and people executed.
In 1921 the British prime minister offered a truce: the terms of which divided Ireland, forming the Irish Free State but with six counties of Ulster remaining part of the United Kingdom. The Irish leadership were split over whether to agree, but eventually signed the treaty. This disagreement led inevitably to civil war, between those who were pro- and anti-treaty, that lasted from 1922 until a ceasefire in spring 1923.
During World War II Ireland remained neutral, and it was after ‘the Emergency’ (as it was termed in Ireland) that the Republic of Ireland was formally inaugurated in 1948.
The anti-treaty nationalist forces combined as the Irish Republican Army, and remained active on and off throughout the decades, fighting for Ireland to be once more united. Their campaigns escalated during the 1970s and 80s, a period known as ‘the Troubles’, and only came to an end with the signing of the Good Friday Agreement of 1998.
In this novel, the historical chapters start in 1919, just as the War of Independence was escalating in intensity. I’ve referred to Irish nationalist forces during the War of Independence as ‘Volunteers’ throughout, though there were various groups involved. Volunteers from this period are often known now as the ‘old IRA’. Blackstown is a fictional place.
Chapter 1
Clare, February 2016
We rounded a corner, turned off the narrow country lane and onto a gravel track, drove past a little copse of birch trees and there it was. Clonamurty Farm, County Meath, Ireland. Old, tired, dilapidated and in urgent need of repair. But it was mine. All mine, and only mine, or soon would be. A little shudde
r of excitement ran through me, and I turned my face away so that Paul, my husband, would not see the smile that had crept onto my face.
I think it was in that moment that I first realised my life could change, for the better. If only I was brave enough to seize the day.
‘What a godforsaken mess of a place. Good job this is a hire car. That track’ll be trashing the tyres,’ Paul grumbled, as he parked the car beside a rusty old piece of farm machinery that had waist-high thistles growing up through it.
‘I expect it could be renovated, with a bit of money and a lot of effort,’ I said. Already I could see its potential. With the weeds cleared, the stonework repointed, the rotten windowsills replaced and painted, and a new porch built around the front door it would be beautiful. A lazy Labrador sunning himself in the yard and a couple of cats nonchalantly strolling around owning the place would complete the picture.
As if I’d conjured them up, two tabbies appeared around the corner, mewing loudly, tails held high, coming to see who we were and whether we had any food for them, I suspected. I smiled to see them, and bent down, hand outstretched, to make their acquaintance.
‘Clare, for God’s sake don’t touch them. They’ll be ridden with fleas and Lord knows what else.’
‘Aw, they’re fine. Aren’t you, my pretties? Who’s been looking after you then, since your daddy died?’ I felt a pang of worry for these poor, beautiful creatures. Though they weren’t especially thin, and their coats seemed in good condition.
‘Their daddy. Oh grow up, will you?’ Paul stomped away from me, towards the front door, and fished in his pocket for the key we’d picked up from the solicitor in nearby Blackstown. Actually the solicitor, Mr Greve, had handed the key to me. It was my uncle Pádraig who’d left me the farm in his will, after all. But Paul had reached out and snatched the key before I’d had the chance to take it. The farm wasn’t quite mine yet. I needed to wait for probate to be completed, but we’d had the chance to come over to Ireland for a weekend to view the property and make a decision about what to do with it.
I followed Paul across the weed-infested gravel to the peeling, blue-painted front door, and watched as he wrestled with the lock. ‘Damn key doesn’t fit. That idiot solicitor’s given us the wrong one.’
I peered through a filthy window beside the front door. ‘Paul, there are boxes and stuff leaning against this door. I reckon Uncle Pádraig didn’t use it. Maybe that key’s for another door, round the back, perhaps?’
‘The solicitor would have told us if it was,’ Paul said, continuing to try to force the key into the lock. I left him to it and walked around the side of the house to the back of the building. There was a door at the side, which looked well used. A pair of wellington boots, filled with rain water, stood beside the step. I called Paul, and he came around the house, his lips pinched thin. He never liked to be proved wrong.
The key fitted this door and we entered the house. It smelled musty and unaired. It had been last decorated at some point in the 1970s, I’d say. I tried to bring to mind my memories of the house, from visits to Uncle Pádraig and Aunt Lily when I was a child, but it was a long time ago and I’d been very young then. My maternal grandmother – Granny Irish as I called her – lived here too in those days. I have clear memories of one of my cousins: David (or Daithí as he renamed himself after he became a committed Republican), hazy memories of his two older brothers but only vague impressions of a large rambling house. I have better memories of the barn where I used to love playing hide-and-seek with David among the bales of straw. Sadly, David and his brothers had all died young, which was why the farmhouse had been passed down to me.
The door led into a corridor, with a grubby kitchen off to the right and a boot-room to the left. Straight ahead a wedged-open door led to the main hallway, which in turn led to the blocked-off front door, the sitting room and dining room. This area looked familiar. There’d been a grandfather clock – I looked around and yes, it was still there! – standing in the hallway. A memory surfaced of listening to it chiming the hour when I was supposed to be asleep upstairs. I’d count the chimes, willing it to chime thirteen like the clock in my favourite book – Tom’s Midnight Garden – and was always disappointed when it stopped at twelve.
We peered into each room. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, a box-room and a bathroom. All felt a little damp, as though it had been months since they’d been aired or heated. As with the downstairs rooms, the decor was horribly dated. I expected Paul to make sneering comments about the state of the place – and to be fair, it was in a total mess – but he surprised me by commenting favourably on the layout, the size of the rooms, the amount of light that flooded through the large front windows. ‘It could be quite a house, this,’ he said.
‘It certainly could,’ I replied. ‘And we could come for holidays, let the boys use it and perhaps rent it as a holiday home in between, after we’ve done it up.’ I could see it now. Long, lazy weeks, using this house as a base to explore this part of Ireland. It was within easy reach of Dublin and the east coast, and the surrounding countryside of rolling farmland was peacefully attractive.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t do this place up. We live in London. And why on earth would anyone want to come here for a holiday? There’s nothing to do. No. Like I said earlier, we’ll sell it to some developer or other, and I have plans for what to do with the money.’
‘Can we at least discuss it?’ I couldn’t believe he was dismissing the idea of keeping the farm, just like that.
‘What’s to discuss? I’ve made up my mind. As soon as probate comes through, I’ll put it on the market. We can find suitable estate agents to handle it for us while we’re here.’ He smiled at me – a smile that did not reach his eyes but which told me the matter was closed. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find somewhere we can have a cup of tea. I’ve got to get out of this depressing house.’ Paul turned and walked along the passage towards the back door. Somewhere upstairs a door banged, as though the farmhouse was voicing its own disapproval of his words.
As I followed Paul out, knowing there was no point arguing with him when he was in this kind of mood, I realised that he would not be able to do anything without my say-so. The house and all its outbuildings, Uncle Pádraig’s entire estate, had been left to me. Not to Paul, just to me. So if I wanted, I could refuse to sell it, and there’d be nothing Paul could do about it. Except to moan and snipe and make my life a misery, of course.
It hadn’t always been like this. We’d been married twenty-five years. He swept me off my feet when I first met him. I was fresh out of university with a degree in textile design but not enough talent to make it as a designer, and was working in a shoe shop by day and a pub by night to make ends meet. It was not what I’d dreamed of for myself.
Then one day, the best-looking man I’d ever set eyes on came into the pub and ordered himself a gin and tonic, and ‘whatever you’re having, love’. Usually I turned down these offers – the bar staff were not allowed to drink alcohol while on shift although we were allowed to accept soft drinks from customers. But this time, something about his sparkly eyes that seemed to look deep into the heart of me, something about his melodious voice and cultivated manner, something about his sharp suit and immaculate shirt made me accept, and then spend the rest of the evening between customers (it was a quiet night) leaning on the bar chatting to him.
He was in the area for a work conference, staying in a hotel just up the road, but couldn’t stand the company of his colleagues another moment so had escaped from the hotel bar and into the nearest pub. By the end of the evening we’d swapped phone numbers and agreed to meet up the following day when I wasn’t working, for a drink. He turned up that second night with a gift of the best box of chocolates I’d ever had, and a perfect single stem red rose in a plastic tube. My previous boyfriends had all been impoverished arts students. No one had ever treated me like that before.
He used to sing that Human League song to me – you know the o
ne: ‘Don’t You Want Me, Baby’. I wasn’t exactly working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when he met me, but pretty close. And he liked to tell people he’d pulled me up, out of the gutter. ‘Who knows where she’d have ended up without me, eh?’ he’d say, patting my arm while I grimaced and tried not to wonder the same thing.
Paul had been kind in those early days. Thoughtful, considerate, and nothing was too much trouble for him. He was always planning extravagant little treats for me – a surprise picnic on the banks of the Thames, a hamper complete with bright white linen napkins all packed and ready in his car; tickets to Wimbledon centre court on the ladies’ final day; a night away in the Manoir aux Quat’Saisons. All would be sprung on me as a surprise.
It was exciting, but looking back, perhaps slightly unnerving in the way that it left me with no control over my life. I’d have to cancel any plans I had made myself, to go along with his surprises. And any twinge of resentment I felt would turn quickly into guilt – how could I resent him doing such lovely things for me? When I told my friends of his latest surprise treat, they’d all sigh and tell me how lucky I was, and ask could I clone him for them.
Gradually I’d stopped making my own plans, at least not without checking with Paul that it’d be all right for me to see my parents, or spend a day shopping with a girlfriend, in case he had something up his sleeve for us. And so as Paul and I became closer, my old friends had drifted away as I’d rarely seemed to have time to see them and had cancelled on them too many times.
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