The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  Since September, the conflict had stepped up a gear. Thankfully the action seemed far away with very little happening in the county of Meath or at least not near Blackstown, a fact for which she was very grateful. Even Carlton House seemed far removed from the acts of war, despite Madame’s involvement.

  One fine, bright Saturday in early October Ellen was given the full day off work, in addition to her usual Sunday day off. She was allowed to leave immediately after completing her morning chores, although she had to return to Carlton House by six o’clock that evening. Jimmy was free, and they’d arranged a day out, with a picnic provided by Jimmy’s mother.

  Jimmy met her at the end of Carlton House drive. He was holding a basket containing the picnic, with a rug draped over the top of it for them to sit on. It was a cold day but there was no wind and the sky was a glorious blue. They walked towards Blackstown where Jimmy led them to a bus stop.

  ‘No better place than the Hill of Tara on a day like this,’ he said, as they boarded the charabanc that would take them past the foot of the hill. Ellen smiled happily. She didn’t mind where they went, on such a beautiful day. It was enough that they could spend the day together. She’d been to Tara before, on an outing with her family while her mother was still alive. It had rained that day, and she could remember only wet grass, a ruined picnic, and huddling in the nearby church when the rain fell harder.

  When the bus was about halfway to Tara it stopped to take on passengers, and two men dressed in tan uniforms got on and walked down the aisle of the bus, peering at all the passengers.

  Jimmy made a quiet sound, and without warning caught hold of Ellen and pulled her towards him, kissing her soundly on the mouth. He’d tugged his cap low over his eyes.

  ‘Ha, look at these two!’ laughed one of the men in uniform.

  Ellen tried to pull away, embarrassed to be caught kissing in public, but Jimmy was holding her too tightly, still kissing as though his life depended on it.

  The men passed on down the bus, taking a seat at the back, and finally Jimmy let her go. He slid down in his seat so his head barely showed over the back of the seat. ‘Sorry about that,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t want to show my face to any of those thugs.’

  Ellen began turning to look at the men, but Jimmy caught her arm and stopped her. ‘They’re Black and Tans,’ he explained. ‘They don’t know my face, and that’s the way I need it to stay. Ours is the next stop, thank the Lord.’

  When the bus stopped again they got off, and Jimmy bent over the basket as if checking its contents, his back to the road, until the bus moved on.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’ He took Ellen’s hand. They crossed the narrow lane and set off up a track beside a church that Ellen recognised from her visit here as a child.

  ‘Jimmy?’ Ellen said, when they were part way up, ‘what would have happened if the men on the bus had seen your face?’

  In response he put his arm around her and pulled her close. ‘Nothing, my sweet. Nothing at all. I’m not known to the Black and Tans. But it would be wise for me to keep it that way. Can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Auxiliaries, brought in to supplement the RIC while the conflict is on.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ve heard that most of them fellas were in prison in England, and were asked if they’d rather come over here and shoot Paddies instead of serving out their time. Of course, they jumped at the chance. Thugs, the lot of them.’

  She shivered. ‘Keep safe, promise me.’

  ‘I will.’

  They’d reached the top of the hill. The view in all directions was spectacular. Ellen spun around, gazing over the fields and hills and farms that were spread beneath her. ‘It’s as though you can see right across Ireland from here,’ she said. ‘When I came before it was too misty and wet a day to see anything. Now I can see why the ancient kings built their forts up here.’

  ‘They’d be able to see enemies coming from a long way off,’ Jimmy agreed. He led Ellen over to the mounds of earth that marked where the Iron Age fort had stood, and together they walked around it. A few sheep were up there, grazing contentedly on the short grass. ‘When the old kings had their seat here, Ireland was independent, mistress of her own destiny,’ he said, wistfully. ‘She was beholden to no one, least of all England. Did you know Ireland is the only country in Western Europe that was never part of the Roman Empire? We were free and proud. And so we shall be again.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s sit and have our picnic,’ Ellen urged him. It scared her when he spoke with such fervour. Although she knew and understood that this was a crucial part of who he was, she found it hard to accept that he would lay down his life for his country, if it was required of him. Would he lay down his life for her? She would never ask it of him, though she knew she would sacrifice herself for him, without hesitation. Was that the difference between men and women? That women loved their man and men loved their country best? How then, did women like Madame Carlton fit in? As a widow perhaps she was free to care more for her country and its future.

  They spread the picnic rug on one of the ridges of earth that had once formed part of the Iron Age fortifications, sat down and opened the basket Jimmy’s mother had packed for them. Bottles of beer, hard boiled eggs, cold boiled potatoes, a jar of chutney, slices of ham and thick chunks of soda bread were all neatly wrapped in paper. There were two plates, knives and forks nestled at the bottom of the basket.

  ‘This looks wonderful, so it does,’ Ellen said. ‘You must thank your mother for me.’ Her own father had muttered in disapproval when she’d told him she was going out with Jimmy for the day. But she was a grown woman, who worked hard all week, and it was up to her how she spent her day off. These days, when they were young and free and able to spend time together, were so precious. Who knew how many of them there would be?

  With luck the conflict would end soon, and Jimmy would marry her. Maybe it would drag on for years, keeping them apart, keeping Jimmy in danger. She shook the thought out of her head. Live in the moment, Mary-Ellen, she told herself. Tis all you can do, and tis the best place and time to be.

  On impulse she reached for Jimmy and pulled him towards her, kissing him, just as he had done to her on the bus. The kiss was long and deep, and she felt herself melting into him as he pressed himself against her. She wanted him, she realised. They weren’t married, it was wrong, but it felt so right! She’d give herself to him, if that’s what he wanted. She was ready to take such a step. And maybe it’d keep him close if they became lovers. It’d help him realise how much was at stake, and perhaps persuade him to put her first …

  But after a while he pulled away, flushed and panting slightly.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ he said. ‘There’ll come a time for us, you’ll see. When you and I can be together, properly, and for all time. It’s not here and now though. I … I love you. But we have to keep apart, do things properly, wait until the time is right.’

  ‘Jimmy, when will that be?’ she whispered, knowing how he’d answer.

  He sighed and looked away from her, leaning back against the earthen mounds. ‘When the war is over. When Ireland is free. I cannot commit to you before then. I am sorry, but you must understand – this is who I am. This is why I’ve been put on God’s earth – to take part in this struggle, to do my bit. Please, you must let me.’

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. ‘Of course. I will wait for you. Just …’

  He smiled. ‘I know. Just keep safe. I will.’ He leaned over and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek, then lay back on the rug, looking up at the sky that was now streaked with high wispy clouds. ‘Listen, let me tell you about a mission some of my Volunteer comrades were on last week.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, don’t tell me. The less I know, the better.’

  ‘It’s not like that. It’ll amuse you, honest it will. And no one was hurt.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ She lay beside him, her head on his shoulder, to listen.

 
He cleared his throat. ‘So, a company of Volunteers, a few fellas among them I know, had been tasked with transporting some weapons across the county. Too far to carry them, too far for a horse and cart, and they had no other transport, but the guns were sorely needed for … well … for another campaign.’

  Ellen pressed her lips together. She did not want to think about what the guns were to be used for.

  ‘Anyway, one of the lads had a bright idea. He went to the telegraph office, and sent a telegram to the local doctor, an Englishman named Doctor Johnston who was known to drive a large motorcar, telling him that a woman who lived in a remote farm was in desperate need of his attendance, and he was to come at once.

  ‘The doctor set off, but on the way, on a bridge, he met with the company of Volunteers. They stopped him and commandeered his motorcar. He protested of course, telling them he was on an urgent call – at which they came clean and told him it was a hoax. He waved his travel permit at them – issued by the Black and Tans – but that didn’t cut the mustard either. Finally, as he looked about to explode with fury, they gave him a receipt for his car.’

  ‘A receipt?’

  ‘Well, they just scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.’

  ‘He’ll get his motorcar back though, won’t he?’

  ‘Aye. When the war is over. That’s what it said on the receipt.’

  Ellen smiled. ‘That could be years!’

  ‘It could indeed.’

  She laughed. It was a comical image – a blustering English doctor being forced to give up his car to the Irish Volunteers, and being given a meaningless paper receipt for it. Well, if this was the sort of mission Jimmy was involved in, she had little to worry about. It all sounded rather good-natured, on the whole.

  As the day wore on the sky clouded over and temperatures dipped. Ellen began to shiver. Her shawl was not warm enough for an autumn day without the sun shining. Jimmy packed up the basket while she folded the picnic blanket, and they descended the hill back to the lane to catch a bus to Blackstown. They journeyed home in companionable silence. Thankfully no Black and Tans got on the bus this time and the journey was a peaceful one.

  It had been a day to remember, she thought. One to look back on, in the dark days to come. She shivered a little, in Jimmy’s arms, wondering why that thought had appeared in her mind. Who knew what was to come?

  That evening, she lay in her narrow bed recounting the events of the day to Siobhan.

  ‘I’m after having the day off too,’ Siobhan said. ‘Madame wanted the house empty for more of her ridiculous cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ She sighed. ‘I wish she wouldn’t do it. Puts us all in danger, so it does. I’ve a mind to look for a job elsewhere, but this kind of work isn’t easy to find, while the war’s on. You were lucky, you know. Walking into it, the way you did. Becoming Madame’s favourite in the first five minutes.’

  ‘Ah, sure I’m not her favourite,’ Ellen protested, but Siobhan had turned her back to go to sleep, signalling the end of the conversation.

  Chapter 7

  Clare, April 2016

  I woke in the morning wondering for a moment where I was, gazing around at the unfamiliar floral wallpaper and faded curtains through which weak sunlight was streaming, and then remembered. I recalled too the search for candles, the milk-less tea and makeshift supper. I’d made it through the first night. I’d coped. I hadn’t given up and run away to a B&B. And today I’d get the electricity reconnected and buy some food. I smiled, feeling pleased at having proved I had a tiny bit of independence hidden deep within me.

  Breakfast was just another cup of black tea. I warmed some water on the stove for a wash and then drove into Blackstown where my first stop was the café for a coffee and proper breakfast, and to plug my phone in to charge while I ate it.

  The waitress, recognising me from last night, smiled and introduced herself. ‘Hi. I’m Janice. Saw you here last night. On holiday, are you?’ She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a round smiley face surrounded by a mass of unruly curls.

  I shook my head. ‘Not on holiday no. Actually I’ve just moved here, to my uncle’s old farm that I’ve inherited. I’m Clare.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Clare. Which farm would that be, then?’

  ‘Clonamurty.’

  She frowned. ‘Can’t say I know that one. Who was your uncle?’

  ‘Pádraig Kennedy. The farm’s a few miles out of town.’

  ‘Towards Bettystown?’

  I wasn’t sure of the geography. ‘East-ish.’

  She nodded. ‘I know where you mean. Sorry to hear of the loss of your uncle. I knew him a little. Knew of him anyways. Everyone knows everyone in this town, so they do.’

  ‘It was years since I last saw him. His sons all died young so he’d named his sister – that’s my mum – or her descendants in his will. Mum died a couple of years ago, so it’s all come to me.’

  ‘That’s so sad. About your cousins and your mum, I mean. And you’re going to live here?’

  I nodded, but said nothing. I didn’t feel quite ready to tell her I’d left my husband yesterday.

  ‘Ah that’s grand. Well, will I get you a coffee?’

  I laughed, realising I had not yet given her an order and a few more people had come in while we chatted. ‘Yes, thanks – there’s nothing in the house yet. Coffee and scrambled eggs on toast would be wonderful.’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, patting my shoulder as she passed on her way back to the counter. I had a feeling Janice and I could become good friends, in time. I certainly intended visiting this café frequently, if that cake I had yesterday was at all indicative of the quality of food.

  Mentioning my cousins to Janice set me off on another trawl through my memories while I waited for my order. Uncle Pádraig had three sons. Brian, the eldest, was ten years older than me, and when we went visiting he was always far too interested in his latest car, or latest girlfriend, to pay his little cousin much attention. He was the glamorous one, in my eyes. The one with smart clothes, long slicked-back hair and a glint in his eye. He was a charmer, and on the odd occasion he did notice me, ruffle my hair, or pick me up to spin me around, I’d be delighted. I hung off his every word. We’d go back to England and Mum would get fed up of me saying, ‘Brian said this; Brian thinks that.’

  ‘Ah, enough of what your cousin Brian thinks,’ Mum would say. ‘That one’s too flashy for his own good.’

  He married three times, each wife taller and more blonde than the last, and died in a horrific car crash in his Porsche on the Route des Crêtes in the South of France. ‘Typical of Brian,’ Mum had said, between her tears at the funeral. ‘Lived fast, died young, in such a clichéd fashion.’

  My second cousin, Dwayne, couldn’t have been more different. Where Brian was good-looking and flashy, Dwayne was plain and quiet, though when he smiled he could light up a room. He was always tucked away in his bedroom, reading books of sermons, fingering his rosary, praying in front of his little glass case that he said contained a hair of St Catherine of Siena. I liked him, but never quite knew how to handle his deep religiosity. We, the English branch of the family, were lapsed Catholics.

  Dwayne joined the Christian Brothers, and trained as a teacher in a boys’ school. He sent Christmas and Easter cards every year, and a dutiful letter to my mum on her birthday, which always ended with the words, ‘Pray every day and you’ll not go far wrong.’

  Dwayne died just four years ago, aged 53, of cancer. Uncle Pádraig phoned Mum, who was at that time dying of cancer herself, although we didn’t know it at the time. He was the last of Pádraig’s three sons to die. Mum went over to Ireland for the funeral, came back looking ill and exhausted, and full of news that Pádraig was insisting on changing his will in her favour, now that all his sons were gone and he had no grandchildren. Mum had argued it with him, saying what would she do with a farm in Ireland? But Pádraig had insisted, and said it could all come to me if I outlived Mum.

 
Mum had told me this on the quiet, when Paul was not around. I think she knew then she was dying but had not told me or Dad yet. I think she also knew I was unhappy with Paul, and could see that an inheritance, in time, from my uncle might be my escape route. She was a wise woman, my mum.

  And then there was David, Pádraig’s third son and the one closest to me in age, being only two years older. But I don’t think it was just our proximity in age that drew us together. We shared a lot of interests (he lent me the entire set of Enid Blyton Mystery books) and we often went out cycling together along the country lanes surrounding the farm. It was David who first took me to the Hill of Tara (on a long day’s cycle ride when we were in our teens), and told me the legends of the ancient kings of Ireland. He knew so much about his country’s history. He was, of all of them, the most Irish, the most proud. The most Republican.

  He was arrested for the first time when he was 20, on suspicion of involvement in planning an ambush of British troops on the border near Blacklion. There was not enough evidence to convict him, although one of his friends was imprisoned. It was after this that David announced by letter he wanted to be called Daithí, the Irish form of his name.

  Mum had shrugged, taught me how to pronounce it (Doh-hee, more or less) and written back, urging him to ‘be careful, stay out of trouble’. I asked what she meant. Why did she think he could be in trouble? ‘Oh that boy,’ she’d replied. ‘There’s only one way he’s headed, with beliefs as strong as he has. Your granny has a lot to answer for, putting ideas in his head.’ I wasn’t sure what she meant, and she refused to elaborate. David was her favourite nephew, I knew, but also the one most likely to exasperate her. I only heard the reason for his arrest many years later.