My grandparents had married in 1926 and, as far as I knew, moved into Clonamurty Farm around the same time. So these items in the chair were from before their time. What was their story?
Chapter 8
Ellen, October 1919
In late October, a few weeks after their visit to Tara, Ellen found Jimmy in a humour as grey as the moody autumn skies, when she met him at the end of the drive. He greeted her with a kiss as usual, but then didn’t take her hand as they walked along the lane. She tried to engage him in conversation as usual, but he seemed taciturn and unwilling to give more than single-word answers.
Eventually, as they approached Clonamurty Farm, she could bear it no longer. ‘Jimmy, what’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?’
‘What? No, sure you haven’t.’ He stopped walking and turned away from her, gazing across the fields.
‘What, then? You seem different today. Is something on your mind?’
He sighed. ‘I was at a funeral today.’
She gasped. ‘Oh! I’m sorry. Whose was it?’
He shook his head. ‘No one you know. A member of the Volunteers.’
‘What happened?’ she asked, quietly.
He hesitated a moment before answering, and, she noticed, would not look her in the eye. ‘He was shot by the Black and Tans. They had evidence he was planning an ambush out on the Dublin road, and they raided his home. They found some weapons, took him outside and shot him. Right there, in his own yard.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she said, crossing herself. ‘That’s terrible, so it is.’
‘Thanks be to God his wife was out at the market with their baby. Another Volunteer was able to find them and get them away to a safe place.’
‘Why? Surely the Black and Tans would not have hurt a woman or child?’
Jimmy shook his head sadly. ‘They have done so, before now. They’re a bunch of thugs, nothing more. They should have arrested Gerry, taken him for questioning and given him a fair trial. But they just executed him on his own doorstep.’
‘I’m so sorry. Did you know him well?’
‘He was a good man.’
Ellen bit her lip as Jimmy fell quiet, still gazing into the middle distance. Then, suddenly, she made a decision. ‘Take me to see his grave, please.’
He turned to look at her, frowning. ‘Why?’
‘He died for his beliefs. For our country. I’d like to pay my respects.’
He regarded her for a moment, seriously, and then nodded. ‘Very well. We have time now. Gerry is buried in Blackstown cemetery. Not so far for us to walk.’ He reached out and took her hand and they resumed walking. Jimmy remained silent but something about him seemed more relaxed now, as if he was pleased she wanted to visit the grave.
Gerry’s grave was at the furthest edge of the cemetery, beyond the rows of older graves that included Ellen’s mother and grandparents. There was no headstone yet, and the gravediggers had only just finished shovelling the soil on top of the coffin. The grass around the grave was muddy, trampled no doubt by dozens of feet of patriotic Irishmen a few hours earlier.
Ellen stood a few feet away from the as yet unlevelled mound of earth, her head bowed, as she considered what a sacrifice this unknown-to-her man had made, in pursuit of freedom for their country. She found her thoughts straying to his wife and baby. What would become of them now? This Gerry had put them at risk by his actions, for his beliefs. Did his widow share those beliefs? Or was she now wishing she’d been able to stop him getting involved, to keep him safe somehow?
She glanced across at Jimmy. Was this to be his fate too? Buried six feet under, while she stood and wept at the graveside? She shuddered at the thought.
Jimmy was speaking, quietly, as though only to himself. She moved a step closer to hear his words. It sounded like he was praying, and if he was, she’d join in. But the words were not any she had heard before.
‘… the fools, the fools, they’ve left us our Fenian dead. While Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.’
‘Jimmy? What are you after saying?’
He looked at her and she was shocked to see tears in his eyes. ‘Tis the words Patrick Pearse spoke at the grave of O’Donovan Rossa, founder of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, back in 1915. I read them in an article in An Phoblacht and have never forgotten them. They are the truth. Unfree, we shall never be at peace. We must fight, Ellen, fight on. Mourn our dead but never give up. Gerry must not have died for nothing. We must not allow him to have died for nothing!’
He turned to her and grabbed hold of both her hands. ‘You must not fear for me, Ellen. If I die for this Cause, I die for something I believe in and long for with all my heart. I can think of no better end than to be buried alongside Gerry here, if I have in some small way moved Ireland closer to her independence.’
His eyes were shining again, with that same fire she’d seen when he’d told her of his decision to join the Volunteers. This was him, this was her Jimmy, this was the path he had chosen in life. All she could do was support him, pray for his safety, and pray that the conflict would be over soon and that Ireland would somehow gain her freedom. For no other outcome would guarantee Jimmy’s safety, she knew that now.
Later that day, Ellen was sitting in the living room at Clonamurty Farm, drinking tea while Mrs Gallagher asked her about her work up at the big house.
‘Is it true,’ the older woman whispered, ‘what they say about Mrs Carlton? That she, you know, is involved?’ She mouthed the last word.
‘Er … um …’ Ellen was at a loss as to how to answer. Mrs Gallagher didn’t know about Jimmy’s involvement, as she put it, either. Thankfully Jimmy re-entered the room at that moment, carrying a plate of biscuits his mother had asked him to fetch from the kitchen.
‘Mammy! Don’t go asking things like that! If Ellen knew anything she’d be wise not to tell you, or anyone else.’
‘I’d be worried, I would, if I thought she was working somewhere where the people are involved. I’d fear for her safety. I fear for you too, Jimmy. I pray every night that you won’t get yourself caught up in it all. I mean, we all want an independent Ireland, but can’t we just leave it for others to fight for it?’
‘Mammy, if everyone thought like that no one would fight and the Cause would never be won,’ Jimmy pointed out, quietly and reasonably. ‘Someone has to rise up and fight for it.’
Ellen fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair, the old armchair that always sat by the fireside, and heard an ominous rustle from within it. Jimmy must be hiding something in his secret place. She sat still, hoping Mrs Gallagher hadn’t heard the rustle.
They’d been about 10 years old when Jimmy first showed Ellen his hiding place. It was after school. They’d walked home together from the National School as they always did, passing Jimmy’s home at Clonamurty Farm first.
‘Come in, have a drink of milk,’ Jimmy had said. ‘Mammy won’t mind. She likes you, so she does.’
So Ellen had gone inside to the Gallaghers’ large yet cosy kitchen, and waited while Jimmy filled a mug with fresh milk from a large jug that sat covered with a muslin square. The milk was creamy and still slightly warm from the cow. There was no better drink, Ellen thought, as she gulped it down. She wished her family owned a cow, but they were too poor. Her father worked on other people’s farms, only tending a small plot himself. They kept chickens and sometimes a pig. Her mother took in laundry to add a little to the household income.
‘Come on, I want to show you something,’ Jimmy said, when she’d finished her milk. He grabbed her hand and led her through to the family’s sitting room.
Ellen hesitated on the threshold. She’d been to Clonamurty Farm many times before, but usually just to play in the hay barns, or visit the latest batch of kittens. She’d been in the kitchen a few times but never into the ‘good’ rooms.
‘It’s all right, there’s no one in here, and Mammy’s away at Blackstown market,’ Jimmy said. ‘Come on
in.’
She crept inside and looked around. It was a bright, comfortable room with windows that looked out over a garden and beyond, to the fields she knew so well that dropped away towards the River Boyne. There were full-length curtains at the windows, a sofa and armchairs arranged around the fireplace, and several pictures hanging on the wall. So different to her own cottage, with its single room that functioned as both kitchen and living room, its hard wooden settle, battered table and bentwood chairs. At home their only picture on the wall was a faded depiction of Jesus, his heart exposed and shining. This room looked so much more comfortable and homely.
‘Over here, look.’ Jimmy was crouching beside one of the well-stuffed fireside chairs. Ellen knelt beside him, and he took her hand and pushed it into the chair, between the wing and the back. There was a slit in the fabric there, where some stitching must have come undone. ‘Feel around inside,’ Jimmy instructed her.
She did as he said. She could feel a wooden strut, part of the frame of the chair, and some rough horsehair stuffing. ‘What’s in here?’
‘Reach in deeper,’ he said. ‘It’s my special hiding place, that I use when I have something I don’t want Mickey to find. Small brothers are so annoying. But you, you’re my best friend, so you can know about it.’
She was a little nervous. Was he playing some sort of trick? Would her hand close around a dead mouse or something equally horrid? But this was Jimmy, not one of her brothers, and Jimmy didn’t play tricks on her. She trusted Jimmy. Eventually she found it – a small net bag filled with something hard, round …
‘Pull it out,’ Jimmy said, grinning.
She did. It was a bag of glass marbles. Beautiful, swirling colours ran through their middles. ‘Oh, they’re grand!’ Ellen exclaimed.
‘They were a birthday gift from an uncle. A late one,’ Jimmy explained. ‘Let’s share them.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t … they’re yours!’
‘But it’s more fun if we have some each. We can play marbles and try to win them off each other.’ Jimmy pulled open the net bag. ‘You pick first.’
He’d always been like that – sharing everything with her, doing whatever was best for everyone rather than just best for himself. It was one of the things Ellen loved most about him. The only thing he didn’t share, now, was details of his activities with the Volunteers.
Jimmy used the hiding place in the chair now, to store any papers he wanted kept away from prying eyes. ‘You can’t be too careful, so,’ he’d said. ‘I trust my parents, of course, but if anyone else was visiting the house and came across any letters from members of the Irish Volunteers, it could mean trouble. There’s information I wouldn’t want to get into the wrong hands.’
Ellen didn’t like to think what might be hidden there now, what those rustling papers might contain. If Jimmy was suspected of being a Republican and the farm raided, as had happened to that poor man, Gerry, she didn’t know how she’d be able to go on with life.
Chapter 9
Clare, April 2016
I gathered up the covers I’d ripped off the chair, stuffed them into a bin bag and dumped that out in the barn. The next stage would be messier – removing the calico to expose the stuffing and then the underlying springs, webbing and hessian. Some of it would have rotted into dust. The place to continue working on this chair was in the barn, but first that would have to be cleared, and that was too big a job for today. It was still only my first full day in my new home, after all.
I laughed at myself for having started an upholstery project when I had not even put away my food shopping. Talk about getting my priorities wrong. I shuddered to think what comment Paul would have made if he was here. But hey, it was my house, my life, and if I wanted to strip chairs ahead of putting food in the fridge then I would.
But some food was perishable and now the electricity was working I needed to get it put away. The fridge, of course, was ancient and also dirty, with what might once have been a tomato rotting in a back corner, and several jars of jam and chutney in varying stages of decomposition. ‘A new job everywhere I turn,’ I told myself, and set myself to cleaning it out before I put my food in.
That’s when I realised I needed to be organised and make myself a list of jobs, prioritising those I needed to do quickly to make the house habitable, and those I could put on the long finger, as Uncle Pádraig might have said, leaving them till a later date.
A couple of hours later I’d had a sandwich as a very late lunch, cleaned and stocked the fridge, and written a long list of jobs. I felt tired and a little overwhelmed by all that would need doing, and was ashamed to find tears springing to my eyes. Was I really capable of building this new life, all by myself? The house needed huge amounts of work – water from the taps was brown so it probably needed re-plumbing; it definitely needed rewiring; there were damp patches in many rooms; the bathroom suite was old and stained; cupboard doors were hanging off in the kitchen and the lino was curling up at the edges; the carpets stank of dogs and were dated and worn; all the furniture was long past its best; and that was only the interior of the house.
To my untrained eye it looked as though the brickwork needed repointing; some of the wooden window frames were rotten; the front door stuck and there were a few roof tiles missing. And then there were the outbuildings – that barn and two small cottages that might once have housed farm workers.
Where would I start? How did I ever think I’d be able to do this alone? Maybe I should have listened to Paul and sold it. I could have used the proceeds to buy a small modern house for myself. Why did I want to take on this great big, rambling, rundown farmhouse? Just because it held some childhood memories for me, and could put me in touch with my Irish ancestry? Or just because it was the quickest way for me to get out and leave Paul? If I’d waited to sell it and buy somewhere else, it could have taken months. Years, even, to find a buyer for Clonamurty Farm.
Besides, I’d wanted a challenge, hadn’t I? Lord knows why. It was enough of a challenge to be starting a new life without Paul. I was certain, I thought, that I’d done the right thing there, at least.
I was still sitting at the kitchen table, sniffing back tears and feeling sorry for myself, when I heard a knock at the back door, that led into the corridor beside the kitchen. ‘Hello, anybody home?’ came a call, and I recognised Janice’s voice.
‘Yes, in here,’ I called back, and she came in, followed by her four children.
‘Just popped by to see how you were getting on. Did you get the electric fixed? Do you need any shopping – we’re just off to Tesco now. Anything I can do for you?’
I smiled. ‘I think I’m all right. Yes, the electric’s back on, and I went shopping. I was just making a list of what needs doing in the house. It’s all a bit daunting. Cup of tea? I’m afraid I’ve nothing for the kids.’
‘Ah they’re grand. Yes please to tea. Sit down there and do your homework.’ This last was directed to the kids, who all immediately took a seat at the kitchen table and pulled out books. None of them actually opened the books, however; they were all too busy gazing round at my kitchen, giggling, poking, and shushing each other.
I put the kettle on. ‘So, do you want a tour of the place? It’s all a bit of a mess.’
‘I’d love to! Kids, sit there, don’t move, behave.’ We set off upstairs, where she commented on the good size of the rooms and what potential they had. In the sitting room she patted the chair I’d begun work on. ‘Needs to go in a skip, I’d say.’
‘Absolutely not! The frame’s sound. I’m going to strip it right back and rebuild it.’
She widened her eyes at me. ‘You can do that?’
‘I did upholstery evening classes for a few years. I’ve done several of this kind of chair. Hopefully I’ll be able to do a decent job on this one. I fancied a project.’
She laughed. ‘Like the house is not enough of a project?’
‘Ha! I know. But I do like renovations. Soft furnishings, upholstery –
those are my areas.’
‘Curtains?’ Janice said, fingering the moth-eaten faded mustard-yellow velvet that graced the French windows.
‘Definitely.’
‘I need some new ones. I can’t make them though, and they don’t do ready-mades in the right size. You could go into business doing soft furnishings around here. We’ve no one in Blackstown doing it.’
It was a thought, and a pleasing one, that I could perhaps spend my days doing what I loved best and making money from it. ‘Better get my own house in order first though.’
‘Sure. Well, later in the year if you have time and fancy it, I’d love some new sitting-room curtains. I’d pay you, mind. I could be your first customer.’
‘OK, you’re on!’
Janice walked across the room, heading back towards the kitchen where her children were ominously quiet. She spotted the birth certificate and medallion I’d found in the chair, and touched them, her face puzzled.
‘What are these?’
‘I found them tucked inside the chair, between the cover and the calico,’ I explained. ‘I’ve no idea whose they are. Not my uncle or his family, anyway.’
‘James Gallagher. James O’Brien. Never heard of either name. But they’re old. These people would be long dead.’
‘Must be someone who lived here before my uncle’s family,’ I said. ‘My grandparents moved here in the mid-1920s as far as I know. So it’s before their time. I don’t recognise those names. It’d be great to find out who they were. Is that a communion medallion, do you think?’
‘Looks like it, sure. You’re given them as a child when you make your first Holy Communion. You’re supposed to treasure them for ever. I’ve no idea where mine got to!’ Janice threw back her head and laughed.
I laughed too. ‘I guess James Gallagher never knew where his got to, either. Unless he’s the person who tucked it into the chair. But why would it be with a birth certificate?’
The Forgotten Secret Page 8