The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘They’re saying, in the town, that if only the Volunteers had not attacked the RIC barracks then this would not have happened. They’re blaming the Volunteers. We’re losing support, Jack. After all we’ve done. All you’ve sacrificed.’

  Captain Cunningham sighed and shook his head, then looked up at Madame Carlton sadly. ‘We’re playing the long game, Emily. There are bound to be setbacks. There have to be sacrifices for us to achieve our aim. I’m sorry, of course I am, if innocent people have been hurt in the attacks. That was never our intention. But in the long run …’

  ‘In the long run, if more innocents are hurt or killed, will we be able to hold up our heads when we tell the tale of the struggle to our grandchildren?’ Madame spoke quietly and there was a break in her voice.

  Captain Cunningham paused for a long while before he answered, and once again Ellen wondered if he was waiting for her to leave. But she somehow seemed rooted to the spot. He’d tell her to go, or Madame would, if she was supposed to, surely. Finally he did answer, his voice quiet but firm, full of conviction.

  ‘As long as we can be sure we have done everything in our power to secure the independence of this nation, then yes, we will be able to hold up our heads. The crime is to do nothing, and let our fates continue to be determined by a distant government. As the great Parnell once said, we must each one of us resolve in our own hearts that we shall at all times do everything that within us lies, to obtain for Ireland the fullest measure of her rights.’

  Madame Carlton regarded him for a moment and then nodded. ‘Well, I shall leave you to rest now. Ellen, could you close the curtains please, and ensure Captain Cunningham is comfortable. I shall be back to take over in a couple of hours.’

  She left the room, and Ellen did as she was bid, closing the curtains, plumping up the pillows and straightening the bedclothes.

  ‘You’re Jimmy Gallagher’s young lady, aren’t you?’ Captain Cunningham said suddenly.

  Ellen blushed and startled. ‘I am, sir. Do you know him?’

  ‘A good lad. In my company. He was one of the ones who got me here, after I was shot.’

  ‘I’m glad, sir. He never said.’

  ‘Ah, secrets. He’s sworn to say nothing to anyone, and I’m afraid that includes you. But you’re in on this now, one of us. Speak to Mrs Carlton about joining the Cumann na mBan. We could do with more girls of your calibre.’

  ‘Sir? What do they do?’

  ‘Carry messages, scout locations, nurse the injured Volunteers.’ He laughed, then clutched his shoulder as though in pain. ‘You’ve been doing all that already though, haven’t you? It was you who fetched Doctor O’Mahony the other day, Emily told me.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was.’

  ‘Then I must thank you. Along with your young man, you’ve saved my life.’ He caught her hand and squeezed it. Ellen felt a rush of pride. Madame Carlton’s words about grandchildren ran around her head. Would there be a future in which Ireland was free, and in which she had children and grandchildren, and would be able to openly talk about her small part in this war? Would Jimmy be by her side in this future? She hoped so, more than anything. The idea of sharing the future with anyone else was intolerable.

  Chapter 13

  Clare, May 2016

  It was three days after Ryan and I discovered the guns when I finally plucked up the courage to call the Gardaí about them. I had no idea what they would do. The guns were clearly old as Ryan had said, but presumably could still be used if cleaned up. I hated having them in the house and every time I’d walked past that cupboard I had glared at it and shivered a little. And I can’t say how many times I’d opened the cupboard to check they were still there.

  It was ridiculous. All I had to do was make a single phone call. Finally, on Wednesday afternoon, I did it. I found the number for the Blackstown Guards station and called them direct, rather than use the emergency number.

  ‘We’ll send someone round,’ said the woman who’d picked up the phone. ‘They do sound like they’re from the 1920s. We’ve experts who will know. Meanwhile, don’t touch them or move them, will you?’

  I promised I wouldn’t, blushing at the memory of Ryan unwrapping them and then carrying the crate inside. I should have left them under the floor in the barn I realised, covered by the old carpet. What were we thinking?

  The Guards arrived an hour later. There were two: a young man in his twenties and a woman I judged to be around 40. I showed them the crate in the cupboard.

  ‘Is this where you found them?’ asked the female Guard.

  ‘Er, no. They were under the floor in the barn. I’m clearing the old barn to use as a workshop. I do upholstery, and need the space.’ I realised I was gabbling, as the Guard stared at me.

  ‘You brought them out and in here by yourself? Must weigh a lot, that box.’

  ‘There was someone else here. He carried them in. I thought they’d be safer inside, less likely to … fall into the wrong hands, as it were.’

  ‘When did you find them, Mrs Farrell?’ asked the young Guard.

  ‘Er, Sunday. Meant to call you before, but, well, you know how it is, time runs away with you, ha-ha.’ Oh God. I sounded like such an idiot.

  They questioned me for an hour, taking copious notes. I’d thought they would just pick up the crate and take it away and that would be it, but apparently they needed to know how long I’d lived there, how long Uncle Pádraig and my grandmother had lived there, did I know who’d lived there before. Not yet, I wanted to say, but I plan to find out. Thankfully I stopped myself from blabbering on about the medallion and the birth certificate … and my cousin’s involvement in the IRA back in the 1980s. Some things are best kept quiet, though they no doubt had Daithí on their records anyway.

  Finally they left, taking the guns with them. I was glad to get the guns out of the house, although as intrigued as ever about how they came to be buried under the barn. Hopefully Ryan would be able to shed some light, or give me some pointers as to how I could research who’d lived here before my family. I had a feeling the guns were somehow connected with the medallion and birth certificate. If nothing else, they dated from the same era.

  Could they have anything to do with Granny Irish? There’d been no mention of guns being buried in Daithí’s notebooks, but I guessed if she had told him about them, he’d have gone looking for them.

  A couple of days later Ryan called me. ‘I’ve dug out some Irish history books for you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got someone else covering the shop today and was going to bring them round to you, but my car’s in the garage. Needs a new battery. And tyres. And brake discs. And there’s a strange knocking sound coming from the engine.’

  ‘Oh dear, sounds expensive,’ I replied. ‘Well, I could drive down to town and collect them. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m cross about my car, though. I was going to offer to take you on a bit of a tour of the area – to Trim Castle, the Hill of Tara, to the site of the Battle of the Boyne – places where you can feel Ireland’s history all around you. It’ll have to be some other time.’

  ‘I could drive,’ I said, tentatively. Some men don’t like being driven by women. Paul never did.

  ‘But then you wouldn’t have the chance to look out at the countryside,’ Ryan replied.

  ‘I don’t mind. I’d see enough. Maybe we could just go to one place today, leave the others until your car is fixed?’ I must admit, I loved the idea of getting out and about for a day. The sun was shining and I’d spent far too long shifting dusty old furniture and bric-a-brac around the house over the last couple of weeks. It was the perfect day to drive around the countryside and I couldn’t think of anyone better to go with than Ryan.

  ‘All right, you’re on. Pick me up at home, whenever you’re ready. I have the books here for you.’ He gave me his address, and I promised to be there within the hour.

  Just time for a shower, a coffee, and an agonising fifteen minutes trying to decide what, out of
my meagre wardrobe, would be appropriate to wear. I ended up in jeans and a long colourful top, with my trusty leather jacket over the top.

  I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I got ready. I was enjoying this new life I was building here in Ireland.

  Ryan lived in a newish house, in an estate on the edge of Blackstown. I don’t know why but I was surprised at this when I arrived at his address. I’d imagined him in an old stone-built cottage with resident ghosts from the time of the Great Famine. He was clearly so interested in history it was odd to find him living in such a modern house.

  ‘Less maintenance, better location closer to town,’ he said with a shrug, when I commented on it. ‘I may run a second-hand bookshop but underneath it all I’m a practical kind of guy.’ He smiled, his eyes warm and friendly.

  We decided to drive out to the Hill of Tara. ‘A site of ancient Irish history,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s an old Iron Age hill fort, but legend has it that the old kings of Ireland had their seat here. On a day like today you can see for miles from the top of the hill.’ He’d prepared a flask of coffee and had a Dunnes Stores carrier bag with a few packets of biscuits in. ‘Not quite a picnic but perhaps better than nothing,’ he said, smiling again.

  ‘Lovely idea,’ I said, as we climbed into my car. Ryan threw the books he’d picked out for me onto the back seat. We set off, with Ryan navigating along a series of narrow, winding roads, bordered by high hedges, surrounded by lush farmland. It was a beautiful day, all blue sky and sunshine but quite chilly due to a strong breeze that sent kapok clouds skipping across the sky. The kind of day when you feel good simply being alive, and find yourself counting your blessings. I’d taken the big step and left Paul, and so far it was all working out. I had my gorgeous sons, both of whom were due to visit in a few days’ time for my birthday. I had new friends and had made a great start in getting the house ready for renovations. And I was sitting beside a good-looking bloke whose company I enjoyed.

  I must have sighed with pleasure involuntarily. Ryan looked across at me and grinned. ‘Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Gets into your soul and raises it up, I find.’

  ‘It does indeed.’

  We were soon at Tara. There was a small car park beside a nineteenth-century church that I remembered from my visit here with Daithí all those years ago. Behind the church a path led uphill, through the graveyard then through an iron gate onto the hill itself. I couldn’t help but peer at a few of the headstones on the way past. I loved old graveyards; the way they pull you into the past as you read the names and dates of those who’ve gone before. Here, there were a few from 1919 and 1920. I wondered if any were soldiers or victims of the War of Independence.

  ‘So, here we are,’ said Ryan, as we reached the top of the hill. ‘You can follow the lines of the Iron Age fort that was here quite easily. Over there’s a Neolithic tomb they’ve excavated. And this’ – he put his hand on a standing stone – ‘is the Stone of Destiny. It’s where the ancient kings of Ireland were crowned.’

  I stood and gazed around. There were a few sheep up there, grazing the thick green grass. The ditches and mounds of the hill fort were easy to pick out. It was a magical place. You could almost feel the air buzzing with the weight of its history – so much must have happened right here through the ages, it was as though it seeped through to the present. And the view, across rolling green fields and low hills, with occasional villages and farms tucked in the hollows, was magnificent.

  ‘Magical, isn’t it?’ Ryan said.

  ‘That’s exactly the word I would use. All that ancient history bubbling just beneath the surface.’

  ‘Lovely way to put it. And some not so ancient history too – there was a battle here in 1798 between the United Irishmen and British troops. An early attempt to gain independence for Ireland. That Celtic cross over there marks the site of the battle. And then the great statesman Daniel O’Connell held a rally here, campaigning for repeal of the Acts of Union that bound Ireland to Britain. So this place played its part in the fight for Irish independence as well.’

  I looked around again and walked over to the Celtic cross, trying to imagine a bloody eighteenth-century battle raging around me, and a Victorian statesman making an impassioned speech. It had all happened, right here. It made me shiver – not with cold but with awe.

  Ryan had walked over to stand beside me. ‘Coffee time?’ He spread a picnic rug on the ground, on one of the Iron Age ramparts, and poured coffee from the flask into two small plastic cups, handing me one. I sat beside him on the slope and sipped it slowly, still soaking up the atmosphere of this extraordinary place.

  ‘In the nineteenth century,’ Ryan said, ‘Ireland was like a battered wife to Britain’s domineering husband. The 1916 uprising was Ireland saying, “I’ve had enough. I want to be out of this marriage.” And then the War of Independence was the long and bitter fight for separation, ending only when an exhausted Britain agreed to divorce, but only if it could keep the house.’

  ‘The house?’ I asked.

  ‘Northern Ireland.’

  I smiled. ‘Nice analogy.’ In my own divorce proceedings, I’d be happy for Paul to keep the house, now that I had my own.

  We stayed at the Hill of Tara for an hour, enjoying the coffee and biscuits, wandering around the ramparts and looking at the view in all directions. Eventually the chill wind made us decide to head back down. There was a small gift shop just along the road, selling Irish souvenirs and with a decent selection of books on Irish history. I didn’t buy any as there were enough in the back seat of the car to keep me going, but I bought a Hill of Tara tea towel and postcards to send to the boys.

  ‘It’s been a lovely morning,’ I said, as we walked back to my car. To be truthful, I didn’t want it to end.

  ‘Fancy lunch out? There’s a good pub not too far from here,’ Ryan said, sounding almost shy as he asked.

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ I said, overwhelmingly glad that he too did not want our outing to come to an end just yet.

  Lunch was lovely. I remember nothing about the food, only that throughout our meal we swapped life stories, laughed, joked, discussed everything from ancient history to modern politics, and ended up feeling as though we’d known each other for a lifetime. At least, that’s how I felt, and as Ryan smiled at me when we left the pub I was pretty sure he felt the same way. For some reason I felt suddenly shy and fumbled in my handbag for my car keys to avoid looking him in the eye.

  But the day had to come to an end. Ryan had an evening appointment with a book dealer and I’d promised Janice I’d babysit for her for a couple of hours while she went to Ciara’s school parents’ evening. I dropped Ryan off at his house, with a cheery, ‘must do this again some time’, by which I meant ‘tomorrow if possible’, and set off towards Clonamurty Farm (or ‘home’ as I was beginning to think of it) with a stupid grin on my face and a head spinning with memories of the day and dreams of the future.

  Spinning too fast, as it transpired. I was only half a mile from home, on the narrow lane that leads up to the farm, when it happened. My attention was elsewhere – to be precise, it was lying on Ryan’s picnic rug alongside him on the Hill of Tara. I was probably going just a little bit too fast, around a bend, and there it was. A cow, in the middle of the lane, chewing contentedly on the narrow grass verge between the lane and the hedge. It must, I discovered later, have squeezed through a gap in the hedge a bit further up.

  ‘Shit!’ I screamed, slamming on my brakes but at the same moment realising I would not be able to stop in time. I had to choose, left hedge or right hedge or straight into a wall of beef? I chose left, careered over the verge and smashed the car into the hedge, praying as it went in that there’d be no solid tree trunks in the middle and perhaps the car would just crash through and out the other side in the field. I think I even envisaged driving on through the field and back onto the lane at the next gateway. I felt a massive surge of relief that I had managed to miss the cow. Funny what goes through your mind at
a time like this, when everything seems to be happening in slow motion.

  I don’t know what I hit in that hedge, but whatever it was flipped the car over, and the next thing I knew down was up and up was down, and I was hanging by my seatbelt with spent airbags deflating all around me. ‘Shit!’ I screamed again, as the car slithered to a halt on its roof in the field.

  ‘Dad’s going to kill me,’ was my next useless thought, as I realised I was not hurt. Followed by, ‘but Dad’s dead, so it’ll be Paul who kills me,’ before I remembered that I’d left Paul and the car was mine.

  And then I took a few deep breaths and realised I should get myself out of the car. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to unclip the seatbelt, wriggle myself upright and force open a back door. Neither of the front doors would open. I reached back to the dash and switched off the engine, then tugged my handbag free from where it had caught around the passenger seat and crawled out. Ryan’s books were scattered all around the car, and I spent a moment gathering them up, my hands shaking so much I could barely hold them.

  Why rescuing the books seemed so important while my car was clearly a write-off I don’t know. I sat on the muddy ground in that ploughed field, with the books on one side of me and my trashed car on the other, and sobbed. It was a few minutes before I was able to pull myself together, get my phone out of my handbag, and call the emergency services.

  I was taken to hospital – the county hospital in Navan – for a check-up and then discharged. No injuries other than a few scratches and bruises, though they warned me I’d be stiff for a few days and gave me some painkillers anyway. I’d called Janice and had to apologise that I couldn’t babysit, and I took a taxi back home. Janice was in her car sitting outside in my yard when I arrived. She got out as soon as the taxi pulled up and ran over to hug me gently.

  ‘God, Clare! What a thing to happen! Are you OK? It’s all right, I found someone else to mind the kids, and I can see Ciara’s teachers another time. I’m here to cook you some dinner and make sure you’re all right. You can stay at mine tonight if you don’t want to be alone. God, you poor thing! A cow, was it?’