The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘You won’t need to tell my husband, will you?’ I said, once the insurance clerk had taken down all the details. ‘Only … we are separated. The car’s mine, even though the insurance is in his name.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Farrell, we do have to inform the policy holder about this claim. However, if he agrees to go ahead with the claim, any insurance payout will come to you as the registered owner of the vehicle.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t agree?’

  ‘Then I’m afraid we cannot progress with the claim. Perhaps you can talk to him about it, so he knows to expect to hear from us. I’m very sorry we cannot do it any other way, but be assured of our best attention at all times.’

  He was reading from a script, I could tell, and beginning to annoy me. ‘Very well. I will send evidence of the accident as you requested and let my husband know. Goodbye.’

  I decided to leave talking to Paul until later, when I felt up to it. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation.

  Mid-morning a man from the local garage called by. They’d recovered my car from the field and he brought me a bag containing everything they’d retrieved from the glove compartment and door pockets. ‘And these books were in the field nearby,’ he said, handing me another bag containing Ryan’s books on Irish history, all sodden as it had rained during the night. I’d have to pay Ryan for them. Maybe they’d dry out and still be readable if I put them in the airing cupboard.

  The garage man also handed me a document confirming the car was a write-off. ‘You’ll need that for your insurance claim,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky you weren’t hurt.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, thinking about my bruises and the increasing stiffness in my back and shoulders. If I didn’t keep moving today I felt I’d seize up completely.

  Ryan was the next visitor. I guessed Janice must have popped across the road from the café and told him what had happened. He knocked on the back door and came straight in, not waiting for a reply, and took me straight into his arms. ‘Oh my God, Clare. What a thing to happen. Janice says it was a cow in the road. Thank the good Lord you’re not hurt.’

  ‘Just a little bruised,’ I said, wriggling out of his arms because he was hurting me, squeezing too tight.

  ‘Arrgh, sorry,’ he said, letting go. ‘So, anything I can do? You’ve no car, so if you need shopping done, or a lift anywhere, you’ve only to call and ask me. Please. I want to help.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled at him. To tell the truth I hadn’t thought how I was going to manage, living here in the middle of the countryside, with no car. I supposed I’d have to buy another pretty quickly, probably before the insurance money came through. ‘Ah, your books. Sorry. They got left in the field in the rain.’ I showed him the pile of soggy books.

  ‘Who cares about a few books? Main thing is you’re not badly hurt.’ He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. ‘If only my car hadn’t been in the garage yesterday, then you wouldn’t have been driving up the lane.’

  ‘No, you would have, with me in the car, and the cow would still have been there, and we’d both have been in the accident,’ I said.

  ‘I guess so. Anyway, in happier news, I did a bit of digging around on that name that’s on the communion medallion. Turns out that our James Gallagher was a Volunteer, fighting for Irish independence.’

  ‘So maybe he had something to do with those guns we found?’

  ‘Almost certainly, I’d say. I also had a look at the 1911 census to see who lived here back then, around the time of young James’s First Communion.’

  I frowned. ‘I thought Ireland’s census returns were all destroyed in a fire?’ I was sure I’d read that somewhere.

  ‘Most of the ones from the nineteenth century, yes. But the 1901 and 1911 and parts of others survived. So, it seems young James grew up here. In 1911 the farm was owned by his father, Michael Gallagher. Our James lived here with his parents and younger brother who was also called Michael. It was probably James himself who hid the medallion in the chair.’

  ‘But why? And why was it with a birth certificate for someone else?’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘I’ve not had a chance to look much into that yet. Anyways I think I should leave it for you! It’ll be a good bit of research to do quietly, while you recuperate.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m sure there must be some connection between the two. The certificate was folded around the medallion so I think they were put there at the same time, by the same person. Maybe it was even James Gallagher. My grandmother was also involved in the War of Independence. I found some notes my cousin made about her – I’ve been meaning to read them all but haven’t had time yet, and I don’t feel up to it today. I’ve a few things to do then I want to lie in the bath with a good book and try to soak away the aches and pains.’

  ‘That sounds like a good plan,’ Ryan said, his eyes full of sympathy. ‘Well, I’d better make a move. Don’t forget to let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘I’m short of milk …’ I said, tentatively.

  ‘I’ll pick some up and bring it this afternoon. Anything else?’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  ‘OK.’ He stood in front of me for a moment, then bent forward and kissed my cheek, so gently it felt like a butterfly had brushed its wings against me. Then he was gone, and I was left touching my cheek, thinking what a good friend he was, and wondering if I could ever contemplate a time when there was another man in my life.

  My friends had buoyed me up. I felt strong enough to call Paul and tell him. Not that it should matter to him, as it was my car, but as the insurance company had said, he had to be informed. Better that it came from me.

  I pulled out my old phone, switched it on, and called him. Better to get it done quickly.

  ‘Paul? It’s me. Clare. I need to talk to you about someth—.’

  ‘Clare?! About time you turned your phone on. I’ve left hundreds of messages. Have you listened to them all?’

  ‘Not yet, but I need …’

  ‘It’s hell here. How I’m supposed to do the shopping as well as working I don’t know. Had to buy a new car but all I could get quickly is a rubbish little Focus. I hate it.’

  ‘About the car …’

  ‘The bathroom needs cleaning. And the washing machine shrunk my T-shirts. When are you coming home?’

  ‘Paul, I told you. I’m not coming home. This is my home now. Listen, I need to tell you something important.’

  ‘What? You found another man? You can’t have. Who’d want you?’

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Let that one go, Clare, I told myself. Just stick to the reason why you rang him. ‘No. It’s the car. I had a little accident. The insurance company will be in touch with you about it.’

  ‘What? You’ve pranged the car? For God’s sake, Clare! How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s a write-off.’

  ‘What? How on earth did you manage that?’

  ‘There was a cow in the road. I swerved to avoid it, went through a hedge and the car flipped over.’

  ‘For God’s sake. That’ll fuck up my no claims discount.’

  I realised he hadn’t asked whether I’d been hurt or not. I decided not to say anything unless he asked, but found tears springing to my eyes. This man had cared about me once. We’d had twenty-five years together, and at the beginning it had been good. But now he cared more about the car, which wasn’t even his.

  ‘Well anyway, the insurance company will need you to sign forms or something. I’ve already spoken to them.’

  ‘Hope they pay out quickly. I’ll be able to get something better than this crappy Focus.’

  ‘Paul, the car was mine. The payout will come to me.’

  ‘But the insurance is in my name.’

  ‘Even so, the insurance clerk said any payout goes to the registered owner of the vehicle. That’s me.’ As I said it I knew he’d explode, and so was ready for the tirade when it came.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! You steal our car, t
rash it, and then take the money and leave me with nothing? Well thanks a lot, Clare. Don’t expect me to sign anything if I’m not getting any of the money. Sort it out yourself. If you can. You never had a head for money or paperwork – I’ve always had to handle all that sort of thing. You’ll have no chance. But don’t come crying to me. You’re insisting it’s your car so you deal with the claim. I’ll not lift a finger to help.’

  And then he hung up. I was left open-mouthed, a rogue tear running down my face. ‘It’s all right, I wasn’t hurt at all, though it could have killed me,’ I said quietly to the wallpaper photo on my phone. Had Paul always been like this? He had loved me and cared about me, once. Surely though, even though we’d split up he’d still be concerned if I was hurt? I’d care if I heard he was injured in an accident – I know I would. I mean, you can’t spend twenty-five years with someone and then just not care in the slightest if they’re hurt. Not even ask.

  Well if that’s how he wanted to play it then fine. I hoped he’d change his mind about making things difficult for me regarding the insurance claim, once he’d calmed down. I could afford to buy a car using the money left to me by Uncle Pádraig but I’d rather keep that money to spend on doing up the farm, and to live on until I figured out some way of earning a living.

  I called the boys next, to tell them what had happened before their father did. Predictably, the first thing each of them asked was whether I’d been hurt.

  ‘Because if you need me, I can change my holiday and come over sooner. Tomorrow. Hell, this afternoon,’ said Matt, sounding distressed. I could picture him pacing up and down, running his hand through his hair in that way he had when he was upset.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Honestly. A little stiff today but it’ll ease up soon. And I have made friends here, Matt. I’m not alone.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. I worry about you, you know?’

  ‘Yes, I know. And I am truly grateful to have such a wonderful son.’

  Jon, typically, made jokes about it, once he’d ascertained I was all right. ‘Like, Mum, you know that cars can’t actually fly, right? Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the car in Harry Potter – that was all special effects, you know? Next time you want to go through a hedge, find a gate rather than try to fly over it.’

  ‘I will, I promise,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘You sure you’re OK? Like if I find you’ve got broken legs or something when I come over next week, I’m gonna be one seriously cross son, you get me?’

  ‘Yes, darling. I promise I have no broken legs or anything else. Thanks for your concern. I appreciate it.’

  ‘You told Dad yet?’

  ‘Yes. Car insurance is in his name so he has to agree to the claim.’

  ‘Uh-oh. There may be trouble ahead,’ he sang, making me laugh again even though I suspected there was more than a little truth in his words.

  I hated the way having to deal with anything ‘official’ like the car insurance made me feel so nervous and useless. It was, I knew, because I’d spent so many years not working, not handling the household finances, doing nothing more taxing than a bit of curtain-making. I’d given up work when I was pregnant with Matt and never went back.

  Well, that is apart from a very short-lived job as a lunchtime supervisor at my sons’ primary school. I shuddered a little as I remembered. Both boys had started school, and I found myself with too much time on my hands. There was a vacancy for a lunchtime supervisor – not much money but just a couple of hours a day, term-time only – perfect for me! And I was excited about having a little money of my own that I could spend how I liked, rather than feeling guilty about buying something for myself out of the housekeeping allowance.

  Paul grumbled a bit but then appeared to be happy about it, and I started work one Monday lunchtime feeling positive and excited. And I enjoyed the work – the children gathering around me, all wanting to tell me their news, wanting to hold my hands, wanting me to join in their games of tag.

  But on the Wednesday of the second week, my eighth day at work, I came home after my shift to find Paul already home, in bed, sick. I say ‘sick’ but he seemed all right to me. No raised temperature, no physical signs.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ he said. ‘Came home hoping to be looked after. Forgot you were at work.’ He gave a hangdog look that was supposed to inspire my sympathy. Actually it made me feel a pang of annoyance. I only went to work for an hour and a half. Not that long to be left on your own, even if you were feeling awful. Not when you’re a grown man.

  ‘Well, I’m here now,’ I said. ‘I’ll make you a hot lemon.’

  He nodded feebly and turned his face away, sighing. I had the impression it was all an act.

  For the next two days he phoned in sick, and insisted I stay home to look after him. So I had to make excuses with the school, and stay at home all day at his beck and call, apart from walking our kids to school and fetching them at home time. He could cope on his own for those two thirty-minute periods it seemed, but not for the ninety-minute period when I was supposed to be at work. When I argued with him about it he reminded me my priority was him and the kids, not my job.

  And then he suggested he increase the housekeeping allowance to cover what I could earn from the school. On Sunday he emailed the school from my email address telling them I was resigning from the job as it didn’t fit with my other responsibilities. There was a terse reply from them the next day – an email I opened after Paul had gone to work. He’d made a sudden amazing recovery once I reluctantly agreed to stay home and not work.

  It’s so easy to look back and see just how manipulative he was. But at the time I constantly made excuses for him, gave in to him and did whatever he wanted, to keep the peace. I told myself at the time it was better for the boys, and I needed to put them first. It all left me with such low self-esteem, and not a lot of knowledge of how the world operates. Or how to ‘adult’, as Jon would put it. I was no good at adulting, despite being almost 50.

  I sighed, made myself yet another cup of tea, and to put the accident out of my mind I looked back on what I had achieved in the last couple of months. From opening my own bank account to dealing with a cache of guns found buried under my barn – look, Clare, I told myself, you’ve dealt with a lot. You’ve done all right so far.

  Chapter 16

  Ellen, April 1920

  Jimmy had been gone two weeks when the news came, reported in all the newspapers, of an attack on an RIC barracks in the county. There’d been an explosion in the night, and while the RIC were running around in confusion, half-dressed, trying to get out, a couple of Volunteer snipers had picked off a few of them. In all the RIC death toll was thought to be around ten men. One Volunteer had been injured but was expected to make a full recovery according to a report in An Phoblacht. Madame Carlton seemed jubilant about the news.

  ‘With that barracks unusable that’ll mean the RIC have to pull back to Dublin. They have no other barracks left in this county. It might mean they stop manning some of the roadblocks,’ she told Ellen.

  ‘Yes, Madame. Do you know who was injured?’ Ellen was terrified this had been Jimmy’s mission. What if it was he who’d been hurt?

  Madame Carlton smiled. ‘Not your young man, is all I can say.’

  ‘Pity so many had to die,’ said Ellen, half to herself. It was war, and people always died in wars, but she still felt pity for them. After all, they were someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s brother. They’d been unlucky. And the RIC were mostly Irishmen, unlike the Black and Tans. Irishmen who’d been their friends before this conflict began and they found themselves separated from their neighbours by their duties. Like Siobhan’s brother. He was stationed in a different county, so wouldn’t have been hurt in this raid.

  ‘War’s harsh.’ Madame Carlton said, gently. ‘Ellen, there is one thing you should know. The men involved in that mission, and that does include your Jimmy, are now on the run.’

  Ellen gasped. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It
means Jimmy can’t come home. The RIC and the Black and Tans will be looking for him, and the others. He will need to stay away, keep a low profile.’

  ‘Where will he stay?’

  ‘We have safe houses across the county. He’s in one now, and may need to move on, to stay ahead of the authorities. He will be all right, Ellen, I promise. We have many men on the run. We have a good system of support for them.’ Madame Carlton put her hand on Ellen’s shoulder.

  Ellen stifled a sob. ‘Will I be able to see him?’

  The older woman nodded. ‘I think we can arrange something. You’ll have to be very careful though.’

  Ellen forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you, Madame. I miss him, so.’

  ‘Of course you do. Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can’t arrange for you to meet on your next day off.’

  Ellen thanked the Lord that she had such a good and understanding mistress. To think she’d been in the job less than a year! A year ago she’d been living with her father, keeping house for him, wondering what her future might hold. The war had barely begun. And now here she was, a member of the Cumann na mBan, fighting for Ireland’s freedom. And she was practically an engaged woman. She fingered the medallion that she’d worn around her neck ever since Jimmy had given it to her. All she could do now was wait to hear the arrangements for her to see Jimmy from Madame Carlton.

  Her day off, two days later, arrived with no more news of Jimmy. Ellen left Carlton House with a heavy heart. On a whim she decided to call at Clonamurty Farm on her way home, to see if his parents had heard anything more. She knew she must not pass on what she had learned from Madame Carlton, however.

  All was in uproar at the farm. Mrs Gallagher was in the kitchen, in tears. Cupboards were open, their doors torn off hinges, bags of flour and potatoes had been ripped open and the contents strewn across the room. Crockery lay broken on the floor and dented pans kicked under the table.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ellen said, rushing in to comfort Mrs Gallagher.

  ‘RIC. Came in here looking for Jimmy, so they did. I told them he wasn’t here. They turned the place upside down. As if he’d be hiding in a sack of flour!’