The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  I’d bought some bed linen for the boys. Plain blue for Matt and one with Marvel comic heroes plastered all over it for Jon.

  ‘Aw, for a wee grandson?’ asked the woman at the Dunnes Stores till when I went to pay for it.

  ‘Actually no, for my son. He’s never quite grown up,’ I’d told her. He’d love it, I knew.

  I spent an exhausting day cleaning and shifting furniture in and out of bedrooms until I had two set up ready for the boys, with their new bed linen, the least offensive curtains I could find in the house, somewhere to put away their clothes and a chair. In Matt’s I’d put a large geometric patterned rug on the floor – one I remembered had been Daithí’s when he was a boy. I used to play a kind of hopscotch on it, while he lay on his bed reading and just about tolerating my presence.

  I’d bought loads of food – rib of beef to roast, huge bags of pasta and jars of tomato and basil sauce for lunches, a kilo of cheese, a jumbo pack of chocolate mini rolls. All their old favourites. I planned to spoil them. And prove to them I could manage on my own. And show them I was happy here.

  I also needed to prove to myself that being 50 was the start of a new, wonderful phase in my life. But to tell the truth, there was something about reaching that horrible half-century figure that terrified me. It felt like it’d be all downhill from here.

  I’d had time to spend on my upholstery project, as well. I’d stripped it back completely, to just the wooden frame. I’d sanded and varnished the legs – the only wooden parts that would show when I’d finished. Next job was to add webbing, then tie the springs to that, knotting them through the webbing and then tying the tops down to form a rough dome shape.

  I was reusing the original springs. It always felt right to reuse as much as possible. Even most of the stuffing was salvageable – it was all horse hair. I’d used an old trick – put the horse hair into an old duvet cover (of which I had plenty inherited from Uncle Pádraig), sew it up loosely, then put the whole lot in the washing machine. Once washed, I’d unpicked the stitching, removed the horsehair and spread it out in the sunshine to dry. It was good stuff and definitely worth saving.

  The old barn was proving to be a good workshop, though eventually I wanted to fit it out properly with a cutting table and some better lighting and heating for the winter, if I was going to work on more projects out here. I also needed to buy a few new upholstery tools. I’d made do with what I could find among Uncle Pádraig’s so far but soon I’d need a magnetic hammer, a large box of upholstery tacks, a set of curved needles in various sizes, some decent scissors and a double-ended mattress needle. Also hessian, webbing, calico, extra stuffing, upholsterer’s twine, piping cord, not to mention fabric for the final cover. Oh, and I’d need a sewing machine.

  I made a list and found a website where I could order most of the things I needed. The sewing machine and fabric would need to wait until I could go to Dublin for a day.

  I’d read the rest of Daithí’s notebooks in which he’d interviewed Granny Irish. It was odd hearing her words, across the decades, via the ghost of my cousin.

  ‘I liked working up at the big house,’ Daithí had written. ‘There were two of us sharing a room at the top of the house. We called the mistress Madame. She was good to us. She ran the Cuman Na Barn (not sure of spelling). It was like the women’s version of the old IRA. There was all sorts going on in that house during the war. I’m not sure even now I should tell you it all. It’s hard, after keeping quiet all these years, so it is.’

  There was a gap, and then Daithí had continued writing in a different pen.

  ‘Granny told me she wasn’t always sure if she was doing the right thing, supporting the Volunteers. She hated war, hated the idea that people got hurt, and wished the conflict could just end peacefully without bloodshed. I think that’s wrong. I think if you believe something’s right, it’s worth fighting for. Only people who are on the wrong side get hurt. Or people who stand in your way.’

  I sighed, reading that. You hurt people, and got hurt too, Daithí. You gave your life for what you believed in. And I don’t know whether you were right to do that. I was with Granny on this. Why can’t conflicts be resolved by negotiation? In the end, Daithí’s conflict was resolved by talks rather than guns – by the Good Friday Agreement.

  Matt and Jon had managed to arrange things so that they arrived on the same flight. I was like a kid at Christmas waiting until it was time to set off to the airport to collect them. It was about an hour’s drive to Dublin airport and I left in the hire car far too early and had to spend thirty minutes sipping coffee in the arrivals hall before finally their flight showed as having landed.

  At last, there they were, coming through from customs together, my two tall, handsome sons. I felt a surge of pride as I watched them walk through. Matt had obviously come straight from the office, as he was wearing a suit, although he’d removed his tie. Jon was in ripped jeans and a black hoodie. He’d obviously just made some sort of joke as Matt threw back his head laughing, then gave his brother a playful punch on the arm. At that moment they spotted me and marched over.

  ‘Mum! Hey! Good to see you!’ Matt hugged me, and Jon ruffled my hair as though I was a small child. To be fair, he is about a foot taller than me.

  I hugged them back, and blinked away a tear. It was so good to see them and they were both staying for a full week. I was so excited. ‘Well then, shall we get going? I can’t wait to show you the farm.’

  ‘Oooh arrr, the farrrm,’ said Jon in a British west-country accent, as we made our way out of the terminal and across the road to the short stay car park where I had left the hire car.

  The journey passed quickly with all three of us talking at once and lots of laughter. It was the first time either of them had been to Ireland – a fact I felt a pang of guilt about. I’d never even brought them over when they were little to visit Uncle Pádraig and Aunt Lily. I suppose because Paul had never shown any interest in wanting to visit any members of my family. Or his own, for that matter. His parents had retired to Spain and his brother moved to Australia and Paul seemed content to never see or talk to them, and just send Christmas and birthday cards.

  Finally we turned into the lane and I pointed out the flattened hedge. ‘That’s where my car left the road. I ended up upside down in the field beyond.’

  ‘Christ, Mum. A miracle you weren’t badly hurt,’ said Matt.

  ‘I know.’ We were quiet for a while pondering my lucky escape, until I turned into Clonamurty Farm’s gateway and parked in front of the old barn. ‘Well, here we are.’

  ‘Wow, Mum. It’s huge!’ Matt said. ‘I didn’t realise there were all these outbuildings. Do you own loads of land as well? What will you do with it all?’

  ‘Not much land, no. Just what you can see here, up to that fence, and a garden round the back. Uncle Pádraig sold most of it off when he retired from farming. But yes, the house is quite large. The main barn I’m using as an upholstery workshop.’

  ‘You could run this place as a bed and breakfast. Or convert the barn into holiday cottages.’

  ‘Or install a quad bike track, and use the barn for laser-quest,’ Jon added, helpfully.

  ‘Hmm, not sure about any of those ideas,’ I replied, trying and failing to imagine myself cooking breakfast for a stream of holiday makers or organising teenage birthday parties. ‘Come on. Let’s get inside. It needs a lot of work as you’ll see but I’ve sorted out a couple of bedrooms for you.’

  I gave them the tour, showed them their bedrooms (Jon was delighted by the Marvel duvet cover while Matt rolled his eyes) and then I ushered them back downstairs to sit in the kitchen and drink a beer while I got dinner on the go. Spaghetti Bolognese tonight – a staple while they were growing up, and a meal we’d all loved. Only Paul used to complain about having it every week and insist I cook something different just for him.

  ‘So, Mum. Is the insurance claim going ahead? For the car?’ Matt asked, as I stirred chopped onions and tomatoes i
n a frying pan.

  ‘Seems to be, yes. Your dad had left me a message about it, and I rang him.’

  ‘Brave? Or just stupid?’ said Jon earning himself a thump from Matt.

  ‘Funnily enough, he seemed quite reasonable on the phone. He was actually sorry for shouting. He was apologetic. Sympathetic, even.’

  ‘Not words I associate with Dad,’ Matt said, frowning.

  ‘Who was he, and what had he done with my father?’ Jon added.

  I smiled. ‘Well, that’s how he was. Maybe my leaving him has made him grow up a little.’

  ‘And realise what he’s lost.’ Matt looked thoughtful.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ Jon said, looking from me to Matt. ‘He’s talking about coming over to see you. Says even you wouldn’t turn him away if he’s on the doorstep. Wants one last family get-together, for your birthday.’

  I put down my wooden spoon and sat down heavily at the table. Paul turning up here just as I was beginning to feel settled and organised was the last thing I wanted. Though I knew we needed to talk, properly talk, about the way ahead for us, and the best way to do that would be face to face; the prospect of actually doing it made me sweat. Would I be able to cope having him here? I tried to imagine showing him into a spare room, making polite conversation over the breakfast table – no. It wouldn’t work. If he did come he’d have to stay in a guest house somewhere else. There were a couple in Blackstown.

  ‘Mum?’ Jon stood, leaned over me and put his arms around my shoulders. ‘I tried to tell him not to come but you know what he’s like. He won’t listen to anyone.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I patted Jon’s comforting arm. ‘I mean, we’re grown-ups. We’re going to have to talk to each other about getting a divorce sooner or later. May as well do it here, if he comes.’

  ‘I just hope he doesn’t cause any trouble,’ Matt said.

  There was silence for a moment. We were all lost in our own thoughts, each imagining the confrontation if or when Paul turned up here. At least, that’s what I was doing. Eventually I shook the images out of my head and returned to the Bolognese sauce before it burned. I’d ring Paul again, tell him not to come over. But not today. Not when I had my lovely sons with me, and the promise of a laughter-filled day ahead.

  Chapter 18

  Ellen, April 1920

  It was over two weeks later before another note arrived for Ellen, this time delivered via the milk cans she carried regularly to the farmyard. She’d made the trip as usual, with no problems as the RIC roadblock was no longer in place. Back at Carlton House Madame had taken the empty can from her to look for messages, and a moment later called Ellen back to the housekeeper’s room.

  ‘This one’s for you,’ she said, handing over a scrap of paper with a smile.

  Ellen took it and unfolded it immediately. Message for E. Gatesend Barn. Your employer knows. Any time. J.

  ‘Madame? What does this mean, please?’ Ellen handed it back.

  ‘Your young man is telling you where he is hiding, and is asking you to visit him there. Gatesend Barn is our code name for a deserted farmhouse. I can show you a map and tell you how to get there. It’s about ten miles from here. There is a bicycle you may borrow, though you will have to walk the last part over the fields.’

  Ellen’s excitement was growing steadily. There was another chance to see Jimmy! Memories of the close escape with the Black and Tans surfaced. ‘But Madame, will it be safe? Not for me, I mean, is there a danger to Jimmy or anyone else if I go?’

  Madame Carlton shook her head. ‘No more danger than anything else we do. You’ve been carrying messages almost daily, haven’t you, and have never been stopped or searched? They don’t look at young girls going about their business in the countryside.’

  Ellen shuffled her feet. But they did. They caught youher by the arm, and made lewd suggestions. And there’d been that one time the RIC had searched her (thankfully empty) milk cans.

  ‘What is it, Ellen? Has something happened?’ Madame Carlton caught Ellen’s chin and lifted it so she was able to look directly into her eyes.

  ‘Yes, Madame. I’m scared of being caught.’ She told the older woman then what had happened on her last day off, the day she had so nearly met with Jimmy.

  ‘You did well to warn him away. That was good thinking. Now, do you want to go to see Jimmy? I have some messages I need delivering, which you can take to him. I can’t spare you today, but tomorrow, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, Madame! Yes, I do want to see him. I miss him so much. Thank you!’

  Madame Carlton smiled. ‘I was young once. You deserve a chance. Now, work doubly hard today to get everything done, and I’ll give you the letters tomorrow.’

  The time flew by, as Ellen scurried around the house cleaning, scrubbing, making beds and fires, carrying trays, filling coal scuttles. She did everything with a smile on her face, which appeared to annoy Siobhan.

  ‘What have you to be so cheerful about? Sending me mad, so it is, your incessant grinning.’ Siobhan picked up a pail of water angrily, so that it sloshed around and spilt. ‘Now see what you’ve made me do? More work. Always work.’

  ‘I’ll mop that up,’ Ellen offered, being careful not to smile. Even Siobhan’s grumbling couldn’t take the edge off her mood. She was going to see Jimmy tomorrow! She decided not to tell Siobhan. It would only antagonise her.

  At last it was time to go. Madame had explained exactly how to get there, and showed her on a map. She wouldn’t let Ellen take the map, just in case she was searched after all. But it wasn’t a difficult route, and Ellen had repeated the instructions back to Madame several times.

  ‘Now, here are the messages you’re to take,’ Madame said, and handed her a couple of envelopes. ‘Tuck those somewhere safe in your clothing, and hand them to Captain Cunningham who is also hiding out at Gatesend. You know him, of course. You helped nurse him.’

  Ellen’s smile broadened at the thought of seeing Captain Cunningham again. She’d liked him, and enjoyed their quiet afternoons talking of books and poems while he was recuperating.

  She picked up a small bag of belongings, laced her boots tight and went out via the kitchen door. Leaning against the wall there was a bicycle. Usually Madame Carlton used it to get around locally, and to scout areas where the Volunteers were considering some action. There was a basket tied to the handlebars, and Ellen dropped her bundle in it. She wheeled the bike out of the yard and onto the driveway, mounted it and she was off. It was a grey, overcast day but with no rain or wind, and inside her heart the sun was shining brightly.

  It took about an hour and a half to reach the abandoned farm. There was a rusty iron gate across its entrance, chained and padlocked. Ellen hid her bicycle in the hedge on the opposite side of the lane, as she’d been instructed. Checking no one was around to see, she then climbed over the gate and ducked behind the hedge. Rather than walk straight up the track to the farmhouse, she followed the hedgerow around, keeping close, so that no one on the road would be able to see her. She approached the farmhouse via the back, again, exactly as Madame had told her to.

  The door opened before she’d put a hand to it, and her heart leapt momentarily to her mouth. What if this safe place had been compromised, and the Black and Tans were here?

  But it was Jimmy. Lovely, handsome Jimmy, who tugged her inside and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace and kissing her soundly on the lips.

  ‘Woo-hoo, put the young lady down!’ came a familiar voice. Jimmy let her go and Ellen turned to see Captain Cunningham, now in his Volunteer’s uniform and looking very well indeed, standing in a doorway opposite.

  ‘Sir, it’s good to see you,’ she said, pulling out the notes Madame had given her and handing them to him.

  ‘And you too, Ellen. As you can see, your nursing paid off. I will be forever in your debt. Well, I will leave you young lovers alone, now. Keep away from the windows.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Ellen said, trying to sound
as though she already knew she’d need to take this precaution.

  ‘Come on. I’ll make you tea in my room,’ Jimmy said, taking her hand and pulling her towards the door Captain Cunningham had just left by. Was it right to go with him to his room? Ellen wondered. And then, just as quickly, she realised she didn’t care what was right and proper. She only cared that she loved this man, and it was war time, and he was on the run. She had until midday the next day to stay with him. She determined to make the most of every moment.

  Jimmy’s room was upstairs, at the back of the house. There was a piece of sacking pinned over the window, which meant the room was gloomy. There was an old, stained mattress on the floor, with a couple of blankets thrown on it. A Primus stove and a tin mug stood on a small table. Beside the mug lay a revolver.

  Jimmy picked up a small tin can and filled it with water from an old-fashioned cracked ewer. ‘There’s no running water here, but there’s a pump in the yard. We fill the jugs after dark and make it last all day. I’ve some tea but no milk, and this evening we have potatoes and tinned fish. I think there’s some apples left as well.’

  He lit the stove and placed the pan on top, and put a spoonful of tea from a brown paper packet into the tin mug. He smiled wryly. ‘We’ll have to share the mug. I’ve only the one.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ll share anything with you,’ she said. She opened her bundle. ‘I brought a loaf of bread, cheese, some fruit cake and two bottles of beer.’ It was all she’d dared bring. It had to look no more than one person’s picnic, in case she was stopped and searched.

  Jimmy grinned. ‘A feast! Let’s have the cake now, save the beers for dinner, and the bread and cheese for breakfast. There may be eggs in the morning, too. Sit down, do. Sorry there’s nowhere other than that mattress.’

  ‘Where does your food come from?’ Ellen asked, sitting down on the bed and leaning against the wall. She knew Jimmy had been here for at least five days.

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Some mornings we find a basket’s been left on the back doorstep overnight. Or a side of ham, wrapped in a cloth, or a sack of potatoes. Some local people know we are here and are supporting us. We’re very grateful, so we are. And there was a stock of coal and turf left in one of the barns, and we cook on an open fire downstairs, or on our primus stoves.’