The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  Ellen stared at him. ‘But if local people know you’re here, are you not afraid some of them might report you to the RIC? Not everyone supports the Cause.’

  ‘It’s a risk we have to take. If we get wind of traitors in the area, we’ll move on. This is the third place I’ve been in since that last mission.’

  ‘The barracks?’ She realised she wanted to know what his part in that mission had been.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me so, what did you do?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘I do. I want to know everything about you, share in everything.’ She moved closer to him on the old mattress, leaning sideways against him. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her hair.

  ‘All right. I’ll tell you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We were targeting the Blackstown barracks, as you know. Trying to get the RIC out of the county. We set explosives in the night, by each of the doors. I’m a good shot; my job was as a sniper. Once the explosives went off, the idea was to pick off any men who tried to run for it.’

  ‘You shot them, as they tried to escape?’ It was not a picture Ellen wanted in her head. Those poor men, Irish men, whose only crime was to be on the other side in this conflict.

  He did not look at her as he answered. ‘Aye, I did. And they shot back. Two of our men were hit, but the RIC came off much worse. As more came out of the burning building we were outnumbered and had to pull back. That’s when Cunningham and I were spotted, and that’s why we’re now on the run. Cunningham realised the danger first, and got me away safely. He’s a good man. One of the very best; loyal and steady and I owe him my life.’

  She was silent, trying to take it all in, trying to come to terms with the idea that her Jimmy had killed.

  ‘Does it upset you?’ Jimmy asked her, gently.

  She realised a tear had run down her cheek. ‘I’m after wishing it could all be resolved through talk. Why do people have to kill each other? It just seems so sad, such a waste of life.’

  He nodded. ‘I know what you mean. But the end justifies the means. Ireland unfree will never be at peace.’

  ‘You said those words before.’ She remembered his mutterings at Gerry’s graveside, the previous autumn.

  ‘I believe them, with all my heart. We must fight, Ellen, and surely swift attacks, targeting the military as we are, is better than a protracted war like the Great War was, when so many millions died?’

  ‘But then they fight back, targeting the ordinary people.’ She was thinking of the attacks on Blackstown pubs and businesses a few months earlier.

  ‘Reprisals, aye, are a sad fact.’ Jimmy fell silent. The pan on the stove was bubbling, so he jumped up, made the mug of tea and handed it to her, along with the cake she’d brought in her bundle. ‘Let’s talk no more of the struggle. We have so little time together. What time must you be back with Madame?’

  She blushed. ‘I have until midday tomorrow.’

  ‘You can stay the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will have the mattress then, and the blankets. It’s not much but you should be warm enough. I can … take a coat and sleep … somewhere else …’

  This was the moment. She turned to face him and gazed into his eyes. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Jimmy. I want you here, with me. We will curl up together.’

  He stared at her, and smiled slowly. ‘I can think of nothing I would like more.’ And then he pulled her close and kissed her, deep and warm, with more passion than ever before. She was panting when at last the kiss ended. How long until the evening, until they could lie down together, kiss some more, and see where it led them? She was ready for this. Jimmy was her love, her man, and she wanted no other. She would give herself to him, readily and joyfully.

  The afternoon passed quickly. They talked and laughed and kissed, and grew closer and closer throughout. In the early evening they went downstairs where, in what was once the sitting room, Cunningham and another man were already preparing a meal. Ellen stepped forward and helped, and the two bottles of beer she’d brought were split four ways.

  After they’d cleared up, and the men had completed some security checks outside, Jimmy took Ellen’s hand and led her out of the room, back upstairs. She noticed Cunningham smile and wink at Jimmy as they left, but she found she didn’t care. So what if they knew what was going to happen? The conflict made life precarious, and time was too precious to worry about social conventions. The Lord would forgive them, if what they did, they did for love.

  And it was every bit as magical as she had hoped. They lay down together, with an oil lamp casting a warm glow in the room, pulled the blankets over themselves, and lay on their sides facing each other, kissing, gently at first and then more passionately. His hands began to explore her body, and after a while she got up, removed her dress and stockings, and lay down again in only her underclothes. She fumbled at his trouser fastenings, and he tugged them off. He pressed against her and she could feel his excitement. Gently, so carefully, he lifted her shift and rolled her onto her back, easing himself onto her. And then he was inside, murmuring words of love in her ear, and melting into her and she was melting into him, and she felt complete.

  Afterwards Jimmy turned out the lamp and they lay in the dark, warm and snug under the blankets, holding each other.

  ‘Jimmy?’ Ellen said, quietly, ‘will you do any more missions? Or just stay safe and on the run until it’s all over?’

  He paused before replying, and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. At last he answered. ‘One more. There’s something big being planned, and I’m to be a part of it. Then I’ll have done my bit, and I can retire from the Volunteers with my head held high. And we can be together. One more.’

  One more. Could she bear the wait, the anxiety, the not knowing? Did she have any choice?

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll win, and it will all have been worth it. Wait for me, my love.’

  She held him close, tears gently running down her cheeks, until he fell asleep in her arms, his slow, even breaths caressing her cheek. Eventually she too slept, and dreamed of a future, a magnificent, joyful future where they had their own farm, half a dozen children, and a country free from oppression.

  Chapter 19

  Clare, May 2016

  It was so good having Matt and Jon to stay. I’d filled them in about the guns found under the barn and the items found inside the old chair. Neither of them were very much into history and I suppose as it wasn’t their home they weren’t as fascinated by the mysteries as I was. I’d told them too what I’d found out about Granny Irish.

  ‘Look, boys. Your great-grandmother’s listed in this book.’ It was one of the ones Ryan had given me on the day of the car crash, thankfully still readable after it dried out.

  ‘She’s in a book?’ Matt looked vaguely impressed.

  ‘Volunteers from County Meath: the heroes of the War of Independence. It lists anyone from the county who played a part, with a short paragraph describing what they did.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Matt took the book from me and scanned the brief paragraph. ‘Wow, this says she worked as a spy! According to this she passed information about RIC movements to the Volunteers, and sent false information back.’

  ‘Cool!’ was Jon’s only response, accompanied by a shrug. I supposed it meant less to the young, who were more interested in looking forward rather than backwards.

  I took the boys to Tara, and also to the beach at Bettystown where we parked on the firm sand and went for a walk along by the dunes. It’s one of those flat, hard-sand beaches that makes you want to run and skip and do cartwheels.

  I remembered being there with Uncle Pádraig, Aunt Lily and my cousins when I was small. The boys had gone off running races along the sand and I could not keep up, so I’d practised gymnastics by myself. After a while David had come back and asked me to teach him how to do a handstand. He was useless at it – could not seem to get his weight over his
arms right and his legs were bent at terrible angles. At that age I was obsessed by Nadia Comaneci and wanted to be just like her when I grew up. Cartwheels, handstands, walkovers and crabs were about as much as I could manage, but, hey, I could do it and David couldn’t! I don’t think I’d ever felt so proud of myself.

  Being back there, now, at the grand old age of 49-very-nearly-50 left me with an obscene urge to try to do a cartwheel. To see if I still could. A little run, a skip up turning sideways with arms up, and over you go. Commit to it as your hands go down, get those legs up and in a good starfish shape, let the waist be loose and bend sideways … yes, I could remember how to do it. But could I? Was I flexible enough still? Would my arms take my weight; could my waist bend sideways enough?

  And then I remembered my bruised shoulder, and thought better of it. I was too old for such things. I know there are people doing gymnastics in their eighties but they’d probably kept it up all their lives, whereas I’d done nothing more physically taxing than a spot of vacuum-cleaning and the occasional climb up a loft-ladder for the last twenty-five years.

  ‘All right, Mum? You look a bit pensive.’ Matt had come to walk beside me.

  ‘Just remembering being here years ago, when I was a child.’ I sighed, picturing again the child I’d been, chasing across the sands after her big cousins, longing to be noticed. ‘Feeling the passage of time, I suppose. Something to do with that big birthday I’ve got coming up.’

  ‘Ah, Mum. It’s only a number.’

  ‘Yeah, the number of times you’ve been around the sun,’ Jon added. ‘Who cares if you’re getting old. You’re still our lovely mum. Group hug!’

  Good job they both wrapped their arms around me then as it meant I could bury my face against their shoulders until I got my emotions back under control.

  When they released me, Jon sprinted off towards the dunes and came back with a piece of driftwood and a badly chewed tennis ball. ‘Anyone for cricket?’ he asked, in a mock upper-class accent.

  We played for ages, taking it in turns to bat (which soon morphed into catching the ball and then flinging it as far as you could, as the driftwood made a lousy bat), bowl and field. I laughed till I cried, got out of breath running after the ball and loved every minute of it. Those boys were making me feel young again. I was middle-aged, but didn’t have to act it.

  We were sitting in a café near the beach, sipping huge mugs of milky tea, when Ryan phoned. I found myself blushing as I answered it, and did not miss the way Jon nudged Matt and raised his eyebrows when I said, ‘Hi, Ryan.’

  ‘Hey, Clare. I was thinking, it’s your birthday soon, isn’t it? Any chance you’d allow me to take you out for a meal to celebrate? I know your sons are coming to visit but perhaps you’re free before they arrive?’

  ‘They’re actually already here,’ I said, glancing at the boys across the table. Matt was pretending not to listen in, while Jon was not pretending at all, but cupping his hand behind his ear and leaning forward towards me. I slapped him away.

  ‘Oh! Sorry. Well, perhaps … we could all go out?’ Ryan said.

  I tried to imagine the four of us out for a posh dinner. Although all the fellas would get on well, I suspected I’d feel a little awkward, trying to find common ground between my new friend and my sons. The waiting staff would assume we were a family. The boys would be wondering whether there was anything going on between Ryan and me – Matt would feel vaguely embarrassed and Jon would make excruciating jokes the whole time. No. I’d be happy for Ryan to call round for a cuppa while the boys were here, but not a birthday dinner out.

  ‘Um, not sure when we’d all be free to go out …’

  ‘Mum, if you want to go out it’s fine – Jon and I can go to the pub or just hang out and drink beer and watch TV,’ Matt said, quietly. ‘You don’t have to spend every night with us.’

  I smiled at him. He’d clearly guessed what was being said at the other end of the phone. ‘Tuesday?’ I said, raising my eyebrows at Matt, who nodded. Jon too nodded, mock solemnity on his face. I almost snorted with laughter at his expression but managed to hold it back.

  ‘Tuesday?’ Ryan said, sounding confused.

  ‘I’ll be free Tuesday. The boys have, um, got something else planned for that day.’

  ‘Perfect! There’s a great restaurant a few miles out of town – The Carlton. It’s in an old country house hotel. I’ll book a table and pick you up around seven, if that’s OK?’

  I grinned. ‘Perfect for me, too.’

  ‘Mum’s got a date! Mum’s got a date!’ Jon sang, after I’d hung up. Matt thumped his arm, looking mortified on behalf of his brother.

  ‘Not a date. Ryan’s a friend. He runs the bookshop in town and lent me those books about Irish history. I’m sure you’ll meet him while you’re here. He’s … well he’s just someone who’s helped make me feel welcome here. Along with lovely Janice from the café. You’ll meet her too.’ Maybe I’d invite them both round for drinks on my birthday. Just a small party of five, but it’d be perfect. Janice’s kids could come too – Jon would probably think of some wacky game they could play that would no doubt entail charging around the house, up and down the stairs, laughing noisily and generally doing what kids do best.

  ‘Ah, but you’re smiling a secret little smile, Mum,’ said Matt. ‘Methinks this Ryan’s more than just a friend.’

  I shook my head, still smiling. ‘No, he really isn’t. But he is a thoroughly nice bloke.’

  ‘Thoroughly. Nice. Bloke. She means he’s hot.’ Jon translated my words into Millennial-speak, making me blush.

  Tuesday came round quickly. But not before I’d agonised over what to wear, gone shopping for something new (with Jon, who’d always been a good shopping companion), bought a nice little dress in navy, white and pale blue that ‘clung in all the right places’, as Jon put it, and then panicked as I had no suitable shoes to wear with it.

  ‘He won’t look at your feet,’ Jon said, but even so I ended up spending more than I should have on a pair of heeled strappy sandals. Paul had rarely let me spend much on clothes. If I needed an outfit for something, he’d come with me himself, picking out the kind of clothes he thought I should wear. Which weren’t often what I would have picked out myself, but there was never any point arguing. I’d left all those clothes back with my old life.

  ‘This is so different to what I’ve seen you in on nights out before,’ Matt said, when I put the dress and shoes on to show him, back at the farm. ‘It looks great. Really suits you.’

  Matt wasn’t the kind of person who often complimented someone on their appearance, and he’d never say you looked good if he didn’t genuinely think so. I was left glowing with pride and with a much-needed confidence boost. I found myself wondering what Paul would have thought of the new me, in that outfit. The new Paul, that is – the apologetic, contrite one I’d spoken to in our last phone call.

  ‘So, you boys have a pizza for dinner, and if you want to make a salad please do … or shall I prepare one for you? You know how to work the oven. Is there enough beer in the fridge? I’ll put some more in. The TV remote’s on the mantelpiece, and do you want—’

  ‘Mum, stop. We’ll be fine. We’ve got this. We’re grown men, not 12-year-olds being left home alone for the first time.’ Matt took the tea towel I’d been twisting out of my hands.

  ‘You’d leave beer for 12-year-olds?’ commented Jon, handing me a glass of gin and tonic. ‘Here, drink this. It’ll loosen you up a little. You seem a bit nervous considering this is “not a date”.’ He made speech marks in the air.

  ‘It’s not a date. It’s a dinner out. With a friend who happens to be a man. I’m not nervous.’ I took a big gulp of the drink, and felt the alcohol rush straight into my veins, warming me and lending me a surge of courage. I was only meeting Ryan, after all. Kind, gentle Ryan. We’d probably spend the evening talking about Irish history and local landmarks.

  Ryan arrived on the dot of seven o’clock. I invited him to
come in and meet the boys for a few minutes before we set off. He did, and there were handshakes all round, smiles and polite conversation for a few minutes. I tried to gauge what the boys thought of him, but both had neutral, pleasant expressions on their faces and for once, even Jon did not make any kind of quip. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? Surely if he liked Ryan he’d have made some sort of joke …

  I stopped myself before going too far down this train of thought. Ryan was only a friend and this was not a date, so why did it matter whether my sons liked him or not?

  It took less than ten minutes to drive to the restaurant. It was a beautiful evening – warm and still, with the setting sun casting a yellow light across the landscape. The kind of spring evening that promises a fabulous summer to come, though I knew all too well that you can’t rely on the weather in Ireland. Hot sunshine in December and freezing rain in July were equally possible.

  The route took us further along the lane that Clonamurty Farm was on, then up a long driveway lined with elm trees. There were gaps where I guessed some trees had died, but it was still an impressive approach. The hotel itself was an imposing Georgian mansion set in stunning parkland. Probably once the home of English landowners.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Ryan said, as I got out of the car in the restaurant car park. ‘Fabulous dress.’

  ‘Thanks. Jon helped me choose it.’ As soon as I said this I cursed inwardly. Why had I let on that I’d bought something new especially for this occasion? ‘A birthday present to myself,’ I added, hastily.

  ‘And why not? You deserve it,’ Ryan said, as we went into the grand entrance hall, and from there into the restaurant, which I guessed had at one stage been a drawing room. There was a huge and beautiful fireplace, ornate coving and a fabulous vista through French doors across the parkland that swept down towards the River Boyne. With the sun just settling down into a vale between two hills the view was stunning.