But it was late now, and getting dark, and she needed to decide where to spend the night. The farmer’s words had worried her, but surely if this cottage had been empty for weeks there’d be no raid on it, so she may as well stay there, as long as she was sure not to let any light show at the windows. Just like that night, almost a year ago now, when she’d stayed with Jimmy in the safe house. The last time she’d seen him. The night when little James had been conceived. It felt like another lifetime.
Chapter 25
Clare
The day dawned bright and clear for my birthday. One of those gorgeous late spring mornings where everything is vivid and blue, and you feel full of energy from the moment you wake up. I woke, yawned, stretched, pulled back the curtains to let the sunshine flood in and smiled. And then I remembered two things. Firstly that I was now 50. Half a century! But I didn’t feel any different, and as Jon had said, it was only the number of times I’ve been round the sun. Why did it matter?
The second thing I remembered was rather more sobering. Paul was still here. Well, there were just over twenty-four hours until he was due to leave. I was determined to enjoy my birthday despite his presence. If he carried on being charming and pleasant, maybe he’d even help me enjoy it. All of us together, as he’d said. But first things first – I’d bought sausages, bacon and eggs for breakfast. I don’t normally have a cooked breakfast, but it was my birthday so why not? I slipped on a dressing gown and slippers and went downstairs to start cooking.
The boys had beaten me to it. The sausages were in the oven, bacon under the grill, bread being toasted two by two and stacked on the rack, and eggs ready to fry. Tea was in the pot and the table set.
‘Aw, Mum! You’re not supposed to catch us in the act!’ Jon said. ‘We were going to call you when it was all ready.’
‘Oh, you darlings,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t expecting this. Do you need a hand with those eggs? Let me put the coffee machine on.’
‘Mum, sit down,’ Matt said firmly, waving an egg turner at me. ‘Just sit at the table and we’ll do everything. Jon, can you give Dad a five-minute warning?’
‘Sure.’ Jon disappeared upstairs while I sat at the table, enjoying being waited on. I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, what it might have been like if Paul wasn’t here and if my relationship with Ryan had moved a little further on. I suppose I must have had a soppy smile on my face because Matt nudged me with his egg turner.
‘What are you thinking about, Mum?’
‘Oh, nothing much. How lovely it is to have such wonderful sons cooking me a birthday breakfast. What a lovely day it’s shaping up to be.’
‘As long as Dad behaves.’ Matt gave a wry smile then returned to his egg pan as he heard Jon and Paul coming down the stairs.
Breakfast passed without incident. Later, once we were all showered and dressed and I’d opened my cards and presents – a gorgeous carved wooden sewing box from Matt and a silk scarf covered with pictures of cute kittens from Jon – I made another pot of tea and we discussed plans for the day.
‘The meal this evening is at eight,’ Paul said, ‘but before then I have a little surprise for you, Clare. Your birthday present. We need to leave in thirty minutes to collect it. Just you and me. The boys can stay here and amuse themselves.’
‘Just us?’ I said, and couldn’t help but frown.
‘I’m still your husband, Clare. Still fighting to keep you. It’s your birthday, and I want to treat you to something. Don’t look so worried.’
I glanced at Matt and Jon, to see if they had any idea what this might be about. Both shrugged, but said nothing.
‘It’s the reason I came over,’ he went on.
So now I was stuck. I didn’t trust him, but what could he possibly be planning that could hurt me? It would be some little treat. Maybe a trip to a jeweller’s to pick out something – I wouldn’t put it past Paul to try to get me to choose an eternity ring despite my attempts to end our marriage.
I forced a smile onto my face, remembering my decision yesterday to give Paul a chance. If he was making an effort to be amicable so would I. I’d make the best of it. If he tried to force too extravagant a present on me, I could always refuse, or take it back later and transfer the money back to him. ‘OK, sounds intriguing. Half an hour?’ I glanced down at my jeans and sweatshirt. ‘Do I need to change?’
‘You’re just fine as you are,’ he replied.
I noticed raised eyebrows from Matt and Jon. Normally Paul would not miss an occasion to criticise my too-casual dress sense.
I decided to take him at his word and didn’t so much as daub a smear of lipstick on.
We went out to the car, where Paul opened the passenger door for me, always the perfect gentleman.
‘Door’s a bit stiff,’ he said, as I climbed in. ‘I’ll probably need to open it from the outside to let you out, too. Something’s wrong with the handle.’
As we left, the boys were standing by the open front door. They each raised a hand to wave but neither was smiling. I felt a flutter of worry about what Paul was planning. Ridiculous, really. I’d been married to him for twenty-five years. I knew him, inside and out. I had no reason to fear him or think he might do anything to harm me. Other than his usual taunts and jibes and general criticism of me, of course, but he’d done less of that here in Ireland. The worst that could happen on this little trip out would be a row. But I would try to avoid that happening if I could. And maybe we’d even have a pleasant trip out, wherever we were going.
Paul drove along the lane, through Blackstown and out onto the old Dublin road, making small talk about the weather, the scenery, the differences he noted between Ireland and England as we went.
We headed south of Blackstown, but not on the motorway to Dublin. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘This is the old road to Dublin, isn’t it?’
‘It is. I thought it’d be more scenic than the motorway.’
‘We’re going to Dublin, then?’
‘Uh-huh.’ The reply was non-committal. I tried to imagine what we’d be doing there. Jewellery shopping was still a possibility. Or a lunch out – perhaps Blackstown wasn’t good enough for two meals out in one day. Or to catch a matinee show. But he hadn’t wanted me to dress up.
A few minutes later Paul pulled off the road, up a narrow lane and into a tiny, gravel car park beside a small copse.
‘Pretty spot,’ I said, wondering what we were doing there.
‘Yes. I thought we’d have a little break from driving, and toast your birthday.’ Paul reached behind him, into the rear seat foot-well, and pulled out a small rucksack. Inside was a small bottle of whiskey – twelve-year-old Jameson.
‘Still your favourite?’ he asked, with a smile.
It’d been years since I drank any Jameson, but yes, back in the day when we first met, I’d been partial to a drop of Jemmy, as I’d affectionately termed it.
‘Sure!’ I said. ‘But only a tiny sip now. It’s a bit early to be drinking.’
‘It’s your birthday. Your fiftieth. If you can’t let your hair down then, when can you?’ He pulled a shot glass out of the rucksack pocket and poured a generous measure. ‘Here. Want to sit outside to drink it?’
There was a bench on the edge of the car park, sited so that it overlooked the rolling farmland to the left of the copse. It looked a little uncared for – grimy, slightly wet.
‘I’m all right here,’ I said, taking the glass from him and sipping the fiery amber liquid. It slipped down wonderfully, warming as it went. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed an occasional whiskey.
He reached out a hand to take mine. ‘Clare, listen. I miss you. I miss you so much. I wish you’d come back to me.’
I pulled my hand away. ‘I … like I said, I’m not sure it’d work …’
But Paul wasn’t listening to my objections. He had a speech prepared, it seemed, and he was going to say it.
‘It’s hard, being on my own. I think about you all day at work, and
then I get home and you’re not there. No one’s there. I cook my own dinner, clear up, and sit on my own in the living room, wondering what you’re doing. I’m exhausted by the weekend, and I end up spending it cleaning the house. We used to go out for walks, or have lunch out at the weekend. I miss all that.’
I didn’t remember many walks and lunches out. What I did remember, however, is cooking his tea every night, clearing up, cleaning – I hadn’t minded it, because that was the way our marriage had been.
I took another sip of my whiskey and realised he wasn’t drinking. ‘Are you not having any?’ I asked.
‘Me? No, of course not. We’ve got quite a way to drive, yet.’
‘Well, we can get a taxi to the restaurant and back this evening, if you want to have a drink then,’ I said, taking another sip.
‘Sure, that’s a good idea. More?’ he said, holding out the bottle to top up my glass.
‘Why not?’ It was my birthday after all. I twisted round in my seat so he could pour, and banged my elbow on the car window.
‘Sorry about the poky little car. But of course, you took the decent car, and then wrote it off,’ he said, that old snide tone back in his voice.
‘It was mine and I didn’t exactly write it off on purpose,’ I said, quietly. And that was all it took. His comment reminded me that however charming he appeared to be, underneath he was still the controlling, manipulative man I’d made myself leave. He didn’t want me back – he wanted a cook and a cleaner. I suddenly realised the boys were right – he had not really changed. He’d been putting on an act these last few days, and I must not let myself be fooled by it. I had a new life here in Ireland. A good one. I’d made my decision months ago, and it was the right one. Arise and go now, I reminded myself.
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Good whiskey?’ He began to top my glass up again.
I held up a hand to stop him. ‘Whoa! I can’t have too much. It’s not even midday!’
‘OK. Just finish that then, and perhaps you can have another later.’ He watched, as I sipped the drink. I’ve never been able to knock spirits back in one, so it took me ten minutes or more to drink. By the end, I was feeling quite tipsy.
‘I think that’sh enough,’ I said, surprised to hear myself slurring. This wasn’t like me. OK so it was whiskey but I hadn’t had all that much, had I? I peered at the glass trying to decide if it was a pub measure, a double, or what.
‘We’d better crack on, then. Here, have some water.’ Paul pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to me. I glugged down a few mouthfuls, but felt more drunk, not less, as a result.
Paul started the car, reversed out of the car park and onto the lane, back onto the route to Dublin.
‘I feel so shleepy,’ I said, and giggled. Why was it affecting me so much? I thought I could hold my drink. God knows I drank enough wine to build up a tolerance, but maybe whiskey had a different effect. It’d been a long time since I was drunk on spirits.
‘Put your head back,’ Paul said. ‘Have a little nap. We’ve a way to go yet. I’ll wake you up when we’re there.’
‘K. Thanksh,’ I said, leaning back and closing my eyes. The car was spinning around me. I hoped I wasn’t going to be sick, all over Paul’s new-not-new car. No, I wasn’t going to be sick. I was just going to sleep. I could feel myself falling, falling, drifting away, down, deeper and down, into a peaceful, dark oblivion.
Chapter 26
Ellen, March 1921
Ellen barely slept. The cottage felt strange and unfamiliar without her father in it, and she startled at every little sound, every creak of the old house, wondering if it signalled a raid by the Black and Tans. She missed the gentle snores of Mairead sleeping in the next bed. Her arms ached, longing to hold little James again, and her breasts were engorged and sore from missing the usual feeds. The nuns would give James bottles when she failed to turn up to feed him, she knew. He would not go hungry, and she hoped she would be able to resume feeding him as soon as they were reunited. Tomorrow if all went well.
In the morning, her stomach groaning with hunger, she scoured the kitchen looking for food. There was nothing, not so much as a withered potato in the back of a cupboard. But outside a couple of hens were pecking around the yard, and in the henhouse there were dozens of eggs. She picked out three that seemed freshest, still warm from having been just laid, and took them back inside. It would take too long to get the range going, but she made a small fire in the sitting-room grate and fried the eggs there.
Feeling better with something inside her, she made her plans for the day. First step had to be Clonamurty Farm. The Gallaghers might know something of where Jimmy was. The Merciful Sisters had only allowed her to write to her father, or she’d have written to them long ago to ask.
She tidied up a little, though to what end she didn’t know, and set off up the lane towards Clonamurty Farm. It was early morning, a fine spring day, full of birdsong and apple blossom and promise for the future, and it buoyed her spirits, making her feel ever more hopeful with each step she took towards the farm. Perhaps Jimmy was even there. Perhaps he’d come home and was hiding with his parents, and wondering where she was, now that her father was not there to inform him.
The more she thought of it the more she almost convinced herself that this was the truth, and it was all she could do not to start running up the lane. But she did not want to draw attention to herself. In the fields were whole families, rousing themselves from the hedgerows in which they’d slept, mothers folding blankets and pulling twigs from their children’s hair, fathers stretching and yawning, picking up the little ones to carry them back to their homes for breakfast. What a terrible thing to happen – all these people, these good, hard-working, law-abiding people, being too scared to spend the night in their own homes!
She wondered whether the Gallaghers would be at home. Or would they be out under a hedgerow still. She could wait, she supposed, or go around the nearest fields looking for them. Young Mickey would no doubt think it all a grand adventure, camping out under the stars. She smiled at the thought, but then quickly stopped herself, remembering how terrifying it must be.
Turning the corner she could see Clonamurty Farm at last. It felt like coming home, more so than it had felt going to her father’s cottage. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, but that didn’t worry her, perhaps they were still out in the fields, or letting the range go out at nights to let the Black and Tans know the place was empty, no point in them looking for Volunteers there.
The barns were empty; there was no one about. A scrawny cat mewed at her approach, and a couple of chickens pecked listlessly in the dirt. The back door stood open, and Ellen tapped on it. ‘Mrs Gallagher? It’s me, Ellen. May I come in?’
There was no answer. A feeling of foreboding was beginning to rise up in Ellen, and she went inside, her heart pounding.
Someone had been here. Someone had turned the place over. Again. Everything in Mrs Gallagher’s kitchen had been pulled out of her cupboards, strewn around the floor. All her crockery lay broken, her pans dented. The living room was as bad – the sofa had been knifed open, its stuffing spilling out. Newspapers were torn and scattered, the curtains had been slashed and the windows smashed. The damage was much worse than last time.
It was the same story upstairs, in every room. Devastation everywhere, and no sign of any member of the family. And on the wall, near the foot of the stairs, there was a bloodstain – a handprint, as though someone had put their hand out to steady themselves on the way down. Ellen gasped, and went around the house again, looking for more bloodstains. In the kitchen, on the floor under a jumble of pans there was blood, and more in the sitting room. Someone had been hurt; whatever had happened here, that much was clear.
They’d come looking for Jimmy. The Black and Tans. That must be it. He wouldn’t have been here – she knew now that her hopes he’d be happily living here with his family were ridiculously naive. Of course he would not have come back and put them in a
ny danger. But if the Black and Tans had come looking for him, and he wasn’t here, whose blood was it?
She went back to the kitchen, picked up a chair and sat down heavily. There was so much she should do – go into Blackstown, try to find out what had happened here, and if anyone had news of Jimmy or Madame Carlton. She could clear up the farmhouse, she supposed. If Jimmy or anyone came back, they’d hate to see it like this. She’d spent so much time here it felt like a second home, and she felt a sense of responsibility. But should she touch anything? Were there some authorities she should notify?
Before the fighting, it’d have been the RIC she’d have talked to, to report such a crime. But for all she knew it might have been them who turned the house over. And if she went asking questions in the shops and pubs in Blackstown, she might be overheard by the wrong ears, and put herself in danger. But how else to find out what had happened? She felt paralysed by indecision. If only Madame Carlton was still in Carlton House!
A thought occurred to her then. Perhaps Madame was back in her home. Perhaps she’d been merely questioned and released, or even imprisoned for a while and released. It had been months since Ellen had seen her taken away. She should go to Carlton House and see what was happening there.
Feeling energised now that she had a plan of sorts, Ellen jumped to her feet, left the farm, and headed off along the familiar lane towards Carlton House. She was walking so fast, excited by the idea that Madame might be back in residence and able to give her news of Jimmy or his family, that she didn’t bother to take any precautions, didn’t look over the hedges into the fields, didn’t keep an eye out for any sign of trouble. She was out of practice, having been shut away with the Merciful Sisters for so long.
The Forgotten Secret Page 23