Ellen raised her head to look at her companion – a middle-aged woman with a kind face and a shawl tied tightly around her head.
‘Ah, you poor love. You’re after having a proper cry, aren’t you? Come with me. I’ve a few pennies – enough to buy us both a cup of tea. It won’t put everything right, but it’ll make a start, won’t it?’ The woman gently pulled Ellen upright. ‘This your bicycle? Let’s not leave it here or it’ll be gone when you come back to it.’ She took hold of the bicycle and began wheeling it along the street. Ellen followed numbly.
There was a café around the corner. The woman left the bike in a side alley and took Ellen inside, seating her in a corner before ordering two cups of tea and a plate of soda bread with butter and jam. ‘There now. This will help, believe me. My name’s Angela. Will it help to talk about your troubles? Or if you don’t want to, just sit, drink your tea. I’m here for you.’
Ellen sipped her tea. Its warmth spread through her, although it could not reach the cold, dead space where little James had been. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked. ‘My name’s Ellen. The tea is helping, you were right.’
Angela was kind, but Ellen did not feel she wanted to talk. There was too much to tell. And there was still Jimmy to find. As she nibbled the bread and butter she felt strength and resolve return to her. She had to go back to Blackstown, back to her father’s cottage, meet Jack Cunningham, get news of Jimmy and then find him. She would not be able to present him with his son, but she could tell him about their baby, and he would mourn little James with her, and in time, perhaps, there would be more children. There was still something to live for, still a future ahead of her.
She forced a weak smile to her face. ‘Angela, you have saved me. Thank you. I was in the depths, back there.’
‘You’re welcome, love. Come on, eat up the bread. It’s for you.’
‘I can’t pay you back, I’m sorry.’
Angela shook her head. ‘I don’t want paying back. We women have to help each other out, don’t we? One day you’ll help some other poor lass, and that’ll be you paying me back, in a way. So you don’t want to tell me what upset you, so. That’s all right. Some things are best left unsaid.’
By the time Ellen left the café she felt composed and ready to face the journey back to Blackstown. To be in an area she knew, with people she knew and trusted nearby – Jack Cunningham, at least. To be far away from the Merciful Sisters and all that they represented. She felt a pang of guilt at leaving without having seen Mairead, and of course, to be distancing herself from little James’s grave, but there was nothing she could do about that. She would write to Mairead. Perhaps the nuns would allow Mairead to write back.
She parted from Angela a little while later, hugging the older woman before she left.
‘You sure you’ll be all right, on that bicycle?’ Angela asked. ‘Have you far to go, now?’
‘Ah, not far,’ Ellen replied, not wanting to explain why she was so far from home. ‘Thank you once again.’
She set off, determined to make it back to Blackstown before nightfall. Could it really have been only last night that she slept in a field, and yesterday that she met with Jack Cunningham and then was detained in a pub for hours? It all seemed like a lifetime ago, as though it had happened to a different person. It had – she’d been a mother then. Now she was a bereaved parent. She took a hand off the handlebars to dash away a tear, and wobbled around a pothole. It wouldn’t do to fall off and hurt herself. She still had Jimmy to live for. She must concentrate and put all her thoughts and efforts into getting home.
It was a tough ride, but she knew the way now, and knew which roads to avoid. She didn’t dare stop to rest, and besides, she had no money to spend on any food. It was after dark by the time she neared Blackstown, but there was a nearly full moon and she was on familiar roads, so she pushed on and finally reached her father’s cottage, exhausted. It was just as she’d left it. The chickens had laid fresh eggs, so she fed them from a sack of grain stored in a shed, and scrambled the eggs for her dinner.
‘Should I sleep in the fields, I wonder?’ she asked herself. ‘Would the Black and Tans raid this cottage?’
But she knew she was too exhausted to leave, and too devastated by the loss of her son to care. She curled up in her old bed, and fell asleep almost immediately, dreaming of little James lying alone in the cold, dark earth.
In the morning there were, thankfully, more eggs for breakfast, and then she set about cleaning the cottage and making it fit for habitation. If, or when, she found Jimmy, they had to live somewhere. Clonamurty Farm was in no state for anyone to live in, and until she knew what had happened to Jimmy’s family she did not want to venture there. Concentrating on her tasks took her mind off what had happened yesterday, although every now and again her grief washed over her like a tidal wave, sending her crumpling to the floor, sobbing.
Jack Cunningham arrived at midday, just as he’d promised. Ellen invited him in to sit at the kitchen table. She’d washed her face, tidied her clothing, managed to get the range lit, and had a kettle set to boil before he came. There was tea she’d found in the larder, but no milk.
‘I’m pleased to find you back here,’ Jack said, as he sat down. His face was grave. ‘Did you fetch whatever it was you’d gone to Dublin for?’
She shook her head and whispered her reply. ‘No. It was not possible.’
Jack frowned, and looked as though he was about to ask her more about it, but she pinched her lips together. Maybe one day she’d tell him about her baby, but not before she’d told Jimmy.
‘Any news, Jack? I’m so desperate to find Jimmy, so I am. I need him so much. Please tell me.’
He sighed and looked down at the table for a moment. It was the same movement Sister Anthony had made, before telling her about little James. Ellen sank down into a chair. ‘Jack, you’re not about to give me bad news, are you? I don’t think I can …’
He raised his eyes to hers and she read anguish and deep sorrow within. ‘Ellen, I am so sorry. So very sorry.’
‘How? When?’ she whispered.
‘Two months ago. He took part in an ambush, up near the Cavan border. A company of Black and Tans were on the move. Somehow word had got to them, and they’d placed snipers in the woods nearby. As soon as the Volunteers launched their action, the snipers fired, and three were killed. I’m so sorry, Ellen. Jimmy was one of the men killed. He was a good man. Loyal and brave, and far too young.’
Ellen stared at him. She could find no words, nothing she could say, nothing she could do. There were no tears. Only a cold, dark hole inside her. She’d lost them both. Jimmy and their son.
‘Ellen, there’s something else. I hate to be the one … but you have to know. You told me Jimmy’s parents’ farm had been raided. It was a reprisal attack, it seems. Once again, I’m sorry. They were shot. His parents and brother – all gone. They were buried in Blackstown cemetery. Jimmy’s somewhere in Cavan. I’m not sure where, but I will find out, so you can pay your respects.’
‘They shot them? Even little Mickey? He was only a child.’
Jack nodded. ‘Aye. All of them.’ He was silent for a moment while she stared at him, unable to comprehend what she had heard. ‘Ellen, listen. I’ve arranged somewhere for you to stay for a while. Just until … things get better. You’ll be looked after, and in a while maybe you can work a little to earn your keep. I’ll be able to look in on you from time to time. We owe you. Ireland owes you, and we’ll look after you.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘It’s been a tremendous shock, I know, but I need you to come with me now. You can’t stay here on your own.’
Ellen stood and followed him out of the cottage. She could not take in what she had heard. Jack had told her Jimmy and all his family were dead. Sister Anthony had told her little James was dead. It was one of those glorious blue and yellow days, with the scent of spring in the air and the promise of warm days to come, but for Ellen there was no future, nothing to l
ive for, nothing at all.
She felt hardened, numb, unfeeling, as though it was someone else walking across the yard after Jack, not her. Her ghost perhaps. Maybe she was dead, too, for she could feel nothing. She could not cry. She could not think. Only the caress of a breeze on her skin reminded her that she was alive. She was alive, but all those she loved were gone.
Chapter 29
Clare, May 2016
It was a fortnight after my birthday. I was getting used to the idea that I was now 50, and that I lived in Ireland in my own farmhouse. Matt and Jon had both visited Paul after they returned to England, and had reported back that he was remorseful, blaming momentary madness, and begging them to forgive him. They’d each told him what they thought of him in no uncertain terms and had refused to take his side, pointing out it can’t have been ‘momentary madness’ as he’d booked me onto the ferry and stolen my passport.
I had no intention of having any further dealings with Paul, except via solicitors. I’d begun divorce proceedings and my solicitor had informed me Paul had agreed to everything and was not contesting a thing. Perhaps being drugged and abducted had been worth it, if it made the divorce easier to achieve.
With the boys having returned to England I had time to get on with my various projects. Before they’d left they’d helped me shift the junk out of the barn and Ryan’s scrap-dealer friend had called by and collected it all. I’d installed a large workbench and had an electrician fit sockets and lights. I’d taken the old sitting-room carpet up and put that down in the barn, and all the upholstery and sewing tools had arrived.
I’d done a lot of work on my old chair – rebuilding it alongside rebuilding my life. It now had webbing, springs, hessian over the springs as a base for the stuffing, cotton-fibre stuffing, calico covers. I’d done the arms, wings, seat and most of the back. The arms and wings had their final cover on – a heavy cotton twill in a rich deep red colour. The colour of revolution, I thought. It seemed fitting somehow.
And I’d had time to make those curtains Janice had asked me for. She’d picked out a blue striped fabric for her youngest boy’s bedroom. Something fresh and simple that he wouldn’t grow out of. I’d used triple pinch-pleat heading tape, lined the curtains with a good quality lining fabric and made matching tie-backs. Janice had been delighted, treated me to a night out as a thank-you and showed the curtains to all her friends. I had a couple more commissions already – for another pair of curtains and to re-cover a set of dining-room chairs.
I’d set up a simple website with contact details and pictures of my work, and had ordered a pack of business cards, which Janice and Ryan were displaying in their respective shops. My little business was beginning to pick up. I’d soon have an income of my own, for the first time since that doomed job as a school lunchtime supervisor all those years ago. And this time there was no Paul to scupper it. Imagine – just a couple of months earlier I didn’t even have my own bank account. Now I had my own business.
I’d also emailed Sarah, Jess and Lynne, my old school friends. I’d told them my news, apologised for my years of silence, and invited them to come to stay. Maybe we could pick up our old friendship. I hoped so. It was worth a try.
Piece by piece I was building myself a life.
As well as all the upholstery, I’d finally had time to do more research into James O’Brien, the child whose birth certificate had been tucked inside the chair. I’d already discovered his birthplace was a Magdalene Laundry, situated on the north side of Dublin. The place had closed down long ago, back in the 1960s After a fair amount of searching online I discovered the records from the laundry had been stored for years by the Catholic Church, with very little access granted to them.
But now, at last, some records were being made available online. Details of deaths in the laundries, and details of births and adoptions of children, were gradually being released. I sat down in the kitchen with my laptop one Sunday after lunch, with a cup of tea and packet of biscuits to hand, and began searching.
I had James O’Brien’s birth certificate, and so it was easy enough to find the Merciful Sisters’ record of his birth, with details matching those I already knew. The only addition was to note the name of the nun who’d acted as midwife – a Sister Mary Magdalene. But what had happened to the child? I searched for details of his death, both in the laundry records and in the wider internet. Nothing. Back to the laundry records, I trawled through but found nothing.
Eventually I leaned back in my chair and sighed. Perhaps I’d never find out what had become of the child. Maybe he’d left the laundry with his mother and been brought up somewhere outside. I hoped so. Everything I knew about the Magdalene Laundries told me they were unpleasant places to live or grow up in. For some reason, despite my only connection to little James being that his birth certificate had been found in my house, I wanted to think he’d thrived, and lived a happy life. But there were those terrible reports, of mass children’s graves, discovered in one or two laundries. I fervently hoped that had not been this child’s fate.
Buried on one page of the website was a contact form. The website owner, it seemed, had access to more records that were not available online. It was worth a shot. I filled in the form, asking for any details of what had become of James, giving his date of birth and his mother’s name. Maybe I’d get no response. Or maybe I’d solve the mystery.
I clicked Send on the form, then on a whim, put Granny Irish’s maiden name into Google. Would there be any more details on her career as a Volunteers’ spy?
There was. A website dedicated to female Volunteers contained a paragraph about her.
At the start of the War of Independence, Siobhan O’Malley’s loyalties were torn. Her brother Seán was a member of the RIC in Leitrim. Desperate to win favour with him, and also possibly for monetary gain, she passed information about her employer, Emily Carlton, who was a prominent member of the Cumann na mBan, to the RIC. This action led to Mrs Carlton being incarcerated in Mountjoy Prison for the remainder of the war, though afterwards she was to play a major part in Irish politics for many years.
O’Malley, it seems, rapidly came to regret her actions, and offered her services to the Blackstown Volunteers, as a spy or double agent. She spent the remainder of the war feeding false information to the RIC, and passing details of RIC movements to the Volunteers. It was on receipt of a tip-off from her that a company of Volunteers were able to avoid a major ambush that had been planned around Christmas 1920.
So she’d been both villain and hero, at different times, depending on which side you were on. I could understand why she’d kept quiet about her involvement, even in such a Republican family as hers was. Only Daithí had ever got her to talk about it. I guessed her betrayal of this Emily Carlton may have been the one thing she’d done that she regretted, as I’d read in Daithí’s notebooks. I’d just finished noting down all the details when there was a tap at the back door, and in came Ryan.
‘Hey, Clare,’ he said, as he entered the kitchen. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. ‘Good to catch you at home. I was wondering if you’d like a little trip out, this afternoon. Weather’s brightening up. Perhaps we could go to the site of the Battle of the Boyne? I never did get to show you that. Or we could just have a walk? That’s if you’ve got time?’
‘Always got time for you, mate,’ I said. ‘I fancy a walk. Let’s just walk to the Boyne from here, shall we?’
‘Sure!’
It was the same walk I’d done with Matt and Jon, and was fast becoming a favourite. Down the bridleway to the river, along its banks to a place where there was a great view of The Carlton, then onto a lane that looped around and back to Clonamurty Farm. As we walked, Ryan took my hand and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to walk hand in hand, discussing this and that, laughing at each other’s jokes.
I told him where I’d got to with the search for James O’Brien, and he nodded. ‘Good progress. Hope you hear back soon from the archivist.’
&
nbsp; We sat side by side on the bench overlooking the river, and Ryan draped an arm casually around my shoulders. I looked at him and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, does it bother you? Should I …’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I replied, and then we sat quietly, me leaning slightly in to him, wondering whether this was right or not, whether I wanted this closeness, a relationship, to be part of a couple again. Or was it too soon? Should I have a few months, a year or two of independence first? Could I be in a relationship and still be independent? I liked Ryan, a lot. I was definitely attracted to him. But was it the right thing to do? Too many questions, too many decisions. I sighed, without meaning to, and Ryan removed his arm.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
I smiled back at him. ‘Yes. I’m fine. Shall we walk on?’ Easier to walk alongside him than sit snuggled up to him, wondering whether I should even be there.
We walked on in companionable silence, along the river, out onto the lane, and looped back to my house. I invited Ryan in for a cup of tea, and while the kettle was boiling checked my laptop for any emails.
‘Hey, I’ve had a reply already, from the Magdalene archivist,’ I said, with some excitement.
‘That was quick! What does it say?’
I scanned the email. ‘Says a lot of records are still protected but that he can tell me that a child named James O’Brien with the birth date I’d stated was adopted in March 1921, by a family named Haggerty, from Cavan.’
‘She gave him up, then. So many did, after having a child out of wedlock. It was hard back then to be a single parent, and she’d have had less chance of finding a husband. She probably had no choice.’
He was right, I knew, but still. I’d kind of hoped that somehow Mary-Ellen O’Brien had kept her child, taken him out of the laundry and managed to bring him up herself. ‘I wonder if he was happy with his adoptive family.’
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