The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘You could try to trace him. He’ll be in his nineties now if he’s still alive but maybe he had children who could tell you more about him.’

  ‘That’s a thought,’ I said. I’d love to know what kind of life he led. And perhaps I could pass James Gallagher’s communion medallion on to James O’Brien’s children. Maybe they’d like to know who their birth grandfather and mother were.

  I made the tea, then sat down at my laptop and began searching online, this time for James Haggerty. There were several hits for that name. But some links looked promising – in particular a motor workshop in County Cavan called Haggerty’s, whose ‘About Us’ page stated the garage had been founded in 1942 by James Haggerty and was still a family-run business. There was a picture of a trio of middle-aged men in grimy blue overalls, holding spanners and grinning, standing around a white-haired man in a wheelchair.

  ‘Look at this,’ I said to Ryan, who’d been running searches himself using his smartphone connected to my Wi-Fi. ‘Could that be him?’

  ‘Right name, looks old enough,’ Ryan said. ‘Give them a ring.’

  I stared at him. ‘And say what?’

  ‘That you think you have something that belongs to the old man?’

  ‘But’ – I could think of a million problems here – ‘what if he never knew he was adopted? What if he knew but never wanted to know who his birth parents were? What if he knew but his children didn’t know …’

  Ryan frowned. ‘I see what you mean. Tricky. Perhaps send an email first then, not giving too much away, that they can ignore if they prefer.’

  We sat side by side and spent the rest of the afternoon composing that email, writing a few words, deleting them, and starting again, over and over. Eventually we came up with:

  Hello, I am researching some people who have historical links with my home and the name of James Haggerty came up, who I believe is the founder of your garage. Would it be possible to come to meet you to explain the links and find out more about Mr Haggerty?

  ‘Suitably vague, gives nothing away, and if they say yes we can feel our way when we go to meet them,’ Ryan said, when we’d finally written the email.

  ‘We?’ I said, raising my eyebrows, although I loved the idea he wanted to come too.

  ‘If you’ll let me come with you,’ he responded.

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  He leaned over and kissed me.

  The laptop pinged alerting us to an incoming email, and we broke apart.

  ‘That was quick,’ I said, opening it. Ryan leaned over to read it at the same time.

  Dear Ms Farrell,

  My father-in-law is 95 so I am typing this email for him. He says he would love to meet you and is intrigued to know about your research and his possible links to your home. He was adopted as a baby but knows very little of the circumstances of his birth. He is too frail to travel far, but if you are able to come to visit us, he will see you at any time.

  Yours,

  Noreen Haggerty

  ‘Oh my God he’s still alive!’ we said, pretty much in unison. This was beyond my wildest dreams. I’d be able to hand him his original birth certificate and his father’s communion medallion in person. That could be a very special moment!

  ‘When?’ I said, grinning at Ryan.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon? I can get someone to cover the shop from about two.’

  ‘Great!’ I emailed Noreen back straight away.

  When I’d finished I turned to Ryan. ‘You know what else is in Cavan? The grave of Jimmy Gallagher, according to the book about Volunteers from Meath County.’ I nipped into the sitting room to fetch the book, and opened it at the page I’d marked that listed Jimmy Gallagher’s part in the war. ‘Yes, look here. He’s buried at a cemetery near Blacklion. He was only 20 when he died, the poor lad.’

  ‘That’s only a few miles from Haggerty’s garage. We can visit both tomorrow. It’s only about an hour’s drive up there.’

  We soon had it all arranged. I was so excited I had no idea how I’d sleep that night. I had the feeling Ryan would have stayed the night with me, if I’d given him even a tiny hint of encouragement. Half of me wanted him to stay. But the more cautious half said no, and that side won the debate.

  Chapter 30

  Ellen, August 1921

  It had been over five months since Jack Cunningham had taken Ellen to live with his sister, in a tidy, two-storey house near the beach in Bettystown. Aisling Cunningham was unmarried and worked as a journalist for the local newspaper. She had several spare rooms and had welcomed Ellen with open arms. ‘Any friend of my brother is a friend of mine,’ she’d said, when Jack had brought a grief-stricken, numb Ellen to her. ‘And I know how well you nursed him when he was injured. I am forever in your debt for that.’

  Ellen had barely got out of bed for the first week, and Aisling had taken time off work to nurse her, coaxing her to eat bowls of nourishing soup, sitting quietly beside her, reading to her, being ready to listen if she wanted to talk, providing a comforting arm about her shoulders when Ellen needed to cry.

  At last when Ellen had felt able to function again, able to get up, prepare her own meals, venture to the nearby shops for groceries, Aisling had returned to work. Little by little Ellen had begun taking over the management of the household, and the easy and repetitive work of cleaning and cooking had gradually numbed the pain of her losses. She’d written to the Merciful Sisters, who had forwarded a brief letter from her father that simply stated he’d left Liverpool and was moving to London in search of work. He’d given no address, and had not written again.

  As the season moved from spring to summer Ellen had taken to walking for long periods on the beach, paddling in the shallows if it was warm enough, following the line of sand dunes that stretched as far as the eye could see. She would imagine Jimmy walking alongside her, little James as a toddler splashing in the waves, giggling and laughing.

  Somehow these visions of what might have been comforted her. Maybe somewhere, out there in another life, another universe, Jimmy and James were still alive and they were all living the life together that she’d always dreamed of. For as long as she drew breath they would live on, in her thoughts, in her memories. No one is truly dead until there’s no one left to remember them, she told herself. And Jimmy had played an important part in the war for Ireland’s freedom. He would never be forgotten. His name would be in the history books for ever.

  Ireland’s freedom, that elusive goal, had, in July, become so much closer. A reality in fact, when a truce was declared between the British and Irish. The two sides still needed to negotiate a treaty, but, Aisling said, the feeling was that Britain was impoverished and in recession after the Great War and in no mood to continue fighting. Meanwhile, the Irish Republican Army could use the time to regroup, so if the war did resume, they’d be ready for it.

  ‘Will it come to that?’ Ellen asked Aisling, over breakfast one morning.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Our problem is that there are many in the north who don’t want independence. They want to stay part of the union with Great Britain. That’s where the sticking point will be. And there are too many Republicans who won’t accept a divided Ireland. Well, we shall see. Meanwhile, we can enjoy our summer of peace.’

  And Ellen was beginning to enjoy it. With the cessation of hostilities, Jack was no longer on the run, and able to live with them openly. He was returning to his peacetime job as a solicitor, and beginning to build up his business, run from an office in Bettystown. At the weekends he would accompany Ellen on her walks along the beach, and they’d talk of Jack and of Madame Carlton. Ellen had tentatively opened up to Jack, and told him of the loss of her child.

  ‘I can’t believe your father sent you to that laundry,’ Jack said, with a sad shake of his head. ‘If only I’d found you then. Aisling would have taken you in, and maybe …’

  ‘Ssh. I can’t bear to think of what might have been. It was God’s will that little James should be taken so youn
g. It would have happened even if I’d been living with Aisling.’ Would it? Ellen was less sure than she might once have been. But it was no good dwelling on the past. She’d never forget Jimmy or James, but she was young and there were many years ahead of her.

  After the truce came the welcome news that political prisoners were to be freed. That meant Madame Carlton would be released, and Ellen asked Jack to take her to Blackstown and to Carlton House.

  It was an emotional reunion. Madame, looking a little older and thinner than when Ellen had last seen her, pulled Ellen into a tight embrace.

  ‘I am so sorry, my dear, for your losses. So terrible for one so young to have suffered so much. Your father …’ Madame Carlton broke off and shook her head. ‘I can’t believe he sent you away to that terrible place. If only you’d come to me rather than go there.’

  ‘I did, Madame. But it was the day you were arrested. I saw them take you away.’

  ‘What terrible timing. I am so sorry I was not able to help you.’

  ‘I’m sorry too that I wasn’t able to visit you in prison,’ Ellen replied. She’d written to Madame since moving in with Aisling, but had not been able to make the journey to Mountjoy Prison to see her.

  ‘Don’t worry. They wouldn’t have let you in anyway, I suspect. It’s so good to see you now.’ Madame Carlton ushered Ellen through to the drawing room of Carlton House, a room Ellen knew so well from all the times she’d cleaned it, set the fire, and brought refreshments to Madame’s guests. To now be asked in, to sit on the sofa, while Madame herself served tea – there being no servants left to do it – felt very strange, yet Madame made her feel at her ease.

  With an effort, Ellen composed herself to finally say to Madame what she should have told her so long ago, on the day Madame had discovered Ellen’s pregnancy. How differently things might have worked out, if she’d confided in her then, before going to see her father.

  It was not easy, but Madame listened quietly, intently, while Ellen spoke.

  ‘You must not blame yourself, Ellen, dear. I have a confession of my own – I knew about Siobhan’s brother. He’d written to her, and I was checking all incoming mail. But I was giving her the benefit of the doubt. She’d done nothing to that point, and I trusted her.’ There was a bitter edge to Madame’s voice. ‘I was wrong to trust her, as it turned out. But what’s done is done. The war split so many families. Later on, Siobhan redeemed herself. I’m told she saved a lot of Volunteer lives through her actions.’

  Ellen was astonished. ‘Redeemed herself? But Madame, how?’

  Madame smiled. ‘Siobhan became a spy, a sort of double agent. It seems she regretted betraying me, and so offered her services to the Volunteers in recompense. She passed false information to the RIC, and fed information back. The RIC trusted her, after what happened with me.’

  ‘That’s … incredible, so it is,’ Ellen said. She remembered how Siobhan had felt her loyalties were divided, all along.

  ‘Information from Siobhan helped prevent a whole company of Volunteers being wiped out in an ambush the RIC had planned for them, around December 1920,’ Madame continued. ‘So maybe my imprisonment was a small price to pay, for those lives to be saved by Siobhan’s actions. She wrote to me recently, to explain and apologise. I have accepted that apology. Ellen, you must not blame yourself for not telling me about her brother. As I said, I already knew.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame.’ Ellen sighed with relief. At last she felt she could live with herself again.

  ‘I’m going into politics,’ Madame went on. ‘I’ve quite a taste for it, after my efforts in the war. Now that women at last have the right to stand for election, I shall do so, and if I’m elected I can continue to fight to make Ireland a better place for all.’

  Ellen smiled. Madame was an inspiration. She’d played an active part in the war and was now going to enter another traditionally male arena. Times were changing. Women could do anything nowadays, if they put their mind to it. What would she, Ellen, do with her life? Something worthwhile. Something that would have made Jimmy proud.

  Increasingly on their beach walks, Jack and Ellen would talk of the future, what it might hold for Ireland, and for themselves.

  ‘Aisling has been offered a job on a Dublin newspaper,’ Jack told her, on one fine but breezy day, when the sea was being whipped into froth that lined the beach. ‘It’s quite a step up, so it is. She will need to find lodgings in the city.’

  ‘Will I go with her?’ Ellen asked, trying to imagine what it might be like, living in Dublin again, although this time in much more comfort and freedom than with the Merciful Sisters.

  Jack frowned slightly. ‘If you want to, of course you must. Aisling has taken a great liking to you. Alternatively … if you prefer … you could stay here, in Bettystown.’ He cleared his throat. ‘With me.’

  Ellen gasped. ‘But it wouldn’t be right, Jack. Not without your sister. I mean, if you and I were alone in the house … your reputation … people would gossip.’

  He stopped walking and turned to face her. The wind blew his hair back from his face as he gazed at her. ‘Not if you were my wife. I’m not Jimmy, I’ll never be able to replace Jimmy in your heart, I know it, but do you think … Might we …’ He broke off, as she stared at him, a million emotions rushing through her. ‘What I am after trying to say, Ellen, is that I have grown to love you, with all my heart. And I’m wondering if you think you might, one day, grow to love me a little, too.’

  She could see the truth of his words in his eyes, and searched her heart for an answer. She didn’t love him – not the way she’d loved Jimmy and would always love Jimmy, but she did like him very much, and cared about him, and enjoyed his company. It was a start, and who knew if one day it might grow into something more? Was it enough?

  She turned away and gazed out to sea, the wind whipping her hair around her face and whispering in her ear. If Jimmy could speak to her, what would he advise?

  ‘He’s a good man, Cunningham,’ Jimmy had said, back at Gatesend Farm. ‘One of the very best; loyal and steady and I owe him my life.’ Jimmy’s words came back to her, clear as if he was standing beside her speaking them now.

  Shall I say yes? she asked Jimmy, silently, then she waited for an answer, a sign, anything to tell her which direction her life should now take. But nothing came.

  With a smile she realised that meant she was empowered to make her own decision. There was no one, no man or anyone else, to tell her what to do. Just her own mind. She knew what she needed to do.

  She took Jack’s hands, and faced him. ‘Jack, I like and respect you, and care for you very much. And one day I might love you too – I don’t know. I can’t tell. But I can’t marry you until I feel love for you. It wouldn’t be right. So, Jack, I think I should go with Aisling to Dublin. I’m thinking I’d like to get a job there if I can, and be independent for a while. And you must visit us – every week, if you can. It’s not so very far. Then, one day in the future, if that love has grown and you still feel the same – then I think we should marry.’

  He listened quietly to her words and then smiled broadly, pulling her into an embrace. ‘Ah, Ellen my love, so it’s not a no and it’s not a yes. It’s a maybe, one day. It’s a hope for the future, and that’s more than I dared wish for.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief that he had not been offended or upset by her answer. ‘Thank you for understanding, Jack.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, Ellen. And you know, with honesty and understanding underpinning our relationship, there’s hope for us yet.’

  She linked arms with him and they turned to walk back along the beach, skipping away from the waves that chased at their feet, laughing when they misjudged one and wet their toes, relishing the feel of the wind at their backs and the sun on their faces, and dreaming of a hundred possible wonderful futures.

  Chapter 31

  Clare, May 2016

  I spent the evening after Ryan had gone working on my chair, to keep
myself busy and stop me spending hours fretting about what the next day would bring. There were only a few bits to complete. First I cut a piece for the outside back, back-tacked it at the top, tacked it underneath and then hand-sewed down the sides with a curved needle. I flipped the chair over and tacked a piece of black-lining on the underside to cover the webbing. Finally I dipped a cloth in Danish oil and rubbed at the wooden legs until they shone.

  ‘You’re finished,’ I said to the chair, and then realised I’d been working on it so long it was past dark. I carried the chair out to the yard, switched off the barn lights and closed it up, then took the chair inside and placed it beside the fireplace in the living room. It looked somehow both totally at home there, and also out of place, being the only smart piece of furniture in the room. But it was a start. I was making my home here.

  Next job was to decorate this sitting room. The floorboards I’d uncovered when I’d removed the old carpet and taken it out to the barn were solid, and I’d been thinking they’d look good sanded and polished, with a thick red rug in front of the fireplace to match the armchair upholstery. I poured a glass of wine and sat in my beautiful new chair, relaxing and wondering what the next day would bring.

  It was so exciting to think I’d very soon be meeting the person whose birth certificate I’d found in this very chair. I ran through a hundred and one possible ways the conversation might go, in my head. I was glad Ryan would be there too, to step in if I clammed up or said the wrong thing.

  Ryan. Dear old Ryan, who already felt like someone I’d known a thousand years. Someone I was fond of, comfortable with, and whose company I very much enjoyed. Where were we headed with our relationship? Where did I want us to head? Pondering those questions took me through a second glass of wine, but by bedtime I had made a decision.

  The next day I was up with the larks and then remembered I had the whole morning to get through before meeting Ryan for our drive up to Cavan. I needed something to do to take my mind off it all, and found myself regretting finishing the chair yesterday. Should have left myself something to do on it today.