The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  There was always the internet. I could waste a couple of hours online. I opened my laptop and then remembered I’d wanted to research more about Mary-Ellen O’Brien. What had become of her after her baby was adopted? I began running some searches.

  After some time and several cups of tea I found a newspaper archive that contained a report of a marriage in 1930 between a Mary-Ellen O’Brien and a Jack Cunningham. The wedding took place in Bettystown. The groom was described as being a veteran of the War of Independence, now a solicitor with a thriving practice in Bettystown. The bride was 29 – quite an advanced age to marry in those days, I thought – and described as having worked as a companion and housekeeper to the groom’s sister, the well-respected journalist Aisling Cunningham, for many years.

  ‘Is this you, Mary-Ellen?’ I whispered. I did a quick calculation – 29 in 1930 put her at about the same age as Jimmy Gallagher, in 1920. Perhaps, heart-broken from Jimmy Gallagher’s death she’d given up her child for adoption, and then taken years to feel ready for another relationship.

  I pulled out my book of Meath Volunteers and looked up Jack Cunningham. Yes, there he was. He’d been a captain, involved in many operations. Three-quarters of a page was dedicated to him. Cross-checking with Jimmy Gallagher I saw that they’d both been involved in the same successful mission, early in 1920, in which an RIC barracks had been attacked. Was it possible Mary-Ellen had met Jack through Jimmy? And maybe Jack had helped her after Jimmy’s death, putting her in touch with his sister and giving her a home …

  I searched through the archives of the paper that had reported their wedding a little more, and found several birth announcements in later years. Mary-Ellen and Jack had five children together over the following decade. They would be half-siblings to James Haggerty, and at ten or more years younger than him might well be still alive.

  It was good to think that Mary-Ellen appeared to have had a happy life in the end, after losing her lover in the war and having to give up her first child for adoption. Did she ever think of her first-born, wondering what kind of life he was living with his adoptive family? Or was she content knowing that she’d done the right thing giving him up when she’d been so young, unable to bring him up herself? I’d never know. You can research ancestry all you like, but how people actually felt and what they thought is lost in the mists of time.

  I had a quick lunch, dithered over what to wear and settled on my only pair of trousers that were not jeans and a long-sleeved floral print top. I brushed my hair and even put a bit of make-up on. Not because I was meeting Ryan, I told myself, but because I was meeting an old man who I didn’t know, but on whom I wanted to make a good impression.

  At last it was time to drive to Blackstown and pick up Ryan from the bookshop as we’d arranged. My hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. I had to switch on the air conditioning for the first time since I moved to Ireland. Another thing I still had to do. Buy myself a car and give back this rental.

  ‘Hey,’ Ryan said, as he got in the car and leaned over to kiss me. ‘All set?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I said, with a grimace. ‘Not too sure how today will go, though.’

  ‘Play it by ear. We’ll be fine, so.’

  As we drove north I filled him in on what I’d found out about Mary-Ellen O’Brien.

  ‘Aw, I’m glad she had a happy ending,’ Ryan said, and I nodded.

  ‘She had a good few years on her own though,’ I said carefully, ‘between having her baby and marrying Jack Cunningham. Yet she must have known him if she was his sister’s housekeeper and companion for years. He was also in the same company of Volunteers as Jimmy Gallagher, so she might have known him back then.’

  ‘Good for her to make a life of her own, and not just rely on a man,’ Ryan said, and I saw my chance.

  ‘Mm-hm. I’m glad she did, too. Ryan, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Uh-oh, what about?’ he said, and I stole a quick sideways glance at him before continuing.

  ‘About you and me. Us. Our … relationship.’

  ‘OK …’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I really like you. A lot. Really.’

  ‘I can feel a “but” coming?’

  I sighed. ‘I’m only just free of a long, abusive – emotionally if not physically – relationship. I’m not sure … I don’t think I should go straight into another one. I don’t mean another abusive relationship, oh God, of course not, I mean, you’re not abusive, you’re lovely, but …’ I stole another glance. He was grinning.

  ‘You’re right there. I’m not abusive.’

  ‘I know. You’re … you and Janice … you’re the best friends I’ve made in Ireland.’

  ‘Only friends?’ There was a pang of regret in his voice.

  ‘Ryan, I’m sorry. For now, friends only. I need to … take things slowly. Find my feet. Establish my independence, before I …’

  ‘I wouldn’t take away your independence, Clare. I’m not like Paul. I wouldn’t try to control you, believe me.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t. But even so, I just feel I need some time. To find myself, I suppose. Work out who I am, when I’m not with Paul.’

  Ryan reached across and covered my hand where it rested on my thigh with his. ‘It’s OK. I understand. I guess, as I’ve been on my own a few years and am ready for someone new, I forget what it’s like. I needed time after my wife died, too.’

  ‘We’ll be friends, we’ll see each other often, go out now and again.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘And I reckon in a few months, a year or so … if you’re still here … still available …’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll still be here. I’ll still be available. It’s not a problem, Clare. I’ll wait, until you’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you.’ In that moment I realised I had probably met the most perfect man in all the world, and yet here I was pushing him away. But he was OK with that, and I knew it was the right thing to do. I had to do it, for myself. I’d broken free of Paul, made a start at building my own life, and had to complete that rebuild before I could move on. He understood and he’d wait, and that’s what made him perfect.

  He squeezed my hand and then let go. I smiled at him, and then we travelled in a comfortable silence for a while, until we were approaching Blacklion, a village right on the border with Northern Ireland.

  ‘Across the border there is Belcoo, County Fermanagh,’ Ryan said. ‘Before the Good Friday Agreement there used to be a watchtower, right there, and a checkpoint on the road. Hard to imagine now, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. It had taken a long time, but peace had finally been won.

  We’d decided to take a quick look at Jimmy Gallagher’s grave first, and take a photo of it. Perhaps James Haggerty would like to see it.

  It took a while going up and down the neat rows of the cemetery before we found the right headstone. It bore a simple engraving: James Gallagher November 1900 – January 1921. Fuair sé bás ag troid ar son saoirse na hÉireann.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, pointing to the Irish.

  ‘He died fighting for the freedom of Ireland,’ Ryan replied.

  An image of Daithí crossed my mind. He’d basically been fighting for the same thing, sixty years later. But most people, especially in Britain, would consider him a terrorist rather than a hero.

  We stood a moment in silence, paying our respects to a young man who’d died for what he believed in, far too young. A young man I’d never known but who’d been brought up in my house and who’d touched my life. ‘Glad to meet you at last,’ I whispered to him. In my pocket I clutched his communion medallion. If James Haggerty didn’t want it, I’d bring it back here and bury it with its original owner.

  And then it was time to meet his son. It was a short distance to the Haggerty garage, sited on the edge of the village with a smart two-storey house behind. The garage was a hive of activity with around a half-dozen mechanics in blue overalls working on three cars.

  ‘Looks like a thr
iving business,’ Ryan said, as we approached the office where a middle-aged woman with a friendly face was sitting behind a desk, stuffing invoices into envelopes. A bell rang as we opened the door and she looked up, smiling.

  ‘Can I help you? Oh, you would be Clare Farrell, here to see my father-in-law? I’m Noreen Haggerty.’ She held out a hand and we both shook it.

  ‘Yes, I’m Clare, this is my friend Ryan.’

  ‘Well, come on through! He can’t wait to meet you, you know. He’s talked of nothing else since your email arrived.’ She led us through the workshop to a back door, across a yard and into the house behind.

  ‘Dad? Clare’s here, with a friend,’ she called, as we walked through the hallway and sitting room and into a conservatory at the back of the house, which overlooked a well-maintained garden. An old man with a shock of white hair was sitting in a wheelchair facing out across the lawn. As we entered he spun the chair around to face us, and his face broke into a broad grin. I liked him instantly.

  ‘Well now, Miss Farrell, is it? Or Mrs?’

  ‘Please, just call me Clare,’ I said, and shook his hand.

  ‘And I’m James,’ he replied. I introduced Ryan.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on, so,’ Noreen said, as she gestured to a sofa for Ryan and me to sit on.

  ‘Now. Tell me the whole story, would you? How has an Englishwoman such as yourself come to be in Ireland, tracking down an old man such as me?’ James said, and I did as he’d asked, telling him how I’d inherited the farm, stripped back the old chair and discovered his birth certificate inside it.

  With Ryan commenting now and again I outlined the research that had led us to James. Halfway through Noreen brought in tea, poured it, but then left us to return to her work in the office. ‘I’ll hear it all later, so I will,’ she said with a smile as she left.

  ‘Quite a story!’ James said, when I’d finished. His eyes were sparkling.

  ‘So this,’ I said, pulling out the birth certificate, ‘is your original birth certificate. It shows your mother’s name but no father’s name.’

  ‘As they were unmarried and presumably your father wasn’t present when the birth was registered – the father’s name was left blank,’ Ryan explained.

  James took the certificate, pulled out a large pair of spectacles, which he perched on the end of his nose, and peered at the details.

  ‘O’Brien, eh? I know a few O’Briens. Would be odd if they were relatives, but sure it’s a common enough name.’

  I told him then about the research I’d done into Mary-Ellen O’Brien’s later life. ‘So you see, you do have some relatives out there. Half-brothers and sisters.’

  ‘That’s incredible, so it is.’ He shook his head slowly. Ryan and I stayed quiet for a moment, giving him time to get to grips with this new knowledge. ‘So, I could find them, could I? And tell them I’m their long-lost brother?’

  I smiled. ‘If you wanted to, yes. Might be a shock to them though, if their – your – mother never mentioned an earlier baby.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye. It’d be a delicate conversation to have. I was lucky – I always knew I’d been adopted from a Magdalene Laundry. I was one of the lucky ones, not having to grow up in that institution. When it all came out, in the news, about what went on in those places and how harsh it was for the poor girls, I was horrified. It was a lucky escape, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I think so, too.’

  ‘And lots of children in those places died and were just buried in the grounds. That’s one of the most shocking things. Well, I got out, and you’re after telling me my mother got out too and had a happy life after. That’s something. A real comfort. Now, tell me what you know of my father.’

  ‘His name was Jimmy Gallagher. He was a Volunteer, fighting for Ireland’s independence, and sadly he died during a mission around the time you were born. There’s a short write-up of his actions during the war in this book.’ I pulled out the Meath Volunteers book and opened it at Jimmy Gallagher’s page.

  James scanned it and smiled. ‘Ah, I’m a chip off the old block, it seems. I’m a Republican all through. I’ve been refusing to die until Ireland’s united. Now I see I’ve been only wanting to see my father’s work finished. Buried near Blacklion, was he?’

  ‘Yes.’ I showed him the photo of Jimmy Gallagher’s grave and told him where it was.

  ‘Aye. I know that cemetery well. My parents – adoptive parents, of course – are buried there. And some friends. To think, I’ve been walking past my birth father’s grave all these times, without ever knowing it! Noreen and my boy Martin will have to take me there soon, so I can pay my respects. Look at him. A Volunteer! Makes me very proud.’

  ‘You might like to have this,’ I said, taking the medallion out of my pocket.

  He took it, pushed his spectacles further up his nose and gasped as he read the inscription. ‘This was his?’

  ‘Yes. It was tucked inside the old chair, folded inside the birth certificate. Whoever put them there – Mary-Ellen, I’m guessing – meant the two things to stay together. It’s yours by rights.’

  ‘It’s something they both would have touched,’ he whispered, and I watched as his gnarled old hands closed tightly around it. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his wheelchair, as though trying to connect with his birth parents through the medallion.

  I turned to Ryan and smiled. He held out a hand to me, and I took it and squeezed it. I was glad to be sharing this moment with him. In time, we’d share a lot more together, I was certain.

  James had opened his eyes and was smiling at us, his eyes watering a little, or was that a tear pooling against his eyelashes? ‘This means such a lot,’ he said. ‘Such a lot. Thank you so much for tracking me down. I had a good childhood, but now I know where I came from. It makes my life feel complete. These people, Jimmy and Mary-Ellen, I think they were good people. I’d have liked them.’

  ‘I think you’re right, James. I’m glad to have found you.’ In a strange kind of way, it felt as though I’d completed Jimmy and Mary-Ellen’s story, and brought them closure. In restarting my own life, I’d managed to tie up the loose ends of theirs. The forgotten secret, buried in the depths of that old chair, now revealed and resolved.

  James was gazing at the medallion again. An old man, near the end of his life, happy to finally know where he’d come from. And here was I, comfortable at last in my mid-life, looking forward to a future that promised so much.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, thanks to my editor Celia Lomas for helping me shape this book. It wasn’t an easy one to write, so I assume it wasn’t an easy one to edit either, but Celia’s insightful comments really helped me find the right story to tell.

  Thanks too to my beta readers – my husband Ignatius McGurl, son Fionn McGurl and friend Lor Bingham. Your comments helped massively, and your encouragement helped boost my confidence in this book.

  As always the team at HQ deserve a mention for the cover design, copy-editing, proofing and marketing. Thank you all!

  Finally, thanks to my mother-in-law Jane McGurl, whose throwaway comment many years ago about how her father had a stash of weapons from the War of Independence buried under his cowshed was the seed that grew, eventually, into this novel. Be careful what you say around writers – it could all end up in a novel some day.

  The next book from Kathleen McGurl, The Stationmaster’s Daughter, is coming in September 2019.

  Turn the page for an extract from another spellbinding tale from Kathleen McGurl.

  Prologue

  It was the same dream. All these years, always the same dream. It was cold, snowing, and she was wearing only a thin cardigan over a cotton frock. On her feet were flimsy plimsolls. The sky was white: all colour had been sucked out of the countryside, everything was monochrome. There was mud underfoot, squelching, pulling at her shoes, threatening to claim them and never give them back. On either side of her were the walls of the houses – only half height now, reaching to her wa
ist or shoulder at most. All the roofs were gone, doors and window shutters hung off their hinges, everywhere was rubble, the sad remains of a once happy life.

  And then came the water. Icy cold, nibbling first at her toes, then sloshing around her ankles, and up to her knees. She was wading through it, struggling onwards, reaching out in front of her with both hands, stretching, leaning, grasping – but always it was just out of reach. No matter how hard she tried, she could not quite touch it, and always the water was rising higher and higher, the cold of it turning her feet and hands to stone.

  Ahead, in the distance, was her father’s face. Torn with anguish, saying – no, shouting – something at her. She couldn’t hear his words; they were drowned by the sounds of rushing water, rising tides, a burst dam, a wall of water engulfing everything around her. She knew she had to reach it – that was what he wanted. If only she could get hold of it; but still, it was tantalisingly beyond her reach.

  Now the water was up to her chest, her neck, and she was trying to swim but something was pulling her under, into the icy depths, and still she couldn’t reach the thing she had come here for. Her chest was tight, burning with the effort to breathe as the cold engulfed her and panic rose within her.

  As always, just as the water washed over her head, filling her lungs and blurring her vision, she awoke, sweating, her heart racing, and her fingers – old and gnarled now, not the smooth youthful hands of her dream – still stretching out to try to touch the battered old tea caddy …

  Chapter 1

  Laura, present day

  The TV was turned up so loud that Laura could hear it clearly even from the kitchen, where she was preparing the evening meal of shepherd’s pie. She popped the dish into the oven and went through to the living room.

  ‘Laura, love, you must watch this! Wait a moment, while I wind it back a bit.’ Stella picked up the remote control and began stabbing randomly at buttons.