by Kevin Doyle
Now, two weeks on, he stood at his nephew’s graveside for the first time since the funeral. He was at the cemetery for another reason but he couldn’t not visit Shane’s grave. Stooping eventually, he placed his hand on the damp mound. He clenched some soil, put it down and clenched more.
He only occasionally went to his parents’ graves – he never got that much out of visiting. But this somehow felt different. He didn’t know if it was Shane’s age or the rapport he had felt he had with him – or perhaps it was residual guilt? – but he felt the need to talk. He told Shane that he was very low and that Ellen was trying her best to cope without him. He also told him that the band had been up to visit her a couple of times. There were tears in his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he said, adding, ‘I don’t understand …’
Opinion remained divided on what had happened to Shane. The unspoken consensus was that it was either an accident or suicide – although no one seemed able to explain the latter. Shane, it seemed, had plenty to live for. The rock band he was in was popular; his mood before his disappearance had been upbeat. No one had been able to dredge up any particularly unsavoury interaction, apart from an allegation – unproven – that one of their songs had been ripped off by another local band. In sum, nothing made sense.
A small wooden cross stood at the head of Shane’s plot; it would remain until a headstone was cut and inscribed. Noelie straightened it and said, ‘I’m not forgetting you.’
He looked around. In the distance, on the far side of a border hedge, he saw movement: what looked like the top of a milk float moving along. He walked between the lines of graves and emerged onto a gravel path. Eventually he caught up with the vehicle. It was pulling a trailer, from which the driver-caretaker had unloaded hedge trimmers and a small petrol mower. The man was of retirement age, grey-haired and small. He looked up when Noelie approached.
‘Wondering if you can help? I’m looking for the paupers’ area. In the newspaper they said that the human remains found in Glen Park have been laid to rest there.’
The caretaker nodded. ‘See the maples yonder? There a low marble wall on the other side of those. Number 72–5. Coffin half the size of normal. Like a child’s. Not much of him. But that’s not the paupers’ area. The opposite actually.’
Noelie didn’t understand.
‘That’s the most expensive part of the cemetery,’ said the caretaker. ‘Take a look and you’ll see what I mean.’
Noelie walked to the line of trees. The section was up against the outer cemetery wall. A low marble division snaked around a good half acre, marking it out as separate from the main graveyard. There were flowerbeds, seats too; many had dedications inscribed on them.
Plot 72–5 was just a mound of earth. Freshly dug as well. Unlike Shane’s plot there were no wreaths at all. The grave looked very bare and lonely. As with Shane’s grave the official marking of identity was just a simple wooden cross. A name was written on it: Michael Egan.
The Dalton family had held a press conference on the day after Bonfire Night at one of the main hotels in Cork; it was well organised and received considerable media attention. At the event the Daltons made public the Sugrue statement and called for an inquiry into what it alleged. The family also petitioned for an immediate search of the area in the Glen that was marked on the map.
Garda HQ in Phoenix Park in Dublin refuted all the allegations. A personal statement was also issued on behalf of Inspector Lynch. It also refuted the Dalton family’s claims.
However the gardaí did agree to initiate a search of the area marked by a cross on the map. Human remains were found almost immediately. Then came the surprise. To the Dalton family’s dismay, they were not those of Jim Dalton – this was established using dental records. It further emerged that the remains had been in situ for over thirty years, which took matters back to the seventies, whereas Jim Dalton went missing in 1990. What happened next was by no means as clear-cut. Noelie and Hannah had gleaned as much information as they could from the newspapers; Hannah also had her own contacts.
Shortly after the discovery in the Glen, an appeal was made for information about the remains. Almost immediately a local station, Red FM, received a significant anonymous tip. This led directly to a man reported missing from west London in 1970 – an Irishman in his early twenties who had been working on the buildings. He never arrived for work one week. When his rent fell due, the family he was in digs with made enquiries. Apparently they were fond of this man and had gone to some lengths to find out what had happened to him. They eventually filed a missing person’s report. His name was Michael Egan.
Noelie wandered over to the grave next to the Egan plot. A headstone was already in place there: a shiny black marble commission with an inset colour picture of a dark-haired child alongside a gold cross and an offertory prayer. A solar lantern was alight. Fresh flowers had recently been placed on the child’s grave and Noelie read the attached note. Thinking of you always, Sweetie. Love, Mammy and Daddy.
He remembered something. Looking at the Egan grave once more and then at the child’s plot, he returned to find the cemetery caretaker tackling a hedge. He had ear muffs on and Noelie had to tap him on the shoulder. The caretaker shut off the trimmer and lifted his goggles and muffs.
‘Well?’
‘I see what you mean. It’s nice there. Manicured, better cared for.’
‘Premium zone. Some whizz-kid in the council had the idea. You know the way they are these days. You pay for the privilege of course.’
‘How much?’
‘Twice the usual. But that’s not all. Did you notice anything else about the plot?’
Noelie shook his head. ‘Can’t say I did.’
‘It’s much bigger.’
‘Is it? By how much?’
‘That’s a treble, he’s in. It can take two more as a minimum. It’s five grand’s worth easily.’
Noelie looked back in the direction he had come from. ‘No pauper so.’
‘Doesn’t look like it. We’re wondering ourselves. Now someone did say it could be those people over in London are paying for it, the ones who helped to identify him, but in that case why a grave for three?’
Noelie eyed the caretaker. He wondered if this might be some kind of wind up, but the tired expression on his face remained.
‘There’ll be a headstone?’ Noelie asked.
‘Takes time to order and do up. A few weeks to six months is normal.’
‘Any idea who’ll be doing it?’
‘Brennans, off Shandon Street. Them usually.’
15
At the Dalton house, Noelie examined a photo on the mantelpiece. It was of Ethel and Jim Dalton on their wedding day. A North Cathedral wedding: Ethel and Jim standing under the arched portico, well-wishers fanning away on each side. Ethel in white, the veil drawn aside; a bright smile on her face. Jim, beside her, in a dark suit with a carnation in his lapel. Ethel had inches on him in height.
Mrs Dalton came back into the room and sat on the sofa. She pulled a blanket over her knees.
‘My Jim wasn’t an orphan as such but he ended up as one. He was found wandering on Coburg Street. Do you know it?’
Noelie nodded.
‘He should’ve been at school, 1960 this would be around. His mother was never that good. In those days that’s what happened to you. He was taken from her and sent to the industrial school at Upton. There was just him and her. By the time he got out, she had died. So he kind of became an orphan. He never knew his father.’
Noelie put back the wedding photo. ‘Did you ever hear him mention the name Michael Egan?’
Mrs Dalton recognised who Noelie was talking about. She shook her head and propped herself more upright on the sofa. ‘Sharon,’ she called loudly.
The daughter appeared at the sitting room door. She had a coat on. ‘I’m going out, Mam.’
‘Can you bring the photo, the one of your dad and the bishop?’
While they waited Noelie asked
if there was any further news regarding the allegations in the Sugrue statement. She responded with a series of colourful expletives; in short, no, there were no new developments. The Garda press office had now entered the fray and were disputing the claim that there had ever been any meeting involving Sugrue and the Garda Commissioner. The Daltons were taking legal advice but the allegations, for the moment at least, were last month’s news.
Sharon returned and handed the picture to her mother. She didn’t acknowledge Noelie. Ethel passed it to him. It had a light sepia colouration. A handwritten inscription on the edge read Danesfort Industrial School, May 1963. The subject was the presentation of a scroll. A line of boys in white shirts and dark short pants, ten or eleven years of age, were waiting their turn. Jim Dalton was third from the end. It would be difficult to identify him as the line of boys were not the focal point of the shot but Noelie decided to take Mrs Dalton’s word for it. Behind the presentation there was a monument with a Celtic cross at its apex.
‘That’s Con Lucey there,’ said Mrs Dalton, pointing at the deceased former bishop of Cork. Lucey had a reputation around Cork. Conservative didn’t quite do him justice.
Mrs Dalton pointed to the next figure along, a priest in a soutane. He was tall, wore glasses and had his hair in a comb-over style.
‘The Rosminian Order ran Danesfort. He was the head man.’
‘The occasion?’ enquired Noelie.
‘This group were altar boys trained to administer Mass in Irish. My Jim was a good speaker, to do with that I suppose.’
Beside the head Rosminian there was one other priest. He was young and wore a white soutane. He was smiling. Noelie wondered about the significance of the pale garb. A novitiate?
There were other adults present too, in civvies. However their faces weren’t easy to make out due to the angle the photo was taken from. Mrs Dalton didn’t know who they were. Noelie wondered why she wanted him to look at the photo.
‘From the Examiner?’ he enquired, referring to Cork’s main newspaper.
Mrs Dalton didn’t know. After a while she continued, ‘Jim was careful about this picture. He kept it to himself. I joked with him once that he must have been doing very well to have his photo taken with the bishop but he said that he could still smell the pee in his pants when he looked at the picture. Every boy there was scared half to death, he used to say. Jim was very bitter about Danesfort.’
This wasn’t any surprise to Noelie. ‘An unpleasant place from what I’ve read.’
‘A prison for the poor.’
‘Why did he have the photo?’
‘I don’t really know.’
He handed back the picture. Mrs Dalton laid it on the blanket on her lap. ‘Will you get me a glass of water?’ she asked.
Noelie was glad to. He had visited on a hunch. He recalled that Mrs Dalton had said her husband was an orphan. At the cemetery when he saw Egan’s bare grave, he had wondered if Egan was an orphan too. There hadn’t been any mention of his family in the news reports. Was that the connection with Dalton? He figured there had to be one. After all, why would a map of where Egan was buried be attached to the statement on Dalton’s execution?
The kitchen was spotless. The entire house was that way, well-kept and cosy. A very ordinary Irish house apart from the republican memorabilia in the hall. Not many Irish people remembered the 1916 martyrs with such devotion.
He watched Mrs Dalton sip her water. She declared that she was poorly since the let-down at Glen Park, that she had been certain that the body that was found would be Jim’s. She had seen the end of the road and was ready for it. She had decided long ago that her Jim was dead. Finding his body was all that remained.
She put her hand out for Noelie’s and squeezed it.
‘An informer is lowlife, the lowest. We’re republicans here, as you know.’ Noelie nodded. ‘It was the worst thing they could ever say about him and about us. Jim’s good name was taken. They said he was a tout, a collaborator. We’ve had to live with that.’
Picking up the photo again, Ethel Dalton added, ‘He wanted this photo but I wouldn’t give it to him.’
Noelie didn’t follow. ‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Sugrue.’
‘Sean Sugrue? He was here?’
‘A few times.’
‘Branch business you mean? Harassing Jim?’
Mrs Dalton frowned. ‘No. This was long after Jim disappeared.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Three times at least.’
‘What did he want?’
‘You see that was why I had no doubts about the statement you brought to us. The minute I saw Sugrue’s name on that document I knew it was probably what we were looking for.’
Noelie remembered. Mrs Dalton had certainly not hesitated. At the time, with all that was happening, it didn’t fully register with Noelie but now that she said it he understood.
‘So what did he want when he was here?’
‘He was interested in Jim’s involvement in Sinn Féin. He knew quite a bit about him, I’ll tell you that. I wouldn’t tell him anything though. He got the message too.’
Noelie nodded. ‘So it was police business?’
‘No. He was adamant it was a private errand. He was clear there. I got the impression he was sorry about something. I didn’t know what of course. This was around the time of the first IRA ceasefire, ’94, I think, right? Or ’95, maybe it was. I thought it was to do with that actually. Mending bridges and all that stuff.’ A look of repulsion came over Mrs Dalton. ‘He was quite religious, you know?’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Wanted to say the rosary with me, with all of us. That’s what convinced me he was involved in Jim’s disappearance. You could tell he was guilt-ridden.’
Mrs Dalton closed her eyes. Noelie suppressed his impatience.
‘What else did he ask about?’
‘It was all to do with Jim. What was he like before he disappeared? Had he spoken about anything that seemed suspicious, looking back. Was he worried? That kind of thing.’
‘And?’
Mrs Dalton suddenly heaved herself up from the sofa. She went to a sideboard and opened a set of doors. Noelie saw a shelf of books all neatly lined up with years printed on their spines. 1990 was the first. She retrieved 1994 but returned it and took out 1995.
‘I’ve kept a diary for every year. In the beginning it was for notes, to keep track of who said what. But in later years it became a way of dealing with Jim’s absence. The last few years I haven’t put much in them at all. There’s been nothing to report.’
She skimmed through 1995 until she came to February. ‘Here it is.’ She read the entry.
16 February
Sean Sugrue called. He was in Special Branch in Cork and knew Jim. He wanted to pray with me. He asked if Jim spoke about the Provos and what he said. He was interested in anyone Jim didn’t like or didn’t trust. He asked about a person called Brian Boru. I told him Jim wasn’t in the Provos, that he was in Sinn Féin.
‘This Brian Boru,’ Noelie asked, ‘what was that about?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Why did you write it down so?’
‘Don’t remember that either. It was fifteen years ago. See I put things in the diary because they seemed important to me at the time. But why exactly I thought that, I don’t recall now. Why?’
Noelie told Mrs Dalton that he didn’t know who Brian Boru was but he seemed to be someone or something important inside the IRA. He asked if her husband had ever mentioned the name. She shook her head.
‘So Sugrue was here a few times and he wanted to pray with you all. Anything else?’
Mrs Dalton returned to the diary. The next few pages were empty. She returned to the very first entry in that year, on 1 January, and offered it to Noelie to read.
One day you will walk in. You will be at the door and you will stand there and you will smile at me. I won’t believe it is you. That moment when I know it is you and that you
really are present and have come back will be the happiest moment of my life. I won’t actually believe it is you until I hold you. Then I will hold you so tight that I am sure I will squeeze the life out of you. I will never let you out of my sight again.
It was sad, and when Noelie looked up he expected to see something like sadness in Mrs Dalton’s eyes but instead she beamed.
‘What is it?’
‘I remember. Sugrue was interested in the photo because he knew someone in it.’
Noelie retrieved the Danesfort picture and examined it again. ‘You mean other than your husband?’
‘Of course. Well, he didn’t know Jim was in it. He was waiting out in the front room, where the piano is. We had got the photo framed and put up on the wall by that time. He was looking about, as you do.’ Mrs Dalton looked very pleased. ‘He asked me about it and why we had the photo. When he realised my Jim was in it too he became quite excited.’ She looked at the diary again and flipped through all the August entries but there was nothing. ‘I should’ve written something about all that, shouldn’t I?’
Noelie felt like screaming yes but he only nodded.
‘Well, it’s not always easy.’ Mrs Dalton suddenly looked sad. ‘It gets me down. I used to think I’d never give up on Jim but there’s been setback after setback. I don’t know any more. I despair of ever finding him.’
Noelie understood. He waited a while and then probed again.
‘Sugrue wanted to take the photo away to make a copy of it but I wouldn’t give it to him. No way.’
Noelie went through every page in the diary for 1995. He found one other reference to Sugrue in November. All it said was ‘Sean Sugrue called again.’
He looked at the Danesfort photo once more and then showed it to Mrs Dalton again. ‘Any idea who it was he recognised?’
Ethel Dalton looked. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
