To Keep a Bird Singing

by Kevin Doyle

  Hannah shook her head and smiled. ‘That’s only a taster. My news is serious news. The remains found in Glen Park.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser, so to speak. I spoke to Brennans, the stonemasons. They’ve been paid in full and in advance, so they’re very happy.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘They haven’t actually spoken to anyone.’

  ‘Maybe the undertakers are handling it?’

  ‘No, they’re adamant they’re dealing directly with whoever is paying. They’ve had communications. The payment came through via bank transfer. At the same time they got an email detailing the sum of money and what it was for. As you’d expect.’ Noelie nodded. ‘So Mrs Brennan wrote a quick reply saying thanks for the business and send us the inscription and the stone type as soon as you know what you want. Her email bounced. She sent a second email, thinking there might have been some error in the first but that bounced as well. She couldn’t work it out. So eventually she took the matter to her granddaughter, her “internet expert” as she described her. Ever heard of a “disposable” email address? It’s for one-off use. An email can be sent from the address but then the address voids itself and cannot receive any replies.’

  ‘Someone doesn’t want to be contacted.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Noelie thought about this. ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the six-million-euro question.’

  Noelie went to the window. Down below on the riverside there was a wooden wharf that was also part of the flat complex. A yellow rowboat was tethered to the wharf and was swaying majestically in the current.

  ‘Someone wants Michael Egan to have a proper grave. The same person must also know his story.’ He remembered something. ‘Weren’t you going to ask that detective friend of yours about the Egan investigation?’

  Hannah’s tone turned to one of pained sufferance. ‘I did, Noelie dearest. And I had to have a drink with him too which is not my idea of fun. So in other words you owe me.’

  Noelie pretended he hadn’t heard Hannah. ‘So what did he say?

  ‘The investigation is low key.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Another way of saying it’s not high priority.’

  19

  They took the South Ring out of town. At Bishopstown Shopping Centre they swung onto the Bandon Road. While Hannah drove she told Noelie about her Facebook idea. There were a number of industrial-school survivor groups on social media. She had looked them over and made enquiries. One of the admins on one survivor group’s page had replied.

  ‘Basically he knows of someone who has done quite a bit of work on Danesfort. He’ll get back to me as soon as he can with a number or an address. Not bad, right?’

  Noelie didn’t do Facebook. He had taken against Zuckerberg and Gates and their ilk. His one-man boycott of Facebook was a source of derision for Hannah. She smiled at Noelie. ‘What was that? I didn’t catch that?’

  ‘I guess,’ he mumbled.

  Danesfort was located in the village of Upton. The turn-off was only seven miles out from Cork. They took it and the road immediately narrowed. Hannah drove slowly. A tractor appeared and they were nearly forced off the road to make way for it. At the next junction the signpost directed them up an even narrower road. Noelie was doubtful.

  ‘In case you’re expecting anything grand, there isn’t even an Upton proper. It’s a pub, if I recall, and an old train terminal, long closed.’ After a pause Hannah added. ‘Historically interesting though. During the War of Independence, Upton railway station was the site of an infamous Old IRA ambush. Except the boys didn’t cover themselves in glory on this occasion. A lot of civilians were killed, a few of their own and one British soldier, I think.’

  Noelie was impressed. ‘You just happen to know all this?’

  Hannah smiled her warm bright smile. ‘You forget my family are republicans from Kerry. It’s in the blood. Though, actually, that’s not how I know about Upton. I did a project on it at school. About Irish ballads and the history behind the songs.’

  Noelie slapped the dash. ‘This is why I hired you.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  They passed over a low hill with a picturesque valley further on. A few specimen Celtic Tiger houses had collared the views. They were large offerings that sported elaborate rock-faced frontages, dormer windows and double garages like they were going out of fashion. Noelie recalled Ajax Dineen and his neighbour who wouldn’t pay for his tiles and patio slabs.

  Noelie had gone back to see Ajax a short while after Shane’s funeral. Maybe it was a case of misery loves company but he wanted to apologise for all the trouble he had caused. He didn’t get further than the front door. Ajax’s wife cursed him. Noelie was still numb from Shane’s death so Mrs Dineen’s anger hardly registered. She could’ve hit him with a two-by-four and he doubted if he would have felt a thing.

  They had been driving around in circles. Eventually Hannah pulled in at a farm gate and they examined the map. It wasn’t detailed enough. When the next car came along they hailed it. The driver pointed over the ditch at the tree line.

  ‘You’re looking at it. It’s behind the trees.’

  Noelie eventually saw what she was pointing at. There were a few sizable buildings but they had all been painted lime green. If the intention was to camouflage the industrial school complex, they had been successful.

  ‘The entrance is back along. Doesn’t look like much.’

  They retraced their route and found the gate. The property was now home to a local community care unit. A narrow road went through a small wood before arriving at a large open quadrangle. Noelie was reminded of a barracks square. There were vehicles parked in a line – cars and disabled-access minibuses. Noelie saw a man in an electric wheelchair being escorted through a doorway.

  A one-way traffic system was in operation so they continued, eventually arriving at the front of the main building – an imposing two-storey stone structure. Noelie had seen pictures of the industrial school from the forties. They were black-and-whites; if anything the monochrome shots had accentuated the school’s austere appearance. However, in all the old photos there was an open vista in front of the main school building. This was now gone due to the line of tall birches.

  Noelie recalled that a number of the boys who were sent to Danesfort mentioned how large the main house seemed to them on arrival. This was down, in part, to them being children but also because they all came from small homes and hovels. One said the countryside around looked beautiful but the main building reminded him of a mental home.

  Noelie and Hannah got out of the car. Noelie had brought the Danesfort photo. He walked off to see if he could figure out where it was taken from. He wandered towards the tree line and settled on a spot. The church bell in the photo and the current one looked similar. He tried to match these up.

  A man appeared at the church doorway. He stood looking at them for a while and then approached. He was dressed in a plain dark suit and it was only when he came close that Hannah saw his priest’s collar. He was in his late thirties, a moon-faced look about him. He smiled, revealing one entirely black molar. It was disconcerting.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Hannah explained that they were interested in the old industrial school and the Rosminian records of those who had attended. The priest was a Rosminian but told them that there had been a big fire at the Danesfort complex in the late sixties that had badly damaged the original school building. The facility was rebuilt in the seventies and at that point it was offered to the state for use as a community health facility. The Rosminians still retained rooms at Danesfort as a retreat centre but the bulk of the site was now in community care with the local health board in charge.

  Noelie came over. The priest suggested that they give their names in at the office if they were going to wander about – it was a health and safety requirement. Noelie enquired if the records to do with Danesfort were available.

 
The Rosminian shook his head. ‘All moved to Clonmel. A number of years ago now.’

  Hannah showed the Danesfort photo to the priest, and told him that they were trying to identify the two Rosminians in the shot. The priest laughed diplomatically and said that it was well before his time. He excused himself, saying he had duties to attend to. He reminded them again about registering at the office.

  ‘There might be photos inside,’ suggested Noelie. ‘They love to put up portraits of former principals in these places. Let’s have a look.’

  Inside the main entrance, they found themselves in a long musty hall. A sign directed them to the office at the far end. As he walked towards it Noelie checked the photos on the walls. They showed scenes from the seventies and eighties, after the complex became a care centre.

  They exited on the other side into the square. ‘There’s a “you’re in the army” feel to this place even now,’ observed Hannah.

  Noelie agreed. ‘A lot of the boys that were in Danesfort went away as soon as they were released. Left Ireland, I mean. Emigrated and just never came back. Fits with Egan a bit too, doesn’t it, him ending up in London as a navvy. Except something brought him back to Cork.’

  ‘And got him killed.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Noelie looked around. ‘So was Egan here?’

  ‘That we have to find out.’

  ‘I bet he was.’

  ‘You’d bet your punk collection, would you?’

  Noelie laughed. ‘Maybe not that.’

  They left disappointed. Before pulling back on to the road, Hannah nodded in the downhill direction.

  ‘The site of the Old IRA ambush is that way. Fancy a look?’

  ‘Why not.’

  It was only a short distance. There was a pub and, across from this, a monument in the form of another Celtic cross. Beside it was the entrance to Upton rail station. The rail line was long out of use but the red-brick station building, including the raised platform and rail siding, had been restored.

  They walked in and around. The woods protecting the former industrial school were only a short distance away. Noelie guessed that state inspectors might well have alighted at this station. Invariably Danesfort got good reviews when it was inspected. The stories of cruelty and abuse took decades to surface, emerging slowly as the Danesfort boys became men and found the courage to speak.

  Hannah began singing. She had a lovely voice and Noelie was glad of the intrusion. She sang lines from a well-known ballad about the Upton ambush.

  Let the moon shine out tonight along the valley

  Where those men who fought for freedom now are laid

  May they rest in peace those men who died for Ireland

  In the lonely woods of Upton for Sinn Féin.

  ‘Another string to your bow,’ he said.

  Hannah smiled. ‘I don’t sing enough any more.’

  They were silent. It was pleasant around the station: undulating farmland on three sides and the woods close by. There was a warm breeze.

  ‘Strange to think that a battle happened here.’

  ‘Weird. People dying for freedom in one place and up the road they were beating it out of those young boys.’

  ‘That’s Ireland for you.’

  They returned to the car. Hannah didn’t start the engine immediately. She had let down the side window and was staring at the view.

  ‘Something up?’

  ‘Just thinking.’ She looked at Noelie. ‘We get on well together, don’t we?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘It’s been great spending so much time together this last while.’

  Noelie looked at her. ‘I know. Like old times.’

  Sometimes he wondered if there was a chance for something more between him and Hannah. What held him back was their friendship. He was afraid of upsetting it, of losing her.

  ‘So all those years ago, did we just meet at completely the wrong time?Was that it?’ she asked.

  Noelie smiled. ‘You gave me the bullet as I recall.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t stand still for a minute.’

  ‘And you were a poseur. Red-haired Siouxsie Sioux.’

  They laughed. What had saved them then was that they hadn’t hurt each other. There was probably an element of luck to that – both of them were too preoccupied with music and politcs and other things. Still, it was why they had been able to resume their friendship when they met up again after Noelie’s return from the States.

  Hannah started the engine. Noelie knew he was circling around his feelings for Hannah, trying to work them out. Something was shifting, that was for sure, and he had a sense that the same might be true for her. If these weeks had taught him anything, it was that life is precious. If there was a chance for happiness, he didn’t want to let it slip away.

  ‘Lennox’s for chips then?’ she said, bringing him back to the present.

  ‘You bet.’

  20

  The ferry to Sherkin Island was a fifteen-minute hop from the fishing village of Baltimore in west Cork. It was pleasant and windy on board, just on the right side of comfortable. Noelie had been to Sherkin a few times before, once on a weekend-long camping trip, another time just for the walk. He recalled that the island had some great beaches.

  ‘Black Gary – that his real name?’

  ‘That’s the name I was given.’

  ‘Didn’t your mother ever warn you about meeting people through the internet?’

  Hannah put a hand on Noelie’s wrist. ‘I’ll mind you. But just to reassure you, he’s not actually from the internet. We got his name from someone on the internet but apparently he’s not online himself. He doesn’t even own a mobile phone, if that’s any consolation. He’s an amateur historian who knows quite a bit about Cork’s industrial schools. The bonus for us is that he attended Danesfort.’

  Noelie remained sceptical. ‘If we’re murdered and chopped into pieces, I’m blaming you.’

  They reached the island and disembarked on to an empty pier. ‘He knows we’re coming, does he?’

  ‘I left a message at the Jolly Roger pub. Apparently that’s the way to make contact.’

  ‘Got an address then?’

  ‘Black Gary, Sherkin Island, County Cork.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘City boy.’

  They waited a while but no one showed. Noelie approached a man coming in on a small punt. He knew Black Gary.

  ‘A mile along, white bungalow. You can’t miss it.’

  The fisherman was right. Black Gary’s place stood out on a low hill. The small cottage looked south-east towards the harbour mouth and the sea. The front door was open and, despite it being summertime, a turf fire smouldered.

  ‘You found me. Thought you would.’

  Noelie figured that Black Gary was in his sixties. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans and a fisherman’s cap, which he removed as he greeted them. He still had all his hair though his face was deeply lined. They sat around the table over tea. Gary was in Danesfort during its final two years, from 1964 to 1966. After that he was in Clonmel for another four years. He was separated from his brother and sister when he went to Danesfort. In 2001, he finally managed to reconnect with his brother who had moved to the United States in the mid-seventies after a short stint in Dublin. He showed them a picture of the two of them on Golden Gate Bridge; they were both beaming. They had also traced their missing sister using the Salvation Army but that didn’t end well. She was in London but turned down the opportunity to meet them. They couldn’t understand why but she wasn’t for turning.

  Hannah produced the Danesfort photo. ‘We’re trying to identify everyone in this. It’s dated 1963, so shortly before your time.’

  Putting on his glasses Black Gary immediately pointed at the man standing beside the bishop, the head Rosminian. ‘Father Tony Donnelly.’

  Hannah winked at Noelie.

  ‘Strict man, proper like.’ Black Gary laughed. ‘Very holy. He’d stop you in the hall or out on the
yard and say, “Recite the Our Father with me.” He was that sort of way. Eccentric.’

  ‘Anything more?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘He had favourites, they all did. You could fool him but if he worked out what you were up to he’d half murder you. He wasn’t disliked. He was okay really. His brother was a different matter.’

  Noelie recalled the newspaper report of the car crash that killed Sugrue. ‘The one in the gardaí?’

  Black Gary shook his head, ‘No, this brother wasn’t a cop. I’m talking about Albert Donnelly, the youngest brother. Didn’t look much like Tony in fact. People often said it. I kept well away from him. Sometimes he looked after the farm at Danesfort. The Donnellys themselves were farmers so I suppose they knew what they were doing.’

  Black Gary nodded. ‘Not far off slavery. Hard work, often used as punishment too. Anyway this Albert Donnelly was sometimes at the Danesfort farm.’ He paused, remembering. ‘There would be these crows out in the fields, lots of them, pecking and scavenging. Albert used to say that the crows worked for God as well. He was a harsh taskmaster.’

  Hannah drew Black Gary’s attention back to the photo. ‘Any of the boys in the line look familiar?’

  Black Gary peered. ‘It’s not a good photo, is it?’

  ‘Not the original, that’s for sure. A copy of a newspaper cut-out, we’re reckoning.’

  He shook his head. Noelie pointed to the novitiate. Black Gary looked dejected.

  ‘Actually I thought it was more the history of Danesfort that you were interested in. I didn’t mean to drag you all the ways down here for little result.’

  Hannah reassured Black Gary. Confirming Father Donnelly’s identity was worth it alone. Noelie asked if the name Jim Dalton meant anything to Black Gary. It didn’t.

  ‘Michael Egan?’

  Black Gary shook his head again. Pointing at the bishop of Cork, he added, ‘I wrote to Lucey, you know. He was often out at Danesfort, walking around blessing people. You’d think there was a blight on the place, the amount of holy water he flung about. Never even replied to me.’