The Secret of Eveline House

by Sheila Forsey

  THE SECRET OF

  EVELINE HOUSE

  SHEILA FORSEY

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, businesses, organisations and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2020

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Sheila Forsey 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2019, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978178199-755-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sheila Forsey’s childhood was steeped in listening to stories. They were told not from a book but from memory. Stories that gave her a love of words and were the stepping-stones into her writing. Ireland’s windswept coastline, rugged mountains, valleys and ever-changing sky inspire her writing and a deep interest in Ireland’s intricate past has led her to write historical fiction.

  She is an honour’s graduate from Maynooth in creative writing. She is the recipient of a literature bursary award from Wexford County Council and Artlinks. She facilitates creative writing workshops throughout the country.

  She lives with her husband and three children (very soon all to be teenagers), close to the tapestry of the Wexford Coast.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted to the wonderful Paula Campbell and all her team at Poolbeg Press. I am so very grateful for your belief in my writing. To my incredibly talented editor Gaye Shortland for being so insightful and patient and for her astounding knowledge of Ireland’s history.

  Sincere thanks to Wexford County Council and Artlinks for awarding me a bursary in literature recently. To my agent Tracy Brennan for your constant support across the ocean. To the many writers across Ireland who are there to help, guide and have a giggle with, especially when the going gets tough.

  To my family and friends who constantly support me.

  Finally, to my husband Shane and my three children Ben, Faye and Matthew. For all that they do every single day. Also thank you all for never batting an eyelid when I get quite distracted, especially when I am deep into my writing. Yes, the washing powder has ended up in the fridge! Thank you for being the best.

  For those who are still searching for the truth

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  New Year’s Eve 1949

  Draheen, Ireland

  Violet Ward’s elegant frame, sheathed in a jade-green silk dress, shimmered with tiny glass beads as she walked swiftly from room to room in her home, Eveline House. Her dark hair was pinned up in a tight chignon, her high cheekbones enhanced with just a touch of colour, her lips a ruby-red set against alabaster skin, a string of pearls around her delicate neck.

  She looked behind the red-velvet chaise longue in the drawing room for her daughter Sylvia, checking to see if the little girl had crouched there as she often did. Sometimes Sylvia would take her dolls and create a perfect little world there or behind the shelter of the heavy gold-velvet drapes.

  She hoped that Sylvia’s sensitive little ears had not overheard Betsy Kerrigan, their housekeeper, whispering to her earlier, relaying the latest vicious gossip that she had overheard at Miss Doheny’s grocery store that day.

  Betsy had been putting the bag of sugar she had just purchased into her bicycle basket when Nelly Cooke rushed into the shop, leaving the door ajar. Nelly had just come from a parochial meeting of the ‘church ladies’ of Draheen and was almost shouting across the counter in excitement as she delivered her latest gossip. Betsy had overheard every vindictive word against her employer.

  ‘Nelly Cooke said that you were evil and that the Devil was surely in you, to go and write what you have written. She said that the bishop himself would not be able to absolve you of your sins. Miss Doheny said that you were possibly cursed. Nelly Cooke then said that she had warned the women at the meeting to keep their young people away from you for fear of the Devil getting into them.’ Betsy shook her head in disgust. ‘Such a group of auld hypocrites! There they are at the church every morning, scrubbing the altar until it shines, making sure the flowers are not allowed to even think of wilting, and not a Christian bone in their bodies! I am so sorry, Mrs Ward, but I felt I had better let you know so you can be on your guard. That Nelly Cooke is nothing but an auld sleeveen! Oh, an awful sleeveen of a woman!’ Betsy put her hands on her hips as if she was ready to thrash the lot of them for saying a word against her employer. ‘My mother always said that there was more religion in a stick of wood than in the whole body of Nelly Cooke. Of course, Agnes the Cat is the ringleader of the lot of them and her tongue is pure evil.’

  Agnes the Cat lived alone in a small house at the bottom of the town and was known to have at least thirty cats in the house with her.

  Violet had felt sickened as she listened to Betsy. Her first play, Unholy Love, certainly flew in the face of Irish Catholic morality. She had expected hostility from the people of Draheen but she had never expected such vitriolic attacks.

  Violet had known how the townspeople felt about her from her earliest days in Draheen. A few days after their arrival she had met Miss Doheny on the road outside Eveline House. A tall rake of a woman with skin so thin it was almost transparent, skinny purple lips and hair secured in a tight grey bun, Miss Doheny had not held back. She had told her in vivid detail how Father Cummins had announced from the pulpit that a notorious playwright and her family were taking up residence in Eveline House. He had informed them in no uncertain terms that her first play, which had been put on in London, was unchristian in every way. He said that Draheen was a good Catholic town and it needed no scandal. Miss Doheny had not given Violet time to respond to this but had jumped on her bicycle and cycled off.

  Later, of course, Violet had heard in further detail about the priest’s rant from Betsy, after the housekeeper had come to work at Eveline House.

  Betsy would never forget it till her dying day.

  ‘You will be cursed to damnation if you even talk about this play or to this woman who has penned such filth!’ he had roared. ‘I believe an illegal copy of this ungodly script has found its way to our town. I forbid any of my parishioners to have anything to do with it – or the writer of it, I might add. If you do, you should never enter this church again. In fact, I forbid you to!’

  Violet knew that it was very unlikely anyone in Draheen would ever see a performance of the play and, even if there was an illegal copy of the script in the town, most of the townspeople would be too afraid to look at it. The play was, of course, banned in Ireland by the severe censorship laws. Obviously, Father Cummins himself had got his hands on a copy as he seemed to be such an expert on it.

  It turned out that indeed an illegal copy of the script had somehow found its way to the town. A love
story between a priest and a young woman, the dogeared script was literally pulled apart as a group of girls tried to read separate pieces at the same time and then swap them over. Father Cummins was alerted by one of their mothers. The pages of the play were gathered together and delivered into the safe hands of the priest who promised to pray for the souls of those who had dared to read it. Betsy was a horrified witness when he threw the torn sheets down in the street and stamped on them like a child in a temper tantrum.

  Things appeared to quieten down a little as time passed and, when a neighbour who had lived down the road from Eveline died, Henry persuaded Violet to attend the Requiem Mass.

  They took Sylvia with them. They set out, Violet wearing her fur stole of steel grey over a stylish burgundy suit, with her hair pinned up under a black half-hat and her chin held high, Henry dressed impeccably in a pinstripe suit, tie and navy Crombie coat, and Sylvia all in blue.

  Violet had gone to Mass on rare occasions in London but stepping into a church in Ireland was almost overpowering. The aroma of the lingering incense and the stillness that permeated the air triggered deep emotion in her. Whatever her belief, Catholicism was in her bones. There was no removing herself from it. In the same way, Ireland was part of her consciousness. In London, when she slept, she had dreamt of Ireland, a dark brooding landscape that had captured her soul.

  But her emotional response to being in the church was soon swept away.

  That morning, the priest was not concerned about praying for the deceased – it was the presence of Violet Ward that ignited his sermon.

  ‘We have a darkness in our midst! Mrs Ward forgot her religion when she was writing such filth. She is a shame to Ireland, a shame to the Church and its teachings. The Devil found her on the streets of London!’ Then he shouted from the pulpit as all the parishioners stared at Violet with their mouths open. ‘Well, not here! Not here! Not in my parish!’

  Violet wrapped her fur stole tightly around her. Protectively she put her arm around Sylvia to shield her from the priest’s abuse. Sylvia had started to tremble. Violet wanted to get up and run as far away as possible, but she was frozen to the spot.

  Henry was sitting beside her and she could feel the anger building in him at the priest’s outburst. He stood up to his six feet and walked purposefully towards the pulpit.

  The congregation held their breath. They had never seen the like of it before. Nobody ever confronted Father Cummins like that. He expected a huge level of respect and if one of the parishioners happened to be on the road when he drove his shiny Morris Minor at speed down the town, well, they simply jumped out of the way. He was the priest after all. Now, here was Henry Ward walking threateningly up to him as if he was just anyone and not the parish priest of Draheen!

  When Henry reached the pulpit, he stood and stared up at the priest.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, shouting at my wife as you just did!’ he spat at him. ‘How dare you? I demand an apology!’

  The priest’s face became purple and his eyes bulged.

  The congregation were wide-eyed and were afraid to blink, expecting him to explode into tiny bits.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ he shouted, spit spraying from his mouth. ‘You have no place in this House of God! Let the fires of Hell judge you and your kind! Get out!’

  Henry Ward looked in disgust at him, then he turned to the congregation.

  ‘You are as bad as him, if you allow this. Have you no shame?’

  Then he walked back down and put his hand out to Violet and the other to Sylvia. They rose and took his hands and, as they walked silently down the aisle, every eye was on them.

  A few weeks after the church episode Father Cummins had a heart attack and died. Betsy told Violet that he was resting after an enormous dinner of roast lamb with all the trimmings when his eyes bulged, and it was as if his heart exploded and drove him six feet under.

  There were many who blamed Violet for his death – not Henry, even though he was the one who confronted the priest, but her – and the gossips eagerly went on the attack. There were even whispers that she had cursed him.

  The young curate Father Quill took Father Cummins’ place. Father Quill was a tall handsome man with a gentle air about him. Much to the outrage of his flock, he befriended the Wards and began to visit Eveline House quite often. He told Violet over the odd glass of sherry that he was sorry Ireland had closed the door to her theatrical achievements and apologised for the treatment she and her family had received from Father Cummins.

  But the Wards never ventured into the church again.

  Ireland had indeed shut Violet out. She had expected it though. So many books and plays were banned. The census was severe and anything that was not about horses or the 1916 Rising seemed to be scrutinised and banned from penetrating Ireland’s pure shores. If it gave as much as a hint of promiscuity, adultery, homosexuality or contraception it was banned. She was aware that her second play The Lightship fell foul of these laws, so her future in Draheen promised to be even rockier than the present.

  Seeing Violet become more and more disturbed by the situation, Betsy tried to reassure her. She told her not to worry as most of the townspeople were just curious about her, and that possibly the women were hostile because the men had never seen anyone as elegant as her and were fascinated by her.

  ‘I heard Timmy Moore describe you as having the looks and allure of Vivien Leigh,’ she said with a giggle. ‘His wife almost gave him a wallop right there in Miss Doheny’s shop. Miss Doheny had to beg her to calm herself and told Timmy Moore to go to Confession for having such thoughts!’

  Violet had laughed but she increasingly had huge misgivings about their return to Ireland.

  CHAPTER 2

  Violet Ward was born Violet Clarke in County Westmeath, in the midlands of Ireland, and had run away from home when she was seventeen. Her parents were small farmers and were exhausted from trying to understand their wayward daughter. She was unlike her siblings. She rebelled against everything. Instead of going to school she would vanish to Lough Deeravaragh with her bottle of milk and bread-and-butter and spend the day talking with the birds and watching the clouds form over the brooding landscape. She knew that her mother prayed extra hard that she would become normal, but no number of rosaries seemed to cure her. Her father had to drag her to Mass and when she refused to go to Holy Communion the priest called on them. He prayed over her and told her parents to be wary – that something had got hold of her. The rosaries continued but, as the bells rang across the land from Whitewater church, Violet would have disappeared back to the lakes and the woods. She barely ate, and her thin frame and frail features began to look so fragile that the priest was called again. This time he performed more prayers and rituals and said he would have to call on the bishop for help if it continued.

  Just before she was seventeen her father arranged a place for her in McBride’s Drapery Store. He would pay Colm McBride two hundred pounds for the year, for his wayward daughter to learn how to work in the shop and eventually become a paid clerk. Violet went the first day and on the second she was back at the lough, the place where the legend of the Children of Lir began. She sat with her pencils and paper, trying to capture the mood of the lough as the mist shifted from blue to white and eventually to silver.

  Her father went spare and threatened to call the priest and the doctor. Violet would be locked up if she didn’t behave. Her mother begged her to settle down and try to give McBride’s a chance.

  Her mother was a slightly severe woman whose body was bent from prayer and toil. Her prayers as she knelt beside her daughter’s bed that night were the last words Violet ever heard her say. Violet listened as she called on all the saints to make her daughter settle and obey the rules set out for her. She prayed to the Virgin Mary to give her strength.

  Then she blew out the candle and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

  ‘Sleep now and when you awake any badness in you will be gone and you will go to
McBride’s and all this will be forgotten. Tomorrow you will dress in your good Sunday clothes and your father and Father Burke will see for themselves that you are a good Catholic girl. No more running off to the lough and writing and drawing all that nonsense. It’s filling your head with bad things.’

  While her family slept, Violet put the few clothes she had into a bag, with some bread and milk. Then she put in a photo of her parents. There were very few photos – this one was of their wedding day. She took some money from the savings her mother had for the Christmas dues which were to be paid to the parish. She promised herself that she would send it back as soon as she could.

  The road was still except for the dawn chorus of the birds. She walked fast – she needed to escape before anyone in Whitewater was up. The break of day would come soon. She picked a few sprigs of wild violets, the flower her mother had called her after. She walked and walked and eventually got a lift on the back of a milk lorry bound for Dublin.

  In Dublin, her eyes were glued to the sights and smells. Shop windows with hams crusted with mustard, cakes and buns making her mouth water. People of all shapes and sizes walking up and down, bicycles whizzing past. She made her way to the docks and, after sleeping on a bench, the next morning she stowed away on a ship for England. She wept as she saw Ireland disappearing. A land that she so loved but also could not live in – the constraints of society and the fear of the Church were too much. Her mind needed to be free. But she would miss the lough, the hills, the woods – and the music most of all. For Ireland had the most beautiful melancholy in its music.