The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  The next morning Jessica woke to the sound of a heavy wind-driven rain pelting against the roof. Grateful for an excuse not to jump out of bed and rush to the barn, she pulled the comforter up over her shoulders and spooned her body closer to Michael’s. Her skin warmed against his. She kissed his neck and face and ran her hands down his body. His breathing, deep and steady, didn’t change. The lines on his face seemed less than last night. She decided not to wake him.

  She padded into the kitchen, craving a strong cup of black coffee. Knowing none was available, she made a cup of tea and grabbed her notepad, filled with pages of handwritten notes. Every spare moment was spent culling over photographs and journals for solid facts-–-people, places and dates. At first, she settled into her chair, hugging a journal with anticipation of more stories of idyllic summers and first loves, but soon discovered stories that were at times surprising and other times simply heart wrenching.

  Bridget Heinchon was the oldest sister of Patrick, Daniel, Eileen, and Margaret. Her father died when her mother was pregnant with Margaret. Bridget was nine years old. Very few journal pages survived from Bridget’s early years. What remained told the story of a girl thrust into the role of mother when her own mother was not able to cope with the loss of her husband. ‘Ma’ sounded sickly and terrified to have to fend for herself and five children in the slums of Belfast. As soon as Patrick and Daniel were able, they were sent out to the streets to bring home anything they could. They were hungry and often had to be satisfied with a thin broth of cabbage soup. On occasion, the boys brought home a loaf of bread or a chicken, and Bridget knew never to ask where such delights came from.

  Eileen was weak from birth and died of ‘the failing’ by the time she was five. This made her mother cling all that more fiercely to the surviving sisters and ignited in Bridget a fiercely protective urge to do all she could for her brothers and sister. Margaret was not one to be coddled but was afraid to reject any maternal love, regardless of how desperate it was. When she could, Bridget would take Margaret to their church where the discovery of a coin that missed the coffers was a joyous but secret event. Bridget would buy her siblings a sweet and make sure they ate it all before returning home so no trace of it could be detected, for if Ma thought money was close by, she would ransack pockets and scour corners until it was found.

  Gradually, Bridget became aware that she was the power and glue behind her family unit. As Bridget became more competent in running the household, Ma grew more disconnected to the outside world and dependent on her daughters. The only allowable excuses Bridget could use to leave their cramped apartment were church and school. When Bridget was fourteen, her formal schooling—and that of all the Heinchon children—stopped abruptly. Not because her mother dictated it, but because the state stopped funding the Irish Catholic school she and her siblings attended. Reassignments of students to all-English secular schools was common, and their school’s closure forced them to walk many blocks through Protestant neighborhoods. Stories of harassment and beatings were common. No child in the Heinchon home wanted to take that risk.

  Tensions and resentments built. Protestant schools, flush with funding, said they were open to all children, but the Heinchons were not the only family to want an education that was Irish as well as Catholic. Families had difficulty adjusting to targeted restrictions. The school’s closure was the catalyst of a major social shift. Churches did what they could to continue education within their parishes, but the city government forbade them from opening regular schools, leaving only Sundays open for formal educational activity. Bridget grabbed the opportunity. Normal school hours could not confine her drive to read, write, and understand the world around her to. As a young teen, Bridget’s entries described the class she started in the church basement, teaching anyone who would come to read and write. She felt safe there and never considered what she was doing in any way unusual. When she wanted to do something, she did it. As Bridget matured, the church and the community offered her a refuge that she wrote about often. Surrounded by hardship, she read all she could on the disparate lives of Belfast citizens.

  The journal brought to life a strong, vibrant intellectual who felt supremely trapped by her roles and responsibilities. Bridget wrote pages about the lack of a proper future for her brothers and herself. Her brothers scraped by as day jobbers for physical work despite top grades. University was out of the question for them. The best prospect for a Catholic woman in Belfast during the 1950’s and 1960’s—as domestic help in an upscale house—was hard to find and harder to keep—especially if rumors surfaced that her family’s political leanings were not the same as the hiring household. Protestants and English sympathizers had the money, which meant Catholics needed to keep their mouths shut if they wanted to work. Any whiff that politics mattered jeopardized job prospects.

  As she read, Jessica could hear Bridget’s increasing grievances with a government that, at best, turned a blind eye to the systemic and pervasive shortage of jobs and food and, at worst, was the power behind it.

  Most of Bridget’s peers became wives and mothers before age twenty, and happiness often remained out of their reach. She wrote fondly of her best friend—referred to with simply the letters MB—and poured out her dissatisfaction for her lot in life and compassion for her. Passages in the journal told of friends, like MB, who battled with drunken husbands or abusive fathers, or coped with their absence due to work or jail. Since Bridget was thrust into the role of mother to her siblings, she always knew that getting married and becoming a housewife would never make her happy. Instead, she became an indispensable friend. As much as she doted on MB’s children, she never pined for one of her own.

  As far as Jessica could tell, Bridget’s moments of joy were rare. Her worries lifted during long walks on the hillsides or when reading books borrowed from libraries or loaned by friends. She especially savored newspapers found discarded on park benches or discover in trash bins in front of the cathedral. The papers wrote obituaries, police reports, or current events. Bridget wrote about deaths of friends from hunger or illness and crimes born from desperation. Street names of Falls Road, Shankill, and Divis peppered the pages and were ones Jessica was familiar with from news reports in the States. She was intrigued that her mother walked those same streets, connecting Bridget to the Troubles in a way Jessica never fathomed.

  Freedom was an idea that fascinated Bridget. As the eldest child, she was obliged to fill the voids left by the death of her father and her progressively ailing mother. The burden of keeping her family together and fed fell on her, and she refused to let their education be forfeited luxury. Neighbors in their crowded apartment building expected her to keep two increasingly wild brothers out of harm’s way. Bridget did her best to corral them to mass on Sundays even as she railed against many church teachings. Her brothers knew better than to subscribe to biblical hierarchy that elevated the wants and needs of the man as head of the household over all others. Wasn’t she the head of their home? What had her father given her mother aside from five children on top of who-knew-how-many other pregnancies? That was enough to be the head of a home? Nonsense. Her brothers yielded to her authority out of obedience and regard. No greater compliment could be given.

  Jessica reflected on her growing knowledge with stunned fascination. Bridget’s inner life was in turmoil. Outwardly, the girl grew into a young woman who performed her duties perfectly. Even as some looked upon her as a bit of an oddity for not being married, others appreciated her for all she did for her own family and, increasingly, her community. She was respected. She was a pillar of strength. Inwardly, Bridget Heinchon was a hellion.

  Margaret was the center of Bridget’s world, down to the extra tidbits of food saved for her. Bridget made sure her sister was educated in numbers and words, and Margaret thrived under Bridget’s care. Proud note was made of a spelling bee won or a math test aced, though the reality that no more promise existed for Margaret’s future than her own, almost brought Bridget to he
r breaking point.

  When Margaret turned fifteen, Bridget took action. Through her church connections, Bridget determined that a governess job in the United States was Margaret’s best hope for a future. With utmost secrecy, Bridget set about saving the pennies and pounds needed for passage. It took years; the needs of the family often required her to dip into her private funds. Journal pages were few and far between during this period, but Jessica could gather the threads. Bridget knew sending her sister abroad would destroy her mother, so she began preparations with painstaking stealth. The only person Bridget referred to as being aware of the scheme and supportive of it was Gean Cánach. She only brought Margaret into the preparations when they were too far along to be stopped, thwarting any protest that could be launched. Ma’s death cleared the way.

  Jessica looked through the other odds and ends and discovered a faded pink paper the consistency of an onion’s skin. On it was scrawled the words RMS Presidential and Margaret. Heavy, thick lines underscored each word.

  After several hours, Jessica had a list of dates and places but few names and details. She decided to pay Mrs. McDonnaugh a visit, but that would be after she paid Michael one.

  She slipped under the covers and curled up close to him, chilled by the morning air. He stirred so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “You’ve been up?” he asked, not fully awake.

  “For a little while. I was reading.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “No. It’s raining.”

  Michael pulled the covers over them, surrounding them in a cocoon of warmth. “A remote cottage, a rainy day and a beautiful, naked, woman beside me in bed. I’d say my life just got pretty damned good.” He ran his fingers lightly along the line of her shoulder. “Perfect way to spend a day.”

  “Well, maybe the morning anyway.” She nestled closer, pressing her forehead to his cheek.

  “Are you questioning my endurance, Miss Wyeth?” he chided, pulling her to him.

  She gave a light trill of laughter as she could feel his interest grow. “Hardly. It’s just that I want to go back into town and start getting some answers on my family. I met a woman who manages the town registry. She gave me the idea to do some digging into my family history.” Pressing her body against his, she kissed his neck, loving the feeling of his hands running over her sides and back.

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll stop,” and playfully moved her body away.

  “No. This is a very good idea.” He hugged her close again, the motion met with another burst of light laughter. “I meant going into town was a bad idea.”

  “Sure it is,” she cooed. Her hand smoothed across his chest. She moved her body closer, letting him feel her warmth. “It’s an excellent idea,” she said between kisses.

  “Being an unknown American tourist in town is one thing. Being Jessica Wyeth looking for her roots is another.” He spoke slowly, words stringing out as he lost concentration.

  Jessica pulled his hips to hers, keeping a little too far away. Teasing. “C’mon,” she said, almost in a whisper. She kissed him with an open mouth, moving her tongue over his lips and scraping her teeth along his jaw. “Let’s drive that fancy car of yours—”

  Michael groaned softly. “Car? N-no.” He spoke with decreasing conviction.

  She rolled on top of him, letting him fill her. Grabbing his wrists, she leaned over, pinning his arms above his head. “Say yes.” She was breathless, moving.

  “How can I say no?”

  Researching public records in Ireland required more patience than Jessica had. It wasn’t as if she could sit herself down in front of one book and know it would hold the answers she wanted. She barely knew what questions to ask, so even knowing where to look was impossible. Records of births, deaths, marriages, and baptisms were the domain of the church. Efforts to modernize the records into computerized databases had not reached all corners of rural Ireland. Raphoe’s public archives were kept in an ancillary wing of the cathedral.

  It was still pouring when Jessica and Michael splashed through the doorway.

  “Gracious! You gave me a fright,” said Mrs. McDonnaugh as she sat bolt upright in her chair. “What brings you two out on a day like this?”

  Jessica brought out her notes, sensing they had interrupted the woman’s nap. “I thought you could help point me in the right direction to find some information about my mother.”

  “Och, that’s splendid! I was hopin’ you’d get the itch. Now, what information are we starting with?”

  The stout registrar read Jessica’s notes on Bridget’s journal entries with interest and confirmed the information Jessica needed in order to determine which public archive held her answers. Town names and certain events gave Mrs. McDonnaugh a good idea where to focus Jessica’s search.

  Jessica’s strategy was to learn as much as she could about her mother’s family, then piece together the answers to find out the exact plan that Bridget and Margaret had pulled off so perfectly. Without the name of the town or county where Bridget was born, tracing her full family tree was nearly impossible.

  “Young ladies of that time would not have ventured far from their homes. You’re right about many of those street names being in Belfast. It sounds like she lived on the Catholic side.” She waited for Jessica to nod before she went on. “She was lucky to have friends out of the city. The towns your mother mentioned, BallyClare and Carrickfergus, were Catholic parishes in County Antrim in Northern Ireland. Aghalee Township is on the shores of Lough Neagh, a large freshwater lake that still is a major attraction, especially for folks summering from Belfast.”

  Jessica paused. “Antrim and Lough Neagh? I know those names.”

  Michael stepped forward. “County Antrim is a large county that reaches outside of Belfast up the eastern shore of the lake. The school is there.”

  “She has other entries in her journal, but she’s written them in Gaelic. I need someone to translate them,” Jessica said as she searched through the papers. “Here. I took a couple of the pages to show you.”

  Mrs. McDonnaugh scanned the yellowed paper. “I only speak a bit of old Irish, but it looks like your mother mentions Derry—that’s what the locals call Londonderry—and Strabane as places that were important to her. Those are in County Tyrone in Northern Ireland and are easier to get to from here. Derry has a substantial newspaper archive that might have some interesting tidbits surrounding the dates. Strabane has a less extensive archive, and the lad there can translate anything. That might hold some interest for you. Of course, you’ll have to cross the border to search church records in either county’s seat.” She rummaged through her desk and handed Jessica a list of names and addresses.

  “Where should I start?” Jessica asked, slightly overwhelmed.

  “Well, Strabane’s a stone’s throw from here. It’s only ten kilometers directly east. Since you need some translation, I’d start there to get a better idea on where best to focus your efforts,” Mrs. McDonnaugh answered.

  Michael stepped forward, reaching for the paper in Jessica’s hands. “I’ll see what I can find for you there. No need to leave here if I can do some research for you.”

  Jessica instinctively deflected his reach. “No.”

  Michael kept his voice low, his words only for her ears. “Now is not the time.”

  “I’m going.”

  “It’s not like skipping across the border from the U.S. into Canada. It’s different, Jessica.”

  “I want to go. Please don’t step in my way.”

  “Don’t be naïve,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  An angry flush crept into Jessica’s cheeks, but before she could protest, Mrs. McDonnaugh continued talking, unaware of the sudden tension. “I’m familiar with the RMS Presidential. It’s registered out of Sligo and was operating during the dates you’re interested in. Sligo is on the west coast about a two hour drive from here.” She raised her voice slightly, intent upon gaining Jessica’s full attention. “T
he public library has a pretty good archive of ship manifests.” She looked at the calendar and clock. “In fact, the archives are open late today.”

  Jessica’s heart skipped a beat, happy to have another course of action she could take.

  Michael asked, “Couldn’t they research it and send you the information?”

  “You’re best to go to Sligo yourself.” Father Archdall walked around the corner from what Jessica assumed was his office.

  “Ah! Father!” Mrs. McDonnaugh exclaimed, flustered by his sudden appearance yet happy for support. “This young lady is from the States and is shaking the branches of her family tree.”

  “Is she now?” He reached out his hand in welcome. “Pleasure to finally meet you. No need to sit in the back of the church and scurry out after communion, you know.”

  Jessica timidly shook his hand. “I... I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

  The priest peered down his nose. “Think again.”

  “Father,” Mrs. McDonnaugh bustled, “you’re a learned man. Can you give a go at these papers and tell us what they say?”

  He reviewed the pages of Bridget’s journal with interest, holding the pages up to the light and running his finger over the words. “It’s a treasure to have family papers such as this. You carried them with you from the States?”

  Jessica shook her head and smiled at Michael, who was busy studying a map on the wall. “No. They arrived not long after I got here.”

  The priest put his head down. His jowls masked his expression as he handed the papers back to her. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. But I agree with Mrs. McDonnaugh. The manifests at Sligo could be most helpful. Those dolts are always looking to cut corners. They’d tell you they looked everywhere, but they’d only be sitting on their fat arses. No. You’d best go there directly.”

  “That’s just what I was tellin’ her!” said Mrs. McDonnaugh, victorious in her opinion.

  Jessica turned to Michael. “Sligo?”

  “It’s a beautiful drive. You’ll love it. You’ve got time for today if you hurry. Get going!”