by Jodi McIsaac
“We added this when we built this room after Pidge was born,” Mrs. Gillies told Nora. “Used it to hide the lads during the war with the British. Now it looks like we’ll be using it again.”
“I’ll sit with him,” Pidge said. “If I hear any commotion, I’ll close him in and move the chest back.”
“Let’s pray there won’t be any commotion,” Mrs. Gillies said. “But there’s a farm to be run. Off you go,” she said to her husband and son. Then she turned to Nora. “And you, my dear, need some sleep.”
“I couldn’t,” Nora protested. “At least I can sit with Frankie if Pidge has other things to do.”
“I insist,” Mrs. Gillies said. She took Nora’s elbow and steered her into Pidge’s room. “You saved a man’s life today. The least you can do is reward yourself with a little sleep.”
She closed the door, and Nora sat down hard on the stiff mattress. The adrenaline was finally wearing off. She collapsed back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
There was no other way around it. This was no period festival, no practical joke, no dream or hallucination, no psychotic break. She had really traveled back in time to 1923. She’d run from the Free State Army, witnessed the massacre of several men, and saved Frankie Halpin’s life. This can’t be happening, her rational mind told her. But even though she did not understand how or why Brigid’s relic had done this, it was undeniable that it had.
Panic flared in her chest as the implications sunk in. Was she stuck here forever?
I have to get out of here. I have to go back to Kildare. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. But as she stood, a rush of dizziness made the room spin, so she sat back down, her head between her hands. Sleep first. Then Kildare.
Sleep would not come easy. What of Thomas? He had been driven from her thoughts by the chaos of the last few hours, but now that she was alone in this quiet room, his face surfaced in her mind again. She reached for her purse to examine his picture, then realized it wasn’t with her.
Had she left it in the front room in all the commotion? Another jolt of adrenaline got her off the bed. What if they went through her purse? Its contents were decidedly not from 1923. The British government had issued her driver’s license, and it had her date of birth on it. There were euros stamped 2005. The bag also contained her tourist brochure for Kilmainham Gaol, her cell phone, and her picture of Thomas.
She tiptoed toward the door and opened it gently, suppressing her panic. Mrs. Gillies wasn’t in the main room. No one was. She knocked gently at the other bedroom door and opened it when Pidge answered. Pidge was sitting on the bed, a pile of mending in her lap.
“All right, Nora?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m just looking for my bag—the one I had with me when I arrived. Have you seen it?”
“Oh, yes, I tucked it in the corner when they brought Frankie in, so it wouldn’t get blood on it,” Pidge said. She started to get to her feet, but Nora waved her down.
“You’re grand. I’ll find it,” she said. She went back into the main room. Mrs. Gillies was standing by the door, Nora’s purse in her hands.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked. Her expression was inscrutable. Nora met her eyes and tried to keep her face equally neutral.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, taking the bag. Was it her imagination, or did the other woman hold on to it for just a fraction of a second too long?
She felt Mrs. Gillies’s gaze on her as she walked back to Pidge’s room, trying to keep her steps as even as possible. Even after she closed the door, she maintained her aura of calm. How many other secrets were hidden in this house?
She unclasped her bag and looked inside. Everything seemed to be there, but she couldn’t tell if it had been rifled through. She tucked Eamon’s rosary in her pocket. She’d toss the Kilmainham brochure in the fire the first moment she had. And her phone, the euros, and her modern ID could be buried somewhere if need be. But surely she wouldn’t be here, in the past, that long. The woman at the cathedral had told her she had a job to do—to help Thomas. Surely she could go home as soon as she found him and helped him. She glanced at the photo one more time. Then, cradling the bag in her arms, she sank down into the mattress and let the sleep that had been clawing at her senses take her away.
When she awoke, her first thought was that she was back in Sudan, on her cot in the staff quarters. But there was a plaster ceiling above her . . .
Belfast. I came home for Mick’s funeral. No, something else had happened after that. Slowly, her mind caught up. Dublin. Aunt Margaret. Kilmainham. Kildare.
She sat up, her fingers gripping the homemade quilt wrapped around her. Her body was still stiff and sore, but sleep had helped somewhat. Wide eyes surveyed the room and listened for voices. I’m still here. She threw back the quilt and stood up. Her purse had fallen on the floor, its contents spilling out. She picked up Thomas’s picture and a pen. As best she could, she scratched out the Killed in action, 1923 written on the back. She didn’t need any more questions about why she was searching for a dead man. Then she tucked her purse under Pidge’s bed. That would have to do for now.
Quietly, she eased herself into the main room. The house seemed empty. “Pidge?” she called out softly. There was no one in Mr. and Mrs. Gillies’s room, but the door of the secret nook was ajar and a soft moan escaped throughout the crack. Nora crossed the room and pulled the door open a little wider. Then she knelt down by the injured man.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, unsure whether he could even hear her.
“Like I’ve been blown up,” Frankie answered, but he managed a small smile. Nora’s heart constricted. The boy looked to be about the age Eamon had been at his death.
“I’ll see if I can find Mrs. Gillies. She might have something more for the pain.”
“Who are you? Are you Cumann na mBan?”
“No. I’m just . . . visiting. My name’s Nora.”
“Nora,” he repeated. “They say you’re the one who found me.”
“More like you found me. You nearly landed right on top of me.”
He laughed, then winced. “Well, lucky for me I did.” Then his eyes darkened. “Not so lucky for the other lads.”
“No.” Nora looked away. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She held up the picture of Thomas so that Frankie could see it. “I’m looking for this man. Thomas Heaney. He’s IRA. Do you know him?” A horrible thought struck her. What if she was too late? What if she’d been sent here to stop the bombing? “Was he with you yesterday?”
Frankie looked at the picture with glazed eyes. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I know him. But I only just signed up.” He looked like he was about to say something more, but his eyes closed and his breathing steadied. Nora didn’t press him. She adjusted his blankets and then closed the hidden door most of the way, leaving only a crack of light shining in on him.
She found Mrs. Gillies in the yard, filling a tub with water. “Ah, here you are! I was just about to wake you. How did you rest?”
“Grand, ta,” Nora said. “What time is it?”
“Just about time for tea,” Mrs. Gillies said. “I expect the men back shortly. What do you have there?” She nodded at the photograph in Nora’s hand.
“I was wondering if you recognized this man,” Nora said, handing it to her. As expected, Mrs. Gillies turned it over and read the name on the back.
“Thomas Heaney,” she said. “No, I don’t know anyone by that name. There’s the Heaney family down in Stradbally, but I don’t believe they have a Thomas. Might be a cousin of theirs, though. Handsome fellow. A friend of yours?”
“A . . . distant relation,” Nora said. “My cousin in Belfast asked me if I would look for him while I was visiting my uncle.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, but I’m sure there’s someone in these parts who can. Ah, here come the men.”
While Mr. Gillies and Stephen washed, Nora helped Mrs. Gillies spread a clean cloth on the table
and lay out the crockery. Mrs. Gillies brought over a plate of potato cakes and a pot of stew that had been hanging from the crane over the fire, plus a basket filled with warm wedges of soda bread. Pidge came in through the front door and set down a large basket of washing. Nora joined her at the basin on the sideboard, where they washed their hands.
“Did you get any sleep?” Pidge asked with a friendly smile. She had a dimple in her cheek Nora hadn’t noticed before.
“I did, yes. I checked in on Frankie. He seemed to be in quite a bit of pain, but I think he fell back to sleep. I was wondering if you might have something for him when he wakes again.”
“That boy is full of poitín already,” Mrs. Gillies said from behind them. “But I’ll have a look at him when he awakens.” She beckoned them to the table. Nora and Pidge sat on one side, across from Stephen, and Mr. and Mrs. Gillies sat on the ends. They all bowed their heads, and Mr. Gillies said a prayer.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord.” There was a moment of silence as they all thought of the men who had been blown apart the night before. Then Mr. Gillies said, “Amen,” and they filled their plates with food.
Nora hadn’t realized how hungry she was. The food was plain but surprisingly good. She’d never learned to cook, so she’d grown accustomed to eating whatever was available on the field—sometimes rice and beans, sometimes a boiled egg and fried chicken leg, sometimes noodles with spicy sauce. There were few foodies among humanitarian aid workers. Occasionally she and her colleagues would flee to the closest large city in search of a McDonald’s or KFC, but these splurges usually left her stomach roiling, so she indulged infrequently.
“This is delicious,” she told Mrs. Gillies between bites of stew.
“Thank you, dear. Pidge made it,” Mrs. Gillies said with a proud glance at her daughter. “She’ll make a fine wife someday.”
Nora raised an eyebrow at this comment but said nothing. Pidge did not appear to be pleased with the compliment, but she, too, held her tongue. “It’s wonderful,” Nora told her.
“It’s not all I’m good at,” Pidge said, lifting her chin. “I can shoot straight through a can from two hundred yards.”
“Oh yes, a fine skill for a respectable young woman to have,” Mrs. Gillies snapped.
“I’m not a respectable young woman, Ma,” Pidge said. “I’m a Republican.”
“That’s enough, Pidge,” Mr. Gillies said.
“I don’t know why you thought it was a good idea for her to learn how to shoot,” Mrs. Gillies said, turning toward her husband.
“Every farmwife needs to know how to handle a rifle,” he remarked calmly. “You’re a fair shot yourself.”
“Besides, Ma, it was Cumann na mBan who taught me most of it,” Pidge said, coming to her father’s defense.
“Are you both members?” Nora asked, intrigued. As a young woman she’d idolized the IRA women’s auxiliary organization, but had never met someone with firsthand knowledge.
“We are, though apparently it’s illegal now. As is possessing a gun, distributing anti-treaty literature, and assisting Republicans in any way,” Pidge said haughtily.
“Well, we don’t have it as bad as Nora did up in Belfast, I reckon,” Mrs. Gillies said. “And it will all be over soon, Lord willing.”
Stephen, who had wolfed down his food, pushed his chair back with a screech. “I’m going to brush the horses,” he said, then left the house. Mrs. Gillies watched him go with a worried expression on her face.
“He’s a quiet young man,” Nora remarked. The others exchanged dark glances.
“Been that way ever since . . . well, since Nicky was killed,” Pidge said. “He was our older brother. Fought in the Tan War. The Tans tortured and murdered him, then left his body on the church steps. Stephen was the one who found him.”
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” Nora said, closing her eyes against the image of Eamon in his hospital bed. “I shouldn’t have said—”
“It’s all right,” Pidge said. “That was three years ago. But you can understand why we’ve no love for the Brits or those who want to get in bed with them.”
“Tell us about your family, Nora,” Mrs. Gillies said, her voice thick.
Nora stared down at her plate. “My father was killed when I was wee. Shot dead in our own home. Still don’t know who did it, but it doesn’t really matter. He was an IRA man. My mother couldn’t handle it, so she took to the drink. She did her best, but it was really my brother Eamon who raised me.”
“What happened to him?” Pidge asked softly.
“He was beaten to death by a Protestant gang. That’s when I joined the cause.”
“So you’re Cumann na mBan as well!” Pidge exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I told you I was a Republican, so I did,” Nora said, trying to smile.
“Yes, but now we’re sisters,” Pidge said.
“Where is your poor mother, Nora?” Mr. Gillies asked.
“In the grave, along with the rest of my family,” Nora said. “She drank herself to death.”
“I thought you said you came here because your family was burned out of their home?” Mrs. Gillies asked with a forced-casual tone.
“My cousins,” Nora quickly invented. “That’s who I lived with after my mother died.”
Mrs. Gillies looked embarrassed. “Of course. I’m so sorry. It must have been so hard for you to lose her that way.”
“Aye,” Nora admitted, cursing herself for the slipup. “Sometimes I’m still so angry with her. But other times I can’t blame her. I think I feel sorry for her, the most.” She blushed. She’d revealed too much of herself to these strangers. But Mrs. Gillies reached over and patted her arm.
“I know how you feel. It’s a difficult thing, to wish for revenge and peace at the same time. Lord knows I of all people want a free Ireland—with no British masters. But at what price? When does it become too high? That’s the question I struggle to answer.”
“We’re going to win this war, Ma. We’re going to get the Republic we’ve been fighting for all these years. The one Nicky died for.” Pidge’s eyes were bright, and her cheeks were pink. “Isn’t that right, Da?”
“It is, Pidge. But you leave the fighting to the men. There’s plenty of other work for the women to do.”
Pidge deflated and buttered another piece of bread.
“Why don’t you show Sean and Pidge your photograph, Nora?” Mrs. Gillies said. “They might know your young man.”
“What young man?” Pidge asked, watching with obvious curiosity as Nora retrieved the photo from the bookshelf where she’d set it before dinner. She passed it to Mr. Gillies.
“He’s a distant relative,” Nora explained. “I’m to try and find him while I’m here.”
“He’s IRA? Do you know what division he’s stationed with?” he asked.
“No,” Nora said. “That would help, I know. I believe it’s somewhere near Kildare, but my cousin didn’t know for sure.”
“I don’t recognize him, but there are so many lads in and out of these parts, and he could be stationed down in Kerry for all we know.” He handed the photograph back to Nora, who surrendered it to Pidge’s eager hands.
“Ooo, he’s a right-looking fellow!” she exclaimed, giving Nora a wink.
“Behave yourself!” Mrs. Gillies said. “He’s a relative of Nora’s!”
“Yes, but he’s no relative of mine!” Pidge said, laughing. “Is his hair blond? It looks shiny in this photo.”
“It’s gray, actually,” Nora said. Then she added quickly, “According to my cousin. I’ve never seen him.”
“Is it really?” Mrs. Gillies asked, leaning over Pidge’s shoulder. “I didn’t notice before. But his face looks so young.”
“Betty Maguire went gray when she was only twenty-four,” Pidge said. “I suppose it can happen to men as well.”
“Do you recognize him?” Nora ask
ed.
Pidge shook her head. “I wish! But no. Don’t look so sad. I’ve a plan.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Indeed.” Pidge lifted her chin. “You’ve helped us—God knows what Stephen would have done if his best friend had been killed—so I’ll help you. It will be easy. Some of us Cumann na mBan girls are going over to where one of the columns is training tomorrow. We’ll do some cooking and clean up the place. They might be soldiers, but most of them haven’t a clue how to keep a room tidy. You’ll bring that photo and come with me. Someone there is bound to know where to find your man.”
“Sounds like a fair enough plan,” Mr. Gillies said as he pushed his chair back. He kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’ll be in the barn.”
“So what do you think?” Pidge asked Nora as they gathered up the dishes.
Nora nodded firmly. On the one hand, she wanted to go back to the cathedral to find the Brigidine Sisters and try to get some answers. On the other hand . . . she was here, so she might as well look for Thomas. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. I’d love to go with you tomorrow. If you don’t mind me staying the night, that is . . .”
“Of course we don’t mind!” Mrs. Gillies said. “I’ve never turned a person away from my door, and I don’t mean to start with you.”
Nora spent the rest of the evening trying to make herself useful—and trying to gather information. She feigned ignorance as much as she could, and Pidge was more than happy to chatter away about the war and the ever-shifting politics. Nora tried not to sound too eager; she didn’t want to give them reason to suspect her of being a Free State spy. But Pidge seemed happy to be able to talk with another woman interested in politics. As they swept out the chicken coop, Pidge went on about the late Michael Collins, the great hero of the War of Independence, who had, in her opinion, betrayed his country by agreeing to the Anglo-Irish Treaty, which made Ireland a free state, but still a dominion within the British Empire.
