The Forgotten Secret

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘I don’t want to go on a cruise. I want to live at the farm in Ireland. On my own. I’m sorry, Paul, but this is it. No, I’m not happy. I need things to change.’

  ‘You’re menopausal, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. Your hormones. Can’t you see a doctor and get some tablets or something?’

  That did it. ‘I’m not fucking menopausal, Paul. You’re not listening to me. I’m saying I want to leave you. I have had enough of you controlling everything and telling me what to do. I want to be independent, to be in control of my own life, and now I have the money to do it. I’ll be gone in a few days’ time, and till then I’ll sleep in Matt’s old room.’

  ‘Is this about Angie?’

  I stared at Paul. Angie was a woman he’d worked with for a while. He’d invited her round for dinner once or twice, and she’d brought a different date each time. He’d slept with her at a conference, I’d found out. He’d apologised and swore it’d never happen again. And I’d believed him and stayed with him. For the sake of the boys, who’d been under 10 at the time.

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘Because if it is, remember that all happened ages ago. Been over for years and there’s been no one else since.’

  ‘No, it’s not about Angie,’ I said, coldly. ‘As you say, that’s all in the past.’ To tell the truth, I’d pretty much forgotten about it.

  He shrugged. ‘What is it about, then?’

  ‘Me. It’s about me, and what I want, for a change. And what I want is to be far away from you right now.’

  I turned to leave the room but Paul caught my arm. ‘Not so fast. How can you want to throw away twenty-five years of marriage just like that? I thought we had a good, strong marriage!’

  ‘It was good in parts, Paul. I’m not throwing the past away. I’m just moving on. It feels like the right thing to do. For me.’

  ‘Not bloody right for me though, is it? Who’ll cook my dinner if you’re not here? Who’ll clean the house?’

  ‘Buy ready-meals and employ a cleaner,’ I replied, yanking my arm out of his grasp. That confirmed it. All he wanted me to stay for was to be his housekeeper. The sooner I left the better. I ran out of the room and upstairs, and began moving my things into the spare room. Paul hollered up the stairs after me, something about I’d regret it and come back with my tail between my legs, but I ignored it.

  In the spare room I sat on the bed and let the tears come for a while. Paul did not come upstairs. I heard the TV being turned up. After a while I pulled myself together, took out my phone and texted the boys – It’s done. Told him. He’s not happy.

  Jon texted back within minutes – Well done. Xxx. Love you.

  And Matt rang me. ‘You OK?’

  I sniffed. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ll be moving to Ireland as soon as I can.’

  ‘You can stay with me if you need to. I can sleep on my sofa.’

  ‘It’s OK. I need to be here to pack anyway.’

  ‘Here if you need me,’ he said, and once more I rejoiced in my strong, supportive and loving sons.

  Next day I booked a car-ferry crossing from Holyhead to Dublin for Friday morning, then spent the rest of the day packing. Paul had been silent in the morning before work, barely acknowledging my presence. I knew it had been a shock for him, and I understood that he was hurting, but I had to do this. It’d be better for both of us in the long run. He’d find another Angie, sooner or later. As I thought this, I realised I didn’t care if he did. In fact, if it helped him let me go, it’d be better if he did take up with someone new quickly.

  I came upstairs in the evening with a basket of clean washing, and caught Paul standing at the door to the spare room, looking at the half-packed boxes and suitcases I had strewn all over the floor.

  ‘You’re really doing this, then?’ he said, his voice flat and tight.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm. You’ll come running back to me within a month, I’ll bet.’ He turned and pushed past me, downstairs, and a moment later I heard the front door slam. I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with sorting out the washing. Much of it was mine, but some was Paul’s and I folded it neatly and put it away, just as I had done for the past twenty-five years. Who would do this after I’d gone? I’d never known Paul put anything away. To him, cupboards were for taking things out of.

  At last Friday arrived. It had always been my day to have the car for shopping, and Paul took the bus to work. I had told Paul I would leave on Friday, and he’d rolled his eyes but said nothing. I don’t think he really believed I was going.

  After he’d left for work, I loaded the boxes and cases I’d packed into the car, washed up the breakfast things, wrote Paul a note, had a last look around the house I’d furnished and decorated and lived in for twenty years, and left. On a whim, that I wondered if I might come to regret, I posted my keys back through the letter box. It would show Paul I was serious if nothing else. The house was in his name only, after all. I wanted, and needed, nothing more of it.

  It was a long and tedious drive to Holyhead, but I put the radio on loudly and sang along to any tunes I knew, to take my mind off what I was actually doing. It was a big step. A huge one. I wasn’t sure yet that I would be able to cope on my own. The car had Bluetooth capability, and both sons called me while I was driving to wish me well. Their encouragement lent me strength, and despite having to wipe a few tears away if I thought too deeply about what I was doing, I felt strangely elated. This was it. The start of a new adventure. Whether it turned out well or not remained to be seen.

  It wasn’t till I was on the ferry that I realised I’d never told Paul I was taking the car. My car, I reminded myself.

  It was a smooth crossing, and I amused myself with a puzzle book until we passed Ireland’s Eye. Then I spent the rest of the time on deck, gazing at the land that was to be my new home. It was a bright April day, the sun glinting off the waves and the hills of Howth resplendent in green and purple heather. I smiled. Perfect weather for starting a new life.

  Once docked in Dublin, it was less than an hour’s drive out of the city and north-east into County Meath and on to Blackstown. We’d done this journey many times when I was a child, but that was before the motorways were built, before the Irish building boom of the Nineties and early Noughties. Nothing looked familiar to me, until I turned off the motorway and onto the smaller roads into Blackstown, which I’d driven with Paul in the hire car when we came to view the farm. As I passed a signpost I noted the Irish form of the town’s name – Baile Dubh. Maybe I’d try to learn some Irish, although I knew that the Gaeltacht areas, where Irish is the predominant language, were all further west.

  I’d arranged to collect the keys from the solicitor, Mr Greve, and once they were in my handbag, I decided to call in at the coffee shop I’d been to with Paul. This time I ordered a large piece of chocolate fudge cake with cream. No one to stop me now! So this was freedom. Boy, did I enjoy it! I noticed the waitress grinning at me, clearly delighted I was enjoying my cake so much.

  As I left the café I noticed a bookshop opposite, the type that sells a mixture of second-hand and new books. A man of around 50 or so, with a sweep of grey hair across his forehead, was just leaving and locking up. I made a mental note to check it out next time I was in town. Hours rummaging around second-hand bookshops was one of my favourite pastimes. Needless to say, it wasn’t something I got the chance to do very often when out with Paul.

  I remember once coming home from a rare Saturday out with friends, to find he’d ‘thinned out’ (his words) my bookshelves. All my favourite novels had been thrown out, and the empty shelves filled with piles of car and computer magazines that had previously been stacked on the floor in Paul’s home office. I felt a wave of contentment wash over me as I realised that now I could rebuild my book collection, in my own home, and no one could stop me. A visit to Blackstown bookshop was high on my list of things to do.

  As is so often the case in Ireland, the bright clear day didn’t last long.
By the time I reached Clonamurty Farm the sky had clouded over and the first spots of rain had begun to fall. I dashed round to the back door, unlocked it and fell inside before it got too heavy. It was gloomy inside so I reached for the light switch, but it didn’t work. I tried another. Nothing. No electricity.

  I felt an irrational wave of panic rise up, but quickly squashed it down. Must be just that the house had been unoccupied and the electricity company had cut off the supply. It’d only need a phone call to get reconnected. But who should I call? I realised I didn’t even know the name of any Irish electricity companies. I could look it up online, I supposed, or phone Matt and ask him to look it up for me. Yes, that would be easier.

  I pulled out my phone to call him and discovered it was out of charge. Out of charge and no electric in the house. That wave of panic rose up in me again. Was there a call box anywhere near? Or should I drive back to Blackstown and ask at the café – maybe the waitress would let me borrow her phone.

  I glanced at my watch. It was gone six-thirty so the café would be closed. I considered my options. I could drive back to Blackstown, try to find a public phone, or perhaps even find a hotel or B&B to stay in just for tonight. I’d be able to charge my phone and call Matt, or ask the B&B owners how to get electricity reconnected. But it was growing dark and I didn’t fancy driving the unfamiliar narrow lanes in the dark. I wasn’t a confident driver at the best of times. Paul usually did all the driving.

  The alternative was to stick it out here at the farm. Find a torch or some candles. Manage without electricity for the first night, then go into Blackstown and get things sorted out in the morning. This option didn’t appeal – I fancied the idea of a B&B more – but then I imagined Paul’s sneering laugh if he heard about it. ‘Couldn’t even manage one night alone,’ he’d say. ‘You’re nothing without me, Clare.’

  Funnily, that thought, and his voice sounding so clear in my head, made up my mind for me. I was something without him. I’d prove it. I’d deal with this somehow. I went through to the kitchen and rummaged through cupboards and drawers while there was still a little grey light creeping in at the windows. In a dresser drawer I found some matches. And in another cupboard was a box of cheap white candles.

  ‘We have light,’ I said to the empty room. And the oven ran off bottled gas so at least I’d be able to cook and boil water. I hadn’t brought anything to cook, but another search through the cupboards turned up half a pack of Barry’s teabags and an assortment of tinned food, some of which was still in date. I first cursed myself for not thinking to do some shopping in Blackstown before coming here, and then smiled as I realised I could make a meal of sorts with a tin of boiled new potatoes, a tin of corned beef and a tin of beans. It’d do.

  I dug out the least burned and battered saucepan I could find in the kitchen, filled it with water and put it on the hob to boil. There was a collection of chipped mugs in a cupboard (and my favourite ‘World’s Best Mum’ one in the car, but it was bucketing down now so fetching that would have to wait) so I made myself a cup of tea. No milk, but black tea was better than no tea.

  It was odd but as soon as I had a cup of tea in my hand and a candle lit and placed on the kitchen table, I felt better. I had light, I had a hot drink and I would be able to make myself a meal later. But first, before it was fully dark, I wanted to explore my new home.

  It was a strange feeling, going round it this time. Last time, with Paul, had been all about my memories of the past as I recalled visiting here as a child. This time was all about the future, as I tried to envisage how I would clean up, decorate and use each room. It would be a big job. Poor old Uncle Pádraig had clearly not spent any money on the place for years. Seventies’ brown floral carpets clashed with Eighties’ cheap black ash-effect furniture. There was woodchip wallpaper painted peach on most walls.

  Upstairs, ancient candlewick bedspreads covered lumpy mattresses. One bedroom was filled with boxes of old paperwork. I wondered if any of it would be interesting, or if it was just old bills and bank statements. One day I’d have to go through it all.

  I chose the least damp-smelling room for my own, and set about making the bed with the best of the bedding available, making yet another note to buy new bed linen as soon as possible. Why hadn’t I brought some from home? We had far too many sets, and Paul would not even have noticed if some disappeared. I left a couple of candles on the bedside table for use later. The box of matches was in my jeans pocket.

  The living room was the most habitable room. A worn-out armchair sat near the fireplace, angled so that the occupant had a view through the window across the fields. I sat down and contemplated the view as the rain stopped and the clouds parted to reveal the very last of a dusky sunset.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ I told myself. And it was. It was mine. My chair, my house, my view. I could make it something special, somewhere the boys would want to come to visit. Somewhere I could bring friends to. Somewhere I could feel safe as I gradually cut ties to Paul and gained my independence. Arise and go now. I’d done it.

  Sitting there, in that old armchair looking out at the view brought back memories of my childhood, when I’d visited Clonamurty Farm several times while Granny Irish was still alive. She was my mum’s mum, and lived with Uncle Pádraig in the farm that had been hers and Granddad’s. Pádraig had taken it over, and then Granddad had died when I was 3 so I don’t remember him.

  I do remember Granny Irish though. So unlike Dad’s mum, who I called Nanna. Where Nanna was round, smiley and plump and always feeding me sweets and chocolate whenever my parents looked the other way, Granny Irish was tall, thin and rarely smiled. She would have been a good-looking woman in her youth, with her high cheekbones and startling blue eyes, but as an old woman she appeared (to me as a child, at least) forbidding and austere.

  She habitually wore a long black dress, almost to her ankles, and a hand-knitted shawl in a nondescript shade of beige. Her hair was pinned up in a bun. She was an old-fashioned woman – even in the 1970s she was old-fashioned. Mum tried to buy her new, brightly coloured clothes and persuade her to have her hair done differently, but Granny Irish wouldn’t have it. ‘What was good enough for my mammy is good enough for me,’ she’d say, her County Meath accent so strong I could hardly understand her.

  I think her looks, her manner, her strong accent and her belief that children should be tamed and kept out of sight were what made her seem such a distant, forbidding figure. As a young woman she’d worked as a maid in a big house not far from Clonamurty Farm. She would never talk of those days, though, no matter how much we children would pester her.

  There were family legends about her that I’d heard later, mostly from my cousin David, of how she’d played a part in Ireland’s War of Independence. Near the end of the war, she’d been some sort of spy, he said, feeding information on movements of the British run paramilitary Royal Irish Constabulary back to the Irish Volunteers who were fighting for independence. David had spoken of her actions in reverent tones, as he did any Republican.

  Granny Irish died when I was 11, and we came over for the funeral. I remember my cousin David telling me then that he’d always been a little fearful of her, even though he’d grown up having her around. ‘It was always so hard to please her,’ he’d said. ‘Hard to make her smile, or get her to talk. But I always wanted to hear her stories of the war, and write them down before they were all forgotten.’

  I shuffled in my chair, and felt an ominous bulge in the seat beneath me, suggesting a spring had worked loose of its ties. And the fabric on the arms was worn with the stuffing poking through. Well then, maybe stripping it back and reupholstering it from the woodwork up could be a good first project for me. As soon as I’d sorted out the utilities and cleaned the place up, of course. And now that I was here in Ireland, in my grandmother’s old house, I thought I’d like to find out more about my ancestry as well. Maybe some of those papers upstairs could have belonged to Granny Irish. It’d be good to find out mor
e about her.

  I should have asked Mum and Uncle Pádraig more about her, while they were still around. Why was it always the case that you left these things too late? All those memories, buried with the last generation.

  Chapter 6

  Ellen, October 1919

  As the weeks passed, Ellen fell into a routine of work during the week, meeting Jimmy on Saturday evenings, and spending Sundays at home with her father and Digger before returning to Carlton House. Digger at least was always pleased to see her, even if Da would grumble about having to cook his own meals.

  Ellen was enjoying her job, now that Siobhan was acting a little more friendly towards her. They’d established a habit of chatting for half an hour or so every night at bedtime, and Ellen felt a tentative friendship towards the other girl. Madame Carlton was a good person to work for, and Ellen was growing used to the idea that the house was used by the Irish Republicans, with men arriving for clandestine meetings that took place after dark. Occasionally rooms were designated out-of-bounds to all staff, for reasons Ellen could only guess at.

  On Saturday evenings Jimmy would meet Ellen at the end of Carlton Drive and they’d walk hand in hand back towards Clonamurty Farm. Ellen knew his parents and brother well by now and thankfully she’d been accepted into the family as Jimmy’s sweetheart, despite her father’s misgivings that they would look down on her.

  ‘Always thought you two would get together,’ Mrs Gallagher had said, as Jimmy and Ellen stood side by side in the kitchen at Clonamurty Farm. ‘Even right back then, when you were knee-high to a leprechaun.’ She’d smiled. ‘You make my lad happy. Thank you.’

  Ellen wasn’t happy about Jimmy’s involvement with the Volunteers even though she didn’t know too much about what he did. He’d sometimes say something vague about planning an ambush, moving ‘supplies’ (by which she assumed he meant weapons and ammunition) across the country, hiding from the enemy. She worried constantly that he’d put himself in danger, though this war seemed unlike any other she’d heard of or read about. There were no troops marching along the roads, no battles, no trenches, no cavalry charges. Just occasional reports of someone shot in a remote spot, or a raid by the Royal Irish Constabulary on a house or pub where Volunteers were thought to be hiding, or ambushes by Republicans on motor vehicles carrying British troops.