Читать книгу The Forgotten Secret: A heartbreaking and gripping historical novel for fans of Kate Morton - Kathleen McGurl, Kathleen McGurl - Страница 15

Clare, April 2016

I woke in the morning wondering for a moment where I was, gazing around at the unfamiliar floral wallpaper and faded curtains through which weak sunlight was streaming, and then remembered. I recalled too the search for candles, the milk-less tea and makeshift supper. I’d made it through the first night. I’d coped. I hadn’t given up and run away to a B&B. And today I’d get the electricity reconnected and buy some food. I smiled, feeling pleased at having proved I had a tiny bit of independence hidden deep within me.

Breakfast was just another cup of black tea. I warmed some water on the stove for a wash and then drove into Blackstown where my first stop was the café for a coffee and proper breakfast, and to plug my phone in to charge while I ate it.

The waitress, recognising me from last night, smiled and introduced herself. ‘Hi. I’m Janice. Saw you here last night. On holiday, are you?’ She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a round smiley face surrounded by a mass of unruly curls.

I shook my head. ‘Not on holiday no. Actually I’ve just moved here, to my uncle’s old farm that I’ve inherited. I’m Clare.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Clare. Which farm would that be, then?’

‘Clonamurty.’

She frowned. ‘Can’t say I know that one. Who was your uncle?’

‘Pádraig Kennedy. The farm’s a few miles out of town.’

‘Towards Bettystown?’

I wasn’t sure of the geography. ‘East-ish.’

She nodded. ‘I know where you mean. Sorry to hear of the loss of your uncle. I knew him a little. Knew of him anyways. Everyone knows everyone in this town, so they do.’

‘It was years since I last saw him. His sons all died young so he’d named his sister – that’s my mum – or her descendants in his will. Mum died a couple of years ago, so it’s all come to me.’

‘That’s so sad. About your cousins and your mum, I mean. And you’re going to live here?’

I nodded, but said nothing. I didn’t feel quite ready to tell her I’d left my husband yesterday.

‘Ah that’s grand. Well, will I get you a coffee?’

I laughed, realising I had not yet given her an order and a few more people had come in while we chatted. ‘Yes, thanks – there’s nothing in the house yet. Coffee and scrambled eggs on toast would be wonderful.’

‘Sure,’ she replied, patting my shoulder as she passed on her way back to the counter. I had a feeling Janice and I could become good friends, in time. I certainly intended visiting this café frequently, if that cake I had yesterday was at all indicative of the quality of food.

Mentioning my cousins to Janice set me off on another trawl through my memories while I waited for my order. Uncle Pádraig had three sons. Brian, the eldest, was ten years older than me, and when we went visiting he was always far too interested in his latest car, or latest girlfriend, to pay his little cousin much attention. He was the glamorous one, in my eyes. The one with smart clothes, long slicked-back hair and a glint in his eye. He was a charmer, and on the odd occasion he did notice me, ruffle my hair, or pick me up to spin me around, I’d be delighted. I hung off his every word. We’d go back to England and Mum would get fed up of me saying, ‘Brian said this; Brian thinks that.’

‘Ah, enough of what your cousin Brian thinks,’ Mum would say. ‘That one’s too flashy for his own good.’

He married three times, each wife taller and more blonde than the last, and died in a horrific car crash in his Porsche on the Route des Crêtes in the South of France. ‘Typical of Brian,’ Mum had said, between her tears at the funeral. ‘Lived fast, died young, in such a clichéd fashion.’

My second cousin, Dwayne, couldn’t have been more different. Where Brian was good-looking and flashy, Dwayne was plain and quiet, though when he smiled he could light up a room. He was always tucked away in his bedroom, reading books of sermons, fingering his rosary, praying in front of his little glass case that he said contained a hair of St Catherine of Siena. I liked him, but never quite knew how to handle his deep religiosity. We, the English branch of the family, were lapsed Catholics.

Dwayne joined the Christian Brothers, and trained as a teacher in a boys’ school. He sent Christmas and Easter cards every year, and a dutiful letter to my mum on her birthday, which always ended with the words, ‘Pray every day and you’ll not go far wrong.’

Dwayne died just four years ago, aged 53, of cancer. Uncle Pádraig phoned Mum, who was at that time dying of cancer herself, although we didn’t know it at the time. He was the last of Pádraig’s three sons to die. Mum went over to Ireland for the funeral, came back looking ill and exhausted, and full of news that Pádraig was insisting on changing his will in her favour, now that all his sons were gone and he had no grandchildren. Mum had argued it with him, saying what would she do with a farm in Ireland? But Pádraig had insisted, and said it could all come to me if I outlived Mum.

Mum had told me this on the quiet, when Paul was not around. I think she knew then she was dying but had not told me or Dad yet. I think she also knew I was unhappy with Paul, and could see that an inheritance, in time, from my uncle might be my escape route. She was a wise woman, my mum.

And then there was David, Pádraig’s third son and the one closest to me in age, being only two years older. But I don’t think it was just our proximity in age that drew us together. We shared a lot of interests (he lent me the entire set of Enid Blyton Mystery books) and we often went out cycling together along the country lanes surrounding the farm. It was David who first took me to the Hill of Tara (on a long day’s cycle ride when we were in our teens), and told me the legends of the ancient kings of Ireland. He knew so much about his country’s history. He was, of all of them, the most Irish, the most proud. The most Republican.

He was arrested for the first time when he was 20, on suspicion of involvement in planning an ambush of British troops on the border near Blacklion. There was not enough evidence to convict him, although one of his friends was imprisoned. It was after this that David announced by letter he wanted to be called Daithí, the Irish form of his name.

Mum had shrugged, taught me how to pronounce it (Doh-hee, more or less) and written back, urging him to ‘be careful, stay out of trouble’. I asked what she meant. Why did she think he could be in trouble? ‘Oh that boy,’ she’d replied. ‘There’s only one way he’s headed, with beliefs as strong as he has. Your granny has a lot to answer for, putting ideas in his head.’ I wasn’t sure what she meant, and she refused to elaborate. David was her favourite nephew, I knew, but also the one most likely to exasperate her. I only heard the reason for his arrest many years later.

The second time Daithí was arrested he ended up imprisoned in Long Kesh, where he died a couple of years later, of pneumonia, or so we were told. (‘Pneumonia, my arse,’ said my mother, through her tears at his funeral.) I was 22 at the time. It was hard to equate the smiling, Enid-Blyton-reading, cycling, Irish-history-loving boy I’d known as a child with a convicted terrorist. Even now it’s hard for me to get my head around.

Morbid thoughts. And yet today was the first day of the rest of my life. Time to shake off the past and look to the future.

A decent breakfast and the excellent coffee Janice served made me feel a lot more positive. When I’d finished eating and the café was quiet, she sat with me and told me where the supermarket was, and how to get my electricity reconnected. In turn, I ended up telling her a little about Paul. She regarded me with sympathy and then patted my shoulder in solidarity. ‘Sounds to me like you’ve done the right thing, making a clean break. Your good old uncle, eh, providing you with an escape route!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I replied, gathering up my things. It was time I got going. My phone was fully charged but I was reluctant to turn it on while I was still in the café. There’d be messages from Paul, I was sure of it. I wasn’t ready to face them just yet, although I knew I’d have to, soon.

‘Use the café’s phone to call Electric Ireland,’ Janice said, as though she could mind-read. ‘Go on. It’ll only take a moment and the sooner you call them the sooner they can get working on it.’

So I called them and they promised to have the electricity reconnected by the end of the day. Another problem solved, and I could put off switching my phone on for a little while longer.

I left the café promising to be back again tomorrow, taking with me a slice of chocolate fudge cake wrapped in a napkin, which Janice had insisted I have. ‘It’s the last slice and a bit too crumbly to serve to a paying customer,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll be making more today.’

Food shopping was high on the list of things to do next. As was poking around Blackstown. There was that bookshop I’d spotted opposite the café, and as Uncle Pádraig had left no reading material in the house other than a few volumes of Padre Pio sermons (probably left over from my cousin Dwayne) and those boxes of old papers and letters, I was keen to buy myself a few novels.

But before all that, I realised I should ring or at least text the boys. That meant turning my phone on. There was a small park – just a patch of green really – at the end of the high street, surrounding a spreading oak tree with a bench underneath. I sat there, pulled out my phone, took a deep breath and turned it on. Once it was registered on Vodafone Ireland the notifications began coming through. Texts from both boys asking if everything was OK and if I’d arrived safely. Texts saying I had seven voicemail messages. A text telling me that there were no roaming charges as I was in a ‘roam-free’ destination. And a series of texts from Paul.

Why aren’t you at home?

Where’s the car?

Why aren’t you answering your phone?

Are you serious about leaving? You’ll never cope on your own.

I called Matt. He said you’d gone to Ireland. Is that right?

If you’re in fucking Ireland where’s the car?

If you’ve taken the car, how the fuck am I going to get to work?

It was clear he hadn’t believed me when I’d told him I was leaving. He’d dismissed everything I’d said as worthless, and had only believed I’d left him when Matt confirmed it. And he seemed more upset about the car than anything else.

My first reaction was anger when I read those texts, and then I calmed myself down, read them again, and realised they were almost comical. I realised too that I didn’t care.

Next, while I still had that ‘don’t care’ feeling, I listened to the voicemails. There were two from Matt – a ‘hope all’s OK’ one and another warning me Paul had rung him; and the other five were from Paul, saying much the same as the texts but in increasingly belligerent tones. The last asked what he was supposed to have for dinner. I laughed out loud at that one, and pictured him heating up a few tins as I’d done. More likely he’d have phoned for a takeaway curry, despite the freezer full of good food, and several ready-meals in the fridge. I’d stocked it up for him before I left.

So there were three phone calls to make.

I called Matt first.

‘Hey, sweetie. Just letting you know I got here safely. All’s good.’

‘Mum, that’s great! I mean, really. Well done. You took the car, right?’

‘I did. Your granddad gave it to me, after all.’

‘Yeah. Um, Dad’s furious about that. Has he called you?’

‘He’s tried to and left messages. My phone was out of charge and there was no electric at the farm last night. It’s being connected today.’

‘Were you OK? No lights or anything?’

‘I was fine. I found some candles and the oven runs off gas.’

‘Wow. Well done.’

‘What for?’

He hesitated before answering and I pictured him scrabbling around for the right words. ‘For doing it, Mum. For putting yourself first. For getting yourself over there and beginning to get things sorted out. It’s a big, brave step. I’m so bloody proud of you.’

There was a catch in his voice at the end, and I felt my own eyes begin to well up. Time to change the subject. I didn’t want to sit here, in the middle of Blackstown, blubbing. ‘Thanks, love. Well I’d better phone Jon, and then work out how to respond to your dad’s messages.’

‘Ignore them. Block his number.’

‘No, love. I need to talk to him. It’ll be all right. We’re grown-ups, after all.’

‘Hmm, is he? Well good luck then.’

I’d need it, I thought, as I said goodbye and hung up. All very well me sounding cool and grown-up about it when talking to Matt but inside I was quaking. I called Jon next, for more moral support, before tackling Paul. It would not be an easy conversation.

It wasn’t. There was ranting, from him, and crying, from me, despite my best efforts to stay calm. He’d thrown out the ready-meals I left for him in a fit of pique. He’d eaten nothing last night other than a tin of beans on toast and tonight he’d call for a pizza and he expected me home tomorrow. ‘You’ll be fed up of your little adventure by then,’ he said, the sneer in his voice loud and clear. ‘Something will go wrong and you won’t know how to get it fixed, and you’ll be on the next boat home.’

‘I’ve already got some things fixed and sorted,’ I said, not able to resist. ‘The electricity’s being reconnected. The oven works. I’ll be home soon – sure – my new home of Clonamurty Farm.’

There was more ranting about the car. I pointed out (again) that it was mine, my name was on the registration certificate, and that if Paul needed a car he could easily afford to buy himself one.

The conversation was going nowhere. I could feel myself beginning to want to make excuses, to apologise, to find solutions for his problems. This was not how it should be. I’d left him. I did not want to go back. I’d loved him once, at the beginning, loved all that he’d done for me. But over the years he’d begun more and more to control every aspect of my life. I’d become dependent, and stifled, and it was time for me to go. I realised I had to get off the phone before I caved in, before he set me back a few steps.

I interrupted him in mid-flow as he ranted about how there’d be no one in when the postman called and what if there was a letter or parcel that needed signing for? Had I thought of that when I’d done my flit and left him all alone?

‘Paul,’ I said, ‘I’m not coming back. You need to understand that. I know we need to talk about this, but not now. I’ve things to do. Goodbye.’

And I hung up on him. I’d never done that before to anyone. It felt strangely liberating, that I could simply press a button and switch him off like that. Arise and go now, I told myself. It was becoming a bit of a mantra.

But the phone rang again almost instantly, the display showing it was Paul. I pressed the red button to decline the call. Another first. And then I switched my phone off. Perhaps I should block Paul’s number, but for now, I decided the best thing to do was to control the times he could contact me, and only switch the phone on when I felt prepared to talk to him. Or rather, prepared to listen to his tirades.

I sat on the bench for a few moments longer to gather my thoughts. It was a blowy day; changing from bright April sunshine one minute to dreary grey the next. Above me, the oak was only just coming into bud. A nearby ash tree was in full leaf, vibrant green against the grey stone buildings behind. I tried to remember the old rhyme – oak before ash, in for a splash; ash before oak, in for a soak. Hmm. It’d be a wet first summer in Ireland for me, then. But from what I knew of Irish weather the summers were always wet. You’d get occasional sunny days, which if they fell at the weekend would have everyone rushing off to the nearest beach. Bettystown.

A memory surfaced of a long-ago trip to that beach, with Uncle Pádraig, Aunt Lily and the boys, and my parents and me. I’d have been about 10 years old. Dad had wanted a game of cricket on the wide, flat sand, but Uncle Pádraig had brought hurley sticks and we ended up playing some sort of made-up game, a cross between hurling and hockey, as I could only manage to hit the ball when it was on the ground. David had promised to teach me to play properly.

I remembered how later that day he’d given me a little talk on how the Gaelic games, Hurling and Gaelic football, had become a kind of symbol of Ireland’s independence from Britain. They played soccer and rugby too, but it was the traditional Irish games, played nowhere else, that drew the biggest crowds and evoked the most national pride.

It cheered me up, thinking about those times. I resolved to drive to Bettystown beach on the first decent day, and see if it was still how I remembered it.

I walked back up the high street, past the café where I waved at Janice. Opposite was the bookshop I’d noticed yesterday evening. It was open, and I decided to spend a few minutes browsing and perhaps buy a few books before I headed off to the supermarket. I smiled to myself as I crossed the road. How that would annoy Paul, if he was here – me prioritising reading over cooking and eating! But he wasn’t here, and this was my life, and if I wanted to buy books and go hungry I could do just that.

Inside, the shop was one of those wonderful little bookshops where you could spend hours. The front half was new books, with a corner for children equipped with a carpet and some bean bag seats. The adult section was enticingly laid out with the books displayed on pale wooden shelving. At the back of the shop, older, dark wood shelves held second-hand books, organised roughly by subject with hand-written labels sellotaped to the shelf edges. The shop had expanded into a few separate rooms at the back, and I was delighted to discover a cubby hole of books on Irish history. Something I knew not enough about.

There were posters up in the shop celebrating the 100-year anniversary of the Easter uprising, 1916. I remembered my mother and Daithí going misty-eyed whenever they talked about Pádraig Pearse, James Connolly and the declaration of the Republic on the steps of the General Post Office. Now that I was planning to make my home in Ireland, I wanted to understand more about the country’s history.

I picked up a couple of second-hand Maeve Binchy novels, and a new one by Barbara Erskine, and a worthy-looking overview of Irish history, and took them all to the cash desk at the front of the shop. The silver-haired man I’d seen locking up yesterday was there, sorting through a box of second-hand books and writing prices on their inside covers. He was younger than I’d thought, I realised, as he pushed his piles of books to one side to make room for my purchases. Probably around my own age.

‘Good morning!’ he said, as he punched the prices into an antiquated till. ‘That’ll be thirteen euros ninety. I’ll knock off the ninety as a discount, as you’re buying four books at once.’

‘Oh, thanks!’ I dug out my purse and realised with horror I only had a ten-euro note. I’d spent the rest of my cash over at Janice’s café. ‘Do you take credit cards?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. But you can pay me later. I’ll make a note of your name and the amount. It’s no bother.’

‘Really? Or if there’s a cash point nearby I could go there?’

‘There is, but it’s out of order, or it was about two hours ago when I was trying to get some cash out myself.’ He put my books into a bag, handed it to me and opened a notebook. ‘Thirteen euro, then, and if you could tell me your name?’

‘Clare Farrell. I’m new to the area but I’ll be back here tomorrow with the cash, I promise.’

He wrote down my name then held out a hand to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you, Clare Farrell. I’m Ryan McKilty.’ He smiled as he spoke, making his eyes crinkle up at the corners. He had a pleasant, open face and I liked him instantly.

‘Good to meet you, too. Must admit I was delighted to find a bookshop in the town.’

‘Ah yes, I cling on to business. The supermarket sells a small selection of best sellers, but if you want a wider choice or non-fiction there’s only me, unless you go to the Easons over at Navan. You said you were new to the area? Moved to Blackstown, then?’

‘Nearby. Clonamurty Farm.’ I explained for the second time that morning my inheritance. Ryan had passed the farm but had not known Uncle Pádraig. It didn’t surprise me – there were so few books left in the house it was clear Uncle Pádraig had not been much of a reader.

‘Well, you’re very welcome. Good to see a new face in town. And I hope to see you in here again soon.’

‘Of course, I owe you some money, don’t I?’

‘Ah, you do, so. I’d forgotten already.’ We both laughed, and I turned to leave.

‘See you soon, then.’

‘Aye, I’ll look forward to it,’ he replied, holding the door open for me.

I was in a fabulously positive mood by the time I returned to the farm. I’d made two friends – Janice and Ryan – stocked up on food and reading material, and even better, Electric Ireland had done their stuff and the power was back on.

‘A pretty good first day, all round,’ I told myself, as I settled with a cup of tea (with milk this time) on the battered old armchair in the sitting room. That broken spring dug into my bum again, and I shifted position to try to get more comfortable. It was no good.

‘I’m going to have to do something about you, aren’t I?’ I said, to the chair, then shook my head. It was only the second day living alone, but I was already talking to the furniture. I stood up, put my tea on the mantelpiece, and knelt down to take a close look at the chair. It was old – probably late Victorian, and had an old nylon stretch cover over some other layers of upholstery. Definitely a great project for me, to strip it back, fix that spring, and reupholster it, assuming the woodwork was sound. I’d left all my upholstery tools in England, of course, but there was a barn outside with a workshop at one end.

No time like the present, I thought, and I went out to the barn. Those tabby cats I’d seen on my first visit with Paul were hanging around in the yard, and came scampering over to greet me as I walked across to the barn. There was another house a couple of fields away – I guessed they came from there, or at least went there for their food.

The barn looked as though it had once been a cowshed, but the stalls had been removed. In Uncle Pádraig’s time it had been used to store farm implements, and a rusty old plough still stood in one corner. He’d sold his tractors long ago when he sold the land and gave up farming. At one end was a workbench, with a battered old chest of drawers beneath and some tools hanging from nails on a board above the bench. There’d be no specialist upholstery tools here of course, but I’d be able to make do until I could order new ones online.

Sure enough I found a sturdy wide-tipped screwdriver that would do as a ripping chisel, a short-handled hammer and a pair of pliers. Enough to start stripping back the chair. I took them inside, gulped down my cooling cup of tea, and set to work.

First I removed the hideous nylon cover. Underneath was ill-fitting brown velour that had been stapled on. Probably some amateur attempt at upholstery. I wondered if Uncle Pádraig or Aunt Lily might have done it, as I prised the staples loose and pulled them out with the pliers. And under that layer was a well-worn corded cotton in a swirling floral design. Possibly the original. This was properly tacked on, with a layer of calico beneath, and I knew under that would be the stuffing, probably horsehair. It was a dusty job and I began to regret doing it inside. I should have taken the whole thing out to the barn.

It was as I removed the cover on the left wing that I discovered the hole. It went in behind the fabric of the back, deep into the chair between the frame and the stuffing. Some tacks had come away leaving a gap you could slip your hand inside. I couldn’t resist – and although the thought crossed my mind there could be decades-old dead spiders in there – I pushed my hand in and felt around. It’d be a marvellous hiding place. Perhaps there’d be a wodge of old bank notes inside?

I felt a flutter of excitement when my fingers brushed against paper – there was definitely something in the hole. It could, of course, be simply newspaper stuffed in to pack a gap. But even old newspapers could be interesting. I gripped the paper between two fingers and gently drew my hand back out. There was something solid folded into the paper as well. Carefully I extracted the little bundle from the hole and took it to the table to inspect it in better light.

Definitely more interesting than old newspaper – the paper was a birth certificate dated Christmas Day, 1920. Folded inside was some sort of medallion, with an inscription on the back: James Gallagher, 1910. I’d seen something like it before. My cousins had had them. It was a communion medallion, given to a child when they made their first Holy Communion. Who was James Gallagher? And why was his medallion tucked inside a chair along with a birth certificate for someone else?

My grandparents had married in 1926 and, as far as I knew, moved into Clonamurty Farm around the same time. So these items in the chair were from before their time. What was their story?