The Forgotten Secret: A heartbreaking and gripping historical novel for fans of Kate Morton. Kathleen McGurl
smiled. ‘I know. Just keep safe. I will.’ He leaned over and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek, then lay back on the rug, looking up at the sky that was now streaked with high wispy clouds. ‘Listen, let me tell you about a mission some of my Volunteer comrades were on last week.’
She shook her head. ‘No, don’t tell me. The less I know, the better.’
‘It’s not like that. It’ll amuse you, honest it will. And no one was hurt.’
‘Go on, then.’ She lay beside him, her head on his shoulder, to listen.
He cleared his throat. ‘So, a company of Volunteers, a few fellas among them I know, had been tasked with transporting some weapons across the county. Too far to carry them, too far for a horse and cart, and they had no other transport, but the guns were sorely needed for … well … for another campaign.’
Ellen pressed her lips together. She did not want to think about what the guns were to be used for.
‘Anyway, one of the lads had a bright idea. He went to the telegraph office, and sent a telegram to the local doctor, an Englishman named Doctor Johnston who was known to drive a large motorcar, telling him that a woman who lived in a remote farm was in desperate need of his attendance, and he was to come at once.
‘The doctor set off, but on the way, on a bridge, he met with the company of Volunteers. They stopped him and commandeered his motorcar. He protested of course, telling them he was on an urgent call – at which they came clean and told him it was a hoax. He waved his travel permit at them – issued by the Black and Tans – but that didn’t cut the mustard either. Finally, as he looked about to explode with fury, they gave him a receipt for his car.’
‘A receipt?’
‘Well, they just scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.’
‘He’ll get his motorcar back though, won’t he?’
‘Aye. When the war is over. That’s what it said on the receipt.’
Ellen smiled. ‘That could be years!’
‘It could indeed.’
She laughed. It was a comical image – a blustering English doctor being forced to give up his car to the Irish Volunteers, and being given a meaningless paper receipt for it. Well, if this was the sort of mission Jimmy was involved in, she had little to worry about. It all sounded rather good-natured, on the whole.
As the day wore on the sky clouded over and temperatures dipped. Ellen began to shiver. Her shawl was not warm enough for an autumn day without the sun shining. Jimmy packed up the basket while she folded the picnic blanket, and they descended the hill back to the lane to catch a bus to Blackstown. They journeyed home in companionable silence. Thankfully no Black and Tans got on the bus this time and the journey was a peaceful one.
It had been a day to remember, she thought. One to look back on, in the dark days to come. She shivered a little, in Jimmy’s arms, wondering why that thought had appeared in her mind. Who knew what was to come?
That evening, she lay in her narrow bed recounting the events of the day to Siobhan.
‘I’m after having the day off too,’ Siobhan said. ‘Madame wanted the house empty for more of her ridiculous cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ She sighed. ‘I wish she wouldn’t do it. Puts us all in danger, so it does. I’ve a mind to look for a job elsewhere, but this kind of work isn’t easy to find, while the war’s on. You were lucky, you know. Walking into it, the way you did. Becoming Madame’s favourite in the first five minutes.’
‘Ah, sure I’m not her favourite,’ Ellen protested, but Siobhan had turned her back to go to sleep, signalling the end of the conversation.
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