Danny Boy. Anne Bennett

       ONE

      Rosie McMullen never thought much of the beauty of the countryside she lived in, like the verdant green hills to each side of the farm. These were speckled with sheep and dotted here and there with cottages very like her own and had rivers that shone like silver ribbons in the sun trickling down them that fed into the large lake beside Blessington village.

      She lived with her parents Minnie and Seamus and her two younger sisters, Chrissie and Geraldine, on a small, but prosperous farm just over two miles from the village in County Wicklow, a county that was often dubbed ‘the garden of Ireland’.

      She took it all for granted like she did her home, that squat, whitewashed, thatched cottage, with the cobbled yard in front of it, full of strutting hens pecking at the corn and grit. There was a barn to one side of the cottage, a byre to the other, a midden at the back and a spring well in the first field. The cottage itself had a large kitchen with a curtained-off bed, in the corner where Rosie’s parents slept. There were also two other bedrooms, the first and largest one, which opened directly off the kitchen was used by Rosie and her sisters and at the end of that room another door led into a smaller room, which remained unoccupied until Rosie took it over for her first ten years.

      From the cottage window, Rosie could see the winding lane leading up to the road with cultivated fields to one side of it and the pasture land to the other side, where the cows stood placidly chewing the cud.

      However, Rosie’s childhood was a harsh one, even in this idyllic place and came to an end entirely by the time she was just ten, when in October 1907 her mother gave birth to a baby boy she named Dermot. Rosie’s sisters were eight and six, and from the moment Dermot let out his first newborn wail, it was as if they’d all ceased to exist.

      Neither Minnie or her husband had ever been particularly demonstrative with their affections towards the girls, and Minnie especially, was always quick to find fault. She would fly into a temper for little or no reason and smacks, or strokes from the strap was a regular feature of their childhood. They never questioned this, it was just how things were. But, Dermot, they were soon aware, had a totally different kind of upbringing.

      At only twenty inches long, Dermot ruled the house and all in it. Neighbours trailed to the house to offer their congratulations and catch a glimpse of this marvellous child, as if Dermot McMullen was the first child born to the family. Seamus’s hand was shook over and over. He was stood drinks at the pub by the men, while the women brought gifts for the baby and cakes and other fancies for the family. The three girls were mostly ignored, but if they were noticed at all, it was only to be asked if they weren’t delighted altogether by their wee brother?

      Strangely enough, Rosie was. She had no argument with the small baby and she often stole away to gaze at him. He looked so vulnerable. He had a dusting of light silky hair and his skin was a creamy colour, his eyes the milky blue of the newborn. She was enchanted by his tiny flexing fingers with minute nails and his podgy little feet, which would kick out in freedom when he was released from his bindings. No, Rosie couldn’t blame the wee baby for the changes in the house, but as time passed, she blamed her parents and particularly her mother more and more.

      Minnie was unaware