The Forgotten Secret. Kathleen McGurl
girlfriend, in case he had something up his sleeve for us. And so as Paul and I became closer, my old friends had drifted away as I’d rarely seemed to have time to see them and had cancelled on them too many times.
We left the farm in silence, and got back in the car to return to Blackstown in search of a café. I spent the journey wondering what plans Paul had made for the money if we sold the farm. Perhaps he’d surprise me, the way he so often used to, and present me with round-the-world cruise tickets, or keys to a luxury holiday home in Tuscany.
It was the sort of thing he might have done in the early days of our relationship. He’d stopped the surprises after the boys were born – it wasn’t so easy to swan off on weekends away with toddlers in tow. But the boys were in their twenties now and had left home – Matt had a job and Jon was a student. Perhaps Paul did want to rekindle the spirit of our early relationship. I resolved to try to keep an open mind about the farm, but I would certainly want to know his plans before I agreed to sell it.
There’s something funny about being at my stage of life. OK, spare the jokes about the big change, but being 49 and having the big five-oh looming on the horizon does make you re-evaluate who you are, what your life is like, and whether you’ve achieved your life’s dreams or not. Ever since my last birthday I’d been doing a lot of navel-gazing. What had I done with my life? I’d brought up two wonderful sons. That had to count as my greatest achievement.
I say ‘I’ had brought them up although of course it was both of us. Paul wasn’t as hands-on as I was – it was always me who took them to Scouts, attended school sports day, sat with them overnight when they were ill. But then, Paul would always say his role was to be the breadwinner, mine was to be the mother and homemaker.
I’ve tried to list more achievements beyond being the mother of well-adjusted, fabulous young men, but frankly I can’t think of any. We have a beautiful house – that’s down to me. Maybe that can count? I decorated it from top to bottom, made all the curtains, renovated beautiful old furniture for it. I did several years of upholstery evening classes and have reupholstered chairs, sofas and a chaise longue. But all this doesn’t feel like something that could go on my gravestone, does it? Here lies Clare Farrell, mourned by husband, sons and several overstuffed armchairs.
We arrived in Blackstown, and Paul reversed the car into a parking space outside a cosy-looking tea shop. I shook myself out of my thoughts. They were only making me bitter. Who knew, perhaps he did have plans for the proceeds of the sale of the farm that would help rekindle our relationship. Surely a marriage of over twenty-five years was worth fighting for? I should give him a chance.
‘Well? Does this place look OK to you?’ he asked, as he unclipped his seatbelt.
I smiled back as we entered the café. ‘Perfect. I fancy tea and a cake. That chocolate fudge cake looks to die for.’ Huge slices, thick and gooey, just how I liked it. I was salivating already.
‘Not watching your figure then? You used to be so slim,’ Paul replied. He approached the counter and ordered two teas and one slice of carrot cake – his favourite, but something I can’t stand. ‘No, love, that’s all,’ he said, when the waitress asked if he wanted anything else. ‘The wife’s on a diet.’
I opened my mouth to protest but Paul gave me a warning look. I realised if I said anything he’d grab me by the arm and drag me back to the car, where we’d have a row followed by stony silence for the rest of the day. And I wouldn’t get my cup of tea. Easier, as on so many other occasions, to stay quiet, accept the tea and put up with the lack of cake.
It was so often like this. Once more I wondered whether I’d ever have the courage to leave him. But was this kind of treatment grounds enough for a separation? It sounded so trivial, didn’t it – I’m leaving him because he won’t let me eat cake and I’ve had enough of it. Well, today wasn’t the day I’d be leaving him, that was for certain, so I smiled sweetly, sat at a table by the window, meekly drank my cup of tea and watched Paul eat his carrot cake with a fork, commenting occasionally on how good it was.
Ellen, July 1919
Three good things had happened that day, Ellen O’Brien thought, as she walked home to the cottage she shared with her father. Firstly, she’d found a sixpence on the road leading out of Blackstown. Sixpence was the perfect amount of money to find. A penny wouldn’t buy much, and a shilling or more she’d feel obliged to hand in somewhere, or give it to Da to buy food. But a sixpence she felt she could keep. It hadn’t lasted long though, as she’d called in at O’Flanaghan’s sweetshop and bought a bag of barley-drops. She’d always had a sweet tooth and even though she was now a grown woman of eighteen she still could not resist the velvety feel of melting sugar in her mouth.
The second good thing was the one that most people would say was the most important of the three. She’d got herself a job, as upstairs maid for Mrs Emily Carlton, in the big house. Da had been nagging her to get a job and bring in some money to help. There was only the two of them now in the cottage since one by one her brothers had gone across the seas to America, Canada and England. Da was getting old and appeared less able (or less willing, as Ellen sometimes thought, uncharitably) to work, and had said he needed Ellen to start earning. She’d been keeping house for him for five years now, since Mammy had died during that long, cold winter when the whole of Europe had been at war.
But it was the third good thing to happen that Ellen rated as the best and most exciting; the event she’d been looking forward to for months. It was the news that at long last Jimmy Gallagher was home from school. For good, this time. He was the same age as her, just two months older, and had been away at a boarding school for years, coming home only for the long summer holidays.
It was Mrs O’Flanaghan at the sweetshop who’d told her the news. The old woman remembered how Ellen and Jimmy would call in for a pennyworth of sweets on a Friday after school, back in those long-ago childhood days when they both attended the National School and had been best friends. Jimmy had passed his exams now, and finished high school. ‘Set to become a lawyer, if he goes off to university and studies some more, so he is,’ said Mrs O’Flanaghan. ‘But first he’ll help his daddy with the harvest. And maybe he’ll decide to stay on and become a farmer. Those Gallaghers have such high hopes for him, but I’m after thinking he’s a simple soul at heart, and will be content to stay here in Blackstown now.’
Ellen certainly hoped so. She calculated when would be the soonest that she could go over to Clonamurty Farm to see Jimmy. Not today – it was already late for her to be getting home to cook the tea. Tomorrow, then. Sunday, after church, if she didn’t see him in church. She was not due to start at Mrs Carlton’s until Monday.
Ellen rounded the corner and turned off the lane, up the rutted track that led to her home. It was looking more and more dilapidated, she thought, sadly. Back when Mammy was alive, Da would never have let the thatch get into such a state, sagging in the middle and letting water in over the kitchen. The gate was hanging off its hinges, and the front door was waterlogged and swollen, its paint long since peeled away.
‘Hello, boy,’ Ellen said to Digger, the elderly wolfhound who had hauled himself to his feet, wagging his tail at her approach. She fondled his ears. ‘Daddy in, is he? I’ve news for him, so I have.’
Digger pushed his muzzle into her hand, and she remembered the pack of barley sugars. She gave him one, which he ate with a crunch, and then she pushed open the door to the cottage.
‘Da? I’m back.’ Mr O’Brien was sitting in his worn-out armchair beside the kitchen range, his head lolling back, mouth open, snoring loudly.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, will I?’ Ellen didn’t wait for an answer, but began setting the kettle to boil, clattering around a little so as to wake him naturally.
It worked. ‘Eh, what?’ he said, sitting upright and blinking to focus on her. ‘Ah, tis you, Mary-Ellen. Late, aren’t you?’