Nicky listened enraptured as her great-grandmother told her about events in the year before the Rising, and how membership of the Irish Volunteers had increased. She heard about the guns smuggled into Howth that were then hidden and used in the Rising. She loved hearing about Margaret Skinnider’s visit, bringing detonators, which she and the Countess tested in the Wicklow hills. Supergran’s narrative brought it all to life, and she could imagine the women finding a quiet spot away from farms and roads, laying a fuse and testing a detonator.
And then Gráinne had talked about Joseph Plunkett and his childhood sweetheart Grace Gifford, and how they’d set a date to marry on Easter Sunday, 1916.
‘Plunkett was right at the heart of the plans,’ Gráinne said. ‘He was thought to be a great strategist. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. He’d spent time in Algiers and had a penchant for wearing lots of scarves and bracelets.’ She sighed and shook her head sadly. ‘He was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. And poor Grace, that lovely, gentle woman.’
‘What happened?’
But the old lady shook her head again. ‘We’d be getting ahead of ourselves. Anyway, look, I have a box somewhere, with some newspaper cuttings and the like, that I kept back then. About the Rising, and the events before and after it. If you can get it down for me – it’s in the loft and Eileen says I’m never to go up there – you can look through and see if there’s anything in it that helps you.’
The cuttings were in a shoebox, tucked in a corner of the attic along with boxes of old school books and suitcases of clothes. ‘Eileen says I should throw all that other stuff away, but I can’t bring myself to do it,’ Supergran said, as Nicky climbed down the ladder with the shoebox. ‘I tell her she can get Jimmy to do it after I’m gone.’
‘Don’t throw it away if you don’t want to,’ Nicky agreed, as she pushed the loft ladder back up and closed the hatch. ‘Now then, another cup of tea while I look through these?’
‘Not for me, Nicky. I’m away to sit on the sofa now. Perhaps I’ll have a little nap.’ The old lady smiled. ‘It’s quite tiring, all this remembering and talking.’
‘Of course. No problem. I’ll go out this afternoon and let you have some peace.’
‘Call Jimmy. Get him to take you to Glasnevin and Howth – the places I’ve been talking about.’
‘Good idea.’ Nicky went to the telephone in the hallway and phoned Jimmy who seemed delighted at the prospect of being a tour guide for the afternoon. Then after checking Supergran was comfortable and settled on the sofa, she went back to the kitchen table and began leafing through the clippings in the shoebox.
She read through each one, making notes. She paid especial attention to any that mentioned women or any of the events Supergran had mentioned. Some clippings were from papers such as The Workers’ Republic which had been published by the Irish Citizen Army. There were some wonderful pieces by James Connolly that would have stirred up nationalist sentiment in anyone who read them. And to think her great-grandmother had known Connolly personally!
As well as the clippings, there was an old watch inside the box. A dainty silver lady’s watch in a brown case.
And at the bottom of the box, folded inside a battered old brown envelope, was something else. Nicky extracted it carefully and unfolded it; it was a handkerchief, stained yellow with age. In one corner the initials JP and GG were embroidered entwined together. Nicky frowned as she looked at it. JP and GG? Joseph Plunkett and Grace Gifford? How had Supergran come by this? She made a mental note to ask her about it, when she’d woken from her nap.
When Nicky had finished reading through the clippings and taking notes, she had time to spare before Jimmy was due to pick her up. Gráinne was still asleep. She decided to phone Seb, to let him know she’d arrived safely and was getting on well with her research. Not that he’d be interested in the project, she knew, but she wanted to talk to him anyway. Perhaps he’d tell her something more about this protest he was planning. Her head was full of images of Connolly and Plunkett and the Countess sitting around the Countess’s dining table planning the rebellion. She found herself picturing Seb in a similar meeting with other student rebels, heads bent together over maps and notes, planning their action. Was it more road-building they were trying to stop? Or a protest against student tuition fees? Or something else entirely?
She went to the hallway and dialled Seb’s mobile number, hoping it wouldn’t be costing Supergran too much. When he answered it, she had the impression he was still in bed. He sounded sleepy, as though he’d just woken up.
‘Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know I got to Dublin OK, and I’m with my great-grandmother. She’s got so much to tell me about the Easter Rising. I’m so glad I came.’
‘Yeah, babe, that’s good then,’ Seb replied, and she heard him yawn. ‘I’m stocking up on sleep. Not going to get much over the next few days, once my protest gets going.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘On campus, babe. Not too far from your accommodation. You’ll be able to visit me, and the others. Bring us supplies, raise awareness, that kind of thing. You cool with that?’
‘Sure, but what is the protest about?’
‘Ah, wait and see, babe.’
She couldn’t see him, but she could picture him tapping the side of his nose as he said that. She wished he’d confide in her and tell her the details. Perhaps she might have some helpful suggestions for him. But then she thought about what Gráinne had told her about how the Irish Republican Brotherhood had been organised, with each member only knowing the names and faces of those in the same cell, and each cell commander only knowing a few others at their level. Secrecy had been the name of the game back then, and it made sense for Seb to work in the same way now. She’d know soon enough, once the protest was underway, what it was all about. For now, she just had to trust Seb. Whatever it was, she was sure it would be worthwhile, an attempt to make the world a better place, as all decent protests should be.
‘All right, will do. I’m back on Monday evening. I’ll ring you then, yeah?’
‘You do that. It’ll all have kicked off by then. Gonna change the world, we are. Make it a better, fairer place. Wish me luck, eh?’
‘Good luck, Seb. I’d better go.’
‘Cheers then. Bye.’
Nicky hung up, smiling. It had been good to hear his voice. He was clearly very enthused by this latest protest, whatever it was. ‘Change the world’ might be a stretch, but getting his voice heard, the voice of the ordinary people – that’s how Ireland had achieved independence, in the end. Ordinary people, fighting for what they believed in.
And one of those people had been her own great-grandmother.
Jimmy arrived after lunch, making the bungalow feel suddenly small with his larger-than-life presence. Nicky smiled to see how Gráinne lit up when he was there. She had the feeling he was one of her favourite grandchildren.
He towered over the old lady to kiss her hello. ‘Grandma! You’re looking as sprightly as ever. Now, I’m going to take this young colleen away for a bit. Give you a rest, hey? What time do you want her back?’
‘Oh, anytime, as long as it’s in time for our tea,’ Supergran said.
Jimmy smacked his forehead. ‘And it’s me cooking your tea tonight anyway, isn’t it? How about I pick us up some fish and chips for the three of us for our tea?’
‘Ooh, what a treat!’ Supergran actually clapped her hands together.
‘Good for me too,’ Nicky said.
‘Let’s get going then.’ Jimmy ushered her out to his car. ‘Right then. A tour of the area. Portmarnock beach and Howth, I thought?’
‘Can we also go to Glasnevin Cemetery?’ she asked as she climbed into the Galaxy.
‘A cemetery? What are you wanting to go there for, Nicky?’
‘Supergran was talking about it. Gráinne, I mean.’ Nicky blushed. ‘I’ve called her Supergran since I was very little. She was there, in 1915, when O’Donovan Rossa was buried.’
‘Ah, the fools, the fools …’ Jimmy said, with a grin.
‘I’m sorry?’ Nicky was confused.
‘Something Pádraig Pearse said at O’Donovan Rossa’s graveside. Right then, we’ll go to Glasnevin first, then loop round to Howth and finally Portmarnock. Got plenty of time, so we have.’
They chatted companionably as Jimmy navigated the streets of north Dublin towards the cemetery. It covered a huge area, and a visitor centre at the entrance provided maps detailing where prominent people had been buried. ‘Ah, there’s Éamon de Valera’s grave,’ said Jimmy, pointing to a marker on the map.
‘Who?’ Nicky asked, wondering if she should know the name.
‘You’ve not heard of him? He was … oh, what wasn’t he? Major figure in the War of Independence. Taoiseach – that’s the Irish prime minister – for far too long. President. Founder of the Fianna Fáil party.’
‘They teach nothing of Irish history in British schools, Jimmy,’ Nicky said. ‘Despite the fact our two countries have such an entangled history. Did de Valera have anything to do with the Easter Rising?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Yes, he was a commander. Only escaped execution because he’d been born in the US, and executing him could have caused an international incident. But look, there’s O’Donovan Rossa. We’ll see his resting place first, shall we?’
Jimmy led the way through the maze of neatly tended paths between rows of graves, some with ornate statues and others with simple headstones. At last, they found the one they wanted, and as Nicky stood contemplating the renovated grave – an angled slab with an engraving of a phoenix rising from ashes, surrounded by neat gravel – she tried to imagine the scene in 1915. The crowds of people her great-grandmother had described, the stirring words of Pádraig Pearse that inspired so many to join the Republican cause. She leaned over to read the inscription at the bottom of the grave. ‘“The fools, the fools, the fools, they have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.” Is that from Pearse’s speech?’
‘Sure it is.’ Jimmy was grinning. ‘We’ll make a Republican of you yet, young Nicky.’
They wandered around the cemetery a little longer, with Jimmy pointing out several other prominent Irish rebels and politicians. All were men. Nicky had a thought. ‘What about the Countess Markiewicz? Is she buried here too?’
Jimmy frowned. ‘Not sure.’ He consulted the leaflet he’d picked up. ‘Ah, she is, so. Let’s find her.’
Her grave turned out to be marked only by a simple stone at the edge of a path. No stirring words or phoenix engravings for the Countess. Nicky felt strangely sorry to see this. It was certainly time that the women of Ireland were commemorated for their part in the Rising.
They left the cemetery after seeing the graves of several other prominent republicans. Nicky made a few notes about each. And then Jimmy drove out to the coast, to Howth. Nicky had spotted the small lump of land jutting out into the sea from her aeroplane as it began its descent to Dublin. Jimmy parked at a small harbour, beside a row of small shops and cafés. They had a cup of tea and a sandwich in one of the cafés.
‘Not sure this place has much to do with the Rising,’ Jimmy said. ‘I could be wrong though. I paid very little attention at school.’ He laughed. ‘Probably why I’ve no job now.’
‘Supergran said she helped land a shipment of guns here, in 1915.’ Nicky gazed around, trying to imagine the teams of Cumann na mBan women and Fianna Éireann boys forming human chains to offload the weapons from a boat.
‘Brought from Germany? They did supply the rebellion, I think.’
Nicky nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’ She was a bit unclear on it all. Maybe she should draw up a timeline to help get all the facts she knew about in order.
‘Well, now we can walk up over the hill, or go on to Portmarnock and take a walk on the beach there. Or leave Portmarnock until tomorrow. It’s only down the road from Gráinne’s house anyway.’
‘Walk here now, and Portmarnock tomorrow, if the weather’s fine?’ Nicky suggested.
‘Sure, we can do that.’ Jimmy paid for the teas and sandwiches and they set off, walking up a path that climbed the hill, flanked on either side by gorse and bracken. The gorse was in full flower and its vanilla scent hung in the air. At the top there was a trig point and the view, overlooking the Liffey estuary with huge expanses of beach on both sides and the Irish sea, was incredible.
‘That island there – that’s called Ireland’s Eye,’ Jimmy said, pointing. ‘It’s a bird sanctuary. And that beach is Dollymount Strand. You can drive right onto the beach there. Sometimes the tide comes in fast and catches motorists out and they lose their car, the eejits.’
‘It’s a lovely part of the world,’ Nicky said, gazing around at the open ocean on one side and the outskirts of Dublin city on the other. Up there, high on the hill, it felt as though she was on the top of the world. As though she could see for miles – across the city, over the sea, to the past where Irish rebels landed guns and plotted rebellion … and into her own future. A future with Seb? It was early days, but she felt as though he could be a kindred spirit … a rebel, someone who was trying to change the world to make it a better place.
‘Penny for your thoughts? You look to be away with the fairies,’ Jimmy said. He’d come to stand beside her, looking out over the scene below.
‘Ah, just thinking about my project,’ Nicky replied.
‘Must be good to be so fired up by your course,’ Jimmy said. ‘Wish I’d gone to university and studied something I liked so much. I was always the little rebel at school. Did everything I could to avoid doing any actual work. Had to retake my Leaving Cert three times, and by then all my friends had been to university and left, so there seemed no point going. They probably wouldn’t have taken me anyway. I ended up working for an uncle in his garage, then when that business folded and my uncle moved to the States, I worked in Dunnes Stores for a few years. Then they reorganised their staffing structure and I was left on the scrapheap. Since then, I’ve just been doing odd bits of work, here and there, you know? Not good at sticking at things, sure I’m not.’ He shrugged, sadly.
‘I bet you are. Just haven’t found the right thing,’ Nicky said. He was a nice bloke, this cousin. He deserved better from life.
Jimmy smiled at her. ‘Thanks, cousin Nicky. I guess I like having my time to myself too much. Not good at answering to a boss, sure I’m not. So, shall we get back to Gráinne then? We need to pick up some fish and chips. Then tomorrow, I can collect you around the same time, when Gráinne will be wanting her nap.’
‘Yes, thanks. Today’s been lovely. Thank you so much.’
‘Ah you’re welcome. Been nice having something to do, someone to show around. I like driving my car here and there, with a purpose to it.’
It was later that evening, after they’d eaten fish and chips and Jimmy had left, that Nicky remembered she’d wanted to ask Supergran about the embroidered handkerchief. She brought the shoebox into the sitting room, where they’d been sitting and chatting over yet another cup of tea.
‘There’s something in here I wanted to ask you about,’ Nicky said, as she sorted through the contents of the box, searching for the brown envelope.
‘Oh, yes? Did you find those bits and pieces interesting? I never really knew why I kept everything for so long, I suppose it was because I’d been a part of it all, and having the newspaper clippings made it seem real, so it did.’
‘Of course. I can understand that. Ah, here it is.’ Nicky pulled out the brown envelope and took the handkerchief out of it. She passed it over to her great-grandmother. ‘Those initials – JP and GG – who are they? You talked about your friend Grace engaged to Joseph Plunkett. Is it them?’
Supergran was holding the handkerchief and staring at it, as though she’d never seen it before. Or hadn’t seen it for a very long time. ‘I was after wondering where this had got to,’ she whispered. She held it close to her face, as though breathing in any scent it might still have.
‘Whose is it, Supergran?’ Nicky prompted.
The old lady shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have it. I should have given it back. I don’t know why I never did. Oh, to think of that turning up again, all these years later!’
To Nicky’s horror there were tears rolling down her great-grandmother’s cheeks. She quickly moved over to sit beside her, and wrapped her arms around her. ‘Don’t get upset, Supergran. I’ll put it away again. No need to think about it now.’ She gently took the handkerchief and tucked it back into its envelope, then passed her a tissue.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Gráinne said, with a weak smile. ‘Just a silly old lady getting sentimental. I’ll tell you about that handkerchief some day, but not now. I’m tired.’
Right on cue, Nicky heard the front door opening and Eileen was letting herself in, come to help get Supergran into bed. Nicky was happy to go to her room, write some more notes, think about everything she’d seen and learnt that day and wonder what was the story behind the handkerchief?