It wasn’t easy to get on with her project that day. Nicky had a lot to think about. The letter from Conor. Her feelings about him possibly finding someone new. His comment about her mother’s 50th birthday – that had entirely slipped her mind. Of course, she ought to mark the occasion and do something more thoughtful than simply posting a card home.
In her project, she’d reached the part where she wanted to write about Joseph Plunkett’s wedding to Grace Gifford, in Kilmainham jail. The event was, of course, only a footnote in the history of the Rising, but Nicky wanted to cover it. It helped illustrate the impact of the rebellion on women. Supergran had been there, and had witnessed it. And Grace had continued fighting for her country, during the War of Independence and the subsequent Civil War. Indeed, she’d been imprisoned for a while in Kilmainham, during the civil war in 1923. What must that have felt like, being incarcerated in the place where she’d been married and where her husband of only a few hours had been executed? It was an emotional piece to write, and Nicky found herself swallowing back tears as she covered the story.
They’d been childhood sweethearts, Joseph and Grace. As had she and Conor. She’d known Conor so long, as a childhood friend first and then they’d become closer in their mid-teens until eventually going on that fateful school trip. They’d been inseparable, and all their friends had assumed, as the years went by, that they’d be together for ever. Nicky had thought that too, until she’d gone to university and decided she was missing out on something by being tied to a boyfriend from home.
Even if that boyfriend was someone she’d loved. Someone she still loved, if she was honest with herself. But it was too late now. She dashed away a tear, and concentrated on writing the story of that night in Kilmainham jail.
Supergran had never told her how she got hold of that embroidered handkerchief, Nicky realised. She’d have to ask about it next time she saw her, though she had no idea when that might be. In the summer, perhaps.
The other thing playing on her mind, while she wrote, was the part of Conor’s letter in which he’d written that he needed to do jobs for his parents to earn his keep. They do so much for me, he’d written. She thought about how Seb’s parents had done a lot for him – financing him, bailing him out. Yet Seb took his parents for granted. Unlike Conor, who understood how much he owed them and did his best to pay them back, however he could.
What about her? Nicky put down her pen and stared across the bank of desks in the library. Was she like Conor, or more like Seb, taking advantage of her parents’ generosity? She felt herself redden as she realised that, being honest, she was far nearer Seb’s end of the spectrum. Her mother only wanted to see her once or twice each term, but Nicky had denied her that. Yet Mum had paid for her trips to Dublin, without hesitation. Dad too, although he stayed quietly in the background, supported her in everything she did. Mum might be more outspoken about her choices, and sometimes that might come across as nagging, but it all came from a place of love. Nicky realised that now.
She’d been selfish, this year at university. She’d tried to be the stereotypical rebellious student, and had pushed her parents away at the same time. But those visits to Supergran had proved that the older generations were good people, with a lot of life experience and a lot to teach her own generation. Seb was wrong in writing them off the way he did, especially as he then so quickly accepted their help and money whenever he ran into trouble.
Whereas Conor didn’t take his parents for granted at all. He couldn’t help financially, but he did jobs for them around the house, and prepared little surprises like that cake he’d made for his dad, the bunch of wild flowers picked for his mum on a walk, the house-cleaning he’d done while they were on holiday so they’d come back to a sparkling house. He was kind and thoughtful, and paid them back by being an excellent son.
Maybe her mother was right, Nicky thought. She had a whole load of growing up to do. Somehow, learning about her great-grandmother’s actions all those years ago, when she was about the age Nicky was now, had made her realise how immature she still was. And then her experiences with Seb, and Conor’s letter had also helped clarify things.
‘Oh God. I’ve fucked everything up,’ she muttered. The student at the next desk looked up and glared at her, but his expression softened when he saw her tears.
‘Are you all right? Want to get a cup of tea and talk about it?’ he asked quietly.
‘No, it’s all right. But thank you.’ She gave him a weak smile, grateful for his offer of support. This was something she needed to work through by herself, not talk about with a stranger. She took a deep breath, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and forced her mind back onto her project. If she achieved nothing else, she needed to get that written up this week. Then perhaps she’d have time to go home for a short visit before the next term began.
Conor’s letter was still playing on her mind. He wanted to catch up with her, he’d made that clear. More than once, he’d said perhaps they could meet up if she went back home, or she could phone him at his parents’. As she left the library to get herself something to eat, she had a sudden desire to talk to him. Steady, dependable Conor. And maybe she’d be able to find out more about this English student he seemed keen on …
She had a hurried lunch of pizza and chips from the student union bar, which had been cleaned, repaired and reopened. It felt strange going back in there after Seb’s protest. But he was gone, his protest long over. She’d always liked that bar. And now that it was a smoke-free zone, it was even better.
With her late lunch eaten, she went to the nearest bank of pay phones. She dialled Conor’s parents’ number. She did not have to look it up – it was seared into her memory from all those teenage years of calling him almost every evening, even if she’d seen him during the day. It was only as the phone started ringing that she wondered what she’d say if his mum answered. What did Beatrice think of her, after she’d dumped her son for no good reason? She’d get a cold reception, of that she was certain.
She heaved a sigh of relief when the phone was picked up by Conor himself. ‘Hey, Nicky! Good to hear from you. How are things? How’s the new fella?’ His words were upbeat, but Nicky knew him so well she could detect the faint hesitancy behind them, the uncertainty as to what their relationship now was.
‘I’m fine, thanks. I got your letter. You said you wanted to catch up, and I was working in the library today and, well, I thought that I’d like to catch up too.’ She allowed a wistful tone to creep into her voice as she spoke, surprising herself with how sad she felt that their relationship was over. Even though it had been her choice, and she’d thought through the reasons behind it carefully.
‘Glad you’ve rung! So how was Dublin?’
‘Great. Supergran knew so much. I wrote stacks of notes and am now trying to pull them all together. She asked after you, you know. She liked you, that time we went over and stayed with her.’
‘Ah. I liked her too. Wonderful old girl. So, Nicky, your mum’s birthday … were you planning on coming home for it? Only …’
‘What?’ He was going to ask if they could meet up, she thought. And she found herself liking the idea.
‘Your mum thinks you won’t come home, as you prefer to stay in Brighton. But your dad … well, I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything because they, well, they have a policy of leaving you to do your own thing … but he’s planning a bit of a surprise party for your mum’s 50th. Nothing huge, but we’re invited – me and my parents – and some of your extended family, and your neighbours and some of your parents’ friends. And I thought … you should know about it, and decide whether to come home for it or not. Your dad was going to talk to you about it next time you phoned home. It’s supposed to be a surprise for your mum.’
‘Oh! I haven’t heard anything about it.’ Nicky remembered guiltily that, actually, she hadn’t called home for a couple of weeks. Not since before Dublin. So her father hadn’t had a chance to tell her.
‘I hope I haven’t messed things up … Anyway, it’s on Saturday. From 2 p.m. Are you going to come?’
‘Um … I hadn’t … Well … Yes. I’ll be there.’ She made a snap decision. She could catch a train in the morning and be there in time.
‘Fantastic. I’ll see you there th—.’
Nicky cursed as the pips went, cutting him off. She scrabbled in her pockets for more change but there was none. She needed to call her father and find out the details. What day was it? Thursday! So in fact, the party was the day after tomorrow. Maybe she could just turn up … and surprise her mum. She could apologise for being the kind of newly adult offspring who takes her parents for granted. Try to be a better daughter. Try to be a better person.
She could also catch up properly with Conor.
Nicky’s decision to go home for her mum’s birthday weekend meant she only had another day to finish her rebellion project. She did not want it hanging over her when she returned to Brighton. Depending on how things went at home, she thought she might stay there until the start of the new term a week later. Mum would like that.
It was surprising how much she was looking forward to it all. To spending a bit of time with both her parents. To seeing Conor. Her stomach gave a little flip at the thought of him, but she quashed the feeling quickly. He wasn’t hers anymore, and that had been her choice, her action.
She went back to the library and worked hard for the rest of the day, and the following day too. She managed to find a 10p lurking in a drawer in her bedroom, and used it to call home at a time she knew her mother would be out. Dad answered.
‘Dad? Listen, I spoke to Conor earlier and he said something about you having a little party for Mum?’
‘Yes, pet. It’s tomorrow. I was hoping you’d call so I could tell you … but we would both understand if you want to stay in Brighton. Especially after all your busy time with those trips to Dublin, and with that new boyfriend to see. Your card for Mum arrived and I’ve hidden it away till tomorrow. She’ll be delighted you remembered.’
‘Glad it got there. But … is it all right if I come home? For the party? I’m not sure if …’
‘Oh love, it’d be marvellous if you can make it! If you’re sure?’
Nicky had never felt more sure of anything. She grinned. ‘Dad, I’d love to come. Two o’clock, right?’
‘Yes. What time shall I pick you up from the station?’
‘I’ll make my own way. You’ll be busy getting things ready for the party, won’t you?’
‘Yes, your mum will be out for a couple of hours from midday – I booked her a spa treatment – and I’ve to do it all then.’
‘I’ll get there just after midday, and help.’
She could hear the broad smile in her dad’s voice. ‘That would be marvellous. Thank you, love.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
And then all she needed to do was get the last part of the project written up. There were a couple of facts she wanted to check. How many people had been killed, on both sides, in the conflict? Were any of them women? There were some books in the library that probably contained the answers; as during her reading on the subject, she hadn’t noted down the exact numbers. She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed off to the library, to her favourite spot there: a desk that overlooked the central light well and which was tucked away from the main thoroughfares. She’d got a lot of work done there over the week.
She fetched the books she wanted to refer to and piled them on the desk, then sat down to start working her way through, looking for the information she needed and the final facts to check. One of them looked promising for numbers of casualties – it had a section listing all casualties according to where in Dublin they were fighting, on either side. Nicky opened the book at that page and began jotting down the numbers. She found herself scanning through the names too. All those Irish Volunteers, willing to die for what they believed in. And the British soldiers, fighting because they’d been ordered to, when perhaps they felt the real enemy, the war they should be fighting, was the one still raging in Flanders.
Each casualty was listed along with his rank and age. They were so young, Nicky thought. Many were barely older than she was. She spotted no female names, however. Just a note at the bottom of a page that said that there were several civilian casualties too, caught up in crossfire or in the fires that ravaged Dublin towards the end of the week. There was no definitive list of these names.
But then, in a list of names of Volunteers killed at Boland’s Bakery, Nicky spotted a name that leapt out at her. Sean MacDowd, Volunteer, aged 23, killed on the last day of the Rising.
Gráinne’s brother, a Volunteer? Supergran had said he was in the army, fighting for Britain against the Germans. He’d disappeared after coming home on leave, telling his sister he couldn’t go back and he was going to desert.
No wonder Gráinne had never been able to find Sean after the Rising. He’d been killed. And, somehow, she’d never had access to any lists of the dead Volunteers. Presumably she hadn’t thought to check those anyway. She hadn’t thought Sean would be fighting. She’d expected him to be lying low, or getting himself out of the city, into hiding somewhere else in the country. But it looked as though he’d joined the Cause.
And Gráinne had lived the rest of her long life not knowing what had happened to him. She’d believed he was a deserter, and never found out his fate. Nicky grabbed the book and took it to a photocopier. She made copies of the page with Sean’s name on, and the preceding page for context. She’d write to her great-grandmother, she decided, and send her this page, explaining what it showed. She wasn’t sure how it would be received – Supergran had said she longed to know what had become of her brother, but would she want to know this? That he’d died so soon after coming back to Ireland?
She folded the photocopied pages and tucked them into her bag. Gráinne deserved to know. Nicky would write to her as soon as she could, taking time to word the letter just right.