Jessie
As Ger drove north along the coast road, the green-grey water hit the rocks and exploded into spray. Clouds bounced in from the Atlantic. The weather in Clooneven tended to follow a pattern: every shimmering wonder of a day was offset by a handful of stormy ones. Given a choice, Jessie would have picked the sun, but she had to admit there was something impressive about the ocean’s violence.
Since becoming interested in Bridget, she’d found herself looking at the landscape in a different way. The dry-stone walls she’d taken for granted might first have been built by Famine relief workers. The holy wells she’d dismissed as slightly ridiculous might have provided solace to the destitute. A scattering of square stones might once have been a family home. To paraphrase her grandmother, the land had a story to tell.
It had taken them three weeks to make the short journey to Hackett’s Cross. If she wasn’t working, Ger was. Or else he was playing football or at training. His girlfriend was rarely mentioned, and Jessie got the impression that she, too, would have to wait until Clooneven’s progress was halted. Ashling, her colleague in the Seashell Café, was going out with the centre forward and spent her days chattering about who was flying in training and who had a tricky hamstring. Jessie had forgotten how much these things mattered.
Now that the tourist season had begun and the Americans had returned, Ashling was up to high doh. ‘Jesus, I love them and the happy heads on them,’ she’d say. Jessie suspected that what she loved most was their generosity. Like much of the west coast, Clooneven had grown accustomed to visitors from the other side of the Atlantic. While some were lured by images of a dramatic unspoilt landscape, a significant number came in search of their roots. They carried notebooks filled with names and places. Many of the stories dated back to the Famine.
Etty had once told her that when she was young there’d been a popular phrase: ‘You can’t eat scenery.’
‘Isn’t it funny how wrong that turned out to be?’ her grandmother had said. ‘People will pay an awful lot of money for a fine view, fresh air and a bit of peace.’
Ger’s voice pulled Jessie back to the present. ‘I’d say we’ll get rain this evening,’ he said, as they passed the lighthouse at Cloonmara.
‘There’s a novelty.’
‘It doesn’t rain in Dublin, I suppose.’
‘It’s a scientific fact that it rains more in the west.’
‘I didn’t know you’d had time to pick up a meteorology degree. Fair play to you.’
If necessary, they could carry on like this for hours. The rapid-fire banter reminded Jessie of their school days when the entire class would trade jokes and insults. She found it strangely comforting.
She’d hoped that by this point, the Hollie Garland episode would have been forgotten. Unfortunately, Hollie continued to see Jessie’s humiliation as a commercial opportunity. Over five pages – five pages! – of the sort of Sunday supplement that usually viewed influencers as a tawdry blight on humanity, she spoke about her trauma. The article was accompanied by misty-hued photos in which an under-styled Hollie stared mournfully at the camera. I find it harder to trust people, especially journalists, she told the journalist. You have no idea how many young women contacted me to say my success mattered to them. Then, all of a sudden, people who knew nothing about my world were laughing at my name and my business. I felt like I’d been stripped naked in front of the entire country.
Even Lorna had reckoned that this was going too far. ‘That girl would want to cop on to herself,’ she’d said.
Nevertheless, the hate had flooded in again. There was a limit to how much half-baked malice Jessie could take, so she’d deleted Twitter and Instagram from her phone.
There had been no further sighting of Lorna’s lover, as she now thought of him. This disappointed her. As engrossed as she was in Bridget’s story, she would have liked some present-day intrigue. She’d outlined her theory to Ger, who’d said she was seeing things that weren’t there.
‘Who do you think he is then?’ she’d asked.
‘An ice-cream salesman,’ he’d replied. ‘You’ve an unbelievable imagination. There’s no reason to believe your sister’s having an affair.’
That was the trouble with straightforward people. They assumed everyone was like them.
Jessie consoled herself with the knowledge that, every week, her debt dropped a little. By the autumn, she’d be free. Her friend Shona, with whom she’d been drinking on the night of the TV disaster, was urging her to return to Dublin as soon as possible. She’d also broken the news that Phelim was going out with a theatre director called Roseanne Lane. A scan of Roseanne’s social media suggested her creativity was focused more on seeking Arts Council grants than staging plays.
To Jessie’s surprise, what she missed most was writing. She missed the craft and challenge of it as well as the feeling of achievement when the finished article appeared.
Hackett’s Cross was a throwback to bleaker days. While most west-coast villages had benefited from the tourism dollar, the Cross, as it was known, remained a standard bearer for austerity and decay. Wind and salt water had combined to give the buildings a battered appearance. The fascia board on the Cross Tavern was peeling, while the door looked ready to splinter apart. The few trees were buckled and bent.
‘Surely even you couldn’t see any merit to this place?’ said Jessie, as Ger parked his car, an unobtrusive blue Corolla.
Ger laughed. ‘It’s not the best the county has to offer, all right.’
St Aidan’s Church, where they’d arranged to meet the parish priest, was mottled with lichen and moss. The door was newly varnished, though, and the grounds well kept. Jessie had read that some of its graves dated back to the 1830s, so if Bridget and Norah had stayed in the area, they might be buried there.
She’d once been to a small-town museum in Croatia where the attendant had explained a lengthy gap in the local records by saying that no accounts existed because, during those years, the area had been peaceful and prosperous. Part of her desired something similar for the Moloneys, for the story to be that there was no story. Having been through so much, Bridget and Norah had been entitled to decades of uneventful plenty.
Father Enda McElligott was younger than she’d anticipated. Not that he’d sounded old on the phone, but she was preconditioned to think of clergy as white-haired and slow-moving. The man who met them was tall with a head of brown curls and the rolling stride of a farmer inspecting his land. He was also blessed with a melodic voice. She had the feeling he would give good Mass.
He ushered them into the room at the back of the altar and pulled out three hard chairs. It was the first time Jessie had been in a sacristy, and she was disappointed by how unremarkable it was. She guessed the chalice, altar cloths and suchlike were stored in the rosewood cupboards that lined the walls.
‘As I think I told you on the phone,’ said the priest, ‘we no longer have the original 1860 census. It’s too precious . . . too valuable, I dare say . . . to keep here. We do, though, hold a copy.’ He picked up a large red-covered ledger. ‘Ideally, the contents should be online. One day soon, please God. Now, you’re interested in a family called the McGuanes, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ replied Ger. ‘We’re trying to find out what happened to Mary Ellen McGuane’s sister, Bridget, and her daughter, Norah.’
‘Ah, the famous Bridget.’
‘You know about her?’ said Jessie.
‘When you gave me her name on the phone, the details rang a vague bell. So, I looked her up, and it all came back to me. I’d read about her years ago. She was the woman who spoke to the newspaper men from London.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ger.
‘It was the drawing I remembered as much as anything. The one of her and her daughter? Of course, when I first read about her I was only a student, so the Hackett’s Cross reference didn’t mean anything to me.’
He opened the ledger at a bookmarked spot. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve done a small bit of work.’
Jessie, apprehensive about what the records contained, didn’t reply.
‘Not at all,’ said Ger. ‘Did you get anywhere?’
Father McElligott handed the book to Jessie. ‘I’m nearly sure these are the people you’re looking for.’
And there they were: Thomas McGuane, aged forty-two, Mary Ellen McGuane, aged thirty-seven, and their daughter, Norah McGuane, aged fourteen.
Still without speaking, she passed the book to Ger, who gazed at the names before asking about Bridget.
‘I’m afraid there’s no mention of her,’ said the priest. ‘I’ve looked through all the records. There was no Bridget Moloney of the right age in Hackett’s Cross or Clooneven or any of the surrounding townlands.
Jessie felt so deflated she could cry. ‘So Mary Ellen really did take Norah and allow Bridget to fend for herself? What sort of sister would do that?’
‘Bridget might have gone elsewhere,’ said Ger. ‘She might even have left the country.’
‘We’ll never find her, so.’ She took back the ledger and stared again at the rows of names.
‘I’m sorry you’re disappointed,’ said the priest. ‘I can tell you some more about Norah if you like. She was considerably easier to find.’
‘I suppose,’ said Jessie. It was brave, outspoken Bridget who’d captured her imagination. She returned the red book to Father McElligott, who got up and removed several sheets of paper from a desk drawer.
‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that Norah McGuane didn’t stray too far. According to the parish records, she got married in 1864 to a local man called Barney Nugent, and they had two sons, James, born in 1866, and Seán, born four years later.’
‘James and Seán Nugent,’ said Jessie. It took her a few moments to recall where she’d heard one of those names before. Was it possible that . . .? She shook off the thought. It was a fairly common name. She was getting ahead of herself.
‘There were no marriage or death records for the boys, so I assumed they must have left the area.’ He paused, as if for dramatic effect. ‘In my experience, people either move to the other side of the world or they go down the road. I thought I’d give a neighbouring parish a try. I approached Larry Punch, my counterpart in Clooneven. You know Father Larry?’
Ger nodded.
‘I reckoned I’d start with him because he’s good at this class of thing. I asked if the parish records contained any reference to either a James or Seán Nugent. Obviously, I gave him their dates of birth and all the rest of it.’ Another pause.
Jessie felt a tingling sensation at the back of her brain. ‘Go on,’ she said, with more force than she’d intended.
‘He told me there were several mentions of Seán.’ Father McElligott looked down at one of the pieces of paper. ‘In 1900, he married a woman from Boherbreen named Gertrude O’Meara. They had five children. One of them, Peter, stayed in the area and married a Mary Meaney.’ Yet another pause. ‘They also had five children, the youngest of whom was born in 1934. Her name was, or should I say is . . . Eithne.’
‘Better known as Etty,’ whispered Jessie. The tingling had become a buzz. It was joined by a skittering sensation down her spine, and, finally, by a burst of exhilaration.
‘No!’ said Ger, clapping his hands. ‘You’re having us on.’
‘Eithne,’ added the priest, with a grin of satisfaction, ‘married Flannan Daly. They had two sons and two daughters. Her younger son is named Denis.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘I don’t need to go any further, do I?’
‘Denis married Maeve McMahon. They have two daughters,’ said Jessie, following his template. ‘The younger one’s called Jessica. I can’t . . .’
‘You must have had an inkling?’
‘I promise you, I hadn’t a notion. Not a clue.’ For once, she couldn’t think what else to say.
Ger made a woo-hooing noise. ‘This is unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Unbuh-liev-able.’
Father McElligott handed the sheet of paper to Jessie, who spluttered out a thank-you.
‘To be fair,’ he said, ‘most of the credit belongs to Larry Punch. I said to him, “It’s not a priest you should be at all, Lar. You should be above in Dublin running the national archives.” He said he’d spent so many years helping Americans and Australians that it was no bother to him.’
Bit by bit, the room was becoming darker, and Father McElligott rose to turn on the light. As he did, Jessie studied the paper on which he’d drawn a rudimentary family tree. It began with the woman whose mother, brother and husband had been killed by hunger – and ended with her.
Bridget Moloney born 1825
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Norah McGuane (originally Moloney) born 1846 – Barney Nugent Married 1864
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Seán Nugent born 1870 – Gertrude O’Meara Married 1900
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Peter Nugent born 1901 – Mary Meaney Married 1924
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Eithne (Etty) Nugent born 1934 – Flannan Daly Married 1954
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Denis Daly born 1958 – Maeve McMahon Married 1981
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Jessica Daly born 1989
She traced her finger over the names. ‘There’s no chance Father Punch made a mistake, is there?’ she asked, eyes pooling with tears.
‘It’s highly unlikely,’ said Father McElligott. ‘Highly unlikely. There was always a chance that Bridget had family still living in the area. The miracle is that you turned out to be one of them.’
‘Okay, so this means she was my . . .’
‘. . . great-great-great-great-grandmother,’ said Ger, counting off the generations on the fingers of his left hand.
‘Thanks. When I spoke to Etty she told me her grandfather used to give out if they didn’t eat up their dinner. Imagine: he was Norah’s son. And Bridget was his grandmother. Small wonder the poor man got rattled if he saw food being wasted.’ She shook her head. ‘Etty also said that, in the grand scheme of things, the Famine wasn’t too long ago. At the time, I was all “Yeah, right.” Now I see what she meant.’
Ger turned to the priest. ‘You’re some showman,’ he said. ‘You managed to feed us that information drop by drop.’
Father McElligott’s smile returned. ‘There was no point in giving everything away at the start, especially when I knew the pair of you would be disappointed not to find Bridget. I had to hold something in reserve.’
‘You did it well.’
‘I’ll be honest with you: I only got the final details from Larry last night, and I was fairly shocked myself. I rang him again this afternoon to make sure he’d got everything right.’
Jessie rubbed a hand over her damp eyes. It wasn’t that what they’d learnt had made her sad, more that she was overwhelmed. An hour ago, Bridget had been a figure from history, a black-and-white sketch from the archives. Now she was part of the family. She was also tickled by how much the priest had enjoyed his big reveal. In a village like this, he probably performed far more funerals than weddings and christenings. It must be a relief to talk to people who were neither sick nor in mourning.
Father McElligott broke the silence with a slap of his knees. ‘While that’s sinking in, I have some more news for you. Mary Ellen, Thomas and Norah are all buried here.’
‘I’d hoped that was the case,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea whereabouts? Is there a headstone?’
‘A headstone, no. I do have the locations of the graves, though.’
He turned to the final sheet of notepaper. ‘Over the past while, we’ve had a fantastic group of volunteers helping us to map out the graveyard. Mighty young people altogether. They’ve been here on and off, trying to make sense of the records. When they’re finished, we should be able to say definitively who was buried where.’
‘I’ve heard about them,’ said Ger. ‘Aren’t they working on several of the older graveyards in the area?’
‘That’s right. We’ve been inundated with visitors looking for the graves of their ancestors. Please God, this will help. Like I say, the work isn’t finished, but the volunteers have been able to identify Norah’s grave.’
Once again, he gave the paper to Jessie. This time, it contained a rough map. Some of the old graves were numbered, and for every number there was a corresponding name and year of death. It showed that Thomas McGuane had died in November 1879 at the age of sixty-two. His wife, Mary Ellen, had died two years later. Norah Nugent, their daughter, Bridget’s daughter, had lived until 1928. She was buried beside her husband, Barney.
The paper quivering in her hand, Jessie asked if they could go outside and see for themselves.
The old part of the cemetery appeared to contain about a hundred and fifty graves. Some were headed by crumbling stone slabs, the names and dates barely legible. Others were marked by modern marble headstones. Presumably, these had been erected by people who’d wanted long-dead family members to be remembered. Mostly, however, the graves were unmarked. These were the people who had stayed behind while their relatives had fanned out all over the world. Perhaps Ger was right, and Bridget had found a better life elsewhere. Jessie hoped so.
Having examined the map, she pinpointed where Norah was buried and walked in that direction. The others followed. The sky was fully grey now, the rain only minutes away. A swirling wind buffeted the grass and blew her hair into her face. Like Father McElligott had said, there was no headstone. Instead, there was a small, rust-scabbed iron cross. She stood in front of it. Ger joined her. The priest stood apart, his eyes closed, his hands clasped together.
‘Bless her,’ she said, ‘what an awful start she had. I keep seeing her as the toddler in the newspaper drawing, a small scrap of a girl with big eyes and curly hair.’
‘At least she had a relatively long life,’ said Ger. ‘She was, what, eighty-two when she died?’
Jessie nodded. ‘When you think about it, not only did she live through the Famine, she also lived through the war of independence and the civil war. It’s hard to fathom how much she must have seen.’
‘Have you recovered from the surprise yet?’
‘I’ve a feeling it’ll take a while. It’s as if some part of me knew I was connected to Norah, Bridget and Johanna.’ She raised a hand. ‘And, yes, I know that sounds mad. Don’t worry, I haven’t gone soft in the head.’
‘You’re grand. I’d be thinking the same if I was you. Do you reckon Norah remembered Bridget?’
‘I’d love to think so,’ she replied, ‘but I doubt it. The sad thing is, we’ll probably never find out.’
By the time they got back to the car, rain was dotting the windows. Jessie’s mind was in overdrive. As Ger started the engine, she voiced something that had been bothering her since she’d first heard about her connection to Bridget.
‘Etty must have known.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You asked her about Johanna Markham, and she said the name didn’t mean anything to her. Even if she does know about Bridget – which I doubt – there was no reason for her to connect the two.’
‘Except I told her that Johanna’s daughter was named Bridget.’
‘It’s a bit of a stretch. At that point, we didn’t even have Bridget’s married name. And, like we’ve said before . . .’
‘. . . the place was coming down with Bridgets. Listen, I can see why you mightn’t think Etty’s capable of skulduggery, only I’m not convinced. That woman could outwit most of us.’
‘I wouldn’t doubt it,’ he said. ‘Why would she lie, though? Why not just say, “It’s funny you should mention that, Jessie, because we happen to be related to Johanna”?’
‘You don’t know her as well as I do.’
‘True, but I don’t see why she wouldn’t tell you. She was really helpful with the class. They thought she was brilliant. If she’d had an even better tale to tell, surely she’d have told it.’
Jessie groped for the right words. The rain was becoming heavier by the minute, a curtain of water obscuring their view of the sea, the windscreen wipers swishing to and fro. Although logic was on Ger’s side, she was confident the truth was on hers. She recalled how hesitant her grandmother had been when they’d discussed Johanna and Bridget. At the time, she’d worried that Etty’s brain was slowing. Now, she believed she’d been putting on a show.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she said, ‘but I think you’re making the mistake of assuming that a woman who’s pushing towards ninety can’t be a schemer.’
‘If you’re suggesting she’s been manipulating you, I can’t see why.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s like the way you met that ice-cream guy and immediately thought the worst of Lorna. You’re very tough on your family.’
‘Whatever,’ said Jessie, and then more quietly, ‘You’re still wrong.’
‘I’d forgotten how stubborn you can be.’
‘You say that as though it’s a bad thing.’
‘If it means you insist you’re right when there’s every chance you’re wrong, it’s hardly a good thing, is it?’
‘(A), I guarantee you I’m not wrong. And, (B), in my experience, stubborn is one of those words tossed out by men when women won’t roll over and agree with them.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Ger, like he was fourteen.
For a couple of minutes, they drove in silence. Jessie was surprised by how quickly her joy had been replaced by irritation. Having half of the internet judging her was bad enough. She didn’t need Ger joining in. It wasn’t the substance of his accusation that annoyed her so much as the casual way he’d thrown it out. She was exhausted from other people’s opinions.
‘I’m going to ask Etty,’ she said.
‘This evening?’
‘Why not? Either way, I want to talk to her about what we’ve discovered.’
‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving her a ring.’
‘No,’ she said, bringing her palms together. ‘I’m going to call over to her.’
‘I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,’ said Ger, as the car sloshed through a puddle, ‘but it’s a filthy evening. How are you planning on getting to Boherbreen?’
‘I thought you’d come with me.’
‘Ah, Jessie.’
‘You can “Ah, Jessie” me all you like. I’m sure I’m right about Etty. Would you not like to find out?’
‘Nope.’
‘Right so. You can drop me at the turn-off. I’ve an umbrella in my bag.’ The part about the umbrella was a lie, but she didn’t want a lecture about getting wet. He was starting to treat her like one of his class. Second by second, her irritation was turning to indignation.
‘Okay,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘But this isn’t one of your better ideas. It’s too windy for an umbrella. It’ll just get blown inside out.’
Her indignation deepened. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘you can pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Now you’re being stupid. We’re more than a kilometre away from the turn-off.’
‘I asked you to pull over and let me out.’
‘All right,’ said Ger. ‘Have it your way.’
And so she did. Even as she climbed out of the car, and even as the first blast of rain hit her face, Jessie knew she was making a mistake. Still, she was worn out from everyone automatically assuming she was wrong about everything. Tonight, she would prove she was right about Etty, and after that she’d prove she was right about her sister.