‘As soon as I heard the knock on the door, I knew it was you,’ said Etty, as Jessie squelched into her hall. ‘No one else would be mad enough to go out in this rain. Get yourself a towel there so you can dry off.’
Chastened by half an hour of trudging through the downpour, Jessie did as she was told. She wasn’t just wet, she was completely saturated. Her T-shirt and jeans had become glued to her body, and her light summer jacket was heavy with water. Her runners were soaked through and chafing against her heels. Her hair hung in damp ropes.
‘On second thoughts,’ said her grandmother, ‘you need to take off those clothes. I’ll get you a dressing-gown.’
Jessie went into the bathroom and wriggled out of her clothes. She was at least five inches taller than Etty, and the lavender candlewick dressing-gown barely reached her knees. Still, it was an improvement on what she’d been wearing.
She hung the sodden clothes on the back of three kitchen chairs and placed them beside the range.
‘Put on the kettle as you’re there,’ called Etty. ‘I could use a cup of tea – and an explanation.’
‘No bother,’ replied Jessie. ‘I’d prefer something stronger myself.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a shock. That’s why I’m here.’ She’d decided not to mention falling out with Ger. There was a limit to how much questioning and emotional wrangling she could take. Besides, she wasn’t here to talk about herself.
‘You’ll find a bottle of Jameson in the press beside the fridge,’ said Etty. ‘I’ll have a drop of water in mine.’
Jessie poured whiskey into the sort of tumblers that had once been free with a large fill of petrol. Her hands were blue and orange from the cold. Fat drops of rain continued to slide down the window.
The first slug of whiskey had the desired effect, stinging and burning all the way down. The second and third were even better. The tension in her shoulders eased. From her brown armchair, she watched Etty take careful sips.
‘So,’ said her grandmother, ‘are you going to tell me about this shock?’
Jessie put down her glass. Beside it on the coffee-table were the previous week’s Clare Champion, a glossy magazine and a Michael Connolly novel. Etty was a woman of diverse tastes.
‘It’s connected to what I asked you about a few weeks ago,’ she said.
‘You’ll have to refresh my memory.’
‘You know what I’m talking about: the story of Johanna Markham and her daughter, Bridget.’
Etty put down her whiskey. ‘And?’
For the next ten minutes, Jessie outlined what she had uncovered about Bridget. Throughout, Etty’s face was opaque. Save for a couple of questions about how her granddaughter had unearthed various facts, she was quiet.
Jessie concluded with the evening’s discoveries. ‘That means Norah Nugent or McGuane or Moloney or whatever you want to call her was your great-grandmother,’ she said.
Etty made a slight sound, softer than a sigh. ‘She passed away before I was born.’
Jessie continued. ‘So I’m joining the dots and . . .’ The implications of what she’d heard hit home. ‘Sorry?’
‘You heard what I said. Norah died a few years before I was born. I’ve seen a picture of her, though. She was a lovely gentle-faced woman. A lady, by all accounts.’
Despite her suspicions, Jessie was taken aback by her grandmother’s admission. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Just so as I have this clear: you’ve known all along that we’re related to Johanna Markham and Bridget Moloney?’
‘Bridget, the Lord rest her soul, was my great-great-grandmother on my father’s side. Johanna was her mother.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? And why didn’t you tell Ger? He was the one who started this. Why give him and the kids only part of the story?’
Etty’s face tightened. ‘Answer me this. What would you have done if I’d told you everything on the first day you called up here?’
‘I can’t say.’ Jessie sipped her whiskey. ‘Actually, I can. I’d have told Ger, and he’d have told the kids in his class.’
‘And there’s every danger you’d have walked away and forgotten about it all.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Well, I can’t be certain, but you’re an awful young one for flitting from this to that. When you came to me with Johanna’s name, I got a right land. I hadn’t heard anyone refer to her in years. I was about to tell you. Then I had second thoughts. No, I said to myself. The girl’s at a loose end. A bit of work won’t do her any harm.’
Jessie was in awe of her grandmother’s ability to deflect. It truly was her special skill. She was making her deviousness sound like an act of charity. ‘I do have a job, you know.’
‘I’m well aware that you’re giving Lorna a hand, but I thought you’d like a problem to solve. Otherwise, you’d keep fretting about the carry-on above in Dublin.’
‘What if I hadn’t got anywhere with my search?’ asked Jessie, before swallowing the last of her drink. ‘What then?’ She was deliberately minimising Ger’s part in the process. The knowledge that she’d been played was tempered by the fact that she’d been right about Etty’s duplicity. She felt almost drunk with vindication.
‘I’d every faith in you,’ said Etty. ‘In fact, I thought I’d hear back from you before now. I was beginning to think I’d have to throw a few hints in your direction.’
‘You’re something else. There I was, traipsing around the county and examining every website I could find, while you were sitting here with the full story.’ Hardly had the words cleared her lips than it struck her that Etty might also know what had become of Bridget. Before she had the opportunity to ask, the elder woman raised her glass.
‘I’ll have another tot if you wouldn’t mind.’
Jessie returned to the kitchen and poured them both a strong measure.
Back in the sitting room, she asked how long Etty had known about the family’s history.
‘For as long as I can remember.’
‘Why didn’t you make more of a fuss about it? Hollywood movies have been made out of less. What Bridget said to the journalist was amazing. Aren’t you proud to be related to her?’
‘I am, only . . . you’re forgetting that almost everyone around here has a family story. All you have to do is lift a few stones, and the truth comes crawling out. Most of us are descended from someone who lived through the Famine. The only thing that sets this family apart is that we’re related to a woman who left.’ She paused. ‘Actually, that’s not quite true. There are a couple of other differences, including the fact that Bridget’s experience was written down.’
Jessie pushed her fingertips against her forehead. ‘Does Dad know about Bridget and Norah?’
‘I’d say he was told at some stage, and he put it to the back of his mind. I wouldn’t go giving out to him, mind. Until fairly recently most folks weren’t too interested in that sort of thing.’
‘I see,’ said Jessie, far from certain that she did.
As if sensing her scepticism, Etty continued, ‘Not that long ago, family trees were only for Americans or film stars on TV shows. You know the sort I mean: the ones who get all dewy-eyed about their ancestors’ suffering. It’s easy for them because they’re so far removed from it. Few people around these parts wanted a reminder that their ancestors were so poor they searched dung heaps for vegetable peel and died at the side of the road.’
On this count, Jessie was forced to agree. ‘You said there were a couple of things that made our story different. One was Bridget and Norah being in a newspaper. Is there something else?’
‘I’ve something to show you. Normally, I keep it upstairs, but I got it down a couple of weeks ago.’ Etty stopped for a drink. ‘Like I said, I’ve been expecting you.’
She rose and went to the wooden sideboard that ran along the far wall. From it, she produced a maroon-covered photo album embossed with crumbling gold leaf. It appeared to be several decades old.
‘Here we go. Be careful now because, as you’ll see, some of the contents are very old.’
The first page contained a photocopy of the familiar drawing of Bridget and Norah. The accompanying article took up the next few pages. After that, there was a photograph of an elderly woman sitting in front of a whitewashed cottage. White curls poked out from beneath a pale headscarf. She was wearing a black dress and scuffed boots. Her face was heavily lined but, like Etty had said, there was gentleness to it.
For the second time that evening, Jessie’s eyes watered. ‘Norah?’ she asked.
‘That’s her. The photo would have been taken a few years before she died. It’s unusual enough to have a picture of an ordinary country woman from those days. God only knows what she would have made of the modern mania for picture-taking.’
Jessie took a minute to look at the woman whose grave she’d seen only an hour before. ‘What’s been bothering me is whether she knew about Bridget. She was only a baby when her mother left.’
‘Turn over the page, and you’ll find out. If you can’t read it, don’t worry. My father had it copied out in darker ink, and that version is a couple of pages on.’
Stuck to the next two pages was a letter so old the paper was nearly brown. It was creased in several places, and one corner had been torn. The ink had faded until it was barely legible. That the letter was covered with a sheet of cellophane didn’t help. All the same, Jessie could make out the opening words. My darling Norah, and the final ones, All my love, now and for ever, your mother, Bridget Moloney.
Jessie gathered her thoughts before moving to the next page. As promised, the letter’s contents had been transcribed in black ink. Bridget had written it before leaving Norah in Mary Ellen’s care. Before she’d begun her journey to America. She’d told her daughter about their time together and about why she’d had to go. She’d also asked for mercy.
This latter request hit Jessie hard. Bridget’s love for Norah was spelt out in every loop, slant and line. The magnitude of her pain was beyond comprehension. The passage of more than a hundred and seventy years had done nothing to diminish her words. On the contrary, it had amplified their power.
‘It’s a remarkable letter,’ she said, conscious of the crack in her voice. ‘She wrote well.’
‘When you add that to what she said to the newspaper man, she must have been very clever,’ said Etty. ‘And it’s unlikely she got to spend many years at school.’
A stream of questions were on Jessie’s tongue but, to her embarrassment, she couldn’t voice them. Her chest constricted and the tears that had been building all evening emerged. She had a proper old-fashioned cry with spasms, hiccuping and, presumably, a shiny red face. At least she remembered to hand back the album to Etty. The last thing she wanted was to stain it with tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when her hiccups finally came to a halt. ‘I feel like a fool, crying over something that happened the best part of two hundred years ago.’
‘You’re grand, pet,’ said her grandmother, handing her a packet of tissues. ‘In a way, I’d be disappointed if you weren’t upset. It’s a desperate story, and you’ve learnt an awful lot today.’
‘Do you have any idea what age Norah was when she found out about Bridget? Like, did she see the letter when she was a child, or did she only find out later?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. She gave the letter to her son, Seánie, who was my grandfather. He handed it on to his son, Peter.’
‘Your father,’ said Jessie, still trying to get the family chain clear in her head.
‘That’s right.’ Etty paused to sip her drink. ‘He put the book together.’ She tipped her neat white head towards the photo album. ‘I don’t know how he came across the London Illustrated Gazette article about Bridget and Norah. But, considering he didn’t have much schooling, he was quite a learned man, so I assume that, like you, he did his research.’
‘He probably found it in the library. They’ve lots of Famine records.’
‘That’d make sense, right enough,’ said Etty. ‘He was a great man for the library.’
‘There’s no mention of Johanna there. How did you hear about her?’
‘Again, my father told me. Mary Ellen must have told Norah.’
Jessie reached for her glass. ‘Mary Ellen sounds like a right piece of work.’
‘To be fair, you don’t know the woman’s circumstances. People can do desperate things when they’re under pressure. She’d no children of her own. Who knows how her husband was treating her? Or how his family behaved?’ She took another drink. ‘In those days, ordinary women didn’t have many choices. Not compared to the way things are these days, at any rate.’
Fearing this could veer into a homily about Jessie’s generation not appreciating how easy their lives were, she raised a hand. ‘All right, we’ll give Great Aunt Mary Ellen the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, the big question is, what became of Bridget?’
‘That I can’t tell you.’
‘For real?’
‘I wouldn’t blame you for doubting me but, as God’s my witness, I never heard anything more about her, so I doubt the family did either.’
This came as a blow. Given how much Jessie had unearthed about the people who’d remained, she’d expected a snippet of information about the woman who’d been forced to leave.
‘We know she went to Boston,’ said Etty. ‘Or, to be more accurate, we know she intended to go to Boston. Whether she ever got there is another question.’
Jessie swirled the last of her whiskey around the tumbler. ‘Shouldn’t Bridget’s letter and Norah’s photo . . . shouldn’t they be in the National Museum or somewhere? I mean, from what I’ve read, letters from that period aren’t overly common, especially ones as eloquent as this. And that’s before you consider the interest in the pair because of the article in the London Illustrated Gazette. In historical terms, Bridget’s a star.’
For a minute or more, her grandmother was quiet. ‘I hear what you’re saying to me,’ she said eventually. ‘The way it is . . . well, I’ve always thought of that letter as belonging to the family. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see you taking an interest. Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe other people deserve to see it. Not yet, mind. I was hoping you’d do some more digging first.’
‘You hope I’ll be able to find out what became of Bridget, you mean?’
‘I’ve every faith in you. And Ger Dillane will be getting his summer holidays soon. Won’t he be able to give you a hand?’
‘You’re overlooking the fact that, unlike me, he has a life.’
Etty laughed. ‘Still and all, I’ve a feeling he’ll help.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Jessie. ‘We’ve had a bit of a falling-out.’
‘Does that explain why you were tramping around in the lashing rain?’
Jessie reversed her earlier decision and outlined what had happened.
‘Well,’ said Etty, shaking her head, ‘at least you’ll be able to tell him that you were right.’
‘That’s if I decide to talk to him.’
‘Of course, you’ll talk to him. Nobody misses an opportunity to say, “I told you so.”’
‘We’ll see,’ said Jessie. ‘Going back to Bridget, the whole thing is devastating, isn’t it? It’s like in one way I find myself wondering if any of it matters now. They’re all a long time dead. And in another it’s all I want to talk about. Bridget, Norah, Johanna and the rest of them are constantly in my head . . . if that makes any sense.’
‘It does,’ said Etty. ‘It does. I’ve had many years to consider it all.’ She paused. ‘I think what matters most is that we remember.’
Outside, the wind was dying down, and the rain had been replaced by a fine mist. Despite the late hour, light remained in the sky. At this time of year, night fell slowly in Clooneven.
Thankfully, Jessie’s clothes were dry again, as was her hair. She thought about Ger. Perhaps he’d like her to speak to his class. She was, after all, a living, breathing relative of Johanna Markham. She wouldn’t call him yet, though. Actually, now that she thought about it, she’d wait for him to ring her. He was the one who’d been in the wrong.
Before going home, she decided to go for a short walk up the lane. Apart from Bridget’s weeks in the workhouse, this had been where she’d spent her first twenty-two years. This had been her home.
The hedgerows were threaded with honeysuckle, its scent strengthened by the damp air. Jessie wondered if the families who’d lived here in the nineteenth century had been allowed time to enjoy their surroundings. She wanted to believe the answer was yes.
After a couple of hundred metres, she stopped beside a farm gate and lit a cigarette. She leant back and took a deep pull. Despite the poignancy of what she’d learnt, and despite her row with Ger, she felt light. It would be great to say that the feeling was pure, that it was based solely on her discovery of a personal connection to the Moloneys. But that wouldn’t be true.
When she’d told Lorna she was thinking of writing about Bridget, she hadn’t meant it. She’d been scrambling for a way of making the project sound less fanciful. But it was a good story, and if she could discover where Bridget had gone next, it would be a great one. Not in a hold-the-front-page way. A 170-year-old yarn hardly qualified as a scoop. The letter was gold dust, however, as was the photograph of Norah. She pictured them as part of a feature in an upmarket newspaper or magazine.
Cigarette finished, she walked on. She wasn’t far from Lorna and Simon’s place. She ought to turn around and head towards home. Even though the rain had eased, it wasn’t a night for rambling around the countryside.
She heard the car before she saw it. Keen to avoid being splashed with puddle water, she jumped in by the ditch.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ she shouted after the vehicle, a silver-coloured Honda with a Dublin registration.
To her surprise, it slowed and stopped. The driver lowered the window. ‘Hop in there, and I’ll give you a lift. Are you on your way up to Lorna?’
It was only then that she recognised him. ‘Eh, no,’ she replied, blindsided by his sudden appearance. ‘I was in with our grandmother. I’m about to go home.’
‘I’ll bring you to your folks’ place so. It’s a miserable night.’
Her first impulse was to decline, but she was curious. She assumed he’d been to Lorna’s house. Perhaps Simon was working. Or perhaps he was out with friends. Then again, would her sister bring home a lover when the children were there? Young as they were, little escaped their attention.
She might have to rethink this one.
‘Thanks,’ she said, as she slid into the passenger seat and fastened her seatbelt. ‘The last day? In the Seashell? I didn’t get your name.’
‘It’s Dave,’ he said.
She waited for him to elaborate, but when he spoke again it was to ask whether she was okay.
‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’ Then she remembered that she’d been crying. There was every danger her face was a tear-smeared mess. She pulled down the mirror and her fears were confirmed. Her mascara and eyeliner had resettled under her eyes, so that she looked like a refugee from a glam-rock group. Thanks for telling me, Etty. ‘Don’t worry about the makeup,’ she said. ‘I heard something sad about a relation.’
‘Oh?’
‘No one you’d know.’ If he was going to be cagey, she could match him all the way.
They’d arrived at the turn-off for her house. ‘It’s down that way,’ she said, ‘past the ruined church and the “No Hunting” sign.’
‘Cheers. I always get confused around here.’
‘What brings you to this part of the world on a wet Tuesday night?’
‘Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that.’ They rounded the corner towards Jessie’s house, and he laughed. If she was honest, it was a pleasant, throaty laugh. She had the feeling he was aware of this. ‘Don’t mind me trying to wreck your head,’ he said. ‘I was over with Simon and Lorna. We were tying up some business, that’s all.’
‘I get you,’ she said, even though she didn’t. ‘It’s the third house on the left. The one with the flowers.’
‘That’s an impressive garden.’
‘It is.’ She unhooked herself and opened the door. ‘Thanks for the lift. No doubt I’ll see you around.’
‘No doubt,’ he replied.