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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Winds of Change explores the challenges faced by a range of characters against the backdrop of Land League agitation, evictions and boycotting in 1880's Ireland. The story is told through the eyes of three Irish children: Clara Parkinson, Molly O'Hara, and Aidan Daly, whose contrasting circumstances result in differing responses to the unfolding turmoil. Despite their differing backgrounds, Clara, Aidan, and Molly become friends – a friendship that in the tinderbox climate of the Land War brings real physical dangers. Meanwhile Molly has to grapple with her divided loyalties when her father takes part in evictions with the Royal Irish Constabulary. Interspersed with time-slip elements from the present day, with student Garret Byrne exploring his family's past, the story is set during the pivotal period of late 1880 to early 1881, a time when the face of Ireland was changing forever, with dramatic – and sometimes shocking – consequences for our cast of characters.
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1
Friend or Foe
‘Beautiful writing, great character development.’ Voya Magazine
Stormclouds
‘This accurate depiction of violence … will surprise and educate many. A worthy accomplishment.’ Kirkus Reviews
Secrets and Shadows
‘Heart-stopping action.’ Evening Echo
Taking Sides
‘Dramatic action and storytelling skill.’ Evening Echo
Across the Divide
‘The atmosphere of a troubled city awash with tension and poverty is excellently captured.’ Irish Examiner
Arrivals
‘[Brian Gallagher is] one of Ireland’s finest authors of historical fiction for any age … a consummate storyteller.’ gobblefunked.com
Pawns
‘Riveting and insightful.’ Sunday Independent
Spies
‘Immerses the reader into an Ireland full of Black and Tans, soldiers, rebels, and police informers.’ InTouch Magazine
Resistance
‘An exciting and thrilling adventure story.’ Irish Examiner
Dedication
To Holly Garrett, bringer of joy into so many lives.
Contents
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Michael O’Brien for supporting the idea of a novel set at the time of the Land War, to my editor, Helen Carr, for her excellent editing and advice, to publicist Ruth Heneghan for all her efforts on my behalf, to Emma Byrne and Eoin Coveney for their work on cover design, and to everyone at O’Brien Press, with whom it’s a pleasure to work.
My thanks also go to Hugh McCusker for his expert proof-reading, to Sylda Langford for her assistance, and to Jonah Dwyer and Ava Hanrahan, two young readers who shared with me their views of an early draft of the story.
My sincere thanks go to Fingal Arts Office for their bursary support, and to the Arts Council for a Professional Development award.
And finally, my deepest thanks are for the constant encouragement of my family, Miriam, Orla, Mark, Holly, Peter and Shelby.
Part One
Change in the Air
Chapter One
Parkinson Estate, County Westmeath
SATURDAY 9th OCTOBER 1880
Clara Parkinson struggled to control her fear. She clung desperately to the reins as Kaiser, her father’s white stallion, galloped wildly through the pine-scented woods. The horse had been startled by the sudden appearance of a stoat, and despite Clara’s efforts to rein him in, he was out of control.
‘Whoa, Kaiser, whoa!’ she cried. Even as she shouted at him, Clara realised that the stallion was beyond heeding her. He was a huge animal, a thoroughbred that stood seventeen hands high, and it was because he was headstrong and temperamental that her father had never allowed Clara to ride him.
Today, though, her parents were visiting friends at Belvedere 10House, near Mullingar, and they wouldn’t be back until this evening. Clara had taken advantage of their absence to saddle up Kaiser, and she had been enjoying an afternoon canter through the grounds of the family estate when the stoat had burst into her path.
The horse had reared up, then bolted, and Clara had already been smacked in the face by a low-hanging branch. She knew that if she hit a more solid branch at this pace it might be disastrous. Even if she managed to come through unscathed, she could be in big trouble. Disobeying Papa by riding Kaiser was bad enough, but if the horse got injured there would be ructions. Kaiser was a valuable animal, and although her father was a major landowner in County Westmeath, and a wealthy man, he had paid a high price for the stallion. Clara dreaded having to explain herself if the horse broke a leg or otherwise injured himself.
‘Whoa, Kaiser, whoa!’ she cried again, trying with all her strength to rein him in. But Clara was a slightly built twelve-year-old girl, whereas Kaiser was a fully-grown stallion weighing over eighty stone, and as they careened around a bend in the track the horse ignored her efforts to slow him.
Clara’s heart was pounding, but she tried to dampen her fear and think clearly. The longer this went on the greater the chance of a serious accident – she could even be killed if her head smacked into a tree at high speed. Could she jump off the horse, hoping that the woodland floor would break her fall? Maybe. But with the pace at which they were travelling she might break her leg or 11injure her spine. Unless she landed in water. She realised that they were nearing the shore of the small lake at the eastern boundary of the estate. If she freed her feet from the stirrups could she throw herself into the water as they galloped along the shoreline? It would mean getting wet, and she might still hurt herself, but the water would break her fall.
First, though, she had to exit safely from the woods. Despite being jostled by the speed of the bolting horse, Clara tried to stay low in the saddle to avoid low-hanging branches.
‘Whoa, Kaiser, whoa, boy!’ she shouted again, hoping that eventually her command might get through to the panicking horse.
Instead he continued at speed, then swerved wildly as they reached a sharp bend. His hooves skidded as he hit a muddy patch. Kaiser lost his balance, and Clara screamed as the horse fell. She was thrown from the saddle and catapulted forward. The last thing she saw was a mass of green and gold foliage speeding towards her. Then she hit the ground, and everything suddenly turned black.
Aidan stood motionless in the woods, unsure what to do. He was trespassing on the Parkinson estate, having taken a short cut on the way back to his family’s small farm outside the village of Ballydowd. His instinct was to go immediately to the assistance of the girl who had been thrown from the horse. He recognised her as Clara Parkinson, the daughter of the Big House. Although Clara 12was his own age, he didn’t know her, as she didn’t socialise with the boys and girls of the village, or the children of her father’s tenant farmers. It was said locally that she wasn’t snooty, but her family were the gentry, and as such they mixed with people of their own class.
Aidan waited a moment to see if the girl would get up. He hoped she wasn’t injured. If she was just shaken, then he would slip away into the woods. But as he watched, there was no sign of her rising, and he became concerned. If she was badly hurt the right thing would be to go to her assistance – even if that meant revealing that he had been trespassing.
But how might she react? Would she report him to her father for being on their land? Aidan knew that people could be unpredictable. Maybe instead of being grateful for his concern she would be embarrassed that he had seen her being thrown from the horse. Maybe she’d resent him for it.
He waited another moment. Still the girl didn’t rise. Aidan bit his lip, willing her to get up. But there was no movement, and eventually his conscience took over. He couldn’t abandon someone who needed his help. Stepping out from where he had been hiding, he made his way towards the fallen girl. The hazy mid-day sun gave a golden glow to the autumn leaves, but Aidan barely noticed as he approached Clara Parkinson.
She was lying with her eyes closed, and Aidan felt apprehensive. What if she were dead? He could see no blood, however, and he prayed that she had only been knocked unconscious. He dropped 13to his knees beside her. Just as he leaned over her, she stirred, then blinkingly opened her eyes.
Aidan could see the shock in her expression, and he realised that it must be frightening to awake suddenly and find someone leaning over you.
‘What…what are you…?’ she began to ask.
‘It’s all right,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I saw the horse throw you, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.’
Clara moved her limbs gingerly. ‘I…I think I’m all right,’ she said.
‘Go easy,’ Aidan cautioned. ‘Just in case you’ve broken anything.’
Clara carefully sat up. ‘I don’t…I don’t seem to have. But I’m a bit dizzy.’
‘Then I wouldn’t jump up suddenly. You’re a little pale. Give yourself a minute. I’ll stay with you till you’re all right,’ he added, sitting beside her on the forest floor.
‘Thank you,’ she answered politely.
Her accent was unusual, Aidan thought. She didn’t have the local accent, but instead spoke with an English-sounding tone. It was probably influenced by her tutors and her parents, he reasoned. But although she sounded like one of the gentry, and was dressed in what Aidan reckoned was an expensive riding outfit, her manner wasn’t condescending.
‘I’ve seen your face before,’ she said. ‘But I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Aidan. Aidan Daly.’14
‘I’m Clara,’ she said, extending her hand.
‘I know,’ said Aidan. He thought it was strange to shake hands in these circumstances, but then the gentry probably did lots of things differently, and so he took her outstretched hand, noticing how soft her skin was.
Some of the colour was coming back into Clara’s cheeks, and now she looked him directly in the eye. ‘How did you come to be here?’ she asked.
Aidan felt uncomfortable. ‘I…I know I shouldn’t have been really. But I was fishing and I took a shortcut home – but I wasn’t poaching! I fished in the canal, not the lake on your land.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said,’ I’m not going to tell on you.’
Aidan could see that she meant it, and he felt relieved. ‘Thanks.’
‘Will you do the same for me?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I borrowed my father’s horse without permission. But if you tell your friends what you saw, they’ll tell their parents, and word will get back to Papa. Then I’ll be for it.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die in a barrel of rats!’
Clara burst out laughing, and Aidan liked the way her face lit up when she laughed.
‘I’ve never heard that saying before,’ she said
‘Really? It just means the promise definitely won’t be broken.’
‘Then our secrets are safe. Well, that’s if I can get Kaiser back to 15the stables uninjured.’
‘That should be all right,’ said Aidan, ‘he got up after he fell. I saw him grazing at the edge of the woods; we can pick him up on the way back to Ballydowd.’
‘Excellent,’ said Clara, then she rose carefully to her feet.
Aidan rose also. ‘Feeling all right now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Clara looked at him. ‘So, on a separate note, as my governess likes to say – did you catch any fish?’
The question was so unexpected that Aidan found himself smiling. ‘Yes…I did.’
‘What did you get?’
‘Some bream and a couple of brown trout.’
‘I’d love to catch a fish,’ said Clara.
‘Have you never?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘To quote my governess again. Ladies don’t fish!’
‘But you’re only – what? Twelve? Thirteen?’
‘Twelve. But I’m supposed to be a lady one day. Though that’s just rubbish.’
‘Being a lady?’
‘No, that’s fine. Well, some of it’s actually a bit silly. But the rest of it’s all right. What’s rubbish is saying that you can’t learn to fish because one day you’re going to be a lady.’
‘Right.’
‘Is it hard to catch fish?’16
‘Not if you know the right tricks,’ said Aidan.
‘What are they?’
‘Knowing the best bait. Using the right gear. Knowing the best spots.’
Clara thought for moment, then looked enquiringly at Aidan. ‘Would you show me how?’
Aidan hesitated. The Land War was causing conflict all across Ireland as small farmers and landlords clashed over fair rents and an end to evictions. The Parkinsons were generally regarded as decent landlords, but Aidan knew there were people who would object strongly to a friendship between members of the opposing classes.
‘Only if you want to,’ said Clara.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to. It would be fun, but…’
‘What?’
‘If we’re seen together you might get into trouble. And so might I.’
Clara spoke with a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘Then we’d have to make sure we weren’t seen, wouldn’t we?’
Aidan was tempted to agree. Yet he knew instinctively that this could lead to problems.
Clara smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
Aidan hesitated another moment, then acted on impulse. ‘All right,’ he said, returning her smile.
‘Great! When can we do it?’
‘When would you like?’
‘How about tomorrow?’ 17
Aidan found her enthusiasm infectious, and he grinned. ‘OK then. Tomorrow it is!’
Chapter Two
Ashtown, Dublin 15
WEDNESDAY 19th FEBRUARY 2020
Garrett Byrne sat immobile, gripped by curiosity. He was at a desk in his bedroom, a laptop open before him as he studied the screen. He was trying to trace his family roots for a school project and for the last hour he had been looking up old census forms online. Normally he was mildly interested in history, and he had enjoyed several books of historical fiction from the library, but this was different. The fact that it was his own family whose past he was exploring changed things, and he had almost felt like a detective as he followed the trail of ancestors back to the early years of the twentieth century.
He looked now at the scanned 1911 census form and marvelled at the beautiful handwriting of Thomas Donnelly, his ancestor. Thomas Donnelly, aged forty, Roman Catholic, cooper, father of five 19children, married to Helen Donnelly, and Head of the Family at 26 St Ignatius Road, Drumcondra.
What must his life have been like? wondered Garrett. What were his hopes and fears? And could he ever have imagined that one day, almost one hundred and ten years later, his great-great-grandson would be reading his census entry?
Garrett looked at the form again. He wasn’t sure what a cooper was. In fact, before today, he didn’t even know his great-great-grandfather’s name. But he liked the idea of Thomas Donnelly living in Drumcondra, through which the Royal Canal flowed. Garrett could actually see the sparkling waters of the Ashtown stretch of the canal from his bedroom window, and he wondered if Thomas once swam in or walked along the canal, as Garrett liked to do all these years later.
Garrett looked at the dates again and did some mental arithmetic. Garrett’s father, a civil servant in the Department of Finance, claimed that kids today couldn’t do mental arithmetic because they were so dependent on electronic calculating. Garrett knew there was some truth in this, but he liked maths, and he liked even better to prove Dad wrong by being quick with his own mental calculations. Doing his sums now, he reasoned that if Thomas Donnelly had lived to be seventy-five – a good age back then – he would have died in 1946. But Garrett’s grandmother was eighty-one, so according to his calculations their lives might have briefly overlapped.
One way to find out, he thought excitedly. Each Wednesday afternoon 20 Granny came for dinner, and right now she was downstairs in the kitchen with Mam.
Garrett rose quickly from the desk, exited his bedroom and descended the stairs. He entered the kitchen, his appetite suddenly whetted by the smell of the roast chicken that was cooking in the oven.
‘Garrett,’ cried his grandmother mischievously, ‘you’ve emerged from the Batcave!’
‘Someone’s got to protect Gotham City, Granny,’ he retorted with a grin. ‘Where’s Mam?’
‘In the utility room, putting on a wash.’
‘Right.’
‘Finished your homework?’
‘It wasn’t actually tonight’s homework I was doing. It’s a project.’
‘Ah.’
Garrett sat beside his grandmother at the table. ‘And you might be able to help me with it.’
‘Me?’
‘Our class are doing projects on our family trees. So I wondered if you remember your grandfather, Thomas Donnelly?’
Granny looked serious, and hesitated briefly before nodding. ‘Yes. But he died when I was a little girl. So I remember very little of him.’
‘Do you know where he was born, or where he grew up?’
‘No. Sorry, Garrett.’21
‘And what about his wife – your grandmother?’
‘She died when I was five. I barely remember her.’
‘Right. And would you know where she was born?’
‘I’m…I’m not sure where she came from,’ said Granny. ‘Sure isn’t it enough to have gone back as far as you have?’
‘Well, yes, but it would be great to go back even further. Did you ever hear either of them talking about their parents?’
Granny shook her head decisively. ‘No, I didn’t. Anyway, they’re all long since dead. Best to just say a prayer for their souls and let them rest in peace.’
Before Garrett could respond his mother came back into the kitchen.
‘Good man, Garrett,’ she said, ‘smell of food bring you down?’
‘No.’
‘I believe you – but thousands wouldn’t! Set the table there, will you?’
‘OK.’
Granny and his mother began chatting about Granny’s new slow cooker, and Garrett started to set the table, his thoughts slightly unsettled. Something about Granny’s response had struck a wrong note. Normally she was supportive about everything he did. So why was she dismissive of his efforts to explore the family tree? Best to say a prayer and let the dead rest in peace? He wouldn’t push her on it for now, but something told him that there was a story here, and he wondered what on earth it might be.
Chapter Three
Ballydowd, County Westmeath
SATURDAY 9th OCTOBER 1880
Molly felt anxious as she tried to get up the nerve to question her father. The family had finished dinner, and now Da was relaxing in the living room of their home adjoining the Royal Irish Constabulary station in the centre of the village. Da had taken his boots off and raised his feet onto a stool, and he was puffing contentedly on his sweet-smelling pipe.
Molly hesitated, trying to find the right words. Knowing Da’s busy schedule, she mightn’t get a chance like this for some time, with her mother tidying up in the kitchen, and her little sister Helen playing with her dolls in the bedroom. Molly’s two older brothers were away from home, with twenty-year-old Frank serving 23with the British Army in India, and eighteen-year-old Mick following in Da’s footsteps and away training at the police depot in Dublin.
Now was the moment, Molly knew. She sat quietly in the corner, a book in her hand, as she tried to decide exactly what she should say. Before she could speak, however, Da cocked his head and looked at her.
‘Everything all right, love?’
Molly realised that her worry must have shown, and that her father, an experienced policeman, had read her body language.
‘I eh…I just wanted to ask you something,’ she said, closing the book.
‘Ask away,’ said Da. He took his pipe from his mouth and smiled encouragingly. ‘I won’t bite you.’
Molly tried for a smile in return. ‘I wanted…I wanted to ask you about your job.’
Her father looked a little surprised. ‘Yes? What did you want to know?’
‘Well…people are…people are saying that the Royal Irish Constabulary are on the wrong side – in all this trouble with the Land League.’
‘What people?’
Molly didn’t want to name names so she shrugged. ‘Just…other children in school and in the village.’
‘Are they picking on you?’ asked Da, lowering his feet from the stool and looking enquiringly at Molly.24
‘Not exactly. But I feel a bit uncomfortable sometimes. Having you as our local sergeant – it used to be good, people respected us. But now…’
‘Now the Land League are poisoning the atmosphere.’
Molly didn’t want to contradict her father, but she thought this was only half the story. The Land League’s efforts to get basic rights for poor tenant farmers was a good idea, she believed, even if their methods were sometimes wrong. ‘I know some Land League people are breaking the law,’ she said.
Da drew on his pipe, and looked her in the eye. ‘I’m waiting for the “but”.’
‘But they’re saying that evicted families are left sleeping rough in fields or barns, or living like beggars in the workhouse. And people are saying the RIC are bullyboys for the landlords. That the police are too violent at evictions. I’m…I’m not sure what to say back to them.’
Her father didn’t reply for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was gentle. ‘Have I ever raised my hand to you, Molly?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever seen me mistreat Mick, or Frank, or Helen, or your mam?’
‘No, Da.’
‘That’s because I’m not a bullyboy.’
‘I didn’t mean you, Da!’
‘Most of the men I work with aren’t bullyboys either.’
‘But…are some of them? Are some more violent than they 25should be?’
Her father shrugged. ‘We’re not perfect. But we’re up against thugs and criminals.’
‘But, Da, aren’t most people in the Land League just ordinary farmers? You can understand them not wanting to be evicted.’
‘I can. But if the law says someone’s to be evicted, we’ve no choice. The government makes the law, not the RIC. It’s our job then to carry it out, whether we like it or not.’
‘And…and what about the policemen who go too far?’
‘What about the Land League thugs who go too far? Who maim cattle and threaten people?’
‘They shouldn’t,’ said Molly. ‘But…I suppose people expect the police to behave better than that.’
‘And we generally do. But it’s an imperfect world, Molly. At times like this we have to choose sides. Our family’s done well out of the RIC. So for better or worse, that’s the side we’re on.’
‘Right.’
‘I can have a word though, if someone is giving you a hard time.’
‘No, it’s OK, Da.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, I just wanted to ask you about it.’
‘You were right to. So next time someone talks about the RIC, you ask them right back about Land League outrages.’
Molly thought that that sounded fine at home. She suspected though that in the schoolyard or on the streets of the village it might not work so well. She didn’t say so to her father, however, 26and instead she nodded.
‘Nothing else bothering you?’
‘No, Da.’
‘Good girl.’
Her father went back to drawing on his pipe, and Molly gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, even though she knew, deep down, that there could be trouble ahead.
Clara heard a loud crack of thunder, then a moment later she saw a flash of lightning through the large Georgian windows of the dining room of Parkinson House. Clara normally loved to watch lightning with her nose pressed to the windowpane, but tonight she stayed at the table politely eating.
She felt happy as she slipped the last mouthful of apple tart into her mouth. It was one of her favourite desserts, and a dish that Cook did to perfection, with just the right mixture of tangy apples and soft, sugar-sweetened pastry. Clara’s pleasure, however, didn’t stem from the meal alone; she was pleased too with what had been an eventful day. She felt no ill-effects from her fall in the woods and had managed to return Kaiser to the stables uninjured. She was also intrigued by her encounter with Aidan and was excited by the idea of their secret rendezvous to go fishing tomorrow afternoon.
Her mother and father had returned from their trip to the Belvedere 27 estate outside Mullingar, and Clara had joined them, along with her Aunt Esther, after everyone had dressed for dinner. At twenty-six years of age Aunt Esther was the baby sister of Clara’s father William, and Clara enjoyed the company of her youthful aunt. Esther was to be married in the spring, and Clara had savoured the excitement of her engagement and was already looking forward to next year’s wedding.
Now, however, the mood at the dining table had taken a serious turn as Esther asked how the trip to Belvedere had gone.
‘Very pleasant lunch,’ said Clara’s mother, ‘but marred by news from Mayo.’
‘Really?’ said Esther, who always liked to hear the latest gossip.
Clara could sense though that the news her mother referred to was something serious.
‘It’s the Land League,’ she continued, ‘they’re making life impossible for landowners.’
‘What are they doing now, Mama?’ asked Clara.
Her mother hesitated and glanced at her husband.
‘She may as well hear it from us, Florence, she’ll hear it anyway,’ he said, before turning to Clara. ‘They’re damaging landlords’ property, they’re harming animals, and they’re destroying crops.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Clara.
‘Yes, it is. And now they’ve gone further.’
‘How?’ asked Esther.
‘They’re trying to ruin Captain Boycott, Lord Erne’s land agent. The local people won’t harvest his crops, his servants have abandoned 28 him, and no one will cook his meals or wash his clothes. The local shops in Ballinrobe won’t supply him with food. It’s appalling.’
‘Why are they so angry with him, Papa?’
‘They’re in dispute about rents and evictions.’
‘Mind you, I have heard that Charles Boycott is not the easiest man to get on with,’ said Esther.
‘Be that as it may, they don’t have the right to ruin a man.’
Even though Clara could see her father’s point, it seemed to her that what was being done to Captain Boycott wasn’t as awful as being evicted onto the side of the road. The thunder and lightning had brought with it a downpour of heavy rain, and Clara thought how miserable it must be tonight for those people who had lost their homes. She didn’t want to seem disloyal to her own family, however, so she said nothing.
‘And what are the Royal Irish Constabulary doing about it all?’ asked Esther.
‘Not half enough,’ said her sister-in-law.
‘Well, it’s difficult,’ conceded Clara’s father. ‘Anyone caught damaging property or crops is arrested. But the other behaviour isn’t actually illegal. It’s despicable and cowardly, but if people shun you, if the blacksmith won’t shoe your horse or the shopkeeper won’t sell you groceries, they’re not breaking any law.’
‘Captain Boycott actually had to have food taken in from Cong by boat,’ said Clara’s mother.
‘Really?’ said Esther. ‘You would have thought some local 29people would be glad to have his business.’
‘Of course they would. But they’re intimidated not to. It’s pure blackguardism.’
Clara was a little taken aback by her father’s words. Normally Papa was moderate in his views, and she knew that the Parkinsons had traditionally been regarded as good landlords who got on well with their tenants.
‘If someone refuses to ostracise whoever is being sent to Coventry, then they themselves get ostracised,’ continued her father, ‘that’s what allows it to infect a whole community.’
‘It sounds like the Land League has come up with a very effective weapon,’ said Esther. ‘And if it works against Charles Boycott…’
‘It could quickly spread to other disputes. Which would be disastrous,’ said Clara’s mother.
For Mama to become agitated by politics was unusual, and Clara felt a flutter of unease. Before she knew what she was doing she blurted out her fear. ‘Does that mean…could people do that to us? Refuse to pick our crops or sell us food or anything?’
‘No. No, I think that’s most unlikely, Clara,’ said her father reassuringly. ‘We’ve always played fair with our tenants. When harvests were bad we accepted lower rents. So don’t worry yourself. What’s happening in Mayo won’t happen in Ballydowd. All right?’
‘All right, Papa,’ answered Clara, relieved by his soothing words. And yet, a small seed of unease had been planted in her mind. Ballydowd was a long way from the upheaval going on in county 30Mayo, but the Land League was growing in power, and who knew what the future might bring? Clara knew from listening to her parents that the government had set up a commission, headed by Lord Bessborough, to hear evidence from tenant farmers, landlords and agents. The commission was holding dozens of sittings to examine rent, tenant security, and land ownership, and the commission’s recommendations – which could change things dramatically – were due in a few more months.
Well, she would worry about all of that when the time came. For now she was hoping that the heavy rain wouldn’t last long, and that she could meet Aidan for their fishing trip tomorrow. Excited by the thought of their secret rendezvous, she leaned forward and helped herself to another portion of apple tart.
Chapter Four
‘I’ve a good one for you, Molly,’ said Aidan with a grin.
‘Go on then.’
‘What do you call a horse that lives next door?’
‘What?’ she asked, a smile forming on her lips even before Aidan gave the answer.
‘A neigh-bour!’
Molly laughed, then playfully pointed at her friend. ‘I’ve one for you. Why was the dog a bad dancer?’
‘Why?’
‘Because he had two left feet!’
Aidan laughed and he was glad that he had met Molly after Sunday morning Mass. Last night’s thunder and lightning had given way to a mild autumn morning, and the main street of Ballydowd was bathed in hazy October sunshine as they walked in the direction of her home. Aidan had known Molly O’Hara since they had started in school together as four-year-olds, and now, eight years later, they were good friends.
It made him feel a little guilty when Molly asked him what he was doing this afternoon. He answered that he was going fishing – but made no mention of Clara Parkinson. He knew that Molly was going with her father into Mullingar, the nearest big town, and that he wouldn’t have seen her this afternoon anyhow. 32But not mentioning Clara Parkinson somehow felt dishonest. On the other hand he had agreed with Clara that it was to be a secret meeting. And if something happened, and Clara couldn’t get away, or if she had second thoughts and didn’t show up, then he didn’t want to look stupid in Molly’s eyes. Better to say nothing, and see how things go this afternoon, he decided.
‘Bye, Aidan,’ said Molly, as they came to a halt outside the RIC station. ‘Enjoy your fishing.’
‘Thanks. Enjoy Mullingar.’
‘See you in school tomorrow.’
‘Thanks for reminding me!’ said Aidan, then he waved in farewell and set off down the street. There was something about Sunday mornings that he really liked. Part of it was not having to attend school, and the fact that the family always had a nicer dinner on Sundays. But part of it was the sense of occasion. Whether attending Mass in the Catholic chapel, or Sunday service in the Anglican Church, people dressed in their best clothes. Aidan himself was in his good trousers and jacket and, although he would have to change out of them as soon as he came home from Mass, he liked looking smart. The other local boys weren’t very interested in clothes, but Aidan was intrigued by design and the way fashions changed. He knew his father wanted him to follow in his footsteps and be a farmer. Aidan, though, had never had the nerve to tell Da that his real dream was to work in a big department store, advising customers on fabrics and fashions, and maybe even running his own shop one day.33
No point having that conversation until he had to, he had decided, and meanwhile he was happy enough to help out on the family farm. Though of course it wasn’t really the Daly’s farm, in that they were tenant farmers whose thirty-five-acre holding was actually owned by an absentee landlord. Many of the other small farms in the area were tenants of the Parkinson estate, and Aidan thought how unlikely it would have seemed just a day ago that he would soon be meeting the daughter of the man who held so much power over the lives of the people of Ballydowd. Then again, maybe that power would be lessened if things in Mayo were anything to go by. It was an interesting time to be growing up in Ireland he reckoned. Then he dismissed all thoughts of politics, and walked on through the autumn sunshine, looking forward to his Sunday dinner and his secret meeting.
‘The time for talking is over,’ said Sean Kearney. ‘It’s time for action.’
‘Careful, Sean.’
‘No, Larry! We’ve been careful too long.’
