Kathleen McGurl - The Forgotten Secret

Ellen certainly hoped so. She calculated when would be the soonest that she could go over to Clonamurty Farm to see Jimmy. Not today – it was already late for her to be getting home to cook the tea. Tomorrow, then. Sunday, after church, if she didn’t see him in church. She was not due to start at Mrs Carlton’s until Monday.

Ellen rounded the corner and turned off the lane, up the rutted track that led to her home. It was looking more and more dilapidated, she thought, sadly. Back when Mammy was alive, Da would never have let the thatch get into such a state, sagging in the middle and letting water in over the kitchen. The gate was hanging off its hinges, and the front door was waterlogged and swollen, its paint long since peeled away.

‘Hello, boy,’ Ellen said to Digger, the elderly wolfhound who had hauled himself to his feet, wagging his tail at her approach. She fondled his ears. ‘Daddy in, is he? I’ve news for him, so I have.’

Digger pushed his muzzle into her hand, and she remembered the pack of barley sugars. She gave him one, which he ate with a crunch, and then she pushed open the door to the cottage.

‘Da? I’m back.’ Mr O’Brien was sitting in his worn-out armchair beside the kitchen range, his head lolling back, mouth open, snoring loudly.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, will I?’ Ellen didn’t wait for an answer, but began setting the kettle to boil, clattering around a little so as to wake him naturally.

It worked. ‘Eh, what?’ he said, sitting upright and blinking to focus on her. ‘Ah, tis you, Mary-Ellen. Late, aren’t you?’

‘Not really. I have good news, Da. I’m after getting myself a job, up at Carlton House. I’m to start on Monday. Ten shillings a week.’

‘Ah, that’s grand, lass. Keep two yourself and the rest towards the housekeeping. You’ll be back each day to cook for me?’

Ellen shook her head. ‘The job’s live-in, Da. I’ll get a day off every Sunday and will come home then.’

Her father pursed his lips. ‘Who’ll cook for me, then?’

Ellen was silent for a moment. ‘I’ll make you pies on Sunday that’ll last the week.’

‘And what of potatoes? I’ll have to cook my own, will I?’

‘Da, you wanted me to find a job. And now I have. You’ll be grand.’

Seamus O’Brien grunted. ‘Cooking me own tea. Women’s work, that is.’

Ellen ignored him. She was used to his grumps, and knew he was more than capable of boiling a few potatoes. She poured water into the teapot. Should she tell Da about Jimmy being home? A smile played about her lips as she thought of Jimmy, and imagined meeting up with him tomorrow.

‘What’s that you’re so pleased about, girl? Your new job?’

‘Aye, that, and the fact that Jimmy Gallagher’s home, so I heard.’ The words slipped out unbidden.

‘Michael Gallagher’s lad, from Clonamurty?’

‘That’s him, Da. I was at the National with him, remember?’

Seamus O’Brien shook his head. ‘Don’t be getting ideas. Them Gallaghers are too good for the likes of us. They’ll be looking for a lass with money for their Jimmy. Not a kitchen maid, like you.’

‘Upstairs maid,’ Ellen said quietly. But her father’s words stung. Was she really too lowly for Jimmy? Not that she thought of him as a potential suitor, or at least, she tried not to. These last few years they’d only seen each other a half-dozen times each summer and Christmas, when he’d come home for school holidays. She’d thought their friendship was strong, and that Jimmy liked her company as much as she liked his, but what now? Now they were both grown, both adults, would he still like her? Or was she just a childhood friend, someone to think back on fondly?

She didn’t know. She wouldn’t know until she saw him again and had the chance to judge his reaction on seeing her. She hoped if nothing else they would still be friends, still share a few easy-going, laughter-filled days together like they always had. One day, she supposed, he would find himself a sweetheart and that would be hard for Ellen to deal with, but she would smile and wish him well. Occasionally she had dared fantasise that she would become his sweetheart, but her father was probably right. His parents would want someone better for him, and who could blame them?

He’d almost certainly be at Mass tomorrow. She’d find out then, for better or for worse, whether his last year at school had changed him or not.

Jimmy was indeed at Mass. She saw him walk in with his parents and younger brother, so tall now, so handsome! His dark-blond hair, too long across his forehead so that he had to keep flicking it back. A smattering of freckles across his nose – faded now compared to what he’d had as a child. His broad chest and long, elegant hands. She felt a flutter in her stomach. Would he want to know her any more? She tried to catch his eye, carefully, as she didn’t want her father to see her doing it. But he didn’t notice her, or if he did, he made no sign.

The service, led by Father O’Riordan, was interminably long. The priest was getting on in years, and Ellen often thought he was simply going through the motions rather than truly finding joy in the presence of God. His sermon, as it did so often, rambled on, touching on several topics but not fully exploring any. Ten seconds after it was over Ellen could not have said what it was about. The only thing for certain was that she had learned nothing from it, despite listening intently.

When she went up to receive the Holy Sacrament, she once more tried to catch Jimmy’s eye, but he was at the far end of a pew on the other side of church, and did not go up for communion. That was odd. To be in church and not receive communion? He must have something on his mind he wished to confess to the priest, and had not had the chance to do so before Mass, she thought.

At last the service was over. She walked out with her father, feeling a strange mixture of delight at having seen Jimmy again but disappointment that he had not acknowledged her in any way. At the door of the church her father stopped to say a few words to the priest, and she caught sight of Jimmy once more, over the priest’s shoulder, standing a little way off.

He was looking right at her, smiling slightly, and making a surreptitious hand signal, fingers splayed then closed, not raising his hand at all. Anyone watching would have thought he was just stretching his finger joints.

But Ellen knew different, and the sight of that gesture filled her with joy. It was part of their old childhood sign language – a set of signs they’d made up so they could signal to each other in class without the teacher realising. There were signs for ‘see you after school by the old oak’, ‘watch out, the teacher’s coming’, ‘I have sweets, want to share them?’ Jimmy had made the sign for ‘see you after school’. She was puzzled for a moment but quickly realised he must mean ‘after church’. She signalled back ‘yes’ (a waggling thumb) and had to suppress a snort of laughter when he replied with the sign for ‘want to share my sweets?’ accompanied by a lopsided cheeky grin.

As soon as her father had finished speaking to the priest, she made some excuse about having left something in the church. ‘I’ll see you back at home, Da,’ she said. ‘Couple of things I need to do, then I’ll be back to cook the Sunday dinner.’

‘Aye, well, don’t be long, girl,’ he replied, his mouth downturned as it so often was these days. He walked off, not looking back, and as soon as he’d turned the corner and was out of sight Ellen darted off through the churchyard in the opposite direction, to the old oak that stood on the edge of a field beside the river. It was near the National School, and had been the place where she and Jimmy always met up after school when they were children.