The keeper of secrets, p.9
The Keeper of Secrets, page 9
“Oh, Ed, my lovely Da. I need to go home.”
Ed’s arms enveloped me like a warm blanket, soothing my pain away.
“I need to go home, Ed. I have to see him.”
“Ssh, shoosh, honey. That would not be a good idea. It was the black flu that killed him. You can’t see him. None of us can.”
I pushed myself out of Ed’s embrace.
“Whatever do you mean? Of course I have to go home.”
“You can’t, honey. Your mother’s letter will explain, I’m sure.”
Ed was right. Ma’s letter arrived the next morning. She urged me to stay away, to remember my father the way he was at Christmas. He succumbed to the black flu, which was highly contagious. Ma begged me not to go home but to light a candle in St Colman’s Cathedral and pray for my father’s soul.
I followed Ma’s wishes. I paid the priest for a Mass for my father’s soul. They all attended. Aunt Jean and Uncle Pat, the girls, Patricia and Bridget and their families, Aíne and Scott, Mrs Buckley and Kate and of course, my Ed. It was a lovely Mass, dedicated to my lovely father. It eased my pain to a degree. I felt it gave me license to talk about him with people who knew him and loved him as I did.
Soon after that day I realised that Ed would be leaving in a few weeks. A few months later, me and Aíne would be leaving on the SS Plattsburgh. I couldn’t help but worry what would happen to my mother. Catherine McCarthy was a strong-willed woman, but she’d never recovered fully from Maggie’s death. Her home, Primrose Cottage, came with my father’s job. Would Lord Haughton allow my mother and brother to stay?
Chapter 19
Aíne’s Baby
A loud banging on our cottage door woke both of us. We leapt out of bed. Ed opened the door to a frantic Uncle Pat.
“Uncle Pat, what is it?”
“I need Lizzie, come quickly. It’s Aíne. She’s started labour early.”
We dressed hurriedly and followed Uncle Pat up the hill to the house. Scott stood waiting on the doorstep while Aíne’s cries could be heard coming from the back bedroom. I bounded up the stairs. Inside the bedroom Aunt Jean was mopping Aíne’s brow while the local midwife examined her. Ed remained outside with Scott, who was puffing cigarettes and pacing up and down the street, looking anxiously towards the door.
“It’s no use. I can’t turn the baby,” the midwife whispered to Aunt Jean. “She’ll have to birth it legs first.”
Aunt Jean gestured to me to come closer and handed me the cloth.
“Keep mopping her brow with cold water,” she instructed before stepping outside with the midwife. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but their frantic whispers made me fear the worst. I could see those fears reflected in Aíne’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, Aíne. It will be fine. The baby might be a little early, but Mrs Nolan here knows what she’s doing.” I squeezed Aíne’s damp hand.
Aíne smiled gratefully until another contraction hit her. Pain contorted her pretty face as she screamed, holding my hand so tightly I thought my fingers would break. With my support and the help of Mrs Nolan, Aíne gave birth two hours later. It was a long and difficult breech birth but nothing the experienced midwife hadn’t dealt with before.
“You have a son.”
Aíne smiled through her sweat and tears, while Aunt Jean beamed from ear to ear. The baby screamed as Mrs Nolan carefully counted ten fingers and ten toes, then wrapped the tiny bundle in a swaddling cloth before placing the little boy in Aíne’s arms.
“Oh, Lizzie, look. My little boy and he is perfect, simply perfect.” Aíne held her baby in the crook of her arm and smiled. I looked on, beaming at the image of motherhood my best friend presented. My smile turned to horror as Aíne mumbled something. Her face drained of colour and a pool of blood slowly formed around her. Aghast, I lifted the crying baby out of his mother’s arms while Mrs Nolan tried to stem the flow of blood, but it was no use. She could not save Aíne despite her best efforts. I retreated to the corner cuddling the crying child into my chest as if to protect it from witnessing the scene unfolding in front of him. Aunt Jean’s cries brought Uncle Pat and Scott to the room in time to see Aíne draw her last breath.
The next few days went by in a blur. Scott was numb with grief. He refused to even look at his son. After the funeral he went back to the port and stayed on board, refusing to talk to anyone, even Ed. Heartbroken at the loss of her daughter, Aunt Jean looked after her grandson.
“I think we should name him Scott after his father,” she told me and Ed. “I’ve arranged for him to be christened on Saturday. Please, Ed. Do whatever you can to get Scott to come.”
Ed tried but Scott refused to leave the ship. Me and Ed accompanied Aunt Jean and Uncle Pat to St Colman’s and witnessed the christening of baby Scott. Ed borrowed a camera and took a photograph of the baby in his christening gown, the same gown Aíne and her sisters wore for their christenings. He got three copies printed, one for me, one for Aunt Jean and the last one for Scott to bring with him back to the States.
The date of Ed’s departure came around all too quickly. On our final night together, we cuddled under the blankets with the dying fire casting a dim glow over the room. The rain splattered off the windowpanes while the wind howled down the chimney, sending gusts that threatened to scatter the embers over the flagstone floor.
“I hope this storm settles before you set sail,” I said as I snuggled into Ed’s broad chest.
“Jeez, I hope so. I don’t fancy going out to sea in that.”
“Maybe they will put back the sailing. We could have another few days together.”
“That won’t happen. We’ve went to sea in worse weather.”
“I’ll miss you so much.”
“I’ll miss you too, honey, but it’s only four months. Once we put that behind us, we’ll have the rest of our lives together. Anyway, it’ll give me time to organise my transfer to Pensacola. New York is fine but we don’t want to live there permanently.”
I woke the next morning sensing the cold spot in the bed beside me. My heart sank with the realisation that he had left without saying one last goodbye. Ed had slipped away in the early hours of the morning leaving a note for me on his pillow. I sank back into the blankets, hugging myself tightly. The tears flowed with no sign of stopping. My arms ached for Ed as I wondered how I would get through the next four months without him. I opened his note and smiled. Ed knew me so well.
Don’t cry, honey. I am with you in spirit. You are always in my thoughts and dreams. Today, I leave to prepare a home for us. Let’s treat this not as a parting, but as a beginning, the start of our new life together. Think of me every day and know that I will love you forever.
Ed’s words gave me the impetus I needed to get out of bed and on with my life. After all, I had a lot to do before I set sail to join him. My mother was arriving that day and staying for a week. The cottage had to be prepared. I had to make sure it was spick and span. Folding Ed’s note carefully, I tucked it inside the back cover of my prayer book, before placing it under my pillow. Knowing it was there brought me some comfort, as if it would invite Ed to inhabit my dreams at night. Not that an invitation was needed. Ed lived in my thoughts every waking minute and populated all of my dreams.
Catherine McCarthy arrived that evening, tired from her journey. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself. Ma was a shadow of her former self. Her skin hung loosely on her frame. Black shadows under her eyes told their own story of grief. I hugged her tightly, shocked at her appearance. Between her husband’s death and then Aíne’s shocking demise, Ma had aged ten years in as many weeks. Over the following few days I concentrated on trying to get some colour back into my mother’s cheeks.
The only thing that brought a smile to her face was the baby. Ma fed him and winded him and sang softly to him. He cried a lot, even for a newborn. Aunt Jean said it was as if he knew that his mother had gone to heaven, and blessed herself. Ma was the only one who could settle him.
“It’s as if that child knows that his great-aunt Catherine is grieving too. Kindred spirits they are, the two of them. Both grieving,” Aunt Jean said, nodding her head to emphasise her point.
It was a foregone conclusion. Ma stayed. Aunt Jean enrolled Jimmy in the local school. Uncle Pat and Aunt Jean travelled all the way to Primrose Cottage on a borrowed horse and cart. They packed up all the belongings of the McCarthy family and fully loaded, headed back to Queenstown. Ma stayed and looked after baby Scott while Aunt Jean packed her former life into a cart and transported it to her single room in her sister’s house. I didn’t even pretend to protest. In my opinion it was the best solution for everyone. Looking after baby Scott had given Ma a reason to get up in the morning. Jimmy would thrive at the larger school. And I could go to America knowing that my mother and brother had a home with people who loved them.
Chapter 20
Beth, 1976
Listening to my grandma’s voice telling the story of her sister broke my heart. Her voice faltered several times, choked with emotion. How difficult it must have been for her to lose her only sister that way. It’s as if she’d lost her twice. The first time when she was sent away and then again when she died. Grandma mentioned her years ago, but it was the abridged version. I never understood what really happened to her. How traumatic it must have been. Not only for Grandma, but for her whole family.
I couldn’t imagine how I would feel if anything happened to Conor. My older brother was my best friend. He loved Grandma as much as I did. I need to share these tapes with him. Let him hear Grandma’s voice again.
Conor would love to hear Grandma talking about her husband. We called him Pops. The sheer love and affection she felt for him is evident in her voice as she talks about him. It’s odd to try to reconcile the image in my head of my pops with the young Ed who swept Grandma off her feet. How brave was she to venture into a whole new world, so many miles away from the place she was born. Although I wonder how many other Irish women did the same. Married their American doughboy and set off for a new life.
Grandma’s life in Ireland had been so hard yet she never gave us a hint of what she had been through. She talked about Ireland, ‘the old country’ as she called it, as if it were a magical place. She had told us she had a sister who had died, but this was the first time I heard the full story of what had happened to her.
I’d heard about the Spanish flu but never fully understood it until I heard Grandma talking about her father’s death. I can hear her grief, feel her pain. Maybe it’s because it’s so close to how I’m feeling. My father died so suddenly. The first heart attack left him hospitalised but at least I had time to get home and tell him how much I loved him before the second heart attack took him from us. We were all here for the funeral. Even our Irish relatives made it over. The last time was when Grandma died.
But they’re all gone back now, it’s just Mom and me. Conor has gone back to work. He’s a teacher but the summer break is coming up in a few weeks, so he’ll be back. I’ve handed in my notice. It wasn’t working out anyway and maybe it’s about time I came home. Coming home to my old bedroom feels right for me somehow. Breaking up with Jeremy was hard but let’s face it, my grandma would turn in her grave if she knew I dated a married man, and my boss at that.
I’ve always admired her. She was a force of nature, full of energy and fun. Grandma had always stuck up for me, argued my case with my father, whether it was over the length of my skirts or my choice of college. I don’t think she would have supported me in this battle.
Of course, it’s a moot point now anyway. At least the two people I admired most in the world didn’t find out how stupid I had been. My grandma and my father. Grandma was my role model. She would be so disappointed in me. I can’t believe how stupid I have been. Imagine falling for your boss. What a cliché. How much of an idiot am I?
Mom is curious as to why I left a job she thought I was happy in. And to a point she is right. I was happy there. The work was fulfilling, interesting even, if accountancy can ever be termed interesting. But I enjoyed it, got on well with the clients. Jeremy was the problem.
It’s not as if I didn’t see the warning signs. He was a player. I knew that from the first time I met him. He had the practised lines of an expert and I fell for it. I can blame my relative naivety but, in the end, I was warned he was married, and I still fell for him. I’m glad it’s over before anyone else got hurt. His wife is such a lovely person. She deserves so much better than him. I deserve so much better than him.
At least I’ve walked away with good references. I am so ashamed of my actions but at least my work was exemplary. The firm are opening a new branch in Pensacola, and I’ve been offered a position there. I’m starting in a few weeks. It’s something to look forward to. In the meantime, I’m listening to my grandma’s recordings telling her personal story.
I’m glad I found the tapes again. Listening to them is a distraction. Hearing my grandma’s voice is soothing for my tortured soul. I admired her so much as a little girl and now, as an adult, listening to her telling her own story makes me admire her even more.
Act 2
America
Chapter 21
Meeting the Family
The voyage to the States was largely uneventful. The ship was full of women just like me, leaving their friends and family behind them to start a new life in a new country with their husbands. Men barely known to them in some cases. We were scared and excited at once and bonds were formed that lasted a lifetime.
Every minute of the journey I thought of Aíne. We had planned to make that journey together, but it wasn’t to be. When I closed my eyes, I could still see Aíne’s face. Such happiness turning to horror in seconds. We had so many plans for our future. A future in a new country. Both of us with new husbands, Aíne with a new baby and me with the dream of one. On that long journey across the Atlantic I felt her loss every single day. I knew several of the other women, war brides like me, and they had known Aíne. Talking about her helped me grieve for my cousin and best friend. I swore that I would make a success of my new life, for Aíne, as well as for myself.
I met Nuala Kelland on that voyage. It was her accent that caught my attention. Well, her accent and her gorgeous baby boy. Nuala was my age and from Belfast. For someone like me who had never left the county of Cork, she was an enigma. Nuala married her sailor the month before us. Helping her look after little Tomás passed the time. I missed Aíne, missed my mother.
“You’re lucky to have family. I’m an orphan. Before I met Ulick, I lived in a boarding house in Belfast. Don’t get wrong, it was a great place to live. Mrs Best looked after us all so well in Riverdale House, but she wasn’t family.”
Nuala was so open and honest. Quite frankly I thought of her as brave. Ready to embrace whatever life threw at her. I admired that in her. Over the duration of the journey, we became firm friends.
We parted in the line for processing, with promises to keep in touch, which we did, remaining friends for the rest of our days. While several of the women were settling in New York, the rest of us were scattered throughout the United States. Nuala’s final destination was in Virginia, where her husband’s family ran a hotel. None of the women were going to Florida and I felt slightly isolated. Not for long though.
Ed was waiting for me on the docks. It took forever to go through immigrant processing, and I grew increasingly anxious as I queued up with all the other women, answering questions, having paperwork checked and rechecked. Finally, they allowed us through to the waiting men. Hundreds of them waiting patiently on their new wives, and quite a few children, joining them in America.
The noise levels raised several decibels as many of these women were scooped into the arms of their sailors. I stood transfixed at the cacophony of sound around me, the emotional reunions of lovers, the touching sight of a man holding his child in his arms for the first time in nearly a year. The noise threatened to overwhelm me until it all faded into the background when I caught sight of Ed. He was standing under a large clock, twisting his cap in his hands as his molten eyes scanned the crowd. Our eyes met and his face lit up. Before I knew it, he had wrapped his arms around me, and all felt right with the world. The tension that hounded me during the long journey, accentuated by the immigrant processing, melted away, replaced with the knowledge that I was now safe, protected and loved in the arms of my husband.
The train journey to Florida was long and fascinating. I marvelled at the varied landscapes we hurtled through until we reached our destination. Ed had warned me about the heat and humidity in Florida, but nothing could have prepared me for it. I wasn’t sure what I expected. In our little cottage in Queenstown, curled up together in our bed with blankets and overcoats shielding us from the cold sea breezes, Ed enthused about the place he was born. He tempted me with visions of constant sunshine, palm trees, white sand beaches and swimming in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. It sounded idyllic, like some sort of paradise.
The heat of Florida was so welcome at first. I opened my face to the sun and the luxury of that heat. Ed told me all about his family and I looked forward to meeting them. I wasn’t too sure what to expect but when we turned into his street, I was pleasantly surprised. Each house appeared to have its own personality. Most had a covered veranda along the front of the house, some with swings, all with seating of some sort. Ed’s parents’ house was painted in a sunny yellow with a swing seat to the right of the front door. Two giggling young girls leapt off the swing seat and bounded down the path to greet us.
“Welcome, Lizzie, I can call you Lizzie?” The younger girl bounced on her toes, her dark eyes, so like Ed’s. “I’m Kate and this is Angela.”
