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‘Well, Mrs Farrell, as you’re wanting to pay in an inheritance but still have instant access to the money, I would recommend our Flexclusive Saver account. Decent interest rates yet fully flexible. We can open that now for you, if you have some proof of ID and proof of address.’
I hadn’t for a moment thought I’d need anything like that. I’d been so far removed from all this sort of thing – Paul of course handled all our finances and paid all the bills. But thankfully I had my driving licence on me, and at the bottom of my handbag was a water bill with a shopping list scribbled on the back. Dan accepted those.
Twenty minutes later I left, grinning like a cat with cream, clutching a piece of paper with my bank account numbers on it. A card would arrive by post in a couple of days, Dan said. Our post arrived around midday so I’d be able to pick it up before Paul saw it.
Back home I called Mr Greve, passed on the bank details, and made myself some tea in an attempt to calm myself down a little. I’d done it. I’d taken the first step towards independence.
Next step, tell Paul.
Chapter 4
Ellen, July 1919
Ellen set off to start work at her new job the next day with a spring in her step. She’d packed a few things in a holdall – even though Mrs Carlton’s big house was only a couple of miles away from her father’s cottage, her job was live-in as she had to be up at six to set the fires in the bedrooms, bring hot water upstairs in ewers and then fetch the mistress’s breakfast, which she always took in her room.
She was looking forward to starting the job, a new life away from her increasingly morose father. She felt a pang of guilt that he’d have to fend for himself during the week, but she’d baked two large mutton pies the previous day and stored them in the pantry, and she’d made enough soda bread for a few days, and a fruit cake, and stocked up on general groceries. He’d manage, she told herself.
And Jimmy was home. Jimmy was home! When they’d parted the day before, he’d promised to meet her this morning to walk with her as far as the gates to Carlton House. She had to pass his home, Clonamurty Farm, on her way anyway.
Sure enough, there he was, leaning against the gate post as she approached. The low morning sun was behind him, shining like a halo around his floppy blond hair. Such a contrast to her own dark curls. Ellen smiled as he greeted her and began walking alongside her.
‘So, all ready for your new job?’ he asked.
‘Yes, all ready. I’ve my things packed in this bag. They’ll give me a maid’s uniform up at the house. My room will be right up in the attic. I hope there’s a window with a view.’
‘Maybe a view back to Clonamurty, and if you’re unhappy you can signal me from the window. One lit candle means all’s well, two means come and rescue me.’ There was a mischievous glint in Jimmy’s eyes as he said this.
Ellen giggled, but a little part of her wondered whether Jimmy would really ‘rescue’ her if she was in need. It was an enticing thought. She felt herself blushing so turned her face away.
They chatted and bantered as they walked the short distance to Carlton House. Jimmy did not say anything more about his political beliefs or his desire for an independent Ireland, for which Ellen was grateful. Their time together would be all too limited now that she was working six days a week, plus cooking for her father on the seventh, and she did not want to spend time talking politics.
At the end of the long drive lined with elegant poplar trees that led up to the big house, Jimmy stopped. ‘You probably oughtn’t to be seen walking with me on your first day, so I’ll leave you here. Good luck!’
‘Will I see you on Sunday?’ Ellen asked, turning to face him. ‘It’s my day off. I’ll be at Mass, of course, and have to see Da, but …’
‘I’ll meet you here and walk you home. Then I can see you after church if you’ve time, and walk you back here in the evening. If you like.’
Her eyes shone. ‘Yes. Yes, all that would be lovely, so it would.’ Something to look forward to, all week. Six days until she’d see him again.
‘I’ll be away, then. Hope all goes well. They’ll love you, sure they will.’
He took a step towards her and for a moment she thought he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her goodbye, but he just picked a loose hair off her shoulder and then raised his hand to wave farewell.
She watched him walk back the way they’d come for a moment, then turned and began making her way up the long gravel driveway towards the big house. She’d only been there once before – the previous week when she’d attended an interview with Mrs Carlton. She’d expected to meet a housekeeper, but it was the lady of the house herself who conducted the interview. There’d been an odd question about Ellen’s family background, and she’d found herself talking about her great-grandfather who’d fought alongside Wolfe Tone in the old rebellion. Mrs Carlton had pronounced herself pleased, and asked Ellen to begin work.
And now it was time to start her new life. When she’d reached the house, she went around to the kitchen door, knocked, and was shown in by a scowling housemaid.
‘You’ll be the new maid, then,’ the girl said. It was a statement not a question. ‘I was after wanting that job upstairs. Easier than downstairs. Don’t know why the mistress didn’t give it to me.’
Maybe because you’re so grumpy, Ellen thought, but she smiled sweetly and held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry if I got the job you wanted. I hope it won’t stop us being friends. My name’s Mary-Ellen, but everyone calls me Ellen.’
‘I’m Siobhan,’ the other girl said, ‘and you’ll be sharing my bedroom.’ She did not shake Ellen’s hand.
Siobhan took her through the kitchen and along a corridor to an office, where Mrs Carlton was sitting doing the household accounts.
‘Ah, Ellen. Thank you, Siobhan. You may return to your duties. I’ll show Ellen where her bedroom is and what her tasks are to be.’
Siobhan bobbed a curtsey and left the room, but not before she’d thrown another scowl in Ellen’s direction. Ellen suppressed a sigh. She’d hoped she’d make friends here at the Hall, not enemies. And she’d be sharing a room with Siobhan. She resolved to work harder at being friendly towards the other girl. Siobhan was probably just jealous, but it wasn’t Ellen’s fault she’d got the job.
‘I really should employ a housekeeper,’ Mrs Carlton said, as she led Ellen upstairs, along a corridor and up a second flight to the attic rooms. ‘I suppose I just enjoy retaining control of the household too much. Anyway, here’s your room. That’s Siobhan’s bed, so you have this one under the window.’ She opened the door onto a small room, with a dormer window that looked out across gently rolling farmland. In the distance was a ribbon of silver – the Boyne. Ellen crossed to the window and peered out. Yes, she could just about make out a farmhouse not far from the river. Clonamurty Farm, and in it, Jimmy.
‘This is perfect, thank you, ma’am,’ she said, placing her holdall on the bed. ‘Should I change now or get straight to work?’
‘Ah, your uniform. Just a moment, I’ll call Siobhan to fetch it. Oh, and call me Madame. Not ma’am, and not Mrs. Those forms of address are just too … English, I suppose.’ She smiled. ‘Just my little idiosyncrasy.’ And then she left the room.
Ellen took the opportunity while she was alone to have a look around. Besides the two narrow beds there was a washstand, basin and ewer, a chest with four drawers, two bentwood chairs and a small mirror hanging on the wall. There was a neat little fireplace with a bucket of sweet-smelling turf to burn beside it.
A worn-out hearthrug was on the floor, and a sampler hung over the fireplace with the words ‘Many suffer so that some day all Irish people may know justice and peace –Wolfe Tone’ embroidered upon it, signed with the initials E.C. Mrs Carlton’s first name was Emily, Ellen knew. Was it Mrs, sorry, Madame Carlton herself who’d embroidered the sampler? The words were so patriotic, so Irish, and yet Madame Carlton was English – at least, she was one of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy. She was a widow, but her husband had been a Member of Parliament, spending most of his time in London.
Ellen had always thought the desire for Irish independence was something only the poor wanted and fought for: the downtrodden, those whose ancestors had perished during the Great Famine, those who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. But here was the widow of a British MP, embroidering quotes like that and hanging them in her servants’ rooms, and asking not to be called Mrs because it was too English-sounding.
She was still standing in front of the fireplace pondering this when Madame Carlton arrived back in the room, carrying a neat black dress, white apron and cap. ‘Your uniform, Ellen. I have guessed at the size, but it should be about right.’ Her gaze followed Ellen’s to the sampler. ‘And are you a patriot, my dear?’
Ellen gaped for a moment, not sure how to answer or what she was expected to say. Madame watched her for a moment and then her eyes softened. ‘I am sorry. That was wrong of me to ask such a thing on your first day, when I barely know you. Suffice to say that all here are Fenians and true Irish patriots. I would employ none other. We believe in the Cause. Irish independence must be won at all costs. I know something of your family, Ellen, and feel that you will fit in perfectly.’
She handed Ellen the uniform. ‘So, put this on, and report downstairs to me. You’ll find me in the housekeeper’s office.’
Madame Carlton left the room, closing the door behind her, to allow Ellen to get changed. She did so, quickly, her mind reviewing all that she had heard. Between Jimmy’s declaration of support for the Cause and now her employer’s, she seemed to be surrounded by people who wanted a free and independent Ireland. But her own thoughts on the matter were still unresolved.
The week passed quickly. Although she was an upstairs maid, with easier work than the downstairs and scullery maids had, she found it exhausting and crawled into bed each night aching all over. She was on her feet from six a.m., running up and down stairs, setting the fires, fetching fuel, jugs of warm water to wash, bringing breakfast trays up and clearing them away after. Later she had to make the beds, change sheets, clean bedrooms, sweep the stairs and landings, clear out grates and set the fires ready for the evening.
Besides Madame Carlton there was a succession of visitors using the many guest rooms on the first floor. Ellen rarely glimpsed the guests, and was often instructed to leave their breakfast trays outside the door. Madame seemed endlessly busy, running her household, entertaining her guests and conducting serious-looking meetings either in the library or the dining room. When these were in progress, the servants were instructed to keep well out of sight at all times. Madame herself would emerge to fetch a tray of refreshments if needed.
Siobhan had softened towards her a little, as Ellen had displayed relentless friendliness towards the other girl. She’d got the impression Siobhan was most miffed about having to share a bedroom, so Ellen had tried to be as easy-going a room-mate as possible. They’d begun chatting for a few minutes at bedtime, exchanging little stories about their work, speculating on who Madame’s latest visitors had been.
‘Something to do with the fight for independence,’ Siobhan said one night. ‘Our Madame’s really tied up in all that, you know. She’ll suck us into it as well, if we’re not careful, so.’
‘Do you want to be part of the fight?’ Ellen asked.
Siobhan was quiet, as though she was mulling over her answer. ‘Not sure. What about you?’
‘I’m not sure either,’ Ellen had whispered in reply. Even as she said the words, she wondered how she’d have answered if it had been Jimmy asking her. She knew she’d do anything for him.
At last it was Saturday evening, and Ellen was free to leave Carlton House for twenty-four hours. She’d arranged to meet Jimmy at the end of the drive, and had time to go for a walk with him before returning to her father.
She walked down the drive carrying half a ham wrapped in muslin that the cook had given her. ‘The mistress said to give it to the dogs but it’s still perfectly good, so you take it home for your daddy, now,’ the cook had said, handing it to Ellen with a smile. She had so much to tell Jimmy. Not least her growing realisation that Madame Carlton seemed to be deeply involved with the fight for independence.
Jimmy was leaning against the gate post, hands in pockets and a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘All right, Jimmy?’ Ellen said as she approached, and Jimmy hauled himself upright with a shrug.
‘Yes, sure I am. How’re you? How was your first week?’
They fell into step, walking down the lane towards Clonamurty Farm. Ellen told him of her duties, of her room-mate Siobhan and her less-than-friendly welcome, of the other staff.
‘And your mistress, Mrs Carlton? How do you get on with her?’ Jimmy asked. There was an odd tone to his voice.
‘She seems very nice,’ Ellen said, guardedly. She still wasn’t sure whether she should voice her suspicions about Mrs Carlton. Even to Jimmy.
‘Just nice?’
‘There’s something odd. She wants to be called Madame and not Mrs. I think she’s … well, I think she’s involved with the Irish Volunteers, so I do.’ There. It was out in the open. ‘Jimmy, you won’t say it to anyone, will you? I’d hate for her to get in any trouble because of me.’
To her surprise Jimmy laughed, and then flung an arm about her shoulders. ‘Ah, my sweet Ellen. Of course she is involved! She runs a branch of the Cumann na mBan. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?’
She had. It was the Irishwomen’s Council – an auxiliary branch of the Irish Volunteers, fighting for Irish independence. ‘So you know what she does? There are always people coming and going, having meetings and all sorts.’
‘Yes, there would be. She’s quite senior in the organisation. She’s important to the Cause.’ Jimmy nodded knowledgeably.
Ellen wanted to ask how he knew so much about it, but Jimmy had withdrawn into himself again, with that serious, thoughtful expression he’d had when they met. She wanted to snatch away his hat, run off with it, have him chase her, laughing, the way they used to when they were children. But something told her it wouldn’t work now; he’d just be annoyed at her. They were adults now, and Jimmy clearly had something serious on his mind.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, quietly, after they’d walked in silence for a few minutes. They weren’t far now from his parents’ farm, and he might leave her there, and they’d have no more chance to talk until after Mass tomorrow.
He smiled at her, and stopped walking. There was a wooden fence lining the road, and he pulled her over to sit with him on the top rail.
‘I’m thinking about my future. And Ireland’s future. And how the two are intertwined.’
She frowned. ‘Of course they are, since you live in Ireland.’
He shook his head. ‘I mean in a more profound way than that. I’ve made my decision, Ellen, about what I’m going to do now that I’ve left school. I’ve been thinking long and hard about it this week, and I realise now what’s the most important thing to me.’
She watched him, a little spark of hope in her heart that he would tell her the most important thing in his life was her, and that he had decided he wanted to be with her, now and always. But as soon as the thoughts crossed her mind, she dismissed them. Something in his expression, in his distant gaze across the fields, told her he cared more for something else. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, hardly wanting to hear the answer. It would change everything – she knew it.
‘Ireland, Ellen. Ireland’s future, Ireland’s freedom. Ireland’s independence. That’s it, Ellen. That’s the most important thing, the thing my heart says I must follow, no matter what. I’ve joined up. I’m a Volunteer. The Cause, Ireland’s independence, that’s what’s calling to me. I’ll be neither a lawyer nor a farmer. I’ll be a soldier for Ireland, till the day I die or the day Ireland is free, whichever comes first.’
He jumped down from the fence as he made this speech, and wheeled around to face her. She’d never heard so much passion in his voice. Tears sprung to her eyes as she realised two things simultaneously – first that she loved him with all her heart and would never love anyone else as much, and second that she was losing him.
‘Ah, Ellen, what has you crying?’ His expression was softer now, the fire in his eyes dimmer but still there, smouldering.
‘The thought of you fighting and maybe dying for the Cause. Surely it’s not worth it?’ She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand.
‘It is worth it. One man’s life is a small sacrifice to make for a country’s future. I love my country, Ellen. I have to do this. I have to fight the British. You are not to worry. I’ll be all right. I’ll do my part, but I’m young and fit, canny and clever, and I’ll not get caught and I’ll not be killed. You wait and see! You’ll be proud of me yet, and we’ll be able to tell our grandchildren that I fought for their future.’
Ellen was once again left speechless, still trying to process what she’d heard about grandchildren, when Jimmy grabbed her suddenly, pulling her off her perch on the fence. He squeezed her against him and landed a huge, passionate kiss on her lips. It wasn’t quite how she’d imagined their first kiss would be – she’d pictured a more tender moment – but it was still a kiss and it was intense.
‘Ah, Ellen,’ Jimmy said, holding her tightly and burying his face in her hair. ‘It has me all fired up. And you, my love – believe me, you mean just as much to me as Ireland does.’ He kissed her again, gently this time, his lips warm against hers, the fire within him spreading into her and with it the certain knowledge that he loved her. And she loved him, and together they would build a future.
If the Cause didn’t claim Jimmy first.
Chapter 5
Clare, April 2016
In the end I waited till probate was complete, the money was in my account and Clonamurty Farm was in my name. I didn’t mean to wait that long to tell Paul; I was just weak and couldn’t seem to find the right moment. Or the courage.
He’d had his dinner – fish pie, and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I’d eaten almost none of mine, having made up my mind that tonight was the night we’d have the conversation. My stomach was churning. ‘Not eating?’ he’d asked, and I’d grunted and shrugged, then forced down a mouthful or two.
I’d cleared up. He’d gone to the sitting room and put the TV on in the background while he read a magazine. Something to do with cars, I noted. Well he’d need to read up on car recommendations. ‘Our’ car was actually my car – Dad had given it to me when he gave up driving, and I was going to use it to take my stuff to Ireland.
I stood in the doorway of the sitting room, breathing deeply and summoning up the courage to speak. Paul looked up and frowned. ‘Well, either come in or go out. Don’t stand there like some kind of zombie.’
‘Sorry. I’m coming in. Just – we need to talk.’ I took a few steps forward. I could feel my heart pounding.
‘Hmm? What about?’ Paul had returned his attention to his magazine.
I took a deep breath. ‘Probate on Uncle Pádraig’s will is complete. The money’s in my bank account.’
‘Ah, right. That’s good. I’ll get online and invest it later. Got my eye on a couple of safe retail bonds.’
‘Er, no. I mean it’s in my bank account. My private one, not our joint one.’
He put down his magazine and looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. ‘You don’t have a bank account.’
‘I do now.’ Oh why could I not just come out and say it? Paul, I’m leaving you.
‘Why is the money in there? I can’t access it if it’s only in your name.’
That’s the point, I wanted to say, but stopped myself. ‘Paul, the money’s in there because it’s mine, not yours. And the farm is mine.’
‘But we decided to sell it, didn’t we? What are you getting at, Clare?’
This was it. This was the moment. ‘I’ve decided to keep the farm. I want to live there.’
‘What? But it’s uninhabitable!’
‘Just a bit dirty. I’ll soon sort it out.’
‘Clare, you are mad. It’s revolting. It’ll take more than a bit of Vim and a quick hoover round, you know. Not something you can do in a few weekend visits.’
‘I’ll have longer than that. I’m going to live there permanently.’
‘Well I’m bloody not!’ He stood up and crossed the room, towering over me.
‘No. I’m not expecting you to. Paul, I think … I want … I think we should separate.’ There. Said it. The words were out there and there was no clawing them back. To give myself strength I imagined Matt and Jon standing at my side, holding my hands and lending me support. And Mum, behind me, whispering in my ear, arise and go now.
‘Separate? What? Why? Don’t be ridiculous. Aren’t you happy? You have this beautiful house, all the time in the world to get your hair done or whatever it is you do with your days. Get this stupid notion about the farm out of your head, Clare. I don’t want to hear any more of it. We’ll get it on the market as soon as possible, and use some of the money to go on a cruise. How does that sound?’
‘I don’t want to go on a cruise. I want to live at the farm in Ireland. On my own. I’m sorry, Paul, but this is it. No, I’m not happy. I need things to change.’
‘You’re menopausal, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. Your hormones. Can’t you see a doctor and get some tablets or something?’
That did it. ‘I’m not fucking menopausal, Paul. You’re not listening to me. I’m saying I want to leave you. I have had enough of you controlling everything and telling me what to do. I want to be independent, to be in control of my own life, and now I have the money to do it. I’ll be gone in a few days’ time, and till then I’ll sleep in Matt’s old room.’
‘Is this about Angie?’
I stared at Paul. Angie was a woman he’d worked with for a while. He’d invited her round for dinner once or twice, and she’d brought a different date each time. He’d slept with her at a conference, I’d found out. He’d apologised and swore it’d never happen again. And I’d believed him and stayed with him. For the sake of the boys, who’d been under 10 at the time.
‘Angie?’
‘Because if it is, remember that all happened ages ago. Been over for years and there’s been no one else since.’
‘No, it’s not about Angie,’ I said, coldly. ‘As you say, that’s all in the past.’ To tell the truth, I’d pretty much forgotten about it.
He shrugged. ‘What is it about, then?’
‘Me. It’s about me, and what I want, for a change. And what I want is to be far away from you right now.’
I turned to leave the room but Paul caught my arm. ‘Not so fast. How can you want to throw away twenty-five years of marriage just like that? I thought we had a good, strong marriage!’
‘It was good in parts, Paul. I’m not throwing the past away. I’m just moving on. It feels like the right thing to do. For me.’
‘Not bloody right for me though, is it? Who’ll cook my dinner if you’re not here? Who’ll clean the house?’
‘Buy ready-meals and employ a cleaner,’ I replied, yanking my arm out of his grasp. That confirmed it. All he wanted me to stay for was to be his housekeeper. The sooner I left the better. I ran out of the room and upstairs, and began moving my things into the spare room. Paul hollered up the stairs after me, something about I’d regret it and come back with my tail between my legs, but I ignored it.
In the spare room I sat on the bed and let the tears come for a while. Paul did not come upstairs. I heard the TV being turned up. After a while I pulled myself together, took out my phone and texted the boys – It’s done. Told him. He’s not happy.
Jon texted back within minutes – Well done. Xxx. Love you.
And Matt rang me. ‘You OK?’
I sniffed. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ll be moving to Ireland as soon as I can.’
‘You can stay with me if you need to. I can sleep on my sofa.’
‘It’s OK. I need to be here to pack anyway.’
‘Here if you need me,’ he said, and once more I rejoiced in my strong, supportive and loving sons.
Next day I booked a car-ferry crossing from Holyhead to Dublin for Friday morning, then spent the rest of the day packing. Paul had been silent in the morning before work, barely acknowledging my presence. I knew it had been a shock for him, and I understood that he was hurting, but I had to do this. It’d be better for both of us in the long run. He’d find another Angie, sooner or later. As I thought this, I realised I didn’t care if he did. In fact, if it helped him let me go, it’d be better if he did take up with someone new quickly.
I came upstairs in the evening with a basket of clean washing, and caught Paul standing at the door to the spare room, looking at the half-packed boxes and suitcases I had strewn all over the floor.
‘You’re really doing this, then?’ he said, his voice flat and tight.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. You’ll come running back to me within a month, I’ll bet.’ He turned and pushed past me, downstairs, and a moment later I heard the front door slam. I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with sorting out the washing. Much of it was mine, but some was Paul’s and I folded it neatly and put it away, just as I had done for the past twenty-five years. Who would do this after I’d gone? I’d never known Paul put anything away. To him, cupboards were for taking things out of.
At last Friday arrived. It had always been my day to have the car for shopping, and Paul took the bus to work. I had told Paul I would leave on Friday, and he’d rolled his eyes but said nothing. I don’t think he really believed I was going.
After he’d left for work, I loaded the boxes and cases I’d packed into the car, washed up the breakfast things, wrote Paul a note, had a last look around the house I’d furnished and decorated and lived in for twenty years, and left. On a whim, that I wondered if I might come to regret, I posted my keys back through the letter box. It would show Paul I was serious if nothing else. The house was in his name only, after all. I wanted, and needed, nothing more of it.
It was a long and tedious drive to Holyhead, but I put the radio on loudly and sang along to any tunes I knew, to take my mind off what I was actually doing. It was a big step. A huge one. I wasn’t sure yet that I would be able to cope on my own. The car had Bluetooth capability, and both sons called me while I was driving to wish me well. Their encouragement lent me strength, and despite having to wipe a few tears away if I thought too deeply about what I was doing, I felt strangely elated. This was it. The start of a new adventure. Whether it turned out well or not remained to be seen.
It wasn’t till I was on the ferry that I realised I’d never told Paul I was taking the car. My car, I reminded myself.
It was a smooth crossing, and I amused myself with a puzzle book until we passed Ireland’s Eye. Then I spent the rest of the time on deck, gazing at the land that was to be my new home. It was a bright April day, the sun glinting off the waves and the hills of Howth resplendent in green and purple heather. I smiled. Perfect weather for starting a new life.
Once docked in Dublin, it was less than an hour’s drive out of the city and north-east into County Meath and on to Blackstown. We’d done this journey many times when I was a child, but that was before the motorways were built, before the Irish building boom of the Nineties and early Noughties. Nothing looked familiar to me, until I turned off the motorway and onto the smaller roads into Blackstown, which I’d driven with Paul in the hire car when we came to view the farm. As I passed a signpost I noted the Irish form of the town’s name – Baile Dubh. Maybe I’d try to learn some Irish, although I knew that the Gaeltacht areas, where Irish is the predominant language, were all further west.
I’d arranged to collect the keys from the solicitor, Mr Greve, and once they were in my handbag, I decided to call in at the coffee shop I’d been to with Paul. This time I ordered a large piece of chocolate fudge cake with cream. No one to stop me now! So this was freedom. Boy, did I enjoy it! I noticed the waitress grinning at me, clearly delighted I was enjoying my cake so much.
As I left the café I noticed a bookshop opposite, the type that sells a mixture of second-hand and new books. A man of around 50 or so, with a sweep of grey hair across his forehead, was just leaving and locking up. I made a mental note to check it out next time I was in town. Hours rummaging around second-hand bookshops was one of my favourite pastimes. Needless to say, it wasn’t something I got the chance to do very often when out with Paul.
I remember once coming home from a rare Saturday out with friends, to find he’d ‘thinned out’ (his words) my bookshelves. All my favourite novels had been thrown out, and the empty shelves filled with piles of car and computer magazines that had previously been stacked on the floor in Paul’s home office. I felt a wave of contentment wash over me as I realised that now I could rebuild my book collection, in my own home, and no one could stop me. A visit to Blackstown bookshop was high on my list of things to do.
As is so often the case in Ireland, the bright clear day didn’t last long. By the time I reached Clonamurty Farm the sky had clouded over and the first spots of rain had begun to fall. I dashed round to the back door, unlocked it and fell inside before it got too heavy. It was gloomy inside so I reached for the light switch, but it didn’t work. I tried another. Nothing. No electricity.
