Page 189 of The Missing Sister

‘Maybe, but...’ Sian had to put her mouth to Nuala’s ear to whisper over the sound of the littleceilidhband. ‘I’d reckon her man doesn’t want her to be involved in our activities.’

Sian was pulled up to dance a few seconds later, but as Nuala sat and watched the bride and groom take their places in the centre of the group, she wondered whether love really was blind after all. As hard as she tried, she could not see what her strong-minded, passionate sister saw in the quiet, self-proclaimed pacifist she had just wed.

The year 1921 dawned, and over the following few months the brave volunteers did all they could to thwart the British. There were whispered reports of IRA victories, that the boys were slowly winning with their clever use of guerrilla tactics and knowledge of their own land, but the reprisals for British casualties were harsh. Nuala found relief in keeping busy running messages and helping those whose homes had been turned upside down and often set alight by the British in retaliation. There was many an elderly couple who had been forced to live in their chicken coops, too frightened to come out. Nuala rounded up as many Cumann na mBan members as she could and they met one night at a safehouse in Ballinascarthy to draw up a list of temporary accommodation for the poor souls to be billeted at. There was an air of positivity and hope that the conflict would soon draw to a close, but Niamh, their brigade captain, urged caution.

‘’Tis not over yet, girls, and we mustn’t let our guard slip too soon. We’ve all lost people dear to us in this battle and ’twould be good not to lose more.’

‘What about those in jail?’ asked Nuala. ‘I hear the conditions there are terrible, and they say they’re worse up in Mountjoy Prison in Dublin. Is there a plan to get our fellows out?’

‘They’re under lock and key day and night,’ said Niamh. ‘They’re the Britishers’ prized possessions; they know our volunteers will think twice before launching an ambush, for fear of one of their comrades being shot in reprisal.’

She was almost numb these days to hearing terrible things, but the death of Charlie Hurley, Finn’s closest friend, hit her hard. He had been shot at point-blank range at Humphrey Forde’s farmhouse in Ballymurphy. Finn was devastated but could spare little time for grief. A few days later he went deep undercover with the Flying Column and Nuala didn’t know when she would see her husband again. She knew that Charlie’s body had been carried out of the workhouse morgue in Bandon by the women of Cumann na mBan. He’d been buried in the graveyard in Clogagh in secret at night, so that all the volunteers who had loved and respected him as commandant of the Third West Cork Brigade could be present.

The thought of all those she and Finn had lost in the fight to secure Ireland’s freedom fuelled her determination to help as much as she could, which was more than she could say for Hannah. Even though she did her best to accept that Hannah had no choice but to follow her husband’s lead, her sister’s now open refusal to have anything to do with the cause she’d once been so passionate about cut her soul in two. The fact Hannah had told her Ryan condemned the volunteers’ bravery, in the name of pacifism, had caused a deep rift between them. Often, when she was in Timoleague and saw her sister emerging from the dressmaker’s shop, Nuala quickly turned and walked the other way.

The farming seasons carried on despite the war, and still no sight of Finn, apart from the odd message passed by Christy to say he was alive and sending her his love. Nuala spent time up at Cross Farm, and threw herself into any job she was given. As spring progressed, golden gorse filled the valley, the barn was full of newborn calves, and the days lengthened. At least, in the fear and grief that cast a shadow over everything, Nuala had a special secret that lit a spark of joy within her.

‘Soon enough, you’ll be showing yourself and there’ll be nothing can hide it,’ she said as she looked down at her tummy. By her estimation, she was about two months gone, and due sometime in late December. Now over the worst of any sickness, she felt renewed vigour to win the war for her and Finn’s child. She told nobody, wanting her husband to be the first to know, but was sure her mammy had guessed her secret.

As spring turned to summer and with fewer British troops visible on the roads – wary of ambushes from the volunteers – Nuala also did the rounds of those wounded in action or injured during a raid on their homeplace.

All of the fellows and their families poured gratitude on her head, offering her whatever they had to eat as a thank you. Most of her patients were barely more than boys, who’d had their bodies and their lives blown apart by the cause. They and their families humbled and moved her.

I’ve learnt more about nursing in the past year than I could ever have learnt from books, she thought as she cycled home one evening.

What with all she was doing, she fell asleep easily at night as the summer wore on. The talk was that the British had retired to their barracks, if they’d not already been burnt down by the volunteers. She’d heard from Christy that Michael Collins himself had sent a personal message of congratulations to the West Cork Flying Column. Next time she saw Hannah in town, Nuala invited her to sit and eat lunch with her. She wanted to tell her sister about the message to the lads, and have Ryan know too.

‘Imagine that!’ Hannah said to her dreamily as they sat on their favourite bench overlooking Courtmacsherry Bay. ‘A message from the Big Fellow himself!’

‘He’s behind the boys and all they’re doing, Hannah,’ she said pointedly. ‘I hope you’ll tell Ryan that.’

Hannah had ignored her sister’s comment, instead going on to confide that she was expecting. Nuala had shared her news too, but sworn her to secrecy until she was able to tell Finn. The exchange had engendered a few moments of their old closeness, as the sisters had imagined their babies playing together in the future.

Then Nuala had asked whether she and Ryan were coming up to Cross Farm for lunch on Sunday.

‘We’ve not seen the sight of the two of you for weeks,’ she’d added.

‘Sorry, we can’t. Ryan’s taking me on a vigil over by his homeplace near Kilbrittain. We’re praying for peace.’

‘And your prayers will be needed, if this war is ever to end,’ Nuala had muttered.

She’d just made a brack for poor Mrs Grady next door, who was now confined to bed as her arthritis was so bad. It was an unusually sweltering June day, and she stared at the dry, unkempt patch of earth at the back of the cottage, which she’d had no time to do anything with since she’d moved in. She was just wondering if she could tidy it up and plant some pretty flowers when there was a sudden tap on her shoulder.

‘Jaysus, Christy! You made me jump,’ she gasped as she turned round.

‘Sorry, but I thought you might like to hear the news: last night the volunteers burnt down Castle Bernard up in Bandon and took Lord Bandon hostage.’

‘Holy Mother of God! They didwhat?! Were any of them hurt?’

‘Not that I’ve heard, no. Are you feeling all right, Nuala? You’re swaying where you stand.’

‘Let’s go inside, where you can tell me more,’ she whispered nervously.

Once Christy had furnished her with a glass of water, Nuala looked at her cousin, her expression a mixture of horror and amazement.

‘I can’t believe they did that!’ she said. ‘Castle Bernard is centuries old, and Lord Bandon is surely the most powerful man around these parts. The volunteers have him as a hostage, you said?’

‘Yes. And I’ve been sent here because he’s being kept not far from where we sit, and you’re trusted by the volunteers. Let’s just say that currently he’s a neighbour of poor Charlie Hurley, lying in Clogagh graveyard.’