Page 192 of The Missing Sister

She poured herself a glass of water and went to sit in a shady patch in the back garden. It was plain that, despite Lady Fitzgerald’s plea to deliver the basket, she could not risk passing it on.

‘Forgive me, Philip, but I can’t be seen to have anything to do with your mammy,’ she whispered, raising her eyes to the sky.

Making a decision, she stood up and went to the outhouse to collect the basket.

An hour later, she had decanted the contents of all the tins and boxes into either bowls or brown-paper packages. Collecting the discarded wrappers, she knelt by the fireplace and burnt each one of them. Lastly, she put the letter on the flames and watched it burn. Even though she could have opened it, she hadn’t. What was in there was for ‘James Francis’s’ eyes only, and she respected that.

When she had burnt all the evidence, Nuala stood up and cut herself two healthy slices of bread, and had a delicious salmon sandwich for her tea.

The following day, she gave the same to Christy for Lord Bandon’s lunch.

A week had gone past and Christy was still coming to collect food, and every day, Nuala would use a little of the foodstuffs Lady Fitzgerald had sent to salve her conscience.

‘How long will they be holding him?’ she asked as she and Christy drank a mug of tea together.

‘As long as is needed. Sean Hales, who was in charge of the burning of Castle Bernard, has made sure that General Strickland up in Cork knows we have him. He was told that unless he stopped the executions of our fellows in prison, Lord Bandon would be shot. Not a single execution has taken place in Dublin or Cork since,’ Christy grinned. ‘We finally have the British by their balls.’

‘So you won’t be killing him anytime soon?’

‘Not unless the British execute any more of our own, but I’m guessing they won’t. Sean says Lord Bandon has friends and relations in the British government. They’ll not see one of their own murdered by the Irish. All of us are praying they’ll offer a truce.’

‘As long as they don’t find him first, Christy.’

‘Ah now, they’ll not be doing that, however hard they look,’ he chuckled. ‘He’s never in the same billet twice, and we’ve scouts and guards on him night and day. So now,’ Christy said, standing up, ‘I’ll be seeing ye, Nuala.’

Christy left with the basket Lady Fitzgerald had brought, the linen cloth covering the food. She was glad to have it out of the house.

‘Can you imagine?’ she said to her unborn baby in wonder. ‘Peace might be coming.’

It was ten more days before Christy burst into the cottage and enveloped her in an embrace.

‘It’s happened, Nuala!’ he said as he finally let her go. ‘We’ve a truce agreed with the British! It’s over, ’tis really over. Now what do you think of that?’

‘But... just like that? What will happen to Lord Bandon?’

‘It’s been agreed by our side that he’ll be returned safely to his home tomorrow.’

‘He has no home now.’

‘No, the castle is burnt to the ground, so maybe he’ll feel the pain thousands of us Irish have felt as they burnt our homeplaces and left them in ruins.’ Christy looked at her. ‘You’re not feeling sorry for the man, are you?’

‘Of course I’m not... I just can’t believe it, so.’

‘Come outside and see what’s happening.’ Christy offered her his hand, and the two of them walked out of the front door. Nuala saw the residents of the village opening their front doors timidly and standing in the street, dazed from the news that had obviously spread like wildfire.

There was a lot of hugging and kissing, and nervous glances to either side in case the whole thing was another British joke on them, and they were going to be shot by the Black and Tans or the Essex Regiment, rumbling into the village on their death trucks.

‘Is it true, Nuala?’ asked one of her neighbours.

‘’Tis true enough, Mrs McKintall. It’s all over.’

John Walsh at the pub came out to announce free beer for all and the little village gathered together outside and in, toasting the victory with glasses of porter.

‘’Tis a victory, isn’t it?’ she asked a filthy, pale Fergus, who had appeared out of nowhere to join in the celebrations.

‘It is indeed. Sean Hales said the truce will hold for six months, and in that time men like Michael Collins and Éamon de Valera up in Dublin will be negotiating with the British on how things will work.’

‘I just can’t take it in! Will we have a republic? I mean, are they really giving us our own country back?’