Page 69 of The Missing Sister

Having received word when she arrived home that Tom Barry and his men had escaped the clutches of the Essex Regiment in the nick of time, due to her intelligence from the Big House, Nuala walked around for the next week with a cautious optimism and pride. As autumn began and the leaves in the woods turned to red and bronze and gold, she spent her early mornings with Finn before he left for school, which provided a small window of calm in their young marriage. Then she would often cycle to other female volunteers’ farmhouses to deliver dispatches – once with a pistol strapped to the outside of her thigh under her skirt – or do the volunteers’ laundry. She spent the afternoons with Philip, now glad of the fire that burnt brightly in the large grate in his room as the nights drew in. They alternated between readingLe Morte d’Arthur(she was beginning to get the hang of the strange English it was written in), games of chess and walks around a garden rich with autumn colour.

Finn was increasingly away at night as the Flying Column gained confidence and mounted more attacks. When he arrived in their bed in the small hours of the morning, she only wished she could whisk him away to the land of the fairy folk, where the two of them ruled their kingdom together and there was only music, laughter and dancing...

Having had an idea about Philip, Nuala went to see Christy in the pub one night after work.

‘Is all well, Nuala?’ he asked, setting a drop of whiskey down in front of her with a wink.

‘It is, thank you,’ she said, taking a sip to warm her after her ride home. ‘Christy, do you mind if I ask you something?’

‘Ask and I’ll answer,’ he shrugged.

‘Philip – the Fitzgeralds’ son – you know he lost his leg in France?’

‘Sure, you told me,’ he nodded. ‘Lucky he escaped with his life, but I’d be thinking with all his family money, he’s had the doctors at every hour and the best care.’

‘He has, but... oh Christy, he’s so stubborn! He won’t take the help he’s been offered. He’s got a fine leg of wood made especially for him, but it gathers dust in a corner, because he won’t even be looking at it. He says ’tis too painful.’

‘How long has it been since it happened?’ he asked as he walked around the counter and sat down on a stool beside her, easing the weight off his own bad leg.

‘Over two years now. I’ve only just convinced him to go outside in his wheelchair. It’s like he’s given up, and all he wants is games of chess and his books. But there’d be so much more to life if he could only walk!’

‘Sure, but you’ve got to be remembering that ’tis a mental wound as well as a physical one. When I had my accident, d’you remember how I was? Feeling sorry for myself, like I was no use to anyone any longer.’

‘But you know that’s not true. What would Mammy and Daddy be doing without you on the farm, and even more so with Fergus often... away. You work harder than any able-bodied man I know, Christy.’

‘That may be’ – Christy lowered his voice – ‘but when I see Fergus and Finn going off, I feel like a useless eejit. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t remember the pain of my foot and shin being crushed by that thresher. I dream of it often, so, and I’m sure your Philip relives his war nightly too. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for him to be coping with no leg, when at least I’ve still got use of mine. And the time it took to find the courage to stand up and use my stick.’ He tapped it on the ground with a fond smile.

‘So what got you to go on? To have hope?’

‘’Twas your family, and you, Nuala, with your care of me.’

She couldn’t bear the intensity of his gaze, so she averted her eyes and looked down at the large calloused hand that rested on his oak stick.

‘If it hadn’t been for your cheerful smile every day,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t have been wanting to even get out of bed, the pain was so fierce. But you were there, even though you were no more than thirteen. You were born to be a nurse, Nuala. And if this Philip knows what’s good for him, he’ll listen to you.’

‘Maybe, but I’m failing so far, Christy.’

‘Well now, my stick has helped take the weight off my bad leg and I’ve got a spare. Perhaps your man might like to try it?’

‘At least I could offer it to him,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Christy.’

‘You never let me take no for an answer,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t let him.’

The following afternoon, Christy drove Nuala on his pony and cart to Argideen House, because she had his spare stick with her. Arriving at the kitchen door, she bolted up the stairs and knocked.

‘Come in, Nuala,’ said Philip.

When she entered, she noted the big book on King Arthur was placed on the side table by the damask sofa, waiting for her.

‘Hello, Philip. Now then, today we’ll be doing something new,’ she said briskly.

‘Really? Just what have you got up your sleeve?’ he said, warily eyeing the walking stick in her hand. ‘If it’s what I think it is, then I must put my foot down – so to speak – and say no.’

Nuala sat down on the sofa, the stick in her hand. ‘Do you remember me telling you about my cousin Christy?’

‘Yes. The fellow who works in the pub?’

‘Well, this is his.’ She tapped the stick on the floor. ‘When he was fifteen, he was working the thresher during barley season. A thresher is—’