Page 84 of The Missing Sister

‘Hello, Lucy, ’tis lovely to see you. Will you come in?’

‘I’m on my way to work, but I thought I should drop by and tell you before you heard it from anyone else.’

‘What is it?’ Nuala asked as Lucy followed her in. Always slight, today Lucy looked like a frightened, fragile bird.

‘Ah, Nuala, I’m thinking you need to sit down. I’ve some upsetting news for you.’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know how to say this, but, yesterday... there was a loud bang from the young master’s bedroom. Her ladyship ran upstairs as fast as she could, but the shot was to his head, and... he was already gone.’

‘What?’ Nuala shook her head in confusion. ‘Who was already gone?’

‘Philip. He took his service revolver from his drawer and shot himself in the head. I’m so sorry, Nuala. I know how fond of him you were.’

‘No,’ was all Nuala could manage to whisper. ‘Why? He was getting better, walking by himself and going outside and...’

‘There was no more of that after you left, Nuala. Maureen was put in charge of minding him whilst Lady Fitzgerald tried to find a new nurse. She said he sat in his chair staring out of the window and not speaking to her at all. Lady Fitzgerald was worried enough to call the doctor, who prescribed some tablets for him, but...’

‘How is... she?’

‘She’s locked herself in her bedroom and won’t let anyone in. You would be knowing more than most how much she loved that boy.’

‘Yes, she did, and oh...’

Words failed her, and she put her head in her hands and wept.

‘Listen, I’ve got to go, but can I call a neighbour to sit with you?’

‘No! I can’t be seen to be grieving for the enemy now, can I, Lucy?’

‘You’re right, so,’ Lucy agreed. ‘Take care of yourself, Nuala, and I’m so sorry.’

After Lucy had left, Nuala climbed onto her bicycle and headed for the one place she hoped could give her comfort. As the cold December rain drenched her to her bones, she looked up at the barren branches of the oak tree.

‘Philip, if you can hear up there, it’s me, Nuala,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry I had to leave you, but this whole mess meant your mammy couldn’t have me stay. ’Tis my fault, this; I betrayed your trust and I’ll never forgive myself for it, never.’

Soaking wet, Nuala stood up and cycled into Timoleague as the rain poured so hard on her she thought that she might drown, and didn’t care if she did. At the church door, she climbed off her bicycle and walked inside. Crossing herself and curtseying in front of the altar, she knelt to ask God and the Holy Mother for forgiveness. Then she stood up and went to the votive candle stand. Taking a penny out of her pocket and putting it into the pot, she lit a candle for the Honourable Philip Fitzgerald, Protestant son of the local landowner, and her friend.

‘Rest in peace, Philip, and I’ll never forget you,’ she muttered as the candle burnt amongst others lit for Catholic souls.

Then she turned and walked out of the church.

June 2008

I reached for a tissue and blew my nose hard. Then I turned the page of the battered notebook:

I cant be writin any mor.

After that, the remaining pages were blank.

I closed the notebook and lay back, thinking of this young woman who had carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, fighting a seemingly unwinnable war. She was younger than my own daughter, but had faced horrors that neither Mary-Kate nor myself, nor anyone who had never lived through war, could begin to understand. Yet I could now see that the seeds of violence that had been sown in Nuala’s life almost ninety years ago had touched my own with disastrous consequences...

My head felt full of the voices of the past: that particular melodic West Cork cadence that Nuala had conveyed through her writing, the familiar place names that I had cut from my mind for so long.

Hehad given me this diary all those years ago to make me understand. And yes, if these had been his grandmother’s words, it certainly explained his hatred of the British. One thing I remembered clearly about my days in Ireland was that everyone had long memories. And that old grievances were rarely forgiven and forgotten, but passed on from one generation to the next.

I yawned suddenly, and realised I felt exhausted. The past had been a foreign country for so long but, both metaphorically and physically, I was drawing ever closer to it...