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The Forgotten Secret: A heartbreaking and gripping historical novel for fans of Kate Morton
Kathleen McGurl
The brilliant new historical novel from the author of The Girl from Ballymor, Kathleen McGurl.Pre-order your copy now!
About the Author (#ud9152a44-4942-5a50-a667-fdb71a4c9a39)
KATHLEEN MCGURL lives near the sea in Bournemouth, UK, with her husband and elderly tabby cat. She has two sons who are now grown-up and have left home. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which the past can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.
You can find out more at her website: http://kathleenmcgurl.com/ (https://kathleenmcgurl.com), or follow her on Twitter: @KathMcGurl (https://twitter.com/kathmcgurl?lang=en), Instagram: @KathleenMcGurl (https://www.instagram.com/kathleenmcgurl/) or Facebook (https://en-gb.facebook.com/KathleenMcGurl/).
Also by Kathleen McGurl (#ud9152a44-4942-5a50-a667-fdb71a4c9a39)
The Emerald Comb
The Pearl Locket
The Daughters of Red Hill Hall
The Girl from Ballymor
The Drowned Village
The Forgotten Secret
KATHLEEN MCGURL
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Kathleen McGurl 2019
Kathleen McGurl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008236991
Version: 2019-01-11
Table of Contents
Cover (#udeb7b2cc-9c33-58fb-ba1e-5ce488eb784f)
About the Author (#u2e23e6f8-7d41-50a6-8cae-9c7fb8723545)
Also by Kathleen McGurl (#u8174889d-0137-5b73-87a0-f814abe5f472)
Title Page (#uc9a250c3-8785-525c-bcb8-fd4d97249aa0)
Copyright (#ue28697a4-7198-5b1a-91a3-a20a9dfa46fe)
Dedication (#u9fdc8573-e646-564a-adc2-db6962c5e747)
Historical Note (#ud1fec3f3-a78f-5adb-8523-e9a11db588b2)
Chapter 1 (#uaba3967c-48d9-53ec-b271-9cd1a458c09b)
Chapter 2 (#u9c19c91c-a924-525c-8bed-d6e97a7fcfb9)
Chapter 3 (#ubdebeda8-cbdc-5d33-8bae-9b5ae1fe5c21)
Chapter 4 (#u46bc39ff-f602-52f7-a26e-a1eeed54bcb3)
Chapter 5 (#ud0c5d86d-ad79-598a-9a80-7dcb2f2ec79c)
Chapter 6 (#ueb8398dd-cefa-57ef-8a34-d4b0ed3e5a04)
Chapter 7 (#u267c4b1a-a60f-5406-b80f-0ed74a28a2a4)
Chapter 8 (#u55401e55-4565-537f-b1a8-c0e363ad473a)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To all my Irish in-laws
– this one’s for you
Historical Note (#ud9152a44-4942-5a50-a667-fdb71a4c9a39)
If you were educated in Ireland you’ll probably know all this already, in which case feel free to skip this section. Everyone else – please read on. I hope this will help provide some context for the novel. I’ll keep it as short as possible!
By the early twentieth century, Ireland had been ruled by England since Norman times. Over the years there had been various uprisings: notably Wolfe Tone’s United Irishmen rebellion of 1798. In response to this, the British Parliament passed the Acts of Union in 1800, formalising Ireland’s status as part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
Many Irish were still unhappy under British rule. Harsh penal laws against Catholics and the aftermath of the Great Famine of the 1840s led to ever greater hostility against English landlords. In the late 1800s and early 1900s there was much discussion in parliament about the possibility of ‘Home Rule’ for Ireland. By 1914 a Government of Ireland bill was making its way through the British parliament system when the First World War broke out. It was put on hold.
But Irish nationalists weren’t prepared to wait for the end of the war for discussion to resume. At Easter 1916 various Irish nationalist forces combined in an uprising, taking control of parts of Dublin. The Proclamation of the Republic was read out from the steps of the General Post Office, declaring Ireland’s independence. British troops soon quashed the uprising, and most of its leaders were executed.
In the parliamentary elections of 1918 just after the end of the war, Ireland’s primary nationalist party Sinn Fein won a large majority of the Irish seats in parliament. However, they refused to swear the required oath of allegiance to the King, and instead set up the first Dáil Éireann (Irish Council), declaring Ireland to be an independent nation. Thus, Ireland slid into war against Britain. (One Sinn Fein MP was Constance Markievicz, the first woman to be elected to the UK Parliament. She was in jail at the time, for her part in the 1916 uprising. Constance was also the founder of the Fianna Éireann, ‘Warriors of Ireland’, a kind of military boy scouts, whose alumni went on to join the Republican army.)
In the cities, British troops kept control but in provincial areas it was the paramilitary police force – the Royal Irish Constabulary – that was left fighting against the nationalist Irish Volunteers. The RIC was reinforced by the undisciplined Black and Tans, named for their mismatched ex-army and police uniforms.
The War of Independence was largely a guerrilla war, with atrocities committed by both sides. It was characterised by attacks and counter-attacks, shootings and reprisal actions, often against civilians. Towns were looted, homes and businesses were burned, and people executed.
In 1921 the British prime minister offered a truce: the terms of which divided Ireland, forming the Irish Free State but with six counties of Ulster remaining part of the United Kingdom. The Irish leadership were split over whether to agree, but eventually signed the treaty. This disagreement led inevitably to civil war, between those who were pro- and anti-treaty, that lasted from 1922 until a ceasefire in spring 1923.
During World War II Ireland remained neutral, and it was after ‘the Emergency’ (as it was termed in Ireland) that the Republic of Ireland was formally inaugurated in 1948.
The anti-treaty nationalist forces combined as the Irish Republican Army, and remained active on and off throughout the decades, fighting for Ireland to be once more united. Their campaigns escalated during the 1970s and 80s, a period known as ‘the Troubles’, and only came to an end with the signing of the Good Friday Agreement of 1998.
In this novel, the historical chapters start in 1919, just as the War of Independence was escalating in intensity. I’ve referred to Irish nationalist forces during the War of Independence as ‘Volunteers’ throughout, though there were various groups involved. Volunteers from this period are often known now as the ‘old IRA’. Blackstown is a fictional place.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_70d9f763-28f6-5c40-8a50-335a34b6a572)
Clare, February 2016
We rounded a corner, turned off the narrow country lane and onto a gravel track, drove past a little copse of birch trees and there it was. Clonamurty Farm, County Meath, Ireland. Old, tired, dilapidated and in urgent need of repair. But it was mine. All mine, and only mine, or soon would be. A little shudder of excitement ran through me, and I turned my face away so that Paul, my husband, would not see the smile that had crept onto my face.
I think it was in that moment that I first realised my life could change, for the better. If only I was brave enough to seize the day.
‘What a godforsaken mess of a place. Good job this is a hire car. That track’ll be trashing the tyres,’ Paul grumbled, as he parked the car beside a rusty old piece of farm machinery that had waist-high thistles growing up through it.
‘I expect it could be renovated, with a bit of money and a lot of effort,’ I said. Already I could see its potential. With the weeds cleared, the stonework repointed, the rotten windowsills replaced and painted, and a new porch built around the front door it would be beautiful. A lazy Labrador sunning himself in the yard and a couple of cats nonchalantly strolling around owning the place would complete the picture.
As if I’d conjured them up, two tabbies appeared around the corner, mewing loudly, tails held high, coming to see who we were and whether we had any food for them, I suspected. I smiled to see them, and bent down, hand outstretched, to make their acquaintance.
‘Clare, for God’s sake don’t touch them. They’ll be ridden with fleas and Lord knows what else.’
‘Aw, they’re fine. Aren’t you, my pretties? Who’s been looking after you then, since your daddy died?’ I felt a pang of worry for these poor, beautiful creatures. Though they weren’t especially thin, and their coats seemed in good condition.
‘Their daddy. Oh grow up, will you?’ Paul stomped away from me, towards the front door, and fished in his pocket for the key we’d picked up from the solicitor in nearby Blackstown. Actually the solicitor, Mr Greve, had handed the key to me. It was my uncle Pádraig who’d left me the farm in his will, after all. But Paul had reached out and snatched the key before I’d had the chance to take it. The farm wasn’t quite mine yet. I needed to wait for probate to be completed, but we’d had the chance to come over to Ireland for a weekend to view the property and make a decision about what to do with it.
I followed Paul across the weed-infested gravel to the peeling, blue-painted front door, and watched as he wrestled with the lock. ‘Damn key doesn’t fit. That idiot solicitor’s given us the wrong one.’
I peered through a filthy window beside the front door. ‘Paul, there are boxes and stuff leaning against this door. I reckon Uncle Pádraig didn’t use it. Maybe that key’s for another door, round the back, perhaps?’
‘The solicitor would have told us if it was,’ Paul said, continuing to try to force the key into the lock. I left him to it and walked around the side of the house to the back of the building. There was a door at the side, which looked well used. A pair of wellington boots, filled with rain water, stood beside the step. I called Paul, and he came around the house, his lips pinched thin. He never liked to be proved wrong.
The key fitted this door and we entered the house. It smelled musty and unaired. It had been last decorated at some point in the 1970s, I’d say. I tried to bring to mind my memories of the house, from visits to Uncle Pádraig and Aunt Lily when I was a child, but it was a long time ago and I’d been very young then. My maternal grandmother – Granny Irish as I called her – lived here too in those days. I have clear memories of one of my cousins: David (or Daithí as he renamed himself after he became a committed Republican), hazy memories of his two older brothers but only vague impressions of a large rambling house. I have better memories of the barn where I used to love playing hide-and-seek with David among the bales of straw. Sadly, David and his brothers had all died young, which was why the farmhouse had been passed down to me.
The door led into a corridor, with a grubby kitchen off to the right and a boot-room to the left. Straight ahead a wedged-open door led to the main hallway, which in turn led to the blocked-off front door, the sitting room and dining room. This area looked familiar. There’d been a grandfather clock – I looked around and yes, it was still there! – standing in the hallway. A memory surfaced of listening to it chiming the hour when I was supposed to be asleep upstairs. I’d count the chimes, willing it to chime thirteen like the clock in my favourite book – Tom’s Midnight Garden – and was always disappointed when it stopped at twelve.
We peered into each room. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, a box-room and a bathroom. All felt a little damp, as though it had been months since they’d been aired or heated. As with the downstairs rooms, the decor was horribly dated. I expected Paul to make sneering comments about the state of the place – and to be fair, it was in a total mess – but he surprised me by commenting favourably on the layout, the size of the rooms, the amount of light that flooded through the large front windows. ‘It could be quite a house, this,’ he said.
‘It certainly could,’ I replied. ‘And we could come for holidays, let the boys use it and perhaps rent it as a holiday home in between, after we’ve done it up.’ I could see it now. Long, lazy weeks, using this house as a base to explore this part of Ireland. It was within easy reach of Dublin and the east coast, and the surrounding countryside of rolling farmland was peacefully attractive.
