The Forgotten Secret: A heartbreaking and gripping historical novel for fans of Kate Morton

I remembered how later that day he’d given me a little talk on how the Gaelic games, Hurling and Gaelic football, had become a kind of symbol of Ireland’s independence from Britain. They played soccer and rugby too, but it was the traditional Irish games, played nowhere else, that drew the biggest crowds and evoked the most national pride.

It cheered me up, thinking about those times. I resolved to drive to Bettystown beach on the first decent day, and see if it was still how I remembered it.

I walked back up the high street, past the café where I waved at Janice. Opposite was the bookshop I’d noticed yesterday evening. It was open, and I decided to spend a few minutes browsing and perhaps buy a few books before I headed off to the supermarket. I smiled to myself as I crossed the road. How that would annoy Paul, if he was here – me prioritising reading over cooking and eating! But he wasn’t here, and this was my life, and if I wanted to buy books and go hungry I could do just that.

Inside, the shop was one of those wonderful little bookshops where you could spend hours. The front half was new books, with a corner for children equipped with a carpet and some bean bag seats. The adult section was enticingly laid out with the books displayed on pale wooden shelving. At the back of the shop, older, dark wood shelves held second-hand books, organised roughly by subject with hand-written labels sellotaped to the shelf edges. The shop had expanded into a few separate rooms at the back, and I was delighted to discover a cubby hole of books on Irish history. Something I knew not enough about.

There were posters up in the shop celebrating the 100-year anniversary of the Easter uprising, 1916. I remembered my mother and Daithí going misty-eyed whenever they talked about Pádraig Pearse, James Connolly and the declaration of the Republic on the steps of the General Post Office. Now that I was planning to make my home in Ireland, I wanted to understand more about the country’s history.

I picked up a couple of second-hand Maeve Binchy novels, and a new one by Barbara Erskine, and a worthy-looking overview of Irish history, and took them all to the cash desk at the front of the shop. The silver-haired man I’d seen locking up yesterday was there, sorting through a box of second-hand books and writing prices on their inside covers. He was younger than I’d thought, I realised, as he pushed his piles of books to one side to make room for my purchases. Probably around my own age.

‘Good morning!’ he said, as he punched the prices into an antiquated till. ‘That’ll be thirteen euros ninety. I’ll knock off the ninety as a discount, as you’re buying four books at once.’

‘Oh, thanks!’ I dug out my purse and realised with horror I only had a ten-euro note. I’d spent the rest of my cash over at Janice’s café. ‘Do you take credit cards?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. But you can pay me later. I’ll make a note of your name and the amount. It’s no bother.’

‘Really? Or if there’s a cash point nearby I could go there?’

‘There is, but it’s out of order, or it was about two hours ago when I was trying to get some cash out myself.’ He put my books into a bag, handed it to me and opened a notebook. ‘Thirteen euro, then, and if you could tell me your name?’

‘Clare Farrell. I’m new to the area but I’ll be back here tomorrow with the cash, I promise.’

He wrote down my name then held out a hand to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you, Clare Farrell. I’m Ryan McKilty.’ He smiled as he spoke, making his eyes crinkle up at the corners. He had a pleasant, open face and I liked him instantly.

‘Good to meet you, too. Must admit I was delighted to find a bookshop in the town.’

‘Ah yes, I cling on to business. The supermarket sells a small selection of best sellers, but if you want a wider choice or non-fiction there’s only me, unless you go to the Easons over at Navan. You said you were new to the area? Moved to Blackstown, then?’

‘Nearby. Clonamurty Farm.’ I explained for the second time that morning my inheritance. Ryan had passed the farm but had not known Uncle Pádraig. It didn’t surprise me – there were so few books left in the house it was clear Uncle Pádraig had not been much of a reader.

‘Well, you’re very welcome. Good to see a new face in town. And I hope to see you in here again soon.’

‘Of course, I owe you some money, don’t I?’

‘Ah, you do, so. I’d forgotten already.’ We both laughed, and I turned to leave.

‘See you soon, then.’

‘Aye, I’ll look forward to it,’ he replied, holding the door open for me.

I was in a fabulously positive mood by the time I returned to the farm. I’d made two friends – Janice and Ryan – stocked up on food and reading material, and even better, Electric Ireland had done their stuff and the power was back on.

‘A pretty good first day, all round,’ I told myself, as I settled with a cup of tea (with milk this time) on the battered old armchair in the sitting room. That broken spring dug into my bum again, and I shifted position to try to get more comfortable. It was no good.

‘I’m going to have to do something about you, aren’t I?’ I said, to the chair, then shook my head. It was only the second day living alone, but I was already talking to the furniture. I stood up, put my tea on the mantelpiece, and knelt down to take a close look at the chair. It was old – probably late Victorian, and had an old nylon stretch cover over some other layers of upholstery. Definitely a great project for me, to strip it back, fix that spring, and reupholster it, assuming the woodwork was sound. I’d left all my upholstery tools in England, of course, but there was a barn outside with a workshop at one end.

No time like the present, I thought, and I went out to the barn. Those tabby cats I’d seen on my first visit with Paul were hanging around in the yard, and came scampering over to greet me as I walked across to the barn. There was another house a couple of fields away – I guessed they came from there, or at least went there for their food.

The barn looked as though it had once been a cowshed, but the stalls had been removed. In Uncle Pádraig’s time it had been used to store farm implements, and a rusty old plough still stood in one corner. He’d sold his tractors long ago when he sold the land and gave up farming. At one end was a workbench, with a battered old chest of drawers beneath and some tools hanging from nails on a board above the bench. There’d be no specialist upholstery tools here of course, but I’d be able to make do until I could order new ones online.

Sure enough I found a sturdy wide-tipped screwdriver that would do as a ripping chisel, a short-handled hammer and a pair of pliers. Enough to start stripping back the chair. I took them inside, gulped down my cooling cup of tea, and set to work.

First I removed the hideous nylon cover. Underneath was ill-fitting brown velour that had been stapled on. Probably some amateur attempt at upholstery. I wondered if Uncle Pádraig or Aunt Lily might have done it, as I prised the staples loose and pulled them out with the pliers. And under that layer was a well-worn corded cotton in a swirling floral design. Possibly the original. This was properly tacked on, with a layer of calico beneath, and I knew under that would be the stuffing, probably horsehair. It was a dusty job and I began to regret doing it inside. I should have taken the whole thing out to the barn.

It was as I removed the cover on the left wing that I discovered the hole. It went in behind the fabric of the back, deep into the chair between the frame and the stuffing. Some tacks had come away leaving a gap you could slip your hand inside. I couldn’t resist – and although the thought crossed my mind there could be decades-old dead spiders in there – I pushed my hand in and felt around. It’d be a marvellous hiding place. Perhaps there’d be a wodge of old bank notes inside?

I felt a flutter of excitement when my fingers brushed against paper – there was definitely something in the hole. It could, of course, be simply newspaper stuffed in to pack a gap. But even old newspapers could be interesting. I gripped the paper between two fingers and gently drew my hand back out. There was something solid folded into the paper as well. Carefully I extracted the little bundle from the hole and took it to the table to inspect it in better light.

Definitely more interesting than old newspaper – the paper was a birth certificate dated Christmas Day, 1920. Folded inside was some sort of medallion, with an inscription on the back: James Gallagher, 1910. I’d seen something like it before. My cousins had had them. It was a communion medallion, given to a child when they made their first Holy Communion. Who was James Gallagher? And why was his medallion tucked inside a chair along with a birth certificate for someone else?

My grandparents had married in 1926 and, as far as I knew, moved into Clonamurty Farm around the same time. So these items in the chair were from before their time. What was their story?

Chapter 8

Ellen, October 1919

In late October, a few weeks after their visit to Tara, Ellen found Jimmy in a humour as grey as the moody autumn skies, when she met him at the end of the drive. He greeted her with a kiss as usual, but then didn’t take her hand as they walked along the lane. She tried to engage him in conversation as usual, but he seemed taciturn and unwilling to give more than single-word answers.

Eventually, as they approached Clonamurty Farm, she could bear it no longer. ‘Jimmy, what’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?’

‘What? No, sure you haven’t.’ He stopped walking and turned away from her, gazing across the fields.

‘What, then? You seem different today. Is something on your mind?’

He sighed. ‘I was at a funeral today.’

She gasped. ‘Oh! I’m sorry. Whose was it?’

He shook his head. ‘No one you know. A member of the Volunteers.’

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