The Rebels of Ireland (76 page)

If years ago Conall had been the little boy she had protected and made whole, in the young man he had become, she had found a prince. In their lovemaking, it seemed to her as if they were made from the same mould; in their life together, they were in tune like two strings upon the same instrument.

Yet there was always something mysterious about Conall. Occasionally, he would still sit alone in a state of abstraction from which she would have to wait for him to return. One day, they had gone over to Glendalough; and as they stood together in the mountain silence by the upper lake, she had suddenly had the strangest experience, as if they were floating together, like mist over the water. And she had thought to herself: I am married not only to a man but to a spirit. They had been married almost a year before he told her the truth about his time at school in Dublin.

“That was a terrible place, Deirdre. There were only a few of us Catholic boys, and we'd been brought there to be converted. As far as the masters were concerned, we were wild animals to be broken. And they treated us as animals, too. Kicked out of bed at dawn, to scrub the floors, before the Protestant boys had to wake. We were like slaves the rest of the day, too, whenever we weren't in the lessons. And a savage beating if you even thought of arguing about it. As for the teaching…” He shook his head in disgust.

“Was it so hard?”

“Hard? Not at all. It was laughable. Those Protestant boys were so far behind us: I knew far more from your grandfather's hedge school before I arrived than any of them knew by the time they left.”

“Are all the Protestants so ignorant, then?”

“I wouldn't say that. Trinity College turns out scholars of the highest repute: no question. But the charity schools like mine are sinks of iniquity. That's why I left as soon as I could and became a carpenter.”

“Did you tell your father?”

“No.” He fell silent for a moment. “What was the point? The poor devil had troubles enough, I dare say.”

He never spoke of the quarrel between his father and himself, and she never asked. But she thought she could guess his sadness and his shame at what his father had become, just as it was obvious that he was determined to prove that he suffered from none of the same weaknesses himself. “I remember him as he was when I was a boy,” he once told her. “I wish,” he added wistfully, “that he could have stayed as he used to be, and lived to see his grandchildren.”

There was no shortage of those. Down the years, Deirdre had given birth to a dozen children, and though many had been lost to sickness or accident, seven had lived to be strong and healthy adults.

She and Conall had never regretted their decision to raise their family up at Rathconan. It was their childhood home; her grandfather, whom they both loved, was there; and above all, they and their children were surrounded by the huge, open spaces of the mountains. And if the Brennans, as her grandfather assured them, were neither more nor less stupid than in generations before, and the O'Byrnes still foolishly believed that Rathconan and all that was in it should rightfully be theirs, Deirdre and Conall had been used to them since they were born and, along with the other local families, they came with the landscape.

If her grandfather had had doubts about Conall as a husband, he had soon buried them. It had been only a few months before a routine had developed that was to last down the years. Once a week, the two men would spend the evening together. A little drink would be taken, of course; but mostly they would recite poetry or read books together—so that Conall laughingly told Deirdre: “The best
thing about marrying you is that I can complete my education.” Meanwhile, the old man, somewhat gaunt but with a mind as sharp as ever, had continued to act as schoolmaster to the village, and to tell his stories and recite his poetry at a
ceili
from time to time. He had lived into his eighties, and continued to teach the school until a week before his death.

His wake had been memorable. People had come from five counties to honour the old man. Yet it had also been the occasion of one small unpleasantness.

It had come from Finn O'Byrne. He had never been a person of any great account. About the same age as Conall, he was considered a fairly good cattleman and he had a brood of children to his credit; but although he would spend time with the Brennans, he and Conall never had a lot to say to each other. Nonetheless, Conall had once made him a good oak chair, with which he had declared himself well satisfied. So Conall had not expected any trouble when he saw the figure of Finn—small, dark, a great untidy mop of shaggy black hair lying in matted coils about his shoulders, and clearly a little the worse for drink—come lurching towards him during the long evening of the wake.

“I suppose that you'll be the new schoolmaster now,” Finn remarked, “with all your learning.”

There was something vaguely offensive in his manner, though Conall couldn't see why there should be.

“I don't think so, Finn,” he replied. “I've too much else to do.” In fact, he and O'Toole had discussed the possibility a few times down the years, but he hadn't felt the desire to take it on, and he had quite enough work on hand anyway.

“He'd have wanted it, Conall, to keep it in the family—with Deirdre being his granddaughter and you spending so much time in his company. All those hours, reading together, every week.” The words were harmless enough, but there could be no doubt from the way he spoke them, the way that he drew out the word “reading” as if there was something wrong with it, that Finn was trying to insult
him. “No, Conall, it was only yourself that was good enough to be in his company like that.”

It had not occurred to Conall that his sessions with the old man would have given offence to Finn O'Byrne, yet clearly they had.

“I'm sure you'd have been very welcome to join us,” he said. A lie, of course, but it seemed polite.

“Ha! Finn O'Byrne with the old man and his favourite. The boy apart. The prince, we used to call you in the hedge school. Until you were sent away, of course.” He grinned viciously. “On account of your father. Another great reader, they say.”

It was hard to know which shocked him more—the discovery that this man, of whom he had no high opinion, but towards whom he'd never held any malice, should hate him so much, or the fact that, in all these years, he'd never guessed it. Conall remembered him perfectly well in the hedge school. Finn hadn't been much of a pupil, but perhaps a bit above the Brennans. And now the passing of old O'Toole, and no doubt a little drink, had suddenly resealed these childhood resentments. He didn't know how much Finn had been drinking, but this was hardly the time to enter into a quarrel. He must, unwittingly, have looked at him with disgust, however, for O'Byrne burst out bitterly: “Ah, look at his face. He thinks himself so much better than the rest of us.”

“Can you not respect the dead, Finn?” he said as calmly as he could, and made to move away. But this turned out to be another mistake.

“Move away.” Finn made a mock bow. “The great Conall Smith doesn't talk to any but his own kind.” He spat. “Respect the dead. Respect your father, do you mean?”

This was too much.

“You were a fool then, Finn O'Byrne, and you're a fool now,” Conall said angrily. “But you've no need to prove it, for I knew it already.” Then he did walk away.

He had told Deirdre all about it a few days later, but Finn had never mentioned the incident again, and they assumed he had probably been so drunk he had forgotten about it.

For a few months after that, Conall had helped by taking the hedge school, on an occasional basis, while they looked for someone else. But he had sent for the priest down the valley to come to catechise the children, not wishing to do it himself; and in due course an elderly man from Wicklow was found to take the job on, and he returned to his furniture making. He had no doubt that Budge had been aware of his activities, but the landowner had never said anything.

That had been twenty years ago. Since then, there had been peace at Rathconan, where, whatever else might be passing in the world below, little seemed to change.

There was one change, however. It was gradual, but her grandfather had occasionally remarked on it as he grew older, and in the two decades since his death, Deirdre had noticed it increasingly.

There were more people at Rathconan.

Of course, families had produced children. Apart from her own seven, Budge and his wife had had three girls and two sons; the O'Byrnes, Brennans, and the other local families had all added to the numbers. But as in times past, once the children had grown they had often moved away. The landowner's three daughters were all married to other landowners; the younger son, Jonah Budge, had married a merchant's daughter and bought a small estate a few miles away, while the elder son, Arthur, spent most of his time in Dublin. Of her own children, only two were at home, the rest in Wicklow or Dublin.

In the last generation, however, other families, especially the Brennans, had followed a different pattern. Instead of the eldest son taking over the holding, several of the children had decided to remain at Rathconan and split the holding into smaller parts between them. By doing so, they were increasing the population of the hamlet. And there were signs that in a few years' time, one of the Brennans might subdivide his holding yet again. In times past, such small holdings could not have sustained a family, yet now it seemed they could. And the reason for this change was easy enough to see.

“For the increase in the number of my Brennan cousins,” Conall remarked drily, “we must thank the potato.”

Everyone in Rathconan grew potatoes nowadays. Budge had two large fields. But while they still grew other crops, and raised their sheep and modest herd of cattle on the mountainside, the Brennans had given over the greater part of their subdivided holdings to the potato crop. It was a logical decision. The New World vegetable was so nutritious that, if you desired, you would remain perfectly healthy if you ate nothing else. Not only that, the potato was intensely productive: a family could subsist on the crop from a single small field. There were twice as many Brennans living in Rathconan now than there had been when Deirdre was a child, and they could have subdivided their holdings several times more without going hungry. Moreover, with the population increasing, they could usually sell their produce at good prices. So although their turf-roofed cottages might have looked poor enough, the numerous Brennans and their neighbours were actually living better than they had done before. Even the O'Byrnes were paying their rent.

All over Ireland, the pattern was similar. The towns were growing—Dublin's population had trebled in three generations—and the country peasants were living more densely upon the land.

Deirdre and Conall had little to complain of materially. Two of their daughters had gone to Wicklow. Both were now married, one to a butcher, the other to a brewer, both quite prosperous men. Her two eldest sons had both gone to Dublin. One was a printer who did well; the other, a tobacconist, seemed to have less success and was living poorly in the Liberties on the west side of the old city. The two youngest children remained at Rathconan: the boy, Peter, was following his father as a carpenter; his sister was working in the Budges' house.

And then there was Brigid. And that devil Patrick Walsh.

She hadn't even known that Brigid had run off with him until a month after the event, when she had received a letter from the housekeeper at Mount Walsh which made reference to the fact. The letter didn't say so, but she had to assume that they'd gone to Dublin.

“What does it mean?” she asked Conall. “Are they married?”

“We'd have heard from Brigid if they were,” he replied.

“We must go and find her. We have to save her before her reputation's ruined,” she cried.

“It's a bit late for that,” he murmured, but he made preparations to leave for the capital the same day.

Deirdre had never been to Dublin before, and she marvelled at its size. Arriving soon after noon, they went straight to the house of their son, which lay in a narrow lane off Dame Street, and he was able to tell them where they might find Patrick Walsh. Leaving their son, they wasted no time, but made their way towards College Green and walked across the bridge across the Liffey. To the right, a little way downriver on the northern bank, they could see the first stages of a massive classical building beginning to rise, which they learned would be the great new Custom House. It was evident that, as the capital continued to expand, the big streets and squares on the north bank were becoming almost as grand and fashionable as the area around St. Stephen's Green. Deirdre gazed in awe at the great aristocratic houses on each side of the wide avenue known as Sackville Mall, which ran northwards for almost five hundred yards up to the handsome façade of the maternity hospital and fashionable Rutland Square beyond. The house of Patrick Walsh was in a lesser but still pleasant street, a short distance to the west of the great mall.

The front door was slightly raised from the street level. The tradesman's entrance lay down a flight of steps at the basement level. Conall hesitated an instant, then went to the front door.

Seeing their country clothes, the maid who opened it looked a little confused and asked if they were tradespeople; but Conall sent in his name, and a few moments later, she returned and ushered them through the hall into a small parlour. They only had to wait a short while before Patrick Walsh himself appeared. He was smiling.

“You are looking for Brigid, I am sure,” he said before they could even speak. “I have been telling her to write to you for a month.”

“She is here, then?” Conall asked.

“Indeed she is, Mr. Smith, and she will be with us directly.” He
seemed quite at ease, and friendly, as if there was nothing wrong at all.