The Tour (17 page)

As they saw a signpost for Macroom, Ellen recalled her father mentioning the town on one of the rare occasions that he spoke about his life in Ireland.

‘It was here that he got a job in a big store, I think. He said there was a big army barracks here?’ She struggled with her memory.

‘Well,’ Conor offered, ‘this is where the Crown forces would have had their headquarters. And I suppose any IRA activity in the surrounding townlands would have been monitored from here. It seems hard to imagine now, but Ireland in the 1920s was a dangerous, violent place. People were living in fear of the British, especially the Black and Tans and the Auxies, as they were called.’

Ellen nodded in agreement, but Bert looked confused. ‘Y’see Bert,’ Conor explained ‘by that time, around 1920, the War of Independence was in full flow and the British forces here were stretched to breaking point. That and the First World War nearly finished them, so they had to recruit men specifically in order to keep on top of things over here. The people had no love for the regular British soldiers, there’s no doubt about that. At least they had a kind of code of behaviour and, for the most part, they observed that code. But the Tans and the Auxies, well they were a different story altogether. A law unto themselves. Most of them were recruited from demobbed ranks after the First World War. A fair share of them were so damaged by what they had witnessed – or had been involved in – over there that they were never right in the head again. Half mad a lot of them. Heavy drinkers and very unpredictable. People were really scared of them because it seemed they just did anything they felt like.’

‘Tough times then,’ Bert interjected. ‘Tell me Conor, why were they called Black and Tans and Auxies and not just British soldiers?’

‘Well, I suppose they were different to the ordinary Tommies who were just part of the regular army. It seems there was no love lost between the army and the Tans, that’s for sure. The British Officers generally had control over their men. So, for the local people, if you kept your head down, and you didn’t cause any trouble, they left you alone. But the Auxies and the Tans could just pick a fella off the street or in a pub and rough him up for no reason. You never knew where you stood with them. The Black and Tans were called that because they had a kind of mismatched uniform, not a proper kit at all, bits of police and army and whatever else was going spare.’

Conor paused for a few seconds, wondering whether his impromptu history lesson was sufficiently impartial. He was always wary of presenting the case of Irish history with too much of a republican slant. Deciding his account was objective, he continued.

‘The word Auxie is short for Auxiliary and they were different kettle of fish altogether from the Tans. They were a highly trained force of commissioned officers who had all seen significant action in the First World War. They were considered an elite kind of a force. They arrived in July 1920 and their job was to deal with the growing support for the IRA. They occupied the barracks in Macroom Castle. The Auxies and the Tans between them terrorised the local population, especially with their arbitrary reprisals for any subversive activities. Their idea was to scare people into denouncing the IRA by burning houses, carrying out beatings and even killings. Only a week before the famous ambush at Kilmichael, they opened fire on a crowd at a Dublin - Tipperary football match in Croke Park in Dublin, killing fourteen civilians, one of them a player on the pitch. The leadership of the IRA in West Cork felt that people were losing heart for the fight because the IRA hadn’t made any significant strike against these Auxies, no matter what atrocities they had committed. Since open combat was never going to be effective against them, it was decided that a series of ambushes on British troops as they moved around the countryside would have the best chance of success, to raise the profile of the IRA and give people hope.’

Ellen was familiar with the history but Bert was fascinated, hanging on Conor’s every word. The history of this island was becoming more and more real to him – all the more so because today they found themselves travelling the very same roads that many of the people Conor was describing had done eighty years earlier.

Chapter 19

Ellen and Bert sat outside the petrol station while Conor made enquiries about directions. Bert leaned over and squeezed her hand.

‘How you doing?’

‘I don’t really know, it’s sort of strange, realising your dreams. I don’t know what to expect. I really don’t.’

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Conor announced: ‘We’re on the right track anyhow. The girl in the shop is only a young one, but she said that there’s a man living up the road here, a local historian, and he might be able to help us.’

He turned to face Ellen, ‘Are you ready?’ ‘As I’ll ever be’ she replied

The house they were directed to was a modern bungalow with manicured lawns. The door was answered by a woman Conor judged to be in her fifties.

‘Oh hello,’ Conor began. ‘I wonder would Eamonn be around at all?’

She hesitated, eyeing Conor a bit suspiciously. He noticed her glancing at the coach – no doubt making a mental note of the registration and wondering why this stranger needed to speak to Eamonn. Conor could feel her discomfort and thought he had better elaborate. ‘You see the girl in the shop told us he was a local historian and that he might be able to help us. Myself and my two American friends there are trying to find out about a family who lived around here, and we thought maybe Eamonn could help.’

‘Come in let ye for a minute,’ said the woman, visibly relieved now that she knew the purpose of the visit. ‘He’s up the yard at the moment, but I can give him a ring. She ushered the three of them into a sitting room featuring an array of photographs ranged across two walls. Among the pictures of weddings, graduations, children and babies three poster-sized framed photographs stood out: a triumvirate of Pope John Paul II, President John F. Kennedy and General Michael Collins. As the woman disappeared to phone her husband, Bert whispered, ‘Hey, I guess I’ve seen it all now. An enormous photograph of an American president in the living room of a house, up the side of a mountain in Ireland. Why do they have him on their wall do you think?’

Both Conor and Ellen smiled.

‘Well Bert,’ Conor answered, ‘there are only a few people who make it into the Hall of Fame in certain Irish women’s living rooms. Jack Kennedy was a great favourite of the Irish, and he was well-loved here. He visited Ireland just before he was assassinated and he’s always remembered in this country with great fondness, especially by the ladies it must be said.’

‘He sure did have an eye for women, and I guess he was a handsome devil but I am surprised that such a Catholic country would overlook his colourful love life,’ Bert chuckled.

‘Ah sure don’t you know the women always turn a blind eye whenever it suits them,’ Conor said, giving Bert a sideways wink. ‘Anyway, he’s safe up there beside the Pope and the Big Fella,’ Conor nodded in the direction of the Michael Collins portrait. ‘You can tell the politics of a household by who they have on the wall of the living room or the kitchen. This is a Fine Gael house no question.’

Bert looked totally baffled.

Conor explained: ‘After the War of Independence, Michael Collins and others went to London to negotiate a peace treaty with the British. As Ellen will know, the outcome of those negotiations caused a deep divide in the country. What was decided was that the twenty-six counties in the south of the country, now known as the Irish Republic, would become a free state, and the six counties of Down, Derry, Antrim, Armagh, Fermanagh and Tyrone would remain part of the United Kingdom. Those who had fought in the War of Independence were deeply divided, with Éamon de Valera on one side and Michael Collins on the other. The rift resulted in the formation of two major political parties, Fianna Fáil on the de Valera side, and Fine Gael on the Collins side.’

Just as Conor was finishing his brief history lesson, the woman returned. ‘He won’t be long now, he just has to bring the cattle in and he’ll be down to ye then. Ye’ll have a cup of tea while ye’re waiting?’

Ellen and Bert were just about to refuse, not wishing to put the woman to any trouble, but Conor got in there before them. ‘That would be lovely, thanks very much.’

‘Grand so, I’ll just put the kettle on,’ she said, and she was off again.

‘It’s considered rude not to have a cup of tea when it’s offered,’ Conor whispered conspiratorially. ‘It kind of relaxes an atmosphere and it’s what we do here. Don’t worry, it’s no trouble. In most Irish houses the teapot rarely goes cold.’

A door on the other side of the house slammed and was quickly followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning, they saw who they assumed was Eamonn, a short, thin man standing in the doorway. It was difficult to guess his age: it could have been anywhere between sixty and ninety. Out of the pockets of his ancient-looking waxed jacket peeped newspaper cuttings, raggedy brown envelopes and various bits of paper. Both his corduroy trousers and navy woollen jumper looked like they had seen better days. He had big shock of iron-grey hair and hand-knitted socks on his feet, presumably having just removed his wellington boots. ‘Eamonn O’Riordan is the name. You’re all very welcome. Julia tells me you’re looking for some information about a family that lived around here.’

Ellen felt that she should speak first. ‘Yes please. I don’t know if you can help, but my name is Ellen O’Donovan and I was born in the village of Inchigeela on the 18th of December 1920. My father was called Thomas O’Donovan and he had an older brother, Michael, and a younger brother Sean. My mother’s name was Bridget and she died when I was born, I believe. My father brought me to America when I was a baby and I haven’t been back here since then.’

Eamonn’s face broke into a smile. He crossed the room purposefully and, clasping Ellen’s two hands warmly, he said: ‘So you came back to us at last. They always said you would. Welcome home Ellen.’

As Julia served tea and scones, Eamonn spoke at length: ‘When I was growing up, I remember the older people around here would often speculate about what happened to Tom O’Donovan and his baby girl. Michael O’Donovan was a quiet man, kept himself to himself and, of course, in those days, feelings ran very deep about all the trouble that had gone on. The War of Independence, the Civil War and all that. So, most people felt that what was done was done, and was best left alone.’

Ellen looked stunned. This man actually
knew
people who knew her father. What on earth was he going to come out with next?

Eamonn noted the flabbergasted expression on Ellen’s face and decided to continue anyway. ‘Let me think now. Your father was older than me and was a long time gone to America before I was born. But I grew up here and everyone for miles around knows your Uncle Sean. He’s quite a character,’ Eamonn said, registering a new expression on Ellen’s face, this time one of shock. ‘Were you expecting that you would have been forgotten?’ he smiled gently. ‘The thing is Ellen, nothing gets forgotten around here. That’s sometimes a virtue, but other times it’s not. Your father was a young man when he left and the circumstances were difficult, God knows, but his family stayed on in the parish. In fact, you have quite a few relatives not two miles from this house. As you sit there now, I can see the look of Mary O’Donovan about you.’

Ellen gaped at him, completely nonplussed.

‘Mary is one of Sean’s daughters, married to a Casey man back the road here. Their farm adjoins mine. A grand woman altogether. She would be a first cousin to you.’

Ellen’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry Eamonn,’ she said. ‘I just never thought for a second that there might be someone… I thought maybe a grave or something… but I didn’t dare to hope, it’s so long ago you see…’

Bert squeezed Ellen’s hand. ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ she stated simply. ‘I’m sorry Eamonn, please continue.’

‘I would have to research my papers but, as far as I understand it, your grandparents were farmers who had a few cattle, and your grandmother kept geese and hens. They supplied all the turkeys for Christmas too. Or so I believe anyway. They were blessed with three sons who were grand lads. Michael the eldest, who got the farm of course, and Tom, your father, and Sean the youngest. He was a bit of a surprise I’d say. He was a good bit younger than the others. Again, I’m not too sure by how much, but the 1911 Census will tell us all that. The family weren’t political as such. At least I never heard that they were. But your mother’s family, they certainly were. There were mixed feelings at the time about the IRA. A lot of the local people around here supported them wholeheartedly, but there were quite a few others who felt that they were only making a bad situation worse. It led to a lot of bad feeling I can tell you, especially in such a small community where people relied so much on their neighbours. Not like the way it is nowadays.’

Eamonn seemed to hesitate at this point, noting her look of confusion. ‘How much do you know about your father Ellen?’ he asked gently.

‘Just that he took me to America when I was a baby, and that my mother died. What’s all this about trouble?’ she asked.

A shadow of concern crossed Eamonn’s face. ‘I’m sorry Ellen, I don’t know what I’m blathering on about. Anyway ‘tis your Uncle Sean who’ll tell you anything you want to know. He’s getting on for ninety-two or three now, though he wouldn’t admit that in a fit. He’s as sharp as a tack. C’mon let ye, and I’ll bring ye up to meet him.’

Ellen began to tremble, her cup rattling audibly on the china saucer. ‘Sean is still alive?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Oh yes,’ replied Eamonn, ‘I thought you knew that. Though now that I come to think of it, if you did know that already, you’d have come looking for him, not me. Anyway, yes, your uncle Sean is still very much alive and completely with it. He lives with Mary just over the road there.’

Ellen suddenly felt quite weak.

‘I’m so sorry, but do you think I could just go outside for a moment? I need some air,’ she said, moving in the direction of the door. Bert instinctively followed her and didn’t say a word until they reached a secluded corner of the garden.