The Forgotten Secret. Kathleen McGurl
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dinner on the table when he came home from work. A throwback to the 1950s. Sometimes I despised myself for it. Though not for much longer.
There were three banks with branches in our small town, and I nipped into the first one I came across – Nationwide.
‘I need to open a bank account,’ I told the clerk, slightly breathless from my fast walk to town.
‘All right, what kind of account did you want? And do you already have any accounts with us?’ she asked.
‘Just a regular account. And no, I don’t.’
‘OK. Wait there, I’ll see if someone’s available to talk you through the options.’
I was lucky. Someone was available and I was ushered to a desk behind a partition, where a smart young man with ‘Dan’ on his name badge sat opposite me with a pile of leaflets. I was blushing with embarrassment that a woman of my age – almost 50 – did not have her own bank account, and did not know the difference between a SIPP and an ISA, a current account and a savings account. I’d had my own account before Paul, of course, but I’d closed it on his advice when I stopped working when Matt came along, and had just used our joint account for the twenty-four years since then. Dan was patient and gentle with me, but I could tell he thought I was an oddity.
‘Well, Mrs Farrell, as you’re wanting to pay in an inheritance but still have instant access to the money, I would recommend our Flexclusive Saver account. Decent interest rates yet fully flexible. We can open that now for you, if you have some proof of ID and proof of address.’
I hadn’t for a moment thought I’d need anything like that. I’d been so far removed from all this sort of thing – Paul of course handled all our finances and paid all the bills. But thankfully I had my driving licence on me, and at the bottom of my handbag was a water bill with a shopping list scribbled on the back. Dan accepted those.
Twenty minutes later I left, grinning like a cat with cream, clutching a piece of paper with my bank account numbers on it. A card would arrive by post in a couple of days, Dan said. Our post arrived around midday so I’d be able to pick it up before Paul saw it.
Back home I called Mr Greve, passed on the bank details, and made myself some tea in an attempt to calm myself down a little. I’d done it. I’d taken the first step towards independence.
Next step, tell Paul.
Ellen, July 1919
Ellen set off to start work at her new job the next day with a spring in her step. She’d packed a few things in a holdall – even though Mrs Carlton’s big house was only a couple of miles away from her father’s cottage, her job was live-in as she had to be up at six to set the fires in the bedrooms, bring hot water upstairs in ewers and then fetch the mistress’s breakfast, which she always took in her room.
She was looking forward to starting the job, a new life away from her increasingly morose father. She felt a pang of guilt that he’d have to fend for himself during the week, but she’d baked two large mutton pies the previous day and stored them in the pantry, and she’d made enough soda bread for a few days, and a fruit cake, and stocked up on general groceries. He’d manage, she told herself.
And Jimmy was home. Jimmy was home! When they’d parted the day before, he’d promised to meet her this morning to walk with her as far as the gates to Carlton House. She had to pass his home, Clonamurty Farm, on her way anyway.
Sure enough, there he was, leaning against the gate post as she approached. The low morning sun was behind him, shining like a halo around his floppy blond hair. Such a contrast to her own dark curls. Ellen smiled as he greeted her and began walking alongside her.
‘So, all ready for your new job?’ he asked.
‘Yes, all ready. I’ve my things packed in this bag. They’ll give me a maid’s uniform up at the house. My room will be right up in the attic. I hope there’s a window with a view.’
‘Maybe a view back to Clonamurty, and if you’re unhappy you can signal me from the window. One lit candle means all’s well, two means come and rescue me.’ There was a mischievous glint in Jimmy’s eyes as he said this.
Ellen giggled, but a little part of her wondered whether Jimmy would really ‘rescue’ her if she was in need. It was an enticing thought. She felt herself blushing so turned her face away.
They chatted and bantered as they walked the short distance to Carlton House. Jimmy did not say anything more about his political beliefs or his desire for an independent Ireland, for which Ellen was grateful. Their time together would be all too limited now that she was working six days a week, plus cooking for her father on the seventh, and she did not want to spend time talking politics.
At the end of the long drive lined with elegant poplar trees that led up to the big house, Jimmy stopped. ‘You probably oughtn’t to be seen walking with me on your first day, so I’ll leave you here. Good luck!’
‘Will I see you on Sunday?’ Ellen asked, turning to face him. ‘It’s my day off. I’ll be at Mass, of course, and have to see Da, but …’
‘I’ll meet you here and walk you home. Then I can see you after church if you’ve time, and walk you back here in the evening. If you like.’
Her eyes shone. ‘Yes. Yes, all that would be lovely, so it would.’ Something to look forward to, all week. Six days until she’d see him again.
‘I’ll be away, then. Hope all goes well. They’ll love you, sure they will.’
He took a step towards her and for a moment she thought he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her goodbye, but he just picked a loose hair off her shoulder and then raised his hand to wave farewell.
She watched him walk back the way they’d come for a moment, then turned and began making her way up the long gravel driveway towards the big house. She’d only been there once before – the previous week when she’d attended an interview with Mrs Carlton. She’d expected to meet a housekeeper, but it was the lady of the house herself who conducted the interview. There’d been an odd question about Ellen’s family background, and she’d found herself talking about her great-grandfather who’d fought alongside Wolfe Tone in the old rebellion. Mrs Carlton had pronounced herself pleased, and asked Ellen to begin work.
And now it was time to start her new life. When she’d reached the house, she went around to the kitchen door, knocked, and was shown in by a scowling housemaid.
‘You’ll be the new maid, then,’ the girl said. It was a statement not a question. ‘I was after wanting that job upstairs. Easier than downstairs. Don’t know why the mistress didn’t give it to me.’
Maybe because you’re so grumpy, Ellen thought, but she smiled sweetly and held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry if I got the job you wanted. I hope it won’t stop us being friends. My name’s Mary-Ellen, but everyone calls me Ellen.’
‘I’m Siobhan,’ the other girl said, ‘and you’ll be sharing my bedroom.’ She did not shake Ellen’s hand.
Siobhan took her through the kitchen and along a corridor to an office, where Mrs Carlton was sitting doing the household accounts.
‘Ah, Ellen. Thank you, Siobhan. You may return to your duties. I’ll show Ellen where her bedroom is and what her tasks are to be.’
Siobhan bobbed a curtsey and left the room, but not before she’d thrown another scowl in Ellen’s direction. Ellen suppressed a sigh. She’d hoped she’d make friends here at the Hall, not enemies. And she’d be sharing a room with Siobhan. She resolved to work harder at being friendly towards the other girl. Siobhan was probably just jealous, but it wasn’t Ellen’s fault she’d got the job.
‘I really should employ a housekeeper,’