The Settlement

Brilliant. Pacy, thrilling and authentic,

The Settlement has all the ingredients of a perfect novel. A must read.

Dame Fiona Reynolds, Master Emmanuel College Cambridge.

I love it! Wonderful compelling story so well told. The location, events and relationships are evoked so vividly.

Professor Ingrid Day, Adelaide Australia.

An absolute corker.

Karen Holmes, Editor and author.

First Edition published 2021 by

2QT Limited (Publishing)

Settle, North Yorkshire BD24 9RH United Kingdom

Copyright © Ruth Kirby-Smith 2021

The right of Ruth Kirby-Smith to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

Cover Design by Charlotte Mouncey

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978-1-914083-04-4

This book is available as a Paperback ISBN 978-1-913071-99-8

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. The place names mentioned are real but have no connection with the events in this book.

THE SETTLEMENT

BACKGROUND

Jim and Tom

My father used to entertain us with stories of his childhood and youth. He was allowed to run wild and was totally spoilt by a bevy of loving foster sisters. He was the scallywag, the rapscallion, the miscreant until he was finally tamed by my mother. It was only when he died that I began to consider the stories he had told us and to look more deeply into his history.

Much of it was true and it is told in chapters three and four of the book as Jim’s story. The letters which form part of the text, those of Sally, Jim, and the anonymous letter, are all real and are in my possession. The rest of the book is fiction.

My father was born in August 1919 and went to his grave thinking he was illegitimate – a much bigger issue for those of his generation than for us today. I did some research and found that his parents were married by special licence in April 1919, so he was not illegitimate – but only just.

His biological parents lived in Co Armagh in a village close to the border with Co Monaghan. This county line became the border between the two new states of Ireland, north and south, in 1921. I began to wonder about what life was like for my grandparents during that time. The decade 1910–1920 was full of political unrest with forces in Ireland agitating for independence and those in Ulster equally adamant they wished to remain part of the United Kingdom. Research revealed a rich and interesting period of history. There was a story to be told.

My main source for historical information was the book – ‘A History of Ulster’ by Jonathan Bardon. It was only when I read his biographical notes that I realised I had socialised in the same group as him, briefly, during my first year at Queen’s. Small world – but so typical of Northern Ireland.

I would like to dedicate the book to my grandchildren

KATJA, SKYLA, ISOLA AND AUGUST.

Chapter 1

BACK TO LINDARA

Olivia, 1984

‘S orry for your trouble. Sorry for your trouble.’

The words flowed over Olivia like a balm. She found the old-fashioned phrase curiously comforting. It served these country folks well, giving words to those too shy or tongue-tied to know what to say in the face of death, giving comfort to the family in the rawness of bereavement. Did they have an equivalent in Boston? She had lived there for five years but her American friends and family were young and healthy, leading full, productive lives, so she had yet to experience death in America.

She moved slowly through the small crowd of mourners standing in the spring sunshine, shaking a hand, remembering a face, or introducing herself as Sarah’s granddaughter to those she did not know.

‘Ah now, she had a good innings,’ she heard more than once.

‘Yes, she did,’ Olivia replied. What else could you say about someone who had died peacefully in bed at the age of ninety-two? In the midst of the bombings and shootings in Northern Ireland, it was a blessing.

She looked across the garden to the road winding up over the bridge, past the gates of the Clanhugh estate, and into the village. She tried to put this morning’s incident out of her mind, but it kept coming back to her. What was the meaning of it? Why would someone want to do such a thing at the funeral of an old woman? She stood quietly, a little apart, taking in the serenity of the spring-draped countryside.

This place lay at the prime meridian of her heart. Sometimes at home in Boston she found herself looking along the Charles River, visualising this green valley beyond the ocean. She thought of her friends and family, her haunts in the city, her university days – but her thoughts always came back to this lush wooded valley on the River Blackwater. It was the Eden of her childhood.

There had never been any trouble in Lindara. Summers there were idyllic, full of freedom. She would roam the woods with a gang of children, fishing in the river, making dens, playing hide-and-seek. There were none of the restrictions of the city. Each year she slotted back into the local gang, where the son of Lord Clanhugh played with the gamekeeper’s boys, and even Bobby, who was disabled, was included in the fun. In her memory the grown-ups were the same – working together, playing football, drinking in the village pub without any feuding or bitterness.

In all the years of the Troubles there had never been strife in Lindara, but was it the perfect place of her memory? If so, how could she explain the look of pure hatred on the face of the man who insulted her grandmother in her coffin?

She had felt a sense of unease as soon as she’d climbed into the funeral car that morning. There she sat with her mother and father, looking straight ahead as they followed the hearse. All she could look at was the oak coffin surrounded by flowers. It was then that the finality of it hit her, and her eyes stung with tears at the thought of losing her grandmother forever. She felt trapped, as if she were in a black tunnel, and she passed over the bridge and went past the gates of the estate feeling raw with grief.

As the procession entered the village, she tore her eyes from the coffin and looked out. Lindara was a beautiful place. The architecture was classic Georgian, built in beige sandstone, with flame-coloured ivy adding the final touch of elegance to the buildings in the main street. It had been the brainchild of the original Lord Clanhugh, after he was granted the thousand acres straddling the counties of Armagh and Monaghan on which he built his country seat and the model village at its gates. She had always appreciated the beauty of Lindara, yet for the first time the cold formality of the village struck her in its contrast to the pretty colonial houses of the Boston suburbs.

This culture shock swamped her each time she crossed the Atlantic. But then, within a few days, she adjusted. On her first trip to America she had worked the summer season in a seaside resort on the New Jersey shore. She was amazed by the brashness of it all – the motels with names like Shangri-La flashing bright neon lights, the boardwalk with foods she had never heard of. Saltwater taffy, root beer, thirty different kinds of ice cream, waffles and maple syrup for breakfast, acres of rides on the seafront.

The people came in every shape and size too. Fat old ladies wore shorts and sloppy T-shirts in gaudy colours that would have been unthinkable in Ireland.

‘Can they see themselves?’ she wondered. ‘Do they realise how outrageous they look?’ Yet, when she returned home, she could not believe how drab the Irish looked in their sensible grey and beige. After three months in America, Ireland seemed a buttoned-up, cheerless place. Though she had lived in Boston for five years she always needed to make this mental adjustment when she travelled back and forth.

That morning she had noticed the man as soon as their car slowed to turn right to the church. He was leaning against the wall with his back to the funeral cortège, but he slowly turned as the hearse eased around the corner and raised himself to his full height. He was tall, with a muscular build, and he was much older than Olivia had first guessed. His eyes never left the hearse as he moved with a long, slow stride through the crowd to the edge of the pavement. No one seemed to be aware of him except her, but she could not take her eyes off him. It was the look on his face and the proud way he held himself that made her skin prickle.

He stood at the edge of the pavement, exactly on the corner, a full head higher than those around him. Olivia waited for him to dip his head as a sign of respect, but he stood there, very still, his hard blue eyes fixed on the oak coffin. Then he stepped forward and it seemed for a moment that he wanted to touch the coffin, to make the last contact with her grandmother before she was buried. Slowly, he lifted his head back, looking to the sky, then he jerked forward and spat a long stream down the window of the hearse.

She could not hear the words he said, but she did not need to hear them to know that he had cursed her grandmother with a heart full of hate. There was a low gasp and the villagers around him looked away in embarrassment. He paused for a moment, turned, and then, like the parting of the Red Sea, the crowd stepped to one side as he moved swiftly between them and disappeared from view.

***

The man’s name was on everyone’s lips as they gathered at the house to pay their respects. The tall figure, who had strolled towards the hearse and then so publicly disrespected her grandmother, was called Michael O’Connell.

‘Aw, sure, them O’Connells were always the same. Nothing but a shower of hooligans. There was always hard feeling between Sarah and that lot.’ Olivia was told this more than once, but no one seemed to know why there was animosity between them. It was just there, and always had been, as long as anyone could remember.

She recalled two families in the village by that name, but they had never been close friends of the children she’d played with when she came to stay. They were older and did not want to be bothered with the younger kids. One thing she did remember about them was that the O’Connells were either red-haired, freckled and gawky, or dark-haired, blue-eyed and beautiful. There was no in-between. She tried to recollect if her grandmother had ever mentioned the O’Connells, but she could not think of a single link between her and them over the years.

When the last stragglers were leaving, she wandered down to the bridge over the Blackwater. She could not get the image of the man out of her mind. Over and over again she saw him, as if in a flickering, black-and-white movie – leaning back, looking upward, and then jerking forward as the long stream of spit hit the side of the hearse. She could see the arc of it hang in the air, an innocent stream of water until it landed beside the coffin, as a curse.

Why would he do it? She asked herself the question a hundred times, wondering what could make a normal human being behave like that. What would drive him to make such a public statement of hatred? Surely no one could feel such venom towards her grandmother, who was well liked and respected in the village?

If Olivia had to catch the essence of her grandmother in one word it would be Lady. She could picture her tall, lean figure walking up the aisle in church to the front pew, alongside the one occupied by the Clanhughs when they were at home. Her steely grey hair was always knotted high on the back of her head in a bun and covered with a wide-brimmed hat, and her suit was always a classic cut in a subdued colour. The wardrobe in her bedroom was full of clothes, some from the couture houses of Paris, that hadn’t been worn for years.

Sarah was a regular churchgoer, but she shied away from social commitments. Her only contribution to the church, apart from her money, was the annual garden party. Even then, Olivia knew that tolerating people trekking through her garden was as much as she could bear. On the whole, Sarah lived the life of a recluse.

As Olivia watched the waters rippling past the dark green weed, the question shifted in her mind to what Sarah had done to cause such strong feelings. She loved her grandmother dearly, had never had any cause to dislike or question her, yet, as she pondered, the distance created by five years abroad allowed questions and doubts to surface. Like tilting a kaleidoscope, Olivia began to glimpse a new and different view.

It was ironic that she, who had spent her career in scientific research – asking questions, never accepting the obvious – should take so long to question the integrity of her grandmother. But then she was bound by love, emotion, kinship and all the things that were a hindrance to objective inquiry. Olivia knew that, to get to the bottom of today’s events, she would have to start looking at her grandmother’s life with an unbiased eye.

She began to think about the quirks of her grandmother’s character. Her house was her pride, but her garden was her passion. She was out of doors in all weathers in old clothes and boots, weeding, planting and pruning. The Colonel – a thin, toothless wire of a man – worked by her side five days a week. They squabbled like children over the ideal potting mix or the position of a plant and then, once the altercation was over, they would sit in the summerhouse drinking tea and chatting. Every afternoon, the Colonel offered Sarah a cigarette and she accepted. On winter afternoons they always added a nip of Bushmills to each cup.

The Colonel had been the gardener for Sarah for as long as Olivia could remember, and she recalled how amused she was, as a child, when she realised that the Colonel was not a kernel. That hard, brown-eyed little man had always been a nut encasing a soft, sweet interior in her childhood mind, but now she realised that thinking such a rough old rogue could have been a colonel in the British army was even more ridiculous.

Was there ever more than just friendship between them? She knew without a doubt that there was not, yet there was never the simple mistress and employee relationship either. It was something more complex, that only the two of them understood. Swearing was like breathing to the Colonel, but Sarah seemed indifferent to it except when Olivia was there.

‘Whist, Colonel, the child is here. Watch your language,’ her grandmother would say, but it was useless. Swearing ran through the Colonel’s language like yeast in bread.

She clearly remembered one perfect spring day. She was busy damming the stream at the bottom of the garden, while Grandmother had the minister’s wife and two of the ladies from the church to tea. They were in the green sitting room, discussing the arrangements for the annual garden party, with the French windows open to the garden. The Colonel was muttering to himself and swearing under his breath. Olivia watched him, wondering what on earth was eating him that day.

As the meeting went on he grew restless and made a point of walking past the open windows, looking in, impatient for the meeting to end. Eventually, he moved closer and started weeding the garden bed beside the windows. When there was a lull in the conversation, the ladies clearly heard him say,

‘There she is sitting in there on her fat arse instead of out here doing a decent day’s work.’ There was an embarrassed silence, and then the ladies cleared their throats, drank their tea and left.

Olivia waited, wondering what her grandmother would say, making sure to stay well out of the way near the stream but close enough to hear what was going on. The Colonel hummed to himself and whistled out of tune, noticeably happier now that they had gone.

When Sarah appeared in her old clothes, she put her hands on her hips, fixed the wiry figure with a hard stare and said,

‘What are we going to do with you, Colonel?’ Olivia remembered skulking closer, waiting for the row to start, but next thing she knew they were doubled up, howling with laughter.

It wasn’t so strange to have a public and a private persona, it was just that Sarah’s private persona was so different from her public one. Olivia loved her grandmother for that, loved the fact that she had a mischievous and devil-may-care side to her character.

Still staring into the water, Olivia realised how little she really understood of Sarah’s life. She knew that she had married a wealthy widower in his sixties when she was a teenager, and that after he’d died she married John Brown. With him she had a son – Olivia’s father – who was raised by a foster family because Sarah and John were busy working in the business. She also knew there was a stepson from Sarah’s first marriage, who had gone to England many years ago. The family only found out about him after he died because Sarah was the executor of his will.

Standing on the bridge, she had a pure adult moment. Looking back at the official version of her family history, none of it rang true. As a child, she had accepted everything she was told, but now her mind was full of questions. Did she really know her grandmother? Each time she tried to define her, she thought of a contradictory fact that was equally true. She was a lady, yet she could be earthy and even coarse at times. She was a loving anchor for the family, yet she had paid a foster family to raise her only son. She had married two wealthy men, yet had apparently ignored the existence of a stepson for years. She lived a simple, open life, but there were corners of it hidden and never explained.

The most serious case to answer was the way she had treated Olivia’s father, Jim. It was all family history now, and the rift between them had been healed, but she knew her father was scarred in some deep, permanent way where his mother was concerned.

Jim was born on a summer day in the seaside town of Rostrevor, where Sarah had gone on holiday. When he was three days old, two sisters from a family at the Spa came in a pony and trap to collect him. They took him to his foster home, where he was brought up by the family until, at the age of ten, his father and mother came to reclaim him.

As a child, Olivia had often heard the story of how he came back with them in a big black car to a house that had the best of everything. Carpets, fancy furniture, electric lights in every room, inside bathrooms, and a garage with two cars and an array of tools that made his eyes shine. He lived with them for the whole of that long summer and started at school in Armagh in September, but he missed his foster family and all his friends. Sarah and John were his biological mother and father, but he said they were like strangers to him. Her father had told her he was so desperately unhappy and homesick that he’d written to the two oldest girls at the Spa, and they had hatched a plan to take him back.

Apparently, he did not see his mother again until he was nineteen, when he rode his motorbike to Lindara and arrived on her doorstep. He said that when she opened the door she did not recognise him and asked him what he wanted. He’d had to tell his mother who he was. Olivia could only imagine how that must have felt. Over the years they had managed to rebuild their relationship, and the bond between Jim and Sarah was undoubtedly strengthened by the closeness that had grown between Olivia and her grandmother. It was never acknowledged that the time – and love – that Sarah lavished on Olivia was her way of