‘They are, Nuala. Ireland is free! It’s free.’
Later that day, Fergus drove her and Christy on the pony and cart into Timoleague to collect Hannah, so that the whole family could be reunited at Cross Farm to celebrate the victory together. Even Ryan had agreed to come, and there was much whiskey drunk and laughter and tears and toasts for all those who had contributed so much to the fight, but were no longer here to celebrate with them.
Even though Nuala had joined in with the celebrations, she felt distracted.
‘Do you mind if I drive the pony and cart back home now, Christy?’ she asked her cousin, who’d had a good few too many whiskeys.
‘O’course. I’m in no fit state to drive the cattle into the barn, let alone a pony and cart,’ he chuckled. ‘But I’ll come back down to Clogagh with you. Sure, John will need some help clearing up in the pub tomorrow morning.’
Nuala left the rest of her family to their joy, and was glad to see Ryan chatting away happily to her father about how Mick Collins would sort everything out for Ireland peacefully.
On their journey down to Clogagh, there was a strange hush on the roads, and they did not meet a single car or truck.
Nuala released the horse from the cart and took the animal into the field next to the pub. Christy was still punching the air, and swaying as he sang an old Irish ballad.
‘Time for your bed, Christy, but I’ll be seeing you tomorrow,’ she smiled.
‘Goodnight, Nuala, and I’m sure your man will be back with you soon,’ he said, as he leant heavily on his stick, then staggered through the pub door, the place still full with customers.
‘I can only pray he will be,’ she murmured as she let herself into the cottage.
For the next twenty-four hours, while it seemed like the whole of Ireland was letting out its breath, Nuala was still holding hers. She’d hardly slept a wink, listening for the sound of the back door opening. But it hadn’t come.
By the evening, she was beside herself with worry as she watched thin, dishevelled volunteers appearing back in the village and embracing their loved ones.
‘Where are you, Finn?’ she whispered. ‘Please come home to me soon, or I’ll be losing my mind.’
By bedtime, Nuala was too exhausted to change, and fell asleep in her clothes on the bed. She didn’t hear the back door open, or the footsteps up the stairs.
Only when his voice whispered in her ear, then took her into his arms and held her close, did she know her prayers had been answered.
‘You’re home, Finn. God love you, you’re home.’
‘I am that, darlin’, and I swear I’ll never leave your side again.’
Over the following few months, the atmosphere in Ireland was jubilant. The British troops moved out, and life resumed a semblance of normality. As Nuala’s pregnancy progressed, Finn went back to teaching his children at Clogagh School. Summer turned into a wet and windy autumn, which couldn’t dampen Nuala’s spirits.
In November, during Sunday lunch at Cross Farm, all talk was of the truce negotiations currently happening in London between Michael Collins and the British Prime Minister David Lloyd George, supported by his team of seasoned politicians. Collins had been sent as Ireland’s advocate and had promised to bring back a treaty that would give Ireland their republic.
‘I’m surprised Éamon de Valera didn’t go himself to negotiate with the British,’ said Finn as he tucked into the beef and stout stew Eileen had made. ‘After all, he’s our president, and more experienced at all that than Mick.’
‘Mick Collins will bring us the peace we’ve been yearning for,’ said Ryan tersely, and Nuala could still feel the underlying tension between the soldier and the pacifist.
‘I’d reckon that de Valera is after using Mick Collins as a scapegoat. He’s always been good at making sure he’s out of the way of things when they go wrong, then taking the credit if they go right,’ said Daniel. ‘Look at how he left Mick to fight the British while he sailed off to America to raise funds. I’d not be trusting that man an inch. I’m glad ’tis Mick who’s there for Ireland.’
Nuala saw Finn about to speak and put a hand on his leg under the table to stop him. The war was over, and Nuala wanted peace at the family lunch table as much as she wanted it for Ireland.
By the beginning of December, Nuala was heavy with child, and eager for the babe to arrive. She was glad that her sister was only a month behind her, and the two commiserated over their aches and pains.
‘’Tis only a few more weeks.’ Nuala gritted her teeth as she lowered herself into a chair. She was up in the kitchen of Cross Farm with Hannah and her mother, knitting hats and booties for the two babes. A gust of cold wind blew in as Daniel swept through the kitchen door, waving a newspaper over his head, with Fergus behind him.
‘We’ve got a peace treaty!’ he cried. ‘Mick’s done it for Ireland!’
As the family hugged each other and cheered at the news, Daniel opened theCork Examinerand began to read out the terms of the Treaty. As he read, the excitement in his voice turned slowly to anger. When he’d finished, he sat down heavily at the table, the family crowding round him to read the details for themselves.
‘This can’t be true,’ Daniel murmured.
‘It is, Daddy. It says here that Ireland is to be a “self-governing dominion” of the British Empire,’ said Hannah.
