Danny Boy

Danny Boy
Anne Bennett

A deeply moving saga of a young couple with high hopes for a bright future in rural Ireland, only to find themselves embroiled in the uprising of 1916 and having to make a new life for themselves in Birmingham.Rosie’s family doesn’t have much money, but she’s rich in other ways: she loves her life on the farm, her sisters, her friends, and even her spoilt baby brother. When Danny Walsh asks her to walk out with him one Sunday, it’s a dream come true.Everyone agrees that they are made for each other and soon they are married. But Danny’s young brother runs away to join in the uprising of Easter 1916. Danny is a man of peace but has no choice; he must find his brother and bring him home. Before he can be released, Danny must swear to take his place.Danny will never be free of his pledge. He takes Rosie and their small daughter to what they hope is safety in Birmingham – but the fight to survive has just begun, as nobody will employ an Irishman when there’s a war on. With no money coming in, Rosie does the unthinkable and leaves Danny to look after the child while she finds a job in munitions. Little does she realise the danger she is in and what consequences it will have for her and her family. Danny and Rosie will find their resources, spirit and love for each other are tested to the utmost limit before the future is bright again.

Danny Boy

Anne Bennett

To my only son Simon, with all my love.

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u21882a1f-fca1-5458-b724-aba8db020562)

Title Page (#u96d651e2-d9e4-5ead-999a-379cd0fd304a)

Dedication (#u8f3fc7da-d9db-545a-9891-c8bf8536f6de)

ONE (#u78310fd8-b13f-5967-aa02-30a0fbcb005c)

TWO (#u8d00211c-5e8f-5d70-aad4-bf863626f01f)

THREE (#ufb896a15-4be3-5548-ad7f-1fd8279b5a42)

FOUR (#ud5d7ed0d-6f81-5eab-a50c-4547fa9cb014)

FIVE (#ucf499079-9984-5e01-a793-3c09b1814d75)

SIX (#u1c9da8af-56fc-5fe2-ab6a-8784b09ec538)

SEVEN (#ue2f93a84-d9e5-517b-9234-933b5b36cc1a)

EIGHT (#u919b49d5-ab15-54b4-aca5-db31eea35c38)

NINE (#u61228e82-16fc-5b58-8ab5-59b59ca1fd2b)

TEN (#u5b978762-2ab5-50f6-aed7-aa3e4d8cc0db)

ELEVEN (#u96941af0-bdd3-50fe-915e-8f3af32f47aa)

TWELVE (#u474586f1-1f79-5606-88d6-66cb35b6fd64)

THIRTEEN (#u5c7c9251-2e43-5a1d-b94b-b74a7ccb68ac)

FOURTEEN (#u744491c3-0360-563d-9088-238c89727eba)

FIFTEEN (#ub3fded7d-f001-5b92-9fad-b3d5f5a01320)

SIXTEEN (#ua82a7128-e44f-5602-a619-64504ced7060)

SEVENTEEN (#ue0d68d15-f24d-5ca6-b769-41896519814f)

EIGHTEEN (#u8b6aea8e-8d9f-51b4-ad05-96708327ebad)

NINETEEN (#ufb5145f0-1462-5ae0-a55d-6e433e9588af)

TWENTY (#u578829ab-fc46-5c4a-a2b2-0ab0b763e6ce)

TWENTY-ONE (#ub29f5cc4-668e-525e-be46-e78cf4b7eb3e)

TWENTY-TWO (#u91a90afc-8a11-51b9-9a06-f81be471f711)

TWENTY-THREE (#u3a83dd79-c355-5c5d-96d6-77189279b10f)

TWENTY-FOUR (#u4eb34edc-3446-5fb2-ae58-cebeebfcc77d)

TWENTY-FIVE (#u5fba5c31-6534-5375-a3f5-d102d60708ad)

TWENTY-SIX (#u1155fff8-cac1-568d-becc-bda3189acb77)

TWENTY-SEVEN (#ubbb257ad-c2b0-52c9-9c8a-49c9ecba3158)

TWENTY-EIGHT (#u29d1a21a-366a-55f8-a66b-7fa13ff52450)

TWENTY-NINE (#u03da94aa-039c-51fe-9a64-5dc6eb3a5249)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#u5dd25ed3-a0bc-5943-932e-770b8d0b3518)

By the same author (#uc99a22a7-1831-5d9f-956f-6b43c7cee5bb)

Copyright (#u859366ef-d9d1-5e8f-a051-bc0898e09859)

About the Publisher (#u6b9e5e96-75f4-5737-99fb-5e73832499f0)

ONE (#ulink_d3e57aef-65ee-57ed-93bb-bc8ce63df0dd)

Rosie McMullen never thought much of the beauty of the countryside she lived in, like the verdant green hills to each side of the farm. These were speckled with sheep and dotted here and there with cottages very like her own and had rivers that shone like silver ribbons in the sun trickling down them that fed into the large lake beside Blessington village.

She lived with her parents Minnie and Seamus and her two younger sisters, Chrissie and Geraldine, on a small, but prosperous farm just over two miles from the village in County Wicklow, a county that was often dubbed ‘the garden of Ireland’.

She took it all for granted like she did her home, that squat, whitewashed, thatched cottage, with the cobbled yard in front of it, full of strutting hens pecking at the corn and grit. There was a barn to one side of the cottage, a byre to the other, a midden at the back and a spring well in the first field. The cottage itself had a large kitchen with a curtained-off bed, in the corner where Rosie’s parents slept. There were also two other bedrooms, the first and largest one, which opened directly off the kitchen was used by Rosie and her sisters and at the end of that room another door led into a smaller room, which remained unoccupied until Rosie took it over for her first ten years.

From the cottage window, Rosie could see the winding lane leading up to the road with cultivated fields to one side of it and the pasture land to the other side, where the cows stood placidly chewing the cud.

However, Rosie’s childhood was a harsh one, even in this idyllic place and came to an end entirely by the time she was just ten, when in October 1907 her mother gave birth to a baby boy she named Dermot. Rosie’s sisters were eight and six, and from the moment Dermot let out his first newborn wail, it was as if they’d all ceased to exist.

Neither Minnie or her husband had ever been particularly demonstrative with their affections towards the girls, and Minnie especially, was always quick to find fault. She would fly into a temper for little or no reason and smacks, or strokes from the strap was a regular feature of their childhood. They never questioned this, it was just how things were. But, Dermot, they were soon aware, had a totally different kind of upbringing.

At only twenty inches long, Dermot ruled the house and all in it. Neighbours trailed to the house to offer their congratulations and catch a glimpse of this marvellous child, as if Dermot McMullen was the first child born to the family. Seamus’s hand was shook over and over. He was stood drinks at the pub by the men, while the women brought gifts for the baby and cakes and other fancies for the family. The three girls were mostly ignored, but if they were noticed at all, it was only to be asked if they weren’t delighted altogether by their wee brother?

Strangely enough, Rosie was. She had no argument with the small baby and she often stole away to gaze at him. He looked so vulnerable. He had a dusting of light silky hair and his skin was a creamy colour, his eyes the milky blue of the newborn. She was enchanted by his tiny flexing fingers with minute nails and his podgy little feet, which would kick out in freedom when he was released from his bindings. No, Rosie couldn’t blame the wee baby for the changes in the house, but as time passed, she blamed her parents and particularly her mother more and more.

Minnie was unaware of how her eldest daughter felt. In fact she seldom thought of her at all, now that she had her son. She would have said, if asked that her daughters were not neglected, they were fed, warm and kept clean. Rosie, if ever she’d given voice to her feelings, would have said that, though their basic needs were attended to, they were never given a kind word or shown a warm smile. Rosie would have liked her mother’s eyes to soften when she looked at her daughters sometimes, the way they did when they lighted on Dermot and to be spoken to in the soothing, gentle way she reserved for the baby.

She never discussed these things with her little sisters, but resentment began to burn inside her and she promised herself that she’d never make a daughter of hers feel so unwanted, however many sons she might have.

Dermot’s eyes eventually turned bluey/grey, but his skin stayed fair and he developed dark blond curls. The three McMullen sisters all looked totally different to their brother. They all had large, dark brown eyes with a dusting of freckles beneath them and across their pink tinged cheeks and the bridge of their snub noses. Their hair was as dark as their eyes and fell in natural waves down their backs.

Each Saturday night, Seamus went into one of the pubs in Blessington village and the girls would have their weekly bath. Minnie would help bring the bath in before the fire and help fill it and then they’d be left to their own devices. It was Rosie who lathered her little sisters and washed their hair, remembering to use the water from the rain barrel outside the door for the last rinse, so as to give their hair extra shine.

It was Rosie who helped her sisters from the bath and dried them and towelled their hair to stop it dripping before attending to herself. And later, when they were all bathed, the water emptied pan by pan into the gutter in the yard, and the girls dressed for bed, Rosie would plait all their hair, so that it would be wavy for Mass in the morning.

And the next morning, while her mother attended to Dermot, Rosie would see to her sisters, brushing their hair and checking that they were tidy and that their boots were fastened correctly and they had a clean hanky up the leg of their bloomers and the collection farthings secure.

Chrissie and Geraldine accepted Rosie as their substitute mother without complaint and so possibly felt the lack of a mother’s love and attention less than Rosie did. And Rosie felt a sort of fierce protective love for her two little sisters and took a pride in their appearance.

When they stepped out for Mass dressed in their best clothes with bonnets tied beneath their little pointed chins, and their boots shining with polish, they looked lovely. All three girls were dressed the same for Mass, but though many of the neighbours smiled at the girls, their attention was all for Dermot.

Wasn’t he the little dote? Hadn’t he grown so? Wasn’t he the best baby in the world, so good, so contented? Surely Minnie didn’t know she was born with such a child and with three daughters to help her rear him.