Name Upon Name

  NAME

  UPON

  NAME

  About the Author

  Sheena Wilkinson is the award-winning writer of a number of books for young people. She lives in County Down.

  Other books by Sheena Wilkinson

  published by Little Island

  Still Falling (YA)

  Published in spring 2015

  Too Many Ponies (children’s)

  Shortlisted for CBI awards 2014

  Grounded (YA)

  CBI Book of the Year 2013

  CBI Children’s Choice 2013

  Taking Flight (YA)

  CBI Honour for Fiction 2011

  CBI Children’s Choice 2011

  NAME

  UPON

  NAME

  Sheena Wilkinson

  NAME UPON NAME

  First published in 2015 by

  Little Island Books

  7 Kenilworth Park

  Dublin 6W, Ireland

  © Sheena Wilkinson 2015

  The author has asserted her moral rights.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means (including electronic/digital, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, by means now known or hereinafter invented) without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-910411-36-0

  A British Library Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover illustration by Niall McCormack

  Insides designed and typeset by Oldtown

  Printed in Poland by Drukarnia Skleniarz

  Little Island receives financial assistance from

  The Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon and the Arts Council of Northern Ireland

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Too long a sacrifice

  Can make a stone of the heart.

  O when may it suffice?

  That is Heaven’s part, our part

  To murmur name upon name,

  As a mother names her child

  When sleep at last has come

  On limbs that had run wild.

  from ‘Easter 1916’ by WB Yeats

  For Susanne Brownlie

  with love and thanks for many years of friendship, in and out of books

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Siobhán Parkinson and Gráinne Clear for giving me the opportunity to write Name Upon Name and for being so enthusiastic about the project. I love historical fiction and have always wanted to write a book set in this period.

  Thanks to Briege Stitt in the Local Collection of Downpatrick Library for her help in tracking down helpful books for research. Susanne Brownlie was a tireless supporter of Name Upon Name from the start: thanks for reading, commenting and most of all for liking Helen and her family so much. Likewise, huge thanks to Julie McDonald who read the book with a historian’s eye. Many years ago, Alison Jordan, my history teacher at Victoria College, Belfast, inspired me to love history. I wish she were still alive: I know she’d be delighted that I grew up to write a book set in 1916.

  Writing this novel was very intense: more thanks even than usual are due to my family and friends for keeping me fed, entertained and reasonably sane. My wonderful agent, Faith O’Grady, is a constant source of wisdom, and as always has been there to support me throughout. Fellow writerly folk, on- and offline, you know who you are, and I hope you know how valuable it is to be able to talk to you.

  During the revising of this novel, I was fortunate enough to spend a week in the magical surroundings of the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig. More than for any previous book, I know its unique atmosphere helped to make Helen’s story come alive to me.

  And finally, but perhaps most importantly, thanks to everyone who reads my books, especially when they go to the trouble of telling other people about them. I hope you enjoy this latest story.

  Historical Note

  This novel is set mostly in Belfast in the early part of 1916. At that time, all of Ireland was part of the United Kingdom. Ireland was represented by MPs (Members of Parliament) who sat in the British parliament in Westminster in London.

  Some Irish people (mostly Catholics) were Nationalists. That meant that they did not want to be part of the United Kingdom but wanted to have a separate Irish state. Other people (most of them Protestants) were Unionists, and they believed that Ireland and Britain belong together and wanted Ireland to remain British. Most of the Unionists lived in Ulster.

  Home Rule was a kind of compromise solution. Home Rule would mean that Ireland could have some independence and its own parliament in Dublin, but that Ireland would still be part of the United Kingdom, and the British parliament would still have power over Ireland in some respects. Many Nationalists, including John Redmond, leader of the most popular Irish political party, supported Home Rule, but others felt it did not go far enough; and of course the Unionists were against it, because they wanted Ireland to remain British.

  Home Rule for Ireland was just about to be brought in, when war broke out between Britain and Germany. This war (later called World War I) started in 1914 and did not come to an end until 1918. Many battles were fought in northern France and in the area of Belgium called Flanders. It was a terrible, terrible war and millions of young men died horribly in it.

  Irishmen from Unionist families were often very keen to join the army and go to war; Irishmen from Nationalist families had more mixed feelings. Redmond believed that if Irishmen joined up that would help Britain to win the war quickly, and then, when things got back to normal, Home Rule would come in. Other Nationalists felt that joining the army and helping the British was not the right thing for Irishmen to do if they wanted an independent Ireland.

  Some Nationalists believed that the only way to get Irish independence was to have a rebellion (or a rising) against British rule. And they felt that this was a good time to rebel, because Britain was busy fighting in Europe. The 1916 Rising took place on Easter Monday, mostly in Dublin, led by Patrick Pearse and James Connolly among others. The rebellion was quickly quashed by the British, the leaders were executed as traitors and Britain continued to wage war in Europe for another two years. Home Rule for Ireland never did come in, but eventually the Republic of Ireland was set up as an independent state and Northern Ireland remained part of the United Kingdom.

  These were dreadful times for both Nationalists and Unionists, Protestants and Catholics, and especially for the men killed and wounded in battle and their families. The characters in this story are caught up in these conflicts, they have different religious and political loyalties, and the story shows how historical events reach into the lives also of the people who do not fight – mostly the women and children – as well as those who do, and can tear families apart with grief, loss and bitterness.

  LITTLE ISLAND

  JANUARY 1916

  1.

  ‘Saint Anthony will find your brooch for you – he’s the patron saint of lost things. Just say a wee prayer.’ As soon as the words were out of Helen’s mouth, she knew she’d made one of her blunders.

  Aunt Violet pursed her lips and sat up even straighter on the settee. ‘There’ll be no need for that, thank you.’ She didn’t say ‘Catholic nonsense’ but Helen imagined the words hovering in the air around them, in Aunt Violet’s parlour, which was usually chilly but had a cheerful fire today in honour of 1916 being only two days old.

  Her cousin Sandy winked at her, and Helen tried not to giggle – no point in giving Aunt Violet more reason to find fault with her. But as she bit back the giggle, she felt a little bubble of happiness. When Sandy had first come home from the war in France he would never have winked like that. He
was obviously better, but that meant he would be leaving soon. People were always leaving.

  As if she could read Helen’s thoughts, Aunt Violet, in her smoothest voice, said, ‘It’s a pity your poor mother won’t be home for your birthday tomorrow.’ She accepted a teacup from Granny.

  Granny answered because Helen had a mouthful of tea-loaf. ‘Sure it’s worth it if that country air makes her chest better.’

  Helen’s legs felt prickly on the horsehair sofa, even through her petticoat and thick woollen frock. Without ever directly criticising Mama, Aunt Violet always seemed to be saying more than her actual words. Helen had once overheard her saying to a friend about Mama, ‘A very nice woman in her way, but you know, they Aren’t Like Us.’ ‘They’ meant Catholics. ‘Your poor mother’ indeed! As if Mama wanted to be ill so often!

  Papa and Helen didn’t really like Mama spending so much time at Derryward, her brother’s farm in County Down, but they muddled along without her when they had to. Helen knew she ought to be sorry not to be going to visit Mama on her birthday, but she’d much rather spend the last few days of Sandy’s leave with him. He’d be going back into danger soon enough. She sighed.

  Sandy gave her a little poke in the arm. ‘You’ll blow the fire out, puffing like that,’ he said.

  ‘Och, she’s disappointed not to have her mother on her birthday,’ Granny said, as if Helen were turning four, not fourteen.

  Helen was about to protest, but it was easier to say yes than to tell the truth. ‘Well, a bit,’ she said. ‘But it’s silly to mind something so small when there’s a war on.’

  ‘I don’t think people stop minding things just because of the war,’ Sandy said.

  ‘But it seems so childish.’

  ‘You are a child.’ Sandy sounded amused.

  Helen burned with indignation, but if she wasn’t a child then what was she? A young lady? She didn’t fancy having to be proper all the time and give up reading school stories, and wear longer skirts.

  ‘Why can’t you go and visit her?’ Sandy asked. ‘Term doesn’t start until Wednesday.’

  ‘Papa’s school starts tomorrow, though,’ Helen explained. ‘And he can’t really take a day off, being the headmaster.’

  ‘And there’s nobody else to take you?’

  Helen shook her head. Even if she’d been sixteen or eighteen or even twenty she wouldn’t be allowed to take the train so far by herself.

  Sandy thought for a moment, and ran a hand through his ginger hair. The scar that puckered his skin from elbow to wrist was faded to a purplish line.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ he said. He raised his voice. ‘Ma?’

  ‘Sandy, don’t call me Ma!’ Aunt Violet said.

  Sandy grinned. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I’m taking Helen to see Aunt Eileen tomorrow. For her birthday.’

  Granny clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, what a kind thought!’ She beamed at Helen.

  Aunt Violet did not beam. ‘Are you sure that’s wise, son? It’s such a long journey, and you on sick leave.’

  ‘If I’m fit to go back to active service on Thursday, I think I can manage a wee jaunt down the country.’

  Aunt Violet sucked in her lips as if to stop them bursting out a protest. Helen felt a tiny twist of sympathy. She didn’t want Sandy to go back to the Front either, but you couldn’t say that. It was hard enough for the boys out in France without their womenfolk going mushy on them. And Aunt Violet was proud of Sandy. He’d got his commission in the army as soon as he left school. She’d never have wanted him not to do his duty.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d want to spend your last few days at home with your family,’ Aunt Violet said.

  ‘Helen is my family,’ Sandy said, and Helen glowed.

  Sandy had been head of house at school and captain of the first fifteen: she’d loved the glory of being ‘Sandy Reid’s little cousin’. Even still, older pupils stopped her in the corridor to ask how Sandy was getting on. And now – to have Sandy and Derryward together seemed the most glorious thing that could happen.

  ‘You could come too, Aunt Violet,’ she suggested, safe in the knowledge that Aunt Violet’s list of reasons not to go to Derryward was a long one. ‘I’m sure Aunt Bridie would make you very welcome.’

  She tried to imagine Aunt Violet in the big, cosy farmhouse with its rows of woolly socks warming above the range, and sometimes an orphan lamb wrapped in an old sack. Aunt Violet might – just – have coped with socks and livestock, but she would never have been able to sit in the same room as the Sacred Heart picture. Even Helen’s cousin Michael’s silver cups for Gaelic games – he was a brilliant hurler – would have made her lips disappear inside her mouth with disapproval. She wondered what Sandy would think – Sandy had won plenty of cups too, but his were for cricket and rugby. It would be the first time her boy cousins had met. The two halves of her family, Reids and O’Hares, had never had much in common.

  Swallowing the last of her tea-loaf, Helen had a sudden cold fear that Sandy and Michael, probably her two favourite people in the world, would hate each other.

  2.

  Helen swung her legs against the stone wall behind the farmhouse and cuddled a kitten for warmth. She watched the boys below her in the yard, Sandy helping Michael fix some wooden palings into a pen for an injured calf. They hunched over their task, Michael’s tweed cap beside Sandy’s grey one, Sandy broad-shouldered, Michael wiry, hands working deftly, the smoke from their cigarettes drifting into the chill January air like their conversation. Fly the sheepdog stuck close to Michael’s legs, retreating to her kennel by the wall when there was any hammering being done.

  From where Helen sat, she couldn’t hear their words but she knew what they were talking about: war war war. She’d stuck it for ages, but in the end a mixture of boredom – Michael wanted to know about the dullest things – and fear – that Sandy would reveal something horrible – had driven her off in search of other amusement and she had found the tabby kitten with the scratched nose. Of course it was wonderful that Sandy and Michael had taken to each other so well; it was stupid of her to feel left out.

  And after all, she was meant to be here to see Mama. But Mama said the wind was too cold for her to be outside, and Helen couldn’t bear to stuff indoors. She ruffled the tabby kitten’s soft fur, and breathed in the clear mountain air that was so sweet after sooty Belfast. Even the air in the park opposite her home never felt as crisp and clean as it did in Derryward. She was sure it would do Sandy good, stocking up on that good County Down air before he went back to France.

  ‘What are you sulking about?’

  She turned to see her cousin Nora carrying a basket of eggs, her dark hair pulled back into a plaited bun as if she were grown up. At school, only the sixth form girls wore their hair up. Nora was fifteen and had left school. She helped Aunt Bridie with the poultry and the garden, and she could already cook a dinner for the whole family. Helen immediately felt that her own two plaits were little-girlish.

  ‘Not sulking. Just – I wanted to show Sandy round the farm. But now he’s busy helping Michael.’

  ‘Well, they’re boys, aren’t they?’ Nora shrugged. ‘Bound to want to stick together.’

  ‘They’re talking about the war,’ Helen said. ‘Michael wants to know all about it.’

  Nora set her egg basket down carefully on the mossy ground and leant against the wall. She had a proper bosom and her tweed skirt was much longer than Helen’s.

  ‘I wish they wouldn’t.’ She frowned. ‘The last thing we need is a British soldier putting ideas in Michael’s stupid head. He and Daddy fight enough as it is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Michael has this insane idea about joining up.’ Nora sounded contemptuous. ‘And obviously Daddy’s raging.’

  ‘Why?’

  Nora sighed, as if Helen were very stupid. ‘It’s England’s quarrel, not ours.’

  ‘But we’re part of –’

  ‘Not for much longer.’

  ‘Y
ou mean Home Rule?’ Helen tried to sound knowledgeable. Everyone she knew – apart from her mother’s family – was against Irish Home Rule. Her father and Sandy’s father, who was dead now, had queued for hours in 1912 to sign the Ulster Covenant, pledging to keep Ulster British.

  ‘Yes.’ Nora sounded very confident. ‘Ireland won’t bear the yoke of tyranny for much longer.’ She said these words as if she was reciting a poem. ‘But Daddy, and Gerry, who works for us’ – she blushed – ‘and any Irish person worthy of the name’ – she looked at Helen as if she were a very nasty sort of insect – ‘say we should take advantage of England being at war to fight for it now.’ Her dark eyes gleamed.

  Helen shivered. She’d grown up closing her ears to adults prophesying war on the streets of Belfast over Home Rule. Now there was a war, and it was a hateful one, but at least it was far away in France and Flanders and the Dardanelles. It was all very well for Nora to sound so careless: there’d never be violence here, in these quiet green hills.

  ‘I think,’ Helen began – and realised that she wasn’t sure what she thought, except that inside her was still a small girl clapping her hands over her ears – ‘that’s mean. Like taking advantage of someone when they’re down.’ She thought of all the talk at school about fair play and playing the game. ‘It’s – it’s unsporting,’ she said. There was nothing worse you could be at Belfast Collegiate than unsporting. ‘Ungentlemanly.’

  Nora laughed, but not merrily. ‘Ungentlemanly.’ She imitated Helen’s accent. ‘You even sound British.’ She made it into an insult.

  ‘I am. So are you.’ Dislike of Nora’s smugness made Helen more confident than usual. ‘Ireland is British, whether you want it to be or not. Whatever Uncle Sean says. And he’s only a farmer – my father’s a teacher and he says –’

  ‘I’m not British. I’m Irish and I’d die before I’d be anything else. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Nora’s cheeks flamed; for a moment Helen thought she was going to hit her. But Nora simply pursed her lips, bent down to lift the eggs, and stomped off down the hill to the back door, swinging the basket.