Kippers for Breakfast

CHAPTER 1

Dublin 1894

Seagulls circled overhead cawing loudly as huge flakes of snow whirled and chased each other before settling on the ground. Sarah held out her hand and caught one, marvelling at its intricate pattern before it melted away into her already numb fingers. She stuck out her tongue and tasted one as it fell there, turned to smile at Father Reilly, but her smile, like the snow, froze on her lips. His disapproving glare, the straight setline of his thin lips somehow turned her heart into lead and she felt the crush of it in her chest.

‘Sarah Ann Reid,’ he said her name as if tasted like vinegar, ‘put on your gloves and behave like a properly brought up young lady, instead of a silly schoolgirl.’

But she was only a schoolgirl wasn’t she? Hadn’t she only turned fourteen six weeks ago? Six short weeks, and so much had happened that it seemed impossible to take it all in.

She pulled her gloves out of her pocket and chanced a second look at Father Reilly, but he was deep in conversation with Sister Margaret. Sarah thought Sister Margaret looked very unhappy and they seemed to be quarrelling—what on earth could that be about? Anyway, Sister Margaret had better watch out, because nobody argued with Father Reilly—not ever. He simply set his mouth in that straight line and that was the end of all discussion. The boys at school said that when he beat them his eyes glinted and he actually smiled. He would whip them until his breath came in short pants and sweat ran down his face—no, it was definitely not a good idea to get on the wrong side of Father Reilly. Still it was odd, she had never seen Sister Margaret so agitated, but in the end she recognised the slight bow of submission as the nun folded her hands under her habit and lowered her eyes.

Sister Margaret was not a happy woman. She had given herself freely and easily to a life dedicated to God, His church and the school. After all to be a teacher; a good teacher; was a very important role, and although her vocation had taken her to the convent, she always knew that she would have to work in the school with the children, that was as vital to her as air.

Now, standing on the quayside on this freezing cold January morning, here was this insufferable priest telling her that if she said one more word, just one more word, he would personally have her removed from the school and on her knees scrubbing the convent steps for the rest of her life. She knew when she was defeated, but still the pity she felt for the child, and the injustice of what was to happen troubled her greatly. Though flattered at first, she now wished with all her heart that she hadn’t been selected to accompany Sarah to her new life. Sister Margaret couldn’t rock the boat and if she tried then this devil incarnate had the perfect punishment to buy her silence. Now that she knew just what this new life meant for Sarah, she was wracked with guilt—oh her foolish pride, mea culpa, mea culpa! She swallowed hard and bowed to the inevitable, but this poor child aught to be prepared somehow for what was to come—hadn’t she been through enough already? Maybe on the journey across the water to England, something would occur to enable her to forewarn the child, salve her conscience and keep her job? She prayed silently that her guardian angel would help her to find a way.

Sarah watched the world around her, the docks were so busy, quite unlike anything she had ever seen before, but she rather liked the hustle and bustle, so different to the quiet country life she was used to. She wondered what Liverpool would be like and a faint shiver ran through her. What was it? Excitement? Anticipation? Nerves? Fear? Maybe it was a mixture of everything, or just the biting cold cutting through the fabric of her best coat and chilling her to the bone. She stamped her feet, blew on her gloves, pushed a wayward curl out of the way and knocked her hat sideways. Terrified she looked at Father Reilly, but he hadn’t noticed. She longed to pull it off and run amongst the falling snow like the boys she was watching now, but under the glare of Father Reilly that was impossible. Instead she straightened it, and watched the trunks and mailbags being loaded onto the boat.

Presently it was time for them to board, and again she felt a slight thrill run through her, this was a real adventure!

‘Now Sarah, be a good girl and work hard at your new school.’

Father Reilly shook her gently by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes—maybe her soul itself.

She opened her mouth to ask why she had to go all the way to England to school, but thought better of it. She knew why really, she was an orphan now, like Peter and Billy her two brothers, and orphans had to "take what they were given and be glad about it".

‘Yes Father.’

‘Right, I’ll be off then. God’s speed, Sister.’ Then he was gone. Striding along the quayside without a backward glance.

Father Reilly was a busy man, soon to be an important man; the Bishop would be delighted with what he had achieved, no need to mention how it had come about. He was glad to be away from the disapproving silence of the wearisome nun, but gladder still not to have to look at the child with the deep violet blue eyes and bouncing auburn curls. Something about her disturbed him, unsettled him somehow, and those eyes—such trust he had seen in those eyes. He realised just thinking about Sarah Ann Reid made him hot and his heart beat wildly in his chest as the familiar need seeped through his veins. As soon as he got back he would pray, pray for all he was worth, and hope that he didn’t see that face or those eyes in his dreams. Father Reilly strode purposefully on, just the boys to deal with now.

Danny McGuire poked and rattled the fire furiously. That sanctimonious old goat Reilly was up to mischief he was sure of it.

‘Now, Danny stop fretting, and stop taking your temper out on the fire, you’ll have ash all over the place,’ he looked up to see his mother watching him closely. ‘What’s done is done and there’s nothing neither you nor I can do to change it. Mary is gone, young Sarah’s away to school and Father Reilly has the care of the boys and the estate, the sooner you get that into your head the better.’

Danny threw the poker into the hearth in disgust.

‘And what about us? Haven’t we lived and breathed this farm all our lives? What are we to do now—carry on as if nothing is wrong? I tell you, Mam there’s something not right here, not right at all.’

Ellen McGuire looked around the kitchen of the little cottage that had been her home for over forty years. She was only a slip of a girl—a young bride of seventeen—when Patrick McGuire had carried her over the threshold, up the steep staircase and laid her gently on the bed. Danny and his brother had been born exactly nine months later, but her labour had been long and so terrible they’d sent for old Doctor Casey. He arrived on horseback, half drunk and belligerent at being called out at all, but when he saw the young Ellen, too weak to push or scream, with her sweat-soaked hair flattened to her head he quickly sobered up. Her first baby never drew a breath, but he got Danny out safely; a big bonnie boy who had complained loudly at his entrance into this world, as his mother had slid ever closer to the next. There would be no more babies for Ellen and Patrick after that, and even now, after all this time it still saddened her.

‘Mam? Mam! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go upsetting you.’

Danny’s voice reached her, bringing her back to the present and she realised the tears were running silently down her face. Wiping them quickly away she smiled weakly at him.

‘It’s not you son, not you at all. Now, will you take a hot drink up to your Da and help him with it?’

Danny was on his feet in a moment, and soon striding up the stairs to his father. He moved so like his father that Ellen’s heart contracted with love, if only he hadn’t spent the last twenty years loving Mary Reid then Ellen would have been a proper grandmother now. The tears came again and this time she indulged them, slumped on the settle by the fire, her head in her hands, she let them spill down her face and between her fingers.

‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God help us,’ she prayed. ‘Help us to bear what’s to come and to find a way through it, but most of all help my darlin’ son find some peace and happiness.’

Up in the bedroom where he was born, Danny helped his father into a sitting position and held the cup for him while he sipped his tea.

‘Did I hear that old bastard Reilly’s voice downstairs?’ his father asked.

‘Aye, Da you did.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Will I carry you down to sit by the fire and maybe we can talk then?

‘That would be grand, son. Is it still snowing?’

Danny moved over to the small window that overlooked the long road up to the big house, he could just make out the figure of the priest on his way to see the boys.

‘Indeed it is Da, the sky is full of it, there’s plenty more to come yet I think.’

‘Lets hope then that young Sarah is safely in England by now. We’ve lost enough people we love to that sea,’ his father replied. ‘Will you light a fire in this room so the chill is off it for when your mother comes to bed?’

‘No need to ask Da, I was thinking just the same thing myself.’

‘You’re a grand son and no mistake, the best a man could have,’ Patrick said as Danny McGuire lifted his father out of bed as if he weighed no more than a child, and carried him gently downstairs where he could sit by the fire and watch his wife moving around their kitchen.

Peter and Billy O’Brien paced around the sitting room, waiting for the priest and news of Sarah. The last three years had been awful to endure, but mammy was dead and now they must surely inherit the farm and the house? They were probably rich and their emotions swung from high excitement at what the future could hold and sorrow that they’d had to let Sarah go, but as Father Reilly had explained, since they were still three years short of being twenty-one they couldn’t legally care for Sarah, or claim their inheritance. From what he’d said their mother had left the church as caretakers, and they couldn’t help but wonder what the implications of that would be. Could they stay here in their home? Who would manage the farm and land? Danny McGuire couldn’t carry on single handed for much longer and their inclination was not to rise at first light and work like dogs until dusk—not when there was drinking to be done and good money to be made playing cards in the back room of Johnny Flint’s.

As the light faded at last he appeared, walking slowly up the long road, his journey made more difficult by the depth of the snow. Their first sight of him made their hearts sink. His lips set in the straight thin line they remembered so well from their schooldays, so it was with dry mouths and quickened pulses that they opened the door to the man who held their destiny in his tight mean fist.

‘Good day to you, Father—had you a pleasant journey home?’ Billy spoke first, the eldest by twenty-six minutes he always took the lead.

‘The road home is always a pleasure boys, despite the weather,’ he replied as he stamped the snow off his boots and shook it from his hat and coat before laying them neatly over the chair in the hall and moving into the sitting room to stand before the roaring fire.

‘We expected you a bit before this, Father.’ Peter said.

‘I called in at the McGuire’s house on the way, and I got delayed somewhat—they were anxious to know where they stood now with your dear mother gone.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Peter muttered under his breath.

‘Will you have a drink, Father—just to take the chill off?’ Billy asked, already pouring the whisky.

‘I’ll take a small one with you lads, and then we must get down to business.’

‘Did Sarah get off all right, Father?’ Peter, the gentler of the two boys had to know that his sister was safe.

‘Sarah’s in the care of Sister Margaret and Our Lord—she’s fine,’ the priest replied in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘Well, will we have an address for her soon, Father? So we can write and let her know what’s what and keep up to date with her news?’ Peter persisted.

‘Peter O’Brien, when your sister writes to you it will be care of me and I’ll let her know what’s what as you put it—understood?’ Peter felt his stomach lurch, his mouth filled with saliva—as if he might be sick at any moment. He licked his lips, this was going badly, but he didn’t know why.

Father Reilly settled himself in the big chair by the fire and took a long slug of his drink. A fine whisky served in a beautiful cut glass tumbler—a set of these would look well in the bishop’s study. He closed his eyes and wondered how to break the news to the boys. It hadn’t gone at all well at the McGuire’s; Danny had a knack of looking at him as if he could see straight through to the treachery in his heart. Father Reilly was tired and he wanted it all finished, but he had to try and keep the boys on his side, he couldn’t risk them visiting old Keenan the solicitor until after the signing tomorrow.

Peter and Billy watched him closely, exchanging glances, waiting for him to speak. He finished his drink in one more mouthful, waited until the fire in his throat subsided and then smiled at them.

‘Well now boys, will we talk about your dear mother’s wishes?’

Once they were safely on the boat and away from the unnerving presence of Father Reilly, Sarah relaxed. Sister Margaret seemed pre-occupied so she went off to explore. She found the merchant seamen very chatty as they told her about the ship and their work. They thrilled her with tales of long trips from Liverpool to America and the fine ladies and gents who sailed there. They made her head spin with stories of New York, the Statue of Liberty, shops, clothes and jewels. It all sounded so romantic and dramatic and for a while she pretended to be one of the fine ladies on her way to New York to buy yet more diamonds and furs. When Sister Margaret finally caught up with her it was to find her deep in conversation with a young deck hand.

‘Sarah!’ Sarah ran her escort. ‘For heaven’s sake you must try and behave yourself girl—whatever will people think of you?’

‘Oh, Sister Margaret don’t be so silly, that was Terry Ryan, he comes from Liverpool and he was telling me all about his family. Do you know he has eight brothers and sisters? Eight! Can you imagine? And they all live in a little house near the docks with only two bedrooms. And Sister, did you know that people from Liverpool are called Scousers? Am I going to be a Scouser? They have a very funny accent, not at all like ours. Does everyone in Liverpool speak like that? Will everyone at my new school be from Liverpool or will some of the girls be from Ireland like me? Terry says that Liverpool is a fine city and that I’m lucky to be going there. I’ll miss the cliffs though,’ she said, suddenly sad and already homesick for the farm and it’s land that went right down to the ocean.

‘Hush child, for pity’s sake take a breath,’ the nun gently chided her. ‘Now come and sit beside me, for in a few short hours we will be arriving and there is much you should know.’

When the ship docked at Liverpool Sarah could scarcely believe her eyes or her ears. The noise and hustle was twice that of Dublin. Masts and rigging stretched skeletal fingers to the sky for as far as the eye could see. Massive funnels belched out thick black smoke while hooters and horns filled the air with their cries. Huge cranes swung crates and bales above their heads while men called to each other in thick nasal accents, using words unintelligible to Sarah. Ships from all over the world bobbed at anchor, some with unpronounceable names, others with strange symbols instead of letters that were a complete mystery. She saw men as black as coal, singing as they worked, in deep melodious voices. Sarah would have liked to stay and listen for longer but Sister Margaret had other ideas. She pulled Sarah through the crowds not knowing where they were going—she just had to get the child away from the chaos and danger, which she felt was everywhere. But far from being frightened Sarah was thrilled and excited by it all, it was almost a foreign land!

The familiar face of Terry Ryan materialised through the throng and he grinned as he shouldered Sarah’s trunk and guided them to the harbourmaster’s office. Once inside Sarah watched as sister Margaret visibly started to relax. The room was warm and a bit smoky but Andrew MacDonald seemed anxious to put them at ease. Tea was made, and if drinking from a tin mug shocked Sister Margaret, she didn’t show it. Andrew MacDonald was confused, he’d been told to expect them of course, they were to wait here with their luggage for transport to the Poor Clares’ school and therein lay his confusion, this girl was little more than a child herself; no older than his darling Emily would have been; surely she was too young to be going to the Poor Clares?

Sister Margaret cleared her throat, smiled briefly at Sarah and addressed the harbourmaster.

‘Sarah’s mammy passed away, Mr. MacDonald, just before Christmas. She has no other family to care for her, but like her mother she is a gifted seamstress, she’s going to help out at the school for a little while, isn’t that so, Sarah?’

Sarah beamed a smile at the nun.

‘Indeed I am, Sister. I hope though that I will still have time for my own studies, for I would like to be like you and teach someday.’

Andrew MacDonald and Sister Margaret shared a look; they both knew that without some kind of divine intervention, Sarah’s destiny as a skivvy was already sealed.

CHAPTER 2

Ireland 1894

Sarah glanced back at the old lady; only her whispered breathing and the faint ‘huh’ every time she exhaled broke the silence. Was she dreaming Sarah wondered? Probably not. Sarah went back to her thoughts, amazed at the absolute clarity and certainty that accompanied them now. She remembered what happened after she left Ireland and found that she could see it all.

Father Reilly shook hands first with Sean Myers and then with Keenan the solicitor. Documents, deeds and contracts all concerning High Cliff Farm lay scattered on the desk between them. A farm which rightfully belonged to the O’Brien boys and their sister Sarah Reid—only not any more.

Sean Myers beamed and rubbed his hands in delight. At last a lifetime’s longing was over and he now owned all the O’Brien land. This feeling was worth the wait and success tasted all the sweeter for having to endure the last eighteen years. He’d tried to woo the newly widowed Mary O’Brien after William O’Brien’s drunken accident with his horse—it had killed him and left Patrick McGuire a cripple—but she would have none of him, preferring instead to stay alone in that big house with her newborn twins; and her only twenty. His pride still smarted at the memory of her rejection and his face clouded for a moment as his hand went involuntarily to the faint scar on his left cheekbone, a lasting reminder of her final refusal and his humiliation at the hands of Danny McGuire—damn the man! Had it not been for his untimely intervention at the crucial moment his ‘seduction’ as he liked to remember it would have been complete and the widow O’Brien would have had little choice in the matter. He’d quit the house then, left her sobbing against McGuire’s big chest with the younger man’s threat ringing in his ears, and such a look of hate on his face that Myers had felt in fear of his life for quite a while after. He’d been determined then to somehow achieve his goal, imagining how great it would be to watch her and her brood walking away from hearth and home, him triumphant and revenge complete.

But Jimmy Reid, an actor travelling with a Dublin theatre group, had turned her head a couple of years later. They were deeply in love, that was obvious to all who saw them, and once young Sarah came along the following year he’d almost given up on his dream. It had broken Myers’ heart to watch the farm gradually fall from significance within the community, for he was no farmer this Jimmy Reid. In fact if it hadn’t been for the efforts of Danny McGuire the whole place would have gone to wrack and ruin.

Then a glimmer of hope had presented itself three years ago when the Reids talked of selling up to move to England, so Jimmy could seek fame and fortune in London. He’d gone ahead to try and sort things out, but had gone down with "The Sunflower" on his way home to collect his wife and family, leaving Mary widowed once more. The woman had taken nearly three years to join him, growing weaker and paler with every passing year. She spent hours at a time gazing out to sea and casting flowers into the ocean. Myers hadn’t bothered with any romantic overtures this time, Mary was a fine looking woman indeed, but who would want a wife driven half mad with grief and yearning for another? Certainly not him. Still, everything had worked out just fine now, and he hadn’t even had to marry the woman or deal with her brats, he just couldn’t believe his luck—thank God for the ambitious priest.

Myers hoped that the McGuires would agree to stay on—Danny to help with the land and Ellen to carry on running the house with past differences, if not forgotten, then at least behind them. He wondered if that were possible though. He could still see the fury in Danny McGuire’s eyes and hear the loathing in his voice as he’d told him to get out and never come back. Well, he’d come back all right, this time as Lord of the Manor and owner of all he surveyed, including the McGuire’s cottage, and if they didn’t like it, well they would soon find themselves out on the street. He had the upper hand this time, but he was realistic enough to know that it would be nigh on impossible to carry on without them.

The thoughts were barely though his mind before Keenan’s door burst open and there in the office stood Billy and Peter O’Brien with Danny McGuire almost breathing fire.

‘I’m sorry Mr. Keenan, I couldn’t stop them,’ his secretary whimpered.

‘It’s quite all right Miss Brady, I’ll deal with these er—gentlemen.’

Miss Brady closed the door and leaned heavily against it, breathing a sigh of relief—glad she didn’t have to bear witness to what might happen next.

What happened next was that Sean Myers found himself in hell. The celebratory whisky that Keenan had poured for them all was snatched from his hand and thrown over him as a massive fist smashed into his face. The sickening crack that followed told everyone that his nose was broken. A second blow landed in his soft belly, forcing him to his knees. A huge hand hauled him to his feet by his waistcoat as a sledgehammer; (surely it was a sledgehammer?) found his right eye and rendered him temporarily blind.

Peter and Billy stood rooted to the spot, it had all happened so quickly that they’d been taken by surprise, now however they leapt into action trying to restrain Danny, they pulled him backwards and away from Myers. Nobody noticed as Father Reilly slithered out of the room, telling Miss Brady to call the constable and have McGuire arrested—the man seemed to have taken leave of his senses.

Keenan came out from behind his desk trying to shush them all with soothing sounds. Myers was slumped in the big leather chair that was kept for important clients, holding his face and groaning slightly as the blood pumped freely from his nose.

Danny McGuire stood in the centre of the room, breathing heavily. Now that the red mist had cleared from his brain and he saw what he’d done, he was glad. That bastard Myers deserved everything he got and more besides. Reilly had sold him his soul and Keenan had presided over the whole sorry mess. He turned his stare onto the solicitor, who backed away to the comparative safety of his desk.

‘Now, Danny, Danny, what have you done?’

‘What have I done?’ Danny took a step forward, his fists still clenched, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve done, I’ve got scant justice for these two boys here, their little sister and for their mother; not yet cold in her grave. A woman who trusted you and that treacherous priest. You conspired together to rob these children of what’s properly theirs and don’t try and deny it, Keenan—you know it’s the truth!’

‘Is that so, Mr Keenan?’ Declan Kennedy the local constable asked. No one had seen him enter the room, but he’d been there long enough to make an assessment of the situation.

‘Indeed it’s not, not at all, Constable,’ Keenan soothed as he mopped his brow. ‘Poor Mrs. Reid, now. She left the care of the children and the estate to Father Reilly—what was he to do with it? He’s a busy man with no time for a farm. No, no, he did the only sensible thing by selling it all to Mr. Myers here. But the children are well provided for, I can assure you of that.’

‘In what way, Mr Keenan?’

‘Well now let me see,’ he rummaged around the papers on his desk before selecting one to hold up. ‘Ah, here it is. The boys are to receive three hundred pounds each when they come of age, and two hundred pounds is to be settled on young Sarah, with Father Reilly as executor until she’s married or reaches twenty-one. It’s all right and proper,’ Keenan shot the question to Sean Myers with a look, who nodded in agreement. ‘I can assure you of that, Constable.’

‘I see,’ the policeman replied, ‘and what do you have to say about all of this, Mr Myers?’

‘Ah well now,’ Keenan said, answering for his stricken client, ‘Mr. Myers and Danny here were just discussing the terms of his continued employment. Things got a little heated, that’s all, there’s no bother, no bother at all.’

‘Is that how you tell it, Mr Myers?’ the policeman asked.

Myers made a noise that could have meant anything.

‘Well, that all seems to be fine then. Shake hands with your new employer, Danny and I’ll be on my way.’

‘I’d rather drink with the devil,’ came the reply and placing one hand on each of the boys’ shoulders Danny steered them out of the room. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow, Keenan for the boys’ and Sarah’s papers. Make sure you have everything ready.’ And the three of them left without another word or backward glance.

Declan Kennedy narrowed his eyes and scrutinised the two men before him, they were up to no good he was sure of it. Keenan was as shifty eyed as you like and Myers was bundled up in the chair nursing a broken nose, if he wasn’t too much mistaken. Danny McGuire was a good and gentle soul not given to violence, so something must have got him all fired up. This business about the farm and house being sold sounded a bit fishy to Declan too; and he’d be damned if he’d lock up a decent man when his mam and da needed him. Whatever had gone on in this room seemed to be done and dusted and no one seemed to want to make a complaint so he turned to leave.

‘I’ll say good afternoon then, Mr. Keenan—I’ll be back with the boys tomorrow, just to make sure there are no more er, misunderstandings.’ And he hurried up the road to catch Danny and the boys to get the full story.

Sitting in the cosy kitchen of the McGuire’s cottage, a steaming cup of tea in his hands, the boys safely upstairs with Patrick, Constable Kennedy looked at Danny and asked him quietly about the episode in the solicitor’s office.

‘Just start at the beginning, Danny—we’ve all afternoon to talk this through.’

‘I told him not to go interfering,’ Ellen said, ‘I told him no good would come of it!’

‘That’s fine, Ellen, don’t you go worrying yourself now. I just want to understand what’s going on.’

Declan loosened the top button on his tunic as Danny paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists. He tried to get his emotions under control, but his blood still boiled. Once he started talking though, everything came out in a rush and a jumble, making no sense at all. In the end his mother pressed a hot mug of tea into his hands, led him to the settle by the fire and turned to the policeman.

‘Will I tell you, Declan? I was here for it all, and if I get anything wrong Danny can butt in?’

Declan Kennedy nodded his consent; he liked and respected this family and was willing to listen for as long as was necessary to get a full picture of events. Ellen smoothed her apron and took a seat at the table.

‘After Mary passed away,’ she crossed herself quickly, ‘after Mary passed away; God love her soul, we were all in a state of flux I can tell you. Christmas barely over; although it hadn’t been much of a Christmas for those poor children; the New Year upon us as we tried to carry on as normal after the funeral. Danny was doing all he could on the farm and the land, I was still going up to the big house to make sure the boys and Sarah had a hot meal to eat, clean clothes to wear and tidy rooms to live in—and not a penny piece in wages I might add—for either of us. But we thought that once the New Year got under way, everything would be sorted out and things would settle down. Then yesterday Father Reilly called here and told us that Sarah had been sent to England to school. That Mary, God love her soul,’ (crossing herself again) ‘had left everything, everything mind you, in the care of the church.’

Declan tutted and shook his head.

‘That must have been quite a shock for you all’ he sympathised.

‘A shock indeed, Declan,’ Ellen paused to take a sip of her tea, ‘because Mary always told me that this cottage would be my home for life, but worse was to come. Father Reilly said that he thought the best way forward was for the estate to be sold, he said that he couldn’t be expected to watch over the farm and everything, he hadn’t the time and that the children were too young to be left in the big house all alone. Imagine! And those boys all but eighteen. He said there was no one to take care of them. No one indeed, what did the man think I’d been doing all these years I ask you! Anyway, he said it was all fixed, the whole estate, house and all was to be sold to Sean Myers, Sarah sent to school in England and the boys to be provided for,’ she waved her hands in the air, ‘whatever that means.’

‘It means, Mam,’ Danny seethed, ‘that the boys and Sarah have been cheated out of their rightful inheritance. Sarah