The Whitest Flower. Brendan Graham

at the imposing headquarters of HarperCollins on Friday, I wondered what in God’s name I was doing there? Still only a fledgling songwriter trying to scrape out a living, here I was going in with a cobbled together story to read to these moguls of the publishing world. The foyer was even less becalming than the size of the building. There were books everywhere, No.1 bestsellers, famous authors; names I admired − books, books and more books. The boardroom didn’t help much either. Around a massive ‘table of doom’ sat seven people with seven sets of eyes all directed towards me.

      And so I began to tell them the story of Ellen, and one of the many strange occurrences that have been with me throughout this journey happened. A peaceful calm descended, all anxiety and nervousness held at bay. It was like I was watching a slow-motion scene from a movie − one with me in it.

      Ellen’s story had moved the people in that room and I was offered a book deal on the spot. In that moment I had gone from manufacturing to full-time songwriter and now a novelist, and I had learned to be grateful for what is sometimes taken away, as much as for what is sometimes given.

      The writing of The Whitest Flower took two years and brought me from the mountains of Mayo to the Ngarrindjeri people of South Australia’s Coorong, to the ‘Irish Cemetery’ at Canada’s quarantine island of Grosse Ile and then to Boston. People everywhere were extraordinarily generous in their assistance and in sharing their history and I have thanked them in detail in the previous 1990 editions. However, there are a few people requiring special thanks. The late George Trevorrow, wise man and elder of the Ngarrindjeri people, unasked, gifted me with a dictionary of his people’s language and then gave me his people’s blessing. In Quebec, the late Marianna O’ Gallagher, who was involved in the creation of Grosse Ile as a National Historic Site, painstakingly guided me through the Irish story in Canada and corrected my errors of fact in Ellen’s story. In Boston, Eileen Moore Quinn, now professor of Anthropology at the College of Charleston, opened up the whole vista of women during the famine times and similarly read my manuscript, while Vincent Comerford, now retired Professor of Irish History at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth also kindly proof-read my manuscript for historical accuracy.

      My daughter, Niamh not only put all of my original handwritten text onto a word processor but all the re-drafts too! This was between organising trips, meetings, and generally co-ordinating all my efforts over the two years the novel took to write. Without her work, this book would never have come together.

      My editor at HarperCollins was the wonderful and legendary, Patricia Parkin, now sadly deceased and to whom I dedicate this new edition. Her obituary in the Guardian referred to her as ‘an endangered species’ and indeed she was of the ‘old school’ of publishing. Patricia came to Ireland, visiting all the places in ‘Ellen’s country’ about which I was writing. She had patience beyond the human and needed it with a first time novelist floundering under a 500-page novel. Only once did she snap. On the third and final book in the series, I had real difficulty getting off the blocks − not even a title for a long period. When I did get my title, The Brightest Day, the Darkest Night, I shot it over to Patricia in an email, hoping to stave off a publisher’s ire. I received back one of her succinct one-liners, ‘we all love the title − now where’s the book?’

      But there was as always a ‘good’ reason.

      During the publication of The Element of Fire, the second of the trilogy, I received a phone call. Norwegian composer, Rolf Lovland, one half of the successful group, Secret Garden, was working on the group’s second album. He had composed an instrumental melody called Silent Story for inclusion on this album. However, it seemed that this particular melody was not going to make the final cut, so Rolf decided to look for a lyric to his melody. That Christmas (2000), Irish violinist, Fionnuala Sherry, the other half of Secret Garden, had given him a present − The Whitest Flower. As the composer later described it, ‘the depth of that story moved me so much, I was so fascinated by it … I thought that if anybody could hear the story I was trying to tell in the melody … it was Brendan’.

      I had temporarily put aside writing songs to concentrate on my books when I got “the phone call”. It was one of those split second decisions − they were in Dublin. I went to hear Rolf’s Silent Story melody and it immediately captured my imagination.

      I came up with the title and wrote the chorus and bones of the song that very same day, then phoned them to come over later that night and in my cramped little garden study, I ‘sang’ for them the very first performance of You Raise Me Up. Did any of us that night have any inkling of the journey that song would take; from Super Bowl to Olympic Games, from Nobel Peace Prize to 9/11 Commemorations at Ground Zero and everywhere in between, crossing boundaries of culture, creed and country?

      And so, in the whirlwind of that song, books suffered and I let down many people by long-missed deadlines − my steadfast publishers and my loyal readers.

      Somehow Ellen Rua sustained on her own − so much so that, to my great surprise, HarperCollins decided to re-issue her story, seventeen years onwards. It is yet another twist to the story and in editor Kate Bradley, Ellen has found a new and enthusiastic champion, while Anne O’Brien, who worked on the original edition of The Whitest Flower, thankfully agreed to further tighten it up.

      Without my agent Marianne Gunn O’Connor − who always believes − none of this would have come to pass and I express my deep gratitude to her for her calmness and stoic support.

      My wife and family have previously lived through the ‘Ellen years’. Without their patience, understanding, fortitude and forbearance none of this journey would have happened … and be continuing.

       Buíochas óm’ chroí

      Co. Mayo,

      November 2015.

      The story of Ellen Rua O’Malley is just that − a story, but what she and her family experienced is largely based on actual recorded events of what happened to the poor in Ireland during the Famine years. I have tried as accurately as I could, to portray the Ireland of the times in which Ellen lived − the places, the political, religious, social and cultural background. Similarly for Australia, Grosse Île and Boston.

      For omissions, mistakes of fact, and novelist’s licence, I am totally responsible. This should not in any way reflect on the very many diligent people who helped me with research material and whose work and suggestions were invaluable in creating the historical backdrop to The Whitest Flower. To them all I am deeply grateful.

      In memoriam – John McDougall, HarperCollinsPublishers, June 1998

      This edition – In memoriam Patricia Parkin. HarperCollinsPublishers, March 2009

      DO

      MHÁIRE, DONNA, GRÁINNE,

      NIAMH, DEIRDRE agus ALANA

       Book One

       IRELAND

       1

      Ellen Rua O’Malley woke and immediately made the sign of the cross on herself. At the ‘Amen’ she pressed the thumb and forefinger of her right hand to her lips, then gently laid the hand in turn on the heads of her husband and three children. Unaware of her blessing, they continued to sleep – Michael, her husband, nearest the wall as was the custom; the children on the other side of the still-warm space she had occupied.

      Her benedictions complete, Ellen moved quietly to the door of the small cabin and stepped out into the dawn