‘This great Irishman who has suffered at the hands of England and her lackeys is no stranger to us. He is flesh of our flesh and blood of our blood. We have heard him speak across the length and breadth of this island, in fair weather and foul, threatened and harried by police and military and by the mercenaries of the landlords. But he has taken your cause, your just and undeniable cause, around the world. And now the world knows that the Irish race will not be kept down or denied what is theirs by right. Now he is back amongst us. A chairde Gael, it is my privilege to make way for a man who has given us back our birthright and our pride, that noble son of Mayo, Michael Davitt.’

Maria had expected an imposing presence, but the man in his forties who came forward as the crowd roared its approval was gaunt, with thinning hair and a slight stoop, the sort of man that one would pass without noticing in the street or on the tram. He waved his one arm in a gesture of greeting to the crowd. The other arm of his jacket, empty of the limb he had lost as a child factory worker, was pinned neatly at the pocket.

‘My good friends, Irishmen and Irishwomen, I thank you for the warmth of your welcome. And I salute you for the courage and the constancy you have shown in your great struggle.’

There was an extraordinary projection in Davitt’s voice. His words were as clear in Maria’s ears as if he were standing beside her. The accent was a curious blend of Irish with the north of England and a touch of something else thrown in. Maria recalled she had read somewhere that his wife was American. But the crowd hushed and was still for this seemingly unexceptional man. Not a foot stirred now. Not a cough was heard. Although he carried no notes, he spoke steadily and without hesitation for well over three quarters of an hour. Extraordinarily, he appeared to know where everybody in the great hall had come from. He broke his address at intervals to welcome one group or another.

‘I recognise the Wexford branches of the league. “The Boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand.” There they are.’ He gestured with his one arm to a far corner of the hall. By the time he had finished, Maria reckoned, he had identified every Irish county she knew as well as a few that she had never heard of.