Friend or Foe (10 page)

E
mer felt nervous. She had been waiting for the right moment to approach Miss Clarke, and now the teacher was walking down the street alongside her. It was All Souls’ Day, and the pupils of Emer’s class were on their way back to the school, having prayed for the dead at a nearby church. The morning was blustery and cold, but Miss Clarke seemed in good spirits, and Emer knew that this was her opportunity.

She took a deep breath, then turned to the teacher. ‘I was wondering, Miss …’

‘Yes, Emer?’

‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to a variety concert next month. I’m playing the piano, and it’s to raise money for poor people, coming up to Christmas.’

‘That’s very commendable. What date is it?’

‘December the tenth.’

‘That’s … that’s a Friday, isn’t it? Yes, actually, I think I’m free that night,’ answered Miss Clarke.

Emer was pleased, but she knew she had to be completely honest. ‘There’s just one thing, Miss. And if it’s a problem, I understand.’

‘Now you really have me intrigued – but just a second, Emer,’ said the teacher, turning to the line of pupils behind her. ‘Careful
crossing the road here, girls,’ she called, indicating an approaching Guinness dray loaded with wooden barrels and pulled by two huge Clydesdale horses. Miss Clarke supervised the crossing of all the girls, then turned again to Emer as they continued walking towards the school. ‘So, what might be a problem?’ she asked.

‘Well, I hope it won’t be,’ said Emer, ‘but the concert is being run by Conradh na Gaeilge.’

‘Why would that be a problem?’

‘I thought because you’re English, maybe you wouldn’t like them being involved.’

Conradh na Gaeilge was an Irish-language organisation that promoted all aspects of Irish culture, but in recent times it had become more openly nationalistic.

‘Oh, I think I can risk a concert without turning my back on England’s green and pleasant land!’ replied Miss Clarke.

‘Great,’ said Emer.

‘Which doesn’t mean I’m in sympathy with their politics, not for a moment.’

‘OK.’

‘But as I’ve said to you girls in class, it’s important we don’t all retreat into our own little bubbles.’

‘No-one could accuse you of that, Miss.’

‘Thank you. But we’re all capable of prejudices, Emer. Do you know what the worst thing about prejudice is?’

‘What, Miss?’

‘The way it hems in our thinking. It’s like when someone we’re prejudiced against surprises us by doing something good, and instead of being pleased, we’re almost annoyed, because now we have to change our view.’

Emer realised that this was true, and it occurred to her that it was conversations like this that made Miss Clarke such an interesting teacher.

‘But supposing, Miss, that you’re not just prejudiced – but you really disagree with how something is done, or with someone’s opinion?’

‘Then you pick your battles, Emer. I have to do it all the time.’

‘Really?’

‘There are so many things wrong in the world. Big things, small things, all sorts of wrongs. You can’t fight every battle, so you pick the ones that matter.’ Miss Clarke looked at Emer directly. ‘It’s something you should bear in mind.’

‘Do you mean … in school?’

‘Everywhere. If you’re going to challenge a figure of authority, do it when it really matters, and let other slights go over your head.’

Emer wondered if Miss Clarke was giving her a coded message. ‘Do you mean Sister Assumpta?’

‘I never mentioned any names!’ said Miss Clarke. ‘But it’s like the Suffragettes, or unions, or any group fighting injustice. You pick the right time to fight your battles. And the right time isn’t
every
time.’

Emer was eager to hear more, but before she could ask another question Miss Clarke held up a hand. ‘And that’s enough of that
for now. But thank you for the invitation, Emer. I look forward to your concert.’

Just then they reached the gates of the school, and Emer watched as the teacher shepherded the rest of the girls into the convent.

‘That was a great chat you had with Clarkie,’ said Joan as Emer entered the schoolyard. ‘What was it all about?’

‘Good question, Joan,’ answered Emer with a wry smile. ‘I’m still trying to decide that myself.’

The tall, forbidding walls of Grangegorman Asylum loomed to their right in the heavy November fog as Jack and his mother walked towards Phibsboro. The gas lamps along the street cast small pools of yellow light, and Jack was fascinated by the way the fog made a familiar landscape seem mysterious.

Jack liked Thursday nights when he and Ma walked together to the newsagents in Phibsboro to pay a weekly instalment towards the
Boy’s Own
annual that traditionally formed part of his Christmas presents. He enjoyed these companionable strolls with Ma, and she always bought him a toffee bar in the newsagents as part of their routine.

They walked on through the swirling fog, with vehicles and other pedestrians materialising and then disappearing, and Jack let his mind drift. It was three weeks now since the fight with Phelim O’Connell, and there had been surprisingly little fallout at school
in its aftermath. Brother McGill had accepted Da’s assurance that Jack would be punished and hadn’t pushed matters any further. Most of the boys in the class felt that Jack had won fair and square, and Gerry Quinn had overheard friends of Phelim’s saying that he was embarrassed by his parents’ intervention, even though the split lip had genuinely prevented him from playing football for the school. At any rate Phelim had made no further reference to it, and Jack had been happy for them to keep their distance from each other and just get on with things.

Thinking of Gerry Quinn, Jack looked at Ma now, unsure how to phrase what he had in mind. They were approaching the junction with Cabra Road, and the huge Gothic spire of St Peter’s Church towered above them, its upper section disappearing into the fog. Jack waited until they were safely across the road, having deftly avoided a coalman’s cart that suddenly came clattering out of the gloom, before turning to his mother.

‘I was just thinking, Ma,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ she answered encouragingly.

‘You remember Gerry Quinn, the boy from my class that we gave the clothes to?’

Ma nodded. ‘Poor mite, living with a drunk of an uncle.’

‘He has it tough, all right. And he just told me he’s giving up school next year.’

‘Really?’

‘He’ll be thirteen in February, so once he finishes primary school, his uncle will take him out and make him work.’

‘God love him.’

‘Yeah. So I was thinking. Could we maybe put something aside each week at the newsagents for Gerry too? I’d give some of my pocket money towards it.’

‘What had you got in mind?’

‘Maybe the
Chums
annual? Or
The Wonder Book of Railways?
He’s a bit proud, so normally he mightn’t want to take anything. But if we said it was a farewell present because he’s leaving school, he’d probably take it then.’

Ma stopped walking and looked at Jack.

‘What?’

Ma reached out and touched his cheek. ‘You’re a good lad, Jack. Da and me, we must have done something right!’

‘Does that mean we can do it?’

‘With the girls working as well as your da, we’re more comfortable than we’ve ever been. So it’s only right we share our good fortune.’

‘Thanks, Ma, that’s great.’

‘Poor lad,’ said Ma as they continued on their way. ‘His only hope was an education. He’ll never get a decent job now.’

‘It’s really unfair,’ said Jack. ‘He started off poor, he’s still poor and he’ll always be poor.’

‘That’s the way of the world, Jack.’

‘But it shouldn’t be. Maybe Mr Davey isn’t so wrong after all, Ma. Maybe we do need a bit of a revolution.’

Ma stopped suddenly. She looked Jack directly in the eye,
her cheeks rosy and her face animated against the backdrop of white fog.

‘No, Jack, don’t make that mistake. Violence won’t help the Gerry Quinns of this world. When I was your age, there was a secret society in Dublin called The Invincibles. Have you heard of them?’

‘Yes, they … they killed people in the Phoenix Park.’

‘They murdered the Chief Secretary and Under Secretary for Ireland in broad daylight. The two most senior British officials in Ireland, stabbed to death in view of the Viceregal Lodge. The Invincibles claimed they were Irish nationalists, but all their violence achieved was to kill two innocent men and get themselves hanged. To say nothing of putting Home Rule back by about thirty years. Don’t listen to Mr Davey, or Emer, or anyone who tells you that violence is the answer. All right?’

‘Yes, Ma.’

‘We have to have law and order. And even though voting to change things is slow, it’s the only way people like Gerry might get their chance one day. Do you understand?’

It wasn’t often that Ma spoke as forcefully as this, but Jack found it all the more convincing now that she had.

‘Yes, Ma,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘Good boy,’ she answered, then her tone changed and she winked at him. ‘Right, let’s go pay our instalments – for two annuals!’

‘Two annuals it is!’ replied Jack, then they headed off again through the foggy city streets.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a question for you all,’ said Ben, pretending to be a master of ceremonies.

They were on the upper deck of a tram taking them home from swimming training, and everyone was in good spirits. The teams for the gala had been announced, and Emer had made the first team, as she had hoped. She was almost as pleased for Jack, though, who had achieved his goal of gaining one of the places on the last boys’ team.

Emer turned smilingly to Ben. ‘So, what’s the question?’

‘The question is: what’s the jelly-looking stuff between sharks’ teeth called?’

‘I hope this isn’t disgusting,’ said Gladys.

‘Relax, will you?’ said Ben to his sister.

‘OK,’ said Jack, ‘what
is
the jelly-looking stuff between sharks’ teeth?’

‘Slow swimmers!’

Everybody laughed, although Gladys nevertheless reprimanded her brother. ‘It is still kind of disgusting, Ben. Where did you hear it?’

‘In the baths tonight. I heard the captain telling one of the coaches during training.’

‘Talking about the captain,’ said Joan, ‘did you ever notice his knees? They’re really bockety-looking!’

Joan, Ben and Gladys started what Emer thought was a pretty silly discussion about the captain’s knees. After a moment she
turned to Jack, with whom she was sharing the seat. ‘Congratulations again on making the team.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’ve come a long way from not wanting to put your face in the water!’

‘I suppose I have. All thanks to you.’

‘I just pointed you in the right direction. You got on the team yourself.’

‘Well, either way, thanks, Emer.’

‘You’re grand. Though now you mention it, maybe you could do me a favour.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s really funny when you do your version of “When Father Papered the Parlour”. Would you sing it at a fundraising concert I’m playing in next month?’

Jack hesitated, and Emer pressed on. ‘Say you will, Jack. We need more performers.’

‘And what are you fundraising for?’

‘To help poor people coming up to Christmas. It’s being organised by Conradh na Gaeilge – but don’t worry, there won’t be any politics. It’s just a charity concert.’

‘Well … OK, then.’

‘You’re a star!’

‘I’ll still have to ask at home,’ said Jack. ‘But seeing as it’s for charity, I’d say it’ll be all right.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll need to practise, though, to sing in public.’

‘Me too. I’m doing a Chopin nocturne.’

‘Right.’

‘So we’ll both practise our pieces, and we’ll both practise our swimming. And then we’ll win the gala and dazzle them at the concert! How does that sound?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Right so, that’s that,’ said Emer, then she sat back contentedly as the tram rattled along the tracks and carried them through the night.

J
ack bit his tongue, trying not to let his impatience show. His sister Mary usually meant well, but she could be annoyingly bossy, and Jack felt that he didn’t need his sixteen-year-old sister to act as a babysitter.

His other sisters were out, and his parents had gone to town to visit a music hall. Jack had been working away at his fretwork in the warmth of the kitchen, building a wooden replica of Dublin’s Custom House. Now, though, Mary was acting like a know-all and pointing at his handiwork.

‘You need to sand that down a bit more, Jack. Then it will take the paint better.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. And you should wedge the base to make it more stable.’

‘When did you become a carpenter?’ asked Jack.

‘Don’t be smart, I’m just trying to help. And I’m not a carpenter, but I’ve learnt lots of mechanical stuff in the factory.’

‘You might know about making shells, but–’

‘Not just shells,’ interjected Mary. ‘I’ve learnt loads of things. They claimed that women couldn’t run factories, but they were wrong. It said in the paper last week that since the men went off to war and women replaced them, production has more than doubled.’

Jack had actually heard this, so he couldn’t argue back.

‘The powers-that-be got that dead wrong,’ said Mary. ‘Lots of other stuff too.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well … like this plan for conscription. The government says married men won’t be conscripted into the army until young, unmarried men have been called up first.’

‘Well, does that not kind of make sense?’ asked Jack. ‘I mean, married men have families.’

‘Just because you’re lucky enough to meet someone, get married and have a family – why should you have preference in not getting called up? That’s not right.’

‘I, eh … I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Jack. ‘But at least they’re not bringing in conscription in Ireland.’

‘Not so far,’ corrected Mary.

‘Yeah,’ conceded Jack. Although there was huge opposition to the idea of conscription in Ireland, the government in Westminster needed troops to replace the catastrophic losses. It had long been a worry for Jack that despite his job as a policeman, Da might get called up.

Before they could take the conversation further, Jack heard the front door opening, then Ma and Da came down the hall and entered the kitchen.

They were in great form after their night out, and everyone exchanged greetings as Jack’s parents took off their overcoats and warmed themselves at the range. Da enthused about some
of the music hall acts they had seen, and Jack felt that this was a good cue.

‘Talking about music halls, Da,’ he said, ‘is it OK if I appear in a variety concert?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Singing “When Father Papered the Parlour”.’

‘Are you going professional?’ said Ma playfully.

‘No, it’s just a fundraising concert to help poor people coming up to Christmas.’

‘Very good,’ said Da. ‘And who asked you?’

‘Emer. She’s playing the piano in it. It’s being run by Conradh na Gaeilge, but there’s no politics – it’s just for charity.’

‘I see,’ said Da.

‘It’s on December the tenth. Will you and Ma come?’

Da shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Jack. I’d like to help a charity, and I know you say it’s not political. But Conradh na Gaeilge has become more political lately, and I’ve a new Inspector who’s really strict. So I can’t be seen to support something like this.’

Jack was surprised at his father’s response. His disappointment must have shown, because Da reached out and squeezed his arm sympathetically.

‘I know at times it’s hard being a policeman’s son, Jack. And I know you’re going to be disappointed, but I’m sorry, you can’t be involved with this either.’

‘Ah, Da.’

‘Emer is a nice girl, and the Daveys are lovely people. But Mr
Davey is an officer in the Volunteers. If trouble comes – and it may well – I can’t have anyone in the force pointing a finger and saying our family is involved with rebels.’

Jack was taken aback. ‘So are you saying … Are you saying I can’t be friends with Emer?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Da. ‘You can still be pals, you can go to their house, you can be friendly with Mr and Mrs Davey. But anything to do with the Volunteers or Conradh na Gaeilge – that’s not on.’

Jack was bitterly disappointed, and he looked appealingly to his mother.

‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ she said, ‘but Da’s right. The DMP is our livelihood, and it can’t be put at risk. You’ll have to talk to Emer and tell her you’re pulling out of this concert.’

‘Sorry, son,’ said Da, ‘but that’s the way it is. All right?’

Jack felt like crying, but he kept his tears at bay, nodded agreement to his father, then turned away and wordlessly began work again on his model of the Custom House.

Emer released some of her frustration as she booted the wayward football back to where the local boys were playing further up the street. Earlier the boys and girls had had a game of rounders together, and now Ben and Jack were playing in an impromptu soccer match, while Emer and Gladys made their way down
Ellesmere Avenue towards the Phoenix Park.

Joan was visiting her aunt, but Emer and Gladys had decided to go to hear a brass band play in the park. It was a mild Sunday afternoon in late November, and the city was bathed in a golden glow of hazy sunshine, but Emer’s mood was at odds with the mellow atmosphere. ‘Sometimes Mam makes me want to scream,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’ answered Gladys.

‘I mean, she didn’t even bat an eyelid. She just said, “Oh, you’ll have to skip this swimming gala, it clashes with dancing in the
céilí mór
.”’

‘I thought you liked Irish dancing.’

‘It’s good fun, but I’m never going to win any medals for it. I could win something at the gala, though. And I’ve been training hard. It’s really annoying.’

Gladys nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s a pity. But you do a lot of stuff, Emer. Now and then things are going to clash.’

‘Sometimes I wish I was like you and Ben.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Not an only child.’

Gladys looked surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Mam and Dad follow everything I do. Irish classes, dancing, piano, swimming, elocution – they follow my every move!’

‘You’re not the only one, Emer.’

‘I am the only one! All the rest of you have brothers or sisters.’

‘I mean you’re not the only one whose parents interfere. Sure mine are the same. And look at Jack. He has four sisters, and his
mam and dad still check up on him – like the way they stopped him singing in the concert.’

‘That was really stupid. We live in Ireland, but they’re terrified of doing anything that shows them as Irish!’

‘So it’s not just your parents, Emer.’

‘No. But mine are the opposite. Everything Irish comes first.’

‘Right.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Emer. ‘I’m still for independence and the Volunteers and all. I just think everything else shouldn’t have to be dropped.’

‘Could you not persuade them? You’re usually pretty good at arguing.’

They turned onto the North Circular Road, which was busy with cars, horses and carriages as Dubliners made for the oasis of the Phoenix Park.

‘I tried,’ Emer answered, ‘but they really want me to do the céilí, so it would have been a major battle.’

‘You’re usually not afraid of that.’

‘I know. But Miss Clarke in school said something that made me think.’

‘What?’ asked Gladys.

‘She told me you have to pick your battles. That you can’t win every fight, so you pick the ones that matter.’

‘And this one doesn’t?’

‘I’d really like to do the gala, but I think there’ll be bigger battles ahead.’

‘Do you mean … with the Volunteers and the government and all?’

Emer nodded. ‘They don’t want me involved, but I need to be part of it. There has to be something I can do.’ She saw that her friend looked worried, so she smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Gladys. It’s not going to happen today or tomorrow.’

‘But if it does happen?’

‘I have to be in it.’

‘Right.’

‘Meanwhile, though, let’s forget about all this trouble. Let’s get ice creams at the park gates and listen to the band, OK?’

‘OK,’ said Gladys.

‘Good,’ said Emer, then she smiled again at her friend and strolled on in the winter sunshine.