Friend or Foe (13 page)

The law-abiding thing to do would be to report all of this to the police. But that would result in Emer’s uncle being arrested and would feel like a betrayal of Emer – while he was a guest of her family. Yet if he did nothing, the Volunteers would have dynamite, and that could mean people getting killed.

He knew that Emer would argue that countless thousands of people were already being killed on the Western Front and in the Dardanelles, and that the authorities didn’t seem too concerned about that. And there was also her argument – which Jack found hard to dispute – that the British Government had allowed the Ulster Volunteer Force to arm themselves to the teeth, and that the Irish Volunteers had to have weapons to defend themselves in the event of a civil war.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there on the street, conflicting thoughts going around in his mind, but suddenly he realised that he was shivering badly. The realisation brought him to his senses – he had to get back to the bedroom. And not just before he caught a chill, but also before Peadar and Cronin returned. He still didn’t know whether or not to report what he had seen, but either way he couldn’t stay here. He turned on his heel, stepped out of the shadows and started briskly back.

E
mer applauded vigorously as the curtain came down on the brightly lit stage for the intermission of the Christmas pantomime. She was in the Dress Circle of Dublin’s Gaiety Theatre with her parents, and she was wearing the new blue dress that Mam had bought as her Christmas outfit. Emer loved the dress, and her parents were also smartly turned out, in keeping with the glamour of the occasion. Emer loved all the traditions of Christmas but particularly the family’s annual visit to the pantomime the day after St Stephen’s Day. This year the Gaiety’s production of
Dick Whittington
featured the Marigny troupe of Lady Dancers as well as a band, chorus and ballet, and Emer had thoroughly enjoyed it.

On Christmas Eve they had travelled by train to stay for two days with Dad’s family in County Kildare. Emer liked seeing her cousins and aunts and uncles, but she missed her friends. Before setting off for the station she had swapped presents with Gladys, Ben, Jack and Joan. Gladys had given her a lovely pair of kid gloves, Ben had surprised her with a chemistry set – a strange choice, but one about which she politely enthused – Jack had given her the
Girl’s Own
annual, and Joan’s gift was a large box of fancy toffees.

Having her friends to stay overnight in Aunt Gertie and Uncle
Peadar’s the previous week had been great fun, and a snowy Monasterevin had looked magical the next morning. All in all, Emer reckoned that this was turning out to be one of the best Christmases ever.

‘Think you could force yourself to have a glass of lemonade?’ her father asked playfully as they rose from their seats and headed out of the Dress Circle.

‘I’ll do my very best, Dad,’ answered Emer with mock seriousness.

‘Brave girl!’ said Mam with a laugh, and they made their way along the carpeted corridor to the bar. All the patrons around them were dressed in their finery, and it struck Emer that Mam and Dad were actually a handsome couple.

Her father intercepted one of the barmen who was crossing the room with a tray of drinks and placed their order. Emer stood with her parents just inside the door of the bar, since all of the tables were occupied. She consulted her programme, eagerly scanning the list of performers. ‘Would you say there’ll be an escape artist in Act Two, Mam?’ she asked. ‘Or maybe a juggler?’

‘Have to wait and see, love.’

‘There was an escape artist in Act One,’ said Dad.

Emer looked at her father disbelievingly. ‘No, there wasn’t.’

‘That fella who sang “Mother Machree” was an escape artist. The way he butchered the song, he was lucky to escape with his life!’

‘Eamon,’ said Mam reproachfully, but she was laughing as she said it.

Emer loved when Dad was in good humour like this. Between running two grocery shops and being in the Volunteers, he was kept very busy, but when he relaxed he was good company. Emer always thought he seemed younger when he laughed.

Suddenly the smile faded from her father’s face. Emer looked behind her to see if something had happened, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary in the crowded theatre bar.

‘What is it, Eamon?’ asked Mam.

‘Inspector Adams,’ answered Dad.

Emer had heard her father discussing Inspector Adams, a Special Branch police officer based in Dublin Castle. He had once had an account at Smyths, the grocers where Dad had worked before going into business for himself, and they had known each other slightly back then. Now, however, he specialised in keeping track of nationalist activity, and Emer felt a sudden flutter of butterflies in her tummy.

She looked around again and saw a ramrod-straight man in a dress suit approaching. He had close-cropped grey hair and carried himself with a military bearing, and Emer knew without being told that he was Inspector Adams. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would attend a pantomime for entertainment, and the horrible thought entered Emer’s mind that maybe he was here to make an arrest.

But surely if he was going to detain Dad for his activities in the Volunteers, he would do it at home or when he was out drilling? Unless maybe he had a nasty streak and wanted to humiliate Dad
by arresting him in front of everybody. Emer felt her stomach tighten, but she tried to convince herself that the approaching man was here with his wife, or perhaps treating a favourite niece or nephew to the pantomime.

And besides, if he wanted to arrest someone prominent, there were more senior figures than Dad – men like James Connolly of the Irish Citizen Army, or Padraig Pearse, who hadn’t been arrested despite making a very inflammatory political speech at the graveside of the nationalist Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa.

Emer looked back at her father, trying to gauge his reaction to seeing the policeman. He didn’t actually look frightened, but all the fun had gone out of him and he seemed on guard. Emer noticed that Mam had placed her hand on his arm, and she wasn’t sure if it was to reassure Dad or to restrain him.

Suddenly Emer felt scared. If this man were to take away her father, what would she and Mam do? She glanced around again and saw that the policeman was much nearer. He looked at her father, who held his gaze, and Emer found herself holding her breath. Then Inspector Adams gave a curt nod of recognition, Dad nodded back, and the man continued on his way.

Emer breathed out, hugely relieved. Mam and Dad began chatting again as if everything was normal, but Emer sensed that they were doing it for her benefit. She thought that while this time everything was fine, in future it might not be, if matters came to a head between the government and the Volunteers.

Just then the drinks arrived, and Emer smiled at her parents and
sipped her lemonade. But although the drink tasted delicious, and the second act was still to come, things had changed. Emer sensed that no matter how they tried to disguise it, from now on they would always be looking over their shoulders.

Jack loved his family’s annual New Year’s Eve party – or ‘hooley’, as Ma always called it – and he sang along with everyone else in the living room as Da performed his party piece, ‘In the Good Old Summertime’.

Da often invited younger members of the force who didn’t have relations in Dublin to the party, and now the clean-cut young constables joined in singing with the family and their neighbours and friends. Ma served plates of Irish stew, and there were mince pies, Christmas cake and pudding on the table, while whiskey, porter, sherry and lemonade were all in ready supply. As usual the party was lively, but the presence of the policemen from Da’s station brought Jack’s mind back to the incident in Monasterevin and the difficult decision he had had to make.

He had sneaked back to bed that night without waking Ben, then wrestled with his conscience. He thought of what Phelim O’Connell had said about accepting that people could be on opposing sides and agreeing to differ. That same week the British Army had abandoned their disastrous campaign in Gallipoli, and Jack reasoned that, compared to the huge waste of life in the
Dardanelles, a few cases of explosives weren’t all that significant.

The strongest argument of all, though, was Emer’s point: the Irish Volunteers needed arms to counter-balance the huge number of weapons that the loyalist Ulster Volunteer Force had imported. And so, finally, Jack had decided that if the government could ignore the UVF importing weapons, then he could ignore the Volunteers doing the same thing on a much smaller scale.

Jack believed that he had done the right thing, yet part of him felt slightly guilty now as he watched Da singing. Once more he was keeping a secret from his father, who had been more understanding than many a parent would have been about the fight with Phelim. Still, he had made his decision, and what Da didn’t know needn’t worry him. His father finished his song to much applause, then Ma pointed at the clock.

‘It’s almost twelve, John. Countdown time!’

Jack watched as his father took his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. It was a long-standing tradition that Da counted off the final seconds of the year, and everybody joined him in the chant: ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one – Happy New Year!’

It was now 1916. Everyone cheered, and Jack was hugged by Ma, Da and each of his four sisters. Bells across the city began to chime. Da led a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and the party-goers sang, their arms intertwined. Jack could never understand what the words of the song meant, but he sang along happily. They followed
another tradition and opened the hall door, letting everyone spill out onto the street.

Many of the other neighbours had done the same, and the cool night air was alive with exchanged greetings, ringing church bells and the distant sound of ships’ horns from the docks.

Jack waved across the street to Joan, and soon he would go around the corner to see Ben and Gladys on Glenard Avenue. Emer and Mr and Mrs Davey had gone to a party in Rathmines, and while Jack would have liked to greet Emer, in another way he was relieved. With Mr Davey involved with the Volunteers, and with so many policemen here outside Jack’s house, the Daveys’ presence might have been a little awkward for everyone.

Jack stood on the pavement outside his home, his mind going back over the past year. He had nearly drowned, he had encountered armed men up in the mountains, he had fought Phelim O’Connell and then made peace with him, he had swum in the gala and he had seen dynamite being smuggled in Monasterevin. It had been an exciting year but also a sad one, in which his cousin had lost his leg and thousands of soldiers had died at the Western Front, in the Dardanelles and in other theatres of war.

Jack hoped that 1916 would be a better year. And he hoped that Da and Mr Davey wouldn’t be in conflict. Still, there was nothing that he could do about any of that now. And so he banished his worries and started up the road, eager to see Ben and Gladys and to wish them luck for whatever the new year might bring.

‘N
othing ever stays the same, girls!’ said Miss Clarke. ‘Remember that, because people who try to prevent change get disappointed. And history isn’t a series of dates to be learnt off by heart. No, history is the world changing before our eyes, sometimes almost without our noticing.’

Emer sat forward in her desk, listening to her teacher as the spring sunshine streamed in through the classroom windows. She revelled in the way Miss Clarke taught history, especially when compared with the boring approach of Sister Assumpta, who had taken the previous class.

Today was Spy Wednesday – a name that Emer loved – and Sister Assumpta had given the girls a really dull Easter talk about Judas and his betrayal of Jesus to the Pharisees. Emer had wondered what made Judas do it, which was the kind of thing that Miss Clarke might have turned into a fascinating discussion. Sister Assumpta didn’t engage in discussion, however, and had simply lectured the girls.

As if to illustrate their differing styles, Miss Clarke now asked the class, ‘Who can give me an example of a recent change that in time will seem historic?’

‘Women in Norway getting the vote, Miss?’ said Joan.

‘Excellent example. Anyone else?’

‘The new rule that says women replacing men in factories must be paid the same rate as men?’ suggested Emer.

‘Interesting choice, Emer,’ said Miss Clarke. ‘But there’s a condition, isn’t there? They get equal pay
provided the work is of the same quality as was previously done by the men.
Does that seem fair to you, Emer?’

‘Eh, yes, Miss, I suppose so.’

‘And yet when only men did the work, some did it well, and others no doubt did it badly. But they all got paid the same. No-one thought to say that only men
doing quality work
should get the going rate. So while it
is
a historical development, maybe it’s not quite as progressive as it seems.’

Emer loved the way Miss Clarke made you question things like this, and she watched with interest as Joan raised her hand again.

‘Cancelling the Olympics until the war is over would count as historic, wouldn’t it, Miss?’ said Joan.

‘Yes, I think so. Are you in favour of that, Joan?’

‘Well, my dad says it’s only right.’

‘A view to which he’s entitled. But what do
you
think, Joan?’

‘Well … I suppose it wouldn’t be fair on the soldiers to go
ahead without them. Not when they’re suffering so much away at the front.’

Miss Clarke and the class discussed the merits of this, and Emer grew reflective. The front to which Joan referred was the Western Front in France and Belgium, but Emer feared that there might soon be a front right here in Dublin. Her father was scheduled for three days of manoeuvres over the Easter weekend, and Emer had picked up on hints from her parents’ conversations that the Volunteers might be preparing for armed conflict. It was exhilarating to think of the Volunteers fighting for Irish freedom, but scary that Dad could get hurt – or even killed – in the process.

‘Emer?’ said Miss Clarke, bringing her out of her reverie. ‘Are we boring you?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘You looked like you were miles away.’

‘No, Miss, I’m really interested in what makes history,’ she said. Then she put the Volunteers from her mind and sat up attentively.

‘Who can tell me what a tercentenary is?’ asked Brother McGill.

Jack looked in surprise at his desk mate, Gerry Quinn, who had raised his hand. Normally Gerry didn’t shine during English class, but the school was breaking up for Easter holidays today so maybe he was feeling perkier than usual.

‘Is it the third anniversary of something, Brother?’ he said.

Brother McGill smiled condescendingly. ‘I think, Mr Quinn, you know more about horses and carts than the English language!’

Some of the boys laughed, wanting to win favour with the teacher, but Jack didn’t join in. Why couldn’t Giller see that it was mean to belittle Gerry on one of the rare occasions when he put himself forward?

‘Anyone else know?’ asked the teacher.

Phelim O’Connell raised his hand. ‘Is it the three-hundredth anniversary of something, Brother?’

‘
Maith
an fear
, Phelim!’ said Brother McGill approvingly. ‘
Maith
an fear
. And does anybody know
whose
tercentenary falls around now?’

Jack knew the answer, but he was still annoyed at Giller, so he didn’t raise his hand. Although Gerry hadn’t reacted outwardly to the brother’s comments, Jack sensed that his feelings had been hurt. On the other hand Jack was aware that Gerry really disliked Phelim, so anything that undermined Phelim as teacher’s pet would appeal to Gerry. Maybe he should answer before the other boy got a chance to shine again.

Jack raised his hand. ‘Shakespeare, sir,’ he said. ‘He died three hundred years ago this week.’

‘Shakespeare is right, Mr Madigan.’ Brother McGill looked at his pupils and smirked. ‘“The Bard of Avon”, as he’s referred to on our neighbouring isle,’ he added mockingly.

Jack didn’t really like Shakespeare – he found his old-fashioned English hard to understand – but if Brother McGill wanted to be
an Irish nationalist, why couldn’t he just take pride in Irish writers, without mocking English playwrights like Shakespeare?

Jack couldn’t risk antagonising his teacher by saying so, but recently he had felt more at one than ever before with the British Empire. His cousin Ronnie had been awarded a medal for the action in which he had lost his leg, and his uncle Bertie was still on active service with the British Army. These facts combined with the news of last month’s Zeppelin air raids by the Germans, in which civilians had been killed, all made him root for an Allied victory and dislike the pettiness of Giller’s nationalism.

The war itself, however, had become terrifying, the losses so crippling that the government had brought in conscription in England. So far it had been resisted in Ireland, but who could tell when that might change? Jack had read in the paper that two million more women were working in the United Kingdom than a year ago, so things could change very quickly, and Da’s job as a policeman was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be called up.

But Easter was coming, and on Good Friday he would go to church and do the Stations of the Cross. He would pray for a speedy end to the war. And if that wasn’t possible, he would pray that Da wasn’t conscripted, that Uncle Bertie stayed safe and that Ronnie continued to recover from his wounds. Buoyed by the thought, Jack gave Gerry a conspiratorial nod, then he pretended to be interested as Brother McGill continued the class.