Friend or Foe (8 page)

J
ack saw from his mother’s face that something was badly wrong. He had been doing his homework at the kitchen table when there was a knock on the front door. Da was sitting at the fire reading the newspaper, Mary and Una were drinking tea and gossiping about other workers in the munitions factory, Maureen was out at the cinema, and Sheila and Ma had been working together, making a fancy hat.

‘What is it, Helen?’ said Da now, taking in Ma’s expression as she returned from the hall.

In answer Ma raised her hand, showing a buff envelope. ‘Telegram,’ she said, a quiver in her voice.

Jack felt his pulses quickening. Thousands of Irishmen were fighting in the British Army, and their families dreaded the arrival of telegrams. The government notified the next of kin when soldiers were killed in battle, and already families all over Ireland had been devastated by the delivery of the kind of envelope that Ma now held.

‘I … I can’t bear to open it,’ she said, and Jack felt a surge of sympathy for her. Uncle Bertie was her brother, and Ma would be heartbroken if he had been killed. But Bertie was married, so surely his own wife would get the telegram if the worst had happened?
Before Jack could think about it any further, Da stood up.

‘Do you want me to open it?’ he asked gently.

Mary and Una were sitting as though transfixed, their tea cups on the table before them. Sheila had lowered the hat, her face white.

Ma didn’t answer, just nodded instead as she handed Da the telegram.

Jack noticed that his father’s hands were trembling slightly as he opened the envelope. Da took out the telegram, quickly read it, and turned to Ma.

‘It’s not Bertie. Josie sent this from Manchester. Ronnie … Ronnie was badly injured during shelling. He’s in a hospital near Loos and he’s … he’s lost a leg.’

‘Oh God, no!’ cried Ma. ‘No …’

‘I’m sorry, Helen,’ said Da.

But Ma was already in tears. ‘Poor Ronnie, he’s … he’s a lovely lad. And now …’

Da reached out and squeezed Ma’s arm. Jack couldn’t bear to see the sorrow on her face. He thought of his cousin, who had been a talented soccer player, and he swallowed hard, trying to stop the tears welling up in his own eyes.

‘At least he wasn’t killed, Ma,’ said Mary.

‘Yeah, and he’ll be out of the war now,’ added Una.

Jack could see that his sisters meant well in trying to console Ma. But weren’t the shells that Mary and Una made in their factory just like the shell that had taken his cousin’s leg?

‘He’ll be crippled for the rest of his life,’ said Ma with a sob.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Ma, and I’ll make a fresh pot of tea,’ suggested Sheila.

‘I don’t want tea!’ she answered. ‘Sorry, pet, I don’t mean to snap at you, it’s just …’

‘It’s all right, Ma,’ said Sheila softly. ‘It’s all right.’

‘And at least Bertie is out of Gallipoli,’ added Da. ‘He’ll be better off in Greece.’

Jack had heard that his uncle’s unit had been evacuated from the horrors of Gallipoli and was now in Salonika.

‘I wanted them both back safely,’ said Ma, ‘but now …’

The tears ran down his mother’s face, and Jack surreptitiously wiped his own eyes dry.

‘I … I’m going to go up and lie down for a bit,’ said Ma.

‘Will I come up with you?’ asked Da.

‘No, I just … I just need to be on my own for a bit, John. I’ll be fine, but I want to lie down.’

‘Whatever you want, love,’ said Da, and Jack sensed that his father felt as helpless as the rest of the family when it came to consoling Ma. She quickly squeezed Da’s hand, then left the kitchen and made for her room. Jack listened as she ascended the stairs, then he heard the door of his parents’ bedroom closing overhead.

‘I know it’s awful about Ronnie’s leg,’ said Mary, ‘but isn’t it better to have one leg and still be alive?’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ answered Jack, irritated by his sister’s slightly breezy tone.

‘I’m just saying. You don’t have to bite my head off!’

‘Please,’ said Da. ‘No arguing. Not tonight.’ He placed one hand on Jack’s shoulder and one hand on Mary’s arm. ‘Tonight let’s just pull together as a family, OK?’

‘Yeah. Sorry, Da,’ said Jack.

‘I’m sorry too,’ said Mary. ‘I didn’t mean to … to make light of what happened Ronnie.’

‘I know,’ answered Da, sitting with them at the table.

‘What you said about Uncle Bertie, Da?’ asked Jack.

‘Yeah?’

‘How safe is he in Salonika?’

‘Nowhere’s really safe, but it’s better than fighting the Turks in Gallipoli.’

‘I find it really confusing,’ said Sheila. ‘Why was he sent to Salonika?’

‘To take on the Bulgarians.’

‘The Bulgarians? What have they got against us?’

Da shrugged tiredly. ‘They haven’t anything against us, Sheila – no more than we have against them. But war takes on a life of its own. It spreads and spreads, and other countries get sucked in. Why don’t you make that fresh pot of tea now? I think we could all do with a cuppa.’

Jack watched as his sister put on the kettle, his thoughts on what Da had said about war. He was hugely relieved that Da wasn’t fighting in Loos or Gallipoli, but supposing the Irish Volunteers went to war here in Dublin? The DMP was an unarmed force,
but they could quickly become involved in the conflict, just like numerous countries had been drawn into the war. Jack couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Da, and so he said a quick prayer for his father’s safety, then reluctantly went back to his homework.

‘They said we couldn’t do it, girls, and they were wrong!’ said Miss Clarke.

Emer loved when her teacher departed from normal lessons to comment on the news of the day, and this afternoon she was in full flow about women replacing male workers who were fighting in the war.

‘All those tasks that they said were “men’s jobs” – now women are doing them, and often doing them better!’

Emer was fascinated by Miss Clarke’s views. She realised from listening to her that the British ruling class didn’t keep just the Irish in their place but also working-class English people, especially women. Miss Clarke had regaled her pupils with stories about the men-only golf club where her father worked as a green-keeper, where women in the clubhouse were usually either serving food or cleaning the premises.

‘Now we’re showing the powers-that-be there’s nothing we can’t do,’ said the teacher. ‘Only today the government announced that women can apply to be conductors on buses and trams.’

‘I don’t think I’d fancy working on a tram, Miss,’ said Joan.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Miss Clarke. ‘But isn’t that the point, Joan? Now you have a
choice
. Now you can say “yes, I’d like that” or “no, I wouldn’t like that”. Personal freedom is about having choices.’

Just then the classroom door opened, and Sister Assumpta entered to take the class in religious instruction.

‘Ah, Sister,’ said Miss Clarke.

‘Please finish whatever you’re at, Miss Clarke. I’m probably a trifle early.’

Emer had noted that the two women were always polite to each other, but she got the feeling that there wasn’t much warmth between them. Sister Assumpta was conservative about everything, whereas Miss Clarke was more progressive. But while the Englishwoman could sometimes be a little irreverent with the girls, she was a dedicated teacher and a Catholic, and Emer suspected that she was smart enough never to give Sister Assumpta anything with which to reprimand her.

‘Just telling the girls about the decision to allow women conductors on buses and trams,’ Miss Clarke said to the nun before turning back to the class. ‘Very well, girls, your homework tonight is the essay we discussed, “A Day in the Countryside”.’

Miss Clarke left the room, and Sister Assumpta moved behind the teacher’s desk.

‘Conductors on trams and buses – really!’

The scholarship girl, Catherine O’Flynn, was the daughter of a bus conductor, and Emer thought it would be horrible for
Catherine if Sister Assumpta belittled the role. Even though Emer didn’t find the other girl very friendly, she didn’t want to see her embarrassed in front of the whole class. She quickly raised her hand to try to get the nun’s attention, but Sister Assumpta continued speaking. ‘I hardly think any young lady would seek such a demeaning, masculine job. Who would wish to be a bus conductor?’

Catherine O’Flynn looked uncomfortable. ‘My … my father is a bus conductor, Sister,’ she said.

‘Yes. So well he might be,’ said the nun briskly, then she turned to Emer. ‘Emer Davey, you had your hand raised.’

Emer felt a stab of panic, not knowing how to respond. She was going to ask Sister Assumpta for a word in private, to let her know that Catherine’s father was a bus conductor. But now the damage was done, and Catherine looked humiliated.

‘What was it you wanted?’ said the nun.

‘Eh … could we speak in private, Sister?’ said Emer haltingly as she tried to work out how to handle this.

‘Very well, approach the desk.’

Emer rose and walked up towards the teacher’s desk. Sister Assumpta stepped into the corner of the room furthest from the class and indicated for Emer to join her there.

‘Go over your catechism, girls. I’ll be asking questions about the sacrament of Baptism,’ Sister Assumpta said to the class, then she turned to Emer. ‘Well?’

‘It’s … it’s actually too late now, Sister,’ said Emer in a low voice. ‘I was just trying to save embarrassment.’

‘Really?’

‘I knew that Catherine O’Flynn’s father is a bus conductor.’

‘It can’t be helped if she’s embarrassed by her father’s job.’

‘No, I meant saving
you
embarrassment, Sister.’

‘Saving
me
embarrassment?’

‘I wanted to tip you off – so you wouldn’t show her up. Remember you told us that good manners means never making other people uncomfortable?’

Sister Assumpta flushed slightly, then she looked accusingly at Emer. ‘Are you presuming to teach me manners?’

‘No, Sister. I just thought you wouldn’t want … well, to put your foot in it.’

‘Don’t you dare lecture me on my behaviour!’

Emer said nothing, and the nun looked at her challengingly. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

There was another pause. Emer felt that, despite her irritation, Sister Assumpta had been put on the back foot a little.

‘Go back to your place now,’ the nun finally replied. ‘And watch your own behaviour.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ said Emer, then she made her way back to her desk, careful not to let any satisfaction show, but pleased to have made her point.

Jack hated the way Brother McGill made Phelim O’Connell the pet of the class. Even allowing for the teacher’s love of everything Gaelic, Jack felt that he should be more even-handed with his pupils. But Phelim spoke fluent Irish and was captain of the school’s Gaelic football team, so Giller indulged him.

Brother McGill looked approvingly at Phelim now as he raised his hand. ‘Phelim?’

‘Is it true, Brother, that the Germans are winning the war in Serbia hands down?’

The teacher nodded happily. ‘It is indeed. The Germans and the Austrians are said to be in full control. So that’s one in the eye for John Bull and the British Empire!’

Jack felt his anger rising. He expected Phelim to take pleasure in German victories, but Brother McGill must surely have known that there were several boys in the class with relations fighting in the British Army.

It was only two days since Jack had heard the awful news about his cousin Ronnie, and the memory was still raw. Ma had gotten over the initial shock of her nephew losing his leg, but the family was still really saddened. Jack felt outraged by Brother McGill’s flippant take on a war that had so far cost half a million British casualties.

The bell sounded for the end of the school day, and Jack felt both relieved and frustrated. He hated the teacher’s attitude, yet to challenge someone of Brother McGill’s authority was almost unthinkable. The teacher gathered up his books and left the
classroom, and Jack breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.

He could understand people being against the idea of the British Empire, but to be disrespectful of the thousands of soldiers who had died was horrible. Still, there was nothing he could do now, so he began to pack his copybooks into his schoolbag. A shadow fell across his desk, and Jack looked up to see Phelim standing before him. It was a month now since Jack had pushed him away and walked off to avoid a fight, but there was still simmering bad blood between them.