Katie's War (4 page)

‘G
o away,' said Katie, lifting her face from her sodden pillow. She knew it was Father who had tapped on the door and she hated him. She pulled the pillow up about her ears so she wouldn't hear if he knocked again. She hated him with all her heart. All those wasted years when she could have been having fun with friends of her own. Hadn't
she
nursed him back from the dead? Hadn't
she
listened while he sicked up all the filth of his beastly war? And she had thought he was mad, or ashamed! Oh no! touch of shell-shock, Mr Parry had called it. What was
shell-shock
anyway? And what right had Father to criticise Seamus? Seamus wasn't running away as he had.

Father's steps receded down the stairs and a fresh bout of tears and resentment shook her. She thought of all those times when she had listened, biting her tongue, hardly daring to breathe, when an attack came on him. She had loved him then and they had fought his battles together, she herding him back from the edge of madness like a small sheepdog. But he'd forgotten her now. All that was over. All it took to cure him now was one word from a pallid Welsh boy. ‘Thank you, Dafydd,' he'd said, nice as pie. Who cared about Katie now? He might as well have slammed the door in her face.

She came up for air, her face burning with resentment. What right had that boy to come and upset it all? It was his fault. She
thought with disgust of his boots and the sun shining through his prominent ears, and his sing-song voice. ‘Angry' was all he had said. Katie repeated it to herself, with heavy sarcasm. Perhaps if she had looked like a frog in boots and had croaked ‘Angry' in a soft Welsh voice, she could have cured Father of his fits without having had to listen to his beastly tales. She'd be the one he loved now. Katie knew she was being unjust – but it was about time she was unjust to someone. She was pleased with the idea of Dafydd as a frog; one can hate a frog without committing a mortal sin. She imagined a whole line of frogs all croaking: Angry … angry … angry, at different pitches but all with Welsh accents. Suddenly they started to sing in harmony.

She woke when her father tapped on the door for a second time. Her tears had dried, leaving her face feeling stiff. He came in.

‘Did you drop off?' He sat down on the edge of her bed and smoothed the hair out of her eyes. She pulled back. ‘You've been crying.'

‘I'm all right now.'

‘Did I give you a fright at dinner? Quite like old times – and I thought I was over all that. Perhaps Mr Parry is right, perhaps I was shell-shocked.'

‘What is shell-shock?' asked Katie dully.

‘I suppose you could call it being scared out of your wits. It affects your mind – you can't face up to the memories perhaps? To things you have seen, or done.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'll be all right though. I've got Mr Parry here now. He'll help. He's been through it all too, you see. I've not had anyone here to share it with, not the bad bits that is.'

A huge silent scream rose in Katie:
What about me
?

But he was talking again. ‘Funny about Dafydd, over here to
brush up on his English, and he's the one to find a word for me.'

Katie closed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut.

‘Is there something wrong, Katie?' he asked. ‘Have I said something?' She shook her head and stared bitterly in front of her. All she had wanted since that winter day on the platform at Nenagh was to be his, to find his love and to fan it, from glow, to spark, to fire, but now that he found he could be cured with a word from a total stranger, he was stamping on her, coldly and deliberately. ‘I'll be all right,' he went on. ‘I don't need you so much now. You should get out more and be with your friends, be free.'

Katie couldn't believe what she was hearing. She closed her eyes and tried to listen to sounds outside the room, but there were none. Then she became aware of his voice again.

‘… perhaps
you
could talk to him.'

‘Who?' she asked.

‘Seamus.'

She stared past his shoulder out of the window. Seamus … something stirred her interest. Life was straightforward for Seamus; he had a cause. So, Father wanted her to talk to him, did he? She was tempted to say something bitter, but interest was pricking her again. Instead she said, ‘Why not Mother – or Marty?'

‘Marty's too young, and Mother … Mother thinks that if she were to go for him he'd be shamed and wouldn't come home.'

‘Where is he?'

‘She thinks he's up at Uncle Mal's.'

‘They're Republicans, aren't they?'

‘Yes, they're not fat farmers like us. The mountainy people were strong in the fight against the English. They see the treaty as a defeat.'

‘Mother does too. She's a mountainy person; that used to be
her home up there,' said Katie. ‘I like Uncle Mal. He laughs a lot.'

‘So do I, and I'm sure he'd keep Seamus out of trouble if he could, but there are people about who would regard Seamus as just so much cannon-fodder.'

Katie thought, but Seamus
wants
to be cannon-fodder, then, spitefully, and
he
wouldn't run away. ‘Is there going to be fighting, then?' she said aloud.

‘It's looking like civil war, love. Irish fighting Irish; why oh why can't we give up guns and use our brains instead!'

Katie swung her legs to the floor. She was suddenly sick of using her brains. If Irish were going to fight Irish you had to be on one side or the other. If Father didn't need her now, perhaps Seamus did. She remembered how, years ago, before Father came home, she had been Seamus's self-appointed slave. He had burned with ideals even then and found a small sister a useful acolyte. She in turn had worshipped him, a faithful follower fuelling his imagination.

Father reached over to stroke her hair, but she pulled away, knelt on the window ledge and looked down into the yard. It seemed empty. Hens were fluffed out in dust bowls in the shade of the cart shed. She could see Dafydd sitting on the shaft of the big farm cart writing, a letter in English perhaps. As she watched he scratched the top of his head with his pencil, grinned and wrote laboriously on. Katie drew back into the room. She didn't want him to see her. Father was standing watching her. She made for the wash-stand and he stepped back out of her way.

‘I'll go,' she said. ‘I'll go now,' splashing water over her face. ‘But Seamus won't come home.'

‘I know he may not, but you'll try, won't you? Tell him he's welcome back; his home is here, whatever his cause. Who's to say who's right and who's wrong in politics? But let him leave
the guns behind. Guns have no rightful place in the future of Ireland.'

Katie dried her face, burying it in the towel. If only he wasn't so reasonable! It was irritating. To her surprise she had a quick, uninvited vision of a brown, smiling face looking up from Barney's head, a rifle slung casually over one shoulder. It was a ray of former happiness. She pushed it out of her mind. If Ireland needed Seamus, perhaps it needed her as well … but Father was talking again; why couldn't he be quiet?

‘You can take Dafydd with you for company. He's outside in the yard, writing a letter.'

‘No!' she shouted, stamping and throwing her towel on the floor. ‘Why should I? Why him! If I go at all I'll go on my own!'

‘Whisht, dear, whisht. The lad's just outside. I thought you liked him? He'll be company.'

‘I hate him! I hate his boots.'

‘His boots!' laughed Father. ‘The poor lad's been sick. He's convalescing. We've got to look after him.'

‘Is that why he looks like a sick chicken? What's the matter with him?'

‘Now, Katie! He's had scarlet fever and very nearly died, I hear.'

‘The walk would be too much for him then,' she said.

‘He's convalescent, Katie, not sick. He needs three things – food, sun and exercise – and that's the least we can give when Mr Parry has come all this way just to help me. Anyway, you must have someone with you. These are troubled times, Katie. I don't want you on the roads alone.'

Why had she mentioned those damned boots? What was the point? Well, perhaps she could turn Dafydd into a rebel too. She slipped her shoes on and ran down the stairs.

‘Come, Frog, we're going for a walk.'

Dafydd looked up in surprise, then realised she was speaking to him. He closed the exercise book he had been writing in and clattered off to put it back into the house. She listened while he thumped up the stairs. There were sounds of a mild collision, Father coming down probably, then the clatter of descending boots. She turned up towards the gate.
Convalescent
or not, let him run.

She turned left, back the way they had driven in, to where the road from the house met the steeper winding road up to the mountain. Katie kept up a brisk pace but the scrunch of Dafydd's boots drew steadily closer. She pulled off her shoes and slid them upside-down into the hedge. She would be faster barefoot. The warm dust of the road felt good after her shoes, which were getting too tight for her anyway. The road was too steep to run, and fresh stone chippings had been scattered in places, so she jumped from smooth patch to smooth patch. Dafydd's boots reproached her from behind; they must weigh a ton. She stopped and waited until he came into view round the bend below.

‘Saint's above, Frog,' she called, ‘will you take those boots off and walk like a Christian!' Dafydd stopped, looked at his boots, and looked up the hill at her. ‘Shove them in the wall, we'll pick them up when we come back.' Undoing the laces seemed to take ages, as he crouched in the road with his knees by his ears. ‘Frog,' Katie repeated to herself with satisfaction. Off came the socks. She watched while he took his first steps – it was like someone stepping on to thin ice. ‘Mother of God,' she muttered, ‘he can't even walk
barefoot
. Well,' she determined, turning back to the hill, ‘he'll have to learn.'

Mick-the-Shilling was sitting in the sun beside the road at the top of the hill. There was no avoiding him, but he was harmless and Katie wanted a rest. Most of her anger had dissolved by now and she wanted to think about what she would say to Seamus, so she sat down on the opposite side of the road. Mick could not talk, but rolled his head and grunted.

‘Aaaah waaa,' he said.

‘Hello, Mick,' she said. ‘Fine day.'

‘Aaah aaah,' he replied, nodding vigorously. His head swung about aimlessly, then stopped; he was looking downhill. Katie didn't want to see Dafydd's progress below so she lay back and watched the little puffy clouds through the branches of an old pine tree above. After a bit the clouds seemed to stand still, and the tree and the whole world were turning under her and she gripped the grass with her hands so she wouldn't fall off the earth. Then she realised that Mick-the-Shilling was whimpering. She tried to ignore him, but the whimpering continued, puppy-like, and she had to look. He was waiting to catch her eye, his mouth grinning and drooling, but his eyes looked troubled. With his hands he began imitating a puppy's wobbly walk. He whimpered and blew on his paws and licked them as if they hurt, then glanced down the road. Katie would have laughed but she knew what he was saying and felt guilty. Nevertheless, she was damned if she was going to let a half-wit tell her what to do. She got up and turned to go on. To her embarrassment, Mick growled. Not a puppy growl, but a menacing-dog growl. She was frightened and a little bit shamed. She turned and looked down the hill. Poor Dafydd was making very heavy weather of it. He looked just like
Mick-the-Shilling's
puppy. Katie laughed, but she felt sorry for the boy.

‘Walk on the smooth bits,' she called, ‘where the cart wheels have gone, or on the grass.'

Dafydd looked up gratefully and waved. If he could have
blown on his feet, he would. Eventually he flopped down on the grass beside Katie with a sigh. ‘We … live in the village, see. Not allowed in the quarries without proper boots … crush your toes.'

‘Dafydd, this is Mick-the Shilling. He doesn't speak.' Katie turned to Mick. ‘Dafydd is from Wales. His Dad's in the slate quarries there. They've come over to help us get our pit going.'

Mick nodded and grinned. He began to mime picking up an imaginary block of slate and setting it carefully between his feet.

‘Watch him,' Katie said. Mick took up an invisible hammer and chisel, as if he had had them lying ready beside him. Working around the block, Mick split off an imaginary slate and offered it to Dafydd, who half got up to take it before remembering it wasn't there.

‘Fooled you there, Frog,' said Katie, not unkindly, ‘but we should get on to Uncle Mal's.' She got up and turned to go.

‘Nnnyaa nnn!' Mick was flapping his hands urgently.

‘What's the matter, Mick?'

He abandoned his noises. He was furtive now – hiding something? What was that in his hands? A gun! Sure as day.

‘Man – men with guns? Right, Mick? Up at Uncle Mal's?' Mick was nodding vigorously now. ‘Will we go the front way?' Mick shook his head. ‘The back way then?' Mick nodded but put a finger to his lips.

‘Come on then, Frog, it's over the fields for us. It seems the whole Republican army is protecting our brave Seamus – it'll be kinder on your feet too. Thank you, Mick.' Katie climbed the wall where slabs of slate had been inserted to make steps and dropped down into the field. While Dafydd climbed she looked back. Mick-the-Shilling was staring after Dafydd and making frog-hops in the road. Katie smiled.

‘Come on, Frog,' she called, and set off across the field.

K
atie had always loved Uncle Mal's Farm. It nestled within a group of gnarled pine trees at the head of a wide valley. Above the house the mountain rose in curves of soft heather so springy you could roll down the slope without hurting yourself, sneezing in a cloud of pollen. She used to think the valley had been made by some giant when the mountain was still soft, pressing his thumb into its side. He was a giant with green fingers though, because where he had pressed hardest the valley was green with grass. The path they were following was a mere groove in the meadow, but she knew it well. It led through a neighbour's farm and thence by a lane to her uncle's back door. Grasshoppers pinged off their legs as they walked.

‘That's Uncle Mal's, over there in the trees, but we have to go through the neighbour's first,' she said.

‘Isn't that trespassing?' asked Dafydd anxiously.

‘What? They won't mind – isn't it all Ireland!' But she added, ‘It would be good if their dog didn't bark though.' There was nobody about. They tiptoed past the front of the house. The dog was there; he lifted his head off his paws, looked at them, and lowered it with a sigh. They entered the lane. Katie was nervous; she could have done without having to bring the boy with her.

‘Look,' she said, ‘this could be dangerous. You don't have to come.'

Dafydd's eyes widened. ‘I'll come,' he said.

‘Right then,' she commanded. ‘You stay three steps behind me, keep down and when I stop, you stop.' The lane was little used, and overhung with scarlet fuchsia flowers. She wondered what to expect. Mick-the-Shilling probably didn't know what he was talking about, you wouldn't know what might be going on in his mind. She glanced back. Dafydd was copying her every move.

The little iron gate from the lane into the yard stood open. Foot by foot she crept forward, on all fours now, dress clutched in her fist, watching where she put her hands and knees. She turned in at the gate, looked up cautiously, then froze. She was staring at the patched seat of a man's trousers. He was standing not three feet in front of her and he had a gun under one arm. She turned to Dafydd and put a finger to her lips. If only she'd come along the lane whistling. God only knew what the man might do if he turned now. Her mouth felt dry. She was so close she could touch him. She began to back away, hand and then foot, when all at once a stone began to turn under her knee. There was only one thing to do – say something.

‘Aa-hem,' she said.

To her amazement the man literally leapt in his standing. ‘Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph!' he said, spinning round. His gun fell to the ground with a clatter.

‘Josie!' she said, recognising him. It was Uncle Mal's farmhand. ‘It's me – Katie. Don't shoot.'

‘How can I bloody well shoot with my gun on the ground? What are you doing anyway, Katie O'Brien, frightening an honest rebel out of his wits?'

‘Is Seamus in there, Josie? I
must
see him.'

‘Where else?' He picked up his gun and wiped the dust off it. Katie turned to where Dafydd stood in the lane, still frozen
like someone playing Grandmother's Footsteps.

‘Come on, Dafydd,' she said beckoning with her head. ‘It's all clear.'

Josie jumped. ‘Holy Mother of God, another one! I'm surrounded.'

‘Dafydd's from Wales. He doesn't speak a word of English,' lied Katie with sudden inspiration, glaring at Dafydd. ‘He's come to learn.'

‘Well, he'll get enough chat out of you, anyway,' Josie stated. Katie put her tongue out. ‘You'll find them all in the parlour,' he went on. ‘There's an officer up from Cork in there, a big nob.'

‘Thank you, Josie, you'll take care of that gun now, won't you?'

‘You won't go telling on me, child, will you? It's only an old shotgun.'

‘Child?' said Katie scornfully.

Josie turned to Dafydd. ‘You have a hard woman there, Dafydd, haven't you, lad?' Dafydd looked at him blankly. Josie groaned and scrubbed at his forehead. ‘It's not my day, is it? Get along with you, the pair of you.'

As they crossed the yard Katie wondered what had possessed her to say that Dafydd knew no English. He was bound to give himself away. But she needed space, space to tackle Seamus on his own. They could hear a precise, commanding voice declaiming inside. The kitchen door was open. Katie turned to Dafydd.

‘Remember, you don't know English, not a word of it. If they talk to you, answer in Welsh.'

‘
Gorwedd Draig Cymru wrth dy draed.
'

‘What?'

‘
Draig Cymru; ond chwarae â thân yr wyt ti
.'

‘Not me, you mutt!' she said, glaring at him. ‘Now, shut up.' Dafydd looked disappointed. ‘All right, clever Frog, fooled Katie. Now, come on.' She hesitated when she got to the doorway. She wasn't going to try creeping up on anyone again. At first sight the kitchen was empty. To her left the parlour door stood open. She could see the backs of men sitting; others were standing along the walls. A board was balanced on the mantelpiece with a map sprinkled with different-coloured dots. She couldn't see the speaker until he stepped forward to jab at a point on the map. She got a glimpse of a trench coat then and wondered that anyone could wear a coat in that heat. Her uncle Mal sat under the map, looking pink and uncomfortable, with an arm-band on his arm.

As Katie's shadow fell across the kitchen floor heads turned in the dark of the kitchen and she realised that there were people in there too, clustered about the door. Someone said, ‘Shssssh!' as Auntie Nora came tip-toeing across.

‘Come in, Katie darling,' she whispered. ‘But be quiet as a mouse. And who's your friend?' putting a welcoming hand on Dafydd's shoulder.

‘Dafydd's from Wales – he doesn't speak a word of English.' Katie hoped the low light in the kitchen would hide her blush.

‘He's welcome, but we mustn't disturb the meeting. We have an officer up from Cork.' She winked at Dafydd, put her finger to her lips and guided him to the chair that she had been sitting on at the parlour door. The disturbance was noticed inside.

‘Who's there? Who's out there?' demanded the voice.

‘Just family,' called Auntie Nora, ‘just the childer.'

Katie waited till the voice started again. ‘Where's Seamus, Auntie Nora? Is he here?'

‘Indeed he is. Is it urgent? I don't like to interrupt.'

‘It is urgent,' Katie said, nodding. If she waited till the meeting broke up she'd never get Seamus alone. Also, she was beginning to regret having told lies about Dafydd; he was bound to give himself away. Her aunt leaned into the room, tapped someone on the shoulder and pointed. Katie grimaced as chairs moved and feet shuffled. At that moment Seamus appeared in the doorway. Behind him the voice said sharply: ‘Can I please have some order here. This is a briefing not a parish meeting. I'll now call on …'

Katie had a smile ready for Seamus when he came out, but when he saw who it was, he nearly turned back. White with anger, he pushed her backwards across the kitchen and out the door.

‘What are you doing here?' he whispered angrily. ‘Look what you've done! Do you realise who that is in there! You have me shamed.'

‘I want to help, Seamus. I want to do something for Ireland, like you. I'm fed up with sitting at home.'

‘Mother of God! Is that all you've come to say?'

‘I have a message from Father too,' she stammered.

‘What's his message?'

‘He … he sent me … but I wanted to come anyway. He says come back, that he respects –'

‘Respects!' spat Seamus. ‘Come away from the door. What side are you on? How did you get in here without being stopped?'

Katie thought of nice Josie and his shotgun and kept her mouth shut. Seamus was pushing her across the yard. The door of the barn was open and he pulled her in behind it. There was a low growl from the dark behind them, perhaps Uncle Mal's bitch had pups? Katie's carefully rehearsed speech deserted her.

‘Seamus – your dream – of Ireland as it should be. I heard what you said at dinner today. Mother thinks like that too, doesn't she? What should
I
think? I want to do something for Ireland too, you know. Father doesn't want me any more and I'm ready to help. I want to do something.'

‘What can
you
do?' Seamus's scorn cut into her.

‘We used to plan, and do things together. Surely …'

‘We were children then. Grow up! There won't be a future unless we fight for it – and girls are no good at fighting.'

‘That's stupid! But why must we fight? Isn't there some other way? Father says …' She hadn't meant to mention Father again.

‘Don't talk about him!' Seamus shouted and then dropped his voice. ‘I'm fed up with Father. He's gun-shy, he's like … he's like a spoiled spaniel … worse than no dog at all. He's not a man any more, Katie. I saw him at dinner. Keep him out of it. If we're to win this battle we can't have passengers; nurse him, and keep him out of my way. We need men who know how to use a gun.'

Katie backed up against the barn door. There was a
bitterness
in Seamus's voice, something cold and resentful, which confused her. She had come with an open mind to offer herself to his cause, but this Seamus frightened her. She snapped back, ‘You don't have a gun, do you? You're just a dog without teeth.'

‘But I'll get one.'

‘How?'

‘Find that out for yourself.'

‘I will. And what happened to your hands? They're all
blistered
, I saw them at dinner.'

‘All right, I haven't got a gun now but there are other ways of fighting the enemy,' said Seamus. ‘Cutting off his
communications, for one. That's what the officer is explaining inside, but we've been at it already, cutting trees down so that they fall across the roads. The plan is to bring the whole country to a halt using fallen trees, digging trenches in roads, lifting railway lines and blowing up bridges.'

‘But these are
our
bridges and
our
railways, how does that change things? That won't win a war!' said Katie.

‘Oh yes it will. It means we can cut the Free Staters off in their barracks, just as we did the English. If they can't get
reinforcements
we can pick them off and capture their weapons.'

‘Like where? What barracks would you attack?'

‘Well, a town not far from here –'

‘Nenagh! But …' Katie's voice faded.

‘What?'

‘But there are hundreds of soldiers there, I've seen them.'

‘So?' Seamus glanced around. ‘Those troops are not all for the Free State, you know, there are good Republicans there too.' He dropped his voice. ‘In the next few days half that garrison will come out for us.'

‘You mean change sides without fighting?'

‘Oh no, there'll be fighting all right. It's not just the men we need, but the guns and ammunition the Free State troops are holding as well. There'll be bloodshed, no getting away from it,' he said with relish.

Katie felt as if her chest were in a clamp. She was beginning to see for the first time that what was happening was real. She remembered a smiling face looking up at her from Barney's head. I'm for the Free State, the boy had said. Katie
stammered
, ‘But the men who change sides, they'll be traitors won't they, betraying their friends?'

‘Jesus, child, grow up – don't you understand anything? It is the government troops that are the traitors. They have betrayed
the Republic and the Dáil for their half-breed Free State. Do you realise they're asking us to take an oath of allegiance to the King of England. Never! Who are the traitors now?'

‘But it means killing our … our friends, Seamie. Killing people who fought with us against the English. Friends like … like …' she had to stop.

‘You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. You have to be trained. You have to stop thinking of the enemy as a person. When you see a man in green uniform in the sights of your rifle, and begin to squeeze the trigger, it is not an Irishman or a friend who is about to die, but a traitor. That Irishman died when he swore away his birthright.' Seamus spoke as if reciting something he'd learned by heart. He was pacing,
obviously
wanting to get back to the meeting. ‘Squeeze the trigger,' he said under his breath as if repeating a lesson. Then he turned towards her. ‘Go back and nurse Father, Katie. I'll come home from time to time if I'm let. But I'm not going to stop doing what I think is right, for you or anyone. You've got to realise we have to get the British out now – right out for ever!' To her amazement then he put his arms around her.

For a second Katie didn't know what to do. It was an
invitation
for her to come back: big brother, little sister. But that was gone, done with, finished. I'm for the Free State, the boy at Nenagh had said. Seamus had no right to kill him just because of that. With an energy that surprised her, Katie pushed Seamus away.

‘Come back or not as you like,' she snapped. ‘Just keep the war away from home. I'll fight this my own way. Keep away from Father too. I could do without you upsetting him as you did today.'

There was a rustle in the straw in the barn. Katie's eyes were adjusted to the dark now and she could make out two eyes and
the outline of a dog, head raised, teeth showing. There was another growl.

‘Shut up!' she said to it, and turned away, striding towards the house to collect Dafydd.

‘What do you mean, fight this your own way?' asked Seamus, hurrying after her.

‘Work that out for yourself, soldier,' she retorted.