Secrets and Shadows (8 page)

G
race wrinkled her nose in distaste as the slop cart went past. After nearly three weeks she was settling into life in Arbour Hill, but she still hated the smell of the nearby piggery, to which the slop man was guiding his foul-smelling, donkey-driven cart full of waste food for the pigs. The other children with whom Grace was playing didn’t seem to notice, and Grace wondered how long you had to live close to a piggery before you got used to the smell. It probably took months, and she hoped that herself and Ma would have found somewhere else to live by then.

Meanwhile, she had to adapt. Her two closest friends, Joan and Kathleen, had also lost their homes in the North Strand, and it made Grace sad when she thought that because of the bombing they were all split up – maybe forever.

Grace had become friendly with May Bennett, a perky girl who lived behind her in Viking Place, and now she was with May and a group of boys and girls who were starting to organise a game of Kick the Can. May was arguing with Whacker Wallace about who would pick the teams. Grace found the boy silly and irritating, and now he was trying to boss May.

‘I’m picking one team and Micksy’s picking the other,’ he said, indicating his friend, a heavy-set, placid looking boy.

‘You must be joking,’ said May. ‘We’re playing boys and girls
together, so it’s only fair a girl picks one team.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me!’ said May. ‘You don’t own the game, Whacker Wallace!’

Grace half listened as the argument continued, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Barry making his way up the road. He was with a blond-haired boy and they carried a football. Grace waved over to him, and Barry waved back as the two boys walked together in the direction of Norseman Place.

‘What’s the story with your man there?’ asked Whacker, having seen Grace waving.

‘That’s Barry Malone,’ she answered.

‘Yeah, I heard about him. He’s English and stuck up,’ said Whacker.

‘He’s not a bit stuck up,’ argued Grace.

‘I heard his granny spoils him, and he has this weird English accent.’

‘Of course he has an English accent, he comes from England,’ said Grace.

Whacker pointed at Grace. ‘Listen to your woman here. Are you his mot or something?’

‘No.’

‘You must be!’

‘Don’t mind him, Grace,’ said May.

‘
He’s not stuck up – he’s lovely!
’ said Whacker, imitating Grace in a silly, high-pitched accent.

Some of the others laughed, and Grace sensed that as the new
girl this was a kind of test for her. If she let someone like Whacker make fun of her then everyone else might think she was a pushover. And besides, Barry had proven to be a really loyal friend – she couldn’t let this boy make little of him.

‘Do you know what I’m going to tell you, Whacker?’ she said, moving closer to him.

‘What?’

‘You’re really smart, aren’t you? One more wit – and you’d be a half wit!’ It was a smart answer that she had learnt at the North Strand, but she saw that these kids had never heard it before, because there was a burst of laughter.

‘That’s telling you, Whacker Wallace!’ said May. ‘Now are you going to stand there with your mouth open like a fish, or are you going to pick one team while I pick the other?’

‘All right!’ said the boy in disgust. ‘But I’m having first pick,’ he insisted, in what Grace reckoned was an attempt to save some face.

Everyone gathered round as the sides began to be picked. Grace looked up the road at Barry’s retreating form. She was glad that he had friends to play football with, and glad too that she had stood up for him. Most of all though she was glad to have a friend who had been willing to sacrifice so much of his own money to save her job. And if she had to spend the summer living with Granddad and Uncle Freddie, and without her old friends Joan and Kathleen, then it mightn’t be so bad if she could share some of it with Barry Malone.

‘I pick Grace!’ said May, breaking her reverie. ‘Come on, Grace!’

‘OK,’ she answered, then she turned and happily joined her team for Kick the Can.

Barry felt excited as the countryside whistled by outside the train window. He was sitting opposite an animated Charlie Dawson, and the rest of the sunlit carriage was full of other excited schoolboys taking part in the sixth class school tour to Cobh in County Cork. The boys’ high spirits were infectious, and Barry was enjoying every minute of the fun, all the more so since it had looked at one stage like he wouldn’t be able to make the tour.

When he had given the five shillings to Grace it had left him with a shortfall of two shillings. Grandma, however, gave him sixpence pocket money each Sunday – one week of which he had already saved – which meant that he was only a shilling short of the required seven shillings. And in a flash of inspiration he had decided to do a salvage drive around all the houses off Arbour Hill to raise the money.

Salvage drives had been popular in wartime Liverpool –
Saucepans for Spitfires
was the name they gave to one where old metal items were recycled to make fighter planes – but other items were collected too, and there was a ready market for rags, wool, bottles, jam jars and waste paper. Barry had worked hard collecting sacks full of old newspapers and crates of sticky beer bottles and jam jars that he brought to the gloomy warehouse of a scrap merchant on
Chicken Lane. It had been worth all the effort, and now he even had a few pence left over to spend on today’s excursion.

Everyone in the class wasn’t as lucky, and several boys whose fathers were out of work couldn’t afford the trip. One of these was Shay McGrath, and Barry had discovered that McGrath’s labourer father had been out of work for several months now. Barry had felt sorry for the other boys who were missing the trip, but it was a relief that McGrath was missing. The bullying had stopped since the magical day when Johnny Keogh had intervened, but it was obvious that McGrath still didn’t like him, so the trip would be more relaxed in McGrath’s absence.

The train sped on through the summer countryside, the fields outside the window a blur of green, occasionally masked by the thick, black smoke spewed out by the massive steam locomotive that pulled the train. Brother Hogan and Mr Pawlek were sitting together at the end of the carriage, but their demeanour was more easy-going than when in school, and the boys were taking advantage of the holiday atmosphere.

Suddenly Charlie clutched his stomach as though in pain. Barry looked at him anxiously, then realised it was a gag when Charlie cried out,
‘“I’ve a pain in me belly!”, said Dr Kelly.’

The rest of the boys shouted out in unison.
‘“Rub it with oil!” said Doctor Doyle.’

Charlie jumped up as though cured.
‘“A very good cure!”, said Doctor Moore,’
he cried.

Barry had never heard the rhyme before and he laughed heartily,
entertained by Charlie’s performance. He sat back contentedly, delighted to be off school, and sensing that this might be his best day since coming to Ireland.

The sun shone brightly, bathing Cobh in warm golden light. Barry walked along the waterfront, the waves in the harbour sparkling in the sunlight. High above him on the hill, Cobh cathedral seemed to soar up into the clear blue sky, while at ground level the curve of the bay provided a fine natural harbour. He could see where the transatlantic liners docked, while further west along the waterfront stood Haulbowline Island, headquarters of the Irish Navy.

Barry had been told that the Irish navy was small –
tiny
when compared to Britain’s Royal Navy – but as the son of a serving seaman he was curious to see the main Irish naval base. The school tour had allowed the boys some free time, and after Barry and his classmates had visited the amusements at the eastern end of Cobh, Barry had chosen to walk back towards the western end. Many of the boys had gone on trips in rowing boats, but Barry had explained his interest in the navy and he headed off along the seafront towards Haulbowline.

He could feel the heat of the sun on his shoulders and he breathed in deeply, savouring the salty tang of the sea air. The waterfront was busy with people making their way to and from the nearby railway station, but Barry strolled at a leisurely pace,
enjoying the sense of being on holiday.

He carried on until he was opposite the small outcrop known as Rocky Island, then he stopped and looked out across the water towards Haulbowline Island. He could make out the shape of a couple of grey naval vessels and he wondered what they were. Too small for destroyers, he thought, perhaps they were corvettes. He would have liked a closer look, but the naval base was off limits to civilians, and in any case it could only be reached by boat.

Barry continued gazing across the water, wondering what it must be like to serve in the Irish navy. Being neutral must be really odd. Particularly when on your doorstep in the Atlantic a life and death struggle was going on between the German U-boats and the Royal Navy convoys that brought vital supplies to Britain.

Of course, if Ireland had fought against Germany – or even allowed the Royal Navy to use its ports – then Irish cities would have been bombed by the dreaded
Luftwaffe
. And with Ireland having virtually no air force that would have meant the principal Irish cities being reduced to ruins. But though Barry could see why a small country like Ireland remained neutral, he also understood the frustration of people in England, who fumed about Ireland refusing to help protect the Atlantic convoys, while accepting some of the vital supplies that they carried.

It was a tricky situation, and he decided that a sunny day like this wasn’t the time to worry about it. He was about to move off when out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a familiar shape. It wasn’t someone he had expected to see here, and he
looked again, surprised to confirm his first impression. The man who had caught his eye was Mr Pawlek.
What on earth was he doing on his own here, instead of being with the other teachers?

Just then Barry saw the drill teacher raise a camera to his eye and quickly snap off a photograph. Barry was well out of his line of vision, and none of the other people who were coming and going paid much notice to the respectably dressed man looking out across the harbour. Fascinated, Barry watched him intently. There had been something furtive in the quick way he had taken the picture, and now Mr Pawlek moved a little further along the waterfront. Barry remained where he was but watched the teacher’s every move. Mr Pawlek was still looking across the water towards Haulbowline, and after a moment he once more raised a small camera to his eye. While his general demeanour seemed casual, there was something slightly strange about the very quick way he snapped off another picture, then slipped the camera into the pocket of his jacket.

Barry stood unmoving but he felt the hairs stand up on his neck, a sixth sense telling him something was wrong here.
Why would a drill teacher want to take sly pictures of a naval base?
Barry had seen enough warning posters in Liverpool to know that this was the kind of thing done by spies. But Mr Pawlek being a spy seemed ridiculous. Barry tried to tell himself that he was being dramatic, that his over-active imagination was running away with him. Yet his instincts insisted that something wasn’t right.

He watched as Mr Pawlek turned and made his way back along
the waterfront toward the centre of Cobh. Barry stood well back, out of the teacher’s line of sight, but followed his progress as he walked away briskly.

Could he really be spying? Mr Pawlek was Polish, and Poland wasn’t at war with Ireland, so that hardly made sense.
Unless, of course, he was lying.
Germany was right beside Poland. Supposing he was German, but pretending to be Polish? His English was excellent, and Barry couldn’t have told the difference between a German and Polish accent. And a German agent might well be interested in Ireland’s naval headquarters – especially if the Nazis decided to invade Ireland, which was still a fear of the Irish Government.

Barry thought too of all the innocent-seeming questions that Mr Pawlek had asked him: about where his father’s ship was based, and where his mother’s aircraft factory was situated in Liverpool. Wasn’t that exactly the kind of information a spy gathered?