Shamrock Green (26 page)

‘By God!' Kay McCulloch said. ‘You've a right snippy tongue for a twelve-year-old. I know where you got that from, and it wasn't our side of the family.'

‘I think you should go, Gran,' Maeve said. ‘If you want to know what's happenin' ask Uncle Charlie or Granddad. They know what side the bread's buttered on and that Mr Hagarty's a good man even if you don't think so.'

‘Hagarty's one of the brotherhood and that'd make him a saint in their eyes even if he grew horns and a tail,' the old woman said. ‘She'll rue the day she took up with that man, believe me.'

Her grandmother was not as old as all that, not nearly as old as Mr Dolan had been when he'd died. She was smart-dressed too, like the ladies who ate their lunch at the Hibernian or took tea at Fuller's. Her money came not from Granddad or the profits of the brewery but from her son, Forbes, whom Maeve had never met. He was a rich businessman and, according to Charlie, more Scottish than Irish. She had asked her mother about Uncle Forbes but her mother would not speak of him and just said that the past was the past and better left buried.

‘What has she told you?' Gran McCulloch went on. ‘Has she told you your dada might not come back? Aye, well, she might have something there for the slaughter in France is terrible. Has she taken up with Hagarty in case your father doesn't come back?'

Maeve snuggled her brother close to her chest. ‘What do you mean – not come back?'

‘You're not so clever as you think you are, Maeve McCulloch. Don't you read the newspapers?'

‘I read the newspapers.'

‘Aye, rebel trash, most like.'

‘I'm goin' upstairs now,' Maeve said stiffly. ‘Sean's needin' his feed. You can let yourself out the front door.'

‘You're just like your mother: head in the clouds,' Kay McCulloch said. ‘An intelligent girl like you shouldn't be livin' under the same roof with a fool like Francis Hagarty. Read the right newspapers, girl. Thousands are being killed every day, Irish lads among them, all out there dyin' for us while we rest easy in our beds.'

‘Daddy'll come back.'

‘And what if he doesn't?'

‘Fran will look after us.'

‘And what if he does?' the woman said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘There's no place for your father here, is there?' Gran said, meanly. ‘Who'll welcome him home? Your mother? Your precious mother and her precious Hagarty?'

‘Me,' Maeve said, in a trembling voice. ‘I'll welcome him home.'

‘You,' the old woman said, ‘and your wee bastard of a brother?'

She moved out of the corner and touched a gloved hand to the shawl. The infant let out a cry, uncertain and frail but a cry none the less. Maeve pushed her grandmother away.

‘Leave us alone, just leave us alone.'

‘I've heard that said before,' the old woman said. ‘I've been hearing that said ever since I first came to this country.'

‘Get out. Get out and leave us alone.'

‘Oh, I will,' Kay McCulloch said. ‘I'm sorry she won't talk to me, for I won't be calling again. I'll not be here when you need me.'

‘We don't need you. We've never needed you an' never will.'

‘I wouldn't be too sure of that, Maeve,' Kay McCulloch said.

*   *   *

Dublin appeared peaceful in the run-up to Easter and the officers of the garrison were looking forward to the holiday. In the building off Winetavern Street, however, Inspector Vaizey had just received an order for the wholesale arrest of leading nationalists and a leaked copy of the document was already in possession of the nationalist executive council.

Provocative action by Dublin Castle was nothing new but the latest move was disturbing, for a large shipment of German guns was en route to Tralee Bay to arm the Easter Sunday parades prior to a full-scale uprising. The nationalist leaders held a secret meeting to discuss the situation but the meeting was acrimonious and broke down in confusion.

There was no confusion in Mr Vaizey's office in spite of the quantity of paperwork that had to be squared away before the navy pounced on the captain and crew of the German vessel and provided enough evidence of ‘hostile associations' to bring about the arrest of prominent members of the brotherhoods including – Vaizey rubbed his hands in glee – that scruffy little moneychanger, Oliver Francis Hagarty.

Fran Hagarty was no Roger Casement and certainly no Patrick Pearse. He was a moneyman, a purchaser and distributor of arms, very skilled at manipulating ordinary men and women to whom the cause of Irish freedom was bred in the bone. Vaizey could not forgive the heartless manner in which Hagarty had used the attractive little Scottish woman who owned the Shamrock and made her not only his accomplice but also his dupe. Her name topped the list attached to the arrest order for he, Inspector Vaizey of the Crime Special Branch, could be just as heartless and unscrupulous as Hagarty when it came to the bit. He would have brought in the girl too, for she was a strong-willed, long-legged child who could pass for fifteen or sixteen under the red lamps of the Monto, but he drew the line at intimidating children.

When the time came and the balloon finally went up, then, Inspector Vaizey promised himself, he would have them all at his mercy, including Sylvie McCulloch.

*   *   *

‘Vaizey?' Fran said. ‘I don't for the life of me see why you worry about that arrogant bugger. He's not a law unto himself, you know.'

‘He frightens me,' Sylvie said. ‘Look what he did to Gowry, how he chased Gowry away. Now we have this.' She slapped her hand on the newspaper spread beside her on the bed. ‘Are you telling me this is nonsense too?'

‘I'm not saying it's nonsense,' Fran answered. ‘I'm just saying it shouldn't be taken at face value.'

‘Would Alderman Kelly read it out at a public meeting and allow it to be printed in the newspapers if it wasn't true? How did it fall into the hands of the council in the first place?'

‘Copied piecemeal from files in the castle by someone in the know.'

‘Who did the copying?'

Fran spread his hands. ‘Sylvie, I've no idea.'

He had come home in the hope of finding respite from quarrelling. There had been enough of that at the meeting of the revolutionary council. He had been admitted on Charlie's say-so, for Charlie had a little bit of power now that the brotherhood had been reorganised. He had sat at the back of the hall by the pillars and said not a word, for his work in Dublin was almost done. The arms that would be unloaded from the German ship
Aud
were none of his purchasing and the weapons bought with Clan money were already stored in the city. Only he knew where all the dumps were and which organisations would be armed. More importantly he still had the password to the account set up by John James Flanagan in the North Mercantile Bank, an account intended to fund the establishment of a revolutionary government as soon as the city was secure.

He watched the infant suck.

He was proud of the boy but no more so than he was of his other sons. He was also rather annoyed that Sylvie would not put all else aside and devote herself to motherhood. He had only himself to blame, he supposed. He couldn't switch this woman off as he had done with his other women, for Sylvie had fallen in love with what he purported to stand for. In a way he regretted that he'd have to leave her behind when he sailed for America but once he reached Philadelphia he would be a free man again, all his wives, all his women and children put behind him, Sylvie McCulloch included.

Sylvie kept her dress closed and allowed him no glimpse of her breast while the baby was on her. Even at night she wrapped herself up in thick winter nightgowns and padded drawers to keep him off.

‘What are you staring at?' Sylvie said.

‘Nothing,' Fran said.

‘Aren't you going to tell me who did the copying?'

‘For God's sake…'

‘You really don't know, do you?'

‘No, I don't. Rory O'Connor at a guess.'

‘Has he been here? Has he stayed at the Shamrock?'

‘Of course he hasn't,' Fran said.

It was late and he needed sleep. God, how he needed sleep. He would have to store sleep the way a camel stores water if he were to get through the weekend.

He was familiar with the plans, of course, for he was still trusted by the men in high places and would do what he had to do before he departed but, unlike Charlie and Peter McCulloch, Turk, Kevin and the rest of the brotherhood, he had not signed on for a blood sacrifice.

Sylvie was not hidden under the covers. She lay like an odalisque, with the baby supported on her arm. She didn't much resemble the woman he had felt so passionate about back at the beginning. Pregnancy and motherhood had robbed her of her attraction.

‘Aren't you going to tell me what's going on?' Sylvie said.

‘It's just the usual talk,' Fran said.

He was tired and hungry. Jansis had promised to cook him ham and eggs. Maeve was lurking downstairs, eager to hear all the news. The girl had the finely tuned sensitivity of a true fanatic and reminded him, just a little bit, of Countess Connie Markievicz. She knew what the sanctioning of precautionary measures meant, even if her mother did not, for Colin Whiteside was a captain in the Citizen Army as well as a schoolteacher and for weeks now had been telling his little charges that the day of atonement was at hand.

‘It's
not
just the usual talk,' Sylvie said. ‘What have you been up to, Fran, while I've been stuck here with him? I've hardly seen you all week.'

Pregnancy and labour had been hard on her, much harder than she'd anticipated. He'd given her as much time as he could afford but he was busy salting away arms and trimming cash from the Mercantile account. He had removed his share, a fair share given what he had done for them. Sylvie would not go short. At least he would make sure of that.

‘Would it not be the thing for you to go off to Malahide for a day or two and show the child to Daniel and his wife?' he said.

‘Malahide? A fine welcome I'd have in Malahide.'

‘It's the holiday time, dearest. The city will be packed.'

‘I am not going to Malahide or anywhere. Besides,' Sylvie said, ‘Sean isn't Daniel McCulloch's grandson – or hers either.'

‘Has she been back here, bothering Maeve?'

‘Who? Kay McCulloch? No, she won't show her face here again.'

‘Is Maeve still upset by what the old woman told her?'

‘Maeve's young and forgets things quickly.' Sylvie turned her back on him, fumbled with her dress and transferred the baby to the other breast. ‘Unlike me.'

What could he tell her, that the plans the council had laid had been dictated more by daring rather than sound military strategy; that the commandants in Limerick and Kerry were already distributing ammunition in anticipation of a massive shipment of German arms; that on Sunday the Citizen Army would entrench in St Stephen's Green, and key points in the city defences would be seized by the Dublin brigades; that the road to Kingstown would be blocked, railway termini brought under control until the military council occupied the General Post Office and proclaimed the founding of an Irish republic? How could he possibly tell her that the Brotherhood of Erin had been ordered to take and fortify Watton's warehouse just behind the Shamrock and that she and her children would be in grave danger if they stayed here?

‘Why do you want rid of me, Fran? Is there another woman?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Sylvie, of course there isn't another woman. Where would I find time let alone the energy to pleasure myself with another woman?' He threw his hands in the air in exasperation. ‘Don't be so damned stupid.' He closed on the bed and looked down at her and the child. ‘All right, all right! I'll tell you the truth – but you mustn't tell anyone, not even Jansis.'

‘It's the rising, isn't it?' Sylvie said.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It is.'

‘How bad will it be and how long will it last?'

‘I honestly don't know.'

He brushed a finger over the infant's silky black hair. There was a little dew of perspiration on the child's brow and he was enveloped in baby smell, the warm corporeal odour of milk and pee.

When Sylvie looked up he saw the determination in her eyes.

‘And you expect me to leave?' she said. ‘Now? When you need me most? Oh, no, Fran Hagarty, even if I did have somewhere to go – which I haven't – I wouldn't leave you now for all the tea in China. This is my house and you are my man and I'll stick by you whether you like it or not.'

‘Sylvie, it isn't necessary.'

Even as he spoke, though, he knew that she was right. It
was
necessary, was, in fact, inevitable. He had persuaded her to fall in love and now she must pay the price. She would risk everything for him and he would risk nothing for her. His work came first, the cause, the surge of allegiance to a resurgent nation that would surely follow, whether the uprising succeeded or failed.

‘I love you, Fran. I'm not going to leave you now.'

‘No,' he said. ‘But you don't have to die for me, Sylvie.'

‘I'm not going to die – and neither are you.'

She shifted the baby in her arms and, stretching up, offered Fran her lips. He was taken aback, almost undermined by her courage. He knew for sure that if he stayed with her long enough she would weaken and possess him – and he would let no woman, not even Sylvie McCulloch, do that.

Reluctantly, he kissed her.

‘Now tell me,' she whispered, ‘when will the rising begin?'

‘Sunday,' he said, whispering too. ‘Sunday at twelve o'clock.'

‘Are we ready for it?' Sylvie asked.

‘As ready as we'll ever be,' said Fran.