Shamrock Green (38 page)

‘What, now?'

‘Yes,' said Becky. ‘Now.'

*   *   *

At that hour of the morning, lying passive and half dressed on the bed in the Cathedral Hotel, his pack ready and the franc notes for the bill laid out on the dressing-table, Gowry was afraid that he would break down and weep again and that Becky would return to Saint-Emile thinking him unmanly. Anything he said now was bound to sound like twaddle, for there were no words that hadn't been used before, that hadn't been worn thin by a hundred thousand partings and a hundred thousand promises. He kept her at a distance, a safe little distance, and when she tried to kiss him refused to open his mouth.

There had been enough love-making and in their last minutes together he had no desire for more, only for love itself.

‘How long do we have?' Becky whispered.

‘Five minutes.'

He would leave first. He would go, as soldiers tend to do, just as the sun came up over the spires of the cathedral. She wouldn't accompany him to the railway station. They had agreed on that. He didn't want to show her off to Paddy Morgan or to Burke or to any of the other Rifles who might be on the platform, to have her with him at the assembly where he was obliged to slide out of one skin into another.

He would leave her here where they had been happy together. He would write to her, of course, just as soon as he found space to open the tattered pad. He would write and tell her what she had come to mean to him and how, once the war was over, they would never be parted again. He would tell her that home wasn't Dublin, home wasn't Ireland or Scotland, but that home would be any place where they could be together and that their next meeting would be their beginning and that there would be no more partings, no more goodbyes.

She took his wrist and held it up to the light. He had his pocket watch in his hand, cupped to hide it from her. She prised his fingers open and looked at the face of the watch, at the black second hand whisking round the dial.

‘Won't you let me come to the railway station?'

‘No,' he said.

She was lying against him, holding him tightly. She had washed the nightdress, Angela's nightdress, and had hung it on a chair to dry. It would be dry now, all clean and dry. He knew that he would have to live with this moment, and prayed that he would come through it just to be with her again, not to have her hurt, not to leave her mourning and marred by grief. There was no romance in a soldier's parting, no romance in dying too early, only a terrible, spurious finality that was better to contemplate than to endure.

‘I won't make a scene,' she said. ‘I promise I won't make a scene.'

‘No,' Gowry said, ‘but I might.'

He felt her laugh, or try to laugh, the little thump of her breast against his back. He rolled over, holding the watch high above them. There was light in the window now, too much light.

He said, ‘Sweetheart, I will have to go.'

‘I know,' she said.

‘Will you be all right?'

‘I'll be fine.'

‘I mean, your train and everythin'.'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you on duty tonight?'

‘Yes.'

‘Try to get some sleep on the train.'

‘It's only an hour. It's hardly worth closing my eyes.'

‘Forty winks will do you good.'

‘Yes, I'll try.'

He didn't want to look at her in case there were tears in her eyes. He turned towards her and put his arm over her. He put his face close to her cheek and felt her hair brush against his cheek.

‘Get something to eat too, some fruit or cheese.'

She nodded and nuzzled into him, hiding her face. She looked like a child lying there, a sturdy little child. Gowry drew in breath and rolled from the bed. He went to the chair, seated himself, put on his stockings and boots and wrapped his puttees around his ankles. Becky lay on the bed, her hand to her mouth, watching everything he did. He looked up at her and managed to wink.

‘Won't be long,' he said.

He got up from the chair and slipped into his tunic, buckled and buttoned it and patted it down. He had his pay book, his pass, his few remaining francs all tucked away in his pocket. He buffed the shamrock on his hat with the heel of his hand, put the hat on, and squared it. He turned again to the bed. He stepped to the side of the bed and stooped over her. She stared up at him, eyes huge, her lips pursed as if she were pouting, as if it were his fault that he must leave her now, like this.

He slipped a hand under her waist, lifted her up and held her against him. She was helpless in his arms, so helpless that it was all he could do to bring his lips to her lips and brush her hair with his hand.

‘Soon, love, we'll be together soon.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I know we will.'

Then he let her go, hoisted up his pack and went out and down the narrow staircase and through the empty foyer, out into the streets of Amiens.

He did not dare look back.

In case he tempted fate.

PART FIVE

Sylvie

Chapter Twenty

When Sylvie brought Sean downstairs at six o'clock on Thursday morning she found Kay McCulloch packed and ready to leave. Dazed and dopey and not at all sure what was expected of him, Daniel was crouched at the table wolfing into a great plate of bacon and eggs.

‘We're going to Glasgow to stay with Forbes for a while,' Gran said, as soon as Sylvie appeared in the kitchen. ‘Pat Emmett's bringing the cart round at half past six to take us north to catch the boat. You're welcome to come with us.'

‘What about the boys? Are you just going to abandon them?'

‘I can do nothing for the boys now,' Kay McCulloch said. ‘I didn't push them into this fight and I'll not stay to see them shot. I have to get Daniel away before the police arrive to arrest him. Jail would kill him. Come with us, Sylvie. Forbes will find a place for you and the children and look after you until you get on your feet again.'

‘No,' said Sylvie. ‘I'm staying to see it through.'

‘Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for. Think about Maeve, think about the child. Your house is in ruins and you've no money. We'll pay your fare to Glasgow. You'll be safe there.'

‘I thought you didn't want me to go back to Glasgow?'

‘I've changed my mind.'

‘What'll happen to the brewery?'

‘The brewery's closed. It's mortgaged to the hilt anyway. One of my girls – Blossom – will come down and see everything squared away. Look, in half an hour we're going out of that door and either you come with us or you go your own way. You can't stay here.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it isn't safe. For all you know you're still on the peelers' list of suspects and you'll be picked up and thrown in jail.'

Sylvie looked out of the window at the crows winging silently down from the trees and the mist beginning to rise up off the fields. Ireland was her home. She had shared in its troubles and become part of them. She thought of Fran dying shamefully with a bullet in the head, of the girl, Pauline, and the daft lump of a boy, Algie, whom Fran sheltered in the tenement house in Endicott Street. She thought of the lives that Fran had lived that she knew nothing of, her challenge, her point of entry into a fortress of intrigue.

‘Thank you,' Sylvie said. ‘I prefer to stay put.'

‘You've another man waiting in the wings, haven't you?'

‘Yes. His name's Gowry,' Sylvie said. ‘What'll I tell Charlie?'

‘Tell him I took his father to Scotland. Charlie'll understand.' She took a pace towards Sylvie. ‘At least let me take Maeve. She'll be well looked after, I promise.'

‘There's nothing for Maeve in Glasgow. She stays here with me.'

The old man pushed away his plate, lifted a mug of strong tea and drank it down as if it were a pint of stout. He put a hand to his chest, burped and then, wide-eyed and wide-awake, looked round.

‘Where is it we're going again, my sweetheart?' he asked.

‘To the races,' his wife told him.

‘I've things to do here, you know, things to be taken care of.'

‘You can take care of them later, Daniel.'

‘Aye,' he said, rising and buttoning his overcoat. ‘Aye, later will do.'

And a half-hour later they were gone.

*   *   *

‘Gone?' Maeve said. ‘You mean she just shot off an' abandoned us?'

‘She's gone to visit your Uncle Forbes in Glasgow. She offered to take you with her but I told her you wouldn't want to leave Dublin. Was I right?'

‘Aye, you were.' It was after eight o'clock and Maeve had slept through her grandparents' departure. ‘What about Charlie and Peter?'

‘A man came last night after you were asleep and brought us news.'

‘What sort of news? Is it bad?'

‘Bad enough. Peter's in hospital, wounded, and Charlie's in jail.'

‘What about Turk?'

‘He's in jail too.'

‘An' Jansis?'

‘We've no word on Jansis.'

‘Oh, she'll be all right,' said Maeve. ‘Turk wouldn't let anythin' happen to Jansis. Is the fightin' over?'

‘No, we're still holding out in some places.'

‘It can't last much longer, Mam, can it?'

Sylvie had washed Maeve's blouse, drawers and stockings and had hung them out in the misty sunshine. The girl was clad in an old overcoat, like a gypsy. She would iron the blouse as soon as it was dry, Sylvie promised herself, then she would go through the house and search for any small items that could be converted into cash. Under the circumstances she had no scruples about stealing from her in-laws, for she doubted if she'd find anything worth retrieving in the ruins of the Shamrock.

She had some money in the bank and three postal orders from the War Office were stuck somewhere in the system.

‘Are we staying on here then?' Maeve said.

‘We can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because we haven't any money.'

‘Did Gran not leave us some?'

‘No, she didn't,' Sylvie said.

‘Mean old bitch!'

‘Maeve, that's enough.'

‘Well, she is. Why has she abandoned us and the boys?'

‘She didn't want Granddad to go to prison.'

‘What'll they do to Turk and Charlie?'

‘I don't know.'

‘They won't shoot them, will they?'

‘I don't know,' Sylvie said again.

‘They're prisoners of war.'

‘The British might not see it that way,' said Sylvie.

‘They wouldn't shoot Turk,' Maeve muttered. ‘Nah, nah, they'd never shoot a brave man like Turk.' She looked up, frowning. ‘They shot Mr Whiteside, though. Did Turk surrender? I wonder why he surrendered?'

‘Perhaps he was overwhelmed,' said Sylvie, tactfully.

How could she possibly explain to her daughter that there were no cowards in this war, that they were all just victims of history, whether you wrote history in large letters or small?

Maeve said, ‘You're not goin' to cry, are you?'

‘No,' said Sylvie. ‘I'm not going to cry.'

‘What are we goin' to do?'

‘Go back to Dublin.'

‘An' do what, Mam?'

‘Look after ourselves,' said Sylvie.

*   *   *

As soon as Patrick Pearse surrendered his sword and the remaining rebels threw down their weapons at the foot of the Parnell statue in O'Connell Street, the gloves were off and summary executions began. According to Pauline they were dragging prisoners into the square at Portobello Barracks and shooting them in cold blood. There was no firm news concerning Turk or Peter and Charlie McCulloch, however, and with so many killed and wounded it was hardly surprising that Jansis, a last-minute volunteer, was missing in the confusion.

For five days and nights Sylvie hid in Fran's room in Fran's tenement in Endicott Street waiting for Vaizey to come and drag her away. She would have hidden in another part of Dublin if she'd had money to pay for lodgings but Gran's trinkets had brought little, for the pawnbrokers were awash with items that had not so mysteriously appeared in the hands of the street people.

On Sunday morning she left Maeve to look after Sean and slipped down to Sperryhead Road to see what was left of the Shamrock.

There was nothing much left of the Shamrock, only a blackened shell. She picked her way over the rubble in the alley and stared up numbly at the remains of piping and panelling, at a twisted iron bedstead hanging in space, curtains burned like battle-flags and the corpse of one of her poor chooks that had been blown too high for scavengers to reach. The site had been picked clean of every scrap that might fetch a ha'penny on a market cart.

Watton's warehouse was almost undamaged and no other house in the Sperryhead Road had been hit. It was almost as if the hand of God had popped out of the clouds and crushed her house and no other. It was pointless to rake through the bricks and mortar in the hope of finding a dress or a pair of shoes or even some small thing to serve as a memento of the years of peace and prosperity when she had been a happy, modest, married lady.

As she stood amid the rubble of her home it was all too obvious that wilfulness had brought her here. She had pushed the limits of selfishness too far by assuming that she could have everything she wanted without paying for it. No point in crying about it now, Sylvie decided, and walked swiftly away from the debris, back to Endicott Street where all she had left in the world, all that mattered, was waiting for her.

*   *   *

Maeve was standing on the pavement, with Sean in her arms. The baby was clean – Sylvie made sure of that – but Maeve had already become almost indistinguishable from Pauline's brood. She was taller than the children who gathered around her, though, and emanated such an air of superiority that she was already on the way to becoming a leader of the little gang. When Sylvie came upon her she was engaged in telling some fanciful tale about Mr Whiteside. Deprived of his euphonium – it had already been sold – Algie stood proudly beside his new-found friend, arms folded as if to indicate that he would thump the first little heretic who showed signs of inattention.