Shamrock Green (4 page)

Sylvie had no desire to confront her mother-in-law and slipped past the cottage into the lane that squared the gable of the brewery.

She was tense with expectation. She hoped that Charlie might have brought him here in the American motor-car. Common sense suggested that he was probably somewhere in town scribbling his account of the massacre for one of the ratty under-the-counter newspapers that Gowry called nationalist trash. She wondered how well writing work paid and why the college and his wife too had thrown him out, whether it was drink or adultery or the writing itself that had brought him so low that he would bleed all over a stranger's carpet and let a woman he had never seen before bind up his wounds.

She walked through the cooper's yard, past barrels and bottle crates, all empty. It seemed quiet to her, too quiet, for she was unaware that mashing and brewing were done mostly in winter months.

‘Charlie,' she called out. ‘Charlie, are you there?'

The air was sour and wisps of steam escaped from a vent high on the windowless wall.

‘Charlie?'

Peter came out of the open doorway. He was stripped to his undershirt and licked with sweat. He was only sixteen or seventeen and had the long neck and unformed features that Gowry must have had before he matured.

‘What are you wantin' here?' Peter said truculently.

‘Charlie,' Sylvie said. ‘I have to talk to Charlie.'

‘Sure an' he's busy.'

‘Fetch him here at once. If you don't, you'll be in trouble.'

‘You can't make trouble for us,' Peter said.

A man had appeared behind the boy, a big, ugly fellow with a barrel chest and a ponderous belly. He carried a long-handled wooden spade across his shoulder. He stood in the cut of shadow in the doorway and peered out at her.

‘I can't,' said Sylvie, ‘but the peelers can.'

‘What's this about the peelers?' Peter said.

‘I'm not giving my news to boys. Find Charlie. Tell him I'm here.'

In the split second it took her to shift her gaze from Peter to the doorway the man with the spade vanished.

Half a minute later Charlie emerged from the doorway, walking very quickly. He wore a brown suit, a stiff paper collar, paper cuffs, and a necktie. He carried his jacket across his arm. He brushed past his brother and came up to her. He glanced behind her then round at the whitewashed walls, up at the gulls on the roof, then at her again.

‘What the hell are
you
doing here, Sylvie? Has something happened?'

‘It has,' she said. ‘Gowry found the guns.'

‘Did you—'

‘No, I did not.'

‘Was it Maeve? Did the kid blab?'

‘No, she did not. He found a bullet on the floor and guessed the rest.'

‘Is he for turning us over?'

‘Why did you put the boxes in Mr Dolan's room?'

‘The old boy's one of us.'

‘One of you,' said Sylvie. ‘He's one of nothing.'

‘Has Gowry gone to the castle?'

‘No,' said Sylvie. ‘He's taken the guns off with him.'

‘What's this you're tellin' me? Taken them where?'

‘To hide them properly.'

‘How did he shift them?' Charlie asked.

‘He brought the charabanc round from Flanagan's early this morning, packed them into the back and off he went.'

‘He didn't move those crates by himself,' said Charlie.

‘Maeve helped.'

‘Jaysus!'

‘I helped too.'

‘Who saw you?'

‘Nobody saw us. It was too early. We didn't have to lug boxes. Gowry opened them last night and we carried the guns downstairs two at a time. The bullet boxes we carried between us,' Sylvie said. ‘If anyone did see us they didn't mention it at breakfast.'

‘What does Gowry intend to do with the tackle? Where will he hide it?'

‘Somewhere safe, he said.'

‘Nowhere is safe, not today. If he gets caught…'

‘Gowry won't get caught.'

‘Those guns were paid for with blood as well as cash,' Charlie said. ‘They're irreplaceable.'

‘You should have thought of that yesterday,' Sylvie said.

Charlie glanced behind him.

Peter was hunkered in the doorway, smoking a cigarette and spitting. Peter had never visited the Shamrock. Charlie had tried to keep him clear of involvement with the brotherhoods but to judge by the hard, ugly look on his face Peter would be into it soon and then there would be no holding him back.

‘You should have thought of that before you stowed those boxes in Mr Dolan's room. Why did Mr Hagarty have to do that?'

‘Expediency,' Charlie said. ‘Do you know what that word means?'

‘I'm not ignorant,' Sylvie said. ‘I'm educated.'

‘All right, all right,' said Charlie. ‘Where's Gowry now?'

‘Gone to the west coast, driving a party from Jury's. They wanted out of Dublin today so he's taking them to Bunratty Castle and the sea-cliffs at – somewhere or other.'

‘Moher,' said Charlie, ‘in County Clare?'

‘Somewhere.'

‘He won't be back this night, I'm thinking.'

‘No, nor tomorrow,' Sylvie said. ‘Three days this trip.'

‘Are you telling me he took the guns with him to Clare?' Charlie tossed his jacket from one arm to the other. ‘We've arranged to collect them tonight. Dada's in town setting up the transport right this minute.'

‘Where's Mr Hagarty?'

‘Fran? What about Fran?'

‘He'll know what to do, won't he?' Sylvie said.

‘Nah, nah.'

‘He knows everyone, doesn't he?' Sylvie persisted. ‘Why don't you call him on your telephone and ask his advice?'

‘I don't need his advice.'

‘I'm not having a lorry turn up at the Shamrock and your boys creating trouble because there's nothing there for them to take away,' she said. ‘What sort of a stramash is that going to cause in the Sperryhead Road with half my neighbours out on their doorsteps looking on?'

‘I can't call him on the telephone,' Charlie said. ‘Fran doesn't have a telephone. God, he barely has a shirt to put on his back.'

‘I thought they were his guns?'

‘They're not his guns. They're our guns,' Charlie said. ‘Keep your nose out of it. It's no business for a woman.'

‘Is it not now?' Sylvie said. ‘Did I not hear that a woman died in Bachelor's Walk yesterday?' She tapped her bonnet on to her curls and turned away. ‘Oh, well! Suit yourself!'

He darted after her, caught her by the sleeve. ‘Why
did
you come here?'

‘To help,' Sylvie said. ‘If you must know I came because I think Gowry's hiding those guns from you, not the authorities. He doesn't want you to have them. He doesn't believe in what you're doing, Charlie. He's against bloodshed.'

‘I know that. By heck, do I not? He's told me often enough.'

‘Gowry reckons he knows why you hid those guns in our house.'

Charlie's eyes narrowed. ‘Does he now?'

‘He reckons you're stealing guns from the volunteers because you've found another use for them.'

‘My brother has a big mouth.'

‘I think you're going to wait until the English are fighting the Germans then you're going to make it hot for them in Dublin. Am I not right?'

‘What if you are?'

‘You need those guns. You also need to stop your boys calling at my house tonight. I think the man to do that is Mr Hagarty.'

‘Do you now?' said Charlie.

‘I'm going back to Dublin shortly. If you want me to deliver a message to Mr Hagarty I'll be pleased to do so.'

Charlie grunted. ‘Charmed you too, has he? Aye, well, you wouldn't be the first, but I never thought we were so transparent that my brother's wife would see through us. Hagarty's a lot more than a scribbler, Sylvie. You don't want to underestimate him or what he can do if he puts his mind to it.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘Endicott Street. Up by the Mountjoy.'

‘Near the prison?'

‘No, not so far. He's in the tenements.'

‘Which tenement?' Sylvie said.

‘The last on the left facing the canal. He has a room on the top floor.'

‘What shall I tell him?'

‘What you've told me,' Charlie said.

‘And will he know what to do?'

‘He will.'

Sylvie nodded, turned again, her business done.

‘Wait,' Charlie said. ‘I'll have Peter hitch up a cart and drive you to the railway station.'

Sylvie glanced at the boy hunkered in the doorway, smoking and spitting.

‘No thanks,' she said. ‘I'll walk.'

*   *   *

It was only a short walk from Amiens Street across the Summerhill Parade. There were still fine houses there, but between the prison and the Liffey branch line poverty was all too apparent. In all her ten years in Dublin Sylvie had never ventured into this quarter, though she had heard of the awful conditions north of Parnell Street and how slums bit into the Georgian magnificence at every point.

Endicott Street was split by a narrow lane. On the steps of the ruined mansions were shawled women, ragged children and mewling babies, while on the corner, outside the pub, men lounged in their usual grand fashion. On the canal side of the lane four tenements rose like pieces of opera scenery and the street became a broad, dark funnel. Many tenement windows were thrown open to let in a gasp of air or let out the gases that ten or twenty sleepers had released in the night. The stench of fried fat, boiled cabbage and overworked drains reminded her of certain streets in Glasgow, near where she'd lived when she'd been Forbes McCulloch's lady-love, before Gowry rescued her and carried her off to Dublin.

The doorway of the last tenement was a high squared-away portico that led to a hallway out of which a rusty iron staircase spiralled to the floors above. In the hall a young woman cradled a tiny infant wrapped in old newspapers. A boy of eight or nine squatted on the stairs. He was naked save for a pair of stained breeks. He had a penny whistle in his hands and picked out a tune on it while the woman swayed to the music as if it had charmed all sense out of her.

The boy didn't look up when Sylvie asked where she might find Mr Hagarty. He jerked his head and went on playing the imperfect melody, one note at a time. Sylvie stepped around him and climbed the metal stairs, her heart beating fast. She hadn't felt like this since she'd waited for the sound of Forbes's key in the lock of the apartment in Glasgow. She wondered why she should be so excited at the prospect of meeting a man she had met only once before. She was excited because she didn't know why it mattered or what would come of it or if after she'd seen him again the feeling would go away. From the top landing Sylvie looked back down the stairs. The iron banister was wound as tightly as the coil of a dynamo and far below the boy gaped up at her, open-mouthed.

She stepped forward and knocked on Fran Hagarty's door.

‘It's open,' he said.

There was no handle, only a thumb-latch.

She pressed the latch and went into the room.

It was a very small room, square-shaped, neat and spartan. On a small table by the window were a typewriting machine, a pile of copybooks, a shaving lamp and a bottle of whiskey, half full. On the bedside table were a ewer and basin and a candle in a tin holder. There were two chairs in the room, both wooden, both upright. The bed-end pointed at the door.

Fran was lying on the bed on top of a brown patchwork quilt. He wore only trousers and a white cotton undershirt. His feet were bare. He was propped up on a bolster flanked by two feather pillows. His left hand, bandaged, was behind his head and he was smoking a cigarette.

He looked at her for a moment without moving then rolled on to his hip and dabbed the cigarette into the base of the candleholder. He rolled back and put both hands behind his head.

‘Well, Sylvie,' he said, ‘that didn't take you long.'

‘What didn't?' Sylvie said.

‘Finding me again,' Fran Hagarty said, and grinned.

Chapter Three

There was a time when Sylvie would have considered the appearance on her doorstep of three plain-clothes detectives as something of a joke.

Before Bodenstown, before Fran, she remained ignorant of the threat she posed to law and order. It hadn't occurred to her that the Shamrock had become a meeting place for subversives, mainly because the subversives were relatives. It was impossible to regard her father-in-law as much more than a comic opera Irishman, big-bellied and bluff and none too agile in the brains department, difficult to imagine Turk or Charlie grasping the reins of power with the same enthusiasm with which they reached for a glass of stout; yet there they were, Detective Inspector Vaizey and two other detectives from the Special Crime Branch framed in the doorway in the mid-morning light.

Jansis opened the door. She was a tall, angular woman, not much more than thirty, but with a long, sallow, horsy sort of face and a lugubrious expression that suggested she was already reconciled to spinsterhood. Though the men weren't in uniform Jansis recognised their trademark raincoats and snap-brimmed hats immediately. ‘We're full, so we are,' she said. ‘Sorry.'

She made to close the door but a heavy welted brogan slapped down on the draught-rod to prevent it. She stepped back into the hall, stuck her fists on her bony hips, spread her elbows and with a truculence honed by years of serving breakfasts to commercial travellers, snapped, ‘Cards.'

The moist moustache that clung to Vaizey's upper lip twitched. He raised a hand, clicked his fingers. One of the men, a head taller than Vaizey, thrust an identity card under Jansis's nose.

‘Metropolitan Police,' he growled. ‘If you know what's good for you, woman, you'll be lettin' us enter wi'out makin' a fuss.'