The Dead Republic (45 page)

I didn’t see Dinny Archer.

—Is he dead?

—Not yet.

—Where is he?

—We’re keeping him away. Encouraging him to stay out of the cold.

—Why?

—He wouldn’t accept our analysis of the current situation.

—Have you told him?

—No.

The cheerful, dangerous man - I liked him. I knew I’d have died for him if we’d known each other seventy years before.

—You’re Denis Archer now, Henry, he told me.—You’re our link to the First Dáil.

The time had come.

—I wasn’t there, I told him - just him. I spoke very quietly.

—We know that, he said, quietly too.—Don’t worry. We’ve always known that. But so have you. There’s no harm done.

—It’s all a fuckin’ con job, I said.

—Cop yourself on, he said.—You need a fuckin’ pint.

Six months of gravesides. They were leading me to something. Taking me across the country, to the places in the south where guns and men were hidden, but especially to the mad spots in the north. The Republican clubs and the G.A.A. clubs, towns that meant nothing to me as the car charged through. North of the border, the key men never travelled with me. I was in the car with my son - that was the story - any one of seven men. Trusted men who could have been touts.

—Talk about nothing, I was told.—And never answer a question if they ask one. They’re good lads and torture wouldn’t shake them. But other things might.

This was the cheerful man again.

—The gee, Henry, he said.—It’s downed manys the good Irishman.

He slapped my shoulder.

—Am I right?

—Yeah.

I crossed the border more times in those months than I’d ever done before, even during the hunger strikes. No car I was in was ever stopped at a checkpoint. I slept in houses that were never raided. I’d get out of a car, alone, and there’d be a key man - there were five key men, five men who
knew
- beside me. We’d walk together to the grave. We’d stand together, in the rain, and then, as the year went on, the high heat of midday. They ran me ragged. I loved it.

 

 

 

—The war’s over, I told her.

There was something. Far less than a flicker. But something moved, or threatened to. At her eye, right under her skin. Something tiny buried in there, tested a wing, pressed against her skin.

—The war’s over, I said.—No fourth green field.

It moved again. Bent the wing.

—Yeah, I said.—It’s over.

Nothing this time. Her face was the same, the red mask it had been for years. But I’d just seen the life beneath it.

—After all that, I said.—All for nothing.

The thing jumped again.

—So there you go. It’s over.

I heard it. The mouth moved - I saw it.

—No!

Almost silent, but a roar.

I laughed.

—You’re in there.

I held her hand.

—You are.

I felt it. I looked down at my hand and saw her fingers squeeze or try to squeeze.

The cruelty was gone. I quickly told her a different truth.

—The war’s over, I said.—They’ve gone.

The wings fluttered, the fingers shifted.

—The British are getting onto the boats in Belfast, I said.—You should see it.

She’d heard me.

And she died.

Strange that I knew it, but I did. Nothing went slack, no shock passed across her, she didn’t bare her teeth or howl. She was just gone. Dead.

I sat there for a good long while. I still held the hand.

The good news - my lie - had killed her. Released her. There was no new serenity on the face. I knew she was dead but no one else did. The eye was still open. She was as stiff and as livid as ever.

—We’re free, I told her now.

A simple lie.

I walked in front of the men who carried her to the republican plot in Glasnevin. I walked past old and new republicans, and young women who were claiming the women of 1916 as their own, the women who’d been hidden, no streets or train stations named after them, the names forgotten, except on the side of a swimming baths or the odd block of flats. They stood as we buried their new discovery, one of their dead heroines who’d been living all along.

There were as many women as men but my daughter wasn’t one of them. The funeral had brought her mother back. She was Our Lady of the Machine-Gun again. Her place in the story was safe.

—We’re here today, here in this hallowed place, to celebrate a life that was dedicated to one ideal. An Ireland free. She almost saw it. The struggle will continue.

I spoke the words. They were cracked and difficult. I saw faces around me trying to catch their meaning.

—Nuala O’Shea will not be disappointed.

I saw hands join, then the applause that lasted minutes. Women queued to shake my hand.

—That was beautiful, thank you.

The struggle will continue
. I told the lie, to make up for the lie that I’d told her. And I’d called her Nuala. Calling her
Miss
would have caused a riot, even in a graveyard. These young women owned her now, not me.

There was one of them now, in front of me. A skinny young one, with hair like Stan Laurel’s, dyed pink.

—I’ll be calling her Nuala Smart in my thesis. Is that okay?

I nodded.

—Grand.

There was jostling, pushing, and another woman was there. I spoke first.

—Saoirse.

—I know what you’re doing.

—Do you?

—Yes, she said.—I do.

—You don’t approve.

—I do not.

—Then why have you been hiding?

That much was clear. She was standing in front of me, so she hadn’t been gagged and locked away.

—Why aren’t you shouting about it? I asked.

We’d been given the room to speak. The crowd was still there but we had an island beside the open grave.

—I can’t, she said.

—Why not?

—You know.

—I don’t.

She stared right at me; I saw the water in her eyes.

—They said they’d kill you if I talk.

She was gone. Lifted - gone. Nowhere in the crowd.

The car stopped beside another car. I watched a back door of the other car open, and the man with the beard climbed out.

He got in beside me.

—Henry,
a chara
. How are you?

—Grand.

—We need to have a wee chat.

We were going to the Mansion House. Back to the birthplace of our religion.

—There’s no need to be nervous, he said.—You’ll be with friends.

He’d been there himself. He’d just come away. It wasn’t going well. Decades of anger, north-south resentment - the smart money was on a split.

—That’s one thing I always promised myself, he said.

We were back on a main road, flying past an empty industrial estate.

—I would never allow another split in republicanism.

He was silent for a long time.

—Your input will shift this, Henry, he said.—Don’t let me down.

Two minutes from the Mansion House.

—You’ll be asked a question, he said.—You’ll give the answer.

—Will Dinny Archer be there?

—No, he said.—Denis isn’t well.

He looked at me.

—It’s time the dead handed over to the living, he said.—What do you think?

I nodded.

—Right enough, he said.

We were there.

—A simple question and a simple answer, he said.—If we don’t get the result—

He didn’t finish; he didn’t need to.

The passenger doors were open and a hard, smiling man helped me out of the car.

It was cold, November, and dark although it wasn’t late.

I went up steps. Hands helped me along. Down a small corridor, into the Round Room. The applause was there before I was. I walked straight into it. I could feel it against my skin as I walked between the ranks of standing men and women.

I was doing the right thing.

More steps, to a stage. I got up them on my own. I pushed back a helping hand. The cheerful man was there, and other men and women I’d seen before or hadn’t seen.

I walked over to a microphone. I knew I was doing it right.

I stood there.

The applause died. Some of the men and women sat, then all of them sat.

The cheerful man looked dangerous, stern. He took the place in front of the microphone.

—The delegates here at the Árd Fheis have made it plain that they welcome Volunteer Henry Smart.

More applause, but this time it didn’t stay. There was a crackle in the air now, a sudden chill in the heat and cigarette smoke.

—We’ve been debating this issue for five hours,
a cháirde
. Henry Smart is no stranger to this great room. I don’t need to remind you all of his position in republicanism. Henry and Denis Archer were in this room when the Republic was declared.

I listened carefully to every word - I
looked
at every word.

—Denis, unfortunately, isn’t well enough to be here with us today. We send him our fraternal greetings and wish him a speedy and full recovery.

Hands behind me clapped.

—But we’re blessed, said the cheerful man.—Because we do have Henry Smart here.

He turned to me.

—Henry, he said.—
A chara
. As you know, the motion before the delegates today is that Sinn Féin should drop its longstanding and consistent opposition to running candidates in the elections to the Free State parliament, the so-called Dáil.

I was still there, still alive.

—Henry, are you in agreement with this motion?

He stepped back and I took his place. I looked over the room and every person in it. I made sure they all knew I was talking to them.

—Yeah, I said.—I am.

 

 

 

I didn’t stay for the vote. I didn’t have to.

I’d done the right thing.

I knew it then. I know it now.

The war raged on but the end had started. They voted to run candidates in the south - to recognise the southern state. The wedge had been driven in by me. The Armalite and the ballot box - you know the rest of the story. It was an old story before it became the news.

The war went on, because it had to - the pressure had to be maintained. They tore up Enniskillen, they made human bombs out of terrified husbands, they kneecapped men because they didn’t like them. They smuggled diesel, they shifted heroin. They killed children in Warrington and shopkeepers in London. There were diehard millionaires who had to be appeased. There were mad fuckers, clowns who thought the dead deserved more than the living; they had to be brought along or bumped off. The splits had to be dealt with and corralled. Good suits had to be bought, bad hands had to be shaken.

I thought I’d die. I’m well past old. But I’m still here. I can walk if I’m picked up out of the bed. My daughter is almost ninety but she can do that, when she wants to. I can go as far as the front door. I can sit on a warm day.

They think they have me. They call - they check. There are six years to go, to 2016. They think I’ll be there, on the podium with them, declaring the next and final republic.

But I won’t be. I’m going to die. Tonight. I have to die before my daughter.

But I think that every night. I close my eyes.

This is the last time. The last time I’ll let myself be picked up off the bed. She’ll understand. She’s tired too.

I’ll close my eyes, finally, tonight. It’s early afternoon, a nice day. I’ve seven hours left, maybe eight. I’ve lived a life. I’m a hundred and eight. I’m Henry Smart.