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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Part One: Sylvie

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: Rebecca

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three: Maeve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Four: Gowry

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Five: Sylvie

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Part Six: Gowry

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Part Seven: Maeve

  Chapter Twenty-six

  By the same author

  Copyright

  In Memory of my Grandfather

  Private David McNair

  7th Battalion Gordon Highlanders

  Hazebrouck, 14th April 1918

  and

  For Theresa, of course, with Love.

  PART ONE

  Sylvie

  Chapter One

  She met him first late in the afternoon of a Sunday in July only days before the war began. She was outside feeding the chickens when the Hudson appeared in the street on the far side of the arch and, tilted on two wheels, swerved into the alley. The alley appeared too narrow to accommodate the broad, black motor-car and for a moment she thought the wings, lamps, even the fender would be torn away and Turk Trotter, who was perched on the running board, would be smeared against the wall, then the car straightened and shot, roaring, into the yard.

  The hens scattered and the rooster flew up in the air like a fighting cock. Maeve was seated on top of the coal box. She jerked in her legs and tumbled backwards, giving the strangers a glimpse of her stockings and little girl’s garters, but the men were on fire with the day’s events and had no interest in little girls or their garters. Turk leaped from the running board. He pranced away from the motor-car, plucked Maeve from the coal box and spun her round.

  ‘By Gad, ay-hay, we taught them a lesson today,’ he chanted. ‘Did we not march, my sweetheart, straight into Dublin town, the first Irish army to do so in a hundred years?’

  Sylvie paid no attention to Turk’s prattle. She stood by the kitchen doorway, cornmeal running in dusty little streams through her fingers, and peered into the window of the motor-car at the stranger in the back. His head was resting against her father-in-law’s belly. His coat, a long, grey, threadbare ulster, was wrapped around his knees. His fists were tucked between his knees and his body drawn away from her as if in shame or shyness. It was a small, pale face that topped the collar and the collar was fastened with a stud not a pin and the tie was like a string a dog had chewed. There was a leaf-shaped splash of blood across the breast of his shirt and fresh blood on the folds of the overcoat.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Sylvie asked.

  The young man in the front seat beside Charlie leaned over and said, ‘Pull yourself together, Fran, for God’s sake. You’re scarin’ the woman.’

  ‘He’s bleeding,’ Sylvie said.

  The young man in the front seat was younger than Charlie who was hardly much more than a boy. At times it was hard to remember how young they all were and that she herself was still some years short of thirty.

  Turk came up behind her. He wrapped an arm about her waist and squeezed his wrist against her breast. It didn’t matter to Turk that she was Gowry McCulloch’s wife. Old or young, pretty or plain, married or single, it was all the same to Turk Trotter for he was the younger son of a Wexford cattle broker and still had the rough manners of a country man.

  ‘I think he took a bullet,’ Turk said.

  Daniel McCulloch laughed. Nervous laughter was her father-in-law’s response to most things. If he had been a slender young woman instead of a fat old man he would have been a giggler.

  He said, ‘Sure now and we all know he took a bullet.’

  ‘Bullet or not, he’s bleeding,’ Sylvie said. ‘Bring him into the house.’

  ‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘If he’s going to die he’d better do it in his own bed.’

  ‘His own bed?’ said Turk. ‘Is he still lodged at the college?’

  ‘He has not been lodged at the college for years,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Take him home to his wife then,’ Turk said.

  ‘Wife!’ said Charlie. ‘If you mean Maureen, she threw him out.’

  ‘Well,’ Sylvie said, ‘you can’t just leave him there.’

  Charlie had silky hair and protruding ears. He shrugged his thin shoulders.

  The young man was also a country boy. He had the same tanned, ruddy look they all had at first, scared of nothing.

  ‘Have we not more important things to do than fuss with the likes of Fran Hagarty,’ he said.

  Turk detached his arm from her waist and glanced at the piece of Sperryhead Road that was visible through the arch.

  The sun had already begun to sink towards the west. The shadow on the wall of Watton’s warehouse was slanted towards the eaves and the back of the hotel was all in shadow. Charlie opened the driver’s door, leaned out and looked back at the archway and the sunlit cobbles.

  ‘Did we shake them off?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure and we shook them off,’ Turk said. ‘The peelers ha’n’t got time to chase us, not with corpses strewed all over Bachelor’s Walk.’

  ‘Corpses?’ Sylvie said. ‘Dead corpses?’

  ‘They fired on the crowd,’ Turk told her.

  ‘The soldiers,’ Charlie added.

  ‘The King’s Own,’ Turk said. ‘They’re not after us, the bastards.’

  ‘We don’t know who they’re after,’ Charlie said. ‘We shouldn’t sit round here waitin’ to be caught red-fisted.’

  The wounded man’s head was resting against the leather seat. Her father-in-law had slid away, groping for the door handle. There was no sign of blood on the man’s lips but his eyes were lustreless, as if the stuff of life were seeping out of him.

  He looked up at Sylvie.

  ‘Leave me,’ he said. ‘I’m fine where I am.’

  ‘Damned if you are,’ said Sylvie.

  And yanked open the passenger door.

  * * *

  Daniel McCulloch, her father-in-law, was secretary of the Brotherhood of Erin, Charlie an active member. When Gowry was off on trips they met Turk in the back bar of the Shamrock and jawed the night away. Sylvie had no interest in secret societies or the tangle of Irish politics. She left all that blathering, time-wasting stuff to the menfolk. She had been to only one big parade, at Bodenstown, and only because Maeve had been keen.

  Maeve could twist her mam and daddy around her little finger when she set her mind to it and since Daddy was driving a charabanc hired from Flanagan’s by the brotherhood why couldn’t Mam and she go too? Sylvie had no great desire to hear the speeches and the bands but with the threat of war hanging heavy in the air she felt it was time to discover what all the ranting was about and
why her in-laws were prepared to die for an Ireland that seemed to her perfectly fine and dandy just the way it was. But when she had arrived in Bodenstown and marched beside Maeve in the parade she had begun to experience a little of the national pride that so excited her daughter. Gowry had stayed on the omnibus, feet up, cap pulled down, eating cherries from a paper bag, reading Tit-Bits, pretending that none of it mattered to him.

  For Sylvie it had been a surprisingly good day, a day away from running the hotel, from feeding hens and frying bacon and making sure that Jansis swept the stairs. And she was pleased to see her daughter enjoying herself. Only in hindsight did she realise that marching in the parade at Bodenstown had prepared her for Francis Hagarty.

  Turk guided him through the kitchen into the house.

  He was too proud to allow them to take his legs and swing him between them. He leaned heavily on Turk and kept his hand down between his thighs, pressing his knees together, walking with mincing steps like one of the comic turns at the Tivoli. Blood followed him down the corridor to the sitting-room, pattering on the linoleum like the spoor of an animal. Maeve trailed him, mopping up the spots with a newspaper and when Mr Hagarty slumped into the armchair by the fireplace she stuck a wad of newspaper under his feet to protect the rug.

  Turk stood back, frowning, then went out into the hall where Charlie was pacing restlessly up and down.

  Sylvie heard Charlie say, ‘Where’s Gowry? Where’s my flamin’ brother?’

  ‘Dad’s out with the bus,’ Maeve answered. ‘He’s driving Sunday trippers to the lakes. He’ll not be back before nine.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Charlie, and disappeared.

  The sitting-room was at the front of the house. The curtain had been drawn to keep sunlight from fading the furniture. The room was sombre, brown and still. A table, four chairs and the two big armchairs that flanked the fireplace were reflected in the oval mirror above the mantelpiece.

  Sylvie knelt at the stranger’s feet. ‘Where are you hurt, sir?’

  ‘Don’t call me “sir”,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m Fran Hagarty.’

  ‘Are you now?’ Sylvie said. ‘Well, Mr Hagarty, show me your hand.’

  ‘It is my hand,’ he said, ‘and a bloody mess it is, too.’

  He drew his fist from between his knees and held it out. Blood dripped sluggishly on to the newspaper. He did not look at it. He stared at the crown of Sylvie’s head and her soft inarticulate curls.

  ‘Are the fingers gone?’ he said.

  She touched the flesh. ‘Have you no other injury?’

  ‘Is one not enough? It’s my hand of truce, my hand of friendship. Let me talk to your commanding officer, says I – and they shot me. How many fingers are left?’

  ‘All of them,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘And the thumb?’

  ‘And the thumb.’

  He drew in a breath and let it out again. ‘It’s not so bad then?’

  ‘No, it’s not so bad,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’ll wipe it clean and you can see for yourself. There’s a man in a house round the corner who keeps stitching needles. He does for the dockers when there’s an accident.’

  ‘Bugger the needles,’ Fran Hagarty said. ‘I could do with a drink, though.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Whiskey. Powers preferred.’

  The bullet had scored the pad below his left thumb but she doubted if there was anything broken. She could feel his blood leaking into the palm of her hand and was reluctant to release him yet.

  She turned her head and called out, ‘Maeve, bring the gentleman a glass of whiskey from the bar. And some water from—’

  ‘No water,’ Fran Hagarty said.

  ‘Some warm water from the kettle in a clean bowl, gentian from the cabinet, lint too. And my sewing scissors. Maeve?’

  ‘I hear you, Mam,’ Maeve answered. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Ah, it’s a good girl you have there,’ Fran Hagarty said. ‘An obedient girl.’

  ‘When it suits her.’

  ‘Are there more children in the house?’

  ‘Just Maeve.’

  He eased himself forward and studied the wound.

  He was half her age again, forties. He had the worn sort of shabbiness that was not uncommon in the commercials who lodged in the Shamrock, but none of their affability. He was puffy about the gills and his greying hair needed trimmed. His sad brown eyes were filled with resignation, not self-pity.

  Outside in the corridor there were thumps and bumps.

  She could hear Turk cursing and her father-in-law’s nervous snigger.

  Fran Hagarty said, ‘How many rooms are in the house?’

  ‘Ten, in addition to domestic apartments.’

  ‘How many are occupied?’

  ‘Five,’ Sylvie answered. ‘Are you looking for lodgings? We charge one shilling and sixpence a night for a bed and a meat breakfast.’

  ‘You’re Scottish, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘From Glasgow.’

  ‘I did hear that Daniel had relatives in Glasgow.’

  ‘I’m only related to the McCullochs by marriage.’

  She was tempted to blurt out the whole story, to tell him that she was Forbes McCulloch’s rejected lover and that only Gowry’s kindness had saved her from going straight to the dogs after Forbes had abandoned her. Imparting such information went beyond the pale of first acquaintance, however, and she doubted if Mr Hagarty would be impressed by her history.

  ‘Only one child?’ Fran said. ‘What does the priest have to say about that?’

  ‘It is none of the priest’s business,’ Sylvie said ‘We’re not Catholic. But I imagine you knew that already, Mr Hagarty.’

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I did, and I forgot.’

  ‘What are they doing out there?’

  ‘Hiding the tackle.’

  ‘Tackle?’ Sylvie said.

  ‘Guns.’

  ‘My God!’ Sylvie tossed his hand back at him. ‘You can’t dump guns in my house. My husband’ll have a fit if he finds weapons here.’

  ‘Are there no empty rooms upstairs?’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  Sylvie spun round as Maeve breezed into the sitting-room carrying one of the big wooden kitchen trays. She was tall for her age, already gawky, not at all like her dainty, doll-like mother. She had Sylvie’s curls, though they were glossy brown like ripe horse chestnuts, not fair. Her eyes were alert to everything that was going on and she often seemed too knowing and bold for her age, a precocious quality that Sylvie recognised and feared.

  ‘Powers,’ the girl said, ‘in a clean glass. Gentian and lint and water.’

  ‘Thank you, dearest,’ Sylvie said, a little more sweetly than she would have done if Mr Hagarty had not been there. ‘Put the tray on the table, please.’

  The girl set the tray down carefully, then, turning, stared at the man in the armchair. ‘You’re the chap who writes for the papers. I’ve heard of you.’

  ‘Ah, but have you read anything I’ve written?’

  ‘Only the stuff in Scissors & Paste.’

  ‘Where I’m usually quoted out of context.’ He seemed grateful to have found an admirer, even one as young as Maeve. He said, ‘I’ll not be taught on the syllabus at your school, I’m thinking?’

  ‘Aye, but you are,’ said Maeve. ‘Mr Whiteside reads Scissors to the class. He thinks you’re funny.’

  ‘Do you think I’m funny?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re on about half the time.’

  ‘Heresy,’ Fran said. ‘Sheer heresy.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Maeve.

  ‘It means you’d better make yourself scarce,’ said Sylvie.

  She got up, crossed to the table, picked up the whiskey glass and carried it back to the man in the armchair. He reached for it with his good hand, took in a great gulp and blew out his cheeks. He looked at Maeve and winked then straightened his shoulders and tilted up his chin. With th
e stoop gone and a smile on his face Sylvie realised that not so long since he must have been handsome.

  ‘Tell your grandfather and Charlie to stop what they’re doing,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’ll not have them dumping guns in my house.’

  ‘Guns, is it?’ Maeve said. ‘I thought it might be.’

  ‘Mausers,’ Fran said.

  ‘Where did you get German weapons?’ Sylvie asked.

  Fran drank again and held out the glass.

  ‘Fetch the bottle,’ Sylvie told her daughter and when the girl had gone out of the room, said, ‘Is this the war they’ve been talking about for so long? Is this the start of the – the thing itself?’

  ‘Would that it were,’ Fran said. ‘No, it is not the start of the rebellion but it will give the government something to think about.’

  ‘Isn’t there a law against gun-running?’

  ‘Oh, indeed there is,’ said Fran. ‘But no effort has been made to apply it. It will be a different story now, after what’s happened on the quays.’

  ‘Is that where you got shot?’

  Sylvie carried the tray to the fireside and placed it on the rug at Fran Hagarty’s feet. She knelt again and anointed his wound with stinging violet liquid. He made no complaint save a little hiss and, sipping from the whiskey glass, watched her work on his hand.

  ‘Bachelor’s Walk,’ he said. ‘Before that it was all pretty smooth and easy. For those in the ranks it was just another Sunday route-march out to Howth. Only a handful of officers knew what was going on.’

  ‘And what was going on?’ said Sylvie.

  It felt odd to be crouched on her knees in her own parlour, doctoring a stranger’s hand. The wound was closing, blood congealing. She cut a strip of lint with her scissors and then, to be safe, another. She bound them tightly over his thumb and around his wrist with clean linen bandages. He talked on, pausing only to sip from the glass now and then, and seemed oblivious to her ministrations.

  ‘Fifteen hundred Mausers purchased with American money and brought in by yacht. What a cheer there was when the lads saw what she was carrying. Only the firmness of the officers stopped them spoiling things with their eagerness.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Observing.’

  ‘Observing – with my father-in-law, Turk and Charlie?’