Mrs Moore looked like the women in magazines with her styled hair and the golden embroidery on her blue cardigan matched the design on her matching skirt. Veronica made a mental note not to wear her purple dress anymore. She had to look more grown-up. She had seen a lovely red cardigan in the window of Arnott’s department store, and now she was earning money she would save up for it.
‘Veronica, can you type these letters and drop them up to Mrs Moore’s office? You’ll also have to cash cheques at the bank in the office below. It can be hectic there at times. They give out loans to people, but also they collect donations for our party,’ said Mrs O’Reilly.
Veronica sat at her desk and started to type words that were repeated continuously like ‘rally, support and independence’ in the same tone as the letters she had typed for Fr O’Flanagan.
Veronica typed furiously through the morning. She had never bothered with politics, mainly because her family didn’t want for anything. All her siblings had gotten a chance to receive an education. In Dublin, she saw a different side to life, one that had initially shocked her, and now Eddie was in jail. She was angry that he had got into this situation and hoped he was treated well. She thought back to her train journey. Now she knew why the farm labourers had looked glum. They had no choice. She thought of the few privileged ones. They were mostly English people so removed from the hardship of people in the city and the country.
‘Conscription, they want to introduce conscription.’ Mrs O’Reilly slammed a piece of paper on her desk. ‘It’s not our war, why should we fight for them? Michael will never give into conscription. Anyway, we want our independence to rule ourselves, not Home Rule. We need to get rid of the English altogether. I lost a family of cousins in Co Mayo in the last famine, they starve, while any corn the farmers here grew was sent to England, leaving people to starve, like wild animals to scavenge.’ She sniffed and patted her nose with a white handkerchief. ‘That’s why we need our parliament here, with our own men as our leaders; all Home Rule will do is let them let us have our parliament here, but we will still be their servant. Isn’t that right, dear?’
Veronica nodded, though she didn’t know who Michael was. A constant stream of men came to the office and left documents on Mrs O’Reilly’s desk, and she passed them onto Veronica.
After work as she walked home to Thomas St, Veronica wanted to pinch herself. She was a working woman. As soon as she entered her home, she saw the emptiness had returned to Betty’s eyes. She wanted to hug her and tell her ‘Time is a great healer,’ but she imagined it wouldn’t do any good.
‘How was your day?’ Betty asked.
‘It was demanding, and people came in and out all day.’
Betty nodded and continued to stir the already stirred pot of stew.
‘It is different than working in Fr O’Flanagan’s. At the new place, it’s so noisy and much busier. They are shouting and arguing. It’s like a war zone.’
Veronica froze. A dark shadow crossed Betty’s face, and she knew her remark had made Betty think about her son. She studied Betty as the light flickered from the fire along the lines of sadness etched on her face. She stood, slightly crooked.
‘I’m sorry, Betty, I don’t want to bring memories of Padraig up.’
‘It’s fine, it is a burden I drag with me every day, sometimes it’s worse. Grief plays hide and seek with me, some days it’s worse than others. Com’ on, sit and eat. The stew is ready and Tom will be home soon.’
Veronica pushed the potatoes in the watery stew longing for some of Mrs Slaney’s steak and kidney pie.
Outside the whistle blew at the brewery to tell the workers to go home for another day. Soon Tom’s work boots dragged up the wooden stairs, and the front door squeaked open. The door was stiff from years of waiting for repair, but Veronica knew that was never going to happen.
Tom fell into the chair beside the fire and kicked off his boots, sighing loudly. ‘Another day over. Well, Veronica, how was it?’
‘Come on, Tom, sit yourself at the table, and we’ll hear all about her day.’
‘Someone called Michael is mentioned a lot. I’m not too sure who he is, but he sounds important.’
‘That’s probably Michael Collins. I told you about him, he’s the fella from Cork. He is doing great things for us, he’s a great speaker, organising rallies and protest marches. He and Eámon De Valera are great men.’
Now Veronica knew who they were. They had been involved in the 1916 Easter Rising, some of the few leaders that had escaped executions in Kilmainham Jail. She told them about the Sinn Féin Bank and the letters she had to type.
Tom nodded every so often, scraping up the last of the stew with a crust of bread.
‘It’s a great honour, Veronica. You’re in the heart of helping the cause.’
For the second time that day, she had been told she was helping the cause. Veronica wanted to say, ‘Not really, I’m just doing a job,’ and that’s all she wanted to do.
When dinner was over Betty took their plates, which only needed a splash of water to clean them. She also put the clean, untouched plate back in the cupboard until the next meal. Veronica wondered when Betty would stop setting the table for her dead cousin: did she live in hope? Was it a habit? Did she find comfort in it?
Later that evening, Veronica sat on her bed and wrote to Bridget. Susan wouldn’t understand her excitement, but Bridget would. She sealed the letter with the hope they would meet soon. She pulled the eiderdown tight and closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come. The lights from the patrol vehicles crawled across her bedroom wall.
17
Over the next few weeks, Veronica found her job exciting, meeting many new people. Soon she could put faces to the names of people she read about in the newspapers, Éamon De Valera, Arthur Griffith, Ernest Blythe, Liam and Barney Mellows. Mrs O’Reilly would briefly introduce Veronica to them as the new typist. They would nod and move on, but she was in awe of these men; they all seemed so sophisticated in their suits and ties.
On Friday at the end of her first week, a large man entered the office with confidence and a twinkle in his eyes that set him apart from the other men. It was the man who had directed her upstairs on her first day. His broad square face commanded authority. He stood in the doorway, chatting easily to Liam Mellows and smoking, oozing a confidence few men possessed.
‘That’s Michael Collins,’ Mrs O’Reilly mouthed across to Veronica.
Veronica was glad to put a face to the name.
She was never bored at work, letters and speeches had to be typed, some with more urgency than others. Letters to inform people of upcoming Sinn Féin rallies to gain support for protestations against the English were always typed and posted with haste. Mrs O’Reilly told Veronica that the frequent visits and raids of the DMP meant that any evidence of an upcoming rally would have to be hidden. The building was alive with people. Doors banged constantly, and there was a relentless flow of footsteps up and down the stairs.
On arrival home, at the end of her working day, she asked Betty the same question, ‘Any news? I know I am mad at him, but he’s my brother, my twin.’
Her aunt shook her head. ‘Sorry, no letter for you. Why don’t you write to him?’
‘I have written a few letters, but he hasn’t written back.’
‘But,’ Betty hesitated, ‘maybe he isn’t allowed. It is tough for them in there, and Tom has asked his friend who works in the docks in Belfast to go to see him.’
Veronica was surprised. Gone was the hurt and anger she felt at Eddie, replaced by relief that she would soon find out how he was.
‘When will Tom know?’
Betty shrugged her shoulders and Veronica saw her aunt’s bones through her thin cardigan. A pitiful sight. Betty returned to the stove, spooning out potatoes and soup just as Tom came home from work.
He slumped in his armchair. ‘I’m too old for this lark,’ he said, rubbing his knuckles. ‘I’m glad spring is nearly here so I can get som
e heat into these old bones.’ He lay back in his armchair and closed his eyes.
‘Tom, dinner is ready, come on to the table before it gets cold. I told Veronica your friend went to see Eddie.’
Veronica’s heart leapt. She had misunderstood Betty, she thought she said he would see him on another day, not that he had already been.
Tom didn’t speak as he was eating his dinner and stopped for a minute, ‘Love, it’s not great news, but not all bad.’ He paused and looked at Veronica, his eyes full of sympathy. ‘When my friend went to see him, Eddie had to be carried out to him. His two friends had to help him, he had two black eyes, and he couldn’t walk.’
‘Of course, if he couldn’t walk, he would have to be carried.’ She gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s shock, or relief he’s alive, I don’t know.’
‘He could talk well, and he said he wasn’t in too much pain and that it looked worse than it was.’ He paused, looking at her gently. ‘Eddie asked after you, and said to tell you he couldn’t write back to you because he broke his hand.’
‘What happened? Why did he get beaten up?’
Betty sat beside Veronica and lightly stroked her hand.
‘He wouldn’t tell the guards the name of a Volunteer who shot an RIC man while they were questioning him. But,’ he leaned across the table to take her other hand, ‘Veronica, he is all right. A good lad who wouldn’t snitch on anyone.’
‘He’s still alive,’ Betty said quietly. ‘This is our war.’
Veronica knew she was right.
Eddie was alive, and Veronica knew that she should be grateful, but Betty was right; it was a war.
*
After three weeks working in Harcourt St, Veronica was pleased with herself as her typing was as fast as Mrs O’Reilly’s.
‘Veronica, could you take these letters to Fr O’Flanagan in Pembroke Road, for signing?’
Mrs O’Reilly stood and rubbed her back before walking to Veronica’s desk. ‘God, sometimes sitting for hours I’d swear is not good for your back.’ She gave Veronica a large pile of letters. ‘Don’t let anyone see them, and I don’t mean just the soldiers, there are many spies. They are important anti-conscription letters for the trade unions. We need to get as many rallies organised to stop conscription and to get people on our side. It’s not our fault the English have no men to fight their war. The English are losing men at a fast pace.’
Veronica looked forward to getting out to the breezes of spring morning. As she walked towards St Stephen’s Green, men rushed to work holding onto their caps. Women stayed in the doorways in the hope the westerly wind would soon pass. She kept her head down, but not out of fear of the British soldiers constantly around the Green; they were like a chronic illness that wouldn’t go away. When she passed a group of soldiers, she stuck her head up high and walked with brisk confidence that was only on the outside. She held her breath until she passed them. Suddenly, a gust of wind snatched her papers out of her hand, propelling them into a doorway.
‘God, Miss, I am sorry. I didn’t see you there. Here, let me help you with your letters.’
An English accent. She forgot about her hair; her hat had blown away, her hair escaping around her face and shoulders. She ran to the steps of the door and gathered up the letters, quickly stuffing some of them into her bag.
‘I am so sorry. Did you get all your paperwork?’
Why is he apologising again, he didn’t do it? Frantically she scanned the near-empty street for any rogue letters. She felt numb, glancing at the man in a brown army uniform. He was as tall as her father, who was over six foot, but that was where the similarity ended. This man had no beard and tufts of ash brown hair stuck out under his peaked hat, as it was not cropped close like the soldiers patrolling the streets, and he wore a tidy jacket.
It took a moment to find her voice. ‘No. I am fine. Thank you,’ she said, the calmness in her voice not reflecting her inner confusion, and snatched a letter from his right hand. Her mind spun. Had any of the letters opened? Did she get them all?
‘Again, thank you, sir,’ Veronica straightened her coat, her hands cradling the bag stuffed with letters and ran without stopping until she reached Fr O’Flanagan’s house and pressed the doorbell twice in quick succession.
Mrs Brown opened the door, leaves catching in a gust of wind entering the hallway.
‘Come in quick, Veronica, keep the cold out. Are you all right? You’re so pale.’ She took the bag with the letters from Veronica and, with the other hand, guided her to the fire in the drawing-room.
Fr O’Flanagan sat at his mahogany writing desk. ‘Margaret, hand me that blanket from my armchair.’ He put it around Veronica’s shaking shoulders.
‘I’m fine, Father. It was cold. I ran the whole way because of it. There were a lot of soldiers around the Green. One did try to stop me, but I just carried on my journey.’
‘Margaret, would you bring Veronica a cup of tea, please?’
Veronica welcomed the steaming hot sweet tea, and the colour slowly filled her cheeks.
Fr O’Flanagan signed the letters but kept an eye on Veronica. ‘Here you are. They’re all signed. I’ll walk back to Harcourt St with you.’
Outside the wind had calmed, and the sun was high in the sky. Veronica and Fr O’Flanagan walked at a leisurely pace. She relaxed with the sound of birds chirping, flying from tree to tree, looking for the best one to build a nest for their imminent young.
‘We can take our time. My train is not due until six o’clock. I’m going to Roscommon for a few days. How are you finding your new job?’
‘It’s great, Father. It’s so busy,’ she stopped, ‘but I’m not complaining.’
‘Do the soldiers intimidate you when they come to the office?’
Veronica tensed at the thought of her recent meeting. ‘Not really, Father, we have had a few visits at the office, and soldiers are always outside on the streets. The DMP have come in a few times. They just walk around the office and look at what we are typing. We try to hide any paperwork that might give them an idea where any meetings or rallies are going to be. Mrs O’Reilly said to ignore them.’
On arrival at Merrion Square, Fr O’Flanagan said, ‘I’ll leave you, and it was good to see you, Veronica. Take care of yourself. I’ve to meet someone first before the train.’ He fixed his hat. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks.’
Soon she was back at Harcourt St and before she started to type the pile of documents on her desk, the office door opened.
Veronica looked at Michael standing at the door, his large frame filling the doorway. ‘Ladies.’ He took long confident strides to Mrs O’Reilly’s desk.
She took her fingers off the keys on the typewriter to give him her full attention.
Eoin O’Malley, a Galway man with a lisp who worked in the bank, put his head around the door. He pushed his shock of black hair back from his equally dark eyes. ‘Is Michael there?’ Nobody answered; all eyes were on Michael. ‘Nice girls. I’m being ignored now.’
He grinned and walked across the office to Michael, handing him some documents. ‘Read this letter, it’s interesting!’ Eoin looked at his watch. ‘I’ve to be off. Christ, I’m late.’
Michael took the papers, nodding to Eoin as he left the room. He spoke to Mrs O’Reilly, mumbling a few quiet words first before he handed her some papers. ‘Would you type these speeches for me?’
‘Veronica will do it for you. She typed for Fr O’Flanagan and started to work here while you were away.’
‘Veronica, lovely to meet you,’ Michael said in an energetic accent.
She now knew his accent was from Cork. She wondered whether everyone from Cork worked in Dublin.
‘Ladies, I’ll leave you,’ he said, lighting another cigarette. He exited the room with the same energy as he had entered.
‘God, he is lovely,’ Mrs O’Reilly said dreamily. ‘I’m so glad he’s back. That’s his office next door, Veronica.
Do you know he spent many years in England?’ She leaned towards her. ‘He knows how the English tick. That’s why he’s the best person to deal with them.’
Veronica agreed and shuddered, thinking again about the mild spoken soldier she had met at St Stephen’s Green.
18
Any doubts Veronica had had about her ability to type for such a prestigious organisation soon diminished over the following weeks. By the end of February, she typed speeches and letters for Michael Collins, and Mrs O’Reilly gave her the occasional speech to type for Éamon De Valera. Most days she rarely had time to think, let alone relax, and was glad to see the pile of typing down to the last page.
Mrs O’Reilly smiled and looked over the gold rim of her glasses. ‘It will be a slow day now. Thank God, I’m exhausted,’ she said as she pulled on her cigarette. ‘I think everyone is away at meetings. Veronica, since it’s so quiet will you go and collect the typing from Fr O’Flanagan’s house?’ She stretched over to the other side of the desk, saying, ‘Give these papers to him. He came back from Roscommon this morning. And do be careful, the streets seem to have more soldiers than usual. There’s definitely not as many since the war started, but it’s still dangerous.’
Mrs O’Reilly’s face suddenly turned red. ‘They stole our lads from us to fight in France. They have stopped signing up for the British army since the rebellion.’
Veronica stiffened. She had never shared with Mrs O’Reilly her cousin’s death in France.
‘That’s why we’ve to stop that daft Redmond,’ Mrs O’Reilly huffed as she stubbed out her cigarette and gave a bundle of papers to Veronica.
‘Hurry back with the typing. Éamon came in earlier, and he said we have to get the letters posted as soon as possible.’
The day was still damp. Veronica pulled the scarf tight around her face and neck. Her hair was now cut short like Bridget’s, so it was easier to tame, but it still had to be pinned down. With the early morning deliveries finished, the streets were empty, save for a few men on bicycles on their way home from the docks. Few dockers lived this side of the river, but a few lived on Crumlin Road. She kept her head down as she passed the soldiers who stood around St Stephen’s Green with their rifles in a threatening position. When Veronica approached them, their chat stopped as she passed, and her scalp prickled at their eyes on the back of her head. Ahead, more soldiers stood in front of the Shelbourne. Holding her bag with the papers tight, Veronica tried to blend in with the crowd rushing to their destinations to quickly escape the damp cold. She walked faster as a group of soldiers walked towards her, and the soldier she had seen a few weeks ago walked in front of them. He had a slight limp in his left leg, but this didn’t slow his long strides.
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