In Michael’s office, before she sat down, she said, ‘I’ve news, he left a note.’
‘I guessed. He was seen going into Sullivan’s shop a few days ago. That’s why I want to talk to you. Where and when?’
He sat back into his chair and listened, and when she had finished, chewing his cigarette for a minute or two.
Standing up and pushing the window open, he stared out over the rooftops for a few minutes.
It was the longest few minutes of her life. It was nearly as bad as the soldiers in Davy Byrne’s pub.
Michael looked at the door, as one knock turned into three, and he shouted, ‘Come back in a while.’ He stared at Veronica. ‘Meet him, will you do that?’ Without waiting for a reply, he went to the open window and closed it. ‘He clearly wants more than just friendship, are you comfortable with that?’
Veronica looked down at the wooden floor and exhaled slowly. ‘But why? Sorry, I don’t mean to be impertinent, but what can I do?’
‘Meet him, flirt with him. If he wanted to meet you, he must be keen, lots of soldiers meet girls at the dances, but they’d be of a lower rank.’ He picked up another cigarette from his desk but didn’t light it. ‘I’ll have men there to see who he is, or how he can be of help to us. Leave at 12.45 and get to Bewley’s early to sit somewhere private.’
Veronica’s mind raced, her senses heightened.
‘Don’t worry, Veronica. We’ll watch your back all the time. The British are really trying to disrupt our opposition, but the big question is how they will do it? Every time we have a rally to gather the support of the workers, the soldiers appear and disrupt us. They’re trying to infiltrate our trade unions, who are all organising strikes. There is the talk of the bishops coming on our side, and if they do that will be a huge benefit. We have to keep opposing them, and anything you can learn will help us.’
‘Michael I’m not worried,’ but the truth held a twinge of guilt. ‘I know how important this is, and I am only glad I can help.’ The major was also not the worst company in the world.
The grandmother clock in the office’s corner chimed 12.45.
‘Mrs O’Reilly, Michael wants me to post a few letters, and I need to get them in the lunchtime post.’
It was a short walk from Harcourt St to Bewley’s on Grafton St. Veronica kept her hat low and collar up. The newspapers were full of violence daily.
A scruffy young boy screamed, ‘Get yer paper! “Attack on Kevin St”.’
She bought the paper; scanning it she read that local people from the tenements had attacked the police station, setting it alight, and had shot a middle-aged man from the DMP. She threw the paper into a bin on the street before entering Bewley’s.
Veronica stood inside the door, waiting to be seated, shielding her eyes from the sun. A rush of excitement rushed through her as she reminded herself she was helping the Irish cause. There were few vacant seats in Bewley’s. Dubliners were having a cup of tea away from the threat of violence on the streets.
A waiter approached her. ‘Yes, madam, are you waiting for someone, or shall I show you to a table?’
‘Could I sit at the back, please? I like the quietness.’
With his nose in the air, trying to make his diminutive figure taller, he gestured for her to follow him. The waiter’s grey speckled hair, darkened with Brylcreem, matched his v-shaped moustache. He brought her to a table in the back where the sunlight didn’t reach, and the lighting was dim.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the waiter. ‘I’ll wait for my companion.’
She sat across the booth and sank into the shadows, trying to relax, but the previous night’s events she had read in the Irish Independent were on her mind. The paper leaned towards the fight for freedom and was kind in their reporting, whereas The Times always favoured the English.
She saw Harry out of the corner of her eye. Her heart missed a beat and she composed herself. She wasn’t too sure how to flirt, and thought with a pang that Susan would know how to. The waiter grunted as if he knew she was a Catholic meeting a British soldier. She disregarded his look. Harry smiled at the waiter, but he ignored Harry, trying to extend his height so that his black trousers didn’t gather around his ankles.
‘It’s so good to see you. How are you?’ Harry said, sitting opposite her and taking off his hat. His dark hair glistened under the weak light bulb.
Veronica loosened her jacket. ‘I’m fine, Harry.’ Now was her chance. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back. Were you in England?’
‘Let’s not talk about that. I meant it when I wrote I longed to see you.’
An impatient cough from the side of the table.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’
The waiter stood expressionless beside the table.
‘Shall I order?’
Veronica nodded. To her left, a group of soldiers entered and went straight to a table where three men sat. They spoke to them, and then pulled one of them, pushing him roughly on the floor. Two of the soldiers grabbed an arm each, pulled him up and marched him out. Veronica lowered her eyes, wondering whether these were the men that were watching out for her.
Harry inclined his head towards hers. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but I wonder what we are doing here?’
‘Who?’
‘Us. The British. Irish people should rule themselves from their own country.’ He spoke quietly but deliberately. ‘My mother was Catholic, but we were brought up Church of England. I have to say she sometimes had funny beliefs,’ he said. He looked at her for a few long moments. ‘You’re beautiful, Veronica. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He reached over the table to take her hand, and she pulled away, knocking over the empty teacup.
‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly with a smile, trying not to deflect his advances. She still couldn’t believe what he had said about the British.
When the tea and scones arrived, the air was fraught with disapproval from the waiter. He poured the tea into the small delicate porcelain cups. Veronica tried to drink it like a Protestant to dispel any opinions the waiter had. Maybe if he thought she was Protestant, he wouldn’t be so judgemental. His disapproval unnerved her. She stirred the milk in her tea three times like the women in the Shelbourne, and her little finger pointed out the way the women had.
‘Thank you, I do love the scones here, and cream is a real treat.’
‘Do your aunt and uncle never have any?’
That simple question revealed how different their worlds were. ‘No,’ she said, controlling her anger and keeping her voice level. ‘Times are hard for a lot of Irish. Not only do most not have cream, but they don’t have milk. We have nothing. Most don’t own their own home.’
He sat silent for a few minutes. ‘I know. My friend, the one I met in the trenches, told me stories of how hard it was for him and his family. He sent all his wages back to Dublin. I wondered how they coped after his death.’
He was silent for a moment, a vacant look in his eyes before a slight grimace broke the trance. Veronica guessed maybe his memory had taken him back to France for a minute. ‘I sent them money,’ he said absently.
‘Who?’
‘His family. Not much, but hopefully they got it. I gave it to his commanding officer to give it to them, but I don’t know if he sent it on.’
Harry was such a contradiction to Veronica.
Harry took her hand and said, ‘Veronica. I need… I have to tell you…’ he stopped.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Would you like more tea?’
Veronica had not noticed the waiter until he was refilling her teacup. A small bit of tea splashed onto the exposed wood of the table, just missing the crisp white tablecloth. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and leaned down to dab the tea. As he raised his head, he winked at Veronica.
She knew then this was one of her men. She was surprised that it unnerved rather than comforted her. She wondered guiltily if she looked too comfortable in the major’s company.
‘Sorry, Harry, you were saying?’ She put her elbow on the table, tilting her smiling face at him.
‘Nothing. I want to see you again soon, but I will have to go back to England for a while. My mother is sick, and the general said I could have a few days off.’
‘Your general, is he in Dublin?’ she asked casually. ‘Some people might not welcome him, you know, after the executions in 1916.’ She held her breath.
‘He is only here for a short visit; he’ll be gone before we know it.’
‘Why?’
He held her gaze, sighing, and he said, ‘I know, but let’s not talk about politics.’
She wanted to snatch her gaze from his intense brown eyes. General Maxwell had overseen the executions of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising, and he left shortly after them. The killings had galvanised momentum in Ireland for all the people to come together to rebel against the British occupation.
Her mind whirled so fast she thought he would hear it ticking over the questions to ask. ‘Do you not have work here?’
‘No. No, I have to make a short visit.’ He took her hand, and she let it fall limply in his. ‘I promise I’ll write to you.’
The waiter dropped a tray, causing a baby to wail, and another started to cry.
‘Don’t be sad, Veronica, I’ll be back as soon as I can after I see my mother. I know this is forward of me, but you are always on my mind.’
She looked at the grandfather clock by the door, uncomfortable with the openness of his feelings.
‘Harry, that is, I feel the same.’ This was her opportunity, ‘I see in the papers soldiers going to rallies, or meetings about something or other, and soldiers get hurt.’
He leaned into her, taking her by surprise. ‘I’ll be fine, it’s not that bad, we often get word from the RIC how many are expected.’
That’s it. That’s how they knew.
He looked at the clock on the wall behind her. ‘Veronica, I must get back.’
‘Me too, Mrs O’Reilly will wonder where I am. I only get an hour for lunch.’
‘Mrs O’Reilly?’
Realising her mistake, she explained, ‘Mrs O’Reilly is working in the shop as Mrs Sullivan is sick. She’s her neighbour.’
She stopped herself saying anything more, as to not encourage questions. Harry got up and they parted ways at the entrance.
Abruptly he turned away from her and left.
She stood for a minute, watching him walking away, and then back. She had to tell Michael that General Maxwell was in the country.
Michael was waiting for her when she arrived back at Harcourt St.
‘Well, did he say anything?’
She inhaled deeply, wondering where to start.
‘Well, he is going to England for a few days, he says his mother is sick. And General Maxwell is here, but only for a few days.’
‘What? That bastard? What is he doing here?’
‘I don’t know. I asked but he didn’t say. But he mentioned someone in the RIC is informing them about upcoming rallies.’
Michael shook his head. ‘No, he just wanted to let you know he was going.’ And raised an eyebrow. ‘He must be keen on you!’
He tapped a Waverley cigarette into his hand before lighting it. ‘Good work, Veronica.’
The room shook with shouts mixed with a woman’s screams, and the bookcase rocked. ‘Christ, what was that?’
Veronica followed Michael downstairs and outside the building. On the street, a boy lay in a pool of blood. Women screamed and a woman beside the boy was wailing, rocking back and forth.
‘My Johnny, my Johnny,’ she wailed, ‘he’s only a child. You bastards shot him.’
Soldiers no older than the boy and white as ghosts pushed the crowd back with their guns. ‘Go! Move!’
‘Ye’ve no heart, what did he do?’ sobbed the woman Veronica assumed was his mother.
Across the road from Harcourt St entrance an army vehicle burned.
Veronica watched the scene numbly, any sympathy she had felt for Harry draining away.
26
A quiet office made the week slower for Veronica. The paperwork about the anti-conscription rallies had been sent to the trade unions. Veronica was laying back, resting in her chair with her eyes half-closed, when men shouted and barged their way into the offices below. Mrs O’Reilly jumped out of her chair, knocking over the vase of flowers on her desk, water spilling onto the floor.
‘Quick, Veronica, it’s another raid. I’m sick of the soldiers coming in here whenever they want to.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, looked around her desk and put some papers in the drawer, locking it and putting the key in her cardigan pocket.
‘Give me those anti-conscription letters that weren’t posted. I’ll put them in the safe in Michael’s room.’ Veronica snatched the letters from Mrs O’Reilly and sprinted up the stairs. Frank O’Malley, a clerk who often helped Michael, stood in front of an open cabinet filing paperwork, humming a rendition of ‘A Nation Once Again’.
‘Frank, it’s a raid, and I’ve anti-conscription letters here for the unions which we were going to post in the afternoon. We should put them in Michael’s safe. It’s hidden behind the bookcase, help me move it back a bit so that I can open the safe.’
‘What, Christ!’ Frank dropped his papers and helped her push the bookcase back, revealing the hidden safe Michael had installed. Frank grabbed the letters from her. He was breathing heavily as he bent to open the safe and shoved the letters inside. He spun the handle on the safe to shut it, and while it was still spinning, they tried to push the bookcase back in front of the safe. Veronica put her back against the bookshelf and shoved hard. Grunting they heaved the bookshelf and it slid in front of the safe as footsteps reached the top of the stairs. Frank took a book off the shelf and Veronica stared, absorbed in it. But it wasn’t the DMP or soldiers on the landing. It was Timmy, one of the Sinn Féin bank clerks, speaking fast to Mrs O’Reilly.
‘Dev has been arrested and loads of others have been arrested as well.’ Breathless, Timmy held onto the doorframe with his hand and slightly bent over.
‘Who was arrested?’ Frank had dropped the book and run to Timmy.
‘Dev,’ he stopped, and took a deep breath. ‘Dev and a few others – in fact, a lot of the Sinn Féin men.’
‘What? How? Sweet mother of Jesus,’ said Mrs O’Reilly blessing herself.
The office filled with people from the other offices all asking questions, ‘Who’s been arrested? Why have they been arrested?’
‘I don’t know much else. Michael hasn’t been arrested, he sent word to us, and he is on his way here from his home,’ Timmy said in a much more even voice. He pulled a chair out and stood on a desk, waving his arms to silence the crowd. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Michael Collins pushed through the crowd.
‘I bloody well told them all there were going to be arrests,’ Michael said. ‘The DMP had the names and addresses of all the Sinn Féin people, but no,’ and he shook his head, his face red. ‘They, he, De Valera decided not to believe me. They didn’t think it would happen.’
Michael stomped from one side of the room to the other and didn’t stop for a breath. ‘They said they had enough evidence, claimed we were collaborating with the bloody Germans. The Germans, for Christ’s sake, the Germans.’ Michael paced the room, continuing to talk at a pace. Veronica found it difficult to catch everything he was saying.
‘Disaster, this is a bloody disaster,’ he went on. ‘I told them. They knew about the arrests. The Brits think it will stop our anti-conscription rallies.’
‘Michael, sorry to interrupt, but on what grounds? They can’t walk up and arrest people for no reason,’ Frank said.
‘A few weeks ago, the RIC captured someone called Joseph Dowling drifting in a boat off the West Coast. He is a former prisoner of war with the Casement Brigade.’
Veronica pushed a little forward in between the shoulders of men who crammed into the of
fice so she could hear clearly.
Michael continued, ‘The British said the RIC captured him after the submarine he was in came ashore. Apparently, the RIC found a message he had in code. It was the Germans saying they wished they had taken the rising in 1916 more seriously, and now they wanted to offer arms to the IRB for another rising.’
Timmy whispered to Mrs O’Reilly and Veronica, ‘They arrested up to eighty people. They even went to Henrietta St and raided some of the pubs as well.’
‘Listen, folks, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,’ Michael shouted. ‘I’ll think of something. Go back to your desks.’
When Veronica hurried home from work that evening, the streets were full of palpable unrest. Soldiers hung threateningly around Harcourt St. Veronica pulled her coat tight rushing past the soldiers. It may have been her imagination, but there didn’t seem to be as many soldiers on the streets as a few months ago. It only meant one thing. The English were going to push for conscription in Ireland as there was a shortage of soldiers. Ireland would lose young men to the Crown fighting for them instead of against them. As she hurried along the quays, soldiers on the other side of the quay were marching back to The Royal Barracks.
When she entered Thomas St, she saw a package had arrived from her father’s farm. Veronica viewed the regular arrival of parcels with caution, often wondering if there was a parcel for her to deliver again?
Betty still set a place at the table for Padraig, but the setting didn’t have the same care as when she had first arrived. The once ruler-straight knife might be a bit crooked, or the teacup was forgotten. In the last few weeks, Betty seemed to have more life and this, Veronica presumed, was either the arrival of the warmer weather, or maybe Tom was wrong, and time the healer was working its sorcery on Betty.
‘How was your day?’ Betty asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she took the Delph from the side cupboard. ‘Your grandmother gave these to me – they are very grand for our humble home,’ she said as she traced her finger around the gold embossed cup rim. ‘Your grandmother was well off. At first, they didn’t approve of Tom, but then…’ Her stew hissed, and Betty pulled it off the fire. She pushed her lank hair off her face. ‘Sit down and eat it while it’s hot.’
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