by Jana Petken
“You can’t stand here all night,” he mumbled, setting off towards his house. “Get yourself in there and take what’s coming to you like a man.”
He opened the back door and tiptoed inside. The first person he saw was his mother, Susan. What was she doing in the kitchen? he wondered. She hardly ever set foot in the place. Her chalk-white face with eyes red-rimmed from weeping bore into him, and for a brief second, he felt ashamed of his actions.
Swallowing painfully, he mumbled, “Hello, Mam.” Then, as though an alarm had gone off, his brother Patrick appeared, followed by his sister, Jenny. Jesus, he thought, they were all going to give him what for. All that was needed now was for his father to walk in swinging a belt and his granny to give him one of her lectures on how to be a gentleman.
“Afternoon, all,” he said, wanting to break the uncomfortable silence.
No one spoke.
He tried again. “If you’ll all stop glaring at me like I’ve gone and murdered the pope, I’ll explain where I’ve been.”
Guilt flooded him. He looked down at his feet, shifting his left and then his right. “I’ve come home, Mam,” he said, more contritely this time. Looking up again, his eyes caught a shadowy figure, and then they briefly glimpsed Patrick’s fist just before it hit him squarely in the face. Staggering backwards, Danny felt his back thump against the kitchen door. Dizzy and with eyes blurred and stinging with pain, he then felt rather than saw his brother’s open palm slap his jaw.
Moaning angrily, he wiped the blood pouring from his nose. “For God’s sake, Patrick, will you leave off! That’s enough,” he said weakly, looking properly at his brother for the first time.
“Enough, Danny Carmody? If our mam would let me, I’d kill you now with my bare hands and stomp on your body!”
“No, Patrick!” Susan cried. Tears were rolling down her face. Her body, wracked with loud breathless sobs, shook from head to toe.
Looking past her, Danny then observed his sister holding on to his granny, who’d just appeared in the hallway. He stared at each face, crumbling with grief, not anger. Puzzled by their unexpected behaviour, he said, “I’m all right. What’s up with you all? I’m home safe and sound.”
Again there was no response.
Patrick’s eyes bore into Danny, yet he looked just as grief-stricken as the rest of them. Taking a step forward and then sideways towards the wall, Danny stared into the darkened hallway behind Jenny. A thought struck him, and with it came dread.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
Nothing.
“Well, where is he?”
Patrick moved to stand in front of his mother, until his face was just inches from Danny’s. Raising his fists like a boxer, Danny held his breath and prepared himself for his brother’s next strike.
“Danny, me and our dad have been out these past four days, just like you,” Patrick said with no trace of anger. “Dad insisted on retrieving his research papers. They were in his office at the College of Surgeons. We were trapped there …”
Danny ears seemed to block out all sound, including Patrick’s voice. He felt his eyes smart. His heart was racing, and then there was just a big gaping hole in chest, his heart being ripped out of it. Again, he wanted to ask where their father was, but he was afraid of the answer.
“When it got dark, Dad and me made a run for it,” he heard Patrick’s voice continue. “We were ambushed …”
“Patrick, for the love of God, will you just tell me what happened!” Danny finally blurted out. “Where is he?”
“Our dad is dead! I left him lying in a gutter after he was shot in the neck … I-I couldn’t get him home.” As the tears coursed down his face, Patrick drew his mother to him and caressed her head, nuzzled into his chest.
“There, Mam, you’ll be all right,” he whispered. He then sniffed loudly. “A man let me in his house, and I ran straight through it and out the back door. I left our dad … I left him lying in the bloody street!”
Danny shut his eyes, unable to look at his mother. Everyone was weeping. “Oh, Dad, Dad – the bloody rotten British,” he sobbed.
“Don’t you blame the British for his death! Don’t you bloody dare,” Patrick said.
Chapter Five
Tuesday, 2 May
Jenny Carmody stared at the tiny morsel of beef hanging off the end of her fork and shuddered. The thought of putting it in her mouth and chewing it was revolting. She scraped it back onto her plate, sipped some water from her crystal glass, and then looked at each of the people sitting at the dinner table. They didn’t want to eat, talk, or be there either, she thought. Every face at the table seemed to reflect her misery. She’d gazed at herself in the mirror earlier, for quite some minutes, and had been genuinely shocked at the image staring back at her. She was a dreadful sight, not at all like herself. Her twenty-one-year-old face had lost its youthful bloom. All that remained was the withered gauntness of someone in her thirties. Grief did terrible things to a person and her constitution.
Looking across the table at her English mother, she felt an uncustomary surge of pity. Her mam was a somewhat cold creature, incapable of inspiring intimacy or sympathy. She adored her children, yet she was not one to wrap her arms around them or give them affectionate kisses. Her regal-looking mam seemed to hold court rather than conversations. She talked endlessly about her wants, London, and how she missed its civility. She was a definitive snob living in a bubble of pretentious affectations, which didn’t endear her to her Irish neighbours or to her own husband at times. The dinner was supposed to breach Danny’s sullen wall and Patrick’s uncustomary bad temper, but it was a complete and utter failure, on both counts. Her mam’s intention to mend the rift between brothers was admirable, but it was as clear as her glass of water that Danny and Patrick would rather stab each other with their steak knives than embrace.
Life was unbearably cruel, Jenny thought. Her father had been murdered, and she would never recover from his loss. Danny was a criminal, if the newspaper stories were to be believed; Granny had a face on her that could quite easily sour a pint of fresh milk; John, her beloved, had not come to see her; and then there was Mam, who, instead of crying spent every waking moment sharing her hateful diatribe against the Irish rebels.
An unladylike grunt left Jenny’s mouth. Her life had been blown to smithereens – and all because of fanciful notions cooked up by fanatics. Glaring at Danny, she prayed that the candelabra sitting above his head would fall and crack his numb skull. She detested him! Sure, he couldn’t be blamed for what had happened to their dad, she acknowledged. He was just a lad, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But still, he should have apologised for taking part in the rising and for continually defending it. After all, it was probably an Irishman who’d shot and killed their father.
“Pass the salt, Jenny,” Patrick, sitting opposite her, said.
Lost in her glaring disapproval of Danny, she jumped with fright when Patrick raised his voice.
“Jenny, will you pass me the salt before my dinner freezes over?”
“Sorry, Patrick,” she apologised. “My mind wandered.”
“Eat, sweetheart. We can’t have you fading away,” Patrick said kindly.
She adored her older brother. Apart from her, he was the only other sensible person in the house. When Mam had ranted and raved about the authorities refusing to release Dad’s body from the morgue, Patrick calmed her with patient explanations, while Danny had sat there head in hands and weeping like a baby.
“Mam, there are hundreds of bodies in Dublin’s morgues,” Patrick had told Mam tenderly. “Some have been taken home because they were British soldiers or rebels in uniform. But Dad and others like him were killed in the crossfire. The authorities don’t know who shot them or why – and who some of the misfortunate victims are. They have to do all the appropriate investigations. Don’t you want answers?”
“I have all the answers I need, thank you, Patrick,” Mam had retorted rather harshly. “Your
father was killed by a rebel inflicting terror on this city. He was plainly murdered, and I see no reason for the authorities to delay his homecoming. It’s not as if those responsible are going to admit to their murder of an innocent man.”
“You see, you’re jumping to conclusions,” Patrick had said, with more tolerance than he’d probably felt at the time. “There is no proof that the sniper was an Irish rebel. I was right beside Dad, and it was impossible to see anything or anyone in that street. There’s a distinct possibility that British soldiers were holding those buildings and that they mistook Dad and me for the enemy.”
“Britain is the enemy, not any Irishman you’ll meet in Dublin,” Danny had piped in. Patrick, instead of telling him to shut up, had merely nodded his head as though in agreement. At the time, Jenny had thought that strange, and ever since then, she’d suspected that Patrick had not been entirely against the movement for independence.
Startled again, Jenny’s mind was jerked back to the present.
“Jenny will fade away. I will fade. We will all fade to nothingness one day,” Susan said morosely, catching up with Patrick’s earlier statement. “All of us will turn to dust, just like your poor father – I wonder how people will remember him.”
“You’ll find out tomorrow, Mam,” Danny said, breaking his silence. “When they bring him home, people will be queuing up at the door for the wake. Dad was a grand man.”
“Poor Robert. My poor, poor husband …,” Susan moaned. After dabbing her eyes with a hankie, she nodded to the housekeeper, standing close but not too close to the dinner table.
“May I have some water please, Mrs Guthrie?” Then she said, “Children, I’ve been thinking about this wake, and I’ve decided that holding it is not appropriate under the circumstances.”
Jenny almost choked. Sacrilege! Dad had to have his day.
Danny blurted out, “Mam, you can’t be serious. Dad should have his send-off.”
“No, our family has been through enough scrutiny, Danny,” Susan insisted. “I would much prefer a quiet family affair than have all those people traipsing in here and staring at him, with their fiddles and stories about how he lived, when he had no right to die in the first place.” Softening her tone, she added, “I know all about your Irish traditions, but in this particular case, there is no miracle with sufficient magnitude to raise your dad from the dead.”
Granny, often referred to as Minnie by her family, finally spoke up for the first time that evening. “Susan, Robert was Irish. You can’t deny him an Irish ritual.”
“That’s right, Mam,” Jenny said. “What will the neighbours think? What about my John’s family? They’ll be mortified if dad doesn’t get his wake.”
Minnie asked, “Why do you people have this tradition, anyway? It seems terribly naive to believe that someone might suddenly wake up in his coffin.”
“Minnie, wakes have been going on for hundreds of years, back when stout drinkers were dying from lead poisoning caused by pewter tankards,” Danny said. “A lot of men looked like they were dead and then, lo and behold, they woke up a few hours later. Imagine the relief.”
“It’s all nonsense,” Susan said disdainfully. “It’s just a silly myth.”
“It’s actually not, Mam,” Patrick corrected her. “Research has proved that the lead caused some people to go into a catatonic coma. Some people did awaken.”
Danny added, “Even when a man was put in his grave, his family made sure that a piece of string was tied to his hand. It was thread through a tiny hole in the coffin and attached to a bell above ground. A lot of people believed that a person could wake up even though he hadn’t stirred during all the music and blethering at the wake.”
“How bewilderingly Irish,” Minnie said.
After throwing Minnie a disapproving glance, Patrick told his mother, “Myth or no myth, Dad never missed a friend’s wake. He would want one for himself.”
“How can we possibly know what your poor father would or would not want?” Susan said sharply.
“A very apt use of words, dear,” Minnie said.
Raising an eyebrow, Patrick asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“Poor – the term poor,” Minnie answered.
“Please, Mother, not now. Not in front of the children,” Susan said, staring at her mother with a horrified expression.
“They’re hardly children,” Minnie continued. “Danny is some sort of revolutionary fighter. Patrick is the head of this family now. And Jenny, well, if she doesn’t get married soon to John, she’ll be an old maid. It’s time they knew the truth.”
“Mother!” Susan dabbed her wet eyes and bowed her head until her face was inches from her plate. “Don’t say another word. This can wait until after we lay my Robert to rest.”
Jenny felt her eyes well up with tears. It was true. She was practically an old spinster, yet John hadn’t even set a date yet! “What truth should we know, Minnie?” she asked, ignoring her mother’s pleas to change the subject.
“Jenny, Mam will tell us when she’s ready. Let’s just enjoy this meal in dad’s honour,” Patrick snapped.
Ignoring Patrick, Danny asked, “Mam, what’s happened?”
Seemingly unable to contain herself, Minnie said in a shrill, accelerated voice, “Your father has ruined the family with his high living and bad financial management – that’s what’s happened! He has left your mother impoverished. He gambled away your inheritances on bad investments with no thought for the future of this family. You are all penniless. There, it’s out in the open.”
Jenny’s mouth gaped open. She was poor? What would John think? What about the dowry he’d been promised and the lavish wedding the likes of which Dublin had never seen? John was a wealthy man, but he wouldn’t give her half of what her dad had promised. Dad was going to buy every flower in the local flower shop for the church ceremony, hire the best orchestra in Ireland, and have her wedding dress made in Paris. John was not very forthcoming with his money. He certainly wouldn’t do all that for her – and where the hell was he? She’d not seen hide or hair of him in over a week! Staring at her mother, she felt betrayed, belittled, and resentful that she’d not been allowed out of the house since the beginning of the rising. Of course, she couldn’t blame her mam for John’s abandonment.
After placing a call to his house several times, she finally found that he had gone to England on business. His family owned numerous Irish publications. What business could take him to England? And why hadn’t he told her about his plans?
“I’m ruined!” she shouted, verbalising her thoughts. “What will I tell John?”
Danny’s raucous laughter, with an odd grunt thrown in, was distressing to the other family members. But even if he wanted to, he couldn’t stop, not even when Patrick punched him hard on the arm. His eyes watered, and he wiped them with his napkin. Glancing briefly at Jenny, he felt exhilarated with a victory long overdue. This was for all the times she had told tales on him and for letting him take the blame for her wrongdoings. Spoilt, selfish Jenny didn’t know the first thing about the man she was so desperate to marry, he thought. She hadn’t been out of the house unchaperoned. Mam, too scared to let her daughter out of her sight, had been convinced that men with rifles were still roaming the streets and shooting people. And now Jenny was going to get the biggest shock of her naive fairy-tale life.
In an attempt to stifle his giggles, he covered his mouth with his napkin. Then, in an effort to apologise, he raised his hand. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, continuing to giggle anyway.
Giving Danny a contemptuous look, Patrick asked. “What’s so bloody funny?”
“Patrick, please, no cursing at the table,” Susan said.
“My apologies, Mam,” Patrick said, scowling again at Danny.
“So tell us what’s so amusing?”
“Jenny.” Danny’s laugher died under Patrick’s cold stare. Embarrassed now, he shifted his eyes to his mother and then to Minnie. “Forgive me, Mam, Minnie,”
he apologised, sincerely this time. “It was just a bout of nervous laughter that I had. It wasn’t because I thought it a funny matter.”
“But why were you laughing in the first place?” Jenny asked.
“I couldn’t help myself. Your John is in England right enough. He was taken across the water courtesy of the British Army. He’s probably in an English prison by now.”
Jenny’s faced paled. “I don’t understand …”
“Do you want me to spell it out? John is in the republican army. He’s an independence fighter, just like me, and so is his father!”
“You’re a liar, Danny, a rotten stinking liar!” Jenny sobbed, looking to Patrick for help.
“Jenny, that’s enough!” Patrick shouted instead.
“Danny, stop tormenting your sister with stories,” Susan said, visibly shocked.
“It’s not a story, Mam. It’s the truth. I saw him!”
“But he’s such a nice boy from a wealthy family – and his father too, you say?” Minnie asked, appearing bewildered.
“Where did you see him?” Jenny asked, now on her feet.
“That doesn’t matter. The point is, I spoke to him and know for a fact that he’s been incarcerated in England with hundreds of other Irishmen, arrested by the troops, and his father is alongside him.” For a brief second, Danny wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. No one in the family knew about his arrest or that he’d been marched through Dublin’s streets, the crowds jeering at him.
“If you don’t believe me, go to John’s house and ask his mam. She should have told you the truth to begin with instead of lying to you.”
Danny watched his sister swaying where she stood and howling with pain. “I hate you, Danny Carmody. I’m a ruined woman! I’ve got no dad and no money – and now no fiancé. And you’re sitting there laughing at me!” Panting, she picked up her water glass and emptied the contents over Danny’s head. “You go to hell!” she screamed, and then ran from the room.
