by Rachel Quinn
These were no houses. There weren’t even walls. Yes, it had been a few years since the Blitz, and any walls left standing after the bombs had probably now been demolished. But the devastation was still apparent. A few craters broke up the road surface here and there, and much of the area lay covered in mounds of brick, wood and concrete bulldozed into neat piles – piles that seemed to sit there like proud testaments to the destructive power of mankind.
‘They took away all the useful things,’ Doreen said.
‘What?’
‘Anything metal was taken away to be used for the war effort. Things people could use, like chairs and clothes, all disappeared because people helped themselves. Some people got hurt taking things, so they had to put up these barriers. Just before Christmas Aunt Susan took me shopping into the city, and I saw a woman wearing Mammy’s best coat. I knew it was Mammy’s because I helped her sew patches on the elbows and I got one of them all crooked.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Aileen said.
‘I used to think that too.’ Doreen stared ahead, a look of defiance on her face. ‘Perhaps that’s why I didn’t want to go out.’
‘You mean, you thought you might see more reminders of your family?’
‘Yes. But I’ve had time to think about it. What happened was terrible, you’re right, but what happened to Mammy’s coat wasn’t terrible. She didn’t need it anymore. Twas a good coat, nice and warm. And if it helped someone stay warm over winter . . . well, I think Mammy would have liked that.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say, Doreen.’
‘But I do miss them all.’
While Aileen was still scanning the wreckage, a door opened behind them and they turned to see a woman stepping out of her house, a rug in one hand and a beater in the other.
The woman was middle-aged, with a rotund torso and grey-tinged hair wrapped in a bun tied with twine. For the shortest and silliest of moments Aileen thought it was her mother.
A whack of beater on rug, a plume of dust from which the woman recoiled, and Aileen was again brought back from her faraway thoughts.
‘Can we go to the park now?’ Doreen asked.
‘We can.’
They started walking, and Aileen gave the woman at the door a last look. This time she couldn’t dismiss the idea; it may well have been a weakness but it definitely wasn’t nonsense. She was homesick.
A hundred yards of thought later, she realized that she’d made her point – she’d shown herself and her family that she could break away, and she’d learned an awful lot. But there was another aspect. She missed Briana even more than Mammy. She even missed Daddy and the boys just a little if she was honest. They were her family, and, as Doreen had reminded her, they were not set in stone or indestructible or permanent.
Young Doreen might have been only sixteen, she might have had a coat of shyness, but in some ways she was stronger than Aileen. She had no choice but to be strong. She had no choice because she had no family. But she had her Aunt Susan and her Uncle Jack, and with their love and care she would survive without Aileen.
At Jubilee Park, they strolled between flower beds that had been converted into rows of carrots and parsnips and potatoes. They still looked pretty, Aileen thought. She also thought it was a beautiful day, with the sun high and the ground dry. She had enjoyed living in Belfast, but even after all this time it still wasn’t home. She wasn’t sure whether she’d fallen in love with Marvin, but she was sure she’d ever so slightly fallen in love with the McDonalds and Doreen. She would miss them all, family or not.
By the time she and Doreen walked out of the park, she’d made her mind up.
She was going back to Leetown.
Chapter 18
Approach to the France–Belgium border, 1944
The taking of the town of Douzier had become the blueprint for future battles. By late August 1944, more and more French towns and cities had fallen to the Allies, and Paris had been liberated. There were casualties – tragic to their loved ones but mere dents in the war machine. Niall saw death and injury aplenty, but by skill or the grace of God escaped unharmed for month after month. And there was reward for every town freed as the French hailed the Allies. Men who had previously only had a taste for beer were plied with wine. Niall was a Guinness man through and through but was starting to get a taste for the grape.
To Niall, the coastal landings now seemed years ago, and his previous life in Ireland a distant memory. The Allied troops were now approaching the Belgian border, and the capture of the small but well-defended town of Saint-Jean was their next target.
It was just after dawn. They were advancing from lowlands just outside the town. The fear was like a nagging pain – a warning something unpleasant might be imminent – but Niall was now well used to managing such feelings. Of more immediate concern was the mud caking their boots, gathering in clumps as though trying to pull their feet down and hold them back. Niall cursed the decision to attack during rain after a wet night. How were they expected to shoot with any accuracy – or even to look in all directions – when they were sliding all over the place with every step? This was nothing like any of the training-ground practices in England.
About a dozen of them were caught in a particularly troublesome area – almost a swamp – when the order was given to retreat. So they turned back, but each step was only half a step, and soon they fell behind. And then the rain turned heavier, like horizontal waves penning them in.
Niall and four other men stopped and grouped together. They talked of heading for a small copse nearby for temporary shelter, but decided to press on, and within fifteen minutes they were hopelessly adrift, lost from the pack. They walked on aimlessly, reaching a gate next to a road. Smiles broke out as they heard vehicles approaching. One of them joked that it was generous of the corporals to lay on chauffeurs.
By the time they realized the trucks were of the enemy variety it was too late. They stopped sharply at the gate and half a dozen German soldiers spilled out. Niall’s comrades turned and started running for cover, slopping and lurching in the muddy field. Their erratic movements only served to make target practice for the German soldiers more entertaining.
Niall made a dash for a nearby tree – perhaps to shoot from its cover, perhaps merely to hide – but he was too slow in the mud and was forced to stand there, hands aloft, cursing his useless feet, watching the men take potshots at his comrades. For a second he considered charging at one of them, or at the very least asking if they really had to shoot men who were running away. A sideways glance from one of them dissuaded him, but his scowl had been noticed, answered by the steel muzzle of a pistol. It felt cold and wet on his temple, digging into the skin. Words were shouted at him in German. As the rain continued to lash down, the water at his feet now an inch deep, Niall could do no more than bow his head and keep his hands up.
It was only when he’d been shoved into the back of the truck and driven away that he dared believe he would probably be living for a while longer. Perhaps it would be moments, perhaps years. It was hard to tell. The German soldier – a good few inches taller than Niall and muscle-bound with it – still held the pistol against his head, the muzzle doing its best to create a small indent in his skull.
Within minutes the truck came to an abrupt halt. Niall heard an angry exchange just outside. The canvas door was pulled aside for him and the German soldier to get down, and there was more arguing, a finger occasionally being pointed in Niall’s direction. There were sighs and nods, and finally an arm was flung out in the direction of a drab building across the road.
With the pistol still at his temple and a meaty hand pulling him along by the shoulder, Niall was forced toward the building. Although it was dark inside, the place clearly had a character every bit as austere as its exterior. A panicking Niall was forced into one corner of the building, past vertical bars. By the time he realized it was a jail cell, the pistol had parted company from his skull and the door had been bolted. Seconds later,
all shouts were distant and he was alone.
With his adrenaline now subsiding, Niall became aware of his shin stinging. Yes, now he remembered – the crack as he was forced into the back of the truck, stumbling as he tried to keep his hands in the air. Also, his temple was still hurting, and his shoulder was stiff from being pushed and pulled along by that monster German soldier like a recalcitrant puppy.
A few windmill turns of his arm brought some feeling back to his shoulder. He tapped fingertips to his temple and viewed the results. It hurt but there was no blood. That was good. A tug on his trouser leg revealed a nasty graze along three or four inches of his shin bone. For all the danger he was in, the stinging from this was now causing him the most pain. He spat on his fingers and pasted the saliva on to the wound, wincing at even more pain.
He told himself to ignore it, and cast his eyes around his new surroundings. As seconds turned to minutes his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness. Metal bars shone in the light that slunk through the cracks in the doorway and the one tiny window set up high. The bars were on two sides of the cell, with two walls behind him. He could almost touch opposite sides at the same time with his fingertips. The floor was dusty earth, and the cell contained no chair or bed. There was, however, a bucket in the corner. The cell covered about a quarter of the whole room – beyond the cell were a desk and chair to one side, a counter to the other. He was alone in the only jail cell of the town police station.
Niall sat on the floor to think, his back against the rough brick wall, his shoulder blades rubbing awkwardly against the ragged mortar lines. There were two positives. For one thing, he hadn’t been shot or seriously injured – not yet. There must have been a good reason for that, but what was that reason? More importantly, how long would it remain a good reason? Secondly, the first proper flush of winter hadn’t yet descended, so the cage he was locked up in wasn’t cold. Two big positives. Niall was nothing if not an optimist.
He waited, ears pricked for any sound, eyes fixed on the door ahead of him, but inevitably his well of attention eventually ran dry. It was quiet, dim and a little on the warm side, and he could feel himself nodding off. There was, for the moment, nothing more for him to do. In fact, it was warm enough for him to remove his jacket and roll it up to make a pillow of sorts.
He lay down on the dry earth, shut his eyes, and was soon walking along a beach – one covered in natural ridges of sand rather than craters or obstacles. Cool, refreshing water was bringing his tired feet back to life, while Aileen’s warm embrace enveloped his arm as they strolled along together.
It was the first time he’d been alone for months, and in this unlikely peace he fell asleep.
Leetown, County Wicklow, August 1944
Aileen’s train dropped her off at Leetown, and she was halfway along Station Road by the time she heard the toot as it pulled out.
Saying goodbye to Mr and Mrs McDonald hadn’t been easy; saying goodbye to Doreen had made her shed a tear. Doreen said she’d be fine, and looked as though she meant it.
Aileen somehow felt different, as if her time in Belfast had changed her. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Perhaps she would find out over the next few days.
She hadn’t written to say she would be arriving home, and a small part of her wondered whether her half of the bed would still be available. On the seafront road she slowed her pace, taking time to appreciate the coastal views and the never-changing shush of the tide, as well as the air – fresher than in Belfast. She took a deep breath of it. Yes, it was so much cleaner than in the city and had more of that bracing, salty tang that spoke of home.
There was a sense that things might have changed, but nothing on her walk home supported that view: Cready’s, a pony and trap at the roadside, the grass verge sprinkled with sand, an old man with a walking stick, one or two people washing themselves down at the water’s edge. She could have been returning after a day away for all it mattered.
At her front door she listened for noises, but heard nothing. Perhaps they were all out helping on nearby farms or digging turf. A faint smell of meat stimulated her senses, perhaps leftovers. Mammy’s mutton stew with turnips, onions and carrots – there was nothing like it.
As her hand headed for the door handle she paused to think. Although nothing in the village seemed to have changed, perhaps one or two attitudes had. Or perhaps not. She would have to face that issue head-on in time.
She opened the door and took a step inside.
They were all there, gathered around the table, quietly eating. Briana, Mammy, Daddy, Gerard, Fergus and little Frank. Heads turned, spoons were stilled.
Aileen sensed tears welling up, then felt her arms tremble, her face tingle as it reddened, and finally nothing but convulsions of sadness. She cried like the lost soul she had become.
Her mother was the first to get up and run to her. But the others followed, telling her in turn how they’d missed her, and asking for details of her adventures ‘away’. Even Fergus and Daddy were welcoming, their usual brashness quietened by concern.
Had they all changed?
Saint-Jean, near the France–Belgium border, August 1944
Niall could only wish he was back in Leetown. Or at home in County Kildare. Or anywhere in the world but a tiny jail cell in Saint-Jean.
He’d slept passably considering he had bare dirt for a bed, but was woken by noises from outside – shouts and the thumping of boots. He woke up so suddenly that his head jerked and hit the wall – a timely reminder that alertness was now required.
Beyond the bars the door opened, letting sharp yellowy light flood the room, momentarily blinding Niall. He got to his feet and squinted to see, but didn’t quite follow what happened next. The hinges of the cell door squealed horribly, what seemed like a rasping puff of dust was thrown to the back of the cell, the door lock clanged, and it was over. The German soldiers had gone, the stark light was gone, and there was a figure on the floor next to Niall.
He stared for a few moments, then said, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Been better,’ came the reply, so chirpy it took Niall by surprise. The man stood up, stumbling with dizziness, then brushed the dirt off his uniform. ‘So ’ow long you been ’ere?’ he asked casually.
There was only a little light in the room, but Niall could still make out that they shared the same colour of uniform. He also noticed that the man was a little taller than him and quite thickset, his voice a little more high-pitched than it had a right to be.
‘I don’t know,’ Niall replied.
‘You don’t know?’
‘I fell asleep. But I haven’t eaten, so it can’t have been more than a few hours.’
‘You a Paddy?’ the man said.
‘And what of it?’
The man laughed. Niall made a point of not joining in, although that was hard; the grin that went with the laughter was endearing. The man held up a hand to placate Niall.
‘Just placing the accent, that’s all. You’re from the South, aren’t you – the Free State?’
Niall nodded. ‘The Republic, you mean.’
‘If you like. No offence. Just a hobby of mine, accents.’ He held a hand out. ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘Private Wilkins if we’re being formal, which I sincerely ’ope we’re not – originally of Dagenham.’
Niall shook Peter’s hand. ‘Niall O’Rourke, County Kildare. Where did you say you were from?’
‘Dagenham. Just to the east o’ London.’
‘Ah, right.’ Now Niall could see the man’s face a little more clearly. ‘What do you have there?’ he said. ‘On your face.’
Peter wiped his fingertips on his cheek, leaving three broad smudges of white, then licked them. ‘Cocoa,’ he said.
Niall gave him a suspicious stare.
He laughed, showing that a little cocoa had also found its way on to his teeth. ‘Best thing there is for those pre-dawn raids. Well, cheapest thing there, is truth be told. Standard issue for paratroopers.’
�
�You’re a paratrooper? Heck.’
‘For my sins.’ Peter tutted. ‘Just my ruddy luck too. Three years’ training, and as soon as I opens my parachute I gets a freak gust of wind. Only came down in the ruddy town square, didn’t I? They could see me a ruddy mile off. Bastards had enough time to set up a welcome party for me.’ He glanced around the cell. ‘Anyway, less of the “heck” malarkey, if you don’t mind. We all play our parts.’ He walked around the perimeter of the cell, absent-mindedly trailing his knuckles across the bars as he went.
‘I was wondering,’ Niall said. ‘Why haven’t they killed us?’
Peter shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. They shouldn’t, of course – Geneva Conventions and all that. But we are lucky – I mean, I feel lucky. When I was floating down toward them I had half a mind to go for my gun and shoot myself.’
‘And what stopped you?’
Peter’s smile widened, and he shrugged. ‘Blind faith, I suppose. Sometimes you just gotta go with it and believe in luck – that it averages out, I mean. I had so much bad luck with that gust of wind sending my parachute off target, I figured I was due a barrelful of good luck.’ He tapped a few of the bars again, looking to the top and bottom. ‘Me and you, Niall O’Rourke, we’ll be fine here. I feel it in my bones. If they were going to kill us they’d have done it by now.’ He sat down at the back of the cell, his back against the wall, and let out an exhausted sigh.
‘On the other hand,’ Niall said, ‘if we were genuinely lucky they’d have given us beds.’
Peter pursed his lips, weighing up the idea, then gave a dejected nod. ‘Fair point, fair point. Still, it’s warm and dry.’ He turned to face Niall, then screwed his eyes up in puzzlement. ‘There’s one thing I never understood about you lads, if you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
