After the Rising

by Orna Ross

  “The Treaty applies to 26 counties only, Dan. The Irish people won’t vote for half a Republic.”

  “I hope you’re wrong. Because if they vote no, what then?”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to that and he swooped in.

  “We all know we’ve been sold a pup, Peg. The question is, do we put it down now or do we rear it until it can use its teeth for us?”

  “Michael Collins’ argument.”

  “Collins was the hardest man of the lot. What’s good enough for him is good enough for me.”

  “It was he who let the English outfox us. If Mr de Valera…”

  “Don’t mind that nonsense. Dev knew well a Republic was never going to be granted. That’s why he stayed at home and didn’t go to the Peace Talks. So he’d have someone to point a finger at.”

  She had an answer but she kept it behind her teeth because she knew he wouldn’t let it go until he had the last word and what she wanted, more than anything, was for them to have a nice time while they were out and not to spend it arguing. It was such a beautiful day and what she would most like was if the intense looks he was giving her were for her, and not for politics.

  Earlier on in school, in a marvellous mid-morning moment, she had felt what she hadn’t felt in months — warmth! — and rattled up the winter-grimed windows to let in the soft, fresh air. At break time, she’d happily gone on yard duty under trees that were on the point of puffing open into leaf. The birds, she could see, were feeling what she was feeling, spinning fast, circling high, getting as close as they could get to the sun.

  The children felt it too, scurrying around the schoolyard, in and out of the glare and shade, laughing and screaming. It made them skittish when they were back in the classroom so she’d swapped the sums she was going to do for story-time, the best way to settle them. The story of Maeve, the ancient Irish Queen of Connacht.

  Peg enjoyed story-time herself and especially loved to tell the children the stories of old Ireland, that were once, before the coming of the English, known to all the Irish people and cherished as the crucible of their heritage and civilisation.

  In the same spirit, she also taught them some of the Irish words she was learning in her Gaelic League classes – simple words and phrases like hello, Dia dhuit (literally “God be with you”), and thank you, go raibh maith agat (“may good be yours”) – and demonstrated to them how an awareness and love of God suffused the Irish language.

  The books that Master Cole taught from did none of this. They were full of English propaganda, about the supposed benefits that being part of the empire brought to the Irish. Once – a while back, admittedly, but still – she had heard him teaching the children to recite: “I thank the goodness and the grace/ Which on my birth has smiled/ And made me in these Christian days/ A happy English child…”

  Well that day was over now, at least that much was a job well done. No Irish master would ever teach the like of that again.

  Master Cole wasn’t exactly hostile to her Gaelic League activity – how could he object to the children being taught their native language and lore? – but he wasn’t what you’d call encouraging either. And, as theirs was a one-roomed school with his big desk only forty feet or so away from her own, she liked to draw the children in close to her for story-time.

  This she did today, moving everybody except Tom, Paddy and Nancy into the front two rows and bringing her own chair down off the platform and up close to them. She had promised she’d tell them more about Queen Maeve, the fiery woman at the centre of the epic tale Táin Bó Cualainge, a great queen, daughter of the High King at Tara, very rich and very beautiful, as all the great queens always are.

  She began quiet, drawing them in: “You remember last day, children, how Maeve was arguing with her fourth husband King Ailill over who had the most riches and how riches at that time in Ireland didn’t mean money, but meant land and cattle?”

  They all nodded.

  “And how she needed to get her hands on the Brown Bull of Cooley, the best bull in all Ireland, if she was to have the winning of that argument?”

  Again, nods all round. Some of the eyes were already widening, just two sentences in and already ensnared.

  “All right then. So Maeve got together friends and allies and soldiers into a small army and off she set to win this bull away from the men of Ulster. The journey took a long time and they were tired out by the marching. One night, while stopped for sleep, a seer appeared to Maeve and told her that the men of Ulster were all sick and weakened with labour pains.”

  Peg looked around her young audience. “Do you remember what labour pains are, children? Do you remember that other part of the story that we did before Christmas, when the curse was put on these men for their bad treatment of a woman with child? Making them feel the pain of birth all the time, day after day?

  “Well, you can imagine Maeve’s delight at being informed about this, but the sorceress then told her about one man who had been spared from this curse, a young man called Cúchulainn, a skilled warrior, champion of Ulster, ruthless and strong. The sorceress told her that if Maeve persisted in going to Ulster, Cúchulainn was going to defeat her army. Maeve was very angry to hear this and—”

  The schoolroom door opened, stopping Peg mid-sentence. All the children’s heads turned. The doorway was filled with Father John, his coat off in deference to the fine day, a big patronising smile fixed in place above his white collar. He came in and bade her a good day and a good day to the children and how were they all on this fine day, thank God, thank God, making his way as he was talking down the narrow aisle between the desks to where Master Cole was coming forward through the senior children to greet him.

  The two of them would now go and stand in front of the fire, Peg knew, to warm their self-satisfied posteriors, smoke a pipeful of tobacco each and, in their own minds, put the wrongs of the world to right. The priest often dropped in like this, supposedly on an inspection but really looking for company. Not the company of the sick and dying, mind you, but that of the only man in the village he considered his equal.

  Master Cole set the senior children a passage to copy out of their readers and led the priest across to the fire. Father John would probably come over when he’d finished his pipe and start asking the children questions about what they’d been learning. This now made her feel self-conscious as she picked up near where she’d left off.

  “Maeve decided to march her men on, despite the warning,” she told them. “And she sent a message to Cúchulainn, who agreed to fight any of her Connacht champions man-to-man, in single combat. And this is what he did. Each one he met and each one he killed, until in the end there was only one remaining warrior. Ferdia.

  “Do you remember Ferdia, children? Cúchulainn’s oldest friend and foster-brother who had gone to work for Maeve? Well, naturally, Cúchulainn didn’t want to fight him. He tried to persuade him not to, reminding him of the days they had spent together as boys, training in arms, when both were students of the great female champion, Scathach.

  “‘We were heart companions,’ he said to Ferdia. ‘We were companions in the woods, we were fellows of the same bed, where we used to sleep the balmy sleep.’” Peg loved the musicality of these lines that she had learned by heart and welcomed the chance to quote them.

  “But Ferdia feared h…” Peg’s voice faded as she saw Father John coming through the classroom towards her. She stood in deference to him.

  “Good day, Miss Parle,” the priest boomed in his big public voice, the greeting for the whole classroom, not just her. “Hello, children.”

  “Hello, Father,” the children chanted.

  “So what are we working on today?”

  “We’re learning some of the ancient Irish legends, Father.”

  “Are we now?” He turned to the class. “So, who can tell me something about one of Miss Parle’s ancient Irish legends?”

  Katy Rowe’s hand shot up first. Little Katy was bright as a military button
, though being a Rowe, she’d be lucky if she got to stay on in school past the age of ten.

  “Yes, Katy.” Father John was smiling at her enthusiasm.

  “We were learning about Queen Maeve, Father.”

  “And who is Queen Maeve when she’s at home?”

  “She had four husbands, Father,” said Katy with a how-about-that face. “And her army killed bad men from Ulster. Hundreds of them she killed, ’cause she wanted this bull…er…” Seeing Father John’s forehead folding into furrows, Katy stuttered to a stop.

  Peg knew that Father John was an Ulsterman himself, from the county of Monaghan, but poor Katy didn’t. Thinking she hadn’t explained the story well enough, she tried again. “The queen was able to kill that many of them because they had labour pains, Father.”

  The priest’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

  Katy elaborated, helpfully. “That’s the pains you get when you’re pushing out a baby, Father.”

  The priest turned to Peg. “What sort of a story is this to be telling small children?”

  “Katy got the wrong end…She…It’s one of the oldest Irish legends, Father. It dates from the sixth century.”

  “It’s a pagan story, by the sound of it. I’m surprised at you, Miss Parle.”

  “You have to hear it in its entirety, really, to understand it.”

  “I’m thinking Bible stories would be a lot more elevating.”

  “I didn’t tell the children anything wrong, Father.’ She had, in fact, withheld many things about Maeve contained in the original tale: that she first tried to win the great Bull of Cooley by offering its owner the “friendship of her thighs”, for example. That after she left her first husband, he came to her home place in Tara and violated her while she bathed in the River Boyne. That it was her boast that she was never without one man in the shadow of another. But Peg knew she wouldn’t win any credit from Father John by telling him any of that.

  “You cannot go wrong with a Bible story, Miss Parle.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  He turned to the class. “We’ll forget about Queen Maeve, children. Let me see now, who can answer me this: Who made the world?”

  All the hands went up, Katy’s first, waving furiously. Martin Dunne was nearly halfway up the aisle, waving his hand, calling, “Father! Father!” It wasn’t too often that Martin had an answer to anything.

  “Well, Martin?”

  “God made the world, Father.”

  “Good man. Good man.” Father John put his hand in his pocket and took out one of the lemon sweets he kept for the purpose and fired it at Martin who, when he caught it, couldn’t have been more delighted if it were one of the crown jewels.

  “And who is God?”

  This one was Katy’s. “God is a Spirit Infinitely Perfect,” she chanted in her sing-song way, once Father John gave her the nod. “God Always Was and Always Will Be, World Without End.”

  A sweet came flying through the air at her and her hand shot up, fast as a cracking whip, to catch it. Instead of eating it straight away like Martin, she folded it away into her fist.

  On it went, the priest asking the children the well-worn questions and the children restoring Peg’s standing with their rote-learned grasp of their Catholic catechism. At the end, just before he left, Father John filled his two fists from his pockets and threw both handfuls of sweets up in the air for the children to catch. This was something he always did to conclude his visit and Peg hated it. He would laugh as he watched the children jumping and scrambling, elbowing and pushing each other, but when he was gone she was left to deal with the disappointment of those who were unsuccessful and the agitation of them all.

  “It took me a full half-hour and a blackboard full of sums to quiet them back down,” she told Dan, as they walked, companionably, along the strand. All talk of the Treaty was now set aside, her intention when she’d started to tell the story.

  “I’d love to have seen the priest’s face when the young one said that about pushing out babbies.”

  “You should have heard the helpful little voice on her. You could tell she thought a priest might not understand such things.”

  “So does this mean you’ll have to stop telling the Irish stories?”

  “Indeed and it does not.”

  He laughed at her vehemence.

  “Once the English are gone out of the country, all Irish schools will teach those stories,” she said. “And our own native language too.”

  “You’re right there. Once we have our own Education Department, they’ll look after that.”

  She had meant: once they had a Republic. He was implying that the Treaty had it all fixed up already.

  They were halfway out to Coolanagh now, where the sands were treacherous if you stepped off The Causeway. The tide was retreating, leaving rippling undulations and sand-puddles behind, in which gulls waded with slow, high-footed steps, ignoring their reflections.

  He went back to talking about the Treaty. He just couldn’t leave it alone. About how when the boys around here woke up to the fact there was a war on, the Truce was called, and now but it was all over they were dying for a bit of action. “We can’t do much about the real hotheads but there’s plenty who don’t know what they think and they are waiting for someone they respect to tell them. I’d include my own sister in that.”

  “Norah?”

  He nodded. “You could moderate the message going out to the village, Peg. This Treaty is what the people of Ireland want and the sooner that’s accepted, the better.”

  “Norah knows her own mind,” Peg said, aware that this was not quite true. “And the arguments you’re making... You do realise they are the self-same arguments the people used to make against us when we were fighting the English. You must know that if we went on what the people wanted, there would never have been a shot fired.”

  “If ye had to go out and be shot yourselves, ye women might be a bit more careful what ye said.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Dan!”

  He shrugged.

  “Dan! How can you say such a thing? While you were in jail, where nothing worse could happen to you, we were the ones who had the soldiers raiding the house, never knowing what time of the day or night they might show up, and what they might find or what they might do to us.”

  In the months coming up to the Truce, they had got ever more vicious. Peg had lost count of the number of times they came swooping into Mucknamore, turning everyone out of the pub onto the road while they wrecked the place, pretending they were looking for something. Molly had the same thing up at hers and the O’Donovans too. And Lama White’s house was burnt out because his mother said the wrong thing to one of them.

  Families had started to vacate their homes at sunset, to sleep out in barns or in fields so as not to be in bed when the soldiers came swinging in, banging on doors, letting off bullets or grenades, threatening to set houses and farm buildings alight, or to shoot or bayonet people in their nightshirts.

  And she had had to balance her work for the movement with her schoolteaching and her home duties. More than once, she had imagined what a relief it would be to do what only boys were allowed to do: go on the run with a band of others of like mind and carry out ambushes and raids on barracks. To have nothing only that to think about, and to receive the honour and glory given to those who go out and fight, seemed like luxury.

  Her role was more humble and she accepted that and tried to be cheerful and to rise to any task requested of her. But now to hear him say she and the girls were little better than cowards, stirring it up from the sidelines…That cut deep, so it did.

  Not wanting him to see just how deep, she hung her head, and in so doing noticed that she had chalk-dust marks all across her skirt. She bent to brush them away and what did he do then only reach over as if to help her? Through the fabric of her skirt she could feel his hand, rubbing against her leg. Blood flooded her face, a blush so swift
and so absolute that it was nearly sore against her skin as she pulled back in fright.

  When she’d composed herself enough to look up, she saw he knew exactly what he was doing. His mouth was stretched up on one side into that devilish half-grin of his.

  “I’d better head back,” she said, still blushing.

  “Ah, come on, walk on a bit. We’ll take a rest further out.”

  She knew what that meant. “No.”

  “‘No’,” he said, imitating her voice. “Why is it all ‘no’ with you these days? You were willing enough before.”

  She straightened out in shock when she heard him say that, as much at his tone as at the words. This was even worse than what he said a minute ago, the derision in his voice each time.

  “I’m only joking,” he rushed, when he saw how she was taking it. “That came out all wrong.”

  She turned as if to go back.

  “For Christ’s sake, woman. Don’t make a meal out of it.”

  She started to walk away.

  “All right, suit yourself. I’ll go on ahead so. If you don’t mind.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” she said. But she did. It would be much more gentlemanly of him to accompany her back. She felt like a servant, dismissed.

  “It’s going to be a lovely night,” he said, coaxing, his voice softer now. “I might call down to your house later.”

  “To the house?” Her heart leapt. She turned back, caught his expression. “Oh, you mean, on the sly.”

  “I’ll throw a few stones up at your window. Around half twelve?”

  “I don’t know, Dan.”

  “I’ll bring a lamp. We could come back out here then with more time. And no one to bother us.”

  “I don’t know,” she said again.

  “Don’t make up your mind now. I’ll drop down and you can see how you feel later.”

  The walk back away from him, along the sandy Causeway path, was awkward, feeling that he might be watching her from behind and also aware of the windows of her own house, knowing that if her mother was upstairs in her bedroom and looking out the window she could see them both. She walked mindlessly, snarled in thought. Respect was lacking in him, she had to face that. He was far too presuming.