by Orna Ross
“Anyhow, we obliged him,” said Barney. “The lads made good the defences and have vacated the church until noon tomorrow so the Protestant prayers can be said.”
“I think it’s a generous gesture,” said Peg. “It shows our finer instincts have not been blunted.”
“It might be more of a military motive,” Barney said. “Reinforcements are still coming in. The more we have the better, before we make our move.”
“So it’ll be tomorrow, you think?”
“That’s what everyone’s saying. Tomorrow afternoon, probably.”
Tipsy bounded over to them, like an over-keen hound. “I’ve got a room for ye, girls.”
“Do you? Thanks,’ said Peg. ‘That’s great.”
“It’s number 27. On the second floor. Ye’d want to be taking it now to keep it.”
“We’ve cups to collect yet, Tipsy. Is there a key you could give us?”
“The key for it can’t be found, which was how I got it. I’m after putting a few sandbags on the beds but if ye don’t stake your claim, somebody else will take it over.”
Peg frowned. “We don’t want to be putting any men out of their beds. Norah and I can bed down anywhere.”
“No,” he said. “It’s yours.”
“But it’s the men need their sleep, more than us. If there’s action tomorrow they’ll want their wits about them.”
“No. It’s for you,” he said, in the tone of a stubborn two-year-old.
While this one-sided conversation was going on, Norah and Barney had drawn together. Now Norah whispered in Peg’s ear to ask if she’d mind if they went for a walk. Barney stood apart, pretending not to listen.
“Go on ahead,” Peg said. “I can finish off here.”
“Are you sure?” she said, her back already turned. And then they were gone, leaving a lonely moment behind. If only…But there was not time for any of that here. And just as well.
Tipsy piled some empty cups onto her tray. “So, will I go up and mind it for you? Until you’re ready?”
“Really, Tipsy, there’s no need to go to all this trouble…”
“Not a bit of trouble.” Specks of saliva spattered out of his mouth on each “b”.
“All right, so. Thank you.”
It was three-quarters of an hour later before she got upstairs, but he was still standing guard outside the door as she knew he would be. His face spilled into his slack, sloppy smile to see her and he threw the door open as proud as a bridegroom on honeymoon night.
Two twin beds, one under each window. Neat brown bedspreads. A sink with running water. “It’s lovely,” she said, feeling a compliment was called for.
“Ye’ll need to put that dressing table against the door to keep it closed. Otherwise they’ll be coming in on top of you all night.”
“We’ll be grand.”
“And you’re at the back here, so even if there is shooting…”
“I don’t think there will be, not tonight. Where are you sleeping yourself?”
“Downstairs.”
“On the floor, I suppose?”
He shrugged.
“I meant what I said, Tipsy, there’s no need—”
His big wet smile disallowed any more objections.
She shrugged. “All right, so. If you’re sure. Thanks again.”
She had her hand on the door handle when he said her name – “Peg” – and she heard in his voice that he was marshalling his courage to say something. Something she knew she didn’t want him saying.
“Goodnight, so,” she said, and made to close the door behind her.
“Wait,” he said, putting a foot in the doorway. “Wait a minute. I—”
“Yoo-hoo!” came a voice. It was Molly, bustling along the corridor, waving a key at them. “Yoo-hoo! Look! I got one too!”
Peg was never so glad to see Molly in all her life.
“Have ye heard the news? Fleming is on the rampage. Pat Simmons and his lot got into the store and started passing bottles of stout around after strict orders that no drink was to be touched. Carty caught them and raised the roof.”
“Carty did right,” Peg said. “It’s a war we’re here for, not a leisure camp.”
“Marky Field and Pat Murphy have been put on guard duty, to stop any more being taken.”
“Yerra, no harm was meant, I’d say,” said Tipsy. “Haven’t they had a long old day of it?”
“Don’t be talking daft,” replied Peg. “If they start on the drink, discipline will go out the window.”
“That’s what Carty said,” Molly nodded.
“That’s right, of course, when I think about it. Of course that’s right,” Tipsy agreed
“I don’t know about you two,” Peg said, “but I’m exhausted. I’m off to bed now. Goodnight to you both.” And she slipped in and shut the door on Molly’s surprise.
Peg leaned back against the door. She could hear their voices, Molly saying, “Is she all right?”
“I don’t know,” said Tipsy.
“Where are you going?”
“Duty calls.”
“Does it now? No sign of it calling you a minute ago, before I came along.”
“I was only showing Peg her room.”
“Of course you were.” Molly’s tone was facetious and, from the other side of the door, Peg could feel Tipsy’s confusion. After a long silence, he said, “I’d better go.”
Molly burst out laughing. “Goodnight, Tipsy,” she said, as his footsteps retreated. “Don’t go getting yourself shot now.”
As far as Peg could hear, only one set of steps moved away. She imagined Molly outside the door, looking after Tipsy’s disappearing back, mulling over possibilities. She moved away from the door and, sure enough, a moment later heard a knock-knock and Molly stuck her head in. “Did I interrupt something there?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You left in a mighty hurry, that’s all.”
“Did I? I’m just tired. It was a long cycle we had today.”
“You don’t look that tired.”
Peg wasn’t going to answer that.
“Maybe yourself and Mr Delaney are becoming more than friends?”
“Molly, don’t talk daft.”
“I suppose he’s no great shakes. But it would do you good to be with someone else. Get you over Mr D.O.D.”
“Oh, I’m well over that, believe me.”
“So why not give poor Tipsy a look-in? He has it bad for you. You must know that. Everyone knows that.”
“I’m only going to say it to you once more, so open your ears, girl. Not a chance in God’s Heaven.”
Molly rolled her eyes.
“Listen, Molly, I’m awful tired…We’ll see you in the kitchen in the morning, Norah and I. About half-six, isn’t it?”
“Between half-six and seven.”
“Grand. We’ll be there.” Peg sat down on the bed.
“Speaking of Norah, where is she?”
Did the girl never give up nosing? “I’m not sure.”
“Oh?”
“There’s no ‘Oh?’ about it. She’s off doing some job.”
“Is she? What job?”
“Molly, will you give it a rest? I don’t know. She didn’t tell me what job. Are you going to go -- or do I have to throw you out?”
“You are throwing me out, grumpy-drawers. All right, I’m gone. Goodnight.”
On Wednesday morning, Barney woke with the dawn. He could feel his skin and muscles sore from sleeping on hard ground, but it didn’t matter, not a whit. Not a smidgeon, not a damn. The beat of his blood was humming. Norah O’Donovan’s boots were beside his face on the floor, as she took what sleep she could on a hard chair. Jesus God, that face, so female. Even the way it was, all leaned over to one side against a first-aid pack he’d rolled up into a rough pillow for her, her mouth slightly open, a sliver of wet visible on her bottom lip, tendrils of hair escaping their clips, even like that, she was the best looking gi
rl in the place. By a crooked mile. Wake up and look, he wanted to shout into the room full of bodies that lay still caught in sleep, angled into every kind of attitude and position about the place. That’s my trench coat the best looking girl in the place is using as a blanket, tucked around her arms. And look at me too. This morning, he was in on a job, a proper mission, with Ernie O’Malley, no less. The famous OC, fresh from the fieriest battles in Dublin, sent south to organise Wexford. With Ernie O’Malley on their side, they surely could not fail.
From his worm-eye position, he surveyed the room. Since Monday, they had spent their nights and much of their days in this storehouse on the river, the property of a Mr Yates. The only action so far had been half-hearted sniping from a safe distance, the only casualty a young fellow hit by a ricochet off the hotel wall. Peg and Norah had been off kitchen duty, allocated to communications and despatch. Republicans had seven different posts around the town, all needing to be kept in communication with each other. It was dangerous work, cycling through streets with bullets flying, but of course they were proud to do it. Unlike some of the other girls, no complaint passed their lips about scarce food, roughly served, or sleep that had to be taken in snatches, fully dressed and booted.
Look at us. Soldier and the auxiliary. Fighting side-by-side. He had told Norah how he admired her bravery, especially after Dan’s defection. He had told her everything, everything, in snatched whispers, surrounded by others, the noise of sniper-shots clacking. Things he never thought he’d reveal to a living soul, things he hardly knew he thought himself. And she was entrusting him the same way. And allowing him to hold her, and kiss her, and touch her. This was one outcome of the fight he hadn’t expected. In Mucknamore, it would have taken them months – years, maybe – to get to where they were with each other now. Here, away from the watchful eyes of parents and elders, in the hub of danger, the usual reservations and protocol had melted, even for the most circumspect girl.
Everybody knew about them now. She had shoved her worry about what her parents would say forward into the future and he had promised her he would protect her in whatever ordeal she might face back in Mucknamore. That had been the only time she seemed to waver in her belief in him, turning two gooseberry-green eyes on him, that were fogged over with questions. It wasn’t idle talk with him, he meant it all the way. He was quite prepared to marry her and keep her, or take her, from anything that might be trouble to her. But he was shy to say that out so soon, afraid he’d frighten her off.
It was a wonder she could sleep like that on that wooden chair. He pushed himself up on one elbow to get a better look at her. Her breathing was heavy, almost but not quite a snore. For comfort, she’d loosened the top two buttons of her blouse and he could see a white V of skin at her neck. He followed the line of it down her clothed body. Her figure was neat and soft and tantalising. Sleep made it look like it was on offer to him, relaxed in a way she would never be when her waking self was in control. He checked the clock: quarter-past five. Time to rise. He stood, and bent and tucked the trench coat up around her shoulders; he’d do without it. He dropped a small kiss onto her forehead and she moved in her sleep.
“Oh— Is it – Barney…?”
“It’s morning,” he whispered. “Time’s come.”
Her eyes sprang open. ‘Oh, Barney, God keep you safe. Don’t forget to come back.”
She reached her arms up and around his neck and kissed him full on the lips with the kind of kiss they’d got used to in recent days. The kind of kiss that made him want to stay, but they were surrounded by others, some already waking, and besides, duty called. Proper military duty. He detached her hands from behind his neck, placed one kiss on each bracelet of wrinkles round her wrists and tucked her arms back under his coat.
Gun in hand, canvas ammunition sling across his shoulder, he picked his way between the bodies down to the back exit. The door squeaked as he opened it. No firing to disturb the morning. Not yet. He sat on a doorstep to put on his boots, attached the ammo sling to his waist, checked his supply. These first minutes of the summer day were beyond lovely, bright as a coin new-minted, and he stopped for a second to breathe in the sweet dewy morning air, feeling the life within himself expand.
He set off again. Turning into the next empty street, he saw two fellows up ahead: Lama and a chap called Denis Heffernan. They were headed where he was going – it was Heffernan who put the job their way. He ran to catch up and jumped in between them, slapping each of them on the back. “We’re on, so?”
“As on as we’ll ever be, boy,” said Heffernan.
Lama just nodded but Barney could see excitement rising off him like steam off boiling water. Frank Carty had got a tip-off that the enemy had secretly occupied the post office, planning to ambush Republicans from there. But the surprise would be the other way round: instead of them being ambushed, Ernie O’Malley was to lead them in an attack on the building, putting a brake on the army’s plans before they even had a chance to get them going.
Eleven men met at the corner of Friary Place. Ernie O’Malley and another Dublin-man, Paddy O’Brien; Paddy Fleming, head of the Third Eastern Division and Frank Carty, adjutant; five Enniscorthy volunteers, Denis Heffernan, Dick Sullivan, Thomas Roche, Michael Kirwan, Andrew Redmond; and Barney Parle and Charles (Lama) White, the Mucknamore men. Good men, true men, one and all. Rifles and pistols to the ready, and a plentiful supply of ammunition and grenades.
O’Malley – a wiry redhead, terse and intense – outlined the plan. They would rush the narrow lane leading to the back of the post office, smash the glass in the windows and, through the holes, throw in a series of hand grenades.
“Bit rough, isn’t it?” Heffernan whispered, out of the side of his mouth to Barney. “Lobbing grenades into a room full of sleeping men?”
Barney shrugged. O’Malley burned with the sort of single-mindedness usually seen in missionary priests, but wars weren’t won by the fainthearted. And the aim was to win, wasn’t it?
Down the hill they trooped, directing their rifles right and left as they went, but encountering no trouble. Turning the corner, they passed a pub that commanded a view of the lane, but none of them took any notice of that. And why would they? It stood as shuttered and silent as the other buildings around it. Past it they marched, down the lane, steady and quiet as they could be in their boots, towards the red-brick post office that faced them at the end. The windows were barred, but O’Malley managed to shatter the glass with the butt of his gun and Fleming, Carty and Sullivan copied him. Smash! Smash! Smash!
O’Malley took the catch off the first grenade, lobbed it in. Then a second one. Everyone stopped: they heard the pop of bursting cases and they pulled back, leaned away from the building, hands over their heads to the blast. But the blast didn’t come. In its place, silence lengthened until it became obvious that it wasn’t going to shatter.
“Fuck it!” said Fleming. “Don’t tell me. More faulty ammo.”
The attention of all eleven men was on the red-brick building with the smashed windows. They didn’t hear the window of the public house behind them sliding open, nor see the barrels of three guns nudging out and the crack of rifle fire behind them came as a complete surprise. Denis Heffernan fell instantly to the ground, folding like a concertina. Another series of cracks and Paddy O’Brien staggered and sprawled forward, his collar shooting red. Michael Kirwan shouted, “I’m hit. Jesus, I’m hit.”
O’Malley turned and emptied his pistol in the direction of the fire. Tom Roche and Barney copied him, while at the same time trying to move towards safety. The others had scattered, as fast as their love of life could carry them. Kirwan too, despite his wound, was running.
Fleming and Carty, the two nearest the wounded O’Brien, lifted and carried him between them, hauling him back along the lane behind the protective fire of O’Malley, Roche and Barney Parle. Roche took a graze in the face, cried out but carried on, retreating backwards, firing all the way. Somehow, they succeeded in get
ting the injured man around the corner without being gunned down. Barney and O’Malley took cover in a shallow gateway in the wall near where Denis Heffernan had fallen.
The shooting ceased. Barney could hear Heffernan trying to say an Act of Contrition. “Oh…my God…” Slowly he spoke, haltingly, the sound draining from his voice. “I am…am heartily…sorry…”
“It must be a habit with him,” O’Malley said, “to be able to say it like that when he is dying.”
Barney stared at the young man on the ground, struggling with his last prayer. He wanted to turn his eyes away from the sight but they were riveted onto the contorted body. “Is he? Dying?”
“I’m afraid he is.”
Heffernan never got to finish his prayer: he let a small shuddering gurgle and his voice stuttered to a stop. O’Malley hesitated, but as no more shots came, he went out into the lane. Barney followed. O’Malley put his fingers on the wrist pulse.
“Nothing”’ he said, and he dropped the arm, in a careless way that made Barney flinch. Why be squeamish about it? Heffernan didn’t know what was done to him now, but still…
A thread of blood leaked from the corner of the dead boy’s mouth.
“Did you know him?” O’Malley asked.
“I only met him first a few days ago.” Yet he felt nearer to him than others he’d known his entire life and he was vibrating with a strange sense of disbelief. This was happening. It had happened. And now they had to pick him up. O’Malley took the legs so Barney grabbed him under the arms, took the weight of him on his chest. The head fell to the side, the neck at an impossible angle, but they proceeded, back down the lane, hugging the side of the wall as they went, nervous in case of more shots.
O’Malley’s talk was all about Paddy O’Brien. The two of them had fought side by side against the Tans, he explained to Barney between breaths, and had been together in the Four Courts in Dublin since last April. When the Four Courts was attacked, O’Brien was one of the worst injured but he was determined to get back into the fight. As soon as he could walk, he had joined them in Enniscorthy, his head bandaged to hold it together. He was unfit for service, really. “But…” puffed O’Malley, “his eagerness to help…was greater than his strength…His weak and wounded body…was made to…obey.”
