by A. O'Connor
Helen’s warm smile turned sour as a realisation dawned on her. “Oh, Kitty – please, tell me you didn’t!”
“Didn’t what?” asked Kitty casually as she went to the mirror and fixed her hair.
“Oh, dear God – you did! Kitty – how could you? With Michael of all people!” Helen’s usual tranquil demeanour had disappeared.
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s a free agent, as am I.”
“Why shouldn’t you! There’s every reason in the world for you and him not to go anywhere near each other!” Helen was appalled. “What is wrong with you? You’re just out of an engagement with Lionel!”
“Lionel was a mistake, everyone knew that. It was just a reaction to what I’d been through with the riot and seeing that young policeman shot dead in front of me. Lionel was a port in a storm.”
“And what are you to Michael Collins? Only one of many ports he has docked into!” said Helen.
“That’s not true!”
“Yes, it is! Michael Collins is a flirtatious womaniser. He has stayed in more safe houses run by women than I have had hot dinners!”
“There’s nothing going on between Mick and those women – it’s part of the war!”
“He would say that! Half the intelligence operation he runs is women: cloakroom attendants, waitresses, receptionists, post-room staff – he has all these women eating out of the palm of his hand! And you – poor deluded creature that you are – have just joined those ranks!”
“You are talking nonsense!” Kitty shook her head. “If the truth be told, I always had a soft spot for Mick. Right from the moment I met him I was interested in him. And he was in me too! He said he and Harry had a bet who could go out with me. But he didn’t pursue me at that time.”
“And why do you suppose that was?” snapped Helen, putting her hands on her hips.
“Oh, I know Mick was interested in you for a time, Helen. That was plain to see, but you missed your chance with him and now you need to let go!”
Helen’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Me to let go!”
“Yes, whatever feelings there were between you and Mick it was a very long time ago … you’re married to Paul now and Mick should be allowed to get on with his own life.”
Helen almost blurted out the truth about Michael coming to her bedroom. She closed her mouth tightly to stop herself from saying anything that she would regret. And she would regret it. Not only would she hurt Kitty deeply but then it would get out that Michael Collins was in her bedroom the night before her wedding. How could she explain that to her new husband, as well as to everyone else? But how could she stop this ridiculous situation between Kitty and Michael from going any further? How could she get Kitty to realise that Michael had just been on the rebound, having got a final rejection from her and that in the midst of the raw emotion of the wedding day, coupled with copious amount of alcohol, he had latched on to the nearest substitute – her sister!
“And what about Harry?” she asked instead.
“What about Harry?”
“Don’t you think you have messed that poor man around enough? Between getting engaged to Lionel, without even telling him, to now having a liaison with his best friend? It’s immoral!”
“It’s not immoral! It’s unfortunate they are friends, but not immoral! I care for Harry deeply, but Mick – I don’t know – Mick is –” She searched for the right words but couldn’t come up with them.
“Oh, dear God,” muttered Helen as she sank down on the bed, realising Kitty had fallen in love with Michael.
There was a knock on the door. Kitty went to answer.
“Is Helen with you, Kitty?” Larry asked.
“Yes, she’s here.”
Larry stepped in. “Helen, Paul’s waiting for you down in the lobby. The taxi is ready to take you to the port – your honeymoon awaits!”
Helen stood up reluctantly, went to Kitty and kissed her cheek, whispering, “He won’t bring you any happiness.”
“Come on, Kitty! Get a move on!” said Larry as Kitty stood staring after Helen. “We’re all gathering to see them off!”
“I’ll be right down,” said Kitty, turning her back as tears sprang to her eyes.
Helen walked down the main stairs of the hotel, distracted and disturbed by the news she had just heard from Kitty. Michael and her sister were both adults and she should, as Kitty said, just back away and let them deal with it. But it just seemed wrong to her. The guests who had been staying at the hotel were gathered in the hotel lobby and clapped as she came down the stairs. She beamed at them all.
Paul was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs and she took his arm.
“Have a wonderful honeymoon!” a voice called.
“Thank you!” said Helen as they made their way to the front door.
She spotted Michael amongst the familiar faces and her smile dropped. She needed to talk to him and now was her only opportunity. When they got back from the honeymoon, she would be going to live in Enniskillen and she might not see him for quite some time. Goodness knows what could have happened between Michael and Kitty by then.
“I just need a couple of minutes,” she said to Paul, letting go of his arm.
“Helen! We have to go now! We’re already running late and we’ll miss the boat!”
Helen paused and then nodded, and they walked out into the sunshine.
Kitty had come down the stairs and joined the rest of the guests as they followed Helen and Paul outside. She saw Michael among the others as everyone waved and cheered and the bridal car took off. She went and stood beside him.
“How are you this morning?” she asked as she waved at the automobile.
He turned to her and smiled sheepishly. “I’m good – it was a great day yesterday.”
“It certainly was …” She gestured down the street. “Let’s walk … we need to talk.”
He looked at her warily and nodded.
Kitty was mindful of Helen’s departing words. She realised she needed to protect herself from being hurt and Helen had strongly said that Michael was not to be trusted.
A little way down the street she said, “Well, that was a fine way to treat your best friend. Kissing his girl when he is on the other side of the Atlantic!”
He looked at her, aghast. “So you’re Harry’s girl now, are you – that’s not what you said last night!”
“You know Harry and I have an – understanding,” she said.
“I don’t know what you and Harry have – particularly after the interlude with Lionel!”
Kitty flushed. “Well, that’s what that was – just an interlude!”
Michael fell silent, struggling to adjust to her about-turn.
“I suppose I got carried away in the moment last night,” he said then. “The wine, the music – a beautiful woman. I felt bad this morning when I woke up … I do feel guilty about Harry.”
“So you regret it?” It was more of an accusation than a question.
“No. I don’t,” he confessed. “I don’t regret a moment of it. In fact, it’s the first time – in as long as I can remember – that I’ve felt happy, truly happy. Even when I was feeling guilty this morning over Harry, I had a spring in my step the likes of which I can’t remember.”
“I won’t lie, Mick. I won’t say I haven’t had feelings for you this past while. And maybe if Harry wasn’t in the picture …”
“But he’s not in the picture! He’s in New York!”
“He’s in love with me. He tells me in every letter. He asks me to go to live with him in America. But it wouldn’t be the life for me, running around city after city.”
“That’s beside the point! There’s no point in stringing Harry along if you are not in love with him, Kitty. It’s not fair on him.”
“So now you have Harry’s best interest at heart? After last night?” she asked scathingly.
“I’d lay down my life for Harry,” said Michael.
“While you steal his girl at the same t
ime?”
“I told you before that Harry and I had a bet when we first met you about who could win you and we agreed there would be no hard feelings whoever you chose – if you chose either of us!”
“But that was a long time ago, Mick. Harry would be shocked to find out you have re-entered the race at this stage in the game.”
“Harry is like me – we are practical about these things – all’s fair in love and war!” said Michael.
“Love, is it?” She stopped and looked at him, eyebrows raised.
He halted. “I have to go. I have a meeting with Dev.”
“Alright,” she sighed.
They stood awkwardly, looking at each other.
“So, where do we go from here?” she asked.
“I’ll write to you and I’ll see you soon,” he said, bending down and kissing her.
He then turned and she watched him striding back to the hotel, his eyes constantly surveying his surroundings. She bit her lip, Helen’s words of warning screaming through her head. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to help herself from running when he called.
CHAPTER 22
In May that year the decision was taken to stage a full-on military attack and occupation of the Custom House Building, the administrative headquarters of British rule in Ireland. The resulting battle saw the burning and destruction of the building. Michael had opposed a direct attack, fearing the casualties that would be suffered. The burning of the building was a massive propaganda boost for the Irish as all the British administrative records for running the country were destroyed. The government no longer had the means to collect taxes – even if they found a tax collector brave enough to do his job.
Harry Boland looked at the subtitle of the article of the New York Times which read ‘Priceless Records Lost’, referring to the fact that records dating back to the 1600s had been destroyed, including countless birth, marriage and death records from all over the country. Harry fully appreciated the blow the attack dealt to the British government’s reputation and esteem around the world, but there had been five casualties on the IRA side and up to a hundred of their best men captured. It had been a victory but at what cost? Meanwhile the world looked on with increasing condemnation of the violence widespread through Ireland.
In Granard, the hotel and stores reopened and the Kiernan family returned to work and life as normal, or as normal as it could be during the war. Kitty waited for the post anxiously every day. Some days there would be a letter from Michael and some days one from Harry. Harry’s letters were always romantic and full of declarations of love. Michael’s letters were always more reticent – it was harder for Kitty to figure out what he was thinking and more importantly what he thought of her. When they got together, she immediately felt the attraction. She tried to travel up to Dublin whenever she got the opportunity and whenever Michael was free. But they often ended up arguing, often over silly unimportant things. He stood up to her, she realised. He didn’t let her always get her own way. He had a powerful and strong personality and wasn’t afraid to display it. It made her crave him all the more.
One Saturday afternoon she met him on Grafton Street. She had been doing some shopping.
“Do you ever get sick of shopping?” he asked as he looked down at the hatbox she was carrying.
“No! If I went around in dowdy clothes, you’d have something else to say then.” She held out the hatbox to him. “Will you carry this for me?”
He looked at her incredulously. “Well, blast you anyway, woman! I will not carry your hatbox for you! If you bought it then you can carry it!”
He went off marching down the street and she rushed to keep up with him.
“Some gentleman you are!”
“You had your chance to marry a donkey when you were engaged to Lionel! You can carry your own shopping … what would it do to my reputation if I was seen carrying a hatbox!”
“If Harry was here, he’d be delighted to carry it for me.”
Michael stopped walking abruptly, turned to her and put his hands on his hips.
“Would he indeed? Then he’s the bigger eejit, isn’t he?”
They glared at each other and then burst out laughing.
“Come on and we’ll get some dinner,” he said, putting an arm around her waist, and they walked off down the street.
CHAPTER 23
Hazel Lavery was hosting a drinks party in her drawing room at 5 Cromwell Place. She had invited an interesting collection of people from George Bernard Shaw to the writer J.M. Barrie to Winston’s new private secretary Eddie Marsh who also was the agent for the deceased war poet Rupert Brooks. And, of course, Winston and Clementine Churchill were present too. As she looked around at everyone mixing freely, she thought that this was what she loved – bringing clever, intelligent but diverse people together.
She stood at the drinks cabinet making cocktails.
“Now, Gordon – hand me the vermouth,” she instructed. The butler gave her the bottle and she lashed a good part into the cocktail shaker.
“Careful, Hazel – we don’t want to be inebriated before ten!” cried a guest.
“Why not? We don’t have prohibition here – thank God!” she said as she took a bottle of angostura and added a splash into her concoction. “I have to say, out of all the things that the country of my birth has done, bringing in prohibition last year was by far the most stupid!”
“Hear, hear, Hazel!” shouted Winston in agreement and raised his whiskey glass.
“Friends of mine in Newport have told me that they stocked their wine cellars to the hilt before prohibition came in last year. But now their cellars are running dangerously low and they simply do not know what they are going to do when they run out, which they are bound to do in the not-too-distant future!”
“Doesn’t bear thinking about!” shuddered a guest as he protectively held his cocktail glass close to him.
“I’ve told them all that there is only one solution,” said Hazel as she began to furiously jiggle the silver cocktail shaker. “Leave America and come live here and join the party in London!”
“And tell them to bring their fortunes with them – the exchequer could do with the revenue!” said Winston.
“Maybe if you lowered the taxes a little you might entice some of our wealthy back from their exile on the Riviera, Winston!” retorted Hazel.
“We will know all about taxes should the day ever arrive that we get a Labour government!” said Winston, causing a collective groan of fear and dread amongst the well-heeled guests in the room.
“I’m not too sure – I think their leader Ramsey MacDonald is rather attractive. I think he would make the most interesting of dinner guests,” said Hazel.
“Hazel!” tutted Clementine. “I honestly do think there is nobody you would not fraternise with. The more controversial the better! Labour leaders and all!”
“Well, life would be very boring if we only did what we were meant to do!” said Hazel, filling Clementine’s glass. “Winston, can I tempt you?” She shook the shaker in her hand.
“No, I am quite happy with my whiskey and soda, Hazel. I shall leave this new fashion of cocktails alone – I daresay it’s not for me.”
“Well, you never know until you try,” said Hazel.
“I have some interesting news for you,” said Winston, lowering his voice, taking her by the arm and drawing her away from the others.
“Yes?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement. She knew by his tone he was going to share political news with her, and she loved when he treated her as his confidante.
“Lloyd George is going to give the order that British troops are to stop all reprisals in Ireland,” he said.
Hazel nearly dropped her cocktail shaker as she covered her mouth in excitement.
“Was it the Pope’s plea?” she asked.
“General international condemnation has somewhat forced our hand on the matter,” informed Winston. “The colonies – South Africa and India – are pl
eading for the war to stop and the whole matter is in danger of destabilising the empire. If we can’t be seen to bring order in Ireland, then how can we elsewhere? Then there is America, of course.” He grimaced. “We need favourable terms for our war loans from Congress in Washington and no chance of that while the war is still raging in Ireland.”
“I see,” said Hazel, digesting it all.
“Of course, His Majesty the King as well is insistent something must be done to stop the bloodshed,” said Winston.
“His Majesty is such a good man,” stressed Hazel.
“All in all – there has been a cross section of pressure that has forced the government’s hand.”
“And what is it hoped will happen now?” said Hazel excitedly.
“We are to extend the hand of friendship – ask for a truce on both sides – and ask the Irish for talks to find a permanent solution.”
“A truce!” said Hazel, deep in thought as she considered where all this could lead. “And what if they don’t agree – the Irish?”
“Well, in that case we will have been seen by the international community to have done our best and the Irish will have been exposed as being impossible to deal with and we will bring martial law throughout the whole country and – whatever it takes – we will impose law and order on Ireland.” He looked at her pointedly and then moved away to chat to other guests.
A few moments later, as he engaged another guest in conversation, he glanced back at Hazel who was standing stationary where he had left her, deep in thought, clutching her cocktail shaker tightly.
He loved Hazel deeply as a friend but was also aware that she was not known for her discretion. By telling Hazel private British policy on this matter he was sure it would get back to sources on the Irish side. She would do his work for him without his ever having to say a word, which he would not be allowed to do. The Irish needed to know the consequences of rejecting this one-off offer of peace and Winston was sure Hazel was just the woman to let them know that.
