by Joe Joyce
The Harbusches walked on at a steady pace, not talking, looking neither left nor right, he waddling slightly with the gait of an overweight man, she swaying seductively on her high heel shoes. They continued down South Leinster Street and into Nassau Street. From behind the wall of Trinity College came the smack of a hard ball on a cricket bat followed by a sprinkling of applause. A light stream of traffic went by in both directions, the growl of car engines interspersed by the clip-clop of an occasional dray. They went past a succession of bookshops.
‘You read it?’ Gifford pointed to a copy of Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler in the window of Fred Hanna’s. It was alongside The Whiteoak Chronicles by Mazo de la Roche, the biggest selling non-fiction and fiction books of the week.
‘I don’t have time. Maybe after the war.’
‘You might be reciting it by then. The new catechism.’
‘Seven hundred pages,’ Duggan said. ‘I’m supposed to be reading it. Father Murphy’s translation.’
‘Heap of shit.’
‘You’ve read it?’
‘No,’ Gifford said. ‘That’s what I heard in a pub. Mind you, the fellow that said it found himself in the centre of an argument. He has a point, the others said. Hitler.’
‘They’d all read it?’ Duggan said in surprise.
‘Probably not. Did you ever know actual knowledge to get in the way of a pub argument?’
‘You think they’re going to win?’
‘Looking good for Adolf,’ Gifford shrugged. ‘France is tottering.’
‘But they still have a big army, mostly intact,’ Duggan said, relaying mess chat he had overheard.
‘All the same to me. Whoever wins will need policemen. They’ll shoot everybody in military intelligence, of course. First thing the victor always does. Can’t trust you lads with your warped minds.’
‘Thanks,’ Duggan said. ‘I’m sure they’ll shoot the secret police too.’
‘Interesting. You think that’s what we are? Secret police?’ Gifford turned to him. ‘You a republican?’
‘I’m a member of Óglaigh na hÉireann. Like it says on my cap that I’m not wearing but you can still see.’
‘Not the Óglaigh na hÉireann that’s causing a lot of trouble at the moment? Bombed our headquarters in the castle last month and wants Hansi’s friends to win the war.’
‘No. The Óglaigh na hÉireann that’ll defend Ireland against all comers.’
‘Right,’ Gifford said, as if that explained everything.
The Harbusches turned into Grafton Street and stopped on the pavement, waiting to cross the road. He and Duggan also stopped, waiting to cross near them, and then followed them up the street on the other side.
‘Ah,’ Gifford said. ‘Going to the bank.’
But they stopped just short of the junction with Wicklow Street, outside Weir’s jewellery shop, and Eliza bent down to kiss Hans on the cheek and went into the jewellers. ‘Stick with her,’ Gifford said. ‘Meet back in my hideout.’
Duggan went into the shop and tried to adjust from the brightness outside to the dark, wood-lined interior. She had stopped at the first display case inside the door and he almost bumped into her, catching her scent, something musky, as he went around her. There were no other customers. A salesman was saying ‘Good day, madam’ to her as Duggan wandered down the counter, looking in glass cases at rings, gold watches, silver watches, brooches. He retraced his steps slowly, feigning interest, trying to hear what she was saying, looking her way while pretending to look sideways at the contents of a case. The salesman was laying out a selection of gold necklaces for her. She picked up one, draped it over her fingers and held her hand out in front of her, letting it swing from side to side.
‘If you’d like to try it on,’ the salesman said, producing a handheld mirror from under the counter.
‘How much is this one?’ she pointed at another one. Her accent was diamond-sharp English.
Duggan didn’t hear the reply as another salesman appeared in front on him and said, ‘May I help you, sir?’ There was a barely noticeable pause before the ‘sir’.
‘No, I’m, ah, just looking,’ Duggan stammered. ‘Thanks.’
‘An engagement ring, is it?’ the salesman opened his hands over the display case between them.
Duggan nodded.
‘Do you have any idea of the young lady’s preferences?’ The salesman was cadaverous, in his late thirties and balding prematurely.
‘Not really, I’m afraid.’
‘Single diamond? Cluster? Type? Shape? Cut? Number of carats?’
Duggan shrugged, helpless. He glanced towards Eliza Harbusch who was looking at herself in a mirror, moving her head from side to side and smiling at something her salesman was saying.
‘Colour? Grade? Clarity? Facets?’
Duggan pointed at a single diamond at random. ‘How much is that one?’
The salesman hesitated, then opened the case, and looked at the coded tag tied to the ring. ‘Four hundred pounds,’ he said. ‘Well, three hundred and ninety nine and nineteen and eleven pence actually.’
‘Oh,’ Duggan blanched, beginning to blush and wish he was out of there.
‘These start at about two hundred,’ the salesman waved his hand over the case like a blessing. ‘I would suggest that you try and determine the young lady’s preference. And finger size.’
Duggan nodded, grateful for the out.
‘Perhaps you might consider the Happy Ring House. They have a, er, wider price range there.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Beside the Pillar.’
Duggan headed for the door. As he passed, the salesman was telling Eliza that that necklace matched her colouring perfectly and was ninety-nine pounds. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.
Duggan breasted the bridge over the canal at Portobello and Rathmines Road stretched before him, the wires above its tram tracks undulating like the long troughs of waves leading to the dull green humps of the Dublin mountains in the distance. The evening was cooling, the sun still above the horizon to the west. Its light lay along the canal, turning the murky water golden. A family of ducks circled by the reeds.
He free-wheeled down the hill, hearing the smooth whirr of the wheels and the rub of the tyres on the tarmac as he went past the church of Mary Immaculate, its new dome top-heavy and seeming to push it into the ground. A truckload of soldiers pulled out of the army barracks in front of him, the soldiers at the back glaring at him impassively, their Lee Enfield rifles upright between their knees, as they accelerated away from him.
He turned left at the Stella Cinema and threaded his way through suburban streets up to Palmerston Road. The road was empty between its heavy trees, the large houses silent, the air still. The only sounds were of some children shrieking somewhere distant and a dog barking. He pulled into Timmy’s gate and the gravel slowed him to halt. He walked the bike around a shiny new Ford and left it beside the granite steps.
Light footsteps came along the hall in response to his knock and the door was opened by a young girl wearing a white apron.
‘Hello,’ Duggan said. ‘I’m Paul.’
She looked at him, unknowing.
‘Mr Monaghan’s nephew,’ he added.
A door banged inside and Timmy Monaghan came bustling down the hall.
‘The man himself,’ he boomed as Duggan came in and Timmy pumped his hand. ‘This is Cait,’ he added. ‘She’s just come to us from Aran.’
‘Ah,’ Duggan turned to her. ‘Conas ata tú?’
‘Go maith,’ she said, taking his hand and giving him an uncertain curtsey.
‘This is First Lieutenant Paul Duggan,’ Timmy told her. ‘A very important man these days. And one of the family.’
Duggan shook his head and she looked from one to the other. She was about fifteen and uncertain in English.
‘You’ll have something to eat,’ Timmy said, putting his arm around Duggan’s shoulder. ‘Cait’ll get you something, won’t you, Cait?
’ he said over his shoulder to her as he guided Duggan into a high-ceilinged room overlooking the back garden. The walls were a washed green and there were large leather armchairs on either side of the marble fireplace. A fire was set in the grate but unlit. A large mahogany table took up the centre of the room with an uneven scattering of dining chairs around it. It was covered with newspapers, green Dáil order papers, parliamentary bills and volumes of debates. On one side there was a blotter pad surrounded by a neat stack of headed Dáil notepaper and prepaid envelopes, a pen and ink set, and a full ashtray. A silver cigarette case lay open beside it.
Duggan walked around the table to the window. A large hole had been dug in the lawn, mounds of earth on both sides of it. Grass and weeds were beginning to sprout in the hole and on the mounds.
‘A shelter,’ Monaghan said when he saw Duggan looking at it. ‘A couple of fellows started digging it for me last year when the Emergency started. Then they fecked off to England to join the British army, leaving it like that. There wasn’t much happening at the time so I didn’t bother having it finished. I don’t know. What d’you think? Should I get someone to finish it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Duggan said.
‘You’re in the nerve centre. The fellows who know what’s going on.’
‘They haven’t told me, I’m afraid.’
‘You enjoyed the intelligence course?’
‘It was interesting,’ Duggan said, noncommittal, keeping any surprise out of his voice. So it’s true, he thought, as I suspected. Timmy’s the reason I’m in G2. Pulled some strings to get me in there. As he had feared.
‘And weren’t you right to take my advice about the German?’
Duggan said nothing, not knowing what he was talking about.
‘Didn’t I tell you to learn German when you went to college? Not to bother with that French. German’s the coming language.’
Duggan nodded though he had no memory of that. He’d learned long ago not to bother arguing facts with Timmy.
‘And look at you now,’ Timmy gave him a knowing smile, knowing that a message had been delivered. It was what he loved about politics, the mind games, the subtle messages and manipulations, outwitting the other guys. He knew it was unlikely that he’d rise above the backbenches but he still hadn’t abandoned all ambitions. Age was coming against him now, forty-five last birthday, heading for fifty, but anything was possible in politics. He had done his bit in the War of Independence and the Civil War. Nobody could challenge his national record, the foundation of his electoral success and impenetrable protection against some of his internal opponents in Fianna Fáil.
‘A hard language, they say. A bit like Irish.’
‘I like it. It’s a nice language.’
‘Good, good,’ Timmy rubbed his hands. ‘The language of the future.’
Great, Duggan though. Gifford has me up against a wall facing a firing squad. Timmy has me marked out as some kind of gauleiter.
‘The English are fucked,’ Timmy said, gesticulating towards the table. He sat down in front of the blotter. Duggan took the chair across the table.
‘The lion has had its day,’ Timmy went on, pacing every word as if he was coming to the climax of a public speech. ‘Going to find out now what it’s like to be an occupied country. But’ – he raised a finger – ‘the lion can be dangerous when wounded. Lash out. You know what I mean? Last desperate twitch of the tail.’ He paused. ‘Don’t be surprised if they come over the border. Try to take back what they lost. Churchill has never forgiven us for beating them the last time, you know. Nothing he’d like better than revenge. Play the game again. Hitler’s right about him, he’s a war monger. They made a bad choice there. And he’ll use any excuse to invade. The ports. Pretend to be protecting us from the Germans.’
Timmy paused and shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath. He put his elbows on the blotting pad and leaned forward. ‘This is only between us. To be kept in the family. Just marking your cards for you.’
He paused until Duggan nodded.
‘The powers that be know the score. They can see the writing on the wall. The Chief made a speech in Galway a week or two back, criticising the Germans for breaching the neutrality of Denmark and Holland. You remember that?’
Duggan nodded although he didn’t really remember anything more than a headline about the Taoiseach criticising Germany for ignoring the neutral status of some countries.
‘Big mistake. God knows, the Chief is very good at seeing five steps ahead of everybody else but I think he fucked up this time. We have no argument with Germany and they have none with us.’
‘Wasn’t he just defending neutrals?’ Duggan ventured. ‘Like us.’
‘Yeah, well. Look at what the British thought of Norway’s neutrality,’ Timmy waved away his opinion. ‘Anyway, it’s no time to be making new enemies. The German legation was very angry about Dev’s speech. Herr Hempel demanded an explanation. And word was sent back that it wouldn’t happen again.’
Timmy sat back in his chair and joined his hands over his stomach with satisfaction. Duggan didn’t know what to say. He was saved by a knock on the door and Cait entered with a tray. Duggan cleared a pile of letters from Timmy’s constituents to one side and she put down the tray and began taking the plates from the tray and putting them on the table.
‘Don’t bother with that,’ Timmy interrupted. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here. He can eat off the tray.’
Duggan thanked her in Irish and re-arranged the plates and cup and saucer on the tray. The main plate had two cuts of cold chicken, two of ham, a few leaves of lettuce and half a tomato. A side plate had three cuts of buttered brown bread. He poured himself a cup of tea.
‘Whatever happens,’ Timmy said, ‘we won’t go hungry. We can always feed ourselves, thank God. Unlike the English. They’ll find out now what a bit of starvation’s like as well.’
He watched Duggan eat for a few moments. ‘Anyway, that was all bye the bye. For your own information. To be kept to yourself,’ he repeated. ‘The reason I wanted to talk to you was about a family matter.’
Duggan looked up in surprise. He assumed he had already got the messages. I got you transferred to G2. Be nice to the Germans. Beware of perfidious Albion. He went on eating, realizing that he was starving. He hadn’t had anything to eat after getting back to the Red House and writing a report on the Harbusches’ visit to Grafton Street. Timmy watched him in silence for a minute and reached for a cigarette and lit it with a heavy desk lighter.
‘Nuala,’ he said eventually. Nuala was his eldest daughter, a year or two older than Duggan. A change in his tone caught Duggan’s attention and he stopped eating. ‘Nuala,’ Timmy said again and sighed. ‘She’s gone … We don’t know where she is.’
‘She’s missing?’
‘No, no, not missing.’ Timmy didn’t seem to want to use the word. ‘We don’t know where she is.’
‘How long? When did she … go?’
Timmy took a deep breath. ‘Two weeks ago. Maybe a bit more. About two weeks ago we realized she wasn’t where we thought she was.’
‘She didn’t come home?’
Timmy looked at him in surprise and then realized Duggan knew nothing about Nuala’s movements. ‘She’s been living in a flat in town for the last few months. Since the new year, actually. But she usually comes home for the Sunday dinner. And she didn’t turn up last Sunday fortnight. Her mother went to the flat. No sign of her, then or since. Mona’s going up the walls. You can imagine.’
Duggan could imagine. His aunt Mona was known in the family for suffering from nerves, which Duggan had never found surprising. Timmy would turn anyone into a nervous wreck, as Duggan’s father pointed out from time to time when Timmy had over-tried his patience. It was one of the few bones of contention between Duggan’s parents. His father had no time for Timmy; his mother felt a need to defend her sister’s choice of husband.
&n
bsp; Duggan put a dab of strawberry jam on the last slice of bread and poured himself another cup of tea.
‘Have you told the guards?’
‘Ah, no, no,’ Timmy tipped the ash from his cigarette. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘If she’s been missing for two weeks …’ Duggan let the thought hang in the air.
‘Not … missing.’ Timmy, never short of words, seemed to be finding them elusive now.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s her mother, you know. She’s very upset. Wants me to do something about it. But I keep telling her Nuala’s just gone away for a bit. She’s all right. She’ll be back.’
Timmy suddenly held out the cigarette case to him. ‘You smoke Players, don’t you?’
‘Afton, usually.’
‘Well, try one of these.’
Duggan took the cigarette and Timmy pushed the lighter over to him.
‘Aye, she’ll be back,’ Timmy said, staring at his cigarette. ‘She’s just trying to … trying to … teach me a lesson.’ He paused and then looked up at Duggan. ‘You know we don’t see eye to eye a lot of the time. Too alike, Mona says. Knock sparks off each other. But it doesn’t mean anything. Still the best of friends behind it all.’
Duggan didn’t know that. He and Nuala were more or less the same age and had been thrown together as children at family events; they had ignored each other as far as possible. As they grew up, they hadn’t much more to say to each other, beyond an occasional effort at politeness. Duggan found her bossy and had no idea what she thought of him, probably found him boring. He couldn’t remember ever having had a real conversation with her.
Timmy straightened himself up in the chair like a man facing up to his fate. ‘We had an argument. Over the Christmas. Terrible time to be having an argument in a family but God knows it happens. She wanted to move into a flat in the town. I couldn’t see any sense to it. She’s not working, you know. No money. She gave up that job I got her in Clery’s. Wanted to do a secretarial course. Fine, I said. But what’d you be wasting money for on a flat when we have the house here? Plenty of room. But nothing would do her. Mona sided with her, of course. Said she’d pay for the flat out of the housekeeping. So she, Nuala, moved into this little place. And I ended up paying for it anyway. Couldn’t have it said that I wasn’t giving the wife enough to keep the house.’
