Only with Blood

by Therese Down

  * * *

  Caitlin Spillane was seventeen when her father decided she would marry Jack Flynn. She was a beauty with a quick wit which caused her teachers to shake their heads in lamentation that she was not a boy, for surely it was a shame to waste such a brain. She had come top of all the pupils in the local school in her Intermediate Certificate examinations. Her bold assertions that she would try for a scholarship to Trinity College, Dublin, only made her mother laugh disparagingly. “You will do no such thing, Caitlin Spillane! Set your mind on simpler things. Farmers’ daughters do not go away on their own to Dublin or England. Unless of course you’d like to be a nun, like Maureen?”

  “I will not!” Caitlin would reply and toss her lush hair as if to defy the very notion that such beauty could be shorn and denied. She planned to consort with educated men – doctors and politicians, city men with suits and pocket watches and shiny shoes who had manners and washed themselves regularly. She would look at her father, at his filthy boots and the streaks of cow dung down his trousers, the baling twine keeping them up, and she would try to remember the last time he had washed more than his face and hands. He would catch her scowling at him in disgust when he spat in the fire or wiped his sleeve across a running nose.

  “What are you scobbing at?” he’d demand gruffly, nonetheless reddening at her evident revulsion.

  “Oh, nothing,” she’d reply in a tone which left little doubt she meant precisely that.

  At night, Caitlin would sit before the large mirror in the room she shared with her sister Maureen, and brush her long shiny hair. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, preening in front of the mirror like an auld jackdaw?” chided Maureen irritably, hitting her pillow in a gesture which indicated her wish to sleep.

  “Isn’t jealousy a sin, Maureen?” came the tart reply, addressed still to the mirror.

  “Who’s jealous? Aren’t you fierce proud now of yourself, for a culchie’s daughter, Caitlin? A little humility wouldn’t do you any harm, so it wouldn’t. And pride cometh before a fall – don’t forget that, miss high-and-mighty.”

  “Ah, cop onto yourself, Maureen. Read your Bible.”

  The milking over for another day, Jack eased off his boots and then sat contemplating the fire, a mug of strong tea in his hand. But this night, the sharp rap of hawthorn stick on oak jolted him from his choleric reverie. He was so unused to the idea of a visitor that he struggled to make sense of the sound which had shocked him. Wits gathered, he strode to the door and swung it open. Malachai Brett stood before him, obsequious but with the flint of an advantage in his eye. The big man blocked the doorway, light seeping around his heavy frame. “What the hell do you want, Brett?”

  Undaunted, Malachai assumed the confidence of an important messenger. “Let me in, Jack,” he said quietly. “I’ve some very interesting news for you.” Jack, curious in spite of himself, stood back to admit the matchmaker. “This is cosy, now, Jack,” continued Brett, surveying Jack’s filthy kitchen.

  “What do you want, Brett? Spit it out.” Suddenly weary, Jack rubbed his forehead with an aching hand. The rheumatic pain in his knuckles was severe enough that even this movement caused him to wince.

  “You recall our conversation the other day?” began Malachai, in as assertive a tone as he could manage, given the scowl on Flynn’s face. “Ah, will you sit down, for the love of God, Jack, and hear what I have to say?” Jack sat heavily, eyeing Malachai all the while. “I’ve been doing a bit of discreet research, Jack, and I’ve found the very young one you’ll want.” Malachai allowed himself a wide grin which showed his sharp black and yellow teeth. Like an old fox, thought Jack.

  “Who?”

  “Caitlin Spillane – Mick Spillane’s youngest. A rare young one. Sure she haven’t left school yet, and she’s fine looking, boy.”

  Jack struggled to remain calm. “I don’t know her,” he growled.

  “Jack, Jack, you’re a hard man! Have you not seen her? She be at mass every Sunday with Mick Spillane and the rest of them. She’s a good girl, Jack – she’ve a fierce brain in her head, they say.”

  “It’s not her brains I’m concerned with,” Jack spat into the kitchen grate. “Can she cook? Can she clean? Can she milk a cow?” He rose, walked over to the centre of the room, and faced Malachai square on. “Can she keep her mouth shut and keep out of my way when she’s not wanted? She won’t be needing brains around here, Brett.”

  For the first time, Malachai started to appreciate the enormity of what he was doing. He could not proceed in making a present of this young girl to this tyrant. A joke was a joke and there were the makings of a very good next instalment of this compelling tale for the amusement of the men in the pub, but there was nothing funny about the turn things were taking. He would have no further part in the sacrifice. “Now, Jack,” he began, getting slowly to his feet and making towards the door, not a little concerned that his progress may be impeded, “I’ll leave you in peace, so. Obviously, I’ve made a mistake. She’s not at all suitable. Sorry for the trouble, now. Good night.”

  Malachai’s withdrawal of the girl could not have worked better to hook Jack once and for all if it had been planned. “Where are you going, Brett? I want more information!”

  Malachai paused and half turned towards Flynn. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you, Jack. I was trying to do Mick Spillane a favour, but to tell the truth, this young one is bad news. She’ve a sharp tongue on her and she’s fierce proud and as vain! A man of your… stature wouldn’t be bothered with a scut like that. I think Spillane is half afraid no one will want her, the mouth on her. I’m sorry, Jack. Good luck.”

  “I want to see her, Brett.”

  Malachai heard the determination in Jack’s voice. Well, if Flynn and Spillane negotiated the dowry between themselves, at least Malachai would not get his commission. There was some relief in that.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Jack,” replied Malachai with as much dignity and wisdom as he could convey in his tone. Then, with one hand on the door handle, he placed his cap on his head with the other. “Good night to you now, Jack.” And he stepped outside.

  “Go on, clear off, Brett!” shouted Jack after his back. “Who needs you, anyway? I’ll see Spillane myself!”

  For answer, Malachai did not turn around but raised his hand in acknowledgment, nodding sagely at the expected response. “Ah, well – God’s will be done,” he consoled himself quietly and, turning his collar up against the biting wind, quickened his pace home.

  There had not been the feared reprisals after the Cappawhite ambush in 1921. The bodies were removed by Tipperary police around nine o’clock the following morning. They had discovered them at the barracks in the pitch dark of the previous night but fled home, terrified, lest they met the same fate. English soldiers arrived in Cappawhite about a week later, walked through the main street, and went into the bar in the evening, scrutinizing every man’s face. None met their eyes. Those who had killed the Tans had come from a range of villages within a ten-mile radius of Cappawhite. Very few people could have said with any certainty who the men were who had pulled the triggers. And those who could would have died themselves before denouncing them.

  At daybreak following the murders a group of silent villagers had climbed the hill to the Cappawhite barracks to see the corpses of the Black and Tans. Boys crossed their arms and contemplated the wounds, the glassy open eyes. Women covered their mouths and blessed themselves, whispered things to each other. Someone had fetched the priest from Dunane. Father Kinnealy, twenty- eight and inexperienced, had been in on the conspiracy from the start, burdened by a series of confessions before the murders. He paced up and down, making the sign of the cross over each dead man, fighting nausea but eager not to alienate his parishioners. The son of a Cashmel accountant, he was wholly unprepared for the rawness of rural life, yearned for the sanctuary of his books and the seminary study hall. One of the “Tans” was found fifty yards from the rest, his clenched fists full of scree.
Someone had shot him in the gut and there was no telling how long it had taken him to die.

  The night Malachai Brett brought news of Caitlin Spillane, Jack’s nightmares began again. He woke sweating and rigid with fear from a horror which survived unconsciousness. He dreamt of babies, the slaughter of the innocents. They lay helpless in the road, chubby arms extended, hands dimpled as he had seen them in Madonna and Child pictures, but they had calves’ heads and their eyes rolled in piteous fear. They were cold and naked and desperate to be comforted. At first Jack was beside himself with concern, maddened by his inability to help these calf-children, for he didn’t have a clue how to bring them solace. He thought of bringing them hay but they needed milk. Where were their mothers? He could not provide them with sustenance. Where were their mothers? He looked around crazily, his ears full of the desperate bawling of the cow-children. A man approached. He wore boots and the customary drab garb of the farmer. He carried a pitchfork. Jack thought he was his father, but couldn’t be sure. He might, he thought, be the cow-children’s father. The man stood over the babies and raised his pitchfork. “What are you doing?” Jack cried, horrified at the man’s intentions.

  “It is for the best,” the man had stated. “They’re no use, as you can see.” With that, he brought down the prongs of his pitchfork and, with one swift motion, impaled a cow-baby through the belly where it wriggled and screamed in agony.

  “Stop, please, stop!” Jack had screamed, but the man pitched the child away behind him and set to killing the next. Blood ran over Jack’s boots and down the road, and he was assailed by a terrible grief. He woke sobbing.

  Caitlin Spillane played the accordion beautifully. The local boys would watch her long white fingers, sure and nimble as they pressed and spanned the keys. They coveted the way she looked at the keys as she played, as if she cared for them in the tenderest fashion. She played at local dances, but few of the young boys danced to the waltzes, jigs, and reels which flowed from Caitlin’s accordion. They grouped awkwardly around her, hands in pockets, waiting for her to finish and occasionally plucking up the courage to ask her to dance. But Caitlin cared little for the longings of farmers’ sons and labourers. Sometimes she danced with them, but on summer nights she was more likely to pack away her instrument, give it to her father for safekeeping, and leave the dance hall alone. She preferred to walk home rather than wait for her father to stop drinking and drive her there in his horse and cart. That way she could indulge her reveries in rare solitude and peace. Caitlin’s disdain for ordinariness did not go unremarked by the local women. “Just look at that young one,” they would whisper, watching her as she whirled absently across the floor in the awkward embrace of some red-faced ploughboy. “You’d think she was a queen, boy, the puss on her! Isn’t vanity a terrible thing?”

  “Sure ’tis. And her sister Maureen the quietest young one you’d ever come across and a grand girl wit’ it.”

  “Give me Maureen any day of the week.”

  Caitlin knew their sentiments and did not care. She would be eighteen and sit her Leaving Certificate exams the following year. Then – then she would be free. She was quite sure she could win her scholarship to Trinity. She knew that it was practically unheard of for a girl, let alone a rural girl, to go to university but her grades would be so good they would not refuse her. She would read a science, become a doctor, find a cure for a tropical disease – leave forever the world of cows and farming. And the clothes she would wear! Fitted bodices and skirts, elegant gloves and shiny, pointed shoes. And then, who knew? Europe? America? A marriage of minds with a handsome doctor? She would swap her accordion for a harp or a piano, and an audience of farmers for genteel gatherings of cultured people.

  Sunday, and Jack strode up the aisle of the village church to his usual pew on the right, near the altar. But this particular Sunday he did not stare stonily ahead for the duration of the service. He stole quick glances to his left, then behind him in an attempt to catch the sloping shoulders and thick, greying hair of Mick Spillane. He barely registered the uncertain nods of acknowledgment as his eyes scanned people’s faces or the heads bending together to exchange surprised whispers at his uncharacteristic behaviour. When at last he located Spillane he scrutinized the two mantillaed heads to Spillane’s left. Now, which one was Caitlin? The girls were of equal height and both followed the mass in their missals, holding the books open with white gloved hands. Jack gave up and looked ahead again. He realized at last that his behaviour would have attracted attention and everyone would know he was interested in the Spillanes. Ah, to hell with them all! he thought, though panic gripped him and his heart raced.

  After mass, Jack made his way to the end of the pew with more haste than usual, genuflected and crossed himself stiffly, then strode with his heavy steps down the aisle and into the autumn sunlight. He remained standing outside the church, nodding cursorily when people saluted him as they filed past. When at last he saw Mick Spillane he swallowed hard and greeted him with, “Are you right?”, his direct gaze leaving no doubt as to the intended recipient of his words.

  “Jack – hullo there. Fine day.”

  Jack reddened, unable to make any more social headway let alone express his purpose in stopping Spillane in his tracks. Spillane looked puzzled for an instant. He moved first one shoulder then the other to let people file past him as he stopped before Flynn. Then realization dawned. Malachai Brett had said he would speak to Flynn about Caitlin. Mick hadn’t bargained on being caught like this though, in public, not ten paces from his family, none of whom he had informed of the plan he was hatching to marry his youngest daughter to this man near his own age. Both men shuffled awkwardly. Spillane bent his head and spoke to Jack through barely parted lips.

  “Is it Caitlin you’re wanting to talk about? I haven’t told her yet. Are you interested?” He looked up and searched the vivid, tormented eyes.

  “I haven’t seen her yet, have I?” came the uncomfortable reply. Mick thought for a moment, looked around briefly to ascertain the whereabouts of his daughter, then called to her.

  “Caitlin, come here a second. Say nothing” – the last injunction to Jack, who hardly needed warning.

  Caitlin, puzzled that her father should be talking to the miserable old devil Jack Flynn, took her leave of the school friends with whom she had been talking and approached her father. At once, Jack saw she was exceptionally pretty and she carried herself well – straight back, head up.

  “What?” she said, nodding briefly to Jack then focusing on her father’s face. From that one word, Jack picked up her lack of respect for Mick and he straightened his back, assuming a stern expression.

  “When is the next ceilidh? Aren’t you playing?” asked Mick.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Isn’t it enough that I’m asking?”

  Jack coughed to give his breath an outlet. Caitlin frowned and searched her father’s face for the meaning of this exchange but found only a warning in his eye to mind her manners.

  “Next Saturday, at Dundrum,” she said sullenly, turning her sulky gaze on Jack. She didn’t know why she was being asked to perform in this way; her father knew well enough when the next ceilidh was, for he had already arranged to meet several people there. She watched a flush spread across Jack’s face. He had never struck her as one to blush. For a second, Jack met her eyes and was startled by their brightness.

  “Is it all right if I go now, da?” Caitlin asked, as politely as she could manage. Spillane was evidently pleased with his daughter’s behaviour. A man must be seen as master of his household.

  “You can.” He did not catch the curl of her lip and the scorn in her eyes as she turned away from him but Jack did and he could not resist a smirk at Spillane’s expense. When she nodded at Jack to take her leave he regarded her levelly, nodded back. How clear and blue her eyes were, how lustrous her hair as she tossed it over her shoulder and walked away. There was not much fear in her.

  “Well?” enquired Spillane, w
ith the confidence of a man parading stock at a market.

  “She will do,” said Jack, “but she’s spirited. She needs a few jerks on the reins, boy.” Spillane was surprised. Jack was shrewder than he thought.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, now, Jack.” Spillane became ingratiating. “She’s got a… way with her all right, but nothing the right man can’t cure. Sure, she’s no match for the likes of you, Jack. No problem at all.” He eyed Jack and watched with satisfaction as Flynn straightened up under the flattery. “Do we have a bargain?” he ventured.

  “We do.” And the two men shook hands, once, firmly, feeling the strength of each other’s grip.

  “I’ll discuss terms with you later, so.” Mick regarded his boots, put his hands in his pockets. “There’re plenty would jump at Caitlin given half a chance, Jack. She’s a rare young one. I hadn’t thought of matching her now ’til Malachai said you might be interested. ’Tis a favour, really.” He looked up. Jack narrowed his eyes and curled his lip.

  “You’ll get what she’s worth.” Jack walked away to where his horse was hitched, and mounted his cart. He began the drive home. Mick watched him go for a few seconds, then rubbed his hands in sudden excitement. He had solved several problems at once; he had become comfortably well off, he had avoided the possibility of having to waste money on some half-baked scheme cooked up by Caitlin to get educated – and he had finally shown her who was boss.

  For the rest of that day, Caitlin Spillane moved through Jack’s thoughts “like a fine filly”, he decided, “a filly in need of a master”. He drove his cows back to the field after milking, barely aware of the biting frost or the pain in his hands. The cows moved with a leisurely gait, the pungent warmth from their tightly packed bodies comforting in the darkness. Every now and then one of them would snort or low as if in need of reassurance in the pitch stillness. At the gate they paused patiently while Jack moved around them to open it, then they filed through as one. This night, Flynn felt keenly the loneliness he usually suppressed. As the last cow passed through the gate, he reached out with near tenderness to touch her rump. His cattle were indifferent to him and his welfare; he was part of their routine as they were part of his, yet there was comfort in that.