by Therese Down
The Sunday papers all shared a front page story: three gardai barracks had been ambushed by IRA terrorists in an apparently synchronized plan at seven thirty on Saturday evening. “The IRA claimed responsibility for the attacks,” Donal read, “in an anonymous note, sent to the Garda Siochana Headquarters in Dublin. It alleged the attacks were in reprisal for the execution of George Plant, shot to death in Portlaoise jail on March the fifth, following his conviction for the murder of Michael Devereux. The note,” went on the report, “accused the gardai of treachery against their fellow Republicans. The three barracks in Kilkenny, Tipperary, and Dublin were attacked in an operation codenamed ‘The Dance’. There were no fatalities but three gardai and an IRA man were seriously injured. The violence followed the Finglas Road shooting in April this year, also attributed to the IRA and in reprisal for Plant’s execution.”
Donal realized at once that the Thompson machine guns used in the barracks attack outside Dublin had been transported in the sacks of grain on the lorry in which he had travelled with Des Corcoran to Mullingar. He discovered later that if his message had advised of jigs, rather than reels, the guns would have been sticks of gelignite and the operation would have been a different one altogether from that needed to shoot people.
The Sunday press shook in Donal’s hands so that he could hardly read the print. He leaned against a wall outside the post office, trying to comprehend that he had played a material part in this event of national importance. Donal folded the paper and began walking back to O’Hallorahan’s. The full implications of the errand he had run, in order to be “blooded” into the IRA, hit home. He was a criminal of the first order. In one swift movement, he had metamorphosed from a naïve boy and potential upholder of the Eire Constitution by due process of the law, to an enemy of the state. He was as guilty – by association – of the barracks attacks as the men who had pulled the triggers. If any of those gardai died, he was an accessory to murder. There was no going back now. He would never be a lawyer. He was doomed to live a life in shadows and half-truths. Secrecy would be his refuge for as long as he lived; he would be peeping from it henceforth, a fugitive from both justice and the fear of treachery. He entered his room and lay on his bed, covering his face with both hands. What had he done? What had he allowed Joe Morgan to do to him?
On the day his father suffered a massive heart attack, in April of 1943, Donal was holding a machine gun, a cloth tied across his lower face to conceal his identity. He was on lookout, crouching behind a row of seats in a Belfast cinema, half listening to Hugh McAteer, the new IRA Chief of Staff, as he read aloud the Proclamation of Irish Independence to a surprised and captive audience. The Declaration had originally been read by Patrick Pearse outside the GPO on Sackville Street in Dublin, 1916, and had marked the beginning of Ireland’s constitutional independence. McAteer, however, was on the run following a jail break and needed all the backup the illegal IRA could muster, to ensure he was not rearrested during the minutes-long gesture. When Donal said again, in Spring 1943, that he wanted to go home to help his father on the farm, there was no objection from his regional battalion officer, Joe Morgan.
Caitlin was very hungry. It was more or less a permanent state these days. She had refused to eat with her family since they had betrayed her, and when the hunger was most acute, she cut herself slices of bread or sawed bits of meat from whatever was left in the press after the others had eaten. Before she had run away, she had had a chance to furnish herself with a little buttered bread, a few bits from the ham, and a couple of the potatoes she had been left to boil while her family was at mass that morning. She wrapped it all in newspaper and put it in her bag. Soon, she would need to eat and think about resting for the night. The question was where and what would she do with Maher’s pony when she had finished with him?
It was getting colder and darker by the minute, it seemed. The road out of Golden led to a crossroads. There was a large signpost which pointed in three directions and which Caitlin had to dismount to discern in the half light. Straight ahead to Cashmel for twelve miles, left to Thurles for eighteen miles, and right to Cahir for fourteen miles. All were significant towns with railway stations. But it would take at least two hours with a tired pony to reach any of them, and it was easy to get lost along winding roads in the dark. The reality of what she was doing hit home and she was afraid. Fighting tears but determined she could not go back now, Caitlin remounted the buggy and set off at a trot in the direction of Cashmel. She would stop at the first farm she came to and sneak into their barn for the night. She had already written a note which said “I belong to Pat Maher of Dunane”, which she intended to slip under the pony’s halter when she left him somewhere he would be safe and quickly found. The difficulty was how to ride across someone’s land, or even their yard, in a trap, without being detected.
Half a mile along the Cashmel road, as it led away from Golden, Caitlin came to a small farmhouse. It was close to the road, its yard accessed via a frontage without a gate. The wind was now whipping up into something like a storm and snatches of icy rain slapped into Caitlin’s face. As she jumped from the buggy at the side of the road, unhitched the pony from the trap with fingers clumsy in wet wool, Caitlin realized the noisy wind would be a good cover for any hoof falls or sounds of movement which might otherwise betray them on a still Sunday evening.
Once he was unhitched, Caitlin led the pony away from the buggy, which she left dipped forward and resting on its shafts against the hedge. Bag in one hand, cheek strap of the pony harness in the other, Caitlin stole across the yard of the apparently sleeping house, for its windows were all blacked out. Putting her bag down, standing on a piece of trailing harness to prevent the pony from wandering, she lifted the heavy wooden latch to the barn and the door immediately yawned towards her. With some difficulty, and grateful now for the wind which almost snatched the door from her, making the pony start, Caitlin dropped her bag and soothed the animal as she led him around the door to the inky darkness and quiet must of the barn. There was another animal in there – a donkey, for it snorted and brayed in alarm at the intrusion. Caitlin soothed and cajoled the donkey to be still, let go of the pony, and went back for her bag, pulling the barn door closed after her.
As her eyes adjusted she could make out the bulks of the animals. The pony had found the donkey’s manger and water and was helping himself. Caitlin could smell mashed beet and she could tell by feel and smell that there was plenty of hay in the manger. The pony would be all right at least. She wished she could remove his harness, but it would be folly to attempt it in this darkness and it was wiser to tether him to something lest he stumble over machinery or some other obstacle in the barn. She followed the harness reins to their ends and groped for the legs of the heavy wooden manger, tied the reins slackly around two of them, and made gingerly for the recesses of the barn and the stooks of hay she could now make out in the gloom. A few times she fell over rows of turf footings but, on reaching the hay, squeezed between a few stooks and pulled from them enough to cover herself. She fumbled in her bag for her food and reflected that at least she would be safe from detection that night. At first light, she would put the note under the pony’s headband and set out on foot for Cashmel and the train station. She would hitch and walk the twelve miles. She would buy breakfast in the town and then a ticket to Dublin. She had almost four pounds, saved up from ceilidhs and birthdays and Christmases, for precisely this journey – though she had not thought her escape to Dublin would be so dramatic a flight.
And so it was that early the following morning, on Monday the fourth of January 1944, Donal Kelly’s path crossed with that of Caitlin Spillane.
“Jack!” Spillane was banging on Jack’s door. It was blowing a gale and pitch dark. Mick had driven to Limerick Junction and back and there was no sign of Caitlin. It was possible she was hiding in a field or a ditch to avoid him as his cart clattered up and down the main Cashmel to Limerick road through Dunane, but if that were the case, then she had
not got to the train station and that was the main thing. No one had seen her. There had not been a train to anywhere from Limerick Junction after two o’clock that Sunday. Spillane had banged at the station master’s house, much as he was now banging on Jack Flynn’s door, and animatedly related the flight of his daughter to the astonished man and his wife. Such gossip would be abroad in both counties in no time. It was getting on for eight o’clock at night. Jack came coughing and angry to his door, pulling his braces onto his shoulders, cursing loudly. He had been in bed and fast asleep.
“Jack…” Spillane was breathless. “Can I come in a second?”
“What the hell, Spillane?” Jack did not stand aside to allow his neighbour egress. An icy wind blasted into Jack’s chest, almost knocking Spillane off balance where he stood, one foot on the lintel.
“For the love of God, Flynn, let me in!” There was an urgency in Spillane’s voice which did not invite further remonstrance. Flynn got out of the way. Once the door was shut, Spillane agitatedly smoothed his chaotic hair, eyes red and wild with tiredness and worry. “It’s Caitlin, Jack,” he started, voice almost breaking. “She’s gone!”
“What?”
“She’s gone – run away! I don’t know where the hell she is.”
“When?” Jack saw Spillane’s distress but he was far more interested in the whereabouts of Caitlin.
“Five – six hours ago, maybe longer. She went out of her window while we were all downstairs.”
Jack frowned, put his hands on his hips, studied the floor as if for inspiration. “Was she on foot?”
“What? Yes,” said Spillane. “She was. The horse is outside. I have been to Limerick Junction and back.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Spillane did not try to disguise his irritation at the question. “Because she’s always gobbing off about going to Dublin, that’s why!”
“What’s in Dublin?”
“Does it matter, Flynn?”
“Yes.”
Spillane was exasperated. “University! She’s always going on about going to Trinity and getting a degree. Codology, Flynn. Sure we’ve no money for that lark and she’s all dreams. Caitlin is a dreamer, always has been. She have her head in the clouds and you may as well know…” he trailed off. The point of the visit was to inform Jack of Caitlin’s flight. There were only six days left to the wedding. Jack dropped his arms by his side. He walked to his kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat down heavily.
“She’ll hardly have gone in the direction you would look first, Spillane,” he said quietly, feeling as though he was going to cough. He fought the urge and his upper body convulsed in two rapid spasms.
“Well, where the hell else would she have gone, so?” Spillane was still angry, his voice raised. It wasn’t clear with what, precisely, he was angry: himself, his daughter, or Flynn.
“I don’t know, Spillane, but there’s more than one way of getting to Dublin. And she can hardly go to university with no money and no qualifications, can she? Where else might she go?”
Spillane paced Flynn’s kitchen. He smoothed his hair and shook his head in a gesture of hopelessness. He stopped and looked at Flynn. “She has relatives in Wexford but she’d hardly go there.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was there before Christmas, and she has found out since that they knew about the wedding and didn’t tell her. And she’d be afraid they’d make her come back.”
Jack leaned forward till his elbows were resting on his thighs. He held his head in his hands and fought the urge to cough, but wasn’t as successful as previously. Neither man talked for a long while. The kitchen range was still warm. As Mick calmed down, he was overcome with tiredness. He sat down and undid a few buttons of his soaked coat.
“She will not have got far, Spillane,” said Jack finally. “She will be found.”
“How can you be sure, Jack?” Mick looked towards Flynn and his expression was now more hopeful than annoyed. “What if something’s happened her?”
“What would happen to her in these parts in six hours?” Flynn had raised his head and was looking directly at Mick. “She’ll be hiding.”
“Where?”
“How the hell should I know, Spillane! Sure if I knew, she would not be hiding very well now, would she?”
“My daughter is gone, Flynn!” Spillane matched the sudden rise in volume and tightening of tone. “She is my child and I am wondering where the hell she might be, what could have happened her – aren’t you worried, now? You’re marrying her in a few days!”
Jack looked levelly at Mick. “What are you more worried about, eh? The money or your daughter?” Spillane’s eyes widened with apparent fury. Jack continued to regard him, unfazed. “Unless she has been spirited away by tinkers, there is not a place around here where a young one can hide for long and not much to happen her in a few hours. She is in someone’s barn or a hayloft, or else she has hitched a ride to a town and is looking for digs. But she is alone and will draw attention. Her only chance of getting to Dublin or anywhere she can be anonymous is to board a train tomorrow. If not Limerick Junction then further afield – Tipperary, Cashmel, Thurles.”
“Well, how do you suggest we stop her?”
“Use a telephone, Spillane. Ring the gardai. Get them to be on the alert – and ring the stations too. Go up to Mary above in the post office and ask her to put a call through to Sean Carmody tonight. He’ll be on the case straight away.”
“Do you think?”
“I do,” added Jack. “Sure when was the last time Sean Carmody had a missing person case? He’s lucky if the gard’s hut in Dunane has more to do than stop Malachai Brett getting on his bicycle after a skinful.” Mick jumped up, pulled his cap from his jacket pocket, and put it on his head. His eyes were hopeful and almost tearful with gratitude.
“I’ll do that, Jack – thanks very much, now.” He began to leave, rethought it, crossed the kitchen, and held his hand out to Jack. The latter looked up at him, allowed his frown to soften slightly, lowered his head, and extended his right hand.
A few moments later, the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels on concrete announced Mick was pulling out of Jack’s yard at speed. Jack could cough freely, his shoulders hunching against the pain in his chest.
At around five o’clock in the morning, someone’s cockerel crowed the world awake. Caitlin had fallen into a deep sleep at some stage after feeling for a long time she would never sleep because she was so cold and the hay was so prickly. She stirred now, opened her eyes, and lay still, trying to work out where she was. She remembered she was in someone’s barn and that Maher’s pony was in the barn too, sat up, and struggled to see the animal above the hay stooks. It was still too dark to see clearly and would be for another two hours, but if this farm was at all like her own, the farmer would be up and making tea just after cock crow. She had to move fast. There was one slice of bread and butter left, wrapped up in newspaper. She unpeeled the newsprint from the butter as best she could in the darkness and ate the bread hurriedly. Then she felt in her bag for the piece of paper on which she had written the name and location of the pony’s owner and got up from the hay, aching and shivering with cold. The pony and Kelly’s donkey had become acquainted overnight and stood close together, noses inclined towards each other. The pony tossed its head and snorted as Caitlin inserted the paper under his browband and kissed his nose. “Thank you, pony,” she whispered and was just feeling her way with tentative steps across the barn to the door, when she heard footsteps. The barn door swung open.
A beam of battery torchlight spotlit the floor in front of the open door. The sudden noises, Caitlin’s startled movements, and the light all worried the pony, which whinnied nervously. The beam of light lifted immediately in search of the source of the noise, for its origin was a life form wholly unexpected in Dan Kelly’s barn.
“What the…?” Donal Kelly exclaimed, at the discovery of a horse in his barn at five fifteen in the mor
ning, when all he’d wanted was turf for the fire. But it was less surprising than what followed, for not far from the horse was the silhouette of a woman, and his torch beam next fell on her face. She raised an arm to shield her eyes from its light. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Caitlin did not know what to say. Donal trained the torch on her. She kept her arm over her face but she watched beneath it for a chance to dart past the man as he slowly approached. “What are you doing in my barn?” he demanded, though he was busy trying to reconcile his immediate suspicion she was a thief with her depositing of a horse next to his donkey. Suddenly, Caitlin saw her chance and lunged forward, as there was now a large enough gap between the man and the open door for her to get behind him and keep running. But he was quick and leapt to the left as she sought to dodge him. He collided with her and she was knocked off balance, stumbling into the darkness of the barn and falling over footings of turf. Still she said nothing.
That the girl might be dangerous had occurred to Donal, and if he were very honest in the telling of the story afterwards, he would have admitted that he had imagined the ignominy of being seriously injured by a girl in a barn, after the life and death scrapes he had survived with the IRA. In the moments of silence which followed Caitlin’s evasion of him, Donal had to decide whether it would be better to treat her roughly or go for cajoling. He could shut the barn door and wait till it was light. “If you don’t show yourself right now, I’ll lock you in this barn and call the gardai,” he shouted, all the while prying into the recesses of the barn with his torchlight. “Up to you. There’s no other way out.” The bluff worked. After a moment or two, Caitlin got up. She had been hiding behind crates of potatoes. Waiting for the torch to find her, she stood blinking as Donal fixed the beam on her face.
