Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  ‘I’m interested,’ he said. ‘That’s what we’re fighting for, after all. When we have the Republic, no one will be slung out of their homes by their landlords. But there’ll still be poor people enough, even in Dublin. You should see where I’m lodging now.’

  A thought struck him. Before, he had always felt ashamed of the idea of inviting her to his lodgings. She had been too obviously of a higher class, and he had been sure he would be embarrassed. Besides, at the grocer’s, he and Martin had often had the fellows round. He wouldn’t want to bring her into a room crowded with the boys. But now he had moved to a small room in a tenement, and if she meant what she said, why should he be ashamed? It was not what he had chosen, but only where he was forced to hide, to fight for the things she believed in.

  ‘Would you like to see it?’ he asked.

  The thought, in slightly different form, had struck her too. She looked at her watch. It was just after seven. So long as she were home by ten, say, there need be no great scandal.

  ‘Why not?’ she said.

  Sean had always known that lust was a sin but he had not known, until he met Catherine, that women could feel it. It had especially not entered his head that an apparently nice, well-brought-up young girl could act as if it were no sin at all.

  Catherine excited and confused him. He had nearly killed her, but she showed no resentment. She had shown not the least concern about coming alone with him to one of the least salubrious, most overcrowded and unpleasant tenements in the city; and now when they were in his little, dirty back bedroom, she was radiant.

  It was clear to him that she was not surprised by the social conditions. They had walked down dark, unlit cobbled back streets, past men and women in various stages of drunkenness; crossed an entrance yard where children were playing dispiritedly in the dark; and climbed a dank, peeling staircase to a small room at the back of the building; and all the time she had seemed in a state of abstraction, scarcely seeing where she was.

  The room had a moderately clean bed, a desk, a chair, an oil lamp, a square of carpet on the floor, and a jug and basin. The window looked out across an alley on to a blank wall with a number of drainpipes running down it. She sat on the bed and he made a pile of sticks and coal for the fire.

  ‘I doubt the British’ll find me here,’ he said. ‘If the peelers did come, there’d be the most almighty row if they started to search the rooms downstairs, and there’s a fire escape at the back, so I could get down there. Anyway, I hope I won’t be here long. It’s policy to move us around, when we’re on the run.’

  He thought how boastful that phrase ‘on the run’ sounded, and wished he had not used it. But there was little else to be proud of, stuck alone in a hole like this. The only difference from prison, he thought, was that he could go in and out when he wanted. And have visitors.

  He made the fire draw by holding a piece of newspaper in front of the grate. When it was roaring nicely he stood up and washed his hands in the basin. When he turned round she was kneeling on the carpet, holding out her hands to the blaze. She had pushed her short, bobbed hair behind her ears, and the fire sent ripples of warm light along the delicate lines of her neck.

  He thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful.

  He knelt down beside her and kissed the lobe of her ear.

  I shouldn’t do this, he thought. It is taking advantage and definitely a sin; but anyway she wants to and I want to and we are all alone here, no one need ever know.

  The fire burned up brightly so he turned down the lamp; and the heat filled the whole of the tiny room. After a long, slow kiss, she turned her back towards him, bowed her head, and said: ‘Sean, will you help me undo these buttons here, please.’

  As he undid the first button he knew that this was it, it was going to happen to him tonight. So much worry and imagination, strict instructions from his father, solemn warnings from the priest, lewd talk at school, disturbing dreams alone in bed, and it came down to something as simple and solemn as this.

  Her neck glowed warm and smooth in the firelight. He undid the second button and kissed her, just at the nape of the neck where there were a few soft hairs. She moaned gently, happily. He undid three more buttons.

  She stood up, began to shrug her way out of the dress, then changed her mind. She kissed his lips.

  ‘Turn your back, please. I want to surprise you.’

  He turned away and closed his eyes, listening to the rustling, silken movements behind him. He felt an erection growing inside his trousers and was ashamed of it, not knowing what to do. Please God forgive me, I will not hurt her I swear. It is only love and I may die any day and never know it.

  ‘All right. You can look now.’

  He turned and she stood quite, quite naked in the firelight. He had never seen a girl this way before. Her breasts were quite small and round and overwhelmingly beautiful, with little brown nipples that stuck out like buds. Her stomach was flat and her legs so long and soft and smooth - and there was hair there between her legs too, just a little wavy patch of it. Her eyes were shining, a little shy, afraid.

  He reached out and crushed her in his arms.

  And that was so strange and wonderful that he would never forget it. He was still wearing his boots, thick woollen trousers and flannel shirt. Her skin, everywhere, was soft as silk, delicate, defenceless as a baby’s. He kissed her, and he felt like a great woolly bear holding a nymph, a goddess in his arms. As though she were Eve just stepped out of the garden. But she was human, hot in the fireglow.

  His hands slipped down her back and felt her buttocks. She pressed herself to him and he felt his erection hard against her stomach. Then she stepped back.

  ‘You’re all itchy,’ she said. ‘You get undressed too.’

  ‘All right.’ He started to unbutton his shirt and then felt embarrassed. He did not think of himself as being beautiful like her. ‘You turn your back then,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll close my eyes.’ She sat down in front of the fire, holding her knees up to her chin. He had seen a statue like that, once, in a park somewhere. A young girl watching the world, absorbed, innocent, curious, only half aware of her own beauty.

  He scrambled out of his clothes.

  Afterwards, as they lay in the narrow bed by the wall and watched the firelight flicker on the ceiling, she did cradle his head on her breast. She felt warm and maternal and … disappointed too. It had all happened so quickly. When he had entered her they had both seemed to lose control, there had been a sudden moment of pain and then he had thrust and thrust and she had cried out and wrapped her legs around him so that she could feel his smooth, hard buttocks under her heels and she had felt something wonderful rising and rising within her and then … then he had arched his back and shuddered and stopped.

  She held his head to her breast and smoothed her hands through his hair and thought: It’s over for him but not for me.

  They lay entangled with each other and kissed and stroked each other’s face. She ran a finger down his spine and said: ‘You’re beautiful, you are.’

  ‘Me?’ Sean was surprised. He didn’t think men had beauty.

  ‘Yes, of course you.’ She raised herself on her elbow and drew back the blanket so that she could trace the line of his back and legs with her hand. ‘Really beautiful. Muscular and smooth like a Greek god.’

  It made him feel like an object, not himself at all. But her face smiling down at him was so warm and happy he could take no offence. Her small breasts rubbed his face and he kissed them drowsily, taking the small budlike nipples in his lips.

  A coal fell down in the fire, lighting the room with a sudden burst of flames. Catherine’s hand went on gently, insistently stroking his back and thighs.

  A sadness that had begun to rise in him faded. He began to realize that it was not all over.

  This time I must make it last, he thought. This may never happen to me again, I may be dead tomorrow. And she - she is not ashamed.

  He pulled her do
wn and began to kiss her quickly, eagerly: on her breasts, her neck, under her chin, her ears, her eyelids. ‘I want to kiss you everywhere,’ he said. ‘It’s not me that’s beautiful, it’s you – you’re so lovely.’

  She felt very tender all over and warm and moist down below. She ran her hands down his stomach and cupped her hands over his erection and thought: How did that ever get inside me? Then he came inside, slowly, much more slowly and for a moment they just lay there, trembling and looking into each other’s eyes, using all their effort not to move.

  She said: ‘Oh, you, Sean.’

  He said: ‘Caitlin. I’ve got you now.’

  She raised her legs, slowly, until they were crossed behind his back, his little hard buttocks under her heels, and she said: ‘No, I’ve got you.’

  Then she squeezed him gently, as if urging a horse to walk, and they began to move.

  A long time later, they got dressed. The fire had died down to red embers. Sean peered at his watch. It was quarter to ten.

  Catherine was glad he had not lit the lamp. She was afraid of what the light would do to the nest-like intimacy of the room. She was worried about her hair, though. There was no mirror in the room, but Sean lent her a comb, and she straightened herself up as best she could. She was glad she had had her hair cut short; the long tresses she had had as a child would have been impossible to manage like this.

  ‘Will you walk me home, my love?’ she said.

  He nodded, and thought for the first time of the neighbours they might meet on the stairs, the stories that would be told. He didn’t want it to get out, he didn’t want to face the nods and winks of the other Volunteers. He had thought a soldier should be like a priest, free of all ties, all weakness. It could so easily be made to seem sordid, what they had done.

  He said: ‘I’ll try and find a better place if I can.’

  ‘It’s not the place, it’s who’s in it.’ She kissed his lips softly, and rubbed her nose against his. ‘Sean. You will love me, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ He suddenly felt hugely protective, the more so because he knew he was unable to offer her any real protection at all. He put his arm round her, and opened the door. ‘Come on, little woman. I’ll take you home.’

  The journey through the night streets began quietly enough. Each room in the tenement grumbled and twitched with life, but they met no one on the stairs. There were people in the streets outside, but none that Sean recognized. He deliberately led them a circuitous route, turning back on themselves several times, and waiting in a doorway once, kissing, to see if anyone followed.

  It was not until they were within half a mile of Merrion Square that the evening erupted. A lorry drew up at a crossroads in front of them. Four soldiers got out, their tin hats and rifles clearly silhouetted against a distant streetlight. Sean drew her quickly into an entry. ‘It’s all right, they’re facing away from us,’ he said. ‘But we’ll go back and round the other way.’

  She whispered: ‘All right. But what are they going to do?’

  He didn’t need to answer. As the line of soldiers waited, blocking off the nearer end of the street, two lorries roared into it from the other end, headlights blazing. They stopped halfway along, orders were shouted, and armed men poured out of it. They hammered on a doorway, and, as soon as it opened, rushed inside.

  Sean said: ‘They’re looking for people like me - and even you, perhaps. Anyone who can give them information about Sinn Fein. I don’t think they’ll find much, though. Just drag some more poor people out of their beds, and gain us more support.’

  People threw open their windows to see what was happening, and jeered at the soldiers. A man was dragged, struggling, out of the house, stood up against the railings and searched. When he protested, he was punched, kicked and bundled into the back of the lorry. A woman, perhaps his wife, came out in her nightdress, screaming. Three Tommies took her arms and hauled her back inside.

  ‘It’s monstrous!’ said Catherine. ‘What right have they to do that, in our city?’

  ‘You ask your father,’ Sean murmured quietly.

  The cold anger in his voice made her shiver. She held his waist tightly, and hoped he was unarmed.

  He watched for a moment longer, then turned his back on the scene. ‘Come on. We’ll go up this way. Walk slowly, and remember to look like we’re lovers.’

  That part was not so hard. On the way they met two policemen, hurrying towards the noise. Sean bent his head towards Catherine, and they gave him hardly a glance. But the joy had gone from it. She thought he was annoyed, embarrassed by her presence.

  At the corner of Merrion Square, they stopped. All the lights were on, downstairs, in the O’Connell-Gort house. Catherine straightened her back. They could not part in silence.

  ‘This is it, then,’ she said. ‘Young lady Catherine goes in to face an irate butler, and a maid and housekeeper driven wild with worry. Wish me luck, Sean.’

  He grinned. ‘I do that. You’ll face them down, surely.’

  ‘I’ll have to. After all, I’m my own mistress, and I’ve done nothing wrong, have I? Have we?’

  Don’t reject me now, Sean, she thought.

  He didn’t. Instead, he drew her, straight-backed and indignant, into his arms, and kissed her hungrily. She thought: There’s a streetlamp over there. Anyone who looks out will see me being kissed by a common, cloth-capped Mick.

  Then she forgot all about it.

  When they paused for breath, she said: ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘Not tomorrow. I’ll be with the Volunteers all evening, and it’s no good in the day. Tuesday night, at the Keating Branch.’

  ‘All right.’ Two days. It seemed so long. ‘Sean?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Take care of yourself. And . . .’ The vision of her normal, respectable life returned to her. It seemed quaint. ‘Her ladyship thanks you for a wonderful evening.’

  He seemed nonplussed. Then he touched his cap and grinned. ‘To be sure, ma’am. My pleasure.’

  He turned and strode quickly away, while Catherine squared her shoulders and walked towards the bright lights and imposing pillars of her Georgian home.

  8. Defence of the Realm

  ‘SO THERE you have it, gentlemen.’ The Prime Minister passed the buff manila envelope across his desk to Harrison. ‘The decision of the Cabinet as I have explained it to you.’ David Lloyd George, a short, mercurial Welshman with twinkling eyes and a drooping moustache, leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands under his chin. ‘How do you think Lord French will take it?’

  Sir Jonathan sat very straight in his chair. On the long journey over from Dublin with Harrison he had thought a great deal about government policy in Ireland. He had arrived in Westminster in time to see Lloyd George present his revised Home Rule Bill, which would give partial self-government to a divided Ireland; at once too much and too little, Sir Jonathan thought, and far, far too late: without doubt it would be derided and exploited by the Sinn Feiners, and gain the government nothing. What was needed was a consistent policy, real interest instead of neglect from the politicians, and firm, unyielding military control.

  Now he was here in the Prime Minister’s study to brief him on the military situation. ‘Lord French would have preferred a clear declaration of martial law, Prime Minister,’ he said.

  Lloyd George sighed. ‘I have already explained why that is not possible. It is essentially a police matter. But the army already has extensive powers under the Defence of the Realm Act. If you use those, and arrest the leaders, it will have the same effect.’

  If we could find the leaders, Sir Jonathan thought, and then trust you politicians not to do a deal with them once they are caught. He said: ‘In Dublin at least, Prime Minister, the effective police force is at a very low ebb.’

  ‘So you have told me,’ Lloyd George snapped. ‘It is your job, Colonel, to give them support and stiffen them up.’

  So easily said, Sir Jonathan thought. Thi
s is getting us nowhere. The man lives in another world. Another country.

  Harrison gave a small, apologetic cough. The two men’s eyes turned to him. His large, goldfish eyes peered through his spectacles at Lloyd George. ‘And … er … the other matter we discussed, Prime Minister?’

  Sir Jonathan stiffened. All the way across the Irish Sea, Harrison had been urging on him the merits of this other policy, which he had first broached in the Viceregal Lodge a few days ago. Despite the firm line he had taken with the two policemen, Sir Jonathan had qualms about it. The sincerity of that Inspector - what was his name, Kee? - had impressed Sir Jonathan despite himself. Of course the army should not normally resort to secret murder. But then, how would the man have felt if his own daughter had come within an ace of being torn to mangled shreds by a terrorist’s bomb? And if the politicians would not give them open, consistent support, what else was there? The other policeman, Radford, had looked as though he might understand that. As Harrison clearly did.

  Lloyd George did not answer Harrison’s question at once. He pushed his chair back, stood up, strolled to the window, and looked out. It was already dusk, and the garden of 10 Downing Street was grey, indistinct. He clasped his hands behind his back, fiddling with them under the tails of his frock coat. His voice, when he spoke, was measured, cautious, resonant.

  ‘I understand your difficulties, gentlemen. This is not an ideal world, and when we are dealing with cutthroats and murderers it is necessary to consider methods which in public we should abhor. So if you were able to find a man brave enough to venture into danger to do this work, he would, of course, deserve our full support. Terrorism must be put down, and the rule of the law upheld, by each and every means open to us.’

  He turned to face them, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Does that answer your question, Mr Harrison?’

  Harrison slipped the manila envelope into his briefcase, and stood up. ‘I think so, yes, Prime Minister,’ he said.