The House (Armstrong House Series Book 1)

by A. O'Connor

  Fennell pursed his lips and walked out.

  Prudence took the newspaper out of Clara’s hand to her annoyance and studied the front page.

  “Silly arses! Do you know they copied the warfare in Flanders and built a series of trenches in the park in Stephen’s Green, planning on holding out there for months. But all the British troops did was go up on the roof of the buildings around the park and shoot down at them!”

  The Easter Rising was quickly suppressed and the republicans who fought it arrested. They left behind a city in ruins and an angry public. However, as the authorities put the leaders on trial and sentenced them to execution for treason the public mood shifted from anger at the rebels to fury at the authorities for such severe sentences.

  Clara sat at the bar in Cassidy’s, the newspaper in front of her, while she had a glass of wine in the afternoon.

  “Ah, it’s shocking, just shocking!” said the publican. “Sure them brave lads didn’t deserve to be shot. All they were doing was trying to bring about independence which is what we all want anyway.”

  “Shocking!” said a chorus of customers around the bar as they nodded.

  She supposed it was shocking. Death was always shocking when it came swift and unexpected. The whole world had become brutalised, and this was just another arm of it. The brutality of the war seemed to be so far away, but now with the Rising in Dublin it seemed to be edging closer. The public was becoming aware of just how ferocious the Great War was and the extent of the casualties. The Battle of the Somme had been a bloodbath and the newspapers could no longer suppress the facts with the excuse of keeping the public mood positive. She sighed and folded over the newspaper, bade goodbye to Mr Cassidy and the others and went out to the car.

  As she drove out of Castlewest she thought about Pierce who had made no contact with her since she had seen him last.

  Johnny rowed them across the still water of the lake in the small boat. Clara sat opposite him, looking at the house up on its hill.

  “I should warn you, I’m not an experienced rower, so I hope we don’t get in trouble,” he said.

  “I think you should have warned me of that before we left the shore, as I am not an experienced swimmer,” she said lightly.

  “I will try not to sink us then.”

  “Please do.”

  He stopped rowing and looked back at the house and the surrounding countryside.

  “You see, this is what we write about and paint about in Dublin. Trying to capture the real Ireland. The whole Irish revival in the arts.”

  She looked at him curiously. “And politics.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “You believe in Home Rule.”

  “I believe in it because it will happen. I only believe in things that are certain to happen.”

  “Prudence says –”

  “Prudence! She’s the old Ireland. There won’t be a place for her in the new country if she doesn’t change her ways and move with the times. She wants to hang on to the past. But you can’t. You can only move forward. If you take this county, the power used to be centred around the Big House, the epicentre of the estate. It’s not any more. The power has shifted to Castlewest and it’s in the hands of the shopkeepers, publicans, solicitors, doctors who function there. And not before bloody time!”

  “But you’re from a Big House family. Don’t you mind losing all your power?”

  “I’ve moved with the times.”

  He started rowing again. “I have to return to Dublin next week. I’m behind with my work. I need to get this exhibition organised. Which is going to be hard since most galleries in Dublin are smashed after the Rising. And I have to attend a meeting at the Abbey.”

  She nodded. He was on the board of directors at the Abbey Theatre. She suddenly felt a terrible dread of him going. He was the only bit of fun she had. The only excitement outside the house.

  “How I would love to go to a play!” she sighed.

  “Why don’t you? Come to Dublin and I’ll bring you to the theatre.”

  She blinked a few times. “I can’t! It wouldn’t be right. Attending the theatre with a man while my husband is at war.”

  Johnny roared with laughter as he began to row back to shore.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You! You don’t mind going drinking in a local bar with me, but you couldn’t be seen out in society with me. There’s a rebel in you. But it’s a rebel very concerned with her reputation!”

  67

  As Clara came down the stairs Fennell approached her.

  “Oh, my lady, Mr Seymour is here for you. He’s in the library.”

  “The library?”

  Clara walked across to the library and opened the door. She saw Johnny standing there holding up one of her paintings to the light. She stored them in a folder there.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she walked over to him.

  “I found them over there and decided to take a look. You never said you painted.”

  Clara snatched her work from him. “You’ve no right to snoop around poking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”

  “But art always concerns me.”

  “This isn’t art, it’s a few sketches. You’re so intrusive! You march into my dressing room and throw my dresses around. You march into the library and go nosing through my sketches. The world doesn’t revolve around Johnny Seymour, you know!”

  “Oh, stop getting worked up over nothing.”

  “My drawings are private and I don’t want you looking at them.”

  “But all artists have to show their work to others. It’s what we do.”

  “I’m not an artist.”

  “I beg to differ!” He grabbed the painting from her. “These are bloody good.”

  “Give it back to me!” She tried to take it but he wouldn’t let it go.

  “It shows real talent. Certainly potential. I could show it to some critics in Dublin.”

  She reached forward, grabbed the painting and ripped it up. Then she crossed over to the fireplace, flung it in and watched it evaporate into ashes.

  “That was stupid of you,” he said.

  She turned and viewed him coldly. “I’m Clara Armstrong, wife of Lord Armstrong, an officer in the army. I do not show drawings to critics. I think you forget my position and who I am.”

  He walked slowly to her and put his hand under her chin. “No, Clara, I think it’s you who is forgetting who you are.” He dropped his hand. “I just dropped in to say goodbye before I headed to Dublin. Can you give me a lift to the station?”

  She drove him to the station in silence and parked the car.

  “I’m not sure how long it will take me to organise my exhibition in Dublin, but it will probably be a couple of months before I can resume the portrait.”

  She nodded as she looked ahead. “That’s fine.”

  “That’s if you want me to resume your portrait?”

  “It’s as you wish. Let me know if you’re coming back.”

  He leaned towards her and whispered into her ear. “Don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean to snoop on your paintings. I’ll write to you.”

  She turned and looked at him, smiling cynically. “I don’t think so.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “See you in a couple of months.”

  He got out of the car but she stayed put.

  As he ran to catch his train he shouted, “I hope I didn’t ruin your reputation kissing you in public!”

  “No,” she yelled after him. “But you might have ruined it by then shouting you had to the whole town!”

  Laughing, he waved to her as he jumped on the train.

  68

  Pierce looked down the trench at the soldiers lined up there. He looked up at the clear night sky. He looked at his watch and saw the second hand tick towards the designated time. As the second hand ticked past twelve he knew he should give the signal and yet he paused. He reached into his poc
ket and took out two photos. The first was a photo of his house in Ireland. Then he looked at the other photo which was of Clara who was smiling beautifully.

  “Sir?” asked the private beside him.

  Pierce looked down the line of men anxiously waiting. He quickly stuffed the photos back in his pocket, placed the whistle in his mouth and blew hard. At the sound of the piercing whistle, the soldiers quickly climbed up the trenches and spilled over the top. Pierce clambered over and along with the men began to race across the darkened landscape towards the enemy line. The rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns cut into the night and began to spray bullets at them. Pierce faltered as the first of his soldiers were cut down by the bullets screaming into the night. He stood still and looked to his right and left seeing the casualties everywhere. He thought about sounding the retreat, but then he saw some soldiers racing on. He joined them and continued to run towards the enemy trenches. He ran as fast as he could. As the machine guns continued to gun down the troops his heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath as he expected to be shot any second.

  He suddenly remembered growing up in Ireland. His father bringing him out shooting one sunny afternoon.

  They stood at the top of a rolling field.

  “Fire the gun into the air to get the rabbits running,” said his father.

  Pierce aimed the gun into the air and fired a shot. Suddenly a rabbit jumped up from some long grass and started running across the field.

  “There he is! Shoot him!” ordered his father.

  Pierce aimed the gun at the rabbit and fired, but missed him. He aimed again and fired but missed him again.

  “You’ll lose him! Hit him!” ordered his father.

  But as Pierce tried to get an aim on the rabbit, the rabbit wasn’t running in a normal fashion, he was zig-zagging across the field making it impossible to get him in the direct line of fire.

  As Pierce remembered this, he started to run in a zig-zag fashion across the no man’s land. As the others ran in a direct line, he manoeuvred quickly from left to right. He kept doing this for what seemed like an eternity and suddenly he was at the enemy trenches.

  “We’re here! We’ve made it!” Pierce screamed at the others. But as he turned to look he saw there were no others. They had all been gunned down and he was on his own.

  Gasping, he jumped down into the trench. He could see the German soldiers at their machines gun positions shouting at each other.

  He held up his gun and aimed it at them. Suddenly a soldier appeared from nowhere and knocked the gun out of his hand. He reached down to get it, but was knocked over on to the ground. He turned and looked up where ten soldiers stood around him, pointing their guns at him.

  Pierce was marched into the small room and pushed down on a chair. He looked around the room and it seemed to be a high-ranking officer’s room. Looking up, he saw a group of German soldiers staring at him.

  An officer came in and started speaking to the soldiers. The officer came up to Pierce and studied him.

  “Name?” demanded the officer in English.

  Pierce said nothing but stared back. The officer reached into Pierce’s pockets and took out his wallet and photos. He looked at the photos of the house and Clara before putting them in his pocket and then he riffled through the wallet.

  “Captain Pierce Armstrong,” read the officer. He turned to the soldiers and said, “Leave us.”

  The officer went to a table and took up a cigarette box and lit a cigarette.

  “So, Armstrong, you got inside our trench and didn’t shoot anybody, or set off any grenade. All you did was hand yourself to us . . . Cigarette?”

  Pierce nodded and the officer handed him a cigarette and a light.

  “You’re quite a coup. A high-ranking officer. Tell me, what are you planning to do next?”

  Pierce dragged on the cigarette but said nothing.

  “Be silent then. You’ll be transported to a prisoner-of-war camp where you’ll be questioned. I’m sure you have a lot of information that will be helpful to us.”

  “Questioned? You mean interrogated,” Pierce said.

  “Make it easy on yourself and give the information freely.”

  “What’ll happen then?”

  The officer took out the photos and looked at the house. “Your home?”

  Pierce nodded.

  “And your wife?”

  Pierce nodded. “Clara.”

  “A privileged man. It’s going to be a long time before you see either again.”

  Pierce watched the man intently. The German officer found Pierce’s dark eyes unsettling, his cool unconcerned behaviour strange.

  “Let me go,” Pierce suddenly said.

  “What?”

  “Let me go free. Bring me to the edge of the trenches and I’ll find my way back to our side.”

  “Are you crazy?” The German officer started laughing.

  “Please. I won’t be able to stand being captured. Anything but that.”

  “You’re a prisoner of war, now shut up.”

  “Please. I’ve never asked for anything in my life from anyone. I’ve never needed anything from anyone. But I need this from you. Let me go free. Please. I’m begging you.” Pierce’s stare bored into the German’s eyes.

  The German officer returned his stare for a long time, and then he got up and walked out of the room.

  Pierce heard the officer giving orders to the men outside and then there was silence. He eventually got up and walked to the door. He peeped out and saw nobody about. His heart started to pound. He stepped back into the room and saw the German officer’s clothes stretched out on the bed. He quickly changed into them. He slipped out of the small building and started walking down through the trenches. He kept his head down as he walked past some soldiers. He got to a quiet area and then he jumped up over the trench into no man’s land. He fell to the ground and began to drag himself along the ground towards the British lines.

  After the earlier onslaught nobody was expecting any more advances and so the artillery were not on the alert. But Pierce didn’t raise his head as he continued to drag himself through the mud. When he was halfway over he wriggled out of the German clothes and continued on his journey until he finally reached the British trenches where he collapsed.

  69

  Clara took up her letters and looked through them. She stopped suddenly when she saw Pierce’s handwriting on an envelope. Her hands started shaking as she carefully tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper inside.

  I’ll be home on leave on the 19th, Pierce.

  As she read and reread the note she started crying. She stood up and started running through the house shouting, “He’s coming home! He’ll be home next week!”

  Tossing and turning the whole night before Pierce was to arrive home, Clara was consumed with nerves. All she had wanted over the months was to see Pierce back. But now he was due she was consumed with worry. Would he be changed? Would he be different to her? She hoped he would have missed her so much that the barriers would have come down. Maybe he would have changed. Clara decided it might be better for Pierce not to see all the letters she got from the front, in case he got the wrong idea. She managed to find a loose floorboard in one of the guest bedrooms and, taking it up, she hid the letters in a couple of bags under it. The letters had been her little way of helping her friends in the war, but now she must concentrate on her husband.

  Prudence sat at the steering wheel outside the station, Clara standing up in the car beside her so she could see over the station fence onto the platform. There were a lot of soldiers coming home on leave that day and the station was packed.

  “Oh, sit down, won’t you, you’re giving me vertigo!” pleaded Prudence.

  Clara reluctantly sat down.

  “Here it is!” she shouted, jumping up again.

  “For goodness’ sake!”

  The train was pulling into the station. As soldiers started spilling out on to the platform there was a r
ush of people to their loved ones.

  “I can’t see him, I can’t see him!” said Clara, standing on her tiptoes.

  “Everything comes to those who wait,” said Prudence.

  “There he is!” said Clara as she spotted him cutting through the crowd.

  She jumped from the car and made for the station entrance. She pushed through the emerging crowd until she got to him, flung her arms around him and held him tightly.

  “Clara, there are people looking,” he said irritably as he drew back from her.

  “I don’t care!” she said happily, gazing into his face. “You haven’t changed. I thought you would have changed.”

  “Let’s get to the car and back to the house,” he said. He turned to the corporal who was carrying his bag. “This way.”

  They reached the car. Prudence was sitting back, a cynical smile on her face.