by Aubrey Flegg
Katie had always loved Uncle Mal’s Farm. It nestled within a group of gnarled pine trees at the head of a wide valley. Above the house the mountain rose in curves of soft heather so springy you could roll down the slope without hurting yourself, sneezing in a cloud of pollen. She used to think the valley had been made by some giant when the mountain was still soft, pressing his thumb into its side. He was a giant with green fingers though, because where he had pressed hardest the valley was green with grass. The path they were following was a mere groove in the meadow, but she knew it well. It led through a neighbour’s farm and thence by a lane to her uncle’s back door. Grasshoppers pinged off their legs as they walked.
‘That’s Uncle Mal’s, over there in the trees, but we have to go through the neighbour’s first,’ she said.
‘Isn’t that trespassing?’ asked Dafydd anxiously.
‘What? They won’t mind – isn’t it all Ireland!’ But she added, ‘It would be good if their dog didn’t bark though.’ There was nobody about. They tiptoed past the front of the house. The dog was there; he lifted his head off his paws, looked at them, and lowered it with a sigh. They entered the lane. Katie was nervous; she could have done without having to bring the boy with her.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘this could be dangerous. You don’t have to come.’
Dafydd’s eyes widened. ‘I’ll come,’ he said.
‘Right then,’ she commanded. ‘You stay three steps behind me, keep down and when I stop, you stop.’ The lane was little used, and overhung with scarlet fuchsia flowers. She wondered what to expect. Mick-the-Shilling probably didn’t know what he was talking about, you wouldn’t know what might be going on in his mind. She glanced back. Dafydd was copying her every move.
The little iron gate from the lane into the yard stood open. Foot by foot she crept forward, on all fours now, dress clutched in her fist, watching where she put her hands and knees. She turned in at the gate, looked up cautiously, then froze. She was staring at the patched seat of a man’s trousers. He was standing not three feet in front of her and he had a gun under one arm. She turned to Dafydd and put a finger to her lips. If only she’d come along the lane whistling. God only knew what the man might do if he turned now. Her mouth felt dry. She was so close she could touch him. She began to back away, hand and then foot, when all at once a stone began to turn under her knee. There was only one thing to do – say something.
‘Aa-hem,’ she said.
To her amazement the man literally leapt in his standing. ‘Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph!’ he said, spinning round. His gun fell to the ground with a clatter.
‘Josie!’ she said, recognising him. It was Uncle Mal’s farmhand. ‘It’s me – Katie. Don’t shoot.’
‘How can I bloody well shoot with my gun on the ground? What are you doing anyway, Katie O’Brien, frightening an honest rebel out of his wits?’
‘Is Seamus in there, Josie? I must see him.’
‘Where else?’ He picked up his gun and wiped the dust off it. Katie turned to where Dafydd stood in the lane, still frozen like someone playing Grandmother’s Footsteps.
‘Come on, Dafydd,’ she said beckoning with her head. ‘It’s all clear.’
Josie jumped. ‘Holy Mother of God, another one! I’m surrounded.’
‘Dafydd’s from Wales. He doesn’t speak a word of English,’ lied Katie with sudden inspiration, glaring at Dafydd. ‘He’s come to learn.’
‘Well, he’ll get enough chat out of you, anyway,’ Josie stated. Katie put her tongue out. ‘You’ll find them all in the parlour,’ he went on. ‘There’s an officer up from Cork in there, a big nob.’
‘Thank you, Josie, you’ll take care of that gun now, won’t you?’
‘You won’t go telling on me, child, will you? It’s only an old shotgun.’
‘Child?’ said Katie scornfully.
Josie turned to Dafydd. ‘You have a hard woman there, Dafydd, haven’t you, lad?’ Dafydd looked at him blankly. Josie groaned and scrubbed at his forehead. ‘It’s not my day, is it? Get along with you, the pair of you.’
* * *
As they crossed the yard Katie wondered what had possessed her to say that Dafydd knew no English. He was bound to give himself away. But she needed space, space to tackle Seamus on his own. They could hear a precise, commanding voice declaiming inside. The kitchen door was open. Katie turned to Dafydd.
‘Remember, you don’t know English, not a word of it. If they talk to you, answer in Welsh.’
‘Gorwedd Draig Cymru wrth dy draed.’
‘What?’
‘Draig Cymru; ond chwarae â thân yr wyt ti.’
‘Not me, you mutt!’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Now, shut up.’ Dafydd looked disappointed. ‘All right, clever Frog, fooled Katie. Now, come on.’ She hesitated when she got to the doorway. She wasn’t going to try creeping up on anyone again. At first sight the kitchen was empty. To her left the parlour door stood open. She could see the backs of men sitting; others were standing along the walls. A board was balanced on the mantelpiece with a map sprinkled with different-coloured dots. She couldn’t see the speaker until he stepped forward to jab at a point on the map. She got a glimpse of a trench coat then and wondered that anyone could wear a coat in that heat. Her uncle Mal sat under the map, looking pink and uncomfortable, with an arm-band on his arm.
As Katie’s shadow fell across the kitchen floor heads turned in the dark of the kitchen and she realised that there were people in there too, clustered about the door. Someone said, ‘Shssssh!’ as Auntie Nora came tip-toeing across.
‘Come in, Katie darling,’ she whispered. ‘But be quiet as a mouse. And who’s your friend?’ putting a welcoming hand on Dafydd’s shoulder.
‘Dafydd’s from Wales – he doesn’t speak a word of English.’ Katie hoped the low light in the kitchen would hide her blush.
‘He’s welcome, but we mustn’t disturb the meeting. We have an officer up from Cork.’ She winked at Dafydd, put her finger to her lips and guided him to the chair that she had been sitting on at the parlour door. The disturbance was noticed inside.
‘Who’s there? Who’s out there?’ demanded the voice.
‘Just family,’ called Auntie Nora, ‘just the childer.’
Katie waited till the voice started again. ‘Where’s Seamus, Auntie Nora? Is he here?’
‘Indeed he is. Is it urgent? I don’t like to interrupt.’
‘It is urgent,’ Katie said, nodding. If she waited till the meeting broke up she’d never get Seamus alone. Also, she was beginning to regret having told lies about Dafydd; he was bound to give himself away. Her aunt leaned into the room, tapped someone on the shoulder and pointed. Katie grimaced as chairs moved and feet shuffled. At that moment Seamus appeared in the doorway. Behind him the voice said sharply: ‘Can I please have some order here. This is a briefing not a parish meeting. I’ll now call on …’
Katie had a smile ready for Seamus when he came out, but when he saw who it was, he nearly turned back. White with anger, he pushed her backwards across the kitchen and out the door.
‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered angrily. ‘Look what you’ve done! Do you realise who that is in there! You have me shamed.’
‘I want to help, Seamus. I want to do something for Ireland, like you. I’m fed up with sitting at home.’
‘Mother of God! Is that all you’ve come to say?’
‘I have a message from Father too,’ she stammered.
‘What’s his message?’
‘He … he sent me … but I wanted to come anyway. He says come back, that he respects –’
‘Respects!’ spat Seamus. ‘Come away from the door. What side are you on? How did you get in here without being stopped?’
Katie thought of nice Josie and his shotgun and kept her mouth shut. Seamus was pushing her across the yard. The door of the barn was open and he pulled her in behind it. There was a low growl from the dark behind them, perhaps Uncle Mal’s bitch had pups? Katie’s care
fully rehearsed speech deserted her.
‘Seamus – your dream – of Ireland as it should be. I heard what you said at dinner today. Mother thinks like that too, doesn’t she? What should I think? I want to do something for Ireland too, you know. Father doesn’t want me any more and I’m ready to help. I want to do something.’
‘What can you do?’ Seamus’s scorn cut into her.
‘We used to plan, and do things together. Surely …’
‘We were children then. Grow up! There won’t be a future unless we fight for it – and girls are no good at fighting.’
‘That’s stupid! But why must we fight? Isn’t there some other way? Father says …’ She hadn’t meant to mention Father again.
‘Don’t talk about him!’ Seamus shouted and then dropped his voice. ‘I’m fed up with Father. He’s gun-shy, he’s like … he’s like a spoiled spaniel … worse than no dog at all. He’s not a man any more, Katie. I saw him at dinner. Keep him out of it. If we’re to win this battle we can’t have passengers; nurse him, and keep him out of my way. We need men who know how to use a gun.’
Katie backed up against the barn door. There was a bitterness in Seamus’s voice, something cold and resentful, which confused her. She had come with an open mind to offer herself to his cause, but this Seamus frightened her. She snapped back, ‘You don’t have a gun, do you? You’re just a dog without teeth.’
‘But I’ll get one.’
‘How?’
‘Find that out for yourself.’
‘I will. And what happened to your hands? They’re all blistered, I saw them at dinner.’
‘All right, I haven’t got a gun now but there are other ways of fighting the enemy,’ said Seamus. ‘Cutting off his communications, for one. That’s what the officer is explaining inside, but we’ve been at it already, cutting trees down so that they fall across the roads. The plan is to bring the whole country to a halt using fallen trees, digging trenches in roads, lifting railway lines and blowing up bridges.’
‘But these are our bridges and our railways, how does that change things? That won’t win a war!’ said Katie.
‘Oh yes it will. It means we can cut the Free Staters off in their barracks, just as we did the English. If they can’t get reinforcements we can pick them off and capture their weapons.’
‘Like where? What barracks would you attack?’
‘Well, a town not far from here –’
‘Nenagh! But …’ Katie’s voice faded.
‘What?’
‘But there are hundreds of soldiers there, I’ve seen them.’
‘So?’ Seamus glanced around. ‘Those troops are not all for the Free State, you know, there are good Republicans there too.’ He dropped his voice. ‘In the next few days half that garrison will come out for us.’
‘You mean change sides without fighting?’
‘Oh no, there’ll be fighting all right. It’s not just the men we need, but the guns and ammunition the Free State troops are holding as well. There’ll be bloodshed, no getting away from it,’ he said with relish.
Katie felt as if her chest were in a clamp. She was beginning to see for the first time that what was happening was real. She remembered a smiling face looking up at her from Barney’s head. I’m for the Free State, the boy had said. Katie stammered, ‘But the men who change sides, they’ll be traitors won’t they, betraying their friends?’
‘Jesus, child, grow up – don’t you understand anything? It is the government troops that are the traitors. They have betrayed the Republic and the Dáil for their half-breed Free State. Do you realise they’re asking us to take an oath of allegiance to the King of England. Never! Who are the traitors now?’
‘But it means killing our … our friends, Seamie. Killing people who fought with us against the English. Friends like … like …’ she had to stop.
‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. You have to be trained. You have to stop thinking of the enemy as a person. When you see a man in green uniform in the sights of your rifle, and begin to squeeze the trigger, it is not an Irishman or a friend who is about to die, but a traitor. That Irishman died when he swore away his birthright.’ Seamus spoke as if reciting something he’d learned by heart. He was pacing, obviously wanting to get back to the meeting. ‘Squeeze the trigger,’ he said under his breath as if repeating a lesson. Then he turned towards her. ‘Go back and nurse Father, Katie. I’ll come home from time to time if I’m let. But I’m not going to stop doing what I think is right, for you or anyone. You’ve got to realise we have to get the British out now – right out for ever!’ To her amazement then he put his arms around her.
For a second Katie didn’t know what to do. It was an invitation for her to come back: big brother, little sister. But that was gone, done with, finished. I’m for the Free State, the boy at Nenagh had said. Seamus had no right to kill him just because of that. With an energy that surprised her, Katie pushed Seamus away.
‘Come back or not as you like,’ she snapped. ‘Just keep the war away from home. I’ll fight this my own way. Keep away from Father too. I could do without you upsetting him as you did today.’
There was a rustle in the straw in the barn. Katie’s eyes were adjusted to the dark now and she could make out two eyes and the outline of a dog, head raised, teeth showing. There was another growl.
‘Shut up!’ she said to it, and turned away, striding towards the house to collect Dafydd.
‘What do you mean, fight this your own way?’ asked Seamus, hurrying after her.
‘Work that out for yourself, soldier,’ she retorted.
It was only when she and Dafydd were out in the lane that she thought about the dog again; it had been black, black without a patch of white. Uncle Mal had no dog like that! It made her spine tingle but she was glad she had told it to shut up. To hell with the black dogs.
* * *
Dafydd sat beside the road and laced up his boots.
‘Oh, the comfort of a pair of socks,’ he said with a sigh.
They had hardly spoken on the walk back. Katie had been preoccupied.
‘How much did you hear – of what the man was saying up at the house? What they’re planning?’
‘Me? Never understood a word. I’m Welsh, you see,’ said Dafydd.
Katie looked at him with interest.
CHAPTER 7
Informer!
‘Squeeze the trigger,’ the voice said, but Katie’s arms were aching and she couldn’t hold the heavy rifle steady. The sights weaved and bobbed. Sometimes she had the advancing soldier dead-centre in the frame, then, just as her finger curled on the trigger he would bob away. She knew who the soldier was because it was his rifle she was holding – the triangle of yellow wood where it had been repaired was silky smooth against her cheek.
‘Squeeze the trigger!’ It was a command. The soldier was closer now and unarmed. Did that make a difference? ‘Now!’ All she could see was the green of his uniform filling the whole of her vision. She could not miss! She would look up when she fired; she had to see his face, the face of a man without a birthright.
The kick of the rifle and the crash of the shot came as one. As the soldier’s knees bucked under him, Katie looked up into the dying face – looked and disbelieved. It wasn’t him. There was something terribly wrong – the hair a fuzz of red, the eyes that were glazing over were blue. It was her own face.
‘Poor country – poor poor country, no – no – poor Katie,’ she grieved.
* * *
She stared up into the dark of her room, her pulse racing. What had woken her? The stairs creaked – Seamus? No, Marty surely, on his nightly expedition. Probably tripped over the Frog’s boots, that would have been the crash. But the confusion of her dream seemed to have cleared her mind. She had felt lost, bereaved almost, when they had got back from Uncle Mal’s. Now she began to plan, quickly and clearly. When she was satisfied that her plan would work, she slept.
* * *
Kati
e woke, pleased to find her plan still neat and clean in her head. She met Marty at the top of the stairs.
‘Look who’s after early worms,’ he said.
‘Shhh.’ Katie put her finger to her lips and pointed to the settle where Dafydd slept, humped in the bed. Marty winked and tiptoed pointedly down the stairs and into the kitchen.
She wasn’t often up this early, and she felt nervous. But the homely smell of the kitchen calmed her. The range, which was kept in with a couple of sods of turf, scented the room. The pendulum clock on the wall ticked hollowly. Prince stirred from his place beside the range, got up, stretched stiffly and walked, tail wagging, towards the kitchen door. Marty let him out and followed him into the yard. The light outside was still colourless, the sun not yet up. Katie put on an apron and opened the door of the range. She riddled the ashes off the turf carefully and dropped a handful of kindling through the hole in the top plate. Then she blew, closing her eyes against the waft of dust which swirled back out at her. She persisted until the twigs crackled into life, then added a shovelful of coal from the hod. The porridge had been left soaking on the back of the range overnight. She moved it on to the hot-plate and began to stir.
Marty came in with a jug of buttermilk and a slab of butter from the dairy.
‘Don’t you drink all of that,’ she said. ‘I want to make a loaf. Dafydd has all the bread eaten.’
‘Well, well, well – what’s all this sudden virtue?’ Marty looked at her with his head to one side. ‘Could someone have committed a little sin, perhaps, a little crime, or could there be one in the planning?’ He cut a slice from the heel of the loaf and spread it thickly with butter. Katie turned her back on him and stirred the porridge.
‘Don’t go losing your bread under all that butter,’ she said.
‘Oh ho!’ said Marty through his mouthful, ‘if it was a past sin we wouldn’t be all bossy, so it’s a sin in the making, is it? That’s interesting now!’ Katie set her mouth. Marty had a disconcerting way of seeing through her. As he munched, Marty hummed knowingly.
