by Aubrey Flegg
‘Look!’ she said in exasperation. ‘Will you get out of here, look after your blessed cows and mind your own business.’
Marty edged towards the door. ‘It had better be a good one. The last sin … ouch!’ he was gone.
Katie walked over and picked up the porridge spoon and wiped the mess off the door with her apron. She could hear him already calling ‘Hup hup,’ for the cows down the lane. ‘Bother!’ she muttered under her breath. The plan that had seemed so clear as she lay in bed now seemed wild and improbable. ‘Damn Marty!’ She pushed the porridge off the hot-plate to the back of the range and closed the lid so the heat would build up in the oven while she mixed the bread. She would not be put off.
* * *
‘Now, that’s a smell to gladden you,’ said Father, sniffing as he came into the kitchen.
‘Isn’t she great,’ said Mother. ‘She has half my day’s work done for me.’ Mr Parry came in from the yard, his hair glistening with water. Katie heated the pot for tea. There was a thunder of boots on the stairs and Dafydd appeared. His hair was tousled and he carried the pot from under his bed in front of him. He checked, saw everybody, then made an embarrassed dash for the door. Everyone looked somewhere else.
‘Well, what do you want us to do today, Eamonn?’ asked Mr Parry, pouring cream on to his porridge.
‘We won’t get the men up today, not Saturday. The ones I want will be busy – and you can keep the others,’ said Father. ‘Let you and me take a really good look at the place today. We’ll be ready then for the men tomorrow. Father MacDonagh has promised to make an announcement for me at Mass. We’ll have more men and advice than we want before Sunday’s out.’ Dafydd looked up at his father and raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Sunday already?’ Mr Parry sounded surprised.
‘Why yes. Oh! I forgot, of course you don’t work or even discuss work on a Sunday, do you? How foolish of me.’
‘Time was it was strictly the Lord’s Day but the war changed all that. Anyway, this is Ireland, not Wales.’
‘We must see that you get to church, though. There’s the Church of Ireland –’
‘Don’t you worry, we’re chapel people, you see, but ever since the war I’ve learned to find God in silence. Do you remember how the nightingales sometimes sang before the guns started in the war? Your hills will do Dafydd and me just fine. If it is too quiet I will get him to sing, and that’s a threat. I haven’t managed to get a cheep out of him since his voice broke.’
‘I wonder if there’s any news of the trouble in Dublin,’ Father mused. ‘We could do with a newspaper.’ Katie, whose thoughts had been elsewhere, looked up sharply.
Mr Parry added, ‘Dafydd could do with news too, couldn’t you, lad? He’s all keen to hear how the mountaineers are doing on Mount Everest. Met them, he did, up at Llyn Ogwen, practising.’
‘There was Mr Mallory and Mr Irvine,’ said Dafydd. ‘They had ropes and boots with special nails along the edges.’ Katie hadn’t expected Dafydd to have an interest in climbing. He had caught the sun on their walk and looked less cadaverous now. Also, he had a phenomenal appetite.
‘I think that’s where Dafydd’s liking for boots comes from,’ laughed Mr Parry, but Dafydd went on, ‘There was an Irish man there too – a Mr O’Brien, just like you. He climbed barefoot. You couldn’t climb on Everest barefoot though, you’d get frost-bite. Perhaps they’ve got to the top by now. It takes weeks and weeks for news to come back.’
‘Dafydd and me’ll go and get a Nenagh Guardian, or an Independent,’ said Katie.
Dafydd looked surprised, then looked across at his father, questioning. The men got up.
‘That’s kind,’ said Mr Parry. ‘You can come up to the quarry when you get back, Dafydd.’ As their voices receded across the yard Katie heard Mr Parry ask, ‘Is it far?’
‘No, you can walk across the fields.’ Katie coughed to drown Father’s words. Marty thumped her heartily on the back, saying, ‘That’s for your sins.’
* * *
‘Start at the edge, dip the skimmer in steeply, then flatten it out just under the cream.’ Dafydd did as he was instructed. ‘Now pull it towards you.’ The thick layer of yellow cream crumpled up on to the enamel skimmer while the blue milk flowed out through the holes. ‘Keep it flat and lift it over the bowl – keep it flat! There, easy isn’t it?’ Katie stepped back and glanced cautiously out the dairy door. She was just in time to see her mother, looking smart, set off up the yard. She would be going to see Mrs Moran about the summer sale. Marty had gone down to the wet meadows to look at the bullocks. She could hear the swish-swish of Peter sweeping out the byre; she could manage Peter. Dafydd had not done badly. There were still islands of cream floating on the milk. She swept these up expertly. Mother still made butter for their own use. Katie promised herself she would help her with the churning this evening. She covered the bowl and the cream with muslin.
* * *
‘Are you sure it’s all right, your taking the trap?’ asked Peter as he fitted Barney into his harness.
‘Yes, we have a message,’ said Katie, trying not to be caught in a lie.
‘Take care then, he’s fresh,’ said Peter, stepping back.
Katie looped the reins over her hands, hoping she didn’t look as scared as she felt.
‘I thought your Dad said it was a walk through the fields?’ said Dafydd.
‘It’s quicker by trap,’ she said, ‘quicker where we’re going.’
She was only just in control as they rattled down the potholed road from the farm and they approached the main road at a trot. At the junction the road rose steeply up left into the village. Dafydd adjusted his grip, bracing himself for the turn, but next moment he was on his back on the floor of the trap. Without slackening pace, Katie had turned right, away from the village on to the road to Nenagh.
‘Gid-up, Barney,’ she called as Dafydd floundered about at her feet. The crash of his fall had frightened Barney, who trotted faster, ears back, a short jerking motion. Katie stood up and braced her feet apart. She hadn’t changed her clothes before coming out. Her blouse was old, her skirt patched – and she wanted to sing. She pulled the ribbon from her head and shook her hair free. Dafydd had clambered on to the seat and was holding on grimly; his ears flashed as they passed in and out of sunlight, but Katie was thinking of someone else. He would know what to do, when she found him, and between them they would stop this fight, perhaps even the whole war.
She imagined their meeting clearly. In the street, or perhaps down at the railway station again. He’d be there, smiling a surprised greeting. She’d drag Barney to a halt. Then, leaning from the trap, she’d tell him that a mutiny was planned. She imagined him looking up at her, as he had at the station, eyes intent but smiling. Perhaps he’d put his hand in hers for a second, but there’d be no time for more. He’d go to his officer then, and she would slip away. There would be some arrests perhaps, but no fighting because the mutiny would have been caught in the bud. Seamus would come home and she could shake off Father’s shadow and be free to get on with her life.
The jolting motion of the trap irritated her so she flicked the reins. Immediately the jolting stopped and the trap took on a wave-like motion as Barney cantered. The hedges streamed past and Katie couldn’t resist another slap with the reins.
‘Feel that, Dafydd!’ she yelled as the motion changed again, this time to a smooth, breath-taking flow. Barney had never galloped in the trap before. The wind whipped at Katie’s hair, and she leant into the bend as the road swung to the left. ‘Finn MacCool would have driven like this!’ she called.
The fallen tree took her completely by surprise. She dragged on Barney’s reins but he seemed unable to stop.
‘Watch out, Dafydd!’ But the barrier across the road grew and grew. Barney’s chest was almost into the branches before they pulled up and she lost her footing. Terrified, Barney began to back. The trap was slewing to one side and in a second it would overturn. At that moment a
soldier rose from the ditch and seized Barney’s halter. The horse reared, but the soldier held him down.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going!’ roared a voice ahead of them. The branches quaked. Katie, tangled up in Dafydd’s legs, struggled to get up off the floor. ‘Hold them there, Corporal, don’t let go.’ An officer, Sam Brown belt shining, pushed into sight through the branches. His cap was knocked awry, one arm was in a sling and the other held a long-barrelled pistol which he raised and pointed at Katie. ‘Stand up! Put your hands up. Who else have you got in there?’ Dafydd appeared from the floor, pale and clearly shaken. ‘You too; your hands where I can see them. Well? Who are you, and where are you going?’
‘We’re just doing messages, going into Nenagh,’ said Katie, answering his last question first. ‘I’m Katie O’Brien, this is Dafydd – he’s from Wales, he doesn’t speak English.’ Why had she repeated that stupid lie?
‘Messages? At the gallop?’
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘What business is that of yours?’ the officer snapped without lowering his pistol.
‘None, none at all,’ she stammered.
‘I’ll tell you what’s bloody well happened.’ Katie could see that his hand was shaking. She’d never seen anyone so angry before and was terrified the pistol would go off. ‘A friend of mine, an officer, an Irishman – one of the best, one who fought with me against the English – has been shot dead in Nenagh by your so-called Republicans. They also shot Mrs O’Malley, a perfectly innocent by-stander, in the stomach, and she’s died too. And then not ten minutes ago I got this from one of your friends when we came out to clear this tree.’ He held up his bandaged hand. ‘Now, where were you going at the gallop? Taking messages rather than doing them I’d say, or have they sent you to spy on us?’
‘No, we just came round the corner and –’
‘From now on we shoot on sight, and you can tell them that.’
‘I … we … it’s just the messages.’
‘Well, stop looking all over the place for them!’ The gun wobbled alarmingly. Katie had been looking, searching for a familiar face, but there were no friendly faces here. A group of soldiers in shirt sleeves stood idle but hostile, staring at them. A cross-cut saw emerged from the trunk of the tree, a neat pile of sawdust beneath it.
‘Get on with your sawing there,’ the officer shouted. He turned back to Katie. ‘Well, are you spying? We used girls as spies often enough in the ‘Tan war.’ She shook her head. ‘Corporal, do you know them?’ he asked, turning to the soldier at Barney’s head.
‘Her father, O’Brien’s all right, Sir; he was in the Great War, lost a hand. He’s trying to reopen one of the slate quarries, I’ve heard. Her uncle up the hill, he’d be a Republican now. He was with us against the ‘Tans.’
‘What a mess!’ said the officer. ‘And now half of us are even wearing the same bloody uniforms! Back her off, corporal. You, girl, keep out of it. Go home where you belong, and stay there.’ He turned on Dafydd and snapped, ‘Where did she say you were from then? Come on, quickly.’ Dafydd looked bewildered, shrugged his shoulders, and murmured something, presumably in Welsh. ‘All right, off with you, and keep off the roads. They’re not safe for children.’
* * *
Barney walked slowly, unurged. The foam from his gallop was drying on his flanks. Katie was still shaking.
‘Here, Frog, take the reins.’ She put them into his hands. She had no comb, but running her fingers through her hair calmed her. She found a ribbon in her skirt pocket and tied her hair. ‘Dafydd … I’m sorry.’ They were approaching the crossroads again. ‘Do you want to go home? It’s not far, just up the hill the way we came.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need to think,’ she said.
Dafydd hesitated. ‘I’ll be quiet.’
Katie turned Barney down the hill to the right towards the lake.
There was a patch of green beside the harbour. Katie hitched the reins so that Barney would not trip on them, and left him free. She led the way out on to the pier. The horse dropped his head gratefully and began to graze. The pier was deserted; coal and turf dust showed where a barge had been off-loaded. Jackdaws chattered in the ruins of the old castle that had once stood guard over the harbour. Ahead of them, Lough Derg spread out, a rippling sheet as far as the eye could see. Katie led the way down to a large slab of rock that sloped into the water. She sat there, gathering her skirts about her ankles. Dafydd sat down too, but at the far side of the slab. Water lapped softly with a rounded noise on the stones, the sound forming a background to Katie’s silence.
‘Frog,’ she said after a while.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re Welsh, aren’t you?’
‘Yes?’ said Dafydd.
‘If I talk to you in English you won’t understand me will you?’
‘Perhaps not. I haven’t up to now anyway, have I?’ He grinned.
‘That was just a game. This is serious, deadly serious. And you won’t remember what I say afterwards?’
‘If I don’t understand I can’t, can I?’
Katie stared at the little waves as they raced in towards the shore. All she could see was the light reflected on their surfaces, then her eyes were drawn through the glitter to the honey-brown water-world below.
‘It began when I went to meet Father at the station,’ she said.
CHAPTER 8
Matches!
Secrets, Megan, are terrible things. Your twin brother is growing up fast. But why did she tell me? Why me? She has this game, see. Pretends I don’t speak English – shuts me up, I suppose. At any rate, there she stood, her ragged skirt blowing and the waves of the Shannon dashing against her feet, and she told me everything. All the years she has nursed her father, silenced by the fear that he was mad, convinced he was a coward fleeing from some dreadful shame …
* * *
‘Father does not wantmeany more now,’ said Katie as she finished her story. She gazed at the clouded sky while little waves dashed against the sloping stones at the edge of the lake. ‘I gave him everything, Dafydd! I gave him my childhood, thinking he was sick, afraid he was mad. It didn’t seem to matter that he was a coward or ashamed while he was sick. Now your Dad says it’s just shell-shock and you, who never met him in your life before, can cure him with a word. “Angry” is all you said, and he was better. I don’t know where I am, Dafydd. Is he sick, is he a coward, is he mad, or can’t he face up to things because he ran away? Talk to me, Dafydd. Our game is over; I want to know.’
Out on the lake wind whipped at the water in front of an advancing storm. Katie took off her shoes and dipped her feet into the cool water. She thought of Barney and hoped there would be no thunder. Perhaps Dafydd had nothing to say. She looked down at him. He was folded up now, compact, legs crossed, looking out over the lake. She was surprised and a little frightened at the energy that seemed to be locked up inside him. ‘Answer me, Dafydd!’ she demanded.
‘There is a story told among the Welsh miners who came back from the war of an Irishman who forgot his matches,’ Dafydd began.
‘What? … Oh go on.’
‘The Welsh were the miners in the war, see. The idea was to dig tunnels under the ground – secretly, like – until the tunnel was right under the German trenches. You dug out a room there and filled it with explosives. Then, just before a big attack you would set it off. Kill a lot of Germans, but chiefly it made a gap for the soldiers to get through.’
Katie shivered.
‘Yes, it was horrible, but the Germans were doing it too. Dad talks of listening to them chattering away in their tunnel as they dug past in the opposite direction. Question of who got to the end first.’
‘What happened if they met in the middle?’
‘They bashed at each other with picks and shovels, hand to hand. Not nice. There was no-one in your Dad’s tunnel when he found it though.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Katie.
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Dafydd looked up at her. ‘He really told you nothing about all this?’
Katie stepped back out of the water and sat down, dropping her head on her knees. ‘Just tell me!’ she mumbled.
‘One night an Irish sergeant was out on patrol in no-man’s land when he and his men took shelter in a deep shell-hole quite close to a German machine-gun position. The soldiers hated that machine-gun but this was as close as they had ever managed to get to it. It had been raining and most of the shell holes had water in them, but this one was dry. Why was that? Where had the water gone to? the sergeant wondered. He crawled down, and there, to his surprise, was a hole; he wriggled into it. The shell had broken into a tunnel. It must have been one that the Germans had been digging towards the Irish trenches, but it was quite old. They must have abandoned it when the shell burst into it.
The sergeant could hardly believe his luck. In one direction it led straight towards the hated machine-gun, in the other it led back towards the Irish trenches. If they could tunnel in and find the end of the German tunnel from their own trenches they might be able to turn the tables on the Germans and blow that machine-gun sky high. That’s when the sergeant asked for the Welsh miners to help.
‘Dad had just finished a tunnel, a long deep one, at a place called Hill 60, when the news came that the Irish were being killed in hundreds by a machine-gun positioned on a little hill overlooking their trenches, but that they had found an old tunnel or something. Could the Welsh miners open it up? The soldiers called the place “Watch-it” after some Belgian village. Horrible place it was. The Germans were up on a hill and if anyone showed a whisker the machine-guns would swing on them. Cut through them like a scythe. There were three lines of trenches. Did your Dad tell you how it was?’
Katie nodded into her knees.
Dafydd went on. ‘They were joined by communication trenches. Dad was warned as he went up that the Irish were all Sinn Féiners and would run away as soon as fight, but he had heard the same said about the Welsh running away, so he didn’t take any notice.
