Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars

by Jean Grainger

  They went back into Lily and Kevin Browne’s house and gathered up their belongings. Mary folded the flag, now stained from Mrs Grant’s blood, and placed it in her knapsack. The blood was drying and the holes made by Tom Clarke for his boot laces were stretched and ragged. She tried to brush the dried blood from her clothes and fix her hair so it wasn’t hanging in front of her face. They went in to the kitchen where Lily was making stirabout over the fire.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Browne, for your hospitality,’ Mary began.

  ‘Sure, I only did my Christian duty, the same as anyone would have. I hope your lady will be alright.’ Softness crept into her brusque tones as she spoke.

  ‘And I hope your Frank comes home in one piece,’ Eileen said quietly, as she went to shake the woman’s hand. ‘My brother Rory, Mary’s fiancé, is a Volunteer and my parents are worried sick the whole time between the pair of us. My mam says ’tis easy for us, playing soldiers when ’tis she doing all the worrying.’

  ‘’Tis terrible times we’re living in, and that’s the truth of it,’ Kevin said as he entered from the back yard. ‘The city is in ruins, there’s thousands dead it feels like, and for what? Our boy fighting for a bit of land out foreign, your lot fighting over this auld island. In the end no one wins, isn’t that the truth. No one at all...’ he finished quietly.

  ‘Well, thank you for everything.’ Mrs Kearns was anxious to go.

  ‘Should you not take off them uniforms ye have on ye? If ye go out now, looking like that, the British will know you’re part of the rebels and God knows what they’ll do to ye.’

  Mary thought Kevin was right. They’d managed to escape so far. to hand themselves over to the enemy at this stage would be stupid.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe we should stand with the men.’ Eileen was uncertain.

  ‘Remember what they told us, avoid arrest if possible. We are more use to the men if we are free. At least this way, if Rory is put in gaol we can send him things, visit even maybe. What good are we to him in gaol?’ Mary was trying to be practical, though she understood Eileen’s need to be loyal to the cause and the men who had risked so much.

  ‘We haven’t anything else.’ Mrs Kearns was ever practical. ‘All our clothes are back at the Grants’ house.’

  With a dramatic sigh, Lily Browne got up. ‘Stay there. We’ll see what we have for ye’

  The women stood, unsure of what to do next. Perhaps something of Lily’s would fit Mary and Eileen, being slim like herself, but the idea that the wiry Lily had anything to fit the buxom Mrs Kearns made Mary want to giggle.

  When Lily returned with a selection of skirts and blouses and cardigans, the girls gratefully sifted through them. Embarrassed, because Kevin was still in the room, Lily gave him a shove. ‘What are you hanging around here like a young fella for? Let the ladies get dressed without all in sundry gawping at them. Now Missus,” she said addressing Mrs Kearns, ‘I have this shawl, tis floor length and will cover most of you anyway. Here look,’ she went on, pinning the huge black garment around the bulk of Mrs Kearns, ‘they’ll see no bit of the uniform this way.’

  Mary and Eileen averted their gaze for fear of giggling at the sight. Mrs Kearns was not one to be trifled with and the sight of Lily Browne, pulling and dragging her in different directions was comical. They each chose a skirt, blouse and cardigan which all seemed to be variations on the colour beige. They unpinned their hair and brushed the tangles and dried blood and dirt from each other’s.

  ‘I feel filthy.’ Eileen groaned.

  ‘Well, that’s because you are filthy.’ Mary smiled. ‘But we are alive and out of enemy hands so far, so that’s something to be grateful for anyway.’ Eileen nodded at her friend, both knowing that Rory was to the forefront of their thoughts.

  Lily brought in a basin of water and a cake of soap, and handed each of them a rough towel. They washed their faces and hands and at least felt a bit better. Lily didn’t give them any hats and they couldn’t imagine going out with their heads uncovered, even in these circumstances. Lily saw their dilemma and went upstairs muttering something about people who came from nothing having notions above their station. She reappeared with two headscarves, also browny beige. The girls gratefully put them on and tied them under their chins. They giggled once again at the sight of each other, dressed like old women.

  ‘Thank you again. We’ll return your clothes as soon as we can.’ Mrs Kearns spoke for all three of them.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Kevin nodded, opening the door.

  ‘I’ll say a prayer for Frank,’ Mary added.

  ‘And I hope your young man isn’t blown to bits either,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t agree with your politics, nor the way ye’ve gone about it, but we all want the same thing, I suppose. A bit of peace and quiet and a few bob in our pockets, with our families’ safe around us.’

  Out on the street the devastation was total. Gaping holes where shops had once stood, soldiers everywhere and civilians caught in between. The days when Eileen and herself would catch the tram into the city and go window shopping or for a stroll in the park, admiring the finery on the ladies, seemed a million years ago.

  The sight of the Volunteers lined up outside the GPO with their weapons surrendered and thrown in a pile, under heavily armed guard, was a shock to them. The commandants were in front of their men. Mary spotted Eamon de Valera, a good head taller than the men around him. James Connolly was lying on the ground on a stretcher, obviously in terrible pain. General Lowe was clearly in charge, which was something that filled Mary with relief. Though he was undoubtedly a loyal British officer, there was a kind of humanity to him that other officers lacked. His thin face was passive and he was renowned for doing his job efficiently, but without the vindictive streak seen in some of his colleagues.

  Lowe stood in front with a plain clothes officer, presumably from Dublin Castle, by his side, identifying particular men and speaking in the General’s ear. Once selected, these men were dragged out of the ranks and put into a covered military truck. The crowd stood silently by, the resentment towards the Volunteers for what they had brought to the city, hanging in the air like an invisible storm cloud. As she observed the reactions of those around her, Mary thought, ‘It is so unfair, these men sacrificed everything for people who don’t even appreciate it.’ Anger raged within her as she thought of how the passersby had mocked and jeered Pearse and Connolly on Easter Monday as they read the Proclamation, and here they stood now, with hatred in their eyes as these brave men faced charges of treason.

  Her eyes raked the lines of Volunteers for Rory. Eileen and Mrs Kearns did the same, she could tell, but of him there was no sign. Once the British were sure they had the main ringleaders, twenty five or thirty men in the truck, guarded by as many heavily armed soldiers, they drove off. The remainder were ordered to about turn and march in formation up the street. The crowds surged forward, and Mary and Eileen were pushed off what remained of the pavement and onto the roadway.

  Despair was flooding through her. Where was he? She couldn’t bear to imagine his body, lying inside the GPO now engulfed in flames. The fire engines were trying to put out the fires all over the city but it seemed pointless.

  The Volunteers filed past, dejected and battered, when she heard the sound of singing. No, it couldn’t be. Rory! It began as a single voice from the centre of the column, but after a few words he was joined by others. ‘God save Ireland said the heroes, God save Ireland said we all, whether on the scaffold high or the battlefield we die, of what matter when for Eire dear we fall?’ The rousing chorus grew in volume and enthusiasm as the British soldiers shouted at them to shut up, firing shots in the air.

  Mary was cheered to see some of the crowd joining in. Perhaps the Volunteers weren’t entirely alone after all.

  ‘Mary! Mary!’ Her name was being called through the noise of shouting and singing.

  ‘Rory?’ she scanned the crowd.

  ‘Leave him through to
see his girl.’ An older Volunteer, clutching a wounded head, with a thick Dublin accent shouted. Rory dodged through from the centre of the column to the edge where she could see him. An officer marched between them, so she bobbed and ran to keep up elbowing people out of her way as he went.

  ‘Oh Rory! I couldn’t find you. I thought....’ she could hardly get the words out.

  ‘I’m grand. We’re down, but we’re not out, Mary, my love. Just you wait. This is only the first round.’

  The officer then shoved him into the column again and roared at her to stand back or be shot.

  Mary stood laughing, tears pouring down her face as the crowds following the Volunteers surged around her. Rory was alive, and more importantly he wasn’t in the truck! Maybe there was hope they won’t realise how well connected he was, she prayed. He was so young, they might just assume he was a regular and put him in gaol. They surely can’t intend to execute the entire remains of the Irish Volunteers.

  Chapter 28

  Mary and Mrs Kearns waited on a wooden bench. The peace and tranquillity of the hospital was in sharp contrast to the devastation and chaos outside. The nuns would allow no raised voices, no matter what the motivation, and the casualties were held in the emergency department, away from the quietness of the private rooms. The relief Mary felt at Rory’s arrest and their escape from any action by the British for their part in the rising, dissipated during the night. Mrs Kearns had found them a room in a boarding house off Leeson Street, and as they walked through the ruins of Dublin that morning to find Mrs Grant they talked about their options.

  Neither she nor Mrs Kearns had anywhere to go. Eileen was lucky, her employer Mrs Carmody took her back, explaining her absence to her husband by telling him Eileen had spent the week caring for her sick mother. Herself and Mrs Kearns were homeless, and as neither of them could countenance returning to the Grants, finding the mistress seemed the best possible use of their time. They thought she may have been brought to Jervis Street Hospital, so they decided to check there first.

  The nun gestured to them to follow her and they were led into a darkened room. Mary marvelled at how quiet it was and how the mistress had a room to herself.

  ‘Are you Mary?’ the nun asked kindly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m Mary.’

  ‘Well, she has had surgery and the bone was reset. Whoever removed the bullet probably saved her life. She will be a little groggy as the effects of the anaesthetic wear off. Her husband specifically requested that she be allowed to rest and kept away from all the hustle and bustle of the public wards, but she was so agitated last night after he left, and she kept asking for you, Mary. I hope I’ve done the right thing...’

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that, sister,’ Mrs Kearns reassured her. ‘Mr Grant is very protective, and he thought Mary was down the country. That’s why he wouldn’t have said for her to be allowed in to see his wife. I’ll speak to Mr Grant myself later and explain everything. I’m his housekeeper. He’ll be relieved Mary was able to make it in to see her.’

  Mary and Mrs Kearns avoided each other’s eyes for fear of giving themselves away. Mr Grant was here, and he knew what had happened. The thought made Mary physically sick with dread.

  The nun left at the sound of a ringing bell, and Mary and Mrs Kearns sat on either side of the bed. Mrs Grant was pale and her hair brushed out. It made her look so much younger. She slept peacefully, her skin ashen against the starched white sheets.

  ‘Mrs Grant,’ Mrs Kearns spoke gently. The mistress’ eyes fluttered and she tried to speak, gesturing that she wanted to sit up.

  They helped her into a more comfortable position and gave her a sip of water.

  ‘He knows!’ She rasped. Gesturing for another sip of water, she winced as she swallowed it. From her First Aid training, Mary knew that anaesthetic made your mouth very dry, which would explain the sore throat. She was trying to control her panic. What did he know? That they were involved in the Rising or about the jewellery and paintings?

  ‘He wants you both back, me also. Forget everything,’ she whispered. Clearly, talking was a strain.

  Mary looked confused. ‘Does he know about the jewellery?’ she whispered.

  The mistress took a deep breath and shook her head.

  ‘Just the Rising,’ she rasped.

  ‘Ma’am, do you mean the master wants us back at Strand road, after everything that’s happened?’ Maybe the effects of the drugs were making her delirious? If Mr Grant knew, and how could he not, given the situation, he would kill them with his bare hands rather than allow them back into his house. Even if he knew nothing about the selling of his precious things, he would hate it to be known that his wife defied him. He was connected to the British socially and in business, so he would take their involvement in the Rising personally.

  ‘Yes. Here. Last night. Doesn’t want talk. Wants to appear as normal. Afraid what it will do to him and his business, wife a Republican.’ Speaking was a huge strain on the mistress, her voice hoarse and straining to be loud enough to be heard.

  On a strange level it made sense. Rory had suggested to her on more than one occasion that Grant was an informer, and was being watched closely. The man was arrogant enough to believe his wife would never defy him and so he imagined his was a loyal British household. Mary was sure that his associates would be appalled at the suggestion that the master couldn’t control the women in his house. Maybe the mistress was right. Mary thought of her little bedroom, the only place she ever felt at home, and thought about how good it would feel to sleep in her little narrow bed, wake to the sound of the milk cart in the mornings, to sit on the chair at the little writing table in her room and write letters to Rory.

  Mrs Kearns wasn’t so enthusiastic. ‘But Ma’am, he’ll kill you if we go back. You know what he did to you before, for even going to a meeting. What will he do now? No, it’s too risky.’ She shook her head.

  Mrs Grant took hold of a hand of each of them. Breathing deeply to gather strength to talk, she simply said, ‘More to do, more to take.’

  She was right. While several paintings and most of the mistress’ jewellery was now adorning the homes and bodies of wealthy Americans, there was still plenty to be taken. Just last week the mistress had told them how she was hoping to source an antiques dealer who could move on several small pieces of furniture and objets d’art that she could have replaced with copies. The movement desperately needed money, especially now, when so many families would be left without their breadwinners in the wake of the arrests.

  To add to it, the three women had no other option, they were destitute. Everything they had raised they had already given to the Volunteers. There was no support available to them since many of the men and women of the revolution were in custody, the movement in disarray. They had nowhere else to go. Unappealing as the prospect was, they would have to go back. They sat all day in the hospital, looking up anxiously every time the door opened in case it was him, but thankfully he remained absent.

  At around six o clock an exhausted young doctor came in. His dark hair flopped over his face and his clothes and white coat were wrinkled and blood spattered.

  ‘Ladies, my name is Dr O’Leary. I’m sorry, and under normal conditions Mrs Grant would stay in hospital recovering for several weeks, but these are not normal conditions. We need the bed, I’m afraid. And as Mrs Grant is now over surgery and out of danger, all that remains is for her to rest and recuperate. I would imagine she could do that at home just as easily, perhaps even better, than here. Is that alright?’ They could see he was suppressing a yawn and a full day’s stubble shadowed his jaw.

  ‘You look like you could do with that bed yourself,’ Mrs Kearns remarked kindly. ‘When did you last sleep?’

  He smiled. ‘Before last Monday, it feels like.’ He spotted the uniform under Mrs Kearns huge cloak and realised he was among friends. ‘I was below in Boland’s with Dev, patching lads up. I only came back here yesterday because he or
dered me out. Said I was more use out and working on our lads here than rotting in an English gaol. I suppose he was right but when they marched the rest of them away...’ Suddenly he looked very young and insecure.

  ‘We’re in Cumann na mBan,’ Mary spoke quietly. ‘We were in the GPO. We were late leaving and a man took us in and gave us clothes and looked after Mrs Grant, that’s how we escaped.’

  ‘But your man, her husband, he’s not...’ the doctor was confused. ‘He seemed so concerned for her.’

  ‘Yes well, he’s not to be trusted, but we don’t have anywhere else to go, and with the mistress as weak as she is, well… That’s why going back to his house is the lesser of two evils. He told the mistress here that all is forgiven, to come home, but I’m not so sure,’ Mrs Kearns said darkly.

  ‘Is it the only option?’ Dr O’Leary was concerned. ‘Mrs Grant will need really good care, and no upset, to recover from her injuries.’

  ‘It looks like that anyway.’ Mary sighed.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what can be done, but if you want I can let whatever is left of the Volunteers know the situation, maybe they can keep an eye on ye?’ The doctor was at a loss. ‘I’d offer but I live in a room of a house with about six other fellows, and there just isn’t room.’

  Mary smiled. Even in this, the bleakest day of the movement, the rebels stood by each other. They weren’t alone. They had support and they had each other. They’d be fine.