Name Upon Name

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  After not very long Helen felt like she had stones in her shoes. And, oh, if she didn’t go to the lavatory soon she would burst. The girls in books were always tramping over the hills for fun, and they never needed the lavatory, though they drank gallons of tea and lemonade. And they always found a smiling cottager selling teas or even ices to weary schoolgirls. There were several wayside cottages here, but their doors were shut. She wished for even a sip of the ginger-beer she had pushed aside at lunchtime. Well, maybe not ginger-beer. She tried walking on the other side of the road, in the shade of the wall, but then she was too cold.

  Why had she never noticed before how steep it was? Her shinbones screamed. Sweat ran down between her shoulder blades. She had stopped worrying what she would say when she got to Derryward. She wanted only not to be walking any more. She pulled off her cardigan and stuffed it into her satchel and pulled out her blouse from the waistband of her skirt to let the air in. She wished she could take off her shoes and stockings and walk barefoot. But the road was so stony, and there weren’t proper grass verges, so that would be even less comfortable.

  There were no more cottages, just fields and fields and dry-stone walls on either side. Maybe she could dive behind one of them and go to the lavatory? There was nobody in sight. She decided she could. The relief was immense.

  And now, at last, she reached the steep, rutted farm lane. She hoisted her bag up on her shoulder and started up it. The lambs in the fields were bigger now than at Easter. Instead of huddling with their mothers, they were grazing and sporting in little groups, like children in a playground. They broke off their grazing when she walked past and ran back to their mothers, bleating in panic, kicking up their legs. Despite herself she smiled. Then she turned a corner – and there it was. Derryward, its white-washed front shining in the sunlight, the red-painted door half-open as always. A kitten – she thought it was the one she had cuddled at Easter – jumped down off the gate-post when she saw Helen, and re-established herself in a corner of the wall, cleaning her face.

  She had thought, last time she left here, that she would never be able to come back. And now here she was, walking up the path as bold as brass.

  Let Aunt Bridie be the first person I see, she thought. Even though she was the one who told us to leave at Easter. Let me be able to explain to her.

  She looked round the yard. There was no sign of Gerry’s bicycle against the shed wall. And Fly wasn’t about, which probably meant Uncle Sean was out in the fields somewhere. Good.

  She pushed open the front door. The tiny front hall was dark. She called into the kitchen.

  ‘Um. Hello? Aunt Bridie?’

  Her voice felt rusty and unused, her throat scratchy and dry. In a minute Aunt Bridie would appear, perhaps from the scullery at the back. She would be shocked to see Helen – but she would give her a cup of tea and surely, surely, she would appreciate the effort Helen had made? Maybe that would cancel out how wrong she had been in the first place. In a few minutes she would be reading the letter and deciding what to do, and it wouldn’t be Helen’s responsibility any more.

  ‘Hello?’ she cried again.

  ‘Who is it?’ called a voice from the scullery.

  It didn’t sound like Aunt Bridie.

  ‘Me. Um – Helen?’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  It wasn’t Aunt Bridie. It was Nora, wiping her hands on her striped green pinny. And she didn’t look the tiniest bit happy to see Helen.

  28.

  Helen swallowed, her throat drier than ever, and any faint hope that she might be forgiven for Good Friday died.

  Nora’s eyes snapped. ‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated. ‘How did you –?’ She looked beyond Helen as if searching for her parents.

  ‘I came on my own,’ Helen said and, miserable though she was, she couldn’t help feeling proud. For the first time in ages she remembered blowing out her birthday candles in this very house, and wishing to be more grown-up. Well, I am now, she thought. ‘On the train,’ she added unnecessarily, for what other way could she have travelled?

  ‘But why?’ Nora’s face suddenly clouded. ‘Oh no – is it Michael?’ Her round pink cheeks lost their colour.

  You see, Michael? Helen thought. They do still care about you. If only there was a magical way to tell him this instantly. Wherever he was.

  ‘Yes. No,’ Helen said. ‘He’s fine. At least, he was this morning. But I have come because of him.’

  She was so aware of the letter in her satchel that she could hardly believe Nora couldn’t see through the leather to the creamy-beige envelope and the neat black handwriting.

  But could she give it to Nora first? Nora already disliked her so much. Goodness only knew what she would do when she realised the extent of Helen’s treachery.

  She swallowed. ‘I need to see Aunt Bridie,’ she said.

  Aunt Bridie wouldn’t be pleased with what she had done – nobody could be. But she wouldn’t fly at her and tear out her hair. She wouldn’t tell Helen she hated her. She wouldn’t call her names and say she was a baby and a traitor. Even though, Helen thought miserably, she was both of those things.

  ‘Mammy’s not here,’ Nora said. ‘She’s away to help lay out Gerry’s mother.’

  ‘Lay out?’

  ‘She died this morning,’ Nora said. ‘Mammy went away up when Gerry came for her. God love him,’ she said. ‘I wanted to go and help, but Mammy wouldn’t let me.’ Helen bit her lip, and couldn’t help looking at Nora with a new respect. ‘She won’t be back for a while. And Daddy’s away to get the cattle in. So whatever it is, you’ll have to tell me.’

  ‘All right.’

  Helen pulled her bag off her shoulder and started to undo the straps. She watched her hands fumble, watched the brown leather flap open and saw her hands rummage inside. For a fluttering panicky moment she thought the letter had gone. Could it have fallen out along the road? Or what about on the train, when she was putting Emma back in the satchel? But no – there it was. It had worked its way inside Emma. She pulled it out, smoothed her hand over the name – which was a bit smudged by now.

  ‘A letter?’ Nora snatched the envelope.

  Helen chewed her lip. ‘Nora,’ she said, ‘I haven’t read this, but – I’m so sorry, but I’ve had it a while. I was meant to give it to you before and – well, I didn’t.’

  Nora stared at her, her dark eyes wide in disbelief. ‘What do you mean you didn’t?’

  Helen opened her mouth to recite her excuses, and then found herself admitting simply, ‘I was angry with you. We had that big fight at Easter and I – well, I just kept it.’

  Because I was jealous, she added to herself. Because it was the one little bit of power I had over you.

  There was no way to say any of that that didn’t make her sound like the meanest girl in the world. She wished she could run away while Nora read it – back down the lane, and up the long, long road to the station and all the way home again, but she couldn’t. For a start there wasn’t another train for hours, and more importantly she needed to see this through.

  Nora lifted down a letter-knife from behind the clock on the mantelpiece – Funny, Helen thought idly, they keep their letter-knife in exactly the same place we do – and slit the envelope open.

  Helen didn’t want to watch her reading it, but she couldn’t bear to look away.

  Nora’s dark eyes darted left to right, her hands gripping the single sheet tightly.

  ‘When did he send this?’ she demanded.

  Helen tried to think. ‘Um – about six weeks ago, I think,’ she whispered. Then she found her courage. ‘And I’m so, so sorry, but that’s not the important thing now.’

  ‘Who are you to tell me what the important thing is about my own brother?’

  ‘Because you – you don’t know the whole story,’ Helen said. ‘He’s been – they sent him to – to Dublin.’ She watched Nora’s face as she slowly seemed to take in what Helen was saying. ‘Do yo
u understand? The riots – I mean, the rebellion – the rising’ – gosh, what name would offend Nora least? ‘Michael was in the British forces sent to keep order.’

  Nora’s mouth hung open in shock.

  ‘He hated it, Nora. I’ve never seen anyone so – so …’ She couldn’t think of the words to explain the exact nature of how upset Michael was, partly because she didn’t understand it. He must have felt a bit like Sandy, she realised. When Private C was shot. She didn’t mention the young boy Michael had killed. That was for him to tell – if he ever did

  ‘You’ve seen him? Where?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘He came home – I mean to Belfast – last night. On embarkation leave. He’s meant to go to France on Tuesday. But he says he isn’t going. He says he’s going to desert.’

  Nora gasped. ‘My brother wouldn’t do that!’ she said, and then she added, ‘But he shouldn’t be in the British army in the first place.’ She bent over, hugging herself. ‘Oh God!’ Her voice was despairing. ‘It’s all so complicated! And you – you’ve made it a million times worse.’

  ‘I know,’ Helen said in a tiny voice. ‘But Nora – he mustn’t desert. They’ll track him down and shoot him. That’s what happens.’

  ‘Ha!’ Nora said. ‘Well, the Brits have proved they can do plenty of shooting.’ She shook her head. ‘But they’d hardly bother with Michael, surely.’

  ‘They would,’ Helen insisted. ‘Look,’ she said, remembering the newspaper stories she had forced herself to read, ‘at how many rebels – um, patriots, they’ve taken prisoner. A thousand. And maybe Michael’s only one soldier, but they make examples of deserters. Because of morale, and not encouraging others. And Michael doesn’t have a clue where to go, or where to hide.’

  Nora wiped her hands on her pinny again, though they must have been perfectly dry.

  ‘I don’t think he wants to desert, really,’ Helen added in a sudden burst of insight. ‘I think he needs you – all of you – to tell him he’s still welcome here. That he has somewhere to come home to.’ She ran out of words and breath and had to stop for a moment.

  Nora was still staring at her, unspeaking.

  ‘He ran off this morning,’ Helen went on, ‘when I told him I hadn’t given you the letter. I’ve never seen anyone so angry – not even you. That’s why I’m here – because I need you to get the next train back to Belfast and help me find him – he’s bound to come back to my house eventually. Me telling him won’t be enough – I don’t suppose he trusts me any more. You have to tell him you understand that he did what he had to do.’

  ‘But I don’t!’ Nora cried. She was shaking her head slowly. Even her lips were white, as if she was in shock. ‘Michael’s my brother, but – but I don’t understand how he could have fought against patriots. Against Ireland.’ Her voice shook. ‘So no,’ she said. ‘I – I can’t help.’

  She went to turn away, but Helen grabbed her elbow, and said, in horror, ‘Nora! Surely all that – about patriots and Ireland – isn’t as important as family?’

  But though the tears stood in Nora’s eyes, her lips were set in a firm line. ‘It is to me,’ she said. ‘The leaders who were shot this week – they have families too. It didn’t stop them doing what they believed in.’

  With a gulp, she pulled away from Helen’s grasp, ran out of the room and up the stairs. Helen heard her bedroom door bang.

  Helen stood helplessly in the kitchen. I don’t know what to do now, she thought. I can’t just go home. Then she thought, Yes, I do know. I’ll have to show the letter to Uncle Sean. He’s the only one left.

  Her stomach dipped at the very idea of confessing to Uncle Sean. She remembered the purple bruise Michael had sported when he had first run away; the way Uncle Sean and Papa had squared up to each other at Easter. But he wouldn’t hit her, would he?

  Well, even if he did, she had to be brave. She wasn’t ‘wee Helen’ any more and she couldn’t go round acting like her. So she took the letter, put it back into her satchel, slung the satchel over her shoulder and went back outside. The spring evening was cooling now, the shadows lengthening in the kitchen garden. Uncle Sean must be in the milking parlour because Fly lay across the door, head on her paws, tongue lolling. She gave Helen a polite wriggle of her backside as she passed, but didn’t go as far as wagging her tail. Helen had always hated the milking parlour – the thick smell of the cows, and the stink of milk, and the cows’ big mucky bottoms all turned towards her in a very alarming way, but today she hardly noticed.

  Uncle Sean was near the far end of the row of cows, bending down. He didn’t notice Helen come in and she stood for a moment, noticing how alone he seemed in the parlour. He must miss Michael, she thought, as much as we miss Sandy. More.

  ‘Uncle Sean?’ she said.

  He was even more shocked to see her than Nora and, like Nora’s, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Who brought you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I came on my own. I had to show you’ – she scrabbled for the letter – ‘this.’

  Uncle Sean read the letter much more slowly than Nora, and when he had finished he turned to Helen.

  ‘Daughter?’ he asked. ‘Why did you not show us this before?’

  Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t say what she had said to Nora – that she had been angry.

  All she could say was, ‘I don’t know. I tried. I’m so sorry. But – Uncle Sean’ – her stomach dipped – ‘there’s more.’

  Uncle Sean’s big red face whitened. His lips moved without forming words. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me, daughter.’

  And Helen realised that he thought she had come to tell him his son was dead.

  ‘No!’ she said, and, surprised at herself, she placed a reassuring hand on his tweed-clad arm. ‘He’s all right. At least –’

  She told him. She emphasised that Michael had had no choice, that he would never have chosen to go to Dublin.

  ‘And now he plans to desert,’ she finished, ‘because he feels so bad about being involved. He’s ashamed.’

  Uncle Sean shook his head. ‘I’m ashamed of him too,’ he admitted. He pulled at the cow’s udder for a while. Helen heard the rasp of his breath. Then he said, ‘But – proud too. That he went through with what he thought was right. Even though I think it was wrong. Och, that doesn’t make sense, does it? Feeling two things at the same time?’

  ‘I spend half my life feeling two different things,’ Helen admitted. ‘Never knowing what I’m meant to believe in. What side I’m meant to be on. Maybe that’s why I could understand what it was like for Michael – that feeling of being torn.’

  How strange that she could tell this to Uncle Sean of all people. When it didn’t make sense inside her own head, and she couldn’t explain it properly to people like Miss Cassidy and George, people who were clever and broad-minded. She had never thought of Uncle Sean as being either. And yet he nodded with understanding.

  ‘I wouldn’t want my son to be a quitter,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t raised to give up on things. And I couldn’t bear to think of him going on the run, being hunted down like a fox and shot by the army. I’d rather – well, I’d rather he died fighting. Even for the British.’

  ‘That’s what he needs to hear,’ Helen said. Tiredness swamped her. ‘But how can he?’ she wailed. ‘I don’t even know where he is.’ She told Uncle Sean what had happened that morning. ‘I didn’t know how much he cared about all of you,’ she said, ‘until then.’

  Uncle Sean slapped the cow on her brown rump.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, so softly that Helen hardly heard him. ‘Your principles are important, but not as important as your family.’

  It was the opposite of what Nora had said, and Uncle Sean said it with an air of surprise, as if he had just realised it himself. For a long time there was silence in the milking parlour, only the shifting and lowing of the cattle.

  And then a new sound as Fly suddenly jumped up and started to bark. The cattle looked round in alarm, and Uncle
Sean swore under his breath.

  ‘Whisht, Fly,’ he called. ‘Settle yourself.’

  But Fly didn’t settle herself. Tail whirling, she ran out into the yard, barking at the top of her voice. She came back in, a few seconds later, dancing and leaping, and after her, his kit bag over his shoulder, his cap in his hand as if, like her, he had found the long walk from the station too hot, came Michael.

  When Uncle Sean saw him his hands dropped to his sides, and hung there as if he didn’t know what to do with them. And then he lifted them, and clapped Michael on the back, and said, ‘Och, son. You’re home.’

  29.

  Michael and Helen leaned over the wall and looked across the valley. The field bottoms were hidden by a skein of evening mist. Fly sighed and pressed herself against Michael’s legs.

  ‘I can’t bear to leave it again,’ Michael said. ‘I can’t believe I was so keen to go.’

  ‘But you are leaving? You’re not deserting?’

  He nodded. ‘I still can’t bear to think about Dublin,’ he said. ‘But I signed up for the duration. And at least – well, I suppose fighting the Germans I know what I’m fighting for. All this.’ He waved an arm to take in the green and grey hills and the dark hunched shadow of the Mournes. ‘And I’ll be fighting to get back here safe.’

  They were both silent. Helen felt the rough cool stone under her hand.

  ‘Today,’ Michael went on, ‘I felt so lost. I wandered the streets for hours. I didn’t know where I was. All that red brick! And then I found my way back to your house. It was the only place I could think of. And your da had been to get you from Mabel’s house, but there was nobody there. They didn’t know where you’d got to. They were frantic. Uncle James kept saying you weren’t the type to run away – it made me feel so ashamed. Because I didn’t think I was. And then they went up to your room and saw the note. They didn’t know what it meant – you just said you were going to deliver the letter. But I knew you must have come here. And so – well, I got the next train. Your mammy wasn’t fit to come and your da wouldn’t leave her.’