Maggie nodded. She would rather do something practical than wait around worrying.
Reaching the motorcar, Madame turned to her. ‘You’re my lucky charm, Maggie. Don’t let me down now.’
Maggie opened her mouth to speak but there was nothing at all she could say to that.
They drove all over Dublin to homes and places of business unfamiliar to Maggie. Everywhere they went Madame left worry and worked herself up into a further state. Maggie could not help but wish that it were the other way around – that Madame was missing and that Maggie and James Connolly were searching for her. He would be calm. And Maggie could think. Madame only induced panic.
The countess slowed as she drove past Dublin Castle. ‘They have him! I am certain of it,’ she insisted. ‘If you want to stop an organisation, remove its leader.’
It made a terrifying sense.
‘James would not simply disappear,’ Madame continued.
It was true. He was too kind for that.
But Madame had a different interpretation. ‘There is too much to do for that!’
That, too, was true, though.
‘Is there anywhere else he could be?’ Maggie tried. She could not bear the thought of him being held captive.
But Madame was so deep in her own thoughts she did not hear. ‘We should storm the castle!’
Maggie stared. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘No, no, the entire Citizen Army.’
But when they returned to Liberty Hall, other leaders urged patience. ‘We must not act until we know for certain where he is.’
It was late now and Maggie had to return home; her mother would be worried. As she was leaving, Patrick approached her. Already, to her great delight, he had joined the Citizen Army.
‘Let me walk you to the tram,’ he said.
She nodded, needing to hear his theory on where their leader might be.
‘Are you all right, Maggie?’ he asked when they got outside. ‘You look wretched.’
‘It’s as if everyone has gone missing! I haven’t heard from Danny in three weeks and now James Connolly vanishes!’ She was close to tears. ‘I’m sorry. It was a mistake to go with Madame. She has worked me up into a state.’
He looked thoughtful. For a long time, he did not speak. At last, he turned to her.
‘Don’t worry about Connolly. He’s all right,’ he said with such certainty that she frowned.
‘How do you know?’
‘I can’t tell you, Maggie. And you can’t tell anyone either that he’s all right. If you do, I’ll deny it.’
‘What’s going on, Patrick?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say. I just want you to know that he’s safe.’
‘But how do you know when no one else does, not even Madame?’
‘Madame will never know. She couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.’
She looked at him. ‘You’ve never had time for her, have you?’
‘She’s like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. I doubt her solidity. There, I’ve said it.’
‘I knew it anyway; you’re not one to hide your feelings, Patrick Shanahan.’
He smiled. ‘No.’
‘But James Connolly is truly all right? You’re certain?’ How she needed to believe him.
‘I’m certain. And Maggie? I told you as a friend and because you’re worried about Danny but I wouldn’t have said a thing if I didn’t have faith in your solidity.’
She bowed her head. It meant so much. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now get on that tram and get home to your family.’
She smiled, grabbed a quick hug – she did not care what he thought – and ran to catch the tram.
Onboard, relief hit her like wave. It had been as if she had lost her father for a second time and she only realised that now.
Three days after James Connolly went missing, he reappeared, simply walked back into their lives. He would not say where he had been. To anyone. Not even Madame. And when Maggie looked at Patrick, he looked back, his expression blank.
thirty-nine
Daniel
February 1916
Daniel woke to the scent of flowers and the voice of an angel. The ground beneath him was soft and warm. There was no thunder in the air, no shouting, no groaning. Only peace, at last. He had made it to heaven. But how could that be? He had taken lives and not repented.
He tried to open his eyes but they would not open. He tried to move but could not. With great effort, at last, he lifted a finger. Pain coursed through him. Could one feel pain in heaven?
‘Are you all right, Sergeant Healy?’
Then he remembered. He was in the Number Four Canadian General Hospital in Salonika – far from heaven. And the angel voice was that of a nurse.
‘Yes nurse,’ he said as a reflex.
He wondered if he would ever see again. He struggled to remember his other injuries. He had shrapnel lodged in his back that they had failed to remove during surgery. They had saved his leg, though, had they not? Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he had dreamt all of this as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Perhaps he had confused his wounds with Michael’s. They were almost identical. How Michael would laugh at that. He laughed thinking of Michael’s laughter.
‘Sergeant?’ the nurse asked.
‘Nurse... My face… Is it…disfigured?’
There was a pause. ‘No, Sergeant. You were saved by the scarf you wore.’
Daniel did not understand why that made him cry or why he could not stop. He was shaking, his entire body, shaking.
A cool hand alighted on his. Nurse MacCormack, he remembered then. That was her name, the angel.
‘It’s all right, Sergeant.’
Shame swamped him. Out there, he had been a man. In here, with a little sympathy, he had become a baby. ‘You must think me mad. Laughing one minute, crying the next.’ Perhaps he was mad. Perhaps he had gone doolally after all.
‘I make no judgments on men that have seen war,’ she said. ‘I’m going to dress your eyes, now, Sergeant. I’ll fetch the morphine.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, remembering the pain that screamed through him whenever he was moved.
Minutes later, Nurse MacCormack returned with the morphine. She administered it into his mouth by syringe so that he would not have to lift his head.
‘It will take a while to work. Then I’ll be back to do your dressings.’
‘Thank you.’
He heard the nurses tend to other patients. He heard coughs. He heard shoes squeaking on the floor. He heard… a bed being moved? He heard the unfamiliar accents of Australians and New Zealanders; the Anzacs, like the Irish, were infamous for their bravery.
As always, the morphine began to dull his senses, taking control from him, tempting him into sleep. He fought against it by trying to remember all that he could about what had happened in the hospital as the days slipped into one another and dreams merged with nightmares that merged with reality, until it was unclear as to which was which. He recalled that the operating theatre had been cold, the lighting poor. Medical staff had worn pullovers over their uniforms. Yes. That had all occurred. He was certain that he could remember the medical officer’s voice. What had he said?
A specialist would be needed to remove the shrapnel. They had done all that they could for his leg. Yes, that was the story with the leg. He remembered now for certain.
Nurse MacCormack returned. After the harshness of trench life, everything about her was so painfully soft, gentle and motherly. It brought him close to tears sometimes. Distressingly.
‘Will we give it a try now?’ she asked.
‘Please.’
Gently, she lifted his head and unwound the bandages. Then, slowly, she removed the dressing from his eyes. She placed a compress over them. The coolness of it brought relief.
‘I’ll leave that in position and return shortly. Rest now, awhile.’
He heard her faint rustle as she left. The pull into
sleep was too strong to fight now. What harm would it do to give in?
‘I’m going to swab your eyes now, Sergeant Healy.’
He started.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s only me.’
He smiled to reassure her.
‘I’m going to swab your eyes now.’
She did so in a slow and meticulous manner that he had grown accustomed to. It was strange the little things that brought comfort. Familiarity was one of them.
‘Now, Sergeant, see if you can open your eyes,’ she said brightly.
The compress had loosened the stickiness and Daniel forced his lids apart. For the first time, his eyes did not open to blindness. There was light. And though it was as if he were looking through oil, he could make out a figure in white.
‘I see you! Well, the shape of you.’ He blinked repeatedly to try to clear the oiliness. He saw black hair escape in wisps. He saw eyes dark like Maggie’s. Then he began to doubt himself. ‘Perhaps I’m imagining it.’
‘What do you see?’ she asked patiently.
He told her. As he did, he could make out a blurry smile.
‘That is indeed good news!’ She sounded so happy for him and yet she did not know him – or all that he had done in the name of war. He had killed and not repented. Even still, he could not find regret. And there she stood, smiling for him.
He looked up at the ceiling to distract himself. He squinted. ‘Are we in a tent?’
‘We are indeed! The great canvas tent of a hospital!’
He struggled to make out the detail. He squinted. He strained. His vision cleared. Then blurred again. But he would not give up, would not give in. He would fight for this one thing. And if he could master it, then he could take on a bigger fight. And all the time, he would use the same three words that he had got him this far. Missus Daniel Healy.
Daniel refused morphine in favour of his senses. With a clear head, he became aware of all that was being done for him. He was shaved. He was washed. To his mortification, he was given a bottle to urinate into. His only reassurance was that he had not looked into the eyes of the orderly who had been given the task of cleaning, delousing and shaving him when he had been admitted. A hunger grew within him to do all that he could for himself. This became a hunger to walk again, and, somehow, get home to Maggie. He forced his eyes to work, to focus in on the tiniest of insects, the legs, the eyes. He forced his body beyond pain, to rise from the bed, to walk with crutches borrowed from a jolly private from New South Wales.
‘I must warn you against movement, Sergeant Healy, until you have seen a specialist,’ the medical officer warned.
‘When can I see one?’
‘Well, we have no such specialist here. Once you regain your strength, we can transfer you to-’
‘Are there such specialists in Dublin?’ he asked with such hope that the doctor’s face softened.
‘Let me enquire.’
‘Thank you.’
Outside, it snowed and froze. But there was an outside and Daniel had an image of it in his mind now, an image of a harbour, a ship and a sea that would carry him home.
forty
Maggie
March 1916
Maggie arrived at a small house off Harcourt Street. She delivered three quick knocks and two slow to the front door. After a moment, it opened. She entered with her bicycle into a dark hallway.
‘You weren’t followed?’ Patrick asked, closing the door behind her.
‘I’m not answering that,’ she said, leaning the bicycle against a wall.
‘Only making sure.’
‘I’m doing you a favour, Patrick. I don’t have to be here.’ It wasn’t a job for the Citizen Army; it was for a ‘friend’ of his. And she had her doubts about it.
She followed him upstairs.
In the smallest bedroom, there was a baby’s cot, the blankets disturbed as though the child had only just been removed. Patrick began to move it aside.
‘They haven’t hidden guns under a baby?’ she asked incredulously.
‘What better place?’ Already he was rolling back the carpet and lifting a floorboard. He took out two rifles and a handful of rounds. He passed the guns to Maggie.
They were Lee Enfields. She took a moment to admire them, then placed them on the floor. She took tape from her pocket.
‘Turn your back,’ she said.
As soon as he did, she lifted her skirt. She held it up with her chin while she taped one of the rifles to the outside of her right thigh. It was cold and hard against her skin but it would not be there long. She strapped the other rifle to her left leg and allowed the skirt to fall.
‘All right,’ she said.
He turned. ‘That looks grand but we’d better check. Bend up a leg as if you’re cycling.’
She held onto the cot as she did so.
‘Either those are the pointiest knees I’ve ever seen or you’re running guns. Strap them higher. An inch should do it.’
‘Ah, shite.’
He laughed. ‘That’s the foulest mouth I’ve ever heard on a girl.’
‘Who do you imagine I picked it up from?’
‘Yes but I’m not a girl,’ he said, turning around once more.
‘Are you sure?’
He snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, you wit.’
She smiled then pressed her lips together as she ripped the tape from her legs. She strapped the guns higher.
This time, she passed his scrutiny.
‘Now put these in your wig.’ He handed her the rounds.
She began to put them into her hair.
‘Take it off, Maggie. It would be easier.’
‘It’s real hair, Patrick. It grows, you know.’
He blushed.
She smiled and replaced her hat. ‘Right so, I’ll be off.’
‘Wait. It might look suspicious if you were to leave so soon.’
‘I’ll have a cup of tea so,’ she said, giving him an expectant look.
‘I don’t know where anything is in this place.’
She walked with stiff legs to the staircase. Holding the bannister, she descended slowly.
In the kitchen, she pointed to a cupboard. ‘Try that one.’
A quick check proved her right. ‘Will I make you one, so?’ he asked, reluctantly.
‘Do.’
He presented her with a saucer-less cup.
The tea was good, though. ‘You’ll make a great wife.’
He choked on the mouthful he’d taken.
She laughed.
‘What has you in such good form?’ he asked.
‘I had a letter from Daniel! Well, a nurse writing for Daniel! He’s alive! And he’s coming home!’ She wanted to proclaim it to the world. ‘He’s to have an operation but he says it’s not serious. He’ll be at the King George V Hospital in Arbour Hill should you wish to visit.’
He grimaced. ‘Look, I like Daniel but he’s a British Army soldier now. That makes him the enemy.’
‘He’s fighting for Ireland, Patrick.’
He looked her in the eye. ‘There’s only one way to fight for Ireland.’
She bowed her head. On that, she could not argue.
‘Give him my best.’
‘I will,’ she said quietly.
He gave her a look of intense scrutiny. ‘I can trust you, can’t I, Maggie? You wouldn’t go telling him what we’re up to, now, sure you wouldn’t?’
She pushed the cup away. ‘You can keep your tea.’ She rose.
‘I was only making sure.’
‘It’s not lemons I’m hiding up my skirt, Patrick Shanahan.’ As she said it, she felt as though she was betraying Danny. She reminded herself that he was doing what he believed to be right for his country. She must do the same. ‘Just tell me where to go.’
He gave her directions, out to Kimmage to a place called Larkfield House.
‘What’s there?’ If he did not trust her enough to tell her, he could keep his guns.
‘
The estate of Count Plunkett.’
‘Plunkett?’
‘I do trust you, Maggie.’
‘Then tell me,’ she said calmly.
He shrugged as though he had no difficulty with that. ‘The Plunketts harbour men who have travelled from Britain to avoid conscription to the Great War so that they can rise, instead, for Ireland.’
‘I like the sound of them!’
He studied her with a curious expression. ‘I never thought I’d say this but I may well prefer you as a girl.’
She sighed. ‘Some day you’ll see that not all girls are the same.’
‘Don’t I know that already?’
‘Good. You’re learning.’ She winked at him and was gone.
Bicycling towards the canal, Maggie spotted a group of British Army soldiers, in conversation on the pavement. She was about to take a different route when one of them spied her. Holding his gaze, she kept her course and pace.
Closer now and they were all looking at her.
Lord God, she thought and produced a friendly smile.
They raised their caps.
She worried that somehow her knees were still pointy. She had to force herself not to look.
‘Hello, boys!’ she said to draw attention to her face. She brought sophistication to her smile.
They stuttered and spluttered and blushed.
Crossing the bridge, she closed her eyes and breathed out in relief.
At last, she reached her destination, a grand house on extensive grounds. She cycled up the driveway and then continued on to a shed at the rear that Patrick had described. She knocked, using the same code that she’d used in Harcourt Street. There was no reply.
She waited.
Nothing.
She glanced about.
The breeze bent the tall grass over in waves. A cow lowed in the near distance. She could feel her heart thunder. Had the person she was meant to meet been intercepted? Or was he not to be trusted? Perhaps this was a trap? And who was this friend of Patrick’s anyway?
Instinct told her that it was not safe to stand about. She tried the door. It opened with a treacherous creak. She looked around again. But nothing had changed. She glanced into the shed. It seemed empty but for a mound of coal. She pushed the bicycle inside.
Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017 Page 22
