by M J Lee
'How much?' whispered Fitz.
'Two quid a pack.'
Fitz threw his head back. 'That's bloody daylight robbery. They don't cost more than two shillings and sixpence in Llangollen.'
Myers chuckled. 'Well, mebby you should take a little stroll into town to buy them. You'll have to get past me and the guards, past the barbed wire, past the towers and down the road, but with a bit of luck you might make it there alive.' He coughed again, longer and louder this time.
Fitz grunted. 'You've made your point, Mr Myers. The usual place at two?'
Myers nodded and walked on, coughing into his closed fist as he did. The usual place was behind the latrines on the far side of the camp. It was the place that all exchanges for cigarettes, tea, uncensored letters and the little luxuries that made life bearable took place.
'You know, Michael...'
'I know what?'
'The finest thing about the English soldier is his corruptibility. It was as true today as it was in Cromwell's time. But where am I going to get two pounds? And me, gasping for a fag too.'
Michael pulled out a letter he had received that morning. 'My sister wrote to me. She sent me a postal order for ten pounds.'
'We're rich, Michael Dowling. And I will take a small donation for the cause of Irish freedom and the freedom of my own lungs from you.'
'Freely given, Mr Fitzgerald.'
'And freely taken, Mr Dowling.'
They marched on back to the long narrow building on the right where they lived. The leader of their hut, an old IRB man called Walsh stood outside the door. 'They'll be wanting to take our photograph.' He pointed to three civilians setting up a tripod camera opposite their building.
'Has the Chief agreed?'
'He has. So clean yourselves up. You two are going to be posing for the British press today.' His Mayo accent was still rich and thick.
'And what are we to be posing as?' asked Michael.
'Upstanding members of the Irish Volunteers. The Chief has decided we must show ourselves as serious men, not a rabble. The Brits are wanting to portray us like animals who stabbed them in the back by rising in Dublin in the middle of war.'
'The Brits have always treated us like animals.' Fitz spat on the ground.
'Aye, so we have to show them we are soldiers. Get yourselves cleaned up.'
They moved past him into their hut. The others inside were getting ready for the photograph; combing their hair, shaving in the sink at the end of the room, putting on their best jumpers, polishing their one pair of shoes. The uniforms, or what was left of the uniforms after the fighting, had been taken from them when they arrived, and they had been issued with a couple of shirts, a jacket and two pairs of trousers. Henry Mertons the prisoners called them, after the tailor who produced all the demob suits for the Brits.
'It looks like we're to take this seriously,' said Michael.
'Aye, we're going to be famous. The men who took on the British Army.'
After twenty minutes, all eight of them were ordered out of the hut and assembled in front of the camera. They lined up as if on parade, shoulder to shoulder, hands down by their sides, fingers pointing down the seams of their trousers.
The photographer raised his head from beneath a dark cloth. 'This won't do, gentlemen, no, no, no.' His voice was squeaky and querulous, like a mouse in human form. 'Much more casual, gentlemen, not like soldiers. Just mingle about as if the camera wasn't here.'
He popped his head back under his black cover and raised the flashbulb.
'Stay where you are,' ordered Walsh, 'you are soldiers of the Irish Volunteer Army. Stand at attention.'
The men stood rock solid, shoulder to shoulder.
The little photographer's head popped out from beneath his cover once more. 'No, no, gentlemen, don't you understand English? I want you to be lounging around, enjoying life. A few of you could even be playing games or chess.'
'There'll be no playing games in my hut,' growled Walsh. 'This is how the men will be shot. Take it or leave it.'
The photographer shrugged his shoulders. 'As you will, but my editor will not be happy.' He popped his head under the cover once more, raising the flash pan and said. 'Smile gentlemen.'
'Anybody who smiles is on a charge,' growled Walsh.
Michael smiled and the flash erupted, blinding them all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dublin, Ballsbridge. November 19, 2015.
'There he is, my da, on the left, looking at the camera.'
Jayne recognised him immediately. The same jaunty smile was on his lips, but the eyes were darker now, with a determination that was missing from the earlier photograph. 'Do you know who the others were?'
'He was always pointing them out and telling me. I would have to be a spalpeen to forget. Next to my da, looking down is Patsy Cline. He was killed during the Civil War, may God have mercy on his soul. Next to him is Eamon Curley. He died of the TB in 1929. My da always said it was sleeping out in the fields on the run from the Brits that did it. Look at the man, he's as thin as a rake already.'
'Who's on the right, looking down?'
'That's the man you're after, my da's best pal, Michael Dowling. He often used to talk about Michael. Best man he ever knew, my da said.'
'What happened to him?'
'Nobody knows. There was some falling out, about the Civil War, I think, but my da never talked about it. He and Michael parted ways and Da never saw him again.' She stared off into the fire again, as if speaking to her da once more. 'He often used to wonder what had happened to Michael Dowling, missed him more than anybody else, he did.' She smacked her lips, 'I'd love a drop of tea. Would you be after making some?'
Jayne went back to the kitchen. An old kettle was sitting on the stove. She took a box of matches and lit the fire. It popped loudly but then settled down to burn with a bright blue flame. Filling the kettle from a single tap, she placed it onto the flame.
In the sitting room, the old woman was still in her chair, the album in her lap, staring into the fire. Jayne wondered where she was now. Was she a little girl, sitting on her father's lap, listening to his stories? Or was she older, still listening to his stories, but helping him now?
The clock ticked on the mantelpiece and the fire settled down as a piece of coal collapsed to ash. It broke the reverie of the old woman. 'They didn't mean to do it, you know. Orders.’
Jayne didn't understand what the old woman was saying. Behind her, the kettle whistled loudly like a cock proclaiming the dawn.
'You'll find the tea in a caddie on the shelf. Real Irish tea, none of those teabags with their sweepings from the floor. Four spoonfuls, now, make it good and strong. Just a splash of milk for me, don't drown the tea. And you'll find an old packet of biscuits on the shelf. I fancy a Jammie Dodger, so I do.'
Jayne did as she was told, letting the tea brew for a couple of minutes as she rinsed the cups. She found an old tray on the shelf, poured the tea, adding the splash of milk for the old woman and a much larger gulp for her. She opened the biscuits, putting six on a small plate. Carrying her tray, she strode into the living room.
The old woman was still sitting in the same place, but the album was nowhere to be seen. Instead, on her lap was a bundle of old typewritten sheets of notepaper, wrapped with a rubber band, and another bundle of newspaper clippings, yellow with age.
'He didn't tell the men from the ministry everything when they asked him. Didn't trust them. Bunch of old pen-pushers, he said. But he wrote it all down. Wanted to tell the truth he said. Kept a lot of newspapers from the time, too. You'll find Michael Dowling in here.'
Chapter Thirty
South of Dublin. July 21, 1921.
The journey down from the mountain was made in silence. Michael sat in the back, grim-faced with the line of his jaw set hard against his skin.
I sat next to him, looking out of the window. The two others sat in front, staring straight ahead.
We had covered the body loosely with
stones and earth at the top of the mountain. When we were half-finished, I said, 'That's enough. No point in burying him properly, we want the British to find him.'
We left the tools at the side of the makeshift grave. As they hurried away, back to the waiting car, its engine still running, I looked back at the spade lying beside the mound of earth. The man's foot was still sticking out from his grave, lying next to the spade. It was as if he was still alive, trying to step out from his earth prison.
Michael stopped and turned back, taking a few steps towards the grave and its foot. He wanted to go back and finish burying the man properly. But that wasn't the idea. The orders were clear. Make sure the body is found, Fitz, they told me. We want to put the fear of death into the bastards.
Michael stammered something and then shouted out loud. 'We must help the man out. He's still alive. He's trying to get out.'
I put my arm around his waist and pulled him away. 'Shush, Michael,' I said, 'We've got to go now.'
At first he resisted, then his body went limp and I could bundle him into the back of the car.
'But the leg, it's...'
'He's dead. I shot him myself. He's dead, Michael.'
'But the leg...'
There was a roar from the engine as the driver stomped on the accelerator, impatient to get away from the top of this mountain.
'He's alive. He's still alive.' Michael shouted back towards the rocks as we drove away, the car fishtailing wildly as we went from the grass of the verge onto the tarmacked road.
'He was still alive,' whispered Michael.
I didn’t answer. How could I? I knew the man was dead.
I think it was then that we lost Michael to the cause. A shame. He was the best man who ever fought for Ireland.
* * *
The news came two days later.
Michael was lying on his bed in the safe house on the North Side of Dublin. He hadn't moved for the last two days since the death of the English soldier.
I tried to get him to eat something. 'At least, have a wee bite of bread and tea. You'll be just skin and bones unless you get something inside you.'
Michael ignored me, lying on the covers facing the wall.
When he did move, I saw him pulling out the effects of the officer we had shot.
'Give me a look at them,' I said.
He passed them over quietly.
There wasn't much for a life. A watch. Two letters. A few coins. A notebook. A silver cross. That was all. Not much.
I read the letters. One was addressed to the parents of one of his officer friends but never posted. It described the heroic death of a man in some grubby field in France during the last days of the war. The letter was grubby with fingerprints as if it had been opened, read and closed many times over the last year or so. A letter too awful, too descriptive to ever have been sent. A letter written for the man as much as it had been written for the parents.
The second letter was addressed to their man's sister, and written in a different tone; light, playful even. He missed her terribly, hoped she was well and happy in Bradford and talked of the day soon when he would be back with her in their house. The last line was the most chilling in its happiness. 'Just four weeks and three days left to my discharge, then I will be home with you all.' It was signed with a carefree flourish, 'your loving brother, John.'
I threw the letters on the bed.
'That was his name. John Clavell. I will remember his name, we must remember, Fitz. He wasn't a nameless man, an unknown soldier, but a man with a name and a face and parents and a sister who loved him. A man who had died on top of a cold mountain in an even colder country for a cause that he couldn't understand.'
'There's no point, Michael. He was a soldier like all the other soldiers. Do you think this bastard's generals cared about the millions they killed in France?'
O'Kelly burst in to their room, waving a piece of paper in his hand. 'We've done it. We've won.'
I jumped up, 'Done what? Won what?'
O'Kelly bounded over and jumped on the bed. It shook beneath his weight. 'It's over. We've won. The Brits have signed a truce. They've surrendered.'
I jumped off the bed and danced around the room.
Michael just sat up in his bed.
'It's over. We've won, Michael. Don't you understand?'
He didn't say anything. Reaching out his hand, he took the letters and the watch and the other effects putting them in his pocket.
I shook him by the shoulders. 'It's over, Michael, we've won.'
'Have we?'
I saw him looking at me, disappointment etched on his face. 'It had to be done.'
'Did it?'
'He was a soldier, he knew the score.'
Michael looked at me, his head tilted to one side. For the first time since the death of the officer his face became animated. 'Don't you see, Fitz, he wasn't some nameless soldier, but a man with a face and parents and a sister who loved him.' He took out the letters and the rest of the effects from his pocket. 'This is all that's left of him, Fitz.'
Chapter Thirty-One
Dublin. Ballsbridge. November 19, 2015.
Jayne Sinclair turned over the last page of the manuscript and picked up the newspaper clippings. They were yellow and faded, beginning to tear on the creases where they had been folded. A few dealt with killings on the streets of Dublin, a few more with shootings in Croke Park; the British army had fired into the crowd. The last three dealt with one event. The kidnapping and murder of a British officer. His body had been found in the hills above Dublin, shot once in the back of the head.
She didn't have time to read them all now. She would take a photo of them with her mobile and read them later. But one stood out and she looked at it now. It was an article from The Irish Times.
BRITISH OFFICER FOUND MURDERED
LT. JOHN CLAVELL KIDNAPPED AND SHOT.
BODY FOUND IN HALF-DUG GRAVE.
The body of Lt John Clavell of the Kent Fusiliers was found today by a shepherd in the mountains above Dublin. The man, Martin Flannery, had been rounding up his flock when he noticed his dog scraping at the ground near some rocks. Mr Flannery reported that some of the body had been out of the grave when it was found.
Lt Clavell was a decorated British officer, well loved by his men and his fellow officers. He had been kidnapped last week while on a shooting expedition in Wicklow with some friends. The friends had been released but, until yesterday, Lt Clavell's whereabouts was unknown.
Lt Clavell was unmarried but he leaves a grieving family in Bradford, West Yorkshire. The body of the gallant soldier will be transported to Heaton Methodist Church for burial with full military honours on Saturday.
Clavell? The name meant something to her, what was it? Then, it hit her. Clavell was the maiden name of John Hughes' mother. How were they linked? How had a man who was dead married the sister of a murdered British officer? This was becoming more and more complicated. An enigma wrapped in a mystery, shrouded in a conundrum. There must be answer somewhere, but where?
She reached into her bag and pulled out her hand-written notes. John Hughes had been born in Bradford in 1925. How was it all connected? There were some pieces of the puzzle still missing. It was time to pay a visit to Bradford and check out the maternal side of Hughes' family. That's where the answers would lie, if there were any to be found.
She glanced at the time, 10.55. The taxi would be arriving soon.
The knitting needles stopped their clacking for a second. 'So? What d'ye think? You know nobody would publish it. Who wants to hear the ramblings of an old Republican.'
'The world is different now. You could self-publish if you want? I'll research it and send you a few addresses on email.'
'Now what would I want to be doing with e-mails? I don't even have one of those computer things. No, if he's not around to see it, it can stay with me till I die. I might leave it to those people at the Barracks. They would know what to do with it.'
'I think that's a g
ood idea. I'll ask Captain Ellis to contact you.'
'You be doing that, I wouldn't mind meeting the captain again. I'll give him another piece of my mind.'
Jayne heard the honk of a car horn outside. The taxi had arrived. The old woman put down her knitting. 'I suppose you'll be off now.'
Jayne stood up. 'Thank you for everything, Miss Fitzgerald. Your father devoted his life to Ireland.'
'That he did. He may have had to do a few bad things for the cause but he didn't lie about them. He was always straight was me da.' The old woman stood up slowly. 'Me 'oul knees. Gone they are. Too much praying when I was a child.'
They shook hands. Jayne felt the strength beneath the apparent frailness of the woman. She wanted to lean in to give the woman a kiss on the cheek. But she didn't. That would have been too modern, too informal for this woman. A quick shake of the hand was all that was needed.
'Would you mind if I took a photo of a few of the pages?'
'Go ahead. They're just sitting in the drawer minding their own business.'
Jayne put the pages and the newspaper articles down on the settee and quickly shot the ones she needed with her mobile. She could print them out later to show her client.
'Thank you once again, Ms Fitzgerald. You don't know how much this means to me.'
'I hope you find your Michael Dowling. My da never could. Went to his grave hoping he would see him again one day.'
'I hope so too.'
The old lady sat down again, taking up her knitting. 'I won't see you to the door, my knees...'
