‘Peter Doyle is an unobtrusive sort of man,’ said the Reverend Mother looking back over her visit to the Morrison’s Island Antiques Store. ‘Someone like Mr Jonathon Power would stand out in a crowd, here in Cork where people are not big.’
‘What about Robert Beamish or even Tom Gamble, the barrister. Both of these are Cork men and they are very tall.’
‘The exceptions.’ The Reverend Mother brushed this aside. ‘Generations of good feeding is needed to produce these six-footers. In a church you could see fifty men look like Peter Doyle, but only one or two that might match the height of one of the Beamish, or Gamble families. And remember that only women wear shawls.’ She got to her feet. ‘It’s very kind of you, Dr Scher, to offer to deliver this letter for me to Patrick and I’m sure that he will find you most helpful about antiques. Now I fear that I must go as I have a lesson with my senior girls.’
TEN
W.B. Yeats:
‘Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.’
Eamonn was late in arriving on Monday evening. Eileen was about to walk to Morrison’s Island as quickly as she could and had set off down the South Terrace when he touched her on the shoulder.
‘Only half an hour late,’ she said. She had hardly known him at first. His dark good looks were obscured by a large cap that came down over his eyes, almost to nose level and he wore a sack over his shoulders, tied in front with a piece of string. Bernard was behind him, also dressed as a dock worker, his very red hair covered by a similar cap.
‘Had a consignment from Dublin,’ Eamonn said, with a hasty look around to make sure that no one was near to them. For a moment, she envied him, envied them both. She had enjoyed these dangerous assignments, dressing up, outwitting the police and the army. She half-wished she were back in the farmhouse again with the crowd of young Republicans. If it were not for Tom Hurley, she would think about returning. She was sick of being an ordinary office girl, sick of pretending ignorance of the Republicans and of their views and their ambitions. She wanted to come out in the open and boldly declare, ‘I am a rebel.’
‘Let’s see if the old bike will start. I left it down the lane here,’ said Eamonn. He led the way to a coal yard and once they were through the door, he removed the cap and the sack and shoved them into his saddlebag.
‘I’d be quicker walking,’ she said. Nevertheless, she was relieved when the engine roared and the motorbike went hurtling through St Mary’s Isle, down the quays and drew up with a flourish in front of the Father Matthew Hall.
‘I dropped in to see your mam,’ Eamonn said over his shoulder. ‘I told her that the show would be finished late tonight and she wasn’t to worry. I’d get you home safe and sound. I think we should have a little snoop around that shop when they’ve all gone home.’
‘What …’ she began. But the bell from the Holy Trinity Church had begun to toll and she jumped from the back of the bike as soon as he had slowed down.
‘See you after the show,’ said Eamonn and Eileen rushed into the hall, hoping she would not be the last to get dressed. Most of the others seemed to be in the backstage area and she could see from the flash of silk robes and artificial flowers that she was probably the last to arrive. She rushed into the women’s cloakroom and began to dress as quickly as she could. She combed back her hair, fastened it on top of her head, but when she had settled the wig on it, she discovered that there were no flowers left. They went through dozens of those silk flowers. Anne Morgan, in particular, had a habit of throwing her roses into the audience at the end of each performance. None were left in the women’s cloakroom.
Bother, thought Eileen, I’ll have to get one from the costume cupboard. Quickly she slipped down the corridor and went in. It was more of a small room than a cupboard, but they always called it a cupboard. Two hanging rails, filled with kimonos, gowns, sailors’ jackets, a few old suits, elaborate cloaks and huge petticoats, spanned the depth of the small room with a large trunk at the back wall. There was no need for a light; the room was illuminated by a street gas lamp just outside the window. Eileen thrust her hand into the trunk, pulled one of the roses out, pinned it onto her wig hurriedly and went to the door. She had just opened it when she heard a voice and then another voice. There was such a note of anger, and of violence, in the tone of this second voice that she stepped back abruptly into the shelter of the deep-set doorway.
It was Peter Doyle and someone else. Peter Doyle sounded furious. The other voice was low, almost a whisper, with a pleading note, but whoever it was, Peter Doyle’s voice overrode him. This was no ordinary argument, no usual impatience, not Peter’s jokes or sarcasms. For some reason, the sound of his voice made Eileen feel slightly afraid. She huddled into the dark space of the doorway, unwilling to interrupt. There had been a feeling of tension backstage last night, quite unlike the usual merry jokes and banter that went on after each performance. At the time she had wondered what was wrong and now she thought she might be about to find out.
Peter Doyle seemed to be having a vicious quarrel with James O’Reilly, the bank clerk. Eileen slid the door almost closed behind her so that the dim light from the north-facing window would be blocked off. She did not close it completely, though and left it open an inch. The click of the door latch would have alerted them to her presence and she was curious. She had never heard Peter Doyle speak like that before now. He seldom showed himself to be annoyed and relied on jokes and occasional sarcasms to impose his will on the company. But now there was a note of violent anger from his voice.
‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake, James, shut up and mind your own business. I don’t want to hear another word from you, you cowardly idiot. You’ve been well paid – no hesitation about taking the money, is there. Oh no, your hand is always out. Goodness only knows you do little enough for it. Now just you do what you’re paid to do and keep your nose out of everything else.’
Eileen moved back another step, her rubber shoes making no noise. She was glad that her robe was a pale shade of grey. It would not show up and she could flatten herself against the door to the cupboard where the costumes were stored. A moment later, Peter Doyle passed her. She could not see him well in the semi-darkness of the passageway, but as he went by there was a pungent smell of sweat. Peter was a very trim, well-groomed person and she had never before smelled sweat from him. And it was quite chilly in this damp building. So why was he sweating so heavily?
Nervously, Eileen stayed very still in the deep alcove. She was wishing herself elsewhere, but at the same time, the adventurous side of her was wishing that she had come out a little earlier and had heard what James O’Reilly had said. And why did Peter talk about paying him? None of the actors were paid. Any money left over from the ticket sales after the rent was paid were usually dedicated to buying new costumes for the next performance and perhaps for a celebratory dinner for the cast and orchestra. Peter Doyle had explained this to her when she had come along to audition for the part of Pitti-Sing. Eileen felt a cramp coming to the calf of her leg and resisted stretching it. James O’Reilly would move away in a minute and she didn’t want any suspicions about her eavesdropping on them.
But he didn’t move away. She could hear the rustle of artificial silk. He must be yanking up the robe that he wore for his part of Pooh-Bah. She risked turning her head and moving it a little forwards. Her eyes were getting used to the dark in the passageway and now she could see him. He was pulling something out of his pocket, a small silver box. The light from the half-opened door to backstage caught the sheen of the metal. He was opening it and then she heard a loud sniff and glimpsed something white between his fingertips.
So that was it. Eamonn was right. Peter Doyle was a drug taker. She knew all about drugs. It was one of the things that she had been warned about when she joined the Republicans. Tom Hurley had lined them all up, girls and boys, and had threatened to shoot the first person that he caught with what he called ‘white powder’.
&nbs
p; And that was what James O’Reilly was doing, taking a pinch of white powder from a small silver box, like a woman’s powder compact. He held it to one nostril, sniffed deeply and then did the same with the other nostril. Eileen shrunk back against the deep doorway, praying that he would not need to get anything from the wardrobe cupboard.
And then the tall figure of the Jonathon Power came from the direction of the stage. It seemed almost impossible that he would miss her, but all his attention was focussed on James O’Reilly. And she heard his voice, usually so low and pleasant, sounding, now, quite harsh.
‘That’s right, feeling better now, are you? Have another pinch.’ He waited, his tall broad back shielding the bank clerk from Eileen’s eyes. ‘That’s it,’ he said after a moment, and then, in a menacing whisper, ‘just remember, James, you won’t get the money to fund that expensive little habit just from your salary in the bank. You need us more than we need you. Just you remember that.’
And, then, to Eileen’s relief, he took the man by the arm and led him back down the passageway and towards the stage. As noiselessly as she could, she turned the handle of the door to the costume cupboard, closing it gently behind her and went back in. She would stay there for some time until everyone was busy. She did not want anyone to know what she had overheard. With slightly shaking hands, she busied herself tidying the trunk of wigs and headdresses, replacing hat pins in their box, taking out all of the flowers that the female members of the cast pinned to their black wigs and arranging them according to their colour on a tray with meticulous care.
‘Oh, that’s nice. I love those deep pinks, don’t you?’ Anne Morgan came in, her face as pink as one of the silk flowers and not yet properly dressed. Flirting with Peter Doyle, thought Eileen, but, good-naturedly, she helped the girl to find a wig and a few roses. Anne was friendly and effusive.
‘I’m glad that you took them all out and sorted them,’ she said. ‘I’m always in a rush and I always get one of those droopy white ones when I scrabble around for them.’ She pinned a pink rose to her wig and twirled around, singing, ‘The sun, whose rays are all ablaze …’
‘You have a beautiful voice,’ said Eileen admiringly and, to her immense surprise, the girl kissed her impulsively. ‘You’re in a good mood. You’ve been kissing the adorable Robert, is that it?’ she said with a teasing smile. She half-wondered whether Anne Morgan, also, sniffed white powder from a little silver compact box.
The young teacher giggled a little. ‘What! Robert! That big brute! He’s the one that does the adoring, I’ll tell you that.’
‘Perhaps it’s someone else, then,’ said Eileen. She would prolong the conversation for another few minutes and when they both arrived, neither Jonathon, nor Peter Doyle would suspect that she had been listening in to that dangerous conversation.
‘What about Peter Doyle?’ she enquired, doing her best to sound knowing and innocent at the same time.
‘Dear Nanki-Poo! Well, of course, I adore him! Don’t you? Or do you go for our strong, silent man, Jonathon? Get me another pin; will you, Eileen, like a darling? I want to fix that rose just over my ear and I don’t want it to come loose.’ She tucked a curl back beneath the wig, took out her powder compact and powdered her nose. Not silver, noticed Eileen, ordinary steel and that did look like ordinary face powder.
‘Or do you prefer my Robert? All those muscles! Don’t you admire them? Not as much as he does himself, of course!’ Anne Morgan was determined to keep the conversation going along the same track. Her voice was light and teasing, but Eileen had the impression that her thoughts were elsewhere. Was the engagement over, then? Anne, she noticed, no longer wore that diamond ring.
‘I’ll leave him for Miss Gamble since you have been so mean as to pinch Peter from her,’ said Eileen. It was a joke, of course, but not that good a joke as to warrant the torrent of giggles that came from Anne Morgan. For a few seconds, she reminded Eileen of a school friend, but Anne Morgan was no schoolgirl. She was a teacher after all, had been teaching music in Miss Gamble’s school for the last year. She must be about four years older than Eileen was, but she seemed determined to keep the conversation going along the same rather juvenile track.
‘Can you just see them? Miss Gamble and the sexy Peter Doyle! No, I can’t! She’ll live and die a headmistress of Rochelle School. I don’t suppose that she’ll ever get married. In any case, the trustees of the school don’t like married women. She dropped me a hint about that when I was interviewed for the job of music teacher. She said that it was a job for life if I was dedicated and hard-working, but that of course it would not fit in with other responsibilities like …’
‘Like?’ queried Eileen. It was just as well to prolong this conversation. And if the two of them arrived together backstage, busily gossiping, then she would not be suspected of eavesdropping.
‘Like looking after a husband, and having children, of course. But go on, what about Robert Beamish for you? To tell you the truth, it’s all over between the two of us. I can’t stand a jealous boyfriend.’
‘I’ve got a boyfriend, already,’ said Eileen. It was not strictly true, but it would prolong the conversation. ‘My boyfriend is just as handsome as Robert Beamish is. He’s one of the strong, silent, intellectual types. Oh, and by the way, he will be in the audience tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to fly straight after the show. Will you put my robe away for me? And if I don’t see Peter, will you tell him why I had to go?’
‘What does he do? Your boyfriend, I mean.’
‘Oh, he’s just a student,’ said Eileen hastily, Anne Morgan was hardly listening, just too occupied with pinning the silk rose in the most flattering position over her left ear and gazing at her face in the mirror. She’d remember afterwards though if anyone wondered where Eileen had gone. As it was, she seized Eileen by the arm and began singing the first verse of ‘Three Little Maids from School’ as they did a polka step down the corridor, only stopping hastily as Miss Gamble peered out from the kitchen.
‘Stop making such a noise, you should be saving your voices,’ she said, as though they were schoolchildren, thought Eileen feeling rather amused, but Anne Morgan immediately stopped and muttered an excuse. Eileen thought of the banter that went on in the printer’s shop and decided that she was glad not to be a teacher and have to behave in a prim way.
‘How old is she, anyway?’ Eileen whispered in Anne’s ear as they went to take their places in the line-up backstage.
‘Well, Tom, Mr Mikado, he is thirty, he told me that one day,’ Anne whispered back. ‘He said that it was his birthday and he was thirty years old and when he went through the records of his law cases, he found that he had pleaded thirty cases in court as a barrister. And so he was going to have a double celebration. And he’s Miss Gamble’s younger brother. So she’s more than thirty.’
‘God, I wouldn’t like to be over thirty, would you?’ Eileen felt appalled at the thought. What would she be doing when she was over thirty, she wondered. Not still working in a printer’s shop, even though it was fun. No, she hoped for something better. I think I would like to be a doctor, or perhaps a lawyer, someone who could defend her fellow party members if they were arrested, she thought. She might have a word with Bernard about the law courses in the university. And then her mind went to Tom Gamble sitting placidly in a corner, dressed in the robes of The Mikado. How long had he been a barrister? Thirty cases didn’t seem a lot in about eight or nine years. What did he do with his time? And, more importantly, how did he manage to afford to drive a Bentley? They were a rich crowd, all in all, these members of the Merrymen group. The cars that were parked in the yard next to Peter’s antique shop showed that. Peter himself had an Aston Martin.
‘Sounds great, doesn’t he?’ whispered Anne in her ear as Peter’s tenor voice singing, ‘A Wandering Minstrel I,’ sounded out, clear and strong, from the front of the stage.
Eileen nodded. It was interesting, she thought, that Peter was always so much better on stag
e than he was at rehearsals. Something in him always rose to the occasion. A daredevil, by nature, she thought. Her eyes went over to James O’Reilly. He would be a very different type. Even his choice of occupation showed that. After all, the life of a bank clerk wasn’t very exciting, was it? It was amazing, though, that someone from such a dull, safe occupation as a bank clerk, should chose such friends, amazing that he had joined this group of rather wild young men, big spenders, big talkers, Tom Gamble, Robert Beamish, Peter Doyle. Even Jonathon Power was very confident and always willing to take a risk, perhaps that was why a person like James O’Reilly was led into taking drugs. He couldn’t keep up otherwise. But what did Jonathon mean when he’d said, ‘You won’t get the money to fund that expensive little habit just from your salary in the bank.’ It sounded as though the man had the habit previously. And how did being a member of the Merrymen make him able to afford drugs? None of them was paid. So who paid James O’Reilly and why? Eileen turned the matter over in her mind, listening with half an ear to Robert Beamish’s pleasant baritone voice singing to the accompaniment of roars of laughter:
So he decreed, in words succinct,
That all who flirted, leered or winked
(Unless connubially linked),
Should forthwith be beheaded, beheaded, beheaded
Should forthwith be beheaded.
‘Who did you think was the best, now that you’ve seen the show twice?’ she asked Eamonn when she met with him after the show. The two of them stood for a moment and then moved away and walked towards the river. The rain had stopped and gas lamps shining on the water made the place look quite festive.
‘The girl who sang the main part, Anne Morgan, was that her name?’ he said promptly and she was half-sorry that she had asked. If he had said that she was the best, she would have immediately pointed out that Anne Morgan possessed a far more outstanding voice, but now she felt slightly annoyed. That was the worst of the Republicans. They were so high-minded that they would not even tell a polite lie. And then she felt ashamed of herself. She would not swap someone like Eamonn with his high ideals for a man like Peter Doyle, no matter how good a flirt he was, nor for any other of the Merrymen.
Beyond Absolution Page 14
