Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I’ll drop you off by the South Main Bridge if that’s all right by you, Eileen. Don’t want the car number to be noticed going a second time in the day up Barrack Street,’ said Seán apologetically.

  ‘That’s all right, Seán. The walk will do me good. Clear my head.’ She said no more and he said no more. They both knew that she had been given her orders and that, in the world in which they lived, failure to fulfil an order would mean a death. Eileen stepped out from the car as soon as it stopped and gave him a nod. He, like herself, would not want to attract any notice.

  After he drove away, she stayed for a moment, looking down into the river and hoping that she would be able to conceal from her mother what had happened. Maureen MacSweeney was an unsuspicious woman, but Eileen, the child who was born to her when she was fifteen years old was very deeply loved and she had an instinct that told her when her daughter was troubled.

  ‘Not thinking of throwing yourself in, are you?’ The voice from behind her shoulder startled her for a minute and she wondered whether he had noticed her getting out of Seán’s car. Patrick Cashman was a policeman, now an inspector. Not terribly clever she had often thought, but industrious and ambitious and certainly had enough brains to put two and two together and to come up with the right answer. Still he had been a neighbour of hers and their mothers were friends and so she turned around courageously and confronted him.

  ‘Not likely,’ she said forcing a brightness into her voice. ‘Life’s good for me, these days, Patrick. I’ve had a rise in my salary and I’ve bought myself a typewriter and I’m trying to start up a business at home in the evening, hoping to build up a nice little bank account for myself. Going to Irish classes, too. Who knows but I might end up in the civil service or something like that. They say that you can’t get anywhere nowadays without speaking fluent Irish.’

  He was looking at her in a speculative way, rubbing a finger along the length of his long upper lip.

  ‘No bike today,’ he said and her heart missed a beat. Had he seen Seán, recognized him, perhaps?

  ‘No,’ she said casually. ‘I’ve been out for a spin with an old friend. Down the Lee Road.’

  ‘Nice afternoon for it,’ he said. ‘Nice to see old friends, too. Some of them, at any rate.’ He paused for a moment and then said with deliberation, ‘Of course some former friends are best avoided.’

  He had not seen Seán, she thought. So they know all those faces, not just the leaders, but unimportant people like Seán who mostly acted like a messenger boy for Tom Hurley. It gave her an odd feeling to think of that vast amount of surveillance going on beneath the surface of normal busy city streets.

  But it gave her an idea.

  ‘You going my way, up the Barracka?’ she asked and was pleased to see him smile and nod. The old word from their childhood when the steep incline of Barrack Street was always the Barracka seemed to take some of his usual stiffness from him and he walked by her side with no trace of embarrassment. She thought that she would take advantage of his good humour.

  ‘Tell me something, Patrick, and this is nothing to do with me or anything that I might do, but I’ve been wondering whether the houses of known anti-treaty fellas would be watched.’ She had been about to say ‘freedom fighters’ but hastily changed it. Even so, he looked at her with suspicion.

  ‘You’re not getting yourself in with that lot again, are you?’

  She resented his tone, but swallowed her grievance. She needed his co-operation. She widened her eyes at him and did her best to look innocent. ‘I’m finished with all that sort of thing, Patrick. I’ve a job now and I’m a respectable office worker. I just think about money all the time. That’s respectable, isn’t it?’

  He gave a grin, but didn’t comment on the printing works where she worked, although he undoubtedly knew that its main purpose was the printing of anti-treaty pamphlets and literature. He was, she thought, looking more relaxed than usual. Despite the shortness of her skirt, he didn’t glance at it with disapproval, but seemed content to stroll along by her side. She thought that she would try again.

  ‘Come on, Patrick,’ she coaxed. ‘You’re off duty now. Just tip me a wink. I’m thinking of writing a book about all this. All my sources will be secret of course. That’s the way these things are written – I’ll just say “I’ve been given to understand”.’

  He laughed aloud then. ‘Well, let’s say that I would be amazed if the houses of known criminals were not watched very carefully indeed,’ he said.

  ‘I thought so,’ she said endeavouring to sound careless. Those two stupid young nuns. She had always imagined that it would be something like that. How on earth had they allowed themselves to get involved? She daren’t say anything, though. Her mother’s life was in danger. She must distract Patrick from her question before he got too curious.

  ‘Tell us, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Do you remember the time that we had the midnight bonfire up on top of Barracka Hill on midsummer’s eve and that old tree caught fire and the Peelers came and told us that they would throw the lot of us in prison? You never thought that you would join them when you grew up, did you?’ And then, when he didn’t answer, she added with some curiosity, ‘Are you glad that you joined, Patrick?’

  She thought that he might be offended at that question, might give her an unfriendly response, but he turned a face filled with astonishment on her.

  ‘Of course, I’m glad,’ he said vigorously. ‘I get £360 a year, Eileen. That’s what an inspector is paid. That’s not to be sneezed at, you know.’

  ‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t feel that you’ve sold your soul for a mess of potage.’

  He didn’t take offence at that, just shook his head at her and smiled. ‘You’ve been studying Irish,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget that a Garda Siochána means a guardian of the peace. You might be glad of me one day.’ He stopped. They had reached the spot where her mother’s house was located and he knew it well. She wouldn’t ask him in, she decided. That would be going too far. Would be downright dangerous. She just nodded and smiled and put her key into the front door. He came up close to her and said very quietly in her ear, ‘For instance if someone is threatening you, or trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do, well, that might be a time when you would be glad to get help from a Garda Siochána.’

  TWO

  W. B. Yeats

  ‘Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.’

  Raymond had often invited girls onto his yacht. That was obvious to Eileen. He instantly produced a pair of snowy white plimsolls and a cosy Aran-knit jumper, both of which fitted Eileen as though they had been made for her. He had tried to be casual when she came on board, but his eyes were anxious and she guessed that he was worried about this expedition which would involve him and his expensive yacht in serious trouble if it failed.

  It was interesting, she had often thought, that Raymond, a man about town, a lover of jazz, a person who spent lots of his free time in popping across to London for a Louis Armstrong concert or to visit the latest nightclub, had remained with the Republicans when so many of the others, so many of his friends, like Eamonn, had given up the struggle. Raymond, of course, unlike Eamonn, had no real ambition to be a doctor or a teacher or a scientist. He was the spoilt, only child of a rich family. Raymond had hung around university in order to enjoy the friendships and the social life rather than to achieve any qualifications. She wondered now whether he was just a paid spy, rather than a patriot, like she, Eamonn and the others had been. Still, she had a part to play so she thanked him prettily and kissed his well-shaven cheek.

  ‘Don’t want you skidding on a wet deck,’ was all that he said as he handed over the shoes, but his voice was nervous. He waited without comment as man after man slipped on board the yacht and went down into the hold. Eileen watched also, trying to keep her eyes away from Tom Hurley who was lurking beside the mooring post, dressed for the part in
a smart yachting blazer. Where had he got that blazer? Stolen, or ‘requisitioned’, no doubt, thought Eileen. The Republicans had a habit of appearing in shops, guns in hand and pointing to any goods which they desired. She couldn’t imagine Tom Hurley paying for something as expensive-looking as that blazer. She averted her gaze from him, though she knew that he would be looking at her and she had seen how one hand was slipped inside the pocket adorned with two yellow stripes. There would be a pistol in there, she knew. She could see the slight bulge and guessed that it was pointing straight at her. She didn’t feel frightened though. She had made up her mind to go along with this. The threat to herself and to her mother was too real. The British soldiers on Spike Island had to look after themselves. After all, they were professionals. This plan of Tom Hurley’s could go either way.

  In any case, she thought, the moment to interfere for the sake of the two young nuns and for the sake of the convent, which had educated her, and above all for the sake of the Reverend Mother who had been so good to her, that moment had passed. The nuns had played their role, hopefully were now safe, and the result was this crowd of hard-faced men who had assembled in the small harbour town of Cobh by various means, mostly by bicycle and by train. No lorries. Tom Hurley would not have risked drawing the attention of the Free State soldiers. Cobh was watched carefully for any trace of paramilitary activity.

  This plan might work, thought Eileen as she lounged nonchalantly against the rail and pretended to scan the water for fish. The men were coming on at irregular intervals, looking just like sailors. Already six had boarded. Raymond was whistling a tune and she forced herself to smile at him and to look like a girl on a day out with her rich boyfriend.

  Two deckhands came on next, nodding to Raymond and calling him sir. Might be authentic but probably not, thought Eileen, noticing the bulge in one pocket of the loose sailor trousers. A deckhand carrying a pistol, she thought and then shrugged her shoulders. Why not. Here was she, a respectable office girl, and she was playing her part in this affair.

  And then Tom Hurley stepped neatly onto the boat. Didn’t look at her, gave Raymond a nod and then disappeared down into the hold. He wore a cap pulled so far down his face that it obscured most of his features. His face would be in every post office and bank, would feature on street corner notice boards with the word WANTED in large black letters beneath it. It had done so for years, but still he moved around the city, organized raids, reprisals and attacks on police and army barracks.

  ‘Well, let’s be off,’ said Raymond in a voice that he strove to make sound normal. ‘OK, Jim, weigh anchor; cast off, Pat. Let’s show the lady Cork harbour. You all right, Eileen, hold tight now.’

  Eileen felt the wind blow her hair. She wished that she could enjoy this. It could have been fun if only Raymond had taken herself and some of the other lads out on his boat at the time when they were all friends, but the group had dispersed and now everything seemed darker and more sinister. The whistle had died from Raymond’s lips and he stared grimly ahead as he steered the yacht adroitly in and out of the other yachts moored in Cobh Harbour. She saw him look back from time to time at the still figure of Tom Hurley and knew that both he and she would have to play their part as a carefree young couple out for a day’s sailing.

  ‘You know this is the oldest yacht club in the world, Eileen,’ called out Raymond. ‘They say that it was started by Murrough O’Brien, Lord Inchiquin, in the time of King Charles I. Known as the Royal Yacht Club from the time of King William IV.’

  ‘Thanks for the history lesson,’ shouted Eileen. ‘Where’s that gramophone I saw you carrying on board?’ She didn’t think that she could keep up this casual conversation for too long, but a young man and his girlfriend, singing the latest songs at the tops of their voices would present a carefree appearance. She saw Tom Hurley give a quick nod and one of the men who was coiling rope on the deck left his task and went below, returning with the portable gramophone. The motion of the boat would probably ruin the 78 inch vinyl record, as the needle slid with the motion of the waves, but that was tough luck. Raymond could afford to buy a new one. She watched the man wind it up and waited for the first words of ‘I’m Wild about Harry’ before she began to join in, using all the lung power that she possessed. She had a good soprano voice and Raymond a nice light baritone, so together they sang and the voice on the gramophone rang out, with the occasional screech when the needle slid over a track as the yacht bobbed in the water.

  A good sailor, Raymond. Despite the singing, he found time to issue a few commands about the sails, even sang a couple of them to the tune of ‘I’m Wild about Harry’ and he steered the boat competently. Eileen had guessed where they were going and she could see that she was right. With the wind in their sails they made straight for Spike Island where the British Navy had their Irish headquarters. Within minutes of going towards it she could see that a few men in uniforms had emerged from the building and were standing on the pier.

  ‘Sing up,’ said Raymond. His voice was tense, but he handled the steering wheel well. Eileen sang until she felt that her voice was cracking and her throat rasped as though with sandpaper. By now they had come quite near to the Spike Island pier. She took hold of the safety rail and executed a few neat jazz steps to entertain the men while she rested her larynx. You’re acting in a play, she told herself, as her rubber-soled plimsoll beat out a rhythm on the wooden deck. This is a play about a young man and a girl, out for a day’s sailing. A comedy, not a tragedy, nor even a nail-biting drama, just a light comedy, like a Gilbert & Sullivan musical, she told herself as she twirled and pivoted. They were now near enough for her to see the faces of the men on the pier, the British army officers. All of them smiling, she noted and redoubled her efforts.

  ‘Evening, Raymond,’ shouted one. Definitely an officer by the look of the uniform. ‘Coming to take us for a spin?’

  ‘If you like,’ shouted back Raymond. His voice was nonchalant, his accent, due to his schooling in England, was as posh and as British as the officer’s own. ‘But I have a favour to ask. You wouldn’t let my girlfriend have a peep at the tunnels, would you? I’ve been telling her all about them and she’s wild to see them.’

  ‘Thought she was wild about Harry.’ The man guffawed and the other three officers on the pier laughed politely in appreciation of the joke. Eileen hammered out a few more steps as the anchor was lowered and a rope flung across.

  ‘That’s better,’ she cried enthusiastically as the yacht slowed to a stop. ‘Put the record on again, Raymond. I can dance properly now.’

  No point in rushing. Now that she was committed to this enterprise, she might as well carry it out as cleverly as she could. Her own safety might depend on it. She let go of the bar and moved to the centre of the deck and began to dance.

  ‘“I’m just wild about Harry and Harry’s just wild about me”,’ she sang as loudly as she could and whirled around. And then she got such a fright that the words dried within her throat. Behind where she stood, through the hole leading down to the hold, she glimpsed the stairs, crowded with men, those six men who had come aboard at Cobh, and each one of those men was stark naked, smeared all over with black soot and each was carrying a small waterproofed bag. Of clothing, she thought. And a gun wrapped up in the clothing. More than likely. Well-camouflaged. Ready to swim ashore? That was certain. But to do what?

  ‘“He’s sweet like sugar candy. Just like honey from the bee” …’

  She smiled at the men as widely as she could stretch her mouth and twirled around, knowing that her short skirt would rise up in the breeze and reveal the tops of her stockings.

  There was an enthusiastic sound of applause as the men on the pier clapped their hands loudly.

  ‘“She’s sweet like sugar candy. Just like honey from the bee” …’ sang one of the soldiers and the others joined in.

  Eileen stopped dancing and went over and slipped her arm inside that of Raymond. She smiled appealingly at the officer who looked t
o be in charge.

  ‘Please, please, please,’ she said imploringly. ‘I beseech you!’

  ‘Oh, well, come on, just the two of you, none of your men, Raymond. You’ll get me shot, you know.’

  But the officer was smiling and he held out his hand to her and carefully took her weight while she stepped from the yacht onto the solidity of the pier.

  So this was Spike Island. A small flat island, crowned with a row of army buildings, arranged roughly in the shape of a hexagon. Packed with soldiers. She wondered how they liked living here, on this small island, knowing that they were disliked and unwanted. Or perhaps she was just judging by die-hard rebels, by those Republicans who had influenced her thinking from an early age. Perhaps the people of Cobh did not really care, might even welcome the presence of the army just off their shore; might find that they were monied purchasers of goods and services. The dance halls and the cinema in Cobh were swamped with soldiers; her friend Aoife had told her that. Lonely, said Aoife, with that compassion for needy people which had caused her to leave a comfortable home and take up residence with a gang of rebels. Certainly, thought Eileen, looking around her, the men appreciated visitors; by now there were dozens of them who had emerged from the buildings and were smiling at her admiringly.

  Behind them the gramophone played on.

  And he’s just wild about.

  Cannot do without,

  Harry’s just wild about me.

  Eileen held her breath. Was it going to work? She looked sideways at Raymond, taking care not to move her head, but to peep at him from beneath her eyelashes. He was smiling too. Very much at his ease.

  ‘Come and see the tunnels, then,’ said the officer and he led the way. Now that he had made up his mind, he was a good host, showing them where everything was kept and introducing them, Raymond as a friend, and Eileen as ‘Raymond’s young lady’. Raymond kept him busy, talking knowledgeably about winds and high tides and Eileen relaxed. Her job was over now. Tom Hurley, despite all his faults, was a man of his word. He would allow her to go once they were back in Cork. She had played her part. Her mother now was safe. She glanced back over her shoulder at Raymond’s yacht, rocking gently in the waves, the gramophone silent. Harry, like she, had now played his part.