Dublin had become an armed camp, with curfews, masses of troops and police, and constant patrols. There were tanks, armoured cars and barbed wire in the streets, and roadblocks and searches and raids by day and, especially, by night.
Sarah refused to let any of this intimidate her. ‘I’m going down to Mrs Breen,’ she said.
‘All right,’ Ma said. ‘I saw the husband going out, but I think she’s there. Tell her thanks for the pot of jam. I didn’t see her since she left it up.’
The Breens lived in the basement flat. They owned the house. They’d been friends with Ella during her marriage when she’d lived here with her husband Charlie Fox. That had been a bad marriage. Charlie Fox was a drunkard and often beat Ella. He’d been killed by a stray bullet during the 1916 Rising. No-one ever knew which side had fired it. But nobody missed Charlie much. He’d been a brute. He’d even died in the act of hitting Jimmy.
After Charlie died, Ella and the Breens asked the Conways to come and share this house. Before that they’d lived in a single big room in the middle of the Dublin slums. The rebel headquarters in the General Post Office had been just a few minutes’ walk away from their old home. The Post Office, along with half of Sackville Street, had been destroyed in the Rising. The British army had burned it all down.
The Conways had been very poor then, though not so poor as they’d been before Da joined the army. Sarah couldn’t remember much about that time, except that she’d often been hungry. She was still often hungry now, but that was because she was a growing girl. Sometimes when she was in the kitchen eating Da would stare at her in awe.
‘And not a pick of meat on her!’ he’d say in mock astonishment. ‘Where do it all go?’
‘It goes to make a healthy girl,’ Sarah would tell him, her mouth full of bread and jam.
As Sarah left the room she met Jimmy coming down the stairs yawning. He hadn’t brushed his hair yet, and hanks of it stuck up stiffly from his head.
‘Lazy lump,’ Sarah said. ‘Brush your hair. I don’t know what you’re like.’
Jimmy grinned at her. He was coming to look more and more like his uncle Mick, and he had the same big grin that made you want to grin along. As he reached the bottom of the stairs now he aimed a pretend swipe at Sarah’s head. Sarah dodged, but reached up and caught his sleeve.
‘Simon Hughes is on the run,’ she whispered. ‘There was a raid at Phelans’, but he got out. I think he’s okay, but there’s a search.’
Jimmy’s grin vanished. ‘Simon’s accent will help if he’s stopped,’ he said.
‘I think he’ll get out the lanes. I saw no Tans or soldiers except on the canal. It was very badly organised.’
‘You’re an expert now, are you? What were you doing up that way at this hour anyhow?’
Sarah felt herself flushing. Jimmy was quicker than adults in some ways. He was harder to fool. Now he saw her colour.
‘Did someone get you mixed up in this some way?’ he hissed.
Being a girl wouldn’t save you from danger these days, and being a child wouldn’t save you either. Only the day before a girl had been shot in a gateway in the city. Annie O’Neill was her name. Some passing Black and Tans had fired into a group standing there, killing her. She was eight years old. People trembled for their children as well as themselves. They grew afraid, exactly as the authorities intended; but they also grew angry, and that wasn’t part of the plan.
Sarah Conway wasn’t afraid at all. She was afraid of nothing – except her Ma and her Da. Her Ma and Da, though, were afraid. They were afraid for Sarah, and they were afraid of her too. And now, though they didn’t yet know it, they had real cause for both kinds of fear.
‘If I was mixed up in anything,’ Sarah hissed back, ‘then it was myself got me into it.’
The kitchen door opened. Da looked out. The suspicion was back on his face.
‘What are you two at?’ he asked them.
They were saved from having to think up a lie by the sound of shots. There were two of them, heavy cracks of pistol fire, and they came from nearby. The heads of the three Conways turned towards the closed front door.
‘Oh sacred heart of Jesus!’ said Ella’s voice from the kitchen. ‘And on a Sunday morning too!’
A confused volley of rifle fire answered the shots.
‘That’s Tans or Tommies,’ Jimmy said, stating the obvious. The Volunteers didn’t carry rifles in the city: they were too hard to conceal.
Ma came to the kitchen door. ‘James,’ she said anxiously, ‘they’ll be coming out of Mass in Haddington Road.’
She was thinking of Josie. Da was looking towards the street. There was a sound of feet running on the front steps. Ma clutched Da’s arm. Jimmy and Sarah looked at each other.
The knocker banged heavily three times.
‘James!’ Ma said.
A muffled voice came through the heavy door.
‘Let me in,’ it said breathlessly. The accent was English. ‘Please!’
‘It’s the soldiers!’ Ma said. She sounded terrified. ‘Or the Tans!’
‘Tans don’t say please,’ Jimmy said. ‘That’s Simon Hughes.’
‘Begod,’ said Da, ‘you’re right.’ He hurried to the door and opened it. Simon stumbled in. Da snatched a look outside, then banged the door closed and stood with his back to it.
Simon Hughes nearly fell on the floor. He was pale and gasping.
‘Get to the window,’ Da said to Jimmy. ‘Look lively, but don’t show yourself.’ His voice had taken on the brusque tone of an old soldier. Jimmy did as he was bid.
Simon was breathing hard. He looked up at Da. ‘Morning, Mr Conway, sir,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you at this hour.’
3
TENSION
DA GLARED AT SIMON HUGHES.
‘Tans in the street!’ Jimmy said tensely from the kitchen.
‘They didn’t see me come in,’ Simon said to Da.
‘What was the shooting then?’
‘They were getting close. A couple of the lads tried to distract them. I wouldn’t let Tans see me come here – you know that. I just want to cut through the garden.’
Da sighed. ‘You know the way?’ he asked.
Simon nodded.
‘Go then,’ Da said.
Simon started to say something else, but Da cut him off.
‘Take nothing,’ he said. ‘Just go.’
Simon nodded. He turned without another word and went down the hall. They heard the back door open and close. Da looked at Sarah. ‘Into the kitchen,’ he said.
They went in. Jimmy was by the window looking out. The curtains hid him from the street. Ella was standing by the sink with her hands covering her mouth.
‘Mind yourself, Jimmy,’ she whispered. ‘That’s how poor Mrs Carr got shot in the Rising, looking out the window upstairs!’
The Carrs had owned the house then. Old Mrs Carr had died of her wounds, and her husband hadn’t lived long without her. They’d been related to the Breens and left the house to them.
Jimmy ignored his aunt. ‘What are they at?’ Da asked him.
‘I think the shooting mixed them up,’ Jimmy said. ‘They’re looking every way. There’s people coming up from Mass now, and a lorryload of soldiers parked at the corner.’
Sarah couldn’t believe that Da had let Simon go out when he was hurt. ‘Da,’ she said, ‘we could have kept Simon here. Even if there was a search, we could have said he was Mick. They’d never know.’
Da snorted. ‘And how would we explain his accent?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ Jimmy said. ‘And what if Mick himself walked in? Who would we say he was?’
Sarah felt annoyed at her own foolishness. Da saw it on her face. Oddly, it seemed to relax him a bit.
‘Never mind, girl,’ he said. ‘I was never much good as a liar myself till I joined the army. It’s one thing that you learn there anyhow.’
‘These times does make liars of us all,’ Ma said very bitterly.
Jimmy turned from the window. ‘Here’s Josie now,’ he said. ‘And Mick is with her. And they’ve company.’
Ma crossed to the window. ‘Who?’ she said.
‘Martin Ford,’ Jimmy said.
Sarah felt suddenly cold. Mick and Josie would be safe enough if they were stopped, but Martin Ford would have a gun. She didn’t doubt that it was he and Byrne who’d fired at the Tans.
Ma was standing beside Jimmy, looking out. ‘They’re stopping people!’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Oh James! They’re stopping Mick and Josie!’
‘There’s Mr Breen,’ Ma added. ‘He’s stopping too.’
Da went to the window and looked out. The tension in the room was terrible. Sarah wanted to look out too, but she was too frightened of what she might see.
‘What’s going on now?’ asked Ella in a little voice. Ella got frightened easily. She hated any hint of violence.
The three at the window were all holding their breath. None of them said anything for a little while.
‘They’re letting them go,’ Ma said finally. She was nearly crying with relief. Sarah ran to the front door. By the time she had it open Da was standing behind her with a hand on her shoulder.
There was a little procession coming in the gate. Mick was in front, smiling and talking to old Mr Breen. Behind him Martin Ford was chattering to Josie, who was laughing at something he’d just said.
‘Will you come in and have a cup of tea, Mr Breen?’ Mick said at the bottom of the steps.
Mr Breen rubbed his hands. ‘Thank you, no, Michael,’ he said. ‘I’m sure my wife will be wondering about me.’
And with a cheery greeting to Da and Sarah he went down the steps that led to his basement flat. The others tramped up the house steps past Da and Sarah into the hall. Da closed the door behind them and turned angrily to Ford.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he said.
The gaiety was gone from Martin Ford’s face immediately. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Conway,’ he said, ‘I wanted to make sure Si was all right.’
‘You’ve a funny way of doing it,’ Da said. ‘You might have brought half the British army in on top of us all. Have you a gun itself?’
Martin held his coat open to show his shirt, innocent of ironmongery. ‘Ne’er a one, Mr Conway,’ he said. ‘Sure our guns are halfway to Ringsend by now.’
‘And Simon? Did he come to my house with a gun?’
Martin’s eyes flicked towards Sarah for a moment. She shook her head warningly at him.
‘Si had no gun,’ Martin said to Da. ‘And they never even saw him come into the street. Honest. They would have, though. They were just going to turn the corner. We had to shoot. You know what would have happened to any young man they saw running.’
Da glared at him, but the look softened. ‘I know Simon wouldn’t knock at this door if he thought he was bringing trouble,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t leave a dog out with them animals after it. But I don’t like you risking Mick and Josie’s necks to prove what a brave fellow you are. The Tans might have arrested the lot of you. Then they’d have come here as well. We’re still not out of it, you know.’
But they were. Jimmy came out from the window to say that the Tans had given up and were leaving. ‘There’s too many coming from Mass,’ he said. ‘They know they’ll find nobody now. What happened, anyhow?’
‘We were in Phelans’ –’ Martin started, but Da stopped him.
‘No,’ Da said. ‘Don’t even tell us about it.’
Sarah had never felt so annoyed at him. This was a real part of the war, and she’d been involved. Da was much too careful. She knew he was no coward, so why was he always like this?
‘No offence, Martin,’ Da said, ‘but I want you out of here as soon as it’s safe. Simon’s gone out the back. He’ll be well away by now.’
Josie, who’d been standing silent, touched his arm. ‘In the meantime, Da,’ she said gently, ‘we could at least offer Martin a cup of tea.’
Da made a scornful sound. He still looked cross. Sarah knew he worried about the family’s safety, but sometimes she felt ashamed of the way he turned his back on the freedom struggle. At least now that the danger seemed past, he’d cool down soon enough. She knew him well.
‘Were you going to nine Mass, Da?’ she said. ‘Only you’ll be late if you don’t go soon.’
Da went into the kitchen to get his jacket, leaving them all standing awkwardly in the hall. When he came back out he stood looking at them for a moment.
‘Oh, go on, then,’ he said to Josie. ‘Give the boy some breakfast. But, Martin.’
‘Mr Conway?’
‘You be very careful, do you hear me? And don’t risk the safety of this house again.’
4
FAMILY MATTERS
THE TROUBLED STATE OF THE COUNTRY brought Da no joy at all.
‘It’s just our luck,’ he used to say. ‘As soon as things start to go good for us, there’s another war.’
And it was true that things had improved greatly for the Conways in the past few years. By the standards they’d been used to, they were living in luxury. Da had never been anything like wealthy, but after taking part in the great strike of 1913 he’d been blacklisted by the employers and couldn’t find any kind of job. The family had spent years in complete poverty. They’d lived in squalor and hunger. In the end, in 1915, Da had been forced to join the British army and go to war simply to feed them.
But with the move to the large house in the latter part of 1916 their luck had changed. At last they had a family home, and it was a home where there was always food on the table. Ella’s dead husband had had life insurance and, in spite of his drinking, he’d somehow managed to keep up the payments on it. The insurance money came to Ella, as well as a very small pension from the brewery where he’d worked. What with that and the separation money Ma got from the army, the family was suddenly solvent for the first time.
It was a frugal kind of comfort, maybe, but not when you compared it with what they were used to. It had taken the Conway children as long to get used to eating regularly as it did to having lots of room, but there was no hardship in the effort.
In 1917 the remaining prisoners from the Rising were released. Among them was Ma’s brother, the children’s uncle Mick. He’d fought with the Citizen Army during the Rising. After his release Mick too had come to live with them in Northumberland Road – for a little while, he insisted, until he got organised.
‘I don’t want to be a burden on anyone,’ he’d said.
Originally Dubliners had despised the Easter rebels, whom they’d seen as bringing ruin to their city. But attitudes started to change when the British executed the leaders. The rebels released by the British in 1917 returned to a hero’s welcome. Mick got several offers of jobs within weeks of getting out of prison. He seemed to be staying clear of politics, and swore he’d never fire a gun again; but he still sometimes met some of the people he’d been in jail with. It was through one of these that he got a porter’s job on the railways, where he’d worked since. It was a good, solid job. Mick enjoyed it, and got on well.
Mick stayed with the Conways for several months before finding a decent room in Drumcondra, in the north of the city. His experiences in the Rising and afterwards had changed him. He was quieter and sadder, and sometimes he seemed haunted by the things he’d seen. Now and then he drank too much, but he was still Mick, whom they all loved. He remained a frequent visitor.
When James Conway got out of the British army in 1919, having survived three years of war and even picked up a medal for bravery, the little household in Northumberland Road was waiting. With Da’s return, the family’s happiness had seemed complete. Mick had even been able to organise a railway job for him, which he’d started a couple of weeks after getting home. He too got on well, and was still working there.
But within months of Da’s return the first shots of the new war in Ireland had been fired, in Tipperary.
‘I suppose,’
Da said, ‘you can’t get away from history.’ That was called philosophy, Jimmy told Sarah, but Sarah just thought it was silly. Why would you want to get away from history?
At first Da had been fascinated by the Rising. Sarah had heard Jimmy say to Ma that he thought Da felt nearly guilty about missing it. There he’d been in France, dressed in the uniform of the British Crown, while at home in Dublin his friends and relations were fighting against people wearing the same uniform.
But Da’s interest in politics had suddenly vanished almost as soon as the struggle broke into the open again. It had happened almost overnight. He wanted no truck with politics or violence, he said. He’d had enough of both. He said little at home on the subject, but outside the house he was forever giving out about the fighting. He told anyone who’d listen how shameful the murders and ambushes were. Sometimes he sounded almost like a Loyalist, devoted to the Crown, and that made Sarah angry as well as ashamed.
Mick wasn’t much better. He didn’t give out like Da did, but still Sarah had never heard him say anything in support of the struggle. She felt, though, that he must have sympathy for the Volunteers. He’d been in jail with Simon Hughes, who’d fought in the Post Office, and still saw him often. Sometimes Mick brought Simon to the house, along with the Wexfordman Byrne and their friend Martin Ford. And it was obvious to anyone that though all three were supposed to have respectable jobs, they were all up to their necks in the struggle.
Da never went so far as to tell Mick not to bring his friends to the house, but he obviously didn’t like their being there. Still, he didn’t make this dislike obvious. He didn’t mind them drinking cups of tea there sometimes, and would even sit and talk with them – though not about politics. That was a banned subject.
Da was very quick to hush any support for the rebels that he heard from his children. Jimmy had no time for violence – the things that he’d seen in the Rising had put him off it forever. Josie, though she obeyed Da’s wishes, was more or less openly in favour of the Volunteers. She took no real interest in politics, but the idea of all those poor young men fighting a mighty empire appealed to her. It was very romantic. And then there was Sarah, and Sarah was a mad rebel altogether. Sometimes she’d even sing rebel songs in the house. Da would explode if he heard her.
A Winter of Spies Page 2
