A Winter of Spies

by Gerard Whelan

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ he demanded.

  ‘Hugh Byrne!’ she said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Don’t you see? That big smile he had when we saw him! It was him shot that detective. It must have been!’

  But it seemed the same thought had struck Jimmy already. ‘And?’ he asked.

  ‘And I never seen Byrne look so happy …’ Sarah wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say. ‘Do you think … maybe he likes killing people?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘But don’t you think that’s a bit … a bit queer?’

  Jimmy grabbed her arm again. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I do. Now come on, quick.’

  There were Tans watching the passengers getting on the tram, but they paid little attention to the boy and the little girl. Jimmy led Sarah upstairs to the open top floor. From there they could see over to the scene of the shooting. There were more Tans there now, and Auxies and soldiers, and an ambulance was coming down Henry Street; but there was no sign of Fowles.

  ‘Are you certain it was him?’ Jimmy asked. ‘That man Fowles?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Right. That’s that, then.’

  ‘That’s what?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘That’s the cat among the pigeons,’ he said.

  ‘So he’s a policeman or something,’ Sarah said. ‘It still might be only a coincidence that he moved in beside us. Mightn’t it?’

  Her own words sounded foolish in her ears. Jimmy said nothing. Sarah realised that it didn’t matter one way or another: Da would have to assume that Moore and Fowles were watching him. He’d be mad to think anything else.

  The bell rang and the tram set off. Both of them sat in silence. Sarah could feel Jimmy stiff with tension beside her. She didn’t know what to think herself. As the tram crossed the Liffey her eyes fell on the people walking across Carlisle Bridge. They walked along, alone, in couples or in groups. You wouldn’t think a man had just had his life snuffed out casually, like a candle, only a few dozen yards away. One figure caught her eye, a slim man wearing a cap and walking along as though he hadn’t a care, his hands deep in the pockets of his long overcoat. She was sure it was Hugh Byrne. Then the tram was in Westmoreland Street, and when Sarah looked back the figure was lost in the crowd, just one more young man walking.

  11

  IMPATIENCE

  JOSIE SAT KNITTING IN THE CORNER, looking up now and then at her sister. Sarah was lying on the bed trying to read, but it wasn’t working. The low murmur of voices from downstairs worked its way up through the house, distracting her. Finally she threw down the magazine and jumped up.

  ‘They’ve no right to keep us up here,’ she said. ‘This is our business too.’

  Josie looked levelly at her, but said nothing. Trying to talk sense to Sarah when she was in this mood only made her worse. She had trouble sitting calmly at the best of times, unless she was with Mrs Breen. Perhaps they should have gone with Ma and Ella down to Breens’ instead of waiting here.

  Sarah went to the window and looked out. A soft rain fell in the dark street outside. It was still hours till curfew. Josie watched her sister with a carefully hidden half-smile – she didn’t want her thinking she was laughing at her. Jimmy had told her about what Sarah had seen, and how upset he suspected she’d been. It was always a shock to see what you’d dreamed of. Still, there was something very funny about Sarah when she was like this, the way she seemed almost to vibrate with impatience. She was, indeed, as Ma and Da often said, an impossible child.

  ‘You know why they sent us away,’ Josie said finally. ‘They need to talk freely now.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ Sarah said, tossing her head. It was the same as ever – one side of her understood perfectly, but another side was just too excited. People were watching her family, maybe plotting to arrest her father. Downstairs Da and Mick and Simon Hughes and Martin Ford were discussing what to do about it, and meanwhile she was being kept out of the whole thing – she, Sarah, who’d discovered the entire plot!

  ‘Why do men think they’re the only ones can talk about important things?’ she demanded. ‘They wouldn’t even let Ma stay on.’

  ‘Ma didn’t want to stay,’ Josie said. ‘As well you know. She doesn’t want to know anything about this. And Ella would get the vapours just listening.’

  ‘Still,’ Sarah said, as she always did when she had no answer to an argument. She went back and threw herself on the bed and sighed. She kept picturing the dying detective in her mind, but each time she’d force herself to think of something else. Her impatience was as good a distraction as any.

  Jimmy was in his own room – reading, Sarah didn’t doubt. Lately he’d started to quote lines of poetry at her. He had a lot of time for that old fellow, Yeats, whom she’d seen around town a few times. The poet was a long, stooped man with a vague and distant look in his eyes. He wrote poems about fairies, of all things. Sarah couldn’t imagine that a man like that would have any sensible comments to make on life.

  It baffled Sarah that even Jimmy could be patient. They’d come home with the news about Fowles barely an hour before. All of the family had been in the kitchen, Martin Ford and Simon Hughes too.

  ‘Are you certain it was Fowles?’ Simon had asked them.

  Sarah didn’t like being doubted. ‘Haven’t I eyes in me head?’ she’d said tartly.

  ‘Aye,’ Martin Ford said. ‘And a mouth too.’

  Sarah didn’t like that. He was always dismissing her – they all were. They’d only let her help with the gun that time because they’d had no choice.

  ‘I’m surprised you noticed,’ she said.

  Martin Ford scowled at her. ‘Your mouth? Sure how could I miss it,’ he said, ‘and it swinging between your two ears like a skipping rope?’

  Sarah had felt her fury rising. Jimmy saw it, and grabbed her arm: Martin Ford might be a brave man, but he’d never seen Sarah in a fury. She was quite capable of throwing something at him, and her aim was good.

  ‘It was him, Simon,’ he said.

  Simon Hughes had just nodded. Martin Ford, forgetting himself, had sworn a single terrible swearword that had never been spoken in their kitchen before. Sarah reddened and waited for Da to say something to him, but Da said nothing. Ford caught himself and apologised, then looked across the table at Simon Hughes.

  ‘This couldn’t happen at a worse time,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no good time for a thing like this,’ Da said. ‘But we knew it was always a risk. We’re not playing cowboys here.’ He looked around. ‘Right. I want everyone out of here, barring Mick and the two lads,’ he said. He stared at Sarah as he spoke, and she knew from his face there was no use arguing. So here she was now, after what felt like hours, trying to pick out some sense from the muffled sounds coming from downstairs.

  ‘If they don’t stop soon,’ she said to Josie, ‘then I’m going down.’

  ‘You are in your hat,’ Josie said.

  Sarah was torn. She really did understand what Da was doing. In a situation like this, simply knowing things could be dangerous, for yourself and for others. But just as she’d persuade herself of how reasonable this was, a great unthinking wave of impatience would rise in her and bury the sensible thoughts. She suspected she’d end up stamping her foot in sheer annoyance before the night was out. It was a habit that she’d always had, and she was ashamed of it because the whole family laughed when she did it. Worse, she could understand why they laughed: it was a childish habit. But the way things were going, she was sure it would be a footstamping night tonight.

  She went cold all over whenever she thought of Hugh Byrne. From the way his friends spoke it was obvious he’d acted without orders. She hadn’t actually seen him shoot the detective, of course, but she was sure he’d done it. Tonight in Sackville Street Sarah felt she’d seen something that really was an introduction to another world. It wasn’t just the bleeding man; it was the smile on Hugh Byrne’s face. It had bee
n wide and happy – and it had taken the prospect of killing somebody to put it there.

  The memory of that smile haunted her. Did Simon smile like that, she wondered, when he was on a job? Had her Da smiled like that when he was in the army?

  There were footsteps and voices in the hall downstairs, and the front door opened and closed. Then they heard Da’s tread on the stairs, coming up. Sarah ran to the bedroom door and pulled it open. Da stopped on the landing, facing her. He didn’t look happy.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re going for a walk.’

  Sarah just looked at him. ‘A walk?’ she said. ‘At a time like this? Where?’

  Da stood for a few moments and said nothing. Then he clicked his tongue. ‘We’re going to Keane’s shop,’ he said. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Keane’s near Westland Row?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Sarah was flummoxed. ‘All this happens,’ she said, ‘and we’re just going to the shop?’

  ‘Aye. Come down and get your coat.’ He turned and started back down the stairs. Sarah followed, wondering. In the hall Da stopped and turned to her.

  ‘Remember you told me what the lads said that time about girls being good disguises?’ he asked. ‘Well, you’re my disguise tonight. I’m a man going for a walk with his daughter. Do you understand?’

  The change in Sarah was instant. This was it! She was getting involved!

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’re just going for a walk. Why wouldn’t we?’

  She positively grabbed her coat from the hallstand and bustled into it. Da put his overcoat on more slowly, almost reluctantly. He took his hat and put it on his head.

  ‘But Da,’ Sarah said, ‘where are we really going?’

  Her father shook his head in wonderment.

  ‘My God, girl,’ he said, ‘but your curiosity knows no bounds. Didn’t I tell you we’re going to Keane’s?’

  ‘But why? Sure Keane’s is only a grocer’s – if you’d even call it that.’

  Da stood looking at her. Then he gave a little shrug, as though deciding something.

  ‘We’re going to see the Big Fellow,’ he said almost casually.

  Sarah stood rooted to the spot. She spluttered a little, and could feel her face going red.

  ‘The …’ she began, but her breath seemed to run out and she stood there with her mouth hanging open.

  ‘I’ll bring an umbrella,’ Da said. ‘The rain is stopping, but there’s heavy weather due later.’

  But Sarah still stood there, struck dumb. Her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head.

  Da looked at her and, in spite of himself, had to laugh.

  ‘Oh Janey, girl,’ he said, ‘you’re a gas character, so you are.’

  ‘The Big Fellow!’ Sarah managed finally.

  ‘The Director of Intelligence,’ Da said. ‘The Minister for General Mayhem, as he called himself one time. Michael Collins.’

  When he opened the front door Sarah found herself walking out after him as though in a dream. She looked with new eyes at this man who could casually drop out on a winter night to call on Michael Collins. The whole British army was tearing the place asunder looking for the man, but her own Da could just go and visit him. She wondered whether she really knew Da at all.

  They stood on the top step. The street seemed deserted. The night was dark, but the rain had almost stopped. Da didn’t bother opening the umbrella. He stood looking up at the black clouds above. Not a star was visible.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘The heavy weather is coming.’

  Sarah knew he was talking about more than just rain.

  12

  THE BIG FELLOW

  KEANE’S SHOP WAS SHUT, but Da knocked on the hall door beside the shop entrance. The door was opened by a sad-eyed boy a few years older than Sarah. Sarah knew who he was – Tommy Harte. His father had been in jail with Mick after the Rising. The Hartes lived here with their grandfather, Jeremiah Keane, who owned the shop.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Ellis,’ Da said to Tommy Harte.

  Tommy Harte just nodded. ‘He’s above in the back room, Mr Conway,’ he said. He seemed to know Da quite well, though Sarah had never heard Da mention Keane’s before tonight. But then, she thought, why should that surprise her? Da had a whole other life she’d never guessed at.

  Tommy Harte led the way up the steep, narrow stairs. Sarah found the climb hard going. On the third landing Martin Ford sat reading a magazine. He grinned when he saw them, but the grin didn’t look very genuine. Da nodded to him without saying anything.

  ‘Here,’ Martin said, jerking his thumb at a doorway. Da opened the door without knocking and led the way in. Tommy Harte stayed out on the landing.

  Simon Hughes was in the room with another man. Simon stood in front of a table at which the other man sat. The second man was broad and well-built. He was younger than Da, with a head of thick brown hair. He had a handsome, boyish face. He didn’t look like the pictures she’d seen of him, but she knew that this was the Big Fellow, Michael Collins.

  Neither Collins nor Simon looked up as Da and Sarah entered. The big man was sitting with his chair pushed back. He was looking down at the table, frowning. A thick lock of hair fell over his forehead. Then he looked up at Simon.

  ‘I’ve a bit of a job,’ he said, ‘that would take the boy’s mind off things. It’s down the country – down his own way. If he can keep his head, it would be right up his street.’

  Sarah was surprised at his voice. Though she knew he was a Corkman, it was still a surprise to hear the broad accent. It was almost disappointing. In some obscure way it seemed that such a great man should speak more nicely. She was probably just prejudiced against country people, she thought, even though she had country relations herself. Besides, that man Moore spoke nicely, and he was almost certainly a spy.

  She thought of Collins’s words. Somehow she knew that ‘the boy’ was Hugh Byrne. So Collins had a job for him that would be ‘right up his street’. It must be a killing, she thought, and she noticed a strange reaction in herself. Just knowing what Collins must mean by ‘a bit of a job’ made her feel dirty, as though she were somehow defiled even by the understanding of it. She kept thinking of the dying detective, of his stained waistcoat and that gruesome spray of blood. It was strange to hear such things spoken of so casually. Strange and nasty. She was no longer so bloodthirsty since seeing that man in the street tonight. The sight of real blood had quenched that thirst.

  Collins reached up and brushed the hanging lock of hair off his forehead. He was wearing a dark blue suit, and a white hat lay on the table. He didn’t look like a guerrilla general. He looked like nothing so much as a successful young businessman. Sarah was a bit disappointed by this too, though she felt she could hardly expect Collins to parade around in a uniform for her benefit. There was a price on his head, after all.

  Then Collins looked for the first time at herself and Da. His face, so serious, broke into a momentary smile. It was like a light going on in a dark room. It was gone in an instant, but in that instant Sarah was certain she’d seen him wink at her. Michael Collins had winked at her! She felt she could die of pride right there and then, however his accent and dress might have disappointed her.

  ‘Good evening, James,’ Collins said. ‘And I presume this is your daughter.’

  ‘This is Sarah,’ Da said. Sarah felt her face flush. Collins nodded to her.

  ‘Was it you, Sarah,’ he asked, ‘who saw Hugh Byrne in town tonight?’

  She’d been right, then; it was Byrne they were talking about. Sarah found it hard to answer Collins. An unusual shyness came over her. She’d never met a famous person before. Her mouth was dry. Collins smiled at her. Da prodded her in the back. ‘Speak up, girl,’ he said.

  ‘Myself and Jimmy,’ she said, ‘that’s my brother. We saw him.’

  ‘And he shot someone?’

  ‘We didn’t see the actual shooting, but we were sure it wa
s him.’

  ‘Sure?’ Collins was still smiling, but his eyes were staring narrowly. Sarah felt he was looking right through her. She knew that look: Da had it too.

  ‘We were certain,’ she said. ‘He was smiling. I never seen him look so happy. It was an ugly smile.’

  ‘Right,’ Collins said. He looked up at Simon. ‘Si,’ he said, ‘find Hughie. Tell him I want to see him after in Vaughan’s.’

  Simon nodded. He smiled at Da and Sarah and left without saying a word.

  ‘You didn’t ask why I wanted to see you, Mick,’ Da said. It gave Sarah a thrill to hear him address Collins in such a familiar way.

  Collins leaned back and sat on the table. He smiled at them.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said to Da, ‘because you’re afraid for your family.’

  ‘Aye,’ Da said. ‘Not for myself. I want to make that very clear.’

  Collins held up a hand.

  ‘James, please,’ he said. ‘I’m not an eejit.’ He looked at Sarah now. ‘Do you know,’ he asked her, ‘the first man who ever mentioned your Da’s name to me?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah said. She couldn’t imagine.

  ‘It was James Connolly,’ Collins said.

  Sarah was so shocked she forgot to be shy. ‘James Connolly the 1916 leader?’ she blurted out.

  ‘The very same. Only he was James Connolly the trade-union man too. Don’t forget that. I was talking to him in the GPO during the Rising, and he was worried about how the Citizen Army men were getting on in Stephen’s Green.’

  ‘My uncle Mick was in the Green,’ Sarah said. However much she might have jeered him since, that was one thing about Mick she’d always be proud of.

  Collins nodded. ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘What did James Connolly say about Da?’ Just thinking about the scene made Sarah starry-eyed. James Connolly had talked to Michael Collins about her Da. And after the Rising the British had taken the wounded Connolly out, tied to a chair so he wouldn’t fall over, and put him in front of a firing squad. They’d shot him and buried him in quicklime up in Kilmainham Gaol. People said the bosses and capitalists had made sure he’d be shot, remembering his trade-union work.