Friend or Foe

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘I have details of the annual gala,’ said the captain, a well-built man in his early forties who had a deep voice and a strong Dublin accent. ‘It’s going to be held this year on November the twelfth, in Iveagh Baths. So what are we going to do?’

  ‘Swim in it?’ whispered Ben, and Jack realised that Ben had been infected by Joan’s giddiness. Jack wanted to laugh, but he kept his face serious as the captain looked down at the club members.

  ‘We’re going to win it!’ said the captain. ‘This is a chance for you all to prove yourselves. It’s been seven years since we last won the cup, and it’s high time we took it back. There’ll be teams competing on every level, so I want to see you all training hard between now and November. OK?’

  ‘OK!’ answered the members, and Jack felt a tingle of excitement. Maybe I could get on a team, he thought to himself. He was at the bottom level, but he was making real progress, and the idea of swimming for the club sounded great.

  The captain dismissed the members, and Jack followed his friends towards the exit. They passed the entrance to the public baths. Having lived all his life in a house with a bathroom, Jack had been surprised to find out that large numbers of Dubliners came to Tara Street Baths to wash themselves, paying here for soap and a towel. It shouldn’t have surprised him really, considering that the city had seventy thousand people living in tenements – where fifty or sixty residents might share one toilet and have no bath – yet he had been taken aback to see poor people queuing up for their weekly wash.

  Now Jack and his friends stepped out of the baths onto Tara Street. A hint of coolness in the air confirmed that summer had ended and autumn had arrived.

  ‘I definitely want to get on the first team for the gala,’ said Emer.

  ‘Really?’ said Joan. ‘Sure it’s just a load of races.’

  ‘There’s a big silver cup,’ answered Emer. ‘It’s important.’

  Jack thought it was typical of Joan to take nothing seriously. ‘I’m with Emer,’ he said. ‘I think it would be brilliant to swim for the club.’

  ‘Yes, but Emer’s sure to get on a team,’ said Gladys. ‘The rest of us mightn’t.’

  ‘Well, you won’t if you think like that,’ said Ben to his sister. ‘Our cricket coach says you always have to think you can win.’

  ‘I’m just being realistic,’ argued Gladys.

  They turned onto Burgh Quay, making their way towards their tram stop, and Jack was distracted from the conversation by a newspaper billboard. It stated that the Germans had advanced one hundred and twenty miles since the Russian army had abandoned Warsaw. The recent news from the Gallipoli front was bad too, with reports of slaughter and disease, and horror stories of flies feeding off the countless corpses. Jack was worried for his uncle Bertie, who was caught up in the nightmare of Gallipoli, and also for his cousin Ronnie, who was enduring trench warfare in Belgium.

  Jack’s family rarely discussed their concerns about Bertie and Ronnie, as though by not mentioning the horror, they could keep it at bay. Jack sometimes talked about his fears to Ben, but Ben wasn’t the sort of person who thought deeply about anything. Jack wished he could confide in Emer, who did think seriously about things, but that wasn’t possible either. They had cleared the air about their families’ opposing political views the day of the hike to Old Bawn. But it was one thing to agree to disagree, another to expect her to sympathise with his fears for his relations in the British Army.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Jack!’ said Emer now.

  He smiled ruefully as he came out of his reverie. ‘Just … just thinking that nothing is ever simple.’

  ‘Well one thing is simple,’ answered Emer. ‘You’ll have to train hard to get onto a team for the gala.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Jack. ‘And you know what – I’ll make it!’ His mind suddenly made up, he put aside his worries for now, then fell into step with his friends and headed for the tram stop.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Good news, boys!’ said Brother McGill as he swept into the classroom. His flowing black robes caused the chalk dust suspended in the air to swirl, and it shimmered in the September sunshine that shone through the windows.

  Jack felt relieved. Any break from the normal school routine was welcome, and Brother McGill could sometimes be distracted if asked the right kind of questions. They were about to have a class in algebra, a subject that Jack disliked, so he was pleased that the teacher had an announcement to make.

  ‘The captain of the school’s football team for this coming season has been decided upon,’ said Brother McGill. ‘And I’m very pleased to say that it’s a boy from this class!’

  Despite the teacher’s good humour, Jack felt his heart sinking a little. It was going to be Phelim O’Connell, the boy he liked least in the class – he just knew it! Phelim was well-built and athletic and a skilful Gaelic footballer, but Jack had never got on well with him, and he didn’t want the other boy’s standing to be boosted by this honour. Phelim had been born in Connemara, so he spoke fluent Irish, which, along with his footballing ability, made him a favourite of Brother McGill’s. He had a slightly nasty streak, however, and while he was too clever to bully anyone openly, he had a way of running down and excluding people he didn’t like.

  ‘It won’t come as a huge surprise,’ continued Brother McGill, ‘when I tell you that the boy chosen as captain is none other than our own Phelim O’Connell!’

  The rest of the pupils applauded. Jack reluctantly clapped too, knowing it would seem like defiance to the teacher if he didn’t.

  ‘Go raibh maith agat, Brother,’ said Phelim, a pleased expression on his face as he thanked the teacher. ‘I’ll do my very best for the school. And maybe bring back the cup as well!’

  ‘Good lad yourself,’ said Brother McGill. ‘I wouldn’t doubt you!’

  Jack looked across the aisle at Phelim’s satisfied face and tried to hide his irritation. Normally pupils who toadied favour with the teachers were unpopular, but Phelim O’Connell was strong and admired as a footballer, so he got away with it.

  ‘Right,’ said Brother McGill good-humouredly, ‘I know you’re all dying to get going on quadratic equations, but first, the roll call.’

  He began to call out the names of the pupils, with each boy answering in Irish with a cry of ‘anseo’ to indicate his presence.

  Jack had noticed that Gerry Quinn wasn’t in school today. He recalled the demanding attitude of Gerry’s uncle on the morning that he had brought the used clothes to the cottage, and he suspected that Gerry had been ordered to skip school to help his uncle with some job.

  ‘Gerard Quinn,’ called out Brother McGill now.

  When there was no answer, Brother McGill looked up from the roll book. ‘Quinn?’

  ‘He’s not in, Brother,’ answered the boy who normally shared the desk with Gerry.

  ‘Maybe he’s taking his uncle’s horse to the knackers’ yard, Brother!’ said Phelim.

  Brother McGill smiled indulgently. Jack thought to himself that the teacher might have reacted differently if it hadn’t been Phelim O’Connell who made the remark, or if the jibe had been about someone less poor than Gerry. Seeing that the brother hadn’t disapproved, a lot of the boys laughed at Phelim’s remark, but Jack didn’t join in.

  Jack knew that Gerry and his uncle collected waste food known as ‘slops’ from people’s houses and sold it as swill to several of the city’s piggeries. It was dirty, messy work, but someone had to do it, and Jack thought it was mean of Phelim to belittle their classmate because of what his uncle did.

  Just then there was a knock on the classroom door, and a boy entered and approached Brother McGill. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but you’re wanted in the teachers’ room by Brother Quirke. He said it won’t take long.’

  Brother McGill rose from his desk. ‘All right, boys, look over your equations and don’t kick up a rumpus.’

  As soon as the teacher left the classroom there was a buzz of c
onversation. Several of the boys congratulated Phelim O’Connell, and someone else asked what Gerry Quinn was doing, missing school on the first week back.

  ‘Like I said, he might be bringing that nag to the knackers,’ said Phelim. ‘Let’s hope he has a good wash before he comes back into school!’

  Some of the boys sitting nearby laughed, but Jack spoke up. ‘You wouldn’t say that to his face,’ he said.

  Phelim looked Jack in the eye, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. ‘Relax, Madigan, it was a joke.’

  ‘It’s not very funny. And you wouldn’t say it if he was here.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here, so what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Unless of course you run telling tales.’

  ‘I don’t tell tales.’

  ‘Then there’s no problem,’ said Phelim easily. ‘He knows nothing, we’ve had a laugh, and you’ve sided with your down-and-out friend.’

  ‘He’s not a down-and-out,’ said Jack. ‘And if anyone in this class was down and out, you’d be the last person to help him.’

  Jack saw a flash of anger in Phelim’s eyes, but before he could react, the classroom door opened and Brother McGill re-entered. All the pupils hurriedly turned to their algebra books as though they had been studying. Jack and Phelim briefly locked eyes, however, and Jack sensed that they had just gone from not liking each other to being enemies.

  ‘You forgot “The Universe”,’ said Emer, pointing to the cover of Joan’s schoolbook. In bold block letters Joan had written her address as Ellesmere Avenue, North Circular Road, Dublin, Ireland, Europe, Northern Hemisphere, The World, The Milky Way.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Joan, and Emer watched as her friend immediately added ‘The Universe’ to the address.

  They were sitting at their desk for Miss Clarke’s history class. Every Wednesday Miss Clarke allowed a slot where pupils could ask questions about any period in history, and it was Emer’s favourite time in the school week. Today she felt slightly nervous, however, knowing that her question might be a little awkward for an Englishwoman like Miss Clarke.

  ‘All right, girls, let us commence!’ said the teacher, her slightly dramatic delivery and northern English accent reminding Emer how different she was to most of the other teachers.

  ‘Question time,’ said Miss Clarke. ‘So, who has an incisive question to expand our horizons?!’

  Emer raised her hand.

  ‘Emer Davey. Pray proceed.’

  ‘Why do people say England is a great democracy, Miss, when the king isn’t elected by the people but just gets born into the job?’

  Emer knew that lots of people regarded King George with awe and might find the question offensive. Miss Clarke was unconventional though, and Emer hoped that she wouldn’t be annoyed.

  The teacher raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a challenging question. Is it prompted by your wish for Irish independence?’

  Emer had made no secret in school of the fact that her family were nationalists, but she shook her head now. ‘It’s not just that, Miss. In countries like America and France they’ve no king, and the people elect their leaders. I wondered why the people in England don’t want the same.’

  Miss Clarke smiled wryly and nodded. ‘It’s actually a very good question. And there are people in England who don’t want a monarchy. But are France and America as democratic as you make out?’

  ‘Well, they vote for their presidents, don’t they?’ asked Emer.

  ‘Yes, they do. But who does the voting? Not all the citizens. Certainly not the fifty percent of the population that’s female.’

  Emer already knew that Miss Clarke was in favour of the Suffragettes, who wanted votes for women. And Emer herself thought that votes for women was only fair, so she couldn’t argue against that. ‘I think every country should have votes for women, Miss,’ she answered. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that no-one elects the king. He just gets to rule by being born a prince.’

  ‘Fair point,’ conceded the teacher. ‘Except that King George doesn’t rule very much. The country is really run by Prime Minister Asquith and the Parliament, and the King is more of a figurehead.’

  Emer enjoyed the way Miss Clarke treated you like an equal and argued intelligently, and now she tried to rally her own arguments. ‘But even if he’s a figurehead, Miss, how is it democracy if no-one has a say in picking him? And why should people who didn’t choose him have to pay their taxes so he can have palaces and yachts?’

  Miss Clarke shrugged. ‘You can certainly make the case that they shouldn’t have to. If you want my personal view, I don’t actually favour a monarchy. But here’s the catch, Emer. Most people in Britain want a king. They like having a monarchy. So if most people want something, and they’re getting what they want – is that not democracy too?’

  Emer had never thought of it like that, and she didn’t have a ready answer.

  ‘You can say that every citizen should be equal,’ continued Miss Clarke, ‘and that you shouldn’t have dukes looking down on earls, and earls looking down on barons, and all of them looking down on ordinary people. But with a king, there’s an aristocracy, and most people in Britain aren’t clamouring to be rid of that system. So it’s a democracy, Emer, even if it’s not the kind you and I might choose. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Good question though. And a good example of the fact that in history few things are black and white. The Romans were brutal conquerors, but they built wonderful roads and aqueducts. The Egyptians were great astronomers and mathematicians, yet they worshipped the sun and believed in slavery. History is full of contradictions, girls, and things are rarely all good or all bad – you’ll usually find lots of grey areas. And if we’re wise, we adjust to that.’

  Miss Clarke looked around the class. ‘Now, next question?’

  ‘What was the Boston Tea Party all about, Miss?’ asked one of the other girls, but Emer wasn’t really paying attention as she tried to process what the teacher had said. Miss Clarke was certainly right about life being full of contradictions. Even in her own circle there was Jack, who was the son of a policeman and who believed in Ireland staying in the British Empire, yet who was a really good friend. And there was Catherine O’Flynn, the poorer girl whom Emer had welcomed to the class, but who, in the intervening weeks, had turned out to be ungrateful and a bit stand-offish. Even Sister Assumpta, whom Emer disliked as a snob and a stickler for all the petty rules, was also a highly dedicated teacher who put in many extra hours of tuition to ensure her pupils got the best possible education. And there was Miss Clarke herself: she had previously told the class that her father was a green-keeper at a golf course in Hoylake and that she had had to rely on a scholarship to go to teacher-training college, yet now she argued that Britain’s class-conscious society was still democratic.

  Emer tried to look interested in the Boston Tea Party, but her mind was racing. If everyone accepted all of life’s contradictions and grey areas, how could anything ever be changed? And how could Ireland gain its freedom if there weren’t people like her father, who didn’t get bogged down in shades of grey but had a clear vision of independence?

  Emer’s train of thought was broken by a nudge from Joan. ‘Well done,’ she whispered. ‘You gave Clarkie a run for her money!’

  ‘Thanks, Joan,’ she whispered back, then she sat up straight in the desk and tried to still her buzzing mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack surged through the water, kicking hard as he did a fast Australian crawl. Emer was leading the way in a race at the swimming hole on the Tolka, but Jack was ahead of Ben, Gladys and Joan as they navigated the improvised course. It involved crossing the narrow river several times and rounding a nearby rock in the water, and now Jack reached the finish in second place after Emer.

  She was already out of the river, and she complimented him as he hoisted himself up onto the grassy bank. ‘You’re getting faster, Jack!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You have to be in
with a good chance of making a team for the gala.’

  Jack was pleased, knowing that Emer didn’t pay false compliments. ‘I really want to make it,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll keep training hard.’

  ‘Oh my God, I’m frozen to the marrow!’ cried Joan as she hauled herself out of the water, followed by Ben and Gladys.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ben, ‘it’s like the time our dad took a course of cold baths – pure torture!’

  In the last week the temperature had dipped, and the friends had agreed that today would be the final river swim of the year. It was late September, and although they had enjoyed a lovely lingering summer, autumn had now definitely arrived. Even the Dublin Metropolitan Police hygiene rules had undergone their seasonal change. Members of the force were required to take two baths a week in summer and one bath a week the rest of the year. Jack’s father prided himself on cleanliness and bathed more often than that, but it was still one of the milestones of the year for Jack when the DMP hygiene rules switched from summer to autumn.

  His father had had a small cut over his eye at breakfast that morning. Da had made light of it – explaining that there had been a fracas in Kilmainham, where he served as part of the DMP’s A Division – and Jack knew better than to press him for more information than he wanted to give. It reminded Jack of the dispute of two years previously, known as the Dublin Lockout, when the police had frequently clashed with striking workers. Back then, Da had come home several times with cuts and bruises. Even though Jack looked up to his father and felt that he would never behave dishonourably, the Lockout had not been the DMP’s finest hour, and there had been many claims of police brutality. Jack had had some sympathy for the striking workers, but his main concern had been for his father’s safety. He hoped that last night’s trouble in Kilmainham wasn’t the beginning of more unrest.

  ‘I’m not swimming in that river again till the sun is splitting the trees!’ said Ben now as he and Jack towelled off and dressed behind a bush.