by Jodi McIsaac
She stared at him wide-eyed, her mind spinning. It was him; there was no denying it. His every feature was familiar. Why was he acting this way? She stepped forward until they were only inches apart. Her lips and nose curled. “I’m not here to do your fucking laundry.”
The men stopped laughing, their eyebrows raised. “Ooo, the lady has a mouth on her. Better be careful, Tom,” the other man said.
“Well, I don’t know why else you’d be here,” Thomas said, nonplussed. He took a step back. She frowned. He wasn’t joking. Maybe he was just playing dumb in front of his friend. She searched his face for any signs of recognition, but there were none. Unless he was a spectacularly good actor, he had no idea who she was.
This was a scenario she hadn’t considered. She needed to get him alone so she could speak more plainly. She was about to tell his friend to bugger off when a bellow came from behind the men.
“Heaney! Casey! I told you to get the sticks, not chat up the ladies.” A tall, broad-shouldered man with an imposing mustache glared at them from the far side of the barn. Pidge stood beside him, her brow furrowed.
Thomas and his friend dipped their heads politely to Nora, then swept past her into the barn. They emerged a moment later, each carrying a large sack filled with hurling sticks. Thomas glanced sideways at Nora as he passed her again, his forehead furrowed. Then all three men set off at a jog toward the low hills, the dog at their heels.
“Nora, what on earth are you doing?” Pidge asked, coming up alongside her. “Was that your man from the picture?”
Nora’s eyes stayed fixed on Thomas’s departing back as it grew smaller and smaller. She wanted to call after him, to demand that he stay and listen to her. But he didn’t seem to know why she was there any better than she did.
“Yes. But . . . he didn’t recognize me,” she said quietly.
“Why should he?” Pidge asked with a scrunched forehead. “You said you’d never met him before.”
“Aye. You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Nora turned away to hide the storm on her face.
“Well, at least you can tell your cousin he’s alive and well. Besides, we’ll likely be back again. I can always pass on a message for you.”
“Is that all you do here? Cook and clean?” Nora knew she sounded harsh, but she was still reeling from Thomas’s abrupt dismissal.
“O’course not. In fact, Commandant Coogan has given me an important mission—on Lynch’s orders.”
“Oh?”
Pidge opened her hand to reveal a folded piece of paper in her palm. “I’m to deliver this to Ernie Hyland tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
“Orders. But they can wait. Right now we need to get at that laundry. And Coogan says we can clear the table, as long as we mind to keep everything tidy.”
Nora pressed her lips closed and followed Pidge back into the house. But then she asked, “Why the sticks?”
“Pardon?”
“What are they doing with hurling sticks? I thought they were training.”
Pidge snorted. “They are. But the Staters got most of the weapons after the Tan War, didn’t they? We have more men than rifles, so they use the hurleys for training. Saves the ammunition as well. Honestly, Nora, for someone in Cumann na mBan, you don’t seem to know much about what’s going on.”
Of course I don’t know what’s going on. This all happened eighty years ago. “I just recently joined up, so I did. After my family . . .” Nora let her voice trail off, and Pidge looked abashed.
“O’course. I’m sorry. You just seem so clever, I’m surprised you don’t know more about it, that’s all.”
“Well, I have you to teach me, don’t I?”
Pidge and Nora spent the rest of the day washing sheets and shirts and stringing up drying lines between the buildings, while Nora stewed over Thomas’s unexpected reaction. They swept every corner and crevice of the house while Rose and Lizzie prepared strips of cod and jerky and lined up loaves of Mrs. Gillies’s dense bread. Nora was no stranger to physical labor but found herself stopping to rest while Lizzie, Rose, and Pidge powered on. Every once in a while Rose and Lizzie would whisper together, then glance at Nora. She ignored them.
Her thoughts were focused on Thomas. If he had the ability to speak to someone in the future, surely he would be able to recognize that person in the flesh. Could it be that he just didn’t want to admit to recognizing her in front of the others?
I should just go home, she told herself as she swatted at cobwebs with her broom. But was that even an option?
“The lads are back!” Rose called, leaning out the window. “And Lynch is with them.”
“Really?” Nora leaned the broom against the wall and ran out the open door. Two dozen men were marching toward the barn, hurling sticks resting on their shoulders. She scanned the men for Thomas and found him in the second column. Was it her imagination, or was he looking toward the house? “Which one is Lynch?” she asked Pidge, who had followed her into the yard.
“The man there in front, next to Coogan.”
Nora squinted. Lynch was a tall, thin man. He wore the suit of a gentleman, not the uniform of a soldier. His trilby sat neatly on top of his head, and he carried a black walking cane. Small round spectacles perched on a long, straight nose. He put Nora in mind of a university professor.
“He looks different than I’d have imagined,” she remarked.
“Well, you can’t expect him to go around wearing a sign saying ‘Chief of Staff of the IRA,’ now can you?” Pidge said.
What would Eamon have thought of this? Nora wondered. Liam Lynch, not fifty feet away from me.
“Are you ladies going to stand gawking all day, or are we going to serve these lads their tea?” Lizzie glared at them, hands on hips. The women hauled heavy pots of stew and baskets of bread out into the yard. The rain had cleared, so the men gathered around with tin bowls and spoons. Lizzie and Rose ladled up hot bowls of thick stew while Nora and Pidge readied the washing tubs. Nora pulled a large bone from the soup pot and surreptitiously slipped it to the hound, who’d been following her around the yard. She chanced a glance at Thomas and found that he was watching her, too, a thoughtful look on his face. But when she met his eyes, he turned away.
Chapter Twelve
“Honestly, Nora, you’re as nervous as a filly about to foal.” Pidge and Nora had cycled back to Pidge’s house after doing the washing up for the Volunteers’ tea. Nora was quite certain she wouldn’t be able to lift her arms in the morning after the day’s labors, but Pidge had suggested they go to the pub in the next village. “Thomas will be there. Are you certain it’s your cousin who was looking for him? You’ve been absolutely skittish since you saw him.” She hid her secret missive from Commandant Coogan inside a roll of stockings in her dresser and then turned to Nora, hands on her hips.
“I have not,” Nora protested. “And how do you know he’ll be there tonight?”
“Because I asked Jimmy who all was going out.”
“Aren’t they worried about being caught?”
“What, caught at the pub? No, so long as there’re no weapons about, or ‘seditious literature,’ as they call it, there’s nothing they can do. Besides, all the Staters go to the pub in Kildare. My job tomorrow is the dangerous one.” Pidge gave Nora a wink, then spun around in a circle. “How do I look?”
“Stunning.”
Pidge had changed into a deep red dress that set off her fair skin and dark hair, like a crimson rose in a snowy wood. She beamed at the compliment. “Well, no one will be looking at me, with you along. They’ll all be wanting to get to know the new girl.”
“Only because they think I’m a spy.”
“Only the idiots will think that. You don’t think word’s gotten around about how you saved Frankie Halpin?”
“How is Frankie? I haven’t had the chance to check on him.”
“He’ll be all right. His uncle came and collected him today while we were out. They’ll
keep him hidden until he’s well enough to fight again. I reckon the Staters don’t even know he escaped.”
Nora had wondered about that. They probably hadn’t even bothered to piece together the bodies. The memory turned her stomach. She’d seen a lot of brutality in Belfast and the various armpits of the world where she’d worked, but it never got easier.
“That dress of mine suits you,” Pidge said.
“Thank you.” Nora had never been much for dresses, but she had to admit the cream lace of the one she wore complemented her red hair. “And thank you for letting me wear it. I promise I’ll be off tomorrow and out of your hair.”
“Off where?” Pidge looked affronted.
“I’ll make my own way. You’ve done so much for me as it is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nora! You’ve no family here, and we’ll not be letting you go back up to Belfast with things as they are. You can stay with us for as long as you like.”
“That’s kind, Pidge, but I’m sure your parents would have something to say about it. Besides, I need to . . . well, there are things I need to look after.”
“Suit yourself, but know you’re always welcome here.”
“Ta.”
“Oh, don’t look so gloomy,” Pidge said, grabbing one of Nora’s hands. “Come, let’s go have some fun. Lord knows there’s precious little of that to be found these days.”
Once ready, the women were joined by Stephen, who walked alongside them as they cycled to the nearby village. Nora tried to make conversation with Stephen, but he was as recalcitrant as ever. What had he seen? What had he done? He reminded her again of Eamon—how brooding and distant her brother had been after joining up with the IRA. She could only hope Stephen didn’t experience the same dark fate.
The pub was nestled deep in the countryside, off a narrow dirt road. A cat crossed the path in front of them, stopping to hiss before continuing its search for supper. Several bicycles were leaned against the wall, and a couple of horses were tied to a post in the yard. It was dark—the pub had obviously not been hooked up to the electrical grid—and yet the glow coming from the windows and the lantern swinging from the eaves were welcoming enough. They gladly stepped inside.
Nora’d been in her share of Irish pubs before, but this one was . . . magical. There were no big-screen TVs, no blaring Top 40 songs to snuff out conversations, no gambling consoles in the back. No neon signs, no loud tourists, no American beer. The room was filled with the soft hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the welcoming glow of fire. The barman was bantering with a couple of older men who leaned against the polished wood bar, each clutching a dewy pint.
Nora followed Pidge and Stephen through the haze of smoke and dim light, her eyes scanning the men dressed in suits and fedoras, the women with their smart hats and curled hair and long coats. Red lips laughed and sipped frothy glasses of dark beer. They found a round table near the back.
“What’ll you have?” Stephen asked, his eyes on the floor.
“Whiskey, please,” Nora said.
“Whiskey?” Pidge asked in astonishment. Even Stephen lifted his eyes to stare at her.
“Oh,” Nora said. “Do . . . do women not drink whiskey here?”
“Do they in Belfast?” Pidge asked, seeming genuinely intrigued.
“Aye. But I don’t want to, you know, stand out. I’ll have a Guinness, if you don’t mind.”
“Same, Stephen. Ta,” Pidge said. As he walked away, she bent her head toward Nora’s. “So? Do you see him here?”
“Thomas? No.”
“He’ll come. Jimmy said all the lads would come round for a pint after training was over.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter.” Nora accepted a pint from Stephen and sipped it gratefully. That wasn’t fully true, of course. She wanted to get Thomas alone as much as she dreaded it. I have to explain why I’m here. Maybe then he’ll understand.
“Do you spend much time in Kildare?” she asked Pidge. In a corner of the pub, a fiddler was tuning his instrument.
“Sure I do, though not as much as we used to. Loads of British soldiers, you see, with the barracks being so close. And now the Free State Army has taken over—and you saw what they’re capable of. But Ma and I still go to the market there, and sometimes the shops. And Da and Stephen go to the races, don’t you?”
Stephen nodded, but his gaze was elsewhere.
“Do you know—have you heard of a group called the Brigidine Sisters?” Nora asked.
Pidge shook her head. “No, can’t say that I have. Nuns, are they?”
“Something like that.”
“Why do you want to know about them? You’re not thinking of joining, are you?”
“Hardly. I just . . . I met someone who was in that society, or whatever it is. I just wanted to know more about it.”
Stephen brought them another round, and Pidge described the others in the room for Nora’s amusement.
“See that man there? He fancies himself a great poet. We’ll no doubt get to hear some of his ‘poetry’ later tonight. Might give us a song as well.” She nodded at a woman’s back at the bar and lowered her voice. “Muriel has only been widowed a month, and she already has a list of ‘appropriate suitors.’ Ma says the man with the most coin will win her hand, but it’s a sore deal he’ll get in exchange.”
Nora eased back into her chair and grinned. Pidge’s enthusiasm was infectious, and the Guinness was starting to unknot her nerves. She’d expected it to taste different, but it was exactly the same as the brew she indulged in whenever she was home on R&R. The familiar taste made her homesick, in a confusing, backward sort of way.
“He’s been watching you, you know,” Pidge said, keeping her eyes on Nora.
“Who?” Nora sat up straighter in her chair.
“Don’t turn around. But he came in about twenty minutes ago. Has hardly taken his eyes off you since.”
Nora turned around. He wasn’t watching her now. But there he was, three tables away, sitting with the two women and the Volunteer he’d been bantering with earlier in the day. One of the women noticed Nora’s scrutiny and gave her a questioning look.
Nora stood up, the wooden legs of her chair chafing across the floor.
“What are you doing?” Pidge hissed.
“I’m going to talk to him.” She strode quickly, her head held high. When she reached the table, she placed her hands on her hips. “Hello, Thomas. Could I have a word, please?”
Thomas and his companions exchanged glances. Then he pushed his chair back and stood. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t recognize you for a moment. You’re the new Cumann na mBan girl, from earlier today, right?”
If you didn’t recognize me, why have you been staring at me since you arrived? “I need to speak with you alone,” she said, her words clipped.
One of the women at the table said, “I’m so sorry, I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.” She held out a pale hand. Nora hesitated, then shook it briefly.
“Nora O’Reilly. I’m a guest of the Gillies family.” She tossed her head back in the direction of Pidge and Stephen, who were watching the exchange silently. Pidge was on the edge of her chair, as though poised to come to her aid.
“And how do you know each other, Tom?” There was an undeniable bite in the woman’s voice.
“We only met today, out at the camp,” he said, looking bemused.
“I need to speak with you. Alone,” Nora said. “It’s important, so it is.”
“Very well,” Thomas said. He nodded to his friends and sauntered toward the front of the room, where the tables and chairs had been pushed aside to create a small dance floor. He tossed a smirk back at his mate at the table, then gave a theatrical bow.
“Shall we?” he asked. The musicians—two fiddlers, a guitarist, and a white-haired bodhran player with whistles sticking out of his pocket—were playing a slow and mournful ballad.
“What, dance? No one else is.”
“The
y will. Besides, you’re the one who wanted to speak to me alone.” He grabbed her right hand firmly in his own and brought it up to his shoulder, then pressed his other hand into the small of her back. She sniffed; he smelled strongly of beer and was in need of a shower. And yet she felt an unexpected rush of pleasure in spite of herself—it felt . . . right to be this close to him, to feel his skin against hers.
“Fine, if that’s what will make you talk,” she said, stepping awkwardly along with him as they moved into the dance.
“So what do you want, Nora O’Reilly?” He looked genuinely curious, though it did not mask the intensity of his gaze.
“You really don’t know? You don’t recognize me at all?”
He shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. “For a moment I thought you looked familiar . . . but no. I wish I did. It isn’t every day a beautiful woman demands to speak with me.”
Nora ignored this. “But you don’t remember seeing me before? In a . . . dream, maybe?”
“I’d like to say yes,” he said, gently guiding her through the steps of the dance as other couples filtered onto the floor. “Why do you ask? Do you feel you’ve met me before?” She was about to tell him about her dreams and demand an explanation, but caution slowed her tongue. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was crazy. She didn’t want to end up in an insane asylum, especially in this era. She decided on another approach.
“We’ve a mutual friend. In Kildare.”
She felt his hesitation in the twitch of the hand pressed against the small of her back. But his face remained passive.
“Oh? Who?”
“Brigid.”
He stopped dancing.
His hand remained pressed into her palm, but they stood unmoving on the edge of the dance floor while others glided around them.
“You speak of . . . the Lady of Kildare?” His eyes were wary, as though he, too, were now choosing his words with care.
“Yes,” Nora said firmly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. She sent me here to find you. She said you needed my help.”
