Later the scones were passed. There was bramble jam and spiced crab-apple jelly, brown bread and good country butter, sponge cake, queen cakes and a bowl of barley sugar all of which had been favourites of the deceased at one time or another.
There were three bottles of sherry, too, and she had the thought that Hamish must have brought them.
‘M’am, Bridget and I have found that button you was needing.’
‘Oh good. I knew you would, Mrs. Haney. It’s such a lovely blouse. I’d hate to have to change all the buttons.’ This, too, had been said in a whisper, but Parker wouldn’t have minded the lie of it. Not Parker.
Ria found more of the heart-shaped queen cakes that were stuffed with saved-up currants. Mrs. Fraser was that partial to them, she took another and then another. Eating for two she was. ‘Will you be taking Caithleen to Dublin soon, m’am?’
‘On Sunday, God willing.’
Folks came and went. At no time were there less than twenty in the house, the single candle fluttering at each disturbance, the husband getting up to greet them all, he saying exactly the same thing to each as he’d said to herself.
Crickets chirped on the hearth. Mrs. Haney gave her a nudge. ‘William has gone away for a bit, m’am. To my sister’s in Kilkenny. I’ve told th’ doctor, I have.’
‘I’m glad. It was good of you to think of William, Mrs. Haney.’
‘Bridget is on her way to my brother who has a farm in County Meath and is in need of help, he having a wife who is with her sixth and due at any moment.’
‘Did Hamish ask you to send Bridget and William away?’
‘That he did, m’am, and give them each a five-pound note. Back wages, he said. Back wages, says I? Ah and sure they was and that girl will spend it all before she ever gets there. Not a penny saved. Licorice most likely, and them movie magazines or Bing Crosby records if she can still find them, not that my brother has one of them machines on which to play them, as has the doctor.’
Walking back across the fields Mary felt a oneness with the place she hadn’t felt before. It had been right of her to have stopped there awhile. No one had tried to contact her and she’d had the feeling, too, that they’d not have dared, and would not have been welcome. Nolan and Fay Darcy would be on the run for days perhaps. Somehow she would have to find a way to get the dynamite out of the stable loft without anyone realizing what she’d done, and somehow she was going to have to hide it somewhere else, and lastly, she admitted, somehow she was going to have to get Sunday over with.
After that she would see about the bomb. An alarm clock might do, but it would, perhaps, be too loud; then, too, thirty ms couldn’t mean a delay of thirty seconds. Electricity was instantaneous. Millimetres? Milli … Milliseconds? Ms, yes, that was what the label on the packet must have meant. An electrical blasting cap with a thirty-millisecond delay.
It was as if Parker was smiling down at her, as if he’d told her exactly what to do.
At supper there was little talk and, in the evening, none at all until she could stand it no longer. The fly-tying lamp was on in a far corner, over the cluttered workbench that was jammed against the books. Robbie was at his feet and when Hamish thought he might need some hair, he spoke softly, asking permission before clipping off a bit.
Was it a Yellow Dog he was tying, a Hairy Mary or a Jock Scott? Hamish often experimented with concoctions of his own. He tied flies in winter for pleasure and relaxation but at times like this, she knew it was because he had to think things through for himself.
Neither he nor Robbie turned to look up as she came into the room. A knot in the silk thread was being teased. ‘Mary, it’s dangerous for a woman to interrupt a man while he’s on important work like this.’
That ‘work’ being spelled wurk. ‘Hamish, I’ve decided to take the train to Dublin this time. Will you drive us over in the car to the station at Scarva? I don’t want to be late. I’d like to catch the morning mail.’1
Fraser warned himself to ignore the positive tone and improper use of the motor. ‘I thought the colonel said Sunday?’
Why wouldn’t he look at her? Had Bannerman and Trant told him everything? They must have.
‘Sunday?’ he asked again.
‘Yes, but the shops will all be closed. We can’t send Caithleen off without a winter coat and gloves. A new dress …’
‘A full wardrobe, is it?’ he arched, the frugal, parsimonious Scot he wasn’t.
Peacock feathers were now being selected. ‘Don’t be so damned stubborn!’
‘Jesus, woman, you’ve made me prick a finger!’
He had shouted at her. ‘Sorry.’
‘How did you convince the colonel to let you go?’
Had they not talked to him? ‘I gave them what they wanted.’
‘Trant and the colonel?’
He had still not looked at her. ‘Yes.’
‘They’ll want everything, lass. You know they’ll stop at nothing.’
‘Hamish, I had no choice.’
‘And what did Erich have to say about it?’
He was being cruel now. ‘Nothing. It’s … it’s finished between us. I … I never want to see him again.’
The chair was one of those office things but scrounged from some church jumble or flea. Fraser pivoted sharply round to face her, she finding that she couldn’t force herself to look at him. Dear God, he ached to reach out to her, to put an end to it all and wrap his arms about her, but he mustn’t do that, she had to decide for herself. ‘They’re using you, lass. Och, I’ve been the biggest fool, but I had to give you head. I thought …’
Mary wished he wouldn’t make it harder for her. ‘It was a bargain I made. I’m keeping my side of it.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘Let’s hope the colonel keeps his. I’d no trust that man wi’ my wallet were I dying in th’ middle of the road.’
‘Why “the road,” Hamish? Why?’
It had hurt her deeply, but in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘It’s as good a place as any, isn’t it? Parker saw fit to use it. He died quick, I gather.’
And cruel again! ‘Look, I know you don’t trust me. You think I’m up to things I’m not. That business at Parker’s had nothing to do with me.’
Her voice had climbed again. ‘Didn’t it?’ he shouted.
Cruel yet again! ‘I want to help Caithleen. Is that wrong of me? Well, is it?’
‘Don’t you dare get haughty with me, my girl.’
‘I’m not “your girl.” Don’t you ever patronize me!’
And clenching her fists, was it? ‘You listen to me, my lass. Liam Nolan killed two women near Malvern before that bomb he set off. He murdered them in their sleep, Mary. The one because she was the mother of the other and would have given him away; the other because she’d been to bed with him that very night.’
Then he had been talking to Bannerman and … ‘Trant told Caithleen and I that Nolan had done that. Well, not all of it, but enough.’
‘And it doesn’t matter? And you don’t know why the major told you? Mary, for God’s sake wake up! They’re no blind. The IRA are using you. Trant and the colonel must know of it. Jimmy Allanby certainly does.’
‘Yet none of them are saying so—is that what you’ve been thinking? Jimmy can believe what he wants. It just isn’t true.’
Furious with her, he tossed a hand. ‘Then go to Dublin by motor. Take the bloody thing and be gone.’
He couldn’t mean that, he couldn’t. ‘Darling, don’t be so stubborn. Just help me by playing dumb. Drive us to the station and … and kiss us each good-bye.’
‘Mary, what in God’s name have you got yourself into?’
His voice had leapt; hers wouldn’t. ‘A game in which there can be no winners.’
‘Has it come to that?’
He’d been subdued by the thought. ‘It has, and
now you know.’
‘Och, I wish you’d let me help.’
All the fight had suddenly gone out of him. ‘Then do exactly as I’ve asked. Keep out of things. Just trust me.’
He reached for Robbie and took him into his lap. ‘Fool that I’ve been, I thought the war would pass us by.’
Robbie licked Hamish’s chin; he rubbing Robbie’s throat. ‘Admit it, you wanted to escape all the rest, not just the war.’
‘But find there is no escape, not even in the bottle—is that what you’re thinking?’
‘Yes, that’s it exactly. Get drunk, if you can find a drop left. Go on a bender and stay the hell out of my life!’
The rain … always there was a rain some place in Ireland. Every minute of every day some place was getting a damned good soaking.
She thought it the most drenched place in the world next to the rain forests of the Amazon.
The wheels of the train never let up either. Caithleen was trying to look at the pictures in the magazines she had brought along for the girl. The compartment was jammed—the old, the young, all morose, all staring at her in that mindless way cattle would. No manners. None at all! ‘She’s not my daughter, and she’s not my sister either,’ she said to the brat whose scruffy shoes had kicked her own one last time, his grey school cap askew.
The boy stuck out his tongue and was slapped on the wrist by the mother. ‘He’s going to have braces put on his teeth,’ said the woman. ‘It being wartime and all, it’s cheaper in the South, I’m sure.’
‘You’d better be,’ said Mary tartly, knowing it would shut the woman up and hating herself all the more. It had been cruel of her to have said what she had to Hamish last night. He’d never forgive her, poor darling, but she’d had to stop him somehow, couldn’t have him lying in some road.
‘Look, I’m sorry I said that, Mrs. …’
‘Fitzpatrick.’
‘I’m Dr. Fraser’s wife.’
‘Oh and are you? Robin, if you fidget about again, I’ll take your drawers down and paddle that bum of yours!’
The rheumy eyes of an old man found delight in the exchange, but when she smiled back at him, Mary knew she was being held by that look of his. He’d got on with them at the station. There’d been six or seven others, though she couldn’t remember the faces, hadn’t really paid much attention.
Unsettled by his continued staring, she turned away. Sooty smoke and steam from the engine billowed against the compartment windows, and for a time the landscape was blotted out. They’d not catch a glimpse of the sea until well south of Drogheda. Miles and miles yet. Hamish had been right, of course. The IRA would kill her. Once they had the message from the Germans, she’d be of no further use. Hadn’t Erich warned her that Nolan had a man inside the castle? One of the garrison, he’d said.
She wasn’t to betray the Nazis—yes, she had best be calling them that now, would have to face right up to what she’d been doing.
She wasn’t to betray the IRA either, yet they’d get rid of her just as soon as they could.
And she wasn’t to betray the British Army and her country, or they’d have her up for being a traitor and shoot her down with pleasure.
The Vice Admiral Huber had said she was to tell Nolan that when the time came for them to place the charges, they’d be ready, but would it be the last thing she ever said?
Somehow the Germans had learned of the dynamite. That could only have been from the man Nolan had inside the castle. But why put someone in there unless they no longer trusted her or thought, perhaps, she’d be removed?
The plan must be to break them all out of Tralane in hopes that a select few would manage to escape. No wonder Trant and the colonel were worried. Jimmy Allanby would watch the stable like a hawk, but would Nolan and the others really need her anymore?
The explosives would have to be moved—she’d already thought of that. She was the only one who could do it, but would that be enough and how could she possibly do so without Jimmy finding out?
‘M’am?’ Her left shoulder was being nudged. ‘M’am?’ It was the old man, and he was teetering over her as the coach rocked sideways at a bend.
‘Yes …? Well, what is it, please?’ Must he lean so closely?
‘A barley sugar from the wake of an ould friend for you and the girl.’
The train nearly threw him off balance, but he managed to grab the strap that hung by the door and, with the help of a sailor going south on leave, to lean over her again.
There was a small but crumpled white paper bag in his hand. Embarrassed and in confusion, she thanked him.
‘Go you first,’ he said, indicating the bag as he let himself be flung back into his seat.
Alongside a single paper twist of barley sugar, her fingers touched two cartridges, and for perhaps ten seconds, Mary couldn’t move. ‘Nolan … ?’ she blurted, looking up at the man.
‘Two others in me pocket, missus. Ah, and I’m sure there are.’
He squeezed himself sideways, pushing the Fitzpatrick woman with him as he retrieved the things and then got up again. Twists of barley sugar were hesitantly extended, not bullets, thank God. Again he was very nearly thrown off his feet; again sooty smoke and steam rushed past the windows, blotting out everything else.
‘Two,’ he said with a wink when the Fraser woman had turned back to look at him with wounded eyes. ‘A tall one with the humour of a rake handle and the temper of a Mother Superior’s broom. He’ll be the easiest for you to spot.’
Again he allowed himself to be flung back into his seat but Caithleen, on hearing all that had been said, had panicked, burst into tears and was about to make a run for it if she could. ‘Caithleen, don’t!’
The girl sat down. The rheumy eyes of the old man took her impassively in, and Caithleen turned swiftly away to stare out the window and hide her tears.
Puzzled as to what was going on, and sensing trouble, the boy took to glancing from one to another of them while the Belfast draper buried his face in his sample book.
‘’Tis t’ other one I’d be watching, missus,’ said the old man. ‘You being on your own like and with the girl.’
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had long since taken notice but would have to be ignored. ‘Who?’ asked Mary. ‘What does he look like?’
‘The backside of an Angus bull and every bit as tiresome. Two coaches back. Go have a look. The rest of you keep shut or you’ll feel the end of my pistol.’
Only the sailor, a tow-haired boy of twenty or so, showed any sign of objecting. The woman and her son would say nothing until they got to where they were staying. The draper would simply be glad to get off the train in one piece.
As she left the compartment, Mary reached out to the sailor and, finding a firmness that puzzled, said, ‘Please do as he says. We’ll be all right. You mustn’t worry.’
The train hit a smooth stretch along the canal near Poyntzpass. A bridge came up, a lock, the lockkeeper’s house in ruins, a legacy of the Troubles which had destroyed so much of Newry.
Then they were by and the train was running, running, and the passengers were all sitting, some smoking cigarettes, some looking up at her as she passed by their compartments, others engrossed in a book, a newspaper, or studying the ends of their fingers and wanting the trip to be over. British soldiers, too, British sailors, British airmen … Loud laughter, the not-too-secret roll of dice and the clickety-clack of the wheels. It all seemed so ordinary, but Trant had been one step ahead of her and had had them followed, and of course Fay Darcy and Liam Nolan or Kevin O’Bannion—yes, it would have been him—had made sure they, too, were on to everything.
Caithleen had been terrified she’d be gunned down. Seventeen years old and her legs twitching on that cramped floor, the Fitzpatrick woman in hysterics …
She had reached the second coach. Now she’d have to take her time, would have to w
alk slowly along the thing until she saw the tall, thin one—he did look as if he’d such a temper.
The other one, the one she was to watch, had caught sight of her. Oh damn, it was Hamish and he was about to greet her as the wife he’d lost but never forgotten.
The washroom was cramped, the train in motion—no room to move. Hamish, his overcoat open, had pressed his hands flat against the door on either side of her, and she couldn’t help loving him. He smelled so good, of tweed, pipe tobacco and whiskey, but just a little, and of himself too, himself.
‘Darling, you shouldn’t have come.’
‘Och, I couldn’t leave things between us like that. Besides, Caithleen won’t be sent to the colonel’s sister, not while I’ve a say in the matter. My brother Andrew and his Jean will take her in and welcome. Edinburgh’s the place she needs, Mary. Warmth now, and a home she’ll know is hers.’
Fraser released one hand from barricading the door long enough to brush it tenderly across her brow. ‘Lass, I love you. I can’t let you face this thing alone.’
There was that look of his, so hard to describe. One of great sadness but of warmth for her, of sincerity and commitment, of so many things. Trembling, Mary wrapped her arms around his waist. The train rocked, he bracing the door shut, she hesitating and uncertain still until, at last they kissed, and when they had parted a little, he said, ‘Och, I like it when you do that,’ and she flung herself at him, said, ‘Hold me. Please don’t ever let me go.’
The train stopped, but instantly started up again as someone banged fiercely on the door. Squeezing round, Mary managed to open it a crack, only to see that it was the brat from her compartment. His twisted face was a mass of freckles and suspicion, two plum-blue eyes, a pug nose and a mouth that opened. ‘Me mam says to tell ye that Paddy bastard with the gun has boogered off.’
Hamish slammed the door in his face. Mary pressed her forehead against it, but when he took her by the shoulders, she said sharply, ‘Go away, please! You don’t understand. You can’t! They’ll kill you if you interfere.’
‘The Shelbourne on Saint Stephen’s Green, please.’ She wouldn’t go to the White Horse Inn on Wilton Terrace, not this time, not if she was being followed.
Betrayal Page 24
