An Irish Heart

by C M Blackwood

“Well, then!” he said. “Look who’s awake.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, that’s not very nice. First you knock me on the side of the head, and then you forget all about me? What manners!”

  “What?”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But who are you?”

  “Robby Shaw.”

  “That doesn’t help me much.”

  He frowned. “What does it matter who I am? I’m here to change your bandages, that’s all.”

  He walked over to my bed, and moved the sheet aside to reveal my bare thigh. I looked down and saw a large strip of white gauze, soaked all the way through with blood.

  “This is the worst of it,” he said, pulling the gauze away. “You came off pretty lucky, I’d say.” He reached for a bottle of disinfectant, on a small cart beside the bed. “Most of these men are near dead.”

  “What happened?”

  He looked at my face. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well,” he said, wiping at the blood on my leg, “I think that’s a story best left for another time.” He splashed the disinfectant on my thigh.

  “Goddamn it!”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. This might sting a little.”

  As he fixed a new bandage over my wound, another white-clad medic came into the room. “I heard shouting,” she said. “And it didn’t sound like you, Robby.”

  Robby laughed. “That it wasn’t. No problems, though. Few people favour the feel of antiseptic on an open wound.”

  “That they don’t.”

  I lifted my head a bit, the better to look at the young woman who stood near the doorway. The very first thing I noticed about her, was her red hair. Not red like Kerry Warner’s; but red just like blood, just like the blood on my thigh.

  “Do you need any help, Robby?” she asked.

  “No, that’s all right. I’m just about finished here.”

  She leant back against the doorjamb, crossing her arms over her chest. She was looking at me. “Has your mood improved at all?” she asked genially.

  “What?”

  “She doesn’t remember,” Robby offered.

  “How convenient!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She waved a hand. “It’s no matter. You only knocked Robby about the ears, kicked me in the stomach and spit in my face.”

  “Really?”

  It was a moment before I realised that I should probably offer something more apologetic. “Sorry about that,” I added.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not as though you’ve lost any sleep over it yet – so why start now?”

  “Well,” Robby said, dipping his hands into a small washbowl, “that’s it for me. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Because he’s ever so helpful,” added the redhead playfully.

  On his way out, Robby elbowed the young woman, pretending to make it hurt. He wore a smile all the while, laughing when she flicked him in the forehead. They acted in such a silly way, I wondered if they were – married? Surely not. If that was the case, they would probably look more miserable than anything else. Perhaps she was only his youthful, bouncy-bodied mistress.

  When he left, she came over to my bed, looking down at me thoughtfully.

  “Yes?” I said pointedly.

  “You certainly do have an attitude.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, maybe you’re just not prone to manners.”

  I exhaled heavily. She was beginning to bother me.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. My name’s – ”

  “Niamh,” I said.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I heard your friend say it.”

  I slumped back against my pillows, wanting to close my eyes. But Niamh seemed not to be leaving.

  I looked at her.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I sighed. “O’Brien.”

  “Your name is O’Brien?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, wondering if she was daft.

  “That’s what you want me to call you?”

  “If you like.”

  “Would you like me to go?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Do you want to know about how you got that hole blown through your leg?”

  What? A stupid question, of course. Of course I knew how it happened. I had been. . . Well, I had been . . .

  “Well?”

  I glared at her. I was not particularly angry with her, actually – but only with my lack of memory. I remembered my dream. Most vivid was the image of Tyler, so silent and still, lying lifeless before my very eyes. Surely that had not really happened?

  “Do you recall the place where you were hiding?” she asked.

  I nodded. I did remember that much. We had hidden in the back of a small shop, huddled together in a locked room, quite as far as we could manage from the torchlight that waved all about in the street without. The last thing I remembered was Tyler whispering to me, “Will they think to look here?”

  Apparently they had.

  “Your hiding place was found out,” Niamh went on. “Or, at least, that’s what Earl Gunn told me. He says that you’re the only one of your group who survived. Soldiers broke into the shop, set it ablaze, and opened fire on all of you. You took a hit in the leg. Gunn was out in the street; but he rushed in at the sound of the screams, and took down the soldiers. He jumped through the window at the front of the store, and took you out with him.” She frowned. “You’re lucky that he knew about this place.”

  I could hear the shots; I could feel the bullet; I could see as the distance between myself and Tyler began to grow.

  But I would not believe it.

  “Did you see,” I began, “a man with coppery hair, all curly and long? He has strange brown eyes.”

  Niamh looked down at me sympathetically. “Was he your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A good friend.”

  She nodded. “I see. But I’m sorry to say that we found no one like that.”

  I looked into her eyes. They were perfect circles, coloured a cool, soft grey. They were fixed unwaveringly on my own.

  I averted my gaze, looking down at my hands on top of the white sheet. I was so cold, I felt so empty – it seemed that my skin was blending in with the colour of the sheet, swirling around and around till it was whiter than snow.

  “I’m sorry,” said Niamh.

  I waved her condolence away, continuing to stare down at my hands.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I said nothing.

  She stayed for a few moments more, lingering beside my bed. But then she turned slowly and walked away. I heard the door to the room shut quietly behind her.

  Chapter 28

  There was a small garden behind the medical building, filled with bright flowers and green grass. I sat out in it a few days after I arrived, looking up at the clear blue sky, and wondering how such a gorgeous thing could shelter such a beastly world.

  I was trapped in a rather small space, wherein all I seemed able to do was feel incredibly and utterly sorry for myself. I thought nothing of the fact that I was still alive; that I had not been killed or kidnapped or any other such thing. I thought nothing of that, because there was too much savoury misery to dwell upon.

  What was I to do? I had nothing left.

  While I was lost in these thoughts of sadness and despair, Earl Gunn came out into the garden. He spotted me, and came to sit beside me on the bench.

  “Hullo,” he said, stretching with a wince.

  I inspected his face. It seemed free of imperfection. All of the damage had been done to his lower body, mostly his legs. I wondered how he had managed to haul me away from the screaming streets. His burnt skin must have been so very sore . . .

  “How are you
today?” he asked.

  “Fine, thank you. Are you feeling any better?”

  “Oh, not bad. It will all be better in time.”

  “Do you think?”

  He glanced over at me, and smiled. “Of course,” he said. “No matter how bad, it always gets better. It’s impossible for things to stay dismal for long.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “Do. It always helps me through.”

  I looked out into the garden, trying to count all of the different kinds of flowers that grew in it. “By the way,” I said, as if it were no more than an afterthought, “thank you for saving my life. I don’t believe I’ve said it yet.”

  “You didn’t need to. But you’re quite welcome, anyway.”

  We sat in silence, then, admiring the beauty of the garden. I looked up at the sky every once in a while, and then over at Earl Gunn; wondering if the few kind people of the world were only some sort of sick joke that God had played upon the rest.

  ***

  In less than two weeks, I was well enough to leave the hospital. I had been reading the papers every day, scrutinising the numerous articles that attempted to chronicle the uprising. I saw several familiar names in the paper, including those of Constance Markiewicz and Patrick Pearse, who had been imprisoned with a whole host of others. The fighting, of which I had seen but little, and which had been going on in many places besides Dublin Castle, had only been subdued after seven long days.

  Pearse was executed on the third of May. Upon learning of his death, I recalled to mind the day I had met him at Brazier Street. It is very unsettling, to think of someone so lively as he (as I believe I did mention, the very first time I set eyes on him) as being dead.

  I knew that, even if she were among them, I would not see Abbaline Elson’s name; but I thought of her often, and wondered where she was. Sometimes, just upon waking, I would even wonder where Tyler was – but then I would remember, and then I would sigh; and then, most times, I would cry. For his death, of course, was much more than unsettling. It was just plain devastating.

  One sunny afternoon, while I was examining yet another paper, Niamh came into the room that was occupied now by only me, Earl, and another young man named Smithy Welles. All the rest – seven or eight fellows in a terrible state – had died of their wounds. I was absorbed in an article, and I did not hear the door open.

  “You’ve been quiet today, O’Brien.”

  I jumped. “Jesus, Niamh! Don’t do that.”

  I looked back down at the paper; heard her footsteps moving towards the bed; felt the mattress depress slightly, as she sat down upon it. “There’s still something I want to know about you,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your first name.”

  I looked up. “You’ve gone this long without it. Why ruin the mystery?”

  She shrugged; but then asked, “Are you sure that you want to leave today?”

  I frowned. “Well – I see no reason to stay, and take up this bed.”

  She looked around the room. “There are eleven empty beds. I don’t think that it will hurt for you to keep that one.”

  “Why would I want to stay in an infirmary?”

  “Where do you intend to go?”

  I realised for the first time, that I had absolutely no idea where I would go. There was no more hotel on Brazier Street, because there was no Tyler. (For there to have been, of course, I would have settled even for the Blue Buckle.)

  My mind, of course, settled on home – but there was no more Lennox Lane, because there was no Thea.

  At least not for me.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “Don’t you have any family?”

  I thought of Aunt Aggie – and realised that, though I would surely return to her eventually, I could not face her yet. I could not recount each painful detail of which the truth consisted. For the moment – while I was alone – the truth was dead.

  “No,” I lied.

  “You have absolutely nowhere to go?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” she said (in rather a different tone of voice than she had used only just before; which made me think, afterwards, that she had planned this suggestion, long before she came to speak with me), “if you want to, you can come and stay at my house.”

  I looked at her.

  “Until you find another place. If you want to.”

  “Why would you let me do that?”

  “I don’t know. To be kind, I suppose?”

  “What reason have you to be kind to me?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know, really. You’re actually kind of mean – but I think I like you anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  “I didn’t say that I was sure. I believe I said: ‘I think.’ ”

  “That you did.”

  She sat back a little, folding her hands in her lap.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve not had a chance to think about it.”

  “If there’s something you’d rather do, then by all means, tell me!”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Then why not come for a while?”

  I thought of going again out into the world, which had already spat me out (with what seemed excessive vigour) several times now; and I felt unbelievably sick.

  So, it was with no great internal debate (though with more than a little, for some reason or other, embarrassment), that I answered Niamh with a simple: “Aye.”

  She smiled brightly. “Will you tell me your name now?”

  “Kate.”

  I thought of the game I had once played with Tyler, on the front porch at Marcker Street; and felt, in that moment, as if I had given something away too soon to Niamh.

  When she had left the room, I looked over at Earl Gunn. He was wide awake, sitting up in bed with a book.

  “I’m going to miss you, Earl.”

  He looked up. “Me, too.”

  “What are you going home to?”

  “My wife and son. I miss them very much.”

  “I’m sure. They’re lucky to have you.”

  “I’m lucky to have them.”

  I nodded, and turned my eyes to the window.

  “I heard that you’ll be staying with Niamh,” said Earl.

  “You heard right.”

  “It’s very nice of her, you know.”

  It seemed as if he were reprimanding me, in that gentle way of his, for not showing more gratitude in the face of such kindness.

  “I know it is, Earl.”

  “I was going to ask you to come and stay with me for a while; but the conversation hadn’t quite come up yet.”

  “Well, Earl, I would have loved to. But it’s better this way. Your family should have you all to themselves.”

  He met my gaze. “We’re fighting a great fight here,” he said. “You might not be a soldier, but you’re still an Irishman. Man or woman, boy or girl – we’re all Irishmen, all in this fight together.” He winked at me. “I’d say that means we’re nearly kin.”

  I felt a hot tear welling up in the corner of my eye. “Thanks, Earl.”

  He held up a hand. “I meant it.”

  Later that day, I parted ways with Earl Gunn. It would have been something of a sad moment, if he had not smiled upon me with that sincere conviction of his, and shaken my hand as though it were only a temporary parting. I knew all the while that I would never see him again; yet it was hard to do anything but smile, when he smiled as he did. The handshake was followed by a hug, which I refused to leave without; and a kiss on the cheek, imparted by Earl at the last moment. I trailed after Niamh, and waved a final time to Earl. Then he was gone, and the night opened up: the night into which I had cast my next lot; and a lot that could feel nothing but impossibly bleak and dreary, through the black toughness that was taking hold of my
heart.

  ***

  I lay that night in Niamh Carlin’s spare room, staring up at the shadowed ceiling; whispering occasionally to myself, and feeling every now and then a ghostly arm come to slip around my waist. If I began to doze, I could suddenly hear the soft sound of Thea’s sleeping breath beside me; but just when I turned with half-closed eyes, in the hope that I might see her there, the sound floated slowly away. To simply disappear would have been too merciful! The sound remained audible for some moments more, moving steadily across the room, until finally it dissipated through the walls.

  To stave off the terrible loneliness which followed these numerous episodes, I imagined that Tyler was occupying a bed somewhere to my left (as had happened to be the case, at both the Blue Buckle and Brazier Street). I spoke aloud to him; and could hear his witty remarks being passed along the air, to the place where I lay, quite alone.

  I pinched my left thigh frequently (the right one was still far too sore) to bring back the reality of the odours of laundry soap and stale cedar.

  In the absence of those persons whom I wished for, but who were inaccessible to me, I thought that it would have been a great comfort if I could at least have had the dog with me. I had gotten quite used to her sleeping in my bed; and, strangely enough, to licking my face every morning.

  Oh, Dolly. I do wonder where you could be?

  The house was so damningly quiet. I could barely stand it. I longed to throw myself out of bed, and just run screaming all the way up and down the road! (I wondered, though, if that would create something of a poor impression of me upon Niamh’s neighbours.)

  Not quite sure as of yet whether I would make it all the way out-of-doors, I got out of bed and left the small, stuffy room. I moved down the back hallway, past a washroom and a closet. I made my way across the kitchen to stand by the large front windows, looking out into the moonlit lane. The disturbing quietude seemed to transform, then, into something like peace. I closed my eyes and gripped the windowsill, wishing for that peace to permeate my own heart.

  How was I to adapt to all of this blasted tranquillity, when the small explosions of gunshots still resounded in the space between my ears? When the faces of the dead, from so many different places, would not desist from inhabiting my dreams?

  I went out of the house, and began to walk. I passed a few small houses, dark and silent; but strolled right past without paying them much attention. I stopped at the end of the road, where my interest had been finally caught up, and looked upon an old, decrepit, abandoned house. It stood with its back to a densely wooded area. (Niamh’s neighbourhood lay a good distance away from the infirmary. This place was smaller, quieter – and much less filthy.)