Shamrock Green (30 page)

‘Does Fran know what you're doing?' Maeve said.

‘Fran! Fran doesn't care.'

‘What a thing to say!'

‘Ah well, think what you like about Fran,' Jansis said, ‘just don't think badly o' me, Maeve, that's all I ask.'

‘I wish I was comin' with you.'

‘Turk would skin me alive if I brought you over.'

They moved across the yard, scattering the hens, scrambled on to the roof of the motor-car and on to the roof of the chicken coop. The tarpaper roof creaked and sagged beneath their weight and Maeve lifted up the little green flag on the broom handle and waved it. There was no response from the warehouse.

‘That's enough,' Jansis told her and elbowed herself on to the top of the wall and straddled it, the rifle across her back. She edged around, lowered herself on her hands and dropped out of sight.

Maeve heard a thud and a little shout as Jansis struck the ground.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Aye, I landed on my fat bum. I'm fine. Give me the basket, Maeve.'

Maeve tied the rope around the basket and lowered it over the wall.

She paid out the rope until she heard Jansis call out.

‘Got it. Pull up the rope now.'

‘Is Turk there?'

‘He's seen me. He's wavin' from a window. He's blowin' kisses.'

‘Tell him…' The rope snaked suddenly over the brickwork and tumbled about her. ‘Tell him…' She could not think of a thing to say; then she heard a cheer go up and a couple of celebratory shots echo over the rooftops.

Maeve coiled the rope about her hand and elbow.

Only when she turned to step from the roof of the chicken coop on to the top of the Hudson did she realise that she was no longer alone.

The man wore a sombre black overcoat and a trilby hat and had his hands in his pockets. He looked up at her and smiled.

‘Hello, girlie,' Mr Vaizey said. ‘Remember me?'

Chapter Fifteen

‘For God's sake!' Fran shouted. ‘You've no right to haul me off without a charge. I haven't done anything.'

‘Under the new special powers act, Hagarty, I have every right.'

‘All right, take me if you want to, but for God's sake leave the woman in peace. She's done nothing wrong.'

‘She's harboured criminals,' Vaizey said.

Ames held Fran in an arm lock, forcing him almost to his knees. He wore nothing but trousers and a vest.

The front door was wide open and there were armed men outside in the road. Mam had already been taken away. She had been allowed to throw on an old grey skirt and blouse for decency's sake but her stockings were draped around her neck and one of the detectives carried her boots as if they were valuable pieces of evidence. Mam did not look back even when Maeve tried to run after her into the road. Vaizey restrained her with an arm about the waist, smothering her frantic thrusts. As soon as Mam had vanished, though, the inspector released her.

Fran was bent almost double and there was spit coming out of his mouth.

Maeve didn't feel sorry for Fran. It was as if she had dreamed it all before and the dream was simply fulfilling itself. What frightened her most of all was the thought of Sean lying helpless in his crib in the parlour. She wondered if she should try to make a dash for the parlour or if they would shoot her for trying to escape.

‘Christ, Vaizey,' Fran groaned, ‘there's a child in the house, a baby.'

‘Your baby?'

‘What does that – yes, yes, my baby.'

‘Aren't there enough bastards in Dublin without you fathering more?'

Vaizey looked up into the gloom of the stairs and snapped his fingers. Someone dropped the portmanteau over the rail. Vaizey caught it neatly and held it inches from Fran's face.

‘Well now, Hagarty,' he said, ‘I thought
this
was your baby.'

‘You bloody evil bastard!' Fran said.

‘Take him away,' Vaizey said.

Ames yanked Fran up and ran him out of the house.

Vaizey turned to Maeve. ‘Where's the infant?'

‘In the parlour.'

‘How old is it?'

‘Ten weeks.'

‘Is your mother feeding it?'

‘Aye.'

He came closer, blotting out the light from the doorway.

Maeve glanced down the corridor to the kitchen. A big man in a tweed jacket guarded the back door. Between his legs she could see the hens dipping and strutting unconcernedly.

‘Is it a boy?' Vaizey said.

‘Aye.'

He was so close to her now that she could smell him. He smelled of tobacco and a musty odour that reminded her of old books from a market stall. The smell and his neatness did not seem to go together. He tucked the heavy black bag under one arm, spread his hand on the panelling beside her head and said softly, ‘I've half a mind to take you in too, girlie, young as you are. I'll bet you know a great deal more than a girl your age should, and a great deal more than is good for you.' He pushed himself back. ‘You've five minutes to gather up the infant and whatever else you can carry and get out of the house.'

‘Out?' Maeve said. ‘We live here.'

‘Look,' Vaizey said, ‘the moment we're finished here the soldiers will occupy the building. You know what's happening in Sutter Street, don't you? Of course you do. Why, you could probably tell me how many men are in the warehouse and how well they're armed.'

‘Hundreds,' Maeve said. ‘An' they've plenty of ammo.'

‘Was it Colin Whiteside who taught you to lie?' Vaizey said. ‘Well, Colin Whiteside won't be teaching you any more bad habits.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Your Mr Colin Whiteside was shot early this morning in St Stephen's Green park. Fine piece of marksmanship, so I'm told, clean through the heart.'

Maeve bit her lip and clenched her fists. She refused to let this man intimidate her even if what he said about Mr Whiteside was true.

‘What are you going to do to my mother?'

‘I don't know,' Mr Vaizey said. ‘It depends.'

‘You'll get nothing from her. My mam won't squawk.'

‘She might,' the inspector said, ‘if she wants to see her baby again.'

‘You wouldn't harm my brother, would you?'

‘I'll do what I have to do,' Vaizey said, then, relenting, ‘No, I won't harm your brother, but it's up to you to get him out of here before the shooting starts. Is there somewhere you can go? Someone who'll give you shelter?'

‘Yes.'

He took his hand from the panelling, fished in his overcoat pocket, brought out a shilling and offered it to her. ‘The trams are off, but you might find a train going to Towers. You'll be safe enough there.'

‘Have you not arrested my grandfather then?'

‘He isn't worth arresting,' Vaizey said. ‘Here, take the money.'

‘I'm not takin' money from the likes o' you.'

‘Suit yourself,' Vaizey said. ‘You're not my responsibility, thank God.'

He stepped away and changed his grip on the leather bag, dropping it into his hand. Fran hadn't told her what the bag contained, but she reckoned it would be plans, plans or gelignite or something equally important. She was clear about one thing: this was what a rebellion was really all about. Mr Whiteside had prepared her for it. Had told her all about famine and strikes, the horrors of injustice and the beauty of sacrifice. If Mr Whiteside had made his sacrifice there was nothing to be gained from bursting into tears. He would be in the hands of God now and, like all good martyrs, at peace.

She hastened across the corridor into the parlour.

Sean was awake but not crying. When she lifted him from the crib he uttered not a sound. Carrying the baby, she went back into the kitchen.

The man at the back door turned, smiled and gave her a wink as if they were allies, not enemies.

The motor-car had gone. Four soldiers were setting up a machine-gun on the roof of the chicken coop. She took Jansis's shawl from the hook and the three shillings that Mam kept for emergencies from a jar on the dresser. Soldiers were already piling in through the front door and thudding upstairs. She put a bottle of milk into her school satchel, wrapped the big shawl about her shoulders and brought the ends up around her head the way Jansis did when it rained.

‘Hurry,' Mr Vaizey said.

She moved faster, not out of obedience but lest her nerve fail.

He ushered her out of the house, out into the road past the soldiers. At that moment Maeve had a feeling that she would never live in the Shamrock again, that before this day was over the slate would be wiped clean. Sean would be her passport through the cordon, though she had no idea what she would do until her mother was released.

A crowd had gathered to watch the arrests. Maeve recognised one man in particular because he was very distinctive and because he should not have been there. Mr Flanagan walked briskly towards the inspector, shoulders thrown back under his swanky alpaca overcoat.

He planted himself before the inspector and held out a hand.

‘You have my property, I believe.'

‘Do I now?' Mr Vaizey said. ‘Do I really?'

‘Of course you do,' Mr Flanagan said. ‘You know damned well you do.'

Maeve watched in bewilderment as the inspector handed over the portmanteau to Mr Flanagan who, saying nothing, swung round and carried it off into the crowd. The bag could not have contained plans or gelignite after all. Mr Vaizey glanced at her, seemed about to say something and then changed his mind. He tapped her shoulder and gave her a little push towards the crowd.

Down beyond the lane the soldiers were spread across the width of the road. Maeve turned on her heel and headed towards them, Sean held against her breast, snug under the shawl.

Amused not alarmed, the soldiers watched her approach.

‘One o' your mistakes then, 'arry?'

‘Nay, not one o'mine.'

‘'ow about you then, Bill?'

‘'ow about yerself, Cocker?'

‘You lookin' for the daddy then, love?'

‘My daddy,' Maeve said, ‘is fightin' in France.'

‘Lucky 'im,' one of the soldiers said, and allowed her to pass through.

*   *   *

Sylvie assumed they would take her to the castle, hold her for an hour or two and release her. She asked one of the men in the van where they were taking her but received no reply. The pair sat on a wooden bench attached by chains to the wall of the van and stared down at their hands. She was tempted to go and sit by them just to see what they would do, but she was afraid they would hit her.

She sat still and submissive until the van drew to a halt.

The door was opened from the outside and a little wooden ladder lowered from its holding. One of the men got out and helped her down. She was still barefoot, her stockings around her neck. She hadn't dared lift her skirts and show them her bare legs in case it gave them ideas.

When she stepped on to the cobbles in a tiny square yard with tenements all around, she knew that they hadn't brought her to the castle. Fear rose up in her throat. Ames was holding open an iron door in the wall of a building that soared up into the grey sky. One of the men gave her a nudge and she hurried across the cold cobbles as if she were anxious to be out of the rain. Ames caught her arm, drew her into a narrow stone-floored passageway and, leaving the guards outside, closed the heavy iron door and bolted it.

‘Where's Fran? Where have you taken him?'

‘Hush now,' Ames said, ‘just hush.'

‘What sort of place is this?'

‘I told you to hush,' Ames said.

She could have turned on the waterworks but she would not give him the satisfaction. He steered her along the flagged passageway, up a flight of worn stone steps into another passageway. He stopped in front of a wooden door with a grille set into it. He opened the door to reveal a cell, empty save for a bucket on the floor and a big sink with a dripping brass tap. There was a glazed window high on the wall facing her but no chair or table, no cot or mattress. Ames pushed her inside and closed the door.

She stood quite still, staring up at the grille, waiting for she knew not what; then the door opened again and Ames tossed in her boots. They fell noisily on to the stone floor and she stepped back from them as if she expected them to explode. She peered down at the boots and saw that the long laces had been removed from the eyelets. She sighed, sat down on the floor and pulled on her stockings and boots. Without laces the boots didn't grip her calves and flopped when she walked.

She went to the sink, climbed up on it and tried in vain to see out of the window. She climbed down from the sink and leaned on it, resting, then she twisted the squeaky cock on the brass tap until the drip became a flow, the flow a gush. She stepped back quickly, worked the tap, and thrust her face into the water, wetting her skirt and blouse. She filled her mouth with the ice-cold, metal-tasting water and drank, for she had read somewhere that drinking quantities of cold water thinned a mother's milk. She worried about her milk and what would happen if it clotted in her breasts, worried too about Sean, though she was sure that Maeve would keep him safe from harm.

She leaned against the sink, waiting. Certain sounds from within the building increased her fear: wailing, thuds, laughter, then footsteps loud and fast as if a gigantic animal were being pursued through the passageways. Noises from outside too, though faint: machine-gun fire, the crackle of artillery. She didn't really know what artillery was, or what damage it could do. She had seen photographs of captured German howitzers in the
Mirror,
massive devices shrouded in netting, horses pulling guns on carriages through a sea of mud but could not imagine such fearsome weapons on the streets of Dublin.

So far she had taken scant interest in the war. It should have been her war, for her father in Glasgow was helping build ships to destroy the German navy, and Forbes – she didn't know what Forbes was up to, though she was sure he wouldn't put himself in danger and would emerge from the conflict richer than he went into it. It had been a long time since she had thought of her father. To her surprise, her embarrassment, she wanted him now and, thinking of him, found hot tears welling in her eyes.