Shamrock Green (40 page)

Maeve grimaced. ‘The white flag, though, the bloody white flag.'

Turk closed his eyes, scratched his brow again. He was close to tears, Sylvie realised. She would not for all the world push him to that limit, not with Maeve watching. She reached out, eased Sean from her daughter's arms and cradled him in the crook of her elbow. The baby wriggled, struggling to sit up. Now that he had his sight he found everything fascinating. He stared at the hulking figure behind the wire and stretched out his little pink fists.

‘I think he likes you, Turk,' Sylvie said.

‘Aye, he's a sweet wee fellah,' said Turk. ‘Keep him safe till I get out an' I'll bathe his head in whiskey.'

‘When will you get out?' said Sylvie.

‘We'll be deported to England, I'm thinkin',' Turk said. ‘They don't know what to be doin' with us since so many are bein' brought in every day. The court martials will start soon. We reckon the peelers'll have the last word on who goes down for penal servitude, an' who doesn't. I fear Charlie, for one, won't see Irish daylight for a long time to come.'

‘An' you, Turk,' Maeve said, ‘what about you?'

‘I don't know,' Turk said. ‘I only done what I had to do.'

‘Would you do it again?' said Sylvie.

‘In a flash,' Turk said. ‘Anyway, I'll soon be stuck with a formal charge then I'll know whether I'm goin' to be classed as a criminal or a prisoner o' war.' He paused, then said, ‘Maeve?'

‘What?'

‘Will you not look at me? Why won't you look at me?'

‘It's you, you haven't been lookin' at me.'

‘I'm lookin' at you now, my sweetheart,' Turk said, softly.

And Maeve began to cry.

*   *   *

‘Stupid bitch, my sister-in-law, bringin' us raw meat. Does she think this is home from home an' we've got gas in every room? How are we supposed t' cook the stuff? Never mind,' said Peter, ‘me mam'll bring us somethin' decent soon.'

‘Your mam won't be bringin' you anythin',' Turk said. ‘Your mam's chased off to Scotland an' took your da with her.'

‘What!' Peter sat up, winced and clapped a hand to his ribs. ‘Who told you that? Sylvie? That lyin' bitch.'

‘It's the truth, most like,' said Charlie. ‘If the peelers are hauling in everybody who even spoke to a republican they'll have the old man's name high on their list. He'd never last ten minutes in here, let alone on Dartmoor.'

‘Is that where they'll send us?' Peter said.

‘I don't know where they'll send us,' said Charlie. ‘Could be China for all I know. Dartmoor's an English prison, though, and since we're prisoners of the English it seems logical…'

‘Sod your logic,' Peter chipped in. ‘Who's goin' to look after things at Towers if Mam's skipped an' we're banged up?'

‘Bloss an' the girls, I suppose.' Charlie glanced at Turk who was seated cross-legged in a corner with the parcel of food in his lap. ‘Bloss an' the girls will take care o' the house. The brewery's sealed up and the vats are empty.'

‘Uh!' Turk said, almost to himself. ‘The old Shamrock went up in smoke. I was right about that. I thought it'd taken a direct hit. Everythin' was blowed-up or burned. Even the piano. I'll miss that old piano, so I will.'

‘Are you goin' to be sharin' that bread, Trotter?' another man asked.

Charlie hunkered by Turk's knees. Peter was propped against the wall, legs stretched out. A medico had changed his dressing that morning and the wound was smarting.

Charlie said, ‘We can bribe one o' the soldiers to let us cook on the braziers at the out-break. I could do with some grease in my belly.' He tapped Turk's knee. ‘What other news did Sylvie bring?'

‘Fran's a goner. Vaizey had him executed.'

‘What's this you're tellin' me?'

‘Took him to the headquarters an' had him shot outside in the yard.'

‘Are you certain?'

‘Sylvie was a witness.'

‘How could that bitch be a witness?' Peter said.

‘Vaizey arrested her too. She saw it from a cell window.'

‘If that's the bloody case how come she's still runnin' loose?'

‘I reckon Vaizey couldn't fiddle a charge to hold her,' said Charlie. ‘If the Shamrock's gone where are she an' the kiddies stayin'?'

‘Fran's place in Endicott Street.'

‘If Vaizey wants her, he'll find her there quick enough,' said Charlie.

‘Maybe she already gave Vaizey what he wanted,' said Peter. ‘Maybe she gave them all a good feel an' that's why she walked.'

‘Shut your dirty mouth, Peter,' Turk said.

‘Does she know who else is dead?' said Charlie.

‘Kevin – I told her about Kevin.'

‘And Jansis?'

‘Aye, I told her about Jansis.'

‘She'll be upset,' said Charlie.

‘Her? Nothin' upsets her,' said Peter. ‘She'll have another man up her drawers before the month's out.'

‘If you don't shut your dirty mouth…'

‘Did she cry?' said Charlie, hastily.

‘The girl did. Maeve did. I made her cry. Oh, Christ!' Turk said with a shuddering sigh. ‘Look at this, will you?'

He let the brown paper fall open to display the drawing of a heart rendered in indigo ink with an indelible pencil.

The paper was butter-stained and the drawing blurred but it was still possible to read the words that Maeve had traced within the arrow-pierced heart:

Maeve & Turk.

One True Love.

‘Haw,' Peter sneered. ‘She loves him. The stupid wee bitch loves him.'

‘It's just as well someone does,' said Turk.

*   *   *

Schools had reopened. Algie had been shooed off along with the others, a satchel on his shoulder, a fish-paste sandwich in his pocket, tin whistle sticking out of the back of his shirt like the key of a clockwork toy. Tomorrow, come what may, Sylvie would register Maeve at Endicott Street School for the summer term. Now that she had talked with Turk, Maeve was more settled and relaxed. She seemed almost cheerful as they rode the tramcar down to College Green.

It was the first sight Sylvie had had of that part of town since the uprising had been quashed. She was dismayed to see that many fine buildings had been damaged or destroyed. The streets were busy, though, and carts, tramcars and vans packed the roads around the bridges.

The day was still cold and grey, more like March than May. Sylvie hardly noticed the weather. She was already planning what she would say to the manager of the North Mercantile, how she would explain the loss of her bank book. Several tellers knew her by sight and would vouch for her and she didn't think there would be a problem in emptying the Shamrock account.

After that was done and she had cash in her purse, she would walk to the sorting office to pick up her letters and postal orders and notify the authorities of her change of address. She had already decided to stay in the tenement in Endicott Street until Gowry returned.

The North Mercantile bank was undamaged. The commissionaire, with his huge white moustaches and spotless white gloves, still presided over the doors, the tellers were all in place and Mr Grover, the manager, was still behind his desk in the office at the rear. He listened sympathetically to Sylvie's tale of woe, had her sign her name three times on a typed document, then, consulting a ledger, informed her that she had twenty-six pounds and thirteen shillings in her account and that, if she wished, she may draw all or part of it.

She withdrew twenty-six pounds, filled in another slip of paper with her new address, then, with her purse tucked securely into the pocket of her skirt, she collected Maeve and Sean and set off on the long walk to the sorting office.

‘How much?' Maeve asked, as soon as they had left the bank.

‘Twenty-six pounds.'

‘Well, well!' Maeve said. ‘That should see us right. Ten bob a week for exactly a year to add to the money Daddy sends us. We can muddle through on that, can't we?'

‘Of course we can,' said Sylvie.

‘What'll we get for the Shamrock?'

‘Nothing.'

‘I thought the Shamrock was ours.'

‘It wasn't insured.'

‘Won't we get com – com…'

‘Compensation?' Sylvie said. ‘I doubt it.'

‘So they can just blow up our house – an' that's it?'

Sylvie nodded. ‘I'm afraid so.'

She lacked the energy to explain that she was reluctant to pursue a claim against the government because the lease had been purchased with money that Forbes McCulloch had provided.

In addition, she had taken out a small mortgage with a Union Society and was afraid that if she sued for compensation and lost the judgement then the Union Society would come down on her to clear the mortgage immediately. The situation was further complicated by the fact that she had been harbouring men who were classed as criminals and if she made a fuss about compensation Vaizey would appear before her and make more trouble. Maeve's calculations were accurate, however. Ten shillings a week added to the sum received from the War Department would do very nicely, especially as she'd be living rent-free in Fran's tenement – at least until Gowry came home.

Sperryhead Road sorting office wasn't in Sperryhead Road. It occupied the wide corner at the city end of Sutter Street, a quarter-mile or so from the Shamrock. It was a busy little office and the shop attached to it sold newspapers and magazines and tobacco as well as stamps and postal orders. The woman who served behind the counter was named McFee. She knew Sylvie well enough by sight, though she didn't approve of Sylvie's choice of company or her goings-on.

Leaving Maeve outside with Sean, Sylvie went into the shop alone.

Three or four folk were queuing at the counter but she could see Mrs McFee's grey bun bobbing about under the racks of magazines and smell the reek of the stove that burned away, winter and summer, at the old woman's back; all so familiar, so comforting.

At length she reached the worn wooden counter, and leaned upon it. ‘I think you might have some letters for me, Mrs McFee,' she said, giving the sour old woman a pleasant smile. ‘The Shamrock…'

‘I heard about the Shamrock,' the woman said.

‘Well,' Sylvie said, ‘I'll thank you for my letters then.'

The woman said nothing. She shuffled through the open doorway into the sorting office. It was unusually bright in the big room, for skylights bathed the long tables with an excess of daylight. Sylvie watched Mrs McFee move down the line of the tables, saw her pause at one small table, turn and come back carrying a little bundle of letters fastened by a rubber band. She emerged from the office and placed the bundle on the counter in front of Sylvie.

‘You'll not be thanking me for these, I'm thinking,' she said.

Sylvie stared at the bundle. Three oblong envelopes, grey-green, with War Department stamps. One other, square-shaped, biscuit brown. She stripped off the rubber band, picked open the seal of the biscuit-brown envelope. Her throat burned and her legs were trembling even before she unfolded the single sheet of buff-coloured paper and glanced down at it.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, I see.'

‘Are you all right?' the old woman asked.

‘Yes, I'm fine,' said Sylvie, ‘thank you.'

She lifted the envelopes, crushed in one hand, and went out to the cold, grey pavement where Maeve waited with Sean in her arms.

‘Mam, what is it?' Maeve said, alarmed.

‘It's Gowry. Your father,' Sylvie said. ‘He's missing.'

‘Missing?' said Maeve. ‘What does that mean?'

‘Missing,' Sylvie told her. ‘Believed killed.'

Chapter Twenty-one

Sylvie could do nothing to change the pattern of the past. She had no choice but to let the tide of life carry her along. What had been acceptable as a temporary measure was a good deal less so after a month in Endicott Street, however, and Sylvie felt it was time to give herself a shake before she slipped into total apathy.

She had not been entirely idle, of course. She had bought clothes and shoes, napkins for the baby, a tin bath from the market. She had also uncovered a little fireplace in the apartment that had been boarded over. It was comforting to have a fire in the room, less comfortable to have to haul coals from the bunker in the hall, tote water from the tap in the yard or sneak downstairs to the lavatory with a chamberpot splashing in your hands. Fran Hagarty's tenement was unusually clean and quiet, though, for there were no families in any of the upstairs rooms and only on Friday and Saturday nights was there a bit of a racket on the stairs.

Unlike her mother, Maeve recovered quickly from the shock of her father's death and within a week or two knew all about their neighbours.

‘Who's that man we passed on the stairs?' Sylvie, mildly curious, asked.

‘Which man?'

‘The big dark-haired chap on the second floor.'

‘Mr O'Rourke, you mean.'

‘Is that who I mean? Comes in late every night.'

‘Docker,' Maeve said. ‘Likes his drink.'

‘Oh! He's not married, I take it?'

‘None of them are,' said Maeve. ‘Fran wouldn't take them in if they were married.'

‘Except Pauline.'

‘Pauline!' Maeve snorted at her mother's naïvety. ‘Pauline ain't married. What's she been tellin' you, Mam? If she told you she was married to Fran then she's spinnin' you a fanny.'

‘Maeve!'

‘Well, she is.'

Lunchtime, around half past twelve: Maeve was tucking in to a plate of broth and Sylvie, with Sean at her breast, was still too sunk in on herself to press for information.

Two or three days later, in the evening, she took the matter up once more.