‘Of course, and I won’t say anything to her.’
Later, Veronica sat on her bed and her muscles finally relaxed. She thought about what she had just done. It felt good, satisfying. She needed to hide the package, but her room didn’t offer many options. The wardrobe was an ideal hiding place, but shuddered as she thought about Betty, and what the wardrobe meant to her. A few weeks previously on a Saturday afternoon, she had found Betty standing motionless in front of it. There were markings etched on the side of the wardrobe, similar to the markings on her bedroom wall from when she had shared it with Eddie. Height markings. She didn’t know how old her cousin had been when the first marking was etched on the side of the wardrobe, but there was at least a four-foot difference between that and the last. Only when Veronica had coughed had Betty turned to look at her, ‘Sorry,’ she had mumbled, turning to leave.
‘Betty,’ Veronica mirrored sympathies she heard her father say at funerals, ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ but that sounded too formal and adding, ‘about Padraig.’
Betty had nodded to leave, but stopped and took Veronica’s hand. ‘Thank you, Veronica, that means a lot.’ She left Veronica to look for a hiding place.
She tried to move the dresser, but it was too heavy. As she walked back to her bed, the floor underneath the rug creaked. And that only meant one thing. She pulled back the rug to reveal a broken floorboard. The loose floorboard easily lifted, showing a space big enough to hide the package. She replaced the rug and fell into bed. At once, sleep grabbed her. Her dreams were filled with faces of bearded men and brown packages that turned into a large parcel that she couldn’t carry.
*
In the morning, the whistle screeches from the factory jolted Veronica awake, but she was still tired from her unsettled sleep. Her first thought was the new package.
In her desire to get away from Virginia to be an independent woman, she had dismissed the fight her fellow countrymen were having for their independence. Now she was being drawn into it. Dublin was not what she had thought it would be. The poverty she saw disturbed her. She didn’t know who she’d delivered the parcel to, but she guessed it had something to do with the opposition to British rule in Ireland.
The smell of frying bread brought her back to the present. The light filtering in through the flimsy curtains warned her she would be late for school if she didn’t get up and she dressed hastily.
In the kitchen, Betty put the sizzling bacon on plates. ‘Your father sent a few food parcels from the farm, and I’m afraid it will go off if we don’t eat it soon.’
The front door opened, and Tom groaned as he pushed it with his back. ‘I’ve two buckets of coal for ye, Betty,’ he said, huffing with relief as he dropped the buckets. A few coals fell out of the buckets.
He fell into his worn armchair beside the fire. ‘Only the start of the day and I’m tired already.’
After a few minutes, he sat beside Veronica at the table. He leaned into her, watching Betty in the kitchen with one eye and whispered, ‘Did you hide it?’
She nodded.
He winked at her with a smile.
8
The church bells from St James’s seemed to ring louder on Sundays, reminding everyone it was a day of rest and to worship God. The booming bells’ vibrations rattled Veronica’s windowpane. This was her cue to get up, and she stretched. She wrapped the blanket closer, knowing the cold morning would greet her with goosebumps as soon as she got out of bed. She wanted to linger in the bed a few extra minutes, as it would be hours before she could have any food.
Every Sunday since Veronica could remember her mother said to her and Susan, ‘Girls, isn’t it wonderful to receive the Body of Christ? You should be honoured.’ And she would clasp her hands, holding them tight to her chest, her eyes glazed as if the priest was in front of her with the host in his hands.
Veronica had always held her tongue, wanting to say, ‘Wouldn’t it be just the same if we had breakfast?’ The one time she had said this to her mother, it had driven her into a verbal frenzy. While Veronica’s family were upstairs washing and dressing for Mass, she would go into the larder and eat a few of Mrs Slaney’s scones.
Veronica thought she had better get up when the front door slammed shut.
Tom shouted, ‘Betty, more coal for after Mass.’
Now dressed, Veronica put on her hat, the yellow primroses and bright-blue ribbon a welcome burst of colour. The autumnal days were rapidly being replaced by the dark, dreary winter.
A Sunday routine of words had ensued over the weeks.
Veronica’s offer to help Betty to prepare the breakfast on their return from Mass always yielded the same response.
‘Veronica, you have enough to do with your secretarial school. You rest yourself. It’s a day of rest for you,’ Betty would say, the lines of her face softening over the weeks.
Tom sat in his armchair beside the fire. He was scrubbed clean and wore a crisp white shirt. He spat on his shoes, rubbing them shiny. Veronica sat at the kitchen table, looking at him and wondered if he hoped his sins bounced off the shiny shoes like a light. What sins would he have?
Tom glanced into the kitchen before going to Veronica, and whispering, ‘The parcel.’
‘Do you want it now? I’ll get it.’
Tom nodded and followed her to her room, closing the door behind him.
‘You’re a good girl, Veronica, and I hope you are enjoying the typing. I know your father wasn’t too pushed that you wanted to go to Dublin, but Eddie thought it was a great idea.’
She sat up straight. Eddie had thought it would be good for her!
‘Eddie said it would be a good excuse for your father to come to Thomas St. They think people are watching, so it gives your father an excuse to come to Dublin.’
Watching him. Did her father know about Eddie? Was her father involved?
Tom stared into the middle of the room, pushing himself up with one hand on the bed frame, and the other holding his hip.
‘Christ, this damned hip isn’t getting any better. I’ll ask one of the young lads from the Brewery to go.’
From the kitchen, Betty screamed, and a saucepan crashed to the floor. ‘Shoo! Tom, the cat, brought in a mouse! Quick, Tom!’
‘I’m on my way.’ Tom chuckled. ‘What harm can a mouse do?’
‘I’ll go.’
‘What?’ Tom had reached the door. ‘You can’t go, your father wouldn’t allow it, and I shouldn’t have asked you before, but we needed it to get to Captain Smith. Your father was very annoyed.’
‘He doesn’t need to know. I’ll go today. After dinner.’
She’d said it without thinking, but for the first time in a while, she felt excited. The monotony of her pen and diary for nightly company was getting to her, along with the loneliness she had not expected.
‘No, you can’t, and that’ll be the end of it. I’ll think of something. Your father expects Betty and me to look after you, not to put you in danger.’ He looked directly at Veronica, his eyes teary. ‘I can’t put you in danger, Betty would never forgive me. Your arrival has cheered her up no end. She feels she has a purpose now.’
When Tom left, Veronica sighed in guilt that Betty appreciated her presence, but all she felt was boredom, and that was replaced by frustration. She wanted to do something other than sit at home on her own every night. She wanted to do something, anything and threw herself back on the bed and thumped her fists on her blankets. She retrieved the package and turned it over in her hands. The tightly wrapped brown paper was the same as the last package, but this was slightly heavier. She was more interested in this package now she knew what it might hold.
‘Veronica, come on, we’ll be late for Mass.’
‘Coming, Betty,’ Veronica muttered, as she restored the package to its hiding place. She needed to think carefully. How would she find where Henrietta St was?
Tom winked at her as she got her Sunday coat and he took his cap from the hook in the hall stand and
patted his coat pocket for his cigarettes. Betty joined them with her brown Sunday coat fastened and her lank hair pinned back, ready for their Sunday prayer.
The following morning after breakfast Veronica was thankful to go to secretarial school to break the monotony. As she sat beside her uncle on the day, she shuddered as soldiers marched passed them to the Royal Barracks on the quays, and her scalp prickled.
‘Veronica, don’t let them bother you; ignore them, and they will ignore you, and there’s not as many soldiers on the streets, love, they’ve all been shipped off to France. The Somme and some to a place called Vers in Belgium.’
Tom didn’t mention Suvla Bay, where her cousin had died.
*
Bridget returned to school. Her return was a relief for Veronica as she’d missed her company.
At lunchtime, Veronica and Bridget sat together in the shelter of the yard.
‘Bridget, I’m glad you’re back. It’s been so boring without you; the other girls don’t talk to me. You look, well, thin but you don’t look sick.’
Bridget looked at Veronica, her blue eyes deep in thought. ‘Actually, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sick, my sister had a baby.’
‘But I thought you said she wasn’t married.’
Bridget sighed. The sun caught the worry that lined her face. ‘She’s not. The fella ran a mile – he promised to marry her, but packed his bags and went straight for the boat. Da was angry, kicked a hole in the wall. He wanted to kill the fella. The priest called saying he would arrange for the baby to go to the nuns. Da wanted to run the priest as he hasn’t much time for the church, but Ma insisted on Maura to go, saying the neighbours would never let her live it down. She couldn’t bear the whispers of the women when buying their bread and the sorts, looking at her, she said life was hard enough to keep four mouths fed without having another, and that was the end of Maura.’ Bridget sniffed. ‘Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want.’ She smiled. ‘But, you and me, Veronica, we’re bettering ourselves.’
Veronica was speechless. She had secretly thought it was just another way of the church keeping women down. One of the girls at her school had gotten pregnant, and the nuns beat her, but an old nun had come to her rescue and contacted the girl’s parents. The old nun helped the girl and arranged for her to go to England to her sister.
‘I’d die if that happened to me, between the mother and baby home, or having to go to England, and my mother would kill me. The priest is a regular visitor for tea to our house.’
Bridget frowned. ‘Veronica, are you all right? You’re quiet, and you’re also looking tired.’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, pausing for a minute. ‘Bridget, the soldiers, there’s quite a few on the streets. Do they make you nervous at all?’
‘Look, Veronica, ignore them. If you ever meet one, go the other way and don’t talk to him.’
Veronica remained silent for a minute. ‘Bridget, would you be in favour of Home Rule? Or our independence?’
‘Don’t care either way. My Da has a good job; he is a mechanic, and sometimes the British send him their cars to fix. We need the money. Anyway, I think we will need it more now that we have an extra mouth to feed. I’m used to the British, just stay out of their way, and no harm will come to you.’ She put down her bread and jam sandwich. ‘I’ve more news. I met a lad from Henrietta St. Mammy is afraid I’ll end up the same as my sister. Henrietta St, it’s not a nice place. Well, she put a stop to that soon enough. No prospects, Mammy said. He was good looking, but his daddy was drunk all the time.’
Veronica tried to sound casual. ‘Henrietta St. Where exactly is that?’
‘You wouldn’t want to go there, it’s the opposite to where those girls are from.’ She nodded to the four girls huddled together. ‘Veronica, he wrote a lovely letter to me.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I think I’ll write to him. Charlie, that’s his name.’
‘Sorry, where did you say he lived?’
‘Henrietta St, it’s near King’s Inn, the place where all the solicitors go, you know just off Parnell St at the top of Sackville St.’
Veronica frowned. Should she chance another delivery? ‘Come on. We better get inside, it looks like rain, and you know Mr Begley will have our guts for garters!’
Two girls, who had ignored Veronica at lunchtimes, overheard Bridget. They looked at each other and scoffed in disapproval at such common language.
Veronica took Bridget’s arm and laughed, skipping inside the building. Bridget liked to shock.
9
On Sunday after Mass, her aunt and uncle didn’t linger outside the church to talk to neighbours or listen to the weekly gossip, eager to get home to their breakfast. Afterwards, Betty sat in front of the blazing fire with knitting needles and the wool placed on the small wooden table beside her. The cat lay on his back, his paws rolling back and forth teasing the string of the yarn that dangled from the table. Veronica watched Tom chip away on a long piece of wood. ‘A whistle, I’m making the young lad across the street a whistle. Something I used to do for Padraig.’ He rubbed his leg, and muttered, ‘Damn leg.’
Veronica’s heart beat fast. She was going to go to Henrietta St with the parcel before her uncle asked for it. She would prove she was as good as any man.
Veronica told Betty and Tom she was going for a walk. Betty got up and stretched, bent to her knitting box, ‘Veronica take this scarf, I knitted it last year, but it didn’t get much use. I don’t like to go out much,’ she explained as she wrapped it around Veronica’s neck.
Tom smiled at Betty. ‘And Veronica don’t forget to bring your coat, love. It’s nippy out there, don’t be fooled by the sun, frost will be on its way,’ he said.
Veronica slipped back into her room to get the parcel. With the brown package in her hand, her curiosity became too great to ignore, and she carefully peeled back the paper to reveal another layer of brown paper. She stared and persevered to pull back to the next layer. Her fingers fell on cold metal. Her heart quickened, and she hastily pulled back more of the paper. Her heart stopped. It was a gun, a small one like the one she saw Eddie with. Veronica exhaled a long slow breath, quickly wrapped the gun back in the paper and tucked the parcel into her skirt band.
Christ, she thought. Blood flowed quickly around her body. Her mind whirled. What had she got herself into? She needed air and rushed out onto Thomas St past a family on a Sunday stroll and out to the quays.
She needed air and inhaled deeply, and kept her head high, walking fast, concentrating on every step, trying to remember the way. At Nelson’s Pillar, she heard the bell of an approaching tram. Maybe she should take the tram. It felt safer, even though it was only a few stops to King’s Inn. On the tram, she fell into a seat, the package stuck to her skin. Two soldiers got on. When they reached the stairs, she wished for them to go to the upper deck, but they continued towards her. They nodded at Veronica before they sat two seats in front of her. A bead of perspiration dripped into her eyes. Watching the back of their heads, she secured the parcel in the band of her skirt.
When the conductor shouted, ‘King’s Inn Road’, she pulled the overhead rope running down the middle of the tram and willed her legs to stop shaking as she walked steadily past the soldiers.
She thanked the conductor, surprised at the steadiness of her voice.
He said, ‘Wrap up well, I smell the rain coming.’
The driver rang the bell to announce the tram was leaving, and when it was out of sight, she slowly let out a breath. Soon she was at Henrietta St, its cobbled street like all the others. It had the same red-brick Georgian buildings, three storeys high with lattice windows, but somehow it felt different. These tenements were some of the worst in Dublin, with over a hundred people to a house. As she looked at these beautiful buildings, it was beyond her imagination how so many lived in one house. The stench of sewage coming from them was worse than O’Keefe’s.
Above the chimneys, the sun escaped through the thin November clouds, sprinkling the
street with warmth and offering rays of hope. The sunshine may have been a pleasant reprieve from the conditions families lived in, but Veronica felt it was also teasing them. It would be gone, and they would return to their dismal lives. The grand Georgian houses had once been home to the gentry. Now poor women sat wearily on the steps, their threadbare shawls pulled tight as they watched their children run, playing chase on the streets. Veronica thought they looked battered by the poverty of life.
Men stood at the street corner, waiting for something to happen, talking and spitting out black chewed tobacco. Veronica walked by the railings on the footpath, counting the numbers on the houses. Number seven was near the end of the street. A white marble arch spanned the width of the street with the words King’s Inn. It was the entrance to a life few would have the privilege to enter – a place for educating people in the law profession.
On many of the houses, newspaper replaced windowpane glass. Every second or third window a washing line of torn, dirty-looking clothes stretched across to a window on the house on the opposite side of the street. Number seven was no different from the other houses. The glass over the door was missing. The door was ajar. Veronica entered a dark hall, and the stench was nauseating, a mixture of the musty smell of years of neglect and human waste. There were four doors downstairs, some with a letter etched in the wooden frame. She couldn’t see D. As a small shoeless boy ran past her, she shouted, ‘Do you know where Joseph Connellan lives?’
He stopped to stare at her, the whites of his eyes shining out from the dirtiest face she had ever seen.
He pointed to the end of the corridor before turning and running out the front door.
‘Thank you,’ she said, but he was gone. Veronica went to the end of the corridor, passing an open door. There was desperation in the faces of children, desperation you wouldn’t wish on farm animals. D was scratched into the split wooden door. She knocked, and the door opened to a room full of people.
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