Veronica, trying to keep her voice steady, said, ‘Is Joseph here?’
‘Come in,’ said a woman with a husky voice, rushing her inside, ‘Have you the package?’ Her gummy mouth was wrinkled, and wispy grey hair fell to her shoulders.
A sheet hung from the ceiling, separating the room into a bedroom and a mattress on the floor. The bare room was home to many children. At least ten sat huddled in a corner for warmth. Eight of the children sat around the table in the middle of the room, two sitting on each of the four chairs. Others lay at all angles on the mattress. The fire burning in the hearth gave enough heat for the pot hanging above it but left the room cold. The once blue and white wallpaper hung in pieces from the wall. The smell of the lavatory on the landing outside snaked across the room. Another dishevelled woman sat in an armchair rocking back and forth, the rhythmic squeak of the chair putting the small child on her lap to sleep. A little girl with a grey smock sang to herself on the large bed.
One of the children said to Veronica, ‘What d’ ya’ want with our da?’
From the corner of the room, a man coughed. He rose from a seat revealing a small bundle of life under his arm. It stirred as he got up, letting out a little whimper. He said hoarsely, ‘I’m Joseph.’ He handed the bundle to what Veronica presumed was his wife, who looked as thin as her children.
Veronica whispered shakily, ‘I’ve got a parcel for you.’ She handed it over.
Joseph bent under the chair and pulled out another parcel, handing it to Veronica. ‘Keep it closed at all times. Here, take it.’ He coughed as he thrust it into her hands. ‘Tell Tom to take it on one of his deliveries.’
She moved back at the smell of his breath. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. ‘Tell him to give it to Pa O’Driscoll in Davy Byrne’s pub on Duke St,’ he said and pushed her away. ‘Go on, and remember to tell him, Pa needs these papers as soon as possible.’ He waved his hand at her while holding his stomach with the other, coughing. ‘Go!’ he bellowed at her as he coughed uncontrollably again.
She ran out the door into the hallway and to the street, which was now full of children. The girls wore similar pinafores to the girl in Joseph’s room, hardly enough threads to give any protection from the morning cold.
‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses,’ they sang, dancing in circles.
‘Miss, give us a shilling.’
‘Look at ya, don’t ya look lovely.’
Veronica kept her head down, not looking at the children. It was heart-breaking to see the conditions people lived in and compare it to her own. Tom and Betty’s house was a home of grandeur compared to Henrietta St. Anger bubbled – anger for the people, anger for Betty’s loss. After years of not giving other people’s lives a thought, Veronica felt guilty. Her life had been so insular, so selfish. Now she saw how privileged she was. The streets were quieter now as the Sunday strollers had returned home for their dinner. Finally, she arrived home full of adrenaline. Betty was asleep in her chair with the cat purring on her lap. The room was warm and clean. Tom put his newspaper down and nodded to her. ‘Did you have a nice walk?’
She nodded back, unsure of herself now. ‘Eh, I went to Henrietta St. The place. It smells, it’s awful, and the children look desperate. How do people live like that? Why do they live like that?’
Tom sat up, dropping the newspaper. His face blanched, then turned red. ‘I told you not to go. Did anyone follow you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, but she hesitated, not too sure.
The fire crackled, and a wet log hissed. Tom kicked the log, turning it over to the dry side.
‘I know, but look at your leg, you couldn’t go and who would follow me? A lady out for a stroll.’
‘Your father told me not to involve you. Don’t say anything to him. Did Joseph give you anything?’
‘Yes, and he told me to tell you to bring this package to Davy Byrne’s pub.’
Tom didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘Veronica, this is dangerous. It’s not silly games, people are shot for less. Don’t dare do anything like that again.’
Blood returned to his face as he shook his head and lowered his voice while keeping an eye on Betty. He took Veronica’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Thanks, Veronica. Will you hide it for me, and I’ll ask the lads at work to take it to Davy Byrne’s.’ He stood to stretch his leg, nodding his head towards the fireplace. ‘Rest yourself, you look exhausted. There’s tea on the hearth there, and bread on the table.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’ How could she eat after seeing the conditions the children lived in? She pulled the bedroom door tight behind her, pulled back the worn carpet and placed the package under the security of the floorboard. Exhausted, she eased into a restless sleep of guns, old men with pipes and hungry children.
10
Veronica arranged to meet Bridget on Saturday where she helped at her aunt and uncle’s small grocery shop on Abbey St. Her uncle had been struck with the Spanish flu and never fully recovered. Veronica arranged to meet Bridget on her lunch break in a teashop opposite her aunt and uncle’s shop.
On her walk along the quay to O’Connell Bridge, her thoughts returned to the parcel. She noticed more soldiers on the streets and the way people sidestepped them and kept their heads low when they passed.
Dublin was turning out different from her reassuring words to her mother. ‘I won’t get into any danger.’
She crossed O’Connell Bridge, with the white Customs House to her left. The morning mist was gone, and the seagulls swooped and dived at the barges. This was what she’d imagined her life in Dublin would be like, going to meet a friend for afternoon tea and being independent, but was she? At Sackville St, the ruined buildings were a stark reminder of the reality of the situation in Ireland. The street was clear from the rubble, but the glass had not been replaced on many of the buildings. On Abbey St, she stopped outside Wynn’s Hotel to look at the damage. A workman nodded to her as he pushed a wheelbarrow of stones from the hotel; the repair work had begun in the hotel.
Veronica reached the tearoom as a church clock bell rang once; it was one o’clock. She knew Bridget only had an hour for lunch, and as she hurriedly pushed the door to the tearoom, the bell tinkled to announce her arrival. Bridget was sat nestled in the bay window. She waved and, with her usual beaming smile, pushed a chair out for Veronica. Bridget had cut her hair into a modern short style like the ones Veronica envied in magazines.
Veronica sat down, placing her handbag on the pink and white tablecloth and exclaiming, ‘God look at you, who did that for you? It’s lovely and that dress, ya would turn any fella’s eye.’
‘Mary, my sister, did it last night. I wasn’t sure. Ma said, “You will attract unsuitable attention,” and give the wrong impression, especially when I wear red lipstick.’ Bridget reached into her brown bag and took out a small cylinder shape. She twisted it to reveal a long red barrel and handed it to Veronica. ‘Here, try it.’
Veronica giggled, ‘God no,’ and looked around the tearoom first before she took Bridget’s ivory mirror and carefully and slowly put on some lipstick. The red of the lipstick, coupled with her dark skin, accentuated her green eyes.
‘You are gorgeous. Go on, you keep it. I can get more from ma sister.’
A waitress arrived with a pot of tea. Her eyes were red as if she had been crying.
‘I ordered for you when I came in. I can only stay for an hour.’
‘How is your uncle?’
‘He’s on the mend, but it’s a while yet.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You know I never told you, but my aunt is a Protestant!’
Veronica’s eyes widened, and she sat forward, leaning her elbows on the table. ‘Really! One of them? How’d they meet?’ she asked quietly.
In an equally hushed voice, Bridget replied, ‘My Uncle Brendan worked in the shipyard in Belfast, and he met my Aunt Lizzy while working there. It was love at first sight. They got married in Belfast, and when he came home, everyone thought she was
a Catholic.’
‘A Protestant? How do you know?’
‘She told me,’ Bridget said, her chair scraping on the floor as she moved in closer to Veronica. ‘She swore me to secrecy, and sure, who am I gonna tell? They’ve been married years.’
‘Gosh, that’s dangerous. Your aunt must trust you if she confided in you. What about their children?’
‘Well, they never had children, so religion was never an issue.’
‘What about Mass on Sundays?’
‘Neither goes to Mass!’
‘Really? Don’t people think that’s odd?’
‘Maybe in the city, it’s different.’
The clock chimed two.
‘I’d better go, Veronica. I’ll see you on Monday.’
Veronica strolled home with time to reflect on her new life, comparing it to the lazy sunny summer days at home by the shores of Lough Ramor. She tried to imagine what the shelled buildings had looked like before the few days over Easter that changed everyone’s lives.
A group of young boys shouted to Veronica, ‘Miss, got a tuppence?’
This was how life in Dublin should be. Typing and meeting a friend for tea, not delivering parcels. At O’Connell Bridge she waited for a group of bicycles to pass before crossing the road. A man on a bicycle slowed as he passed, leaning into her. ‘Tell Tom to bring the parcel to Pa O’Driscoll in Davy Byrne’s pub this Sunday night. Third booth on the right.’
Veronica’s heart jolted. She stood rooted to the spot. Her eyes followed the group of cyclists, searching for the man, but he was lost among them. Nondescript, all dressed the same, white shirts and flat caps. She had no idea of what he looked like and wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Were people watching her?
Finally, she was home. Betty stood at the sink washing the last of the dinner plates. She asked Betty if Tom was at home.
‘No, he’d a few deliveries. Is it important?’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she nodded towards the oven. ‘I’ve kept you a few spuds hot. Tom will be back soon, Saturdays are quiet.’
‘I’m not hungry, and I’ve got a headache. I think I’ll lie down for a while.’
In her bedroom, she got the parcel and sat on the edge of her bed, rolling it in her hands. Soon the front door banged, and she immediately opened her bedroom door, gesturing Tom inside.
He leaned against the doorframe, still in a lot of pain. He limped over to the chair, rubbing his leg. ‘Dammed weather, sorry, sometimes it gets to me. Padraig should be helping me lift the barrels.’ He paused and gathered his emotions. ‘Go on then, love, you wanted something?’
‘A man passed me on a bicycle and told me to tell you to deliver the parcel Saturday night to Pa O’Driscoll in Davy Byrne’s pub.’ She inhaled and handed the parcel to Tom. Her hands shook a little. ‘How did he know who I was?’
‘Veronica, everyone is watching everyone. Sure, the English have spies everywhere. I always say, “Don’t trust anyone. Everyone is capable of being a spy”.’
He was silent for a few minutes. His head bent. Slowly, he lifted his head. ‘Saturday night? I was hoping to do it during the day on one of my delivery rounds. I can’t deliver Guinness at night. I’ll think of something.’
Later in bed, Veronica twisted and turned in a battle with sleep, and just as she was about to win the battle, she sat up. It was so simple. Lighting the lamp on her bedside table, she got out of bed careful of the squeaky floorboard beside her bed. She opened the wardrobe. Her cousin’s clothes hung, untouched, smelling of mothballs. Everything was there. Men’s trousers, a white shirt and waistcoat. It would be weird wearing her cousin’s clothes. The shoes would be a problem, but in defiance to her mother, she had brought her boots. She stood back and felt a thrill inside her stomach. Would her uncle agree?
11
During the week Veronica mulled over her plan, Mr Begley often berating her lack of typing due to daydreaming.
On Saturday, Veronica helped Betty clean the house; she needed to keep her hands busy to quell her racing mind and so offered to scrub the floors. She thought about Davy Byrne’s pub and imagined walking through the dark streets to there. Would she even make it to the pub? She might be attacked. When she got there, would the men laugh at her? So many questions.
Earlier, she had suggested to her uncle that she would go to the pub and wear Padraig’s clothes.
First, he had said, ‘No.’ His face had blanched, replaced by a distant sadness.
He rubbed his chin, staring into space, and sighed. ‘Maybe, just maybe it will work. These are desperate times. All the lads have gone to Cork to hear Michael Collins speak at a rally. He’s a great way with words, and he stirs up fire in the belly of many a young lad; they hang on to every word.’ Tom was silent for a minute. ‘It’s risky, but what choice do I have? But, please, Veronica, don’t let Betty know. You’ll have to be careful. Keep your head down but be watchful, be careful.’ He gave Veronica the directions. ‘Veronica, remember. Not a word to Betty.’
Veronica didn’t stop scrubbing the floor when Betty called her name. Kneeling in front of the fire hearth, she dipped a cloth into the tin bucket again and didn’t notice she had splashed water on her dress.
‘Veronica, are you, all right?’ asked Betty. ‘You’ve been rubbing the same spot for ages and look, you’re bleeding. You’ve scraped your knuckles. Here let me get you a cloth to wrap around your hand.’
‘I’m fine, just thinking about some typing I have to do.’
‘Are you sure that’s all it is? You’re not in trouble or anything with Mr Begley, or fighting with Bridget?’
‘No, nothing at all. That bacon smells lovely.’ The smell of the sizzling bacon usually sparked Veronica’s appetite, but not today.
At tea, Veronica forced herself to eat the bacon and bread, hoping Betty would stop asking her if she felt fine. After tea, she told Betty she was tired after the day’s chores so that she would have an early night.
Betty yawned and stretched, opening the drawer in the side cupboard where she stored the delph. She had a notebook in her hand. ‘I think I’ll have an early night as well. Your uncle said he’d be late; he has to get the barrels ready for tomorrow.’ She lifted the darned sock to the candle flame. Satisfied with her needlework, she placed it on top of the three other patched socks. When she stood, she rubbed the small of her back. ‘Would you put the cat out before you go to bed?’ She left, but turned to Veronica, looking at her for a minute. ‘Do you know, Veronica, I’m really glad you’re here.’ She said no more and went to bed.
Guilt swept over Veronica. She waited for Betty to settle, until she heard a small snore from Betty and Tom’s bedroom, and then she went to her bedroom and put her plan into action. Outside a British patrol vehicle passed, its lights bouncing off the walls. She took the folded pile of clothes from the wardrobe – trousers, shoes, shirt and braces – whispered Sorry, Padraig and put on his clothes, shuddering. If Betty saw her in his clothes, it would be the death of her. After rolling up the trousers, she tiptoed past Betty’s bedroom and put her ear to the door, and the deep breathing of Betty’s sleep reassured Veronica.
The noises of life she rarely saw filtered through the walls of the hall. A drunk husband shouted profanities at his wife, and a baby cried, looking for food or comfort. This was not her concern, and so she silently opened the front door to check nobody was in the street. Silently cursing her curly hair, she tucked it tight under the cap, wishing she had done it upstairs in front of the mirror. The parcel was safely concealed in the inside pocket of the jacket. When ready, she got the bike Tom had left outside for her. With one last check on the street, she cycled towards Davy Byrne’s. The night was dead and dark.
She cycled with her heart pounding, and though the air was bitterly cold, beads of sweat rolled down her forehead. She thought about the women who went to pubs. At home in her father’s pub, they sometimes ventured in on payday when anger overpowered them. In a weekly rage, they would drag their husbands ou
t of the pubs hoping to rescue a few shillings. Her uncle had told her Jim Larkin, a union man, had tried to stop men receiving their wages in pubs in the hope it might stop them from spending their few hard-earned pennies on liquor. This deterrent was like attempting to stop a mother giving her baby milk. The men’s desire for the hard stuff had no relevance where they received their wages.
Soon she arrived at the pub. She dropped the bike amongst a pile of bikes on the pub wall and stood in the shadows for a few minutes, allowing her breathing to slow to an even pace. She wiped away the sweat on her forehead, which could be mistaken for damp as the fog descended on the streets. Veronica kept her head steady as she walked to the entrance of the pub and stepped inside after two men. The only pub she had ever been in had been her father’s, and he had never allowed her into the bar, only into the lounge. The familiar smell of sawdust and smoke greeted her as the door opened, reminding her of her father’s pub. She pulled the cap low over her eyes, keeping her head high enough to take in the bar, but low enough to conceal her gender.
A fiddler and an accordion player sat on three-legged wooden stools beside the fire. Its flames were dancing to the music filling the pub. Men sat around them, tapping their feet and smoking pipes. Her eyes adjusted to the smoky light. At the bar, there was a woman who sat on a barstool. Her legs hung loosely, swaying to the music, or beer. She tried to conceal her years with heavy makeup and red lipstick. Her bosom left little to the imagination. She hung unsteadily onto a man’s arms, laughing too loud, nodding drunkenly to anything any of the men said.
Veronica hoped that with her oversized jacket, and baggy trousers that gathered around her shoes, she was just like any other Dublin lad wearing their older brother’s hand-me-downs. When she walked, her shoes dragged, sending sawdust into the air. However, the men who sat at the bar counter paid no attention to her. She looked for the third booth to the left from the door. Two men looked at her as she sat down to them and whispered, ‘Pa O’Driscoll? I was told to give this to him.’
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