Dublin's Girl

by Eimear Lawlor

  ‘Why are you in Dublin?’ Harry asked.

  Again, her head spun. She couldn’t say she worked for Sinn Féin and had to think quickly.

  ‘I work in a shop, on Abbey St. Sullivan’s shop. I do the accounts. I live with my aunt and uncle. Their son was killed in Turkey.’ His face changed; was it pity?

  ‘Was he with the Fusiliers?’

  ‘Yes, he was shot in Suvla Bay,’ she said, more relaxed now she didn’t have to lie. ‘He was my aunt and uncle’s only child.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awful, that must be hard for his parents.’

  ‘It must be hard for your parents that you are away.’

  ‘No, I was always away, boarding school since I was six years old.’

  ‘Really? That’s very young.’ Veronica couldn’t believe a child would be wrenched away at such a young age.

  He told her about his school days, and talked easily about the bond of friendship from the boys at school.

  ‘Initially, I felt betrayed by my parents. I was very close to my mother, but my father said I needed to grow up and it would make a man out of me,’ laughing at the memory, ‘I was only six.’

  He poured her more tea and nodded to two gentlemen who were leaving the room. She stole a glance at them. They were not army men and were dressed in expensive black suits with crisp white shirts.

  He saw her look at them. ‘Men who work with me.’

  ‘Oh, where do you work?’ This was a bold question, and she took a scone to butter it, hoping to give the impression she was not too concerned.

  ‘At Dublin Castle, nothing too important. Tell me, do you like Dublin?’

  Her pulse quickened. ‘It must be different to work in Dublin, than in the war – it must be calmer? Quieter?’ She tried to keep her gaze steady.

  His eyes deepened to a mahogany brown. ‘It is different, it’s busy but I’m learning. Do you like Dublin?’ he asked her again.

  And that was the end of the conversation about his work. They chatted for another half an hour before he looked at the grandfather clock at the entrance. ‘I have to go. Thank you for the tea, it was lovely, Veronica. Maybe we can do this again?’

  She answered without a second thought. ‘Yes, Harry, that would be nice.’

  Murphy brought her coat, and she rushed from the hotel to walk home. As she left, the major called her name. Her cover had been blown, she thought immediately, and she ran almost instinctively up Grafton St, past Trinity across O’Connell Bridge and to Abbey St.

  Her adrenaline flowed, but she needed a distraction, someone to calm her. She decided to call to see Bridget in her aunt’s shop in Abbey St. The wooden sign painted with the word ‘Sullivan’ swung as Veronica pushed the door open, and the bell chimed as she entered. The shop was empty; Bridget wasn’t behind the counter. It was much smaller than her father’s shop. Rows of glass jars full of butter-toffee and boiled sweets lined the walls behind the counter, away from prying hands. On the shelves under the jars were packets of Waverley cigarettes, Sweet Afton and matches. Fresh bread sat beside the weighing scales on the counter, waiting for a housewife’s visit.

  A small door at the left of the shop opened.

  ‘Yes, dear. Can I help you?’ said a silver-haired lady with tight curls. Her voice was clear and clipped, but the accent was unlike any she had ever heard.

  ‘Hello, eh. I’m Veronica. Is Bridget here? I was at the secretarial school with her. She said she helped you some Saturdays.’

  ‘Oh, Veronica, I’ve been told all about you. No, Mr Sullivan is feeling a lot better, so she only comes to visit now. I’m her aunt, Mrs Sullivan.’ She stood on her tiptoes and stuck out a tiny, translucent hand. Veronica shook it with care thinking it might break in her hand.

  The bell behind her rang as the door opened, and a young soldier entered, his uniform hanging from his thin frame. ‘A packet of Waverley please and a quarter of toffees.’

  He shifted from foot to foot. It was either nerves or the cold. He didn’t look at Veronica. Mrs Sullivan got the little wooden stool to take a jar high on the shelf.

  She weighed the toffee into a bag, twisting it tight for him. ‘Here you go, love. Tuppence please, for the two.’

  As he put them in his coat pocket, he turned, catching Veronica looking at him. She quickly let her eyes drop.

  The bell rang again as he departed, and Veronica lifted her head.

  ‘Lots of soldiers call,’ Mrs Sullivan said. ‘I serve them with a smile. I don’t judge them. Some are only boys, children really, and in a foreign land as well. You know I’m from Belfast.’

  Mrs Sullivan continued to chat with Veronica. It was lovely to listen to her Belfast lilt, and the conversation was a welcome reprieve from the silence at home. Veronica knew Betty meant no malice, but sometimes the silence was painful to her ears. Mrs Sullivan questioned her about her family and her work.

  ‘Bridget said you got a job. That’s exciting, isn’t it?’

  Veronica’s stomach dropped, remembering the lie she’d told the soldier about working in the shop. She had wanted to confide in Bridget, but that was not to be.

  ‘Yes, I’d better go, it’s getting late. Tell Bridget I called.’

  Veronica pushed the door, but stopped and opened her bag. She took out a paper and pen and scribbled a note for Bridget saying that she would love to meet soon. ‘Would you mind giving this to Bridget when you see her?’

  On Monday morning, at the office a pile of letters that needed typing greeted Veronica. She knew Michael wouldn’t be in until Wednesday, and worried he would be disappointed she hadn’t been able to get more information from the major.

  20

  6 March 1918

  On Wednesday morning, as Veronica started to type her first letter, Ernest from the Sinn Féin Bank burst into the office. ‘Redmond has died,’ he said, holding his side. ‘I’m out of breath. I’ve to sit down for a minute.’

  ‘Good God.’ Mrs O’Reilly stood up, pale. ‘Sit down, Ernest,’ she said and gave him her chair, before pouring him some water. She turned to Veronica. ‘Tell Arthur and the men upstairs that John Redmond is dead.’

  ‘Was he murdered?’ Veronica asked. Nine months ago, Veronica would not have asked that question, let alone think it, but now it seemed a natural question.

  ‘I don’t know. Does it matter? Go on quick and tell the men in the office upstairs.’

  Veronica ran upstairs to the third floor, taking two steps at a time. The whirl of Arthur Griffith’s printing press where he printed the Nationalist newspaper mixed with the click-clack of typewriters. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer. They probably can’t hear me. Veronica clenched her fist and banged on the door.

  ‘God, what is all the racket?’

  The office upstairs was smaller than her own – there was only enough room for the chairs behind the desks. Like her own office, its fire blazed, but it lacked a woman’s touch. There were no flowers on the desks, ashtrays overflowed, and a pile of papers had fallen from the desk into a mess on the floor.

  She blurted, ‘John Redmond is dead.’

  ‘What?’ said Arthur.

  She started to shake. ‘John Redmond is dead.’

  ‘God, girl, how? What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let me think.’ He paced up and down the room for a few minutes. ‘Go back downstairs. I’ve got to get word to Michael and Éamon. I’ll get everyone to meet in your office.’

  Veronica returned downstairs.

  ‘I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead,’ Mrs O’Reilly was saying, ‘but now, hopefully, this nonsense of Home Rule will stop.’

  She said it with an intensity Veronica had never heard before.

  ‘Paddy and my two boys off somewhere, hiding in some godforsaken place, for what, I ask you?’

  But before Veronica could think of a reply, Mrs O’Reilly continued. ‘All they wanted was to protect our country, and the bloody soldiers call them rebels. Twins just turn
ed sixteen – hardly had their front teeth and they took off.’

  Veronica shivered. The office had turned cold; the fire had been unattended with the news of Redmond’s death, and the whole building was eerily quiet. Even the printing press upstairs had stopped.

  ‘You might as well go home early,’ Mrs O’Reilly said, composing herself. ‘They are having a meeting upstairs, and it might go on for some time.’ She paused for a few minutes; her frown lines always became more prominent when she was deep in thought. ‘Do you know, Veronica, this will be a good thing for Sinn Féin. John Dillon, who is probably going to be the new leader, isn’t as good as John was with the people. It might give us a better chance in the by-elections now in June. We need to win as many seats in the elections to oppose the British. Go on home, Veronica, not much more for you to do today.’

  Veronica grabbed her coat, thankful the spring days were lengthening with the promise of warmer days. When she reached O’Connell Bridge, she turned left onto Sackville St. The bell rang as she pushed the door open.

  ‘Veronica, lovely to see you.’ Mrs Sullivan’s face broke into a smile. She bent down below the counter to retrieve something. ‘Bridget called to see me yesterday and will be here for the next few Saturdays. Mr Sullivan has taken a turn for the worse again.’ She handed Veronica an envelope. ‘Here you go, this was left for you.’

  Veronica tore open the envelope with her name beautifully scripted on it. Her heart missed a beat when she started to read, and she steadied her hand. She frowned. The note wasn’t from Bridget.

  Veronica,

  Would you like to go for a walk on Sunday the 24th? I will meet you at O’Connell Bridge at 2 p.m.

  Harry (Major Fairfax)

  ‘When the handsome officer came in looking for you, Veronica, I didn’t know what to say. He handed me a note and asked if you were working. I told him you weren’t, and he asked me to give this to you.’ Mrs Sullivan smiled. ‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’

  Veronica was surprised he remembered where she had said she worked. It was a perfect opportunity, and she hoped the excitement about John Redmond dying had eased so she could speak to Michael. She sighed with relief. Now she had something positive from her meeting with Major Fairfax. She didn’t stay long with Mrs Sullivan, asking her to tell Bridget she had called, and that she would write to her soon.

  All week Veronica anxiously waited for Michael to come into the office.

  On Friday as it neared six o’clock, Mrs O’Reilly was wrapping a green scarf around her neck. ‘Do you like it, Veronica? My sister in London gave it to me for my birthday. What’s eating you? You’ve been fidgeting all day, are you coming down with something? That damned flu still hasn’t gone.’ Mrs O’Reilly looked worriedly at her.

  ‘No, honestly I’m fine, it’s just been a hectic week with everything that has happened.’ She yawned to show that she was tired. ‘Do you think Michael will be in before we go?’

  ‘But dear, he has gone to Cork.’ Mrs O’Reilly bent down to pick up her bag and didn’t notice Veronica’s crestfallen face. ‘I’ve to lock up for the weekend. We’d better go, I’ll walk a bit with you.’

  They left the silent building behind them, Grafton St now bustling with people going home from work. At St Stephen’s Green two soldiers were talking to a young boy, questioning him.

  ‘Why don’t they stop terrorising innocent people? Look he is just a young lad,’ said Mrs O’Reilly. ‘What do you think, Veronica?’

  Veronica didn’t say anything, but as they poked the boy in the stomach, anger bubbled like water sprouting from a broken pipe. The boy doubled over holding his stomach, his face creased with pain. In that moment, she decided she would meet the major on Sunday and do her duty for Ireland.

  21

  Veronica didn’t sleep well and found it hard to concentrate on the priest at Sunday Mass thinking of her day ahead. After Mass they ate breakfast. Tom spoke between mouthfuls of fried bread. ‘Mass always makes me hungry; you’d think we’d be used to fasting before Communion, but by God, it works up an appetite.’

  ‘Don’t overeat, Richard sent up a lovely bit of beef as well for our Sunday dinner.’ Betty put down her fork on the table, ‘Veronica, are you feeling ill? You’re not eating.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’m just not hungry, Aunt Betty.’ She wasn’t lying; even the smell of the sizzling Sunday roast in the stove didn’t make her hungry. ‘I’m meeting Bridget later for a walk.’

  Veronica forced herself to eat, not just to suppress any further questions from Betty, but also not to waste food, as so many people living around her had none. She could hear her mother, ‘It is a sin to waste food – not a mortal sin, but a sin, nonetheless.’

  After washing the breakfast dishes, she tried not to let her voice quaver as she said, ‘I’m off to meet Bridget. I won’t be late.’

  ‘All right, dear. It’s a lovely day for a walk but take your coat. It’s good the sickness has passed,’ Betty said.

  Tom had stretched out in front of the fire, had succumbed to his Sunday afternoon sleep, steam from the drying clothes in front of the fire spiralling upwards.

  Before she left, Veronica checked herself in the small mirror in the hall, coaxing her curls to stay in place with the pins, and tightened the top button of her blue Sunday coat, making sure to wear her matching hat. The note at the bottom of her coat pocket burned through to her skin.

  The shops were closed as it was Sunday, but a few people were out, taking a stroll. Four soldiers walked in the middle of the road causing the bikes to swerve to avoid them. Not wanting to catch any of the soldiers’ attention, Veronica walked steadily with her eyes ahead. The earlier rain had stopped, and the weak sun broke through the clouds with the promise of a lovely day. Harry stood waiting on the corner of Abbey St. He shifted from foot to foot, holding a small bunch of yellow daffodils.

  He smiled when he saw her. She felt her cheeks heat as he gave her the flowers. If anyone saw her! Now she wished she had talked to Michael. Why hadn’t she spoken to her uncle? The incessant chatter in her head made her stomach churn. It took all of Veronica’s strength to smile at him. She looked at his face to see if he could hear how fast and hard her heart was beating. But all she saw was his smile, a pleasant smile. He had long eyelashes that made his brown eyes darker.

  ‘Veronica, it’s lovely to see you. I was afraid you might not come. I ran after you when you left the Shelbourne, but you were gone. I hope you don’t think I was presumptuous calling at the shop?’ He waited for a reply, smiling, but Veronica’s response stuck in her throat, so she replied with a nod. It didn’t seem a good idea to see him on her own. How could she pull this act off if she couldn’t even speak? ‘No, I’m glad you wrote,’ she replied, eventually. They walked towards Merrion Square. She relaxed the further they got from Harcourt St.

  ‘I know you told me, but where did you say your family were from?’

  ‘Cavan.’ She stuttered and rambled, ‘they were originally from Scotland.’ She was telling the truth; the McDermott’s were originally from Scotland, some were Presbyterian, but some were Catholic. The knot in her stomach was getting tighter thinking about Eddie. She had to do this for him.

  He didn’t respond for a moment, but nodded at a gentleman and his wife, taking in the first days of spring.

  ‘I remember my father’s regiments were going to go to Scotland, but then he was posted to India for years.’

  Veronica thought briefly about whether she should drop the flowers and run but then glanced at his face. It was interesting, his nose was perfect and his hair slightly curled sticking out under his cap, but it was his eyes that grabbed her attention. They were the darkest eyes she had ever seen, a deep chocolate brown.

  She relaxed a little, telling him about the lake at home, the forest and how she loved to read there. She hoped that if she kept talking, he would ask fewer questions. There was something about the way he listened to her, so intently, that made her face warm. />
  ‘What about your family, Major?’

  ‘Harry. Call me Harry. My mother and father are in Shropshire, and, as I already told you, I am an only child.’

  His accent differed from those of the soldiers who came into Harcourt St. She wanted to be repulsed by him, she wanted to hate him, but she felt herself becoming comfortable in his company.

  He stopped walking and turned to look her straight in the eye, ‘Veronica, I…’

  She waited for him to say the rest of the sentence.

  ‘I am so glad you came, I feared you wouldn’t,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t care what religion you are. I won’t even ask.’ He paused. ‘I am half Catholic. My mother is a French Catholic. That’s why my father never did well in the army. I know my superiors will frown upon our meeting – the soldiers do meet Dublin girls, but for men of my rank, it’s frowned upon. I know we are two very different people. I don’t know what your politics or beliefs are, but I’m not really cut out for this job.’

  He went to take her hand but stopped at her stricken expression.

  She had never held a man’s hand before. This was not what she had expected.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’ He dropped his hand by his side.

  The sun shone down, but she saw rain in the distance, and a rainbow appeared over the rooftops. She stopped as they turned onto Pembroke Road. She hadn’t realised they had walked so far from St Stephen’s Green. Mrs Brown’s house was at the top of the road. Her heart began to beat wildly. This was too much for her; her breathing became short and shallow.

  ‘You look pale. Are you all right? I’ll see if we can get a cab.’ He looked up and down the street. ‘I think there is rain on the way. Getting a cab will be hard. Maybe we should keep going before the rain comes.’ She started to walk ahead when the sounds of hooves, rubble and the grating of wheels came up behind them. She prayed it was a cab, and it was. Harry raised his hand to stop it.

  In the distance, she saw a lone figure dressed in black approaching them. It was Fr O’Flanagan. She silently prayed the cab would stop before he spotted her; she couldn’t talk to him. The hooves slowed.