Dublin's Girl

by Eimear Lawlor

  Veronica had never heard Betty talk with as much enthusiasm.

  ‘Was it good?’ Betty asked.

  ‘Excuse me, but was what good?’

  ‘Your day.’

  Glad to be able to talk about it she said, ‘Oh, Aunt Betty, De Valera, and others were arrested by the English,’ and continued to tell Betty what happened that afternoon. ‘Michael said they might be sent to a prison in Wales with all the other Irish prisoners.’

  Betty sat beside her, putting her arm around Veronica.

  ‘Go on, love. Eat your dinner, pushing it around the plate won’t solve the problem. There’s nothing you can do. When you go to work tomorrow, you’ll see they’ll have everything sorted. They can’t keep them locked up.’

  Not long later, Tom arrived home and threw the newspaper on the table, its headline Flu Kills Thousands in the Tenements.

  ‘Look at that. You’d think we had enough to worry about.’ He slumped on his armchair, pulling off his boots. He walked over to the women in his socks that were more a patchwork of different darns of wool than a pair of knitted socks. They all stood to read the paper.

  Betty sighed. ‘Sure, look at their conditions. They are filthy. What hope do they have?’

  Tom rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Sure they’ve no food. Everyone needs good food when ill.’

  It seemed that with poverty, the people couldn’t hide from the reaper.

  ‘Sit down at the table. Tom, Veronica has something to tell you. Just eat your dinner as she tells you.’

  Veronica told him the events of the day. When she had finished speaking the cuckoo clock struck six o’clock. Tom reached for his cigarette, undid his waistcoat and inhaled hard on his cigarette to get as much nicotine as he could, as cigarettes were not immune to rationing. He looked at his yellow fingers and said, ‘It’ll be all right. I’m sure they will let them go. I know we are making progress and we have this bloody flu to worry about as well.’

  ‘Tea, Tom, let’s eat and not think about this or the flu, and let’s be thankful Veronica is here.’

  Tom nodded thanks to Betty as she put bread and tea in front of him. When she went back to the stove to get her tea, Tom leaned over the table and whispered to Veronica, ‘Please be careful, keep along the quays the way I showed.’

  The empty place setting on the table bore into Veronica like a hot ironmonger’s rod.

  Tom stirred his tea four times in a clockwise direction. With care, he spread the butter on his bread, making sure it was even and thin to every corner covering the brown crust.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’

  Veronica jumped at the sound of Betty’s voice; she hadn’t heard her come back into the room.

  ‘Nothing, love, Veronica was telling me about her friend Bridget and how she is going to write to her later tonight.’

  That night she wrote two letters, the first to Bridget and the second to Harry.

  27

  On the second Saturday of June, Veronica took the train to Kingstown to meet Harry in Gilligan’s tearooms. When she had sent the message to him at the barracks suggesting another day out, she wasn’t too sure if he would get it. Every evening she’d called to Mrs Sullivan’s shop to see if there was a reply. The response was quick. He’d accepted and suggested they meet at Gilligan’s tearooms in Kingstown. Veronica had looked forward to the train journey on her own, she blended in with the day-trippers. A mother and son sat opposite her. He wore pristine blue shorts and white socks, a far cry from the clothes worn by the starving children she saw running in the streets of Dublin. When the train arrived at Kingstown, the woman nodded goodbye to Veronica as she gathered up her bonnet and coat. During the short walk to Gilligan’s from the station, she watched the boats bob on the choppy sea, and seagulls swoop and dive, gliding in the wind.

  Gilligan’s was quiet. Veronica sat at a window seat. The sea was the colour of treacle under the dark clouds. It wasn’t a day for mothers and prams. As she stared at her reflection in the window, she thought she was looking at a different person. Her hair was pinned neat, and the red lipstick made her look mature. Behind her, the door swung open with a gust of wind, followed by a mother pushing a pram with a crying baby. The wind howled outside. Veronica thought how disappointed the mother and boy she had seen on the train must be as it wasn’t a day for the seaside. The young mother pushed her pram near the fire, shaking the wet from her coat before sitting down to coo at the baby.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea, love?’

  The waitress startled Veronica. ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  Harry passed the window, and he had a notebook in his hand to shield himself from the wind and spray of water from the sea as it crashed onto the pier. Veronica recognised it as the notebook that had fallen from his coat pocket when they were last there. When he entered the waitress eyed him with suspicion or disdain. But Harry didn’t seem to notice and walked to Veronica’s table, his limp not as pronounced. His brown smiling eyes spoke that he was glad to see her. ‘How was your journey? I hope you hadn’t any trouble on the train,’ he said. He took off his cap and rubbed his hands through his thick brown hair. ‘I was visiting a friend here and took the earlier train.’ He placed the notebook on the table. It was like the tan leather Amity notebook Veronica’s father kept in his study. Her father’s had a small lock on it, but Harry’s didn’t.

  Veronica rubbed her hand. ‘No, it was fine,’ she said and looked down. ‘Well, there were soldiers on the train, and they searched a few young men. They were younger than me. I admit it was scary. It was like they were looking for something.’ She held her breath to watch him, hoping he would say something about the soldiers and their work.

  ‘Let’s not talk about those things. I …’ Harry stopped and looked at her. He took her hands in his. ‘I’ve thought of you every day since the first time we met.’

  His hands were soft, warm and clean; she thought of her uncle’s dirty, hard-skinned arthritic hands and struggled not to pull away. She would have to try another approach.

  ‘If only things were different,’ she said, composing herself to look directly at him. She saw an emotion in his eyes, an emotion she wasn’t familiar with, something profound, and it disturbed her.

  ‘We’ll have tea,’ he said after a moment. ‘I think it’s safe here, and I’ve longed to spend the day away from everything.’

  ‘What do you mean, safe here?’ Safe from whom? What did he mean by ‘everything’?

  Ignoring her, he waved at the waitress. ‘Could we order? The baking smells wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Could we have a pot of tea?’

  The girl left, and the baby cried from the opposite side of the room as the mother rocked the pram waiting for her tea to arrive. A rattle of cups interrupted Veronica as the girl put the blue-flowered cups on the table. There was a small crease in the tablecloth which she smoothed out before placing the matching blue sugar and milk jug on the table.

  She had to do something fast; she was gaining his trust now.

  He lifted her chin and withdrew his hand quickly before removing a loose strand of hair from her face. She thought he had been about to lean over the table to kiss her. She shook away, her pounding heart unsteady.

  ‘Sorry, did I startle you? I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.’

  He spoke softly, his voice caressing her body. She was shocked, shocked that she didn’t feel repulsed, and confused. Something stirred inside her.

  The waitress coughed. ‘Sorry, sir and madam. It’s extremely windy, so we’re closing early.’ She didn’t look at Harry as she spoke but pointed to the door. It was more of a command than a statement.

  Veronica watched Harry tuck his notebook safely inside his coat pocket.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the train station. It’s a shame our outing was cut short like this. I’m really sorry, but I can’t give you a lift back,’ Harry said, and he reached to fix the collar on her coat. ‘I’ve come with
a driver, and I have some business on the way back to Dublin.’

  A squeal of laughter came from behind them. ‘Quick, the train is coming.’ A young couple ran past, holding hands to the station.

  Veronica said, ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ She had to find out what he’d meant earlier about it not being safe. Did he know what the soldiers had been looking for?

  ‘Veronica, I hear the train. I’ve to take the car.’ He leaned into her to kiss her on the cheek but stopped when a man coughed and said, ‘Sir.’

  A soldier stood beside them. ‘Sir, we have what you were looking for.’ As he glanced at Veronica, a shiver ran through her body.

  His English accent was harsh compared to Harry’s, and his face was equally as rough, as if he hadn’t shaved in days.

  Harry nodded, turning to Veronica, and said, ‘I must go, Veronica. I’ll write.’

  ‘Please do, Harry,’ she said, and then took a chance. ‘It must be important if they sent a car out here for you?’

  Harry cocked his head and smiled at her. ‘You are a funny thing, Veronica, why would you wonder about those things?’ The soldier coughed again.

  Harry looked at him before turning back to Veronica. He said, ‘I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘Sir, please hurry, General Maxwell said it’s important. Do you have the paperwork he wanted?’

  The soldier walked to a waiting army car to open the passenger door for Harry. As he got in, a piece of paper dropped from his pocket. When the car was a safe distance, she ran to retrieve it before the wind took it out to sea.

  It was a torn piece of paper, the top half gone.

  Rallies Cork, Sligo

  Fr Flanagan

  That’s all she could make out. On her way back to Dublin on the train, she thought about the notebook. She needed to see Michael as soon as possible.

  On Monday morning, she knocked on Michael’s door and entered, not waiting for an answer. Michael sat at his desk.

  ‘Here, Michael,’ she said and handed him the note. ‘I met the major in Kingstown, but a soldier came to pick him up. He said General Maxwell wanted to see him and asked whether he had “the papers” ready. And this fell from his pocket.’

  Michael studied it for a moment. ‘They must know about the rallies we are organising in Cork and Sligo next weekend.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘But I don’t know why they have Fr O’Flanagan’s name.’ He picked up the phone, and while he waited for the operator to answer, Veronica told him about the notebook.

  Michael put the phone down, and thought for a minute. ‘Veronica, I’ll get back to you in a while. I’ve to speak to Fr O’Flanagan first.’

  As Veronica left the office, Michael said, ‘Wait, Veronica – thanks. I know it’s hard, with Eddie still in prison, but you’re doing a great job, and we really appreciate it.’

  *

  Three days later an unexpected visitor called to the office. Veronica hadn’t seen Fr O’Flanagan for months.

  His clothes were a little looser and his hair sparser.

  ‘I was asking Mrs O’Reilly the other day if she could spare you for a few weeks. I need some help with shorthand and typing.’

  ‘I’d gladly help. I enjoyed my time with you and Mrs Brown.’

  ‘It’s in Roscommon,’ said Fr O’Flanagan.

  ‘Eh, how long, Father? It’s not that I’m—’

  ‘It’s only for a few weeks, maybe a month, and we’ll leave at the end of the week. What do you think? Michael didn’t want me to take you, but I need your help. We have a few anti-conscription rallies, and I need letters typed and help to deliver the posters. The bishops and priests are going to tell their congregation to resist conscription.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be ungrateful, Father. I’d love to help.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  When Fr O’Flanagan left, the smell of his cigar smoke lingered in the office long after he was gone.

  Roscommon was a place she had never been to, and the more she thought about it, a few weeks away from the capital would be good. As her father always said, ‘A change is as good as a rest.’ She went to Michael’s office.

  ‘Yes, Veronica, how can I help you?’

  ‘Fr O’Flanagan wants me to go to Roscommon with him, but what about Major Fairfax? I forgot to say the major mentioned that “things have not been as safe as they were”, and when I was going home, a soldier came over to him at the train station. I said to him, it must be important for a soldier to come in a car to pick him up, but he ignored me. But I thought he looked troubled.’

  ‘Write to him. Keep him sweet. Don’t tell him you are going to Roscommon. Tell him your mother is sick and you’re going home for a few weeks. We’ll keep an eye on him. We have to stop the bastards with their conscription madness.’ He thumped his fist on the desk. ‘Write him a note and post it to the barracks, and put the return address as Mrs Sullivan’s shop.’

  Veronica nodded and thought about the major on the way home. Her day in Kingstown with him drinking tea like it was normal. At home, Veronica packed her suitcase while Betty fussed, making some bread for Veronica to take to Roscommon.

  *

  As the train moved across the countryside from Broadstone to Roscommon, Veronica relaxed into the soft seat, so different from her travel on the trains before. Fr O’Flanagan had met her at Broadstone to give her a first-class ticket, telling her the directions to Sacred Heart Church and that Fr Carney would take her on to Murray’s, a public house that had lodgings.

  When Veronica arrived in Roscommon, the evening sun was still warm. She carried her small suitcase on the two-minute walk to the Sacred Heart Church. There were few people on the streets, and the air smelled clean. No menacing soldiers were patrolling, and there weren’t any children chasing each other. She relaxed in the quietness. It was good to stroll the streets without having to keep a watchful eye out for trouble. She looked at the piece of paper Fr O’Flanagan had given her. He had drawn a little map for her: right, right again and then left for two hundred yards down Abbey St to the church to meet Fr Carney.

  The Presbytery house was a large square grey stone building, home to Fr Carney, and his housekeeper Mrs Long.

  Fr Carney greeted Veronica with the warmth of an old friend. ‘You’ll like it here, Veronica, the summer has been kind to us. Fr O’Flanagan isn’t arriving for a few days so rest yourself and take a walk around our castle.’

  Later Fr Carney took Veronica to Murray’s pub. For the few free days before Fr O’Flanagan’s arrival, she enjoyed the tranquillity of Roscommon, but that was soon to change.

  28

  After her first day typing for Fr O’Flanagan in the rectory, Veronica walked back to Murray’s. She tucked the letters inside her coat to post on her way home. He had said, ‘Be careful, Veronica, the RIC are following me everywhere. If anyone tries to stop you, just nod and politely excuse yourself.’

  He stopped to inhale his pipe, but the tobacco had gone out, and he struck a match. Before he lit the tobacco, he said, ‘I’m going to Athlone now to a meeting in Hayes hotel. And Veronica, remember, they don’t care that you’re a woman, they will treat you just the same as if you were a man.’

  As Veronica walked across the square to the public house, she slowed and narrowed her eyes as in the distance three RIC men approached. To her right, a cottage’s front door was open, and she ran in hoping they hadn’t seen her. She was in the living room with an old woman sat in a wooden rocking chair, staring into a blazing fire used for cooking. The woman’s face was lined with wrinkles that spoke of hardship only a woman of her years could have. She nodded at Veronica and lifted her thin bony finger to her lips with a knowing smile.

  Silent, Veronica looked out the small window as the RIC men passed, the guns hanging from their belts rattling as they moved with determination. Veronica watched them pass, inhaling slow, silent breaths. The old woman went back to staring into the fire. Veronica left the cottage and moved down Abbey St back to Murray’s pub
, pulling her coat tight around her. Adrenaline rushing through her veins, she ran up Castle St to Murray’s, careful to keep her distance but close enough so she could see them ahead. They went into the police station. Gathering pace, she ran past the station, lifting her long skirt; her coat opened, flapping as she ran. She entered the pub, and the men at the bar gave her a brief, fleeting look. They were still in their work clothes, not wanting anything to distract their drinking time before they set off home. Running upstairs, she took two steps at a time.

  In her room, Veronica slumped on a chair beside the unlit fire, taking a minute to breathe normally again. She sat for a few minutes, wondering how she would contact Fr O’Flanagan. He was still at his meeting in Athlone. She reached for her matches to light the lamp, but before she could strike a match, there was a loud banging on the door.

  ‘Open up,’ said a man, his accent rough.

  She didn’t move, breathing quietly.

  ‘Open up, I said. God damn it, bitch, open up.’

  The RIC must have followed her here from the station. Veronica walked to the other side of her room. Taking a deep breath and composing herself, she opened the door.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked with false bravado, to a red-faced RIC man.

  He pushed her back into her room. She hoped her sparse room held little interest to him.

  ‘Are you Fr O’Flanagan’s secretary?’

  Veronica didn’t answer him, just looked at him coldly.

  He snorted. ‘No need to answer, we know you are. Com’ on, you are to come with us. Move.’

  Slowly, Veronica stepped across the hall, the flicker of light falling ominously on the floor. Walking down the dark narrow hallway, an impatient soldier pushed the barrel of his gun into her back, quickening her step. In the pub, the men sitting on the stools along the bar were silent, all drinking ceased. Outside Murray’s pub on Castle St, two green-uniformed RIC men were waiting. One clutched her arm tight, forcing her to walk fast. They crossed the square, not saying a word. They walked down Castle St onto Abbey St towards the Sacred Heart Church. Curtains twitched as they passed. Men stood in doorways with supportive eyes that followed her down the street. They went towards the church, breaking the wooden gate as they entered the garden behind the parish house. Without knocking, they walked into the rectory, confronting an open-mouthed Fr Carney in the living room.