‘Take us to Fr O’Flanagan’s room.’
He dropped his newspaper and scuttled down the hall. The RIC barged past him into Fr O’Flanagan’s room. Veronica stood in the corner silently, watching them. One soldier emptied the contents of a cupboard while the other read Fr O’Flanagan’s paperwork, discarding some and putting others in a separate pile. They ripped the curtains from the window rail over his writing desk, and light flooded the room, but it was still hard to see.
One man shouted out of the room, ‘Send the housekeeper up.’
Mrs Long, the housekeeper, appeared trembling at the door, tears falling down her face.
‘Light some candles.’
Mrs Long didn’t move.
‘Now!’
She ran to the small hallstand on the landing, taking the matches, her shaking hands failing to strike the match the first time. She finally lit the lamps in the room, and the RIC could now scrutinise the paperwork. They picked up page after page, dropping each one when they had finished looking at it.
‘Look at these,’ one said and threw some documents at the other, believing them to be important.
‘What are you smirking at?’ barked one at Veronica.
Veronica shrugged her shoulders and didn’t answer. They were the ordnance survey maps Fr O’Flanagan had bought at an auction of a priest who had died. Fr O’Flanagan had an interest in Irish place-names, and he studied maps. Bookshelves were cleared, the books left lying on the wooden floor, and drawers turned upside down scattering their contents. Veronica watched, saying nothing, as the younger of the RIC investigated a jug she knew Fr O’Flanagan kept money in. Finding five pounds, he put it in his pocket. The youngest of the RIC men objected, but nobody listened. As the men were leaving, one of them saw Fr O’Flanagan’s suitcase.
‘Bring it to the barracks and open it there when we have him,’ the older man said, but his suggestion was ignored, and the suitcase was opened and emptied, Fr O’Flanagan’s vestments thrown on the floor.
‘Take that typewriter over there on the desk. We will look at the ribbon to see if we can get any information from it.’
A large hand gripped Veronica’s arm. ‘Where is the priest?’ the older RIC man barked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said in as measured a tone as she could manage.
The man stared down at her. His breath smelled of beer and tobacco. He’d probably helped himself to some beer when he was in Murray’s.
‘Leave town now. Just because you are a woman, it will not save you being put up against a wall and shot.’
With that warning, the men left. The house shuddered as they slammed the front door after them. Fr Carney came into the room white and shaken. ‘Oh my, are you hurt, dear?’
Veronica said, ‘I’m taking the car,’ and ran to the kitchen, not noticing the smell of burning bread or steaming kettle on the stove.
Fr Carney followed her. ‘Veronica, you can’t take the car, surely you can’t drive.’
She saw what she was looking for near the back door: the keys to the parish car. Veronica ignored Fr Carney, grabbed the keys and ran to the car. It was a Ford Model R similar to Dr Reynolds’s car. She fumbled with the keys, and to her relief, the car started. Veronica was thankful. Dr Reynolds had let her drive his car on her birthday. Now it was a necessity to save a man’s life. The full moon bathed the road in silver light guiding her along the roads as she didn’t get time to light the oil lamps on the outside of the car.
She finally reached Athlone. It was easy to spot Hayes. She stopped the car in front of the hotel trying to catch her breath, as she felt she hadn’t taken a breath on the forty-minute drive since leaving Roscommon. She knew she looked a sight running into the hotel, her hair windswept and her face flushed; she ignored the stares from guests. Assuming the meeting was in the bar, she followed the signs and stood in the doorway surveying the room. As usual, it was occupied only by men, but not the type of men who were in Murray’s pub. Their clothes were new, cleaner, and they all had concentrated looks upon their faces.
Fr O’Flanagan sat at the end of the bar with four men. He saw her and excused himself from the men.
‘Veronica, why are you here? What happened?’
‘The RIC came,’ Veronica blurted, dropping into the nearest armchair. ‘They went through your documents and ransacked your room. Fr Carney was very shaken; I came to you straight away. They also threatened me.’ It was only then that Veronica started to shake.
‘Get this lady a glass of water,’ he said, slow and measured, to the waiter hovering nearby. He paced the room, puffing on his pipe.
‘Right, we’ll return to Roscommon.’
It was late when they returned to Roscommon. Fr O’Flanagan didn’t speak as he checked his room to see what was missing. He looked in the jug lying on the ground among his vestments thrown in a heap.
He threw the mug on the ground, and the fine china shattered into pieces on the floorboards.
Veronica gasped at his anger.
He grabbed his coat and hat. ‘I’m going to Sgt Mulvaney now – let’s see what he has to say about his thugs taking my money. Come on, Veronica.’
Within minutes Fr O’Flanagan thumped on the station door and entered without invitation. The sparse room with only a chair and table was filled with heat. Sgt Mulvaney sat in a chair in front of a fire, his socks lying beside his unlaced shoes as he warmed his feet. He jumped when Fr O’Flanagan thumped on the desk, ‘Your men terrified my secretary, and stole my money.’
Sgt Mulvaney put on his shoes with no socks. ‘Well, I’d hardly say they terrified your secretary! She doesn’t look too frightened.’
She shivered as he cast his eye up and down her.
Fr O’Flanagan leaned on the table, his face red, ‘And they took my money.’
‘Can you prove that?’ He now buttoned his black jacket, and pointed to his stripes on his sleeve. ‘See these, I’m in charge.’ He eyeballed Fr O’Flanagan. ‘Now, be off with ye, before I arrest ye both.’ He stood a few inches in front of Fr O’Flanagan, their noses practically touching, ‘I’m in charge,’ he said again and laughed. ‘Go on be off with ye, you’ve no power. I’m the law.’
Fr O’Flanagan did not flinch, but nodded to Veronica to follow him. Outside, the mottled grey sky of morning seeped across the sky as they walked in silence to the rectory.
‘Veronica take my bed and rest. I’ve work to do.’
‘Father, I know I will find it hard to sleep.’
‘No, lie down, I will go into my study, I need to think.’
Veronica woke as daylight flooded the room, surprised she had slept. Voices filtered into her room. Straining her ears, she heard Fr O’Flanagan talking to a boy. She had not undressed and standing she smoothed her wrinkled skirt to look for them. It was a young man who spoke with a lisp.
She followed the voices into Fr O’Flanagan’s room. ‘Veronica, come in. This is Thomas Moore. Continue, Thomas, this is Veronica, my secretary. Sit down, Veronica. Thomas was telling me that some RIC men called to his home very early this morning to talk to his brother, who is in the RIC. They went out to the yard to chat. Thomas followed them outside but made sure he was hidden, and he said they talked about the stolen money.’
Thomas interrupted Fr O’Flanagan. ‘Father, sorry but there is more. Mickey Brady, also in the RIC said he was in the barracks and overheard someone say that the soldiers want to shoot you. They – the soldiers and my brother – think if you are shot then the anti-conscription rallies will stop.’
She looked to see Fr O’Flanagan’s reaction, but he calmly puffed on his pipe, his face impassive, not giving anything away.
Thomas put his cap on. ‘I’ve to go. I’ll be missed. It’s mart day, and I’ve to bring a bull to the mart.’
‘Yes, son, you go, don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out. Let me think about it. Veronica, you go as well.’
Veronica returned to her room in Murray’s Pub and lay on the bed, fully cl
othed, closing her eyes. Before sleep took hold, there was a knock at her door.
She sat up searching for something to defend herself with. She grabbed the poker.
‘Veronica,’ said Fr O’Flanagan.
She dropped the poker by her side as he entered. ‘Are you going to kill me with that?’ he asked, smiling. He tapped his pipe on his hand and threw the burnt tobacco into the fire, looking at it as if expecting it to ignite, but it remained lifeless. After a moment he said, ‘We’ll return to Dublin. Michael sent word that he wants us back. You’ll be glad to know he got word from London that they think the English are going to stop this conscription nonsense.’
Veronica closed her eyes, relief flooding her. Roscommon was more dangerous than Dublin.
*
‘How was your trip, Veronica? I hope you’re not too shaken. Fr O’Flanagan was here a few minutes ago and told us what happened,’ said Mrs O’Reilly.
‘I’m fine now. It seems many people are in worse situations around the country. I thought it was only in Dublin. But honestly, I’m fine, Mrs O’Reilly.’
Veronica’s life had changed so much. She looked at Mrs O’Reilly. Did she have a simple life outside the work they did?
Michael walked into the office, nodded to Veronica and put a pile of scribbled notes on Mrs O’Reilly’s desk.
‘Would you and Veronica type these for me? When you’re finished, Veronica, please bring them into my office to sign.’
The letters didn’t take long to type, and Veronica brought them into Michael, who furiously scribbled his signature. He had no sooner scribbled his name, and he was signing the next document. His ability to scan the text so quickly for mistakes amazed Veronica, and many times he would say, ‘Look, a missing capital letter’, or ‘that is spelled wrong’.
He signed the last letter giving it one last scan before sitting back in his leather chair and looking pensively at Veronica.
‘I heard you got a fright in Roscommon.’
‘It was scary, but we didn’t stay long after that. And I had to look after my aunt for a bit when we got back because she thought she was getting the flu, even though it is one of the hottest summers I can remember. Aunt Betty is quite fragile.’
Michael nodded. ‘I heard. I’ve news on the major – General Maxwell had sent him back to London for a bit, but I don’t know what for, nor if he is coming back.’
Veronica nodded, her face impassive, hoping it didn’t betray the sinking feeling in her stomach at this news.
29
November 1918
Summer passed, and autumn was mild, so nobody was prepared when November surprised everyone with an early scattering of snow. Luckily it didn’t last, but the cold of winter was to stay. Veronica blew on her fingers, hoping they would stop hurting. She put them as near to the flames in the fire as she dared without burning them. The weather had determined that her lunchtime walk was shorter than usual. It was cold and wet, but she was fed up stuck inside as the gloomy winter days were so short. After twenty minutes outside, Veronica could not stand the cold anymore and returned to work.
‘Veronica, did you hear?’ Mrs O’Reilly came into the office shaking the rain from her hat and dislodging a dried, withered oak leaf. ‘It’s so blustery out there. Dear, did you hear?’
‘Hear what?’
‘The war, I think the war is over,’ said Mrs O’Reilly as she slumped in her chair and loosened her coat.
‘I was wondering why there were so many people on the streets. I saw a few groups of men chatting loudly, but the rain was so bad I didn’t linger to see what the excitement was about.’ Veronica thought of Harry. Maybe he had been sent back to France and killed. A sadness overcame her. He had not been a bad person. She had seen that from the way he spoke about the men in the trenches, and how he gave sweets to the children on the streets. That was in the past, she reminded herself.
‘Thank God for that. I hope it’s a good thing for us. We’ve got to keep up our fight. We did so well in the by-elections in the summer, we’ve to be ready for the next election. But God knows when that will be,’ Mrs O’Reilly said, getting up from her desk. ‘Can you hear that, Veronica? Quick, open the window.’
The two women looked out of the open window. Crowds of men, women and children in the street ran towards St Stephen’s Green waving the Union Jack, cheering and clapping. A few men stood aside, watching the celebrations silently with disdainful looks on their faces.
Mrs O’Reilly closed the window. ‘Right Veronica, back to work.’ She shuddered, pulling the cardigan tight. ‘Do you know there will be some trouble. I can feel it in my bones.’
Mrs Moore ran into the room, stopping to catch her breath. ‘Did you hear, the war is over, and they’re upon Sackville St singing “Rule Britannia”. Thank God, at last, our boys will come home. Too many have come home in coffins, or not at all.’
Veronica nodded. ‘That’s so true, at least we never gave into conscription.’ She briefly thought of Harry again. His letter was still in the bottom of her music box in her bedroom. He had written to her from England. Shropshire. She never wrote back. He’d said he had to stay to mind his sick mother, and she told Michael. But she never told Michael his other words, I miss you, even though we’ve only known each other a short while. I was so comfortable in your silence. She thought it strange, in your silence, but she took it as a compliment. Secretly she wished she could have seen more of him, but she never shared this with anyone. Harry had drawn a seagull at the bottom of the page and a yacht, a sweet reference to their time in Kingstown.
‘Veronica, did you hear me?’ said Mrs O’Reilly, ‘I’m going upstairs to see what they are saying about the news.’ She left the office humming a rendition of Silent Night.
The phone rang continuously in Michael’s office next door, but he was out on business.
Veronica was glad they had no phone to disturb her thoughts. News of the end of the war was on everyone’s lips and minds.
‘Veronica, Liam asked me to get you to type these,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘I’ve to leave work early, and he wants them done.’ She gave Veronica the letters, but before Mrs Moore could finish, Liam himself ran into the office shouting, ‘Students from Trinity,’ he stopped for breath, ‘the students are planning an attack.’
‘Attack where?’
‘Mrs O’Reilly, they plan to attack these offices. Here, these offices,’ he shouted as he threw his arms around.
‘Seriously, Liam, where did you hear such nonsense?’
‘My friend called me at lunchtime, and I didn’t believe him. He works in a restaurant and often he’ll hear things and pass them onto me. He is a waiter in the vegetarian restaurant on College St, the one where all the Trinity students go, and he heard a group of students saying they will attack because they fear Catholics are getting too strong. They said Protestants would lose their power. He heard them say this at lunchtime when the war was declared over. They think today is the right time.’
‘What are they going to do? Throw books at us?’ asked Mrs Moore.
Liam sat on the chair in front of the fire. ‘Look, all I know is, they have recruited officers in the British training corps to help them, and some of them are experienced grenade throwers. We’ll wait, nothing else we can do. On the way here, I heard a mob celebrating, singing “Rule Britannia”! Bloody song. Sorry, ladies, but it makes my blood boil.’
Mrs O’Reilly coughed behind Veronica. ‘Michael told me to tell you all to wait here. Nobody goes home. He said it’s too dangerous on the streets. People are drunk, and there may be a fight between the Jackeens and the anti-British side.’
‘Well, what can we do? Veronica, be a dear and make tea for everyone and ask upstairs if anyone else wants some?’ said Mrs O’Reilly. ‘I think I have some biscuits in my drawer. Sure really, what can a bunch of students do?’
The day darkened. Lights were switched on, and everyone waited.
‘I think all of this is unnecessary,’ whispered Mrs O’R
eilly to Veronica as the clock on the wall chimed 7 p.m. Suddenly the window shattered, and a stone landed near Veronica’s feet, sending glass all over the office floor. Loud shouts came from the street below with sounds of glass shattering in the offices above and below them. Sticks and bits of timber came through the windows.
Eibhlin ran into the office, shaking and white. Veronica and Eibhlin moved back to the wall in between the filing cabinets.
Men from the bank downstairs came into the room. ‘It’s safer here,’ a banker said. ‘All the windows below are broken, and some lads are kicking the front door. We’ve moved all the furniture from the bank in front of it, so it should be secure.’
Veronica’s heart was beating uncontrollably. The shouting outside was deafening. Another window shattered, and she ducked as some glass flew past, missing her face by inches. Trembling, she jumped behind an upturned desk.
Michael strode into the room.
‘Michael, thank God you are here!’
He threw his coat on the ground. ‘I came as soon as I heard. Tell me, Liam, what do you know and has anyone been hurt?’
Nobody answered him.
He shouted orders to move furniture while pushing a bookcase to the windows, books and files falling on the ground.
‘Turn off the damned lights!’
‘Move the furniture!’
‘Keep the women covered.’
A composite of orders reverberated in the office.
A grenade flew through the window, landing at Veronica’s feet.
When it didn’t explode, Veronica picked it up without thinking and threw it out the nearest window.
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