Michael shouted at her, ‘That was bloody dangerous.’
She hadn’t thought of the consequences of handling a grenade. Sweat dripped down her face and she found it hard to catch her breath.
The office shook with a loud bang, followed by a plume of smoke outside the window. Trembling, Veronica helped Eibhlin to move the other filing cabinet in front of the window. It was impossible to distinguish where the screams came from.
Barney, from the bank, said, ‘I’ve been on the phone to a contact in Dublin Castle, and they won’t do anything to stop them. We’ll have to sort this ourselves.’ He grabbed a chair to block the window as the relentless flying stones and wood came through the window. Men helped to turn a table upside down, knocking papers to the ground. Typewriters broke upon hitting the floor.
Veronica hid behind a desk, not just out of fear, but also for protection from the flying glass. The attack lasted for about an hour, and then the room went quiet.
‘Do you think they are gone?’ Mrs O’Reilly whispered. The room was dark.
Nobody answered her.
‘Veronica?’ Mrs O’Reilly said a little louder, concern in her voice.
Michael answered, ‘She’s here beside me. I’ll look and see if they are gone.’
Michael lit a match, and the shouts began, and missiles flew in through the window landing on the shattered glass.
‘Jesus Christ, have the fools no homes to go to?!’
‘They are leaving,’ Barney shouted over the noise of celebrations coming from St Stephen’s Green.
As they started to lift the office furniture away from the exits and doors, Barney said, ‘Jesus, wait, more people are coming down the street.’
Crowds of people on the streets sang ‘Rule Britannia’, waving the Union Jack harder in defiance as they passed their offices. They approached the entrance, but the locked door was enough to keep them out.
Everything went quiet. Then, one person below flung a stone at the building; another followed this and then another. As a stone hurtled past Veronica, she pressed hard into the wooden floor.
A voice boomed from the building across the street, ‘Go on, yer British bastards.’
By eight o’clock, the last few hours began to affect people. ‘Listen, will ye stop, for God’s sake, everyone be quiet,’ said Liam, jumping to his feet.
Michael and Liam looked out the window, ‘Shh everybody. Michael, hear that?’
The only sound was from Liam walking on the broken glass. He looked out through the shattered glass. ‘They could be back, but I can’t see anything. They broke the lamps on the street.’
‘Don’t turn on the lights for a while. We’ll wait,’ suggested one man from the bank.
Ambulance sirens whirred past.
‘Turn on the lights now,’ commanded Michael.
The office was a mess, there were bits of wood from chairs, and every window shattered.
‘Is anyone hurt?’ Michael asked.
‘No, I’m fine,’ came a chorus of answers.
The clock chimed nine o’clock. Veronica couldn’t believe that so much damage and chaos had ensued in such a short space of time.
‘Bloody travesty,’ Liam said.
Women and men sat on any remaining furniture, exhausted, confused, and outraged.
A man tapped Veronica on the shoulder. ‘It’s late. I’ll walk you home. I’ve my bike, but I’ll walk with you.’
‘God, James, I didn’t see you there.’ It was James Sheridan, who she hadn’t seen since the day in the woods with the gun. She was unsure how she felt about him. ‘It’s… I suppose it’s good to see a familiar face. What are you doing here?’
‘I meant to call on you. Eddie said you were here. It was your father who got me the job at the bank. Jesus, I’m only here for three days.’ He laughed. ‘It beats Virginia.’
‘Is Eddie out of jail? I wrote to him, but I’ve got no replies, and don’t know if he is well or, worse, even dead.’ Her voice lowered to a whisper, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
‘Veronica, he is alive, but it’s an awful place. He broke his hand. A silly accident, he fell down the metal stairs and landed on his hand the wrong way. It has mended well, and Veronica don’t look so worried, he’s fine. Before I came to Dublin, I went to see him. He said you had been writing to him, and he did reply, but the prison guards take the letters to see if there is anything in them that might pass on information and I don’t think they post them anyway. I told him I was coming to Dublin and he gave me this without any of the prison guards seeing it.’ He gave Veronica a crumpled piece of paper.
She grabbed it from James with shaking hands.
‘I can hardly see any of the words.’
She held it under a light.
Dearest Veronica,
I hope you are well and enjoying Dublin. Sorry I couldn’t write back as I broke my hand in a silly fall. I’ve met lots of young men my age, but there are some younger, as young as fifteen! I did get your letters, but a lot of what you wrote had been blacked out, so it is hard to get the mood from them. It is tough here, but that is to be expected, I’ve met good friends, and we help each other out. One of the prison guards let us have a sing-song and a dance at Christmas, so it’s not all bad.
Love
Eddie.
Veronica reread the letter looking for a hidden message, anything at all.
‘Come on, Veronica, I’ll walk you home. There’s nothing you can do,’ James said, putting on a long black coat. ‘My ma got me this when I told her I was going to work in a bank. She was delighted when I got such a decent job. God if she only knew!’
30
The following day, Westminster announced a general election for 14 December, 1918. Repairs in the Sinn Féin offices started without delay, and campaigning began with a feverish pace and accelerated with the news that more people had a chance to vote. For the first time in Britain and Ireland, women over thirty could vote. Also, the rule that men had to own a property to cast a vote was removed, so men over the age of twenty-one also had the right to vote. The days and weeks before the election, the staff at Harcourt St worked late every night. Posters and leaflets were printed, and speeches typed with haste. Nobody complained about the extra hours.
When the election was announced, Michael called a meeting for everyone working in Harcourt St including the bank workers, the secretaries and all of Sinn Féin.
When Michael had everyone’s attention, he said, ‘Listen, people, we have to win as many seats as we can. We can do this. Our independence from the crown is becoming a reality. We need to get as many men elected as MPs as we can. This is our country. We are Irishmen, not English, so if we can keep going like we have been and gather votes, you never know what will happen. I know the papers say we will never beat out the Irish Parliamentary Party, but our freedom depends on this election. The people of Ireland deserve our best efforts.’
With those words, Veronica and Mrs O’Reilly worked steadily for the next few weeks. On Friday evening in the first week of December, the women were exhausted.
‘I can’t wait for Christmas to get back to Cavan,’ Veronica said, hoping Eddie might be there.
Mrs O’Reilly leaned forward and frowned as if looking at her for the first time. ‘I don’t know why you don’t have a beau. You have lovely cheekbones and don’t look like you have been working incessantly for three weeks now. You are so pretty, but I have never seen you with anyone. Are you not sweet on anyone?’
Veronica’s cheeks burned. Memories flooded back to the night James Sheridan had walked her home from Harcourt St. Her initial relief of meeting a familiar face in all the mayhem of the attack by Trinity students had soon returned to the usual hostility towards him. James’s arrogance and resentment towards Veronica, in turn, also returned. They had walked in an uncomfortable silence most of the way to Thomas St, interrupted by the clatter of his wonky bicycle wheel on the cobbled streets. At Thomas St, she had offered her hand in thanks.
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She closed her eyes, remembering how he had taken her hand and pulled her towards him. He’d brushed his lips against hers, and she had slapped him. He had jumped back, laughing, and said, ‘You’re a feisty one,’ before he hopped onto his bicycle and rode into the night. Her hand had stung, but her pride was hurt more. She had run inside, slamming the door behind her.
‘Veronica, are you all right?’ Mrs O’Reilly asked. Veronica blushed, returning to the present with a jolt.
‘It’s nothing, Mrs O’Reilly, nothing really. We’d better get off, I think it will rain, and I feel I may be getting a cold,’ she said, hoping that explained her flushed cheeks. ‘I feel a bit hot so want to get home as quickly as possible.’
After work, Veronica called at Mrs Sullivan’s shop, and the bell tinkled as she pushed the door. Mrs Sullivan put her cup of tea down.
‘Veronica, good to see you, love. I’ve just had tea, would you like a cup?’ She chatted as she got an extra cup for her and poured the tea. ‘I never thought I’d miss Bridget so much.’ She sighed, looking upstairs. ‘You know me and Mr Sullivan never had children. It just didn’t happen.’ She lowered her voice, ‘I’ve some lovely mince pies and I’ll put a few in a bag for Tom and Betty. But I’ve put the rest away until Christmas. Mr Sullivan said I’m eating too many.’ She patted her widening stomach. ‘Will you have a mince pie now?’
‘No, I’m fine. Betty will have dinner ready. I just called for a chat.’ But then, at the thought of Betty’s poor attempt at dinner, she changed her mind.
‘Here, dear, sit down behind the counter, drink your tea, and I’ll get a wee mince pie.’ She pushed the stool to Veronica. ‘And I’ve something for you.’
She handed her a note with her name on it.
20 November, 1918
Veronica,
I am so sorry that I haven’t been in touch but my mother is much better now. I will be back in Dublin at Christmas. Can we meet? Please.
I look forward to hearing from you. Send your reply to The Barracks, Benburb St, Arbour Hill, Dublin.
Yours,
Harry F.
This was unexpected. The letter didn’t say much, but more surprising was how her heart fluttered as she read the note. The bell chimed as the shop door opened, followed by a gust of wind that swept the floor. Dust landed on her shoes, and she shook it off, trying to think. She didn’t know if she should meet him again, but she couldn’t refuse.
‘Oh good, you’re still open. Have you any bread?’ said a woman, shuffling through the doorway. The woman loosened her headscarf, looked at Veronica and leaned into Mrs Sullivan, whispering loudly, ‘Everything all right?’
‘I’m fine, Mrs Broderick, just having tea with a friend. I’m closing in a few minutes.’
Mrs Broderick nodded at Mrs Sullivan, and before leaving, looked Veronica up and down.
‘That Mrs Broderick is so nosey; she’ll be in the shop first thing tomorrow morning asking all about you. You had better go home, love. The curfew will soon be in effect. Here, wrap your coat up tight.’
‘How is Bridget? She hasn’t written at all.’
‘Oh, Veronica, she is grand. I was visiting her last Sunday, and she was writing to tell you the good news. I can’t say what it is, but it’s grand.’
‘I bet it’s something to do with Charlie. She told me about him. Is she getting married?’
Mrs Sullivan only smiled. ‘She wrote you a letter, so you should get it soon.’
She pulled Veronica’s collar up for her like a mother. ‘Go now, I hear the patrol trucks,’ she said as she turned off the light. ‘Wait until they pass and then go.’
The trucks slowly moved down the street, their searchlights bouncing off the walls of the surrounding houses and illuminating the street ahead. When the noise of the vehicles was at a safe distance, Veronica stood to go but turned and gave Mrs Sullivan a tight hug first.
Mrs Sullivan held her at arm’s length and looked her directly in the eye, then pulled her into a hug. ‘You’re like a daughter to me. You and the major, I hope you make the right decision.’
*
The following Monday morning at work, Veronica knocked on Michael’s door, entering when he answered.
The room was thick with smoke, and Michael thumped the window. ‘Blasted thing is stuck.’ Finally, it opened, and a blast of cold air diluted the smell of tobacco and burning turf. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Veronica,’ she said, her voice muffled as she covered her nose with her hanky.
‘Wait a minute till the smoke clears.’
The cold December air soon cleared the room of smoke.
‘Come in. What can I do for you?’
‘Michael, I got a note,’ she said, and showed it to him as he sat down in his office chair to read it, drumming his fingers on his desk.
‘We actually don’t know a lot, but what we know of him, he was injured in France, and got sent here. Yes, he works in The Castle. I know our contact said he knows General Maxwell well and has had dinner with him and his wife.’ He was silent for a few minutes. ‘So why do they want him back? Right, meet him, try to get him to talk about the work he does and see why he is back. I think there is someone passing information onto the boys in the castle. I need to know how they know where we keep our weapons, and how they knew to raid one of our meetings last week in Rathmines.’ He banged his fist on the desk. ‘Bastards, Veronica, that’s what they are. Do you know young Davy Doyle? Davy, my sister-in-law’s – a tiny slip of a lad, he was only ten years of age last month. He was shot last week giving out leaflets for the upcoming election. He was left for dead, but a young doctor was passing by and saved his life.’
He paused before continuing, ‘Our concern now is to win as many seats as possible so we can have our government. I think The Castle has a mole. The soldiers arrive to break up any of our meetings or rallies before we have even started most of them, no matter what part of the country they occur.’
Veronica weighed up her responsibility. She nodded. ‘I’m really proud to be involved, Michael. This is beyond any dreams I ever had.’
‘Great. Veronica, with the elections and now we don’t have this war in Europe anymore, we must concentrate on pushing forward to getting the British out of our country. You’re a great help. Try to use your charm, you’re a good-looking girl. He is definitely keen on you, so pretend to like him. Do what you have to do.’
Was this worse than delivering the parcels? ‘I will try to get a note to him.’
‘Good girl, write to him in the barracks. Tell him you’d love to meet him, maybe a walk, and we’ll follow you. The election is in a few days.’
The words weighed heavily on her as she walked home after work. That night in her bedroom, she sat at her small desk and looked at the paper lying in front of her, composing herself before penning a short note.
8 December, 1918
Dear Harry,
How lovely to hear from you, I was hoping you would return. I thought you may have gone back to England for good. I’d love to meet for a walk. I’m free on Sundays.
Veronica.
She posted it to The Barracks the next day and put Mrs Sullivan’s shop as a return address.
*
Election day finally arrived, and the excitement in Dublin was palpable. At Thomas St, doors in the building slammed with loud hurried footsteps on the steps as people left to vote, many voting for the first time.
Betty was up early as usual, but she wore her Sunday best. ‘Veronica, imagine me being able to vote. I never thought I’d see the day. We are so proud of you helping in the work you do,’ said Betty.
‘I did nothing, just typed a few letters.’
‘Veronica, you did more than that. You know you did,’ Tom said.
Veronica knew he was talking about the parcels, and she wanted to tell him about Harry’s return, but couldn’t say anything in front of Betty.
‘We’d better go, Betty. Veronica, are you going into the office today?’
‘Yes, I’ll walk. You’ve to go in the other direction as I’m going to Harcourt St for a while, so you go ahead and vote.’
‘Come on, love, and I’ll clean the table when I get back.’
Veronica smiled. Betty had spent the last three years cleaning away her grief. Now, for once, she was thinking of something else, especially as their worst day of the year was approaching. It was good to see Betty wearing her blue Sunday coat, her hair pinned neat. Tom was scrubbed clean, and his hair greased shiny, proud to take part in the future of Ireland. They stepped outside into the weak morning sunshine, the sky the usual pale blue after a hard frost. The frosty air bit Veronica’s cheeks. Betty’s cheeks coloured a little, and she smiled at Tom as he took her hand, helping her up onto the waiting dray. Veronica hoped that it would be a good day, and all their efforts at work would have been worth it.
Outside the front entrance, they went their separate ways. Veronica pulled her coat tight in the morning chill. The streets were alive with people going to the polling stations. First, the men went to vote and then the women left their homes when children were fed and the fires lit. The dogs sniffed the air as if they could smell change.
‘God, I hope we do well,’ Mrs O’Reilly said. ‘I stopped by the church and lit a candle on the way here.’ The women brought their chairs to the windows to watch the rows of people in the street below, passing on their way to vote. The office filled up with who had voted, all chatting.
‘Do you know who all these people are?’ Veronica looked at the swelling of men and women eating and drinking tea.
Mrs O’Reilly shook her head. ‘Voters, our supporters I suppose. There’s an awful lot of them, aren’t there? But isn’t it awfully exciting?’
There was a delay with the results of the election, so everyone was tense when the day finally arrived for the announcement of the results. Veronica rushed to Harcourt St with trepidation. When she arrived at work, the bank was closed, but Veronica heard the murmur of men inside pacing up and down. Paperwork was absent from desks, and in its place there were teacups and plates of buttered bread placed randomly on the desks. The kettle was on a continuous boil refilling the teapots once emptied. Veronica poured tea for the men who chatted animatedly with each other.
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