Dublin's Girl

by Eimear Lawlor

  ‘Oh, Veronica, take a seat and take notes. I want to write to everyone in business to tell them to stop paying taxes to the Inland Revenue in England. One, it will hurt their tax intake, and two, we will use the money for our government.’

  Michael made it sound so simple.

  ‘When they are typed, send them out to as many people as possible. And I’ll get it printed in the newspapers.’

  When she’d finished taking notes, Veronica tucked her notepad and pencil inside her coat. ‘I’ll hurry back to the office and Mrs O’Reilly and I will have them typed in no time. Also, Michael, I bumped into the major by accident on the street. He asked me to meet him the last Saturday of this month at the Shelbourne.’

  Michael chewed on his pencil, ‘I don’t know, he hasn’t given us much information. Let me think for a minute or two.’

  She shivered as a gust of cold air blew into the room, the flames of the fire flickering, fighting against the wind.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll get back to you about the major. Hurry back now and keep the notes tight in your coat. Keep a watchful eye on the crowds, you never know where they will seize you. We’re all being watched.’

  She hurried back to the warmth of her office at number 6 and shook off the cold as she entered the building.

  Mrs O’Reilly got up from her desk when Veronica entered the office. ‘You look perished, dear. Warm yourself at the fire, and I’ll make the tea.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs O’Reilly, you have no idea how cold his office is. Michael wants these letters typed as soon as possible and sent to as many businesses as we can.’

  Mrs O’Reilly’s eyes narrowed as she read the letters. She sighed. ‘He is such a clever man. And Veronica, did he tell you about the film?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh Veronica,’ Mrs O’Reilly was excited. ‘Sorry, dear, I have to catch my breath. Michael is going to make a film showing him receiving money from important people in the hope ordinary people will donate money for the new Dáil.’

  Veronica frowned. ‘That surely wouldn’t work.’

  Mrs O’Reilly didn’t answer. She was typing furiously, returning the carriage on the typewriter without stopping. ‘Veronica, come on, we have a lot of letters to type.’

  They stayed late to get the letters typed and posted the following day to the farmers and the trade unions advising them not to send money to the English Inland Revenue. It was a success. Money flowed into Harcourt St, and from there it was sent to a safe house for those hiding from the soldiers.

  *

  The last Saturday of the month approached, and Veronica had spent the week waiting for Michael’s orders, but he was never in the office more than a few minutes.

  On Friday evening as Veronica tidied her desk, ready to go home from work, Michael called into the office for paperwork from Mrs O’Reilly.

  Before he left, he passed Veronica mouthing, ‘Good luck,’ and said more loudly, ‘I’ll see you Monday, Veronica,’ and winked.

  That evening Veronica sat at the kitchen table with paper, a pen and a pot of ink to write to Susan while Betty darned a sock that had seen better days. The cat pulled the wool, Betty pulling it back from him in a game of tug of war.

  ‘Veronica, are you all right? You look worried.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said with a smile, hoping to placate Betty’s worries. Veronica knew she looked upon her as a daughter; just because Padraig was dead, she hadn’t lost her mother’s instinct to protect her young.

  ‘Betty, I’m fine. I’m just telling Susan I’m meeting Bridget tomorrow afternoon.’ She dropped her eyes in shame. So many lies. She didn’t know if Michael’s nod and wink were an affirmation to meet the major.

  ‘Have you heard from Eddie?’

  Veronica’s eyes snapped to Betty. ‘No, have you?’ she asked, searching her face for some positive news.

  ‘No,’ she said sighing as she dropped the sock and needle on the small table beside the fire and took rosary beads from the table. ‘Last night, I said an extra decade of the rosary for him.’ She rolled her fingers over her beads, her mouth silently moving as she began her first Hail Mary. The cat jumped on her lap, knowing he would get at least twenty minutes of peace while Betty was lost in prayer.

  Veronica shook her head. All Betty’s rosaries hadn’t helped Padraig.

  She started to write to Bridget, asking about Sam. In Bridget’s last letter to Veronica, she had asked her if she met anyone yet? What could she write? Could she write yes, she had, that he was kind, handsome, polite, but the purpose was to get information from him because he was the enemy? Why would she think of words like those to describe him? She should be writing words of disgust and anger. The blank page lay on the table. She was out of her depth. Delivering the parcels for Tom had been so simple. But this situation could go in any direction. Ink fell from her pen onto the blank paper and was swiftly absorbed, its tributaries spreading in different directions. Veronica folded the paper in the middle of the inkblot, a game she and Eddie had played as children. She opened the paper, and the symmetrical shape looked like a butterfly. She studied it, and then confidence simmered. If something so bland and nondescript could change into something as beautiful as a butterfly, then she could meet the major and improvise to see what direction it took.

  36

  On the last Saturday of May, just before 4 p.m., Veronica stood outside the Shelbourne. Her cheeks still hurt where she had pinched them. It was something she had learned from Bridget.

  ‘Veronica, pinch your cheeks, my older sister told me boys find red cheeks attractive,’ she had said one Saturday afternoon while they sat near the window in O’Shea’s tearooms, watching a group of young lads on the opposite side of the street.

  It wasn’t a boy she was meeting, but a man. Not in the circumstances she had imagined, a man that was the enemy. She still wanted to impress him though, and she had taken care with her choice of clothes, choosing a cream and brown dress that complimented her green eyes, before pinning her unruly hair.

  As she walked into the hotel, she didn’t make eye contact with the stiff doorman at the entrance. His black tailcoat with gold buttons and cold stare made her quiver, but she held her steel and ignored him. The gold and white marble in the foyer had a soothing calmness that was a stark contrast to the unrest on the streets. The Shelbourne had suffered attacks in the 1916 Rising, but they were quick to restore it to its former splendour.

  The silver-haired woman at the front desk was a little less rigid than the doorman. Smiling at Veronica, she said, ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  Veronica took a steadying breath. ‘No, thank you, I’m meeting a friend,’ she said, and hurried towards the tearooms, not wanting to engage in a conversation as her accent was a sign that Veronica shouldn’t be there.

  The tearooms were not as busy as the first time she had been there. She guessed it might have been because of the dangers on the streets. Once men had kept their arms out of sight, now they were openly carrying rifles, slung casually over their shoulders. On the streets of Dublin, an exchange of gunfire between the British soldiers and the Irish had become a daily occurrence.

  She waited at the door to be seated, and a gentleman the same age as her Uncle Tom passed her on his way out. But that was where the similarity ended, with his finely oiled moustache and crisp white shirt. He nodded and tipped his hat at Veronica.

  Harry sat at the corner table, the waiter pouring his tea. He didn’t see her approach, and he spoke to the waiter who laughed as he served him. Harry rose when he saw Veronica and pulled the chair out for her.

  As soon as she sat down, he took her hand. He looked at her, his brown eyes dull, without the confident, warm aura he usually radiated. He dropped his head and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been keeping something from you.’ The words rushed out of his mouth. ‘I am engaged.’

  She pulled her hand away. This should not be a problem, yet she was experiencing an emotion that she knew she should not have – jealous
y.

  A heavy silence fell between them; neither tried to break it.

  His head hung low. ‘I know little happened, but really I wanted it to.’ He leant over the table, taking her hand in his. ‘Veronica, please believe me, it will be a loveless marriage. My father arranged it. Our family has little money. When my father married my mother, not only was she French, but a French Catholic, and that was frowned upon by his superiors in the army, so he didn’t get promoted. Subsequently, my father arranged for me to marry a woman of means. He sprung it on me when I went home, and I didn’t feel like I had a reason, one he would accept, to say no. If I told him I was seeing an Irish Catholic woman… I can’t imagine it would have gone well.’

  Veronica took a sharp breath, trying to control her anger. Why did she feel anger?

  ‘Sir, do you want to order tea for the lady?’ the waiter interrupted them, the same waiter who had served them the first day she had met Harry in the Shelbourne.

  This revelation was unexpected, but did it matter? Her job was not to question his fidelity. She had to help Ireland and if it meant meeting an English soldier, then she would.

  ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘Harry,’ she hesitated and chose her words carefully and in a measured tone. ‘I’ve enjoyed my time with you.’ The words did not come easy. She composed herself and looked him straight in his eyes, concentrating on the green fleck in his right eye. ‘No, I’m not angry.’

  She looked at him carefully, noticing stress lines she hadn’t seen before. He had dark shadows underneath his eyes, and his cheekbones were slightly prominent.

  ‘But it’s not right. Would it not go against your beliefs, your Catholic beliefs?’

  Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘No, not at all.’ Mystified why she was feeling the way she was, that jealousy hovered. She even felt slightly sad for him.

  He held her gaze, and she stared back, putting her feelings aside. This was silly, she told herself. She was with him to do a job, and nothing more.

  The rattle of teacups broke their silence. ‘Sir, madam, your tea.’

  When the waiter left, Harry half-smiled. ‘Are you sure, Veronica?’ His eyes searched hers.

  ‘I’m not naive,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘I understand that we could never have a future together.’

  He collapsed back into the chair. ‘Veronica, I’m so glad. I so wish it could be different. I like the Irish. I met many of them in the trenches, and I felt I had a connection, and the stories from their homes were awful. Many said they had no choice but to join the army, as they needed to feed their families. I think some were from a place called Dingle. They told me about the famine, and I was so ashamed when they told me stories of grain grown in Ireland in 1847, which was sent to England instead of being given to the poor. Many of them said they lost family to hunger, and if not hunger, then it was to the boat. I am English, and I know the role I have played here in Ireland, but it has never really felt like a choice.’

  Veronica couldn’t speak. She found it hard to reconcile that he had empathy with the Irish during the famine. Guilt washed through her that he gave more thought about the plight of her ancestors than she had. Now she saw poverty flowing on the streets of Dublin, a kind of poverty that she hadn’t seen or noticed in Virginia, she realised how selfish her thoughts had been.

  The clock chimed 5 p.m.

  ‘Veronica, I’ve got to go,’ he said and drank the last mouthful of tea.

  ‘Oh, so soon? I thought we might go for a walk.’

  ‘Veronica, it has gotten so dangerous, I don’t want to put you in danger.’ He paused, his eyes and brown hair light in the sun that shone through the large window. ‘I fear for your safety. Maybe it would be better if we didn’t continue.’

  ‘No,’ she said and meant it.

  ‘Maybe the next time we should meet somewhere discreet?’

  Did he fear for her safety, or was he hiding her from his superiors?

  Her reaction surprised her as there was a tug of sadness that she might never see him again. She pushed this aside. She had a job to do.

  She took his hand and a jolt ran through her. Again, a feeling she couldn’t explain. ‘Harry I’d love to continue meeting you. As I said, it doesn’t matter to me that you’re engaged.’

  He smiled and held her gaze as if memorising her face. ‘We’ll meet soon. Now I really must go. They are waiting for me back at the barracks,’ he said, and motioned the waiter to bring his coat.

  He pulled out her chair, and bent so his lips brushed her cheek. ‘See you soon, Veronica.’ His smell lingered in the air as she watched him pull up his collar and hurry towards the door. He looked back at Veronica, smiled and then hurried on to his destination.

  *

  Before Veronica went to work Monday morning, she called at Michael’s new office.

  Michael sat at his desk with a phone and two piles of papers. His right hand flicked through a pile, while his other held the phone. He nodded at her to sit down in front of him until he’d finished his call. ‘Well, Veronica, have you news for me? First, what do you think of this?’

  She took the paper he slid across the desk. It had a red wax seal, and she carried it to the window to see it better. The seal she had seen many times before on documents in the office. It was a lion and a horse, standing on two legs, and in the middle was a coat of arms.

  ‘What do you think? Does it look authentic?’

  ‘I’m not sure, what am I looking at?’

  ‘The Royal Seal or, to be more exact, The Great Seal.’

  ‘What are you using it for?’ She was confused.

  ‘Well, we could send a letter to General Maxwell that they want him back in the UK, then attack the Castle. Enough about that, what news have you for me?’ He poured milk into a teacup, gulped it in one mouthful and wiped his mouth. ‘Well?’

  Veronica smiled apologetically. She believed the news the major was engaged would be of little significance to Michael, though she had tossed and turned Saturday night ruminating on the news. ‘He is engaged to an Englishwoman. I’m sorry I have nothing worthwhile for you.’

  Michael clasped his hands. ‘That’s brilliant, tell him you will meet him.’

  ‘Eh, I already did. But why is that brilliant?’

  ‘Blackmail, that’s why that’s brilliant.’

  ‘How? I didn’t think of that.’ She frowned. ‘Tell his fiancée?’

  Michael shook his head, ‘No, he is more afraid of General Maxwell than his wife. The last thing he would want his superiors to know is his liaisons with a Fenian, and a Fenian who works for Sinn Féin. I guess it would mean treason, and you know what that means?’

  Veronica shook her head.

  ‘Execution. He’d be seen as a traitor, and the last thing the army wants is someone sleeping with the enemy.’

  Veronica gasped. ‘I’m not sleeping with him.’

  Michael frowned and waved his hand. ‘I mean metaphorically, not literally.’

  The phone rang. Michael answered it and put his hand over the receiver. ‘Veronica, brilliant work, I’ll talk to you later this week. I’ll think of something. Keep him interested.’

  She went to work. Mrs O’Reilly smiled at her and chatted about the lovely hydrangeas in her garden, telling her they were pink last year, but blue this year. She wasn’t listening. Blackmail sounded dangerous, but she would have to trust Michael.

  The following day, Veronica and Bridget met in the tearooms in Abbey St.

  She crossed the river at the Ha’penny Bridge to Abbey St leading to Mary St, where two soldiers tore posters from the wall in front of the Volta Electric Theatre, laughing as they threw the ripped paper on the ground.

  Three young boys sat on the wall opposite the cinema shouting at them. ‘Go home, ye English scum.’

  She tried to read the next poster before they ripped it from the wall of the cinema. The soldiers ignored Veronica as she walked by. A piece of the poster lay on the ground, and she read it upside do
wn: Now Showi… Dáil Loan.

  It was the poster for Michael Collins’s film, to get money for the Dáil Loan. Bile rose in her throat. She clenched her fists and wanted to shout stop, but the soldiers’ guns rattled as they pulled and ripped the posters. She was no match for them. Michael would be furious; all his efforts to contact people here and in America, and they were trying to jeopardise it.

  The clouds parted, throwing light in her path. Usually, it pleased her to look at the shadows created by the surrounding buildings, but today, all sense of pleasure was lost. When she finally got to the tearoom, Bridget entered at the same time.

  ‘Bridget, you look great! Work must agree with you.’ Veronica knew she herself looked drained.

  ‘It’s great, V, the girls are so good, but your work must be a lot more exciting. I am so jealous.’

  Bridget’s eyes danced. ‘Veronica, I have some news. Sam asked me to marry him.’

  Veronica hugged her instantly. ‘I’m so happy for you.’

  ‘I’m nearly twenty, and I don’t want to be left on the shelf. Mammy and Daddy have come around to him. They see that he is a hard worker and he doesn’t drink at all.’

  They drank tea as Veronica listened to Bridget tell her all about Sam. A lump swelled in her throat. They parted with promises to meet again soon, but Veronica knew that was unlikely as married life meant babies, and Bridget’s new role as a wife would mean looking after Sam.

  37

  The nights became shorter, and the days warmer as St Stephen’s Green burst into life. With the gentle riot of greens and vibrant colours of the rhododendrons on the Green, memories of the countryside surfaced. Veronica gave into homesickness, and her desire to see the ducklings on the lake of Lough Ramor and walk in the fields surrounding their farm, so went back to Cavan for a few days.

  She took the train from Broadstone to Oldcastle, where her father met her. He had finally bought a motorcar. The fresh breeze replaced the stale pungent air of the city. The hedgerows of primroses and thorn bushes replaced the red-brick buildings of the tenements. She had missed the unrestricted freedom of the air in the countryside; only now did she realise how constricted city life was. As she passed through the village of Virginia and over the Blackwater, she relaxed when she saw the entrance to her home. Nearing the house, the donkey brayed, and the chickens clucked in the yard at the back of the house. For once, she missed the simplicity of country life.