Dublin's Girl

by Eimear Lawlor

The previous night she had practised her speech. It was short. She would tell him she was pregnant. She daydreamed he would grab her hand saying he would leave his wife, he had already, and she was sure he meant it. They would leave the hotel hand in hand. Everything would be all right.

  The tearoom was nearly emptied now of the afternoon tea people. There was a sense of calmness about the room, the dim lighting creating a sombre atmosphere which was some comfort to Veronica. She took it as a good sign.

  A poker straight grey-haired man in the black regulation uniform of the Shelbourne approached her, ‘Yes, ma’am, can I help?’

  ‘I’m meeting Major Fairfax.’

  ‘He’s expecting you. I’ll take your coat and hat.’ He gave them to the cloakroom boy before bringing her over to Harry, who was wearing a shiny blue jacket with a matching tie.

  She sat down, twisted her pearls, ready to speak, but Harry talked first.

  ‘I have to leave tomorrow.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Veronica.’ He looked up at her. ‘You know, they found out I helped.’

  She gasped. ‘Harry, I—’

  ‘They told me I had to leave the army at the end of the year. Which is fine, I wanted to, anyway. They will give me a small army pension. My father arranged my engagement to Felicity because I couldn’t live on my wages. Then I met you.’ Sighing, he continued, ‘I do love Ireland, but you were right, it would be impossible. No one would ever accept us.’

  She couldn’t think. She wanted to cry.

  There was a cough. The waiter had a cheery smile, his bright waistcoat in contrast to the atmosphere. ‘Excuse me, sir, your car is here.’

  Harry nodded to the waiter. ‘Just another few minutes.’

  Veronica stood up, abruptly pushing the chair aside.

  ‘Wait, Veronica, sit down.’ Harry tried to grab her hand.

  ‘No, Harry, goodbye.’ She ran to the cloakroom. The boy had her coat and hat in his hand. She grabbed her coat as Harry chased after her.

  Harry shouted after Veronica, ‘Your hat!’

  Now all that was left for her was the mother and baby home.

  43

  On Tuesday morning, a loud, impatient knock on the door put Veronica and Betty on edge. Few, if any, visitors called to Thomas St. The streets were alive with fighting – rebels against the DMP and soldiers. The DMP raided houses looking for rebels. Betty didn’t answer, but as the knock grew louder, she put aside the clothes that she was washing to answer the door.

  ‘Is Veronica there?’

  It was James Sheridan.

  Veronica followed Betty to the door. James was a little thinner than she remembered, and his eyes more sunken.

  ‘James, come in and warm yourself.’ She closed the door after a quick furtive look out into the hall.

  He stood in front of the fire, opening his jacket to warm himself. It was then she saw the pistol.

  Betty pulled a chair out from the table, motioning James to sit.

  ‘I’ll get both of you some tea,’ Betty said and left the two to talk.

  James sat down and rubbed his hands through his hair. ‘Oh, Veronica, it’s all such a mess. First, I have to say, I’m sorry. Sorry for being horrible to you when we were teenagers, and secondly, well, sorry again, when I tried to kiss you that night.’

  ‘No, I’m not mad at you, I know you only wanted to help our country. It was childish of me; I was jealous Eddie was spending so much time with you.’

  The tea arrived with bread, and he took a few mouthfuls and gulps of tea before taking some papers from inside his coat. ‘Here, I need to get a message to Michael. Eddie and I—’

  ‘Eddie – how is he? Why didn’t he come?’

  James gulped more tea and finished the bread. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Eddie is fine. He couldn’t come here because there are English spies everywhere, and he didn’t want to put you in any danger. If they catch him, he will be shot. Those bastard Black and Tans have no mercy. I’m not known to them, well, not really. They know my name, but don’t know what I look like.’

  She stood up and wiped away crumbs from her skirt. ‘I’ll just get the brush; I don’t want to encourage the mice.’

  Betty poked the fire and put the kettle back on it to boil.

  James followed Veronica into the kitchen. ‘Do you know the lads at the bank asked about you, and why you had no man? They thought you might be having an affair with Michael Collins. They said the two of you were always in the office together.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Why, what’s so funny about that? You’re an attractive woman, and we never saw you with anyone.’

  ‘Who is we?’

  ‘Well, when I came to Dublin to work in the bank, I pointed you out to some of the lads when I saw you. They said they didn’t hear you were with anyone.’

  She glared at him. ‘I didn’t know you were checking up on me.’

  ‘Ah, Veronica, don’t be mad, just saying. Anyway, we have more important things to worry about.’

  James stopped talking as they heard footsteps on the stairs. They approached the door, and then a baby cried.

  ‘That’s Sheila Flaherty. She lives upstairs.’

  ‘All right.’ James stood, gathering his cap and closing his jacket.

  Suddenly, he groaned and fell forward, hitting the table before slumping to the floor. His empty cup shattered when it hit the floorboards.

  ‘James, what happened?’ He lifted his right arm, and a pool of blood was on the floor under him. Veronica took off her cardigan, pressing it to his arm. James cried out.

  ‘That’s too hard.’ Through pained words, he said, ‘I’ve been shot, Veronica.’

  ‘What’s wrong with James?’ asked Betty, rushing into the room. ‘God, the blood.’

  ‘Help me, Betty, James is bleeding. Please get some clean cloths and hot water. He’s been shot.’

  Betty got hot water and clean cloths and helped Veronica wrap his arm. The blood slowed when she tied the knot on the cloth tightly and, after a few minutes, stopped altogether.

  ‘Betty, help me get him into the armchair.’

  ‘He’s heavier than he looks,’ Betty said as they heaved him over.

  ‘I can’t go to work now.’

  James fell asleep or passed out, full of fits and shakes. Throughout the day, Betty sat on the ground beside him, gently wiping every new bead of sweat that appeared on his forehead. She knew Betty was thinking of Padraig’s final moments, hoping someone might have cared for him the same way.

  ‘The blood has stopped, but what about the bullet?’ Betty asked Veronica.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe it passed through him. I think the good thing is it’s stopped bleeding. We can only hope that it is.’

  When Tom came home, Betty gave him buttered bread for his tea, and they explained about James. After tea, Tom knelt beside Betty. ‘I think you should go to bed. I’ll sit with him for a while. Veronica, you get some sleep too.’

  James had stopped shaking and was in a deep sleep. The next morning both women were up before the whistle blew at the brewery. James was awake and talking to Tom.

  Kneeling beside him, Veronica said, ‘Thank God, James, you gave us a fright.’

  ‘How are you feeling, James?’

  ‘I’m fine now. Would you take this letter to Michael? It’s to tell him the Black and Tans have a list of spies’ names, and they are going to arrest them. I fear they will murder them! They know their time is limited here. They are thugs and want one last reign of terror before they leave.’

  ‘Will you be able to go?’ He looked at Tom. ‘Can you take her?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘The horse is sick, and we don’t have any to spare.’

  Without hesitation, Veronica said, ‘Don’t worry, James, I’ll be fine, I’ll walk. Betty, don’t look so worried,’ she said and laughed. ‘I’ve been in worse situations.’ And she had little to lose now as it couldn’t get any worse.

  ‘We
’ll have breakfast, and then you can get on your way.’

  Tom stood. ‘James, stay here and rest. When you’re better, I’ll get you to a safe house after it’s dark.’

  After breakfast, Betty cleaned the table and busied herself sweeping the floor, all the time keeping an eye on James as he dozed.

  ‘Betty, I’d better go to the office and see if I can get word to Michael.’

  ‘I’m so worried about you. It’s a terrible situation.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly, don’t look so worried. I’ll be fine.’ Before she left the house, she checked herself in the mirror on the hallstand and put her hand on her stomach. She didn’t feel anything.

  She buttoned up her coat, the letter safely in the inside pocket. Betty had left Veronica’s new hat for her, the hat her mother had got her for her birthday.

  Outside she passed night workers on their way home from work, and men on their way to work. Her heart beat fast. She knew she should have been cold, spring was late this year, but the adrenaline surged through her body, keeping her warm. Soon she saw Harcourt St and relaxed. She didn’t hear the army vehicle pull up beside her.

  ‘Where are ya going?’

  It was the Black and Tans.

  ‘I’m going to my office to work.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ The man stood directly in front of her.

  She tried not to wince at his stale cigarette breath mixed with alcohol. He was the soldier who had questioned her in the raid looking for Michael Collins.

  ‘Where are you going, a pretty little thing like you, all out on your own.’

  She couldn’t let her guard slip. ‘Excuse me, I have to go to my aunt, she’s expecting me at work.’

  ‘What’s going on here, lads? Never mind her. We’ve word Michael Collins is around here somewhere.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Veronica breathed slow and long.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘what did ya say your name was?’

  ‘Patricia,’ she replied.

  ‘Patricia, what?’ he growled, shoving a gun in her ribs. He took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He looked at her showing his black teeth, ‘Patricia what?’

  ‘Sweeny.’

  ‘That’s not Patricia Sweeny.’

  Christ. It was the sergeant that had raided Harcourt St looking for Michael Collins. He remembered her. ‘Her name is on the list,’ he said as he grabbed it from the Black and Tan. ‘Look there, it says Veronica McDermott.’ He pointed his finger at her. ‘That’s her. She works for that Fenian. Where is he now?’

  Again, he prodded her ribs, this time more forcibly.

  My baby.

  ‘Oh Christ, a Cryer. It’s bad enough to have to listen to my wife. Lads just get the truck and bring her to Kilmainham Jail.’

  She was thrown into the back of a vehicle. Immediately they moved, and she was thrown from side to side as it navigated through the streets. Eventually, it stopped, and the doors opened.

  ‘Com’ on. Follow me.’

  Veronica didn’t move.

  ‘Did ya hear me?’ he snarled. He got in and yanked her hair, pulling her outside.

  She inhaled deeply as the Black and Tans pushed her towards the doors.

  The doors opened as they approached. Inside rows of dim lights hung on the walls. Veronica’s eyes adjusted to the low light, and there was a long staircase in front of her, but she was shoved into a cell to the left of the stairs and fell on the dusty dirt floor. After a few minutes, she stood to shake the dust from her skirt. The cell was only four feet by eight feet, containing a narrow bed. Iron bars guarded a small window high up on the wall. This was the second time she was looking out a barred window, and there was no Harry to rescue her now.

  The bed was hard, but she was emotionally and physically exhausted, so succumbed to sleep. She only woke when a key scratched the lock, and the door opened.

  A soldier towered over her bed. ‘Up. Now.’

  A narrow shadow of moonlight fell into the middle of the cell floor, but it soon disappeared as clouds covered it.

  ‘Get up now, stand in front of me.’

  ‘I’m not deaf. There’s no need to shout at me.’

  ‘Don’t give me any of your gruff, put your hands out in front of you,’ he said, and he tied them together. She noticed it was a knot that her father had taught her to tie the parcels of meat in the shop. He pushed her outside into a bright yard. ‘Go on, keep moving.’

  A deafening noise like a continuous flow of gunfire sounded directly above her. She looked up to a domed ceiling that was made of glass, rain pounding on it.

  ‘My coat.’

  ‘You won’t be needing that where you’re going.’

  He pushed her forward past the spiral metal staircase up to the next level. She counted three levels all in a circular shape. Looking down, all the wooden doors were identical. Was this where the leaders of the 1916 rebellion were held before they were executed?

  ‘Forward, through that door,’ he said, pointing straight ahead of them.

  It brought her to a narrow corridor. One side was a continuous line of cells while the other was a stone wall with a few small windows high up, letting in a little light.

  At the end of the corridor stood a soldier and he opened the door as they approached. She halted at the sound of gunfire.

  ‘Move, no time for dilly-dallying,’ he said, pushing her out of the corridor into a courtyard.

  The rain had stopped, the clouds retreated and by the light of the stars and the full moon she saw a single upright stake at the wall at the end of the courtyard. The soldier pushed her forward with the butt of his rifle. She lost her balance on the wet pebbles and stumbled forwards. Two soldiers dragged a man past her. His once white shirt was grey, torn and covered in blood. His skinny body gave the impression he may not have reached adulthood.

  ‘He’s not dead,’ said the soldier with a Dublin accent and dropped him like a bag of coal. The taller of the two soldiers aimed his rifle at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered Veronica’s clothes and face. The man crumbled on the stones.

  Veronica screamed. Her thumping heart hurt her chest.

  ‘Turn away. Here put this on.’ A young soldier handed Veronica a single backcloth. ‘For your eyes, miss.’

  Veronica looked at the dead young man, her mouth dry, and standing tall, she stared directly into the soldier’s eyes. ‘I don’t want that.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure? Orders, ma’am. Sorry, I have to put it on everyone.’ He pulled it tight around her head, so everything was black.

  He pulled her to a stake and tied her hands behind it. As he tied the rope, he whispered into her right ear, ‘I really am sorry, miss. I have never shot a woman.’

  Bleakly, she thought that at least now her family would be spared the shame her pregnancy would have brought them. Tears streamed down her face, not for her, but for her unborn child. There was no hope for her now.

  ‘Aim, ready.’

  She took a breath and stood up straight.

  ‘Stop!’

  It was Harry.

  Everything was quiet, then boots scraped on the stone yard coming towards her.

  ‘Yes, sir. Great news, sir.’

  Veronica didn’t know what they were talking about. Again she heard, ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  Somebody now stood beside her. She could hear him breathing, smell his familiar scent. It was Harry. He pulled her blindfold down. It took a few seconds to adjust her sight. Harry stood in front of her. He pulled her into his embrace, holding her tight.

  ‘Veronica, there is a truce. You are safe.’

  A chaos of noise ensued in the courtyard, but Veronica thought about her family. She pulled back and looked at Harry. It was the second time he saved her life, her guardian angel. What would they say?

  ‘Veronica, I know about the baby. I realised I’d made a mistake and went to find you. I called into the shop, and your Mrs Sullivan’s niece was
there. She told me everything. I’m so sorry, Veronica.’ He hugged her once more, and then pulled away. ‘First, we must get you back to your uncle and aunt. Everyone is safe now, including your brother.’

  Veronica was silent, unable to process his words. He led her to a waiting car, opening the door for her before slipping in beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Veronica, for doing that to you,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I kept thinking about you and how I left you there at the Shelbourne. I promise I will never leave you again.’

  ‘But how, Harry?’ Veronica asked, her eyes desperate. ‘How can we be together? You said it yourself that it would be impossible.’

  ‘I have thought about nothing else for the last month. I’ll speak to your family. But we have to be together. I need you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please just think about it, Veronica,’ Harry said gently. ‘I don’t want to be parted from you again. First, let me take you back to your family.’

  44

  20 Years Later

  Gabrielle entered St Mary’s Church in Virginia, in the same white linen dress that Veronica had got married in. They had taken it in together.

  Gabrielle’s primrose headdress rested like a halo on her golden-brown curls. She stood at the entrance of the church, waiting for the harpist to announce her arrival. The rays of the morning sun squeezed through the bell entrance of the church surrounding Gabrielle. Harry stood beside Gabrielle looking down at his eldest daughter. Arm in arm, they walked slowly, one step at a time up the aisle in step to the wedding march. Harry was unsteady, his limp never having fully recovered from the war, and the damp weather in Ireland didn’t help.

  Life had been trying in Cavan for Harry and Veronica at first because of the hostilities towards the English. But, when Harry steadfastly attended Mass every Sunday with Veronica and their expanding family, they gradually softened towards him.

  The small stone church crowded with family and friends, and all eyes on the bride. Veronica’s mother and father sat at the top pew, too frail to stand. Eddie and his wife Helen smiled at their niece, tears of pride in their eyes, watching the happy couple.

  Veronica wiped away a tear. At the altar, her daughter Gabrielle exchanged vows with Joe, her fiancé. Veronica held the notebook Harry gave her on her wedding day. It was the notebook Harry had with him on their days in Kingstown. She opened it. A young, naive girl of eighteen sat on a bench with her eyes closed, and if you looked closely at the pencil drawing, the corners of her mouth were slightly turned up into a smile. She closed her eyes, and she saw herself wearing the jade green shirt and cream blouse and could taste the sea on her lips.