by A. O'Connor
“I’m sorry – I apologise!” He held his hands in the air. “I am only teasing. Nobody appreciates your interest in Irish affairs as much as I do. Why, Winston was only telling me yesterday that he was at a dinner party here a couple of weeks ago and all you did was try to twist his arm to start negotiations with the Irish.”
“Did Winston really say that?”
“He most certainly did – he said he went home with a headache after listening to you wittering on for the whole night about it.”
“Good! He deserves a headache for presiding over this disastrous campaign in Ireland.”
“Well, I’ve haven’t made any headway with him – so if you can, then good luck!” said Shane.
Shane was a constant source of fascination for Hazel. By background, family and education, he should automatically be on the side of the British in their continued control of Ireland. But along the way Shane had had a conversion and now fully supported Irish independence, had converted to Catholicism and even befriended some of the fugitive republican leaders. All this made Shane one of Hazel’s heroes, despite his faults, and she relied on him for information and instruction on Irish affairs.
He stood admiring her, seeing all anger now removed from her beautiful features.
“I’ve written you a new poem,” he said.
“Another one?”
“Yes.” He reached into his pocket and took out a page of paper, unfolding it he walked across and handed it to her.
She smiled broadly as she took it and read it. The poem was a whimsical ode to love. The wording was bordering on immature, describing all of Hazel’s features in an adoring fashion.
“Well?” asked Shane as he saw her finish reading the cringeworthy verse.
Hazel sighed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Really?” Shane was delighted.
“The words, the sentiment, the emotion – it’s all magical!” she whispered in a breathy voice.
Suddenly Shane reached out and, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her close to him, kissed her on the lips.
Momentarily stunned, she pushed him off and backed away from him.
“Shane! Have you forgotten yourself!”
“Yes, I have forgotten myself! I freely admit I forget myself whenever in your company!”
She fixed her hair and said, “Shane, I’ve told you before – you must get over this infatuation.”
“It is not an infatuation. I am in love with you, Hazel. I always have been!”
“Nonsense, Shane. Besides, being in love with me is a waste of your emotion – as we can never be together. I never could and never would leave John. I adore him.”
“But he’s thirty years older than you, Hazel. What kind of marriage can you have with a man like that? He never laughs, he never jokes – how can somebody as vivacious as you be happy with somebody like John?”
“He is not thirty years older than me – he’s only twenty-four years older. And you are being quite cruel about him. I won’t have you say a bad word about him!” However, she was not looking too upset by Shane’s words. “Are you seriously suggesting that I leave him, and you would leave Marjorie on the basis of this infatuation?”
“Yes!”
“You are deluded. Besides, you can put any such notion out of your head as I am about to follow your example and convert to Catholicism – and we Catholics, may I remind you, do not believe in divorce!”
“Convert to Catholicism! But why are you doing that? You aren’t even religious!”
“It’s just something I feel I need to do,” she said. “For my identity – to make me more Irish and connect me with my Irish roots.”
“I see!” said Shane, rolling his eyes.
“Heavens above, Shane! You converted! Why shouldn’t I?”
He began to pace up and down in frustration, ignoring her question.
“Hazel, I’d do anything you asked me to do. Anything! Why are you so loyal to him? Why won’t you have an affair with me at least? I mean, it wouldn’t be the first affair you’ve had, surely? I shall accept whatever terms you dictate to be with you.”
Hazel showed mock horror. “I have never been unfaithful to my husband! Ever!”
“But all the men you know –”
“Are just friends. No more – and no less. If their feelings are more than that or they wish to spread lies – or their wives wish to spread lies – then there is nothing I can do.”
“But everyone takes lovers, Hazel. You must be the only wife in our circle who’s never had a lover!”
“Perhaps I am, I can only speak for myself. Now you must put all this nonsense behind you, Shane. Your poor wife Marjorie is fully aware of this infatuation and continues to look daggers at me whenever I am in her company, as if I am responsible for provoking you!”
“Marjorie, like all other wives in London of our class, fully accepts and expects her husband to have a mistress,” Shane said dismissively.
Hazel looked cynical. “Marjorie, unlike the other wives in our circle, is an American, may I remind you, and I can assure you that as an American she certainly does not condone the louche behaviour of the British upper class.”
Shane’s expression became very serious and he embraced her again. “Hazel, I can’t live without you!”
The door suddenly opened. “That Russian count is the most peculiar man –”
John Lavery stopped speaking abruptly as he saw Shane Leslie jump away from his wife.
“Oh, good afternoon, John.”
“Good afternoon, Shane – and how are you?” asked John, noticing Shane’s face had become beetroot-red.
“Very good,” said Shane.
John looked at Hazel who was smoothing down her hair.
“So tell us about the Russian count?” she said.
“Yes, Hazel was just telling me all about your latest commission,” said Shane. “I hope you got paid upfront, John – I don’t think many of these Russian nobles managed to flee with much money out of their country!”
“Oh, I think my commission is quite safe with this fellow,” said John.
“I was just telling Shane that we’re travelling to Ireland next month,” said Hazel, “for you to paint religious and political leaders for an Irish Collection – to be displayed in a new national art gallery when the country gets independence.” She turned to Shane. “I was hoping, Shane, that you could use some of your subversive contacts to arrange for us to meet some of the rebel leaders, to do their portraits?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Hazel,” he said, taken aback. “I can’t imagine any of the rebel leaders agreeing to a sitting for an oil canvas when they’re doing everything to hide what they look like from the authorities!”
“Well, the paintings wouldn’t be for public viewing – certainly not until the war in Ireland is over. We wouldn’t show them to anyone, we would guarantee that.”
“I really can’t see any of the rebels agreeing to that. If the paintings fell into British hands, they would have an up-to-date image of what they look like!”
Gordon walked in through the open door with a tray.
“Tea, my lady,” he announced.
“Actually, we’ll have tea in the main drawing room, Gordon. Come along, Shane – we can discuss this further downstairs.”
Hazel led Shane out of the room, Gordon following.
John spotted a paper on the floor. Walking over to it, he picked it up. It was a love poem to Hazel, written by Shane. He read it before folding it over and putting it in his pocket.
He looked at the door through which their laughter was drifting back, and he began to frown.
CHAPTER 3
Michael Collins was seated at a kitchen table in a house in Harold’s Cross on the southside of Dublin. Sally Owens, who owned the house, thought he was like a king holding court – as she had countless times when she’d watched him with the other men sitting around her kitchen table. She smiled to herself at the thought of her ordinary kitchen being liken
ed to a royal court, but that’s how Michael’s presence there made it feel.
Sally’s house was one of the safe houses that Michael frequently stayed in. She was a young woman of thirty whose husband had died the previous year of the Spanish flu that had taken so many lives. She now lived alone in the house as they didn’t have any children. Her husband had been a close friend of Michael’s and she was delighted to be able to assist in the struggle for independence and offer her home as a safe house to him. Michael could never stay long in the one house in case the British got wind of the fact he was there, so he was always on the move, never staying in one house for longer than a few nights.
Sally wondered at his energy – that he could lead such a life continually on the run – but he seemed to thrive on it. She watched him talk to the other men around the kitchen table and was amazed, listening to him issue instructions, at how he could organise a whole war hiding in a kitchen. Not only could he organise a war, but by the looks of it be on the winning side.
“When’re those arms arriving in Wexford, Jack?” asked Michael.
“Tomorrow night.”
“Make sure you get them to Dublin as fast as you can,” said Michael. “Did you organise the milk lorry to transport them?”
“Yes, Mick – the local creamery has already lent us a lorry and it’s on standby.”
Mick reached into a big bag beside him and took out a wad of cash. He wrote out a receipt and put it into his pocket before handing the cash to Jack. “Give that to creamery owner and tell him he’ll have his lorry back the next day.”
“Yes, Mick,” said Jack, taking the wad of money and putting it into his pocket.
“Anything to report on that new chief of police staying at the Gresham Hotel, Francie?” asked Michael, directing the question at the blond man across the table.
“Yes, the telephone operator at the hotel said he made three calls to London today. He demanded reinforcements to deal with the – quote – ‘ever worsening situation’.”
Michael laughed. “He’ll find his own situation worse in the morning when he wakes to find his automobile burned outside the hotel!”
“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good! His driver will have the day off!” said Sally as she went around the table with the teapot, filling everyone’s cup.
“Never a truer word said, Sally!” laughed Mick as she cut a big slice of fruit cake and put it in front of him.
Michael reached into the bag and took out a five-pound note. Again, he wrote a receipt and placed it in his pocket before handing the money to Francie.
“Make sure the hotel receptionist gets that.”
“I will surely.”
Sally had seen the same thing happen time and time again. Michael would arrive with a bag of money and distribute it during the course of the evening to the men, to be paid to those helping and advancing the war effort.
“Everyone needs to be extra-vigilant over the next few days,” said Michael. “They will want revenge for that ambush we carried out on the Tans today in retaliation for what those Black and Tan bastards did last week.”
The ‘Black and Tans’ were a force of temporary constables recruited in a hurry to help the Royal Irish Constabulary – an idea of Winston Churchill’s. Many of them unemployed veterans of the Great War, they were given a rushed three months’ training. Then, because of a shortage of RIC uniforms, they were issued with ‘uniforms’ made up of a mixture of army khaki and black or dark-green RIC jackets, caps and belts. A journalist wrote that they reminded them of a certain pack of beagles nicknamed the ‘Black and Tans’ from their colouration. The nickname stuck.
“Tell everyone to be on their guard. The British have stopped any time off for their Tans, so the city will be teeming with them.”
“Right, Mick,” they all responded.
“Right, off home with all of ye and I’ll see ye tomorrow,” said Michael.
They all stood up and waited at the back door for Sally to open it. She went into the back yard and walked to the gate that led onto the lane at the bottom. Unbolting it, she glanced up and down outside before waving to the men. They silently slipped out of the house and filed past her into the laneway. She watched them disappear into the night like shadows.
Back inside, she poured herself a mug of tea and refilled Michael’s mug.
“Will you have another bit of cake, Mick?” she asked as she went to cut another slice.
“I will not, Sally. I’ll explode if I have another bite to eat. Sure, I’m full after the stew you made earlier. I always say, out of all the cooks in all the houses I stay in, Sally Owens is the best!”
She laughed and came and sat beside him.
“Do you want something stronger in that tea?” she asked, moving her small round figure closer to him and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.
“I do not! Are you trying to get me drunk?” he said with a scowl.
“I most certainly am not!” she said, affronted.
His scowl faded into a large grin and she realised he was joking.
“Oh you!” she said, slapping him on the arm.
“I’d better get to bed. I’ve an early start – the Squad will be arriving for me at daybreak,” said Mick.
‘The Squad’ were a handpicked team of twelve republicans who went with Michael everywhere and whose loyalty was so unwavering they would lay down their lives for him. The British press called them ruthless assassins, cold-blooded murderers who enforced Collins’ death warrants. The British press said many things about Michael Collins.
“Do you never get tired of it, Mick? All this running around – you can’t ever even get a decent night’s sleep!”
He shrugged. “Somebody’s got to do it, Sally.” He stood up, bent down and kissed her forehead. “Thanks for everything, Sally. You’re a great girl.”
He stopped as he reached the doorway and, turning, smiled at her while he studied her. She gazed at his large frame in the doorway, his handsome face, brilliant eyes and brown hair.
“What is it, Mick?” she asked.
“Tell me, Sally, how did a nice girl like you get mixed up in all this?”
She smiled back at him. “Probably the same way you did, Mick – it was my fate!”
He nodded and laughed, running a hand through his thick hair, before leaving. She could hear him walk heavily up the stairs to his bedroom and close the door. She sat sipping her tea for a while before going to bed herself.
Sally’s eyes sprang open as she heard a loud bang. When she heard another, she jumped out of bed and rushed to the window.
Black and Tans were smashing into the house next door. Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she ran out onto the landing.
Michael was already there.
“It’s the Tans – they’ve smashed in next door!” she hissed.
They could now hear shouting and screaming outside.
“They’ll be here next,” said Michael. “They’ll search every house in the street.”
“You hide,” she said, pushing him back into his bedroom. “If they come here, I’ll try and distract them.”
Michael rushed into the room and to the window which looked out on the yard at the back of the house. He knew nothing Sally could do would distract them. And they would be there any minute. They had obviously got a tip-off that he was staying locally, and they wouldn’t stop till they found him. He opened the window. He could make out Tans coming down the back laneway and breaking into houses from the back as well.
Michael climbed onto the window ledge, jumped down onto the roof of a shed that ran from the house to the back laneway and lay there motionless, waiting for a hail of bullets. But none came.
There was a loud knock on the front door and Sally steadied herself. She pulled her shawl tightly around her and went down to open the door. As she unbolted the door, it suddenly swung forcibly open as a group of Black and Tans stormed into the house.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded
.
“Where is he, you Fenian bitch?” demanded one of the Tans.
“Who are you –?” but before she had time to finish her sentence the Tan had struck her across the face, sending her flying to the floor.
Stunned, she lay on the floor, the blood flowing down her face.
Michael could hear the commotion going on inside the house as the troops stormed through it. He could hear Sally’s screams. He knew he had to move whatever the risk. At any moment a Tan would look out the open window. More Tans ran through the yard below and in through the back door. He raised his head cautiously and glanced up and down the laneway. Seeing no one there, he slid from the roof of the shed into the laneway and sprinted away. He could hear Sally’s screams behind him.
He stopped running. His heart beating quickly, he reached inside his coat for his gun. He could hear Sally begging them to stop whatever they were doing.
Shaking and trembling, he fought the overwhelming urge to return to the house. Wiping away tears, he forced himself to continue into the night.
Michael spent the next three hours stealthily stalking through the back alleys and laneways of Dublin. Everywhere he turned there seemed to be a military presence. Finally, he arrived at the back of a house in Phibsboro. The house was in darkness and he began to throw small stones up at a window. At last he saw some movement inside. The window opened and the head of his cousin Gearóid emerged.
“Gearóid – it’s me!” he hissed.
Gearóid quickly closed over the window and seconds later the back door of the house opened.
Michael rushed in and stood panting against the wall.
“Mick – what’s going on?”
Michael stumbled to the table and sat down. “There was a raid on Sally Owens’ house where I was staying. I barely got out.” He sank his face into his hands as he remembered Sally’s screams as he escaped into the night.
“Fuck’s sake!” said Gearóid, going to the cabinet and pouring a large glass of whiskey. He placed it in front of Michael who grabbed it and drank the whiskey back.