by A. O'Connor
CHAPTER 6
Michael and Kitty walked down the busy main street of Granard. Michael had his hat pulled down on his forehead and kept his head lowered.
“It’s Fair Day, so the town is packed,” explained Kitty as they passed stalls filled with all sorts of goods for sale and pens full of livestock. “We’ll be out in the country soon and you can relax then.”
“The sooner the better,” said Michael as a truck carrying British troops drove down the main street, causing many to start jeering and booing them.
“Go back to your mammies!” shouted a man as he grabbed a turnip from one of the stalls and hurled it at the truck.
“Not much pro-British sentiment around here!” smiled Kitty.
“No. The trouble is, though, that the flying turnip could have hit the head of one of the Tans and they are untrained undisciplined men who have been given free rein and they could have opened fire and turned the street into a bloodbath.”
Kitty shuddered at the thought. She had read the reports of such atrocities happening in other towns and cities throughout the country, but she had never contemplated it happening on her own doorstep.
“Come on, let’s get out into the open air,” she said, taking his arm and quickening their pace.
“Well, my father died when I was only six and I missed him badly,” said Michael as they strolled along a country road. “He was much older than my mother and so it didn’t surprise anybody when he died – he was eighty-one. But I was still very young, and he was my father.”
“Of course,” said Kitty.
“We just were small farmers,” he said and then winked down at her. “We weren’t rich like the Kiernans.”
“Oh, shut up! Everything my family have we worked for.”
He could see that flash of temper across her face again and realised she had to endure a lot of resentment from the locals due to her family’s success.
“I was told there wasn’t much money to be spoiling me and so I’d better put my head down in the books and get myself a good education. And then I passed the British Civil Service exams and went to work for the Post Office in London. I learned a lot of my organisational skills there.”
“To think the British Civil Service trained the man who is now threatening to bring down the empire with those organisational skills!” said Kitty.
“True for you, Kitty,” said Michael, laughing. “And I went on from there and did my accountancy exams and became an accountant.”
“To think you would have been a nice professional man – if you hadn’t ended up a terrorist!”
“Are you taking the piss out of me?” he said, pretending to be offended.
“Would I?” she said with a smile as they sauntered over to a gate that led into a huge rolling field.
Michael opened the gate and they went in.
“What age are you now, Mick?” she asked.
“Thirty.”
“Did you never want to settle down? Most fellas your age are married by now.”
“Well, if this war hadn’t come along – who knows? As you said, I might be an accountant living in a small country town married to a nice girl.”
“That sounds like Helen and Paul!” Kitty noticed Michael’s smile vanish at the mention of her sister Helen. “What’s wrong, Michael?”
“Eh, nothing, nothing at all!” he said quickly, trying to disguise the fact he was still in turmoil over Helen. “It’s just as you say, the fight for independence has robbed me of another life that might have been for me.”
“To be honest, I don’t think you could ever settle down with a nice girl in a nice job in a nice town – it’s just not you, Mick.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too restless and clever and ambitious. You’re a politician and one day you’ll be head of our country, wait and see,” said Kitty.
“I don’t know about that. Dev is the one over in New York signing himself as President of Ireland. I think he thinks if he tells enough people that, they will believe him and think we already have independence! But enough about me – what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Well – for a start – who is this blond fella who was hanging on your every word last night?”
“Lionel? Oh, he’s just a friend.”
“I’d say he’d like to be a lot more than that!”
“Get away out of that! As I said, he’s just a friend.”
“A very wealthy one, from all accounts?”
“I see how you became head of Irish Intelligence! So, what if he’s after me? I don’t belong to anyone. I’m my own woman and can do what I want.”
“I’d say Harry would have something to say about that.”
“Harry is across the Atlantic Ocean and can say whatever he wants – I can’t hear him from here! At the end of the day Harry left me while he went off to America to get funds to fight your blasted war and I can’t sit here on the shelf with my legs dangling forever!”
Michael stopped walking and looked at her. “So you would? You’d finish with Harry and take up with this Lionel?”
She stopped and turned to him. “I don’t know … Well, he wants to marry me.”
“What! Jaysus, there’s more marriage proposals going on around here than on top of the Eiffel Tower! And what did you tell him?”
“Well, I said I’d have to think about it. Lionel has a lot going for him. He’s a very wealthy man, from a very wealthy family – I’d want for nothing married to Lionel Lyster!”
“You were never the sort who was going to marry for money, Kitty, not with all those romantic novels you read!”
“True! But he’s very kind and very sweet also, and he worships the ground I walk on. Sure what more could a girl want?”
“Love?” asked Michael.
“Maybe love is overrated. I’ve a friend who says love is for fools.”
“He also doesn’t strike me as being … how can I put this delicately …”
“Delicacy is not a word I’d ever associate with you, Mick Collins, so spit it out whatever’s on your mind!” Her face had turned sour and her voice harsh.
“Well, he just doesn’t strike me as being very – clever.”
“You cheeky pup!” She was angered. “Lionel is one of the brightest men I know!”
“Well, if you say so – I’ll have to take your word on that one!” He winked at her, causing her to go red with anger.
“I think it’s time we headed back – it looks like rain!” she snapped as she began to march away.
He looked up at the clear blue skies and laughed to himself as he followed her.
“One thing for sure, Kitty, a girl like you will never be left sitting on the shelf with her legs dangling,” he said earnestly as he caught up with her.
She stopped walking and looked at him, surprised by the compliment. He usually jokingly disparaged her.
“Come on, we’ll head back, or we’ll be late for dinner,” she said and began to walk back to the road.
Everyone had gone to bed except for Michael and Kitty who were seated in the darkened parlour beside the fire. She was reading poetry by WB Yeats to him. She sat on the green velvet couch beside the oil lamp while he sat across the fire from her in an armchair. As her soft voice read out the words of Yeats’ ‘The Sorrow of Love’ the light from the fire flickered across her fine features. Michael couldn’t help being mesmerised as her velvet voice spoke the words from the poem –
“‘A girl arose that had red mournful lips… and seemed the greatness of the world in tears … doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships … and proud as Priam murdered with his peers …’”
She looked up from the poetry book and saw a tear trickle down his cheek. She put down the book and sat forward, concerned. “Are you alright, Mick?”
He quickly rubbed his face and flicked his hair back. “Of course I am – why wouldn’t I be?”
She leaned towards the oil lamp on the table beside her an
d adjusted the flame, bringing more light into the room.
“I thought you had gone soft on me for a moment,” she tenderly mocked.
“Pah! It would take more than a few words of poetry to make Mick Collins soft. Maybe, now, if I waded through some of these romantic novels you read, I might be in floods of tears then – tears of laughter!”
She stood up and, laughing, said, “If you’re going to start mocking my novels, then I’ll go to bed!”
He grabbed her wrist as she went to walk past him. She froze at the feel of his tight grip and felt a spark. She glanced down at his hand on her wrist.
“Don’t leave me yet, Kitty – stay another while – I don’t want to be alone,” he said softly.
“It’s late, Mick, and I’m tired . . .”
He nodded, released her wrist and stood up too. “You’re right. I’d better be getting to bed myself … thanks for today … you were the best company.”
“I’m always the best company – sure isn’t that why your best friend is in love with me?” she said with a smirk.
“Treat him well, Kitty, he’s one of the best.”
“I know that, Mick.”
“Don’t string him along if you plan to end up with Lionel.”
“The truth is I don’t know yet who I want to end up with. I have a lot of thinking to do.”
“I guess it’s nice to have options,” said Michael with a laugh. “If you did end up with Harry then I guess he won the bet.”
“What bet was this?”
“When we met you first, he and I had a bet on about who could win you over.”
“Well, you didn’t try too hard to win, Mick! I don’t ever remember you trying to woo me in any shape or form.”
“Sure how could I compete with the gifts of glass ornaments and bowls Harry kept bringing you!” Michael said, laughing out loud at the memory of Harry’s seduction technique.
“Shhhh! You’ll wake the house!” she snapped, forcing herself not to laugh at the memory of the array of ornaments Harry had given her. “Anyways – you’re in no position to mock another man’s courting ritual. Maybe you should copy him next time you want to woo a girl, instead of relying on your looks and charm.”
“Ah, now you flatter me, Kitty!” He beamed a smile down at her.
“Go to bed, Mick. I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast, if we have any plates left after our clumsy maid!”
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek before turning and walking down the corridor.
“Goodnight, Kitty!” he whispered after her.
She turned and waved before continuing to her room.
He smiled to himself as he turned and began to walk down the corridor to his room. But then he stopped and walked back to the parlour. He went and stood by the fire, staring into the glowing embers. He looked at the photographs on top of the mantelpiece and he took up the photograph of Helen that was there. He stared at it, the frame slightly shaking in his hands. She had come up in conversation earlier over dinner. The plans she had for the future with her fiancé and all the details about the forthcoming wedding. He remembered the great times he had there in that very room with her over the past couple of years. It was impossible for him to accept those times were over.
“Did you sleep well?” Kitty asked Michael as he sat down at the breakfast table the next morning with the family.
“Like a baby,” said Michael.
Gearóid suddenly came quickly into the room, looking agitated. “Mick – I need to speak to you.”
Michael was on his feet in a second and followed him out into the corridor.
“What’s going on?”
“I was just on the telephone to one of the lads in Dublin. They found the informer – it was George!”
“George!” Michael’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t believe it!” George was a trusted aide in the organisation who was privy to the whereabouts of Michael and the other leaders.
“Believe it, Mick! He was on the payroll for the British and he told them you were in Sally’s house that night.”
“Where’s the bastard now?”
“He’s gone missing – he could be out of the country already.”
“One of the flying columns will track him down.” The flying columns – small, independent groups capable of rapid mobility – were among Michael’s most effective tools.
The memory of that awful night came back to Michael. “Any word on Sally?”
“Yes, they have released her.”
“Thank the Lord for that,” sighed Michael with relief.
“They interrogated her, but Sally wouldn’t give anything away, so they let her go in the end. It would be a different story for her if they had found you at her house.”
“It would have been a different story for us all,” said Michael with a grimace.
“There’s more news from Dublin – three of our lads were arrested and are dead. Shot by the Black and Tans, and badly beaten before that.”
“For fuck’s sake!” swore Michael. “Right, we’d better get back to Dublin – cut this holiday short. Sorry, Gearóid, I know you wanted to spend more time with Maud.”
“Plenty of time for that when we’ve won this war,” said Gearóid.
“There’s the spirit,” said Michael, clasping his shoulder.
He went back into the dining room.
“I’m sorry, everybody, but we have to get back to Dublin.”
“So soon!” cried Maud, leaping to her feet. “But you said you would be here for the rest of the week, Gearóid!”
“Can’t be helped, Maud.”
“For goodness’ sake!”
“Come and we’ll talk,” said Gearóid, taking her by the arm and leading her away.
“Don’t be long – that motorcar will be leaving here in five minutes with or without you!” Michael shouted after them.
“Ah Mick! Will you give them some time together – who knows when they will see each other next!” pleaded Kitty.
“I haven’t got time to give!” snapped Michael angrily. “I have to get on the road and get back to work and I have no time to spare for a couple of – of – sweethearts!”
Kitty stared at him, her temper surfacing. Where had the gentle man from yesterday gone? The sensitive soul whose tears trickled down his face when she read ‘The Sorrow of Love’?
“Thank you all for your hospitality and your company and see you next time!” said Michael.
He turned and strode out of the room.
“Gearóid! Will you come on!” he shouted down the corridor.
“And what am I supposed to do with all this food that has been cooked for those lads now?” demanded Molly crossly, her hands on her hips, as she looked down at the plates of bacon and sausages ready to be consumed. “I hate to see waste!”
Kitty got up from the table and, ignoring Molly, walked quickly out of the room and down the corridor into the parlour. She hurried over to the window and looked out. A minute later she saw Michael and Gearóid leave the building and walk to the automobile parked outside. They threw their suitcases in the back and Gearóid got into the driver’s seat while Michael got in beside him. Michael pulled his hat down as the automobile started.
Kitty watched as they journeyed down the street and out of sight. She then turned and walked over to the couch and picked up the book of WB Yeats poems she had read from the previous night. She became angry. They had spent all that time together over the past couple of days and he hadn’t even said goodbye to her. Not so much as a ‘Goodbye, Kitty’! She had just been reminded why she had steered away from Mick Collins when she had met him and concentrated on steady dependable Harry Boland. Despite his charm and presence, a girl would never know where she was with Michael. One minute crying, the next shouting. Sitting down to breakfast one minute, dashing out the door to Dublin the next. How relieved she was that she had not fallen for Michael. Michael would bring no girl any happiness.
CHAPTER 7
Haze
l drove her Rolls Royce through the streets of Kensington and on to Knightsbridge. Although their footman doubled as a chauffeur when required, Hazel had got used to driving herself around London during the war, when they had been left with hardly any servants due to the male servants going to the front to fight and the female servants leaving to work in munition factories. Hazel had learned to become quite self-sufficient domestically during the war.
She turned into Park Lane and parked outside Philip Sassoon’s house – Number 25. Although Hazel and John were very proud of their own house at Cromwell Place, even their palatial home paled beside the splendour of Philip’s four-storey mansion. Hazel had often been a guest in the house, and it was impossible not to be deeply impressed by the building which had its own ballroom and was decorated with the finest French antiques and exquisite paintings.
As she knocked on the door she reflected on the fact that Philip’s mother had been a Rothschild, which explained the vast luxury on display.
Prime Minister David Lloyd George was sitting in Philip Sassoon’s grand drawing room with an air of impatience.
“Is it really necessary for me to meet his woman?” he asked.
“Not really necessary, Prime Minister, but I think it may be advantageous to you in the long run. Hazel has become very well connected and it would be better to have her as ally than a foe … and you are doing me a personal favour meeting her – she is a good friend of mine.”
Lloyd George nodded, well aware of Philip’s own reputation as a socialite who rubbed shoulders with artists, actors, movie stars and of course the political class he was a member of as well. Philip looked the perfect socialite, always impeccably dressed, his sallow skin always tanned, his hair slicked with Brylcreem, his lean tall body kept fit from polo. He had a touch of the exotic about him, fanned by his family’s immense wealth.
“From what I know of John Lavery’s wife, she is sticking her oar into something that is none of her business.”
“She wants to make a difference,” said Philip.