by Therese Down
Donal Kelly had been interviewed at length by the gardai following the killing of Davey Nunan at O’Hallorahan’s bar in February 1941, but as he was the only witness, his testimony would not stand up against that of the gard who killed Nunan and swore he had not meant to. The geography master who was with Donal at the time of the incident insisted he had seen nothing, for he had spent most of the fight hunkered down against the wall of the pub furthest from the bar, his elbows on his knees and forearms over his face, eyes tight shut. No one else could recall any precise details of the moments leading up to Nunan’s death and the whole thing was assigned to accident and misadventure. Officer O’Reilly was transferred to Dublin. Donal’s statement was filed, a full report made.
On the day Davey Nunan was buried, the streets of Cashmel overflowed with mourners from three counties. Provisional IRA men of high ranks turned out to fire a salute over the tricolor- draped coffin and the gardai looked the other way. There were scuffles and ballads and drunken shouting into the early hours of next morning, but the sheer numbers of gardai drafted in from Cork, Limerick, Wexford, and Kilkenny headquarters were prohibitive of rioting or more serious violence. Donal attended the funeral, and there the indignation he felt at the injustice of Nunan’s death was consolidated into a virulent subversive Republicanism. Many handshakes and respectful cap-tippings were proffered in his honour as he followed the coffin and stood at the graveside. IRA men, aware of his bravery on the night of Nunan’s death and in testifying against Officer O’Reilly, showed Donal their respects.
The next thing that was substantially decisive in causing Donal Kelly to join the IRA was the arrest of George Plant in October 1941. On the orders of Stephen Hayes, IRA Chief of Staff Officer at the time, “General” George Plant, a Tipperary man and official executioner of the 7th IRA battalion, bank robber, and ambusher of trains, executed a young man from Wexford, whose name was Michael Devereux.
Twenty-four-year-old Devereux, newly married and a father, was suspected of betraying to the gardai the whereabouts of an IRA weapons cache and so had to be shot. Plant did his duty and in spite of Devereux’s pleas that he was innocent, put a bullet in his head at close range in a remote location on Slievenamon mountain in September 1940. It was to this paramilitary execution that the sergeant had referred on the night Nunan was killed in O’Hallorahan’s bar, for it was certain that many a South Tipperary household had afforded safe conduct, food, and shelter to George Plant following his murder of Devereux.
Ironically, it was the IRA’s kidnapping and torture of the IRA leader Stephen Hayes, in the spring of 1941, that led to the exposition of Plant as Devereux’s murderer. Hayes was accused of collusion with de Valera’s government. At first he hotly and persistently denied the charge, but after two months of torture and interrogation by his own men, Hayes confessed to treason. He was about to be executed when he escaped and sought sanctuary with the Rathmines gardai.
A substantial part of Hayes’ quid pro quo confession to the police included his admission that he had ordered George Plant to kill Michael Devereux, and Plant became the country’s most wanted man. By the time he was arrested, Plant had garnered a legendary stature comparable with the one Dick Turpin must have enjoyed in eighteenth-century England.
O’Hallorahan’s bar reopened eventually under the patronage of the previous landlord’s daughter, Molly. Married to a Kildare lorry driver named Desmond Corcoran, but with no children, Molly ran her father’s bar with stern eyes and tone which could nonetheless be tempted to sparkling and laughter. Her status as O’Hallorahan’s daughter, and the respect she deserved as a married woman and landlord, kept the men in check most of the time. There was less cursing and more cap doffing in the bar of an evening.
“Well, what’ll it be, young Donal?” asked Molly one rainy evening in October 1941, though she could not have been more than four years older than Donal.
“The usual, Molly, please.” Donal shook the rain from his overcoat and tousled his hair to dislodge surplus water, as the landlady levered the ale pump towards her and expertly filled his tankard.
“Now,” she said at last, placing the brimming mug before him on the bar, “twopence please.”
Donal handed her the pennies and, lifting his pint to his mouth, looked over it and into the bar room for familiar faces. A few caught his notice at once and someone beckoned to him in an urgent manner. Frowning quizzically, Donal went to join his friends.
“Have you heard?” whispered John Tuohy as Donal approached.
“Heard what?”
“They’ve got Plant!” Tuohy was a small man with a mop of unruly black hair and bushy eyebrows beneath which his small brown eyes flashed and smouldered by turn. He seemed never to smile, but the extent to which he appeared ruminative indicated the relative sociability of his mood. At present, he was animated in a way people rarely encountered him.
“Who’s got him?” asked Donal, too interested to discover the facts to be wary of appearing foolish.
“De Valera’s got him!” spat Tuohy. “The gardai have got him! They picked him up last night. He’s above in Dublin by now.” Men close to them shook their heads and expressed their sadness.
“That whoore Hayes have a lot to answer for, boy,” enjoined Pat Moran, a tall thin man with a large hooked nose and white hair which splayed from his cap as if in a bid for freedom. “If ever the boys get hold of him, now…”
“They hardly will,” retorted Tuohy disgustedly, “for he’ve the full protection of the state.”
“If you call prison the protection of the state,” contributed Michael Flaherty – balding, fat, and genial but with a right hook no one would invite.
“I do!” Tuohy rounded on Flaherty. “They’ll look after their own, so they will.”
“And are you sure now, John, that Hayes is a guilty man? There’s not much I wouldn’t say after two months of beating and starving at the hands of the IRA top brass!” Flaherty again. Most within earshot lifted their pints to their mouths and contemplated the hypothetical horror of Hayes being the latest victim of IRA paranoia. After a moment or two, Tuohy rallied again.
“Of course he is! He’s guilty as sin. Wasn’t it he who told the gardai where the arms were below in Wexford then blamed poor Michael Devereux and had Plant shoot him?”
“That is speculation and nothing more.” This time, the voice was new, sonorous, and everyone turned to the speaker. Joseph Morgan was a man of few words but generally considered to be intelligent and in possession of an insight bordering on the prophetic. Some said he was a senior IRA member but none knew anything for certain about Joe Morgan. His contribution was therefore weighed with respect, even by Tuohy.
“Do you not think Hayes is a traitor, Joe?” Tuohy’s tone was incredulous.
Morgan “hmphed”, downed the remainder of his pint, said nothing for a long while, then commented, “Well, let’s hope he is, for if he is not what we have done does not bear thinking of and George Plant will pay for our folly with his life.”
Donal was by now sufficiently informed to start asking sensible questions. “What’ll happen to Plant now?”
“He will be tried by the Special Criminal Court,” responded Morgan, “and it will not go well for him. Good night now, lads, I salute ye. I’m away.” So saying, Joseph Morgan put on his cap, adjusted his collar so that it would afford him some protection from the driving autumn rain, and left.
“Where do you suppose he is off to, lads?” asked Tuohy, reverting to a more usually morose demeanour after the evening’s first flush of excitement.
“Nobody knows,” said Flaherty, “and it’s better not to ask. I’ll stand ye another beer, lads. Who’s in?”
December 1943, and after a week in Wexford Caitlin was looking healthy and relaxed. She spent her days studying, making up for lost time, aware that on her return to Dunane her father would again set her to work about the farm and she would have precious little time for her books. In the evenings she would play her aunt’s
piano and the others would sing. And when they were tired of singing, Caitlin indulged her love of more classical fare and her relatives sat quietly in the firelight, each preoccupied with his or her own thoughts, to the accompaniment of music both foreign and beguiling to them. On fine days, there were bracing walks along the Wexford Quays and shopping trips to the town. Caitlin stole glances at the gentlemen who stepped in and out of the many offices and business premises along Wexford Main Street, and her heart fluttered with excitement at how much grander Dublin would be.
Maureen rarely left the house, preferring to remain in her room, reading the Bible, praying for guidance and courage, and becoming increasingly remote as the time for entering the convent drew near. Mrs Spillane and her sister watched the transformation of this girl into a bride of Christ, and were impressed by the awe and romance of it. Mr Hickey, however, often exhausted at night from dealing with drunken brawls, IRA insurgence, or scenes of domestic violence, grew unaccountably uncomfortable with this spectre at his dining table. He looked for relief to the rosy cheeks of Caitlin, whose freshness and good looks reminded him of his youth and made his pulse quicken a little. Caitlin always had a witticism or a canny observation on life to make everyone laugh or guffaw in surprise, where Maureen was maudlin, censorious.
“The intelligence of that young one!” he declared fondly of Caitlin one night, as he and Bridie undressed for bed. “The wit of her – and she not eighteen yet. Where does she get such… insight?” He turned to look at his wife, smiling broadly. But Bridie avoided his eyes, busying herself with folding and hanging her clothes.
“Where indeed?” she replied, then added under her breath, “Not from her parents, that’s for sure.” Conor made a face as if to say “What’s eating you?” but he said nothing and she did not see. Some minutes later, as they climbed into bed and Conor reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, he added, grunting with the exertion of turning over to get comfortable, “She’ll go far, that Caitlin – you can just feel it about her.” Mrs Hickey stared silently into the darkness, heart pounding.
CHAPTER SIX
“If any one of you knows a just and lawful reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, then come and see me after the mass.”
The chapel in Dunane village seemed to gasp and then whispers and exclamations erupted in every pew, as people turned to confirm with their neighbours what they had just heard. Malachai Brett’s wife was as outraged as any there. She turned on her husband with a murderous expression and such vehemence that he instinctively inclined his body away from her.
“What’s wrong with you?” he hissed at her.
“Did you do this?” she hissed back.
“I did not!” he exclaimed aloud, relief making the conviction ring in his voice.
“You didn’t arrange this… this… marriage, did you?” She spat the words, still unconvinced.
“What’s it to you who he marries?” Malachai lowered his voice again, acutely conscious that the eyes of the congregation would be on them, resenting his wife’s public show of disrespect.
“’Tis a crime to let an auld fella like that have that young one – brazen though she is she doesn’t deserve him!” retorted Mrs Brett, high colour and indignation making her even more frightening. Her words could now be plainly heard two pews to the front and back of them, for she could keep quiet no longer.
“Whissht!” instructed Malachai. “Amn’t I after telling you that I did not have a hand in this?” His own voice matched his wife’s in volume and there was more talk, everyone’s voices becoming louder as they wondered anew how this thing came to be. Malachai lowered his eyes to his missal, and said quietly and with as much dignity as he could manage, “I’ll thank you next time to listen to what I am saying.” Mrs Brett curled her lip at him then forgot him as she turned around in the pew to exchange exclamations with a woman called Ellie Bergin who ran the grocer’s shop in Dunane.
No one could think of a single lawful reason why Caitlin should not be joined to Jack Flynn, for they had not a clue how the proposed joining came to be and Caitlin was not around to ask. It was not likely that anyone would dare enquire of Flynn how he had managed to gain the hand in marriage of the most attractive girl for miles around. Mick Spillane stood alone in his pew and stared straight ahead. Even more determined to appear impervious to the commotion the announcement had caused was Jack, though it was all he could do to prevent himself turning around to Spillane and mouthing obscenities at him, for neither Mick nor his wife had considered it necessary to inform Jack of when, exactly, the banns would be read. Jack kneeled and buried his head in his hands, as if in prayer, and at last the congregation began to file out of the church. He toyed with the idea of approaching Father Kinnealy to discuss the forthcoming wedding but when he looked up, the church was empty, all the altar candles were blown out, and there was no sign of the priest. Jack emerged from the chapel to find Mick Spillane waiting uneasily for him.
“Well?” Mick tipped his cap, eyeing Jack with a wariness bordering fear – much as he had regarded him when they were at school together. Jack shot him his blackest look.
“Couldn’t you tell me the banns were being read, couldn’t you?” he growled as he continued walking. Mick followed, hands in pockets, really afraid Jack might turn and hit him at any moment.
“Sure I thought we’d agreed the arrangements were up to meself?” Jack said nothing, kept walking. “Well, have you a date in mind for the wedding, or will I go ahead and fix it?” Mick followed Flynn, raising his voice to be heard as the latter quickened his pace. Just before Jack was out of earshot, he turned.
“Just let me know when to turn up,” he snarled, then placed his hat on his head and strode swiftly to his waiting horse and cart.
“What are you doing?” The man’s voice was quiet, but it made the two women start as though he had suddenly shouted. Bridie looked askance at her sister across the waves of lace and linen. Mrs Spillane did not look up from her sewing.
“We are adjusting this dress to fit Caitlin,” she answered steadily, then bent her head to bite the thread clear of the garment.
“What?” Mr Hickey looked puzzled, but half amused. “Is Caitlin to be married?” He looked at his wife, concerned by the panic in her eyes. She nodded, a look of guilty apology on her face. “Why didn’t you say so?” asked Mr Hickey again, turning again to his sister-in-law.
“Bridie didn’t think you’d like it,” came the calm reply, and she stooped again to pick up the next bit of sewing. Mr Hickey looked concerned; the amusement had died from his face.
“Oh?” he said, fixing on his wife. Home unexpectedly early from a late shift, blocking the doorway in his full garda uniform, Sergeant Hickey appeared to his wife as criminals saw him. She rose from her chair, letting the veil fall to the floor. She looked briefly for assistance to her sister, but Mrs Spillane kept sewing. He couldn’t touch her.
“Let’s go upstairs,” said Mrs Hickey, wringing her hands. Mr Hickey pushed away from the lintel and followed his wife across the hall to the staircase.
Well over an hour later, Mrs Spillane could still hear their raised voices and her sister’s pleading through the wall which separated her room from theirs. She did feel a certain anxiety when she thought of her sister’s anger against her following this episode, but the next day in any case was their last full day in Wexford, so it would be bearable. And Bridie could not say anything aloud for fear Caitlin would overhear. She would not risk the fracas that would cause. Mrs Spillane knew it was wicked to gloat at others’ misfortunes, but if this was all Bridie and Conor had to contend with, they had an easy life! Let them try running a farm in all weathers, up to their knees in dung and cold mud, with nothing but daughters to help them. Then let them judge people on what they did with those daughters and what sacrifices had to be made to get a bit of money and comfort in their old age; then let them warm with considerate passion for each other! ’Twould do them no harm to taste a bit of someone else’s real
ity. And putting a pillow over her uppermost ear, she fell asleep.
Jack Flynn watched as the milk ran in eager rivulets towards the drain. There could be no more heart-breaking work than this milking purely to relieve his cows. The dairyman had stopped calling. The vet had arrived and officiously taken blood from each cow, putting it into little bottles, each labelled with the number on a cow’s ear tag. He would be in touch when the results were through – about two weeks. And so, each morning and evening, Jack milked his cows and poured the warm, white milk into the dirt runnels which ran to the drain, and he watched it gather twigs and soil as it disappeared into the ground. He marvelled grimly at its whiteness as though seeing it for the first time. How could this essence of life be carrying a disease fatal to man and beast?
Another Sunday and this time, when the banns were read, no one stirred. The silence seemed to be one of collective disapproval, but this was easier for Jack to bear than excited gossip. Disapproval made him resolute. He stood, head erect, eyes narrowed, but suddenly he was bent double with an unstoppable coughing fit which made him clutch the pew in front, and the priest could not continue until it was over. At last, he stood trembling, head bowed, leaning on his pew. Once more, Mick Spillane was waiting for him when he came out of the church.
“That’s a nasty cough you have – you should see a doctor,” ventured Mick. He had wanted to discuss terms again, in the light of the second banns being read. He had to be absolutely sure Jack would stick to his word and was good for the five hundred pounds. It would be too late for complaints about being short changed once vows had been exchanged.
“I don’t need any doctor,” muttered Jack. He was always irritated by Mick’s presence. He didn’t trust him. Mick shrugged.
“The wedding will be in January,” he said. “You said to let you know.” Jack was taken off guard. It was already December.
“January? Why so?”