Only with Blood

by Therese Down

  “Why not?” responded Spillane. “Is there a reason to wait?” Jack could not think of one. “Will you be able to have the money by then?” ventured Spillane. Jack looked at him contemptuously then half smirked. Spillane was always angling, always conniving. He had been the same in school. Once, when they were no more than twelve or so, he had walked to school with him, and Spillane had kept up a relentless barrage of questions about the story they were supposed to have read for their Irish homework. Did Jack think it was any good? Didn’t he think the ending was useless and what did Jack suppose this meant and that meant? It was not until they were in afternoon class and the Irish master – a terrifying man with moles on his face and yellow teeth – had hit Jack’s desk with his cane and demanded to know why his homework was so similar to Mick Spillane’s, that Jack realized he had been taken for a fool. Unable to tell the truth, for snitching was an unpardonable transgression among schoolboys, Jack remained mute and suffered two lashes of the master’s cane across his open palms. He couldn’t hold a pen or open a gate without wincing in pain for days afterwards.

  “You will have your money, Spillane – have I not said so more than once?”

  “All five hundred pounds? On the day?”

  Jack smiled cynically into Spillane’s pale grey eyes and held his gaze till the latter had to look away, then he turned his back once more and walked off. He wished to goodness he never had to look into those shifty eyes again.

  Caitlin, Maureen, Mrs Spillane, and Bridie sat at the breakfast table on their final morning in Wexford. The wedding gown was finished and packed in Mrs Spillane’s suitcase. This last meal was a sullen affair and all were preoccupied with their private thoughts. Maureen was pale and ate little. The journey back to Tipperary would conclude in a few weeks at the steps of the convent where she would finish her life, but the peace and apparent satisfaction this had afforded her earlier seemed to have deserted her. She and Caitlin barely exchanged glances these days. What was more, their growing antipathy seemed mirrored in a sudden cooling of amity between Aunt Bridie and their mother. On a few occasions during the last day or so in Wexford, Caitlin caught her aunt narrowing her eyes at her mother, while the latter assumed a nonchalance around her sister, approaching smugness. Neither spoke to the other unless it was necessary.

  “What’s wrong?” Caitlin finally broke the uneasy silence around the table. She had aimed her question at her aunt but it was her mother who answered.

  “Nothing, Caitlin; nothing you need worry about.” This reassurance elicited an incredulous snort from Bridie. Even Maureen surfaced from her reverie and began to observe the women around her. Caitlin frowned, looking to her mother, who warned her with a glare to mind her manners, keep quiet. Caitlin rolled her eyes and sighed. If her mother had argued with her aunt, so what? But could they not sort it out? For it was a shame that such a nice visit should end this way.

  “Go upstairs now, girls, and pack.” Her mother’s voice again.

  “Now?” queried Caitlin. “Can’t we do it later?”

  “No. Now. We will go to mass here with your uncle and aunt and then your Uncle Conor will drive us to Waterford. We’ll get the train to Limerick Junction this afternoon. There is only the one train on a Sunday. Your father already knows we’ll be on it. He will meet us with the cart. Go on. Go and pack.”

  As they climbed the stairs, Maureen and Caitlin could hear the hissing reproaches of their aunt and the laconic replies of their mother, as the two women moved about the kitchen, clearing up. Their uncle had avoided the breakfast table. They could hear him clearing his throat in the living room and turning the pages of the Sunday papers he had risen early to purchase.

  “I wonder what that’s about?” whispered Caitlin, stopping on the stairs to try to make out the words her mother and aunt were exchanging.

  “I’m sure it’s none of our business, Caitlin,” reproached Maureen, squeezing past her sister.

  On the train home, Caitlin tried again to make sense of their unceremonious departure. More than anything, she had been very hurt by what she perceived as a sudden coldness towards her by her uncle, whom she had come to adore. He had stayed in the car when Bridie helped them carry their suitcases to the platform.

  “Why didn’t Uncle Conor come to the station?” she ventured, as her mother’s eyes flitted to and fro, watching the scenery scud past the steam train’s windows.

  “Things go wrong in marriages, Caitlin. Even theirs,” was all her mother said, without taking her eyes from the window. Then she drew her shawl over her head and around her face, indicating she no longer wished to speak.

  On the third Sunday after Caitlin had left for Wexford, Mick Spillane stood alone in his pew and listened to the third and final banns being read for the marriage of his daughter to Jack Flynn. Across the church and towards the front stood Jack in his usual pew, staring straight ahead, nothing giving away that he had heard the priest’s words but the working of his jaws as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He felt the eyes of the congregation bore holes in his back but he shouldered his shame with apparent stoicism. One word of dissent was uttered above the silence, starting a short-lived wave of murmuring among the parishioners.

  “Disgraceful!” said Mrs Brett, and Malachai rolled his eyes.

  “Well, bow your heads for the final blessing,” said the priest, stepping down from the pulpit and crossing to the altar. Jack stayed where he was until everyone had gone, this time not taking his eyes off the priest so he would not miss him. He was consumed with a need to speak to Father Kinnealy about this marriage but he did not know what he wanted to say. He felt he needed someone’s blessing.

  “Father Kinnealy.”

  “Yes, Jack? What can I do for you?” But the priest’s tone and expression were incongruous with the generosity of his words.

  “This wedding…” Jack could not go on.

  “Yes?”

  “January.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The priest contemplated Jack’s consternation and was moved to pity this gruff man who had never missed a Sunday mass in all the years Father Kinnealy had been the parish priest, but to whom he had spoken only a handful of times. Jack could not raise his head; he seemed uncharacteristically vulnerable. As much as Father Kinnealy did not approve of this marriage and wished not to engage with it on any level other than that necessary to effect it, he sensed this man needed his help. He put down the brass candle snuffer on the credence table and prepared to hear what Jack Flynn had to say.

  “How are you, Jack?” The priest’s tone and his words were the kindest Jack Flynn had heard since his mother had disappeared. He could not look up. A terrible force was gathering in his chest and spreading into his throat and he was not sure what it was. It was different from the urge to cough.

  “Fine, Father – thanks,” Jack managed at last and shuffled uneasily.

  “Good, good.” Father Kinnealy was unsure how to proceed. “So, you are to marry Caitlin Spillane, Jack?”

  At last, Jack recovered enough composure to look at the priest. When he did, his expression, thought Father Kinnealy, was more like that of a guilty schoolboy asking for clemency than a middle-aged man who had purchased a young bride without her knowledge.

  “She’s a grand lass, Caitlin; you’re a lucky man, Jack.” Jack smiled nervously, nodded. The priest continued, his tone of voice intended to give his words an unmistakable gravitas, “Will you look after her, Jack?” Father Kinnealy’s eyes searched Jack’s face.

  “I will, Father.” Jack’s eyes filled with tears. He was horrified and sought instantly to wipe them away before they could spill. The gesture allowed Father Kinnealy to look away and spare Flynn’s pride.

  “Good man,” he said, reaching once more for the candle snuffer. “Sure that’s the best you can do. Good luck, now, Jack.” And he moved away to resume the extinguishing of candles.

  From the ninth to the eleventh of December 1941, George Plant was tried for the murder
of Michael Devereux by the Special Criminal Court in Dublin. There was much rejoicing in O’Hallorahan’s bar on the night of the eleventh, for Plant was found “not guilty” following the withdrawal of their statements by two IRA witnesses, Walsh and Davern, without whose testimonies there was no evidence. Tables and chairs were cleared in the bar and a man with an accordion played reels and jigs to which the patrons danced and sang. Several wives were fetched from home for “the craic” and even a few children, too young to be left alone and without older siblings who could mind them, were allowed by Molly Corcoran into the bar and she gave them sweets and lemonade.

  “You were wrong about Plant, so, Joe.” The voice was John Tuohy’s. Joe Morgan, sitting on a bar stool, right elbow leaning on the bar and supporting the ale tankard in his hand, turned slowly to contemplate the glint of mockery in Tuohy’s small eyes. He said nothing. “You said it would not go well for him – do you not remember, Joe?”

  “I do.”

  Tuohy’s face crumpled into an incredulous grimace. “But it has gone well for him, Joe – sure he’s a free man! God is on our side!” Joseph Morgan sighed heavily, put down his pint.

  “I have never professed to know the mind of God, Tuohy, or even if there is such a thing.” He paused and turned on his stool to give the smaller man his full attention. “But I pride myself on knowing a little about the minds of men.” He paused again, allowing his gaze to rest a fraction longer on Tuohy’s than was friendly. Tuohy looked away, picked up his pint, swigged from it. “And de Valera will not – cannot – let Plant walk free from this.” Tuohy finished his pint and replaced it on a table, shrugged. Taking his leave of Morgan, he moved towards the dancers, remarking to someone as he went that Joseph Morgan could be a miserable auld beggar.

  Little heed that night was paid to the certainty that Plant had shot Michael Devereux without any sort of trial. The important thing seemed to be that Plant, who had only been following orders, had escaped his sentence, and de Valera’s Special Criminal Court was outsmarted.

  Donal drank and laughed and danced with the best of them. He was likely to miss the curfew again. He was in danger of losing his job at the college if he once more breached the Holy Ghost Fathers’ requirements to be in his room by ten o’clock. Something had to be done. He could not countenance going back to his father’s farm and leaving behind the camaraderie and the easiness of life he had come to love in Cashmel.

  “Sure you can board here if you like,” Molly said, having listened yet again to Donal’s expounding on the difficulty he was having conforming to the Holy Ghost Fathers’ curfew regulations.

  “I am never,” he slurred on this particularly celebratory evening, “never late for work. No matter what I drink or how late I am getting away, I am there…” He paused, envisaged the row of silent, clean faces before him for maths class at nine o’clock in the morning, and continued, “… ready and able to instruct my students in Principia Mathematica.”

  “What?” Molly laughed, raising her eyebrows and her tone in good-natured mockery.

  “Maths!” exclaimed Donal. “I’m always there.” He slurped his beer, put the tankard down, and ran a hand through his hair. Several men and women were trying to dance “The Siege of Ennis” in O’Hallorahan’s bar. There wasn’t enough room and furniture kept falling over, being righted amid general laughter and whooping. There was no sign of the gardai.

  “Did you hear what I said, Donal?” Molly was leaning across the bar, shouting at him above the music and his inebriation.

  “What was that?” he leaned towards her, turning his head so that his left ear could better receive her words.

  “You can lodge here if you want; I’ll charge you a shilling a week for board and lodging. How’s that? We have a spare room and it’s no bother to us if you stay – sure you’re in here most evenings anyway!”

  “Really?” Donal’s eyes widened. He turned to look her in the face. “You mean it, Molly?”

  “Of course I mean it, ya gobeen, ya! But would the Fathers let you, like? Can you keep your job and live outside the college?”

  “Well, I can’t see why not,” retorted Donal. “Other masters do exactly that. I’ll ask them!”

  The Holy Ghost Fathers weighed up the irregularity of a Blackwell scholar’s lodging outside the college gates, against the inconvenience of having to put up with his inability to observe curfew. They considered sacking him altogether but he was an excellent teacher, and if they dismissed him on grounds of misconduct, he would lose his scholarship to Cork University. This, agreed the Fathers, would be a tragedy, given the boy’s potential and the opportunity to enhance Blackwell’s reputation as a breeding ground of excellent scholars and the next generation of influential Irish men. So it was that Donal Kelly’s freedom was increased further and he moved into lodgings above O’Hallorahan’s bar in Cashmel, nestled in Tipperary IRA heartland, in 1941.

  Late on the second Sunday of December 1943, Mrs Spillane was reinstalled in her house, scrubbing and blacking the range, cleaning the floor, and washing the dishes Mick had neglected to clean while she was away. The girls were busy unpacking their suitcases. Mick enquired for the first time after his wife’s sojourn in Wexford and broached the subject of Caitlin’s imminent wedding.

  “Well?” he began. “How are all in Wexford?”

  “Oh, they are well,” she replied. “And you? Here?” She searched his face anxiously.

  “The banns are read.” Spillane crossed to an open fire at the far end of the kitchen, spat into it. “The wedding will be in January.” He did not turn to look at his wife as he spoke, other than a cursory movement towards his left shoulder to indicate the direction his words should take. There was a pause during which Spillane watched the flames reclaim the coal on which he had lately spat and Mrs Spillane returned to blacking the range with greater fury than before. “Tell her,” he added, his imperative finding its mark though Spillane’s attention on the hearth was resolute. He thrust his hands in his pockets. “Tell her she will be married in January.”

  “It’s too soon, Mick!” At last Mrs Spillane abandoned the range, threw her cloth on the floor, and sat down heavily in the nearest chair. She began to sob as he rounded on her and continued.

  “It must be in January. That’s when himself wants it. The whole village is talking about it. Tell her! I’m off to check on the cows.”

  Some minutes after the kitchen door had banged shut Mrs Spillane sighed and rose from her chair. She washed her hands until the waxy blacking was only a shadow then took off her apron as though the movement was ritual, laid the garment over the back of the chair, and slowly made for the stairs. Once in her bedroom, she lifted the altered wedding dress and veil from her suitcase and laid them on the bed. “Oh, my little girl! My little Caitlin!” she sobbed to herself. “Will you ever forgive us?” Then she blew her nose, breathed deeply, and shouted, “Caitlin, come here to me, will you?”

  “What’s the wedding dress for, Mammy?” asked Caitlin, smiling in a bemused fashion as she came into her parents’ bedroom. “Is it yours?” and she came forward to finger the lace.

  “No, Caitlin,” replied her mother. “It is yours.”

  “What?” Caitlin half guffawed, her voice incredulous.

  “I don’t want any scenes. Your father and I… have decided… you are to be married, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Married? Are you mad?” Caitlin was backing away towards the door.

  “Caitlin! I will not be spoken to like that! Your head is full of ridiculous notions – about Dublin, and university. It’s all nonsense, do you hear me? Your place is here, in Dunane, and you’ll live the life that’s been good enough for your father… and me. We have no money to send you gallivanting off to Dublin, my girl, and that’s no life for a young one! You heard Sister Callasanctious the other day.” Mrs Spillane’s voice had become shrill. Maureen came into the room, alarmed by her mother’s tone and the volume at which she spoke.

  “W
hat is it, Mammy? What’s happening?” Her eyes fell on the dress, then travelled to her sister where she stood in an attitude of utter horror, her hands covering her mouth. “What is wrong with you, Caitlin? What’s going on?”

  “Caitlin is getting married!” declared Mrs Spillane.

  “Married? Who to?”

  “Yes, Mammy…” Caitlin had dropped her hands and she spoke in low, almost vicious tones. “Tell us who Caitlin is going to marry!”

  “She is – you are – to marry Jack Flynn.” The voice was Mick’s. He had been crossing the yard to rinse his boots under the outside tap, having fed the cows their hay and beet, when he heard his wife shouting. Guessing the cause of this unusual occurrence, he had hastened to support her. There was no telling what Caitlin would do.

  “No!” Caitlin was at once raw fury. In an instant she recalled the strange meeting her father had engineered between herself and Flynn on the church steps and how Flynn had stared at her while she played the accordion at the Dundrum ceilidh. It all became clear.

  “Caitlin! Pull yourself together,” he said sternly. “There’s no need for this carry on!”

  “I hate you!” she screamed at him again. “How could you do this to me?”

  “Ah, cut the dramatics, will you?” shouted Mick, though it was more difficult than he had imagined to hear his daughter say those words. He had to regain control. Caitlin’s face was contorted in a grimace of undisguised loathing.

  “I will never marry that filthy…” She could hardly breathe, paused, then continued, “…disgusting old man!”

  Maureen had adopted Caitlin’s earlier stance, hands covering her face, eyes wide with shock. Turning her head from her father to Caitlin, she could not disguise her horror.

  “You will marry Jack Flynn,” Mick said menacingly, walking towards Caitlin. “It is all arranged, and you will marry him in January!” Maureen gasped. He was right in front of Caitlin now. “You will be mistress of a good little farm – and some fine cows. The house is big, and worth a few bob. You will have food in your belly and he’ve plenty of money. You will be well provided for.” Mick looked behind him, towards his wife. Her continual weeping infuriated him. Always, she was weak and pathetic. Maureen’s gormlessness was very irritating, too. These useless, helpless women!