Fallen

by Lia Mills

  I went out to the yard. A close, oppressive darkness had fallen while I was trudging up and down the halls pushing linen baskets. Fitz and Christy sat side by side staring straight ahead, not speaking, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Each had a mug of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Curls of steam and smoke rose unnoticed from their fists. ‘I hope you’re not going out again,’ I said. ‘You look worn out.’

  ‘One or two more go-arounds, then we’ll call it a night,’ Fitz said. They told me the battle was over at Mount Street Bridge. It was too soon to say how many had died there, how many had been injured. There was still sporadic fighting towards the docks and the river. They were gathering in the last of the afternoon’s wounded, the less serious cases, the ones that had been able to wait.

  ‘I’d say you’d be safe enough to go back,’ Fitz said.

  Christy shook his head. ‘There’s a curfew.’ He drained his mug of tea and dropped the butt of his cigarette into it. ‘And snipers.’

  ‘Do you know if things are bad in Cabra?’ I asked. ‘Or Rutland Square?’

  ‘No news is good news.’ Fitz put on his cap and adjusted it. ‘We’ll give you a lift back around the corner, if you like. We’re headed that way.’

  I was glad of it. The thought of crossing even that short, familiar distance alone and in the dark filled me with dread, after the horrors of the day. And I was uneasy about having stayed away so long. I hoped they were all safe and sound, and that they hadn’t worried about me. I wondered about my own family, on the other side of the city, but Christy said there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting across the river, unless I’d a submarine in my pocket.

  There were soldiers at the east end of Percy Place. I asked Christy to let me out at the lane. I’d slip around the back and avoid questions. Fitz said he’d watch ’til I’d got in the back garden door. He walked me to the corner and gave me a black St John’s badge stitched to a cuff. ‘If you have to go out again – take this. Use it if you run into trouble. Say you’ve been helping us. It’s no more than the truth.’

  A large cloud covered most of the half moon. The lane was a narrow well of darkness ’til my eyes adjusted to the inky light. I held my left hand to the wall and felt my way along the cool bumpy brick, an angled corner, the neighbours’ garden door, then Dote’s. I waved to Fitz, even though I could barely see him, and put my thumb to the smooth metal saddle of the latch, my foot at last to the path. I closed the garden door and rested my forehead on the wood for a second, gathering my strength for the last short stretch of ground I had to cover. I moved as quietly as I could, barely breathing. With nightfall, the garden was treacherous, the path longer than it should be, shadows larger, darker, closer. Ahead of me a square of light came from the kitchen window. A figure crossed it. Hubie. The darkness thinned as I got closer. Giddy with relief, I dodged the hard corner of the bench and knocked on the glass, no need for the key.

  He leaned on a broom, an astonishing sight, and gave me a long look, in no hurry to let me in. One side of his mouth lifted.

  ‘Are the others in bed?’ I asked, when he opened the door.

  ‘They went to your friend in Herbert Park. The ambulance men said they’d be safe there. May’s nerves were bad. Dote was in quite a state as well.’

  ‘You let them go alone?’

  ‘I did not; I went with them. Then they sent me back again. They were worried about what would happen if you came back and found no one here. Your peace of mind, apparently, matters more than the safety of a crotchety, disposable nephew.’

  ‘Proper order.’ To hide the embarrassment I actually felt, I went to the dresser for a cup. ‘I’m parched.’

  ‘Mind you, I think it was Paschal they were really concerned about. He hid.’

  ‘Or the house.’ I turned back into the dim light from the single lamp he’d left burning on the table.

  ‘Or all three. Have you been at the hospital since?’

  ‘I have.’ It was a mistake to come back here. I didn’t want to have to explain why my hair was coming loose or why my blouse was crumpled when I took off my coat and folded it over the back of a chair. He made no comment, as if he knew I’d reached my limit. I took the cup to the sink and filled it, looking out. A burst of shots I didn’t bother to remark on seemed to drive the last clouds away towards the sea. A sliver of moon hung in a cluster of stars directly overhead. The garden turned silvery-blue. The cold clean water soothed my mouth and dusty throat.

  ‘There were soldiers here, but they left a while back. They couldn’t get a clear line of fire. All the windows at the front of the house are broken, as you can see.’ He gestured towards the far window, which had a lacy appearance, more hole than stitch. ‘I’ve been sweeping up the glass.’

  I took the dust-pan out from the curtained shelf under the sink and hunkered down so he could sweep the shards of glass and ordinary dirt on to it. ‘How soon do you think Dote and May will come back?’

  ‘Not before morning, with the curfew. I’m surprised you got through. Then again, I’m not. You seem to do what you want.’

  I was taken aback. Was that how I appeared to him?

  He hooked his damaged hand around the shaft of the broom and took the dust-pan from me, brought it to the door and went outside to empty it. When he came back, a sliver of moonlight spilled into the house around his feet. He shut the door. I didn’t know whether to mock or applaud his work. It amazed me, that people would always try to clean up a mess, mend broken furniture, replace shattered glass, as if the wild forces of the world weren’t out there waiting to break in again and smash it all to pieces.

  He put his hand into one of May’s plant pots. ‘It’s bone-dry.’

  I filled the little watering jug and went over to him, my eyes so tired they played tricks on me in the shifting light. His empty knuckles on the soil looked as though the fingers were still there, rooted deep, out of sight. I gave him the jug. He watered the plant, then went around moistening the roots of others, as I’d often seen May do.

  When he finished, we sat at the kitchen table in candlelight. I told him about Eva, and my worry. His sympathy made me uneasy. I’d avoided the topic of his family, not knowing how he’d react if his fiancée’s name, or his brother’s, came up. I gathered my courage and told him I’d heard the story from Dote, and I was sorry.

  He shrugged. ‘Far worse if I’d married her, and discovered her true colours later. She did me a favour.’ He raised his injured arm. ‘After this, I’d have gone back and settled into a subordinate position in the family business, something of a charity case and grateful for it. I’d always be the damaged second son.’

  A small thrill of recognition went through me.

  ‘But now, I fancy, I’ll strike out on my own.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  He stretched his legs and stood up, went over to the broken window and looked out. His entire attitude changed. He went very still. ‘Fire,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  He hurried to the door under the front steps. I went after him but he told me to stay where I was while he moved cautiously out towards the road, sheltered by the steps. When he got to the end, he straightened. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  Down at the main road, the terrace on the town side of the bridge was on fire. Flames shot out of the window on the gable wall of Clanwilliam House.

  ‘Is there anyone still in there?’ I asked, when I could speak.

  ‘Not alive.’ There was no emotion in his answer.

  ‘There are people there, watching. Can we go?’

  ‘There’s a guard at the end of the road. They wouldn’t let us through. If they did, we wouldn’t get back.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Why must you always try to get a closer look at things that are perfectly evident?’

  Stung, I backed away from him. I excused myself and went back inside.

  Upstairs, I took off my stale blouse, rinsed it and wrung it out. Thinking I might go to bed
, I sponged my skirt clean. By the time I’d hung it up to dry over the bath, I already regretted my efforts. I was far too restless for sleep.

  In the wardrobe of the room I was sleeping in, I found a summer dress of Dote’s, a pale blue lawn that might have been fashionable twenty years ago. It was pleated on the bodice, had a high neck and tiny buttons on the long cuff. A little on the short side, it was loose at the waist and smelled of mothballs, but it was the best I could find. I tied the crimson and gold sash of this morning’s robe around it. Hard to imagine Dote filling a dress like this, she was half the size now.

  My hands trembled, but I wasn’t cold. It must have been a reaction to the day. When I’d managed a knot of sorts, I went to the window and tried to make out what was happening at the corner.

  Hubie came in, holding Paschal. ‘He was hiding under my bed.’

  Paschal came to me and buried his face in my shoulder. He bunched the soft fabric of the dress in his fist and crammed it into his mouth. I stroked his back and looked past him, at Hubie. He’d put on a smoking jacket over a clean white shirt.

  ‘Katie,’ he said. ‘Come away from the window.’

  ‘What’ll happen now?’ I gestured at the smouldering ruins of the houses by the bridge. The shadowy figures of sentries on the road. Night deepened. As I watched, the last light dwindled and sank into the earth.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think, but let’s have a drink.’ He moved back towards the door that was open to the landing. I followed him, as in a dream: down the stairs and around to the back of the house. Paschal breathed into the crook of my neck. Hubie was talking, his voice a thread pulling me along behind him. What we’d seen that afternoon had raised the stakes. They could expect no mercy now. There’d be rage in high command. ‘They’ll see us all, every man, woman and child, as potential traitors.’

  I stared at the floor. Carpet, stair, floorboard, black-and-white tiles, rug, tile, board, rug. Each step weighted. My ears rang.

  ‘What you mean is,’ I said, when we’d reached the back parlour and the cabinet where the spirits were kept, ‘that the army won’t trust our men now, on the Continent. They’ll be undermined.’

  ‘Most likely.’ He was looking at labels on the bottles in the inadequate light from the lamp he’d brought in from the kitchen. ‘There’s not much oil left.’

  ‘Have you a match?’

  He passed me a box from his pocket. I took one out and fingered the small round tip before striking it. The matchhead scratched and flared, a neat, blue-and-gold teardrop of flame, strangely pure and clean. I dipped it towards each of the candles on the mantel in turn, making a small forest of light.

  My eye was drawn to Paschal’s reflection in the mirror. He clambered among the bookshelves behind me, as though he’d a particular volume in mind. He stopped to scratch, caught me looking at him and returned my look, as if he knew all about me. More than he should. His teeth chattered. It sounded like a scolding. I turned around, patted the seat of May’s chair. ‘Come down here and be quiet.’ He jumped to my shoulder and I settled him on the chair. ‘So, after today, all those other deaths will mean nothing. Liam died for nothing.’

  Hubie steadied a bottle of Irish between what was left of his hand and his belt. He pulled off the lid with his left hand and poured generous measures into two glass tumblers.

  ‘I was proud to be a soldier,’ he said. ‘Proud of our regiment, of the BEF. It’ll be a fiasco now, once Kitchener’s Mob are let loose, in conditions a professional soldier would have trouble with. Poor sods. It’s not their fault.’

  I stiffened. ‘Kitchener’s Mob – do you mean men like Liam, with not enough training?’

  ‘Liam was quick to learn.’ He put the lid back on the bottle, meticulous in tightening it with his left hand, holding it steady with his forearm. He put the bottle back in its place but didn’t pick up the glasses straight away. ‘We were at the Marne, you know. That was a battle worth fighting. We stopped the Germans’ march on Paris. That was the last clear victory we had, and it’s more than a year and a half ago.’ He offered me a glass.

  I took it. ‘They’ll never give us our own parliament now. We were about to get it, when the war started.’

  ‘I disagree. They never meant to give it. All Irishmen are Mick, to them.’

  ‘Liam thought, if we all fell in to fight beside them, they’d see how trustworthy we were. That we could be allies.’

  I looked into the glass he’d given me and set it on the mantel. I didn’t want it. I’d never liked the taste. Hadn’t touched it since the night we heard that Liam was dead. The night I went looking for Con Buckley. My cheeks were hot. I was glad Hubie didn’t look at me. All the little tongues of flame from the lamp and the candles caused the air to shimmer, darken, turn to gold, then black again.

  ‘I’ve had enough of fighting to other people’s purpose.’ He crossed to the armchair and sat. ‘A cause is one thing. Men enlisted to fight this war for their own reasons, but by the time they’d put on a uniform, khaki or grey or blue, they’d surrendered their right to pursue them. Their will bent to the purposes of idiot generals. Incompetent colonels. And whose purpose did those commanders serve? The King? The Kaiser? Parliament? I will never again raise a gun against another man at the whim of some MP from Yorkshire or Leeds or London – or Dublin, come to that. Never.’ He brought his voice under control. ‘Did I kill men because the bloody Kaiser wanted it? Whose will directed me?’ He glared at me.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I won’t do it. Those men out there, the rebels – who authorized any one of them to bring about a single death today? What had any of those boys who were slaughtered on the bridge to do with this benighted country? Nothing. Did they ask to come here? No.’

  The candles wavered. Their flames swayed across wells of shadow. The mirror blazed, a sheet of white gold. ‘I may well kill a man, again. But, if I do, my reasons will be my own. I’ll know what they are.’ He said this with the force of someone taking a solemn vow, the embodiment of determination. His two fists were knotted, so tight you couldn’t see that one was damaged.

  I was spellbound. When I’d wanted to go to college, it was at least in part because Liam was going and, if I was completely honest, in part because my mother didn’t want me to. Even working for Dote had been a lucky accident. How unconscious I had been of luck, and how very lucky I had been. I’d never consciously chosen a single thing. I’d left all that to Liam, waited to see what life would chance to offer me.

  Paschal had fallen asleep in May’s chair, curled up on a red velvet cushion. One callused hand covered his eyes. His breath whistled lightly through the black flare of his nose. The sound of his breathing slowed everything down. My mind emptied. The day, and all its angers, ebbed away. The room was calm again, the candle flames were separate tongues, demure and steady.

  ‘Where did you go, this morning?’

  ‘Down by the river.’ His tone was lighter. ‘Near Merchant’s Arch. There was a crowd on the quays looking over. The bombardment lasted hours. They pumped lead into those buildings ’til there couldn’t be so much as a rat left alive in them. A fellow beside me said the men were probably long gone; they’d likely knocked holes in the walls and got out that way, into the next building.’

  ‘D’you think he’s right?’

  ‘They’d enough time to do it. I can’t imagine what kept the army away for so long. The rebels could have knocked holes in all the buildings around, made them into one long escape tunnel the length of the street. And if Joe Soap has arrived at that conclusion, you can be sure the army have as well. They’ll pulverize it.’

  ‘The building?’

  ‘The street.’

  Sackville Street. An extension of my own street. The heart of my city.

  Strange sounds outside brought us up to the front parlour. Hubie looked out through the chink in the shutters, craned to see better, edged them open a little further for a better look. ‘They’re setting up a field gun,’ h
e said.

  ‘Let me see.’

  He stood close while I looked. A group of soldiers surrounded what looked like an old-fashioned cannon, mounted on a type of cart, a couple of doors up from here, towards Northumberland Road.

  ‘That can’t be good.’ I straightened, and bumped against him. My skin prickled.

  ‘At least we’re on the right side of it,’ he said, somewhere near my hair.

  The room, when I turned back into it, was darker. I dipped a taper to a candle to catch the flame, cupped my hand around it for shelter and carried it from one unlit wick to the next. The skin of my palm glowed, pink and translucent.

  It had been a long, strange day, a day that plunged us into war and brought me closer to Liam and all he’d come to know. And here, across the room, was a man who’d been out there with him. It was like sorcery. Maybe he was a ghost, a messenger, and I should play along. We settled in our chairs again. With our drinks, the remains of Nan’s ginger cake and the last two apples sliced on two plates, it was nearly like a normal social encounter. But it felt strange, to be so alone with him, and the whole night stretching ahead. Watching him eat, I felt the ghosts of his missing fingers, holding him back.

  ‘Tell me about Liam. Why was he not more careful?’

  He said nothing for a while. Then, ‘When we got to him he was alive. There was blood under his hair, but it was his stomach he held.’

  I played with the fringes of the antimacassar. ‘A year ago this week.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was at a window again. Popping sounds came from everywhere, like a fireworks display without light. I checked the sky in the direction of the hospital, where Eva was, and the boy soldier. There was no sign of fire there. ‘It’s so dark. How do they know what they’re shooting? What’s the point of it? Maybe they’ll run out of bullets, and in the morning we can all go home again.’ I looked over my shoulder at his hunched form.