“Now everyone was singing, not just a few drunken tenors at the bar. It was wonderful, the way everyone was singing together. And, not content with singing, a young fellow wearing a cap much too big for him and baggy trousers that looked as if they’d been made out of potato sacks jumped up on a stool and began to conduct, now the Man of Stone, now the chorus at the bar.
“The applause once again was deafening. The Man of Stone was by now looking a tiny bit defeated. He stood perfectly still for a moment, head just a little bowed. Then he fumbled in his pocket and dropped a handful of silver on the table beside his untouched glass of stout. After that he turned and clanked stiffly towards the open door, with his dignified platoon of elderly ladies trailing behind him.
“Well, we all trooped back to where we’d left the motors and for a while nobody said a word. We just stood there waiting for everyone to get in the motor cars until one of the ladies said: ‘You know, I think they were making fun of us.’ Well, nobody had anything to say to that, so I said (hoping to make things better, Major, you realize): ‘Couldn’t it be that they just enjoyed singing and that was the only song we all knew?’ But that didn’t seem to help at all.
“It was then we realized that there was a bit of a scuffle going on. Evans had hung back looking for someone to punch in order to avenge the slight on Himself’s honour. But in a moment or two he was bundled out by two or three grinning natives with his jacket pulled over his head like a strait-jacket. And that was that. He wasn’t thanked for this splendid bit of loyalty. Himself told him angrily to get in the motor and stop playing the fool. Himself and I were the last to climb in, watched by all the drinkers who’d come pouring out of the pub and stood watching us from the door. Himself looked back at them, you know, and just for a moment it occurred to me—there was something about the expression on his face—that he was afraid of them, and I felt a bit sorry for him. But now, Major, I’m afraid you’ll have to pardon me a for moment while I go and vomit—I should think probably into yonder pot of ferns would be the best idea. I realize it’s a rotten show, mind you (particularly to a man like yourself who’s frightfully good at holding his drink)...”
* * *
GRAFTON PICTURE HOUSE
The principal film exhibited in the Grafton Picture House was one in which Charles Ray and Frank Keenan appear, “The Coward,” a dramatic episode of the American Civil War. It is a story of a man who was a coward, but who, when the test came, proved himself as ready to fight and die for his country as the most hardened soldier, and it possessed those essentials which make a picture interesting.
* * *
At a meeting in Belfast on July 12th (the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne) Sir Edward Carson said: “And now there are only two policies before the country... One is the maintenance of the Union and loyalty to the King and the other is (God bless the mark!) an Irish Republic. An Irish Republic with your hats off to the President, Mr De Valera (laughter), who is now working against you in America, with the help of the Catholic Hierarchy in that country, backed up by the Catholic Hierarchy in this and all other countries, and who imagines, in his vanity, that one day or the other, he is going to march through Belfast and Ulster (cries of “Never!”) and you will all willingly take off your hats (“No!”) and bow the knee to the head of the organization which, in the darkest hour of the war of the world’s freedom, shot His Majesty’s soldiers in the streets of Dublin. I invite Mr De Valera to come to Ulster and I undertake that he will get a proper Ulster welcome. An Irish Republic! What is the good of the British Empire as compared with an Irish Republic? Just imagine how small the British Empire will look when the Irish Republic is established, and just imagine how the British Navy will bow their heads in shame when they see two canal boats with the Irish Sinn Fein flag (laughter) and Admiral Devlin (laughter) bringing them into action at Scapa Flow. Yes, but there is more than that. I talk of the men sleeping their last sleep on the plains of Flanders and France, in Mesopotamia and Palestine, in the Balkans and elsewhere—the men who have done their share, not for the Irish Republic, but for the great British Empire...and, forsooth, the reward we are to have is that we are to give up all that we have won, and we are to be false and untrue to all that they suffered, in order that these rebels, prompted by ambitions of trampling upon the Protestants of the North of Ireland, may have a dot on the map which might be represented by a pinprick...I tell the British people from this platform here, in your presence today—and I say it now with all solemnity—I tell them that if there is any attempt made to take away one jot or tittle of your rights as British citizens, and the advantages which have been won in this war of freedom, I tell them, at all consequences, once more I will call out the Ulster Volunteers (cheers). I call an Ulsterman, an Ulsterman. I call a Sinn Feiner, a rebel. I call Dominion Home Rule the camouflage of an Irish Republic...”
* * *
It was now the middle of July and the Major had decided to leave Kilnalough. Enough, after all, was enough. It was his intention to tell Edward that he would not be coming back, that he had been called away on some rather permanent business and would be leaving for England (if not somewhere more remote). But Edward looked so upset when he mentioned his departure, running his fingers through his hair and saying: “Of course, I’m afraid it’s not much fun for you being here...” deaf to his protestations that that wasn’t the reason he was going (although of course, it was), that in the event he found himself hurriedly revising his prepared speech, saying that he was merely going to Dublin for a week and that the reason he was going...He paused in desperation, unable to think of a reason. But at this point a miracle occurred. Edward’s face brightened. Patting the Major on the back he said: “Of course, of course, my dear fellow, I know perfectly well. You want to see the Peace Day parade on the nineteenth; I only wish I could come with you. Love to see it myself, but I’m afraid I can’t leave my post. Will you be marching yourself? No? I hear that French is going to take the salute. He was asked to march with Haig in London but turned them down. That’s the spirit. But look here, I must see if I can wangle you a room in Jury’s. You should get a good view from there. Otherwise you won’t be able to see a thing...” The result was that the Major was thoroughly dissatisfied with himself as he boarded the train that stood hissing in Kilnalough station; he had left himself the cowardly task of explaining by letter that his temporary visit to Dublin had become permanent.
Just before the train pulled out there was a commotion on the platform as a late-arriving passenger scurried out of the ticket office laden with a brief-case and bulging packages, and attended by the station master and a porter. The Major just caught a glimpse of some battered suitcases and the gaunt, wild-eyed face of “the friend of Parnell” as he struggled past the window. But the old fellow clambered into a third-class compartment and the Major saw no more of him. He remembered however, having heard the distant rumble of a violent argument the previous evening as he sat with a lapful of kittens in the Imperial Bar—Edward’s harsh and angry tones filtering through walls and floorboards in the hush of evening. No doubt that was the reason for his departure.
All afternoon the sun shone steadily on lettuce-green leaves. The Major sat beside the open window in a pleasant daze, allowing the wind to ruffle his hair, catching now and then a breath of warm grass or the cool moisture from some bubbling stream. Soon the warmth made him drowsy and his thoughts slipped away into the heart of this golden afternoon. Half asleep, with the sunlight swilling like molten gold on the floor of the compartment, with blue smoke from his pipe swirling here and there in the breeze, he at last allowed himself to relax and felt himself at peace. Presently he knocked out his pipe, put it in his pocket and fell asleep. Slowly the feeling of peace dissolved. Beneath the shadows of his lowered eyelids tattered figures crawled towards him, pallid and speechless, through a desolate countryside.
On Saturday, the day reserved for the celebration of “Peace” throughout the Empire, the streets of Dublin were crowded from
an early hour. Over the past three days the Major had seen the grey buildings of the city gradually blossoming into colour as flags were hung from windows and arches of bunting were stretched across the main thorough-fares. Now, in Sackville Street, the Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, and the Italian flag floated from the ruined walls of the General Post Office; another immense Union Jack flew from the top of Trinity College while from the banks and brokerage houses lining College Green fluttered a thick tapestry of banners. It was here in front of the Bank of Ireland (a number of soldiers were already on duty guarding its roof) that the Viceregal Stand had been set up beneath a red-and-white canopy surrounded by gold-tipped staves. On this platform the Lord Lieutenant, his staff, and various Government officials would presently make their appearance; on the other side of the railings, in the courtyard of the bank, two more wooden platforms had been constructed for the wounded, to allow them an unimpeded view of this historic pageant. Beside them massed bands had been assembled, their instruments winking in the sunshine.
Although Edward, as good as his word, had procured a room for the Major with a window overlooking Dame Street (affording him a splendid view of the route that the parade would take), shortly after eleven o’clock he became restless and made his way out to the street. Above him the windows and balconies of College Green were packed with eager faces. Ladies and gentlemen had crowded on to the roof of Trinity College. People clung to parapets or precariously embraced chimney-pots. The statue of King William, horse and rider, was festooned with patriots. Red, white and blue rosettes or miniature Union Jacks glowed in every lapel as the Major forced his way through the excited throng.
By now only the most important places in the Viceregal Stand remained empty. At any moment the pageant would begin, the triumphant apotheosis of the Empire’s struggle for Peace. A boy had climbed one of the tramway poles on the pavement and was shouting hysterically, signalling the approach of four motor cars from the direction of Westmoreland Street. An open motor with a grim-looking cargo of police dashed past. Then the Major just managed to catch a glimpse of a second motor as a tremendous roar broke out. He had arrived!
Standing on tiptoe (luckily he was taller than anyone around him) the Major craned forward to see through the waving forest of hats and caps. The dense crowd by the railings of the Bank of Ireland was stirring violently. A number of tall policemen were to be seen fraying a passage for the new arrival who still remained invisible. Very faintly, beneath the continuous cheering, the Major could make out the thud of drums; the bands were playing “God Save the King.” And still he had not come into view. So thick was the crowd, so great their enthusiasm to catch a glimpse of the celebrity who was making his slow and dignified way through the tunnel of their waving, clutching hands, that a way had to be brutally forced through them. For he must not be touched: that much was clear. An assassin might have positioned himself in the great man’s path. A suddenly drawn revolver, a hastily pulled trigger...what a blow struck for Sinn Fein! But now the violently stirring whirlpool of heads had almost reached the steps up to the Viceregal Stand. Any second now and he would climb into view...
Abruptly, he was there! The cheering increased to a thunderous cascade. Tiny and plump, fierce and dignified in his gleaming cavalry boots, swagger-stick under his arm, Lord French of Ypres scurried to the centre of the Viceregal Stand a pace or two ahead of the tall and languidly strolling officers of his staff. For a moment, while he sternly acknowledged the delirious cheering of the crowd, his thick, pale moustache flared in the sunshine (surely that head, the Major was thinking, is too big for the rounded shoulders and dapper little body). Then, having greeted the representatives of the Government, he made ready to take the salute. Meanwhile the Major had turned and was forcing his way back through the crowd towards Jury’s Hotel.
Already the leading contingents had turned the corner from the Castle Yard and were moving up Dame Street beneath the tossing, brilliant roof of flags and bunting. First came the Mounted Police, men with granite faces on su-perb, caracoling horses; as the Major made his way through the crowded entrance to Jury’s a great cheer was sent up to welcome their arrival at the Viceregal Stand. The hotel foyer was deserted. Everybody was either on the street or at some vantage-point on one of the upper storeys. But as the Major, without impatience, was climbing the stairs to his own room, he almost collided with a gentleman coming down in great haste. He glanced at the Major and then cried: “Man, what a stroke of luck! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” It was Boy O’Neill, wild-eyed and in a great state of excitement.
“Edward told me you had a room with a view. You don’t mind, do you? Can’t see a blessed thing from the street. Left the ladies up on the landing above. Quick, we’ll miss it all.”
Mrs O’Neill and Viola, looking tired and rather cross, were standing near a window entirely blocked by a group of very fat and ecstatic ladies. They brightened up when they saw the Major.
The Major opened the door of his room and stood aside for the ladies. Boy O’Neill thrust them aside, however, sped across the room and threw the window up with a crash. The skirl of pipes filled the room, diminishing gradually as they passed on towards College Green.
“The Irish Guards,” groaned O’Neill. “We missed the pipers.” He craned out over the street. “Here come the demobbed lads.”
While her father and mother gazed hungrily down at the passing troops and recited the names of regiments (the Royal Irish, the “Skins,” the Royal Irish Rifles, the Connaught Rangers, the Leinster, the Munster Fusiliers), Viola O’Neill, who had stationed herself at another window with the Major, kept turning to bestow smiles and lingering glances on him.
“Will there be tanks, Major?” she inquired, opening her eyes very wide.
“I expect so,” replied the Major gloomily.
“I’m sure I shall be frightened if there are,” Viola went on, running the tip of her tongue around her parted lips. “I mean, just the sight of them.”
“Wait! Is it them?” barked O’Neill from outside the other window. “Is it them or is it not?”
With feigned interest Viola leaned out to see what her father was looking at. “I’ve no head for heights,” she assured the Major. “I’m afraid I’ll fall if I lean any farther.” And her small hand slipped into the Major’s large paw, gripping it tightly. Frozen with alarm, the Major stared down at the grinning, jauntily striding Munster Fusiliers. The child was flirting with him! And she was certainly no more than fifteen years old. Although today her hair had been released from its pigtails and hung in thick shining tresses, she looked if anything younger than she had on their previous meeting in the Palm Court of the Majestic. What if the O’Neills should suddenly look back into the room and see him holding hands with their daughter?
“It is!” roared O’Neill from outside. “It’s them! It’s the Dubs! I can see them.”
The volume of cheering below in the street increased to a deafening roar as the Dublin Fusiliers swung into sight. Viola withdrew a little from the window, making a face at the noise, and the Major took the opportunity of relinquishing her hand. But under the pretext of looking at something in the street she changed her position so that her perfumed tresses brushed against his chin. A scent of warm skin rose from her bare neck. The Major stepped back hurriedly and busied himself with lighting his pipe. And not a moment too soon. The O’Neills, hoarse with cheering, had just decided to restore their heads to the room.
The parade dragged on for another hour—an eternity it seemed to the Major, who presently retired to sit in an armchair with a newspaper. When at last the O’Neills had been granted their first view of armoured cars and tanks (Viola had gasped with emotion at the sight of the monsters creeping along Dame Street and silently besought the Major for comfort with her lovely grey eyes) and the parade had come to an end, Boy stepped back satiated from the window and remarked cryptically: “That should give the blighters something to think about.”
His face appeared less draw
n and yellow than when the Major had seen him at the Majestic and his listless manner had been replaced by a disquieting nervous energy. He’d never felt better, he assured the Major. Found a new doctor who’d done him the world of good...indeed, he felt a new man. He wouldn’t give a farthing for your Harley Street specialists. “I feel a new man,” he repeated categorically. Saying this, he looked angrily round the room, as if expecting the Major to disagree with him.
The O’Neills were going to spend the afternoon and evening in Kingstown. There were two ships in Kingstown harbour, H.M.S. Umpire and H.M.S. Parker, which were to be illuminated that evening to supplement the bonfires and fireworks. It should be a splendid sight. Would the Major not care to come along? The Major, whose patriotic zest had lapsed once again into apathy, declined. He said vaguely that he had to go and visit an acquaintance. When the O’Neills had gone the Major had lunch and went for a stroll. The streets were still packed with rowdy, enthusiastic men and women of all classes, many of them still wearing rosettes or Union Jacks. But now (or so it seemed to the Major, who was out of sorts) their enthusiasm had already begun to wear an aimless air. Peace had been celebrated; now there was the future to think about. The pubs were doing a thriving business, full of shouting and good cheer. As he passed their open doors he kept hearing the same song: “Tipperary” and other songs from the first year of the war. To the Major they sounded incongruous and pathetic. Dublin was still living in the heroic past. But how many of these revellers had voted for Sinn Fein in the elections?
On Monday morning the Major read in the Irish Times that Peace Day had been a splendid success: “The section of demobbed soldiers and sailors revealed the spirit of camaraderie that prevails in their ranks and the democratic side of army life. Men with top-hats walked beside men in their working clothes. Spats moved in time with hobnailed boots.” There was also an account of how an ex-Dublin-Fusilier had marched over the whole route from the Castle to St Stephen’s Green on crutches. By the time he reached the Green his palms were bleeding from the friction. When asked why he did not fall out he replied: “No, I knew it was my last march and I wouldn’t fall out while I had a breath left in my body.”
The Empire Trilogy Page 10