‘Not before then?’ she put in sarcastically.
‘I suppose you’ll tell me you haven’t room for me?’ he asked angrily.
‘Oh, there’s always a spare cowshed if the mountains aren’t wide enough,’ she retorted.
So I took the hint, and musing upon the contrariness of men and the inhuman persuadableness of motors, I took my machine-gun and drove off through the hills as dark was coming on.
Soirée Chez une Belle Jeune Fille
This was Helen Joyce’s first experience as courier.
On Tuesday morning one of the other girls passed her a note. The class was half asleep, the old professor was half asleep, and as always when he was drowsy his lecture grew more and more unintelligible. She looked at the slip of paper. ‘Call at the Western before 5 and say you’ve come about a room to let. Bring your bicycle. Destroy this.’ Conspiratorial methods – there was no reason why the message could not have been given verbally. ‘And may we not say,’ old Turner asked querulously, ‘or perhaps it is too serious a thing to say – though Burke – or it may be Newman – I have forgotten which – remarks (though he qualifies the remark – and let me add in passing that whatever we may think – and think we must – though of course within certain limits…)’. The day was cloudy and warm; the lecture hall was suffocating, and a girl beside her was lazily sketching Turner who looked for all the world like an old magician or mediaeval alchemist with his long, skinny arms, flowing gown and white beard.
She called at the Western. Its real name was The Western Milk and Butter Emporium, and it was a little dairy in the slums kept by a cripple and his wife. Besides being used as a dairy and a political rendezvous it was also a brothel of sorts, but this she did not learn until long after. Low, dark, cobwebby, with blackened rafters that seemed to absorb whatever light came through the little doorway, it gave her a creepy feeling, ‘a hospital feeling’, as she said herself. She looked about her at the case of eggs, the two shining churns of milk, and the half-dozen butter boxes, and wondered who in heaven’s name the customers might be.
The cripple led her into a little back room, half kitchen, half bedroom, that was if anything lower and darker and cobwebbier than the shop; it was below the street level and was unfurnished except for a bed, a kitchen table, and two chairs. Here he produced the dispatch, and gave her directions as to how it was to be delivered. She paid more attention to his appearance than to his instructions. Somehow she had not imagined revolutionaries of his sort. He was low-sized almost to dwarfishness; his voice was a woman’s voice, and his eyes, screwed-up close to her own, were distorted by convex spectacles tied with twine. He spoke quickly and clearly but with the accent of a half-educated man; she guessed that he read a great many newspapers, and probably had a brother or cousin in America who sent him supplies. At last he left her, sniggering, ‘to dispose of de dispatches as she tought best’, but before she hid the tiny manilla envelope in her clothes she took care to bolt the door behind him.
Then she cycled off. The streets were slobbery and greasy. It was one of those uncertain southern days when the sky lifts and lowers, lifts and lowers, endlessly. But if the city streets were greasy the country roads were far worse. Walking, she was ankle-deep in mud, and when she stepped in a pothole she had to drag her foot away as though it belonged to someone else. Rain came on in spells and then there was nothing for it but to take shelter under some bush or tree. When it cleared from where she stood she saw it hanging in wait for her on top of the next hill, or above the river, or trailing in a sort of cottony mist along the blue-grey fences. And finally, when a ray of light did break through the dishevelled, dribbling clouds, it was a silvery cold light that made the ploughed lands purple like heather.
For four miles she met nothing upon the road but a wain of hay that swayed clumsily to and fro before her like the sodden hinder-parts of some great unwieldy animal. After that two more miles and not a soul. Civil war was having its effect. Then came a pony and trap driven by an old priest, and again desolation as she cycled into a tantalizingly beautiful sunset that dripped with liquid red and gold. By this time she was so wet that she could enjoy it without thinking of what was to come. She was tired and happy and full of high spirits. At last she was doing the work she had always longed to do, not her own work but Ireland’s. The old stuffy, proprietary world she had been reared in was somewhere far away behind her; before her was a world of youth and comradeship and adventure.
She looked with wonder at the flat valley road in front. Along it two parallel lines of potholes were overflowing with the momentary glory of the setting sun. It sank, and in the fresh sky above it, grey-green like a pigeon’s breast, a wet star flickered out and shone as brightly as a white flower in dew-drenched grass. Then a blob of rain splashed upon her bare hand. Another fell, and still another, and in a moment a brown mist sank like a weighted curtain across the glowing west. The bell on her handle-bars, jogged by the potholes, tinkled, and she shivered, clinging to her bicycle.
In a little while she was pushing it up the miry boreen of a farmhouse to which she had been directed. Here her trip should have ended, but, in fact, it did nothing of the sort. There was no one to be seen but an old woman who leaned over her half-door; a very difficult and discreet old woman in a crimson shawl that made a bright patch in the greyness of evening. First, she affected not to hear what Helen said; then she admitted that some men had been there, but where they had gone to or when she had no idea. She doubted if they were any but boys from the next parish. She did not know when they would return, if they returned at all. In fact, she knew nothing of them, had never seen them, and was relying entirely on hearsay.
Helen was almost giving up in despair when the man of the house, a tall, bony, good-natured lad, drove up the boreen in a country cart. ‘The boys,’ he said, ‘were wesht beyant the hill in Crowley’s, where all the boys wint, and likely they wouldn’t be back before midnight. There was only Mike Redmond and Tom Jordan in it; the resht of the column got shcattered during the day.’
A gaunt figure under the gloom of the trees, he shook rain from the peak of his cap with long sweeps of his arm and smiled. Her heart warmed to him. He offered to lead her to Crowley’s, and pushed her bicycle for her as they went down the lane together. ‘It was surprising,’ he said, ‘that no wan had told her of Crowley’s; it was a famous shpot,’ and he thought ‘everywan knew of it’.
Crowley’s was what he called ‘a good mile off’, which meant something less than two, and it was still raining. But she found him good company, and inquisitive, as ready to listen as to talk; and soon she was hearing about his brothers in America, and his efforts to learn Irish, and the way he had hidden four rifles when the Black and Tans were coming up the boreen. She said goodbye to him with regret, and went up the avenue to Crowley’s alone. It was a comfortable modern house with two broad bay windows that cast an amber glow out into the garden and on to the golden leaves of a laurel that stood before the door.
She knocked and a young woman answered, standing between her and the hall light, while she, half-blinded, asked for Michael Redmond. All at once the young woman pounced upon her and pulled her inside the door.
‘Helen!’ she gasped. ‘Helen Joyce as I’m alive!’
Helen looked at her with astonishment and suddenly remembered the girl with the doll-like features and fair, fluffy hair who held her by the arms. Eric Nolan, the college high-brow, had called her the Darling because she resembled the heroine of some Russian story, and the name had stuck, at least among those who, with Helen and her friends, disliked her. She was not pretty; neither was she intelligent: so the girls said, but the boys replied that she was so feminine! Her eyes were weak and narrowed into slits when she was observing somebody, and when she smiled her lower lip got tucked away behind a pair of high teeth. And as she helped Helen to remove her wet coat and gaiters the latter remembered a habit of hers that had become a college joke, the habit of pulling younger girls aside and asking if there w
asn’t something wrong with her lip. Not that there ever was, but it provided the Darling with an excuse to pull a long face, and say with a sigh, ‘Harry bit me, dear. Whatever am I to do with that boy?’ She was so feminine!
She showed Helen into the drawing-room. There were two men inside and they rose to greet her. She handed her dispatch to Michael Redmond, who merely glanced at the contents and put it in his coat pocket. ‘There was no answer?’ she asked in consternation. ‘Not at all,’ he replied with a shrug of his shoulders and offered her instead several letters to post. She looked incredulously at him, perilously close to tears.
She was actually sniffing as she followed the Darling upstairs. It was her first experience of headquarters work and already it was too much. She had come all this way and must go back again that night; yet it appeared as if the dispatch she had carried was of no importance to anyone and might as well have been left over until morning, if, indeed, it was worth carrying at all. She did not want to stay for tea and meet Michael Redmond again, but stay she must. Anything was better than facing out immediately, cold and hungry, into the darkness and rain.
She changed her stockings and put on a pair of slippers. When she came downstairs again the room seemed enchantingly cosy. There were thick rugs, a good fire, and a table laid for tea.
She knew Redmond by sight. The other man, Jordan, she had known when she was fifteen or sixteen and went to Gaelic League dances. He used to come in full uniform, fresh from a parade, or after fighting began, in green breeches with leather gaiters, the very cut of a fine soldier. The girls all raved about him.
He looked no older now than he had looked then, and was still essentially the same suave, spectacular young man with the long studious face, the thin-lipped mouth and the dark, smouldering eyes. He was as fiery, as quick in speech, as ever. Eric Nolan had called him The Hero of All Dreams (a nickname which was considered to be in bad taste and had not stuck). In real life the Hero of All Dreams had a little plumbing business in a poor quarter of the city, was married, and had fathered seven children of whom three only were alive.
Michael Redmond, the more urbane and conventional of the two, was genuinely a Don Juan of sorts. He looked rather like an ape with his low, deeply-rounded forehead and retreating chin, his thick lips and short nose. He had small, good-humoured eyes and the most complacent expression Helen had ever seen upon a man. It was a caricature of self-satisfaction. About his forehead and eyes and mouth the skin had contracted into scores of little wrinkles, and each wrinkle seemed to be saying, ‘Look! I am experience.’ His hair was wiry with the alertness of the man’s whole nature; it was cut close and going grey in patches. Clearly, he was no longer young. But he exuded enthusiasms, and talked in sharp, quick spurts that were like the crackling of a machine-gun.
Helen found herself rather liking him.
Jordan had been describing their experiences of the day and for Helen’s benefit he went back to the beginning. While she was sleeping in her warm bed (he seemed to grudge her the bed) they were being roused out of a cold and comfortless barn in the mountains between Dunmanway and Gugan by word of a column that was conducting a house-to-house search for them. And as they crept out of the barn in the mist of dawn, their feet numbed with cold, they saw troops gathering in the village below with lorries and an armoured car.
Michael Redmond snatched at the tale and swept it forward. As they were making off they had been attacked and forced to take cover behind the heaps of turf that were laid out in rows along the side of the hill. It was only the grouping of the soldiers in the village street that had saved them. (He rubbed his hands gleefully as he said it.) Ten minutes of rapid fire into that tightly-packed mass and it had scattered helter-skelter, leaving three casualties behind. Long before it had time to reform in anything like fighting order they had made their escape. And they had been marching all day.
So being in the neighbourhood, added Jordan slyly, they had called on the Crowleys. Oh, of course, they had called! exclaimed Redmond unaware of any sarcastic intent on his companion’s part. May would never have forgiven them if they hadn’t. And he smiled at her with a carefully prepared, unctuous smile that showed a pair of gold-stopped teeth and spread slowly to the corners of his mouth while his face contracted into a hundred wrinkles.
‘Oh, everyone drops in here,’ tinkled the Darling as she flitted about the room. ‘Mother calls our house “No Man’s Land”. Last week we had – let me see – we had seven here, three republicans and four Free Staters.’
‘Not all together, I hope?’ asked Jordan with a sneer.
‘Well, not altogether. But what do you think of this? Vincent Kelly – you know Vincent, Helen, the commanding officer in M— – came in one evening about three weeks ago, and who was sitting by the fire but Tom Keogh, all dressed up in riding-breeches and gaiters, on his way to the column!’
‘No?’
‘Yes, I tell you. The funniest thing you ever saw!’
‘And what happened?’ asked Helen breathlessly.
‘Well, I introduced them. “Commandant Kelly, Mr Burke,” and Vincent held out his fist like a little gentleman, and said, “How do you do, Mr Burke?” And after ten minutes Tommy gave in and said with his best Sunday morning smile, “So sorry I must go, Commandant,” and they solemnly shook hands again – just as though they wouldn’t have liked to cut one another’s throats instead!’
‘But do you mean to say –?’ Helen was incredulous. ‘Do you really mean to say you don’t bang the door in these people’s faces?’
‘Who do you mean?’ asked the Darling with equal consternation. ‘Is it Tommy Keogh and Vincent Kelly?’
‘No, no. But Free State soldiers?’
‘God, no!’
‘You don’t?’
‘Not at all. I’ve known Vincent Kelly since he was that high. Why the devil should I bang the door in his face? I remember when he and Tommy were as thick as thieves, when Vincent wouldn’t go to a dance unless Tommy went too. Tomorrow they’ll be as thick again – unless they shoot one another in the meantime.… And you think I’m going to quarrel with one about the other?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Michael Redmond with dignity. ‘No one expects impossibilities.’
‘Of course not,’ echoed Jordan, his voice tinged with the same elaborate irony. Obviously he was enjoying Helen’s discomfiture.
‘But what a ridiculous idea!’ gasped the Darling as she poured out tea.
‘Well, I don’t understand it,’ Helen added weakly.
Whatever explanation she might have received was anticipated by a startling incident. They had noticed no previous sound before the front gate clanged open with a scream of hinges, and they heard the chug-chug of a car turning in from the road. The two men started up. Jordan’s hand flew to his hip-pocket.
‘Don’t be silly!’ said the Darling. ‘As for you,’ she added resentfully to Jordan, ‘you seem to have a passion for showing that you pack a gun.’
His hand fell back to his side.
‘Nobody’s going to raid us. Besides, if they were, do you really think they’d drive up to the door like that?’
The car stopped running and she went out into the hall. Her reasoning seemed sound, and the two men sat down again, Jordan on the edge of his chair with his hands between his knees. They looked abashed, but did not take their eyes from the door.
There was a murmur of voices in the hall; the door opened and again Jordan as if instinctively drew back his arm. In the doorway stood a tall young man in the uniform of the Regular Army.
‘Don’t be afraid, children,’ sang the Darling’s voice from behind him. ‘You all know one another. You know Doctor Considine, Helen? – Doctor Considine, Miss Helen Joyce.… Rebels all, Bill! Have a cup of tea.’
The newcomer bowed stiffly, sat down close to the door and accepted in silence the cup of tea which May Crowley handed him. He had a narrow head with blond hair, cropped very close, and an incipient fair moustache. He was restless, almost ir
ritable, and coughed and crossed and recrossed his legs without ceasing, as though he wished himself anywhere but in their company. The other two men showed hardly less constraint, and in the conversation, such as it was there was a suggestion that everybody had forgotten everybody else’s name. The Darling prattled on, but her prattling had no effect and scarcely raised a smile. Even turning on the gramophone did not help to dissipate the general gloom. Considine looked positively penitential.
Suddenly, putting his cup on the table and pushing it decisively away from him, he said without looking round:
‘I suppose neither of you fellows would care to come into town with me?’
A mystified silence followed his question.
‘I’d be glad of somebody’s company,’ he added with a sigh.
‘But Helen is going back to town, Bill,’ said the Darling with astonishment.
‘I doubt if she’d care to come back with me,’ Considine muttered with rapidly increasing gloom.
‘Why shouldn’t she? I thought you’d never met before tonight?’
The doctor ignored the insinuation, and turning to Redmond he went on almost appealingly.
‘I’d take it as a personal favour.’
‘Very sorry,’ replied Redmond from behind a suspicious smile. ‘I’m afraid it’s impossible.’
‘What about you?’ This to Jordan.
Jordan shook his head.
‘Nothing to be afraid of, of course. I’d guarantee to bring you there and back safely.’
Jordan looked at Redmond, who avoided the silent question, and once again, but with less decision, he made a gesture of refusal.
‘But what in Heaven’s name do you want him for?’ asked the Darling. ‘It will take you three-quarters of an hour at most to get home. Less if you cross the blown-up bridge. At your age you’re not afraid of travelling alone, surely?’
‘I’m not alone,’ said the doctor.
‘Not alone?’ three voices asked in unison.
My Oedipus Complex Page 11