Spies

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘Like I say, there’s no Johnny Dunne here.’

  Something in the man’s answer sounded shifty, and on instinct Alice became more assertive. ‘But he was there, wasn’t he? He told me he was going to Ryan’s Bar in Thurles,’ she improvised.

  There was a pause. ‘He was here briefly,’ the man conceded. ‘But he’s left for another job.’

  I knew he was fobbing me off, thought Alice. ‘Have you got an address where I can contact him, please?’

  ‘No, he didn’t give an address.’

  ‘He must have said something about where he was going.’

  Again there was a slight pause, then the man spoke. ‘He mentioned something about Cork. But that’s all I know.’

  ‘Maybe Mr Ryan would have an address,’ suggested Alice, hoping that there might be an owner who knew more than this man.

  ‘I am Mr Ryan. And I’ve no forwarding address. Sorry.’

  Before Alice could question him further the man hung up, and the line went dead. Alice slowly put down the handset as Stella looked at her enquiringly. ‘He claims that Johnny has moved on. That he mentioned going to Cork.’

  ‘He gets a new job, but only stays a couple of days?’ said Stella disbelievingly. ‘And he goes to Cork – where there’d be plenty of post-boxes – but his cards are posted in Dublin?’

  ‘I know,’ said Alice. ‘It doesn’t hold up.’

  ‘I think either Johnny lied, or that man did.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alice. ‘And either way, it’s not good, is it?’

  * * *

  ‘We don’t want slackers, we don’t want messers; one wrong move and you’re out on your ear. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Johnny. He was being briefed by Mr Williams, the supervising despatcher in the Post Office’s Telegraph Service. The General Post Office building on Sackville Street had been destroyed in the 1916 Rising, and the telegraph service had moved to temporary premises while rebuilding work went on. Soberly dressed telegraph clerks sat at serried rows of long benches, receiving incoming telegrams and sending outgoing ones, and Johnny liked the hum of the wires, the clacking of the machines, and the sense of being at the centre of communication from all over Ireland. Bright morning sunlight streamed in through the windows now, but now Johnny’s focus was entirely on the man opposite him.

  ‘Delivering telegrams is a responsible job,’ said Williams sternly. ‘If you’re honest and hardworking you could do well. If you step out of line, there’re no second chances, you’ll be gone.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Johnny.

  They were at the telegraph despatcher’s desk, and Johnny nodded respectfully at the supervisor. He was a plump man in his fifties, conservatively dressed in a dark grey suit. Johnny, however, knew that his strict manner was for the benefit of a clerk who was working nearby. Sure enough, the supervisor’s demeanour changed when the clerk moved off.

  ‘You’ll work like a normal delivery boy and you’ll be paid the usual wage,’ Williams said, in a warmer tone, and with his voice lowered. ‘But most days there’ll be orders about who we want you to tail. You’ll fit that in between your regular duties, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘All these men you follow have military backgrounds. And some of them are experienced agents. Don’t underestimate them.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Be sure you don’t. They’re dangerous.’

  Johnny felt a hint of butterflies in his stomach, but he kept his face impassive.

  ‘And if you have to choose between losing someone that you’re tailing, and risking being noticed – better to lose them.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Having said that, your uniform, and the post office bike, make you semi-invisible. Most of the time you’ll blend easily into the background. Mrs H tells me you’ve been getting familiar with the city?’

  ‘Yes. I knew it a bit already, and I’ve been studying maps and walking around the city centre.

  ‘Get to know it like the back of your hand,’ said Williams emphatically. ‘We don’t have many advantages over the enemy. Knowing the battleground inside out needs to be one of them.’

  ‘Once I’m given the bike this morning I’ll cycle everywhere. And after work each day I’ll explore the city, till I know every nook and cranny.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Williams, ‘All right, go in to the depot now and get issued with your bike. Then come back to me and I’ll give you some telegrams to deliver.’

  ‘And the other work?’

  ‘That starts this afternoon. There’s a Lt. Colonel Jennings we’re interested in. He’s booked a lunch table in the Gresham Hotel. When he comes out, we want you to check where he goes and who he meets.’

  Johnny felt his pulse starting to race, ‘How will I know what he looks like?’

  ‘He’ll be pointed out to you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Williams offered his hand. ‘Good luck, son.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Johnny, shaking hands. Then he headed off to get his new bike, pleased that the waiting was over, and ready to start his mission.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Why do humming birds hum?’ asked Mr Tardelli. He looked enquiringly at the assembled band members with a twinkle in his eye as they took a break during Friday night rehearsals.

  ‘Why do I know this will be a terrible joke?’ Alice whispered to Stella, but before Stella could reply Mr Tardelli delivered the punchline.

  ‘Because they don’t know the words!’ he said.

  In spite of themselves the girls laughed, and Stella admired the band leader for his efforts to lift everyone’s spirits. It had been a difficult ten days for the people of Balbriggan, what with the funerals of the people killed the night of the fire, and the need to house those whose homes were in ruins. Gradually, however, life was returning to normal, and Stella was glad that the band had resumed practising. Two of the band members had had their homes damaged in the fires, but for a couple for hours tonight Mr Tardelli was transporting everyone to a happier place.

  The band hall from which she had rescued Johnny had been destroyed, but the bandmaster had arranged for them to use a church hall on a temporary basis. They all took their positions now as the rehearsal began again, and Stella picked up her violin.

  ‘OK, we play “Let the Rest of the World go by”,’ said Mr Tardelli. ‘And please, no staccato. This is a melody that flows.’

  ‘From your soul, Stella, let the melody flow!’ whispered Alice in a good impersonation of the bandmaster’s Italian accent.

  Stella smiled, then placed the violin to her cheek. On a signal from Mr Tardelli they began to play, and Stella tried to lose herself in the sweep of the music. Usually she could leave her worries behind and get caught up in her playing, but tonight reality kept intruding.

  Three days had passed since the phone call to Ryan’s Bar in Thurles, and no further correspondence had come from Johnny. She hoped against hope that he wasn’t involved again with the IRA. Any kind of rebel activity was more dangerous now, with the RIC re-enforced by large numbers of Tans and Auxies. Balbriggan almost felt like an armed camp, and far from being apologetic in the aftermath of setting the fires, the Tans were as aggressive as ever.

  With each passing day, Stella had found her allegiances shifting away from the authorities and towards the rebels. She felt guilty at being sympathetic towards a rebel victory, and part of her still respected her father’s dedication to the rule of law. Most of the RAF officers she met through Dad seemed honourable and pleasant, but the behaviour of the Tans and Auxies made a nonsense of the notion of law and order.

  Stella played on, one part of her brain producing the music, while the rest of her mind was distracted.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Alice when they had finished the tune.

  ‘Is it that obvious I’m distracted?’

  ‘You just looked like you were away with the fairies!’

  Stella smiled ruefully. ‘I was thinkin
g about this sports day in Lusk next weekend. Dad doesn’t want me to attend.’

  ‘I can see why he mightn’t,’ answered Alice.

  Although the sports day was a charity event to raise funds for those who had lost their homes and businesses in the torching of the town, Stella knew there was also an element of anti-government protest involved.

  ‘So what will you do? asked Alice.

  ‘I’m going to go anyway. What the Tans did was criminal, and I’ve no problem with people knowing I think that.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘All right,’ cried Mr Tardelli. ‘We play “Give My Regards to Broadway”. With energy please! Con brio!’

  ‘OK, this one’s tricky,’ said Alice. ‘Better forget all that stuff and concentrate on the music.’

  ‘Right.’

  Stella returned her attention to her sheet music, and the rehearsal continued, with the evening finally coming to a close with a rousing rendition of one of her favourite pieces, ‘Funiculi, Funicula’.

  The two friends made their way out of the church hall, then Stella stopped dead on seeing her father waiting at the door.

  ‘Commander Radcliffe,’ said Alice.

  ‘Girls.’ He nodded in greeting, but Stella feared from his unexpected presence and grave expression that something was wrong.

  ‘Dad. Is…is something up?’

  Before her father answered, he turned to Alice.

  ‘Could you…could you excuse us for one moment please, Alice?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stella felt a sinking feeling as Alice moved off to chat with some of the other band members. ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve just got a telegram from Mum. I’m sorry to tell you… Granddad has taken a turn.’

  ‘Taken a turn? What does that mean?’

  ‘He’s…he’s slipped into a coma.’

  ‘Is he going to die?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, darling.’

  Stella felt her mouth go dry, but she forced herself to ask the question that terrified her.

  ‘Will he…will he die tonight?’

  ‘We don’t know. Probably not – sometimes people linger in comas for weeks. But the end is coming. I just thought you should know.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Stella felt her eyes welling with tears, and her father wordlessly reached out and took her in his arms. Ever since her mother had returned to Canada to nurse Granddad she had known this day was coming. But now that it had arrived it still took her by surprise, and she stood unmoving, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed softly in her father’s arms.

  * * *

  Johnny’s heart began to thump as Mrs Hanlon approached him. He was at the sunlit corner of Gloucester Street, and she had exited the main door of the Gresham Hotel into Sackville Street. Johnny was sitting astride his post office bike, dressed in his new work uniform. Nobody had paid attention to him as he had appeared to sort through telegram envelopes. He slipped the envelopes into his satchel now as Mrs Hanlon drew near. She was smartly dressed for her visit to the Gresham Hotel and, though she walked casually, Johnny suspected from the look in her eyes that she was excited.

  ‘We’re on!’ she said quietly, pausing briefly beside Johnny on the pavement and seeming to adjust her hatpin. ‘Don’t stare, but Lt. Colonel Jennings is the man in the navy suit who’s just walked out of the hotel.’

  Johnny glanced back towards the Gresham Hotel. He saw that his target had turned away and was starting to head south along Sackville Street towards the river.

  ‘Remember all I said when you’re trailing him,’ said Mrs Hanlon, not looking at Johnny, but appearing to wait for a break in the traffic in order to cross the road.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Johnny mounted his bicycle and turned into Sackville Street. He cycled slowly and began to close the gap on his target. Lt. Colonel Jennings, he noted, walked with an easy confidence but didn’t draw attention to himself in any way. His suit appeared well-cut, but not flashy, and to all outward appearances he seemed like a respectable gentleman going about his business.

  Johnny slowed down, not wanting to overtake the British officer. He had agreed with Mrs Hanlon on a technique for following his quarry. If he were tailing targets that were on foot, he couldn’t cycle all the time without repeatedly passing them and having to stop. And so they had devised a system whereby Johnny would cycle some of the time, walk wheeling the bicycle at other times, and sometimes stop completely while appearing to sort through his telegrams. He put it into practice now, never overtaking Lt. Colonel Jennings, but never allowing him to get too far ahead either.

  Jennings picked up his pace a little and within a few moments they had passed the partially rebuilt GPO and reached the broad expanse of O’Connell Bridge. Johnny slowed down, realising that Jennings was about to cross the River Liffey to the south side of the city. The tide was out, and Johnny’s nostrils were assailed by the smell from the exposed river bed.

  Ignoring the foul smell, Johnny waited until his target was approaching the junction of Burgh Quay and Westmoreland Street, and mounted his bicycle again and began to cycle after him. He pedalled easily, then glancing ahead, he got a shock. Esther Moore, one of the girls who had played with him in the Balbriggan Town Band, was walking across the bridge with her mother. Johnny didn’t think she spotted him and he quickly lowered his head and accelerated towards Westmoreland Street. Esther didn’t call out his name as he sped past, and on reaching the southside and drawing close behind Jennings again he slowed down. He breathed out, relieved that Esther didn’t seem to have seen him, then he concentrated once more on tracking his target.

  The near miss was a valuable lesson, he thought, as he followed Jennings towards Trinity College. You could never tell what development might suddenly throw you. Every moment spent working for the rebels required alertness.

  More on guard than ever, he followed Jennings as he made his way up Grafton Street. It was the city’s most fashionable thoroughfare, and well-heeled Dubliners were doing their Saturday shopping in its many stores and coffee shops. Yet there was no getting away from the sense that Dublin was a city in strife. Already Johnny had seen Tans mounting a checkpoint at Abbey Street, and two armoured cars driving along Dame Street, and now a heavily armed patrol of Auxies was making its way down Grafton Street. People quickly got out of their way, and Johnny watched carefully to see how his quarry reacted to them.

  Jennings, however, walked past the men without glancing in their direction. It wasn’t that surprising, Johnny thought – an experienced officer was hardly going to advertise his allegiance by interacting with Tans or Auxies. Johnny continued his technique of cycling, wheeling his bike and occasionally stopping, and after a few more minutes his target reached the top of Grafton Street and entered the oasis of St Stephen’s Green.

  Johnny dismounted and followed him at a distance, the bustle of the city fading away as Jennings moved deeper into the park. There were lots of people about, and the park looked resplendent, its trees beginning to turn gold with the approach of autumn.

  Johnny tailed his quarry along the side of the ornamental pond, then Jennings sat on a bench that was occupied by another well-dressed man. Hanging back, and once more pretending to sort his telegraphs, Johnny observed the man carefully. Mrs Hanlon would want an accurate description, and Johnny noted that the second man was heavy-set and had a neatly trimmed black beard.

  The conversation between the two men was brief, but Johnny watched intently and spotted it when Jennings passed an envelope to the other man. Was Blackbeard an informer who was being paid? Or perhaps he was Jennings’s controller, receiving a report? Either way, Johnny knew that this was exactly the kind of information that he was meant to gather.

  Their short conversation over, the two men parted, and Johnny followed Jennings again, always at a discreet distance. Nothing further of importance happened, however, and he trac
ked his target out of the park and all the way to Leeson Street without incident.

  Without warning the British agent turned into the entrance of a hotel. Johnny had been told that if something like this happened he was on no account to follow Jennings inside. Instead he continued cycling normally, noting that the hotel was called the Eastwood Hotel. At the next junction he turned left, then he began the journey home, excited at having carried out his first mission.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Stella!’ cried Alice, crossing the noisy schoolyard. It was the first morning break at Loreto Convent, and Alice made for her friend, hoping to lift her spirits. Monday morning was always a bit lack-lustre, but this morning Stella had been more downbeat than usual. It was hardly surprising, Alice thought, what with her grandfather being ill in Canada. Alice and her mother had prayed for him at Mass the previous day, but Stella had said that Granddad was in a coma and wasn’t expected to regain consciousness. Now as Alice drew near her friend, she was excited to have news that should distract her.

  ‘What is it?’ said Stella.

  Alice realised that her excitement must be showing. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she said.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I bumped into Esther Moore at the toilets.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said she saw Johnny on Saturday.’

  Stella looked startled. ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘In Dublin. Esther went up on the train with her mother. She saw Johnny on O’Connell Bridge.’

  ‘And she’s sure it was him?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Did she talk to him?’

  ‘No, she couldn’t. He was working.’

  Alice could see that Stella was taken aback, but at least the news had shaken her friend from her melancholic mood.

  ‘So the postcards from Tipperary were a red herring,’ said Stella.

  ‘Looks like it. Though in fairness to Johnny, he wouldn’t lie to us unless he really had to.’

  ‘When you think about it, that’s not reassuring.’