Spies

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ said her father, his voice shaky.

  Stella just nodded, then she ran to him, and sobbing softly, buried herself in his arms.

  * * *

  Alice watched anxiously as Johnny approached her. She was seated at the base of the O’Connell monument, where Stella had talked with Johnny the previous week. Now he nipped between the lunchtime traffic that trundled up and down the broad expanse of Sackville Street, and Alice swallowed nervously as he drew near. She knew that she was breaking Johnny’s rule about not meeting. But she had to see him, and she had lied to Mam about another trip to Dublin with school friends, taken the morning train, and left a note for Johnny at the telegraph office asking him to meet her.

  ‘Alice,’ he said, sitting beside her. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’

  Despite knowing that Johnny wasn’t meant to meet anyone while on his mission, she felt disappointed. She realised that her feelings must have shown, for Johnny reached out and touched her arm.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you. I really do. But it’s risky for you to be linked to me.’

  ‘I know,’ answered Alice, ‘but I had to meet you. I’ve news you should hear in person. I didn’t want to just send a letter.’

  Johnny looked at her seriously. All around them the life of the city carried on, with trams, horses and carts, and motor vehicles passing within yards, but it was as though they were in their own little world. ‘It’s not good news, is it?’ he said.

  ‘No. It’s Stella’s granddad…he died two days ago. I thought you’d want to know, and this was the soonest I could get to Dublin.’

  ‘Oh, Alice, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for Stella, and…and I’m sorry for giving out when you’ve come all this way to tell me.’

  Alice was touched by his pained expression, and she reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s OK, Johnny.’

  ‘Has the funeral happened yet?’

  ‘Yes, he was buried in Canada. But they’re having a memorial mass in Balbriggan tomorrow week.’

  Johnny looked troubled again. ‘God, Alice, I know Stella hates funerals – from when her brother died. I’d really like to be there, but I can’t show up in Balbriggan.’

  ‘She’ll understand that.’

  ‘I hope so. I’ll…I’ll write to her.’

  ‘Do. That would mean a lot.’

  ‘I’ll write to her tonight.’

  There was a pause, then Johnny looked at Alice. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. So, tell me all the latest with the band. I really miss our Friday nights.’

  ‘The band’s fine – though of course it’s not the same without our star clarinet player.’

  ‘What new tunes are you learning?’

  ‘“The Old Folks at Home” and “Slattery’s Mounted Foot”.’

  ‘Good songs.’

  ‘They’d be no bother to you,’ said Alice. ‘But I have to really practise them.’

  ‘And the Chess Club?’

  ‘Still going strong. Robert Foley was back from Clongowes on midterm break and he went into a sulk when I beat him!’

  ‘Nothing changes,’ said Johnny with a grin.

  ‘Yeah, he’s still a pain!’ Alice was pleased to see Johnny smiling and she was glad that they still had their old, easy friendship. But she couldn’t ignore her anxieties, and after a moment she looked at her friend seriously. ‘And what about you, Johnny? I know you can’t tell me the details, but are you being careful?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I promise I’m not taking stupid risks.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But it’s…it’s been a strange week.’

  ‘What way, strange?’

  Johnny hesitated, then answered quietly. ‘I went back to St Mary’s last Tuesday night.’

  ‘Really?’ Alice knew that Johnny was still marked by the cruelty he had suffered in the orphanage, and she was amazed that he had gone back.

  ‘I went with Mr O’Shea,’ said Johnny.

  ‘I thought Mr O’Shea was in prison?’

  ‘He escaped.’ Johnny raised a hand. ‘Don’t ask me anything about him. I shouldn’t really mention him at all.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But he came with me and he…he put manners on Brother Kenny.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And we got…we got what I’d always wanted.’

  ‘You found out about your family?’

  Johnny nodded. ‘My father was foreign, he was a musician.’

  ‘That explains a lot!’

  ‘Yeah. And my mother’s name was Norah Dunne. For some reason, they gave me her surname.’

  Alice was fascinated, but she could see that Johnny looked troubled. ‘Is she…is she still alive?’

  ‘I think so. There was nothing to say she was dead. But I don’t know if my father is dead or where he is. And I don’t know why they put me in an orphanage.’

  ‘Do you have an address for either of them?’

  ‘Only for my mother. There’s an address in Athlone.’

  ‘That’s…that’s huge progress, Johnny. You can write to her, and then maybe meet up.’

  ‘It mightn’t be that simple. Supposing she isn’t still at that address? Or supposing she doesn’t want to meet me? And what am I to put in a letter? My head’s been spinning the last few days.’

  Alice thought a moment. ‘Tell her that you’ve left St Mary’s now. That you’re in good health, and you’re doing well.’

  ‘And what about why they put me in the orphanage?’

  ‘Don’t blame her for anything, Johnny. I know you’d an awful time there, but you don’t know how she was fixed. Maybe she thought she was doing the right thing. Maybe giving you up was the hardest thing she ever did in her life.’

  ‘So, what do I say?’

  ‘That you’d love to hear from her. And maybe after that you could meet. I know you want to know everything, but it might be best to go one step at a time.’

  ‘Right…’

  Alice could sense that Johnny’s head was still reeling and she looked at him sympathetically. ‘Would you like me to help you write the letter?’

  ‘Would you?’

  Alice was touched by the relief on his face and she smiled. ‘Of course. What are friends for?’

  Johnny smiled back. ‘You’re a brilliant friend, Alice. I’m sorry I’d to lie to you and Stella. But when this is over, we’ll all get back together.’

  ‘Of course we will. Meanwhile will we have a go at the letter?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘All right,’ said Alice, ‘let’s get started.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Johnny lost himself in the music. He played ‘Danny Boy’ on the clarinet, injecting a hint of jazz into the rhythm, and improvising around the melody with his eyes shut. He was in the drawing room of Hanlon’s boarding house where a cosy fire burned in the grate. The late October weather had turned cold, and this evening Mrs Hanlon had suggested swapping the chilly confines of his bedroom for practice sessions in the warmth of the drawing room.

  He was grateful for her kindness at a time when his life was in some turmoil. It was five days since he had composed the letter with Alice, and he was anxiously awaiting a reply from Athlone. If he ever got a reply from Athlone. There was also the strain of not getting too friendly with the other telegraph boys, and misleading them about his reason for doing the job. Sometimes he played soccer with them at lunchtime in the yard behind the telegraph office. He had also joined the other boys in the shop, after they got paid their wages. He didn’t want to spurn their friendship, particularly the outgoing Nedser, but the effort of never letting his cover story slip was stressful, and reluctantly he made a point of not getting too close to them. And then there was the need to be constantly on guard when trailing British intelligence agents.

  Still, there was the satisfaction of playing an imp
ortant part in the struggle for independence. And it was reassuring to know that his friendship with Alice and Stella was stronger than the many differences between them. He finished ‘Danny Boy’, opened his eyes and thought about what to play next. He had sheet music for ‘The Rose of Tralee’ in his satchel. But maybe something livelier would lift his mood. He opted for the music hall song ‘In the Good Old Summer Time’ and had begun to play its jaunty air when the door to the drawing room burst open.

  ‘Mrs Hanlon,’ said Johnny in surprise, ‘what’s––’

  ‘The whole area’s been cordoned off,’ she said before he could finish his question. ‘The Tans and the army are searching houses.’

  ‘Right,’ said Johnny, lowering the clarinet. ‘But I’m registered as living here, so it should be OK.’

  ‘The Boss isn’t registered here. And he’s on the premises.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Johnny had had no idea that Michael Collins was meeting Mrs Hanlon tonight. But one of the reasons Collins was so effective was that he kept himself a shadowy, elusive figure, who never stayed too long on one place.

  ‘He’s in my sitting room. We need to get him out of here fast. How would you feel about helping?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘He’s going to leave by the back way and brazen it out at the first checkpoint he meets. Do you think you could brazen it out too? It would look more innocent if he’s travelling with a youngster.’

  Johnny knew that the British didn’t know what Collins looked like, and that the rebel leader believed in hiding in plain sight. But there was still risk involved in trying to get through the cordon. He felt his pulses starting to throb but he didn’t hesitate. ‘Count me in.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘All right, there’s no time to lose. Put on your good overcoat, and your best cap, and meet me at the back door.’

  Johnny nodded, then he gathered his clarinet and music sheets, headed out of the room and ran up the stairs.

  * * *

  The October air was clammy and cold, and smoke billowed from countless chimney pots as the citizens of Dublin tried to keep warm. Stepping out into the laneway behind the boarding house, Johnny was well wrapped up in a woollen scarf and the good quality coat that Mrs Hanlon had bought him for the O’Shea escape bid. He had a snug-fitting boy’s cap pulled down over his thick hair, and brown leather gloves on his hands. It was Mrs Hanlon’s belief that a well-dressed person who looked middle-class would always seem less suspicious to the powers-that-be. Michael Collins obviously believed in the same theory, and he wore a soft hat and was smartly dressed in a tailored suit, over which he wore a fine Crombie overcoat.

  ‘Leave all the talking to me, Johnny,’ said Collins as they headed up the laneway towards Temple Street.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And carry yourself confidently as though you haven’t a care in the world.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Collins catching his eye and giving him a wink.

  Johnny felt a boost to his confidence. Collins’s self-belief was infectious. But it was one thing being brave – and even cocky – here in the laneway. How things went when they got to the cordon might be a different matter. Well, they’d know soon enough, he thought as they got to the corner of the laneway and turned onto the main road.

  Sure enough, Mrs Hanlon’s information had been correct, and a major search was taking place. Crossley tenders lined the street, and Tans and British troops were involved in a joint operation that involved searching houses, stopping vehicles and questioning pedestrians.

  Johnny could see the cordon up ahead, between the Children’s Hospital and St George’s Church

  ‘Don’t slow down,’ said Collins. ‘Walk towards them and greet them warmly. We see this as a minor inconvenience, but we understand why it’s necessary. We’re on the side of law and order, and we back their efforts.’

  ‘Right.’

  Despite all the activity going on around them Collins chatted to Johnny about the coming feast of Halloween as they approached the checkpoint.

  ‘Evening, Sergeant,’ he said, stopping and nodding to the British soldier who stood blocking their way, his rifle at the ready.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ the man answered.

  Sir, thought Johnny. Would the soldier have called him that if Collins had been dressed like a workman? An officer with a thin moustache and dressed in a captain’s uniform drew near, but it was the sergeant who did the questioning.

  ‘Name and address, please,’ he asked in a strong Lancashire accent.

  ‘Edward Taylor,’ answered Collins, ‘27 Palmerston Road, Rathmines. And this is my nephew, Johnny.’

  Following his earlier instructions, Johnny said nothing but smiled politely. He thought it was clever of Collins to pick an upmarket neighbourhood like Rathmines, and a name that could easily be Protestant.

  ‘And your business in this area, Mr Taylor?’

  Collins indicated the Children’s Hospital. ‘Brought Johnny to see a doctor.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Tied up with business during the day,’ said Collins with a half apologetic smile. ‘I arranged a private consultation for this evening.’

  Johnny felt his heart pounding. If the soldier checked this story out they would be in deep trouble. But Collins sounded really plausible and unworried, and he hoped that the sergeant would buy the explanation.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, son?’ the man asked, suddenly turning to Johnny.

  ‘Tonsillitis,’ answered Johnny deliberately making his voice hoarse.

  The sergeant said nothing, and Johnny wondered if the man believed him. He was tempted to try to convince him, but he remembered his training with Mr O’Shea, who had taught him never to babble when being questioned. His pulses were racing, but Johnny said nothing further and tried to look unfazed.

  After a moment the soldier nodded.

  ‘Painful thing, tonsillitis. Had it meself as a nipper. I hope they get you sorted out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Johnny trying not to sound relieved.

  The sergeant stood to one side to let them pass. Johnny moved forward, taking care not to appear too eager.

  ‘Just one second,’ said a voice, and Johnny anxiously turned around to see that it was the officer who had spoken.

  ‘Palmerston Road, you say?’

  If Collins was thrown by this late intervention he didn’t show it.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Do you know the Conyngham family?’ asked the officer in what Johnny recognised as an educated Dublin accent.

  Johnny held his breath. If this was a trick question and Collins claimed to know a non-existent family the game would be up. But if the Conynghams were a well-known family and Collins was a resident of Palmerston Park, perhaps he should know of them.

  Again Collins gave the apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, can’t say I know them.’

  ‘Really? They’re quite well established.’

  ‘Well there you have it,’ said Collins. ‘I’m only a recent arrival.’

  ‘I see. And where have you arrived from?’

  ‘Cork. Most of our business has been in Cork, but we’ve expanded into Dublin.’

  Smart again, thought Johnny. As an Irishman, the officer could probably tell that Collins was from Cork rather than Dublin.

  ‘And what would that business be, Mr Taylor?

  ‘Commercial Insurance. Plenty of claims, I’m afraid, since these damned rebels went on the rampage,’ he added.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the officer.

  Even though Collins had a prepared identity in his head, Johnny was impressed by how convincingly the rebel leader could improvise. The officer seemed to be convinced now, and Johnny allowed himself to relax a little.

  ‘By the way,’ said the officer. ‘Why Temple Street?’

  ‘As I explained to your sergeant, Johnny here has tonsillitis.’

  ‘But you live on the south sid
e. Harcourt Street Children’s Hospitial is nearer. Why cross the city to Temple Street?’

  Johnny felt his pulses pounding again, and he prayed that Collins could come up with a convincing answer.

  ‘It’s a little further all right,’ answered Collins. ‘But one of the doctors is an old college pal who agreed to see us after hours.’

  Johnny found himself holding his breath.

  ‘Ah,’ said the officer. ‘The old school tie, eh?’

  Collins smiled again. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Taylor. We’ll detain you no further.’ The Captain faced Johnny and nodded in farewell, ‘Young man.’

  ‘Evening, sir,’ said Johnny.

  Collins raised his hat to the officer. Then he placed a companionable arm around Johnny’s shoulder and they walked off at an easy pace, away from the checkpoint and into the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stella listened as the organ soared, the music seeming to swirl above the heads of the packed congregation in St Peter’s church in Balbriggan. It was the Sunday morning of the memorial mass for her grandfather, and Mr Tardelli’s playing of ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ was impassioned and moving. But Stella had cried all the tears she had in her, and now she simply squeezed back when Dad squeezed her hand in support.

  Once the priest left the altar, Stella genuflected and stepped out into the aisle, followed by her father. Looking around, it seemed that every person she knew in Balbriggan was here. Alice and her mother were in the pew behind with many of the staff from the Mill Hotel, there were dozens of girls and teachers from her convent, the well-known local surgeon Dr Foley, and his son Robert, nodded to her, and her friends from the chess club and the town band were present in large numbers.

  Stella wished that her mother could be here. Mom, however, had had to stay in Canada to wind up Granddad’s affairs and wouldn’t be back in Ireland for another couple of weeks. And even if Mom had been here, nothing could change the fact that Stella and her grandfather would never again share a joke, or have pancakes with maple syrup, or listen to his scratchy records.

  There was a finality to his departure that Stella found frightening, and she was glad when she emerged from the church into bright October sunshine. She stood in the churchyard with her father, accepting condolences as the Sunday morning mass-goers milled about. She was touched by how many people took the trouble to offer their sympathies, even though some of them were republicans who opposed the British in the war of independence. She saw that some people were looking at her appraisingly as they offered their condolences and she suspected that they were surprised that she wasn’t in tears. Could they not understand that she was really sad to lose her grandfather, but that by now she felt cried out?