Spies

by Brian Gallagher

  This felt different though. It was possible that Bennett saw nothing suspicious in a telegraph boy with whom he exchanged a glance. But the British officer was a trained agent. And not alone was he a professional, he was an agent working in a highly challenging environment, where every chambermaid, every barman, every hotel receptionist – in fact just about every civilian – was a potential enemy agent against whom he had to be on guard. And he had seen Johnny clearly.

  Johnny kept going now, resisting the urge to look behind him to see what Bennett was doing. Instead Johnny turned the corner into Abbey street and walked along at a moderate pace as he considered his next move. Should he circle around and continue to follow Bennet from a distance? Or would it be smarter to cut his losses and call off today’s mission?

  It went against the grain to call a halt. But if Bennett spotted him for a second time, alarm bells would surely ring. Johnny remembered his promise to Alice that he wouldn’t take needless risks. And now that he had found his mother again there was even more at stake. He stopped wheeling the bicycle and opened his satchel again, going through the telegrams as he tried to reach a decision. Supposing this was the day when Bennett met an informer that the rebels hadn’t been aware of? Yet it could also be the day when Johnny gave the game away by pushing his luck – and if that happened he would be endangering Mr O’Shea and Mrs Hanlon. He hoped he wasn’t fooling himself with these arguments, and that he wasn’t simply losing his nerve now that he had more to live for.

  He stood unmoving on the pavement for a moment, uncertain what to do. Then he decided to follow his gut instinct. He recalled the observant look in Bennett’s eyes when they had exchanged glances, and it made his mind up. Calling off the mission, he wheeled his bicycle to the roadway, mounted the saddle and cycled briskly away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alice watched as the wrecking ball smashed into the side of the building. It sent shattered brickwork and plaster in all directions, but Alice and her mother observed from a safe distance. Part of her couldn’t help but enjoy the drama of seeing the building being demolished, but she mostly felt sad that Balbriggan had so many vacant sites where the burnt-out houses and shops stood. Some rebuilding had already begun, and eventually families whose homes were ruined would be re-housed, but Alice wondered if the hundreds of workers who had lost their jobs at the destroyed Deeds Templar factory would ever find work again.

  The burning of the town had received extensive coverage in the newspapers, and questions had even been asked in parliament in Westminster. Mam had said that a Commission of Enquiry had been set up to investigate what was being called the Sack of Balbriggan. But even Mam, who was normally pro-government, said she wouldn’t hold her breath waiting for its findings.

  ‘I think we’ve seen enough, Alice’, she said now, as the wrecking ball swung again, knocking down a wall and raising a cloud of dust.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Alice, slipping her arm through her mother’s as they turned away and began walking home. It was a misty November afternoon, and they stepped over sodden leaves as they made their way towards the Mill. The light was starting to fade, and the slightly gloomy atmosphere created a sense of intimacy. It seemed to Alice the right moment to ask a question that had been on her mind, and she turned to her mother and spoke softly. ‘Just between ourselves, Mam. Who do you honestly think is going to win the war?’

  Her mother looked surprised by the question. ‘Well, you know I’ve always favoured law and order.’

  ‘But the Tans and Auxies haven’t brought law and order, have they?’

  ‘No,’ admitted her mother, ‘they haven’t. On the other hand, the rebels have created chaos. That’s hardly to be admired either.’

  ‘So who do you think will win?’

  ‘Why are you asking this now, Alice?’

  ‘Because it will affect us in the Mill. More and more people are for the rebels, Mam. If they win, we’ll need to adjust.’

  ‘But if they’re not the winners we mustn’t burn our bridges. The government may decide the rebels must be beaten at any cost.’

  ‘So you think the rebels will lose?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Alice. It could go either way. Meanwhile we have to do a tricky balancing act.’

  ‘Lots of girls in school are for the rebels and a new Ireland.’

  ‘But what sort of an Ireland would that be? An Ireland whose leaders would be gunmen?’

  Alice thought of Johnny, who was risking his life to bring about a better country. ‘Maybe it would be a good Ireland, Mam. Run by people with ideals.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. Meanwhile we take it a day at a time, and keep our heads down. All right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Alice. But she knew that Johnny wasn’t keeping his head down, and she prayed that he was safe as she trudged home through the darkening November streets.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Shea, but I think that’s plain silly,’ said Johnny.

  He was in Mrs Hanlon’s private parlour, to which she had invited him to play the clarinet for herself and Mr O’Shea. The room was warm and comfortably furnished, and the atmosphere had been relaxed. Now, however, the mood had been broken by O’Shea chiding Johnny for playing ‘Hold Your Hand Out, Naughty Boy’, a music hall song that he claimed was very English.

  ‘There’s nothing silly in preferring Irish music to the music of the oppressor,’ said O’Shea.

  ‘I play lots of Irish music,’ said Johnny. ‘But “Hold Your Hand Out” is a catchy tune and good fun. What of it, if it’s English?’

  ‘They’re the enemy.’

  ‘Not their music. And not even everyone English, Mr O. I mean, we’re fighting their army, not the whole English race.’

  ‘We’re fighting everything they stand for, Johnny. We have our own culture, they have theirs. It’s better not to mix the two.’

  Johnny had a lot of respect for Mr O’Shea and had never seriously argued with him before. He looked to Mrs Hanlon, who, although a committed republican, tended to be more liberal. She didn’t say anything, but gave Johnny a tiny wink, which he took to be encouragement to argue his corner with O’Shea.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Shea, but I don’t agree. Do you remember Mr Tardelli, who ran the band in Balbriggan?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered O’Shea. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Mr Tardelli is Italian. In the Great War Italy fought against Germany. For three years they were the enemy. But Mr Tardelli didn’t stop playing music by Beethoven, because Beethoven was German. Are you really saying he should have? Or that English mothers shouldn’t have sung Brahms’ Lullaby to their babies, because Brahms was German?’

  O’Shea didn’t answer at once, and Johnny detected a faint smile from Mrs Hanlon.

  ‘I think maybe you should be a barrister, Johnny, when all this is over,’ she said. ‘Talking of which,’ she added, looking meaningfully at O’Shea.

  He nodded, then turned to Johnny. ‘Let’s agree to differ about the music. There’s something else we need to talk about.’

  ‘OK,’ said Johnny. He was a little disappointed that O’Shea was so rigid that he couldn’t be swayed, but relieved too that he hadn’t taken exception to being bested in an argument by a fourteen-year-old.

  ‘We want you to check the whereabouts of someone on Saturday night, Johnny,’ said O’Shea. ‘But after that your mission will be over.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’ve done a great job,’ said Mrs Hanlon. ‘You can really be proud of yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. ‘So, after Friday…what happens?’

  O’Shea hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘What we’ve been working towards for the past couple of months is about to come to a head. I can’t give you any more details. The less you know, the safer it is for you.’

  ‘For the rest of the weekend, Johnny, you’ll need to lie low,’ said Mrs Hanlon. ‘Don’t ask me why, but it’s important you do.’r />
  ‘All right. And after that?’

  ‘A lot depends on how things go,’ said O’Shea. ‘We might need to get you out of Dublin for a while.’

  ‘You’ve done more that your share, Johnny,’ said Mrs Hanlon. ‘Maybe it’s time to get to know your mother better and live the normal life of a boy your age.’

  Johnny’s mind was racing, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

  ‘We don’t have to decide the details right now,’ said O’Shea. ‘But your mission is ending, and I want to thank you, really sincerely, for all you’ve done.’ He rose and crossed to Johnny, offering his hand. ‘God Save Ireland.’

  Johnny stood up, and they solemnly shook hands. ‘God Save Ireland,’ he said.

  Part Three

  Turmoil

  Chapter Nineteen

  Johnny cycled through the city streets, on full alert for this, his final mission. Now that the end had almost come any kind of mistake would be disastrous, and he was determined that nothing should go wrong this evening. Saturday nights in town were always lively, but tonight the streets were busier than usual, with Tipperary supporters gathering outside pubs and cafes ahead of tomorrow’s football match against Dublin in Croke Park.

  For weeks Johnny had avoided thinking about what would happen to the men whose movements he had tracked so carefully. Now, though, the moment of truth had arrived. Although Mr O’Shea hadn’t spelled it out, Johnny was sure that this weekend the IRA was going to strike against the British agents. How would he feel if some of the officers he had spied on were killed? The more time he had spent trailing them, the more he had found himself thinking of them as people rather than targets. He knew Mr O’Shea would say that Collins’ intelligence network had to be protected at all costs. The British agents were planning to eliminate their Irish opponents, and in war it was kill or be killed. But Johnny still felt uneasy now that violence was about to be unleashed.

  He went past the Shelbourne Hotel, its windows aglow with soft yellow light as he cycled through the dark November evening. He turned right along St Stephen’s Green, thinking yet again on what Mrs Hanlon had said about having a normal life with his mother once his mission finished. He was still slightly uncomfortable with ending his part in the fight for independence before the campaign was over. But if Mrs Hanlon and Mr O’Shea both felt that he had more than played his part, then maybe he had.

  Reaching Leeson Street, he dismissed the thought, knowing he would need to have his wits about him fully as he neared his destination. Cycling on, he saw ahead the sign for The Eastwood Hotel and he slowed down, gathering himself. His task was to establish if Lt. Colonel Jennings was staying overnight in the hotel, but he had to do it without arousing suspicion. He dismounted from the bicycle and leaned it against a lamppost. He walked up the steps and entered the hotel, adopting the casual demeanour of a telegraph boy who has done dozens of similar deliveries. He knew that his uniform gave him credibility and he spoke confidently to the receptionist on reaching the desk.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Lt. Colonel Jennings staying here tonight?’

  If he wasn’t, then Johnny would report that information back to Mrs Hanlon. If he was, Johnny would go through his satchel, only to apparently discover that the telegram for Jennings was missing. He would promise to collect it from the telegraph office and return later. Instead he would report to Mrs Hanlon, confirming the presence of the British officer.

  ‘Yes, he’s staying overnight with a couple of friends,’ answered the receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a friendly manner. ‘In fact, they’ve just gone into the dining room. Do you want to give him the telegram?’ Johnny hadn’t been expecting this, and he hesitated briefly. ‘Or you can leave it with me,’ suggested the receptionist.

  ‘I’ll drop it in to him myself,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Round the corner, past the stairs. Glass doors straight in front of you for the dining room,’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Johnny, then he moved away from the desk and began opening his satchel, as though seeking the telegram for Lt. Colonel Jennings. He rounded the corner, then slowed down, pausing when he reached the dining-room door. He would need to wait a moment, so that it appeared to the receptionist that the he had delivered the telegram.

  He pretended to sort through his satchel, then glanced though the glass doors. The dining area had tables set with crisp white linen and gleaming cutlery, and the room was busy, with uniformed staff tending to well-dressed guests as they had dinner. Johnny immediately spotted Jennings, recognising him from when he had tailed him previously. He was seated at a table with two other men. None of them was in uniform, but their appearances suggested to Johnny that all three were officers.

  He was about to turn away when the member of the trio with his back to Johnny leaned forward to pour water into his glass. Something about him seemed familiar, and Johnny stopped, then moved a little further to the right to get a better view. Now he saw the man’s face, and Johnny quickly stepped out of his line of vision, shocked to discover that Stella’s father, Commander Radcliffe, was one of Lt. Colonel Jennings’s guests.

  Johnny stood unmoving, his mind reeling. Could Stella’s father be a spy too? Surely not, he had a full-time job as a Wing Commander in the RAF. But why was he meeting a spy like Jennings? And what would happen Commander Radcliffe if the IRA came for Jennings?

  Johnny turned away and made for the hotel exit, trying to keep his expression normal as he returned the greeting of the receptionist. He descended the steps to the roadway. The air felt cool after the warm interior of the hotel, but Johnny barely noticed. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Stella’s father was a spy. A more convincing explanation was that he knew Jennings from the past. Maybe they had grown up in the same part of England, or perhaps they had served together during the Great War. But none of those thoughts lessened the sick feeling that Johnny had in his stomach. If Jennings was going to be killed at the Eastwood Hotel, Commander Radcliffe could easily be killed with him.

  Johnny mounted his bicycle, automatically going through the motions of pedalling and steering while his mind raced. He had overheard Mr O’Shea and Mrs Hanlon talking about everything being co-ordinated for nine a.m. They had also told him he would have to lie low for the rest of the weekend. That suggested that action against the British agents was scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.

  Staying overnight with a couple of friends was what the receptionist had said. And Johnny knew from talking to Stella that sometimes her father did stay overnight with friends, rather than travelling back to either Baldonnel or Balbriggan.

  Somehow he had to warn Commander Radcliffe. Yet if he did, he would be betraying Michael Collins, and Mr O’Shea and Mrs Hanlon. And a mission that had taken months of preparation would be ruined. On the other hand, if her father were killed, could he ever again look Stella in the eye? She had risked her life for him, and he would have burned to death in Balbriggan but for her bravery.

  He had to do something, he knew, yet every choice seemed to involve betraying someone. He cycled towards home, the streets and the people a blur, as he grappled with the biggest decision of his life.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Alice playfully.

  Stella looked at her friend and smiled ruefully, aware that her mind had been drifting. They were having an early Sunday morning breakfast before setting off for a hockey match. Stella’s mother had stayed in an adjacent room last night – Dad was meeting some old comrades in Dublin – and Mom had opted for a lie-on this morning. The dining room of the Mill was quiet, but Stella pushed aside the remnants of her fry and leaned closer. ‘I was thinking…if only things were clear cut,’ she said. ‘Instead… everything’s confusing.’

  ‘Are you talking about Johnny?’ asked Alice, lowering her voice

  ‘Not just Johnny – the whole thing. No matter what side I take it’s like I’m disloyal to somebody.’

  ‘It’s tric
ky all right,’ agreed Alice. ‘So right now, where do you stand?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m Canadian, Mom is French-Canadian, Dad is English, my friends are Irish. Who am I supposed to support?’

  Alice shrugged sympathetically. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m torn too. When I think about what the Tans and the Auxies did to Balbriggan, I’m for the rebels. But then someone like your dad is dead sound. And lots of the British officers who use the Mill are really nice. It’s hard to see them as the enemy.’

  ‘It’s even harder for me, Alice. When I listen to Dad, I’m swayed by his arguments. But when I think about what Johnny’s said, I see his point too.’

  ‘It’s not just who’s right or wrong though, is it?’ said Alice. ‘You also have to weigh up who’s going to win.’

  ‘And right now, who would you say that is?’ asked Stella, not sure what she wanted to hear as an answer.

  Alice thought a moment before answering. ‘Probably the government, if they’re really ruthless. But maybe the rebels, if the government feel they can’t go to war against the whole Irish nation, or a big majority of them.’

  ‘So where does that leave me?’

  ‘Maybe the best you can do is go with your instinct, but accept that there are good people on both sides.’

  Stella thought that sounded sensible and she nodded in agreement. But where her instincts might take her was anybody’s guess, and she finished her tea absent-mindedly, wondering where it would all end.

  * * *

  Johnny wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead as he cycled towards The Eastwood Hotel. He was cycling hard, but he knew the perspiration was more to do with his nerves than with the exertion of riding his delivery bike. He had slept badly, his thoughts consumed with what to do about Commander Radcliffe. Eventually he had come up with a plan, but now, as he went to carry it out, he was aware of how easily it could go wrong.