Infantile paralysis, at the age of six, had left Niall’s right leg shorter than the left and he wore a shoe with an elevated sole to correct the imbalance. The disability was so familiar to family and friends that they had stopped noticing it.
Daniel tried to contain his anger. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jimmy Lyons.’
Daniel turned to his brother, put both hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘You stand tall and know who you are, Niall Healy.’
Niall looked confused.
‘Does anyone else worry about your leg?’
‘No.’
‘That’s because there’s so much more to you than your leg. You are clever and kind and funny.’
Niall did not look convinced.
‘How many friends do you have?’
Niall counted in his head. ‘Six?’
‘Well, that’s six more than Jimmy Lyons. I can tell you that. You stand together all six of you. Understand?’
Niall nodded.
Daniel raised his eyebrows. ‘I bet Jimmy Lyons doesn’t have a motorcar.’
Niall smiled.
‘Let’s go sit in Father’s,’ Daniel added. ‘And you can have a go at the wheel.’
Niall took off. And as Daniel followed, he recalled ‘Maggie’s’ curt dismissal of the motorcar. She was simply wrong. It remained, in his mind, the greatest invention of their time. No horse to ready or tire, no man needed to guide the horse, greater distances to be covered in less time. The motorcar would change the world. Of that he was certain.
Niall climbed up behind the wheel, Jimmy Lyons forgotten. Daniel winked at him. Fighting was rarely the answer. Daniel tried to avoid it whenever possible.
‘Who was that girl you were talking to?’ Daniel’s father asked, glancing at him in the rear view mirror.
Niall looked at Daniel curiously.
‘Just someone I helped with a flat tyre,’ Daniel replied for he knew what was coming.
‘Don’t go getting distracted now.’
They were the exact words Daniel had predicted. To his father, girls were a danger to be avoided at all cost. Daniel did not point out the flaw in his argument. As a happily married man, he had clearly let himself get distracted somewhere along the line and the world had not ended.
four
Daniel
‘I’m going to crucify you on the pitch today,’ Michael said as he threw his games bag over his shoulder.
‘That’ll be hard given that I won’t be on the pitch.’
‘You’re not playing?’ he asked as if he meant ‘breathing’.
Daniel had been debating all day whether or not to tell his friend. He did not want the strikers to come between them. And yet he could not lie. ‘I’m going to meet that girl.’
Michael looked baffled. ‘What girl?’
‘The one that punched you.’
Michael squinted. ‘You’re going to meet her?’
Daniel attempted a casual shrug. ‘I bumped into her after Mass, yesterday. She helps at a food kitchen. I said I’d go along and roll up my sleeves.’
‘You met her yesterday and you’re going to a food kitchen with her today? Are you telling me a girl like that just invited you along?’
‘Well, it was more of a dare than an invitation. She is convinced that I will not show up.’
Michael laughed. ‘Ah, that’s more like it. But you are going?’
‘The people are in dire need.’
Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘So the black hair and green eyes have nothing to do with it?’
‘In all honesty, I find her infuriating. And rude.’
Michael laughed again. ‘You have it bad, Healy. Hopefully, she’ll punch some sense into you.’
Daniel smiled, relieved that Michael had not made the connection between the food kitchen and striking workers. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow so.’
‘Not if I see you first.’
Daniel laughed and punched him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Never change, Hegarty.’
She shot through the school gates as if her bicycle was a chariot. She looked neither left nor right and flew straight past him.
‘Hello,’ he called and raised an arm.
‘Oh!’ She braked in surprise, looked back and waited for him. ‘You’re coming after all.’
‘I was always coming.’
‘Keep up,’ she said and took off again.
He knew not to make small talk. So he admired the view – a pair of swans wagging their tails on the canal, street vendors selling flowers on St Stephen’s Green, a man wearing a sandwich-board advertising soap on Grafton Street. Late September and the trees were turning. He filled his lungs with air.
Reaching the quays, it was as if a grey cloud had blown over the city. Women and children in dark, worn clothes converged in grim silence from all directions, carrying anything at all that would hold food. Outside the building stood another weary queue. Heads bowed, women and children shuffled slowly forward. The ground shone from a recent downpour. Steam rose from damp shawls stretched tight across bony shoulders. Daniel had not known that you could see hunger. You could, he realised now, in the eyes of children.
He followed Maggie down to the basement. The air was laden with steam and the mingled smells of food and grime. Coughs, sniffles and occasional weeping were like the saddest music. Daniel passed a boy that so resembled Niall that he stopped and stared. Catching Daniel’s eye, the boy shot out an upturned hand. Daniel fished in his pockets and gave him what he had. A woman snatched the coins from the boy, then dragged him away looking at Daniel as if to say, ‘Judge me when you’ve nothing’. Horrified, Daniel turned and followed Maggie who had all but lost him.
He caught up with her as she neared a gathering of volunteers, most of them women. Their work, he noticed, was divided. Some collected tickets from those in the queue and went to fetch rations. Others stood at boilers, cooking. More peeled vegetables and chopped meat. The only man amongst them moved from boiler to boiler stoking the fires beneath. A lady in an enormous feathered hat snapped a cigarette from her mouth to deliver instructions.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked Maggie. He had never seen a woman smoke.
He was rewarded with a rare smile. ‘That is the Countess Markievicz.’
‘A countess?’
‘A countess that does not care for titles.’ Maggie gestured to a group of girls sitting on stools around a heap of vegetables. ‘How good are you at peeling potatoes?’
He had never peeled a potato in his life. ‘Excellent!’
She raised an eyebrow. It was a stunning eyebrow. He raised both of his in response. He’d show her that he was more than she thought of him – much more.
Daniel approached the animated group. One of the girls saw him coming and nudged another. All eyes turned to him. Silence fell.
‘Good day, ladies,’ he said cheerfully, pulling up a stool.
‘I think you are mistaken,’ said a girl with the strong, unwavering gaze of a leader.
‘Mistaken?’
‘People like you don’t do the peeling. You do the cooking and the serving. We do the peeling.’
Noticing then their worn shawls, faded dresses, grubby aprons, he was disappointed to find that, even here of all places, class divided the work. ‘Well, I happen to like peeling.’
One giggled.
The leader extended a hand. ‘Niamh Lynch.’
‘Daniel Healy,’ he said, shaking it.
‘Lorraine Murphy,’ the girl who’d giggled announced.
‘Nora O’Driscoll,’ a third volunteered.
The other girls remained silent. Niamh handed Daniel a knife and a cloth for across his lap. He watched them work for a moment. Then began. He was fingers and thumbs and losing too much potato with every cut but, with concentrated effort, he began, finally, to master it.
He looked up and noticed their silence. His presence had halted their conversation.
So he asked, ‘Did you come direc
tly from school?’
They looked at each other.
‘We don’t have the luxury of school,’ Niamh explained.
He considered school many things, none of them a luxury. He looked at her questioningly.
‘We work in factories,’ she explained.
‘Factories?’ She was no more than fifteen, the others younger still.
‘When there is work,’ Lorraine countered.
‘And we’re not locked out,’ Nora added.
The conversation was running away from him. ‘But the strike is a good thing, is it not? If you stand together...’
‘What choice do we have? Cross a picket and you’re a scab. I’ve seen a man crippled for less.’
Daniel realised that he had stopped peeling.
Niamh looked at him in sympathy. ‘So! What do you learn in secondary school?’ she asked brightly.
He couldn’t think. ‘Latin,’ he said vaguely.
‘That’ll be handy.’
He laughed with them.
‘For when you’re a man of the cloth,’ Nora teased.
‘Ah, God, don’t become a priest! ’Twould be an awful waste,’ Lorraine said.
‘At least you can understand the Mass,’ Nora offered in his favour.
‘Oh, I like not knowing,’ Lorraine said dreamily. ‘It sounds so foreign and romantic.’
She got a slap of a cloth for that. ‘You big eejit.’ Niamh laughed.
Daniel smiled, glad that Maggie had sent him here, whatever her reason.
‘Here’s Madame!’ whispered one of the formerly silent girls.
‘And her cigarette,’ Lorraine said.
Daniel coughed to hide a laugh as the countess approached – not alone with her cigarette but with a tiny dog that seemed to follow her everywhere.
‘Ladies! Who are you hiding over here?’ she asked as if Daniel was a man of intrigue.
He wiped his hands and rose. ‘Daniel Healy.’
‘And how do you come to be here, peeling potatoes, Daniel Healy?’
‘I came to the food kitchen with... a friend.’ He hesitated at the exaggeration.
The countess glanced at the girls. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Maggie Gilligan.’
Madame looked at him with growing interest, then at Maggie in the middle distance, stirring away at a boiler, sleeves rolled up, face flushed from steam, hair curling damp about her face. She was a renaissance painting from Daniel’s history book. He could not remember the artist.
‘I see,’ Madame said. The implication was clear.
‘I’ve come to lend a hand,’ he clarified.
She reached out, took hold of his hands and turned them over. They were red and raw. ‘Well, I imagine you’ve done enough peeling for today. Follow me, Daniel Healy. Ladies,’ she said as a goodbye, then turned and marched off, fully expecting Daniel to follow.
He looked each of the girls in the eye. ‘It has been a pleasure.’
‘The pleasure was all ours,’ Lorraine said with a spark in her eye.
Niamh shook her head, sadly.
Daniel smiled. These girls had more life in them than any of his friends at school – bar Michael, who had too much life. He turned to follow the countess.
Seconds later, he glanced back to the sound of their laughter. At what point exactly had this become the most curious day of his life?
Madame put Daniel at the boiler beside Maggie, gave him a few cursory instructions then marched off to her next task, her tiny dog in tow.
‘I see that you tired of peeling,’ Maggie said without looking at him.
‘Actually, I was quite enjoying it. It was Madame’s idea to put me here. It seems that there is a class divide even here in the food kitchen.’
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish.
‘Now stop distracting me. I’ve work to do.’ The girls seemed to have emboldened him.
‘You tell her,’ said the man stoking the fire beneath the boiler.
Daniel looked down at him. ‘She can’t resist me.’
There was a loud, indignant, snort to his right.
‘I better get out of here before there’s a murder.’ The man gathered his things then scurried off to the next boiler, chuckling.
After a long silence, Maggie demanded. ‘What makes you think you’re so irresistible?’
‘I’ve never understood it.’ The effort not to laugh was immense.
She frowned. Then she nodded to herself as if taking an oath not to speak to him.
All afternoon, they stirred and scooped. It was hot work. Twice, Daniel burned himself. He reeked of stew but the company was good, though it was attempting not to be. That she wished him to give up only encouraged him not to.
Mid-afternoon, Maggie’s mother arrived in haste. She rolled up her sleeves and took up position at a nearby boiler, replacing a woman who had to leave. She was small like Maggie and had a fading almost Spanish-like beauty. In her face he saw grief and determination. He liked her immediately. And wondered about Maggie’s father.
Once she had settled into a routine, she looked up. Seeing Daniel, she smiled, stopped stirring and came over to shake his hand.
‘I’m Mary Gilligan. It’s lovely to meet you.’
Daniel smiled. ‘Daniel Healy.’
‘You’ve met my daughter, Maggie?’
He fought a smile. ‘I have indeed.’
‘Well, welcome to the food kitchen. It’s good to have a boy amongst us. Most are too busy for work like this.’ She turned to Maggie. ‘How was school?’
‘Delightfully challenging as always.’
Maggie grew more talkative than she’d been all afternoon.
Daniel did not mind. Better for her to be annoyed with him than immune to him.
When the food kitchen was finally closing, she was leaving without goodbye when her mother exclaimed, ‘Maggie Gilligan where are your manners? You’ve been cooking beside Daniel all afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry. Goodbye, Daniel Healy.’ She blushed over her already rosy cheeks.
He smiled. ‘Goodbye, Maggie Gilligan.’
He said her name in his head. It sounded like tinkling water. And it suited her.
Watching them go, he felt as though the room was growing dimmer, losing energy.
‘Feisty little thing,’ came a voice behind him.
He turned. Madame pointed a cigarette at him. ‘A girl like that needs a boy like you.’
He cleared his throat in embarrassment.
‘A calming influence,’ she added.
Daniel stared at the countess. She was quite simply wrong. Maggie Gilligan’s passion was the best thing about her.
There was so much to think about. First, though, as his father reminded him, there were his studies. Daniel joined Niall at the drawing room table.
‘How was school?’ he asked his brother as he opened his books.
‘Good,’ he said simply, his eyes glued to the masterpiece he was drawing.
‘No more trouble?’
Niall looked up. ‘No!’ he said almost in surprise. ‘Your plan worked, Danny.’
‘Good! Stick to it.’
‘We will. We’ve made a pact.’
Daniel looked at his brother and was reminded of the little boy in the food kitchen. He had never before considered himself lucky. He had never considered luck at all. Now, he understood why Maggie resented his father’s motorcar, telephone, servants, life. He had all these things while others had nothing. The upper classes stayed upper while the lower classes stayed lower. And Daniel was – unmistakably – upper class. At least now, he understood her anger at him. Or at least he hoped he did. It could, of course, have been personal.
Later, with Niall in bed and his studies complete, Daniel sat gazing at the drapes, thick and luxurious; the rugs, soft and quiet underfoot; the wallpaper of the latest design, shipped in from... God knew where. Lamps, here and there, emitted cosy pools of light. The clock on the mantelpiece was a gift from a friend of his
father’s. How easily wealth was shared amongst the wealthy. The mantelpiece, itself, was ornate. Daniel had never doubted the blazing hearth or the servants that kept it so. The paintings of yachts at Kingstown Harbour displayed his father’s taste and wealth. This may or may not have been deliberate.
Daniel watched his father puff on his pipe and gaze into the fire.
‘How is it that we have so much, Father?’
He turned. ‘How do you mean?’
Daniel gestured to the room.
His father’s face took on a look of pride. ‘Hard graft, Daniel. Hard graft.’ He pointed at him with the mouthpiece of his pipe. ‘Remember that.’
‘Why is there such poverty in the city, Father, such…inequality?’
‘Where has all this come from suddenly?’ his father asked, frowning.
One mention of the food kitchen and Daniel would be forbidden from visiting again. ‘We were having a discussion in school, a political debate.’
His father nodded. ‘And did you not get to the root of the problem?’
‘No, Father.’
‘It’s as I said, Daniel. We lack a skilled workforce.’
Daniel thought of Niamh and her friends and finally understood why. The poor did not have the luxury of skills; they had to go out to work. Poverty bred poverty.
Missus Healy, entering the drawing room, smiled as though encouraged to see that they were in discussion. ‘What’s this?’
‘Political discourse,’ his father said cheerfully.
‘Perhaps I should get on with this.’ Daniel looked down at his books not wishing the poor to become a source of entertainment.
His mother took a seat by the fire and opened her copy of The Lady of The House.
Silence returned.
At length, she put aside her magazine. She glanced at Daniel to ensure that he was occupied with his work. Then she spoke quietly to her husband. ‘I don’t know what to do with Mary.’
‘Mary? The scullery maid?’ his father confirmed in hushed tones.
‘Cook saw her walking out with a man,’ she whispered.
‘Did you not explain to her the No Followers rule?’
Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017 Page 3