‘Are we under attack?’ she asked, amused.
‘We’ve been under attack for hundreds of years, Maggie Gilligan.’
She peered back into the room, scanning it for Tom. ‘Can we come in?’
He pointed to Daniel. ‘He can. You, I’m afraid, cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘Na Fianna’s for boys only.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Why halve your numbers?’
He sighed as if he was talking to an oaf. ‘Girls don’t fight now do they?’
‘Some do,’ she said though, outside of herself, she’d never met one that did.
‘There’s a separate scouting organisation for girls,’ the modern day warrior said helpfully.
‘I can only imagine what they do,’ Maggie muttered. Sewing came to mind. ‘So you ban girls while using a woman’s house for your activities?’
‘Madame helped to found Na Fianna; that’s the only reason.’
‘And yet she is undeniably female.’
‘What’s so great about what you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘You think that a few scraps of food thrown in the direction of the poor will change their plight? Nothing will improve in this country as long as it’s under British rule.’
He had the same anger as Tom. Did her brother believe this too? ‘I suppose you know Tom Gilligan?’
He looked at her with curiosity. ‘I do but Tom’s not with us any more.’
‘Tom would never leave Na Fianna.’
‘He’s gone to join the Irish Volunteers.’
‘Who?’ She’d never heard of them.
‘They’re rebels like us, only men, and not half as good.’
She had a rebel for a brother, now? Maggie wished she had some influence over him. But then no one did. There was nothing she could do except keep the news from her mother; it would kill her.
Madame burst out of the house, carrying something wrapped up in a blanket. Poppet trotted along behind her.
‘There you are!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘Oh and you’ve met Patrick! Excellent.’ She approached. ‘So, what do you think of my boys?’ she asked, glancing in the window proudly, as though they were her sons.
‘Maggie, here, wished to know why we have no girls,’ Patrick said to her.
The countess looked at her with interest. ‘They even tried to push me out. But I have the funding!’ She laughed. ‘I’ll be back shortly, Patrick. Must dash.’ Already, she was striding towards the car.
Daniel and Maggie followed.
‘Did you see him in his skirt?’ Maggie scoffed.
Daniel smiled. ‘The skirt is a kilt and you know it.’
‘He’s not as great as he thinks he is. That’s what I know.’ She did not need to be told that she wasn’t making a difference. She did not need that news.
Madame stopped abruptly outside Maggie’s home, jolting them forward.
‘I’ll get out here too,’ Daniel said and, when the countess began to protest, added, ‘I need to speak with Maggie anyway. Thank you for the lift.’ He jumped from the motorcar.
Maggie helped him with their bicycles. ‘What did you want to speak to me about?’
He seemed surprised by the question. ‘Oh. Nothing. I simply value my life.’
Maggie laughed.
They carried their bicycles to the pavement where they waved the countess off.
Maggie looked up at her bedroom window. The curtains were closed. Lily could not be in bed already, not without goodnight.
‘I’ll let you go on in to Lily,’ Daniel said.
She looked at him in surprise. He understood her like no one else. If this friendship ever turned the way others had, she did not know what she would do.
‘It’ll be grand,’ he said as he mounted his bicycle.
She felt suddenly that it would. She had an overwhelming urge to hug him but simply waved.
He smiled in return and then was gone, his whistling in the dark night air lifting her heart.
She found her mother and David in the drawing room.
‘Where’s Lily?’ she asked.
‘Gone up to bed.’
‘Ah, Mam. You could have waited till I got home.’
‘She was exhausted. Anyway, she’s only just gone up.’
Upstairs, Maggie knocked gently on the door of her own room.
‘Come in,’ said a tiny voice.
Maggie’s heart melted at the sight of Lily, kneeling on the floor in an old nightgown of Maggie’s. Hands joined and head bowed, her lips moved in silent prayer. Then she blessed herself again and climbed into bed. Watching her, and remembering how she used to live, it occurred to Maggie that perhaps there was too much space for her here with everything spread out.
‘Lily, would you like your bed in the corner?’ she asked.
Lily raised her head from the pillow in surprise. She nodded. Then started to get out of the bed.
‘Stay there! I’ll give you a ride.’
So Maggie moved the bed with Lily in it, making the sound of Madame’s motorcar as she did so. ‘Will I push mine up to yours?’ she asked, as an afterthought.
Again Lily nodded.
So Maggie positioned the beds so that they were touching.
Then her heart sank as Lily turned in silence towards the wall to sleep.
‘Would you like a story?’ she asked.
Lily turned around and nodded.
Maggie smiled in relief. ‘Good because I’ve a great one,’ she said, flinging off her coat and climbing up onto her bed. ‘All right, here we go.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Long ago, in Ancient Ireland, there lived a warrior named Oisín. He was brave and handsome and, as often happens brave and handsome men, he fell in love. She was a beautiful girl with golden hair. Her name was Niamh. So besotted were they with each other that Oisín travelled with Niamh on her magical white mare across the sea to live with her in Tír na nÓg, the land where people never grow old, where happiness reigns and neither hunger nor thirst exist.’
Lily raised herself onto an elbow, her eyes fixed on Maggie.
‘Years passed and Oisín grew homesick for Ireland. Niamh said that he could return for a visit but that he was, under no circumstances, to get off the white mare because if his feet touched the ground, he would age as if he had never left Ireland.’
Lily sat up.
‘Off he went but when he got to Ireland, he learned that three hundred years had passed. Everyone was a stranger to him. He was riding sadly along when he saw some men struggling to lift a rock. He leaned over to help but his saddle snapped and he fell to the ground. Immediately, he grew old.’ Maggie stopped as she remembered the ending.
‘Did Oisín die?’
Maggie hesitated.
‘Did he?’
At last, she grimaced and nodded.
‘But I wanted him to return to Niamh! Why didn’t you tell me a happy story?’
‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of the ending at the beginning. Let me tell you another. Do you know how Cú Chulainn got his name?’
‘Is it a sad story?’
‘No. It’s a story of bravery.’
Lily nodded.
Maggie took her time and let the story find its own course. At length, she arrived at the end: ‘And Cú Chulainn became the greatest warrior in all of Ireland!’
There was silence. Lily looked at her with the widest of eyes. ‘But he killed the dog!’
‘Well.’ Maggie paused. ‘Yes.’
‘The dog was only doing his job, Maggie. He was a guard dog.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you any happy stories at all?’
Maggie searched her mind, discarding story after story until, at last, she found a happy one.
‘There’s the tale of how Saint Patrick rid Ireland of snakes! That’s a good one.’
Lily eyed her suspiciously. ‘Did he kill them?’
‘No! He chased them into the sea!’
Lily frowned. ‘Can snakes swim?’
Maggie grim
aced. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So he drownded them?’
There was no denying it. ‘I suppose he did, all right.’
Lily fell back on the pillow and groaned.
Which made Maggie laugh.
Lily smiled. ‘What?’
‘You’re very dramatic, aren’t you?’
She sat up again, encouraged. ‘Am I?’
‘You certainly are.’
‘Is that good?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Oh. That’s better than good. That’s wonderful.’ It was only then that she realised – Lily was talking! For the first time since she’d arrived, she was talking.
Lily looked thoughtful. ‘Maggie?’
‘Yes, Lily?’
‘Do I have to call your mam “Mam”?’
Maggie looked at her and understood. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘She wouldn’t be upset?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I could call her Mammy,’ she suggested hopefully.
‘That would be perfect.’
Lily looked as though a weight had been lifted. ‘Can I have a happy story tomorrow?’
Maggie smiled. ‘I will find you a happy story even if I have to make one up myself.’
The following Saturday, David took out his paints.
‘Would you like a picture, Lily?’
She nodded shyly.
He painted puppies, rabbits and people with funny faces. Lily may as well have been watching a magic show such was her fascination. And when he finally handed the pictures to her, she threw her arms around him in delight.
Tom, encouraged, swept Lily up onto his great shoulders and galloped around the house with her, neighing like a horse. Lily’s laughter was like music. Maggie and David exchanged a surprised glance; this was not the Tom they knew.
He fashioned a swing for her from an old tyre and a piece of rope.
Lily preferred to push. So Maggie humoured her. ‘Come on, Lily, put your back into it,’ she called from inside the barely moving tyre.
There was a pause.
‘All right!’ Lily said with great determination.
Then Maggie was flying, propelled forward by an almighty push.
She turned in time to see Tom dart behind the tree.
Lily was doubled over, laughing.
‘Watch out, Lily. I’m coming back!’
Lily jumped out of the way, still laughing.
With every passing day, Lily settled more. She stopped hoarding food at mealtimes for fear of it running out. She moved through the house at ease with the space now. Through her, Maggie began to appreciate simple things like taking a bath in hot water or having cake melt in your mouth.
Then talk of starting school began.
‘No, Mam!’ Maggie insisted. ‘She’s not ready.’ In school, they’d kill her.
‘Lack of schooling is Lily’s worst enemy, Maggie. She has missed so much already.’
‘But I’m teaching her lots of things.’
‘Lily needs a formal education. In any case, it’s the law.’
Didn’t she know it?
‘In any case, I must return to work,’ her mother said. ‘They were good enough to offer me leave while Lily settled in.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Just when we’d made so much progress.’
Her mother winked. ‘We’ll make more progress.’ Then she kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m proud of you, Maggie Mae.’
It was no comfort. Maggie rushed home from the food kitchen the following day, praying that Lily had survived. But she had forgotten one thing, Lily was used to doing things alone. Lily was a survivor.
‘I like school!’ she announced.
She liked all that Maggie hated – the structure, the rules, the boundaries. Maggie couldn’t understand it – until it occurred to her that all those things meant certainty and security.
In the evenings, along with her stories of Ireland, Maggie helped Lily with reading and mathematics. Lily was bright and learned quickly and when Maggie marvelled at how clever she was Lily seemed to grow. So Maggie made a habit of it.
By Christmas, Lily walked taller. Her skin and hair glowed. Her laughter was no longer a surprise. But as she thrived, the rest of Dublin’s poor did not. Those arriving at the food kitchen were thinner, sicker and more despondent than ever.
It was Tom, in January, who brought news that the strikes had ended in defeat.
Maggie stood up from the table. ‘It can’t be over. They wouldn’t give up.’
‘Their backs have been broken, Maggie.’
‘Has there been no improvement at all in their conditions?’ She needed something, some result from their suffering.
‘None.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Maggie!’ her mother said.
But Maggie didn’t hear. ‘It’s all been for nothing.’
‘It’s worse than that, Maggie,’ Tom said. ‘Some men will never work again. They’ve been branded troublemakers and blacklisted.’
Maggie held her head. Then she looked up with sudden hope. ‘What about Larkin?’
Tom’s face grew even darker. ‘Larkin! Larkin has fecked off to America, left them all to rot!’
‘Language, Tom, please,’ their mother said, glancing at Lily.
‘To hell with language,’ he countered.
David looked at Lily. ‘Don’t worry, Lil. Tom’s not angry at you but at the world.’
Lily eyed Tom gravely. ‘Poor Tom.’ She reached out and gave his hand a little pat.
He looked at her in surprise and then rubbed the top of her head. Strands of fine hair remained standing. The sight of that seemed to magically calm him. He sat at the table.
His mother placed his dinner in front of him. He looked at it, then at Maggie. ‘They’ll be closing the food kitchen of course.’
‘What of the blacklisted families?’ she demanded. ‘How will they live?’
‘I don’t know.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘The strike is over. There is no union to fund the food kitchen.’
Silence spread out like spilled water.
Maggie broke it. ‘Mam, what’s a good charity?’
‘The St Vincent de Paul never forget the poor, Maggie,’ she said.
‘Grand. I’m joining.’
Then something entirely different occurred to Maggie. With the food kitchen closed, would she ever see Daniel again?
part two
eight
Maggie
July 1914
‘Why would I need a head start?’ Maggie asked then sped away, feet pumping the pedals.
‘God knows!’ Daniel called after her.
She laughed as they tore along the quays. She could feel him behind her, already closing the gap. She hadn’t a hope against him. He had too much muscle.
‘To the next lamppost!’ she called, a short race her only hope.
She turned to see how close he was. It was the end of her. One look at his determined face and she exploded into laughter. He shot by her and, seconds later, reaching the lamppost he raised both arms in the air and kept them there as he glided forward.
‘Show off!’
He slowed so that she could catch him.
‘You made me laugh,’ she accused.
‘And what was it the last time – and the time before that?’
‘Someday, I’ll get you Daniel Healy. I might have to cheat…’
‘You might have to cheat?’
They were laughing when they first heard the yelling. They turned to look up the quay towards O’Connell Bridge. A battalion of British Army soldiers was marching onto Bachelor’s Walk, pursued by a large crowd of civilians who seemed to be jeering them. Someone fired a stone.
Maggie and Daniel turned to each other in surprise. No one ever bothered the army.
‘What’s going on?’ Maggie asked curiously.
‘We need to move back,’ Daniel said. The soldiers – and the mob – were getting closer. A tension cut the air. ‘
There’s going to be trouble.’
The words ‘Irish Volunteers’ sailed to them on the summer breeze.
‘Tom’s with the Volunteers!’ Maggie exclaimed.
‘We need to go now, Maggie.’
She glanced about. ‘We’d be fine on the Ha’penny Bridge – out of the way and still able to see.’
‘No. I’ve a bad feeling about this. We should leave altogether.’
‘I need to find out about Tom!’
He sighed. ‘All right. Hurry then.’
They had only taken up position on the bridge when another mob swelled onto the quay from a side street, firing rocks now. Three men grabbed a soldier and began to drag him away. A handful of his battalion charged to his rescue, bayonets fixed. An officer called upon the crowd to disperse. A stone hit him on the chin. Another got his ear. A glass bottle exploded into the face of another soldier. An officer ordered a line of men onto one knee, another line to stand behind them. They aimed at the crowd.
‘It’s just a warning,’ Maggie said. ‘To get them to disperse.’
Then she heard shots and echoes of those shots. Men and women crumpled to the ground. Maggie threw her bicycle down but Daniel grabbed her before she could run to help. She struggled against him but he held her fast and turned her away. But she heard the sound of bayonets being plunged into people. She heard the screams of men and women, citizens of Dublin who had dared to tackle the British Army.
Only when the soldiers began to march away did Daniel finally release her.
She ran. They both did.
On the ground, people lay bleeding. Others were trying to help. Children looked on, pale and stunned.
Maggie fell to her knees beside an injured woman but did not know how to stop the tide of blood. The woman stared up at her, eyes wide like a startled horse. There was a terrifying gurgling sound.
‘It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right,’ Maggie repeated, over and over. But she knew that it wouldn’t.
The woman gasped and grew heavier in her arms as the life left her eyes.
Maggie looked up at Daniel. ‘Oh Jesus, Danny. Oh no.’
He dropped to his knees beside her, took the weight of the woman from her and laid her down. He closed over the lifeless eyes. He and Maggie blessed themselves and prayed for her soul. Then he took Maggie’s hand and helped her up. Her knees were shaking. Her entire body was. She fought tears.
Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017 Page 6