Fall of Poppies

by Heather Webb

  “Can I help you?” she asked him.

  He seemed nervous and for a moment she thought he might walk straight back out the door. Then he seemed to gather himself and smiled. He had a broad smile. Surprising.

  “I dunno,” he said. “Can you?”

  Ah. English. Cockney? She couldn’t quite tell.

  “Not unless you want to check your coat,” she said.

  “I don’t have a coat,” he said, “although I suppose you could take my hat.”

  “Well, if you come over here,” she said from behind her counter, “I might just do that.”

  He walked across, then handed it to her. She put it beneath the counter and handed him a tag.

  “Thanks,” he said, self-­consciously patting his hair, “although I thought you might like to show me around the place as well?”

  Cheeky. Eileen didn’t mind that. She was capable of a bit of banter. She had worked in a teahouse on Sackville Street before it was destroyed during the Uprising. She had loved the gossip there, the repartee with the customers. There was always lots of fellas, too, making a fuss of her, telling her she was pretty. There had been none of that since Padraig died; no time for romance, for fun.

  “Well then, sir, how on earth would you know what a nice Irish girl like me might like and what I wouldn’t like?”

  The young man’s face fell. She had upset him.

  “I’m only joking,” she said. The English were so different, the way they talked and everything? Taking everything you said at face value. So serious. Eileen had met a lot of English among the tourists who came into the gallery. Her brothers and cousins, her whole family were fighting the war against them, but they had never met an Englishman. Not properly.

  Eileen smiled, just to make the young man feel better, then realized that she meant it. He seemed so nice. “Look here,” she said. “I’m on my break in half an hour. If you come back to me then, I’ll show you around if you like.”

  “I’d like that very much,” he said.

  Eileen let out a little laugh as he stood there in front of her, just smiling that broad smile. She nodded to remind him to hurry along and let her get on with her work. As he scuttled off into another room, she found she could not stop smiling herself.

  CLIVE DIDN’T USUALLY have the confidence to approach girls out of the blue like that, especially not ones as pretty as this one. She had hair the color of hazelnuts that fell in neat waves to her shoulder, and a sweet face with huge slanted eyes that put him in mind of a kitten. Perhaps it was the fact that he was away from home that had given him his brazen edge or perhaps it was a soft look he saw in her green eyes. Whatever it was, he was glad he had approached her.

  Eileen started to walk him through the gallery.

  “I only have half an hour break,” she said, “so we’d better be quick because there are a lot of paintings!”

  “How many?” he said. He didn’t care, but thought he should be polite.

  “Over two hundred,” she announced with a flourish of her arms, “or maybe three—­or four perhaps? Now, pay attention!”

  He thought she must be joking. He hoped she was joking.

  “This first room is part of the Dargan Wing”—­she gave a little curtsy—­“and here we have a very fine picture of a very grand man in a blue coat. As you can see he is wearing red britches . . .”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Clive said, trying to keep up. “Very impressive.”

  “Isn’t it, though? And here,” she said, sliding her feet over to the next painting, “is a magnificent painting of a very tall man in a hat.”

  “Very grand indeed,” Clive said. “Who is it by?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I am a coat-­check girl, not a curator.”

  She was funny. More than that, Eileen had an open, familiar manner that made Clive feel as if she had known him for years. He had not thought he was lonely but now, in the company of this earthy young woman, Clive realized that he had been craving the gentleness of female company.

  For the next half hour they teased each other through the gallery until it was time for her to go back to work.

  Clive did not want to leave her, but he was afraid to ask about seeing her again. He had not told her he was a British soldier.

  As he was going to leave, she held out her hand.

  “By the way, my name is Eileen,” she said.

  “Clive Postlethwaite,” he said, taking it. Her hand was tiny and soft. Her handshake was firm and warm and made him feel safe. He didn’t want to let it go.

  She let out a small laugh. “That’s some name.”

  “It’s dreadful,” he said. “Blame my father.”

  “It’s distinctive,” she said.

  “But not distinguished,” he added—­letting her know he was not illiterate.

  “Well, Mr. Postlethwaite. I hope you enjoyed your tour of the National Gallery and might call in to see us again, when you are next in town.” Then she paused and added; “I can tell you’re not from around here. Are you staying in Dublin long?”

  Was she hinting that she knew he was a soldier? Clive was afraid to push it one way or another, so he just said, “For a while anyway,” then tipped his cap and backed out the door, still looking at her, smiling.

  Clive dreamed of Eileen every night after that. When he closed his eyes before he went to sleep in his cold, hard bunk each night he conjured up her face and remembered some of the silly things she had said about the paintings. He held his own hands together under the thin, wool blanket and imagined one of them was hers. The comfort of her imagined touch helped him sleep.

  On his next day off, Clive went back to the gallery.

  “Hullo, stranger,” she said. “Ooh, look at you. You have a coat on.”

  It was his army coat, the one he had traveled from London wearing. Clive had pinned a small piece of fabric over his stripes to make it look less military. He had worn it so that she might guess what he was and make up her own mind. It also meant he could bring the photograph with him. In any case, this time he had been less nervous leaving the barracks, less worried about being followed. Perhaps that was because he knew where he was going. The roomy inside pocket of his coat meant he also had a place to carry his photograph.

  On an impulse one night he had written on the back of it: To Eileen O’Hara. Your sweetheart, Clive Postlethwaite. It was a foolish fantasy, making her into his sweetheart like that, but it made him feel happy. He justified to himself that perhaps one day, if the opportunity ever arose and he wanted to present her with it, at least the picture would be ready.

  In any case, Clive decided that today he would ask Eileen to step out with him. She would say yes. She liked him, he was certain of it. He would take her to the pictures, or for tea somewhere nice. He had money. He had plenty of money to treat a girl right. Why not? It didn’t matter to him that she was Irish, and she knew that he was an Englishman all right. He didn’t have to tell her he was a soldier. Not yet, at least, not until she asked. He would ask her out today.

  “And a hat this time, too,” he said, handing over his cap again. “It’s cold out there today.”

  “You’re too soft,” she said.

  She was teasing him but he didn’t know what to say back. He smiled, and tried not to look as nervous as he was feeling. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask her today. Perhaps it would be presumptuous of him to ask at all.

  “Do you have a break again?” he said. “I thought we might tackle some of the upstairs rooms?”

  As soon as he opened his mouth the words just came out easily. That was the way it was with her. As if they were old friends, even though they barely knew each other.

  “Really?” she said. “You want to look at more dusty old portraits? I’m on a half day. We can go for coffee if you like? There is a place on Westmoreland Street, Bewley’s. It’s not far
.”

  “I don’t much care for coffee,” he said. Stupid! Stupid! No wonder he had never had a sweetheart. Why was he such a fool? He would walk to the ends of the earth with her!

  But Eileen was not so easily put off.

  “Well, if you care for me you can sit and watch me drink it.”

  She knew that he cared for her! She knew and she still wanted to go along with him! He was in heaven! This is what heaven felt like!

  “I can do one better and buy it for you.”

  “Well, Clive”—­she remembered his name!—­“you can buy me two. Seeing as how you don’t care for it, I’ll drink yours as well.”

  They walked back down toward the city center. How different it all looked with Eileen beside him. These were her streets. There was no danger, no menace—­just sidewalks he was walking along with her. Just buildings looking down on them both. Just ­people passing them by. Eileen chatted away about her family. About a brother with a funny Paddy name who had been killed in the Uprising. About her parents and how quiet they both were since he had died, and her uncles, who were all republican rebels. Clive didn’t care about any of that. He was only half-­listening to what she was saying. He wanted to take her hand, but he didn’t dare. With each step her words washed over him in a sweet, light, lilting voice as he contemplated what bliss it would be to feel her small hand balled up in his again. To feel connected to her, grounded by her. Clive felt as if he had been floating through a fog of his own fear ever since joining the army. When he was with Eileen, the fear melted away.

  As they were about to cross the road to Bewley’s, Eileen nudged him from his reverie by saying, “Clive, do you know that man?”

  Instinctively, he looked around.

  “Don’t look directly,” she said, her voice a nervous whisper. “He’s just ahead of us, across the road. There on the corner. In the cap . . .”

  Clive’s stomach lurched as he saw the man he had thought was following him two weeks earlier. Smoking. He was watching them both. Waiting.

  “I think he’s been following us,” Eileen said. “I know him. He’s in the Brotherhood. Follow me.”

  She quickly led him up a side street. Out of the corner of his eye Clive saw the waiting man throw his cigarette to one side and start to move. From behind the man two others suddenly appeared and they began to march determinedly across the road, waving aside trams and traffic. Eileen grabbed Clive’s hand and they ran. She pulled him up another long, thin street and into a network of side alleys until, at the side of a tenement, she pulled him into what was little more than a hole in the wall. She crushed in next to him and signaled not to say a word. Clive was terrified. Not so much of the men and what they would do to him, but of the danger he had put this young woman into.

  He did not know how long they stood there in silence. Five minutes or twenty. Their bodies crushed up as close as bodies could be. He could feel her heartbeat pounding through his shirt. He could smell her breath. Sweet, like she had eaten an apple. He longed to kiss her, but he had no right. Less of a right than ever, now.

  After a while they heard the men’s voices, echoing in the alleyway, sounding closer than they were.

  “It’s impossible,” one of them said. “It’s a bloody maze down here. They could have gone anywhere.”

  “We’ll get him again. He left the same time two weeks ago. He’s worth watching out for anyway.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Leave well alone. She’s Padraig O’Hara’s younger sister. That family has had enough grief without our adding to it.”

  Then Clive and Eileen heard their boots crunch away back toward the main street.

  After they were sure the men were gone, Clive started to breathe. He didn’t know what to say, other than, “I suppose coffee is canceled now?” He was trying to be clever, light, to break the terrible tension, but then Eileen started to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We can still go for coffee if you like . . .”

  “No,” she said. “Bloody bastard war . . .” Then she reached up to his neck and drew him down into a passionate kiss.

  As she kissed him Eileen continued to cry. The salt of her tears washed through their lips and into his mouth. They ran down his throat and into his belly; her tears grounded him and made him feel brave. Brave enough to stop this before it got out of hand.

  He rubbed his face against her soft cheek, then gently pulled away saying, “We can’t do this.”

  “Please, Clive,” she said. Putting her arms around his neck, she looked up at him and said, “I feel so alone.”

  He wanted to tell her that he felt the same way. To ask her to pledge that they could be there for each other so that they would never be lonely again.

  But he didn’t. Couldn’t. They could not be together. Not now. Maybe in the future? Who knew what this war in Ireland and the bigger war would bring?

  They parted at the corner of the alleyway with no good-­byes. Just the hollow, disappointed silence of the almost loved.

  On his way back to the barracks, it began to rain and Clive reached into the inside pocket of his coat for his hat. His hand felt upon the studio picture of himself in its velvet wallet.

  He cursed himself for not having given it to Eileen. He wanted her to have it. Even if they could not be together, she was his sweetheart now. She was the woman who should have his photograph.

  He was so angry with himself that he almost threw the wretched thing away, but then Clive thought of his father and how adamant he was that he pose for them. The photograph wasn’t for his mother, or his fictitious sweetheart. It was for him. So that he would know that some part of him, even if it was just a picture, might survive the war intact. Clive put the photograph back in his coat pocket and trudged up the quays back toward the Royal Barracks.

  November 11, 1918

  WHEN NEWS OF the Armistice came through, that the war was ended, it was like the Royal Barracks Dublin was set on fire with joy.

  Clive’s first thought was of Eileen. In the months that had passed since that day on Westmoreland Street, Clive had thought about her every day. The dream of seeing her again had kept him going through the grueling, repetitive everyday life of a soldier. When he heard about the armistice Clive’s first thought was, Perhaps now we can be together? Immediately he remembered that it was the Great War that had ended, not “their war.” The Irish war, the war they were all engaged in, was only beginning. In the past few months alone there had been ambushes of British soldiers all over the country, outbreaks of violence. He never left the confines of the barracks anymore. The hatred toward the English was escalating, becoming more apparent with each passing day. They had not quashed the rebellion. The Irish were more determined than ever to get their country back.

  Nonetheless, the soldiers in Ireland were as happy to hear of the end to the Great War as were their counterparts across the world. So the roar of victory ran rampantly through the corridors and dormitories, mess halls and recreation rooms of the Royal Barracks. The noise was so loud, the shouts of joy so fierce that stable boys were worried the horses would bolt—­although it seemed that even their frightened neighing was celebratory, too.

  The ­people of Dublin flooded into the streets. They were ecstatic that the hundreds and thousands of Irishmen who were away fighting in British regiments were to be returned to them. Peace! However, the officers in the Royal Barracks encouraged a more cautious approach. Predicting the effect of thousands of drunk triumphant soldiers on the streets of Dublin, they bought in kegs of beer and prompted the men to stay on site with their celebrations as much as possible. They couldn’t lock them up, not on a night like this, but they could encourage them to stay inside the barracks walls.

  Billy was wild with triumphant one-­upmanship, screaming and punching the air while shouting, “We won! We beat the bastards!”

  Explaining tha
t the Armistice was more a decision for peace than a body-­for-­body count was pointless. He was displaying the same conquering relish as if he had personally beaten someone at arm-­wrestling.

  As the night went on the men got drunker and drunker and the celebratory spirit began to turn.

  While Clive had not drunk as much as the others, he had had more than he was used to. He felt that he deserved better. The ending of this war had done little more than remind him that the war that was keeping him apart from Eileen, apart from his family, was still going on.

  He had thought he was getting off lightly being sent here, but it turned out they had drawn the short straw. He could never say that to the others. They would not understand.

  It was late and dark and the corner of the barracks that they occupied had quieted down. Clive found himself with Billy, Paul, and Jack—­two of their buddies, standing under the grand cathedral-­like arches near the front gates. They were smoking in the crisp night air, winding down from the party. They were about to turn in for the night when Billy cocked his ear to the clear November sky and said, “Wait—­can you hear that?”

  The others listened. It was surprisingly quiet. Some music was playing off in the distance somewhere. Nothing like the street cacophony of earlier.

  “Paddy music,” he said. Billy started to pace. He was getting himself worked up. “They’re playing rebel music. That fucking diddly-­yi shit . . .” Clive started to get nervous. Billy was a lunatic. What was he driving at?

  “They’re doing it deliberately,” Billy said, getting lucid in his anger now, “disrespecting us, and deliberately trying to wind us up . . .” Billy started to walk toward the wall. “Can you hear it, men? Fucking fiddles and that! Irish music on a day like today? It’s not right . . . I’m going to put a stop to it . . .”

  Billy grabbed his rifle then started to run toward the gate. The other three followed, more out of fear of what the hell “Mad Billy” was going to do. The soldier at the gates was half-­drunk himself and barely noticed the group rushing out onto the quays.