by M J Lee
An old man sitting at the next table looked up at him spitefully, hissing between his teeth.
Michael Dowling held up his hand in apology, realising that the old man was the Emeritus Professor of History, the man who would be deciding his fate during the exams.
The old man tut-tutted loudly beneath his breath and returned to his book, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he did so.
Michael leant in closer to Fitz. 'If you don't come now, we'll be late for parade,' he whispered.
'The old bastard will have my guts for garters if I don't get this essay finished for tomorrow.'
'Ach, there's time enough, you've got all night.'
Another loud shush from the Emeritus Professor followed by another spiteful stare.
Michael took his friend's arm. 'Come on.'
Fitz looked up from his book.
The Professor had returned to his notes. The old witch who ran the library was busy putting some large books back on the shelf three tables away. Furtively, he glanced either side of him and put the book inside his tweed jacket.
Michael stared at his friend, grabbing hold of his arm. 'You can't do that.'
'I just did.'
'But what if...'
The Emeritus Professor coughed. 'Young man,' he drawled in a very English accent, 'this is a library. A place of learning. A place of solitude and peace where scholars can imbibe the ancient wisdom of the past without interruption. There are rules here that need to be followed, the first of which is that one must remain silent.'
'I'm...I'm sorry, sir.'
'If you persist in disturbing the peace and solemnity of this place, I will be forced to call on the Head Librarian to eject you.'
'I apologise for my friend, Professor,' said Fitz packing up his things, 'we were just leaving.'
'Well, whatever you were doing, do it quietly,' sniffed the Professor, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses once more and returning to his books.
Fitz pulled down his jacket, ensuring the book nestled snugly under his arm. 'Come on Michael, it's time we were off.'
They bustled out of the library past the old witch at the front. They were just about to exit the main doors when they heard feet running after them and a voice shouting, ‘You two, hold there.'
They both stopped.
Michael felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round and saw the old professor holding a fountain pen out to him. 'I believe this is yours. You should be more careful with your property young man.'
'Thank you, Mr Eddowes. You are so kind.'
They pushed their way through the swing doors, out through the lobby and down the steps of the building. At the bottom, they both burst out laughing.
'For feck's sake, I thought he had us there.'
'Jaysus, when he tapped you on the shoulder, I fair shit myself.'
'I think I did.'
They both collapsed laughing again.
'Why did you take the bloody thing?'
'I dunno. Because it was there and that old shite of a Professor was looking down his long English nose at us. Why do I do anything?'
Fitz took the book out from beneath his jacket. 'The Lives of the United Irishmen'. I could have stolen worse.'
'Or better.'
'At least, I can use it tonight. Get the essay done.'
Michael checked the watch that hung from a fob at his waist. 'Jaysus, is that the time, we'll be late for the parade.'
'Don't worry, we'll catch the tram at St Stephens. Himself will be late, he always is.'
* * *
They burst through the door of the drill hall in the old mill at Rathfarnham, laughing and out of breath.
'You're late.' The voice rang out across the room.
Immediately, they stood up straight. 'Sorry, Mr Pearse.'
'It's Sir when we're on parade, Dowling.'
The rest of the company were lined up in two ranks facing their captain. All were still dressed in their civvies, having just come from work or from St Enda's. In this company, most were clerks or students from the university or the school.
'Hurry up, get a move on, we don't have all day,' Willie Pearse said testily.
Michael Dowling and Declan Fitzgerald ran to the end of one rank and placed themselves on the end.
'Now, lads, since we are all here, finally,' his eyes glanced across at Michael and Fitz, 'I have some good news. The uniforms have arrived.' He said this with the broadest smile on his face. 'You can purchase them from me at your earliest convenience.'
'What we need is guns, not uniforms,' a voice whispered in a tell-tale Cork accent from the second rank.
'What's that?' said Pearse cupping his right ear. He was slightly hard of hearing. Orders and responses often had to be repeated.
'Nothing, sir.'
'Nothing comes from nothing, private. Where's that from?'
Pearse was determined to continue their education even as they were drilling.
'King Lear, sir,' said the same Cork voice from the back.
'What's that?'
'King Lear, sir,' repeated the Cork man, louder this time.
'That it is. Well done that man. Act One Scene One, most of you will have read that far, but I would hazard that few have read further.' The English teacher in him just wouldn't let up.
'The uniforms, sir, you were talking about the uniforms,' said Michael Dowling.
'Yes, they are now available to order. Lalor, the tailor, will make them at a special rate for the company. Just six pounds without boots.'
'Where am I going to put my hands on six pounds?' This came from the first rank, a Dubliner with the traditional whine bred into him from birth.
This time, Pearse heard the question clearly. 'I don't know, Private, but find it you will. The fourth company of the Dublin Brigade will be the best turned out troops in the Volunteers. Do I make myself clear?'
'As a glass of stout, sir.'
Pearse pretended not to hear. He strode up and down in front of them, the heels of his boots clicking on the wooden floor. He had one major eccentricity for a captain. He always wore cavalry boots on parade. Beautifully polished and shined brown leather that gripped his calves snugly and ended just below the knee. 'Two other messages from Command. There will be a full parade in Kilmainham Park on Sunday, the 7 May.'
'But I'm supposed to be going out with my girl that day,' whined the Dublin man.
Willie Pearse raised his voice. 'Attendance will be compulsory for all members of the company.' The voice softened again, 'Listen, lads, the command want to send a signal to the Brits. Despite the war and all that's going on, Ireland still hasn't given up the struggle. We will have our freedom.'
'The Brits only understand one thing and that's a bullet shoved in the end of a rifle.' The Mayo voice again.
'That's true, but we're not ready yet. Soon, boys, soon.' Pearse reached into his pocket and pulled out a large sheet of paper folded into four. He unfolded it. 'Most of you will have seen and read this manifesto and its six articles, issued by the Provisional Committee.'
There was an audible groan from the ranks.
'But I am going to read it again. Not all of it, though, you'll be pleased to hear. Just the last article that reminds us why we are here today.' He reached into his pocket and placed a small pair of pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. He began to read in his special teacher's voice. 'The sixth article. The Provisional Committee demands that the present system of governing Ireland through Dublin Castle and the British military power, a system responsible for the recent outrages in Dublin, be abolished without delay, and that a National Government be forthwith established in its place.'
He folded the sheet of paper into four and placed it back into his pocket. The pince-nez were removed from the bridge of his nose and put into the inside of his jacket. His eyes ranged over the assembled men in front of him. 'We are committed, gentleman, to securing and defending the rights and liberties of the Irish people. Many of you will be under pressure to join the British military
in the fight against the Germans. I urge you, as I have done many times before, to ignore that appeal.' He stared directly at Fitz and Michael and his voice rose until he was almost shouting. 'That fight is not Ireland's fight. It has nothing to do with us or our freedom. The years when Irish men went to fight for the British are over. The only cause we have to fight for now is our own freedom.'
Michael noticed the veins on his neck above the military collar had gone bright blue.
'Our own freedom. To be a free nation, beholden to nobody but ourselves.'
'And the bosses...' the Cork voice whispered so the other men could hear.
Pearse carried on as if nothing had happened. 'The fight will be sooner than you think, gentlemen. You must all prepare for that glorious day. It will come soon, of that there can be no doubt. Be ready and be prepared.'
'Like bloody boy scouts...'
'And be willing to lay down your lives for the cause of Irish rights and Irish liberties. Any questions?' He looked around him like a beagle with the scent of a fox. 'Good. Parade, Atten-shun.' Twenty-four pairs of heels clicked together. Both ranks stood upright, chests pushed out, heads back, chins jutting forward.
'Parade, dis-missed.'
There was a release of breath along the line and it gradually collapsed as men placed their hats and caps back on their heads, and began chatting with their friends.
Michael Dowling stepped forward to talk with Pearse. 'I'm sorry, Captain Pearse, but I can't make the parade on Sunday.'
'Oh, and why is that?' He was in the process of re-balancing his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose.
Michael wondered if it was blindness, not deafness that caused his inability to hear the responses of his men. Not knowing where the sound came from rather than not hearing it. 'It's my da's birthday. My sister's gone to a lot of trouble...'
'So your father's birthday is more important than the freedom of Ireland?'
'It's just a parade, not the end of the world?' Fitz had come up beside him, lighting a Craven A and expelling smoke as he spoke.
Pearse waved his hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to create a pocket of clear air. 'It's more than a parade, don't you understand, Mr Fitzgerald? It's a demonstration that the people of Ireland won't be fobbed off with vague promises of Home Rule when the war is over. We must show the British Government we mean business.'
'It's 200 men marching up and down in a park on a Sunday.'
'Mr Fitzgerald, if you display that attitude, I wonder whether you have the commitment necessary to serve our cause.'
A red flush rose on Fitz's face. 'You're questioning my commitment?'
'No, Mr Fitzgerald, I'm questioning your attitude.'
Michael tugged at Fitz's arm. 'Come on, let's go.'
'My attitude? And what sort of attitude am I supposed to have?'
Pearse adjusted his pince-nez back. 'For years, the Irish have played at fighting for freedom. It's not a game, Mr Fitzgerald.'
'A few men marching around a field for a couple of hours on a Sunday is not a game? Is that how we are going to gain our freedom?'
'No, it's not. But it is a start.'
'They'd be better off raiding a barracks for guns.'
'That will happen, Mr Fitzgerald...eventually.'
'When it does, count me in, but marching up and down a park is a waste of my time.'
The pince-nez were pushed back onto the bridge of the nose. 'I will say this once, Mr Fitzgerald, so let me make this clear. If I don't see you on Sunday, you will no longer be welcome as a member of this company. Do you understand?'
Fitz nodded.
'I asked you if you understood, Mr Fitzgerald?' The voice was commanding now, an officer giving orders.
'Yes,' said Fitz.
Pearse smiled. 'You, on the other hand, Mr Dowling are excused duties for the day. I hope your father has a pleasant birthday. How old is he?'
'Fifty.'
'A fine age for a man. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have other duties to attend to.'
With that, he turned and walked over to another group of men in the corner, the cavalry boots making a rat-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor.
Michael pulled Fitz out of the door of the hall and onto the street. 'You shouldn't provoke him like that.'
'Ah, the pompous prick gets up my arse.'
'Like Oscar Wilde, you mean?'
The both began to laugh, 'Ah, you're an 'oul shite, Michael Dowling.'
Chapter Eight
Didsbury, Manchester. November 14, 2015.
Jayne snapped another square of chocolate and popped it in her mouth, letting it slowly melt across her teeth. Her mind returned to the puzzle in front of her. So, the book had once belonged to the University of Dublin. But how had it come into the hands of John Hughes? It was hardly the reading matter of a four-year-old boy. Perhaps, he had been given it at the children's home?
She looked at the picture the old man had given her again. There was a determination in the face of the young boy as he clung onto the book. As if, whatever happened, he was never going to be separated from it, holding on like a drowning man clings to a life jacket.
And where did the inscriptions fit in. Who was M D and who was D F? Did they have anything to do with John Hughes?
Too many questions and too few answers.
A shadow loomed over her.
'Still working?'
It was Paul, hair mussed up and clothes wrinkled from lying in bed.
She smiled at him. 'A new client. An American, looking for his past.'
He walked over to the tap, running the water for a while before placing a glass in the clear stream. 'Trying to find his long-forgotten ancestors so he can claim links to a dead Duke or to being 767th in line to the throne? That would be a talking point amongst the good folks of Scottsdale.'
She hated the way he disparaged her work, constantly belittling what she did. 'No, actually, a man looking to find out who he is.'
'Aren't we all?' He poured the rest of the glass down the sink. 'Look, I'm sorry about before,' he said to the wall above the tap, 'I was upset.' He turned back to face her. 'I know you didn't like my sister, but she meant a lot to me. I feel I let her down in some way.'
'She let herself down.'
'There you go again. Sometimes, you're just so bloody judgemental. Like nobody can make mistakes except you.'
She didn't want another argument. Not now. Not tonight. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that.'
His body relaxed. 'I'm going back to bed, don't stay up too long.'
'I won't. I'm nearly done for this evening. I'll just finish this glass then I'll be up.'
'Don't forget the chocolate.'
'How could I ever forget chocolate?' She picked up another square and popped it in her mouth.
She heard the door close and the clomp of his feet as he climbed the stairs. What were they going to do? It couldn't go on like this, the endless bickering and fighting. She thought back to the days after Dave had been shot. Paul had been her rock, the one man who had comforted and consoled her, listening again and again as she monotonously recounted the moments leading up to the shooting, constantly reassuring her that it was not her fault.
But, whatever he said, she knew it was. She knew she could have done more. There had been a moment when she heard a noise from behind the door. A moment when she could have pushed Dave out of the way. Should have pushed him away. But she didn't.
She finished the last of the wine. No more chocolate left either.
What did Paul mean when he said 'nobody can make mistakes except you'?
Chapter Nine
Buxton, Derbyshire. November 15, 2015.
'Nice to see you, Jayne. It's been a couple of days.'
'How is he, Fiona?'
'It's a good day for Mr Tomlinson. Definitely a good day. He's in the day room if you want to sit with him.'
Jayne stood back as the receptionist pushed the button to release the doors. They swung open automatically
towards her. As they did so, the smell of cleanliness drifted towards her. It was one of the reasons she chose this particular home instead of the others. At least here, there was no smell of disinfectant, cooked cabbage and old people oozing out from the walls.
She still couldn't understand why they locked the doors though? To stop the patients escaping? But most of the people inside were physically dependent on their Zimmer frames. She couldn't imagine that they would be difficult to chase down. Probably another nightmare from Health and Safety.
She walked down a long corridor, decorated on either side with watercolours of birds. The place depressed her and she had only been here for ten seconds. What effect was it having on her father?
The corridor led to a large double door at the end. She pushed through and was immediately in a large space flooded with light from large bay windows and a glass roof.
The day room was a new extension to the Edwardian main building. It was the main reason why she had brought her father to this care home. The windows looked over the old gardens; an extensive lawn with rhododendron bushes at the end and a large beech tree off to the right. This was the least depressing choice in a long list of depressing choices. But with his Alzheimer's, she knew that it was the best place for him. It didn't make it any easier for her though. The sense of imprisoning him for doing nothing wrong other than being old filled her with guilt. Could she have kept him with her a little longer?
But Paul didn't want him living in the house anymore after the incident in the kitchen. Her father had put a tin of soup on the stove to heat up and forgotten about it. An hour later, the smoke alarms were blaring, firemen were running through her house and her father was sat in the corner staring into space, ignoring all the noise and commotion around him.
It was just one more in a long line of accidents. The doctors said with his illness there would be more, it was just a question of time. They advised her that he needed constant care, constant observation, for his own safety. Paul had reinforced their recommendation. He wanted the old man out of the house. She was left with no choice but every day she felt his loss, missing his company and his advice.