by Nina Dreyer
‘And we’ve urgent business to see to,’ continued Mrs. Campion. ‘The G Division is breaking up our lines of communication. Ripping it right up like a tender weed. Our women typists in the Castle are taking ever greater risks, and we’ve not got enough of them.’
Marion darted a sideways glance at Eilis. A hole in her inner portrait of her friend was beginning to fill out, take shape, like a map filling out with roads and rivers, all leading to a place Marion did not want to go.
Eilis stared at her with a strange, defiant look in her eyes. She snapped a cigarillo from Winifred’s case, lit it, and hid her face behind a thin veil of smoke.
‘I’ll get on to my cousins,’ said Liz, the pale young woman. She stirred sugar into a cup of tea and handed it carefully to Mrs. Campion. ‘My cousins in Cork. One of them is a trained secretary for the Munster Private Loans and Discount Offices. I’ll get her to come up. She’ll do it, too.’
‘And I’ll see to it that the girls we do have inside the Castle don’t lose heart,’ said Winifred, ‘I told you all we never should’ve picked these skinny, raggedy inner city girls. Should’ve picked strong girls from the Midlands, strong girls from the North. I told you all that.’
‘We all have to take what we can get,’ said Eilis, ‘and those raggedy girls, as you call them, they risk life and limb every day for the cause. Working away inside the Castle, stealing secrets and passing them onto our lads, you think that’s cushy work, do you? You think that’s easier than parading around in a home-made uniform, taking tea?’
Mrs. Campion spoke before Winifred could form her response. ‘You get your cousins in Cork, Liz. And Winifred, you put fortitude into the hearts of those girls. Have them meet with one of Michael Collin’s men, if you can arrange it safely. Nelligan, perhaps. He speaks well. Put them right, let them see the grander scheme of things.’
A knot of panicked exhilaration gathered in Marion’s chest. She glanced at the women, and her mind narrowed into one sharp, focused point, like a torch light in the dark.
These women were Sinn Féiners. Cumann na mBan.
The women’s division of the IRA.
She’d read about them in the newspapers. Spies. Dressers of wounds and carriers of execution orders, schemers of rebellion and advocates of slaughter. She stared at the delicate lilac lace at Eilis’ throat and imagined in splattered with blood.
‘And then there’s the question of all those parties,’ said Eilis, ‘the social circles. Military intelligence.’
Marion snapped back from her dark reverie and turned to look at her friend.
‘We need women on the inside of those parties. Women who can pass unnoticed, fit in. Take photographs.’
‘We’re working on it,’ said Liz, ‘but I can find very few who are able for that. Sneaking around inside parties like that, flirting, pretending you belong, taking photographs of those men, it’s not -’
‘We need to do a lot more than worrying about bloody parties.’ Winifred smacked her lighter down on the table. ‘What are we worrying about parties for when our lads are being shot in the street like dogs?’
‘Do I need to remind you yet again that intelligence gathering is an essential part of what we’re trying to do here,’ said Eilis, a thick vein of venom running through her voice.
‘Oh,’ said Winifred, drawing out the syllable, ‘you haven’t heard yet, have you? Maybe if you spent more time reading the papers instead of playing with picture cards-’
‘What,’ snapped Eilis, ‘don’t be precious. If you have something to say, then say it.’
‘One of our lads was shot the other night. In that incident in Crow Street. He’s dead. We’ve only just come back from Limerick, we only just heard yesterday.’
All heat drained from Marion’s face. She felt it like a stone dropping in her gut. She looked down at her knotted fingers, certain that they would all turn to stare at her any moment now. The gunmen would have told them all about her.
‘No,’ Eilis gasped, her face contorted. ‘Who?’
‘Dan,’ said Liz. ‘My youngest cousin.’ She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘He died in the early hours of that morning. The lads couldn’t get him to a doctor fast enough.’
Mrs. Campion crossed herself sternly, and the others followed suit. ‘Let us say a prayer. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’
Eilis leaned over and clasped Liz’ wrist with a pained expression in her eyes.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then they began to whisper their quiet prayers. Liz and Mrs. Campion pulled out worn rosaries from their pockets and slipped the beads one by one through their fingers.
Eilis crossed her arms tightly across her chest.
The clock ticked on the mantelpiece, a flat, forlorn sound.
Marion pressed a cold hand to the side of her face, trying to blink back the tide of memories. Stench of cordite, splinter of bone, gun metal glinting in moonlight. Blood gurgling over rain-lashed cobbles. The old man in the street, his wares scattered in the dirt, the English soldiers kicking him and laughing, laughing, barking like rabid dogs with red gashes where their mouths should be, and the black blood seeping through her fingers, into her floorboards, draining the boy of life.
She wiped her cheeks with chilly fingers and breathed deeply. ‘I was there,’ she said hoarsely.
The women all turned to look at her, startled, as if they’d forgotten she was there.
Eilis frowned, crinkling her nose as if assaulted by an unwelcome smell. ‘What?’
‘Sure who invited you to talk,’ said Winifred.
‘Let her speak,’ said Eilis.
‘You all need to stop bickering,’ Marion said, ‘and listen to me. Please.’ She clasped her hands tightly, to keep them from shaking. ‘There was a shooting in Crow Street. I lived there. Three men, three gunmen, they came to my door for shelter. I let them in. They left their wounded comrade with me and they ran for help.’
The others stared at her.
‘When they returned, they brought with them Liam Hurlihy.’ She glanced at Eilis, whose eyes glittered like splintering glass. ‘He made me swear to never speak of it. They left with their wounded comrade.’
Mrs. Campion gazed at her with eyes like stones. ‘And did you? Did you speak of it to anyone?’
‘No. I swear. I didn’t even tell Eilis.’
‘No,’ said Eilis in an crackling voice, ‘that’s certainly true, she never did tell me.’ She shook her head an wiped her face with a shaking hand. ‘Why, Marion? Why would you not tell me that?’
‘Because… because they threatened me not to.’
‘See? The lads don’t trust this one, so why should we, how are we supposed to believe,’ began Winifred.
‘Think before you open your mouth,’ snapped Eilis, ‘this is not-’
‘You all need to stop arguing and face facts!’ Marion raised her voice. ‘You don’t know what kind of enemy you are up against. None of you do. Not yet. You think the English regard you as a worthy adversary? Their Empire stretches across the world like eternal night, their armies have killed millions and enslaved millions more, torn up the Continent into a sucking pit of mud, and they will grind you under the heel of their boot, they will not leave a single stone standing,’ she gulped for air, her hands shaking, ‘they will raze your cities and towns to the ground, they will leave nothing but scorched earth and toxic gas in their wake.’
The women stared at her in stunned silence. Eilis’ facial expression struggled between horrified fascination and shock.
Mrs. Campion folded her hands. ‘All this you say is very blood-curdling indeed. Tell us, where are you from?’
Marion hesitated. In this company, why lie? Why lie anymore? ‘Germany.’
The word stunned the others like a jolt of electricity.
‘What?’ Eilis clattered her cup on the table, her face reddening. ‘Marion?!’
‘Mmm. Doesn’t even know where her own friends are from,’ said Winifred.
‘Shu
t your face,’ shouted Eilis.
Marion rose from her seat and smoothed her skirt. ‘I was born in Munich. I know what war against the English is like.’
‘She keeps a bloody Hun in her house,’ Winifred yelled, ‘a bloody German Hun! How do we know she’s not a spy for the Hun!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ shouted Eilis, running her hands over her hair, ‘why the hell would she be a spy for the Germans, that was is over!’
No it’s not, thought Marion. Not really.
‘My nephew died fighting the bloody Hun,’ Winifred erupted, shaking her fist in the air, ‘and now you’re keeping one in your house, calling her your friend!’
‘I didn’t know you had a family member in British uniform,’ said Eilis coldly, ‘you haven’t chosen to share that with us before.’
Winifred turned white with anger. She turned to Mrs. Campion, who sat like a pillar of salt, gnarled hands clasped on the table.
‘Well sure if any of this gets out, we’ll know who to blame.’ Winifred pointed to Eilis. ‘She’s the leak, Mrs. Campion, I’ve been saying it to you for months, she’s the bloody weak link here, keeping Hun friends and consorting with devil worshippers and jackeens at that ungodly Salon!’
Eilis threw up her hands and laughed incredulously.
‘It’s un-Irish,’ Winifred shouted, ‘playing with occult picture cards and keeping friends like that, when she should be sacrificing for the cause! How many of our women live in fancy big houses like this, and sit around all day wearing pretty dresses, none of them, all the rest of us are-’
‘Stop talking,’ Marion shouted, ‘stop!’ She turned to Eilis and clasped her shoulders with shivering hands. ‘Eilis, your husband has been arrested.’ She cursed herself and ground her teeth. ‘Detained. He’s been detained. Along with the others from that night. They’ve all been detained.’
All colour bled from Eilis’ face. She went as limp as a rag doll and careened forwards, leaning her elbows against the table. Marion tried to steady her, but Eilis pushed her away.
‘Dear God,’ Liz whispered, ‘dear God.’
‘See,’ hissed Winifred, ‘see how we’re supposed to believe this little piece of theatre, this extraordinary coincidence-’
‘Be still,’ said Mrs. Campion. ‘Now, Miss Hahn. Tell us how you came to hear of this matter?’
Marion blinked. ‘I don’t…’
‘John,’ said Eilis, ‘John told you, didn’t he? Didn’t he,’ she shouted, tears streaming down her face.
‘No,’ Marion reached for her, ‘no, it’s not-’
‘See,’ cried Winifred, ‘now they’re discussing which of their traitor friends has informed on our lads, and how do we know they’re not both traitors-’
Marion slapped the table with a flat hand. ‘I told you, you must stop this! Don’t you see? The English will destroy you, and you’ll be fighting tooth and claw over bones in the gutter once they’re done with you! And you,’ she turned to Winifred, ‘you dare accuse Eilis of being a traitor? No, Eilis,’ she held up a hand, ‘I will be heard. You, Winifred, you stab your own comrades in the back like this? You dare accuse Eilis of being a traitor,’ her hands were shaking, her knees weak with anger, ‘when her own husband has just been arrested by the English, you dare?’
Winifred paled. ‘I’ll not be spoken to like this by a fucking Hun,’ she gasped. Red spots spread in a dappled pattern on her cheeks. ‘I’m going to tell the lads about this, about all of this, and you better believe they’ll be coming round to ask you some bloody questions, Eilis!’
Eilis tightened her fists, but Marion stepped in front of her. ‘If you accuse my friend of treachery again,’ Marion raised her hand, ‘I will curse you. You will drink blood and eat coal for your hateful words.’
The women gasped. Liz crossed herself.
‘Marion, don’t.’ Eilis clawed her elbow, but Marion stepped forward. ‘Every person you have ever wronged and who has since died, I will bring them back to accuse you and haunt your sleep,’ she whispered, lifting her hand to Winifred with the little finger and forefinger extended, ‘your mother, your father, your siblings and friends of old, they will whisper in your ear of your failings and betrayals, and you will lie alone, choking on shame and regret.’
Winifred backed out of the room, clutching at her collar. ‘You,’ she rasped, pointing a shaking finger at Marion, ‘I’m going to see to it that you’re taught a bloody lesson. You too, Eilis Hurlihy. The both of you better watch yourselves.’ She stumbled out of the room, and a moment later, the front door slammed shut so hard that the teacups rattled.
Chapter Twelve
Late that evening, Marion walked down a wide boulevard, head bent low in the sleet-cold wind. She had left Eilis’ house shortly after Winifred had stormed off. She had wanted to console Eilis, to wrap her arms around her, but Liz and Mrs. Campion had huddled close around Eilis as she sobbed on the divan, and they’d shoved Marion away and cursed at her. Eilis had only glanced at Marion once, her lip curled in shock and disgust, before she’d slumped back into the embrace of Liz and Mrs. Campion. Mind yourself, she’d sobbed over her shoulder as the door swung shut, mind yourself. Marion been wandering the streets until dusk bled into night, hiding among the crowds, rolling the memory of the terrible shouting and screaming around in her mind like a cold pebble.
She glanced at the envelope John had given her, with the address and they key to her new home. It was a heavy iron key, black, intricate. She looked up at the house numbers. Thin slivers of light gleamed from tall, shuttered windows. A fine street once, Marion thought, a remnant of a gentler age, a street for barouches and ladies in silk pelisses, promenading with their lace parasols and their dandy gentlemen. All deserted now. Wet leaves slicked the cobblestones and gutters, gleaming yellow in the weak light of the elegant street lights. They’d be extinguished soon.
Marion glanced up at them. Cast iron painted silver, swirling waves and clovers. Rain dripped from them. She wondered how long it would be before men were hanged from those street lights, turning slowly in the wind, crows snapping and cawing on their shoulders. Signs slung around broken necks. I was a traitor. I stabbed my people in the back.
A gust of watery wind tore at her coat. She’d made everything worse. She should have listened to John. They could have killed you, Marion.
She stopped, glancing at the crumpled envelope with the key. John’s handwriting, hard and precise. This was the place. Frowning, she looked up at the tall front door of an elegant old townhouse.
A golden glow from the fanlight illuminated the broad granite stairs, the railings of ornate cast iron, glinting black. She tugged the key from her pocket and slid it into the lock, hoping for a quiet, clean little room, hopefully with its own little fireplace. Maybe even with a nice little white windowsill, where she might sit and enjoy the morning sunlight. John said it was unoccupied at the moment, so maybe, just maybe, there would be a little bathroom with a porcelain wash stand that she wouldn’t even have to queue for in the cold hallways, shivering and clutching her old linen towel and her thin sliver of soap of Marseille.
The heavy black door glided open.
Twinkling light from a chandelier shone on vast marble floors, black and white, like a chessboard. Sea-green silk paper covered the walls, gleaming with patterns of gold.
Marion stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. She frowned at the note with the address again. This could not be right. She glanced up at the glitter of the chandelier on the high white ceilings, the lustrous banister of a staircase, her own reflection gleaming on a square of black marble. She felt like backing away, before she left street-wet footprints in this fine place.
Under a bronze hat stand stood her own suitcase. Battered and bruised, with fraying handles and scratched clasps. All her own things from Crow Street. She felt a snip of embarrassment at the thought of someone going through all her tattered old clothes.
A creaking sounded on the staircase.
Mar
ion spun around and peered into the shadows.
A young girl with whey-coloured hair came tripping down towards her over thick green carpets, thin hands clasped over a crisp apron. ‘Miss,’ she said, ‘I’m Ethel, your maid.’
‘My maid?’
‘Yes, Miss Hahn. I’ve got a reference from my previous post with Mr. O’Reilly, the surgeon up in Rathmines, if you’d…’
‘No, that’s alright, Ethel. Thank you.’
The girl smiled. ‘The coachman brought your luggage this morning. Pardon me, I didn’t put your possessions away yet, I didn’t know which room you’d prefer. But I lit the fires in the eastern-most bedroom, because perhaps you’d like that, it’s the prettiest room in the whole house, so it is, if you ask me. The previous lady of the house…’ She trailed off. ‘Oh,’ she said brightly, ‘I almost forgot, Mr. Kilcoyne left a message for you.’
She handed Marion a small note and began helping her off with her damp coat. Marion unfolded the note and held it up to the light. Watermarked paper.
Marion - I’ve opened an account for you at Clery’s. It’s in my name. Feel free to visit any time and pick out something nice for yourself. You deserve it. Can’t stop thinking about you. John.
Marion smiled. ‘What is Clery’s?’
‘The fancy department store, Miss.’ Ethel knelt and gently took off Marion’s soggy velvet shoes. ‘It was burned to the ground in the Easter of ‘16. Saw it myself.’ She placed the slippers on a little rug. ‘Flames blazing as high as the clouds, and the window glass melting. All the mannequins, curling up and buckling in the heat, like a big roaring furnace.’ She handed Marion a pair of embroidered leather slippers. ‘But they’ve reopened now, down Lower Abbey Street.’
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘Me? Oh, no reason, Miss. Will I show you around?’ Ethel lit a crystal oil lamp.
Marion nodded slowly, glancing around. She caught her own reflection in a gold-leaf mirror, illuminated dimly by the light of the oil lamp. Beyond was the door to a high-ceilinged parlour with walls decorated with a pattern of poppies and cornflowers.