by Nina Dreyer
Marion put down her battered old suitcase on the wet pavement and glanced around. She’d packed up her few belongings that morning, leaving the last of her wages from the Salon in an envelope on the kitchen table for Ethel, the little maid. There’d be no more Salon. No more anything. She’d left the house for the last time, with one last lingering glance at the sofa by the fireplace where she and John had kissed… she closed her eyes and sighed.
Hettie stepped out of the crowd, followed by an armed guard. She looked just the same. She wasn’t dressed all in black yet. She opened her arms and smiled a faintly medicated smile.
Marion walked towards her. Her mouth felt dry as sandpaper. ‘Hettie. I… am so sorry for your loss.’
Hettie drew her close and hugged her tightly. Her breath smelled of laudanum and port wine. Marion’s throat tightened as she stroked Hettie’s shoulder.
‘How well you look.’ Hettie drew back and smiled. ‘I was afraid all your hair would have been burnt off in that ghastly business.’
‘Hettie, if I could go back, if I could do things differently…’
‘Oh, don’t be daft.’ Hettie squeezed both her hands. ‘It’s not your fault, darling. How on earth could it be your fault?’
Marion lowered her eyes. ‘Maybe one day, you will have revenge.’
‘Revenge? Dear god,’ Hettie laughed, ‘what a very biblical mood you’re in today. But no. I should think not.’ She stopped laughing and turned her face into the wind from the bay. Her hair whipped under her hat, and a distant look came into her eyes. ‘You know, Marion, they’ve got a right to fight for their independence as much as we’ve got a right to try to stop them. There’s no point making it all so very emotional. The men who shot my husband and poor, beautiful Rothman, they don’t even know I exist. Why should I take it so personally?’ She shook herself and brushed her fur collar. Her lips thinned. ‘Best to move on, I say. What’s the point in lavishing hatred on those savages?’
Marion swallowed.
Hettie looked over Marion’s shoulder, glancing over the milling crowds. ‘John isn’t with you?’
Marion shook her head.
‘Well,’ said Hettie, squeezing her arm, ‘you will take good care of him, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ she said in a cracked voice.
‘You know he loves you, don’t you?’ Hettie smiled, her eyes glittering. ‘I suppose you two will stay behind, if there are still enough ghosts left in Dublin for you. Oh, look.’ She stroked her finger over the pin on Marion’s chest. ‘He gave you his regimental sweetheart pin. That is so sweet.’
Marion leaned her head back, blinking rapidly.
‘Oh, darling.’ Hettie cocked her head. ‘Don’t cry. If you cry, then I shall cry.’ She laughed, dabbing her eye. ‘Look at us. Silly women. You know I’ll write you heaps and heaps of letters.’
Marion nodded. ‘What will you do now, Hettie?’
‘Get as far away as I can from this dreary town.’ She sniffled. ‘I’ll set up as a respectable widow in London. Perhaps I’ll write a little book about my experiences. Then I shall be the one to do the talking, for once, and perhaps then, all the important men will listen, and do you know what I shall say?’ Her eyes shone. ‘If they want their independence so badly, then let them bloody well have it. That’s what I say. Why squander any more good lives over this dreadful little island?’
In the docks, a ship’s horn boomed. Seagulls hurtled into the air.
‘That’s my boat.’ Hettie pulled Marion to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Chin up, darling.’
‘Hettie. Wait.’ Marion reached for her arm, and Hettie turned.
Marion unclasped the medallion and pulled it off. It felt heavy and warm in her hand. She glanced at it one last time. Then she held out her hand. ‘I want you to have this, Hettie.’ She closed Hettie’s fingers gently around it. ‘Keep it, and think of brighter times to come. Think of me sometimes, and know that I was very, very sorry.’
Hettie smiled and winked her gleaming eye. Then she turned, and in an instant was gone among the throng of passengers.
Marion remained standing for a moment, buffeted by the sea wind and looking at the swirling seagulls high above. Then she turned and walked back to the train station.
The train back to Dublin stood waiting, black and gleaming under the pale light of the domed glass ceiling.
Marion took her ticket from her pocket and glanced at it.
A one-way ticket.
The station was almost deserted. Three soldiers stood on the platform, smoking and swinging their rifles. Marion passed them, glancing at a row of damp billboards advertising a big match in Croke Park. Gaelic football. Dublin against Tipperary. Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she thought of the throngs that would be lining the streets around the stadium, the cheers, the striped scarves, the snatched moments of comforting normality of just watching an ordinary football match. A pang of fondness for the old town lodged in her throat.
A railway official blew a whistle and waved a red flag.
She picked up her suitcase, walked to the train carriage and clasped the metal grip by the door. With one foot resting on the metal step, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. Then she ducked inside.
The narrow wooden door clicked shut behind her.
The carriage was empty, apart from two old men in trilby hats who huddled together, quietly marvelling that the train would be running at all.
The locomotive rumbled into motion, chugging and grating down the uneven tracks.
Seating herself, Marion watched the platform recede with the strange feeling that it was the world that was moving, while she sat immobile.
On the receding platform, a soldier looked up at her and licked his teeth before sliding out of view.
Her gaze shifted in the grimy, rain-streaked glass and in an instant, she saw John. His face was reflected, as though he was sitting behind her, blurred. A glint of light from the high ceiling of the station slanted across the window and the vision was gone.
In the corner of the window, spreading, a hair-fine crack.
Marion closed her eyes and pressed her hand over the sweetheart pin on her chest.
The train jarred along out of the station and into the sweeping grey light of the wind-swept bay.
A man entered the rattling carriage, drawing the wooden door shut behind him.
Marion looked up at him.
A grey felt hat shielded his eyes in slanting shadow. He was wearing a tailored suit under an expensive woollen coat. Clean-shaved, sharp-eyed. He could be anyone. A lawyer. A stockbroker.
He walked towards her with his hard eyes fixed on her and his hand thrust deep in his pocket.
A well of sadness opened in Marion’s chest.
This was it, then.
She turned her face into the light of the window and gazed one last time at the streaks of silvery water and grey sands of the receding tides. She saw the gunman’s reflection move towards her in the salt-streaked window glass.
She saw him raise his revolver. She heard the two old men shouting.
She closed her eyes.
A single tear trickled down her cheek.
The floor of the carriage creaked under the gunman’s heels.
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I know.’
Click.
The gunshot roared through her, splintering the sunlight on her eyes, ripping all air and will and thought from her. Tumbling back in the darkness, she flung herself down, down through screaming pain and animal fear, far below the howls and storms of the upper darkness.
Sinking, sinking, deeper and deeper, straining her fingers towards the last glimmer of the living world fading far above her.
She opened her hands and let go of the last light of life.
She opened her mouth and drank in her own death.
Darkness closed over her.
Darkness, soundless and fathomless.
She looked down and saw an ocean of pale starlight, still as glass.
<
br /> A voice called her name, gently, clear as a glass bell.
She raised her eyes in death.
John rose before her. Distant starlight glinted in his eyes. He was well again, whole again. He smiled. Snowflakes and white apple blossoms fell silently in the silken darkness behind him.
He reached for her. And she reached for him.
His hands were warm.
The End
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If you would like to learn more about the historical facts of Marion and John’s world, visit www.ninadreyer.com.
Nina Dreyer is a Dublin-based novelist and historian. She was born in Denmark and now lives with her partner in quaint Ringsend on the coast of Dublin Bay, where she enjoys long walks on the beach, though usually, this being Ireland, in the horizontal rain.
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Poem
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
About The Author