Friend or Foe

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘Yes,’ answered Jack, ‘when your skin turns blue, it’s time to stop swimming in the river!’

  The girls had dried off and dressed behind a nearby bank of trees, and now all of them gathered on the riverbank. They sat on the bough of a fallen tree and sucked the Bullseye sweets that Emer had brought.

  ‘Here’s your friend,’ said Joan, and Jack looked up to see Gerry Quinn approaching.

  He gave his schoolmate a welcoming wave, and the others exchanged greetings with Gerry as he drew up beside them. Jack had never told Gerry about the argument with Phelim O’Connell, and Gerry had come to school the next day with a note excusing his absence. But the incident had made Jack feel closer to Gerry, and he was glad now when Emer offered him a Bullseye.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gerry, popping it into his mouth, then indicating the river. ‘Bleedin’ freezin’ for swimming.’

  ‘Yes, much too cold,’ answered Gladys, unable to disguise fully her disapproval of his language. ‘This is our last swim of the year.’

  ‘We should have a ceremony,’ said Ben, ‘like a farewell to the river.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Ben,’ said his sister.

  ‘It’s just marking the end of summer,’ argued Ben, then he turned to Gerry. ‘That’s not daft, is it?’

  Jack noted that Gerry looked surprised to be drawn into the discussion – he normally didn’t get too involved with the group – but he shrugged, then replied, ‘If you’re a swimmer, I suppose it’s no harm to mark the end of swimming.’

  ‘Now,’ said Ben, ‘what did I tell you?’

  ‘So how come you never swim, when you live beside the river?’ asked Joan.

  Gerry paused before answering. ‘My uncle used to be a sailor. He said loads of sailors don’t swim – that way they respect the water more. So he never taught me.’

  ‘You could learn in our swimming club if you wanted,’ said Ben.

  ‘No,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Why not?’ queried Joan.

  ‘We couldn’t afford it. And I’m not that bothered.’

  ‘It’s only three pence a week,’ said Gladys.

  ‘I haven’t got three pence a week. Plus there’d be tram fares and all. I won’t be doing it.’

  Jack was used to Gerry’s forthright manner, but he could see that the others were taken aback by his blunt admission of poverty. There was a slightly awkward pause, then Jack spoke up, wanting to make Gerry feel better. ‘Well, I suppose being in a swimming club isn’t the be-all and end-all.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you!’ cried Joan. ‘You’re trying like mad to make the team for this gala. You love the swimming club!’

  Before Jack could respond, Gerry turned to Emer. ‘Thanks for the sweet. See you around,’ he added to the others, then started up the hill to his cottage.

  Jack called out a farewell, then faced Joan. ‘Why did you have to say that?’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘That I love the swimming club. I was trying to play it down, so Gerry wouldn’t feel bad.’

  ‘It’s not my fault if he’s poor.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was. But it must be horrible having no money. We shouldn’t do anything to make him feel worse.’

  ‘There’s loads of poor people in Dublin, Jack,’ argued Joan. ‘Are we supposed to worry about them all? Or apologise ’cause we can afford three pence a week for swimming and they can’t?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘But we’re told to be charitable to the poor,’ interjected Gladys. ‘It says it in the bible.’

  ‘It says lots of things in the bible,’ answered Joan blithely.

  ‘Maybe we should just change things,’ said Emer. ‘Maybe we should really change the country, so no-one is poor. Then nobody would need charity.’

  Jack sensed that the conversation was going to get political, and he was relieved when Ben suddenly held up his hands.

  ‘Enough arguing!’ Ben cried. ‘We came here to have the last swim of the year. So now it’s time for the last picnic of the year. And I’ve got a whole slab of toffee cake. But anyone who wants a bit has to say “pretty please with a cherry on top”!’

  The tension was broken, and Jack joined the others in having their picnic. But he couldn’t help thinking of what Emer had said about really changing the country. If enough people shared her view, then there could be serious trouble ahead.

  Emer stopped dead at the kitchen door when she saw her father holding the gun. The weapon was a Mauser pistol that had been part of a consignment smuggled into the country by the Irish Volunteers. Emer knew that her father was proud to be a captain in the Volunteers, and that he was pleased to be given the gun from the scarce supply of arms, but he didn’t usually handle the Mauser in her presence.

  ‘Emer,’ he said, looking up in surprise, ‘you’re back early.’

  ‘Miss Gildea is sick; the piano lesson was cancelled.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dad, rising from the table and slipping the pistol into a drawer above the kitchen press. ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’

  Emer realised that her father had been oiling the gun. She had known all along that the Volunteers were an army that might have to go to war, but she still felt a slight chill on seeing her father servicing a lethal weapon. Dad clearly didn’t want to refer to the gun, however, so Emer followed his cue and instead answered his question. ‘No, she just has a really bad head cold, so she put off the lesson.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Dad, can I … can I ask you something?’ said Emer, sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Of course.’ Her father looked at her encouragingly and sat beside her. ‘What’s buzzing round in that head of yours?’

  ‘I was just thinking. If the Volunteers have their way, and we get independence … is it … is it definitely going to make things better for people?’

  ‘How could it not? We’d be running our own affairs, instead of being ruled from England.’

  ‘So poor people would get treated better?’

  Her father looked at her enquiringly. ‘What’s brought this on, love?’

  ‘There’s a boy who goes to school with Jack. He’s an orphan living with his uncle, and they’re really poor, and his clothes are old, and his house is all run-down looking. And … well, he couldn’t even afford three pence a week to be in the swimming club.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, pet.’

  ‘So if Ireland gets her freedom, Dad, will it stop people having to live like that?’

  Emer watched as her father breathed out. ‘I’d love to tell you that it will, Emer. But I don’t want to mislead you.’

  ‘So … will it not?’

  ‘Of course we’ll change things. But we can’t just wipe out poverty. It’s like it says in the bible, “The poor you will always have with you”.’

  ‘But that was written two thousand years ago, Dad. Can we not make things better now? Especially if the British go, and we’re starting from scratch.’

  ‘There’ll be lots of good things we’ll do in a new Ireland. But life is never going to be the same for everybody. In any country there’ll be people who work hard and succeed, and other people who don’t.’

  Emer knew that her parents’ views were coloured by their own upbringings. Several members of Mam’s family had held prized jobs in the postal service in County Clare – steady work that had provided the income to educate Mam, who in turn had been a postmistress before getting married. Dad had been apprenticed to the grocery trade, and by dint of very hard work had eventually managed to buy two shops of his own. But someone like Gerry Quinn was never going to get a start in the post office or the grocery trade, no matter how hard he might be prepared to work.

  ‘I just think, Dad, that if you’re going to … well, if you’re going to risk your life fighting, it has to be worth it. To make a country where everyone has a fair chance.’

  Her father looked at her seriously for a moment, then reached out and briefly stroked her hair with af
fection. ‘I’m proud of you, Emer,’ he said. ‘I’m proud to have a daughter with such a good heart.’

  Emer was touched, but before she could reply she heard the front door opening, and Mam came down the hall and into the kitchen.

  ‘The budget’s been announced!’ she said dramatically.

  ‘Well, tell us the worst,’ said Dad.

  Emer watched as her mother placed a newspaper down on the table, pointing to the front page. ‘The government’s put customs duty up fifty percent on tea and tobacco! And the halfpenny post is being abolished.’

  Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? What about income tax?’

  ‘Two and eleven pence halfpenny in the pound next tax year for anyone earning over one hundred and thirty pounds a year.’

  ‘What?! That’s a huge jump.’

  ‘It’s an absolute disgrace! We’re paying through the nose so the British Army can spend millions of pounds waging war on Germany.’

  It was unusual for her mother to get this agitated, and Emer listened as Mam continued her complaint. ‘And the worst thing of all is that the Chancellor of the Exchequer had the cheek to say that he knows the taxpayer is determined to see the war through!’

  ‘The sooner we make the break from Britain the better!’ Dad said. ‘This just confirms it.’

  Emer hadn’t been reassured by her father’s response to her query about fairer conditions. She would have liked to question him a little more, but now was not the time. And so she said nothing while her father fumed about the budget, criticised the government as corrupt, and repeated his willingness to fight for independence.

  Chapter Nine

  The stinging smack of the leather made Jack wince as Brother McGill dished out the punishment. Even though he was in no danger of being beaten himself this time, Jack hated when other boys were slapped with the leather. It was a thick black strap specially made as an instrument of punishment, and rumour had it that there were copper coins sewn inside to make it heavier and therefore more painful for the victim.

  Jack knew the paralysing pain that ran up your arm when you were slapped on the open palm by the leather, and he sympathised with Gerry Quinn, who was being beaten now.

  Looking around the classroom, Jack could tell that there were boys who were happy enough to see Gerry being punished. He suspected that for some of them it was a sense of self-preservation, and a feeling that while the teacher’s ire was focused on Gerry, it wasn’t focused on them. For others, though, he reckoned that they enjoyed seeing another boy suffer, and Jack felt a familiar stab of distaste as he saw Phelim O’Connell watching the punishment with barely disguised relish.

  ‘You won’t mitch from school during my class, Mr Quinn!’ cried Brother McGill as he brought the strap down on Gerry’s hand, ‘Seán Dubh will teach you not to!’

  Seán Dubh – Black John in Irish – was the nickname that Brother McGill had for his leather strap. Even though some of the boys laughed when the teacher jokingly referred to it this way, Jack never joined in, thinking that it was bad enough to be beaten without being expected to treat the cruelly designed leather as though it were somehow funny.

  The teacher delivered two more hard slaps to Gerry’s outstretched hands. Jack couldn’t help but admire the way Gerry bore the punishment, taking each stinging blow without crying out. Jack desperately wanted to tell Brother McGill to stop, that he was accusing Gerry in the wrong. Gerry had told Jack earlier that he hadn’t actually been mitching from school at all, but had had to appear in court for trading with his uncle without a licence. Gerry’s pride wouldn’t let him tell the teacher that the family was up in court, so now he was taking a beating. Jack knew that he would be betraying a confidence if he told Brother McGill the truth, yet how long could he stay silent if the teacher continued beating an innocent boy?

  Brother McGill unleashed two more blows, and Jack could see that Gerry was wracked with pain. I can’t let this continue, he thought. Even if Gerry hates me for telling, I have to stop it. Dreading what he was about to do, Jack started to raise his hand to attract the teacher’s attention.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to ye all!’ said Brother McGill, suddenly pocketing the leather and facing the pupils. ‘Nobody mitches from my class – nobody!’

  Jack quickly lowered his hand, then the bell rang to signal the end of the school day. Before Jack could sympathise with him, Gerry took his schoolbag and headed straight out the classroom door. Brother McGill gathered up his papers and left the room, and the boys relaxed. Jack sat unmoving in his desk.

  The day had begun badly when his father had read in the newspaper that the army’s latest Western Front offensive had met with varying success, with ground taken by the Allies in the morning sometimes quickly retaken by the enemy. Jack’s cousin Ronnie was in a regiment reported to be in the thick of the fighting, and all of the family were really worried about him. Meanwhile the campaign in the Dardanelles had turned into a disaster, which meant that Uncle Bertie was a serious worry too. And now Gerry had just taken an unjustified beating.

  ‘That eejit Quinn cost us an ecker-free night with his stupid mitching!’ said the boy who shared a desk with Phelim O’Connell. This was a reference to Brother McGill’s practice of letting the pupils off homework if all fifty-six boys in the class were in attendance and on time on a given day.

  ‘He wasn’t mitching,’ said Jack.

  ‘Then why did he take a hiding from Giller?’

  ‘He had his reasons,’ answered Jack, rising from his desk and taking up his schoolbag.

  ‘What reasons?’ asked Phelim O’Connell.

  ‘You don’t need to know them. But he wasn’t mitching.’

  Phelim looked at Jack with a sneer. ‘You’ve become his little buddy, haven’t you? Do you collect rags and bones together?’

  Jack would have liked to wipe the smirk from Phelim’s face, but he kept his temper and gave him a contemptuous look, then made to move off.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ said Phelim, gripping Jack’s arm to stop him from leaving.

  ‘Get your hand off my arm.’

  Phelim looked at him challengingly. ‘Or?’

  Phelim was well-built and athletic, but Jack figured that a quick uppercut would leave him reeling. He balled his fist, then hesitated. He remembered Da’s instruction when he had taught him boxing for self-defence: You’re a policeman’s son, Jack. You can’t be brawling. Always walk away when you can.

  Jack looked Phelim in the eye, struggling hard against the temptation to punch away his smirk. Without warning Jack pushed him hard with his left hand, simultaneously freeing his right hand. Phelim was taken by surprise and stumbled back a little, and Jack immediately hoisted his schoolbag and walked briskly to the classroom door.

  ‘That’s right, Madigan, run away,’ called Phelim as Jack reached the door.

  Even though Jack knew that he had done the right thing in obeying his father, it still felt wrong to walk off. He paused at the door, Phelim’s taunt ringing in his ears. Then he took a deep breath, opened the door and walked out of the classroom.

  ‘Don’t say a word to Jack about any of this,’ said Emer’s father, indicating his packed kitbag on the breakfast table. ‘We don’t want Sergeant Madigan reporting it to his superiors.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Emer answered, knowing that Dad was going out on a day’s armed manoeuvres with the Irish Volunteers. ‘But Jack’s no informer.’

  ‘Jack is a grand lad, and I know he’s your friend. But the Madigans are on the other side, Emer. Never forget that. Especially if things come to a head.’

  It was a disturbing thought, and even now, several hours after that conversation with her father, it was still casting a slight shadow over Emer’s day. She had arranged to go blackberry picking with the rest of the gang, and they had set off in the hazy October sunshine. They carried metal cans and hooked sticks for pulling down the high branches of the blackberry bushes that grew along the banks of the Royal Canal. Despite her father’s
warning Emer tried to behave normally with Jack, but of course she said nothing about the manoeuvres. She thought it was a pity, though, to have to be on guard with a friend, and wished life wasn’t so complicated.

  ‘Oh, by the way, we’ve bad news,’ said Ben as they left behind the Old Cabra Road and made for the canal.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Emer.

  Gladys looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t be annoyed with us, Emer, but we’re going to have to skip the gala.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I mean, we mightn’t have made it onto a team anyway, but we won’t even be able to cheer you on,’ said Ben.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Our Sunday School choir is singing in a festival,’ answered Gladys with an apologetic grimace. ‘We just found out that it clashes with the gala. Sorry, Emer.’

  ‘You’ll really miss out!’ said Joan. ‘I heard that after the gala the captain treats everyone to fish and chips.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Gladys. ‘The vicar only told us at Sunday School today that he’s changed our slot.’

  Emer felt like protesting, but she didn’t. She was a Catholic, as were Jack and Joan, whereas Ben and Gladys were Protestants. Despite her disappointment, she felt that she couldn’t criticise the Protestant vicar. It was another complication in life that Emer wished she hadn’t got to deal with, but her parents had taught her to be polite when dealing with other people’s faiths. It was a relief then when Ben himself went on the attack.

  ‘I liked the old vicar,’ he said, ‘but this new fella, he’s really a pain.’

  ‘How’s that?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Always going on about sin – and alcohol. He’s dead set against alcohol.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ said Joan, raising an imaginary glass.

  The others laughed, though Emer knew that alcohol had become a major topic since the start of the war. Drinking was said to affect factory output for the war effort, and David Lloyd George, the politician, had claimed that the enemy consisted of ‘Germany, Austria and drink’! Emer’s parents drank in moderation, but her father had laughed at the new rule making it illegal for workers to buy rounds of drink in the pub.