A Girl Called Rosie

by Anne Doughty

  As she ran her eye along the unfamiliar words once more, her body bent towards the light, she heard the creak of the bedroom door opening behind her. Startled, she whirled round and looked up as a young man with red hair stepped into the room.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said formally. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ asked Rosie, looking the young man up and down.

  He shut the door behind him, leant nonchalantly against the doorpost and regarded her with a slight smile. Red-headed, with a creamy skin and the freckles that usually go with such colouring, he was dressed in an open-necked shirt and a pair of grey flannels, the shirt crumpled and none too clean, the trousers marked with black streaks below the knee.

  ‘I could ask you the same,’ he said quickly, a hint of pique in his tone, ‘and with more cause.’

  ‘But I asked you first,’ she replied, holding her ground.

  She was sure he was older than she was, perhaps as much as twenty, but that didn’t give him the right to be sharp with her. But then boys were often like that. They behaved as if they knew everything, had the right to say the first thing that came into their head and then stand over it whether it made any sense or not.

  She lowered herself carefully on to the low, narrow windowsill. She was perfectly aware that she was blocking its light and making the room even dimmer, but if she was going to have to wait for him to explain himself she might as well try to be more comfortable.

  He returned her gaze, studying her thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry my sitting room is so ill provided,’ he said sarcastically, ‘but I can’t possibly invite you into my bedroom.’

  ‘Is it better provided?’

  ‘Yes. It has a chair and a small barrel. I moved them in there when the motor stopped. Along with my desk and bookcase.’

  ‘And why did you do that?’

  ‘Precaution. I don’t get many visitors here. In fact, visitors are not welcome.’

  ‘Are you hiding then?’ she asked abruptly, looking him straight in the eye.

  Without giving her an answer, he turned his back on her, went into the room he’d described as his bedroom and fetched a roughly-mended chair which he placed to one side of the empty fireplace. Through the open door, Rosie caught a momentary glimpse of a blanket thrown over a heap of wilted bracken and a packing case on which sat a small pile of books, a bottle of ink and a notebook.

  He rolled the barrel across the floor, upended it on the other side of the fireplace and sat down, glancing into the empty grate as if to ensure the fire did not need another log or a shovel full of coal.

  Rosie sat silent, puzzled by his reticence, but unwilling to give way to his attempts to deflect all her questions.

  He gazed around the completely empty room as if it were full of interesting objects, then settled his eyes upon her with a small smile.

  ‘You might be a spy,’ he said coolly.

  Rosie burst out laughing and shook her head, almost prepared to forgive him for his uncooperativeness.

  ‘Though you are a bit young, I must admit,’ he added, looking her up and down. ‘You can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen.’

  ‘I’m sixteen,’ she retorted, without even bothering about the small modification of the truth.

  What did a few more days matter? Except, of course, that it did. People made judgements based on age that were quite false. Miss Wilson had explained that to her girls most carefully.

  ‘My dears, I have to keep my age a secret,’ she’d said firmly, one afternoon when the subject of age came up in discussing the novel they were reading. ‘There are some people who would assume I was too old to run a school if they knew how old I was. They would say I was too out of touch to know what went on in the world, or too feeble to do the things a teacher needs to do. Keeping my age secret is nothing to do with vanity.’

  Rosie remembered how she had gone on to caution them about the dangers of making such ill-founded judgements about people, either old or young. Now here was the very proof of what she’d said. This young man assumed she couldn’t guess what was going on just because he judged she was younger than he was.

  In fact, as Rosie sat watching him fidget on his hard wooden barrel she began to wish she’d said seventeen while she was about it. Wearing one of the two new dresses her grandmother had bought for her birthday, with its trimly fitted waist and soft, full skirt, she felt sure she could have got away with it.

  ‘I’m here for the good of my health,’ he said abruptly. ‘There are two IRA men searching for me. If they find me, they’ll kill me. They’ll probably torture me first, or tie me to a land-mine, or some such variation to provide entertainment,’ he added, as if shocking her would keep her in her place. ‘There are quite a lot of options from recent events,’ he said, his pale face flushing angrily.

  ‘But why would they want to kill you? What have you done?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing that I know of personally, but I have red hair and I’m a Walsh. That’ll be enough for the same pair who are after me.’

  She was sure he was telling the truth, but could she be sure that he was not frightening himself. Many people were fearful without good cause, but as many did indeed go in fear of their lives. Terrible things had been done in the last years in every part of Ireland with family set against family, brother against brother.

  ‘But the Civil War ended last year,’ she began as calmly as she could manage. ‘There was a treaty last summer, wasn’t there?’

  ‘And do you really think that would have the slightest effect on two men who have made up their minds that I, or my brother, betrayed them?’

  Rosie dropped her eyes and stared at the prettily patterned fabric of her new dress. If that was the way of it, then he had good cause. After the Black and Tans had left there’d been deaths enough at home in County Armagh which everyone knew were the settling of old scores. Feuds and fallings out that had grown to hatred were being taken up under the shadow of the political troubles. She’d listened to the stories of stolen guns and night raids her brothers brought home. There were plenty of guns to be had and plenty of opportunities. Hundreds had died, both Catholic and Protestant.

  Suddenly, she saw again the newly turned earth in the churchyard, the jam pot of flowers, her grandparents standing close, their heads together. Walsh. That was the name freshly cut on the small white stone.

  ‘Was your grandfather Thomas Walsh, the coachman here at Currane about fifty years ago?’

  He stared at her in amazement.

  ‘What if he was?’ he said, with a visible effort to collect himself.

  ‘And your elder brother Thomas was killed last year, in May, in an ambush of Free State soldiers,’ she went on very quietly, ‘in the hills above Waterville.’

  To her absolute amazement, he dropped his head into his hands and burst into tears.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about your brother.’

  Quickly she crossed to him, then hesitated, looking down at him, his shoulders crumpled, his face in his hands, tears trickling silently down his fingers. Then she knelt down beside him and put her arm round his shoulders.

  ‘Now, please tell me what’s going on. There must be something we can do to help.’

  ‘We?’ he said quickly, his unease springing up again as he wiped his tears crossly with the back of his hand. ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘My grandparents and myself,’ she said, taking his hand and drawing him over to the window. ‘Look, you can see them down there, near the motor. They’ve been to the lake together because that’s where they used to walk when they first met. My grandmother used to live here. In this room. She knew Thomas and your father. Apparently your father and her brother, Sam, were good friends.’

  ‘Sam McGinley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Rose Hamilton,’ she said easily, ‘but everyone calls me Rosie.�
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  ‘They soon won’t,’ he said, as he wiped his eyes firmly with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘You’ll be a Rose when you’ve grown up just a little bit more.’

  Before she had time to decide whether this was meant as a compliment or another edgy comment, he clasped her hand more firmly, drew her to him and kissed her warmly on the mouth.

  ‘Rosie Hamilton, you’re an angel in disguise,’ he declared, releasing her. ‘I haven’t spoken to a soul for three weeks and unless it rains a bit harder tonight I won’t even have enough water for a bowl of porridge tomorrow.’

  A few minutes later Rosie made her way back down the steep stone steps and into the stable yard, aware that Patrick Walsh was watching anxiously to see what would happen. Uneasy herself, she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say to the two figures who sat in the motor and turned towards her, smiling, as she approached.

  ‘Well, did you have a good look?’ asked Rose, as she came and stood by the driver’s side. ‘There can’t have been very much to see.’

  Rosie decided there was no simple way. She’d have to be direct.

  ‘I found a young man hiding, Grandma …’

  ‘What?’ gasped John, horrified, before she could continue. ‘And we let you got up there by yourself. Sure we should have known better, the times we’ve been through. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Granda, I’m perfectly all right. But he’s not. He’s Thomas Walsh’s grandson and there are two IRA men after him. He’s been living on porridge for a week. He thinks it’s got too dangerous for his young brother to bring him food. He was leaving it in a hiding place down by the lake for Patrick to pick up at night, but there’s been nothing now for a week.’

  ‘Oh the poor lad,’ said Rose. ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘I didn’t ask him that, but he said he hasn’t spoken to a soul for three weeks.’

  ‘And living on porridge?’ said John, shaking his head. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Watching us, I expect,’ said Rosie with a smile, turning and waving up at the small window, which showed no sign of an observer. ‘I couldn’t persuade him to come down till I’d made sure there was no one around but yourselves.’

  ‘Ach, not a soul the whole afternoon,’ said John quickly. ‘Even on the shore where you might sometimes see the odd fisherman.’

  Rosie could tell from the look on her grandmother’s face she’d already made up her mind what they had to do and she suspected it was as clear to her grandfather. She breathed a sigh of relief when she caught the look that passed between them.

  ‘There’s one sure way of getting him down,’ said Rose confidently. ‘Go up and tell him there’s nobody at all around and we’ve got thermoses of tea and a big hamper full of sandwiches and cake.’

  All three of them were silent that evening as they sat in the hotel dining room, the sunlight still sparkling on the silver and glass, while the young girls cleared away their empty plates and the young men brought the next course.

  Rosie could think only of Patrick. Darkness would fall much more quickly in the small room where he might still be trying to read in the pale evening light. He’d be forced to go to bed as darkness fell. Unless, of course, he went down to the lake, to check again the hiding place his younger brother had used whenever he’d felt it safe to make the journey from Waterville.

  A hard enough journey. Patrick told them how fifteen-year-old Kevin used his bicycle over the lakeside road for the first five miles or so. But then, to avoid being seen or followed, he hid the bicycle in the waterside bushes and took a circuitous route inland, up one deep valley between the hills, across the watershed and down the next, to come out on the lakeshore unobserved.

  At least tonight Patrick would have some supper. Her grandmother had gathered up everything the hotel had provided for their picnic tea, wrapped it in the sports pages from John’s newspaper and insisted he take it back upstairs with him.

  Poor Patrick. She’d watched him out of a corner of her eye as she poured tea from the Thermoses into Bakelite mugs. She’d seen the look in his eyes when her grandmother brought out the first packages of food from the hamper. He’d said ‘thank you’ so politely when she’d offered him a sandwich, sank his teeth into it ravenously and then struggled with himself not to gobble it up.

  Her grandfather had been watching him too.

  ‘Eat up, Patrick,’ he said encouragingly. ‘We’ll just drink a cup of tea to keep you company. There’ll be a dinner tonight would do half a dozen people. But careful now, don’t eat your fill all at once, or you’ll pay for it.’

  ‘Here, have these now and a piece of cake or two after them,’ he went on, picking up a generous handful of sandwiches and putting them on a plate. ‘But the rest you should take with you and eat later.’

  They’d sat together in the motor drinking tea while Patrick ate devotedly. Rosie wondered if someone passing by might think they were just a family party on an outing, but she was grateful it wasn’t put to the test when she looked at him, his hair dishevelled, his trousers marked, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  ‘Did young Patrick tell you whereabouts in Waterville he lives?’ John asked, when they began their main course.

  ‘No, he didn’t. He wasn’t going to say anything at all when he first appeared. It took me ages to get him to tell me what he was doing there, though I guessed he was hiding from someone.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, I suppose,’ he said, nodding. ‘Sometimes you could hardly believe the badness of people.’

  ‘You said he had some books, Rosie. Did you get a look at them?’ her grandmother asked.

  ‘I would have tried but I didn’t manage it.’

  Her grandfather looked at her surprised and puzzled.

  ‘Granny and I think you can tell a lot about someone by the books they read,’ she said to him. ‘He’d been making notes on something when I arrived. That’s how he gave himself away. There was a fresh page lying on the floor. But I couldn’t read it. It was in Irish.’

  ‘Did your friend Thomas speak Irish?’ John asked abruptly.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Rose replied, shaking her head. ‘I’m quite sure of that. But his son might well have learnt it in Land League days. There was a big revival then. Teachers going round the country giving classes in schools and halls. My Sam taught now and again when he was very short of money. Did Patrick mention his father?’ she asked suddenly.

  Rosie shook her head and they fell silent again as a young man came to offer them further thick slices of roast beef and yet more roast potatoes.

  ‘I can think of someone who could do damage to that salver of beef,’ John commented grimly, as they declined second helpings and saw the loaded serving dish being carried away.

  ‘It’s not for long, John,’ Rose said to comfort him. ‘We’ll take him some toast and marmalade when we collect him in the morning and see he gets a good lunch before we put him on the train. He’s young enough not to take any harm. It would be different if the weather was cold.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure you’re right. And I’m sure the uncle in Dublin will know what’s best for him. I can’t keep up with the comings and goings but it would be different if you lived there.’

  ‘Yes, John, but it doesn’t really matter what’s happening at the political level. These two men who want Patrick are Waterville men. Now they’re out of jail, they’ll have to find work or emigrate. They’re not likely to go searching round Dublin for a student. And if they leave Waterville, everyone will know. Its no different from Banbridge, everyone knows everyone else’s business. If they head for Dublin, his mother or brother will know and can send him word. His uncle can pack him off to London, or America. I’m sure he’s got relatives there. And if he hasn’t, then the McGinleys would be only too glad to help him.’

  John nodded, looked relieved and said a polite no to apple pie with cream, or custard, or both.

  A little later, as coffee was being served, he excused himself. He’d just go ou
t and have a look at the motor’s handbook. It might be a good idea to put up the top on the motor for tomorrow’s job, even if it didn’t look much like rain.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rosie did not sleep well after her visit to Currane Lodge. For a long time she lay awake intensely aware of the low voices of her grandparents in the bedroom next door. It was no more than the faintest murmur, but she knew they were working out what to do about Patrick and just thinking about his situation made her anxious. They’d promised to go back to Currane Lodge in the morning and take him to somewhere he’d be safe, but it would be no simple matter to decide what was best.

  The two O’Connors, newly-released from internment, who held him responsible for tipping off Free State troops about their movements a year earlier, were members of one of the nine Kerry IRA Brigades. When her grandfather had questioned him, Patrick had explained they recruited young men from every part of the county, though rather more from the north than the south. The Waterville men were well known to his family, but there were any number of others who might also be on the look out for him.

  Rosie tossed and turned and so wished she could hear what they were saying, wished there was some simple solution she herself could come up with, wished he was safely on his way to Dublin, or London, or America. Then, to her intense surprise, she found herself wishing nothing of the sort, because she’d only just met him and very much wanted to see him again.

  For one thing, she knew so little about him, and would like to know much more, even though she’d not even liked him very much to start with, especially when he’d treated her as if she were only fourteen or fifteen. When he’d cried over his brother’s death, though, she’d changed her mind. Then he’d kissed her, so quickly she hadn’t had time to think how she felt.

  Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.

  People were always saying that. She’d no idea where it came from, but she kept on hearing it all the time these days. Song or not, it happened to be true in her own case. The nearest anyone had come to kissing her had been Paddy Doyle, one of the new neighbours on the lane back at home, but he’d only done it for a dare, so it didn’t mean anything. She knew Patrick’s kiss was very different, but what it was saying, she had no idea.