by Jodi McIsaac
“Let her rest a minute, Ma!” Pidge exclaimed. “Cuppa, Nora?”
“Please, thank you,” Nora said. Mrs. Gillies stood in front of her, hands on her generous hips. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and she wore a simple, long-sleeved brown dress that fell to midcalf. Her stockings and shoes were both black, and she wore a clean beige apron over her dress.
Pidge handed Nora a cup of tea, which she accepted with a grateful smile. The hot liquid brought new life to her exhausted, aching body. Pidge was a handsome girl with a wide mouth and dark curls that fell to her shoulders. She wore a plain dress much like her mother’s. She looked at Nora with open curiosity.
“I’m not a criminal, if that’s what you’re asking,” Nora said cautiously.
“But you said you were runnin’,” Mrs. Gillies pointed out. She took a seat at the wooden table beside Nora and poured her own cup of tea.
“I arrived from Belfast earlier today,” Nora said, knowing she’d not be able to hide her Ulster accent.
“On your own?” Mrs. Gillies asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Aye.” She remembered one of the history lessons Eamon had given her over a pot of tea many years ago. Before the country was officially divided, the Protestant majority in the North had fought the prospect of a Catholic-run independent Ireland tooth and nail. After the treaty, Catholics in the six northern counties were beaten and murdered in unprecedented numbers, their bodies mutilated and left as a warning to other Catholics. So-called match and petrol men burned out and terrorized entire Catholic neighborhoods, all with the tacit blessing—including weapons and soldiers—of the British Crown. Pogroms, Eamon had called them. The message was clear: get out. Thousands of refugees streamed over the newly created border into the Free State, seeking refuge in a country already traumatized by a vicious war with Britain and a looming civil war of its own.
Nora’s cheeks burned. This was material she could use to form her story, but she had to be careful what she gave away. She didn’t know how her new hosts would react. But even so, she could never pretend to be a supporter of the British. “My family was burned out by an Orange mob in Belfast. I came down to stay with my uncle in Kildare, only I couldn’t find him. His home was empty. Looked like it had been wrecked.”
Mrs. Gillies and Pidge shared a look.
“These soldiers started harassing me on the street while I was looking for another place to stay. I ran away from them, but they chased me. I hid until I found a stand of trees to sleep in for the night. And that’s when I heard the explosion.”
“Our boys, harassing a young woman on the street!” Mrs. Gillies looked scandalized. “I would never have thought them capable of it!”
“They’re not ‘our boys,’ Ma,” Pidge muttered. “Not anymore.”
“They are and you know it,” her mother retorted. “Every one of them, born and bred in these hills.”
Pidge muttered something that sounded like “traitors,” but she went to stoke the fire before her mother could offer a reply.
Mrs. Gillies turned her attention back to Nora. “And you say you don’t know who detonated the mine?”
“I didn’t see any of the soldiers,” Nora explained. “Only the bodies.”
“It could have been ours, Ma, so close to the barracks,” Pidge said, her forehead creased.
“Hush, girl!” her mother snapped. Her eyes roamed over Nora. “Is this how they dress in Belfast, then?”
“Oh . . . aye, these are my traveling clothes. My bags were taken by the soldiers, so they were.” Nora looked self-consciously at her muddy clothing. The sooner she could blend in, the better.
Mrs. Gillies clucked her tongue. “Well, you look about the size of my Pidge. Go on now, the two of you, and see if you can’t find something decent for Nora to wear.”
Pidge smiled warmly. “Come on, then,” she said to Nora, leading the way to a small room in the back of the cottage. “This is my room,” Pidge explained. “Stephen sleeps in the loft.” The room was tiny and plainly furnished, with a metal bedstead and a homemade quilt covering the mattress. A chest of drawers stood against one wall, and dresses hung from wire hangers on a hook behind the door. A crucifix had been nailed above the bed.
“I really don’t want to be a bother,” Nora said.
“Don’t be daft!” Pidge exclaimed. “You can’t be going out wearing only that.” She appraised Nora’s T-shirt with interest while she handed her a striped blouse and a long green skirt. “D’you have stockings?”
“Um . . . no. Just my socks, that is.”
“Here’s a pair of mine, then,” Pidge said, digging around in the chest of drawers and pulling out a thick black pair.
“Thank you, Pidge. You’ve all been very kind. I’ll return these things to you as soon as I can get some clothes of my own.”
“It’s no matter. I’ll leave you to get dressed.” With that, she left the room. Nora sighed and stripped off her ruined jeans and T-shirt. She shrugged the blouse over her head and pulled on the skirt. The garments were lighter than they looked, and she felt better once she was dressed. Perhaps looking the part would help her play the part. She took Pidge’s hairbrush off the top of the chest and tried to work out some of the knots in her hair. She considered putting it up like Mrs. Gillies’s hair, but she had no idea how to do that. Besides, for all she knew, it might be a style reserved for married women. Carrying her folded jeans and T-shirt in her arms, she went back into the main living area, where Mrs. Gillies and Pidge were having a hushed conversation. She hesitated, not wanting to intrude.
“Ah, that’s much better,” Mrs. Gillies said, looking at Nora approvingly. “We’ll have some breakfast while we wait for the men.” She moved to the end of the table, cutting thick slabs of bread and coating them with butter. Pidge poured everyone more tea but remained silent.
Nora accepted the bread gratefully. “Ta. And thank you for helping the wounded man. I hope he’s all right.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Mrs. Gillies said, looking out the window. “Here they come now.”
Pidge ran out of the cottage. “Da!” she yelled. “D’you find him?” Mrs. Gillies pushed up her sleeves and followed her daughter into the yard. Nora hovered uncertainly in the doorway.
“We found him, all right,” Sean Gillies said. He and a young man lifted a body out of the back of a cart attached to a pair of horses. They’d wrapped the wounded man in a blanket and covered it with straw, bits of which floated to the ground as they brought him into the house. Pidge and Mrs. Gillies hurriedly cleared the table of their breakfast dishes so the men could lay him down. Mrs. Gillies unwrapped the blanket from around him and gasped.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s Frankie Halpin!”
“Oh, Stephen,” Pidge moaned, wrapping her arms around the young man who had helped bring Frankie into the house. She saw Nora watching them and explained, “This is my brother, Stephen. Frankie’s his best friend.” Stephen, a tall, thin lad of about eighteen, stared down at the table, his eyes burning with anger. Without a word, he tore himself out of Pidge’s arms and stormed out of the house.
“Stephen!” Mrs. Gillies called after him.
“Leave him be,” Mr. Gillies warned.
“What if he goes after them? You know they’re only looking for a reason to lock him up like the others!”
“He’s smarter than that. Just let him blow off some steam.”
“He’s still alive,” Nora said, feeling a faint pulse in Frankie’s wrist. “But he needs a hospital. Can you take him?”
The Gillies family exchanged a long look; then Mrs. Gillies spoke. “It would be best for us to care for him here.”
Nora stared her down. “He needs proper medical attention. He could die!”
“Open your eyes, Nora,” Pidge said. “The government was trying to kill him. You think taking him to hospital will help? It will only make it easier for them to finish the job. I’ll get the bandages, Ma.”
“And the
iodine,” Mrs. Gillies called after her. She brought out a stack of clean cloths from the bedroom and began laying them out on the sideboard of the dresser. Nora grabbed the two pillows from Pidge’s room and used them to elevate Frankie’s head and feet. If she couldn’t convince them to take this man to the hospital, at least she could help them. She’d been trained in emergency first aid; now was the time to use it.
“I need some soap,” she said. “Let’s get him washed; then we’ll treat his wounds. We’ll need to see if anything’s broken—I don’t see how he could have survived that blast in one piece.”
Mrs. Gillies regarded her curiously as she tore a sheet into strips and dipped it into the boiling water on the stove. “Are you a nurse, then?”
“No, not really. I’ve just had some medical training.”
“As have I,” Mrs. Gillies said. “It came in handy during the Tan War, that’s for certain.”
Nora said nothing. For her, the War of Independence had been almost a hundred years ago. For this family, it had only just ended—and they lived in fear that, should the Anglo-Irish Treaty fall apart, it could start again at any moment. But as Nora picked the straw and mud out of the boy’s bloodied leg, she couldn’t help but marvel that their own countrymen had done this to Frankie and those other boys. This was different than the Troubles—she didn’t consider the Protestant Unionists of Northern Ireland her own countrymen. They belonged to Britain, and she belonged to Ireland. But this was Irish against Irish.
Pidge returned with a roll of bandages and a jar of some kind of ointment, then grabbed a cloth and swabbed Frankie’s torso.
“What was it like, Da?” she asked. Mr. Gillies paced the room while the women worked, one eye always on the window.
“It’s not for your ears, Pidge,” he said.
“But was it like she said?” Pidge persisted.
He shot his daughter an exasperated look. “Aye. ’Twas like she said. The bodies were still there. The birds were already feasting.”
Mrs. Gillies crossed herself with a bloodstained hand.
“Why’d you not bring them back?” Pidge demanded.
“Because the army would come looking for them. Given the state of things, they’ll probably not notice one man missing. But if they were all missing, they’d be searching this farm by noon. And what would we do with the bodies, anyway?”
“Can we not bury our own dead?” Pidge’s cheeks were flushed. “Did you not recognize any of them?”
“I didn’t look too closely, to be honest.” He dipped his chin and stared at the floor. “Even these lads’ own families would be hard-pressed to identify them, the state they were in. We found young Frankie in the woods, right where our friend here said he would be.” He regarded Nora thoughtfully. “That’s a sorry thing for a woman to witness. Your stomach must be lined with steel.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Nora said, thinking of a village in Rwanda her team had visited after the genocide. The bodies had been dead for a week, left to rot in the unforgiving African sun. And there had been children . . . so many children, their tiny heads bashed against walls, chests split open from navel to sternum.
“In Belfast, you mean?” Mrs. Gillies said in a shocked tone.
“Aye,” Nora said quickly.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mr. Gillies said. “John Brennan’s wife just took in three Belfast orphans. Arrived on the train yesterday.” Nora nodded, wondering about her own family, and why they had stayed when so many others had fled. She’d have to ask Aunt Margaret about it . . . if she ever made it back to her own time.
“They arrested Frankie just last week. I thought he’d’ve been sent off to Mountjoy Prison by now,” Mrs. Gillies said, as if trying to reason it out in her head. “Never thought they’d do something like this.”
“They’ll call it a ‘retaliation,’ I’m sure,” Pidge snapped. “As if we don’t have the right to fight for our own country!”
“Hush, Pidge,” Mrs. Gillies said. Her eyes flicked toward Nora.
Nora took the bull by the horns. “Mrs. Gillies, you’re all right. I’m as Republican as they get. You don’t have to worry about me repeating anything.”
“And who’s to say we’re Republicans?” Mrs. Gillies shot back.
Nora cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve said as much. But it doesn’t matter either way. I didn’t know which side this man was on when I came to get help. And I don’t care about your politics, either. I’ll help you here with Frankie, and then I’ll be on my way.” She felt along his shinbone and winced. “We’ll need some sticks for splints. I’m not much for setting bones—”
“I’ll do it,” Mrs. Gillies said briskly. “Let’s just pray he stays out cold. Sean, can you get us some straight pieces to use for splints? And the poitín, in case he comes to.”
Mr. Gillies glanced out the window again, then left the cottage.
“Nora, you’ve done right by Frankie here, and we’re grateful,” Mrs. Gillies said. “I’ll not have you going back into Kildare on your own, not after what you’ve experienced there. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”
“Not much,” Nora admitted. Adrenaline had been keeping her on her feet, but it wouldn’t last forever.
“Then you’ll stay with us. You can have the settle bed.” She nodded toward the large bench against the far wall. “You said you have family in these parts?”
“Only an uncle, but I don’t know where he’s gone. And thank you for your kindness, but I’m sure I can find a room in town.” She needed to get back to the cathedral as soon as possible to find the Brigidine Sisters.
“Well, you’re a grown woman, and I’ll not be making decisions for you, but I insist you stay until you’re rested and recovered from your ordeal. Sean will take you back into town later today if that’s what you want, and he can help you in finding a room. As for your uncle . . . well, it seems like half the men in the country are in Mountjoy, Kilmainham, North Dublin Union, or one of the other prisons. Perhaps he’s been arrested. One can be arrested for anything these days—even for the contents of one’s private thoughts, so it would seem.”
Frankie twitched.
“Christ have mercy, does he have to wake up now?” Mrs. Gillies muttered. “Where is Sean with the poitín?”
A minute later Mr. Gillies rushed into the room with several thick pieces of timber and a glass bottle of clear liquid, which he set on the sideboard. Frankie moaned, and his eyelids fluttered open.
“How’re you feeling, Frankie?” Mr. Gillies asked, leaning in close.
Frankie looked around at them all, his eyes wide. “Where am I? What happened?”
“Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe. You’re at our house now,” Pidge said softly. He gave her a blank look.
“What? What did you say?”
“O’course. His hearing is still impaired from the blast,” Nora said, remembering how it had made her own ears ring.
“Well, damn,” Mr. Gillies said. He tried raising his voice. “Frankie! Can you hear me?”
Frankie stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “A bit. I can make out what you’re saying.”
“There was a land mine. Do you remember?” Mr. Gillies asked loudly.
“I . . . I remember being tied to the other lads. And then I was flying . . . and now I’m here,” Frankie said. He closed his eyes again.
“Let him rest,” Pidge said, but her father leaned in and shook Frankie gently.
“You’re badly hurt, lad. We need to set some broken bones. But try your best not to cry out, will ye? We don’t want the Staters to hear you. D’you understand? Now I’m going to give you something to help with the pain.” He lifted the bottle to Frankie’s lips. “Take some good swigs, as much as you can.”
“Mr. Gillies, are you sure we shouldn’t take him to hospital?” Nora asked. “I really think—”
“Thank you, Miss O’Reilly, but we know how to take care of our own,” Mr. Gillies cut in. “Pidge, go fetch Stephen. He won’t have gone fa
r. And then close all the windows.”
Pidge hurried to obey. Stephen mustn’t have been far because the two of them came in a scant moment later, and Pidge immediately started to close the shutters.
“Hold him down, Stephen,” Mr. Gillies said.
“What can I—” Nora started to ask, but Mrs. Gillies stepped in front of her and said, “We’ll take it from here. You can keep the water boiling, if you don’t mind.”
Nora frowned but took a brick of turf from a basket on the floor and added it to the fire. Then she stared at the smoke while trying to block out the sound of Frankie’s screams.
Chapter Ten
Finally Frankie passed out again and the Gillieses were able to work in silence. Nora helped however she could, by sterilizing bandages and passing jars of strong-smelling ointments. She boiled the bloody rags and fetched clean water from the pump in the yard. She felt useful again—a wonderful feeling.
“Thank you, Nora,” Mrs. Gillies said, accepting a towel to dry off her hands, which she’d just cleaned of blood. Nora took back the towel and handed her a cup of tea.
“You were amazing, so you were,” Nora said. “So calm and efficient.”
“Ah, well, it’s not the first of our lads I’ve had to tidy up a bit.” Mrs. Gillies sank into one of the chairs they’d shoved against the wall and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
They all sat silently. Stephen hadn’t spoken a word all morning. After a moment, he and his father both stood. “Well, back to work, then,” Mr. Gillies said. “We’ve already lost a good few hours.”
“We should move him,” Mrs. Gillies said. “’Twill be no good for any of us, havin’ him on our table if the Free State comes knocking.”
Mr. Gillies nodded grimly, casting a sideways glance at Nora.
“She’s fine, Sean,” Mrs. Gillies said. “She’d ’a left long ago if she was going to turn us in.”
“O’course I won’t,” Nora said. “I swear to it.”
“The wall, then,” Mr. Gillies said, nodding to his son. “Easy now.” Together they gathered up the sheet beneath Frankie, holding it taut so it hung like a hammock. They headed into Mr. and Mrs. Gillies’s room, which was hardly larger than Pidge’s. Pidge and Mrs. Gillies pushed the large chest of drawers to one side; then Mrs. Gillies bent down and lifted a latch near the floor and another one above her head. A section of the wall swung open to reveal a tiny space, just large enough to accommodate a man. Pidge stripped the quilt off her parents’ bed and spread it out on the floor. With difficulty, they eased Frankie into the small space.