Taking Sides

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And you could join our Irish club.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a thing I’m in with Tommy and his friend Peter. It’s supposed to improve our spoken Irish, but I’m really in it for the fun.’

  ‘Where’s it held?’

  ‘In Gardiner Street. It’s free, and we do games and lots of other stuff. And it runs on into the summer, so we could keep in touch.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘So, I’ll ask my Mum, and you’ll ask yours?’

  Annie nodded in agreement. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘That just leaves one thing to do,’ said Susie looking mischievously at the tea table.

  ‘More lemon cake?’ asked Annie with a grin.

  ‘More lemon cake!’ said Susie.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Peter felt bad as he walked down Church Street towards the quays. He had just passed a row of tenement houses outside of which scrawny children were playing. A strong smell of pee wafted out of the hallways, made worse by the warm summer sunshine. A little boy, his diseased legs misshapen by rickets, looked listlessly at Peter, and all of the children were filthy and hungry looking. Peter had just had a big Sunday lunch and was feeling full after a meal of pork steak, roast potatoes, cabbage, and rhubarb crumble.

  It seemed really unfair to Peter that so many other people in Dublin hadn’t enough to eat, and were packed like sardines into horrible, foul-smelling tenements, while his family should live comfortably. It wasn’t his fault that his family was well off, but he still felt bad that things were so unjust, and he thought that these were the kind of conditions that should be changed in the new Irish Republic for which he wanted to fight.

  Today would bring his first chance to play an active part, and he felt his heart beating faster at the thought. He reached the junction of Church Street and North King Street, the site where Kevin Barry had been arrested after shooting a British soldier a couple of years earlier during the War of Independence. As a former pupil of Belvedere, Kevin Barry’s case had fascinated Peter, and he had been shocked when the eighteen-year-old rebel had been hanged in Mountjoy Jail. He hoped that if it came to it, he would be as brave as Barry had been, and the thought focused his mind on what he had to do today.

  He transferred his rugby kit bag from one hand to the other, hoping that the football bag would make it clear that he was a schoolboy, the way it had a year ago when he had been stopped by the Black and Tans. But if he was stopped on his mission today and the bag thoroughly searched he would be in serious trouble.

  His mission. The very words sent a shiver up his spine. But a mission is what it was, and he had been buzzing with anticipation ever since Mr McMahon had asked him to stay back after class a few days previously. The teacher had seemed annoyed when Peter insisted on getting involved with the republican movement on the night that the gunman had shown up at the Irish language club. McMahon had made it clear that he still wasn’t happy with Peter’s behaviour, but he had obviously had the Black and Tan incident confirmed by the gunman, and presumably they could see the value of a cool-headed schoolboy for getting around enemy security.

  At any rate, Peter had been given an envelope for the commander of the Anti-Treaty forces occupying the Four Courts, and told to make certain that it was delivered safely. For all he knew the envelope might contain blank sheets of paper if they were being cautious and just trying him out, but either way this would count as a test, and he knew that if he did well it could lead to other operations.

  First, though, he had to be successful today, and as he passed the Fr Mathew Hall and the Capuchin Chapel at Church Street, Peter felt his anxiety rising even further.

  The new government hadn’t yet attempted to storm the Four Courts, but the complex could be under observation, and he knew that there was a risk involved in what he was about to try. But other people were taking risks, much bigger risks that cost them their lives. From his newspaper scrapbooks, he knew that over seventy people had been killed in Belfast the previous month in shootings between Irish nationalists and pro-British loyalists, so what he was about to do wasn’t so daring, really. Even still, as he drew nearer the Four Courts, his mouth was dry with nervousness.

  The main entrance was on the river side of the complex, on Inns Quay, and Peter had already decided that making for the front entrance was out of the question. Instead, he would turn left and approach from the rear at Chancery Street. But first he had to get past the Irish army troops who were clustered around a lorry parked at the kerb in Church Street.

  The troops weren’t actually cordoning off the road – it seemed that they were just establishing a presence in the area – but Peter still had to pass by them and it was important not to draw attention by appearing nervous. He walked nonchalantly along the pavement, then drew level with the soldiers. Would he look shifty if he didn’t make eye contact? Or would it be more of a mistake to stare at them and get noticed? He decided to look at the soldiers with mild curiosity, then look away. Whistling a little tune as though lost in his own world, he passed by the troops. He half expected some kind of challenge. Then he told himself that this was because he knew what was in the bag, and that the soldiers probably just saw him as another schoolboy going to play in a match.

  He turned, unchallenged, into Chancery Street, breathing out in relief. But he couldn’t relax for long, because while Chancery Street backed onto the rear of the Four Courts, it also contained the Bridewell Police Station. Across the road he could see the barricaded windows behind which the rebels occupied the courts buildings, but there was nobody about on the street, which gave him hope. He walked on, forcing himself to keep his pace casual. Just as he drew near to the entrance to the Bridewell, a tall Dublin Metropolitan Policeman stepped out the door. Peter saw the DMP man quickly taking in his well- dressed appearance.

  The man raised his hand in a signal to halt. ‘You’re not from round here, son, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Peter striving to keep his voice normal. ‘I’m from Glasnevin.’

  The policeman pointed towards the barricaded building across the way. ‘This isn’t a great place to be. What are you doing down here?’

  ‘Just taking a short cut on the way to a match.’ Peter indicated the kitbag. ‘I’ve a rugby game for Belvedere.’ He held the policeman’s gaze, sensing that an innocent person wouldn’t feel the need to say any more.

  The DMP man looked at Peter for a moment, and he felt his stomach tightening. Although the police would be careful in dealing with people as respectable as his parents, even Dad’s standing as a professional man wouldn’t save him now if the policeman discovered what was in the kitbag.

  After a moment, the man seemed to reach a decision and he nodded. ‘Enjoy your game. But you’d be safer cutting out onto the quays.’ He pointed to the corner round which Chancery Place led towards the river Liffey.

  ‘Right,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll go that way.’

  The policeman nodded again, then continued briskly towards Church Street. Peter moved slowly now, crossing the road towards the side of the Four Courts and glancing casually behind him. As soon as the DMP man was out of sight he walked more swiftly. There was nobody on the street now – he suspected most people were avoiding the vicinity of the occupied Four Courts – and this would be his best chance of succeeding.

  He went quickly toward the side entrance that straddled the junction of Chancery Street and Chancery Lane and saw that the gate was heavily barricaded and manned by two armed rebels. Peter quickly began to open the kitbag and both men immediately trained their rifles on him.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said reassuringly, ‘it’s OK. Orders for the Officer in Command.’

  The men looked taken aback, and Peter continued, adopting a confidence that he didn’t really feel: ‘This is to go to the Officer in Command, at once.’ He reached down into the middle of his rugby gear, then withdrew a rolled up envelope and passed it through the gate.

  One of
the men took the envelope, and Peter said ‘Up the Republic!’ Then he swiftly closed his kitbag, looked around to make sure the street was still deserted, and started walking towards the quays.

  Annie sat nervously in the kitchen pretending to read the children’s section of Da’s Sunday paper. She wanted to find the right words to tell her parents about Susie’s invitation to visit her home. On returning from Eccles Street yesterday all the family had been full of questions, and Annie had told them excitedly about the school, and the nuns, and some of the girls she had met. But she hadn’t disclosed that Susie had invited her to Glasnevin, sensing somehow that it would be better to leave that until later. Now, though, she felt that having to raise the subject on its own was going to make it seem important. And it would be really disappointing if her parents forbade her to visit the first friend she had made in her new school. She had to get this right.

  Eamon and Sean were out at a football match, so she had her parents to herself, and she was rehearsing in her mind the kind of casual voice she might use in asking permission, when her father rose from the kitchen table.

  ‘I better make a start,’ he said.

  ‘I did some sandwiches, Jim, they’re in the breadbin,’ said her mother.

  ‘Are you working, Da?’ asked Annie in surprise. Her father put in long hours driving the hackney, but usually he took Sundays off.

  ‘Have to take some big-wig in from Sutton to the Department of Finance,’ he answered.

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘The country’s in a crisis, Annie. The government can’t just work office hours – and neither can I.’

  ‘No. And I’m … I’m sorry, Da.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Well, my new school is going to cost so much, with uniforms and all.’

  ‘Don’t worry your head about that, Annie,’ said Ma. ‘We’re just delighted that you’re getting the chance.’

  ‘And we’ll have you looking as smart as any of them. We’ll earn whatever it takes.’

  ‘Thanks, Da,’ said Annie, touched. ‘Thanks, Ma.’

  Her mother smiled, and Annie decided to take the plunge. ‘There’s something else I wanted to ask you,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’ replied Ma.

  ‘You remember I said I met some girls at the convent,’ continued Annie, trying to keep her tone casual. ‘One of them, Susie O’Neill is her name, asked could I come up to her house to visit.’

  Ma looked at her with interest. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Glasnevin.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Glasnevin?’ queried Da.

  ‘Botanic Road.’

  ‘It’s not O’Neill the vet, is it?’ said Da.

  ‘Yes, she said her father’s a vet.’

  Da looked uncertain. ‘They’re a bit …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bit law-dee-daw for us maybe.’

  ‘No, Da, Susie is lovely. She’s dead friendly, not a bit stuck-up – you’d like her.’

  ‘I’m sure I would. But still …’

  Annie looked at her father in dismay. It was bad enough that her friends on the road had closed minds and thought that no one should play with anyone unless they were from exactly the same neighbourhood. But now Da seemed to be thinking the same way.

  ‘We’re just looking out for you, love,’ said her mother. ‘Susie might be nice, but maybe her people … well they might look down a bit on us.’

  ‘Why would they? We’re as good as anyone else.’

  ‘I know that, love, and you know that,’ said Da. ‘But other people mightn’t think that way.’

  ‘How can that ever change if everyone stays apart?’ asked Annie.

  She saw that her parents didn’t have a ready answer, and she pushed on. ‘Please, let me be friends with her. If it doesn’t work out I won’t go again. But let me try at least.’

  Annie watched anxiously as Da looked to Ma for a decision. Her mother hesitated briefly, then nodded. ‘All right, love. Visit her if you like – but just don’t be too disappointed if … well, if everything doesn’t work out.’

  ‘I won’t. And thanks for letting me go,’ said Annie, then she rose and made for the door, relieved, but still a bit disappointed with her parents’ reaction.

  ‘You’re a right little glutton, aren’t you?’ said Peter’s older brother John, as the family enjoyed their Sunday tea in the sunlit dining room.

  ‘What’s it to you if I’ve more crumble?’ retorted Peter

  ‘You won’t stay on the rugger team if you’ve a big fat belly.’

  ‘John!’ admonished their mother ‘Don’t be vulgar, and don’t tease.’

  Out of sight of their mother, Peter made a face at his older brother. He hated the way he talked down to him. Just because John was twenty and a university student he tried to adopt a man-of-the-world attitude that Peter found infuriating. Their father had just been called to the dental surgery for an emergency extraction, and in his absence John was acting like the man of the house.

  Their sister Mary moved now to make the peace, as she often did, and she turned to Peter.

  ‘Did you have a match this afternoon?’ she asked. Mary’s life revolved around music, which she taught in the nearby Holy Faith convent, and she had little interest in rugby. Still, she meant well, so Peter answered politely.

  ‘No, I, eh…’ Peter thought about his mission to the Four Courts, and he imagined their faces if they knew what he had really been doing, but of course he couldn’t tell the truth. ‘I went into the Bots with Tommy for a while,’ he answered instead. ‘The Bots’ was slang for the adjacent Botanical Gardens, where the river Tolka flowed through many acres of landscaped grounds. There were exotic trees and plants, and large, tropically warm greenhouses, and because it was an adventure land for local children Peter reckoned this was a convincing answer.

  His mother, however, looked at him questioningly.

  ‘I thought the O’Neills were visiting relatives in Rathgar?’ she said.

  Peter was caught unawares and he hesitated. ‘Eh, yes, they … they were, later on,’ he improvised, ‘so Tommy couldn’t stay for too long.’

  ‘Right.’

  His mother seemed satisfied with the explanation, but Peter realised that he’d have to be more careful. If he went on further missions for the rebels, as he hoped to, then he would need to have convincing stories prepared.

  His brother began lecturing them now, going on importantly about diabetes, for which, he explained, a cure had been discovered in Canada. As John told them about something called insulin, his mother and Mary listened attentively – in Peter’s opinion they were far too respectful of his standing as a medical student – but for once, he didn’t mind as it gave him a chance to think things out. He would have to talk to Tommy, to make sure he would back up the story about the Bots, just in case it might arise in conversation with his mother. He would also have to come up with some explanation for Tommy as to why he misled his mother, but that should be all right, he would think of something. And anyway, Tommy wasn’t the type to quiz him too closely.

  He hadn’t realised it would all be so complicated when he had approached Mr McMahon. But he wanted to play his part, he had to. He thought back to the hungry-looking children he had passed outside the tenement that afternoon. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen real poverty before – it was rampant in many parts of Dublin – but somehow today he had linked their situation to his own actions. Forming a new republic shouldn’t just be about changing a British government for an Irish one. The republic should be a place where there weren’t any filthy, hungry children. That was worth fighting for, he reckoned, and whatever the risks, he was going to take them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Come on and we’ll annoy the boys!’ said Susie.

  Annie followed her new friend out through the French windows, curious to meet Susie’s twin brother, Tommy, and eager to explore the O’Neill’s extensive back garden. Annie’s house had no garden, just a ya
rd in the back where Ma kept her beloved potted plants, but Susie’s home had trimmed lawns, mature trees, a high stone boundary wall and lots of interesting nooks and crannies. The house itself was an imposing granite building, with a portico over the front door and ivy growing on the walls. Annie had been impressed by its grandeur – which Susie clearly took for granted – but she had been careful not to sound too overawed, not wanting to emphasise the difference in their backgrounds.

  On her arrival, Annie had met Mrs O’Neill, but hadn’t yet seen Mr O’Neill who was delivering a foal at a farm in Ashtown. Annie had been a little nervous about meeting Susie’s mother, but, as it turned out, Mrs O’Neill was like an older version of Susie, with a quick smile and flashing eyes. She was expensively dressed and well spoken, but she had offered the girls lemonade, and had put Annie at her ease and made her feel welcome.

  Now Annie followed Susie as she strode towards a corner of the garden in which a home-made swing had been tied to the bough of a large tree. A boy with dark hair and brown eyes – obviously Susie’s twin – was being vigorously pushed on the swing by another, taller boy with wavy fair hair.

  ‘Halt in the name of the law!’ said Susie, jumping in front of her brother and bringing the swing to a juddering stop by grabbing the rope.

  ‘You’re such a messer, Susie!’ cried the dark-haired boy.

  ‘Mind your manners. I want you to meet my friend.’

  Annie smiled, hoping the boy wouldn’t be too annoyed at having his fun cut short by her introduction. To her relief he smiled back.

  ‘I’m Tommy,’ he said.

  Annie had been warned by her mother to behave correctly today and had shaken hands and said ‘How do you do?’ when meeting Mrs O’Neill. But now she copied Tommy’s informality and simply responded, ‘Hello, I’m Annie.’

  ‘And this big galoot is Peter Scanlon,’ said Susie.

  ‘You’re heading for a ducking in the Tolka,’ threatened the other boy, but he grinned as he said it, and Annie could see that he wasn’t offended.