Taking Sides

by Brian Gallagher

  Peter nodded. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘I’d love to get cards all right,’ said Annie. ‘But I don’t know about sending them. They hardly sell postcards of Hickey’s Fishmongers!’

  ‘Just send us a postcard of Dublin then,’ said Susie.

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed Annie, then she grinned. ‘Here, talking of post, what do you get if you cross an elephant with a vicious dog?’

  ‘What?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘A nervous postman!’

  The others laughed, then Peter indicated the lemonade glasses that they had put aside when eating the strawberries and cream. ‘We should have a toast,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be split up, but here’s to when we all get back together.’ Careful not to spill the lemonade, he raised his glass, and the others did the same. They clinked glasses, giggling, then Susie raised her hand for attention.

  ‘And as Daddy always says on New Year’s Eve,’ and here she mimicked her father’s deep, serious voice. ‘Here’s to the future, and all the good it holds!’

  They raised their glasses again, and Peter wondered what the future did hold. The thought struck him that it could be bad as well as good. Then he saw his friends’ smiling faces, and he dismissed the thought, and eagerly joined the toast.

  PART TWO

  CIVIL WAR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Annie had the cleanest hands in Dublin. At least that’s what Mr Hickey, the fishmonger, laughingly claimed whenever he saw her washing them vigorously with carbolic soap. But Annie was determined that she wouldn’t smell of fish when she took her lunch break or when she finished work in the evenings. Today, Wednesday, was her third day in Hickeys and she had been pleasantly surprised at how much she enjoyed the work. OK, there was a strong smell of fish in the shop, but she was used to it now and she was no longer put off by the rows of fish with bulging eyes that stared lifelessly across the ice-filled marble slab. There was always good-humoured banter, too, between Mr Hickey and the customers, particularly with the sharp-tongued men who delivered supplies from the fish markets.

  Mrs Hickey, the wife of the owner, was a bit cranky, and Annie hated the way she was really polite to well-heeled customers, but just business-like to people who were obviously poorer. Mr Hickey made up for it, though, and Annie liked working with him. The hours were long, and when the shop was busy Annie was run ragged serving and packing the fish, but both evenings when they finished, Mr Hickey had slipped her a couple of fresh fish to take home. When Annie had looked surprised, Mr Hickey had winked and said: ‘Perk of the job – just don’t tell the missus!’

  Annie had agreed, happy to outsmart the stern-faced Mrs Hickey. And even though she hadn’t received her first week’s wages yet, Annie had felt like a real worker when she arrived home and presented Ma with the fish her boss had given her.

  ‘Good girl, Annie,’ Ma had said. ‘They must be pleased with you. Uncle Mick will be delighted.’

  Annie had been glad to see Ma happy, and although one part of her envied her friends and their trips to Carlingford and Wexford, she had been glad of the chance to give something back to the family.

  Now she was out shopping with Ma, and it made her feel grown up to think that she would be contributing also to the new clothes that were being bought for when she started in Eccles Street. She had arranged to meet Ma during her break, and had run happily from Henry Street to Capel Street, where they wanted to look at reasonably priced new shoes for school.

  ‘What about these ones, Annie?’ asked Ma, showing her a sensible pair of heavy black shoes.

  ‘They’re a bit …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know we want something that will last, Ma, but … well, they look like clodhoppers.’

  Ma laughed. ‘Aren’t you the devil for style. Maybe it’s a pair of fancy lady’s ankle boots you want?’

  Annie looked appealingly at her mother. ‘Maybe something in between?’

  ‘Oh, all right then.’

  Ma was about to comment further when both of them were shocked by a thunderous noise.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ cried Ma.

  ‘What was that?!’ said Annie, her heart thumping with fright.

  ‘Artillery,’ answered a man who had been trying on shoes in the aisle beside them.

  There was another loud bang, and Annie jumped again.

  ‘Eighteen pounders,’ said the man. ‘I’d know that sound anywhere.’

  It was a horrible sound and Annie braced herself in case there was another explosion.

  ‘Where’s it coming from?’ asked Ma.

  ‘Has to be the Four Courts,’ answered the man.

  The Four Courts complex was only a couple of hundred yards away – no wonder the sound had been so frightening, Annie thought. But although the courts had been occupied by republican rebels for weeks now, so far there had been no fighting. ‘What do you think is happening, Ma?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, pet. Maybe the government is taking the place back.’

  ‘Can’t be anything else,’ said the man. ‘The rebels have no artillery.’

  There was another loud bang, but this time Annie forced herself not to jump.

  Ma shook her head sadly. ‘There’s going to be people killed. This is madness.’

  ‘It’s more than that, missus,’ said the man solemnly. ‘It’s war. There’s no going back now.’

  Annie didn’t know how that would affect her family, but she felt a stab of anxiety. And she sensed, somehow, that it was going to affect them.

  Peter cycled at speed down Phibsboro Road, eager to get to the heart of the action. Even from here, almost a mile from the embattled Four Courts, he could see black smoke rising against the blue of the summer sky. It was two days now since the new government had launched its assault on the rebels, and somehow, against all the odds, the republicans were still holding out.

  Peter’s family had had their holiday plans disrupted due to heavy fighting in the city between the rebels and the army. Sackville Street was now a battle zone, and so the family had cancelled their plan to get the train at Amiens Street station for the journey to Carlingford. Instead, they were going to avoid the centre of town altogether and board the train north of the city at Killester – assuming the trains were still running tonight. Peter fervently hoped that they wouldn’t be. How frustrating it would feel to be out of circulation while a decisive battle was being fought in Dublin.

  When the first shots were fired two days ago he had cycled to the cottage at Cardiffs Bridge, to offer his services to the rebels, but there had been nobody there. He had left a note volunteering to help in any way he could, but there had been no phone call from either Mr McMahon or Finbar, and Peter had felt frustratingly sidelined as the battle raged between the army and the rebels.

  It was an unequal contest, with the new national army possessing armoured cars, artillery and even aeroplanes that they had acquired from the British government. Peter believed, though, that the rebels had right on their side and total conviction – factors that eventually brought victory in the War of Independence, which had also been fought against a bigger and far better-equipped army.

  He reached the bottom of Phibsboro Road, and as he swung round the curve onto Constitution Hill, he had a vista of the city below him. From here he could see that the Four Courts were ablaze, and in the distance he could hear the rattle of machine gun and rifle fire. His parents would be horrified if they knew he was here, but he had told his mother that he was cycling to Drumcondra to visit a classmate from Belvedere. It was a bare-faced lie, but he had to get to where the action was.

  He wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there, but he cycled rapidly down Constitution Hill, the sound of shooting becoming louder as he neared Church Street. People were out on the pavements, watching the flames and plumes of smoke that bellowed dramatically from the Four Courts. Peter cycled on, rising in the saddle as his bicycle bounced over the cobbled surface of the road. He reached the junction
of King Street, then slowed, seeing the road ahead blocked off by two armoured cars and a cordon of troops.

  Peter dismounted and approached a man wearing an officer’s uniform.

  ‘What’s happening in the Four Courts, sir?’ he asked politely. He knew from experience that a boy who was well spoken and courteous could ask questions like this and have a good chance of getting a proper answer.

  The officer looked at him briefly, then replied. ‘It’s all over bar the shouting,’ he said, a hint of boastfulness in his tone.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We’ve taken the building. A few diehards are fighting a retreat, but the rest have all been killed or captured.

  ‘Right,’ said Peter, trying not to show his disappointment.

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ continued the officer. ‘They were just too thick to know when they were beaten.’

  Peter felt offended. How could this man not recognise the bravery of the rebels who had fought for two days despite being heavily outnumbered and bombarded with artillery? But before he could think up an answer there was the most shattering explosion that Peter had ever heard.

  Everyone started in fright, and nearby window panes shattered. Peter instinctively put up his hands to protect his face, then, realising that he hadn’t been hit by flying glass, he lowered them and saw an amazing sight. A vast plume of smoke had shot into the sky above the Four Courts. It rose hundreds of feet, like pictures that Peter had seen of erupting volcanoes, and he watched, mesmerised.

  ‘Must have been their ammo stores,’ one of the soldiers said.

  ‘Must have,’ said the officer who had been so boastful a moment ago.

  If the ammunition had gone up there could be further explosions. It was time to get out of here, Peter decided. He picked up his bicycle, then turned back to the officer.

  ‘All over bar the shouting? I don’t think so, mister!’ he said. Then, before the man could react, Peter jumped up on the bicycle and rode quickly away.

  Annie made her way carefully past burnt-out shops, avoiding the debris that cluttered the city pavements after a week of fierce fighting. The Four Courts complex was now a charred shell, and enormous damage had been done to parts of the city’s main thoroughfare, Sackville Street.

  Annie crossed its broad expanse as she made her way to work in Henry Street. It was her first day back, since the fishmongers had had to close due to the battles in the centre of town. The city had finally been made secure by the government troops, but there had been many soldiers killed and wounded on both sides before the rebels had been driven from Dublin. There had also been hundreds of civilian casualties from heavy fighting near areas that were densely populated.

  Annie had overheard these details from Uncle Mick, who had bitterly criticised the rebels, and said that the government troops would vigorously go on the offensive to take control of the many areas outside Dublin that were still under rebel control.

  Mick had been really angry, and Annie had also overheard him telling Ma that the rebels had seriously underestimated Michael Collins. But, regardless of who had done what, or why, Annie thought it was a tragedy to see so much death and destruction. She made her way around a party of workmen who were clearing debris from outside the ruined shops where beautiful clothes had been destroyed, and undoubtedly, people’s livelihoods had been put at risk. The fighting had cost her a week’s wages, but she had no right to feel sorry for herself, not when other people had lost everything.

  During her week of enforced idleness she had tried not to dwell on the bad news and to get on with things as normal. She had played with her friends on the road, often against a backdrop of cannon and small arms fire from the city centre. With Susie, Tommy and Peter all gone away with their families, she missed the fun she had become used to with her new group of friends. The other girls on the road hadn’t shunned her – she had never stopped playing with them, even when getting friendlier with her new group – but there was a slight distance between them now, a distance that Josie Gogarty had been subtly doing her best to reinforce.

  Annie had ignored the other girl’s sly jibes, and, being the fastest girl on the road, she usually still got picked first for chasing games, but even so, there was a change with her old friends that was a bit unsettling. And now, despite her initial misgivings about working in a fishmongers, Annie was actually looking forward to work as she turned into Henry Street. She didn’t like the smell of porter that came from the pub at the corner, so she crossed the road, then made her way along the opposite side until she reached the fish shop.

  ‘If it’s not the bould Annie!’ said Mr Hickey. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Hickey,’ said Annie with a smile. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hickey’

  The fishmonger’s wife nodded briefly in greeting, then looked at Annie, her gaze more stern than usual. ‘You need to get your apron on at once and start serving – we’ve lost a full week’s takings,’ she said.

  Annie felt a flash of anger. Mrs Hickey had spoken as though Annie were in some way responsible for the lost earnings. And as for starting at once, it wasn’t as though Annie was late – in fact she was several minutes early. She was grateful that Uncle Mick’s friendship with Mr Hickey had got her this job, but it shouldn’t mean that she had to accept being bullied. It was completely unfair of Mrs Hickey to take it out on her over the lost earnings, and Annie felt butterflies in her tummy, but she looked the woman in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry you lost a week’s takings,’ she said, keeping her tone polite. ‘But other people lost their jobs, and their homes, even their lives.’

  Mrs Hickey looked completely taken aback, and before she could think up a response, Annie quickly finished the conversation.

  ‘I’ll get my apron now and start serving.’ She nodded to Mrs Hickey, turned on her heel and walked swiftly into the back of the shop.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Peter tried not to let his frustration show as he walked along the fairway of the golf course. It was a glorious late July day, and he was caddying for his father who had come to Carlingford for the last two weeks of the family’s month-long holiday. His father was playing another dentist, Mr Boyd, a thin, angular man with a Northern accent that Peter sometimes found difficult to understand. Mr Boyd had hired a professional caddy, a small, deeply-tanned man who spoke as little as possible, and so Peter was left to his own thoughts as they all followed the beautifully manicured fairways of the golf course.

  He could see the mountains of Mourne ahead, dramatically silhouetted against the blue sky as they swept down to the sea, just like in the famous song that his sister Mary sometimes sang at parties. But in contrast to the picturesque setting, Peter’s mood was dark.

  His father and Mr Boyd were discussing the civil war, and the news wasn’t good. Despite their defeat in Dublin, the rebels had originally held much of the territory outside the capital, but the national army had been greatly expanded, and now they were driving the rebels from one town after another. The cities of Limerick and Waterford had just been retaken by the government forces, and Mr Boyd was enthusiastic about their progress.

  ‘A damn good thrashing is what the rebels are getting,’ he said. ‘Only a matter of time till the army mops them up.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Peter’s father. ‘They still hold Cork city, though, and they’re strong in the southwest.’

  ‘But they’re a raggle-taggle lot, Henry. Gunmen who are half-gangster, half-fanatic.’

  Peter thought this was a terrible slur on brave men, though he could hardly tackle an adult, especially about a conversation on which he was eavesdropping. But who was Mr Boyd, or even his father, to make judgements on people who were risking their lives – while they themselves played golf? If Mr Boyd felt all that strongly, why wasn’t he out fighting on the pro-Treaty side?

  Peter had tried unsuccessfully to contact Mr Mac or Finbar before leaving for Carlingford, and although he enjoyed the fun of meeting up with his cousins and extended
family during the holiday in county Louth, he still felt frustrated – and even slightly guilty – to be away from the action at this crucial time.

  The golf party stopped now where the two players’ balls lay in line with each other. The wizened caddy withdrew a club without a word and handed it to Mr Boyd.

  ‘Six iron, please, Peter,’ said his father, and Peter took the club from the golf bag.

  Both men hit well. Mr Boyd’s was a particularly long, straight shot, and he looked pleased with himself as the party moved off again, the caddy wordlessly leading the way.

  ‘So, young man,’ said Mr Boyd, turning to Peter. ‘I’m told you’re rather a precise place kicker for Belvedere.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ answered Peter. Normally he would be flattered to have his rugby skills praised by an adult, but something in him rebelled at taking pleasure from Mr Boyd’s praise.

  ‘Precision is everything,’ said Mr Boyd. ‘And of course a key skill for a dentist. I’m sure one day you’ll be a great one, like your father.’

  Peter didn’t want to sound cheeky so he kept his reply reasonable sounding. ‘I don’t think so,’ he answered as they walked along the fairway.

  ‘Come come, no false modesty now,’ said Mr Boyd heartily.

  ‘It’s not false modesty,’ said Peter quietly, even though part of him wanted to shout – why do you just assume I’m going to be the same as my father?!

  ‘Then don’t underestimate yourself,’ answered Mr Boyd, playfully tossing Peter’s hair. ‘You’ll make a fine dentist. Might even give you a run for your money, Henry,’ he said, turning with a conspiratorial smile to Peter’s father.

  Peter knew that he should probably say nothing, but Boyd’s behaviour had annoyed him.

  ‘I’ve no plans to be any kind of a dentist,’ he said. He noticed with satisfaction that his father’s friend was shocked. His father, too, looked taken aback. Peter’s future had never actually been discussed at home, and certainly nobody had asked him his wishes, but an assumption had definitely been made about his career, and this was the first time his father had heard anything to the contrary.