Katie's War (5 page)

It was only when she and Dafydd were out in the lane that she thought about the dog again; it had been black, black without a patch of white. Uncle Mal had no dog like that! It made her spine tingle but she was glad she had told it to shut up. To hell with the black dogs.

Dafydd sat beside the road and laced up his boots.

‘Oh, the comfort of a pair of socks,' he said with a sigh.

They had hardly spoken on the walk back. Katie had been preoccupied.

‘How much did you hear – of what the man was saying up at the house? What they're planning?'

‘Me? Never understood a word. I'm Welsh, you see,' said Dafydd.

Katie looked at him with interest.

‘S
queeze the trigger,' the voice said, but Katie's arms were aching and she couldn't hold the heavy rifle steady. The sights weaved and bobbed. Sometimes she had the advancing soldier dead-centre in the frame, then, just as her finger curled on the trigger he would bob away. She knew who the soldier was
because
it was
his
rifle she was holding – the triangle of yellow wood where it had been repaired was silky smooth against her cheek.

‘Squeeze the trigger!' It was a command. The soldier was closer now and unarmed. Did that make a difference? ‘Now!' All she could see was the green of his uniform filling the whole of her vision. She could not miss! She would look up when she fired; she had to see his face, the face of a man without a birthright.

The kick of the rifle and the crash of the shot came as one. As the soldier's knees bucked under him, Katie looked up into the dying face – looked and disbelieved. It wasn't him. There was something terribly wrong – the hair a fuzz of red, the eyes that were glazing over were blue. It was her own face.

‘Poor country – poor poor country, no – no – poor Katie,' she grieved.

She stared up into the dark of her room, her pulse racing. What
had woken her? The stairs creaked – Seamus? No, Marty surely, on his nightly expedition. Probably tripped over the Frog's boots, that would have been the crash. But the confusion of her dream seemed to have cleared her mind. She had felt lost, bereaved almost, when they had got back from Uncle Mal's. Now she began to plan, quickly and clearly. When she was
satisfied
that her plan would work, she slept.

Katie woke, pleased to find her plan still neat and clean in her head. She met Marty at the top of the stairs.

‘Look who's after early worms,' he said.

‘Shhh.' Katie put her finger to her lips and pointed to the settle where Dafydd slept, humped in the bed. Marty winked and tiptoed pointedly down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She wasn't often up this early, and she felt nervous. But the homely smell of the kitchen calmed her. The range, which was kept in with a couple of sods of turf, scented the room. The pendulum clock on the wall ticked hollowly. Prince stirred from his place beside the range, got up, stretched stiffly and walked, tail wagging, towards the kitchen door. Marty let him out and followed him into the yard. The light outside was still colourless, the sun not yet up. Katie put on an apron and opened the door of the range. She riddled the ashes off the turf carefully and dropped a handful of kindling through the hole in the top plate. Then she blew, closing her eyes against the waft of dust which swirled back out at her. She persisted until the twigs crackled into life, then added a shovelful of coal from the hod. The porridge had been left soaking on the back of the range overnight. She moved it on to the hot-plate and began to stir.

Marty came in with a jug of buttermilk and a slab of butter from the dairy.

‘Don't you drink all of that,' she said. ‘I want to make a loaf. Dafydd has all the bread eaten.'

‘Well, well, well – what's all this sudden virtue?' Marty looked at her with his head to one side. ‘Could someone have committed a little sin, perhaps, a little crime, or could there be one in the planning?' He cut a slice from the heel of the loaf and spread it thickly with butter. Katie turned her back on him and stirred the porridge.

‘Don't go losing your bread under all that butter,' she said.

‘Oh ho!' said Marty through his mouthful, ‘if it was a past sin we wouldn't be all bossy, so it's a sin in the making, is it? That's interesting now!' Katie set her mouth. Marty had a disconcerting way of seeing through her. As he munched, Marty hummed knowingly.

‘Look!' she said in exasperation. ‘Will you get out of here, look after your blessed cows and mind your own business.'

Marty edged towards the door. ‘It had better be a good one. The last sin … ouch!' he was gone.

Katie walked over and picked up the porridge spoon and wiped the mess off the door with her apron. She could hear him already calling ‘Hup hup,' for the cows down the lane. ‘Bother!' she muttered under her breath. The plan that had seemed so clear as she lay in bed now seemed wild and improbable. ‘Damn Marty!' She pushed the porridge off the hot-plate to the back of the range and closed the lid so the heat would build up in the oven while she mixed the bread. She would not be put off.

‘Now, that's a smell to gladden you,' said Father, sniffing as he came into the kitchen.

‘Isn't she great,' said Mother. ‘She has half my day's work done for me.' Mr Parry came in from the yard, his hair
glistening with water. Katie heated the pot for tea. There was a thunder of boots on the stairs and Dafydd appeared. His hair was tousled and he carried the pot from under his bed in front of him. He checked, saw everybody, then made an embarrassed dash for the door. Everyone looked somewhere else.

‘Well, what do you want us to do today, Eamonn?' asked Mr Parry, pouring cream on to his porridge.

‘We won't get the men up today, not Saturday. The ones I want will be busy – and you can keep the others,' said Father. ‘Let you and me take a really good look at the place today. We'll be ready then for the men tomorrow. Father MacDonagh has promised to make an announcement for me at Mass. We'll have more men and advice than we want before Sunday's out.' Dafydd looked up at his father and raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Sunday already?' Mr Parry sounded surprised.

‘Why yes. Oh! I forgot, of course you don't work or even discuss work on a Sunday, do you? How foolish of me.'

‘Time was it was strictly the Lord's Day but the war changed all that. Anyway, this is Ireland, not Wales.'

‘We must see that you get to church, though. There's the Church of Ireland –'

‘Don't you worry, we're chapel people, you see, but ever since the war I've learned to find God in silence. Do you remember how the nightingales sometimes sang before the guns started in the war? Your hills will do Dafydd and me just fine. If it is too quiet I will get him to sing, and that's a threat. I haven't managed to get a cheep out of him since his voice broke.'

‘I wonder if there's any news of the trouble in Dublin,' Father mused. ‘We could do with a newspaper.' Katie, whose thoughts had been elsewhere, looked up sharply.

Mr Parry added, ‘Dafydd could do with news too, couldn't you, lad? He's all keen to hear how the mountaineers are doing on Mount Everest. Met them, he did, up at Llyn Ogwen,
practising
.'

‘There was Mr Mallory and Mr Irvine,' said Dafydd. ‘They had ropes and boots with special nails along the edges.' Katie hadn't expected Dafydd to have an interest in climbing. He had caught the sun on their walk and looked less cadaverous now. Also, he had a phenomenal appetite.

‘I think that's where Dafydd's liking for boots comes from,' laughed Mr Parry, but Dafydd went on, ‘There was an Irish man there too – a Mr O'Brien, just like you. He climbed
barefoot
. You couldn't climb on Everest barefoot though, you'd get frost-bite. Perhaps they've got to the top by now. It takes weeks and weeks for news to come back.'

‘Dafydd and me'll go and get a
Nenagh Guardian
, or an
Independent
,' said Katie.

Dafydd looked surprised, then looked across at his father, questioning. The men got up.

‘That's kind,' said Mr Parry. ‘You can come up to the quarry when you get back, Dafydd.' As their voices receded across the yard Katie heard Mr Parry ask, ‘Is it far?'

‘No, you can walk across the fields.' Katie coughed to drown Father's words. Marty thumped her heartily on the back, saying, ‘That's for your sins.'

‘Start at the edge, dip the skimmer in steeply, then flatten it out just under the cream.' Dafydd did as he was instructed. ‘Now pull it towards you.' The thick layer of yellow cream crumpled up on to the enamel skimmer while the blue milk flowed out through the holes. ‘Keep it flat and lift it over the bowl – keep it flat! There, easy isn't it?' Katie stepped back and glanced
cautiously out the dairy door. She was just in time to see her mother, looking smart, set off up the yard. She would be going to see Mrs Moran about the summer sale. Marty had gone down to the wet meadows to look at the bullocks. She could hear the swish-swish of Peter sweeping out the byre; she could manage Peter. Dafydd had not done badly. There were still islands of cream floating on the milk. She swept these up expertly. Mother still made butter for their own use. Katie promised herself she would help her with the churning this evening. She covered the bowl and the cream with muslin.

‘Are you sure it's all right, your taking the trap?' asked Peter as he fitted Barney into his harness.

‘Yes, we have a message,' said Katie, trying not to be caught in a lie.

‘Take care then, he's fresh,' said Peter, stepping back.

Katie looped the reins over her hands, hoping she didn't look as scared as she felt.

‘I thought your Dad said it was a walk through the fields?' said Dafydd.

‘It's quicker by trap,' she said, ‘quicker where we're going.'

She was only just in control as they rattled down the
potholed
road from the farm and they approached the main road at a trot. At the junction the road rose steeply up left into the village. Dafydd adjusted his grip, bracing himself for the turn, but next moment he was on his back on the floor of the trap. Without slackening pace, Katie had turned right, away from the village on to the road to Nenagh.

‘Gid-up, Barney,' she called as Dafydd floundered about at her feet. The crash of his fall had frightened Barney, who trotted faster, ears back, a short jerking motion. Katie stood up and braced her feet apart. She hadn't changed her clothes
before coming out. Her blouse was old, her skirt patched – and she wanted to sing. She pulled the ribbon from her head and shook her hair free. Dafydd had clambered on to the seat and was holding on grimly; his ears flashed as they passed in and out of sunlight, but Katie was thinking of someone else.
He
would know what to do, when she found him, and between them they would stop this fight, perhaps even the whole war.

She imagined their meeting clearly. In the street, or perhaps down at the railway station again. He'd be there, smiling a surprised greeting. She'd drag Barney to a halt. Then, leaning from the trap, she'd tell him that a mutiny was planned. She imagined him looking up at her, as he had at the station, eyes intent but smiling. Perhaps he'd put his hand in hers for a second, but there'd be no time for more. He'd go to his officer then, and she would slip away. There would be some arrests perhaps, but no fighting because the mutiny would have been caught in the bud. Seamus would come home and she could shake off Father's shadow and be free to get on with her life.

The jolting motion of the trap irritated her so she flicked the reins. Immediately the jolting stopped and the trap took on a wave-like motion as Barney cantered. The hedges streamed past and Katie couldn't resist another slap with the reins.

‘Feel that, Dafydd!' she yelled as the motion changed again, this time to a smooth, breath-taking flow. Barney had never galloped in the trap before. The wind whipped at Katie's hair, and she leant into the bend as the road swung to the left. ‘Finn MacCool would have driven like this!' she called.

The fallen tree took her completely by surprise. She dragged on Barney's reins but he seemed unable to stop.

‘Watch out, Dafydd!' But the barrier across the road grew and grew. Barney's chest was almost into the branches before they pulled up and she lost her footing. Terrified, Barney began
to back. The trap was slewing to one side and in a second it would overturn. At that moment a soldier rose from the ditch and seized Barney's halter. The horse reared, but the soldier held him down.

‘Where the hell do you think you're going!' roared a voice ahead of them. The branches quaked. Katie, tangled up in Dafydd's legs, struggled to get up off the floor. ‘Hold them there, Corporal, don't let go.' An officer, Sam Brown belt shining, pushed into sight through the branches. His cap was knocked awry, one arm was in a sling and the other held a long-barrelled pistol which he raised and pointed at Katie. ‘Stand up! Put your hands up. Who else have you got in there?' Dafydd appeared from the floor, pale and clearly shaken. ‘You too; your hands where I can see them. Well? Who are you, and where are you going?'

‘We're just doing messages, going into Nenagh,' said Katie, answering his last question first. ‘I'm Katie O'Brien, this is Dafydd – he's from Wales, he doesn't speak English.' Why had she repeated that stupid lie?

‘Messages? At the gallop?'

‘What's happened?' she asked.

‘What business is that of yours?' the officer snapped without lowering his pistol.

‘None, none at all,' she stammered.

‘I'll tell you what's bloody well happened.' Katie could see that his hand was shaking. She'd never seen anyone so angry before and was terrified the pistol would go off. ‘A friend of mine, an officer, an Irishman – one of the best, one who fought with me against the English – has been shot dead in Nenagh by your so-called Republicans. They also shot Mrs O'Malley, a perfectly innocent by-stander, in the stomach, and she's died too. And then not ten minutes ago I got this from one of your
friends when we came out to clear this tree.' He held up his bandaged hand. ‘Now, where were you going at the gallop? Taking messages rather than doing them I'd say, or have they sent you to spy on us?'