Shamrock Green (10 page)

‘At the killing,' Gowry said.

‘I can't deny it,' Maggie Leonard said, ‘at the killing too.'

‘Ah, you are too stoical for me,' said Gowry.

‘Are you not going to argue with me?' Maggie said. ‘I haven't had a good argument since the last time you were here.'

Gowry laughed. ‘I'll argue with you only after I've something in my stomach. I've been on the road since before dinner time and I'll not have a nice sergeant-major waiting to serve me a big fat juicy steak.'

‘Hoh!' the woman said. ‘Will I not be doing as well as a sergeant-major?'

‘Every bit as well,' said Gowry.

He finished the stout, took the glass to the tub and rinsed it. He was shoulder to shoulder with her. He would have liked to put his arm about her and hug her again but didn't dare. It was a queer kind of love he had for the woman. He could imagine himself lying next to her in the big double bed at the back of the house but could not imagine entering her. He lifted his tunic and satchel and headed for the ladder that led up to the loft.

Maggie said, ‘The tackle is safe.'

‘I wasn't thinking about the tackle.'

‘I have put blankets over the boxes, for there might be frost soon.'

‘It's too early for frost,' Gowry said. ‘Besides, what harm will frost do?'

‘It makes the bolts contract.'

‘Who told you that? Your son?'

‘My husband,' Maggie said. ‘Mind you, that was in the days of the old ball muskets. Mausers will be a different kettle of fish from the weapons Joseph was used to. Still, it will do no harm to keep them snug.'

‘No,' Gowry said. ‘I suppose not.'

He moved towards the stairs. He had to make himself small to go up them, eight steps, head bowed, elbows tucked in. Up there he felt quite close to the husband buried in Africa and the son who had been lost at sea. There was something about a lonely cottage on the plain that transformed you into a dreamer, Gowry thought, whether you liked it or not.

Maggie brought him a lighted candle in a wooden holder and he carried it upstairs to the loft where he would spend the night, sleeping beside the guns.

*   *   *

Turk had been at the drink all afternoon but he had a head for it and a belly like cast iron and was no more than flushed when he strolled into the bar of the Shamrock about half past eight o'clock. Charlie arrived hot on Turk's heels but there was no sign of Daniel, for which small mercy Sylvie was thankful. She would have barred the brothers from her house and threatened them with the constables but Maeve was there and six commercial gentlemen who knew Turk by name and reputation, and she could not bring herself to do it. Besides, she refused to be intimidated by Vaizey's threats.

She pulled on the handle of the engine.

‘Is that for me, my sweetheart? Ay-hay, but I'm in sore need of it.'

Turk swept the glass from the bar and swallowed the contents. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the empty glass back on the counter.

‘Another on the slate. One for me an' one for Charlie.'

Charlie had no taste for black stout, which was strange in a man who manufactured the stuff. He was drinking whiskey and water. There was profit in every glass that Sylvie sold and there would be a great fat bag of silver and copper to lug to the bank tomorrow. She remained puzzled as to why Gowry refused to live on her profits instead of working for Flanagan, a man he despised. Perhaps he still resented the fact that it was Forbes's money that had set them on the road to solvency in the first place.

The bar room was small. The piano occupied more space than it justified but she knew the regulars would howl if she got rid of it. They were all in the bar that weeknight. Mr Pettu had dropped in to partake of a drop before he went upstairs to do his books and even Mr Dolan had given up brooding and had slipped into the bar on Mr Rice's coat tails. Sylvie waited for Fran to appear, but the big, round wall clock
tocked
away the minutes and minutes ran into an hour and she had almost given up hope that he would show that evening. She cleared tables, washed glasses in the alcove, racked them below the bottles and from the corner of her eye watched Maeve nudging Turk towards the piano.

Turk tickled the girl, his big, sausage-like fingers trailing over her waist and narrow hips. Maeve's shrill, pizzicato giggle made the men at the tables smile. Though it was long past Maeve's bedtime, Sylvie was reluctant to order her daughter to go upstairs to bed. A crowded bar was no place for a young girl, but at Maeve's age she had been trailed round many a Glasgow pub by her foster-father and had loved every minute of it. Frowning, she watched Turk pull out the piano stool with his foot. Arm about Maeve, he drew the girl on to his knee, lifted the piano lid and struck from the yellowing keys a great solemn chord that had all the men in the room, even prim Mr Pettu, nodding approval.

‘What'll it be then, me lads?' Turk roared.

‘“The Lass o' Skibbereen”.'

‘Nah, nah, nah: give us “Denzil's Delight”.'

‘Not with ladies present,' Mr Pettu objected. ‘How about “Ave Maria”?'

‘“Ave Maria”?'

‘Get away wit' you!'

Turk pulled Maeve closer. He whispered in her ear. She uttered another giggle, wriggled, put out one hand and covered the range of keys that Turk Trotter had indicated. On his nod, she struck down on them and the men, every one, shouted out,
‘The Glories, The Glories,'
and with Maeve still riding on his knee, Turk began to sing.

Sylvie leaned on the counter in the smell of the stout and looked through the haze to the door. There in the dark of the corridor was Fran. He wasn't smiling but had a wistful sadness on him as if the song touched him too. He looked haggard, though. Sylvie wondered if what they had done that morning had wearied him. No, it could hardly be that. He flicked his eyes at her, did not smile. Like a ghost in the dark of the hall he was, and she knew then what it was he would have her do and she was not afraid of him or any of them for they were all marked men and she would surely be marked with them.

They sang with Turk, not the last chorus but the whole verse. She saw Fran's lips move, as if he were uttering a prayer. The song finished to shouting and the slapping of palms on tables.

Sylvie called out, ‘Charlie,' and when her brother-in-law glanced up she nodded in the direction of the hall. Turk looked round too. When he spotted Fran all the merriment went out of him. He tightened his arm about Maeve's waist, lifted her from his knee, held her for a second or two, close and protective, then with a roar he bounced up from the stool and headed for the door.

‘Nature calls, nature calls,' he said and hurried after Charlie into the hall.

*   *   *

‘Is it settled then?' Charlie said.

‘No, it's far from settled,' Fran said.

‘Is he not coming then?' said Turk.

‘Aye, he's coming on Sunday to his country estate at Aughvanagh.'

‘What for?' said Turk.

‘A holiday,' said Fran.

‘Now he's done his worst in Westminster, he needs a bloody holiday!' said Turk. ‘Him and his bloody recruiting drive. How could he commit us all to fight for the British government without even consulting the brotherhoods?'

‘Will we take him at Aughvanagh?' said Charlie.

‘No, at Woodenbridge,' Fran said.

They were in the yard at the rear of the house. The kitchen door was open and the long corridor stretched empty to the door of the bar.

‘Sunday,' Charlie said, ‘doesn't give us much time.'

‘Do you want to quit?' Fran said.

‘Quit?' said Charlie. ‘We haven't started yet.'

‘Woodenbridge?' said Turk. ‘What's the old devil doing at Woodenbridge?'

‘Passing through on his way to his estate at Aughvanagh.'

‘You already told us that,' said Charlie.

‘But,' Fran said, ‘he'll break his journey to inspect a parade of the Irish volunteers at Woodenbridge.'

‘I know Woodenbridge well enough,' Turk said. ‘There's plenty of cover and good back roads. Are you sure it is he'll stop there?'

‘He'll stop,' said Fran. ‘John Redmond's a politician and can never resist an opportunity to make a speech and, by God, it will have to be some speech to justify the fact that he promised Irish help in the war without consulting any of us.'

‘How does Redmond know there's a parade at Woodenbridge?' said Turk.

‘The schoolmaster told him,' said Fran.

‘The schoolmaster?'

‘MacSweeney, the leader. He's been a friend of Redmond's for years.'

‘Did you get this information from my father?' said Charlie.

‘No,' Fran said. ‘It's reliable.'

‘Is Redmond to be shot?' said Turk. ‘If he is, then I'll—'

‘He is not to be shot,' said Fran. ‘God, Turk, would you have us branded as murderers? We're not murderers. Besides, we've no copyright on martyrs and Redmond would be a martyr before his body struck the ground.'

‘A martyr for the English,' Charlie said.

‘Exactly,' Fran said.

‘What will it be then,' said Turk, ‘a wounding?'

‘Shots, just shots fired into the air, a volley or two,' said Fran.

‘Ay-hay, that'll make the volunteers think twice about joining up, I'll wager. They'll run like bloody rabbits at the first sign of shooting,' Turk said.

‘There are many brave men among the volunteers,' said Charlie. ‘I'll not hear a word said against them, even those that side with Redmond.'

‘We'll be seeing who's brave come Sunday,' Turk said. ‘How many guns do you have and how many will be needed?'

‘Two,' Fran said.

‘Just two?' said Turk.

‘Where will we be gettin' the guns?' said Charlie. ‘Don't tell me my bloody brother has relented?'

‘He has not,' said Fran. ‘I have the guns.'

‘Rifles?'

‘Mausers,' Fran said.

‘From the stolen lot?' Charlie snorted. ‘Very clever, Francis, to have the foresight to keep back two rifles from the batch you left at the Shamrock.'

‘What's so clever about it?' said Turk.

Charlie said, ‘Vaizey knows guns were delivered here. He'll come clattering down on Gowry and this time he'll not take
no
for an answer. That'll teach my bloody brother not to meddle in our affairs.'

‘Is that how you planned it from the beginning, Francis?' Turk asked.

‘How could it be?' Fran Hagarty said. ‘I didn't know Redmond would promise the English that the Irish volunteers would fight for them against Germany. However, we may as well use the guns now as later. Will the boy come in with us?'

‘He will, that he will,' said Turk.

‘Charlie, the motor-car?'

‘It'll be my pleasure to drive your Hudson.'

‘Turk,' Fran said, ‘you and the boy can go down by train on Saturday afternoon. Take food and drink with you, find yourselves a place to lie up in the woods near the road. Charlie will drive down in the early part of Sunday morning with the rifles. He'll hide them in the ferns by the roadside south of the big field and mark the spot with a scarf draped on the bushes.'

‘And we'll pick up the guns while the parade's assembling?'

Fran nodded. ‘Charlie will park the motor in one of the farm roads nearby. When he hears shooting he'll come for you. Make for the road to the south of the field. It's not far, two or three hundred yards at most.'

‘Do we bring the rifles out with us?' said Turk.

‘No,' Fran said, ‘wipe them clean and toss them away.'

‘Do you want them found?' said Turk.

‘Sure an' he does,' said Charlie. ‘So Redmond will think there's a traitor in the ranks. If we're stopped we'll be pure as driven snow with a plausible story to cover ourselves. We'll tell them we're in Wicklow to buy a barley crop.'

‘Hah!' said Turk. ‘I like it. Now, where are the two Mausers?'

‘On top of the coal box right behind you,' Fran said.

‘By Gad, you've thought of everything,' Turk said.

‘What's my father's role in this?' Charlie said.

‘There is no place for him, I'm afraid,' said Fran.

‘Do you not trust him to keep his gob shut?'

‘No, I do not,' said Fran.

‘No more do I,' said Charlie.

‘An' where will you be yourself, Fran, on Sunday afternoon?' Turk asked.

‘I'll be right here in the Shamrock,' Fran answered, ‘in bed with the gunman's wife.'

*   *   *

Gowry lay on the bed listening to the wind sighing along the ridge and the saplings rushing to shed the tenacious little leaves that would not depart the bough. He lay on the narrow bed listening to Maggie moving about below and, thinking of Sylvie, wondered how he had lost his way.

His mother it was who had insisted that he follow Forbes to Scotland to carve a niche for himself. He might have been in Scotland still if Forbes had not taken up with Sylvie and treated her so badly. Had he ever loved Sylvie, or had he only felt sorry for her? Perhaps it was only spite that had driven him to steal her from Forbes and bring her to Dublin. She had been a sprightly little piece then, not nearly as silly as Forbes had supposed; after Maeve had been born she had become very balanced and shrewd indeed. The truth was that he didn't understand Sylvie, did not understand women, though he didn't dismiss them, as many men did, as good for nothing but cooking, copulating and bearing children.

He lay with his hands behind his head listening to the wind and the sounds below. When Maggie called he got up and went downstairs, seated himself at the table, ate the food she'd cooked for him and sought the sixpence worth of optimism that he badly needed at this time.