The Soldier's Song (3 page)

‘I’m not like that,’ was all he said, and sat down again.

Listening to him now, Billy realized that any guilt he might have felt was as nothing compared to Stephen’s. Poor devil, he thought. The Christian Brothers had done a right job on him in that department.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
What could he do for his father but make the best of his gifts? He had a talent for mathematics – a rare talent if the reports were true – but guilt would eat it all out of him if he wasn’t careful. And his flaming brother didn’t help. He had a neck, accusing Stephen of living it up when he paid the rent and put food on the table by giving lessons and tutoring schoolchildren. But Joe’s words had hit home and hurt; Billy could see it even in the way Stephen sat on the bed, perched on the edge, not quite at ease.

‘Very moral, your brother,’ Billy said when Stephen finished talking. ‘And I don’t mean that in a good way. Look where morals have brought us now, look.’ He picked up a newspaper from the cluttered desk and handed it to Stephen, who read the headline:

GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA

Stephen gave him a sceptical look.

‘Moral? I’m curious to hear how you think war is moral.’

‘It’s not! Of course it’s not!’ Billy called over his shoulder as he rummaged around his desk, ‘But I bet you’ll find that all those top-hatted buggers who started it are terribly moral. Fine, upstanding, churchgoing men one and all. Men of honour, I’m sure they’d say. They honour their stupid bloody terribly moral treaties – for Brutus is an honourable man! I dare say they’d stand by a bargain with the Devil. I mean, there’s Germany going to war with Russia because one’s got an agreement with Austria and the other with Servia. No other earthly bloody reason to fight, but they’ll do it anyway because a couple of old farts shook hands on it. And we’ll be in it next – you mark my words. We cannot stand aside, they say. We’re all chained together by flaming agreements, the whole bloody lot of us. Ha!’ Billy triumphantly held up a half-bottle of Bushmills and shook it at Stephen, ‘What about a snifter before we walk up?’

‘Why not?’ Stephen threw the newspaper on the bed, but his eye was drawn to it as Billy went looking for glasses. ‘I’m sure it’ll all blow over,’ he said, absently reading the words again. ‘It’s all just bluster. They’ll sort something out.’

‘You must be bloody joking,’ Billy chuckled, and Stephen noted the high colour in his cheeks. He always flushed when he was excited, though that was usually only when he got started on Home Rule. ‘It’s gone too far for that now. They’re bombing Belgrade already. Did you hear what Lord Grey said in the Commons? About the lamps going out all over Europe. Well, when the Foreign Secretary starts talking doom like that, you know the game is up. King Solomon couldn’t sort this one out. We’ll be at war next week, no two ways about it, and God help us all.’

He picked two glasses from a drawer, cleared a spot on the desk and poured a generous measure of whiskey into each. He handed one to Stephen and raised his own.

‘Well, here’s to all those moral people and the trouble they get us into.’

‘Here’s to them,’ Stephen agreed, and swallowed half his glass, wincing as the whiskey burned his throat. He shook his head as if to clear it, and added, ‘Though I’m not sure if Joe is as moral as all that. Did I tell you he’s got a gun?’

The sombre look that had settled over Billy’s face cleared in an instant. ‘A gun?’ he asked disbelievingly, ‘What sort of gun? And where did he get it?’

‘Howth, I imagine,’ Stephen said with a shrug, and went on to tell him about finding the rifle in the parlour, and how he had sprung it on his brother before storming out.

‘Bloody hell!’ Billy exclaimed, ‘But how do you know it was part of the Howth shipment? Are you sure?’

‘I know a thing or two about guns, Billy. It was a single-shot rifle, rather old, German-made. I’d say it fits the bill, according to what I read in the newspapers.’

‘Well, well, well! A smuggled rifle!’ Billy broke into a delighted grin and sat down on the bed beside Stephen, ‘Not that there’s anything unusual about that. I mean, every dog, cat and devil seems to be smuggling guns these days, but still! Where is it now? Has he still got it?’

‘If he does, he’s moved it out of the house. And good riddance – it damn near ruined my suit with all the grease.’

‘But how did he get it? The National Volunteers brought in those guns. Your brother’s not in the Volunteers, is he?’

‘No, the Citizen Army.’

‘But I heard they didn’t get on with the Volunteers.’

‘Well, they didn’t before. But I dare say with the Unionists smuggling in their own guns and the war coming, they didn’t want to be left out. Anyway, according to Joe, his friend Connolly is the coming man in the Citizen Army, and he’s much more of the Volunteer way of thinking.’

‘God’s my life,’ Billy sighed. ‘All these guns. It’s bound to end in a fight!’

The richness of the scene was overpowering: candlelight and the rustle of taffeta and the thump of dancing feet and the swish of dresses whirling past. The air was heavy with the smell of perfume and cologne and hummed with polite conversation. It was making him dizzy.

‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to your brother,’ Billy was saying, ‘that you are striking a blow for the workers simply by being here.’ He paused to gesture as expansively as he could with a champagne flute in one hand and an overflowing plate in the other. ‘I mean, every morsel of food you eat comes directly from the coffers of old man D’Arcy. And since he’s usually as tight as the proverbial duck’s arse, the fact that our cups overfloweth at his expense makes it all the more tasty, if you ask me.’

Stephen smiled and rocked back on his feet. He wasn’t terribly drunk, but he was drunk enough to feel his face flushed and his skin prickling. He should never have let Billy talk him into polishing off that bottle of Bushmills. Whiskey had never agreed with him and he’d felt a sullen heaviness settle on him after the first glass. When it finally came time to leave he felt muzzy and tired and it took an effort just to get up off the bed. Billy was still rattling away fourteen to the dozen about the war and Home Rule and how it was all such a mess, but Stephen could hardly hear him. When he got out onto the landing, a wave of nausea washed over him and he had to steady himself against the wall as Billy bent down to lock the door, taking an inordinately long time to insert the big iron key.

The short walk up to Kildare Street had done little to clear his head. As they crossed the patio to the ballroom, the music blared out at him, unnaturally loud, and he stopped at the door, dazzled. The band was playing a waltz, the floor filled with whirling couples, and the golden light of hundreds of candles was reflected in a rolling sea of sequins and shining silk. He wasn’t ready for this, he thought; he was an impostor, a costumed fool who’d be found out the moment he opened his mouth. He felt his resolve failing, and he had to overcome the urge to turn around and walk away. It was all right for Billy – he was born to this. He was already inside, gazing around and laughing, completely in his element. But fearing Billy might slip away into the crowd, Stephen found himself hurrying after him, automatically straightening up and squaring his shoulders.

‘Sigh no more, ladies.’ He grinned, when he caught up.

‘Speak for yourself.’ Billy hardly looked at him. He had spotted the buffet table, which stretched the whole length of one wall, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. What about a bite to eat before we start?’

That was twenty minutes ago and they were still at the table. Billy was on his second plate of smoked salmon and vol-au-vents, but Stephen had no appetite. He had tried a single sliver of ham on brown bread, but found it turned to ashes in his mouth. Even the champagne tasted sour and fizzy. He was feeling more and more unwell, and all he wanted to do was to sit down somewhere quiet for a while.

But the rhythmic motion of the dancers was hypnotic and he felt himself slipping into a trance as he watched them fly past. Now and then a familiar face appeared in the throng. There was Mary D’Arcy herself, flashing by in a turquoise gown and diamonds. He followed her for a few moments, watching the bob of her head and the flash of her smile.
Ah, Mary, Mary, quite contrary!
Strange how little she moved him now. He remembered the first time he ever saw her, how smitten he was. He thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes on: as small and delicate as a doll, with a porcelain-white face and dark green eyes. He’d craved a smile, a look, anything to show that she had noticed him, but eventually he realized that it would never come. He’d screwed up his courage once and bid her good morning, braving the curious looks of her friends as they walked to an early lecture. She’d smiled at him then, but it was merely polite, nothing in the eyes, and when he walked away he’d heard them laughing behind his back. He’d hated her then, but even that had faded and now he realized that she meant nothing to him, neither good nor bad. It seemed to him that she hadn’t changed in three years. She was made up differently, she wore a different dress, but the essence hadn’t changed. He heard her high trilling laugh and knew it was the same laugh he’d heard before.
Exactly
the same – like the call of some exotic bird. There was nothing else to her, he reflected. All she had was her looks and her laugh. Nothing more. She
was
a doll.

The band finished their tune with a decisive double note and the dancing couples came to rest, breaking apart and applauding. The sudden stop brought Stephen to his senses. He saw Mary again, clapping madly, and then her father appeared behind her, bending to whisper something in her ear. Impeccably dressed and plump as a pigeon, he had the smooth well-fed look of enormous wealth. A self-made man, by all accounts. A barrow-boy who’d managed to become the biggest bonded merchant in the city. But there was something faintly reptilian about him, something that made the flesh crawl. Maybe Joe wasn’t far off the mark: D’Arcy would buy and sell anybody to get what he wanted. But Stephen put that from his mind. It could be he was looking at his future over there. He would graduate next year and then he would need a job – and Richard D’Arcy might be the man to give him one. Actuarial work, he thought, and his heart sank. He’d be a glorified bookkeeper. He saw a small office with grimy windows and endless rows of figures stretching away into despair and middle age. It didn’t appeal to him in the least, but what choice did he have?

‘You are not keeping your end up, Stephen,’ Billy broke in, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘What’s the matter? Are you off your hay?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Oh? Well, it’s your loss, because this grub’s lovely. What are you staring at? Well, well, if it isn’t the Belle of the Ball herself? Thinking of asking her for a dance, were we?’

‘No fear,’ Stephen said, without taking his eyes off her, and Billy nodded slowly to himself. Although he’d never said anything, he knew Stephen had once had notions about Mary D’Arcy. Foolish notions, to be sure, but perhaps all the more vulnerable for that.

‘Just as well, because she’s already spoken for. She is – what’s that word? Affianced. Yes, that’s it. The dear girl is soon to be married.’ He said this knowing full well it would get Stephen’s attention, and smiled complacently at the look of wide-eyed disbelief. ‘What? Don’t tell me you didn’t see the engagement notice in today’s
Times?’

Too late, Stephen tried to mask his surprise. ‘I don’t have time to read the engagement notices,’ he said gruffly. ‘Some of us have better things to be doing.’

‘Well, I’m surprised you missed it. It was practically on the front page. Mr and Mrs Richard D’Arcy, of New Money and lots of it, are delighted to announce the engagement of their daughter, Mary, to Mr Alfred Devereux, of Old Money . . .’

‘Alfred Devereux?’ Stephen grimaced, ‘The man’s an ass!’

‘Yes, he is. And she’s a vapid little vixen, so it’s a match made in heaven if you ask me. But don’t tell me you’re surprised – the pair of them have been knocking around together for years. Besides, his family owns half of Waterford, not to mention all those newspapers, and everybody knows Daddy D’Arcy is a very shrewd businessman. You didn’t think he’d let his only daughter marry the first young chap with a twinkle in his eye, did you? Oh, and speak of the Devil, there’s Devereux himself, trotting after his future father-in-law like a good little lapdog.’

This brought a smile to Stephen’s face as he spotted Devereux, bending down to snatch a kiss from his fiancée. Lapdog? Bulldog was more like it. He wasn’t very tall, but he was broad-shouldered and so powerfully built he looked as if he could crush her in his fist. Handsome too, Stephen had to admit; dark and deep-voiced, and exuding an air of barely contained energy. He was captain of the rugby team, platoon leader in the Officer Training Corps, and the heir to a fortune. Billy was right: he shouldn’t have been surprised. If ever there was a husband for Mary D’Arcy, it was Alfred Devereux.

‘It’s been quite a week for him, between one thing and another,’ Billy went on. ‘Apparently he’s taken a commission in the army as well. The way things are going, it looks like he’ll soon be off to bash the Hun for King and Country.’

‘No surprise there,’ Stephen observed. ‘His uncle’s a general or something on the Imperial Staff. I’ve often heard him bragging about him.’

‘Haven’t we all? God help us, Stephen, the chap’s already a world-class bore. Can you imagine what he’ll be like if he joins the army? If he doesn’t get killed he’ll come home laden with medals and tales of derring-do. Just when you thought he couldn’t be any more unbearable, eh?’