Edith, page 8
‘Share, is it? What do your lot know about sharing?’
‘… ashamed of yourselves!’ It’s Philomena, who arrives in the kitchen with Mrs O’Shea, both wearing shawls over their nightgowns, their hair flopping in single plaits.
Edith’s eyes darken. She has never glimpsed either woman with her hair exposed, although they’ve shared a roof for years. Somehow, it strikes her as more shocking than having a kitchen full of armed men.
Philomena’s hair is still as black as wet coal, apart from some grey at the temples, but Mrs O’Shea’s is white.
‘It isn’t decent, dragging folk out of their beds at this hour of the night!’ Philomena is shrill with complaint – even the guns don’t silence her.
The men grin with embarrassment, their teeth tobacco-stained.
‘Nobody else here we can find, Captain,’ says one of the men. ‘No sign of any guns, either.We’d a good root about.’
The leader addresses Cameron.‘You bigwigs are operating on a skeletal staff. Are you certain there’s no one else, Colonel?’
‘I am not in the habit of telling lies. We take people on from the village now and again when we need them.’
‘Are you sure Mike Hurley’s all right?’ asks Edith.‘And his nephew?’
‘I told you already.Those boys are being looked after,’ says the leader.
‘You haven’t hurt them?’
‘Not a bother on them.’
Edith is about to mention Jeremiah in the gatehouse, but holds off. If they have him, nothing can be done about it. If they don’t, so much the better.
Right, ladies, take a seat.’ The captain ushers Edith, Philomena and Mrs O’Shea towards the kitchen table, pulling out chairs for each of them.
‘I prefer to stand,’ says Edith, despite a stabbing pain in her left hip.
‘Then let you stand, Miss Somerville.’
Loulou darts across the room and springs onto Philomena’s knee, tunnelling into her lap.
‘There, there, a leanbh.’ She pats the dog’s head. ‘I don’t blame you for not wanting to see what’s going on here.’
Unexpectedly, Mrs O’Shea explodes.‘Leave that alone, ya spalpeen!
It’s for tomorrow’s dinner.’
One of the men has discovered a cooked chicken in the larder and is gnawing on a leg. He passes the platter of meat to a comrade, who pulls off the other leg.
‘Tell them to stop, Colonel,’ cries Mrs O’Shea.
Humiliation, as livid as a bruise, patches across Cameron’s face. He shrugs.
Edith makes an inventory of the five strangers. Each man has a bandolier or khaki sling containing ammunition over a shoulder and crossed at his chest. The one who found the chicken has a hand grenade fixed to his belt. Edith shudders at the egg-shaped object. A single slip and they could all be blown to kingdom come – Somervilles, dogs, staff and Republicans alike.
The chicken is offered to the captain who waves it away, still chewing on his cigar. A third man, a soiled bandage on his hand, steps forward and breaks the carcass in two. He tears off a fistful of breast, eating it skin and all. The fourth disappears into the larder.
Mrs O’Shea spits out prayers between clenched teeth. ‘Hail, holy queen, mother of mercy, may the divil toast yiz slowly, hail our life, our sweetness and our hope.’
The captain studies her for a moment, head to one side, while she treats him with majestic indifference. He runs a finger under the rim of his hat where it rests on his forehead.‘As I was saying, Colonel and Miss Somerville, we’re here to collect donations for the Irish Republic.What can you offer us?’
‘Nothing,’ snaps Cameron.
‘And I thought you claimed to be an honest man.’
‘I have some jewellery you’re welcome to,’ says Edith.‘Let me fetch it for you.’
‘Go with her,’ the leader tells a young man licking his fingers. He falls in behind Edith.
Dooley chases round the side of the youth and attaches himself to Edith.
‘Stay, boy.’
Ears pricked, his face betrays doubt. He studies hers for clues. Unusually, he disobeys and keeps trotting behind.The man with the hand grenade grabs for his collar. Dooley snaps at his fingers, landing a bite.
‘Bastard!’
Scarlet, he lashes out with a boot. Dooley goes flying across the room. The little dog’s head cracks against a metal handle on the range and he lets out a high-pitched wail.
‘Fuck sake.What did you do that for?’ says one of the men.
‘Fuck off yourself. Bastard drew blood. Dogs give you rabies.’ The hand-grenade man follows Dooley, foot raised to kick him again, but Edith darts forward.
‘Don’t you dare touch him, you viper!’
‘Easy now. Easy,’ says the captain.‘Everyone calm down.’
Edith drops to her knees beside the fox terrier, who is curled up and whimpering. Blood leaks from his mouth. She lays his head gently on her lap. His stubby tail moves feebly, acknowledging her presence. Edith’s fingers part his fur, searching for cuts. Foam begins to gather on his muzzle and his eyes glaze over. Recognizing the signs, Edith’s voice breaks.‘Dooley, oh Dooley, what have they done to you?’
Dooley moans and a shudder passes through his body.
Loulou gives a single howl, high-pitched, but is shushed by Philomena. She subsides into a string of whimpers, pressing her muzzle against Philomena’s stomach.
Edith cups her palm under Dooley’s chin. ‘Don’t leave me, little man, I couldn’t bear it.’
His breath wheezes. With her free hand, Edith strokes Dooley. His body begins jerking. Helpless, she watches, keeping her hand in place on his fur.The juddering lasts for thirty seconds. Until the small body stops twitching.
Dooley heaves out a sigh. And is still.
Edith scoops him towards her, pressing her face against his, rocking him back and forth.
‘Ah, Miss Edith,’ says Philomena brokenly. ‘Ah, miss.’
Edith raises her head, her eyes as blank as Dooley’s. His blood is smeared on her cheek and chin.
six
‘Someone help me with him,’ says Edith. ‘Dooley’s been hurt.’
‘I think, I’m afraid … he’s gone, old girl.’ Cameron stoops and presses a hand on Edith’s shoulder.
‘No. He can’t be. It’s not true. Fetch a blanket, Philomena. We need to keep him warm.’
‘Time’s wasting. Leave the dog alone,’ snaps the captain.
‘Poor Dooley. Heart of a lion,’ says Cameron.
‘Put the bloody dog down or you’ll really have something to cry about!’
Cameron shuffles onto his knees beside Edith and tries to take Dooley away from Edith. She resists. ‘Let go, Edith. I’ll look after him.’ He lifts Dooley onto his lap.
‘Get a fucken move on, we haven’t got all night!’ yells the captain.
Hand-grenade man yanks Edith to her feet.
‘Murderer!’
He makes a fist. ‘I’ll give ya a taste of the same medicine, ya bitch.’
‘Enough!’ The leader pulls her by the elbow away from the other man. ‘Watch that temper of yours,’ he tells his companion. ‘And you, missus, get the jewellery. Chop-chop.’
‘Why should I? You’ve just taken away the thing I love best in the world!’
‘Believe me, we can do worse.’ The captain walks to the range, lifts the poker and flicks it along the shelf where crockery is stacked. Plates rain on top of Mrs O’Shea and Philomena, bouncing from them to the floor, hopping into fragments. The women cry out in alarm, covering their heads with their arms.
‘Now, what’s next?’The captain opens the range door and riddles the embers inside into flames.‘What to do with a hot poker?’
‘Stop it, I’m going!’ cries Edith.‘You can have whatever you want.’
‘I know.’ He skims his eyes over to her. ‘Get a move on.’
‘You’ll mind him for me, Cam?’
‘I won’t let go of him.You can count on me, Edith.’
Edith kisses her fingertips and trails them along Dooley’s nose. He’ll never hear her call his name again. She stalks out of the kitchen.
The youngest member of the party follows her out of the kitchen, past the back stairs, pantry and glory hole, along a dim corridor. She leads him towards the dining room, lifting the hall lamp in passing. Her destination is the chiffonier. She places the lamp on its polished surface and opens a drawer, removing a cloth bag. In the mirror above the side- board, she glances at her captor’s reflection. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, composed entirely of angles, his corduroy trousers bagging against hips and backside. Her eyes flick from his blackened face to her own. She looks ghastly, Dooley’s blood blotched on her.
‘I’m sorry about your dog, ma’am.There was no call for it.Your man has a fierce bad temper on him. He’d kill a fella and ate him after.’ A basso voice wells, incongruous, from his narrow frame.
Edith feels nauseous at the thought of her loyal little companion being kicked to death in his own home. She should have been able to protect him. Emotion wells up and she bites hard on her lower lip.What can’t be cured must be endured.
‘They get under your skin, a pet dog,’ he goes on.‘I had one growing up. Lucky, I called him. Loved that dog like a brother. Everywhere I went, Lucky went.’
She glances at him, assessing.This one’s talkative.‘What’s your name?’
A shake of his head.‘No names. The captain warned us.’
A country voice. Soft-spoken.‘Where are you from? Kerry?’
‘I’m not allowed to say.’
‘They say Kerry is rebel country.’
He snuffles. ‘Even the hens lay bullets there. That’s what the captain says.’
‘A determined sort of a fellow, isn’t he?’
Hero worship flashes from moss-green eyes, their colour emphasized by the black streaks on his face.‘The captain’s a man that can think things out. I’d follow him to hell and back. He was at the university, above in Dublin, ’til the Troubles come upon us.’
‘He has death in his eyes. If you stay with him, you’ll end up dead, too.’
‘We give as good as we get. We hit back. Or more, maybe. The captain’ll keep us safe.What’s in the bag, ma’am?’
‘Some jewellery.Your captain can sell it.’
‘Can’t be much in a small little bag like that. He’ll want more.What else have you got?’
‘Nothing. Look, I don’t doubt you have your reasons, but this will end badly for you.You’re too young to throw your life away. Go home to your family.Your mother must be at her wits’ end with worry.’
‘I have no home. The Tans burned us out. Me an’ the boys, we live like foxes in dugouts or caves.’ He tugs open the drawer she’s closed and pokes around.
‘The drawers are empty. We’re as poor as church mice. All we have are the house and land.’
‘Nobody’s poor that has a house and land.’ His eyes sweep the room and snag on the matching candelabra.
Edith pretends to be alarmed. ‘No,’ she says. ‘They’re family heir-looms.’ In fact, they look more valuable than they are.
‘Too bad.’ He yanks open another drawer, finds a tablecloth and begins to tuck the silverware into its folds, making a sling of the material.
‘It must be a tough life for you, always on the move. Don’t you miss sleeping in a bed? Eating a meal without looking over your shoulder?’
‘Freedom can’t be won without some hardship. So the captain says.’ ‘Is he strict, your captain?’
‘He likes us column men to shave regular, and keep ourselves clean, ma’am. When we can.’ He rubs the shadow on his chin. ‘We haven’t managed too well this past week.’
The boy pulls open a cupboard door and rummages inside, looking for anything of value that’s portable.
‘But how do you manage to bathe if you’re living in dugouts and caves?’ Edith asks.
‘We takes a dip in a stream while one of us keeps a lookout.’
‘And what do you do for towels?’
‘Roll in the grass.’ He makes an impatient gesture. ‘Enough of that aul’ blarney, now.These candlesticks isn’t enough.Where’s your tin? The captain prefers cash, so he does. Get me tin when you can, says he.’
‘No doubt. But we have none about the place.You can’t draw blood from a stone. Shall we go back?’
‘It’s best to give him what’ll get him to leave.The longer the lads are here, the greater the chances of … something. I dunno.Wouldn’t like to say. But something.’
She finds him a canteen of cutlery and a set of silver-plated egg cups.
‘What else?’
‘Nothing. I told you, we’ve nothing left to give.You’re not the first Republicans to pay us a social call.’
He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. She can see he doesn’t have it in him to order her around the way his captain does, or raise his fist to her like the hand-grenade man. ‘Have you nothing else? It’s for your own good I’m telling you. This won’t satisfy him.’
Edith’s meets his boy-bright eyes. ‘This is no life for you. Are you trying to be a hero? A martyr for Ireland? Ireland gobbles up blood sacrifices. She’ll suck you dry and spit out your bones.You’ll be as stiff and dead as …’ she gulps, caught in a wave of misery, ‘… poor Dooley in there.’
He stares at her, pupils widened. ‘The taste of blood gets into your mouth. Once it’s there, nothing shifts it.’ Edith waits. ‘But there’s no going back now. I’ve crossed the line.’
‘It’s never too late.’
‘It is. I’ve done things.’
‘You could emigrate.’
His voice is almost inaudible.‘They’d never let me go, the others.’ ‘Your friends?’
He clears his throat. ‘I’d never leave them.We’re Volunteers.’
Edith feels compelled to recover this boy who’s not yet a man, despite the bravado.‘I noticed you were limping. Are you injured?’
‘No, ma’am. Thank God.’
‘Is it your boots?
He looks at them as if surprised to notice them on his feet. ‘I did a swap with me da, the day I left. His were new. He thought he was doing me a favour. But I’m crippled with them.’
‘One of my brothers left a pair here the last time he stayed over.They might fit you.’
She leads him to the boot cupboard at the bottom of the back stairs. Aylmer’s knee-length hunting boots are near the front. They can hear voices from the kitchen but not the sense of what’s being said.The youth sits on the floor to try on Aylmer’s boots, his face excited, the way a child’s is on Christmas morning.
‘Holy mackerel, ma’am. Are you really giving them to me?’
‘I am.’ Edith notices his socks are soaking. ‘You’ll get chilblains wearing wet socks, you know.’
‘I don’t have a spare pair, ma’am. I did once. Nobody knits like me ma. But I left the spares after me, clearing out by a nose ahead of the Auxies.’
The Auxiliaries, the Black and Tans, the RIC. It’s only a matter of time before military or police catch up with this boy. He feels for his big toe inside the boots, pressing his thumb against the leather. Will he be shot wearing her brother’s riding boots? Or hanged? The odds are against him surviving – she’s wasting the boots. But they may as well go to another as moulder among family debris. Aylmer’s in no hurry to return to Drishane. As the captain has just pointed out,Treaty negotiations may be happening in London but the ceasefire is a provisional arrangement.
The boy peeks up at her shyly. ‘Can I ask you something, ma’am?’
‘Of course.’
‘I heard something over the summer I’d love to believe, but dunno if I can.They say there was a butterfly found in Clare, striped green, white and orange. The people are calling it the Republican butterfly. Could such a thing be true?’
Edith opens her mouth to deny the possibility. The trust on his face makes her pause.‘Anything’s possible.’
He smiles.
Another of the men looms over them. ‘Captain says what the feck’s keeping you?’
The boy scrambles to his feet, lifts the clunking tablecloth and escorts Edith back to the kitchen.
She drops the cloth jewellery bag into the captain’s hand. ‘With my compliments.’ Turning on her heel, she goes to where Cameron is nursing Dooley. She holds out her arms and he transfers the fox terrier’s body into them. ‘My gallant boy. You’re with Martin now. She’ll take care of you.’
‘Took a pounding, poor old fellow. Totally unnecessary behaviour. Utterly caddish,’ says Cameron.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ says Dooley’s killer.
Meanwhile, the captain loosens the drawstring, upends the bag and an assortment of paste pieces cascade into his cupped palm. One after another, he inspects them.
Cradling Dooley, Edith’s gaze circumnavigates the room. Has anything changed in her absence? One of the men has a sack at his feet. Her forehead pleats.
Mrs O’Shea catches her eye. ‘My kitchen supplies. They’ve helped themselves to what’s in the larder. Like sheet lightning, they were, the speed they stripped the place.’
The captain strolls across to the dresser, and holds a drop earring to the lamplight there. He twirls it between his fingers.With his back to the room, he says,‘Now, I’m no jeweller, but these don’t strike me as family heirlooms.’ His head and upper body whip round towards Edith. ‘You can do better than that, Miss Somerville.’
‘They’re all I have left.’
‘She give us these candle sticks, too, captain.’ The boy speaks up. ‘Solid silver, they are.You should feel the weight of them. And some forks and things.’
‘Good work. Nevertheless, I believe the lady can dig a little deeper.’
The captain looks around, spies a newspaper lying beside one of the chairs, and throws it on top of the range. He produces his box of matches and lights the paper. In an instant, it goes up in flames.
Everyone watches. Sparks and blackened embers fly about the kitchen.
One of the men laughs.
Edith swallows. ‘If I had any more to give, don’t you think I would, to make you leave? You can’t imagine my brother and I have any wish to prolong this visit.’
