Shamrock Green

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Part One: Sylvie

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part Two: Rebecca

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Three: Maeve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Four: Gowry

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Five: Sylvie

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Part Six: Gowry

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Part Seven: Maeve

Chapter Twenty-six

By the same author

Copyright

 

In Memory of my Grandfather

Private David McNair

7
th
Battalion Gordon Highlanders

Hazebrouck, 14
th
April 1918

and

For Theresa, of course, with Love.

PART ONE

Sylvie

Chapter One

She met him first late in the afternoon of a Sunday in July only days before the war began. She was outside feeding the chickens when the Hudson appeared in the street on the far side of the arch and, tilted on two wheels, swerved into the alley. The alley appeared too narrow to accommodate the broad, black motor-car and for a moment she thought the wings, lamps, even the fender would be torn away and Turk Trotter, who was perched on the running board, would be smeared against the wall, then the car straightened and shot, roaring, into the yard.

The hens scattered and the rooster flew up in the air like a fighting cock. Maeve was seated on top of the coal box. She jerked in her legs and tumbled backwards, giving the strangers a glimpse of her stockings and little girl's garters, but the men were on fire with the day's events and had no interest in little girls or their garters. Turk leaped from the running board. He pranced away from the motor-car, plucked Maeve from the coal box and spun her round.

‘By Gad, ay-hay, we taught them a lesson today,' he chanted. ‘Did we not march, my sweetheart, straight into Dublin town, the first Irish army to do so in a hundred years?'

Sylvie paid no attention to Turk's prattle. She stood by the kitchen doorway, cornmeal running in dusty little streams through her fingers, and peered into the window of the motor-car at the stranger in the back. His head was resting against her father-in-law's belly. His coat, a long, grey, threadbare ulster, was wrapped around his knees. His fists were tucked between his knees and his body drawn away from her as if in shame or shyness. It was a small, pale face that topped the collar and the collar was fastened with a stud not a pin and the tie was like a string a dog had chewed. There was a leaf-shaped splash of blood across the breast of his shirt and fresh blood on the folds of the overcoat.

‘What happened to him?' Sylvie asked.

The young man in the front seat beside Charlie leaned over and said, ‘Pull yourself together, Fran, for God's sake. You're scarin' the woman.'

‘He's bleeding,' Sylvie said.

The young man in the front seat was younger than Charlie who was hardly much more than a boy. At times it was hard to remember how young they all were and that she herself was still some years short of thirty.

Turk came up behind her. He wrapped an arm about her waist and squeezed his wrist against her breast. It didn't matter to Turk that she was Gowry McCulloch's wife. Old or young, pretty or plain, married or single, it was all the same to Turk Trotter for he was the younger son of a Wexford cattle broker and still had the rough manners of a country man.

‘I think he took a bullet,' Turk said.

Daniel McCulloch laughed. Nervous laughter was her father-in-law's response to most things. If he had been a slender young woman instead of a fat old man he would have been a giggler.

He said, ‘Sure now and we all know he took a bullet.'

‘Bullet or not, he's bleeding,' Sylvie said. ‘Bring him into the house.'

‘No,' Charlie said. ‘If he's going to die he'd better do it in his own bed.'

‘His own bed?' said Turk. ‘Is he still lodged at the college?'

‘He has not been lodged at the college for years,' said Charlie.

‘Take him home to his wife then,' Turk said.

‘Wife!' said Charlie. ‘If you mean Maureen, she threw him out.'

‘Well,' Sylvie said, ‘you can't just leave him there.'

Charlie had silky hair and protruding ears. He shrugged his thin shoulders.

The young man was also a country boy. He had the same tanned, ruddy look they all had at first, scared of nothing.

‘Have we not more important things to do than fuss with the likes of Fran Hagarty,' he said.

Turk detached his arm from her waist and glanced at the piece of Sperryhead Road that was visible through the arch.

The sun had already begun to sink towards the west. The shadow on the wall of Watton's warehouse was slanted towards the eaves and the back of the hotel was all in shadow. Charlie opened the driver's door, leaned out and looked back at the archway and the sunlit cobbles.

‘Did we shake them off?' he asked.

‘Sure and we shook them off,' Turk said. ‘The peelers ha'n't got time to chase us, not with corpses strewed all over Bachelor's Walk.'

‘Corpses?' Sylvie said. ‘Dead corpses?'

‘They fired on the crowd,' Turk told her.

‘The soldiers,' Charlie added.

‘The King's Own,' Turk said. ‘They're not after us, the bastards.'

‘We don't know who they're after,' Charlie said. ‘We shouldn't sit round here waitin' to be caught red-fisted.'

The wounded man's head was resting against the leather seat. Her father-in-law had slid away, groping for the door handle. There was no sign of blood on the man's lips but his eyes were lustreless, as if the stuff of life were seeping out of him.

He looked up at Sylvie.

‘Leave me,' he said. ‘I'm fine where I am.'

‘Damned if you are,' said Sylvie.

And yanked open the passenger door.

*   *   *

Daniel McCulloch, her father-in-law, was secretary of the Brotherhood of Erin, Charlie an active member. When Gowry was off on trips they met Turk in the back bar of the Shamrock and jawed the night away. Sylvie had no interest in secret societies or the tangle of Irish politics. She left all that blathering, time-wasting stuff to the menfolk. She had been to only one big parade, at Bodenstown, and only because Maeve had been keen.

Maeve could twist her mam and daddy around her little finger when she set her mind to it and since Daddy was driving a charabanc hired from Flanagan's by the brotherhood why couldn't Mam and she go too? Sylvie had no great desire to hear the speeches and the bands but with the threat of war hanging heavy in the air she felt it was time to discover what all the ranting was about and why her in-laws were prepared to die for an Ireland that seemed to her perfectly fine and dandy just the way it was. But when she had arrived in Bodenstown and marched beside Maeve in the parade she had begun to experience a little of the national pride that so excited her daughter. Gowry had stayed on the omnibus, feet up, cap pulled down, eating cherries from a paper bag, reading
Tit-Bits,
pretending that none of it mattered to him.

For Sylvie it had been a surprisingly good day, a day away from running the hotel, from feeding hens and frying bacon and making sure that Jansis swept the stairs. And she was pleased to see her daughter enjoying herself. Only in hindsight did she realise that marching in the parade at Bodenstown had prepared her for Francis Hagarty.

Turk guided him through the kitchen into the house.

He was too proud to allow them to take his legs and swing him between them. He leaned heavily on Turk and kept his hand down between his thighs, pressing his knees together, walking with mincing steps like one of the comic turns at the Tivoli. Blood followed him down the corridor to the sitting-room, pattering on the linoleum like the spoor of an animal. Maeve trailed him, mopping up the spots with a newspaper and when Mr Hagarty slumped into the armchair by the fireplace she stuck a wad of newspaper under his feet to protect the rug.

Turk stood back, frowning, then went out into the hall where Charlie was pacing restlessly up and down.

Sylvie heard Charlie say, ‘Where's Gowry? Where's my flamin' brother?'

‘Dad's out with the bus,' Maeve answered. ‘He's driving Sunday trippers to the lakes. He'll not be back before nine.'

‘Thank God for that,' said Charlie, and disappeared.

The sitting-room was at the front of the house. The curtain had been drawn to keep sunlight from fading the furniture. The room was sombre, brown and still. A table, four chairs and the two big armchairs that flanked the fireplace were reflected in the oval mirror above the mantelpiece.

Sylvie knelt at the stranger's feet. ‘Where are you hurt, sir?'

‘Don't call me “sir”,' he said quietly. ‘I'm Fran Hagarty.'

‘Are you now?' Sylvie said. ‘Well, Mr Hagarty, show me your hand.'

‘It
is
my hand,' he said, ‘and a bloody mess it is, too.'

He drew his fist from between his knees and held it out. Blood dripped sluggishly on to the newspaper. He did not look at it. He stared at the crown of Sylvie's head and her soft inarticulate curls.

‘Are the fingers gone?' he said.

She touched the flesh. ‘Have you no other injury?'

‘Is one not enough? It's my hand of truce, my hand of friendship. Let me talk to your commanding officer, says I – and they shot me. How many fingers are left?'

‘All of them,' Sylvie said.

‘And the thumb?'

‘And the thumb.'

He drew in a breath and let it out again. ‘It's not so bad then?'

‘No, it's not so bad,' said Sylvie. ‘I'll wipe it clean and you can see for yourself. There's a man in a house round the corner who keeps stitching needles. He does for the dockers when there's an accident.'

‘Bugger the needles,' Fran Hagarty said. ‘I could do with a drink, though.'

‘Tea?'

‘Whiskey. Powers preferred.'

The bullet had scored the pad below his left thumb but she doubted if there was anything broken. She could feel his blood leaking into the palm of her hand and was reluctant to release him yet.

She turned her head and called out, ‘Maeve, bring the gentleman a glass of whiskey from the bar. And some water from—'

‘No water,' Fran Hagarty said.

‘Some warm water from the kettle in a clean bowl, gentian from the cabinet, lint too. And my sewing scissors. Maeve?'

‘I hear you, Mam,' Maeve answered. ‘I'm on my way.'

‘Ah, it's a good girl you have there,' Fran Hagarty said. ‘An obedient girl.'

‘When it suits her.'

‘Are there more children in the house?'

‘Just Maeve.'