THE TALL MAN was standing across the road from their house; Muriel could see him clearly. He was wearing a long coat and smoking a cigarette, pretending to lean against the wall waiting for someone to arrive.
‘I can see him again,’ she informed MacDonagh. ‘He’s watching us and he has a notebook. I saw him writing down when Mary called to bring Barbara for a walk and when Grace dropped over to see me this morning. Why is he watching and spying on us? Why is he allowed to stand gawping at us and our home? He is some kind of spy. Surely that must be unlawful?’
‘He’s a DMP man and is just following orders and doing what he is told.’ Her husband shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Sometimes he has another policeman with him.’
‘Do you mean that bald man with the glasses?’
‘The very same. They are a right pair of detectives.’
‘I don’t like it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s making me nervous having them spying on us. What are they looking for? Someday I am going to walk up to one of them and ask him.’
‘Muriel, don’t get upset. They won’t do anything, I promise. They are just trying to discover who I see and where I go. Tom Clarke warned us that the Castle is watching us all and to be careful.’
Over the past two months MacDonagh had changed. He was distracted and clearly involved in something, but would say little to her. When he campaigned for Home Rule he had been full of it, full of rhetoric and plans, and the same when he had spoken out for women’s suffrage and even when he had tried to help negotiate between employers and the union during the Lockout. He had made speech after speech railing against the Volunteers’ involvement in the war. But now he was quiet and secretive – something she was not used to.
A large quantity of rifles had been delivered to their house one night, stashed away in cupboards and wardrobes and hidden under floorboards. Over a number of days the guns had been collected by members of the Volunteers. Muriel was terrified that the DMP men might stop and search the visitors to their home.
‘It will be all right,’ MacDonagh said soothingly. ‘Nobody knows about them.’
MacDonagh constantly met with Padraig, Joe, Eamonn Ceannt, Sean Mac Diarmada, Tom Clarke and James Connolly. Sometimes they came to Oakley Road.
‘Is it Volunteer business again?’ Muriel probed, but he said little.
They had always shared things, so now when he said nothing to her she could not help but worry.
That spring, Volunteer marches, parades and drills were held in the city and a massive rally took place on St Patrick’s Day at which Eoin MacNeill, their leader, took the salute. MacDonagh was proud of such a large demonstration of well-trained men.
They’d celebrated Barbara’s first birthday a few days later, Muriel making a special cake and inviting some family and friends to join them.
It didn’t matter what her husband said, Muriel couldn’t help but be anxious about whatever he was now embroiled in. He and Tom Clarke, Sean, Joe and Padraig were always in a huddle talking together. He had confided to her that he was now a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and there seemed to be endless meetings. From snatches of overheard conversation, she guessed that they were organizing something and she suspected that it might be not only risky but dangerous.
Poor Desmond FitzGerald, who had come to meet MacDonagh during the summer, had been arrested under Dublin Castle’s Defence of the Realm Act and was imprisoned in Mountjoy. Muriel worried about what would happen if MacDonagh were arrested too. She couldn’t bear it.