Normally Stella loved roast chicken, but tonight she ate mechanically, her mind elsewhere as she had dinner with her father in the dining room of the Mill Hotel. She wished that things could stay on an even keel, but lately her own life had been a series of dramatic ups and downs. The saddest thing was Granddad being in a coma, but the devastation of Balbriggan by the Tans and Auxies was still upsetting.
She tried to stay optimistic, the way Alice did, and now she made herself do the exercise where she concentrated on positive developments. She reminded herself that she had saved Johnny’s life on the night of the fires, and she recalled with satisfaction that first one hundred women had been admitted to Oxford University, in what she thought was a long overdue piece of progress.
There was also the fact that her father had reluctantly given her permission to attend the fund-raising sports day in Lusk for the victims of the Sack of Balbriggan, as the night of mayhem was now being called.
Stella had argued that she didn’t want to be the only girl in her class who wasn’t going, and Dad had given in. She knew that her father suspected the event might turn into an outlet for anti-government protest, and she was grateful that he was willing to overlook that, so that she wouldn’t be out on a limb with her classmates.
She looked at him now across the table. He appeared smart in a well-cut tweed suit, but Stella thought he looked tired. ‘Are you run ragged at Baldonnel, Dad?’ she asked.
‘Do I look that worn out?’ he asked.
‘Just a little tired, maybe.’
‘It’s been fairly hectic,’ he conceded.
‘What’s making it so busy?’
‘Well, for one thing the RAF’s being asked to provide a mail service.’
‘What, delivering letters?’
‘And plans and written orders. It’s dangerous to send them by road to barracks in rebel territory. So now we deliver them by air.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ said Stella.
‘And we’re doing more reconnaissance, for rebel training camps and arms dumps.’
‘Right.’
‘But it’s a constant battle of wits.’
‘Why, what are the rebels doing?’ asked Stella, her curiosity piqued.
‘Well, when we organised dropping circles – so our pilots would know where to drop messages – the rebels set up phoney ones. To trick us into dropping our messages into their hands.’
Stella thought that was clever. She didn’t want to be disloyal, however, so she didn’t say so. ‘Really?’ she answered. ‘And how did you get around that?’
‘Now we only drop if they have a recognised identity sign at the dropping circle.’
‘It’s very cat and mouse, isn’t it?’ said Stella.
‘Absolutely. They carry out operations at night, so we bring in a curfew. They still operate under cover of darkness, so we use searchlights. One side gets the upper hand, the other side makes a counter-move.’
Stella wanted to ask where it would all end, but something held her back. If Dad admitted that the rebels would eventually win she would be glad for Johnny and for the Irish people, but sad for her father. But if the British authorities stamped out the independence movement, Johnny would be heart-broken. And the wishes of the majority of Irish voters for either independence or Home Rule would have been ignored.
Before Stella could grapple further with her thoughts, Mrs Goodman approached their table.
‘Good evening, Wing Commander,’ she said warmly. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thank you, Mrs Goodman, delicious food.’
‘How are you, Stella?’
‘Very well, thanks.’
‘Looking forward to your trip to the museum?’
Before Stella could respond her father looked at her quizzically. ‘I thought you were going to visit the National Gallery?’
Stella tried to hide her surprise. In planning their trip to find Johnny in Dublin they had said that they would claim to be visiting the museum or the gallery. Now, though, Stella realised that they had been sloppy in not making sure to have their story straight.
‘I thought it was the gallery,’ she answered, seeking to keep her tone casual, ‘but maybe I got it wrong.’
‘Alice seemed quite definite,’ said Mrs Goodman.
‘Then it must be my mistake,’ said Stella quickly. She avoided her father’s eyes, knowing it would be harder to sustain a lie if he was looking at her. But was he already suspicious?
‘Either way,’ said Mrs Goodman, ‘it’s no harm for young ladies to broaden their education. Wouldn’t you agree, Commander?’
Stella found herself holding her breath as she finally turned to face her father. If he thought something suspicious was going on, now was his chance to ask awkward questions.
He looked at Mrs Goodman, then answered politely. ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said, ‘very educational.’
Stella made a conscious effort not to show her relief. But she had given herself a needless fright, and she promised herself that she wouldn’t do it again. If she was going to re-establish contact with Johnny – and she really wanted to – then she would need to be much more careful.
* * *
‘Hey, Dunner, want to celebrate your first full pay packet? We’re going round to the shop.’
Johnny was touched that the other telegraph boys were making him welcome and he hesitated on his way to the bicycle shed. It was Friday evening, and they had all just received their pay packets from Mr Williams in the telegraph office. Williams had kept up the front of being strict with Johnny in public, but privately he had been encouraging. He had also skilfully arranged Johnny’s work so as to allow him time to track whichever British agents Michael Collins’s intelligence officers were investigating.
Johnny in turn had slotted in easily at the job, getting along well with his fellow workers. Now, though, he faced a quandary. Part of him wanted to be one of the lads, treating himself at the shop after a hard week’s work. And he really liked Nedser, the boy who had invited him to the shops. But it was dangerous to get too friendly with anyone while carrying out his mission, and this evening he had a reason to head straight home.
‘Thanks, lads, but I’ve something on. Maybe next week,’ said Johnny, then he quickly waved farewell and headed off before anyone could question him.
He mounted his bicycle and began cycling home, eager to get to Gardiner Place. It was three days now since the rescue of Mr O’Shea, and Johnny was still thrilled by the daring of what they had done. Two policeman and one of the volunteers had been wounded, but the element of surprise and the painstaking planning had paid off, and the mission had been a resounding success. Johnny had found out later that O’Shea had been whisked away in another car, after which he had lain low for the last three days.
Mrs Hanlon had praised Johnny for his part in the rescue, and before he had left for work this morning she had said that O’Shea wanted to see Johnny in person. It was rare for Mrs Hanlon to give more details than necessary, so Johnny took it as a big compliment when she revealed that O’Shea would be in Gardiner Place this evening.
He cycled on, the crisp October air getting colder with the setting of the sun. Johnny rode across the broad expanse of Sackville Street, dodging the clanking trams that criss-crossed the busy city centre. He cut up through Marlborough Street, avoiding the strong-smelling dung deposited on the cobbled street by the horse-drawn traffic that was gradually being replaced by motor cars, vans and trucks.
But if progress was being made regarding transport, there was still a long way to go when it came to housing the citizens of Dublin. Now that he was more familiar with the city from his telegram deliveries, Johnny was horrified by the contrast between the grinding poverty of the tenements and the affluence of suburbs like Rathgar and Rathmines.
He turned into Great Britain Street, passing a foul-smelling tenement. On its steps some gaunt-faced children were playing listlessly. They were barefoot despite the cold, and it underlined for Johnny the pressing need for the new Ireland for which he was fighting.
The sight of the children dampened his mood, and he hoped that their father might bring home a Friday pay packet to brighten their lives, even temporarily.
Thinking of Friday night, his mind drifted to Balbriggan. He recalled how Friday night used to be his favourite time of the week, when he attended band practice with his friends. Although he was a better musician than Alice or Stella, at band practice everyone was treated as an equal by the bandmaster, Mr Tardelli, and Johnny loved that relaxed, all-in-it-together atmosphere. He recalled a vision of Alice, pretending to be heart-broken after playing a wrong note in ‘Funiculi, Funicula’ and he felt a sudden welling of affection for his friends. He missed the banter with the band members, and Mr Tardelli’s jokes and riddles, but most of all he missed Alice and Stella. He hoped they were well, and he felt bad at having lied to them in the postcards. His orders had been clear, however, and all he could do now was hope to renew their friendship after his mission was over.
Approaching the incline of Hill Street, Johnny rose in the saddle and pedalled hard, eager now to get home as soon as possible. He wondered what Mr O’Shea would look like, and if he bore any marks of abuse from being questioned during his time in custody. Well, he would know soon enough, he thought as he reached the junction of Hill Street and Gardiner Place. He rode around to the rear of Hanlon’s and locked his bicycle in the yard. He entered by the back door and encountered Bridget, the middle-aged cook.
‘Ah, Johnny. Mrs H is expecting you. She said to go up.’
‘Thanks, Bridget,’ he said, then he took the stairs two at a time to the first floor where the owner had her private rooms. Johnny had never been inside Mrs Hanlon’s quarters before and he felt slightly nervous as he knocked on the door.
He waited expectantly, then the door opened, and Mrs Hanlon stood before him, her piercing blue eyes seeming to weigh him up.
‘Johnny,’ she said. ‘You made good time. Come in.’
Johnny entered the living room, which was furnished much more expensively than the downstairs parlour. He barely had time to notice the good taste of the décor when Mr O’Shea rose from an armchair before the fire.
‘Johnny, good to see you again!’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Good to see you too, Mr O,’ answered Johnny as they shook hands warmly.
He noticed that O’Shea looked tired, and although clean shaven and well dressed, he didn’t look as dapper as when he had stayed at the Mill Hotel as a traveller for Glentoran Whiskey. On the other hand he showed no marks that suggested being beaten up during his weeks of captivity, and Johnny was relieved.
‘Let’s sit at the fire,’ suggested Mrs Hanlon. ‘Bridget will serve some food after we chat.’
‘Great,’ said Johnny, tired after a busy day and happy to take the weight off his feet in a comfortable armchair.
They all settled themselves, then O’Shea spoke, his tone serious.
‘I just want to say, Johnny, I’m grateful for your help in springing me. Very grateful.’
‘You’re welcome. But I just played a small part.’
‘No, son, you played a key part, and I’m in your debt.’
‘Thanks,’ said Johnny. ‘Though if it comes to that, I’m in your debt too.’
‘How’s that?’
‘When you were arrested you never told them about me. I’m sure…I’m sure they tried to make you name names.’
A hard look came into Mr O’Shea’s eyes and he spoke flatly. ‘They did. But they were never, ever going to hear your name from me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And now I hear you’re doing good work again,’ said O’Shea, his tone brightening.
‘I’m happy to help any way I can.’
‘I know that, Johnny. And to show it works both ways, I’ve been spoken to by the Boss. About the orphanage.’
Johnny realised that his request to Michael Collins hadn’t been dismissed and he felt a surge of excitement. ‘Really?’
‘Maybe next week you and I could pay a visit to St Mary’s. See can we get some answers. What do you think?’
‘That would be great. The only thing is….the brothers are very…they mightn’t want to co-operate.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
The firm way O’Shea said it gave Johnny hope. ‘You really think we could get some information?’
‘Leave the brothers to me. Will we say Tuesday evening?’
‘Yes. Yes, absolutely!’
‘OK, Tuesday it is so.’
Johnny could hardly believe it. After all these years maybe he could finally find out about his family. Mrs Hanlon and O’Shea began discussing the best way to travel to St Mary’s Orphanage, but Johnny barely listened, his mind racing as he wished away the hours till Tuesday night.