Johnny lost himself in the music. He played ‘Danny Boy’ on the clarinet, injecting a hint of jazz into the rhythm, and improvising around the melody with his eyes shut. He was in the drawing room of Hanlon’s boarding house where a cosy fire burned in the grate. The late October weather had turned cold, and this evening Mrs Hanlon had suggested swapping the chilly confines of his bedroom for practice sessions in the warmth of the drawing room.
He was grateful for her kindness at a time when his life was in some turmoil. It was five days since he had composed the letter with Alice, and he was anxiously awaiting a reply from Athlone. If he ever got a reply from Athlone. There was also the strain of not getting too friendly with the other telegraph boys, and misleading them about his reason for doing the job. Sometimes he played soccer with them at lunchtime in the yard behind the telegraph office. He had also joined the other boys in the shop, after they got paid their wages. He didn’t want to spurn their friendship, particularly the outgoing Nedser, but the effort of never letting his cover story slip was stressful, and reluctantly he made a point of not getting too close to them. And then there was the need to be constantly on guard when trailing British intelligence agents.
Still, there was the satisfaction of playing an important part in the struggle for independence. And it was reassuring to know that his friendship with Alice and Stella was stronger than the many differences between them. He finished ‘Danny Boy’, opened his eyes and thought about what to play next. He had sheet music for ‘The Rose of Tralee’ in his satchel. But maybe something livelier would lift his mood. He opted for the music hall song ‘In the Good Old Summer Time’ and had begun to play its jaunty air when the door to the drawing room burst open.
‘Mrs Hanlon,’ said Johnny in surprise, ‘what’s––’
‘The whole area’s been cordoned off,’ she said before he could finish his question. ‘The Tans and the army are searching houses.’
‘Right,’ said Johnny, lowering the clarinet. ‘But I’m registered as living here, so it should be OK.’
‘The Boss isn’t registered here. And he’s on the premises.’
‘Yeah?’ Johnny had had no idea that Michael Collins was meeting Mrs Hanlon tonight. But one of the reasons Collins was so effective was that he kept himself a shadowy, elusive figure, who never stayed too long on one place.
‘He’s in my sitting room. We need to get him out of here fast. How would you feel about helping?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He’s going to leave by the back way and brazen it out at the first checkpoint he meets. Do you think you could brazen it out too? It would look more innocent if he’s travelling with a youngster.’
Johnny knew that the British didn’t know what Collins looked like, and that the rebel leader believed in hiding in plain sight. But there was still risk involved in trying to get through the cordon. He felt his pulses starting to throb but he didn’t hesitate. ‘Count me in.’
‘Sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘All right, there’s no time to lose. Put on your good overcoat, and your best cap, and meet me at the back door.’
Johnny nodded, then he gathered his clarinet and music sheets, headed out of the room and ran up the stairs.
* * *
The October air was clammy and cold, and smoke billowed from countless chimney pots as the citizens of Dublin tried to keep warm. Stepping out into the laneway behind the boarding house, Johnny was well wrapped up in a woollen scarf and the good quality coat that Mrs Hanlon had bought him for the O’Shea escape bid. He had a snug-fitting boy’s cap pulled down over his thick hair, and brown leather gloves on his hands. It was Mrs Hanlon’s belief that a well-dressed person who looked middle-class would always seem less suspicious to the powers-that-be. Michael Collins obviously believed in the same theory, and he wore a soft hat and was smartly dressed in a tailored suit, over which he wore a fine Crombie overcoat.
‘Leave all the talking to me, Johnny,’ said Collins as they headed up the laneway towards Temple Street.
‘OK.’
‘And carry yourself confidently as though you haven’t a care in the world.’
‘Sure.’
‘Good lad,’ said Collins catching his eye and giving him a wink.
Johnny felt a boost to his confidence. Collins’s self-belief was infectious. But it was one thing being brave – and even cocky – here in the laneway. How things went when they got to the cordon might be a different matter. Well, they’d know soon enough, he thought as they got to the corner of the laneway and turned onto the main road.
Sure enough, Mrs Hanlon’s information had been correct, and a major search was taking place. Crossley tenders lined the street, and Tans and British troops were involved in a joint operation that involved searching houses, stopping vehicles and questioning pedestrians.
Johnny could see the cordon up ahead, between the Children’s Hospital and St George’s Church
‘Don’t slow down,’ said Collins. ‘Walk towards them and greet them warmly. We see this as a minor inconvenience, but we understand why it’s necessary. We’re on the side of law and order, and we back their efforts.’
‘Right.’
Despite all the activity going on around them Collins chatted to Johnny about the coming feast of Halloween as they approached the checkpoint.
‘Evening, Sergeant,’ he said, stopping and nodding to the British soldier who stood blocking their way, his rifle at the ready.
‘Evening, sir,’ the man answered.
Sir, thought Johnny. Would the soldier have called him that if Collins had been dressed like a workman? An officer with a thin moustache and dressed in a captain’s uniform drew near, but it was the sergeant who did the questioning.
‘Name and address, please,’ he asked in a strong Lancashire accent.
‘Edward Taylor,’ answered Collins, ‘27 Palmerston Road, Rathmines. And this is my nephew, Johnny.’
Following his earlier instructions, Johnny said nothing but smiled politely. He thought it was clever of Collins to pick an upmarket neighbourhood like Rathmines, and a name that could easily be Protestant.
‘And your business in this area, Mr Taylor?’
Collins indicated the Children’s Hospital. ‘Brought Johnny to see a doctor.’
‘At this hour?’
‘Tied up with business during the day,’ said Collins with a half apologetic smile. ‘I arranged a private consultation for this evening.’
Johnny felt his heart pounding. If the soldier checked this story out they would be in deep trouble. But Collins sounded really plausible and unworried, and he hoped that the sergeant would buy the explanation.
‘What’s wrong with you, son?’ the man asked, suddenly turning to Johnny.
‘Tonsillitis,’ answered Johnny deliberately making his voice hoarse.
The sergeant said nothing, and Johnny wondered if the man believed him. He was tempted to try to convince him, but he remembered his training with Mr O’Shea, who had taught him never to babble when being questioned. His pulses were racing, but Johnny said nothing further and tried to look unfazed.
After a moment the soldier nodded.
‘Painful thing, tonsillitis. Had it meself as a nipper. I hope they get you sorted out.’
‘Thanks,’ said Johnny trying not to sound relieved.
The sergeant stood to one side to let them pass. Johnny moved forward, taking care not to appear too eager.
‘Just one second,’ said a voice, and Johnny anxiously turned around to see that it was the officer who had spoken.
‘Palmerston Road, you say?’
If Collins was thrown by this late intervention he didn’t show it.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Do you know the Conyngham family?’ asked the officer in what Johnny recognised as an educated Dublin accent.
Johnny held his breath. If this was a trick question and Collins claimed to know a non-existent family the game would be up. But if the Conynghams were a well-known family and Collins was a resident of Palmerston Park, perhaps he should know of them.
Again Collins gave the apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, can’t say I know them.’
‘Really? They’re quite well established.’
‘Well there you have it,’ said Collins. ‘I’m only a recent arrival.’
‘I see. And where have you arrived from?’
‘Cork. Most of our business has been in Cork, but we’ve expanded into Dublin.’
Smart again, thought Johnny. As an Irishman, the officer could probably tell that Collins was from Cork rather than Dublin.
‘And what would that business be, Mr Taylor?
‘Commercial Insurance. Plenty of claims, I’m afraid, since these damned rebels went on the rampage,’ he added.
‘Indeed,’ agreed the officer.
Even though Collins had a prepared identity in his head, Johnny was impressed by how convincingly the rebel leader could improvise. The officer seemed to be convinced now, and Johnny allowed himself to relax a little.
‘By the way,’ said the officer. ‘Why Temple Street?’
‘As I explained to your sergeant, Johnny here has tonsillitis.’
‘But you live on the south side. Harcourt Street Children’s Hospitial is nearer. Why cross the city to Temple Street?’
Johnny felt his pulses pounding again, and he prayed that Collins could come up with a convincing answer.
‘It’s a little further all right,’ answered Collins. ‘But one of the doctors is an old college pal who agreed to see us after hours.’
Johnny found himself holding his breath.
‘Ah,’ said the officer. ‘The old school tie, eh?’
Collins smiled again. ‘Something like that.’
‘Very well, Mr Taylor. We’ll detain you no further.’ The Captain faced Johnny and nodded in farewell, ‘Young man.’
‘Evening, sir,’ said Johnny.
Collins raised his hat to the officer. Then he placed a companionable arm around Johnny’s shoulder and they walked off at an easy pace, away from the checkpoint and into the night.