Alice watched as the wrecking ball smashed into the side of the building. It sent shattered brickwork and plaster in all directions, but Alice and her mother observed from a safe distance. Part of her couldn’t help but enjoy the drama of seeing the building being demolished, but she mostly felt sad that Balbriggan had so many vacant sites where the burnt-out houses and shops stood. Some rebuilding had already begun, and eventually families whose homes were ruined would be re-housed, but Alice wondered if the hundreds of workers who had lost their jobs at the destroyed Deeds Templar factory would ever find work again.
The burning of the town had received extensive coverage in the newspapers, and questions had even been asked in parliament in Westminster. Mam had said that a Commission of Enquiry had been set up to investigate what was being called the Sack of Balbriggan. But even Mam, who was normally pro-government, said she wouldn’t hold her breath waiting for its findings.
‘I think we’ve seen enough, Alice’, she said now, as the wrecking ball swung again, knocking down a wall and raising a cloud of dust.
‘Yes,’ agreed Alice, slipping her arm through her mother’s as they turned away and began walking home. It was a misty November afternoon, and they stepped over sodden leaves as they made their way towards the Mill. The light was starting to fade, and the slightly gloomy atmosphere created a sense of intimacy. It seemed to Alice the right moment to ask a question that had been on her mind, and she turned to her mother and spoke softly. ‘Just between ourselves, Mam. Who do you honestly think is going to win the war?’
Her mother looked surprised by the question. ‘Well, you know I’ve always favoured law and order.’
‘But the Tans and Auxies haven’t brought law and order, have they?’
‘No,’ admitted her mother, ‘they haven’t. On the other hand, the rebels have created chaos. That’s hardly to be admired either.’
‘So who do you think will win?’
‘Why are you asking this now, Alice?’
‘Because it will affect us in the Mill. More and more people are for the rebels, Mam. If they win, we’ll need to adjust.’
‘But if they’re not the winners we mustn’t burn our bridges. The government may decide the rebels must be beaten at any cost.’
‘So you think the rebels will lose?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Alice. It could go either way. Meanwhile we have to do a tricky balancing act.’
‘Lots of girls in school are for the rebels and a new Ireland.’
‘But what sort of an Ireland would that be? An Ireland whose leaders would be gunmen?’
Alice thought of Johnny, who was risking his life to bring about a better country. ‘Maybe it would be a good Ireland, Mam. Run by people with ideals.’
‘That remains to be seen. Meanwhile we take it a day at a time, and keep our heads down. All right?’
‘Right,’ said Alice. But she knew that Johnny wasn’t keeping his head down, and she prayed that he was safe as she trudged home through the darkening November streets.
* * *
‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Shea, but I think that’s plain silly,’ said Johnny.
He was in Mrs Hanlon’s private parlour, to which she had invited him to play the clarinet for herself and Mr O’Shea. The room was warm and comfortably furnished, and the atmosphere had been relaxed. Now, however, the mood had been broken by O’Shea chiding Johnny for playing ‘Hold Your Hand Out, Naughty Boy’, a music hall song that he claimed was very English.
‘There’s nothing silly in preferring Irish music to the music of the oppressor,’ said O’Shea.
‘I play lots of Irish music,’ said Johnny. ‘But “Hold Your Hand Out” is a catchy tune and good fun. What of it, if it’s English?’
‘They’re the enemy.’
‘Not their music. And not even everyone English, Mr O. I mean, we’re fighting their army, not the whole English race.’
‘We’re fighting everything they stand for, Johnny. We have our own culture, they have theirs. It’s better not to mix the two.’
Johnny had a lot of respect for Mr O’Shea and had never seriously argued with him before. He looked to Mrs Hanlon, who, although a committed republican, tended to be more liberal. She didn’t say anything, but gave Johnny a tiny wink, which he took to be encouragement to argue his corner with O’Shea.
‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Shea, but I don’t agree. Do you remember Mr Tardelli, who ran the band in Balbriggan?’
‘Yes,’ answered O’Shea. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Mr Tardelli is Italian. In the Great War Italy fought against Germany. For three years they were the enemy. But Mr Tardelli didn’t stop playing music by Beethoven, because Beethoven was German. Are you really saying he should have? Or that English mothers shouldn’t have sung Brahms’ Lullaby to their babies, because Brahms was German?’
O’Shea didn’t answer at once, and Johnny detected a faint smile from Mrs Hanlon.
‘I think maybe you should be a barrister, Johnny, when all this is over,’ she said. ‘Talking of which,’ she added, looking meaningfully at O’Shea.
He nodded, then turned to Johnny. ‘Let’s agree to differ about the music. There’s something else we need to talk about.’
‘OK,’ said Johnny. He was a little disappointed that O’Shea was so rigid that he couldn’t be swayed, but relieved too that he hadn’t taken exception to being bested in an argument by a fourteen-year-old.
‘We want you to check the whereabouts of someone on Saturday night, Johnny,’ said O’Shea. ‘But after that your mission will be over.’
‘Really?’
‘You’ve done a great job,’ said Mrs Hanlon. ‘You can really be proud of yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. ‘So, after Friday…what happens?’
O’Shea hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘What we’ve been working towards for the past couple of months is about to come to a head. I can’t give you any more details. The less you know, the safer it is for you.’
‘For the rest of the weekend, Johnny, you’ll need to lie low,’ said Mrs Hanlon. ‘Don’t ask me why, but it’s important you do.’
‘All right. And after that?’
‘A lot depends on how things go,’ said O’Shea. ‘We might need to get you out of Dublin for a while.’
‘You’ve done more that your share, Johnny,’ said Mrs Hanlon. ‘Maybe it’s time to get to know your mother better and live the normal life of a boy your age.’
Johnny’s mind was racing, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘We don’t have to decide the details right now,’ said O’Shea. ‘But your mission is ending, and I want to thank you, really sincerely, for all you’ve done.’ He rose and crossed to Johnny, offering his hand. ‘God Save Ireland.’
Johnny stood up, and they solemnly shook hands. ‘God Save Ireland,’ he said.