Chapter 3: Smoke

Brigid woke confused, feeling a difference in the house. On the chair by her bed sat a large box, coloured and shiny, like a Christmas present. Was it Christmas? It could not be – the warm light of summer was still filtering through the blinds. Rose. She remembered that Rose had come. Had Rose left her a present in the night? Brigid turned on her side, reached across, and pulled over the shiny box, smelling of newness. She could hardly open it, for the shaking of her hands and the beating of her heart. It was exactly like Christmas. Inside the box, her fingers found soft cloth. Sitting up, swinging out of bed, she lifted from folded tissue paper a fringed skirt, a waistcoat, a tin badge, a red neckerchief with a silver clasp, a hat with a band round it, little boots without feet and, best of all, a leather belt with a holster and a shiny toy revolver. Brigid wondered no more. It might not be Christmas, but this was a present and, where presents were concerned, she asked no questions.

She pulled all of it on over her pyjamas and, despite the chill under her feet, ran straight to Francis’ room, right along the long corridor. Not even the cold following eyes of Blessed Oliver Plunkett, hanging like a reproach on the wall, could hold her back. She ran past him and pushed open Francis’ door, spreading her arms with a flourish. Nothing happened. No one was there. The only movement in the empty room came from the summer curtains, sucked in and out with a sigh. Through filmy light Brigid could see the Friday Tree, far away, spread out in its late green glory at the back of the plot. Yet, inside or out, there was no Francis. The cold of her feet spread through Brigid. Had he gone now too? She raced back past Blessed Oliver to the top of the stairs and there, looking down, she saw Francis standing quite still at the foot of the stairs, his head on one side as if he were listening for something. To her vexation, he did not seem to see her. With one hand on the newel post, he was looking without expression at the sitting-room door. When she called him he raised his eyes, yet, for a second, it was as if he did not know her, looking blankly as if she were a stranger. With some effort, she pulled out her new revolver from its stiff leather holster and, surprised by its heaviness, struggling to hold it in both hands, managed to point it at him.

“Bang!” she said, and was delighted to find that the gun made a bang of its own.

She watched his face break into a smile. He lifted his hands, and she saw he was holding a long tube, shining, with a glass window.

“Hello!” he said. “Do you like my new telescope? You look dangerous.”

“Bang!” cried Brigid, again, the gun obligingly echoing, and was satisfied to see him crumple at the waist, clasping the newel post as he fell. His falling words, “You got me!” pleased her. Brigid blew away smoke – real smoke! – from the top of the pistol, just the way the cowboys did. Then she scrambled down the stairs, only to find that Francis had, yet again, disappeared. Put out, but no longer afraid, she paused just long enough to shoot into the air, and then she noticed that the sitting-room door was ajar. Low voices floated out.

Brigid stopped. Her heart grew loud. She knew those voices. She thought she knew those voices. Hardly daring to believe what she heard, Brigid once more blew the smoke, hard, from the top of her gun and pushed open the sitting-room door.

And there they were. Her parents, so suddenly gone, were just as suddenly back again. Her mother and father were sitting there, as if they had never gone away. Brigid found herself unable to speak. She found herself, also, angered, which she had not been when, all those days and days ago, they had disappeared. There her mother sat, quiet and composed, one hand out to her from the table, saying as though she had not gone off and left them: “Brigid. Your hair. Come here.” Light caught the slender wedding band as her hand came towards Brigid, and danced on the bright white stones of her other ring.

Yet, to Brigid, distracted by the sudden shining, it seemed that her mother spoke without enthusiasm, her eyes all the time on Brigid’s father. He was different, too. He looked strange.

Into Brigid’s head from nowhere came a picture: a rainy winter Saturday when she had sat on the floor at his feet, his hand on her head. She had been held close between the rolled chair-arm and his knee. The radiogram sang quietly in the corner, and her father tapped out its rhythm on her hair. Outside it was cold, rain in grey needles beating against the window, but she was warm, watching mountains and caves in the fire. The music stopped. Her father’s hand slid to her shoulder and, pressing her arm so that she turned to him, he stood her up and placed her between his knees. He covered one eye with his hand. “I can’t see you, Brigid,” he said, and when she looked, she could not see herself. There was no mirror in his uncovered eye. It was a stone, not an eye. She tried to pull away, but he held her. Then he covered the other eye, looked at her, the eye alive, her own frowning face reflected in the shining blackness in the centre. He said: “Now I can see my girlie.” That night, she dreamed they had all, everyone in the house, turned to stone.

Now, today, mysteriously returned, he wore a large white bandage over one eye, and he did not extend his hand to her. Still angry, she told herself that the cowgirl suit must be to make up for leaving, and she said: “Daddy – Mama,” but she did not go to them, and she did not thank them. Then, she said, “Where did you go?” and her mother looked down again at her hands before replying, “To London. Did you like your present?” and her father, at last, looked round, pointing his hand like a gun. “Bang, bang!” he said. “You’re shot – you’re dead.”

Brigid thought: To London? Without us? Without me? But she did not say it. Instead, she said, “Thank you. I like it very much,” but in her head she asked her questions, over and over, until a face appeared round the door and made her forget to be angry.

Francis, comically fearful, was peering out from under his hair. “Is she gone?” said his voice, low and hollow. “Somebody tell me when she’s gone.”

Brigid turned and shot him again. “Bang, bang! You’re shot, you’re dead!” she cried, looking, in spite of herself, to see if her father had heard her. He had not. Gazing out the window through the eye not covered, only his blind, bandaged face was turned towards her. Francis fell obligingly dead, but Brigid felt no elation. She no longer wanted to know why her parents had gone away. Her father had just told her.

And yet, though they had come back, everyone was quiet, and there was no rejoicing. Even Rose was quiet, not cold as when Uncle Conor came, simply saying very little. They all seemed to be living inside themselves. Brigid was not unhappy when they were told to get dressed, get their breakfast and go outside in the fresh air. In the hall, she stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to her brother.

“Francis?”

He put his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot me, ma’am. I’m real scared,” he said, but Brigid did not respond.

“Francis. Don’t they want to see us?” she said.

Francis sighed, dropped his hands and his head, suddenly deflated. “Brigid,” he said, and then for a moment or two said nothing. He sighed, folded his arms, and looked at her, clear and straight, almost hard: “Do you know what, Brigid? Sometimes you disappoint me. He has been ill.”

Brigid thought: he means Daddy, but he does not call him Daddy.

“He needs quiet,” Francis said. “We’re too noisy in the house. Don’t you see that?”

“I saw the bandage.”

“Exactly. The thing is, Brigid, we’re a bit in the way here. Come on. Get ready and we’ll go out to the garden. Do you know your hair looks as if a bird’s been nesting in it?”

Brigid, confused, thinking of Ned and the rose thorns, did not know what to say. She pulled at her head, ineffectually. “It’s always getting tangled,” she said. “Nobody has time to fix it. I can’t.”

Francis did not reply. He seemed to be thinking about something else.

“Brigid?” he said.

She turned, halfway up the first stair.

“Don’t say anything about yesterday. To anyone.”

“Not to you?”

He had turned away. “Not to anyone, just for now.”

In her room, Brigid looked at herself in the mirror. She was untidy. Mama had said nothing after that first abstracted remark. Mama had forgotten about her hair. Mama had forgotten about her. Brigid gave the plaits a good shake, took herself briskly past Blessed Oliver into the bathroom, still cold even on an August morning, and scrubbed and took short cuts, until she judged herself ready for her cowgirl suit, except that the hair still had to be replaited. Francis could not be asked to do this. She had to go to Isobel, knowing she would do it too tightly, and scold her all the while for failing to keep still. Brigid wished she could have gone to Rose, but Rose was in the silent room with her parents and Brigid decided that she had better just go and get breakfast with Isobel, and put up with her pulling at the hair.

By the time she got outside, she was cross and resentful. Francis, with his new telescope, was crouched down in the garden, looking out towards the end of the plot. He did not seem to hear her come up behind him. “Boo!” she said, but he did not move.

“Boo yourself,” he said, but he did not turn round. “You think I didn’t hear you.”

“Did you?” she asked, thumbs in her waistcoat, legs apart.

“No.” He still did not turn round, so Brigid leaned on to his shoulder, trying to see what he was seeing.

“What is up there?” she said. “What are you looking at?”

He folded up the telescope, and turned to face her. His face was guarded. “Just birds,” he said.

She clapped her hands. “Oh, let me see. Let me have a go.”

“Sometime,” he said. “Not in that gear. Did you ever see a marshal with a telescope . . . Marshal?”

That did it. Up she got, legs wide, thumbs so firmly in the waistcoat that they hurt.

Francis stood up against the sun, blotting it out. Then, as he shifted slightly, Brigid thought she saw something.

“Francis, is that smoke?” She could not be sure. Everything beyond a short distance had a haze round it, which Brigid quite liked unless, as now, she wanted to make something out. “Is it, Francis?” she said again.

He glanced round quickly, far too quickly, to Brigid’s mind, to have looked at it properly, then immediately turned away.

“No,” he said, training the telescope towards the house. “I don’t think so. Or if it is, it’s old smoke. Maybe a campfire. Maybe someone lit a fire to burn rubbish.”

“A campfire!” Brigid, forgetting for a moment that she was a US Marshal, jumped up in excitement. “Francis,” she said, “could it be whoever was there when we looked for Dicky?”

He did not respond. “Are we going to play, or not, Marshal?” he said. “Seems to me that could be Cherokee smoke . . .”

Immediately, as if a switch had been pulled, Brigid sprang into action and ran up the garden, close to the boundary of the plot.

“Yes!” she cried. “And I’ll be the bad one. I’ve just ridden into town!”

“How can you be a bad one, with the marshal’s badge?”

“I just am,” answered Brigid. “I can be what I want.”

Then she stopped. She had heard something across the fence. That voice, that whisper could only be Ned Silver.

“If you want to be a really bad one,” it said, “just shout ‘I’m the IRA’.”

“I’m not lis . . .” she began. Then in spite of herself, she whispered back, “What? What’s that?”

The whisper came again: “You want to be a bad one, these days, that’s what to be. Go on. Try it.”

“Brigid!” called Francis, from the end of the path. “Who are you going to be?”

And Brigid, without thinking, cried out, as loudly as she could: “I’m the IRA!”

Too late, she saw Francis’ face change and move from side to side, and his mouth begin to frame the word ‘no’.

Like a whirlwind from nowhere, up the garden steps, furious and white-faced, flew Isobel, flinging a large basket of washing to one side. “You tinker!” she cried. “You bold, brazen tinker!” Taking Brigid roughly by the arm, she spun her round: “How dare you say that? Don’t you understand anything? God, if you were mine, I’d give you what for!”

Brigid had never seen Isobel so angry. She had never seen her violent. And her arm hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Isobel.” Isobel’s face was lined and drawn, not like her face at all. “It was only a game – and it wasn’t even me. It was Ned –”

She looked round for Ned, but he was nowhere. Instead, Francis was beside her. Gently removing the furious hold, he patted Isobel’s arm. “It’s all right, Bella,” he said, quietly. “It was my fault. Brigid’s just excited, and I made her worse without meaning to. It was, really, only a game. Brigid doesn’t understand . . . what she said.”

Isobel relaxed her grip, but her face did not soften.

“Bella,” said Francis, “she’s not very big. She really doesn’t understand.” He eased Brigid, too sore and frightened to protest, away from Isobel. His hand rested gently on the arm she had raised to Brigid, until she composed herself.

Yet, when finally Isobel did speak, her voice was strange. It was rougher and deeper yet, to Brigid’s surprise, she could see something shining at the side of her eye. If it had been anyone else, Brigid would have said she was crying.

“Your mother wants you both inside,” Isobel said. “Go on. There’s a visitor come to call,” and she turned round, cross and brisk again, to pick up the washing, strewn where she had thrown it over the hollyhocks.

Brigid saw that the blackcurrant bush was wearing her father’s white shirt, and a small rose tree one of her own blue socks. That was good, that was fun, but when she turned to show Francis he drew her away, gently pulling her down the steps.

“Come on,” he said. “Piccadilly Circus, this place, if you ask me,” he added, under his breath.

“Oh, is there a circus? Is there, Francis?” Brigid trailed after him, pulling at him, but Francis did not reply. “Where is there a circus, Francis?” she tried again, but Francis said nothing more. He let go of her arm and Brigid, trotting to keep up, followed him as quickly as she could into the back yard, through the cool kitchen and, breathless, to the door of the sitting room, where another figure had joined their parents and Rose.

She came to a halt just behind Francis, stopped short at the door. She heard him say, “Uncle Conor” and she looked up, to see the tall figure of Cornelius Todd.

“Uncle Conor,” she said, just as Francis had, politely, distantly.

“Well,” said his deep voice, and his big hands caught her, held her up high above his head, shook her, brought her deep into his thick hair which, close up, smelled of spice. He swung her down on to her feet, then one hand brought her close in to stand by him. His other big hand, not a grizzly bear’s today, more a lion’s paw, reached out to Francis’ head and bowed it towards him, ruffling the fringe till it stood out in spikes. “There’s a big man,” he said, “and a dangerous cowboy here.”

Francis smoothed his hair with his hand.

Brigid, displeased without knowing why, heard herself say: “Cowgirl, Uncle Conor.”

“Cowgirl,” he corrected himself, “my mistake,” and he smiled again, this time with his teeth only, not his eyes. At the same time, he released his grip on her, and turned again to Francis. “Look what I have,” he said, and from nowhere produced two bars of chocolate.

Brigid and Francis drew breath at the same moment. This chocolate could be bought only across the border.

“Cornelius,” said their mother, in her warning voice, too low for comfort.

He looked up at her, with his eyebrow raised and his mouth in its half smile. He seemed apologetic, even regretful, yet the children knew he would not take back the gifts. “No rationing any more, is there, Grace? That war’s over, at least. How will a bar of chocolate harm them?”

“It could,” said Rose, even more quietly than her sister, “if it damages their teeth.”

Cornelius Todd turned deliberately round to Rose. She was sitting a little out of the circle of the company, on a chair near the window. “Thank you, Matron,” he said, one eyebrow higher than the other, but he did not smile.

Rose said nothing, turning instead to look out the window, her mouth set in its straight line. For one second, Brigid saw Rose almost old.

Silence hung in the air until her mother spoke. “You know, Cornelius,” she said, “I think Rose will be matron of that hospital some day, and I’m certainly glad of her advice where my children are concerned. More tea?”

He did not seem to hear her. Brigid saw him look straight at Rose, but all Rose appeared to see was a trolleybus rolling past on the road.

“Tell us about the Commemoration in Down, Conor,” said their father from his chair, as if none of them had said a word.

“Who spoke, you mean?” said Cornelius. Turning away from Rose, he pulled up the knees of his trouser-legs, and settled himself in the armchair. “Ah, you know, Maurice,” he said, pleasantly, as if nothing had happened, “it was our friend – that character who . . .” and as if no one else were present in the room, began what seemed to Brigid a very long account of people talking in a field about someone who was dead.

Brigid could not imagine how it interested her father, in his weakened state, yet it clearly did. He nodded and leaned forward in his chair so that Brigid thought he might slide out of it altogether. He asked questions of Uncle Conor as he had not done of her, or of Francis. Back and forth, they repeated the same words and numbers over and over: Connolly, Collins, Pearse, Tans, Hunger, Strike, John Bull, Sixteen, Twenty-one, Treaty, Troubles.

Her father grew more animated with every minute. He finally left his chair, half standing as he said: “And the Captain, Conor? Did you hear about the bold Captain, and his so-called ‘liberal policy towards the minority’? Did you read that? It was in the paper. Look.” He slid back into the chair, and reached down beside him where, in his excitement, he had dropped the newspaper on the floor. “Here, yes. I have it. I can’t make it out too well, but I can get the gist. Have you read it, Conor?”

“No need, Maurice,” said Conor, his hand out to take the newspaper. “I know what it said. The good Captain said he was warning what he called the minority that they must not meet this liberal policy with what he described as ingratitude. The papers said it was a hot Twelfth this year, and they were not wrong. And, you know, I went over and heard that young clergyman – you remember I said I would? I heard him preach at his new church in the east of the city. I’m sure you’ll be interested to learn that the Roman Catholic Church is not a Christian Church, and that the Pope is the Anti-Christ.”

Their mother reached across and placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Maurice,” she said. “The children,” but he seemed not to hear, looking with his good eye only at Conor.

“Ah, that fellow’s a firebrand,” he said. “He’ll burn himself out. I’m more concerned about the fifteen thousand Orangemen marching by the Longstone Road on the Twelfth. Their right! Their right! Holy cats o’ cats!”

Uncle Conor, glancing at the children, turned to their mother. “All quiet now though, Grace, down that direction. There was no trouble in the end. It was a respectful remembrance of a brave man who died, all those years ago, for a principle.”

“By starving himself? What was brave about that?”

To everyone’s surprise, this voice belonged to Rose.

No one else spoke. Brigid tried to catch Francis’ eye, in hope of escape, but Francis did not respond. His eyes were fixed upon their visitor.

“Does it still happen, Uncle Conor?” he said.

“Does what still happen, son?”

“Does it still happen in Ireland that people die because of politics, or get . . . you know, get killed?”

Conor looked at him straight in the eyes, as if Francis were an adult. “It still happens,” he said.

Francis intent, a cub about to spring, seemed suddenly to hesitate.

“Go ahead, son,” said Uncle Conor, and his voice was very quiet. “Say what’s on your mind.”

Francis stood up, ran his hand through his hair and said quickly, as if he could not stop the words: “Is there still an IRA, Uncle Conor?”

Brigid, no longer bored, felt herself stiffen, her eyes widen, and looked towards the door for Isobel. She was there, outside, Brigid knew. She had often seen her in the hall, quite still, listening. The clock on the mantel ticked for a long time before Uncle Conor stopped watching Francis. Brigid saw again his eyes grow cool, distant and appraising. She thought he would never answer.

Then, almost carelessly, he said: “Why do you ask that, Francis?”

Francis looked at the floor, then directly at Uncle Conor. “I thought the IRA was long ago. I thought it was over. I thought it was remembered in days like the one you were talking about, but just remembering, not happening any more.”

More silence. More moments for the clock to mark.

Francis took a deep breath: “Then I read in the newspaper that the police found guns in London. Boxes of them. They said they were IRA guns. They were to blow up places, army barracks. It said police, Special Branch, were looking for IRA men in London, and at the ports. Liverpool. The paper said they could have come here.”

The children’s mother lifted the heavy silver teapot, holding it poised as if it were made of paper. “Cornelius,” she said, “more tea?”

Uncle Conor looked at his hands, spread broadly in front of him. “The papers are full of stories, Francis,” he said. “That’s how papers are sold.” He put his hands on his knees with a loud smack, and stood up. “I don’t think I’ll have any more tea, thank you, Grace. I must get on the road.”

“Did you come up on the train this morning, Cornelius?” said their mother, rising as she spoke.

“Not this time. I got a lift, as it turned out. We came through the Mournes, through Eightmilebridge.”

“I love the train,” said their mother, turning all her attention on the children. “Maybe we’ll do that some day. We’ll go on the train, and you’ll see the hedges and fields and houses all streaming past you in a whistle.” She smiled, her warm smile, but there was in it a warning.

Francis, still watching Uncle Conor, turned with reluctance and met her eyes. “Faster than fairies,” he said, “faster than witches.”

“That’s right,” said his mother, and she reached out to stroke his head. “Good boy.” She turned back to Conor. “Now, Cornelius, I’m going to send these two out again. It’s a shame to have them inside this good day. Dear knows how many more we’ll have before the summer’s done.”

“Ah, don’t put them out,” he said. “I’m away. I can hear the sound of a car, and it could be my transport.” He smiled his crooked smile, and pulled them both close into his big arms. There was no softness in him today. Brigid, uncomfortable, remembered the grizzly bear. “And if your mother brings you over the border on the train, you can come and see me in my house, can’t you?”

Even as they nodded “Yes”, Brigid heard their mother say: “We’ll see what happens, Cornelius,” which both children knew meant ‘No’.

With relief, and anxious to be outside, Brigid and Francis ran out again through the kitchen. Yet, even before they turned out of the back yard, they heard a car door open, and veered round the side of the house to see who was coming or going. They were in time to see Uncle Conor getting into a car, but they could not see who was driving it. Turning round as he swivelled in, Cornelius included Brigid and Francis in his friendly wave, a kindly lion again, the grizzly bear hidden away.

On the morning air their mother’s voice carried through the window: “I don’t know what to think when I see Cornelius Todd. He just appears, and then he disappears. Like the Cheshire cat, but less comfortable.”

Then Rose’s voice spoke, smaller, flatter, not Rose’s voice at all: “And always when there is something going on,” she said.

“You’re right,” they heard their mother say. “I’m sorry, Rose. I was forgetting. It must have been uncomfortable for you,” and then the voices floated away.

Brigid and Francis looked at each other, but said nothing. They walked back around the house.

At the foot of the steps, Brigid stopped and said up to Francis, already near the top: “Why do we call him ‘Uncle’ and ‘Conor’ when he is not our real uncle and the grown-ups call him that name I can’t say?”

Francis said, reasonably: “That’s why. You can’t say Cornelius properly, and neither could I one time. Daddy calls him Conor, the Irish for it. And ‘Uncle’, well, people call their parents’ friends that sometimes. That’s about it.”

“But we don’t call Rose ‘Aunt Rose’ when we speak to her. Or Michael ‘Uncle Michael’ when we go to Tullybroughan.”

“Because she is really our aunt,” said Francis, shrugging his shoulders. “We don’t need to. We know she’s our aunt, and Michael’s our uncle. Same with Laetitia in Lecale.”

Brigid made a face. “I don’t always like Laetitia,” she said. “I’m not sure she likes me.”

“Laetitia’s all right,” said Francis. “Don’t annoy her, that’s all.”

“And there is an Uncle Laurence who is not really an uncle either?”

“Was, not is. Don’t think too much about it all, Brigid. Here, take this.”

Brigid, wondering what she would do if she did not have Francis to explain things to her, took the chocolate he handed her, and they sat, both thoughtful, on the grass.

“Francis,” asked Brigid, as they peeled away the silver paper and broke off chunky squares. How good chocolate was! How smooth and velvety-warm in her mouth. “Why did you ask those questions about,” she looked round, “that thing we aren’t supposed to mention? You know,” and she dropped her voice to a whisper, “IRA.”

Francis took a square of chocolate, slowly inserting it between his teeth. “I wanted to know,” he said.

Behind them, there was a sound in the plot. Turning, they saw Mr Doughty, his collar off, his face reddened with heat. He was coughing beneath his hand, quietly, to himself.

“Mr Doughty,” they said together, getting to their feet.

“Would you like some chocolate, Mr Doughty?” asked Francis, moving towards the plot fence.

“Morning, children,” he said, quite stiffly, then more kindly, “No, thank you. I’d spoil my dinner.”

Brigid wondered if he had heard her shouting about the IRA or, worse, if he guessed – since he was a policeman – what they were not mentioning now. His hands were behind his back. Perhaps he had handcuffs. Brigid stiffened as he reached his hands forward towards her, and then she saw what they held seemed like two large bouquets. One was cabbage, the other rhubarb.

“Take those in to your mammy,” he said, “like good children,” and Brigid was ashamed to have thought badly of him.

They thanked him together; he saluted them with a hand to the side of his forehead and turned to walk back up the plot again, his slow tread measured and steady, like a farmer who walks behind his plough, not like a policeman at all.