A Girl Called Rosie (8 page)

‘It’s not for long, John,’ Rose said to comfort him. ‘We’ll take him some toast and marmalade when we collect him in the morning and see he gets a good lunch before we put him on the train. He’s young enough not to take any harm. It would be different if the weather was cold.’

‘Aye, I’m sure you’re right. And I’m sure the uncle in Dublin will know what’s best for him. I can’t keep up with the comings and goings but it would be different if you lived there.’

‘Yes, John, but it doesn’t really matter what’s happening at the political level. These two men who
want Patrick are Waterville men. Now they’re out of jail, they’ll have to find work or emigrate. They’re not likely to go searching round Dublin for a student. And if they leave Waterville, everyone will know. Its no different from Banbridge, everyone knows everyone else’s business. If they head for Dublin, his mother or brother will know and can send him word. His uncle can pack him off to London, or America. I’m sure he’s got relatives there. And if he hasn’t, then the McGinleys would be only too glad to help him.’

John nodded, looked relieved and said a polite no to apple pie with cream, or custard, or both.

A little later, as coffee was being served, he excused himself. He’d just go out and have a look at the motor’s handbook. It might be a good idea to put up the top on the motor for tomorrow’s job, even if it didn’t look much like rain.

Rosie did not sleep well after her visit to Currane Lodge. For a long time she lay awake intensely aware of the low voices of her grandparents in the bedroom next door. It was no more than the faintest murmur, but she knew they were working out what to do about Patrick and just thinking about his situation made her anxious. They’d promised to go back to Currane Lodge in the morning and take him to somewhere he’d be safe, but it would be no simple matter to decide what was best.

The two O’Connors, newly-released from internment, who held him responsible for tipping off Free State troops about their movements a year earlier, were members of one of the nine Kerry IRA Brigades. When her grandfather had questioned him, Patrick had explained they recruited young men from every part of the county, though rather more from the north than the south. The Waterville men were well known to his family, but there were any number of others who might also be on the look out for him.

Rosie tossed and turned and so wished she could hear what they were saying, wished there was some simple solution she herself could come up with, wished he was safely on his way to Dublin, or London, or America. Then, to her intense surprise, she found herself wishing nothing of the sort, because she’d only just met him and very much wanted to see him again.

For one thing, she knew so little about him, and would like to know much more, even though she’d not even liked him very much to start with, especially when he’d treated her as if she were only fourteen or fifteen. When he’d cried over his brother’s death, though, she’d changed her mind. Then he’d kissed her, so quickly she hadn’t had time to think how she felt.

Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.

People were always saying that. She’d no idea where it came from, but she kept on hearing it all the time these days. Song or not, it happened to be true in her own case. The nearest anyone had come to kissing her had been Paddy Doyle, one of the new neighbours on the lane back at home, but he’d only done it for a dare, so it didn’t mean anything. She knew Patrick’s kiss was very different, but what it was saying, she had no idea.

It could just be he was so relieved to have someone to talk to after all those lonely weeks, but
then again, he’d said she was an angel in disguise. The trouble was she had no way of telling whether or not he really liked her or whether that was just the sort of thing he would say to any girl who took his fancy.

She fell asleep without coming to any conclusion and was pursued by ugly dreams all through the night.

Uncle Joe was there in most of them, unwashed and unshaven, poring over his newspaper, reading out accounts of gun battles and ambushes. At one point, he appeared standing on a low hill cheering as two groups of men shot at each other.

‘That’s it. Go on ye boys,’ he shouted, above the crack of pistols. ‘Kill each other off. The only good Fenian is a dead Fenian.’

‘All Fenians have red hair. Kill the bastard!’

Suddenly, there was Patrick too, his red hair matted with blood, little rivulets flowing down his ash-white face.

She cried out and woke up, her body bathed in sweat.

She lay there shaking until her heart began to beat more quietly then she slid out of bed and drew back the heavy curtains. It was only six o’clock but already it was a fine, sunny morning. Although her room faced west, long fingers of light crept round the hotel and lay across the gardens. Beyond the
lawns and flowerbeds, the tiny waves ran silently up the beach and the low sun set them sparkling. The wet sand was dazzling as they slipped silently back into the calm waters of the bay.

Comforted and reassured by the familiar sight from her window, she spoke severely to herself and went to the wardrobe. In it there now hung three dresses and the skirt and blouse that had been her Sunday best. The green and white gingham check had been obligatory wear at Miss Wilson’s and she’d never liked it, but that still left two dresses and her blouse and skirt to chose from. For the first time in her life, she had the problem of what she would wear for this second visit to Currane Lodge.

Her grandfather was more silent than usual at breakfast. Even while eating his bacon and egg, he kept glancing towards the handbook for his hired Bentley and a new roadmap he’d parked beside his plate.

Rosie noticed that her grandmother had brought a large handbag to breakfast. When it was opened she saw it was quite empty, except for a large sheet of tissue paper with which it had been carefully lined. In the course of breakfast, they filled it with well-buttered toast thickly spread with marmalade made into sandwiches.

‘Is there anything I can get you this morning,
ma’am?’ enquired Bridget, approaching the table a great deal more confidently than she had the previous week.

Rosie wasn’t surprised that she was easy with them. Unlike the way she’d seen other guests behave, they all treated her as no different from themselves, a girl doing her job for their benefit.

She smiled at them as John nodded to her, unfolded his map and disappeared behind it.

‘Yes, thank you, Bridget. We’re going to visit some old friends today, over in Dingle, so we’d like a picnic lunch.’

‘Certainly ma’am.’

She listed the available sandwich fillings, several kinds of cake, apple tart and fruit and noted down what Rose chose in a small pad she took from her apron pocket.

‘Actually, Bridget, they are rather
elderly
friends,’ her grandmother added. ‘Do you think you could make lunch for five? We haven’t told them we’re coming and we don’t want to put them to any trouble.’

Bridget beamed.

‘Certainly, Mrs Hamilton,’ she said, bobbing her little curtsey. ‘I’ll bring the hamper out to the motor in about twenty minutes. Will that be all right?’

‘That will be splendid,’ Rose replied, smiling. She slid a few coins from her pocket unobtrusively under her saucer, picked up the handbag and got to her feet.

‘Have a nice drive, miss,’ Bridget added, as Rosie followed her grandmother out of the dining room.

Just as Rose had had second thoughts about taking Patrick into a hotel for a good lunch, John had changed his mind about putting up the top on the motor. It promised to be yet one more beautiful day, the barometer high, the weather set fair. The hood might indeed conceal his passenger, but it would be more likely to attract unwelcome attention on such a fine summer’s morning.

They set off, taking the same road as the previous day, in the same warm sunshine. But nothing else was the same. A young man’s life was at risk. If his young brother tried to contact him he might simply reveal his hiding place. He had no means of transport but his own two feet, and negotiating unfamiliar territory where his presence would immediately be noticed was far too dangerous.

They drove in silence. The sun-drenched landscape, the prolific blossoming of hedges and wayside flowers and the bright splashes of colour in cottage gardens were ignored. They had eyes only for anything strange in their immediate surroundings or any other traffic on the road.

Apart from a couple of fishermen, one or two carts heading in the direction of Waterville and a man driving cows to new pasture, they met no one coming towards them. Only two motors caught up
with them. John slowed down and observed their occupants closely as they passed. They were all relieved when one vehicle contained well-dressed ladies, the other an elderly priest.

There was no one anywhere in sight as John swung the motor into the overgrown drive at Currane Lodge and proceeded as quickly as he could to get the motor out of sight of the road. They bumped a bit as they met the cobbles of the stable yard, but moments later they came silently to a halt outside the stable block.

Rosie looked up at the window where she’d sat the previous day, expecting to see a face, or a hand waving in greeting, but everything remained silent and still. She felt the tight grip of anxiety as the minutes passed and there was no sign of him.

‘Maybe he didn’t hear us stop,’ said John quietly.

‘Or perhaps he’s being very cautious in case anyone followed us,’ said Rose, looking behind her, back down the drive.

‘He could be in the other room, Granny. If he’s writing. That’s where he had his things,’ Rosie suggested.

‘I think you could go up and fetch him, Rosie. Here, give him this and tell him to wear the cap. If it’s too big, we can pad it with some clean handkerchiefs.’

Rosie took the parcel her grandmother handed
her and got down from the motor quickly before John had time to protest. She ran across the yard and up the stone steps. As she arrived at the top, he pulled the door wide open and stood staring at her.

‘I thought you mightn’t come,’ he said, shaking his head and drawing her into the room. ‘I only let myself look out the window every ten minutes. But I was awake from six.’

‘So was I.’

She handed him the parcel, acutely aware of how closely he was observing her. ‘What’s this?’

He looked so confused and anxious she wondered if he had slept any better than she had. Certainly, there was something different about him today and for a few moments she couldn’t work out what it was. Then she saw that he’d washed his hair. It was soft and shiny and even redder than she’d remembered. His shirt looked cleaner too but it was even more crumpled than before. She glanced cautiously at his trousers. They no longer had black marks below the knee, but in their place, large, dark smudges all over them.

‘It might be trousers,’ she said tentatively. ‘I know there’s a cap.’

‘Cap? But it’s not raining.’

‘No, but you have very red hair.’

He pulled open the brown paper and found a pair of corduroys and a motoring cap.

‘Where did you get these?’ he asked in amazement.

‘I didn’t. They look like Granda’s to me. But I know Granny asked Bridget for some sewing things last night. You’d better go and put them on.’

He hesitated for a moment and then disappeared into the other room, pulling the door very firmly shut behind him.

She smiled to herself and sat down on the windowsill to wait, amazed at how confident she now felt that everything would be all right.

‘Well, what do you think?’

He reappeared looking remarkably respectable. He was wearing a comfortable tweed jacket that just might have been bought to go with the trousers her grandmother had shortened the previous evening. Only a small part of his shirt showed under the jacket and not a single shred of red hair escaped her grandfather’s spare motoring cap.

‘Goodness, I wouldn’t recognise you,’ she said, delighted.

‘But I recognise an angel when I see one.’ He hesitated and smiled shyly. ‘I have a present for you.’

He put his hand into the jacket pocket and took out a slim, leather-bound volume.

‘With love, and kisses,’ he said, as he handed it to her, took a step towards her and drew her into his arms.

It took only a few moments for him to collect his books and writing materials and put them in a knapsack he’d hung on a hook on the back of the bedroom door. He’d already thrown away the bracken that he’d used to take the edge off the hardness of the floor. He picked up the folded rug and handed it to her and then stood looking round the almost empty room. A chipped enamel bucket stood in one corner. Nearby, a tin plate and mug sat on the floor. Beside them, the smoothed out paper from yesterday’s sandwiches and his discarded trousers.

She saw him glance at them undecided.

‘Those were Thomas’s. Army issue,’ he said awkwardly.

‘The trousers, you mean?’ she asked, following his gaze.

‘No, the plate and mug. It’s the first thing they give you when you join up.’

‘Then you’ll want to keep them,’ she prompted.

‘Will I?’ He came back at her, his tone full of bitterness. ‘If he hadn’t joined up, he might be here now.’

‘But he’s not here. And being bitter won’t help.’

‘Why not?’ he asked, glaring at her.

‘Because bitterness disables. It stops you from doing the best you can and from taking the comfort there might be for whatever you’ve lost.’

She heard herself speak the words and stopped
in amazement wondering wherever they’d come from. He was still staring at her angrily when she remembered. Out of a story her grandmother told about the time her family was evicted from their home in Donegal.

Sitting in the garden of the hotel the previous week, she’d spoken of the day their cottage had been battered to the ground. It ended with a gathering of some of those evicted that day in the house of an old man who knew his home would itself be knocked down the very next morning. It was his words that had come to her, warning all those who’d suffered and were about to suffer that it was bitterness damaged people most, not hardship, because those who were bitter could take no comfort for their loss.

Rosie saw his belligerent scowl soften as he knelt down on the bare boards. He tore the paper in two, wrapped the metal plate in one piece and the tin mug in the other.

‘Here, hold this,’ he said, thrusting the knapsack into her hands so abruptly she had to let go of the rug she’d been carrying.

While she held it open, he wedged the plate in easily enough, but he could see nowhere to put the mug. He stood clutching it in his hand, looking down in dismay at the well-packed books.

‘If you take the ink bottle out, the mug might fit in the space.’

The mug slipped neatly into place. She then pointed out that the ink bottle would fit inside the mug. He shook his head and smiled a strange, rueful little smile, did up the straps and hitched the knapsack over one shoulder.

‘What
am
I going to do without you?’

He glanced back at the floor. His blackened trousers lay where he’d dropped them.

‘What about those?’

‘They could do with cleaning.’

She picked them up and wrapped them inside the rug she’d retrieved from the floor.

‘I did try. I went down to the lake and swam and washed my shirt, but I couldn’t get the marks out.’

‘How
did
they get there in the first place?’ she asked, trying not to smile.