The Soldier's Song (28 page)

He turned his mind back to the meeting, thinking he’d been all right then. There hadn’t been the pain in his head, the dryness in his throat, the thumping heart and the shaking hands. He felt fit and happy, and it was only as he climbed the dusty stairs to the union offices that he realized his uniform might not be a welcome sight. They were probably all Citizen Army men with good reason to be wary of soldiers. The girl outside certainly gave him a hard stare before she asked him to take a seat and went back. She was gone quite a while, and he had a vision of panic, of men scrambling out of the window. But eventually the door opened again and Joe stuck his head out, his guarded look dissolving into a broad grin when he recognized his brother.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he whispered, and came all the way out, shutting the door behind him. ‘Look who’s back! It’s good to see you, Stephen.’

There was an unaffected joy in his greeting, real warmth in his handshake, and Stephen felt his anxiety melting away. His brother looked well in his brown suit and tie. Quite the man – no longer the boy he remembered – and a healthy man at that, with none of the shuffling stiffness he’d seen at the camp. He sat down and they chatted for a few minutes, but Stephen had the feeling he was making him uncomfortable, and didn’t object when Joe suggested that they go out for a cup of tea. When they came out onto the street, Joe cast a glance over his shoulder and asked, ‘See that fella across the road?’

Stephen darted a look and saw a burly young man in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat with his jacket slung over his shoulder. He was peering intently into the window of a dressmaker’s.

‘The one who’s interested in women’s clothes?’

‘He’s G Division – from Dublin Castle. They have a watch on the office. I wonder what they’ll make of me going for a cup of tea with one of His Majesty’s officers.’

Stephen wondered that too – particularly when he spotted the man again from the window of the Lyon’s tea shop – but Joe didn’t seem to be too bothered. He chatted away for over an hour, curious about the war, the medal, working underground, and what life was like at the front. It was only as they finished their tea that Stephen realized his brother had told him hardly anything about himself. His union work seemed to be an endless round of meetings, minor confrontations with employers and squabbles over rates of pay. But that was exactly as he had imagined it would be – Joe had used hardly any names or hard figures, and he wondered if it was really that dull, or if he was being evasive. The one thing he opened up about was the trip he’d be taking in a few days.

‘Myself and a few of the boys are off down to Clare,’ he said with obvious relish. ‘We’ll be doing a bit of campaigning for the by-election.’

‘Clare?’ Stephen was puzzled. Clare was in the west of Ireland, and predominantly rural. No cities, and not many towns. ‘Is the Labour Party running a candidate in Clare?’

‘Not Labour,’ Joe answered, picking a shred of tobacco from his teeth, ‘Sinn Fein. De Valera is running against the Parliamentary Party.’

Although he didn’t say anything, this troubled Stephen. Eamon De Valera was the senior surviving leader of the Easter Rising. And lucky to survive at all, if what he heard was true. Some question over his citizenship: he had been born in America, or his mother was American. Whatever it was, it had saved him from the firing squad. And now, here he was, not a week out of an English jail and standing for election to Westminster – with Joe helping to drum up votes. Small wonder the police were following him.

But they parted amicably enough, shaking hands and promising to meet again in a day or two. Stephen hadn’t gone very far before the thumping in his head grew stronger. The sun hurt his eyes and the rush and press of people on the pavement jangled his nerves. Fear gripped him – fear of what? He couldn’t say, there was nothing to be afraid of, but it bloomed inside him, filling him with dread. Somebody bumped into him and he turned sharply, frightened, his heart tripping. Then a tram rushed past, the bell clanging, and he almost dived for cover.

The pain in his head made it hard to think. It almost blinded him as he pushed his way forward, desperately trying to escape from something he couldn’t even see, let alone name. Was he going mad? Was this how it happened? Was this how they cracked up? Panting and frightened, he saw the green of the trees and hurried towards them. Cover, quiet. He plunged into the park and steered a winding course, away from the strollers and couples. He was walking as fast as he could, almost running, until eventually, something snapped and he asked himself what he was doing. What was driving him? It was like waking up. He looked over his shoulder and there was nobody there. Nothing to be afraid of. He bent double, trying to catch his breath, and then walked to the bench and flopped down.

The physical symptoms passed within a few minutes, but he was still frightened. Not filled with horror as he had been earlier, but afraid of himself, of what was happening to him. That it had happened to him before meant it was more than just a passing weakness. But it didn’t explain what was wrong with him, or how he might help himself. What was causing it? What could he do?

He closed his eyes for a few moments, basking in the sunlight reflected from the water. There was a noise to his right – a rustle, and then a shriek. Laughter followed and two young boys darted from the bushes. Not the well-kept little boys who were strolling with their nannies or mothers, but two scrawny little gurriers with dirty knees and torn jerseys, each carrying a wooden rifle. Stephen smiled to himself. They were on an adventure to the posh part of town. Many was the time he and his brother had done the same when the weather was this fine.

‘A soldier! A soldier!’ one of them cried, and they ducked behind a tree and then popped out again, covering him with their rifles. He held up his hands in mock surrender.

‘Take that, you Brit bastard!’ the other one shouted, and pretended to fire. The smile died on his lips as they ran away, laughing. He looked down at the little purple and white ribbon on his breast. Billy was right; the rebels were the heroes now.

After a while, he stood up. His legs were weak and his head was light, but he forced himself to start walking. He knew where he was going, but he felt he was only drifting in that direction. People passed him, smiling politely, nodding, but he saw them as if they were through plate glass. When he left the Green and walked down Grafton Street, the crowds grew thicker. They frightened him. He felt his heart begin to palpitate again as he skirted them, darting to and fro with quick steps to avoid them. He kept his head down, hardly seeing them, aware only of his own reflection as he passed the windows of jewellers and clothes shops. This was another world; it was alien to him – or rather, he was alien to it. These people were all perfumed and pretty, but he was still stinking of the shattered earth in Messines. He was an underground creature thrown out blinking and blinded into the light. He didn’t belong here, these people didn’t know him, didn’t see things the way he did . . .

Before he knew it, he was at the college gate. How did he get here? It was as if he was in a daze and had just woken up. This was happening too often. He looked behind him, but he couldn’t remember crossing the road, he couldn’t remember the last part of Grafton Street. He didn’t know what made him stop here. His hands were starting to shake again.

He thrust them into his pockets and pressed on. The air under the deep arch was cool on his skin and he shivered and felt a dry bolt of nausea clawing its way up his throat. It was like going down again. But there was the sun on the other side. He lengthened his step and gasped when he stepped out into the light. Warm air, flies buzzing, the smell of grass and roses. A couple of students were running across the square. A few more were drowsing in the grass, reading. There was no danger, and yet, and yet . . .

His feet carried him forward again. Familiar cobbles, the tall tower of the campanile. How many times had he walked across here? Threading his way along the path and around the side of the Rubrics. New Square opened out before him. The high steps leading up to the double doors of the mathematics department. He suddenly realized how close she was, and it checked him again. All the way home he’d been thinking about her, dreaming about her, reading her letters over and over again. But now that she was close,
this close,
he was unsure of himself. How much did he rely on those letters? Every week they brought a little glimmer of light from the life he used to know – the life he aspired to know again. Normality, sanity. But what if meeting her in the flesh somehow broke the spell? What if he disappointed her? What if she saw what he was really like?

His resolution crumbled and he started to think the worst. What if the letters were just letters – a war duty, like knitting socks for men at the front? They didn’t have to
mean
anything. Why should she keep herself for him? Why would she be interested in this miserable creature with shaking hands and a shortness of breath? She wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t waste herself on him.

Despite his doubts, he reached the top of the steps before he stopped. He peered in through the doorway like a stranger. He recognized the floorboards, the dusty staircase, the noticeboard, but again he felt separated from them. They were like museum exhibits – familiar but under glass. He knew he couldn’t go in. With all his momentum gone he suddenly felt weak and lost. Defeated, he turned away and went back down the steps.

‘Mr Ryan, Mr Ryan.’

Five paces from the bottom of the steps, he stopped dead, hunched as if he’d been caught in the act. He recognized the voice, but he was almost afraid to look.

‘Mr Ryan. Stephen!’ she called again, breathless, and he heard her shoes clicking down the steps behind him. He turned to face her, already trying to swallow his shame.

‘Oh my goodness! It is you. When did you get home?’ She was standing on the bottom step. She was taller than he remembered, and she had changed her spectacles for a lighter pair with wire rims – but there was no mistaking the planes of her face and the light in it as she smiled. Time had been kind to her: it had knitted her frame together, rounded her features, given her the strength of maturity. Everybody was growing up without him.

‘I . . . Er, yesterday – last night,’ he said uncertainly, and plucked the cap from his head.

‘You said in your letter you would be getting leave, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. Why didn’t you come in and say hello?’

He hesitated, fumbling for some explanation, but she didn’t wait to hear it. She ran forward and, with an easy movement, kissed him on the cheek. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you. How are you? What’s this?’ She plucked at his sleeve and laughed, ‘Have you been promoted and you didn’t tell me?’

Relief flooded through him so suddenly he thought he might faint. As if sensing this, she took him by the arm and led him to the bench underneath the window of the senior common room. She must have seen him from there. They sat side by side, she still holding his arm, and he felt the strength and warmth in her hands. It was his first real human touch in how long? And his cheek still glowed where she had kissed him. He willed her not to let go, but there was little danger of that; she was keen to hear everything about him. When had he been promoted? How did his mine go off? It had been all over the papers – the Messines attack, the greatest success of the war. He slowly felt himself unwinding as he talked, but just as he felt the last shreds of discomfort falling away, she squeezed his arm and asked: ‘Stephen, forgive me, but what time is it?’

He looked at his wristwatch, ‘Two o’clock.’

‘Oh, dash it anyway!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’ve got a tutorial at two. Senior freshmen – Mr MacIntyre and his cohorts. Do you remember I told you about him in a letter?’

Remember? Of course he remembered. He nearly had them all off by heart.

‘The Fibonacci sequence.’

‘That’s him. Though he’s given up on that at long last. He’s taken more of an interest in politics – which is just as well, because he really doesn’t have much talent for mathematics. I wonder . . .’

The Fibonacci sequence. The name echoed in his head. He was surprised at the dart of pleasure that he got when he thought of it. Each number the sum of the two before. Why was that important? It wasn’t really – it was just numbers. But how he used to play with them, toy with them, roll them around in his head! He followed Lillian’s gaze up to the window, remembering the common room, with its threadbare carpets and creaking armchairs. He remembered sunbeams streaming in the windows and watching the dust motes swirling. The first time he sat in a tutorial there, he thought it was the nearest thing to heaven. Nothing but pure mathematical argument; ideas, theories, proofs. He could happily have spent his life in that room, chasing the elusive proofs through untold labyrinths.

‘Won’t you come inside, Stephen? I’m sure they’d love to meet you.’

‘I wouldn’t like to spoil your tutorial!’ he said, suddenly nervous at the thought of going inside. Even though he wanted to go in, he was trying to find reasons not to. ‘I doubt they’d want to see a soldier in their class.’

‘Oh nonsense! Mr MacIntyre might get his republican hackles up, but I wouldn’t mind him. The others would be delighted to see you. I’ve told them all about you before – especially your work with Professor Barrett on the Riemann hypothesis. They’d be fascinated to talk to you. And would you believe we were going to discuss the Mersenne primes? Your particular subject – now there’s kismet for you! You
must
come inside . . .’