Friend or Foe Page 10

  Thinking of Gerry Quinn, Jack looked at Ma now, unsure how to phrase what he had in mind. They were approaching the junction with Cabra Road, and the huge Gothic spire of St Peter’s Church towered above them, its upper section disappearing into the fog. Jack waited until they were safely across the road, having deftly avoided a coalman’s cart that suddenly came clattering out of the gloom, before turning to his mother.

  ‘I was just thinking, Ma,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ she answered encouragingly.

  ‘You remember Gerry Quinn, the boy from my class that we gave the clothes to?’

  Ma nodded. ‘Poor mite, living with a drunk of an uncle.’

  ‘He has it tough, all right. And he just told me he’s giving up school next year.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’ll be thirteen in February, so once he finishes primary school, his uncle will take him out and make him work.’

  ‘God love him.’

  ‘Yeah. So I was thinking. Could we maybe put something aside each week at the newsagents for Gerry too? I’d give some of my pocket money towards it.’

  ‘What had you got in mind?’

  ‘Maybe the Chums annual? Or The Wonder Book of Railways? He’s a bit proud, so normally he mightn’t want to take anything. But if we said it was a farewell present because he’s leaving school, he’d probably take it then.’

  Ma stopped walking and looked at Jack.

  ‘What?’

  Ma reached out and touched his cheek. ‘You’re a good lad, Jack. Da and me, we must have done something right!’

  ‘Does that mean we can do it?’

  ‘With the girls working as well as your da, we’re more comfortable than we’ve ever been. So it’s only right we share our good fortune.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma, that’s great.’

  ‘Poor lad,’ said Ma as they continued on their way. ‘His only hope was an education. He’ll never get a decent job now.’

  ‘It’s really unfair,’ said Jack. ‘He started off poor, he’s still poor and he’ll always be poor.’

  ‘That’s the way of the world, Jack.’

  ‘But it shouldn’t be. Maybe Mr Davey isn’t so wrong after all, Ma. Maybe we do need a bit of a revolution.’

  Ma stopped suddenly. She looked Jack directly in the eye, her cheeks rosy and her face animated against the backdrop of white fog.

  ‘No, Jack, don’t make that mistake. Violence won’t help the Gerry Quinns of this world. When I was your age, there was a secret society in Dublin called The Invincibles. Have you heard of them?’

  ‘Yes, they … they killed people in the Phoenix Park.’

  ‘They murdered the Chief Secretary and Under Secretary for Ireland in broad daylight. The two most senior British officials in Ireland, stabbed to death in view of the Viceregal Lodge. The Invincibles claimed they were Irish nationalists, but all their violence achieved was to kill two innocent men and get themselves hanged. To say nothing of putting Home Rule back by about thirty years. Don’t listen to Mr Davey, or Emer, or anyone who tells you that violence is the answer. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘We have to have law and order. And even though voting to change things is slow, it’s the only way people like Gerry might get their chance one day. Do you understand?’

  It wasn’t often that Ma spoke as forcefully as this, but Jack found it all the more convincing now that she had.

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good boy,’ she answered, then her tone changed and she winked at him. ‘Right, let’s go pay our instalments – for two annuals!’

  ‘Two annuals it is!’ replied Jack, then they headed off again through the foggy city streets.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a question for you all,’ said Ben, pretending to be a master of ceremonies.

  They were on the upper deck of a tram taking them home from swimming training, and everyone was in good spirits. The teams for the gala had been announced, and Emer had made the first team, as she had hoped. She was almost as pleased for Jack, though, who had achieved his goal of gaining one of the places on the last boys’ team.

  Emer turned smilingly to Ben. ‘So, what’s the question?’

  ‘The question is: what’s the jelly-looking stuff between sharks’ teeth called?’

  ‘I hope this isn’t disgusting,’ said Gladys.

  ‘Relax, will you?’ said Ben to his sister.

  ‘OK,’ said Jack, ‘what is the jelly-looking stuff between sharks’ teeth?’

  ‘Slow swimmers!’

  Everybody laughed, although Gladys nevertheless reprimanded her brother. ‘It is still kind of disgusting, Ben. Where did you hear it?’

  ‘In the baths tonight. I heard the captain telling one of the coaches during training.’

  ‘Talking about the captain,’ said Joan, ‘did you ever notice his knees? They’re really bockety-looking!’

  Joan, Ben and Gladys started what Emer thought was a pretty silly discussion about the captain’s knees. After a moment she turned to Jack, with whom she was sharing the seat. ‘Congratulations again on making the team.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ve come a long way from not wanting to put your face in the water!’

  ‘I suppose I have. All thanks to you.’

  ‘I just pointed you in the right direction. You got on the team yourself.’

  ‘Well, either way, thanks, Emer.’

  ‘You’re grand. Though now you mention it, maybe you could do me a favour.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s really funny when you do your version of “When Father Papered the Parlour”. Would you sing it at a fundraising concert I’m playing in next month?’

  Jack hesitated, and Emer pressed on. ‘Say you will, Jack. We need more performers.’

  ‘And what are you fundraising for?’

  ‘To help poor people coming up to Christmas. It’s being organised by Conradh na Gaeilge – but don’t worry, there won’t be any politics. It’s just a charity concert.’

  ‘Well … OK, then.’

  ‘You’re a star!’

  ‘I’ll still have to ask at home,’ said Jack. ‘But seeing as it’s for charity, I’d say it’ll be all right.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ll need to practise, though, to sing in public.’

  ‘Me too. I’m doing a Chopin nocturne.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So we’ll both practise our pieces, and we’ll both practise our swimming. And then we’ll win the gala and dazzle them at the concert! How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Right so, that’s that,’ said Emer, then she sat back contentedly as the tram rattled along the tracks and carried them through the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack bit his tongue, trying not to let his impatience show. His sister Mary usually meant well, but she could be annoyingly bossy, and Jack felt that he didn’t need his sixteen-year-old sister to act as a babysitter.

  His other sisters were out, and his parents had gone to town to visit a music hall. Jack had been working away at his fretwork in the warmth of the kitchen, building a wooden replica of Dublin’s Custom House. Now, though, Mary was acting like a know-all and pointing at his handiwork.

  ‘You need to sand that down a bit more, Jack. Then it will take the paint better.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. And you should wedge the base to make it more stable.’

  ‘When did you become a carpenter?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Don’t be smart, I’m just trying to help. And I’m not a carpenter, but I’ve learnt lots of mechanical stuff in the factory.’

  ‘You might know about making shells, but–’

  ‘Not just shells,’ interjected Mary. ‘I’ve learnt loads of things. They claimed that women couldn’t run factories, but they were wrong. It said in the paper last week that since the men went off to war and women replaced them, productio
n has more than doubled.’

  Jack had actually heard this, so he couldn’t argue back.

  ‘The powers-that-be got that dead wrong,’ said Mary. ‘Lots of other stuff too.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well … like this plan for conscription. The government says married men won’t be conscripted into the army until young, unmarried men have been called up first.’

  ‘Well, does that not kind of make sense?’ asked Jack. ‘I mean, married men have families.’

  ‘Just because you’re lucky enough to meet someone, get married and have a family – why should you have preference in not getting called up? That’s not right.’

  ‘I, eh … I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Jack. ‘But at least they’re not bringing in conscription in Ireland.’

  ‘Not so far,’ corrected Mary.

  ‘Yeah,’ conceded Jack. Although there was huge opposition to the idea of conscription in Ireland, the government in Westminster needed troops to replace the catastrophic losses. It had long been a worry for Jack that despite his job as a policeman, Da might get called up.

  Before they could take the conversation further, Jack heard the front door opening, then Ma and Da came down the hall and entered the kitchen.

  They were in great form after their night out, and everyone exchanged greetings as Jack’s parents took off their overcoats and warmed themselves at the range. Da enthused about some of the music hall acts they had seen, and Jack felt that this was a good cue.

  ‘Talking about music halls, Da,’ he said, ‘is it OK if I appear in a variety concert?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Singing “When Father Papered the Parlour”.’

  ‘Are you going professional?’ said Ma playfully.

  ‘No, it’s just a fundraising concert to help poor people coming up to Christmas.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Da. ‘And who asked you?’

  ‘Emer. She’s playing the piano in it. It’s being run by Conradh na Gaeilge, but there’s no politics – it’s just for charity.’

  ‘I see,’ said Da.

  ‘It’s on December the tenth. Will you and Ma come?’

  Da shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Jack. I’d like to help a charity, and I know you say it’s not political. But Conradh na Gaeilge has become more political lately, and I’ve a new Inspector who’s really strict. So I can’t be seen to support something like this.’

  Jack was surprised at his father’s response. His disappointment must have shown, because Da reached out and squeezed his arm sympathetically.

  ‘I know at times it’s hard being a policeman’s son, Jack. And I know you’re going to be disappointed, but I’m sorry, you can’t be involved with this either.’

  ‘Ah, Da.’

  ‘Emer is a nice girl, and the Daveys are lovely people. But Mr Davey is an officer in the Volunteers. If trouble comes – and it may well – I can’t have anyone in the force pointing a finger and saying our family is involved with rebels.’

  Jack was taken aback. ‘So are you saying … Are you saying I can’t be friends with Emer?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Da. ‘You can still be pals, you can go to their house, you can be friendly with Mr and Mrs Davey. But anything to do with the Volunteers or Conradh na Gaeilge – that’s not on.’

  Jack was bitterly disappointed, and he looked appealingly to his mother.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ she said, ‘but Da’s right. The DMP is our livelihood, and it can’t be put at risk. You’ll have to talk to Emer and tell her you’re pulling out of this concert.’

  ‘Sorry, son,’ said Da, ‘but that’s the way it is. All right?’

  Jack felt like crying, but he kept his tears at bay, nodded agreement to his father, then turned away and wordlessly began work again on his model of the Custom House.

  Emer released some of her frustration as she booted the wayward football back to where the local boys were playing further up the street. Earlier the boys and girls had had a game of rounders together, and now Ben and Jack were playing in an impromptu soccer match, while Emer and Gladys made their way down Ellesmere Avenue towards the Phoenix Park.

  Joan was visiting her aunt, but Emer and Gladys had decided to go to hear a brass band play in the park. It was a mild Sunday afternoon in late November, and the city was bathed in a golden glow of hazy sunshine, but Emer’s mood was at odds with the mellow atmosphere. ‘Sometimes Mam makes me want to scream,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah?’ answered Gladys.

  ‘I mean, she didn’t even bat an eyelid. She just said, “Oh, you’ll have to skip this swimming gala, it clashes with dancing in the céilí mór.”’

  ‘I thought you liked Irish dancing.’

  ‘It’s good fun, but I’m never going to win any medals for it. I could win something at the gala, though. And I’ve been training hard. It’s really annoying.’

  Gladys nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s a pity. But you do a lot of stuff, Emer. Now and then things are going to clash.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I was like you and Ben.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Not an only child.’

  Gladys looked surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Mam and Dad follow everything I do. Irish classes, dancing, piano, swimming, elocution – they follow my every move!’

  ‘You’re not the only one, Emer.’

  ‘I am the only one! All the rest of you have brothers or sisters.’

  ‘I mean you’re not the only one whose parents interfere. Sure mine are the same. And look at Jack. He has four sisters, and his mam and dad still check up on him – like the way they stopped him singing in the concert.’

  ‘That was really stupid. We live in Ireland, but they’re terrified of doing anything that shows them as Irish!’

  ‘So it’s not just your parents, Emer.’

  ‘No. But mine are the opposite. Everything Irish comes first.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Emer. ‘I’m still for independence and the Volunteers and all. I just think everything else shouldn’t have to be dropped.’

  ‘Could you not persuade them? You’re usually pretty good at arguing.’

  They turned onto the North Circular Road, which was busy with cars, horses and carriages as Dubliners made for the oasis of the Phoenix Park.

  ‘I tried,’ Emer answered, ‘but they really want me to do the céilí, so it would have been a major battle.’

  ‘You’re usually not afraid of that.’

  ‘I know. But Miss Clarke in school said something that made me think.’

  ‘What?’ asked Gladys.

  ‘She told me you have to pick your battles. That you can’t win every fight, so you pick the ones that matter.’

  ‘And this one doesn’t?’

  ‘I’d really like to do the gala, but I think there’ll be bigger battles ahead.’

  ‘Do you mean … with the Volunteers and the government and all?’

  Emer nodded. ‘They don’t want me involved, but I need to be part of it. There has to be something I can do.’ She saw that her friend looked worried, so she smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Gladys. It’s not going to happen today or tomorrow.’

  ‘But if it does happen?’

  ‘I have to be in it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Meanwhile, though, let’s forget about all this trouble. Let’s get ice creams at the park gates and listen to the band, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Gladys.

  ‘Good,’ said Emer, then she smiled again at her friend and strolled on in the winter sunshine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jack loved the contrasts of December; the freezing schoolyard glistened with frost, while the classroom felt cosy, with a roaring turf fire going in the grate. Brother McGill was in a relaxed mood today. Their religious instruction class had consisted of an advent talk, in which he had encouraged his pupils to get into the right frame of mind for Christmas. E
arlier he had allowed Jack to share a large box of sweets amongst his classmates, a move that had boosted Jack’s popularity.

  The sweets had been donated by the captain of Jack’s swimming club to celebrate their victory in the gala the previous Friday night. Being on the winning team had delighted Jack, and now, as he sucked the last sweet sliver of one of the toffees, he marvelled at how unpredictable life could be.

  Less than five months ago he had nearly drowned because he wasn’t a strong swimmer, yet since then he had improved so much that he had won a place on a swimming team. On the negative side, however, his parents had unexpectedly stopped him from performing in Emer’s charity concert, and Emer’s parents had stopped her from taking part in the gala. Then there had been another positive, when the gala outcome had been balanced on a knife-edge and they had won in the final race.

  ‘All right, lunch break,’ said Brother McGill now as the bell sounded in the schoolyard outside their window. The teacher quickly gathered his papers into his leather satchel. ‘Right, lads, see you all at two o’clock sharp!’ he said and exited the classroom.

  The class immediately began to break up, and Gerry Quinn turned to Jack and indicated the departing teacher. ‘Did you hear what Giller keeps in that satchel?’ he asked.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Whacker Moran in 6B peeked into it when Giller was called out of the classroom last Friday.’

  ‘What was in it?’ asked Jack, his curiosity aroused.

  ‘A cowboys and Indians book. Massacre at Fort Apache. Imagine Giller reading something like that!’

  Jack smiled. Even though it seemed at odds with the teacher’s enthusiasm for all things Irish, somehow he could imagine him reading an adventure about cowboys and Indians. ‘He probably pictures himself leading the US cavalry,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Gerry, ‘laying into the Apaches with Seán Dubh!’

  Jack laughed, then his smile faded as Phelim O’Connell approached them.