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  ‘No, I suppose not,’ conceded Alice.

  ‘What was he working at?’

  ‘Esther said he was in the uniform of a telegraph boy.’

  ‘Yeah? How do you suddenly go from a bar in Tipperary to delivering telegrams in Dublin? And if there’s a good reason, why lie to us?

  ‘We could…we could always ask him,’ suggested Alice.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We know where he works now. If we went to Dublin next Saturday we could visit the telegraph office. We could say we’ve an important message for Johnny Dunne, and we need to see him.’

  Stella looked thoughtful, and Alice knew that her friend’s mind was racing. Even though the news about Johnny was worrying – Alice feared he was involved again with the rebels – it was still good to see Stella more animated than she had been since getting the news about her grandfather.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Alice.

  ‘We’d have to come up with a story, to get permission to go to Dublin.’

  ‘So we’ll invent something. And we’ll promise to be careful and all that. But you’re on to try and track him down?’

  Stella nodded. ‘I hope there’s an innocent explanation. But if not, and he’s with the rebels again, I need to know.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Let’s do it then.’

  ‘Right,’ said Alice. ‘We’ll make up a story, and go to Dublin on Saturday.’

  * * *

  Johnny strode along Dorset Street. The dog he was exercising pulled him ahead, straining at the leash. It was a cool autumn morning, and it was a novelty for Johnny to walk a dog, something he had never done in either the orphanage or when working at the Mill Hotel. It was a change too to be dressed in high-quality clothes, but Mrs Hanlon had kitted him out in an expensive boy’s suit and a smart gaberdine overcoat. She had explained that in today’s bid to rescue Mr O’Shea, Johnny’s role would be to pose as a posh schoolboy.

  Johnny was excited to be involved, and flattered that he had been given a key task. He knew that Mrs Hanlon had been pleased with his tracking of Lt. Colonel Jennings three days previously, but it was still a boost to his ego to be trusted in the attempt to free Mr O’Shea.

  ‘Easy, Rex!’ he cried now as they turned into Western Way and the dog tried to surge ahead. He made his way expectantly towards Broadstone Railway Station. In the ten days since moving to Dublin he had settled well in the boarding house, started his cover job delivering telegrams, tracked British agents around the city, and now he was preparing to help free a prisoner.

  It was lonely not having friends to talk to, but he accepted that that was the price of serving Michael Collins. On several occasions he had played football on the street with boys from nearby Mountjoy Square, but he knew that for the next couple of months he couldn’t get too friendly with anyone – not while carrying out his mission. He drew nearer the station now, his excitement building. Calm down, he told himself, nothing will be happening just yet. Still, it was better to be in place in plenty of time. And part of the plan called for the dog to be straining at the leash, so he didn’t want to tire him out by walking for too long.

  He looked at the animal admiringly. It was a large German Shepherd, fully grown, but still young enough to be energetic. In one way it was surprising that he had been provided with a German Shepherd. Mrs Hanlon had told him that Michael Collins was a dog lover who was promoting the breeding of Kerry Blues. For years the Irish Wolfhound had been the dog associated with Ireland, but the British Army had adopted the wolfhound as the mascot of their Irish Guards, and so Collins had championed the Kerry Blue as the breed to represent the new, nationalist Ireland.

  For the rescue plan, however, they wanted a dog that would be big and obvious, and so a sympathiser had lent Rex for today’s mission. The mission itself involved risk, but Johnny saw that they had chosen a good spot to carry it out when he arrived at the junction of Western Way and Constitution Hill. A vehicle coming up the hill wouldn’t be travelling at high speed, and the road narrowed where the Foster Aqueduct carried the Broadstone Branch of the Royal Canal over the road and into Broadstone station. Broadstone Harbour had long since been filled in, and the former aqueduct was now just a bridge, but it was a pinch point at the top of Constitution Hill, and Johnny admired the planning that had gone into choosing the site for the rescue bid.

  Mrs Hanlon had explained that their informants in the legal system had tipped them off that O’Shea was being sentenced this morning. The shortest route from the courts to Mountjoy Prison was via Constitution Hill and Phibsboro Road, and so the plans had been made accordingly.

  Johnny loosened the lead slightly and allowed the dog to pull him. He started down Constitution Hill towards the gardens of the Kings Inns law complex, then met Mrs Hanlon as she strolled out the gate. She stopped and admired the dog, quietly speaking from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘You’re early, Johnny.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Stroll around for a few minutes, but don’t wander off. We’ve someone on a motor bike who’ll let us know when they’ve left the courthouse.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right. Good luck, then.’

  ‘You too,’ said Johnny, then he loosened the lead again and let the dog pull him away.

  * * *

  The October air was gusty, with the first leaves of autumn swirling along the ground. Johnny had been glad to wear the heavy gabardine overcoat, but now he felt a film of perspiration on his brow. He lifted the expensive schoolboy cap that he was wearing and mopped his brow.

  What had felt like the longest half hour of his life had elapsed, but now the advance warning had been given by the motorbike rider, and Johnny walked with the dog towards the Foster Aqueduct. Roadworks were being carried out, and a large group of workmen were digging up the nearby pavement. Johnny swallowed hard, knowing that he had to get the timing of his move just right if the plan was to work. He stopped at the side of the path, reining in the dog. Mrs Hanlon stood beside him, appearing to chat to another woman that he had never seen before.

  Johnny heard the sound of approaching engines, then Mrs Hanlon spoke in a soft but urgent tone.

  ‘We’re on, Johnny, this is them!’

  ‘OK.’

  Johnny looked down Constitution Hill and saw two black police vans climbing up the hill. Just as they were reaching the summit he flicked the leash. ‘Go, Rex!’ he said.

  The German Shepherd didn’t need further encouraging. He immediately lunged forward, appearing to pull Johnny out onto the roadway after him. Johnny knew that everything depended on the split-second impression that the driver of the first van got. Would he see an immaculately dressed, respectable boy whose dog had pulled him into danger – in which case he would surely brake? Or would he be on guard for an ambush and liable to accelerate around Johnny or perhaps even at him?

  Johnny’s every instinct was to get out of the way of the van, but he forced himself to pull on the leash, slowing the progress of both himself and Rex. Time seemed to stand still, then he heard the screech of brakes. Johnny stood unmoving for a moment, as though paralysed by shock, but from the corner of his eye he saw that the second van had braked to a halt also. Immediately all of the workmen that had been digging the pavement swarmed around the two vehicles, their tools suddenly dropped and with pistols in hand.

  There were screams and shouts, and what Johnny hoped were warning shots, as the rebels held up the police convoy. But Johnny’s instructions on what to do now had been crystal clear. He sprinted away with the dog, resisting the temptation to look back, and making sure not to show his face. He quickly mounted the steps leading up to Royal Canal Bank, then ran into the maze of streets that surrounded the City Basin. Rounding the corner into Fontenoy Street, he passed the dog’s lead to a waiting man who instantly headed off with Rex in the opposite direction. Johnny whipped off his cap and gabardine overcoat, then jumped into the back of a waiting car that pulled off at once.

  In the
distance he heard more shots, then the car accelerated further. Johnny’s heart felt like it would explode. He sat back in the seat, mouthing a silent prayer, and hoping fervently that their rescue had succeeded.

  Chapter Eight

  Normally Stella loved roast chicken, but tonight she ate mechanically, her mind elsewhere as she had dinner with her father in the dining room of the Mill Hotel. She wished that things could stay on an even keel, but lately her own life had been a series of dramatic ups and downs. The saddest thing was Granddad being in a coma, but the devastation of Balbriggan by the Tans and Auxies was still upsetting.

  She tried to stay optimistic, the way Alice did, and now she made herself do the exercise where she concentrated on positive developments. She reminded herself that she had saved Johnny’s life on the night of the fires, and she recalled with satisfaction that first one hundred women had been admitted to Oxford University, in what she thought was a long overdue piece of progress.

  There was also the fact that her father had reluctantly given her permission to attend the fund-raising sports day in Lusk for the victims of the Sack of Balbriggan, as the night of mayhem was now being called.

  Stella had argued that she didn’t want to be the only girl in her class who wasn’t going, and Dad had given in. She knew that her father suspected the event might turn into an outlet for anti-government protest, and she was grateful that he was willing to overlook that, so that she wouldn’t be out on a limb with her classmates.

  She looked at him now across the table. He appeared smart in a well-cut tweed suit, but Stella thought he looked tired. ‘Are you run ragged at Baldonnel, Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘Do I look that worn out?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a little tired, maybe.’

  ‘It’s been fairly hectic,’ he conceded.

  ‘What’s making it so busy?’

  ‘Well, for one thing the RAF’s being asked to provide a mail service.’

  ‘What, delivering letters?’

  ‘And plans and written orders. It’s dangerous to send them by road to barracks in rebel territory. So now we deliver them by air.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense,’ said Stella.

  ‘And we’re doing more reconnaissance, for rebel training camps and arms dumps.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But it’s a constant battle of wits.’

  ‘Why, what are the rebels doing?’ asked Stella, her curiosity piqued.

  ‘Well, when we organised dropping circles – so our pilots would know where to drop messages – the rebels set up phoney ones. To trick us into dropping our messages into their hands.’

  Stella thought that was clever. She didn’t want to be disloyal, however, so she didn’t say so. ‘Really?’ she answered. ‘And how did you get around that?’

  ‘Now we only drop if they have a recognised identity sign at the dropping circle.’

  ‘It’s very cat and mouse, isn’t it?’ said Stella.

  ‘Absolutely. They carry out operations at night, so we bring in a curfew. They still operate under cover of darkness, so we use searchlights. One side gets the upper hand, the other side makes a counter-move.’

  Stella wanted to ask where it would all end, but something held her back. If Dad admitted that the rebels would eventually win she would be glad for Johnny and for the Irish people, but sad for her father. But if the British authorities stamped out the independence movement, Johnny would be heart-broken. And the wishes of the majority of Irish voters for either independence or Home Rule would have been ignored.

  Before Stella could grapple further with her thoughts, Mrs Goodman approached their table.

  ‘Good evening, Wing Commander,’ she said warmly. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Mrs Goodman, delicious food.’

  ‘How are you, Stella?’

  ‘Very well, thanks.’

  ‘Looking forward to your trip to the museum?’

  Before Stella could respond her father looked at her quizzically. ‘I thought you were going to visit the National Gallery?’

  Stella tried to hide her surprise. In planning their trip to find Johnny in Dublin they had said that they would claim to be visiting the museum or the gallery. Now, though, Stella realised that they had been sloppy in not making sure to have their story straight.

  ‘I thought it was the gallery,’ she answered, seeking to keep her tone casual, ‘but maybe I got it wrong.’

  ‘Alice seemed quite definite,’ said Mrs Goodman.

  ‘Then it must be my mistake,’ said Stella quickly. She avoided her father’s eyes, knowing it would be harder to sustain a lie if he was looking at her. But was he already suspicious?

  ‘Either way,’ said Mrs Goodman, ‘it’s no harm for young ladies to broaden their education. Wouldn’t you agree, Commander?’

  Stella found herself holding her breath as she finally turned to face her father. If he thought something suspicious was going on, now was his chance to ask awkward questions.

  He looked at Mrs Goodman, then answered politely. ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said, ‘very educational.’

  Stella made a conscious effort not to show her relief. But she had given herself a needless fright, and she promised herself that she wouldn’t do it again. If she was going to re-establish contact with Johnny – and she really wanted to – then she would need to be much more careful.

  * * *

  ‘Hey, Dunner, want to celebrate your first full pay packet? We’re going round to the shop.’

  Johnny was touched that the other telegraph boys were making him welcome and he hesitated on his way to the bicycle shed. It was Friday evening, and they had all just received their pay packets from Mr Williams in the telegraph office. Williams had kept up the front of being strict with Johnny in public, but privately he had been encouraging. He had also skilfully arranged Johnny’s work so as to allow him time to track whichever British agents Michael Collins’s intelligence officers were investigating.

  Johnny in turn had slotted in easily at the job, getting along well with his fellow workers. Now, though, he faced a quandary. Part of him wanted to be one of the lads, treating himself at the shop after a hard week’s work. And he really liked Nedser, the boy who had invited him to the shops. But it was dangerous to get too friendly with anyone while carrying out his mission, and this evening he had a reason to head straight home.

  ‘Thanks, lads, but I’ve something on. Maybe next week,’ said Johnny, then he quickly waved farewell and headed off before anyone could question him.

  He mounted his bicycle and began cycling home, eager to get to Gardiner Place. It was three days now since the rescue of Mr O’Shea, and Johnny was still thrilled by the daring of what they had done. Two policeman and one of the volunteers had been wounded, but the element of surprise and the painstaking planning had paid off, and the mission had been a resounding success. Johnny had found out later that O’Shea had been whisked away in another car, after which he had lain low for the last three days.

  Mrs Hanlon had praised Johnny for his part in the rescue, and before he had left for work this morning she had said that O’Shea wanted to see Johnny in person. It was rare for Mrs Hanlon to give more details than necessary, so Johnny took it as a big compliment when she revealed that O’Shea would be in Gardiner Place this evening.

  He cycled on, the crisp October air getting colder with the setting of the sun. Johnny rode across the broad expanse of Sackville Street, dodging the clanking trams that criss-crossed the busy city centre. He cut up through Marlborough Street, avoiding the strong-smelling dung deposited on the cobbled street by the horse-drawn traffic that was gradually being replaced by motor cars, vans and trucks.

  But if progress was being made regarding transport, there was still a long way to go when it came to housing the citizens of Dublin. Now that he was more familiar with the city from his telegram deliveries, Johnny was horrified by the contrast between the grinding poverty of the tenements and the affl
uence of suburbs like Rathgar and Rathmines.

  He turned into Great Britain Street, passing a foul-smelling tenement. On its steps some gaunt-faced children were playing listlessly. They were barefoot despite the cold, and it underlined for Johnny the pressing need for the new Ireland for which he was fighting.

  The sight of the children dampened his mood, and he hoped that their father might bring home a Friday pay packet to brighten their lives, even temporarily.

  Thinking of Friday night, his mind drifted to Balbriggan. He recalled how Friday night used to be his favourite time of the week, when he attended band practice with his friends. Although he was a better musician than Alice or Stella, at band practice everyone was treated as an equal by the bandmaster, Mr Tardelli, and Johnny loved that relaxed, all-in-it-together atmosphere. He recalled a vision of Alice, pretending to be heart-broken after playing a wrong note in ‘Funiculi, Funicula’ and he felt a sudden welling of affection for his friends. He missed the banter with the band members, and Mr Tardelli’s jokes and riddles, but most of all he missed Alice and Stella. He hoped they were well, and he felt bad at having lied to them in the postcards. His orders had been clear, however, and all he could do now was hope to renew their friendship after his mission was over.

  Approaching the incline of Hill Street, Johnny rose in the saddle and pedalled hard, eager now to get home as soon as possible. He wondered what Mr O’Shea would look like, and if he bore any marks of abuse from being questioned during his time in custody. Well, he would know soon enough, he thought as he reached the junction of Hill Street and Gardiner Place. He rode around to the rear of Hanlon’s and locked his bicycle in the yard. He entered by the back door and encountered Bridget, the middle-aged cook.

  ‘Ah, Johnny. Mrs H is expecting you. She said to go up.’

  ‘Thanks, Bridget,’ he said, then he took the stairs two at a time to the first floor where the owner had her private rooms. Johnny had never been inside Mrs Hanlon’s quarters before and he felt slightly nervous as he knocked on the door.