Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘I have another,’ he said, reaching into his jacket. She took it from him, turned it over twice, three times, as if reading it with her fingertips, then put it to one side. ‘I want to hear from you first, everything — where is he living, is he eating well?… he wrote to say he’d seen the Blüchers.’

Wolff told her a little of the party, an account so anodyne it might have been another event. Then he described Casement’s life in Berlin, his hotel and routine and the sympathetic hours he’d spent walking with Roger in the Tiergarten, friend and confidant. ‘He likes to walk, Mrs Newman…’

‘Yes, of course he does,’ she said irritably. ‘What I want—’

He cut across her, ‘…and walking is free.’

‘…to know…’

She lifted an anxious hand to the nape of her neck, her mouth opening and shutting like a trout’s. ‘I know he’s short of money,’ she said, finding her voice again. ‘Be frank with me — how is he managing? He seems so very low.’

Wolff nodded. ‘I think he’s lonely. He doesn’t trust the Germans and they don’t entirely trust him, Mrs Newman. Do you know anything of his plans for a brigade?’

The two women exchanged glances. Plainly it was Clan business and she wasn’t supposed to know. Laura McDonnell was avoiding his gaze.

‘He’s loyal to his men but he must doubt, well, he has black times. He’s so alone. I think that’s why we became friends — ships in a storm… you’re right to be concerned for him.’

She looked away, discreetly brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘I knew it,’ she said fiercely. ‘He gives so much — people don’t understand — he’ll sacrifice himself.’

What could they do to help him? The Clan must answer his rallying cry with recruits and money. For the good of Ireland, for freedom, for liberty, for Roddy — Mr de Witt, don’t you agree? Mr de Witt was careful not to pour cold water on his ‘friend’s’ high hopes, not in sister Agnes’ sitting room. Miss McDonnell chose her words with care and said very little. He was conscious of her watching him closely, watching him nod, watching him smile, perfectly insincere, the smile he’d practised in front of a mirror, a ‘whatever you’re buying I’m selling’ smile, the friend, leader, hero, saint smile. Ah, dear Agnes, if only you knew about me, he mused. May I call you ‘Nina’? Your brother calls you ‘Nina’ in his letters, doesn’t he? Nina, you’re passionate like your brother but a bit of a bully. But, Nina, the world is so full of duplicity and confusion. There are things you don’t know, even about your Roddy. Yes, wipe away that tear and I’ll tell you. Imagine him bent over his dear sweet Adler. Yes, giving it to the Empire in Ireland’s name. It’s true, really. That much is true. Can’t you read it in my eyes? Of course he couldn’t, no; couldn’t stir the dust in the room.

‘Tea, Mr de Witt?’ she asked after a while.

When they were alone, Miss McDonnell observed, ‘You’re very… discreet, Mr de Witt, careful — practised, like a lawyer.’

‘You disapprove, Miss McDonnell; what would you…’

‘Laura, please, I really do prefer it.’

‘What would you have me say, Laura?’

‘You should tell the truth,’ she said quietly.

‘Do you? You were at the meeting — is your committee going to recruit young men here in America for Roger?’

She shook her head sadly.

‘Roger isn’t going to recruit any there, you know — in Germany — but he might go mad trying.’

They sat in silence, Laura trying to avoid his gaze. Short, curvy, well dressed but not expensively, with the easy confident manner of someone older. Content to say nothing, a smile close to her lips and a twinkle in her blue-green eyes; a rich mane of dark auburn hair — proud of her hair, she wore it loose, turning her head out of habit to present it to advantage.

‘And you, Mr de Witt…’ it swept towards him as she looked him in the eye at last, ‘what about you?’

‘There are always jobs for engineers.’

‘And gun runners.’

He raised his brow quizzically. ‘Who have you been talking to, Laura?’

She gave a mischievous laugh but didn’t answer, and a moment later Mrs Newman came into the room with a tray. The conversation returned to Casement and childhood tales. Plainly dear Nina had always known what was best for her brother. There was no mention of Mr Newman. Out of politeness she asked Wolff about his own childhood and his time in South Africa and listened to his answers with an expression entirely empty of curiosity. But when he rose to leave, she made him promise to visit her again soon so they could settle what ‘our Roddy’ should do. ‘He needs his family,’ she said, ‘…and friends,’ she added with less conviction. Laura made her excuses too and left with him.

‘She loves him very dearly,’ she said apologetically, as he held the front gate open for her.

He offered to find a taxicab but she wanted to use the subway.

‘Sir Roger’s the most honest man I’ve met and courageous,’ she said with feeling as they walked to the station on Atlantic Avenue. ‘He’s given so much, followed his conscience no matter how difficult the journey — I think of him as Ireland’s conscience.’

Wolff nodded respectfully.

‘But the Clan is in touch with others,’ she said cautiously. ‘Men you don’t know, leaders in Ireland.’

‘I understand.’ He was careful not to push her.

‘Men like Patrick Pearse. Did Roger speak of him?’

‘A little,’ he lied.

‘Of course everyone respects Roger.’

They walked in silence until it was apparent to Wolff that she wasn’t going to say more about the men he didn’t know. Then he asked her how she had become involved with the Clan. Her parents were from Kildare like Devoy, she said, but she was brought up in Philadelphia, her father a builder, a pillar of the Church and a leading light among the Irish there. He was a traditional Fenian who knew the Church had betrayed Parnell but wouldn’t tolerate anyone saying so; a woman’s place was home, excepting his daughter who always got her own way.

‘I’m spoilt, Mr de Witt, an only child, you see.’ There were tears when she insisted on moving to New York to do law at Albany, she said. She had finished her degree and wanted to practise at the Bar, but for now her time was spent working for the Clan and for women’s suffrage. ‘My father tolerates the work I do with votes for women because I make myself useful to the Clan. What about you, Mr de Witt…’

‘Jan.’

‘Do you believe a woman has the right to vote?’

‘Certainly.’

She stopped suddenly and turned to him. ‘I’m not sure I believe you. Do you tell lies?’

‘Do you?’

‘I’m sorry, that was impertinent,’ she said, purring the word in her educated East Coast way.

‘You’ve no reason to doubt my sincerity,’ he said.

‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘Although I don’t think about it often — perhaps I should.’

She had a ticket but waited at the barrier while he bought one. There was a problem with a train and the station was crowded with pink-faced families returning from the park with their picnic baskets, Jew and Gentile, the voices of old Europe, Russian, German, Italian, Pole, and a language everyone called English.

‘Are you hoping to take a job in New York?’ she asked, as they stood facing each other on the platform.

It was his intention to let things settle, he said with a wry smile; there was no hurry, he could draw a modest income from savings. Then how would he occupy himself? she wanted to know: idleness was plainly unthinkable. Renew old acquaintances, he told her, and he would need to find rooms; there was so much of the city to explore, even a little sailing. She frowned and looked away. Close beside him in the crowd she seemed younger, smaller, trapped, her hands fluttering about her dress. He caught her eye and she coloured a little.