Dermot Bolger - The Family on Paradise Pier

‘They let a slip of a thing into the House of Commons, only my father’s cousin wouldn’t take her seat.’

The man nodded, as if Maud had scored a point. ‘But they also say you have an uncle an Orangeman who would burn every Catholic out of Belfast.’

‘My father is a Home Ruler, on the same side as you.’

‘To hell with Home Rule,’ the man said. ‘Home Rule was a bone thrown from the English table to keep the Irish dogs gnawing away quietly. This struggle is about freedom…a Republic.’

‘Hear, hear.’ Art spoke for the first time.

The man eyed up Art. ‘Did you say something, sonny?’

‘I’ve argued this same point with my father who’s a pacifist. But for me it’s full independence or nothing.’

‘Glad you think so.’

‘I do more than think. I offer you a fair trade. Give my sister back her motor car and you can have me. I wish to volunteer my services for the Irish Republic.’ Art ignored Maud tugging at his sleeve, anxious to shut him up. ‘I have received comprehensive training in how to use a rifle at boarding school.’

‘Bully for you.’ The Corkman sat down, amused. ‘What exactly would the Irish Republic do with your services?’

‘Are you insinuating that I’m a coward?’

‘I’m suggesting that you stay out of what doesn’t concern you.’

‘Of course it concerns me. I want what you want.’

‘What exactly is that?’

‘Freedom for us all.’

Maud could no longer contain herself. ‘Sit down for God’s sake, Art, and stop being an ass.’

Art turned, annoyed. ‘Stay out of this. I’m sick of other people mapping out my life for me.’

‘Listen to your big sister, sonny,’ the Corkman said. ‘Run off and join a circus if you want, but you’re misinformed about our fight. It’s not about freedom for you, it’s about freedom from you. The best way you could help Ireland’s freedom is to pack up and return to where you came from.’

‘Where exactly is that?’ Art was so furious that the two volunteers appeared in the doorway with their rifles.

‘England.’

‘More Irish blood runs through my veins than through yours. My father can trace our family back to Niall of the Nine Hostages. Can your father do that?’

‘My father was too busy trying to earn an honest wage. That’s more than you parasites have ever done.’

Maud was no longer interested in the motor. She simply wanted to get Art safely out of this cottage. Of late he frequently took notions, but rarely as dangerous as this. Was it his way to rebel against Father who was shocked by each bullet fired on either side in this Irish conflict? She wanted to speak, but any interruption would only further inflame her brother.

‘So what constitutes an Irishman now?’ Art demanded.

‘An Irishman is someone with Irish blood in his veins and in his father’s and grandfather’s before that.’

‘Where does that leave the half-breed Patrick Pearse?’ Art retorted. ‘His father was indisputably an Englishman. At least my distant ancestors had the decency to be Dutch.’

The Corkman rose and took a pistol from his holster. ‘Don’t ever take Pearse’s name in vain,’ he hissed. ‘I fought with him in Easter Week. He was a true Irishman.’

‘I am not saying he wasn’t.’ Art was calm, exuding an unconscious superiority in the face of the man’s anger. ‘It’s your definition that excludes him, not mine.’

The commander turned to the volunteers. ‘Give them their blasted car and shoot them both if they turn back.’ He looked at Maud. ‘Take this child away and put him somewhere safe, miss. Let this be a lesson. Property required by the Irish Republican Army will be requisitioned in the name of the Republic. Any collaboration with the army of occupation will be seen as an act of treason. You understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can it be an act of treason if we’re not even Irish?’ Art queried. ‘I suppose you call my father’s cousin a foreigner too.’

The commander replaced his gun, calmer now. ‘You’re sharp, sonny. If debating points were bullets you’d have killed me long ago. But the Countess gave up everything. Could you do likewise? Revolution is not a half-way house. Your accent would be a liability to any flying column. You’d stick out, like a motor car. Stay in your own world. We leave this cottage tonight and won’t be back. If you reveal where you found this car the roof will be burnt over the old couple’s heads. Such a thing would not be forgotten. The peelers have just abandoned the barracks that I had planned to attack with your car tonight. They probably got a tip-off. Go home and keep your mouth shut. And tell them to do likewise in the pubs of Dunkineely.’

‘Nobody said a word to us,’ Art said quickly.

The commander escorted them out to the yard where the old couple silently stood. ‘If I had to shoot every loose-tongued Irish fool, I’d have no bullets left for the British.’

The car started at the second attempt. Art loaded their bicycles into the boot while the volunteers stood back as if expecting Maud to crash into the gate. Only after she drove into the lane did her hands start shaking.

It was dark as they descended the rough track and she steered cautiously, knowing how easy it would be to snap an axle. Father would be angry when he discovered the risk they had taken, but Maud could now convince him not to contact the police. Art stared ahead in silence.

‘Did you really want to volunteer?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied, though Maud knew he was lying. ‘I was merely winding up the blither. Can’t say I’d fancy the type of country he would build.’

‘I’m not sure he will get the chance,’ Maud said. ‘The Prime Minister can flood Ireland with troops.’

‘True. There’s no way these fools can win. I’m just not sure they can be beaten either. Don’t mention my offer to Father.’

They drove on in silence because the dark world beyond the windscreen felt different now. Maud wondered if the Corkman’s story about the barracks was a ruse. Perhaps some poor man had been driven in this motor to a remote spot last night, shot and his body dumped? She would spend hours scrubbing the upholstery, yet the motor would never feel like it fully belonged to her again. At the bend beside Bruckless House a Crossley Tender was parked, with a party of British soldiers blocking the road. A local man was being searched, his hands raised as a soldier roughly kicked his feet apart. The man looked up, relieved that there were witnesses to his search. A sergeant stopped the car and put his head in the window.

‘And where would you two lovebirds be heading?’

‘This is my brother,’ Maud replied, tersely.

‘Is it necessary to search the man like that?’ Art asked.

‘I assure you it is.’ The sergeant relaxed upon hearing Art’s accent. ‘The Shinners would shoot loyal citizens like you in your bed.’ He called back. ‘That will do. Let him go.’ Watching the local man cycle quickly away, he turned back to the car. ‘Can’t say I like this posting. At least in France you knew who the enemy was. It must be hard for you, barely able to trust your own servants.’

‘I trust everyone in my village,’ Maud replied.

‘What village is that?’

‘Dunkineely.’

The sergeant whispered softly, ‘We’ve heard rumours of a car stolen in Dunkineely.’

‘Was it reported stolen?’

‘We get reports in many ways.’ His manner was brisker. ‘Where have you just come from?’

‘We were out taking the air.’

‘What if I don’t believe you?’

‘Are you calling my sister a liar?’ Art demanded.

‘I want to know your exact movements. I’m keen to encounter a certain party of men. I have a little silver present for each of them.’