‘That’s right,’ his friend agreed, with a cheerful grin. ‘Don’t you envy me, fellers? I’ll be back with me old mum tomorrer an’ mekkin’ wedding plans wiv’ me girlfriend the following day.’
‘You won’t be so far ahead of me, you know,’ Pat pointed out mildly. ‘Say they give us our civvies and send us off on the first train, I could still be in Dublin by late tomorrow night.’ He yawned again, jaw-crackingly, then turned to Brendan, a slight frown etched between his brows. ‘That’s odd! When I yawned just now, I sort of saw double . . . two of everything. It only lasted a moment but it was real weird.’
‘You must have hid a bottle of French plonk in your kit bag,’ Brendan said, grinning. ‘Though how you managed to drink it with me and Barry so close, I can’t imagine.’ They had been marching as they talked and now entered the camp. There were a number of large temporary buildings and tents scattered everywhere across the site and the ground between them was soggy, for it had been raining throughout their voyage and was raining still. ‘That looks like the cookhouse, that building over there. Let’s get ourselves a meal before we join the queue for signing off.’
They joined the jostling crowd heading for the cookhouse, but had a half-hour’s wait in the rain before getting inside and by then Pat said he was no longer hungry. Brendan saw that the other man’s face was flushed and thought he had probably caught a cold, for all the men were soaked through. He thought no more of it as he himself finished a hearty meal, bade Pat and Barry a cheerful good night, and made his way to where his division was quartered.
Next morning, he looked for Pat but could not see him, though eventually he ran Barry to earth. ‘Me pal’s been took to the hospital in Southampton,’ Barry said miserably. ‘By the time I woke up, he were delirious. Didn’t know me from Adam, thought he was back in the trenches, and kept waving his rifle around – before they took it off of him, that is. I meant to catch the first train out of here but now I reckon I’ll nip along to the hospital first. You comin’?’
Brendan agreed at once to go and the two men made their way through the dark streets, dodging enormous puddles and turning up the collars of their greatcoats, for there was a raw wind blowing which chilled them to the bone. They arrived at the hospital and asked for Private Patrick O’Keefe and were sent to a waiting room where they sat, uncomfortably, on stiff little wooden chairs, wondering why they had not been allowed to go to the ward where their friend lay.
Presently, they knew. Private Patrick O’Keefe had died at midnight, one of the victims of the killer flu which was sweeping Europe.
Brendan was numbed with shock and pain. On hearing the news, Barry had turned to him, his eyes wide with horror and grief. ‘It’s my fault,’ he had said. ‘I lit three cigarettes with the same match and the third man died.’ Brendan had tried to rally him, to reassure him that whilst that old soldiers’ tale might have been true when the enemy was on the watch for anything that might pinpoint his target’s position, it could have no relevance when the killer was a pandemic disease, but Barry had refused to be comforted. Even Brendan, without precisely blaming himself, felt all the guilt of the survivor. Pat had been a good bloke, he thought, admired by his fellow soldiers, liked by his officers. I could have been spared with a few tears, a few regrets, Brendan told himself humbly, but it’s different for Pat. Caitlin needs him desperately and so do the children. Oh, his wages were important, of course they were, but Pat himself was even more crucial to their happiness. Good God, he joined up in 1914 because he knew how vital it was to win the war. He was in just about every battle in France and Belgium you could mention. I remember thinking that he and I had had the devil’s own luck to get through without a scratch . . . but that was before we were both wounded, of course. Pat had a shell splinter dug out of his back after Passchendaele, and I had me collarbone broke by a bullet a few weeks later. But small wounds like that scarcely count, compared with what some fellers went through. And now he’s dead and I’ve got to go back to Ireland and tell Caitlin, because things are in such a state down here that they might not send news of his death for a week or more. And anyway, it’ll be easier for her if I’m there.
He had intended going back to Liverpool before setting off for Ireland but the terrible news of Pat’s death had changed everything. He would follow the course that Pat himself had meant to follow. He would catch the boat train to Holyhead and the Irish ferry to Dublin. He would make his way to Handkerchief Alley, bracing himself to give Caitlin the dreadful news. He would stay with his cousin as long as she needed him, and then he would make his way back to Connemara. He would visit his parents for a week or so, but then he would have to return to Liverpool, for not only were his savings deposited in one of the city’s banks, but he needed to speak to the police authority, though he was pretty sure that he would not again become a beat constable, but would take his chance on the land.
Accordingly, Brendan said a sorrowful farewell to Barry on Waterloo Station and set off on the long, sad journey home. For the first time in his life, he realised as he climbed into the boat train, he was dreading a return to Ireland.
When Brendan boarded the Irish ferry in Holyhead, it was a cold and windy day, and the Irish Sea was covered, as far as the eye could see, with white horses. A good many of the passengers looked apprehensive, for even in the shelter of the harbour the ferry was rocking in an ominous manner, and when they surged out into the open sea she began to bucket and cavort, which sent a good few of the passengers to hang over the rail and lose their breakfasts. Brendan, however, had not gone out in his father’s black-tarred sailing boat without getting his sea legs, and now he viewed the sick passengers with pity, but with no desire to join them. Instead, he went below to the almost empty saloon, bought a large cup of coffee and a couple of buns, and settled down to enjoy a good gossip with the elderly bartender. The man hailed from Dublin and knew the Liberties well, though he had moved out from there some years back and now lived on Conyngham Road, with the River Liffey at the end of his garden and Phoenix Park not a stone’s throw away. Brendan told him his sad errand and mentioned Handkerchief Alley and the bartender was immediately helpful. ‘Sure and don’t I know the old place as well as any man alive,’ he said genially. ‘You’ll want to make for Bridgefoot Street, and at the junction turn left into Thomas. Then you turn right into Francis Street. Handkerchief Alley’s off Francis Street; you can’t miss it.’ He looked curiously at Brendan. ‘I wouldn’t be after telling you it’s a rough area because it’s a mix, same as the rest of the Liberties, but it ain’t a place to linger in after dark, not if you’re a stranger. Have you heard of the gangs? They behave like animals, have pitched battles in the streets, thieve from anyone not known to them, and have killed their man many a time.’
‘No, I haven’t heard of them. But it ain’t likely me cousin Caitlin would talk of such things,’ Brendan said. ‘I shan’t be around there after dark – not if you’ve give me right directions, that is.’
The other man grinned. ‘You won’t get lost, not in daylight,’ he assured the younger man. ‘But I don’t envy you having to break such turble news to your cousin. It’s not as though she’ll be expecting it, since the war’s been over for months.’
Brendan nodded. ‘That’s the worst part,’ he admitted. ‘Everyone spent the war years braced to get bad news, but it’s different now. Caitlin and the kids will be expecting him home any day; in her last letter she said the kids had got out the paper chains they made at Christmas, and one of the little lads had sneaked into Phoenix Park and dug up a bowlful of crocuses. She had made a grand big fruit cake at Christmas, but they didn’t eat it because their daddy wasn’t at home, so she’d skimmed off the top of it and written
Welcome home, Pat
in pink icing sugar.’
The bartender drew in his breath, then released it in a long, sibilant whistle. ‘I don’t envy you,’ he said again. ‘I t’ink, if I were you, I’d let the aut’orities break the news.’ He paused, then shook his grey head, and Brendan saw that his eyes were shiny with tears. ‘Poor woman. No, I reckon you’re doing the right thing. There’s little comfort in a telegram.’
Brendan found Handkerchief Alley without difficulty, for the bartender’s directions had been clear and concise, and far sooner than he wished he found himself mounting the stairs of No. 3 tenement and making for the top floor. He rapped on the door, heard a brief flurry from behind it, and then it was snatched open. His cousin Caitlin was almost in his arms before she recognised him, and Brendan realised, with sick dismay, that she had thought he was Pat. As he had suspected, the telegram from the authorities had not yet arrived, might not do so for several days. For a fleeting instant, he wondered once again whether he had done the right thing in deciding to break the news to Caitlin himself. If he had not done so, she could have gone on for a little while longer in happy anticipation of her husband’s return. But it would only have been a fool’s paradise, and perhaps the truth, when it came, would be easier to bear if he was present to comfort her distress. Now, though, Caitlin was giving him a hug, pulling him into the kitchen, telling him as they entered that she had been expecting Pat for ten days, that he might walk in at any moment, and how glad she was that it was her half day and she was at home when he called. She pushed him into a chair by the fire, and pulled the big blackened kettle over the flame. ‘Sit there and warm yourself – you shall have a cup of tay in two minutes and a buttered oatcake, with some of me famous cherry jam on top. I was waiting for Maeve to get back with the messages – Maeve’s the girl who helps me round the house and wit’ the kids, including Kitty – but the kettle won’t take a moment to boil, and everything else is ready.’ She began to gather the tea things together, then turned back to Brendan. ‘I suppose you’ve not come across Pat on your travels? I guess you realised I thought you were him when I first opened the door.’
She was gazing at Brendan as she spoke, her eyes alight with pleasant anticipation, her mouth curving into a smile. He cleared his throat and met her eyes squarely. ‘I – I saw him in Southampton,’ he said haltingly. ‘He was – he was . . .’
The words would not come. A lump like a cricket ball blocked his throat. But even as he watched Caitlin’s face, he saw the anticipation fade from her eyes as her smile faltered and died. She stared at him for what seemed like hours and he saw all the youth and pleasure drain from her face as the pink left her cheeks and lips, until she looked like a marble effigy, save for the big dark eyes, and the tears which ran from them.
Brendan had expected that Caitlin would want him to remain with her whilst she grew accustomed to the fact that she was now a widow and her children were fatherless, but she did not. ‘Sure and I’ll be terrible glad if you’ll come back when you’ve visited your parents in Connemara,’ she said in a small, formal voice. It was a bare hour since he had arrived in the flat and already Caitlin wanted him gone. He might have been hurt, might have thought the help he offered was being scorned, but Caitlin assured him that this was not the case. ‘I need to be alone for a while before the kids come in from school and that,’ she explained. ‘I’ve got to tell them, obviously, but first I’ve got to tell myself. And when will they bring his body back so’s he can be buried on Irish soil? They’ll send him home, won’t they?’
‘I’m sure they will, but if they don’t, I’ve got savings . . . I’ll do anything I can. Oh, God, Caitlin, I’ll do anything to make things easier.’
Caitlin gazed at Brendan and for a moment her lips tightened. He imagined, without rancour, that she must be wishing that it had been he, a single man, who had died, but then her gaze softened once more and he saw that she had been merely fighting back tears, though she had cried a river when he had first broken the news. ‘I’ve got savings, too, but I probably won’t need to touch them,’ she said tightly. ‘You’ve never lived in the Liberties, Bren, so I’m telling you, these people have no money but they’ve got the biggest hearts in the world, and they stick together. As soon as they know Pat’s gone . . .’ her voice wavered for a moment, ‘they’ll start a collection, and believe me, there’ll be enough money in it, even if we have to give up the thought of a wake.’
‘But I’d like to help,’ Brendan said awkwardly. ‘I’ve always been mortal fond of yourself, Caitlin. Don’t deny me a chance to give you a bit of a hand.’
Caitlin, however, shook her head firmly. ‘If I need help, it’s to yourself I’ll turn, I swear it,’ she said quietly. ‘One thing you can do for me, though: you can tell that Sylvie of yours that she’d best take young Kitty back, because I’ll have enough to do wit’ keeping me own kids fed and clothed, and I’ll need Maeve to help me as much as she can. To own the truth, Brendan, Maeve spends all her time lookin’ after Kitty, an’ all her earnings go on the child as well, and it won’t do, not now I’m widowed and alone.’
Brendan stared at her, feeling helpless. He could not possibly expect Sylvie to take the child. If she had been thirteen or fourteen, she could have been introduced into the Ferryman as a young relative of his own who needed a job and would work hard for very small wages. But with a child of almost eight this was simply not practicable. Still, it was clearly useless to say anything of the sort to Caitlin in her present mood, so he just nodded.
Caitlin, however, continued to muse aloud. ‘Now that Pat has gone, everything will have to change,’ she said slowly. ‘I could put Kitty in an orphanage, I suppose – at least they’d clothe and feed the kid, which is more than I’m going to be able to afford to do. I know you think the sun shines out of Sylvie, Brendan, but you’ve never had to live with her. She was real selfish, honest to God she was. I don’t see why she shouldn’t shoulder responsibility for Kitty.’ Caitlin turned sharply to the door, which was not quite closed. ‘What was that? Did you hear something?’