Yet, when finally Isobel did speak, her voice was strange. It was rougher and deeper yet, to Brigid’s surprise, she could see something shining at the side of her eye. If it had been anyone else, Brigid would have said she was crying.
“Your mother wants you both inside,” Isobel said. “Go on. There’s a visitor come to call,” and she turned round, cross and brisk again, to pick up the washing, strewn where she had thrown it over the hollyhocks.
Brigid saw that the blackcurrant bush was wearing her father’s white shirt, and a small rose tree one of her own blue socks. That was good, that was fun, but when she turned to show Francis he drew her away, gently pulling her down the steps.
“Come on,” he said. “Piccadilly Circus, this place, if you ask me,” he added, under his breath.
“Oh, is there a circus? Is there, Francis?” Brigid trailed after him, pulling at him, but Francis did not reply. “Where is there a circus, Francis?” she tried again, but Francis said nothing more. He let go of her arm and Brigid, trotting to keep up, followed him as quickly as she could into the back yard, through the cool kitchen and, breathless, to the door of the sitting room, where another figure had joined their parents and Rose.
She came to a halt just behind Francis, stopped short at the door. She heard him say, “Uncle Conor” and she looked up, to see the tall figure of Cornelius Todd.
“Uncle Conor,” she said, just as Francis had, politely, distantly.
“Well,” said his deep voice, and his big hands caught her, held her up high above his head, shook her, brought her deep into his thick hair which, close up, smelled of spice. He swung her down on to her feet, then one hand brought her close in to stand by him. His other big hand, not a grizzly bear’s today, more a lion’s paw, reached out to Francis’ head and bowed it towards him, ruffling the fringe till it stood out in spikes. “There’s a big man,” he said, “and a dangerous cowboy here.”
Francis smoothed his hair with his hand.
Brigid, displeased without knowing why, heard herself say: “Cow
girl
, Uncle Conor.”
“Cowgirl,” he corrected himself, “my mistake,” and he smiled again, this time with his teeth only, not his eyes. At the same time, he released his grip on her, and turned again to Francis. “Look what I have,” he said, and from nowhere produced two bars of chocolate.
Brigid and Francis drew breath at the same moment. This chocolate could be bought only across the border.
“Cornelius,” said their mother, in her warning voice, too low for comfort.
He looked up at her, with his eyebrow raised and his mouth in its half smile. He seemed apologetic, even regretful, yet the children knew he would not take back the gifts. “No rationing any more, is there, Grace? That war’s over, at least. How will a bar of chocolate harm them?”
“It could,” said Rose, even more quietly than her sister, “if it damages their teeth.”
Cornelius Todd turned deliberately round to Rose. She was sitting a little out of the circle of the company, on a chair near the window. “Thank you, Matron,” he said, one eyebrow higher than the other, but he did not smile.
Rose said nothing, turning instead to look out the window, her mouth set in its straight line. For one second, Brigid saw Rose almost old.
Silence hung in the air until her mother spoke. “You know, Cornelius,” she said, “I think Rose will be matron of that hospital some day, and I’m certainly glad of her advice where my children are concerned. More tea?”
He did not seem to hear her. Brigid saw him look straight at Rose, but all Rose appeared to see was a trolleybus rolling past on the road.
“Tell us about the Commemoration in Down, Conor,” said their father from his chair, as if none of them had said a word.
“Who spoke, you mean?” said Cornelius. Turning away from Rose, he pulled up the knees of his trouser-legs, and settled himself in the armchair. “Ah, you know, Maurice,” he said, pleasantly, as if nothing had happened, “it was our friend – that character who . . .” and as if no one else were present in the room, began what seemed to Brigid a very long account of people talking in a field about someone who was dead.
Brigid could not imagine how it interested her father, in his weakened state, yet it clearly did. He nodded and leaned forward in his chair so that Brigid thought he might slide out of it altogether. He asked questions of Uncle Conor as he had not done of her, or of Francis. Back and forth, they repeated the same words and numbers over and over: Connolly, Collins, Pearse, Tans, Hunger, Strike, John Bull, Sixteen, Twenty-one, Treaty, Troubles.
Her father grew more animated with every minute. He finally left his chair, half standing as he said: “And the Captain, Conor? Did you hear about the bold Captain, and his so-called ‘liberal policy towards the minority’? Did you read that? It was in the paper. Look.” He slid back into the chair, and reached down beside him where, in his excitement, he had dropped the newspaper on the floor. “Here, yes. I have it. I can’t make it out too well, but I can get the gist. Have you read it, Conor?”
“No need, Maurice,” said Conor, his hand out to take the newspaper. “I know what it said. The good Captain said he was warning what he called the minority that they must not meet this liberal policy with what he described as ingratitude. The papers said it was a hot Twelfth this year, and they were not wrong. And, you know, I went over and heard that young clergyman – you remember I said I would? I heard him preach at his new church in the east of the city. I’m sure you’ll be interested to learn that the Roman Catholic Church is not a Christian Church, and that the Pope is the Anti-Christ.”
Their mother reached across and placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Maurice,” she said. “The children,” but he seemed not to hear, looking with his good eye only at Conor.
“Ah, that fellow’s a firebrand,” he said. “He’ll burn himself out. I’m more concerned about the fifteen thousand Orangemen marching by the Longstone Road on the Twelfth. Their right! Their right! Holy cats o’ cats!”
Uncle Conor, glancing at the children, turned to their mother. “All quiet now though, Grace, down that direction. There was no trouble in the end. It was a respectful remembrance of a brave man who died, all those years ago, for a principle.”
“By starving himself? What was brave about that?”
To everyone’s surprise, this voice belonged to Rose.
No one else spoke. Brigid tried to catch Francis’ eye, in hope of escape, but Francis did not respond. His eyes were fixed upon their visitor.
“Does it still happen, Uncle Conor?” he said.
“Does what still happen, son?”
“Does it still happen in Ireland that people die because of politics, or get . . . you know, get killed?”
Conor looked at him straight in the eyes, as if Francis were an adult. “It still happens,” he said.
Francis intent, a cub about to spring, seemed suddenly to hesitate.
“Go ahead, son,” said Uncle Conor, and his voice was very quiet. “Say what’s on your mind.”
Francis stood up, ran his hand through his hair and said quickly, as if he could not stop the words: “Is there still an IRA, Uncle Conor?”
Brigid, no longer bored, felt herself stiffen, her eyes widen, and looked towards the door for Isobel. She was there, outside, Brigid knew. She had often seen her in the hall, quite still, listening. The clock on the mantel ticked for a long time before Uncle Conor stopped watching Francis. Brigid saw again his eyes grow cool, distant and appraising. She thought he would never answer.
Then, almost carelessly, he said: “Why do you ask that, Francis?”
Francis looked at the floor, then directly at Uncle Conor. “I thought the IRA was long ago. I thought it was over. I thought it was remembered in days like the one you were talking about, but just remembering, not happening any more.”
More silence. More moments for the clock to mark.
Francis took a deep breath: “Then I read in the newspaper that the police found guns in London. Boxes of them. They said they were IRA guns. They were to blow up places, army barracks. It said police, Special Branch, were looking for IRA men in London, and at the ports. Liverpool. The paper said they could have come here.”
The children’s mother lifted the heavy silver teapot, holding it poised as if it were made of paper. “Cornelius,” she said, “more tea?”
Uncle Conor looked at his hands, spread broadly in front of him. “The papers are full of stories, Francis,” he said. “That’s how papers are sold.” He put his hands on his knees with a loud smack, and stood up. “I don’t think I’ll have any more tea, thank you, Grace. I must get on the road.”
“Did you come up on the train this morning, Cornelius?” said their mother, rising as she spoke.
“Not this time. I got a lift, as it turned out. We came through the Mournes, through Eightmilebridge.”
“I love the train,” said their mother, turning all her attention on the children. “Maybe we’ll do that some day. We’ll go on the train, and you’ll see the hedges and fields and houses all streaming past you in a whistle.” She smiled, her warm smile, but there was in it a warning.
Francis, still watching Uncle Conor, turned with reluctance and met her eyes. “
Faster than fairies
,” he said, “
faster than witches
.”
“That’s right,” said his mother, and she reached out to stroke his head. “Good boy.” She turned back to Conor. “Now, Cornelius, I’m going to send
these two out again. It’s a shame to have them inside this good day. Dear knows how many more we’ll have before the summer’s done.”
“Ah, don’t put them out,” he said. “I’m away. I can hear the sound of a car, and it could be my transport.” He smiled his crooked smile, and pulled them both close into his big arms. There was no softness in him today. Brigid, uncomfortable, remembered the grizzly bear. “And if your mother brings you over the border on the train, you can come and see me in my house, can’t you?”
Even as they nodded “Yes”, Brigid heard their mother say: “We’ll see what happens, Cornelius,” which both children knew meant ‘No’.
With relief, and anxious to be outside, Brigid and Francis ran out again through the kitchen. Yet, even before they turned out of the back yard, they heard a car door open, and veered round the side of the house to see who was coming or going. They were in time to see Uncle Conor getting into a car, but they could not see who was driving it. Turning round as he swivelled in, Cornelius included Brigid and Francis in his friendly wave, a kindly lion again, the grizzly bear hidden away.
On the morning air their mother’s voice carried through the window: “I don’t know what to think when I see Cornelius Todd. He just appears, and then he disappears. Like the Cheshire cat, but less comfortable.”
Then Rose’s voice spoke, smaller, flatter, not Rose’s voice at all: “And always when there is something going on,” she said.
“You’re right,” they heard their mother say. “I’m sorry, Rose. I was forgetting. It must have been uncomfortable for you,” and then the voices floated away.
Brigid and Francis looked at each other, but said nothing. They walked back around the house.
At the foot of the steps, Brigid stopped and said up to Francis, already near the top: “Why do we call him ‘Uncle’ and ‘Conor’ when he is not our real uncle and the grown-ups call him that name I can’t say?”
Francis said, reasonably: “That’s why. You can’t say Cornelius properly, and neither could I one time. Daddy calls him Conor, the Irish for it. And ‘Uncle’, well, people call their parents’ friends that sometimes. That’s about it.”
“But we don’t call Rose ‘Aunt Rose’ when we speak to her. Or Michael ‘Uncle Michael’ when we go to Tullybroughan.”
“Because she is really our aunt,” said Francis, shrugging his shoulders. “We don’t need to. We know she’s our aunt, and Michael’s our uncle. Same with Laetitia in Lecale.”
Brigid made a face. “I don’t always like Laetitia,” she said. “I’m not sure she likes me.”
“Laetitia’s all right,” said Francis. “Don’t annoy her, that’s all.”
“And there is an Uncle Laurence who is not really an uncle either?”
“Was, not is. Don’t think too much about it all, Brigid. Here, take this.”
Brigid, wondering what she would do if she did not have Francis to explain things to her, took the chocolate he handed her, and they sat, both thoughtful, on the grass.
“Francis,” asked Brigid, as they peeled away the silver paper and broke off chunky squares. How good chocolate was! How smooth and velvety-warm in her mouth. “Why did you ask those questions about,” she looked round, “that thing we aren’t supposed to mention? You know,” and she dropped her voice to a whisper, “IRA.”
Francis took a square of chocolate, slowly inserting it between his teeth. “I wanted to know,” he said.
Behind them, there was a sound in the plot. Turning, they saw Mr Doughty, his collar off, his face reddened with heat. He was coughing beneath his hand, quietly, to himself.
“Mr Doughty,” they said together, getting to their feet.
“Would you like some chocolate, Mr Doughty?” asked Francis, moving towards the plot fence.
“Morning, children,” he said, quite stiffly, then more kindly, “No, thank you. I’d spoil my dinner.”
Brigid wondered if he had heard her shouting about the IRA or, worse, if he guessed – since he was a policeman – what they were not mentioning now. His hands were behind his back. Perhaps he had handcuffs. Brigid stiffened as he reached his hands forward towards her, and then she saw what they held seemed like two large bouquets. One was cabbage, the other rhubarb.