Dublin's Girl Read online

  DUBLIN’S GIRL

  Eimear Lawlor

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Eimear Lawlor, 2021

  The moral right of Eimear Lawlor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN:

  E: 9781800249288

  Cover design © Cherie Chapman

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For my beautiful daughter Ciara 25/08/98 – 09/07/2016

  ANGEL

  On a Wednesday in July

  We dried our tears and said goodbye

  Another Angel gone before her time

  But she’s still alive in our hearts and minds

  And heaven knows when we are old

  She will be forever young

  (Angel, Kodaline 2017)

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  The winter of 1916 had been long and harsh, and the insipid spring of 1917 left little hope of a promising summer. War raged in Europe, and the Irish were waging their own war against British occupation in their country. Since the executions of the leaders of the Easter Rising the previous year, the Irish people had rallied together in revolt against the English in their country. English soldiers frequented many farms in the Irish countryside looking for rebels and terrorising people. Real resistance against British Rule in Ireland started in 1919 in the War of Independence.

  1

  June 1917 Virginia, Co. Cavan

  ‘Veronica will you hurry with those potatoes?’ Her mother sighed. ‘I’ve to make the bread yet, and the men will be here early today. The soldiers shot poor Tommy Brady, and his wake is tonight. I’ve so much to do,’ her mother said as she took the brown bread out of the black Aga stove. She bent to sniff it, which always amused Veronica. She thought, How can you tell if something is cooked by smelling it?

  A potato slipped from Veronica’s hand into the bucket and water splashed everywhere.

  ‘Veronica,’ her mother screeched, ‘for God’s sake, will you watch what you’re doing? All you’re doing is creating more work for yourself.’

  Veronica rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth as she peeled the last potato and dropped it to the mound beside her. Thirty potatoes, three each, enough for the family and the farmhands. The sunshine filled the yard outside the kitchen, weeks of rain had retreated, and the countryside had erupted into an assortment of green hues. The arrival of summer sunshine was no guarantee it would last, and Veronica itched to get outside to go to the lake to fish or swim. As children, she and her brother Eddie had spent many summer days by the lake fishing and exploring the forest, but in their teenage years they spent less and less time together, their time demanded elsewhere. Now Veronica’s days in the house involved helping her mother and their cook Mrs Slaney in the kitchen and Eddie helped his father in their grocery shop in the village.

  In the yard, there was a squawk and a spray of feathers. Veronica’s mother let out an exasperated cry behind her.

  ‘That damn dog is at the chickens again!’ Her mother ran to the yard, flapping her maroon apron while screaming at the dog. Veronica held her ribs with laughter. Her mother’s nostrils flared like a cow ready to charge to protect her calf from danger. Picking up a broom, she swept the black and white collie dog out of the yard into the field.

  Veronica stopped laughing as she glimpsed movement on the other side of the yard – a flash of tweed, a muddied shoe. It was Eddie. Veronica watched him, narrowing her eyes as Eddie stealthily crept along the side of the shed. What was he up to now? He had left earlier to help their father at the shop in the village. There was a time Eddie never kept secrets from her, but lately, he disappeared for hours, and when she asked where he had been, he’d mutter, ‘Nowhere,’ and dismiss her with a scowl.

  She stood back from the window and watched as he furtively unlatched the side door of the shed to slip inside before Frankie the farmhand walked past and pushed his wheelbarrow into the nearby pigsty. The chickens had calmed, and her mother was back at the stove, stirring the stew, mumbling about the dog.

  The potatoes peeled, Veronica grabbed the bucket with the peel, and shouted to her mother, ‘Mammy, I’m giving the skins to the pigs.’ She had to see what Eddie was doing.

  Her mother continued to stir the pot. ‘Don’t be late for dinner and close the door after ye.’

  But it fell on deaf ears as Veronica left the back door swinging open. She knew he was up to no good; he had probably stolen apples from the orchard and was hiding them in the shed, or maybe a pheasant from the nearby Taylor estate. One time they’d taken a pheasant from the local estate, and they were grounded for two months after the bird was found in the side shed Veronica and Eddie used as their hideout.

  Mr Brady, the groundsman from the estate, had arrived to speak to the twins’ father saying their groundsman Simon had seen the twins running from the estate. ‘They could hardly hold the sack with the animal jumping, frightened for its life,’ he said, shaking, his face red ready to erupt.

  ‘Rabbits,’ the children had replied in unison. Neither Mr Brady nor their father believed them, and he grounded them for two months. But those days of doing things together were long gone.

  Veronica dropped the bucket of potato peel outside the pigsty for Paudie. With one last glance around the yard, she slipped into the shed and stood back in the shadows and squinted. The sun threw rays of light into the gloom which caught the dust particles dancing in mid-air.

  There was a cough from the back of the shed, and a silhouette stood on a bale of hay. Slowly and quietl
y, she inched forward. It was from Eddie.

  He stood on his tippy toes, reaching up to the rafters and brushed away cobwebs. Veronica shivered, she hated spiders. Letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, she moved with care, placing one foot in front of the other, trying not to make a sound and moved further into the shed. Eddie was only a few feet away from her, and she stayed in the shadows not daring to breathe. He took a small object from inside his jacket and put it high on to the rafters, but it fell out the other side. She stifled a gasp. Christ. It had had a wooden handle and a barrel: it was a small gun.

  ‘Eddie McDermott, what are you doing?’

  Eddie jumped down from the bale, his hands quickly covering the gun.

  ‘Jaysus, Veronica, don’t creep up on me like that; you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘What are you doing with that gun?’

  ‘I’m joining the volunteers.’

  ‘Daddy will be the one to have a heart attack if he finds out. You know it’s dangerous. The soldiers are everywhere, and James Sheridan’s daddy was sent to prison last week, and Mammy said that’s what got Tommy Smith killed.’

  He held the gun tight to his chest.

  ‘Veronica, we have a chance of freedom. Do ya’ not get it? We’re suppressed. We’re nothing more than puppets. Do ya’ think it’s right that decisions are made by the eejits in a different country?’ He stood as straight as possible, trying to show he was the taller of the two, and at six foot he towered over most people.

  He walked toward the door. |A small brown bag fell from inside his jacket, its contents rolling across the flagstones. Ten or twelve coins rolled across the floor only stopping when they got caught in bits of winter turf that littered the back of the shed.

  ‘Eddie, what are you doing with that money?’ The money was more of an astonishment than the gun. But the gun was a danger. And danger often meant death.

  Eddie continued, unaware of the change in her expression. ‘You know we should speak Irish, not English. They forced it on us. We’ve not just lost our language, we’ve lost our culture, our education, our opportunity, our right to be Irish.’

  ‘A gun, Eddie. For God’s sake, what will that do? And what about Home Rule? And Eddie, that money, where did you get it and what do you want it for?’

  ‘What do you know about Home Rule? Tell me how you think that will make the situation any better? Didn’t you hear me say we’re puppets? We need total independence to make our own decisions. If we get Home Rule, the power is still with the English.’

  Veronica slumped on a bale of hay. ‘Does Daddy know? He is in the Gaelic League. That isn’t illegal. I heard Daddy say to Mammy they are helping us not to forget we are Irish, but your gun, Eddie, it could get you arrested.’ She hesitated. ‘Or killed.’

  He snorted and spat onto the dusty floor. ‘The Irish language won’t get us our rights. Rights as Irishmen to govern ourselves. What good can learning a cupla focail do? It won’t put food on people’s tables, won’t give them a chance to better themselves. Me and the Sheridan boys are joining up, and that’s that. Don’t you dare tell Daddy or Mammy. We’re having a meeting later at the Sheridans’ and if anyone is looking for me, tell them you haven’t seen me.’

  ‘What difference does it make who rules us? We’re fine. We’re not hungry. Don’t we have a good life?’

  ‘God, Veronica, sometimes you just don’t get it. Don’t you realise how privileged you are? We’re lucky. Look at the O’Reillys. Twelve of them in a two-roomed cottage owned by an English landlord who doesn’t even live in this country.’

  Silent, she frowned. The O’Reillys often arrived at school dirty, and more than often didn’t come. Eddie interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘The O’Reillys have nothing, and never will. And people experience worse conditions than the O’Reillys. In the west of Ireland, it’s worse. They have no work or little food.’

  ‘Well someone should find the landlords and arrest them,’ she said with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. She felt out of her depth but couldn’t let him win another argument. It was always the same since they were little, he always talked over her. She stopped talking when she heard Paudie’s out-of-tune whistle.

  They stood glaring at each other, waiting for Paudie to pass.

  ‘And who do you think would arrest the landlords? The RIC?’ Eddie didn’t wait for Veronica to answer. ‘The landlords are English. The “R” in RIC is Royal – ROYAL Irish Constabulary, get it, Veronica? Believe me just because they have an Irish accent that doesn’t mean they are on our side. They work for the Crown – they would hardly arrest people who pay their wages, would they?’

  Veronica knew there was little point arguing with him. Eddie said, ‘I am warning you – don’t mention the gun or money to anyone and forget you even saw them. What I do with them is none of your business.’

  She kicked the dirt floor. It hurt her he was friendlier with James Sheridan. He was trouble. She had a bad feeling.

  There were footsteps in the yard, coming rapidly towards them.

  ‘Veronica, where are you?’ her mother shouted.

  She groaned. The last thing she wanted was more chores. At the back of the shed was a window, and she climbed onto a bale of hay and squeezed through it, ripping her skirt on a nail.

  ‘Veronica, where the devil are you?’

  Veronica gathered up her skirt and ran down the hill without looking back. Breathless, her heart thumping, she only stopped when she got to the lakeshore. She looked over the lake, beautiful Lough Ramor. She could get lost in the stillness of the water. Thirty-two islands. ‘One for each county of Ireland,’ her father said. A world inhabited the lake. Not people, but birds and wild animals. Herons, cranes, otters, ducks and swans.

  The last of the morning mist swirled over the lake, the remaining cold air of the morning in a battle with the heat from the rising midday sun. She would forget about Eddie. This was her time, that was more important. After checking that she was alone, Veronica stripped down to her undergarments and got into the ice-cold water. Every cell in her body tingled. She closed her eyes, now transported to another world. She was in heaven as the cold water sent a tingle through her, all her senses awakening. It was the only time she felt alive, away from the mundane routine of life in the kitchen.

  She got out when her skin stung from the water, her skin pinched and translucent, and retrieved the towel she kept hidden in the boathouse. Veronica lay on the grass, looking up at the blue sky. The sun filtered through the trees, shining on the lake like diamond dust. Seven ducks flew overhead and made a perfect V. She watched as they disappeared into the horizon, wondering where they were going. She envied their freedom, but soon Eddie infiltrated her thoughts. The gun had been a pistol: a shiny one, with a wooden handle. Veronica had once seen a similar one in the drawer of her father’s desk. What was he doing with all that money? Where did he get it? She chewed her fingernail, wondering whether he had stolen it. What other explanation could there be?

  Veronica sighed, thinking how once they’d known each other’s every thought and feeling. They argued, but they had been close. A special bond only twins have with each other. Away at boarding school, they wrote daily, devising escapes from their respective schools, both despising the confines of daily routine and the authority of the clergy. When Eddie stopped writing as often to her, it upset her, but then the sadness turned to anger. James Sheridan had called at their house more often, and if she tried to join them, they dismissed her and went off to the woods or lake without her.

  Now the sun was high in the sky. She dressed and went to the woods. She stopped by the bridge over the Blackwater River to inhale the woody incense of the pine trees and then ran to the icehouse. Shrubbery concealed it up on a slope off the main path. The icehouse stored the meats of the Taylor family estate. They were an English family who owned the land around the village, but they lived in England and only came for the summer months to fish and shoot ducks.

  Veronic
a climbed up to the slope, careful not to scratch herself on the thorny briars which concealed the entrance. The icehouse overlooked the stone bridge. Laughter echoed through the trees, and she saw a group of ladies wearing white lace dresses appear on the bridge, their words lost beneath their matching umbrellas. Behind them walked two young men, one of whom she recognised: Seán McCabe, the farm labourer. He spoke to the ladies in the poshest voice she had ever heard him use.

  ‘We’re nearly dere, ma ladies.’ It did little to disguise his Cavan accent.

  Wearing his father’s oversized suit, he shifted from one foot to the other.

  Veronica sat on a soft mound of moss, watching the ladies and the two servant girls who did everything for them. Every year, ever since she could remember, her younger sister Susan got into a tizzy when the Taylor women arrived from England during the summer, desperate to see their outfits.

  But Veronica had no interest in their clothes or their lives, and she thought the dresses they wore looked ridiculous. Still, she watched them until they had passed out of sight and the wood was silent once more.

  A twig cracked behind her. She pushed herself into the undergrowth and peered through the bushes and saw James Sheridan. He raised his hand to his eyes to scan the forest before he tightened the twine around his long brown overcoat. She inched forward, careful to keep quiet. He bent to pull at a pile of branches and twigs and tugged at something, and when he rose, he held a long-barrelled hunting rifle. He turned towards her. She pushed herself further into the ground but kept him in sight. His eyes passed over her and continued to scrutinise the rest of the forest. He put the rifle inside his long coat, tying the string tight and leaving hastily. She couldn’t believe he was so stupid after the RIC had arrested James’s father the previous week for possession of guns.

  After a few minutes, she raised her head. James was gone. The sun now filled the forest with light and warmth. She turned to lie on her back, looking up between the branches, the green hue of new leaves filling the sky. It was her favourite time of the year, and Eddie and James had to destroy it. For the second time that day, she forced thoughts of Eddie and James to the back of her mind.