As soon as Himself and I had had dinner, we went to look up 47’s wife.
There was no time to waste if we were to get back before curfew. I was
longing to see her after all this time.
They lived in a top story. A dilapidated servant opened the door, and
gave us a peculiar, sidelong look. She did not know us, but she stood
aside and made no effort to show the way up.
The house seemed grubby in the dim light of the hall. The windows
showed the city’s dust and fog; in the better light the curtains would
have revealed the dirty hands of maids who had tended the fires and
then pulled the curtains across the windows. How well I knew it all!
And then the house grew more and more dilapidated as we mounted. There
was an ancient meat safe at the foot of the last lot of stairs with a
cat asleep on top of it.
The final flight of stairs was bare, and we made the steps creak as we
went up.
Her ears were ever atune to footsteps, and the sound of ours brought
her out on the landing.
“You!” There was relief in her voice.
“Hallo! All well? My dear, you look seedy.”
She laughed, but her laughter did not ring true.
“It was nice of you to come.” She shut the door behind us.
“You are seedy,” I said, looking at her carefully.
“I’m all right,” she answered. “This is funk; pure, unadulterated funk
has brought me to this. I’m behaving in a beastly manner, really. The
only thing I haven’t done is run away. Some day I’m afraid I will.”
“But your husband’s all right?”
“For how long? To-day? To-morrow? There’s not a door that will lock.
You know Irish doors. He’s out now. I made him go and get a gun. I
said if he didn’t I wouldn’t stay another day. One man against a dozen
hasn’t much chance; but an armed man can do more than a man with
nothing.”
Himself nodded.
“It’s terrible--terrible,” 47’s wife went on. “There is no one to
talk to about the risks. My husband won’t talk. He thinks it’s bad
for me. But it’s driving everything in, it’s strangling me. I can’t
sleep. I’m always afraid. Sometimes I hear noises and footsteps, I am
afraid of the noises; sometimes there is silence, I am afraid of the
silence. People come to see me. I laugh and talk, and try to show I
am listening, and really every sound outside is more important to me.
Even up here I can hear the front door bell ring. I haven’t felt so
bad this afternoon because I’m alone, and if they called it wouldn’t
matter.”
“You’re safe in this house for a time, anyway,” Himself declared. “Sinn
Fein isn’t going to repeat the dose just yet. Every one is lying pretty
low. No one wants to come into the limelight.”
“I realise all that in the day; but at night it’s so different.”
“Night’s really the safe time,” said Himself. “I should think it’s not
much of a job trying to get about during curfew.”
She laughed shakily. “My husband has said all that before. I know I’m
a coward; but I shall be better if we have the gun. I’m thinking,
thinking what we’ll do if they come--all night long I’m thinking.
We’ve only one heavy stick, which I hang on the end of the bed. I’ve
planned it out. When they knock at the door, my husband will open it,
and as the first man comes in I will throw the water jug at him, and my
husband will hit his wrist with the stick. He may drop his gun, and we
can get hold of it. My husband says assassins bore him, and won’t talk
about it, and so I have to keep my feelings to myself, and they are
going in--in all the time.”
“Talk to us now,” I said.
“I’ll put on the kettle,” she answered, getting up. “It won’t take long
boiling. What’s that?”
I had heard nothing. She leaned out of the window.
“Well?”
“There’s a car,” she said slowly. “It looks like a Government car.
There are five or six men.”
I looked out. “I know that front man,” I cried. “He lives near us. We
met him at the Shelbourne once.” I beckoned to Himself to look.
“I know him,” she admitted. “What does he want? He would never be sent
here with a message. We told him to keep away.”
The men descended from the car and came into the house.
“He’ll bring in every Sinn Feiner in Dublin at his heels,” I suggested.
“My dear, he’s not important enough, though he thinks so himself.”
In a minute there was the sound of single footsteps coming up the
stairs.
“He’s alone, anyway.”
The next moment the man of the beautiful waistcoats and socks came into
the room. He was subtly changed. His hair was less sleek, his clothes
were not so well brushed, and the silk handkerchief, which he used to
beat his brow and mouth, had got crumpled.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, as he appeared. “What a lot of stairs!” He
saw us, hesitated, and said to 47’s wife, “How’s our friend?”
“He’s all right,” she answered coldly.
“Good! Went up to the Castle on Sunday. Saw them there safe--by Gad! so
safe. Lots of fellows, well fed fellows, happy, cheery fellows. They
had a long list of names, all the brotherhood, and they were ticking
off the chaps who were killed. ‘How’s 47?’ I asked. ‘All right,’ said
one chap, after a glance at the list; ‘at least, we’ve had no word
through about him.’ ‘My God!’ I said, ‘I must get along and see for
myself.’”
“Who are your five friends?”
“An armed guard. You couldn’t expect me to go about without an armed
guard. Every Shinner in Dublin is at my heels.”
“My dear fellow, didn’t it strike you that by bringing an armed guard
clattering into the hall you would be likely to turn the Sinn Fein
attention to us?”
Our friend laid a soothing hand on 47’s wife.
“Have you been out much since the affair?” she asked abruptly.
“Every day and every night. No peace. Nothing like that about me. But
it doesn’t matter, for I can’t sleep. My God! and I was told this was
money for nothing! Money for nothing, and the life filled a man full of
joy!”
“You’ve got nerves.”
“Nerves! By Gad, nerves! Hear her.” He pivoted round towards us, showed
he had recognised us, and smiling, said, “How are you?” He came across
and laid a hand on my shoulder. He was the type of man who touches
women. Then he jerked round again to 47’s wife.
“Pitchforked in, I was. Never knew a thing. Didn’t know enough to keep
my mouth shut, or to change my clothes when I went down the slums.
Looked on all men as brothers. Thought they loved me as I loved them.
I haven’t slept for months. Let me talk. Let me get it off my chest.
I’m all for peace, I am. I always have been, and somehow I always
seem to get flung into some beastly mess. Some one said, ‘Come and
chase Shinners, old bean.’ And here I am, but the beastly Shinner’s
always chasing me. Every time I go out some one follows me, sometimes
a man, sometimes a woman. The life’s killing me. Watkins--you know old
Watkins--he and I got digs together at last, and took it in turn to
keep watch while the other slept. I got wind up in case he dropped off.
I didn’t dare go to bed without my guns in case some one came in, and I
always had the feeling that I’d shoot Watkins by mistake some night, or
get the old woman in the stomach when she came in with the hot water in
the morning.”
“Hush, old man,” said 47’s wife.
“Hush! That’s it. Hush! If I don’t talk, I’ll go mad! None of the
fellows at the Central will talk. We’re all in the Central Hotel now.
They hang in corners brooding on their sorrows. They don’t care about
mine. The chaps at the Castle don’t talk. They don’t know what it is to
be out and alone.”
“It’s what you’re here for.”
“Splendid! What I’m here for!” our friend exclaimed. “I’ll be killed
next! Mark my words. No; don’t let’s talk of death. It makes me feel
all hot and bothered.”
“Hush,” said she, again.
He put a hand on her arm. “I must be on the move. I’ll tell the fellows
at the Castle 47 is all right.” He came across and patted my shoulder,
and waved to Himself. And then he clattered down the stairs to his
escort in the hall. A minute later we heard the engine throb and the
lorry drove away.
The kettle was boiling, and we drew our chairs up to the fire.