Under the July Sun Page 4

  Already, she felt the awful trembling inside begin to subside. ‘Two weeks, Father. I wasn’t very well last week.’

  'And are ye recovered now my child?'

  He was concerned about her she felt and soon he would tell her that everything would be all right. Composed she answered him. 'Yes, Father, I am.'

  'What is your confession?'

  'Father, I have to confess I have had bad thoughts about a man.'

  'Ye have my child?'

  'Yes, Father'

  'What kind of thoughts were they?'

  Forbidden thoughts, Father.' There, she had said it!

  ‘And was that what the commotion was all about just now?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Ye see it’s all about me not wantin’ to marry the man I was engaged to.’

  ‘So are these thoughts about some other man?’

  ‘Yes, Father. ’Tis an English soldier.'

  There was a long pause and Cat waited for the penance to be announced. It felt so good to have got it off her chest. Now she would hear the gentle voice of Father Ryan, who had know her all her life, giving her a little penance and telling her to go on her way and sin no more. Relieved of her burden, she waited for the words he would say to soothe away all her troubles.

  When Father Ryan spoke, his tone was harsh as he spat out her penance, stinging her with every word. 'As an act of contrition say fifty Our Fathers and fifty Hail Marys each day for two weeks; and pray to God for your soul to be redeemed for such wickedness! '

  Cat was stunned. She didn’t understand. Surely he had heard every word that had passed between her and Paddy? He had witnessed Paddy attacking her. Maybe, she decided there would be words of consolation to follow.

  'Yes, but, Father—' The little sliding door slammed shut!

  Bewildered, she staggered from the confessional box, made her way across to the other side of the church and sank down onto a pew. Confused and humiliated, she lowered her head to pray. She sat in the darkness waiting, feeling as though time no longer moved nor mattered, until she heard the church door open.

  Ned stood as she had done inside the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the gloom; then seeing her waiting he nodded to her.

  Her immediate reaction would have been to run to him, seek his protection, cry on his shoulder about Paddy’s attack and the unfairness of Father Ryan; but she vowed never to speak of it to anyone.

  The peace and security she thought she knew were gone. Her life had changed and whatever happened from now would be steered by her own actions. She could not bear to have her family hurt on her account.

  The memory of Private White lying in the road and of Louis kneeling to cradle him in his arms came to her. She knew that a threat she barely understood had moved into her life.

  Ned turned towards the confessional box, went inside, and Cat tiptoed over to wait nearby.

  She heard Father Ryan slip the wooden slider back, and as she had done, her father began his confession.

  'Bless me, Father for I have sinned.'

  'How long is it since your last confession my son?'

  'A week, Father.'

  'What sins do ye want to confess my son?’

  'Well, Father, I hit a fella on the nose today.'

  'Did ye indeed, and what compelled ye to such action my son?'

  'Well ye see, Father, he was tellin’ lies.'

  'And ye took the redemption of his soul into consideration?'

  'I did, Father.'

  'Say two Our Fathers and two Hail Marys and ask God to forgive a soldier of His great army when he's fightin’ for the truth.'

  Ned left the confessional and Cat hurried to his side, linking her arm in his and squeezing it in comfort as they walked out into the summer sun. It felt so good to hold on to him. She now understood why Paddy had been so mad; Ned had punched him on the nose! Well serve him right, she thought and felt the scales had somehow tipped back into balance after the priest’s admonishment.

  Usually, holding on to her father’s arm filled her with security, as he felt substantial and strong, but today she didn’t know what had upset her most: Paddy’s threats or Father Ryan’s attitude. She found herself brooding over both problems.

  Ned interrupted her thoughts.

  'I thought we'd cut the hay in the high meadow tomorrow, and get yer mother to roast a pig. We'll have a bit of a craic8 after.'

  She didn’t answer immediately, even though haymaking was her favourite time. Cat loved it at the end of the day when everyone who had helped stayed on eating, drinking and dancing well into the night.

  She was still trying to unscramble her feelings about the encounter with Paddy and Father Ryan’s reaction to her confession when Ned, without looking at her, added that Louis had told him he had to attend an inquiry about the bombing in the morning.

  ‘But I asked him to join us afterwards. I thought ye'd like that.'

  Footnotes

  5 Porter — dark sweet beer

  6 The Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) was one of Ireland's two police forces in the early twentieth century; the other was the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

  7 Sláinte —health or cheers (pronounced slawn-cha)

  8 Craic — entertainment (pronounced crack)

  4

  The Inquiry

  Fethard

  August 1st 1914

  Louis found the room set aside for the inquiry into Tommy Hogan’s shooting. Hopefully, he thought, it would be an open and shut case.

  He put his papers on a desk and quickly began to flick through his evidence. The report had been drastically reduced each time he read it, and this morning he had cut it even more, hoping to shorten the hearing.

  Louis knew that Tommy Hogan was Paddy’s brother, and that Cat had been engaged to him until recently. He had already formed conclusions about Paddy Hogan and Private White’s murder but this inquiry was not about that, though he would like to have voiced his opinion about the connection in his evidence. He just hoped things went his way during the questioning and that enough was said to tie Paddy Hogan up with both events.

  The seats began to fill around nine thirty and Major McIntosh, presiding, arrived at nine fifty, arranged his papers on the desk, and laid out three sharply pointed pencils and a note-pad. At ten o’clock he told the guards to close the doors and after introducing the matter, he nodded to Louis, who stood to make his address.

  ‘This is my account of the incidents leading up to and including the death of Tommy Hogan,’ he began to speak looking directly at Major McIntosh, then read from his report.

  ‘Nationalist Tommy Hogan was involved with a company of Irish National Volunteers9 who had rioted at the Waterford by-elections in May and was consequently jailed for three months. Upon his release, he allegedly planned with Michael Ryan to hold up some R.I.C men in Fethard and take their car and weapons.’

  Major McIntosh looked up. ‘Allegedly?’

  ‘We have information, Sir, that Tommy Hogan and Michael Ryan planned this together.’ He waited, expecting Major McIntosh to intervene once more, but in the silence that followed he decided to continue. Just as he was about to speak, Major McIntosh interrupted again.

  ‘I suppose this comes from a reliable source, this information?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  McIntosh scribbled something down on his pad and nodded at Louis who moved across to a board and easel where a local map was pinned showing where the hold-up took place.

  Returning to his desk, he eased a finger between his neck and shirt collar. God it’s hot, he thought, and if he keeps interrupting me, this could go on all morning! He waited for permission to continue until Major McIntosh finished writing and looked up. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Louis explained at length the sequence of events and how the police had just surrendered when confronted by Hogan and Ryan until Major McIntosh interrupted him again.

  ‘Wasn’t there any resistance from the police?’

  ‘No sir, they just held up their hands and were le
d away.’

  Major McIntosh raised his eyebrows and sighed as Louis continued.

  ‘Michael Ryan took four small calibre revolvers from the R.I.C. Officers and forced them across some fields to a cow shed where he locked them in.’ He waited until Major McIntosh finished writing, then continued. ‘Tommy Hogan stayed on guard for some time, but later on, he unbolted the door and left. When the policemen discovered the door unbolted, they went into town and alerted the military who turned out to search for the car and weapons.’

  ‘Who led the search?’

  ‘I did, Sir.’

  ‘Right, go on.’

  ‘The following morning we received intelligence that Ryan and Hogan had gone to a nearby farmhouse and had breakfast. The farmhouse was surrounded and shots were fired from a window, then Ryan and Hogan were seen running from the back of the farmhouse across a field.’

  McIntosh interrupted him again. ‘Was any fire returned by either the military or R.I.C.?’

  ‘Yes Sir, Private White of the 110th Battalion Royal Artillery fired on them, and shot Tommy Hogan in the hip. But he continued to run, so he received another two shots in the back from R.I.C. officers McClure and Quigley, after which he collapsed.’ Louis paused. ‘Any questions Sir?’

  ‘No. Continue please.’

  ‘Tommy Hogan was taken to Fethard Military Barracks, and then transferred to Tipperary Town Military Hospital. Father Donovan was in attendance and stayed with him until he died at 2.30 pm that afternoon.’

  Major McIntosh decided not to call any further witnesses and adjourned the court.

  Louis marched quickly down Main Street to O’Connell’s Hotel and changed out of his uniform. For once he didn’t hang his clothes up, but threw them impatiently on the bed.

  His mind shed the depressing courtroom events of the morning, the revulsion falling from him like autumn leaves fluttering in his wake as he left the hotel and headed out of town.

  Approaching the fields of Monroe he stood at a distance on the roadside where he could see people cutting hay and smiled, wondering how long it would be before he spotted her.

  Footnote

  9 The Irish National Volunteers were a paramilitary organization established by Irish Nationalists in 1913 aiming ‘To Secure and Maintain the Rights and Liberties common to the whole people of Ireland’, and to help enforce the imminent Home Rule Act

  5

  Monroe – Fethard

  August 1st 1914

  At the meadow, where Ned had said he would find them, Louis leaned on a gate and watched men scything the sweet smelling grass. He felt the tension of the morning melt away as he watched cow parsley blooms swaying crazily back and forth, bowing in unison under the weight of butterflies that landed and took off from their floral platforms.

  He felt at peace for the first time since the bombing and knew that getting away from the arena of army life would put him back on an even keel. But more importantly, accepting Ned’s invitation gave him the chance to see Cat again.

  As he stood watching he realised he was in a world that had evolved at a much slower pace. It was full of sweet smelling country odours and insects that appeared and then disappeared without warning.

  The children here could run and play on soft green grass, not the harsh sounding cobbled streets of home in Plumstead. He was breathing air that was heavily scented by the smell of nearby milking cows, and the unmistakable aroma of burning peat wafting from the chimney at Monroe.

  There was a quality of stillness in everyone’s activity and the only distraction to his sense of calm was the droning buzz of bees.

  Afraid of dispelling the dream-like scene he silently opened the gate and stepped forward into long grass unwillingly trampling the emerald cover. He spotted Ned in the distance rhythmically moving from the waist, guillotining the crop with his scythe.

  Then as though some intuition had told him of Louis’ presence, Ned looked up and waved.

  Several people stopped and stared at Louis as he approached. Their faces were bronzed and weathered and the men greeted him by tipping their caps. As they did so, they showed their blue/black hair which glistened like magpie plumes under the white-hot sun, reminding him of peasants he had seen in Italy one summer. He thought how remarkably Mediterranean some of them looked. The women just stared and the youngest children clung to their mothers’ skirts, wary of the stranger.

  Ned approached. 'Glad to see ye, Louis. C’mon over here and I'll introduce ye to me son.’ Ned let his scythe fall and went over to a tall, muscular, fair-headed man.

  'Tom this is Louis, the English fella I was tellin’ ye about.'

  Tom smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  ‘Hello, how are ye? So ye've come to find out how to cut hay have ye?'

  'Yes, your father said he could use an extra pair of hands.'

  'We've to get this lot in quickly before the weather changes. ‘’Twill spoil if we don't cut it today and it rains tomorrow.' He bent to tie up one of the hay-cocks.

  Louis watched Tom’s huge hands deftly manoeuvre each bundle, and then he remembered the football match the previous week.

  'By the way, congratulations on winning the cup last Saturday, I was sorry to have missed it.'

  Tom straightened up and smiled, ‘Sure ’twas a grand match.’

  Ned then asked Louis to follow him and they wandered down the rows of cut crops to where some of the others were tying and stacking hay-cocks.

  Louis' eyes scanned the faces looking for the one he wanted to see most, but she wasn’t there. As Ned introduced them all, he felt he would never remember their names; it seemed to him that they were all called Tom, Neddy, or Mary!

  Ned showed him what to do, then gave him his long-handled scythe and left him to it. Louis took off his jacket and tried to do as Ned had shown him, but however he angled the scythe, nothing was achieved. He just could not get the knack of positioning the blade at the right angle.

  Feeling foolish, he called to Tom. ‘This sickle won’t cut the grass.’

  Tom grinned and ambled over to him. 'Stand upright, Louis, then pull the handle in toward yer chest as ye swirl the blade.' Tom took the scythe and demonstrated the action once more.

  Then, taking the scythe into his own hands exactly as Tom had, Louis began cutting.

  He went slowly at first and then as he perfected the action he was afraid to stop unless he lost the knack, so he went down the field, relentlessly swinging the scythe back and forth beheading the crop. Pleased with himself, he worked his way to the end of the field and when he turned around sweating and laughing - he saw her!

  She was walking toward him, the hem of her skirt kicking up in front of her boots. In one arm she cradled a stone jug and hanging on the other arm was a basket swinging to the beat of her body.

  The Italians had told him that when the thunderbolt hit you, the woman would be the love of your life. He knew he had been hit by the thunderbolt!

  Louis’ tension mounted as she drew nearer; then she stopped to chat to someone. He watched her laughing, throwing back her head, curls bobbing on the shoulders of her white blouse. Lucky curls, he thought. He absorbed the sight of her, distracted from his cutting and seduced by her presence. Now she was looking at him, shielding her eyes from the blazing sun, saying something he couldn’t hear.

  He flushed and called back. 'Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’

  Smiling, she repeated what she'd said; but when he couldn’t hear for the second time, she laughed and walked toward him. His heart pounded and he began practising his battle calming routine, remembering to wait until he saw the whites of her eyes before he moved. He had never felt such emotion, but then the thunderbolt had never struck him before.

  As she approached he thought for a moment that he was going to rush forward, lose control, and take her in his arms. Instead he raised the scythe and picked off the grass sticking to the blade.

  'How about stoppin’ for a bite to eat and drink?' She smiled at him, one hand
moving self-consciously to her throat where the blouse button was undone.

  Suddenly his life as a soldier, the prospect of a war, his home in England, the family, no longer mattered to him. He desired only to watch the flame of beauty burning brightly on her face.

  Their eyes met.

  She looked away blushing, and then walked quickly back to Tom and with trembling hands, unstopped the stone flask. After a while Louis followed her and flopped down beside Tom who offered him the drink.

  'Here, Louis, this'll put hairs on yer chest.'

  Louis took the flask and laid it down on the grass beside him as he watched Cat pulling off hunks of bread from a loaf. She passed the bread to Tom, avoiding Louis’ eyes.

  'Give, Louis some of this bread, Tom and I’ll go see where Ellie's got to.'

  She strode off across the field and disappeared through the gate while Louis absent-mindedly broke off a piece of bread and pushed it into his mouth to stifle his disappointment. He picked up the flask and took a gulp, then gasped.

  'God in heaven, Tom, what the hell's this?'

  Tom grinned. ’Tis Mummy’s poitín10. Careful now ye don’t want to drink too much on an empty stomach. Take some more bread with it.’

  Louis sucked air into his mouth wiping away tears with the back of his hand while Tom shot him a sideways glance. ‘Drink some more, ye’ll be fine now ye've some bread inside ye.’ Tom reached for the flask and wiped the top with his shirt before taking a swig of the poitín.

  Louis lay back on one elbow and tried to sound casual. 'Who's Cat engaged to?'

  ‘Nobody, why?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered.’

  ‘Well,’ Tom said, ‘she was engaged to Paddy Hogan, but somethin’s gone wrong and she won’t see him.’

  Louis felt a thrill of satisfaction. ‘That wouldn’t be any relation to Tommy Hogan who was killed recently was it?’

  ‘ Yes. ’Twas his brother. A terrible affair. But we don’t get involved in that kind of stuff. We mind our own business.’

  Louis fell silent, then after a pause, changed the subject. ‘Who’s Ellie?’