The Family on Paradise Pier

Mrs Ffrench became aware of tears also in Eva’s eyes.

‘Don’t mind me being silly, dear.’ She put her hand on the young girl’s arm.

‘Sometimes I blame myself for Oliver dying,’ the girl said. ‘You see, Mrs Ffrench, I didn’t want his family to come back because of Beatrice. I wanted to keep Art to myself. It’s just too terrible how I got my wish.’

‘You can’t blame yourself, child. Thousands of boys are slaughtered every week. Men will have to answer to God for this one day, but you have nothing to answer for.’

Something about the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old reminded Mrs Ffrench of herself at that age. Eva would also be a seeker after truth. Mrs Ffrench remembered how isolated she had felt as a girl until she stumbled by seeming chance upon a reference to Abdul-Baha and his beliefs. Now she knew that The Master had been guiding her life on a quest to find a man sufficiently open to embrace her beliefs. Her conversion of the Commodore meant that there were now four Baha’is in Ireland. She wanted to thrust copies of World Fellowship and other Baha’i publications into Eva’s hands but each seeker needed to find their own path. Instead she decided to let the girl share The Master’s work in a different way.

‘Will you help me light my lamps?’ she asked, knowing that Eva loved this task.

‘Yes, please,’ the girl replied.

Dusk had set in already. The lamps could not be seen from the road where they would attract attention but any walker by the pier would see them shine in eleven windows. This was a vital task and some nights Mrs Ffrench woke, fearful that one might have burnt out while she slept.

The greatest moment of her life was travelling to London this spring to meet Abdul-Baha in person. She could still see the Master’s piercing eyes as he announced that she could cause the illumination of all Ireland if she lit four thousand lamps in one year. Mrs Ffrench had broken this down to mean eleven lamps to be lit on three hundred and sixty days and just eight lamps on the last five nights. Initially she felt foolish, knowing that the servants considered her behaviour odd, but recently they seemed to understand because they smiled when passing her each evening, as if silent conspirators. She took it as a sign that the Master was right. If the lamps were having this effect in her home, then perhaps they were spreading harmony in other houses across Ireland without her knowledge. The maids knew to fill each lamp full of oil but never to light them. That was her strangely comforting task. But tonight she let Eva help, walking from room to room through the empty house.

Finally the task was finished and Mrs Ffrench saw her guest to the door, knowing that Eva would pause on the lawn to count each lamp that beckoned to her and to Ireland and across the seas to where her husband knew that they were being lit. Eva said good night and Mrs Ffrench had to resist a impulse to embrace her. The thought of all the marvellous Goold Verschoyle children being home for Christmas filled her with hope. She would carefully choose presents for each one, making sure that they knew her door was always open. Sometimes she imagined a fantasy where young Brendan was trapped here by a snowfall and she was able to mind him for some days until the road cleared.

Mrs Ffrench stood in her doorway until Eva was out of sight and there was nothing for it but to close the door. Lizzy, the parlourmaid, was descending the stairs. Mrs Ffrench smiled to put her at ease.

‘That was a good day, Lizzy.’

‘It was indeed, mam.’

‘The party went well.’

‘Yes, mam. Will there be anything else, mam?’

‘No.’

The girl hesitated. Mrs Ffrench suspected that some servants, including Lizzy, might feel happier in a house where the mistress never addressed them except with an order.

‘Have you the lamps lit, mam?’

‘Yes, Lizzy.’

‘We do the same for you, mam.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Ffrench was puzzled.

‘If we’re passing the church, the other maids and me always light a candle for you. That’s what us Catholics do for special intentions. All of us are praying that when the Commodore comes home things will go well for you and it will be a boy.’

Mrs Ffrench was momentarily too shocked to speak.

Suddenly aware that she had been too forward, the maid went to apologise, then realised that this could only make matters worse.

‘I light my lamps for a different reason,’ Mrs Ffrench replied icily.

‘Yes, mam. I wouldn’t know, mam.’

‘Your Master and I…’ Mrs Ffrench stopped in time, shocked that she was explaining herself in front of a servant. ‘That will be all, Lizzy.’

‘Yes, mam.’

The girl curtsied and scurried away. Mrs Ffrench entered the library that was in darkness except for the lamp in the window. They would be whispering about her in the kitchen like they always whispered. She had tried to create a household where servants were not in dread of their mistress, but she had never envisaged that they would feel pity for her. She hoped that no maid would come in to stoke the fire. She wanted to be alone. She had never felt so utterly alone. Mrs Ffrench took a deep breath. This war would pass. Her husband would return from Murmansk as a hero, having fought off the menace of Bolshevism. Her bed linen would be stained with blood, only this time good cleansing blood from her labours in childbirth. She would welcome every wave of pain, every push that it took. She would be made whole then, she would illuminate Ireland and her child would illuminate her life. The Master had ordained this ordeal to test her faith, but she would be strong and learn to be patient. Rocking herself softly back and forth, Mrs Ffrench waited for her true life to begin.

FOUR The Motor

Donegal, August 1919

Maud was surprised at the ease with which she discovered the location of the remote cottage being used as a temporary headquarters by the local IRA commander. A mark of how the villagers trusted the family was that it only took Art five minutes to emerge from the smoky gloom of MacShane’s public house with directions and a respectful warning that he might be found with a bullet in his head if he did not keep his mouth shut. But it had not gone unnoticed how the family had so far declined to contact the constabulary about last night’s incident, which had begun when Brendan announced at dinner that he could see men moving about in the coach house. They had all watched from the window as four armed strangers pushed the family’s battered Ford across the yard to the gate, then cranked up the starting handle, climbed in and drove off.

Father had placed a hand on Maud’s shoulder when sensing her about to intervene. Last year his cousin the Countess became the first woman ever elected to the British House of Commons. She refused to take her seat however, setting up an illegal assembly in Dublin with other Sinn Fein MPs instead, which proclaimed the right of its volunteers to use arms. Donegal had seen little of this new lawlessness, but remote police barracks were being attacked, and there had been raids on Big Houses by masked men seeking weapons.

Locals knew that Father didn’t hold a gun licence, so last night’s raid was confined to the outbuildings. But Maud was determined to recover the motor. Father had no idea about this expedition but Father rarely bothered to use the motor, whereas, since finishing school, Maud had become at eighteen the first female in Donegal to drive. Learning was not easy, because Father, himself an infrequent driver, had been nervous about teaching her. But after Art was given permission to drive the motor, there had been no way in which Maud was going to be forbidden. Now, having fought for that right, she was simply not going to simply see their motor stolen. She did not wish to bring Art, but after divulging the address he had refused to let her cycle up into the hills alone.

Although she thought she knew the area, Maud would have been lost by now except that Art had a mental map of every sheep track for miles around. The sixteen-year-old rarely paused for bearings, but cycled up the negotiable parts of the steep track and carried his bicycle over stretches potholed beyond repair. By now they were probably being watched. The IRA lookout would think them picnickers at first, only growing alarmed as their destination became clear. Maud knew that she was taking a huge risk and their informant in the village might be in danger too. Yet all she could think about was the damage surely inflicted on the motor when it was driven up this rough boreen. Branches on both sides must have destroyed the paintwork.

Art stopped to scan the hilltop where, beneath a clump of trees, there was the entrance to a cottage.

‘Do you think they’re really there?’ he asked.

‘They will have seen us coming for miles.’ Maud looked back down the steep hill. Having left Dunkineely fuelled by righteousness, she was now apprehensive, sensing that the respect she was accustomed to might be absent in this new world of desperadoes. Would they be locals whose faces she knew, or strangers? Which would be the most dangerous? It was whispered that flying columns rarely stayed under one roof for more than a few nights. Their chief weapon against the army was inconspicuousness, the ability to blend back into the local populace. So few motors existed in Donegal that using one would be a death warrant for such a column, making their movements easy to track. But perhaps it had been stolen for use in a one-off attack.

‘You stay here,’ Art said. ‘This is men’s work.’

His remark banished uncertainty from Maud’s mind.

‘You stay,’ she retorted. ‘This is for grown-ups.’ In the end they raced each other up to the farmyard. Only when they swung through the gate did the two armed men stand up. It was hard to see their faces beneath the caps. Maud knew they would not shoot her, but Art might be a different matter. She tried to control her fear and dismounted, speaking authoritatively.

‘I want to speak to whoever is in charge.’

‘What are you doing here?’ a man snapped back.

‘I will speak only to whoever is in charge.’

‘He’s off about his business,’ the older man replied.

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Aye, you’d better do that.’

They lowered their guns, reluctant to aim at a young woman and a boy. Maud was relieved that Art stayed silent, because Marlborough College had eroded any trace of an Irish accent. He nudged her elbow, nodding to a hastily constructed turf rick beside the cottage, which could not conceal the car parked behind it. The men glanced at each other, uncertain of what to do.

‘Would you be Miss Goold Verschoyle?’ the first one asked.

‘I am,’ Maud replied.

‘Step inside the cottage like a good woman and bring the young master with you. Who told you where to find us?’

‘We followed a trail of broken branches. It would be easy enough for the military to do likewise.’

‘What have you told the military?’ the man demanded.

‘We told them nothing.’ Art spoke for the first time. ‘We’re all Irishmen together.’

The men said nothing, looking amused.

‘We don’t need to tell them,’ Maud added quickly. ‘A motor car is a big object. It will be as hard for us to hide the fact of not having one as it is for you to hide the fact that you do.’

‘That’s what I told him,’ the first man hissed to his comrade. ‘The damn yoke is a stone around our necks.’

‘That’s enough.’ The second man nodded towards the cottage door. ‘Step indoors and if there’s any sign of the military you’d best run for it like us because they only start questioning when they’re finished shooting.’

A small fire provided some light in the gloom of the cottage. The thatch was discoloured, the whitewash long faded. An elderly couple stood up as they entered and silently beckoned for them to take the two chairs, ignoring their protestations. The old man went outside and Maud heard low voices through the doorway before the youngest volunteer mounted Art’s bicycle and set off down the rutted lane. The old woman was making strong tea for them, tasting of peat. She paused to take a bottle of clear liquid from the mantelpiece and added a sup of illicit whiskey to Art’s cup. Then she disappeared, leaving brother and sister alone.

Being close did not prevent Art and Maud from frequently quarrelling. They were both so strong-willed that conflict was inevitable – especially if Eva was not present as peacemaker. Now however they were united by unease, each wishing they had come alone to prevent the other being exposed to danger. But neither had been willing to be left behind and allow the other to act as de facto head of the family.

It would be some hours before the others realised they were missing. Mr Ffrench was expected back from naval service at any time. Mother would think that they had cycled over to Mrs Ffrench who found the strain of awaiting her husband’s final homecoming very difficult. Father would be in his study, preoccupied with deciding what to do. Last month a respected police sergeant had been shot dead in front of his children in Donegal town. Father was among the small attendance at his burial, with local mourners warned off. Perhaps this had attracted the IRA’s attention. Maud didn’t know who had ordered the theft of their motor, just that worse trouble might ensue if Father felt obliged to report it.

Eventually they heard the bicycle’s return. Maud thought that the volunteer had gone to notify his superior, but she was mistaken because, as if watching out for the bicycle, the old man re-appeared in the doorway with a wind-up gramophone which he placed on the stone flags near the fire. The volunteer entered, breathless, carrying a bag over his shoulder.

‘You’ll be a while waiting yet,’ he panted. ‘We thought these might pass the time for you.’

Maud had no idea where he had found the records but they included several very scratched Protestant hymns. The old man put one on and smiled at Maud, with his wife momentarily appearing to claim her share in this gesture of hospitality.

‘That’s lovely,’ Maud said. ‘I could listen to it all day.’

‘You might have to,’ the volunteer replied grimly. ‘I’ll be outside, mam, if there’s anything you’d be needing.’

The hymns sounded strange in this dark, smoky cottage. Perhaps some Protestant family in the hills had left them behind when they packed up and left, grieving the loss of a son in France. The second time Maud played them Art joined in the singing, his clear voice soaring over the crackling record as she began to sing too. Each record was played five times before she heard voices outside. The new arrival had a strong Cork accent. Maud felt suddenly petrified. The Donegal men’s hospitality could have been a ruse to keep them here so that they could be held as hostages to secure the release of Republican prisoners. Art rose, ready to face whoever entered, but Maud remained seated, reciting a quiet prayer. The stranger was a tall stocky man, possessing a confident authority. He laughed and kicked the gramophone lightly, knocking the needle to the end of the record.

‘Hymns?’ he said. ‘You’d swear we were at a funeral. Now, what’s this about a motor car?’

‘It belongs to my family.’ Maud stood up. ‘What possible use could you have for it?’

‘Sure, if I told you that I’d have to shoot you.’

‘Please. I need it for my mother. She has terrible arthritis. She can only get around if I drive her.’

‘You?’ The man laughed louder. ‘Don’t tell me they let a wee slip of a thing like you behind a steering wheel?’

‘They let a slip of a thing into the House of Commons, only my father’s cousin wouldn’t take her seat.’

The man nodded, as if Maud had scored a point. ‘But they also say you have an uncle an Orangeman who would burn every Catholic out of Belfast.’

‘My father is a Home Ruler, on the same side as you.’

‘To hell with Home Rule,’ the man said. ‘Home Rule was a bone thrown from the English table to keep the Irish dogs gnawing away quietly. This struggle is about freedom…a Republic.’

‘Hear, hear.’ Art spoke for the first time.

The man eyed up Art. ‘Did you say something, sonny?’

‘I’ve argued this same point with my father who’s a pacifist. But for me it’s full independence or nothing.’

‘Glad you think so.’

‘I do more than think. I offer you a fair trade. Give my sister back her motor car and you can have me. I wish to volunteer my services for the Irish Republic.’ Art ignored Maud tugging at his sleeve, anxious to shut him up. ‘I have received comprehensive training in how to use a rifle at boarding school.’

‘Bully for you.’ The Corkman sat down, amused. ‘What exactly would the Irish Republic do with your services?’

‘Are you insinuating that I’m a coward?’

‘I’m suggesting that you stay out of what doesn’t concern you.’

‘Of course it concerns me. I want what you want.’

‘What exactly is that?’

‘Freedom for us all.’

Maud could no longer contain herself. ‘Sit down for God’s sake, Art, and stop being an ass.’

Art turned, annoyed. ‘Stay out of this. I’m sick of other people mapping out my life for me.’

‘Listen to your big sister, sonny,’ the Corkman said. ‘Run off and join a circus if you want, but you’re misinformed about our fight. It’s not about freedom for you, it’s about freedom from you. The best way you could help Ireland’s freedom is to pack up and return to where you came from.’

‘Where exactly is that?’ Art was so furious that the two volunteers appeared in the doorway with their rifles.

‘England.’

‘More Irish blood runs through my veins than through yours. My father can trace our family back to Niall of the Nine Hostages. Can your father do that?’

‘My father was too busy trying to earn an honest wage. That’s more than you parasites have ever done.’

Maud was no longer interested in the motor. She simply wanted to get Art safely out of this cottage. Of late he frequently took notions, but rarely as dangerous as this. Was it his way to rebel against Father who was shocked by each bullet fired on either side in this Irish conflict? She wanted to speak, but any interruption would only further inflame her brother.

‘So what constitutes an Irishman now?’ Art demanded.

‘An Irishman is someone with Irish blood in his veins and in his father’s and grandfather’s before that.’

‘Where does that leave the half-breed Patrick Pearse?’ Art retorted. ‘His father was indisputably an Englishman. At least my distant ancestors had the decency to be Dutch.’

The Corkman rose and took a pistol from his holster. ‘Don’t ever take Pearse’s name in vain,’ he hissed. ‘I fought with him in Easter Week. He was a true Irishman.’

‘I am not saying he wasn’t.’ Art was calm, exuding an unconscious superiority in the face of the man’s anger. ‘It’s your definition that excludes him, not mine.’

The commander turned to the volunteers. ‘Give them their blasted car and shoot them both if they turn back.’ He looked at Maud. ‘Take this child away and put him somewhere safe, miss. Let this be a lesson. Property required by the Irish Republican Army will be requisitioned in the name of the Republic. Any collaboration with the army of occupation will be seen as an act of treason. You understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can it be an act of treason if we’re not even Irish?’ Art queried. ‘I suppose you call my father’s cousin a foreigner too.’

The commander replaced his gun, calmer now. ‘You’re sharp, sonny. If debating points were bullets you’d have killed me long ago. But the Countess gave up everything. Could you do likewise? Revolution is not a half-way house. Your accent would be a liability to any flying column. You’d stick out, like a motor car. Stay in your own world. We leave this cottage tonight and won’t be back. If you reveal where you found this car the roof will be burnt over the old couple’s heads. Such a thing would not be forgotten. The peelers have just abandoned the barracks that I had planned to attack with your car tonight. They probably got a tip-off. Go home and keep your mouth shut. And tell them to do likewise in the pubs of Dunkineely.’

‘Nobody said a word to us,’ Art said quickly.

The commander escorted them out to the yard where the old couple silently stood. ‘If I had to shoot every loose-tongued Irish fool, I’d have no bullets left for the British.’

The car started at the second attempt. Art loaded their bicycles into the boot while the volunteers stood back as if expecting Maud to crash into the gate. Only after she drove into the lane did her hands start shaking.

It was dark as they descended the rough track and she steered cautiously, knowing how easy it would be to snap an axle. Father would be angry when he discovered the risk they had taken, but Maud could now convince him not to contact the police. Art stared ahead in silence.

‘Did you really want to volunteer?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied, though Maud knew he was lying. ‘I was merely winding up the blither. Can’t say I’d fancy the type of country he would build.’

‘I’m not sure he will get the chance,’ Maud said. ‘The Prime Minister can flood Ireland with troops.’

‘True. There’s no way these fools can win. I’m just not sure they can be beaten either. Don’t mention my offer to Father.’

They drove on in silence because the dark world beyond the windscreen felt different now. Maud wondered if the Corkman’s story about the barracks was a ruse. Perhaps some poor man had been driven in this motor to a remote spot last night, shot and his body dumped? She would spend hours scrubbing the upholstery, yet the motor would never feel like it fully belonged to her again. At the bend beside Bruckless House a Crossley Tender was parked, with a party of British soldiers blocking the road. A local man was being searched, his hands raised as a soldier roughly kicked his feet apart. The man looked up, relieved that there were witnesses to his search. A sergeant stopped the car and put his head in the window.

‘And where would you two lovebirds be heading?’

‘This is my brother,’ Maud replied, tersely.

‘Is it necessary to search the man like that?’ Art asked.

‘I assure you it is.’ The sergeant relaxed upon hearing Art’s accent. ‘The Shinners would shoot loyal citizens like you in your bed.’ He called back. ‘That will do. Let him go.’ Watching the local man cycle quickly away, he turned back to the car. ‘Can’t say I like this posting. At least in France you knew who the enemy was. It must be hard for you, barely able to trust your own servants.’

‘I trust everyone in my village,’ Maud replied.

‘What village is that?’

‘Dunkineely.’

The sergeant whispered softly, ‘We’ve heard rumours of a car stolen in Dunkineely.’

‘Was it reported stolen?’

‘We get reports in many ways.’ His manner was brisker. ‘Where have you just come from?’

‘We were out taking the air.’

‘What if I don’t believe you?’

‘Are you calling my sister a liar?’ Art demanded.

‘I want to know your exact movements. I’m keen to encounter a certain party of men. I have a little silver present for each of them.’

‘We met nobody today,’ Maud said.

‘For God’s sake, miss, whose side are you on? If they take your car today it will be your house and lands tomorrow. The savages won’t leave you with a roof over your heads.’

‘Please move your lorry,’ Maud replied. ‘I want to go home.’

‘And I want to know where you’ve been.’

‘What is the problem here, sergeant?’ Two figures emerged from the driveway of Bruckless House. The soldiers raised their rifles, then lowered them, sensing Mr Ffrench’s military bearing as he stood beside Dr O’Donnell. The sergeant saluted.

‘Just carrying out our duties, sir. Keeping the peace.’

‘Go and keep it somewhere else so. And don’t salute me, I’m a civilian.’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s just obvious you were in the services.’