The Family on Paradise Pier

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.