Her Secret War Page 3

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘This belongs to my father,’ she said at last, gulping down her tears.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Miss. Thank you for your help,’ the young man said, biting his lower lip. He pulled out a notebook. ‘Would you mind giving me his details; address, date of birth?’

  Somehow, she managed to tell him all, even as a creeping numbness began to take hold.

  Despair hovered; hope vanished. All she could do was cling to the tiny chance that somehow Maura was still alive.

  It was late on Wednesday afternoon when Sarah spotted him as he entered the ward and her heart leaped. Paul O’Reilly scanned the beds, a frown cutting across his brow. Relief swept through her only to be instantly replaced by regret and shame for the awful words she had thrown at him the night they broke up. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut, consumed by guilt. He had not deserved her scorn. It spoke so much for his character that he would even consider visiting her now. Would she be as magnanimous if their roles were reversed?

  Sarah waved her good hand to catch his attention. For a moment he hesitated before slowly walking up to her bed. His grim expression added to her already fractious state. The fact he was here at all set off some alarm bells. Was he the bearer of news about Maura, or had he come to commiserate about Da? As he stood at the bottom of her bed, gripping the end rail, Sarah noticed his eyes were red-rimmed; in truth, he looked wretched. Her heart galloped.

  At last, Paul cleared his throat. ‘Thank God they got you out, Sarah,’ he said, his voice low.

  ‘Oh Paul! I’m so glad to see you. Have you heard about my Da?’ Her voice broke.

  He hurried towards her, concern flooding his face as he grabbed her good hand. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, of course, but right now, I’m more concerned about you,’ he answered. He gently caressed her cheek. She almost burst into tears.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ she whispered. From the one peek in the mirror that morning, she knew she still looked a sight; she had bruising and swelling to her face and a bandage covered the deep cut just above her shoulder to the side of her neck.

  ‘God, yes, I know!’

  ‘Please sit down, Paul. You’re the first visitor I’ve had. It’s very kind of you to come … especially after, well, you know.’

  Paul nodded, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his features.

  As soon as he sat down, she leaned towards him. ‘Paul, tell me; is there any news of Maura? I haven’t heard a thing and they won’t let me out of here. I’m desperate for news. She must be in Jervis Street Hospital, but I’ve no way of finding out for sure. Could you check for me?’

  Paul wouldn’t meet her eye, but stared down at his clasped hands. Eventually, he looked up. ‘It’s not good news, Sarah.’ Then he gulped and his expression scared her. ‘I was down at your house all day yesterday, looking for you. No one down there knew what had happened to you or Maura. With the state of the house, everyone assumed both of ye had been buried. But they’re still digging people out, all along North Strand; so there was hope.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. There is total devastation.’ Sarah frowned at him, barely able to take in what he was saying. ‘Well, eventually, they burnt off the gas. The bomb ruptured the main, you see, and they couldn’t risk digging in that area in case a spark set it off. Anyway, they found her … Maura … yesterday, late afternoon.’

  Sarah gasped and clutched his arm. ‘Will she be all right? Is she here? When can I visit her?’

  Paul’s eyes welled up. ‘I’m sorry; there was nothing they could do. Your entire terrace crumbled like a stack of cards when the last bomb exploded. All that’s left is the charred remains of that tree in your back yard. The house completely buried her.’ He halted, swallowing hard, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek. ‘They said she died instantly. We must take comfort in that.’

  ‘No! I don’t believe she’s dead; she can’t be. She was only feet away from me, Paul, sitting in the armchair by the fireplace. It must be someone else they found. Maybe it was someone from next door, blown into our house by the force of the explosion? It has to be a mistake.’ Sarah started to cry and shake uncontrollably.

  Paul squeezed her hand, his own torment plain to see in his face. ‘No, listen to me, Sarah.’ His voice was low and urgent. ‘It was her. I’m sorry, but you must accept it. She simply wasn’t as lucky as you.’ Paul released her hand to wipe his tears. ‘I had to identify Maura at the morgue. That’s where I found out where you were. I was asking about you, in case you had been brought there too, and Mr Nugent heard me talking to the clerk. He told me he’d seen you here when he was visiting his wife. You have no idea how relieved I was. I nearly hugged the man when he told me.’

  Sarah did her best to stem the flow of tears, but there was a terrible ache in her chest. As she looked up, she was aware of the curious glances of the other patients. Paul gave her a watery smile and handed her a handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you.’ She blew her nose and took some shaky breaths. As they sat in silence, Sarah tried to compose herself. She closed her eyes, but it only took her back to the darkness, choking on dust, the building pressing down on her body. Maura was very close, she knew it; she could sense her presence. Her eyes flew open to the crushing reality of a hospital ward and her worst fears confirmed.

  ‘Where is Maura now, Paul?’ she asked at last, gulping down fresh tears.

  ‘Still at the morgue. She will be moved, along with the others, to the church later this evening. The funerals will be tomorrow.’ Paul’s voice broke. ‘The first batch. They’re taking them all to Glasnevin Cemetery afterwards. I told them to bury her with your Ma. Did I do right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. That’s perfect.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sarah,’ he said, his voice shaking.

  But Paul’s words barely registered through her sorrow.

  Maura was gone forever.

  On Thursday morning, the ward was cloaked in melancholy silence. Everyone knew what was happening today. As if in keeping with their sorrow, the skies threatened rain from the early morning. Right on cue, as Sarah envisaged the procession of coffins being brought out of the church, the clouds released their fury. Sarah leaned back into the pillows and let the tears fall unchecked. Still, no one on the ward spoke; each was mourning a family member, a friend, or a neighbour.

  St Laurence O’Toole Church was only a short walk away, yet Sarah was not allowed to attend, despite her pleas to the doctor. Paul had promised to attend the funeral in her place and to bring flowers. White roses if he could find them, as they were Maura’s favourite. Gradually, news filtered in from the visitors, some of whom brought in newspapers which were devoured by the patients. Sarah now knew Da had met a similar fate to many others that night. He and his mates had been seen on the bridge not long before the last bomb had fallen.

  There was universal praise for those working to rescue survivors and find those who had been lost. What they had to deal with and the things they had to witness were unprecedented in Dublin’s history.

  That fourth bomb, the one that had destroyed her home, had been a 500 lb landmine; the destruction it had caused was all too visible in the newspaper photographs. One picture showed the tram tracks outside where their house used to stand, mangled and twisted like great metal fingers reaching up into the sky, as if in supplication to the angry god of war. The only consolation was that it would have been instant death for those, like Da, caught out in the open. But, try as she might, she could not grieve for him.

  Then Sarah heard it. The faint sound of a marching band. Mrs McCluskey, in the bed beside her, pulled back her blankets and hobbled over to the window beside Sarah’s bed. ‘Do you hear the music, love?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah eased around in her bed, swinging her legs out.

  ‘Let me help,’ Mrs McCluskey said, throwing back the blanket for her. Then she offered Sarah her arm to lean on. They stood together in their grief, arm in arm. ‘Aren’t we lucky to be at the back
of the hospital? They’re due to travel past us towards Glasnevin.’ Mrs McCluskey pointed to the rear gate which stood open. A huddle of hospital staff stood near it; umbrellas raised in a hopeless battle with the high wind. Gradually, those patients who were well enough to get out of bed crowded around the other windows, eager to see what was happening. The music grew louder, and Sarah saw the first of the cortege pass by.

  ‘’Tis grand,’ Mrs McCluskey murmured. ‘The Garda Band, bless them, leading the way; only fittin’.’

  Then it was the turn of the hearses drawn by magnificent black horses, their black plumes almost bent over with the force of the wind and rain. Which coffin held Maura? Which held Da’s remains? Sarah clenched her fists as a wave of anger and worst of all, guilt, hit her. Mrs McCluskey must have sensed her distress, for she squeezed her arm. ‘Are you going to be all right, love? Your father and sister, isn’t it?’

  Sarah managed a nod.

  ‘God, I’ve been lucky. No one close to me was lost. You and those other poor families!’ Mrs McCluskey wiped her eyes. ‘Ah, Jaysus, look! Tiny coffins for those unfortunate, innocent children. How could those Jerries do such a terrible thing? If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand.’

  Immediately behind the hearses were horse-drawn carriages, full of mourners; flashes of white faces pressed up against the glass. Even at a distance, their hopelessness was palpable. Sarah closed her eyes for an instant in silent comradeship.

  A procession of emergency services marched by and Sarah thought fleetingly of her rescuers. They had risked their lives to free her, and so many others. Those men who had patiently dug Maura out of the ruins of their home, or brought her father’s remains to the morgue; were they marching too?

  Sleek black cars went past. ‘Pah!’ Sarah’s companion almost spat out the word. ‘There’s de Valera and his cronies in their fancy cars. So much for his neutrality; look where it has brought us today. I don’t think Hitler is paying much attention to it. We can’t even defend our citizens.’

  ‘Will you stop!’ a lady at the other window called out. ‘We don’t want war here again. It will only mean more of the same. We’ll end up a smoking ruin like London or Liverpool.’

  ‘Better to fight an honest war than take this lying down,’ barked Mrs McCluskey. ‘The whole world thinks us Irish are cowards.’ She beat her fist against the window shutter. ‘Well, just let Jerry set foot in Dublin and I’ll show him what for!’

  ‘I don’t doubt you would and all, Martha McCluskey. Sure, your own husband is terrified of ye,’ was the reply from the other window.

  Mrs McCluskey stiffened in anger. Sarah threw her a pleading look. Now was not the time to argue about politics. Sarah turned back to keep watch, doing her best to hold on to her self-control. Still the mourners came. Sarah watched as hundreds of ordinary Dubliners snaked out behind the cortege, despite the foul weather, paying their respects and united in mourning the city’s dead. Sarah could not speak or think clearly as raw emotion constricted her throat. At that moment, she would have given anything to walk with them.

  Unable to bear it a second longer, she pulled away from Mrs McCluskey and crawled back into bed. Sarah turned her back on the window, her mind paralysed by sorrow and a growing desire for revenge.

  4

  19th July 1941, Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin

  The sun broke through the clouds as Sarah stood at the front gate of the graveyard, clutching a bunch of white roses. A check of her watch confirmed Paul was late, but she would wait; she was reluctant to visit the family grave alone. Paul had been so kind since the bombing, despite their awful breakup. Most days he had visited the hospital after work, and he had even brought his mother in to see her. When Sarah was discharged, Paul had accompanied her to the temporary refuge in the local convent near her old home. When he had suggested escorting her to the cemetery, Sarah had agreed without hesitation.

  Paul’s unstinting kindness only emphasised how awful her behaviour had been. What had gotten into her the night the bombs fell? Surely, the fact that he was so willing to help her now meant he had at least forgiven her. Could she dare to hope for a reconciliation? She needed him more than ever. During her weeks of recovery, she had little else to think about except her grief and an overwhelming loneliness. A future without Maura was bad enough; one without Paul was both bleak and dark. She would have to swallow her pride and admit she had been in the wrong.

  But how would he receive that admission? What if he was acting now out of pity, not affection? He was attentive, but the easy relationship they had enjoyed before was gone. There was no intimacy now, when all she longed for was the comfort of his arms around her. Friendly affection was not enough for her; but perhaps it was all she deserved. Either way, it was too late if he was determined to enlist. The last thing he would want would be ties back in Dublin.

  Now she understood why he wanted to contribute to the war effort. Jerry had unwittingly given her that insight. That night would always be a watershed in her life: the world before, when all Sarah Gillespie thought about was books, going to the pictures and nights on the town, and then the painful reality of life after, without a family and without Paul. Perhaps it was better to remember the good times. Sarah could still recall the first time she met him at the local drama group. It had taken her weeks to work up the courage to attend, not least because Da had belittled any ambitions in that direction as pure foolishness. As Sarah had walked into the dingy backroom of the church hall, Paul’s had been the first friendly face she had seen. When he had asked to walk her home afterwards, she was delighted. Within a week, they were walking out together.

  A hearse pulled up and swung in through the gates, followed by a car of mourners. Sarah’s heart went out to the funeral-goers as the cortege wound its way down the narrow track through the jumble of headstones. Sarah’s thoughts drifted to the last time she had visited. It had been with Maura to refresh the flowers on their mother’s grave, just a week before the bombing.

  Hearing the revving of an engine at the bus stop, Sarah turned, and was relieved to see Paul jumping down from the rear of the bus. Paul sprinted up to the gate, holding on to his hat. With an effort, she pushed any sad thoughts away and greeted him with a smile. He looked smart today, and for the hundredth time, she regretted her impetuosity. If only time could be reversed. As he greeted her, he didn’t quite meet her eye. Sarah sighed; he felt just as awkward as she did. After a moment’s hesitation, he gave her a peck on the cheek, when all she longed for was an embrace.

  ‘So sorry, Sarah; I had to finish a rush job before I could leave. Saturday morning is always mad busy. Then I missed my bus; had to wait for the next one.’

  ‘Not at all, Paul, I understand. I’m just glad you could come. Shall we go in?’

  Paul offered her his arm, glancing downwards. ‘How’s the leg? Any better now the cast is gone?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. It came off on Monday. My leg is stiff, and I don’t think I will be wearing heels for a while.’

  ‘You must be patient and let your body heal.’

  Sarah gave him a sad smile. ‘I know, and I’m unlikely to be going dancing any time soon anyway.’

  Paul squeezed her arm in sympathy. ‘Ah, you will, someday, Sarah. Maura wouldn’t want you to stop living your life and having some fun.’ Sarah nodded and gulped, too emotional to respond. His glance was full of concern. ‘We don’t have to do this today. Are you sure you are ready?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she replied.

  ‘Good. Now, let’s take our time; we have all afternoon,’ he said.

  They turned down the gravel path to the left, following the old stone wall that sheltered plots dominated by elaborate Victorian gravestones, some crumbling with age and covered in lichen and moss. It was peaceful under the trees as they walked along, an oasis of calm away from the city noise. From visiting her mother’s grave, Sarah was familiar with the path, and a little further on, she turned in amongst the headstones until she found the small Gil
lespie plot.

  The headstone was small and plain compared to some of its neighbours, and slightly lost amongst the towering Celtic crosses and weeping angels. Jim Gillespie had gone to a moneylender to help pay for it: the one decent thing he ever did for Ma. Mind you, he never visited the grave after the funeral; never bothered to see what his money had secured. It bore only Sarah’s mother’s name and the date of her death. The minimum of acceptable detail; the maximum of acceptable cost to Da. Beneath the stone, the disturbed soil was heaped up in a mound, and two bouquets of roses lay on top. The petals on both were turning brown at the tips and curling back.

  ‘Did you leave these? Is there no end to your kindness?’ Sarah asked, turning to Paul in amazement.

  Paul cleared his throat as two patches of colour sprung up in his cheeks. He stooped down to pick up the decaying flowers. ‘Don’t mention it. I’ve been coming out every week as you couldn’t come, and I couldn’t bear to think of her … alone.’ Paul took a deep breath and looked away. ‘I’ll put these in the bin.’

  Sarah watched him disappear down the path, grateful for his thoughtfulness not only in visiting her family’s grave, but for giving her a moment to grieve alone. She let out a long, slow breath before placing the roses down. Then she stood back and tried to pray. But as she stared down at the earth, the words would not come. It was hard to imagine her young sister now resting, forever silent, in this grave. Beautiful, funny Maura; a mere child. It was harder still to think of Maura’s final moments. Had it truly been instant, or had she suffered for hours? Most nights, Sarah woke from nightmares in which she was being buried alive, watching helplessly as Maura disappeared beneath the tumbling rubble. The dreams were awful; she dreaded sleep.

  Every day, her anger grew; and the focus of that anger was Nazi Germany. But how could she, a mere nobody, strike back? She could only hope that someday an opportunity would arise.

  As the horrors of the bombing faded in the minds of Dubliners, Sarah tried to cope with the uncertain future she now faced. All the constants in her life had been pulled away. Her family was gone, and she was homeless. Then, to cap it all, she had received notice from her job. In her absence, they had taken on someone else. Sarah had never liked her boss and knew he was only too relieved to have an excuse to get rid of her. The worst possible timing, of course, but it would force her to make decisions.