Her Secret War Page 4

  Like many others displaced by the bombs, she had taken refuge with the nuns, but that could only be temporary until she found her feet. The city was slowly returning to normal and although the nuns had been kind, Sarah could sense a growing impatience for her and the others to move on with their lives. If one were cynical, one might even believe it was because the generous flow of donations from the public to support the refugees had now dried up.

  Glancing at the inscription on the headstone, Sarah wondered what she should do. Maura’s name would have to be added. Da’s as well. The cost would empty her Post Office savings account, but it had to be done.

  Paul stepped up beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Are you all right? This must be hard for you; but for her sake, you must get on with your life, Sarah. Maura adored you. I know how close you two were, and that you will miss her dreadfully, but she would not have wanted you to give way under this.’

  ‘I will try, but it will not be easy. I will miss her very much!’ Sarah wiped her eyes. ‘Maura was wonderful, the best of sisters. It is such a waste, Paul. Her life was only beginning.’ Sarah placed a hand over her heart. ‘I’ll never forget her. I will carry her with me in here, forever.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Come; there’s a bench over there. Let’s sit down for a few minutes. You can rest your leg but still see the grave from there.’

  They sat down and Paul took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers like he used to when they were courting. Sarah found it comforting, finding solace in the memory of happier times. She leaned her head against his shoulder. A blackbird, perched up in a tree above them, burst into song every so often. And suddenly, Sarah was at peace. She glanced over to the grave, finally able to say a prayer.

  After several minutes, Paul harrumphed. ‘Sarah, I have some news.’

  She lifted her head and smiled. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve … Well, after all that has happened … and I’ve been thinking for some time that—’

  ‘You’re going to enlist; you’re going up north.’

  His face relaxed into an apologetic smile. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s terrible timing, particularly now when you need all your friends around you, but the bombing and your situation have made me even more determined. I don’t want to wait any longer.’

  A spark of hope ignited for an instant; had he delayed departing for her sake? No, it could not be that. He saw himself merely as her friend.

  Hiding her disappointment, Sarah nodded. ‘Trust me, I now understand completely. I’m only sorry … the things I said … I was hurting. As for your leaving to enlist, I am glad,’ she said in a rush. ‘In fact, I admire you for it.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I wish you well, I really do. Hitler must be stopped.’

  Paul turned to her, swallowing hard. ‘I agree. We have to fight this goddamn evil. But you don’t need to apologise about that night. I sprung it on you too suddenly, I realise that now.’

  ‘Still; I should have tried to understand your point of view. It was a selfish reaction on my part, and I regret it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But perhaps it was for the best, you know, with me leaving. I don’t know what lies ahead for me, Sarah. And you’ve had enough loss to deal with for one lifetime.’

  His words turned her insides to stone. Couched in soft words, it was still a rejection. And one she deserved. Fighting back the impulse to cry, she said: ‘You mustn’t worry. I’m tough as old boots, me. When do you leave?’ she asked, staring ahead. Sarah knew if she looked into his eyes the pain would leak out and she would howl.

  ‘The end of the week. I’ll report to a recruiting station up in Belfast, but then I’ll be moved to an airfield somewhere in England once they complete all the paperwork.’

  ‘Will you tell your family?’

  ‘No. You know why that is impossible,’ he answered with a sigh. ‘Da would be livid. He might even try to stop me. And as for my Ma, she would try to talk me out of it. I’ll leave a letter explaining why I have to go. Maybe, in time, they will accept it.’

  ‘I understand. You will have quite the adventure. I admit to being quite envious.’ Sarah looked out across the graveyard, a hollow feeling in her stomach. ‘I’ll miss you, but I wish you luck.’

  Paul squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll take revenge for both of us, I promise you that.’

  Sarah sucked in a breath. ‘Don’t go with hatred in your heart, Paul. Go because it is the honourable thing to do. There is too much evil in the world as it is.’

  ‘And decent men must act,’ he said, his voice catching.

  Sarah nodded and they sat in silence for several minutes.

  ‘Have you heard anything from your Da’s family?’ Paul asked.

  ‘No. And I won’t. There was no love lost there.’

  ‘Jim Gillespie was a hard man,’ Paul said with a frown. ‘At least now you are free of him.’

  ‘I cannot speak ill of him; he was my father, no matter what he did.’ Sarah shifted on the seat and withdrew her hand from his grasp.

  ‘Sorry, Sarah, but I must speak plainly. It was hard not to notice your bruises, and your excuses were always so flimsy. He was a brute of a man. Jim’s reputation for violence was well known. Half the men in North Strand feared him, my own father included, and you don’t find many men harder than my Da.’

  Sarah shivered and drew herself in. ‘I know you mean well, but I don’t want to talk about him. And please don’t tell anyone about … what he did. Best forgotten now, anyway.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, though his frown said otherwise.

  ‘I wonder where you will be posted,’ Sarah said, hoping to change the subject. ‘Will you write to me? I’d love to stay in touch. But only if you wish it.’

  ‘Of course I do!’ He turned to her. ‘Sarah, I’m worried about you. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I have a few ideas bubbling away.’

  ‘Good for you. But I was thinking. There is nothing to keep you here after what has happened to your family. Why don’t you leave and go to England too? There’s plenty of work in the English factories, and that helps the war effort and hurts Germany.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have been thinking along those lines,’ she said. ‘I’ve had plenty of time on my hands these last few weeks, courtesy of Herr Hitler.’ Paul frowned at her, but she smiled back. ‘A few days ago, I received a letter from my Uncle Tom, my mother’s younger brother who lives in Hampshire. He and his wife have offered me a home. My uncle works for Vickers Supermarine and says he might get me a job there. I’d be contributing to the war effort, something I cannot do here. Best of all, it’s an opportunity to get revenge on Jerry too. The chance to stay with family and start over is a compelling reason to take them up on their kind offer.’

  Paul grinned back at her. ‘Indeed, it is. That’s fantastic if he can get you a job in Vickers. They make Spitfires, you know. The best planes in the world. That’s why I want to join the RAF; I hope to fly a Spit someday.’

  ‘I’ll ask them to make one especially for you,’ she said. ‘It will have “Ace O’Reilly” emblazoned on the fuselage.’

  ‘I wish you could! But tell me, are you seriously considering leaving Ireland?’

  How she longed to tell him what was really in her heart; that she loved him and wanted him to stay, that she wanted them to build a life together here. But it would be unfair on him to do so. Her gaze lingered on the grave of her mother and sister, and a father she could not grieve. She had never felt so alone in her entire life.

  ‘There is nothing to keep me here, Paul, and I think I owe it to them, don’t you?’

  5

  20th August 1941, North Strand, Dublin

  It was a humid afternoon as Sarah left the convent. It was one of those rare days when the distinctive smell of hops and malted barley from the Guinness brewery on the quays wafted that far east. But she was heedless of the weather and the pungent odour. She had to remain single-minded, for this journey could not be put off any lon
ger. No matter how awful, she could not contemplate leaving Ireland without visiting her old home one last time. As Sarah walked along, the tightness in her stomach turned into a cold, hard knot of dread. Would the very sight of No. 18 in ruins trigger even more grief? The nightly terrors were bad enough as it was.

  Rounding the corner into North Strand, she came to a dead stop. The black and white images in the newspapers hadn’t prepared her for the scale of the devastation. North Strand lay in ruins; the familiar was no more. The houses, Nugent’s shop, the post office: all gone. For a moment, Sarah was overcome, and she had to stretch out her hand to support herself against the post-box, which had miraculously survived. Some passers-by cast her curious glances, but she stared straight ahead, determined not to make eye contact. It was several minutes before she had the strength to move forward again.

  Further down the pavement, the long-familiar sight and sound of a tram caused her to stop and stare in surprise. It trundled past, packed with passengers. She hadn’t expected the trams to be back working so soon. Surely the damage to the road had been too great? Frowning, Sarah scanned the surface of the roadway. An area of clean cobblestones and shiny tram track revealed where the landmine had exploded. That certainly made the priorities of the city’s bureaucrats more than clear. Pity the lives lost could not be replaced so easily, she thought with a sting of sadness.

  She looked across the road to where No. 18 once stood and caught her breath. Her body became rigid as a wave of pure anger hit. Her fists clenched at her sides. For weeks she had wallowed in grief, but what did that achieve? It couldn’t bring Maura back … or even Da. She needed to act. This was her new reality and Germany was to blame. Grief was replaced by a burning desire for revenge for Maura’s pointless murder. Whatever it would take, no matter how small her contribution to the war effort would be, it had to be better than this paralysing neutrality. She knew in that instant her decision to leave for England was the right one.

  The twisted metal of the lamp-post which had stood outside their house and the gaunt outline of their old sycamore showed the ferocity of the explosion. Their terrace, once home to over ten families, was now a pile of debris. Further along, the next terrace still stood, but the roofs and windows were missing, and the front walls of some were bulging out at odd angles. It would soon face the wrecking ball.

  For several minutes, she could only stare as memories came flooding back. Ma standing at the door waving them off to school; escaping down the steps to play with the other children as soon as Ma’s back was turned; watching Da head off to the pub of an evening from the window in the front parlour. Everyone in the house would relax for those few hours they were free of him. But those memories tumbling through her mind only made the loss of Maura more acute. What she would give to have one last conversation with her: one last laugh; one last hug.

  Sarah waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the road. Either side, at the ends of their terrace, parts of the gable walls still stood with stranded fireplaces hanging out into the abyss below. It was uncomfortable to look at remnants of the houses. It was, as if the inhabitants’ lives were exposed for the world to gape at and mock. The bricks, beams and rubble from the houses were pushed back from the pavement into great dusty piles. Her main reason for visiting had been the faint hope of finding personal belongings. But that was doomed, and the ignominy of scrambling through the rubble to find trinkets struck her as ridiculous now that she could see the result of the blast. Even if anything had survived, it would be damaged beyond repair. She had escaped with her life; that would have to suffice.

  Looking around, Sarah wondered how they had found her that day and rescued her. The risk those men had taken almost overwhelmed her. She could remember them now, their anxious expressions belying their comforting words. They must have been scared too. Would it be possible at this stage to find out who they were, and thank them in person before she left?

  Sarah wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. One thing was certain: she could never come back here again. The past had been wiped in one horrific twist of fate. She recalled seeing that German pilot swooping low over the roofs on the night of the bombing. What had he or his fellow pilots been thinking as they had released those bombs? Did they know it was Dublin or had it been a genuine mistake? Not that it mattered: the outcome had been the murder of innocents and the annihilation of a close-knit community. That she could never forgive.

  ‘Is that you, Sarah Gillespie?’ a familiar voice called out, breaking into her thoughts. ‘I saw you pass my window, and I thinks to meself, that’s young Sarah, that is.’

  Sarah turned to see one of her old neighbours coming towards her, leaning on a walking stick. Sarah had always been fond of Mrs Twohig, affectionately known as Mrs T by the locals. The elderly lady had treated her and Maura with kindness when they were kids. With no children of her own, she had loved to spoil them with sweets and cake; luxuries they never got at home. It was said she had buried two husbands and some local wags had christened her ‘the Black Widow’, but a more generous soul it would be hard to find in North Strand.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Twohig, it is. It is good to see you.’ Sarah walked up to her and gave her a hug. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘As good as can be expected after all of this dreadful business. You are a welcome sight, my dear. I’d heard they dug you out, but I didn’t know what happened to you after that.’

  ‘I was lucky, Mrs T. I’ve been staying up at the convent since I was discharged from the Mater. Were you hurt in the explosion?’ Sarah asked.

  Mrs Twohig crossed herself. ‘No. The good Lord was looking out for me, he was. A few broken windows was the size of it, and those nice boys from the Corpo came and fixed them.’ Her tiny cottage was back down the street, further away from the blast zone.

  ‘I’m glad you were unharmed. Too many others weren’t so lucky,’ Sarah said.

  The old lady leaned on Sarah’s arm, breathing hard, her face full of sorrow. ‘I’m so sorry about your sister Maura. Lovely child, she was. And … of course, your Da.’ The lady’s hesitation wasn’t lost on Sarah.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Twohig.’ Sarah glanced back at the pile of rubble. ‘This is my first time back. I’ve been avoiding the street ever since …’

  ‘I can understand that, you poor love. And all those innocents lost. You heard about the Butler family?’ Mrs Twohig shook her head. ‘Even the tiny babe lost. They found her in her mother’s arms.’ She took a deep breath. ‘North Strand will never recover from this.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Sarah glanced around. ‘I’ve heard people are being offered new homes on the outskirts of the city in Cabra.’

  ‘Aye, that’s so. They say it’s a soulless place, and sure it’s miles from everywhere and not a shop to be had, but folks need a roof over their heads and at least the city is doing something for the poor craturs.’ Mrs Twohig sighed. ‘Maybe someday if they rebuild, they’ll come back here again.’

  Sarah doubted anyone would return, not least because of the awful memories the place would hold. The community was scattered forever now. ‘This must be hard for you,’ she replied.

  ‘True. Many of my oldest friends have upped and gone or been made homeless,’ the lady said with a sad smile. ‘And a couple are now six feet under up in Glasnevin.’

  ‘Would you not consider going out to Cabra to be near your old neighbours?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay put. I have lived here all my life, Sarah, and I’m too decrepit to be gallivanting all over the city. Just me and my cat Montgomery left now. I suppose you’re moving out to Cabra, then?’

  ‘No, Mrs T. It’s likely I’ll go to England, to my uncle. I came today to see if I could find a few things before I leave … but this doesn’t look promising.’ Sarah gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I feel foolish now that I can see the level of destruction. What was I thinking?’

  All of a sudden, Mrs Twohig’s grip on Sarah’s arm tightened. ‘But didn’t you know? Those Corpo lads who were
working here left a box of recovered items with me. Why don’t you come back to mine and see if there is anything belonging to your family? I’m afraid I hadn’t the heart to look through the box.’ The lady sniffed and blew her nose before smiling at Sarah. ‘Do come. I can put the kettle on. I’m sure I have a few biscuits. If I recall, you have a sweet tooth.’

  ‘Thank you, I would like that,’ Sarah replied warmly. How could she resist the pleading in the old lady’s eyes? She must be lonely, with only memories and piles of rubble for company. With a bit of luck, there might even be something to salvage from Mrs Twohig’s box of recovered items. They linked arms and strolled back towards the Twohig cottage.

  ‘You know, your dear mother was incredibly good to me when I lost my Joe. She used to call in nearly every day to see how I was. A very kind-hearted woman, and God knows she had enough troubles of her own to be worrying about the likes of me.’

  Sarah stiffened, but at least she could detect sympathy in the woman’s tone. Many others had reacted differently to her mother’s plight, as if it were her mother’s fault that Jim Gillespie had been a violent man.

  ‘Now, where did I put that box?’ Mrs Twohig muttered as soon as they entered her disorderly sitting room. Tiny patches of ancient, faded wallpaper were visible where there was a gap in the jumble of household items and keepsakes. Sarah’s elderly hostess stood frowning at the mess. ‘I’m sure it’s in here somewhere. I throw nothing away, you know.’

  Sarah smiled. That was more than evident. Even the sofa was piled with bric-à-brac of all kinds. Only a solitary armchair, stationed at the front window, was free of clutter. Mrs Twohig turned her attention to the alcoves either side of the fireplace that brimmed with an assortment of bits and bobs, tut-tutting under her breath. ‘Must be here somewhere, eh, Montgomery?’ This Mrs Twohig addressed to the cat, a large Persian laying atop a stack of magazines, who flicked his ears and yawned.