A Winter of Spies by Gerard Whelan Page A

been silent all night afterwards. Sarah hoped the pressure wasn’t getting too much for him.
    This morning in school, despite Sarah’s denials, Miss Heffernan had finally decided that she was ill. ‘You’re looking very pale,’ she’d said. ‘You can’t concentrate at all, and you haven’t got up to a single piece of devilment all morning. You’re not yourself. Go home and rest.’
    It was typical, really. More than once Sarah had spent hours trying to make Miss Heffernan or some other teacher think she wasn’t well, so that they’d send her home. It had never once worked. Now here she was, not even thinking of skiving off, and she was sent out. Life was a lot of things, but it wasn’t sensible.
    As she passed Haddington Road church a beggar shook a tin can at her from his pitch outside the gate. A couple of coins rattled in the bottom of the can. The beggar had no legs beneath the knees. Another ‘lucky’ survivor of the war, probably. There were a lot of them about.
    While the Great War was still on there had been talk of how good things would be after it ended. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland would be made, it was said, into ‘a land fit for heroes’. Then the war ended, and there was no more talk of that kind. There hadn’t even been jobs for a lot of the returning soldiers. Sarah had heard that half of the Black and Tans had been recruited from the ranks of unemployed ex-Tommies. It had all been a bit of a swiz.
    â€˜Spare a copper for an auld soldier, miss,’ the beggarsaid, ‘that lost two legs for little Belgium.’
    Ma usually gave Sarah a penny to buy sweets on her way home. She fished in her pocket now till she found today’s coin, and threw it into the box.
    â€˜God bless you, miss,’ the beggar said. ‘God bless you, and the saint that bore you.’
    Sarah walked on, wondering whether she should inform Ma that a beggar had canonised her. She didn’t notice the approaching motor car until its horn sounded. It drew up to a stop beside her with its engine running. The man she knew as Rory Moore sat behind the steering wheel. Moore wore a motoring cap and coat, and looked very smart. He was alone.
    There’d been no sign of Moore since Sunday night. Sarah had imagined him busy next door, persuading Fowles to leave her Da alone. She didn’t like him, but she was grateful for his help.
    â€˜Good day to you, Miss Conway,’ Moore said, tipping the peak of the cap. ‘Are you going far?’
    â€˜My teacher sent me home,’ she said. ‘She thought I was sick.’
    â€˜And are you?’
    â€˜Only distracted. There’s a lot going on.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ said Rory Moore. ‘Indeed there is.’
    Sarah looked admiringly at the car. It must be wonderful to have a machine like that. You could just drive anddrive and leave all these troubles behind.
    Moore spotted the longing in her look. ‘Why don’t you get in?’ he said. ‘You can go home in style.’
    Sarah considered. She had her doubts about Rory Moore. There was something about him she just didn’t trust. Maybe it was only his smoothness. But you didn’t have to trust a man to like his car. And wasn’t travelling in a machine like this one of her great ambitions in life?
    â€˜All right,’ she said. Moore opened the passenger door. Sarah jumped up on the runningboard and clambered in. The car smelled of leather. The whole machine vibrated with the engine’s hum. Sarah settled herself gingerly into the seat.
    â€˜We can go for a drive if you like,’ Moore said. ‘My work is done for the morning. Where would you like to go? Kingstown? The mountains? Skerries?’
    Sarah was very tempted. These distant places were sites for daytrips that normally had to be carefully planned. In a motor car you could just take off and go to any of them. She looked at