chat. All Liam wanted to talk about was war—who had got shot, who was in what unit, what the Black and Tans had done to this one and that one. Shootings, death, injury: every day I was subjected to the bravado of a teenage boy anxious to brandish a gun, until I banned all talk of war in my house.
Every night I fed the men whom John brought back to shelter, and treated their cuts and bound any ankle swollen after a fall. His unit was training out in the rough bogs—crawling on the sodden ground like animals, if their boots and coats were anything to go by. Each man left his boots at the door for Liam to clean, then washed his hands in a tin bucket before coming into the house. Each had with him his own tin plate, which I piled with hearty stews full of old, rich meat and earthy vegetables. I never saw a gun again after that first night. John had the men leave their weapons in the sheds, and they followed his lead by never discussing matters of war in front of me. I was proud that these men respected John, and deferred to him. Some of the younger boys called him “Captain.” On one occasion, when I was out of the room, I heard John talk down a young hothead keen on revenge. “It’s as important to know when to lay down a weapon as when to pick it up” was all he said. I hoped it ran true to him, because despite the pride of being married to such a big man, I was afraid for John every moment of every day. I held on to the thought that the Irish Parliament, Dáil Éireann, and the British would come to an arrangement before too long, and life would return to the way it had always been.
John tried to keep my fears away—always saying, as we kissed in the mornings, “See you later—the usual time,” to reassure me that he would be home safe. But in my heart, I knew that one day soon the training of his unit would end and the fighting would start.
There were so many coming through the house by now—thirty laid out on our kitchen floor one night—that our neighbors started calling in with food and turf to help us out. “I’m too old to fight,” said one old man as he handed me an enormous ham, “but there’s hair on that pig will help keep them English bastards at bay surely.”
One fine Thursday not long after, I was sitting plucking a chicken by the back door. John had killed and bled it from the neck before he left that morning, so its skin was still warm enough to pluck easily. The sun was moving across the wet grass, causing spangles of light to shoot up from it so that I had to shade my eyes. It was a pure, clear day, and the land spread out in front of me, sloping out and down toward the horizon. The sky was blue and the clouds white and the world looked perfect, like a picture postcard.
I had sent Liam into town on the bicycle with some eggs not an hour beforehand and was enjoying the peace of being on my own. Even though the day was fine, there was a slight breeze, and as I plucked the feathers started to scatter all over the place. They flew all about my face, sticking to my lips and hair, and I became annoyed with myself for not having had the sense to hang the chicken until it was cold, then immerse it in warm water before plucking, as was my usual method. With the feathers damp, it gave a much tidier finish. As I made this mental note, Liam came running suddenly round from the front of the house, causing me to jump up and drop the cursed chicken, with all its feathers flying in a messy cloud.
I was raging. The stupid child had clearly run my bicycle into a ditch and broken a week’s worth of fine eggs. “Where’s my bicycle? Where are my eggs?” The ludaramaun—and I was the worse eejit, to have trusted such an important mission to him.
Liam had collapsed in a heap of panic and exhaustion, breathing so hard he could barely speak. Between gasps, he pushed out, “Captain’s been shot, Ma’am. Captain’s been shot . . .”
The world changed. My head was full of terrible noise, and yet
Every night I fed the men whom John brought back to shelter, and treated their cuts and bound any ankle swollen after a fall. His unit was training out in the rough bogs—crawling on the sodden ground like animals, if their boots and coats were anything to go by. Each man left his boots at the door for Liam to clean, then washed his hands in a tin bucket before coming into the house. Each had with him his own tin plate, which I piled with hearty stews full of old, rich meat and earthy vegetables. I never saw a gun again after that first night. John had the men leave their weapons in the sheds, and they followed his lead by never discussing matters of war in front of me. I was proud that these men respected John, and deferred to him. Some of the younger boys called him “Captain.” On one occasion, when I was out of the room, I heard John talk down a young hothead keen on revenge. “It’s as important to know when to lay down a weapon as when to pick it up” was all he said. I hoped it ran true to him, because despite the pride of being married to such a big man, I was afraid for John every moment of every day. I held on to the thought that the Irish Parliament, Dáil Éireann, and the British would come to an arrangement before too long, and life would return to the way it had always been.
John tried to keep my fears away—always saying, as we kissed in the mornings, “See you later—the usual time,” to reassure me that he would be home safe. But in my heart, I knew that one day soon the training of his unit would end and the fighting would start.
There were so many coming through the house by now—thirty laid out on our kitchen floor one night—that our neighbors started calling in with food and turf to help us out. “I’m too old to fight,” said one old man as he handed me an enormous ham, “but there’s hair on that pig will help keep them English bastards at bay surely.”
One fine Thursday not long after, I was sitting plucking a chicken by the back door. John had killed and bled it from the neck before he left that morning, so its skin was still warm enough to pluck easily. The sun was moving across the wet grass, causing spangles of light to shoot up from it so that I had to shade my eyes. It was a pure, clear day, and the land spread out in front of me, sloping out and down toward the horizon. The sky was blue and the clouds white and the world looked perfect, like a picture postcard.
I had sent Liam into town on the bicycle with some eggs not an hour beforehand and was enjoying the peace of being on my own. Even though the day was fine, there was a slight breeze, and as I plucked the feathers started to scatter all over the place. They flew all about my face, sticking to my lips and hair, and I became annoyed with myself for not having had the sense to hang the chicken until it was cold, then immerse it in warm water before plucking, as was my usual method. With the feathers damp, it gave a much tidier finish. As I made this mental note, Liam came running suddenly round from the front of the house, causing me to jump up and drop the cursed chicken, with all its feathers flying in a messy cloud.
I was raging. The stupid child had clearly run my bicycle into a ditch and broken a week’s worth of fine eggs. “Where’s my bicycle? Where are my eggs?” The ludaramaun—and I was the worse eejit, to have trusted such an important mission to him.
Liam had collapsed in a heap of panic and exhaustion, breathing so hard he could barely speak. Between gasps, he pushed out, “Captain’s been shot, Ma’am. Captain’s been shot . . .”
The world changed. My head was full of terrible noise, and yet
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