The Young Rebels (3 page)

Most of the boys at St Enda’s are Catholics. But the Ardmháistir says religion must never be divisive – meaning it must never be used to divide people.
Protestant
students like Roger are welcome here. They can attend their own churches, but aside from that they receive the same education as the rest of us, with a strong emphasis on Christian prayer and moral standards.

‘It is the same God for all of us,’ the Ardmháistir says. ‘We just speak to him in different ways.’

Jim Larkin’s son is very downhearted. His father has been sentenced to seven months in prison. I don’t think that’s fair, the man was only trying to stand up for the workers who are badly exploited. Would Christ not have done the same thing?

This afternoon I used the telephone to ring home and ask about my mother. I got the same answer as always, which is no answer at all.

Tonight in the dormitory I pick a fight with Roger. ‘I’m tired of your complaining,’ I tell him. ‘What do you have to complain about anyway? You don’t know what troubles are.’

I’m a little taller, but Roger is heavier than me.
However
I’ve heard the Ardmháistir say that size doesn’t matter.

I give Roger a bloody nose.

He goes crying to Mrs Pearse.

In the morning I am summoned to the Head’s office. ‘You want to be thrown out of this school,’ states the Ardmháistir. It is not a question.

‘No sir,’ I lie. But I do want to be thrown out. I want to go home while there’s still a chance to see Mam.

He looks at me across his desk. ‘I despise bullies and bullying, John Joe. There will be none of either in this school. Do you understand?’

I put my fists on my hips and thrust out my lower lip. My father calls it my bold expression.

The Ardmháistir stands up with a sigh and comes toward me. ‘Hold out your hands,’ he says. I expect him to strike them with a ruler. I know what that’s like, it’s been done to me lots of times.

Instead he holds out his hands and takes both of mine. ‘I’m afraid you do want to leave us,’ he says gently. ‘But sometimes what we want is the very worst thing we could get, John Joe. If you are expelled you will not be living up to your full potential. Is failure what you really want?’

‘Failure?’ I echo. It is a damp, sad word.

Although the Ardmháistir’s face is full, almost fleshy, I am aware of unyielding bones beneath. ‘Failure,’ he says, ‘means knuckling the forelock to people who
think they are better than you.’ Patrick Henry Pearse, who prefers to be called Padraic, speaks in a low, hard voice I never heard him use before.

M
argaret, the Ardmháistir’s older sister, instructs us in French. She’s a good teacher but takes no nonsense from us. The younger sister is called Mary Brigid, and she plays the harp. She’s said to be ‘
temperamental
’. I’m not quite sure what it means, but it’s not good. When I was very little we had a brown pony and a dogcart with a red leather seat, and Mam took me for drives in the country. Mam’s parents, who are dead now, had given her that pony and cart before she married.

But my father sold the pony because he said it was temperamental.

I don’t think the Pearses can sell Mary Brigid, though
they might wish they could. She has ‘turns’ sometimes, when no one can control her. She laughs or cries for no reason and has to be sent to her room. Otherwise she would disrupt the entire school. Her brothers are very gentle with her. Neither of them loses his temper, no matter what she does.

I still lose my temper at Roger sometimes. Some people are just born to be irritating, I guess, like having a splinter under your fingernail. But he’s not a bad sort, really.

Students at St Enda’s have to take some outdoor exercise every day, no matter what the weather. The grounds are our own private park, with endless ways to amuse ourselves. I’m even learning how to swim in the pond. The Ardmháistir insists that every boy learn how to swim. He has a horror of drowning.

On weekends the Ardmháistir leads us on nature walks. He is enthralled by the beauty of Ireland’s
scenery
and we are caught up in his enthusiasm. He often stops along the way to lecture on the flora and fauna. Mr MacDonagh claims, laughingly, that the Ardmháistir started the school in order to make as many speeches as he likes.

In addition to coaching us in handball, Willie
referees
boxing matches. I’m learning to box but
sometimes
I hit a little too hard. Willie says the same was
true of his brother. ‘Pat was an outstanding boxer in school, but he had a hot temper. Finally he stopped boxing altogether because he was afraid he might hurt someone.’

St Enda’s competes against other schools in various sporting events and has won a number of awards. The favourite sport here is hurling, which the Ardmháistir calls ‘The game of Cúchulainn’. I love hurling! I can play as hard as I like without worrying about Mam
worrying
about me, because she doesn’t know.

Roger could be good at hurling but he hangs back. Maybe he’s afraid of being hurt. Fear can make you sick in the pit of your stomach.

In the late afternoon, when the shadows lie long on the playing field, the Ardmháistir comes out to watch us. He only stays for a little while, then goes back in his office. He edits periodicals and writes poetry and
carries
on a huge correspondence. Much of his work involves raising more money for the school. His light burns late into the night and in the morning he often looks exhausted, though he’s not an old man. I don’t think he’s much above thirty.

I don’t hate the Ardmháistir any more. It’s hard to hate a man who’s practically killing himself for you.

Yesterday I learned that he founded not only our school but also a similar school for girls, called St Ita’s.
Running two schools was terribly expensive, and he got no help from the government because his ideas are so different. Finally he had to close St Ita’s. I’m glad he was able to keep St Enda’s open. I wonder why he doesn’t marry and have children of his own. Any child would be lucky to have Padraic Pearse for a father.

Perhaps he’s just too busy. He’s been going to a lot of important meetings in the city recently.

While collecting the rubbish from the kitchen I ask the Ardmháistir’s mother – she is the sort of woman you feel you can ask anything – if he will marry
someday
. ‘There was a girl once,’ she says, with a faraway look in her eye. ‘A lovely girl called Eveleen Nicholls. She and Pat had many things in common, they even shared the same political philosophy. Sadly, she was drowned.’

I am fascinated, I never knew anyone who drowned. ‘What happened?’ I ask eagerly.

‘The Nicholls family was acquainted with Tomás Ó Criomhthain,’ Mrs Pearse tells me, ‘a native speaker who lived with his family on Great Blasket Island. Eveleen often went there on holiday to improve her knowledge of Irish. She once took Pat with her, in fact. Had he not fallen in love with Connemara he might have built a summer home on the Blaskets, but all that was spoilt for him when Eveleen died.’ Mrs
Pearse takes a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabs at her eyes.

I’m impatient for her to get on with the story. Why do adults take so long to get to the good part? I want to hear about the drowning. How did it happen? Who found her? What did the body look like afterward?

‘During Eveleen’s visits to the Blaskets she and Cáit Ó Criomhthain, one of Tomás’ daughters, became close friends,’ Mrs Pearse continues at last. ‘One fine afternoon Eveleen and Cáit decided to go bathing at a strand below the cottage. They were accompanied by Cáit’s younger brother Dónal, who was only fourteen.

‘Perhaps the two girls went out too far, or a freak wave came in and caught them. They suddenly found themselves in trouble anyway. Poor Dónal tried to go to their rescue but was drowned in the attempt. As for Eveleen …’ Mrs Pearse’s voice breaks. The
handkerchief
appears again. ‘Eveleen saved her friend Cáit at the cost of her own life.

‘The circumstances of the drowning were widely reported in the national newspapers. The funeral was one of the largest ever held in Dún Chaoin, I believe. My Pat went down for it. His feelings run deep, too deep for his own good, perhaps. When Eveleen died I think his heart went into the grave with her, for he has not looked at a woman since. Instead he devotes
himself to educating the children he will never have. You lads are his life now.’

In the library I’ve found a slim volume of poems written by the Ardmháistir. One is entitled ‘I Have Not Garnered Gold’:

Last night the Pearse brothers went into Dublin. My anxiety about Mam has kept me awake all night, so I hear them returning close to dawn. I don’t know why I go out onto the landing, it is very cold. My feet are like two blocks of ice. When I sneeze the Ardmháistir hears me and comes running up the stairs.

‘What are you doing out here, John Joe?’ he asks as he takes off his coat and wraps it around me.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Well, you must sleep now. I’m going to do the same, if only for a few hours. But this has been a night to celebrate. The twenty-fifth of November will go down in history.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘Do you know the meaning of Home Rule, John Joe?’ Before I can say anything Mr Pearse answers his own question. ‘If Britain granted Ireland Home Rule, this country would have a limited form of self-government. She is entitled to no less. For almost two thousand years Ireland was ruled by her own kings. This was a prosperous island, rich in timber and gold and cattle, until foreigners came to plunder and enslave. Our greatest High King, Brian Boru, defeated the Vikings in 1014, but within a hundred years our sovereignty had been taken from us by the kings of England. This proud land was driven to her knees.

‘Yet she never forgot that once, she had been free.

‘Since the last century Ireland has sought Home Rule. Britain has always refused. Now, when at last there is some support for our cause in Parliament, northern Protestants have formed a militia called the Ulster Volunteer Force. The UVF is sworn to prevent Home Rule by force, if necessary. Members of the
British
government are openly supplying them.’

‘Supplying them with what, sir?’

‘Guns, John Joe,’ he says bluntly. ‘Massive
quantities
of guns and armaments. My friends and I do not believe a small minority in the north has the right to deny a measure of freedom to this entire island. Nor
do we like being threatened.

‘Tonight I attended a meeting in the Rotunda, where an organization called the Irish National Volunteer Corps was founded to counter the UVF. For the first time the people of Ireland will have an armed force under
Irish
command to protect them.’ His voice rings in the dark stairwell.

A shiver runs up my spine. But not because I am cold.

N
ine days after the founding of the Irish
Volunteers
the government issues a proclamation
banning
the import of arms and ammunition into Ireland. I wonder if there’s a connection? Apparently the
government
does not mind the Ulster Volunteers bringing in guns. There’s always been one law in this country for Protestants and another for Catholics.

Sometimes Roger acts like there’s one law for him and another for the rest of us. But I notice, as time goes by, that he’s getting better about it.

I’m going home for Christmas. Mrs Pearse comes to the dormitory to be certain I have everything packed. ‘I’ve brought some fairy cakes for you to take home,’
she tells me. They are wrapped in tissue paper and tied with tiny blue ribbons.

In art class we made Christmas cards for our families. I didn’t know I could draw, but I’ve produced quite a decent angel with folded wings, bending over the manger where the Christ child lies. One of my
classmates
said it looks like the child in the painting that hangs in the front hall of the school. An Irish artist who is a great admirer of the Ardmháistir painted that picture. When I look at it I imagine it’s a portrait of my little sister, the one who died when she was being born.

Mam has never been well since. Tonight I shall go to the chapel and pray for her.

There will be no Christmas for me. Not this year, maybe not ever. As I’m coming out of the chapel I meet the Ardmháistir, who has been looking for me. The expression on his face almost makes my heart stop. A great cold stone settles in my stomach, and I know the worst. He doesn’t have to tell me.

The Ardmháistir himself is taking me home. Only a few weeks ago there was nothing I wanted so much. Now I do not want to go at all.

The house where my mother died. How can I walk through that door and up that stair? How can I enter the room where she is laid out waiting for me? It is too terrible.

Without my saying anything, Mr Pearse knows how I feel. He too has lost someone he loves. ‘Do you want me to go in with you?’ he asks.

‘Yes. I mean no. Yes, please, sir,’ I finally say.

He takes my hand and we walk up to the door together.

I do not remember the house ever being so cold. No fires are lit. Some black stuff is draped over the looking glass in the front passage, and the clock has been stopped. There are people in the parlour, neighbours, mostly, speaking in whispers. When we enter the room they glance in my direction and then look away again as if they are embarrassed.

I’m still holding tight to the Ardmháistir’s hand.

When I was a little lad I held tight to Mam’s hand when we went to the shops. I loved going to the shops with her. She always gave me a penny to spend on any sweets I liked.

So I always bought the ones I knew that she liked, too.

Who am I going to share my sweets with now?

Pain goes through me like a knife. My throat is all choked up with tears I’m trying not to shed. Oh, Mam. Oh, Mam!

Aunt Nell comes toward us. Her eyes are red with crying. It’s all right for women to cry. ‘Poor little lad,’
she says. Not to me, but to the Ardmháistir. ‘Is he ready to go up and kiss his mother goodbye?’

My stomach is colder than the house. My feet seem to have grown to the floor.

My father stands on the other side of the room with his pipe in his hand. He’s not smoking, he’s just
holding
it. On his face there is no absolutely no expression.

Aunt Nell beckons to him. ‘Here’s John Joe come to see his mother.’

Moving like a man whose joints have rusted, my father puts his pipe down on the mantelpiece. He will never come to me, I shall have to go to him. Tugging the Ardmháistir after me, I start across the room.
Suddenly
I drop Mr Pearse’s hand and hurl myself against my father, throwing my arms around him in a
desperate
hug. I don’t know what’s come over me, I’ve never done anything like this before.

My father stands rigid in my embrace for a moment. Then he pushes me away. And slaps me.

There is a shocked gasp in the room.

Quicker than I thought he could move, the
Ardmháistir
steps between me and my father.

There is another shocked gasp in the room.

Mr Pearse says quietly, ‘I realise this is a difficult time for you, sir, and you have my deepest sympathy, but I cannot condone your behaviour.’

My father’s face starts to turn red. He’s wearing an expression now, one I know all too well. ‘I won’t have the boy making a show of himself!’ he exclaims angrily.

‘The boy just lost his mother. He was coming to you for comfort.’

‘I just lost my wife,’ my father retorts, ‘and I’ll thank you to leave, sir. This is none of your business.’ His face is getting redder.

Seeing them together I realise that the Ardmháistir is much larger than my father. My father is a little, angry man who does not know what to do with his anger. It sprays out of his mouth like spittle. Aunt Nell hurries over to us and puts one hand on her brother’s arm. ‘Please, Bertie. Not in front of the neighbours.’ She throws a pleading glance at Mr Pearse.

The Ardmháistir inclines his head toward me. ‘If you want to go upstairs, John Joe, I’ll go with you.’

The next thing I know we are in Mam’s room. One of her cousins is sitting by the bed. Mr Pearse says
something
to her and she leaves. I pay no attention; I can see nothing, feel nothing, think of nothing but my mother. She is so still. Her face is as white as the sheet tucked under her chin. Her hands are folded atop the covers with her rosary laced through her fingers. I stand by the bed, looking down at her. Time seems to have stopped.

I shall never see her again.

How can that be? This is a bad dream, it has to be. In a few minutes I shall wake up in my bed in St Enda’s and …

Slowly, I bend down until my lips almost touch Mam’s cheek. There is a faint odd smell, like bad breath, coming off her. Or maybe I am imagining it. But I cannot touch her. I straighten up again, my heart hammering in my chest.

‘It’s all right, John Joe,’ says the Ardmháistir. I’d
forgotten
about him. ‘Remember the seashells Mary Brigid collected and put on the windowsills? They are
beautiful
but empty. The creatures that lived in them outgrew those shells and moved on.

‘This is not really your mother any more, John Joe. Your mother has outgrown this world and gone to live with God. What you see now is only the shell she left behind. It cannot hurt you, and it’s nothing to fear.’

The stone in my stomach softens just a little. I bend down again and kiss the cold white cheek goodbye.

I don’t remember much else. That day is erased like words on a blackboard. The funeral and the cemetery are blurred in my mind as well. I was there, I know that much, and so was Mr Pearse, at least part of the time. And when it was over he brought me back to St Enda’s.

I’ll be spending Christmas at St Enda’s and going to
Mass with the Pearse family. My father is closed in on himself, taking no interest in anything but drink. It was Aunt Nell’s decision to let me stop here. I’m grateful to her. How dreadful it would be to spend the holidays amid covered mirrors and stopped clocks. And that awful cold room upstairs with the door closed.

The other day I found one of Mam’s handkerchiefs in the pocket of my Norfolk jacket. She lent it to me a long time ago when I had a cold. The scrap of linen was wadded up and pushed so deep I had forgot about it. I’m always forgetting about things in my pockets.

Finding it was like receiving a message from Mam. I buried my nose in the old, soft linen and thought for a moment I could smell the scent she used. Like lilac blossoms. She used to love lilacs. When they bloomed in our back garden she brought armloads of blossom into the house. Once she put some in a vase in my room, but my father threw them out. He said boys shouldn’t have flowers.

Where are you now, Mam? Don’t you know how much I miss you? There’s a great big hole in my life and nothing is going to fill it, not ever.

Roger and the other boys have all gone home for the holidays. Without them, St Enda’s is full of echoes.

Mrs Pearse is making a great fuss over me. She means well, but she keeps reminding me of what I’ve
lost and I don’t need reminding. Fortunately Willie, as always, takes his lead from his brother, and lets me grieve in my own way. His sympathy is obvious, though. Willie’s feelings show on his face, he makes no effort to hide them. My father would say that’s unmanly.

I don’t think so. I think Willie is very kind.

The Ardmháistir is not here very much. He attends meetings at all hours and returns with a light in his eyes as if a lamp were glowing inside him. How I envy him. Inside me it’s very dark. I’m sure I shall never be happy again.

Christmas dinner is served in the family dining room, where a small tree has been decorated with
ribbons
and candles. Mary Brigid plays a harp
accompaniment
while her mother and sister bring in the food. I’m not very hungry. I manage to eat a sliver of turkey and a few bites of pudding and drink a glass of
lemonade
. Then I just want to go up to the dormitory and get into bed.

Mam’s handkerchief is under my pillow.

When the Ardmháistir is away from the school Willie looks after me. Willie adores his brother and will do anything he asks of him, including giving up his own free time to try to lift my spirits. On the Saturday after Christmas he takes me into Dublin on the tram.

Grafton Street is thronged with shoppers. Shiny black motor cars nose their way through the crowds. Fuller’s and Mitchell’s are crowded with scores of young men and women ordering coffee, or sipping ice-cream sodas.

‘Would you care for an ice-cream soda?’ Willie asks.

A few weeks ago I would have turned handsprings for an ice-cream soda. I’ve only ever had one, on a day when Mam took me into the city for shopping. The last day Mam ever …

‘No thank you, sir,’ I say.

We wander up and down the pavement a while. Willie asks if I would like to go to the panto. ‘If you want to,’ I reply with a shrug. He drops the subject and buys a bag of sweets for me instead. I offer him the first one, of course, then eat one myself to be polite. Afterward I cram the paper bag into my coat pocket and forget about it.

We are back at the Hermitage in time for tea. Mrs Pearse serves a steak-and-kidney pie – my favourite – but I don’t have any appetite. ‘I must have eaten too many sweets,’ I tell her.

Willie darts a glance at me but does not give me away.

Some time later I find the bag of sweets in my coat pocket. The coat was hung too close to the fire and they have melted into an awful lump.

In the first week of the new year Mr Pearse returns from one of his meetings in a state of excitement. He tells us, ‘By the end of the year the Irish Volunteers had almost ten thousand men signed up! There is to be a female auxiliary as well, called Cumann na mBan.’

‘What can women do?’ I ask; thinking of my poor frail mother lying in her bed, so helpless …

‘Without the support of the women the nationalist movement would be far weaker. They have their own quiet courage,’ Mr Pearse asserts, adding, in a faraway voice as if he’s thinking of someone special, ‘and more grit than many men.’

Yesterday Countess Markievicz paid a call on Mr Pearse. This morning he summons me to his office. ‘John Joe, the Fianna is growing rapidly. Boys who are too young to join the Volunteers are flocking to be members. How about you? It would give you something to take your mind off …’ He does not finish. I knew what he means, and am grateful for the suggestion.

‘I should like very much to join the Fianna, sir. But when I asked for permission before, I was told it would worry my mother.’

‘It will not worry her now,’ he says gently. ‘Shall we try again?’