Women of Courage (79 page)

She smiled. ‘Is that your idea of an invitation?’

‘It is that. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

‘Then I might spare you a moment or two, if you’re lucky.’ But she thought, if he hadn’t asked her, she would have hated him for ever.

It was a cold, grey day, hinting at snow but then disappointing, as so often in December. They walked eastwards along Wilton Terrace, with the grey water of the canal on their right. She noticed how Sean looked up and down the road carefully, his eyes never resting in one place for very long. A motor omnibus for Sandymount stopped in front of them, and they boarded it.

On the bus their thighs touched, and she felt every jolt of the road. She said: ‘You weren’t followed to the hospital?’

Sean’s smile faded. ‘No. Why do you say that?’

‘I’m not stupid, you know, Sean Brennan. I’ve got a thing or two to tell you, as well.’

They spoke little more on the bus, for people were crowded all round them. When they got off, they walked along the promenade beside the beach. Here, surely, they were safe from pursuit. There were a fair number of people strolling up and down - mostly couples and families, seeking a breath of fresh air before dusk - but not a policeman or soldier in sight. Small children ran after hoops or kicked balls under the eyes of indulgent parents.

Catherine leaned back against a pillar in the low sea wall, taking both Sean’s hands in hers and pulling him towards her. She would not let him go now. He looked solemn, and opened his mouth to speak, but she touched a finger to his lips.

‘It’s all right, I know what you have to tell me. And I’m proud of you, Sean, as any true Irish girl would be. Except for one thing.’ She shivered, and felt his fingers between her own. Big, smooth firm fingers, that had pulled the pin from the bomb and thrown it. ‘If you’d succeeded, I wouldn’t be here today.’

‘What do you mean?’ He scowled at her, the boyish face slightly flushed, a little angry. He really didn’t know, then.

‘I was in the Viceroy’s car, Sean.’

It is true, she thought. A sudden shock does cause blood to drain from the face. She could see it happening. He stared at her, wide-eyed, then took his hands from hers and turned guiltily away. And she thought,
I didn’t mean that, don’t abandon me now.

She said: ‘It’s all right, Sean, I told you. I’m not hurt. And I know why you did it. I would do the same, if I dared.’ She touched his cheek gently, to comfort him. He shuddered, and jerked his head violently, as though her hand were a wasp.

‘What the hell were you doing in the damn car, then? You had no right to be there!’

‘It’s not a crime, you know! Anyway, I was tricked into it.’ She explained the trick her father had played, and her attempts to argue with Lord French on the train. But she could see he was only half listening. He turned away from her, and thrust his hands into his coat pockets angrily.

‘You couldn’t expect me to know you were there! I’m a soldier, and French is the enemy. You shouldn’t go near him!’

Will he reject me for that?
She stood quite still, not touching him, waiting to see if he would walk away. When he did not she said gently: ‘I know that, Sean. I want him dead too.’

‘You do?’ He turned back, looked in her eyes, surprised.

‘Yes. If it will help Ireland, I do.’

It struck him how slender she was; yet very straight-backed too, strong, determined. The delicate beauty of her hurt him. He thought of the way a crocus could be strong enough to burst its way through the tarmac at the side of a road, and then be crushed by any casual passing boot. He might have maimed her for ever.

‘I’m sorry, Cathy. It’s you that has the right to be angry, not me. I might have killed you.’

‘You might have been killed yourself. You took that risk.’

He reached out his arms, and she slipped gladly into his embrace. They held each other very close, very still, while the seagulls screamed on the beach behind them. A mother, passing with two small children, glanced at them nostalgically.

They walked along the promenade, arm in arm for warmth. There were some steps down to the beach. They went down them, and stumbled across the sand to the sea’s edge. It was dusk, and a small cold wind was coming off the sea. She told him of the detective who had visited her, and the photo he had shown her. She gave him Kee’s card.

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Nothing. Only that you were a student in my year, but he knew that already. He had searched Martin’s room, and yours. He thought I might have seen you at Ashtown.’

‘And you told him you didn’t?’

‘Yes.’

‘Martin.’ Sean skimmed a stone across the grey water. Its splashes were oddly bright, like snowflakes in gaslight. ‘He would have been alive now, if it wasn’t for me.’

She had been too bound up in herself; she had never thought of this. ‘Why, Sean?’

He picked up another stone, and flung it high in the air with a vicious twist of his arm. It fell into the sea with an odd sucking noise. ‘Because I told him to run out and chuck his last bomb, that’s why.’ It all came back to him: the sudden dash out into the middle of the road, the bullets splattering around them like hailstones, Martin falling on his face like a stuffed doll. ‘And the bloody car was empty all the time!’

She linked her arm through his, tentatively, so that he could break free if he wanted. ‘You couldn’t have known that.’

‘No.’ He touched her hand and looked round at her. Her face was pale, indistinct in the twilight. ‘And if we had known it … Sweet Mother of Christ!’

‘She was watching over me,’ Catherine said. ‘Will you try to kill French again?’

‘If we get the chance, and Mick Collins learns where he plans to go. But he’ll be walled in by guards now, more than ever.’ Sean gave a short bitter laugh of triumph and frustration. ‘The man’s a fugitive now. Viceroy, indeed! He’s a criminal on the run!’

They stepped back hurriedly to avoid a wave larger than the others. Catherine leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘What about you, Sean? Now they’ve got your photo, what will you do?’

He frowned. ‘It’s too risky to come to college. I’ll have to give up studying for a while. But this is more important. It’s the birth of our country, Caitlin - there has to be blood!’

She shuddered slightly at the sentiment, but she did not question it. Padraig Pearse had said things like that. She liked it when he used her Irish name; it reminded her of her nurse, of childhood. She asked: ‘Where are you staying?’

‘That’s not a thing for me to tell you now, is it?’

‘Why not?’

‘Your Inspector Kee might come back and ask some more questions. If you don’t know, you can’t tell him.’

She unwound his arm from her waist and stepped back. He might be a hero in the Volunteers, but she would not let him control her. ‘Sean Brennan, do you think for one moment I’d tell the police a thing like that?’

He considered her, seriously weighing the question, and her genuine indignation. His face was shadowy in the growing dusk.

‘No,
a ghra
, of course I don’t. But I have to be as safe as I can, now I’m on the run. You wouldn’t mean to tell them, but they have trick ways of putting the questions. You might be taken in.’

She thought for a moment, and then relaxed. He was right; it was his life that was at risk. ‘I’m sorry, Sean.’ She put her arms around his neck, and kissed him quickly on the lips. It was as she remembered. ‘I only asked, because I want to be taken in by you. I want to be a soldier’s girl.’

Surprised, he kissed her back, and she responded warmly. It was like the first time, outside her house. And she thought, this is what I need, this is what I want him for. The sense of touch, of contact with something real, outside my study and loneliness. But then he drew back.

‘We can’t do this here, Cathy. It’s …’

‘Madness. I know. We need somewhere to go.’

He shook his head, bemused. ‘You shouldn’t … women aren’t supposed to talk like that, you know.’

If he had expected her to be ashamed, she was not. She was not accustomed to question her own desires. His embarrassment amused her. ‘Really? I thought all girls spoke to you like that. I’ve been looking for you for three days, joy.’

‘Look. Talk sense now. Are you hungry?’

She linked her arms around his waist, and pulled him close against her. ‘Famished.’

‘No, look. I didn’t mean that.’ There was another long, exploratory kiss before he could explain further. Sean felt things were getting out of control. Surely people must be watching; if there were any people foolish enough to be still out on this cold beach, on a dark December evening. ‘I meant, hungry for food.’

‘I’m hungry for everything.’ She touched the tip of his nose with hers. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘There’s a pie shop ...’

‘Mmmm.’ She kissed him again, before he could finish. His resistance melted, and he gave himself up to the pleasure of it. After all, he thought, why wait? I may be dead tomorrow.

‘Right then. Let’s go.’ It was going her way now. She broke out of his arms suddenly, and began to stride across the sand, tugging him after her by one hand.

‘Hey.’ He had not expected that, either. ‘Wait a minute. Where are we going?’

‘To the pie shop, lover. Aren’t you hungry?’

As they sat in the pie shop, devouring pies at a battered wooden table next to a window running with condensation, a feeling of tenderness for Catherine overwhelmed him. Those fingers, those hands, that lively, delicate face, those lips which had clung to his and were now flecked with crumbs of pastry - they could have been shattered, ripped to bloody rags by the bomb he had thrown.

He reached out across the table, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed each finger separately.

She smiled. ‘Are you really so fond of me?’

‘I am that.’ He remembered when his little sister had been left in his charge, and had nearly been killed by a bull because of his own carelessness. He had felt a little like this then.

But Catherine was no little sister. The touch of her hands in his, the pressure of their knees jammed together under the little table, sent an electric charge through him in the way no child could ever do. Sean had the impression that the grubby seaside pie shop was a palace, alight with vibrant colours.

‘Tell me. Did you really beard the Viceroy in his train?’

‘I did.’ She told him the story again and this time it seemed irresistibly funny to both of them. Her laughter was a thing of beauty in itself.

The shopkeeper interrupted sourly, picking up their plates and wiping the table with a cloth. ‘If you two lovebirds would mind finishing? It’s well gone six o’clock.’ They looked round and saw they were alone. Catherine smiled and stood up. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you so much. They were lovely pies.’

Outside, on the windy, dark promenade, they clung to each other for warmth. They were a similar height; it was easy to match their strides as they walked. Sean could feel her thigh pressing against his and held her closer.

She asked: ‘Where shall we go?’

‘I don’t know.’ The answer took a long time, because they turned to face each other, and then it seemed natural to kiss again. They formed an island of warmth together in the cold wind. Growing daring, he slipped his hands in under her unbuttoned coat, and rubbed her back through the thin woollen dress. She moaned, and pressed herself closer to him. Then a gust of wind snatched her hat and whirled it along the street.

‘I’ll get it.’

‘No.’ She laughed and held him back. ‘It doesn’t matter, Sean. I don’t need it.’

‘But - it’s an expensive hat!’ Never in his life had he imagined letting clothing blow away without caring.

‘We’ll get it later. Hold me like that again.’

And for a long time the hat was forgotten. On a winter night like this, the windswept promenade was one of the most private places they could have found. But at last a group of sailors came along, singing and whistling. Sean and Catherine broke apart, regretfully. She shivered, and buttoned her coat.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to a pub for a drink.’

‘All right.’ She put her arm round his waist, and snuggled close against him. She knew her servants would expect her home, and would have cooked a meal, but she did not care. Her father had left on the afternoon boat for London, so she would have been alone anyway. She toyed with the idea of inviting Sean home. After all, why not? She was an adult now, she was her own mistress - if she wanted to invite a friend home, the butler Keneally and the other servants couldn’t stop her! She imagined Sean in her drawing room, kissing her on the lemon-yellow ottoman, or on the green window seat, perhaps, looking down over Merrion Square …

And her bedroom was just next door
. Don’t think that, Catherine,
she thought
, that’s one thing you can’t possibly do.

But the idea had an awful fascination. She wondered how it would be. She would take him up to her room, and they would sit and talk for a while, by the warm fire her maid would have lit -
God, it was cold out here!
- and they would kiss and then … She was hazy about how people got into bed. Her parents had had separate rooms with adjoining doors. But it was impossible to think of her parents making love. She would make an excuse and undress behind her screen and come to him in her long cream nightdress and -
he would have no nightclothes at all!
The beauty of the thought thrilled her so much that she sighed, and he turned and kissed her again as they walked along in the cold sea wind.

Sean would have no clothes at all!
She had seen men half-naked in the fields, and been brought up to appreciate the beauty of the classical sculptures and paintings which filled her parents’ houses. There was one in particular, a black shining one of a man and woman embracing, that had always fascinated her. But somehow, this was the first time she had thought of these things in relation to herself, and a real, living man! She would come out from behind her screen in her long cream nightdress and he would be there, quite smooth and naked in the lamplight, ready to crush her to him. His lips would press against hers as they had done just now and his hands roam her back and he would lift her and take her to the bed and
it was quite quite impossible
.