Katie's War Read online

  * * *

  From her bed Katie listened to the whistling below in the yard and smiled. What on earth had got her dreaming of the black dogs again? Happily, that time was long over now. It was time to think of herself and of the summer ahead.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Handsome Soldier

  ‘Katie, are you going to lie in bed all day?’ Mother called from the yard, banging lustily on the basin of hen-feed as she called, ‘Chook, chook, chook, chook.’

  Katie pulled up her knees, then shot her legs down again so that the sheet billowed out over the end of the bed. She swung her feet on to the rush mat beside her bed and cocked her head. She could hear the hens pecking on the corrugated iron sheet in the open cart-shed opposite; it sounded like rain on a tin roof. She got up, knelt on the window ledge and leant out. The top of her mother’s head was just disappearing back into the house below. Late-comers among the hens were hurrying towards the shed, their necks stretched out. Marty was standing by the byre door. He looked up, saw Katie, and began an exaggerated yawning and rubbing-eyes routine. His bare feet were covered with muck.

  ‘Wash your feet,’ she called. He kicked one foot up and wiggled his toes at her. Then he pretended to try to lift the other leg, using both hands, and nearly fell over. Despite herself, Katie laughed and ducked back into the room. Against the wall by the door was a wash-stand. On it was a china basin with red painted roses, and a tall china jug that nearly matched. The soap dish was a saucer which she’d chosen because it also had roses on it. She leaned forward to look in the mirror. A broad freckled face, two blue eyes and an unruly mass of red hair looked back at her. The face was still smiling from Marty’s antics, so she stuck her tongue out at it, then she dipped a hand into the water jug and gave two token dabs at her face, one on each cheek, and reached for the towel. She was just burying her face in it when she stopped. The visitors! She’d forgotten about the visitors. She wasn’t sure whether her heart sank or not. It was a Welsh man, a friend of her father’s from the war, coming to advise him about reopening their slate quarry. He was bringing his son – for the experience apparently. She wondered what he’d be like. She was fifteen; perhaps he’d be Seamus’s age and working now?

  To begin with she had been angry at the thought of having visitors at the beginning of the holidays. But now, rather to her surprise, she realised she was looking forward to the visit. She poured water from the jug into the basin. She imagined the boy in her mind. She’d never felt any real need for boys and most of the nicer ones had left school at fourteen. Anyway, she’d had Father to look after – perhaps the boys had kept away because he was always there. She wasn’t going to start bothering about them now. Laughing at herself, she scooped water over her face and neck and washed thoroughly before taking her best frock from behind the curtain which closed off the press in the corner. She had a pleasant feeling of anticipation. Father had promised to take her with him when he went to collect the visitors in the horse and trap; a trip into Nenagh was special. She battled briefly with her hair until she could catch it at the back with a ribbon, then she poured the water from the basin into the enamel bucket under the wash-stand and ran downstairs.

  ‘Oh Katie,’ said her mother, seeing her dressed up, ‘I should have said – the train will be late. The postman looked in to say there has been some trouble in Dublin. The train will not be in till twelve or later.’ Katie hesitated, wondering if she should go back up and change. Then she noticed that her mother had stopped working the bread dough that was caking on her hands.

  ‘What’s the matter? What sort of trouble? You look worried, Mother.’

  ‘I am worried …’ she hesitated, ‘I think there may be fighting.’

  ‘How can there be? Isn’t the war against England over? We have Home Rule now, haven’t we?’

  ‘We have and we haven’t, child. The sad fact of the matter is that we can’t trust the English. For as long as we have to swear allegiance to their king they have us like a pig on a string, and that’s how they think of us too. Any excuse and they’ll take back what they’ve given, and they have the forces to do it too. We want them out of Ireland – all of Ireland – once and for all. I can see that treaty splitting us apart like a badly snagged turnip.’

  ‘Well, it won’t split our family, Mother,’ said Katie, leaning forward, avoiding the doughy hands and kissing Mother on the cheek. ‘I won’t let it.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, chick. I hope you’re right.’ Mother placed the moist dough into a floured baking tin and slid it into the range. ‘Well then. Your porridge is inside the pigs by now. Will you have an egg?’

  * * *

  Katie loved a ride in the trap. Since she was tiny she had liked the bounce of the springs and the feeling of being locked in once the little door at the back of the trap was closed. She used to think that she had only to say the right word and Barney, farm horse that he was, would spread wings and together they would fly out over the patchwork of fields of her beloved Tipperary. They would swoop down then and gallop so low over Lough Derg that his hooves would catch the blue wave-tops and the wheels would spin in the foam. Then they would rise up and fly over the little harbour of Garrykennedy and look down on the castle and the up-turned faces of the people unloading the turf that had come all the way from Galway in barges blown on brown sails. This morning Barney seemed to catch her enthusiasm and, for a while at any rate, they clipped along at a fine rate between the hedges, making for the main road.

  Father had made a loop in the left rein for his hook, but the horse needed little guidance. They could see the line of the main road before they got to it from the white dust clinging to the hedges. The loose chippings had been recently rolled and the pot-holes filled in, so it felt almost as smooth as if driving on tar when they turned on to it. There was little traffic on the road, just a few carts, but Father kept a look out for the steam-roller. Father often said that Barney was too flighty for a farm horse and certainly, if Barney had a mortal dread in the world it was of this hissing, clanking, smoking monster. If they came upon it by surprise they might find themselves back home or even in the county Clare before they could stop him! They met no monsters, and Father let Barney walk as they came into Nenagh.

  They clopped down Kenyon Street and turned into the station yard. They could see the line, and there was no sign of a train. Father went to ask about it, leaving Katie in the trap holding the reins. She looked about with interest at all the activity. A squad of soldiers marched in, halted and were then dismissed. Some lit cigarettes while others looked for shade. An army lorry backed towards her. Perhaps they were expecting supplies on the train. Barney shifted uneasily and Katie wished she was holding his head instead of sitting in the trap, but that would mean dropping the reins while she got out. One of the soldiers in the station doorway hitched his rifle up on his shoulder and walked over. He talked quietly to Barney and stretched up to scratch the horse on the nose. Then his hand slipped down till he was holding the bridle. The lorry backed past.

  ‘Steady, boy,’ the soldier said, and looked up at Katie.

  ‘He’s quiet,’ she said.

  ‘I know that old lorry, it can backfire like a field-gun,’ he said, smiling.

  Katie looked down into a brown, sunburned face. It was screwed up against the light. She wanted to say something but her wits seemed to have deserted her.

  ‘He’s tired as well,’ she managed finally.

  ‘Come far?’

  ‘Portroe way.’

  ‘That’s over towards the Shannon, isn’t it?’ He couldn’t be much older than Seamus, and not a local either. Galway perhaps, from his accent.

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled her thoughts back. ‘Up at the slate quarries.’ Why couldn’t she think of anything better to talk about than old slates?

  ‘Your father in the quarries?’ he asked, tipping his head towards the station where Father had disappeared.

  ‘He was till they closed for the war; one of the small quarries.’


  ‘Will they open again?’

  ‘That’s what he’s trying to do now.’

  One of the soldiers over by the station shouted something and followed it with a guffaw of laughter. The soldier frowned and their conversation faltered. He hitched his rifle up on his shoulder. The sun shone on the oiled wood. Katie found herself staring, fascinated. This was a gun, a real gun, like her father talked about; she’d never been close to one before. It was beautiful but yet terrible at the same time. Was it really made for killing people? It seemed extraordinary that this shiny piece of wood and oiled metal carried death, and for whom?

  ‘Is it heavy?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, you get used to it,’ said the soldier, following her eyes. ‘We’re not supposed to put them down in case they get stolen. It seems there’s fighting in Dublin.’

  ‘Who could be fighting now?’ Katie asked.

  ‘Soldiers like me fighting soldiers like me.’

  ‘Irish soldiers fighting Irish soldiers? That sounds silly.’

  ‘Yes it is. I thought the treaty Mr Collins brought back was good enough, something to build on; it gave us the Free State, and isn’t it freedom we were looking for? But no, the Republicans want nothing less than a Republic – no king. They’re ready to fight us for it too.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, us – the army. So we call them Rebels, and they call us Staters, while the English split their sides laughing. So, there you are,’ he said with a grin.

  Katie thought of what Mother had said that morning. She didn’t know what to say. Was she a Rebel or a Stater? She wanted him to go on talking but a gap was yawning in their conversation. Why had her mouth gone dry? On the butt of the rifle was a triangular patch of lighter wood set into the darker stock.

  ‘What’s the yellow triangle for?’ she asked, nodding towards it.

  ‘Somebody got a bullet or a bit of shrapnel in it, I reckon,’ he said.

  ‘Was he … hurt?’ she said, unhappy at having raised the subject. She had nearly said ‘killed’.

  ‘Not by me, at any rate,’ the boy laughed. ‘I suspect he got the fright of his life though. Maybe it saved him,’ he added with a smile, as if to reassure her.

  Katie warmed to him. It was nice to have someone reassuring her. She liked him; the day was turning out well. At that moment a bell rang in the station and the signal changed with a clunk.

  ‘That’ll be the train,’ said the soldier, and Father appeared from the door leading to the platform, walking rapidly.

  ‘Just coming in now,’ he said. ‘We’d better watch Barney, he might think it’s a steam-roller.’

  ‘You go on, Sir, the Miss too, I’ll hold him. He’ll be all right.’

  Father noticed the soldier for the first time. ‘Well, thank you very much, young man. Come on, Katie.’

  The boy reached up and pulled the horse’s head down on to his shoulder and fondled its ears. He smiled at Katie as she passed.

  They could see the train approaching down the line as they walked on to the platform. A thin jet of steam shot up once, then twice, and two shrill whistles came down the line.

  Everyone stepped back as the engine hissed by. Katie was reminded of the day she had come to fetch her father, but the vapour did not linger as it had on that cold December day. Doors swung open as the train slowed. Her father stood on tiptoe searching over the sudden bustle on the platform. Katie could sense that he was excited.

  ‘There he is – that’s Griffith, with the cap – Mr Parry to you – and that must be Dafydd.’ He started thrusting his way through the crowd. Katie struggled after him. She could see the man Father had pointed to looking about him, but no sign of his son. A pale gawky lad was helping a lady, his mother perhaps, with a case that looked too heavy for him.

  ‘Griffith!’ Father was pumping the man by the hand.

  ‘Sergeant O’Brien, it’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Call me Eamonn, or I’ll start calling you Captain.’

  ‘There’s a threat for you!’ and both men laughed, still gripping hands, reluctant to let go.

  ‘Now, where’s that son of mine?’ asked Mr Parry, looking around.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dafydd

  Katie stood frozen, eyes riveted on the boy who was now grinning amiably up at the two men. It was the sickly lad she had seen. He too wore a cap. His head was small, his ears large; he had a short body with long arms and legs. He seemed to alternate between big and small all the way down, ending in half-mast trousers and a pair of huge hobnailed boots. Katie found herself staring at him in disbelief. Where was the handsome Welsh boy she’d imagined waiting to sweep her off her feet? This boy looked pale and frail with black smudges under his eyes. Only that Father had told her on the way to the station that he was fifteen, she’d have said he was Marty’s age, no more. She thought of the picture she had built up of him that morning and felt foolish and resentful all in one. Then she realised they were all looking at her. She tore her eyes away from where they had lodged, on his boots. She could feel a blush rising. It started at her neck and burst on to her face like a flame. The boy seemed to notice. He blinked, as if to adjust to a bright light.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a funny sing-song voice, putting out his hand. Then he changed his mind and took off his cap instead. The men laughed. Mr Parry shook her hand and called her beautiful. Father scooped up a sack of tools of theirs, which was lying on the platform, with his hook.

  ‘Your luggage is in the guard’s van?’ he asked. ‘Don’t worry about it now, the carter will bring it up this evening as long as it’s labelled.’ The crowd on the platform was thinning. The soldiers were beginning to file on to the platform. ‘We’d better relieve that young man of yours, Katie.’

  They found the soldier walking back from the other side of the yard with the trap. Thoughtfully, he had taken Barney away from the line as the train came in.

  ‘You don’t like trains, do you, old lad?’ the soldier said, patting the horse’s neck. ‘I’ll hold him till you’re in, Sir.’

  ‘Katie, you and Dafydd move up to the front, we’ll sit in the back and keep the weight off the shafts. Barney will be quiet now, you’ll be able to hold him.’

  Katie gathered up the reins, feeling a sudden rush of longing. She wanted to stay in Nenagh talking to the handsome soldier with the smiling face and teasing eyes. She knew that he was looking up at her from Barney’s head now but she felt too shy to look down. Perhaps he would see what she was feeling. Then she realised she was staring at the boots of the Welsh lad opposite and the two white sticks of his legs emerging from his trousers. She mustn’t blush again. She turned to look down at the soldier. He had his head slightly to one side, an eyebrow raised, smiling.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said quietly, and he might have been saying it to Barney or to her. Then he turned the trap towards the gate and stood back.

  ‘Thank you,’ called Father as they passed. ‘Hand in that rifle of yours and we’ll teach you how to make slates!’

  ‘Soon now,’ replied the lad. Then to Katie, ‘No reckless driving!’

  There were people and carts and a couple of motor cars in the station yard and Katie had to concentrate. But she managed one glance back as she left the yard. He was still there. He raised a hand. Katie wanted to wave back but her hands were full. Then they were in the street being carried along by the flow of traffic.

  As they left the town behind them she kept thinking of all the bright, clever things she could have said to the soldier instead of being tongue-tied like a schoolgirl. Then she realised she didn’t even know his name! She’d never see him again. How had the beautiful day, which had promised so much, gone wrong? Suddenly she was in a foul temper.

  With the two men in the back, the front of the trap was raised like the prow of a ship, and Barney had no weight on him at all. Katie wanted to stand up, like the English queen she had seen in a magazine, driving her chariot to war. Out of the corner of her eye she
could see the little Welsh boy. Oh Mother of God! – a summer with those boots! They were clear of the town now. She slapped Barney with the reins, half stood up, collided with the boy’s knees and sat down with a jolt. Barney broke into a canter.

  ‘Steady now, Katie,’ said her father. She gripped the reins tightly. In the picture, the queen’s chariot had had scythes on the wheels. She drove as close as she could to the edge of the road, imagining mowing the dandelions down as if they were her enemies.

  By the time the road crossed the Newtown bridge and Barney slowed for the rise through the village, the heat of her anger had passed. She thought she ought to try to be civil. Keeping her eyes away from his boots, she glanced across at the boy. ‘Tell me about your quarry. Do you work in it?’

  ‘No, no – still at school I am. Just in the holidays. Odd jobs, like,’ again that lilting accent.

  The men had stopped talking. ‘He splits a very nice slate, does Dafydd,’ the boy’s father stated.

  Dafydd blushed. ‘Father’s the foreman – see – next to the manager. Met your Dad in the war. Always talking about working with the Irish in the war he is. You see, nobody thought much of the Welsh miners, digging under the German trenches to blow them up. Treated the Welsh like dirt. But the Irish didn’t, they were all right. The English didn’t like the Irish any more than the Welsh, see. “Two dogs with a bad name,” Dad says.’

  ‘But the Irish were fighting with England,’ said Katie indignantly. ‘Dad was a volunteer, “Fighting for the freedom of small nations”. Little countries like Belgium!’