A Winter of Spies by Gerard Whelan Page A

well-bred, respectable young man had swindled them out of their savings. They’d been forced to let out part of their own house. Sarah had been quite pleased at this turn of events, knowing how shamed the snooty sisters would be. Now she tried to imagine Moore, with his neat moustache, dressed in the antique clothes of the sour old Ryan sisters.
    Sarah giggled. Really, Simon was fun. Josie could do a lot worse than encourage him.
    True to his word, Da had got back before curfew last night. Simon, he said, would be up first thing after curfew tomorrow. Da and Mick would be in work. The Conway women must give Simon whatever he needed. Sarah had no idea of what that might be, but felt thrilled anyway: maybe she couldn’t carry guns, but she could still take some part in things.
    She was glad that she’d taken Simon’s gun that time. It had been dangerous and foolhardy, but it had made her feel very good. She’d done her bit. Now that she knew how things stood, of course, everything was different. Now she’d do her bit by being careful. And if girls were best for moving weapons, surely they were good for moving messages too? Sarah had images of herself bringing important documents to Michael Collins himself.
    Sarah found Ma in the kitchen, already making tea. Ella and Josie had gone for a walk in Herbert Park.
    â€˜Simon wants some tea,’ Sarah said.
    â€˜I guessed he would,’ Ma said. She’d recovered quickly from her outburst last night, but Sarah hadn’t forgotten it. She’d seen the mask of calm taken away from her mother’s face, and seen what lay beneath.
    She thought of the troubles Ma had been through – the Great Strike, the years of poverty, the war, the Rising. Through it all Ma had kept the family together, even when her husband was off being shot at in a war where millions died. And now things had turned out well, and she might have expected a little happiness. But instead her husband and her brother were both up to their eyes in even more dangerous business, and the comfort she’d finally found for her children might be snatched away again.
    Sarah understood Ma’s worries, but she didn’t feel the same way. She had only to think of Da now for her heart to swell with pride. But that glimpse of Ma’s feelings last night – not just what she said, but the pain in her voice when she said it – had confused Sarah. Ma and Da both wanted the best for their children, but in this matter it seemed there was a gulf between them.
    She stood by the table and watched Ma go through the simple movements of making the tea. She felt a stab of love for this woman who had done so much for her. But then she heard feet coming quickly down the stairs, andSimon Hughes came in.
    â€˜Here, Sal,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your Mr Moore.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Yes. And you’ll see him too, I think. He’s coming up your path.’
    As he turned to go back up the stairs, Sarah saw him reach inside his coat for his gun. She was already in the hall when the knock came to the front door. When Sarah opened it Moore was standing on the step.
    â€˜Ah,’ he said. ‘Good morning. Sarah, isn’t it?’
    â€˜It is, Mr Moore.’
    Ma came to the door, and Sarah introduced her to their visitor.
    â€˜Actually,’ Moore said, ‘I hoped to see Mrs Breen again.’
    â€˜The Breens live in the basement,’ Ma said. ‘Sarah, why don’t you bring Mr Moore downstairs?’
    Sarah didn’t want to go anywhere with this man who might be a British agent. Then she thought she might find out more about him if she did go.
    â€˜Come on, Mr Moore,’ she said. ‘Only I hope you haven’t had your breakfast. Mrs Breen will stuff you with tea and cake.’
    She was surprised to hear her own voice sounding so cheery. Maybe she was getting better at lying. That would be useful.
    She tripped down the steps with