Station Road and goes into the front room. Frank is there with Mrs O’Hanrahan and Kitty.
‘We’d best be on the move. Get your stuff and we’re away.’
Getting his stuff takes no more than a moment; all his possessions are in a small carpet bag of his mother’s. He shakes Mrs O’Hanrahan’s hand, holds Kitty’s for a long moment, who looks down, then brushes Tomas’s cheek with her lips.
‘There’s no time for that,’ says Frank, frowning, and they walk out the door. As they reach the far end of the road a lorry pulls up outside number 17 and half a dozen Auxiliaries jump out. ‘Don’t run,’ says Frank as they turn the corner. Half an hour later they are in a small room above a bar down by the docks.
‘The Queen Victoria’s a great name for a Republican snug,’ says Frank, pointing to the sign. ‘Eamonn was for changing it. I said, better leave it alone. Call it the Wolfe Tone or the Ninety-Eight, it’ll fill up with singing heroes and get raided every other night.’
In the upstairs room they are joined by a third man a little older than Tomas. He is called Denis; no last names are exchanged.
‘The three of us are away to the country for a while,’ says Frank. ‘Michael Collins has a job for us back here when we’re ready. You two need some practice.’
‘Practice at what?’
‘The revolver.’
Frank leaves later that evening; the next morning Michael Kelly, a fifty-year-old farmer arrives in a pony and trap and gives detailed directions to Tomas.
‘It’ll take the best part of the day. And go easy on Cora, on the pony. She’s not one of your Kerry mares. Frank says you know horses – I hope he’s right.’
‘He’s right enough,’ says Tomas with a smile, patting Cora on the neck as she nuzzles his sleeve. He has a sudden longing for the farmyard smells of horses and cattle and hay.
He and Denis swing up onto the trap and trot off down Victoria Quay. The city is soon left behind; the Cork countryside down towards the coast is flatter and more prosperous that the boggy, rocky little fields of County Kerry. Bracken, rowan and larch mark their journey and in the distance lies the grey-blue sea. The journey passes without much conversation. Tomas extracts a couple of monosyllabic replies from Denis and then gives up, concentrating on the road and, now and again, Kitty’s soft parting kiss.
Outside Ballygarvan they are stopped by an army roadblock.
‘Where are you two going?’ asks the sergeant, looking down at a sheet of a dozen photographs.
‘Back to our farm at Lissagroom,’ says Tomas. Denis looks straight ahead and says nothing. There is a perfunctory search of their bags.
‘What’s in the sacks?’
‘Potatoes.’
The sergeant laughs, rips open the topmost sack, tumbles out a few of the potatoes, rummages about and finds nothing.
‘I’d have thought you had enough of these already. And they’re a bit small, no?’
‘They’re seed potatoes for next year.’
The sergeant holds up the sheet of photographs alongside Tomas, then Denis. Tomas sees Frank’s picture in the gallery and looks away.
‘You’re neither of you there yet,’ says the sergeant. ‘Be off with you.’
They arrive at the farmhouse in the evening after a couple of wrong turnings, directions hard to come by from the cautious travellers they pass along the road. Frank is already there.
‘Were you stopped along the road?’ he says.
‘Only the once. They’d never seen seed potatoes before.’
‘Lucky they didn’t look in every sack,’ says Frank as he shifts the load and takes the bottom sack into the house. He opens it and unpacks three bulky packages, each revealing a shiny new Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and several boxes of ammunition.
‘These’ll do the business once you learn to point them. More reliable than any automatic.’
Tomas and Denis say nothing, offended that they hadn’t been told.
‘I’ll see to the pony,’ says Tomas; he goes out, unharnesses Cora and
‘We’d best be on the move. Get your stuff and we’re away.’
Getting his stuff takes no more than a moment; all his possessions are in a small carpet bag of his mother’s. He shakes Mrs O’Hanrahan’s hand, holds Kitty’s for a long moment, who looks down, then brushes Tomas’s cheek with her lips.
‘There’s no time for that,’ says Frank, frowning, and they walk out the door. As they reach the far end of the road a lorry pulls up outside number 17 and half a dozen Auxiliaries jump out. ‘Don’t run,’ says Frank as they turn the corner. Half an hour later they are in a small room above a bar down by the docks.
‘The Queen Victoria’s a great name for a Republican snug,’ says Frank, pointing to the sign. ‘Eamonn was for changing it. I said, better leave it alone. Call it the Wolfe Tone or the Ninety-Eight, it’ll fill up with singing heroes and get raided every other night.’
In the upstairs room they are joined by a third man a little older than Tomas. He is called Denis; no last names are exchanged.
‘The three of us are away to the country for a while,’ says Frank. ‘Michael Collins has a job for us back here when we’re ready. You two need some practice.’
‘Practice at what?’
‘The revolver.’
Frank leaves later that evening; the next morning Michael Kelly, a fifty-year-old farmer arrives in a pony and trap and gives detailed directions to Tomas.
‘It’ll take the best part of the day. And go easy on Cora, on the pony. She’s not one of your Kerry mares. Frank says you know horses – I hope he’s right.’
‘He’s right enough,’ says Tomas with a smile, patting Cora on the neck as she nuzzles his sleeve. He has a sudden longing for the farmyard smells of horses and cattle and hay.
He and Denis swing up onto the trap and trot off down Victoria Quay. The city is soon left behind; the Cork countryside down towards the coast is flatter and more prosperous that the boggy, rocky little fields of County Kerry. Bracken, rowan and larch mark their journey and in the distance lies the grey-blue sea. The journey passes without much conversation. Tomas extracts a couple of monosyllabic replies from Denis and then gives up, concentrating on the road and, now and again, Kitty’s soft parting kiss.
Outside Ballygarvan they are stopped by an army roadblock.
‘Where are you two going?’ asks the sergeant, looking down at a sheet of a dozen photographs.
‘Back to our farm at Lissagroom,’ says Tomas. Denis looks straight ahead and says nothing. There is a perfunctory search of their bags.
‘What’s in the sacks?’
‘Potatoes.’
The sergeant laughs, rips open the topmost sack, tumbles out a few of the potatoes, rummages about and finds nothing.
‘I’d have thought you had enough of these already. And they’re a bit small, no?’
‘They’re seed potatoes for next year.’
The sergeant holds up the sheet of photographs alongside Tomas, then Denis. Tomas sees Frank’s picture in the gallery and looks away.
‘You’re neither of you there yet,’ says the sergeant. ‘Be off with you.’
They arrive at the farmhouse in the evening after a couple of wrong turnings, directions hard to come by from the cautious travellers they pass along the road. Frank is already there.
‘Were you stopped along the road?’ he says.
‘Only the once. They’d never seen seed potatoes before.’
‘Lucky they didn’t look in every sack,’ says Frank as he shifts the load and takes the bottom sack into the house. He opens it and unpacks three bulky packages, each revealing a shiny new Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and several boxes of ammunition.
‘These’ll do the business once you learn to point them. More reliable than any automatic.’
Tomas and Denis say nothing, offended that they hadn’t been told.
‘I’ll see to the pony,’ says Tomas; he goes out, unharnesses Cora and
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