waiting for her answer.
‘Your police break up election meetings with batons and bayonets! I saw them do it once. They charged an unarmed crowd ...’
‘Did they shoot anyone?’
‘No. But it was only by chance. They raided meetings of the Dail, with guns and armoured cars!’
‘Did they shoot anyone?’
‘N-no.’ Catherine shook her head angrily. There must be something wrong with her mind. She believed it so strongly, had heard it said so often - why could she not remember an example, now, of all times?
‘They did not shoot anyone because they are a disciplined force. Illegal gatherings have been broken up, it is true, men have been arrested, and the law has been enforced. But at no time since I have been Viceroy has any soldier or policeman shot an Irishman, unarmed or not. Whereas, as you surely must know, young woman, there are almost weekly reports of policemen being shot, in the street, by cowardly assassins. If those are the sort of men who represent your noble republic, then God help Ireland, that's all I have to say. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to attend to in the other carriage. Please stay and make yourself comfortable for the rest of the journey, and think about what I have said. Come, gentlemen!’
‘They are heroes!’ Catherine shouted, to his retreating back. But she was so choked with anger at her defeat that her voice was an awkward squeak rather than a shout, and he ignored it.
Her father had left with the others, and for the rest of the journey she had been alone. She sat in the comfortable flowery overstuffed armchair and stared out at the wintry fields of the country she loved. A surge of conflicting emotions boiled inside her, like the great Atlantic waves she loved to watch when they were forced into a narrow cove under the cliffs, and met the backwash of the one before. Sometimes she felt elated, as she thought how she had seized her moment, and told the Viceroy to his face things he had probably never heard before. She felt fury that she had lost the argument in the end, through a trick, a form of words. Perhaps no one had been shot, but the bulk of it was true - the oppression, the provocation, the internment! Then she felt embarrassment, and pain for what she had done to her father. She must have made him look a fool, in front of these men, and she had not meant that. She had often fought him in private, but never in front of others; that was not her way. But he shouldn't have tricked her and brought her here. He knew what she felt, he knew what she was like, surely - what had he thought would happen?
Several officers tried unsuccessfully to talk to her, but her father did not come back into the carriage until the train pulled into Ashtown Station. Then he was quiet, polite.
‘We have some unfinished discussions, and Viscount French has offered to drive us both, in his car, to the Viceregal Lodge. I hope you will come.’
She pitied him, and stood up dutifully. ‘Yes, Father, of course.’
Sean Brennan fingered the Mills bombs in his pocket. He had left the pub now and was walking slowly up the road towards Ashtown Gate. In one pocket were two Mills bombs, in the other a revolver. He had fired the gun several times before, but never thrown a bomb. His fingertips traced the criss-cross pattern of indentations in the metal. These were the weak spots in the little steel egg, he thought. The explosion would rupture the egg here first, sending little square shards of the thicker metal whizzing through the air to tear through flesh, cartilage, bone. He could feel the bombs through his coat pocket as he walked, bouncing against his hip. He was a medical student, he knew how bodies worked. He thought of the movement of the hip, the ball and socket joint where the thighbone moved back and forth in his pelvis as he walked; he imagined the tensing and loosening of the ligaments, the flexing of the muscles, the movement of the skin above. All quite painless, effortless.
‘Your police break up election meetings with batons and bayonets! I saw them do it once. They charged an unarmed crowd ...’
‘Did they shoot anyone?’
‘No. But it was only by chance. They raided meetings of the Dail, with guns and armoured cars!’
‘Did they shoot anyone?’
‘N-no.’ Catherine shook her head angrily. There must be something wrong with her mind. She believed it so strongly, had heard it said so often - why could she not remember an example, now, of all times?
‘They did not shoot anyone because they are a disciplined force. Illegal gatherings have been broken up, it is true, men have been arrested, and the law has been enforced. But at no time since I have been Viceroy has any soldier or policeman shot an Irishman, unarmed or not. Whereas, as you surely must know, young woman, there are almost weekly reports of policemen being shot, in the street, by cowardly assassins. If those are the sort of men who represent your noble republic, then God help Ireland, that's all I have to say. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to attend to in the other carriage. Please stay and make yourself comfortable for the rest of the journey, and think about what I have said. Come, gentlemen!’
‘They are heroes!’ Catherine shouted, to his retreating back. But she was so choked with anger at her defeat that her voice was an awkward squeak rather than a shout, and he ignored it.
Her father had left with the others, and for the rest of the journey she had been alone. She sat in the comfortable flowery overstuffed armchair and stared out at the wintry fields of the country she loved. A surge of conflicting emotions boiled inside her, like the great Atlantic waves she loved to watch when they were forced into a narrow cove under the cliffs, and met the backwash of the one before. Sometimes she felt elated, as she thought how she had seized her moment, and told the Viceroy to his face things he had probably never heard before. She felt fury that she had lost the argument in the end, through a trick, a form of words. Perhaps no one had been shot, but the bulk of it was true - the oppression, the provocation, the internment! Then she felt embarrassment, and pain for what she had done to her father. She must have made him look a fool, in front of these men, and she had not meant that. She had often fought him in private, but never in front of others; that was not her way. But he shouldn't have tricked her and brought her here. He knew what she felt, he knew what she was like, surely - what had he thought would happen?
Several officers tried unsuccessfully to talk to her, but her father did not come back into the carriage until the train pulled into Ashtown Station. Then he was quiet, polite.
‘We have some unfinished discussions, and Viscount French has offered to drive us both, in his car, to the Viceregal Lodge. I hope you will come.’
She pitied him, and stood up dutifully. ‘Yes, Father, of course.’
Sean Brennan fingered the Mills bombs in his pocket. He had left the pub now and was walking slowly up the road towards Ashtown Gate. In one pocket were two Mills bombs, in the other a revolver. He had fired the gun several times before, but never thrown a bomb. His fingertips traced the criss-cross pattern of indentations in the metal. These were the weak spots in the little steel egg, he thought. The explosion would rupture the egg here first, sending little square shards of the thicker metal whizzing through the air to tear through flesh, cartilage, bone. He could feel the bombs through his coat pocket as he walked, bouncing against his hip. He was a medical student, he knew how bodies worked. He thought of the movement of the hip, the ball and socket joint where the thighbone moved back and forth in his pelvis as he walked; he imagined the tensing and loosening of the ligaments, the flexing of the muscles, the movement of the skin above. All quite painless, effortless.
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