The Lambs Read online

  ‘Just hungry, Father,’ replied Flynn, more interested in the CO up on the bridge-wing deep in conversation with the ship’s bearded Welsh captain. He wasn’t much of a Catholic. The padre offered him a humbug. Spud yapped, wagging his approval. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Father, I think I’ll see if there’s any scoff on this rust bucket.’

  ‘How come he knows when we are talking about scoff?’ asked Gallagher as they made their way below.

  Nearby, in the lee of a lifeboat, Fallon watched them go. ‘You know, they’re the shites who cost me my stripes,’ he told his round-faced companion, Aiden Collins, who stood puffing on a briar pipe. Fallon flicked his fag end overboard, ferreting through his pockets for his cigarettes.

  ‘There’ll be time enough to get even,’ said his companion, his Corkonian accent incongruous amid all the Dubliners. ‘The Italians have a saying, Marty, that revenge is a pudding best eaten cold. They’ll get their just deserts.’ Then he laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘Just deserts? Did you see what I did there?’ said Collins.

  There was a swell building. Below decks the throb of the engines was louder, rattling off the bulkheads to mix with the hubbub of milling soldiery. Flynn and Gallagher found what they were looking for: a galley serving thick sweet tea and doorstop bacon sandwiches dripping in grease. Flynn forced it down, savouring his tea. Even Cronin tried to eat, although he still looked like an anaemic panda, whilst Carolan slipped Spud a few scraps. So did the others. Flynn went back on deck. By the time they reached Holyhead, it was raining.

  As soon as they tied up, Clee was on the quayside, with the RSM and the other sergeant majors, preparing to unload the battalion. The CO and officers stood aloof, leaving the work to the NCOs. Flynn got his boys ashore, his legs unsteady on the firm ground beneath the weight of his kit. At least Cronin looked happier to be on dry land. Devlin kept them moving, over the road to the huge railway terminus where Mahon was waiting, sickeningly smart. Callear sauntered over, his uniform rumpled.

  ‘The trains here aren’t like the ones back home,’ he said. ‘They’ll not hang around so keep the boys moving. I’m not looking forward to London. Once we’re at Euston we’ve got to get on the underground to Waterloo in time for the connection to Aldershot.’

  ‘I’ll try not to lose any,’ said Mahon, who knew London well and had fond memories of the city from his time in the Irish Guards. Devlin was no stranger to the place either. Flynn couldn’t help wondering how many Irish soldiers had passed through its doors on the way to God knows where. A battered old locomotive in London and North Western livery sat steaming in the station. Someone handed him a mug of tea which he drank quickly, scalding his mouth but warming his guts. He pulled out his watch, a half-hunter given to him by his father.

  ‘It’ll be the middle of the night by the time we reach London,’ he complained.

  ‘Then sleep on the train,’ growled Devlin.

  He didn’t reply, preferring to find a seat and snuggle into his greatcoat, staring at his reflection in the window, his thoughts drifting to Mary. Spud was sticking out of Carolan’s coat, who was being quizzed by Docherty about what it was like to ‘do it’ with a woman. They were always asking him since he’d got married and he always declined to answer. Gallagher was already asleep. Fitzpatrick broke out his cards. He was trying to teach them Pinochle. They preferred Twenty-Five. The train lurched, starting to move, its motion rocking Flynn to sleep. By the time he woke they’d arrived. It was still dark.

  Euston Station was cold and in chaos. Bleary-eyed soldiers, labouring under all they owned, swarmed around its red brick confines. There were stretchers laid on the icy stone floor, their burdens huddled beneath blankets being ministered to by orderlies and nurses in crisp, starched uniforms. A row of men sat silently on nearby benches, their faces masked by bandages: gas casualties awaiting the next hospital train. Here and there angry-looking military policemen stood surveying the scene, anxious to apprehend anyone with thoughts of running. Flynn needed the toilet. He’d already been several times on the train but the raw night air was proving too much for his bladder. The toilets were closed.

  ‘So are the pubs,’ Gallagher grumbled. It was five minutes past three. ‘Why does the army do everything in the middle of the blasted night?’

  ‘Because the pubs are closed, eejit?’ offered Carolan, cheekily.

  ‘That’s corporal eejit to you, Joe,’ said Gallagher with a grin. Flynn slipped away to find somewhere out of the way to relieve himself. Nearby a policeman stood looking bored. Soldiers were no longer a novelty in London either. Outside a police whistle shrilled. Others took up the cry. The policeman glanced out into the gloom, deciding to ignore it. It was someone else’s problem.

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ observed Flynn as they were herded towards the underground; another precaution against any of them slipping away in the dark. Dublin had nothing like it and whilst Gallagher seemed disinterested – he wanted a drink – there were others who were equally overawed.

  ‘My uncle helped dig this. This is good Irish workmanship, not any of your English rubbish,’ the Duke said, raising a laugh as they descended into the bowels of the earth.

  ‘Heck, this is nothing! We got a subway like this back in Boston,’ Fitzgerald added rather too smugly.

  ‘You don’t say?’ said Carolan. They were used to Fitzgerald telling them how things were much better and bigger in the States. ‘I bet it was built by the Irish too!’ Devlin waited at the foot of the stairs, clipboard in hand. Murphy was there, aloof, puffing on his pipe whilst Clee saw to the details.

  ‘Keep them together,’ Devlin told Flynn as they jostled onto a platform between two tracks. He didn’t notice Fallon squeezing in behind him. They were close to the edge. A blast of cold air tore through the tunnel, burgeoning ahead of the oncoming train. Fallon eased forward. Flynn glanced down at the track. He felt something sharp in his back, shoving him forward as the noise of the train overwhelmed his senses.

  ‘Steady there, Kev, you almost fell!’ cried Gallagher, yanking his friend back from the edge just as the tube train came squealing to a halt.

  Flynn was shaking. ‘Someone pushed me!’ he gasped.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s a good job I was there to catch you, eh?’ said Gallagher as he bundled Flynn onto the train.

  The lights flickered as the tube train lurched into life, clattering past a tatty old Ovaltine poster. A face leapt from the mob: Fallon. Flynn felt his eyes bore into him, dripping with malice. Then they were gone, leaving Flynn to the musty odour of damp serge, sweat and tobacco.

  ‘Anyone know where the hell we’re going?’ asked Carolan, petting Spud.

  ‘Blackdown, near Aldershot,’ grunted Gallagher.

  ‘I heard Devlin and Mahon call it Aldershite,’ said the Duke.

  ‘Marvellous,’ replied Flynn.

  Back on the platform someone pulled out a mouth organ and started to play ‘A Nation Once Again’. Fallon slumped against the station wall, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Are you all right, Marty?’ asked Collins.

  Fallon nodded, a sneer playing on his thin lips. Next time he’d try harder. Next time he’d get it right. Next time Flynn would pay. He started to sing.

  CHAPTER 7

  December 1915, Woolwich, London

  ‘Terry says you’re off overseas soon,’ she said.

  ‘You know, they don’t do chips like they do back home,’ said Flynn. He’d looked forward to seeing her but felt awkward now, groping for something to say that didn’t involve the war. Even the air stank of the war, the enormous armaments factory that dominated Woolwich. There was a nip in the air; that nip all cities seem to have after sunset as the masonry cools.

  ‘It’s just chips and a scrap of fish,’ she laughed, looking up at him. She thought he looked different; less lanky but as gawky as when she’d seen him last; more man than boy. Her brother had changed too. She put it down to the army. She traced his
corporal stripes with her finger, pulling him closer, making his skin tingle. ‘Is that all you do? Go on about missing Dublin?’ she asked. Flynn gave her a sidelong glance, half hoping she wouldn’t notice whilst secretly hoping she would. He loved her smile, although she seemed more careworn than he remembered her. She was beautiful, none the less.

  ‘They make sure we don’t get enough time to get homesick,’ he lied. ‘We’re run ragged from dawn till dusk. We were lucky to get leave as it is.’ His voice faded, as he realized that he had no idea when he would see her again after the weekend. Gallagher was right: they were off soon. She sensed his discomfort, looking into his pale-grey eyes.

  ‘Do you miss nothing from home?’ she asked, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

  He blushed. ‘Not at home,’ he replied, haltingly. She wrinkled her nose, beaming before unexpectedly pecking him on the cheek. ‘I think we better get back before this lot gets cold,’ he said, floundering. ‘Do you think you should be living round here?’ he asked as they turned into the street where Mary shared a few shabby rooms with her brother’s widow, Janet. It was a no-man’s-land of drab red brick punctuated by chipped windows and grubby net curtains. It reminded Flynn of those bits of Dublin his parents didn’t approve of. Not because they were run down but because of their scions.

  ‘I didn’t know you cared?’ she teased.

  ‘Is it safe from the Zeppelins here? What with the arsenal so close?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t they bomb the place recently?’

  ‘They did, and the docks as well as up town,’ she replied dismissively.

  ‘Why don’t you and Janet go back to Dublin?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Janet’s English and, besides, what would we do? Sit around and listen to my mammy go on about Terry playing soldiers or Rory moan about not being able to? I’d rather be here. I’ve a job and some money of my own to do with what I want,’ she said. ‘Sure it’s long hours but I’m doing my bit.’ Somewhere a dog was barking, ignored by the two policemen strolling down the other side of the street. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t it be me worrying about you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Besides, it’ll all be over by Christmas,’ he joked.

  ‘Away with you,’ she said, slapping his arm. ‘Do you want to fight?’ It was a strange question. Despite a year in training, he hadn’t really thought about it. He didn’t know what to say, realizing that part of him really was looking forward to going to France, that part of him was afraid it would be over before he got there.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said, changing the subject, stating the obvious. Mary narrowed her eyes, pouting in thought. Flynn scanned the street, unconsciously watching her back. He could smell her hair. The door swung inwards unleashing a waft of unwelcoming musty air. She turned on the light. The hall smelt damp; candy-striped wallpaper blistered from the walls. Dog-eared letters lay discarded on an old sideboard. Flynn realized it wasn’t just the Zeppelins that made him uncomfortable about Mary’s lodgings. A door at the far end of the hall creaked open a crack. A face peeped out, then it swung open, unleashing a blast of old socks. A thin, colourless man in a greasy cardigan stepped into the hall. He looked older than his years, a pathetic scrape of hair doing nothing to mask his baldness. Flynn didn’t like the way he looked at Mary, blatantly undressing her with his watery eyes.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Gallagher,’ said the man. ‘I don’t approve of my ladies having … er … gentlemen callers,’ he said. Flynn didn’t like his tone.

  ‘Mr Daiken, what are you suggesting? This isn’t a gentleman caller. This is Corporal Flynn of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers and he’s an old family friend. He’s here with my brother to see how we are before they go off to fight for king and country,’ she replied.

  Daiken didn’t look impressed. ‘Maybe so, Miss Gallagher, but this is a respectable house!’ Daiken said, doing little to hide watching Mary’s backside in anything but a respectable fashion as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Flynn testily, balling his fists.

  ‘Never mind the old lech; he’s only the landlord,’ she replied.

  ‘I don’t like the way he looks at you,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Just ignore him, he’s a harmless old fart,’ she teased as they reached the third landing where the rooms she shared with Janet and her children were located. ‘Here we are, home sweet home,’ she announced. The door was cracked, flaking in places, and smelt like old cabbage.

  ‘You will write, won’t you?’ he suddenly blurted.

  ‘Don’t I already?’ she asked as she reached up, touching his face, grazing the hint of stubble on his chin with her fingertips.

  ‘It’s just that I … I … er …’ he stammered, blushing, suddenly lost for words.

  ‘I know you do, Kevin,’ she said softly, cupping his face gently in her hands, reaching up to kiss him. He pulled her nearer, savouring her warmth, crushing their fish suppers between them. There was a thud. Flynn jumped, pulling away from Mary suddenly. Gallagher stood in the doorway in shirtsleeves, his grey army braces hanging down either side of his khaki trousers. He was nursing a half-drunk bottle of Guinness in his ham fist.

  ‘Jaysus, Kev,’ Gallagher blasphemed unashamedly, ‘will you put my sister down, I’m starving like my throat’s been cut.’ He held up a bottle of stout. ‘You know, this stuff isn’t nothing like the stuff back home!’

  ‘Will God save us, if it’s not another of you bleating on about how much better things are back home!’ said Mary, rolling her eyes and laughing as she barged past.

  ‘What?’ Gallagher asked, following the appetizing aroma in his sister’s wake. The room was all dancing shadows, threadbare in the guttering gaslight, but neat. Janet kept an orderly house. There was a table, piled with plates, in the centre of the room whilst tea brewed in a garishly cosied pot at its heart.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Janet Gallagher, giving Mary a knowing look as she bounced a toddler – a mini version of herself – on her knee. The little girl yawned, exposing a smattering of milk teeth, rubbing her eyes. ‘I think someone needs a nap.’ She lay Daisy in her cot near the window, wiping her hands on her apron before brushing away a brown curl from her sad, dark eyes. She was only twenty-five but looked older; worn down by widowhood and three children. A picture of Mary’s brother stood on the mantelpiece next to a bundle of letters bound with a black velvet ribbon. He looked like a taller version of Gallagher. They were so alike that one of the children, Davey, had mistaken him for his dad. Who could blame him, as the boisterous six-year-old’s memories of his father began to fade? Eventually he accepted that Gallagher was his uncle, whatever that was, and spent the rest of the day amusing himself with the brightly painted lead soldiers Gallagher had given him. He especially liked the one on a horse in shining armour and a scarlet tunic. He also liked wearing his uncle’s khaki cap. Davey’s other sister, four-year-old Lizzie, all auburn hair and beamy smiles, sat swinging her legs at the table, balancing her chin on her little hands, watching the packets of food with keen, intelligent eyes. Money was tight. Mickey Gallagher had married Janet without permission, which meant no extra money, no married quarters and now not even a widow’s pension. That was why she’d got a job at the arsenal and why Mary had left Ireland to help.

  ‘Come on, everyone, dig in!’ said Flynn, throwing his coat over the sofa. He wasn’t really hungry. ‘What’s this, then?’ he added, waving a bottle of lemonade. Lizzie squealed with delight as he sloshed the fizzy liquid into the children’s cups, pausing for a moment as he wondered if he would ever do this with his own children.

  ‘Do they feed you well?’ Janet asked as she cut up Davey’s food.

  ‘Aye, mostly bully beef and chips with everything,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘I like chips,’ Gallagher said through a mass of food.

  Flynn snorted. ‘You’ll eat anything! There was this time back in Ballyhooley …’

  ‘I really don’t think the girls would want to hear it!’ choked Gallagher, making Flynn laugh all the harder. Ma
ry and Janet laughed too whilst the children picked through the scraps like vultures.

  ‘So when do you have to report back?’ asked Janet, suddenly sombre.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon, Mrs Gallagher,’ answered Flynn.

  She smiled. ‘I’ve told you to call me Janet,’ she said, clearing the plates.

  ‘Leave those, Janet,’ he said. ‘We’ll clean up, then we’ll get back to Waterloo station. There’s a place there we can stay the night.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing—’ Janet started to say.

  ‘It’s only the plates,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘Stop talking nonsense! You ain’t seen Mary for almost a year. You’ll stay here and that’s the end of it,’ she chided. ‘I’ve plenty of blankets.’

  ‘What about that Daiken fella?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Sod him,’ she replied. Secretly, Flynn was relieved. He didn’t fancy traipsing across London in the middle of the night in search of a bed or, worse still, a pub if Gallagher had his way.

  In the end a pub wasn’t needed and by ten o’clock Gallagher was snoring gently, slumped in an old armchair after his fifth bottle of Guinness.

  ‘Just like back home,’ joked Mary from the sofa next to Janet. Flynn sat at the table, gazing at the fire smouldering in the grate bathing the room in a flickering glow.

  ‘Well, I’m off to bed,’ announced Janet. ‘Thank you, for tonight,’ she said, resting her hand on Flynn’s shoulder and smiling, and he wondered how many countless other women’s lives had been ruined, would be ruined, by the war. She closed the door, leaving him alone with Mary and her brother’s snores.