The Demons of Discord

CONTENTS

MAPS

1923-1929

1 CO. KERRY, MARCH 1923

2 LETTERKENNY, NOVEMBER 1923

3 KERRY AND CORK, 1923

4 MEENGLAS AND STRANORLAR

5 CORK CITY AND COBH 1924

6 RAPHOE, OCTOBER 1924

7 CASTLEFINN, OCTOBER 1924

8 BURN PARK AND W. DONEGAL, 1924

9 ST. JOHNSTOWN, 1924

10 BURN PARK, SPRING 1925

11 CARK MOUNTAIN AND BURN PARK

12 BALLINDRAIT, NOVEMBER 1925

13 DUBLIN, 1927

14 ENGLAND, 1926

15 THE LAGGAN, 1926-28

16 DUBLIN, 1927

17 EAST DONEGAL, 1929

1932-1935

18 BELFAST, OCTOBER 1932

19 NORTH CORNAGILLAGH FARM

20 E. DONEGAL & DERRY

21 EAST DONEGAL, JULY 1933

22 NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 1934

23 CONVOY, LATE 1934

24 CORNAGILLAGH, JULY 1935

1937-1939

25 W. DONEGAL, SUMMER 1937

26 TEELIN

27 CARRICKMORE & COBH, 1938

28 E. DONEGAL, NOVEMBER 1938

29 NORTHUMBERLAND, 1939

30 COVENTRY, MAY 1939

1941-1943

31 BURN PARK & W. DONEGAL, 1941

32 LONDONDERRY, JULY 1941

33 LOUGH ERNE, OCTOBER 1942

34 TYRONE, JANUARY 1943

35 FERMANAGH, MARCH 1943

36 STRANORLAR & FERMANAGH

37 INISHMAKILL

38 EAST OF INISHMAKILL

39 CASTLE ARCHDALE

40 BURN PARK, JULY 1945

AUTHOR CONTACT

The Demons of Discord’ is set in the period 1923 to 1943 and is the second novel in the Donegal’ series.

The first one, "The Stranded Tribe’

(Ex Libris 2012), features Jamie Vance and Diarmuid O’Mara during the period 1895 to 1922.

Also by Kenneth R Dodds: "Western Designs: A History of the British in Central America’

(Central Publishing 2001)

For all the people of Donegal.

MAPS

1923-1929

1 CO. KERRY, MARCH 1923

The mist thinned but the darkness behind it remained almost impenetrable. He could just about see the backs of five people as the last greenish wisps of the mist blew away. He could neither move towards them nor away, for his feet were being sucked deep into a glutinous bog. All he could do was to wave his arms above his head and cry, I only fought for my country! It’s your country too!

The first figure before him turned and grinned mirthlessly. The face was the hard, crag-like one of the officer who had visited him earlier that day. He doffed his peaked cap and, with a sneer and mad, staring eyes declared, You WILL die! We are coming for you!

He vanished upwards from sight and the next figure in the row turned slowly to the helpless O’Mara. It was another officer but this time it was a high-ranking one, the principal judge at his military tribunal. His normally round face was stretched into a solemn, gaunt oblong and his voice boomed out the message Oh yes, you will be harried, my man! God will make sure you will be pursued to your grave!

Replacing him was the semblance of his former fellow-soldier in the Donegal Irregulars, Brian Duffy. He was the one who had given up on their plot the previous December. His right hand described a large circle around O’Mara’s head and he cackled in a coarse, sing-song way from a mouth that only contained rotten green stumps of teeth, I told you, O’Mara, didn’t I? I told you! Oh yes, YOU will be thrown into a cell but not me! Ha! Ha!

Duffy fizzled down to nothing and at the same spot appeared O’Mara’s nemesis, James Vance, Unionist Presbyterian, dressed in a British Army uniform. He scowled and pointed a well-manicured finger at the throbbing, livid scar on the side of O’Mara’s bald scalp. You were wounded, weren’t you, you mad Kerryman? Vance’s face changed suddenly to a leering grin. And who did it? Good old Jamie Vance, loyal servant of the King! You got what you deserved, didn’t you? O’Mara tried to lean forward to grasp the lapels of Vance’s tunic but his image dissolved into nothing but a fine dust and there only remained a threatening silence.

The dark was suddenly lit up by a new image, that of Máire of the Cumann na mBan, the women’s IRA organisation. Tears tracked down her pretty face and on to her soaking, tattered clothes. I’m sorry, my poor Diarmuid, St Bridget’s words all came to nothing, my friend. It is the worst news of all. Christ WILL leave you in forgetfulness. Your poor ma would have been destroyed!

The apparition collapsed on itself and left a slowly disappearing, shimmering pool of fetid water on pale green mud. O’Mara himself was now sunk up to his waist in the oily bog. He flapped his arms and rocked to and fro uselessly to try and save himself. Then, what felt like a giant hand plunged through the darkness and grabbed his left shoulder and shook it hard… .

Hey! Come on now! Enough of all that!

His eyes flickered open and six inches from his own face was that of old Sergeant Davis, sharing his foul early morning stale beer breath with anything and anyone in the cell.

Well, ye’re excused a bad dream, I s’pose, though it’s a shame under the circumstances. But it’ now way after five and ye need to ready yerself, eh?

As the Free State soldier eased away, O’Mara slowly sat up and shook his head hard to drive away the last haunting memories of his nightmare. Under the ever-watchful eye of the sergeant, O’Mara hauled himself over to the rusting pail in the corner and urinated loudly into it. On the small table nearby, he poured freezing cold water into a basin from a pitcher and soaplessly rinsed his face and hands. He couldn’t shave his now considerable beard for he was forbidden anything as dangerous as a razor. Slipping on his thin, worn, two-button shirt was followed by sliding into and hitching up a pair of large canvas trousers. His wardrobe was completed by a pair of old slippers with a hole in each sole.

Private Bales brought O’Mara’s breakfast into the cell. It was just a bowl of the thinnest stirabout and the young man dropped it carelessly beside the washing basin, allowing the wooden spoon to fall to the floor. O’Mara glared at the meagre meal and then stared hard at the private who returned a hostile sneer. For good measure, he put a warning hand on to the top of the thick cudgel which he had stuck under his leather army belt. O’Mara turned away from the uniformed farm lad and sat down on his lumpy bed. Fixing his gaze on the rough-marked back of his hands sprawled over his knees, he mused on how the coffers of the new Irish Free State authorities had persuaded many of the young men into the service of a governing system which many of them didn’t really understand or care about. At least the few remaining lads alive in the anti-Treaty IRA knew their politics even if they expected little or no pay.

At 5.50 a.m. a military escort stamped its way to the cell. Three soldiers with rifles were led by a lieutenant who was accompanied by an old priest. They waited while Sergeant Davis and his assistant manoeuvred O’Mara into arm and leg chains. It’s the rules ye see apologised the puffing sergeant. O’Mara made no protest even when Private Bales tugged his ankle cuffs viciously tight. Then, fronted by the smart, clean-shaven Lieutenant Brennan, the riflemen escorted the shuffling prisoner along the block to the stairs with Sergeant Davis and Private Bales trailing behind. Most prisoners in their cells slept on in the dark early morning. The few awake gave little more than a passing thought to the military escort, which usually meant an execution. It was a frequent enough occurrence.

Downstairs, the group passed through the courtyard of Ballymullan Jail and over to the infamous execution shed. In Victorian times, this former County Gaol in Tralee, County Kerry, hung its murderers and even lesser criminals outside the huge stone walls where the public could jeer and cheer at the spectacle of offenders getting their ‘just deserts’. When the law was changed to banning public hangings, the courtyard was used instead and a wooden structure was built to protect the hangman and prison officials from the elements. It also removed the occasions from the view of those in the main blocks. Now, during the bitter Civil War, the Free State was using the huge jail as a barracks and a prison. It also used the execution shed on many occasions although lately there had been more of an emphasis on mass executions in the countryside. Kerry was a strongly anti-Treaty county where the Irregulars simply refused to give up and met out severe treatment to any Trucers they came across. Vicious brutality continued on both sides.

Executing Diarmuid O’Mara by military firing squad was a special occasion. He was an experienced, intelligent, ruthless and skilful schemer and assassin. His involvement in a major plot at the end of December the previous year had almost succeeded and could have destabilised entirely the whole position of the Irish Free State. The presence of the Vice-Commandant of the Ballymullan Barracks and Jail at the doorway to the execution shed signified the importance of the event.

Good morning Lieutenant. Good morning O’Mara! How are you at this very early time of the morning?

O’Mara delivered his usual response to such a person and such a question. He simply looked the Vice-Commandant up and down, turned his head away and said nothing at all. Having had dealings with this prisoner before, the Vice-Commandant got on with his task.

Very well. Do you wish to have your confession heard by Father Dwyer? Time is limited, of course, for such an activity! Ha! Ha!

The reply was just a curt shake of the head. The Vice-Commandant waved the group into the shed with obvious irritation and walked away, a slightly disappointed man.

Inside the shed, O’Mara was led through the almost featureless space to a point just in front of the stone curtain wall and was made to sit down on an old wooden chair. There, he was blindfolded without his permission being sought. He remained in irons with the addition of a binding of his waist and legs to the chair. Meanwhile, Father Dwyer intoned a series of short prayers whilst the lieutenant in charge pinned a white cardboard cut-out to the prisoner’s shirt over his heart. When the priest saw what it was, he started to protest but the officer waved him away and started his farewell to O’Mara.

"I have just pinned a target over your heart so that when my lads fire they will hopefully rupture your heart’s large blood vessels and your lungs. The shock should put you out nearly cold but you could remain conscious for a while and just bleed to death. I thought I would let you know that I won’t finish you off with a bullet to the head. That would be too kind! Oh, by the way, the target over your heart was cut out by one of the squad with a rare sense of humour. It’s the shape of a big rat! Apt, eh? No last requests will be entertained but you might want to say something profound for the first time in your ugly life like ‘I’m sorry for what I’ve done.’’’

Lieutenant Brennan had a little fit of the giggles at his own words but was cut short by O’Mara’s reply that was spat out with utter contempt and could be heard by all in the shed.

Give me a Black and Tan any day to one of you feckless, treacherous Trucer bastards. Get on with it!

Brennan was sorely tempted to hit him but decided it would look bad in front of his men and the priest. So he gave him a poor apology for a sarcastic smile. My pleasure, Diarmuid!

O’Mara’s head jolted upwards and his hands turned white with tension and the pressure he put on the arms of his chair. He always hated anyone using his first name after he found out it had been his despised father’s choice. He would have leapt for the lieutenant’s throat if he had been able to do so. Satisfied at this reaction, Brennan moved away to marshal his rifle squad now totalling six men with the arrival of three more soldiers. Sergeant Davis and his private stood in the background with the priest to ‘tidy up’ afterwards.

Lieutenant Brennan organised his squad using English rather than Irish for the occasion as they were using live ammunition and the Dubliners in the firing party had little Irish in any case. They were mostly young men who were glad of the money and they were paid quite well for their garrison duties. They followed their instructions with practised efficiency.

Load! ordered the lieutenant. O’Mara’s heart began to race in response to the noise of the clicking of rifle bolts. Ready! The rifles were brought to the ready position.

Only seconds left O’Mara knew. I love you Ma! Why were you such a bastard to me, Da? Ye’ll think differently after this, eh?

Aim! O’Mara braced himself and could only think, I did what was right for Ireland. Surely to God, what is happening now is a monstrous injustice!

Brennan deliberately hesitated a couple of seconds before his very last command. Much as they wanted to, the priest and the two military jailers could not look away. They simply had to watch the end of one of the new state’s greatest enemies.

Then it came, echoing around in the shed, FIRE!!!

Six rifles with five live rounds were fired and one with a blank round sped towards the prisoner. On hearing the last command of the lieutenant in charge O’Mara had urinated involuntarily and thought, I’d rather die with dry trousers on.

The soles of his feet felt the impact of a couple of bullets into the earthen floor in front of him. Others passed so close to his head and arms that he could feel the rippling disturbance of air nearby him. One even hit the lower part of his chair leg and shot a small, sharp, wooden splinter into his ankle. Otherwise, he had not been harmed. The Dublin Guard squad had been good, very good. It had been a near-perfect mock execution. But why?

Lieutenant Brennan did not come over to him. Instead, to O’Mara’s further alarm and confusion, he ordered his men to reload in a matter-of-fact voice. O’Mara’s heart rate climbed again. On the ‘Ready’ command, O’Mara was trying to persuade himself that this was just another torture without death. But on the deliberately stretched out ‘A… I… M’ command, he began to think otherwise. His body began to shake and he could do nothing about it. The shaking became violent and was so pronounced that he began to topple sideways in his chair to the floor. As he fell, he blanked out completely.

There was no order to fire. Instead, Lieutenant Brennan instructed his men to unload and shoulder their weapons and marched them and the priest away without a second glance at the unconscious prisoner still lying on the floor, tied to his chair.

The Sergeant and his helper walked over, released O’Mara from his chair and removed his blindfold and irons. Bales brought over a pail of scummy water, took off O’Mara’s urine-damp trousers and doused his lower half. That produced a long groan. Obligingly, the private threw more water over his head and torso which brought him round. The two soldiers lifted him up and sat him on the replaced chair to recover. As O’Mara came-to properly, Davis yanked out the wooden splinter from his ankle with a small pair of pliers. A low groan of pain was followed by What-the-hell happened there?

Sergeant Davis patted his shoulder. Yer still with us. The Guard, or rather Lieutenant Brennan, had his fun with you. I swear to God we didn’t know it would be like it was. But now it’s over.

Why? insisted a confused O’Mara. I was condemned to death by military law. What do they want with me?

Davis sent Private Bales to get some first aid items and another pair of canvas trousers from a small wooden store at the end of the shed by the door. The sergeant spoke quietly and confidentially, obviously not trusting Bales.

Look man, yer a lucky soul! They want you for something. I cannot tell you what it is. Officially, the sentence was carried out and yer a dead man. Just be thankful fer small mercies.

O’Mara still had questions to ask but Private Bales was on his way back to them. Davis could see he still needed some reassurance. O’ course you want to know what happens now. I can’t tell you in detail but I have a general feeling… Hang on. Here’s that damned Bales. He’s no Irish on him, so listen well. Bales passed over the bandages and ointment. As the sergeant dressed the ankle wound, Bales looked on unsympathetically but listened to everything said. Davis rattled on as he wound the bandage. "Yes, I was just thinking that in these circumstances my granda would say, ‘Amuigh? Tá an lá go deas’. The private shot out a suspicious What does that mean? Davis carried on bandaging. Aha, don’t you know it? What sort of school did you go to? It means ‘tomorrow is another day, is it not? Wouldn’t that be right, O’Mara? O’Mara grunted assent. Bales unconvincingly scoffed, Obvious, it is." However, the other two knew it was simply but significantly, ‘Outside? The day is fine.’ With his back to the private, Davis gave O’Mara a huge wink and put a final knot in the bandage. His prisoner was not sure exactly what he was driving at but it had the ring of optimism, especially if it meant getting away from the grey walls of Ballymullen.

2 LETTERKENNY, NOVEMBER 1923

And how is your Mr Vance farin’?

Not too well at all. He’s near to housebound with the arthritis and him only in his early sixties. But what about your husband Mrs Duffy? I hear he’s had bad fortune, what with his chest and the other complications.

It’s Kitty reminded Mrs Duffy. You should call me Kitty. Aye well, the chest was bad then got much better, thank God, with the new tablets the doctor pushed into him. I’ll be honest Mrs Vance, his ‘complications’ are really some sort of weakness in the head. Well, the brain, to be sure. He’s little memory of any blessed thing. He looks blank at me and Caitlin at times but keeps askin’ fer our son Brian and he’s been away from here fer years and then went over to America to settle this last Summer. More tea?

No thank you. That was just fine. And where is Mr Duffy now?

It took Kitty Duffy a bite of her neglected fruit scone and a long drink to swallow it down before she could answer. It gave her useful time to think. She explained that her husband had to be taken to a local nursing home run by the nuns, (‘angels, every one of them’ as she always put it), fer… his own good. They said he could injure himself or one of us if he became vexed.

Tuts of sympathy from Elspeth Vance matched the points made in her hostess’ story. Though a sincere Presbyterian, Mrs Vance or Elspeth Moore as she was before she was married, had lived many years in a predominantly Catholic community in County Cork and had no problems in relating to the way of life of most of her neighbours who were often her friends as well.

The Duffy household was a small, working class terrace house in south Letterkenny. On this cold, dark November afternoon, it was divided into two small communities. Downstairs, the two mothers discussed the health of their respective husbands as a preamble to sharing their thoughts, hopes and fears about the marriage of their children, Jamie Vance and Caitlin Duffy, the following week. Upstairs, in the parental bedroom, pretty, dark-haired Caitlin carefully tried on her wedding dress with the reluctant assistance of her friend and colleague at St Joseph’s College at Carrick. Donna Murtagh was a far less attractive woman except for her startling red hair. From near Adara, Donna was a skilled and popular teacher of weaving in her early thirties who was pleasantly jealous of Caitlin’s good looks and good fortune. Caitlin trusted her greatly and she had encouraged the process of Donna deputising for her in the running of the private vocational institution which, despite its Catholic name and origin, was open to young Protestants and Catholics in West Donegal. Caitlin’s impending marriage meant she would spend much less time at St Joseph’s although she would retain administrative and financial oversight.

On matters of fashion, Caitlin and Donna frequently disagreed. You’re sulkin’ Donna Maria. Ye’ve a face on you that’d scare away every eligible farm-boy this side o’ the Glendowans!

Donna pouted. I’m well into my thirties, bride-to-be, Caitlin Agnes, and you’re not even near thirty. Boys gave me up a long time ago. I have to wait for a bachelor or widower in his forties or fifties who might or might not want a freckle-faced spinster who can add up and knit as well. Anyway, I’m thinking a fashionable new-cut white dress would have been better than that factory frock you have there!

Caitlin pretended to scowl. Aye and wear it only once? What’s wrong with this blue dress? I can use it again and again after the wedding and it goes with my name, so there! Blue dresses signify purity, as does the name of this soon-to-be-wed Duffy girl. As she spoke, she flounced across to the long mirror to look at herself.

"Do you need to make a statement about that? challenged her friend with her tongue pushing her cheek outwards. Before she could reply a knock on the front door downstairs galvanised Donna. That’s your prospective sister-in-law now. I’ll bring her up. Save the two biddies from being disturbed."

When Donna returned with Jamie’s sister, Sarah, she was shoved into the room first. Seeing Caitlin in full fig, she gasped and raised both her hands in surprise and delight. Caitlin! That’s a beautiful dress… but what about your feet? Caitlin wore no shoes but had put on a pair of her father’s old socks.

Donna could not help herself. ‘she’ll be wearing farm boots I expect. She’s no taste for a young woman!" Sarah laughed but Caitlin didn’t see the funny side.

"At this time of year? You expect white shoes? I’ve a pair for the wedding feast but it’ll be black boots for the paths to the car and to the church where there’s nothing but clabber underfoot!"

Donna counter-thrust, just as the other two expected. An’ it’s just as well your Aunt Polly’s not here to see the height of that hem!

Caitlin stuck out a long, rude tongue. It’s just above the ankles and a good Irish mile below my knees! Now who doesn’t know their modern fashion?

While the relatively good-natured banter continued upstairs, the mothers downstairs in the front room finished their pleasantries and then got down to what they considered brass tacks.

Some of the folk at our church were saying that Jamie’s awful young to be wed, confided Elspeth Vance.

Not at all soothed Kitty Duffy. Lots of fellas jist bide wi’ their mothers fer the security of bein’ looked after with bed and board an’ home comforts. Jamie is a fine young man wi’ a good, safe job. An’ the two o’ them have bin together fer, what? Ten years? We’re not into arranging matches like some backward folk!

Mrs Vance was comforted a little and tidied away these points into her brain for retrieval when the chattering started after Sunday service. She even added another positive factor. And they’re so fortunate to have taken over Miss Nolan’s house by Raphoe, a fine home for bringing up a family. Her last word triggered an awkward silence and Elspeth tried to gloss over the new issue. Aren’t we fortunate to have them just in between the both of us for visiting?

Aye that’s right. But what do ye think, if I can ask, about the idea of letting their children, should they be blessed with any, decide which faith to follow when they get older?

She coughed and then sighed. I was very worried at first. It’s a very modern way of seeing things and many in my church and probably in yours find that impossible to accept.

Kitty nodded her head vigorously. We agree on that. But I have to say that our Father Boyle is a liberal-minded man despite his many years. Though I’m thinkin’ it’s not always the church and clergy are the problem but the parishioners. Some o’ them hev nothin’ better to do but talk oul’ twaddel all the day.

Before they came to swapping gossip about their fellow-worshippers, the door opened to show Caitlin in her wedding regalia with Sarah and Donna giggling behind her. Her mother brought her hands to her face and could only say with her eyes sparkling, The Good Lord save us! Caitlin’s future mother-in-law beamed broadly and clapped her hands in appreciation like a delighted little child.

Now Ma, don’t think I’ll be wearin’ those white slippers going to and from the chapel. I’ve my best black boots for those journeys, no matter what Miss Murtagh here thinks! The girls pushed her into the middle of the room for better viewing. After a couple of swishing twirls, her mother got up to kiss her tenderly on the cheek. You look beautiful Caitlin! What a shame it is that yer da cannot see you in chapel next week. In health, he would have made the happiest father in the county. Her daughter looked at her sad face and she cried a long tear of sympathy and understanding.

In the following week there was a forty minute service in which the selected wedding vows were made as a sandwich between homilies, communion and hymns. Then the married couple with their closest family and friends were taken off in a few hired cars. There were borrowed vans and a small ‘bus for the others to go the Duffy household. Toileted, the twenty or so of the core body of guests trooped into the backyard for the first photograph. In the centre, on wooden kitchen chairs, were the excited but relieved bride and groom. The new Mrs Vance sat close to her new husband without creasing her blue dress. On her wrist was a fabric lucky horseshoe from her girlfriends and pretty wild flowers entwined into a circlet sat on her soft cloche-style cap. The others who stood in the damp, dirty yard in their shining, best shoes envied her polished black boots. Her husband, Jamie, had on his dark three-piece suit over a white, well-starched shirt and a light-coloured tie. He carried a black felt hat, which he rarely wore, in his lap.

As the photographer fussed and twittered, Aunt Gracie muttered to Aunt Meg in the back row, Whose idea was the November wedding? My hat feathers are drooping already. Another few minutes of this drizzle and they’ll be blindin’ my eyes! Aunt Meg whispered the traditional chant back to her scornfully, "If you wed in November, only joy will come, remember."

Now who has fine weather in this country in November?

Joy is more important and, don’t forget, it’s a Wednesday, Grumpy Gracie… .

And so, what’s wrong with a Saturday with no work for my man who should be here?

You don’t know the traditions at all, woman. Wednesday is the best day of all. Saturday is no day at all."

The reply from Gracie sounded like a sarcastic ‘sure!" or something a lot stronger in bad Irish.

Then they all decamped to McGeever’s Public House on the Lower Listellian Road. The newly-marrieds were taken in style in a royal blue Humber hired from a garage in Newtowncunningham, provided by Henry Forbes, the Chairman of the Donegal Railway Company and Jamie’s boss. He couldn’t attend the wedding or reception but his present was greatly appreciated. The Humber was closely followed by Dee’s baker van from Ballybofey which brought Jamie’s parents to the reception.

Inside the main public room, Jamie and Caitlin greeted their guests, among them being the still smart Cadgie Dawson and the shuffling, white-bearded Gerry McCoy, both of whom had served with Jamie in the War with the 11th Battalion of the Inniskilling Fusiliers. Gerry whispered loudly into Caitlin’s ear with his Belfast accent before he moved to his seat. Promise me, Mrs Vance, that yer man will no’ be singin’ this day. It’d be no’ jist bad luck but it might curdle me porter as well! I had him skraikin’ night efter night in the trenches at Messines. If we’d had a loudspeaker, his singin’ would ha’ forced the Germans tae surrender, so it would. Though she knew perfectly well it was totally untrue, Caitlin nodded complete agreement. Jamie just tutted and shook his head.

Caitlin’s once sprightly Uncle Niall Duffy, now in his seventies, followed in. Jamie had started work under him in the Stranorlar locomotive and carriage sheds as a cleaner thirteen years ago. Congratulations to my favourite niece and to Jamie, my most promising carriage and engine cleaner! Or should I call you ‘sir’, Mr Assistant Manager?

Caitlin and Jamie smiled at each other. Niall had always been proudly fond of her and he had shown him great kindness when he was working in the sheds. ‘Jamie’ is just fine by me. I know I get much worse from the boys in the office. How is your retirement?

"Just fine! If I put on the big boots, my splughins, and get away out o’ the house and the town fer a couple o’ hours, I’m as fit as a snipe when I get back!"

And Auntie Ita? enquired Caitlin with a mischievous grin.

Ah now, she’s just glad fer a piece o’ quiet so she gets her eyes together fer a while laughed her uncle.

After several more presentations to the married couple, they all sat down in the Big Room. At the top of the room sat a benignly smiling Elspeth Vance next to her husband. He constantly stretched his legs and back to ease his arthritic pain. Then there was Cadgie, the Best Man, chewing nervously on his fingernails, worrying about his speech. On the other side of Jamie and Caitlin was Kitty Duffy accompanied by the chatty Uncle Niall and his wife, sitting where Kitty’s husband would have been. On the very end of the top table was Father Boyle, beaming happily now that his formal duties had ended and food was on its way. The other guests sat at the long tables down the two sides of the Big Room, off which were the kitchen and bar and the private rooms of the landlord.

Following the modest meal, Cadgie gave his speech, choosing some choice jokes from Jamie’s brother William who had been Cadgie’s bosom pal before a German shell brutally ended his life on the Somme. Jamie stuttered a reply of thanks and they were all thankful to get to the dancing led by the newly-weds. The ceilidh band was good enough to get Uncle Niall and Auntie Ita on the floor between the long tables and no one noticed for a while that Jamie and Caitlin had disappeared. Aunt Grace and Aunt Meg were the first to have an idea that something was a little odd. There’s something not at all right, said Grace confidentially.

I was thinkin’ this is a good cup o’ scald, muttered Meg looking suspiciously over her teacup. Not that is it?

No! Young Caitlin and her man started the dancing and efter no more than a few jigs they’re nowhere to be seen. D’ye think they’re away fer high jinks already?

Meg spluttered into her tea. Not at all! Shame on yourself! Caitlin is a good girl. Mind, I did think I saw her with Jamie and his best man, the feller from Killygordon, go out the side door a wee while ago. I thought they might be looking at the presents they kept out in the room next to the big ‘shop’.

Grace was barely convinced. You’re right about Caitlin but the Presbyterian boys are quiet enough when their mammies are lookin’ on, yet they say they’re the devil’s own rogues when they’re aff the hook! Meg nodded agreement and they both put on knowing, lascivious faces.

Twenty minutes later, they had the real answer when Cadgie Dawson strode back into the Big Room and waved the ceilidh band quiet. Short in stature, he had to turn to the guests and wave his hands high in the air to attract their attention. When they quietened down he slicked back his oiled black hair and apologised.

I’m sorry to hold up the proceedings but just fer a wee while. We have a new guest arriving. Someone ye all know. Now, he’s not too grand and had to be brought here in that elegant wedding motor so he’ll be a wee bit tired. Can I ask if ye’ll not make too much of a fuss of him… ?

And, as he was speaking, there arrived a smiling Caitlin, still in her wedding dress and a proud Jamie in his best suit. Between them, they supported the small frame of Pat Duffy, the father of the bride. It was clear that Duffy could walk but he needed guidance to propel him in the right direction and he had to walk very slowly as his breathing was laboured and wheezy. When he saw the thirty or so guests still present, his gaunt face smiled and he tried to pull his shoulders back so he could straighten up and see the people more clearly. For their part, they showed a mixture of shock and pleasure at Pat Duffy’s appearance. With him spending months in the elderly and mentally infirm ward of a Catholic nursing home outside the town, they believed they would never see him again except in his coffin. A low-key, warm handclapping came from many of the guests and the ceili band, discreetly encouraged by Cadgie, played the soft, old Irish air, The Dawning of the Day. Pat, held gently by his daughter and son-in-law, smiled and allowed himself to be led over to a chair beside his wife Kitty who was crying copiously. Sat down, he hummed the first line of the song. Then he started, uncertainly at first, to sing the words and was encouraged by others in his family who raised their voices. They all, including Pat Duffy and his son-in-law, sang lustily the last two lines of the first verse: Cé a gheaobhainn le máis ach an chúileann deas. Le fáinne geal an lae.(Who should I meet but a beautiful maid. At the dawning of the day.)

The Vances, especially Andrew Vance, and most of their Presbyterian friends joined in, some singing in Irish and others in English. It was a song well-known and loved by all of them despite the fact that it had a nationalist interpretation of the ‘maid’ representing Ireland and the ‘dawn’ representing freedom from British rule. It was a short but significant acceptance of the two communities and their cultures. Above all, it was the pleasure found in the song by the father of the bride that buoyed them all up, Catholic and Protestant. Only a couple of hardline Presbyterians, who couldn’t feel comfortable singing the song, remained quiet but they smiled nonetheless at the others.

At the end of Fáinne Geal An Lae, Kitty Duffy drew away Caitlin, Jamie and Cadgie to the far side of the room and demanded to know what how they had managed to get her husband out of St Assicus’. Usha! What sort of a jiggery-pokery was that, keepin’ me away from yer plans and trickery? It was said firmly but kindly with a hint of amusement curling round the sides of her lips.

Sorry ma, we didn’t know if we could get Da away but Jamie sweethearted the Sister. Those patients who still had sense and a tongue gawped at first, then cheered and clapped when they saw me in my wedding dress. It was very emotional! Anyway, Sister let him go for only two hours. Cadgie drove the Humber and we got here in no time.

Aye, but what about yer da? Did he not fret to be taken away?

Not at all Mrs Duffy, came in Jamie with the voice he used for reassuring angry customers on the railway. He recognised Caitlin right away and once he saw her in the wedding frock he laughed gave her a big hug.

Then Caitlin weighed back in. And ma, I’ve never seen him so alive since he went into St Assicus’. Cadgie’s been so good with him, talking all the time when he was driving here about motor engines and the like. He didn’t reply much except his eyes said it all.

Aye, Mrs Duffy, ‘tis true joined in Jamie’s friend and best man. He had quite a few giggles at my imitation of different car horns and mad drivers. He’s just fine."

And it wouldn’t be the same without da here for a wee while, would it ma? Not today anyhow pleaded Caitlin. That clinched it. Kitty Duffy abandoned her fears and reservations and returned to her husband who was stuffing his face with cake. He allowed Aunts Meg and Grace to coo their surprise at his apparently improved good health all over him without him taking any notice whatsoever.

For half an hour things went well while the band played and there was dancing on the small floor-space between the tables. Then, without any warning, Pat Duffy stood up suddenly and screamed out, God help me! God help me!. Then he started to tear at the buttons of his jacket. Only Kitty was sitting beside him and she had no idea what was wrong. She got up and moved closer, putting a hand on his arm to quieten him down for he was obviously in distress. He resisted her advance with a Don’t ye be lookin’ crooked at me, woman! and stood up to rip off his two jacket buttons and tried to pull the sleeves down off his arms. Caitlin and Jamie rushed over with Cadgie close behind. When Pat’s jacket was down to his elbows he started to claw at his shirt wildly, Get them aff me! Jamie pulled his jacket off completely, Cadgie eased him back into his chair and Caitlin gently tried to take his hands away from his chest. However, it was Kitty who understood what the problem was. She felt his skin under a shirt cuff and sighed while he struggled. He’s too hot! What’s he got on under his shirt? Aye, I thought as much. She had opened the three top buttons of his shirt revealing a grey, thick and almost certainly itchy vest. I’ve told them time and again not to put a thick, long-sleeved simmit under his shirt even in winter-time. He gets too hot wherever he is. He thinks he’s been eaten up by wee beasties and it’s just heat prickles.

With his sleeves rolled up his arms, the top of his shirt opened and a drink of cold water, Pat’s panic attack was reduced to little except an intermittent, slight shake. Caitlin had his jacket and patted the outside of one the two large pockets. Ma, what’s he got in here? It feels like a packet or newspaper folded up. Kitty put her hand into the pocket and pulled out a collection of magazine and newspaper sheets, crudely torn out rather than cut with scissors. She looked at a couple of sheets and then handed them suspiciously to Cadgie. More up your street than mine, Mr Dawson.

Cadgie looked at them carefully. They have nothing to do with me. But they are all pictures of cars, all sorts of cars and I think they come from American papers and magazines. Look, here’s a Paige Larchmont Four Seater and there’s a Packard Open Roadster and a Holmes Series 4 Sedan. He likes his cars, so!

I brought the magazines for him when I visited two weeks ago’ a quiet voice came from behind. Niall Duffy stood there, with a hand on a chair back to steady himself, staring at his brother sitting quietly but not relaxed. They weren’t from me. They were sent by Brian for him. He knew how much he liked cars."

Our Brian? questioned Kitty Duffy, Why didn’t he send them to us directly?

Niall stepped slowly across to the group and sat down, taking one hand of his brother’s into his own. He’s been in America for several months and still feels unsure of how he is with you all since his time with the Irregulars in the war and then emigrating illegally without telling you much at all about it.

Jamie and I haven’t even got his address in, where was it? Chicago? He didn’t explain anything at all. Isn’t that right, ma? said Caitlin patting her mother’s shoulder. Kitty nodded as she cried into her best handkerchief. "I was going to give you his address after the wedding. He’s written to your uncle and to me now and again. I can tell you that he’s well and has a good job in a meat plant. But he still misses us. He even says he misses the ‘Pobal na Éireann . . . . The Irish People’"

Pat heard what was said although he wasn’t looking at Niall and he burst out with Éire? Ireland? My pictures! and put out a hand to demand his cuttings back from Cadgie. He passed them over and watched Pat search frantically through them until he found one of a red, racing car and brandished it in the air in front of Cadgie’s eyes. Pat chanted Erin go brách until Cadgie caught on to what he meant. He looked more carefully at the magazine picture. Ireland Forever? Of course! I see now! Look! It’s the winning Alfa Romeo car at the Italian Championships in April this year. The driver had this painted on his car as his lucky personal symbol. He held it up for all to look at. There were two white circular patches painted on the bonnet of his car and on the white patches were two large green shamrocks. Not too lucky for Hugo Sivocci, the driver, though. He died in a crash this September, testing a new car that also had his shamrocks painted on it.

Kitty was bemused by much of this but eventually concluded, I’m thinkin’ your da understands more than we think he does. It just needs a way of unlocking it all.

Better write to your son and ask for more car magazines, ma. encouraged Caitlin.

Aye, and you can write a page or two to your brother as well. You can ask him if he is being a ‘good boy’ now.

The cuttings went back into Pat’s jacket pocket and he was escorted back to the car for his return to St Assicus.

On the return to McGeever’s in the Humber Jamie turned to Caitlin and told her forthrightly what he thought of the escapade. I never thought it would work. It was a brilliant idea. To waltz into St Assicus’ in your wedding dress and demand that your da should come to the wedding feast was a piece of bare-faced brilliance and daring.

Agreed! shouted Cadgie from the front driving slowly along the country lane.

Keep your eyes on the road, driver! shouted back Caitlin and then leaned in to Jamie to give him a long, heartfelt kiss on his lips.

Hey in the back! shouted Cadgie, with a touch of jealousy in his voice. He had witnessed the kiss in his rear-view mirror. That’s not at all fair, you two playing frimsy-framsy there! An’ me havin’ to watch!

Caitlin disengaged herself for a second to laugh. "Wrong celebration Mr Dawson! Have you forgotten that this kissing game is mostly at wakes not weddings around here! And you don’t have to watch if it upsets you!" She giggled so much that Jamie had to kiss her again to stop the noise affecting their chauffeur’s driving. Well, that was his excuse at the time.

3 KERRY AND CORK, 1923

After his near-death experience in Ballymullan Prison, O’Mara was not allowed to speak to any Free State officer. He was given a ragged coat and an old pair of shoes, bundled into a tarpaulin-covered truck and then driven for an hour and a half over the road south to Killarney. It was only twenty miles or so but the journey was slow and bumpy. At one point a barricade was thought to be on the road but it wasn’t the work of Irregulars, only the result of a landslip after heavy rain which had brought down a couple of trees on to the road. It took the soldiers and some of the locals half an hour to clear a way through.

O’Mara half expected to be taken into a wood and shot by his two-man escort. He had heard of plenty of precedents for it and his escort never spoke a word to him or showed any interest in him at all. However, at every moment, there was one of them with a rifle pointing straight at his chest. Nothing happened until they reached the Free State army post at Killarney. He was half-dragged, half-guided out of the back of the army truck and taken to a drab office above a bar. It served as a temporary headquarters for a unit of the army dedicated to patrolling the foothills of the mountains around the town. Sat on a chair with his hands tied behind his back and his ankles tied to the chair legs, he faced a young, fresh-faced Free State officer in a shabby and dirty uniform, smoking a cigarette. The only other person in the room was a tall sergeant standing behind O’Mara’s chair with a pistol in his hand. The officer studied two sheets of paper given to him by the senior man in the prisoner escort.

So you are the notorious O’Mara? I’ve heard a lot about you. None of it good, of course but it is interesting to meet you face to face. Sorry about the surroundings. This is nowhere near as pleasant as the Southern Hotel, which we now control after the British and the genuine IRA evacuated it. But it serves as a discreet place for sensitive business.

The young soldier put down his papers and sat back in his chair, giving O’Mara an indulgent smile. What do you think is going to happen now to the darling of the Irregulars, the desperado of the West?

Sarcasm and jibes were O’Mara’s only weapons. I hope to God yer not goin’ to try and recruit me into your joke of an army like an Indian scout. I’ve no knowledge of this area, anyway.

The officer and even the sergeant behind him laughed. Not at all! There are not so many wild Irregulars in the hills to track down now but we have some local heroes to help us after they saw the way things were going for the Republicans and even a few dogs which are very, very dependable.

O’Mara just wanted it all over with. ‘So, why am I here? I could have been shot by a firing squad in Tralee, bludgeoned to death beyond the roadside bushes on the way here by Ballyhar or even drowned in Lough Leane just down there outside the town. What have you got for me here that is so special?"

The sergeant remained quiet but the soldier behind the desk just shook his head and sighed. You haven’t got it yet, have you? In half an hour’s time, a small squad of my hill men will take you in a tender for a few miles up into the Derrynasaggart Mountains. They will kick you out of their vehicle and come back here. You will be free to do what you want. Not that there’s much to do up there except try to contact the handful of Irregulars wandering around up there in their rags and join them to find something to keep starvation away.

O’Mara was confused. He couldn’t make much sense of what was really going on and the off-handed manner of the officer disturbed him. Are you joking about all this? he challenged.

Not at all. Officially, for the moment anyway, you are dead. However, it appears you’ve been ‘ransomed’, although I cannot think why. You see, your brother, Liam, has done very well for himself in what you call our ‘joke of an army’.

O’Mara straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. He had not got on with his brother when they reached adolescence. Liam was the ‘clever’ son and Diarmuid was the strong, brave one. The truth was that both were intelligent and physically able. Relations between the two brothers had been quite good during the War of Independence, mainly because O’Mara had joined his local brigade in Kerry whilst Liam had joined two friends of his in Ballina to fight or ‘just clerking’ as his brother called his organisational role in County Mayo. They met but rarely. The break came in summer 1922 when the Sinn Féin-created Dáil showed a majority for the Anglo-Irish Treaty that left Southern Ireland in the Empire with an Oath