Chapter 44: My tangled web of lies 30th August 1941
Days went by in Italy in a similar way to the quietest days back in Derry, Sundays where only going to church would be on James' agenda. There was nothing much for him to do in the room that he was held in, understandably so as he was not a guest that was invited. The Professor managed to get him a couple of books written in English which he read slowly, but even they did not last him too long. The joy of still being alive was enough to keep him sane though, as the days ticked by. Captivity could have been worse, he knew, as he was afforded a level of care that a man of his rank could ask for but would never assume he would receive. There were cramped camps across Europe where prisoners were dying of diseases and starvation, but he was always well fed. James' luck was immeasurably excellent yet again.
Still, despite that luck, he hardly lived a perfect life. Trapped in a dark room away from those that he loved and even from the rest of society, he was alone. Isolated properly for the first time in his life, James was having to live with the knowledge that he would have no companion to rescue him. In his mind, he was nowhere near important enough for anyone to go out of their way to free him, expecting to be joining the cramped camps he'd avoided once his injuries were fully healed. That was a day that drew ever closer, which only concerned him more. Being captured by the enemy was the last thing that any serviceman wanted, especially when the news of the war was bleak. The Italian newspapers showed images that appeared to be British cities on fire, the Englishman recognising St Paul's Cathedral in one of the images. Britain must have been under intense attack daily, perhaps even from invasion forces. His lack of understanding when it came to the Italian language prevented him reading the articles, though it was most likely a good idea that he did not. He assumed it would only depress him more.
The truth was not quite what the images told him though. Although cities were being bombed on a regular basis, there was hope for Britain still. The Germans and the Italians might have won battles against them in certain areas, but they were losing the battle against the spirit of Britain. Arguably, the spirit was the greater opponent that any British man or woman, an unbreakable connection that would stand up to any foe that dare challenge it. The people of the country were still getting up every day to go about their business without failure. Other countries would buckle under such pressure, but not Britain. Britain carried on because no one else could. At least that is how it was until June of that year…
June brought with it a new dimension to an already complicated conflict. Tensions between Germany and the Soviet Union rumbled on for months, but it finally came to a head in the early summer. Plans were in place by both sides to invade the other and it was Hitler who rolled the dice first. Operation Barbarossa was launched on the twenty second day of that month, with the intention of capturing Russia to populate it with Germans. Wanting to expand the living space of the country, where they could not attack Britain, the German High Command instead attacked the other major superpower left on the continent. There were bitter battles as the Red Army was pushed back, though pockets of incredible resistance popped up along the way. The people of Leningrad were determined to keep the Germans out, fostering a similar spirit to those at the Western end of the continent. They would not be beaten.
That conflict was not even on James' radar though, nor should it have been. His immediate conflict came from the injuries that still blighted him. It was getting on for a year since the fateful night over the skies of Italy that saw him left badly injured and David dead. Whilst his friend began anew in another life, James was left to fight off the wounds given to him by the bullets fired from the gun of the nervous young Italian soldier that night. His shoulder was fully healed, having done so quickly when he began to get up and about later on in January. It was a tough month, the cold biting back viciously towards the middle of it. He caught another fever, one that he remembered a second time around, shivering away as he boiled in his bed. There was little concern for his overall health, the Professor able to monitor his condition easily on a day-to-day basis, not that it made the experience any better. After a few days he returned to full health, with his shoulder exercised regularly from that point onwards. By early February, he had full movement in it, step one of his recovery over.
His legs gave him far more trouble. Although he was up and about in late January, he could not do so without significant assistance. The first time he'd attempted to put any weight on them, he crumpled back into the arms of the Professor and one of his assistants. The effort nearly broke both legs, saved from doing so only by the quick thinking of the two men holding him. Every day after that day, he slowly attempted to regain his ability to hold his weight properly. For the first few days, he began by trying to get up and out of bed without anyone to help him. Doing so under the watchful eye of Professor Molinari, he'd never felt as weak as he did when he could not get himself up and out of bed properly. There were times in his life where James was not in control, brief ones where he was vulnerable, but they paled in comparison to the man trying to learn to walk again. His usual unflappable confidence was tested to its extremes in the early days. A young man that would often find he could do anything that he set his mind to, trying to teach his body to hold its own weight again did not follow the normal pattern. Infuriated by the lack of progress, he would grow angrier with himself each day until the Professor reminded him that it was never going to be an easy fix.
Professor Molinari must have been the most patient man in the world, James conceded earlier on that year, as it was not until the end of February until he could raise himself from the bed without needing any assistance whatsoever. He did not miss the smile, and sigh of relief, that the Italian man gave him on the day he finally did it. A laborious process, it was only the start of what would be an ever longer road. The next three months were all spent walking around the room that he was kept in, held up by the Professor and his assistants. They would not let him out of their grasp, James' legs struggling to respond at first when confronted with the familiar questions asked of them when it came to movement. Many men would fail to rehabilitate, having to have their legs amputated after such injuries, but there was no man like James Maguire. Despite the arduous nature of the early days of his recovery, he did not once stop or let his impatience boil over. As frustrating as the recovery was to him, it was not as demoralising as turning up to a Prisoner of War camp as an invalid would have been.
By the closing days of May, he'd made significant progress. Although he was still held up each day as he walked around the room, he'd gradually been able to manage more and more time up on his feet. From the opening days where a minute would require a colossal effort on his part to be able to complete, he was able to walk around the room for a whole hour by the end of that month, albeit being held while he did so. The Englishman's legs were responding well to pressure after the shaky start, which was only aided by more and more practice. The Professor did not relent with the program to be able to maintain the progression that the young man in his care was making. Italian men also under his care were nowhere near as quick to recover as James was, defying his expectations on a regular basis. That was James Maguire though, a man who defied logic wherever it was presented.
As he improved physically, the Professor sought to upgrade the room that James was kept in almost as a reward. Finally able to go to the toilet himself, he was allowed a bucket and adequate toilet paper to clean himself up with. The humiliating days of soiling the bed were long over by the summer of that year, after contributing to a grim winter for him. The simple joy of being able to wipe one's own bottom rather than having it wiped on one's behalf, was a godsend that no man would ever think himself to be so thankful for. There was a reasonable level of sanitation too thanks to the Professor sending one of his assistants down every couple of hours to the pilot, to remove any waste in the bucket. The Italian was more than prepared to make the prisoner comfortable, which James was grateful for.
The untalkative nurse still made her daily appearances too. Whether she knew much English or not, James still did not know. She would communicate more in grunts as if she were a farm animal rather than a human being. Her husband, should she have one, must have been a long-suffering man, James thought to himself on many an occasion. Her hair appeared to change colour on a weekly basis too he'd noted, one week being blonde like his beloved Erin's and another week a shade of crimson that reminded him of the blood that his legs had lost the winter before. He was not fond of her at all and although he did not completely know it, she was not at all fond of him. Being forced to treat one of the men responsible for bombing her city did not sit well with her whatsoever.
The thirtieth day of August was a Saturday, not that James cared. Many men in his position would not have even known what the day of the week was unless they asked the Professor, but he did not need to as he worked it out himself. The church bells would ring out for longer one morning each week, James correctly deducing that it signalled Sunday morning mass. From then on, it was a case of making a mental note of how many days passed until it happened again. His mental note that week told him that he'd woken that morning to a Saturday, which once upon a time was his favourite day of the week. Saturday afternoons in the summer two years prior were spent with Erin, making love to each other as the sun basked out over the countryside around them. Memories of Saturday afternoons were becoming increasingly distant and, more pressingly, far more demoralising to think of. He certainly would not be making love to his beloved in the distant future, he thought that morning, Erin locked away from his reach. She would be there for him when he got back though, temporarily satisfying his mental anguish from not being with her there and then.
Around lunchtime, his new favourite woman arrived to see him. The nurse brought her usual silent treatment with her, along with a copious amount of vicious side glances and snarls. An accompaniment to the rough nursing she would administer, it made for an unpleasant midday. He was working on his leg movements with her, the woman taking over from the Professor each day as James progressed further. His plan for that day was one he had to formulate himself, as she never gave any instructions to him about what was expected. He'd walked unaccompanied around the room for forty-five minutes the day before, enabling him to target a new aim of fifty. Beginning strongly, he was briskly walking for the first twenty to twenty-five, before decreasing the pace when his muscles began to scream at him. The injuries did not pain him consistently until he applied sustained pressure to them through walking around the room without stopping, when they would make themselves very much known thereafter.
"No". She said to him, displaying one word of English she did know. "No good".
Extending it to two, he could have collapsed from her generosity. He did not though, as that would have been another victory for her when she pulled him back off of the floor. He also failed to understand what her complaints were for, the young man still moving perfectly albeit slower than he started.
"What?" He replied, seeking an answer despite knowing he wouldn't get one, still continuing to move around as he did.
"No good. Slow".
Her words were far from eloquent, but not far from the truth. Approaching forty minutes into his planned fifty, James was beginning to tire as his legs began to scream at him horrendously. They'd given enough, they thought, but he continued to push in order to reach the goal he set himself. His mental resilience did him credit, ignoring the rude Italian nurse who continued with her cold-shouldered approach to him. If he was not a gentleman, then he could have abused her verbally in return, especially as he noticed that her waistline appeared to be expanding. If the food supplies of Taranto ever ran short, she would have been one of the first suspects in the theft given the size of her. Those thoughts jumped away in a dark corner of his mind though, the corner unexplored by the man who it belonged to. He feared that side of himself a great deal. It rarely shone through, but when it did, James became a version of himself that he despised.
After fifty minutes, timed thanks to a watch that the Professor left him as a gift, James shot her a smug look to show her that he'd achieved what he wanted. She'd not commented again after telling him that he was too slow, opting to remain silent to see him fail like she hoped he would. If he failed then it would have meant being able to look at his legs again, inflicting further pain upon them to find out what was wrong. Her hatred for the Englishman only grew as he smashed through every barrier of recovery that should have stopped him. He should have been an invalid with no future in her eyes; instead, he was looking more like the noble Captain of the Fleet Air Arm that was responsible for one of the greatest raids of the war to date.
Muttering something in Italian that James deduced to be a rather unflattering term, she soon left. Storming out of the room, the nurse proved her strength by slamming the iron door that blocked him from the outside world, shut. It was no mean feat, the door weighing a considerable amount. Some soldiers would have trouble even shutting it normally, so for her to slam it genuinely impressed him.
She'd brought some food with her too, the normal combination of bread and cheese for him to enjoy. Yet another treat of the Professor's, he was now allowed a third meal every day, returning to a normality that he'd not expected at all. Three meals a day in Derry during wartime could be difficult for some families, unheard of for prisoners of war. James was no ordinary prisoner of war though. Just as he had been for his entire life, he was an important young man that required differing treatment to the common Tommy that would be thrown into a camp. He really was different.
Left alone to eat, he got on with it quickly before the scheduled arrival of Professor Molinari. The Professor visited him the afternoon before where they spoke briefly about his legs, the Italian man promising to return the following day for a more extensive conversation. He was performing an exercise of another kind when the Professor arrived. From behind his thick rimmed glasses, he smiled upon seeing the bare-chested Englishman exercising in his room, following the instructions he'd given to him perfectly.
"James". Molinari greeted him in his heavy accent. "Your dedication always impresses me".
"Thank you, Professor. I have not kept such shape for a long time, perhaps for the first time ever".
James, coy in his initial assessment, knew that he'd never looked so good when it came to his upper body. A conveniently placed bar was above his bed. The metal bar was imposing, stretching out across the width of the bed without any need to be there. For rowdier prisoners, the bar had been used in the past to tie them to, strung up like slaughtered animals in a butcher's shop. There was no need for it to be used on the gentlemanly James, but he could use it for his own efforts to maintain his fitness in captivity. From the moment Professor Molinari suggested it, James completed pull ups three times a day, sometimes four. One session in the morning, one at the height of the day and one in the evening, he would complete as many as he could before he ran out of energy. The consequences of the efforts meant that his pectorals, biceps and triceps were all in fine fettle, leaving him very bulky in his upper body. The chest that Erin used to enjoy, she would have enjoyed even more if she was allowed access to it.
"You should keep doing it, you will find it will benefit your body to stay so healthy".
"I will do so as long as you allow me to". He replied, with a slight grin.
"I cannot find a… a reason for why I would not".
Lowering himself back down onto the bed from the bar, James shuffled across it to sit up next to where the Professor was sat. Moving the chair over from the corner of the room as he always did, he took up his spot next to James, ready to discuss his progression again. Pen and paper at the ready, Professor Molinari looked him in the eye as he began his questions.
"What did you manage today?"
"I was able to stay on my feet without the darling nurse's assistance for fifty minutes…". James informed him, sparing no effort when it came to the sarcasm regarding the woman. "… and my legs felt a lot stronger afterwards".
On most days after walking around the room, he would often need a couple of hours to recover. That Saturday morning, he finished his food and almost immediately was doing his pull ups, the pain in his legs being nowhere near as prevalent after his efforts walking. The day before he'd required some recovery time after, progress immediately showing even when he'd added five minutes extra to his schedule.
"When did they first start to hurt?" The Professor enquired once more.
"I would say around twenty-five minutes into my effort". James replied.
"Twenty five?" Molinari questioned rhetorically, shocked by the reply. "That is a… a pleasing amount of time, do you not think?"
"I am extremely proud of it. It is wonderful to feel that my legs are working properly again".
Silence engulfed the room, James watching as the Professor noted down the young man's comments. James knew his own body better than anyone else, the Professor deeming it vitally important that the Englishman's thoughts were added to his medical observations to truly understand where they were on his road to recovery. There were other questions that needed to be asked though before he could plan any further ahead, turning to the prisoner of war to ask them.
"The nurse… she told me that you were very slow at the end. Was the pain easier to control than it usually is?"
"Yes". He replied confidently. "They hurt me, but I was able to overcome the pain".
"Good. Which hurt more, left or right?"
During the healing process, his left leg was the one that pained James more. The bullet wound above his left knee took longer to heal than the one that cracked through his right shin. Although bone was broken in the shin by the impact of the bullet, it did not impede his movement as much as the one above his left knee. However, in time, his left leg began to be able to match the right again.
"Neither more than the other".
"That is most pleasing".
All of the questions that the Professor wished to ask were complete. He took a couple of minutes to finish off his notes, making some amendments in places whilst he re-read some of his work. James watched him for every second in his intrigue, wondering what the man might say to him next. It would be positive, he thought, as the progress was all positive in his eyes.
James did not find himself waiting for too long.
"I am very 'appy with your progress…". Molinari began, pausing to push his glasses back from where they'd dropped. "It will not be long before you can start to walk up and down the corridor outside, under… supervision, of course".
"Of course". He smiled. "I have not forgotten that I am your prisoner".
The two shared a look of humorous understanding. As much as he wished he was not, James was what he was. A prisoner of war could not simply roam about unguarded unless his captors wished for him to make an escape attempt so that they could kill him. The amount of care that he was receiving from Professor Molinari had already convinced him that escaping would be a useless idea when he was relatively safe where he was. Always aware that the situation could quickly change though, an escape was not ruled out it if he was to be transferred to a camp once his injuries were fully rehabilitated. The last thing he wanted was to reside in a camp with the other captured men, knowing full well that they would probably get him killed in an audacious escape attempt.
"I would ask one question, if I may?"
"Please". The Professor replied, smiling.
"Would I be able to walk outside today for a few minutes? The fresh air would be most comforting, if you would allow me to enjoy it?"
A prisoner of war did not often ask anything of his captor, but for James, it was incredibly important. The bars that let light into the room might let air in as well, yet the air was simply not the same as being stood out in it. The climate of the room he was held in never changed; the air constantly stale with the lingering smell of his own sweat filling it. To have even a couple of minutes of pure air would be blissful.
"I do not see why not…". The professor responded positively to his surprise. "… but it will have to be at night. If people were to see you in the day…".
"I understand". James held up his hand. "I am hardly a local favourite".
He most certainly was not a local favourite, but that was not the main reason why he could not go out in the day. Professor Molinari withheld that information from him so that the young man did not get suspicious or ask too many questions that he would not be able to answer. No one outside of the Professor and his assistants were aware that he was being held under the grounds of the Professor's home. Some were aware that he'd been taken there and was alive for a few days after the fateful November night, but the Professor informed anyone who asked about the pilot, that he'd died on the operating table.
To the wide world, James Maguire did not exist.
Months on from the night that truly introduced Derry to the war, the city was still coming to terms with what had happened. The whole of Britain had to initially, as the rest of the kingdom watched on as Belfast burned thanks to the crafty work of the Luftwaffe. When the flames eventually died down, the rescue work and rebuilding could begin to take place, the true cost being discovered over the weeks that followed. That was until the Luftwaffe decided that Belfast had not had enough disruption from its bombing, returning again towards the start of May to drop ninety-six thousand incendiary bombs onto the city in various places. Once again, Belfast burned, though the firefighters were able to attend the blazes far more quickly as the water supplies were not hit first on the second raid. When all was said and done, over one thousand people had lost their lives in Belfast over the course of the two attacks, with many more injured too.
Derry's lone night of bombing claimed fifteen victims in total, as well as one dog. Napoleon was not mentioned in the papers, a Labrador's life not valued as highly as a human one. There were a mix of men, women and children who were amongst the dead, some of whom were only recognisable from possessions that survived the explosions. There were church services for all of them, packing out the church on the days that the services took place. There was residual anger, incredible amounts of it in fact, for the Germans. At the beginning of the war, extremely silently, some residents of the city would have considered themselves more sympathetic to the Germans than to Britain. Nearly two years on from when the fighting started though, there were very few who held Germany in a higher regard. The one night of bombing changed the perspective of the whole war for most, reminding them that they were just as much a part of it as the residents of London or Liverpool.
Having nearly been a sixteenth casualty herself, Erin Quinn could be seen as lucky that she'd not ventured any closer to Messines Park. She did not see it that way herself in the immediate aftermath, wanting to be killed to reunite with her beloved James in heaven again. The rest of the family were told her reasons when they returned home that night, leaving Sarah and Anna distraught and Joe aghast. The latter would have never forgiven himself if she'd gotten herself killed, having made a poor attempt at stopping her from chasing the dog through the streets. Joe was not a man who let out tears very often, but her reasoning for running after Napoleon truly upset him. Having hidden just how much her heart still ached for James, Erin's bottled-up emotions very nearly got her killed. For weeks the family remained vigilant around her to ensure that any repeat did not occur, but she appeared to calm again, returning to battling the grief that consumed her.
Her friends looked out for her too, especially as the levels of work at the factory still remained low after the Easter break. With more time on their hands during the day, they could all talk to her more often, to make sure that she was alright. The young Quinn did her best to smile and be positive, although it was never easy to complete the routine. All she wanted from her existence was James, James and nothing else. She did not care if the two of them did not have any money or anywhere to live, she just wanted to be able to be with him again. The cruel world that they lived in made sure that she would not, and the girls faced a familiar brick wall when it came to trying to move Erin on. They could not, or perhaps rather would not, suggest that she tried to see another fella, attempting to move her on through another man to erase James' memory. Even Michelle was not completely invested in that method, and she was the one who'd first raised it to the rest of them, when Erin was out of earshot one afternoon. The memory of the dashing young Englishman would stay with them all forever.
The night of the bombing did bring favourable disruption to the lives of one of the girls again though. Clare appeared to be fortunate whenever faced with the prospect of the date that Michelle, and to a lesser extent, her father, had been encouraging her to go on for some time. Nobody went out in the city that weekend, mothers not allowing their daughters anywhere near it in case they were to be bombed again. No parents wanted to lose their children, with families of those killed in Messines Park left devasted by their loss. Michelle did not even mention the date again, having forgotten it in the haze of the Luftwaffe raid. Many things were forgotten after that night thanks to the anger that grew in the hearts of the people against Germany. There was no doubt that Derry was in the war now, if there was any in the first place. For Clare though, it was yet another twist of fate that fell in her favour rather than society's. The expense to others was far greater when it saved her though. James, David and fifteen others had died in order to help her get out of going on a date with a fella, a truly horrifying realisation once thought of. She'd thought of it many times too…
That was until the Saturday night of the thirtieth day of August. Fate did not save her again.
Earlier in the week, they were working away one afternoon when out of the blue, Michelle brought up the date again. It was as if Clare received déjà vu when she did, the conversation flowing exactly how it had done in April, albeit at work rather than on the streets of the city. The dark-haired girl forced her blonde friend into the date once more, Clare still unable to provide a valid enough reason not to go. Of course, there was a perfectly valid explanation to it, but not one that could be told to Michelle. Or anyone for that matter. Her tangled web of secrets, lies and deception only ever weaved more and more, to leave a mess that would break her apart should anyone find out. Her guard was already up after Sean's announcement that the church believed there was another dyke in the community, though he did not suspect for one second that it was his own daughter that matched the description.
All week she'd waited for something to happen as it always did, a bombing raid or even one of their family or friends just collapsing out on the streets and dying. The further the week went on, the more nervous she became, cacking it on the Friday when Orla simply put a hand on her shoulder. She was terrified of what might occur on the date, praying to the Lord that the fella Michelle had chosen would not be so forward with her. It would never get to the point of sex, she knew, as it would be suicide for any lad who attempted to deflower her before a marriage could take place. Sean would not allow that. That did not rule out other activities though and knowing Michelle, she would pick a fella who would love those activities.
By Saturday afternoon, it was clear to Clare that there was no way that anyone or anything was going to happen to stop the date proceeding. Fate may have smiled kindly on her multiple times in the past, but it was not going to extend a caring hand to her again. Instead, she was left to deal with a night she'd dreaded for the best part of a couple of years. She was going to be going on a date with a fella… a double date with Michelle and another fella. If she could paint a nightmare then it would be the reality that she was about to face, feeling no more confident with her friend at her side than without her. To Michelle it was fun, but to Clare, it endangered the sanctuary of the life that she wanted to live, free from having to give her body to a man. She wished for another woman to love, but society would never help her with that wish.
They'd agreed to meet at the Mallon house around six thirty that evening, spending some time together before heading out to meet the lads for eight. Before she left home, Clare endured a boke-inducing lecture from Sean about behaving herself and not getting up to any funny business with the lad. He was delighted that she'd finally committed to at least a date with a young man, the prying eyes of those with influence at church, firmly away fixed away from his family. Geraldine was pleased for her daughter too, neglecting to mention the night before when she'd heard Clare crying in the middle of the night. Her mother was not a stupid woman; Geraldine knew that Clare did not want to go on the date but faced little choice. To defy Michelle Mallon was utterly ridiculous, especially when it came to going out with young men.
Following the plan, they were walking into the city, a distant thought in the back of Clare's mind telling her that she hoped the bombers might make an appearance overhead to stop them. The Luftwaffe stayed at home though, Clare faced with the definitive reality that she would be going on the date. She still had some standards though, even if she did not want to go on the date, dressing far more respectfully than her friend. Michelle was making sure that she, in her own words, displayed her assets to the fella that she would be going on the date with. She'd promised Clare the winter before that there would be no funny business, but she was dressed with the intentions for plenty of it instead.
"Did ye have to wear that?" Clare huffed as they approached the centre of the city.
"What!?" Michelle reared up. "I can't help being good lookin' and wantin' to show it!"
That was part of the problem for Clare. The thoughts, and feelings, for Michelle did not go away easily, especially when she was dressed the way that she was. It was completely unfair, she thought to herself, to have a friend willing to flaunt her beauty in front of her but being completely unobtainable. She would catch herself staring sometimes at work, fortunate that the girls were yet to catch her doing it. It could not be helped when Michelle was so glamourous. Another battle to add to her list, her feelings towards one of her best friends were in need of constant quashing when she knew how horrific the outcome would be.
"Ye know, I did mean to say, I think ye look hot by the way".
Michelle's statement nearly took Clare off her feet into the ditch to the side of them. Her cheeks were burning in the setting sun of the day, her knees ready to leave her at any given second. The friend who she had feelings for, renegade feelings but feelings nonetheless, thought she looked hot. Her mind was ablaze with all kinds of thoughts…
"Thank you". She replied gratefully, cursing herself for being so cheerful about it.
"I mean like hot as in actually hot… ye better not be sweatin' in that thing, I'm not havin' these lads think we're mingers!"
"Oh thanks Michelle! That's just what I needed before this!"
Michelle was not concerned that her friend was annoyed by her statement, more concerned that the lads would not be so keen if they saw sweat dripping off of Clare. She wasn't sweating in the dress that she wore but she was getting more and more frustrated with her friend. Failing to realise how much it hurt Clare for her not to be describing her beauty, it was a punch to the gut that took the wind out of her friend's sails. Serving to antagonise her further, Clare was also annoyed by the name of the lad that Michelle found for her. She would have never thought she'd get herself so riled up by a lad's name when she did not want to be there at all, but it was more than justified. She really thought Michelle was only seeking to annoy her, not help her, when she continued to insist that she was.
"I still can't believe you've got a lad with that name for this!" She barked at her. "Ye really do surpass yerself sometimes Michelle!"
"Jesus, would you calm the fuck down for five minutes!" Michelle bit back as a car roared past them. "He's a nice enough fella if ye can get off yer high horse about his name!"
"My high horse!? Are ye serious Michelle?"
Giving her friend a quizzical look as if to wonder why she would even ask such a question, Michelle confirmed that she was. In her mind, Clare needed to chill out, as there were worse things happening in the world than the unfortunate choice of name that the fella had. It was not deliberate on her part, although Clare believed it was given how the whole evening was against her anyway. Still raging about it, the diminutive blonde continued.
"His name is Colm, Michelle… COLM!"
"Aye, I am aware of that ye know. I did choose him for ye".
"The whole time we will be out… THE WHOLE TIME!" Clare shouted, getting her point across firmly. "I am going to be thinking of Erin's Uncle! Could ye not have found a lad with a better name!?"
"That's offensive ye know. Belittling a man because of his name". Michelle sniped.
"I am not belittling him! I feel sorry for him, actually because… ye know, he has the same name as the most boring man in Derry!"
Clare began to walk quicker, almost leaving Michelle behind as she stomped towards the centre of the city. She'd gone from fuming, to raging to absolutely Jack the Ripping on the journey into the city centre. Michelle's lack of consideration for her began to eat away at her heart too, the vessel that told her that her friend would never see her for who she wanted to be. To endure a date with a fella was going to be bad enough, but to endure one when all of her thoughts would return to a man who could put a room to sleep was far worse.
"Well if it makes ye feel better, he's not as boring as the actual Colm is". Michelle tried to pacify her.
"Great! That makes it all better does it?" Clare snapped again. "Everything is fine because he's not boring… that doesn't fix what my heads tellin' me".
Shaking her head, Michelle could not think of an appropriate response to tell Clare how much of an eejit she was being. When she went out with a fella, his name was not high on the priority list. Some of the fellas she'd been with, she couldn't even remember their names. It was not important to her at all, the lad just needing to be a massive ride for her to be satisfied. A lad she'd been with could have been called Adolf or Winston and she wouldn't have cared in the slightest.
"Yer head needs crackin'". Michelle eventually mumbled a response.
"Ye well maybe it does. But I'm tellin' ye Michelle, yer really not makin' this easy for me!"
An evening that was easier than most in Michelle's book, she decided to shrug off Clare's moans to concentrate on it. Clare's mental suspicions that Michelle would not be adhering to her own rule about no funny business were correct, as Dermot, the lad she'd chosen for the double date, was the newly crowned biggest ride in Derry. Newly crowned by her that is, though many young women were interested in the strapping labourer. She'd come across the two the week before when she went out with only the purpose of finding two fellas for a double date. Dermot and Colm were friends, and when the former suspected his luck might be in with the young Mallon, he roped the latter into going along with him for the mystery friend that Michelle spoke of.
They would be meeting the lads at the Guildhall, where another evening of dancing was taking place. It remained untouched by the Luftwaffe bombs, to the delight of everyone, enabling them to enjoy a night of dancing without having to find a new venue to go to. On seeing the lads waiting outside for them, Michelle picked up the pace to a speed that Clare could barely follow. She would have been sweating had it continued, but before long, they were in front of the two lads, where the introductions could begin.
"Alright!" Michelle greeted them.
"Ach how are ye Michelle…". Dermot leaned in to embrace her, giving her a peck on the cheek.
"Grand, so I am". She replied as they pulled apart. "This is my friend, Clare".
Positioned almost directly behind Michelle, Clare only jutted out a little way to be seen by the two lads. To her surprise they did not frown at her or laugh at her, instead the two of them wore soft smiles. Surely Michelle hadn't found two lads with a bit of heart, as that was the last thing she needed on a night she lived in fear of. She would hate to offend either of them.
"Now, she is a wee bit nervous, so you be nice to her Colm".
Addressing the date that she'd picked out for Clare, the young man turned his attentions to the young woman he'd been roped into the date with. Fully expecting a hideous girl that would require his deepest sympathies when he'd be goaded into it by Dermot, Colm was pleasantly surprised by Clare. She was not as good looking as Michelle was, though that was no crime, but she was still a blonde with good looks. Anticipating an evening that he was going to hate, he found himself believing that it would not be so bad after all once her initial nerves died down. He did not know he was dealing with the queen of cack attacks…
"Hello Clare, I'm Colm".
Holding out his hand like a gentleman, she raised hers slowly. The Queen was proving the value of her crown outside the Guildhall, albeit internally, panicking that her life was slipping off of the path she wished for it to travel on. Shaking the hand of the lad that she'd been forced into a date with was not in the plans of her future, yet she could not stop it happening. It was only a handshake though, she monologued to herself, there was no funny business and to his credit, Colm appeared to be a nice enough young man.
"N-Nice to meet y-you, Colm". Clare introduced herself tentatively.
"Yer lookin' well".
The Air raid sirens were not sounding out across Derry, but they were going like the clappers in her brain. Paid a compliment by the lad, she genuinely did enjoy it as a friendly comment, but not one that made her feel any differently towards him or any other man for that matter. Her second cack attack was initiated thanks to her minds other thought; how should she respond to him? In the position that she was in, every answer when it came to anything remotely linked to love or relationships would have to be measured to perfection. Unlike Erin, who could find words for almost any occasion, she did not have the same command of vocabulary.
"T-Thank you".
A simple thank you was all that the young Devlin could muster, one spoken in complete fear at that. Colm beamed a smile at her to attempt to calm her down, but as much as she appreciated his efforts, they were totally in vain. There was nothing that he could do that would make the night any better for her.
"Alright keep it in yer pants Colm!" Michelle winked at him, making him blush. "Let's get movin', we're missin' all the dancin' standing out here".
Heading off inside, a night of entertainment began for the four of them… or at least three of them. It was all four though, as Clare would have been the most scandalous liar if she'd said she hadn't enjoyed herself at all. The moment they got in, the pairs separated, Michelle and Dermot heading straight to the dancefloor whilst Clare and Colm went to the bar. Limiting herself to the one drink, she sipped away nervously as Colm introduced himself to her. He worked at the same place as Dermot but was not a labourer like his friend. Working in the offices, he was a logician at heart, putting together the plans for shipping and organising the shifts. Dermot was more Michelle's type, she learned through his friend, not possessing the brainpower of young Colm but being far more muscular. She'd already noted how Michelle's eyes lit up when they turned to his chest and equally how his lit up when they turned to hers.
The dancing was pleasant enough, though Clare did not consider herself to be particularly adept at it. Colm was patient with her at least, which was a patience tested on numerous occasions as she fretted quietly. Feeling absolutely nothing towards him made the movements a lot easier at least, remembering how she'd watched Erin dance with James before they were together, witnessing her squirming every time their hands made contact. With Colm, it was different, because at every touch of the hand, she was left smiling instead. She'd also managed to avoid picturing Erin's uncle every time that she looked at him, after a couple of initial moments where the image of the most boring man in Derry filtered through to her.
Around half past ten, those organising the dancing began to shepherd the attendees outside to return to their homes. There were still no bombers overhead that night and there wasn't going to be, allowing the young people in attendance to return home peacefully without the threat of being killed on the way back. The four of them were the last to leave, with Michelle making it quite clear to the woman who was behind the bar, that she would not go until her drink was finished. Amazingly, it was her only drink of the night, having kept dancing from the moment they arrived up until nearer half ten. Whilst she continued to polish the drink off with Dermot at her side, Clare and Colm headed out into the night air to wait for them.
"That was a grand evening, don't ye think?" The happy Colm asked her.
"A… Aye, it wasn't too bad at all". An unnerved Clare just about managed a reply.
She was shaking out on the street, and not because it was particularly cold. Alone with Colm where no one else could see them, Michelle and Dermot still taking their time inside, she felt at her most vulnerable. He wasn't a horrible young man at all, and would most definitely make someone happy, just not her. Whether he knew that though, she did not know and the lack of anyone to interrupt them made her fear the absolute worst.
"Ye can relax a bit ye know". He told her. "I'm not going to murder ye or anythin'".
They shared a round of chuckles, Clare allowing herself to do so as she knew he only meant well. It was quite funny too, she would have to admit, as Colm pulling out a knife and stabbing her to death was nowhere near the reason why she was so nervous.
It was what he did next that was the reason.
Reading the situation in the complete wrong manner, he moved in to kiss her, hoping that it would calm her down. Throughout the dancing she hadn't hesitated when their hands made contact, telling him that despite her outer nerves, she must have been supremely confident on the inside. It was a decision that was completely wrong on his part, a situation read poorly. Paralysed with fear for a second, Clare froze as his lips got closer to her. She did not want what he wanted, even if Colm was a nice young fella. She wasn't interested… she was scared. Doing the only thing that she thought she could, after a moment's panic, Clare bolted.
"Cla…".
Colm nearly fell forwards when he realised that she was no longer there, the momentum taking him flying as he saw her running off down the street.
"For feck's sake Colm, I said be nice!"
Arriving at the wrong moment, Michelle did not see the look on Clare's face as she saw Colm's lips approaching hers. She remained unawares that it was her friend's dark secret that prevented young Colm being allowed what he wanted to do, having spent such a good time with her. Sighing, he'd lost his chance of a good evening and would have to cut his losses and return home unhappily.
"I'll be seein' you's then". He said to Michelle and Dermot, who were holding hands.
"Wait Colm!" She called out to him. "I'm sure I can provide enough entertainment for the two of ye".
Stopping dead in his tracks, his back to the two of them, Colm's lips curved up into a gleeful grin where he stood. He would not turn down that offer.
Turning around, he joined the other two on the walk back to Dermot's.
His luck was back in.
Derry's air was clear when he arrived, nowhere near as thick and soupy as it was on his previous visit nearly a year before. The streets were empty at that time of the Saturday evening, with only those heading to a dance at the Guildhall out on the streets. The car went past two young women who appeared to be arguing, one being far more provocative in her dress choice than the other. The dark-haired girl of the pair was the one with a skimpier dress on and she was really shouting at the small blonde that she was walking with. Unable to get a better look at them as the car went by, it remained a mystery as to what the cause of the argument was.
It did not matter anyway, his business in Northern Ireland was far more than watching a couple of girls argue.
Captain Smithers did not expect to be back there when he left the previous winter, but he'd not ruled it out either. The everchanging nature of the war meant the best laid plans would have to be tweaked at almost every turn. His orders to Charlene Kavanagh were specific at the time, orders that should have been able to be monitored from afar. However, the nature of diplomacy meant that Lieutenant Colonel Menzies decided to alter the plan. He sent the Captain for an update from her in person, though she was informed in advance that he would be coming. Emerald Two was kept out of the picture, although he would visit his agent during his brief stay in Derry for a separate update on what they were doing. There was also the potential that keeping the other agent out of the mission would have to be changed, depending on what Charlene came back to him with.
His destination was her mansion, though tea and biscuits were not on his mind either, even though he knew that they would be offered. The Kavanagh's were generous hosts during his prior visit, and he did not see that changing. It was a rare privilege to be driven for once as well, a driver provided by Charlene. On the way up to her driveway he took in the features, that had received upgrades since he'd last visited. There were two new fountains on the driveway up to where the existing fountains lay, decorative pieces to an already lavish stately home. Their family being one of the richest around allowed for such luxuries, more than comfortably able to afford the work despite the war. Finding men to do it should have been harder, but they were lucky that none of the landscapers that they usually used had decided to go to war.
She was outside waiting for him when the car pulled up. The butler Jefferies, a man who he found to be very obnoxious the prior year, was also out with her. No doubt his intentions were to take Smithers' coat, which he would not make the mistake of folding up beforehand to give to the butler. In the exact same way as Erin was belittled by him, Smithers found that Jefferies did not approve of his folding technique in the slightest. He didn't expect to be spoken to by him in such a tone and Charlene did remind the man of his place at the time, but he would also not risk a second telling off regardless. It would not be a long visit, but an important one nonetheless.
"Charlene". Smithers addressed her as he stepped out of the car. "The house looks in splendid condition again".
"Thank ye Mr Smithers…". She replied, equally formal. "… I hope yer journey was pleasant".
"As pleasant as any journey is in wartime".
He'd flown over to Northern Ireland, a passenger along with other military personnel who were transferring over to Derry. There were multiple bases and camps in the local area, and many commanders would come and go to England a lot of the time. There were sometimes staff meetings that would require their presence, and other times they would go back to see their families, Smithers being the odd one out on the flight over. He was the only man in the service that was flying to Ireland that afternoon.
"How are you? You appear to be well?" He asked politely.
"We have enjoyed a pleasant summer as you can see…". She extended her arm out to point to the perfectly manicured grounds. "… but a busy one at that".
"I see. Well, let's not waste any time".
No time was wasted at all, Smithers practically throwing his coat at Jefferies, who responded with an unsatisfied frown on his face. Silently getting on with his business, he retreated off into the house as Smithers and Charlene entered the living room. Tea was already ready waiting for him, Smithers wasting no time in getting himself a cup. Charlene got herself one too, sitting opposite him at the table at the far end of the room, as opposed to the sofa towards the middle. Smithers brought pen and paper with him, as well as his diary, placing all of them onto the table to prepare to make notes from what she was going to tell him.
"Shall we?" He initiated the discussion.
"Aye, let's begin".
Ruling a line under his previous notes, Smithers made a note of the date in the margin. It was nearly exactly two years to the date that the warn had begun, two long years of hard work and graft that he remembered nearly every minute of.
"So, how are our American friends?" Smithers enquired with her.
"The project's going alright, so it is. They've settled well as I've said before, keeping well away from the locals".
Charlene's role after her assistance with James, was that of liaison officer. It was a far cry from the task that she had been performing, but it did utilise some of the same skills. An effective communicator, she was placed into the role by Menzies and Smithers and they'd only heard good things since. The Americans, keen to expand their intelligence network without any unwanted attention, found themselves a great ally in Charlene Kavanagh. She worked tirelessly to ensure the secrecy of the project that they were undertaking, a project which signalled American intentions quite clearly to her. For a country who'd gone to great lengths to not get involved in the war, they were getting themselves rather involved in Derry. The people all knew that there were Americans in the city, but none of them realised what they were building at the Lisahally docks.
An agreement signed in secret, Menzies being party to the process, the Americans were building themselves a naval base in the city's port. The port's strategic importance was realised very quickly for them, being the first major port that their ships would come across following the perilous Atlantic voyage. A perfect place for a base that could provide multiple functions, there were opportunities to ship troops and supplies into the area for training, before moving them onto England or straight to any new fronts on the continent when they would open up. America was going to enter the war sooner or later, and when they did, they wanted to be ready in Britain to strike out across the channel when the right moment came. Derry was just the first of a number of planned projects to be carried out, Charlene finding herself the go between when it came to Menzies and the lead American intelligence officer on site. Over three hundred and fifty engineers and labourers came over from America to build it, whilst in the background, the Intelligence services established radio installations and bases for them to conduct their work. Charlene was the key to ensuring success.
"When does the Captain think he will be fully operational?" Smithers continued to ask.
"Another couple of months he told me. They've been workin' on some provisional arrangements for moving forward but he wasn't happy with them so he's changin' what he wants".
"At least he noticed the weakness".
"I noticed it, not him". She corrected Smithers smugly. "But aye, it got spotted".
Making notes on what she'd said, Smithers was aware that he would have to make the notes extensive for Lieutenant Colonel Menzies. Menzies enjoyed as much detail as possible on matters such as the American project. There was plenty to go through too, the itinerary for the project being a large one. Charlene was certainly a better fit for the job than Emerald Two though, having far more patience and perhaps even more guile, though Smithers could not fault his other agent in that regard.
Twenty minutes passed where the two exchanged details of the project, and how they would continue to keep it under wraps. If anyone ever asked her what was going on, she played the perfect cover story that no one ever questioned. Being from wealth enabled her to use it effortlessly, informing the nosy old ladies who'd watch on from afar that they were workers building a new dock for her father's business interests. Even with the war ongoing, they would all go away convinced, knowing of the Colonel's money and influence. Her father being a well-liked man amongst the people of Derry helped immensely too. A generous man when he wanted to be, the respect that the older generations held for him helped her lie incredibly. No one would ever know that the Americans were there to build naval installations for their own entry into the war.
Once the full details were taken by Smithers, he was able to build up a clearer picture of what he would be reporting back to Menzies on. The project was yet to hit any significant delays from their perspective and the work on the docks progressed quickly too. For a country that was slow to get involved in the war, the labourers were quick to get buildings constructed, and docks installed. American warships and supply ships alike would be visitors to the dock, the vision shared by allied Commanders on both sides. Serving a local network of bases, radio stations and camps, the docks would be the hub of early American activity in Northern Ireland, surpassing the importance of Belfast at first. In time, Belfast would become more important in the visions of the commanding officers, but Derry would always have its role to play in their operations.
"When do ye think they'll properly join the war?"
Charlene took her turn to ask a question, one which there was no easy answer to. The American people were restless with the thought of another European war that would see their young men sent to fight, and potentially die. Many thought that it was not their fight, the shackles of British control having long left them. Some saw it differently though. Britain may not have always been a friend, once controlling the lives of their ancestors, but Britain was not Nazi Germany. Hitler's ideals horrified Americans who read up properly about them and the concern that the Germans might try to expand their influence on them began to stir their feelings towards entering it. Tipping some over the edge too was seeing what was happening to Britain on a daily basis. Pictures of London being bombed entered the American press but also images of British determination too. In spite of the constant, demoralising, motivation sapping attacks, Britain still stood. The old empirical bastion of Europe was yet to be truly breached by the Nazi's, and not for the want of trying either. However, public opinion was still divided to that very day.
"I do not know the answer to that question Charlene, but we must hope that they extend their kindness to us as soon as it is possible to do so. We would be much better for it". Smithers delivered a quaint, measured reply.
"The Captain's ready. He thinks they should have joined in months ago". She chirped.
"It would have been fantastic to have that level of support, but one can understand the Americans wish to attempt to stay out of any conflict when they cannot gain from it".
"They might gain…". She mused. "… if we let them".
Smiling, Smithers enjoyed listening to her views on the war. Charlene was a very smart young woman, a younger version of Lyla Walsh if anything. The two of them were both adept and aware of the political situation that was implied with the Americans entering the war, with any territorial gains likely being handed to them. Thoughts of gains were a long way off though; a real hammer blow needed to be delivered to Nazi Germany first.
"That is for those who earn far much more money than I do to decide". He chuckled.
"Ye know politicians though, Captain. A decision this decade would be a miracle".
Sniggering together, the conversation was pleasantly light-hearted for two agents of the British Crown. Smithers found it oddly comfortable to relax in her presence, the warmth of the Kavanagh's fire keeping the living room incredibly cosy.
"How about the other issue?" Captain Smithers changed the subject. "Have you been able to discover anymore?"
The last time that they'd made extensive contact, a few weeks earlier, Charlene had informed her handler of a threat that extended further than just the American project. Whether the threat was truly there remained to be seen, but enough had been done to suggest that it was possible. Right under her nose, albeit she was not looking out for them, someone in Derry was able to come across information which should have been buried two winters before. Information that died with the minds that held it, she'd made the accidental discovery that a mortal being knew what had happened from that time, one way or another. None of the firing squad would have talked, all of them being ruled out as they'd all been moved to the frontlines following a reshuffle of troops, every single man being killed by Rommel's forces in the desert. Emerald Two would not have talked either, which told her that an incredible piece of investigative work must have taken place for the interloper to know what had happened. There was not even any hearsay about the incident… yet they knew somehow…
"I've kept my eye on them for a while now, but they're good, so they are".
"Are they still working alone?" He probed.
"Yes". She huffed out slightly. "But to get the information, they must have figured out what happened themselves yet without any bribery or intimidation. I think they knew about Professor Joyce's connections before his death and Jenny's".
The dark saga of the Joyce family was not expected to rear its ugly head, but it did. A resident of Derry became aware of the fates of both Jenny and her father, Charlene stumbling across the information by chance. She just happened to be around the corner from them as they walked down an alleyway, failing to spot her. The conversation that she happened upon was held between them and their parents, who she was convinced were not involved. They'd ridiculed their child for thinking that the Professor and Jenny were executed by agents of Britain. They of course were, but how that resident of Derry knew the truth nearly two years on, was a grave concern.
"I would agree". Smithers nodded. "They could not have theorised it otherwise. The rest of the public believed him to be a sympathiser too, did they not?"
"They did". She nodded back to him. "We don't want that to change".
"That can never change, Charlene. There are too many implications for us to handle if the reasons for their deaths were found".
Smithers expected her to ask what the implications were, but to his surprise, she did not. Understanding her place within the service, she knew not to ask. Charlene Kavanagh was a very smart young woman indeed. The implications were, of course, the truths around the secretive life of the deceased Captain James Maguire. The Joyce's, in part, died to keep those truths well buried.
"They're good though. Surprisingly good". She paid her target a compliment.
"A closer eye should be kept on them. I want to know about everything, whether it be collaboration material or if they stir their tea clockwise or anti-clockwise. Leave no stone unturned, Charlene".
"Aye. I won't".
Their business was nearly concluded, Smithers writing down the final notes about the potential spy in Derry. If the person that Charlene told him about was indeed a spy, which he'd began to suspect that they might if they'd known about the Professor's allegiances previously, then Derry would once again be high on his priority list. Emerald Two may not have been needed for the American project, but the burden of both acting a liaison officer and field agent would be an act too difficult for Charlene to perform alone. Their experience would be perfect to tackle the spy. It was more of a mission suited to them than Charlene in truth, the heir to the Kavanagh throne utilised to get tasks done whereas Emerald Two's value was found in monitoring. There were not many better.
Charlene, very kindly, was putting the Captain up for the night, allowing him to relax into a more sociable atmosphere once they'd discussed everything on his agenda. With plenty of promising yet also concerning information to take back to Lieutenant Colonel Menzies, he was satisfied that his job was done. It allowed him to ask Charlene something which had been on his mind for months. He did not understand why he even cared still, but the image he'd left Northern Ireland with the previous November still haunted his mind. James Maguire and the life that extended around him no longer fell across his spectrum but having held such importance at a critical time of his career, it would never seem to leave him.
"Do you see much of Miss Quinn now?" He asked about Erin. "Has she been able to move on?"
Although she was no longer acquainted to Erin Quinn in any way at all, Charlene rather annoyingly for her own sake knew the answer to Smithers' question.
"No. She's still a feckin' mess". Charlene growled.
"You should be kinder Charlene. She is a young woman who has lost a lot and most likely suffered more because of it". Smithers countered.
"I have been kind". She argued. "I could have asked ye to allow me to deal with her on a more permanent basis, if ye know what I mean…".
The air became stale for a moment, the Captain's understanding arriving in a heartbeat. He stared at her slightly aghast, surprised to hear that months on from James' death, Charlene still held contempt for Erin. Smithers did not know her, though her poetry was a crime that should have seen her imprisoned, but doubted that she deserved the pain that James' death would have caused her. Hearing that she was yet move on from it after witnessing her broken form on the morning of the funeral, began to upset him to a certain degree. No young woman was deserving of such grief, even if their poetry was an abhorrent torrent of literary disfigurement.
"Might still ask…".
Charlene's addition was rude and uncalled for. It was most certainly not going to be something which he would allow her to do. Hypocrisy it might have been when Jenny Joyce died without ever understanding why she'd been killed, but the Intelligence Service was not in the habit of murdering innocent civilians. Especially not ones who'd already had to deal with tremendous heartache when they were barely an adult.
"I think it would be wise to keep your mouth shut, Miss Kavanagh…". He addressed her far more formally than he'd previously done. "… do remember that you can be replaced, should the need be felt by certain other people".
No one was irreplaceable at Charlene's level, Smithers being replaceable at his. She might have been a vital cog in his network of Irish agents, but there were others recruitable to fit the role that she played. A threat it was though, Smithers having no intention of following through with it.
For the time being, Charlene was important when it came to building a rapport with the Americans, the sleeping giant waiting to join the war.
A sleeping giant that was going to be woken far quicker than it realised…