If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything. - Paulo Coelho
August 26, 1919
Dublin Docks
The meeting had been going on for hours, and Michael Branson was tired. He had put in a full shift at the dockyard today, and had to be back early tomorrow morning for more of the same. Why couldn't the IRA just come to a decision and be done with it? Passion had its downside, and that was the truth.
He yawned and quickly covered it with a cough. This was no time to seem disrespectful. This meeting was important, and the reason it had dragged on so long was the need to make a statement, and right quick. He knew that the statement was going to involve violence, and he knew that this time he'd be sucked into it, despite his resolve.
Two months ago, after his brother Patrick had been mistaken for him and nearly killed, he had burned white hot with rage and the need for revenge. But then he had discovered that the perpetrators had not been the RIC as he had thought, but a renegade group of unionists from Ulster. He realized that he had nearly been guilty of the same wrongheadedness, had almost gone after the wrong people.
A conversation with his older brother Tom had made him rethink his motives and his thirst for immediate revenge. Tom was a newspaperman, and had always been much more level headed and patient than he was. His brother believed in the cause, wanted a free Ireland as much as he did, but he insisted that the way to achieve their goal was through discourse and diplomacy, not mindless violence. Michael had agreed not to take part in any missions that involved violence and destruction for its own sake, and he had held fast to that promise…until now.
But he had taken the Oath, and he believed in its veracity. And now the Royal Irish Constabulary, a fancy name for those bullies hired by the British Army to block the push for independence for Ireland, had made it personal. Now they had killed someone he knew.
Three nights ago, while he was sitting by his fireside reading a book, a young man had been shot at close range and left to die. Francis Murphy was not a stranger; not just another statistic in the guerilla warfare that was the Irish struggle for independence. His uncle was Colum, owner of Murphy's Pub and a close friend to the Branson family.
Colum was family, really, more like a surrogate father than a friend. He had protected more than one Branson sibling from the follies of youth and stupidity upon occasion, and usually kept their exploits from their mother, Claire. Tom had held his wedding party at Murphy's. Michael's fiery sister Maire now worked at the pub as a waitress, and everyone was breathing more easily knowing that Colum had her under his watchful eye.
Colum Murphy was quiet and soft-spoken, and like a good barkeep he let his customers do the talking. But those who knew him well understood that under the humble demeanor beat the heart of a staunch republican. Many of his customers were members of the IRA, as the Irish Volunteers were now calling themselves, and he had no problem passing on information that would benefit the cause.
But Francis Murphy had been only fifteen years old, a studious lad who had wanted to go to university and become a doctor. He had kept to himself, eschewing politics for the joy of his books. Now this brilliant boy would never realize his potential, and the world would suffer as a result. All because the British Army treated the Irish like second-class citizens, and peopled its regiments with trigger-happy fools who thought that every male over the age of ten must be an IRA militant. Better to shoot first and ask questions later, was their mantra.
Colum was devastated. He had closed the pub and avoided contact with everyone…everyone except for Claire Branson, who had refused to be shut out when someone needed her. She and Michael's oldest sister Bernadette were keeping him supplied with food and solace. They were helping Francis's mother with the funeral arrangements as well, because that was what you did for family.
"Branson!" Michael started and returned his attention to the meeting. There was bound to be a retaliation, and he was very much afraid that he was going to be breaking his promise to Tom. His brother might even understand; after all, he loved Colum too.
September 9, 1919
The Branson Flat
"Aren't you coming to bed?"
Tom Branson turned from the desk to look at the naked vision in his bed. Why the hell wasn't he already in that bed? There was nowhere on God's earth he'd rather be, and nothing he'd rather be doing than making love to his wife.
But unfortunately, God's earth contained a lovely little island called Ireland, and at the moment this small patch of land was giving him no small amount of stress. The British government was upping the ante on the war, looting and burning commercial buildings in town in retaliation for IRA strikes which just two days ago had netted them fifteen rifles and killed a British soldier in the process. And just yesterday, the Dáil Éireann had been outlawed. Like that mattered. It was like poking a hornet's nest with a stick.
Would this guerilla warfare never end? Tom wondered. His paper trusted him to keep abreast of the almost daily attacks and report on incursions by both sides, but he did have another life, too. And a wife to bed…
"Ah, feck!" He threw down the papers and stripped off his clothes. With a running leap, he landed in the huge bed and rolled on top of Sybil, who shrieked and tried to tunnel under the covers.
"Oh, no, you don't!" whooped Tom, going after her and dragging her out by a small foot. "You asked for this. Whinging and crying, never giving a man a moment's peace. I know what you want!"
"Oh, do you? Well, I think I've changed my mind. I don't much like your attitude!" Her bold statement was ruined by the giggles that she tried without success to suppress, and after a moment she gave up and began to kiss her way up his arm. She knew exactly where his weak spots were, and took full advantage of her power over him. He fought valiently, which is to say not at all, and soon the bed was being given another test of its strength and resilience.
It was a very good bed. They had bought it in a second hand shop a few days before their wedding, and at the time the primary condition of purchase was that it not squeak, as they were still staying with Tom's family until they found a flat. Since it received by far the most attention of any item of furniture or appliance they owned, they had been quite thankful that they had spent most of their savings on it. It was their first purchase as a couple, meant to stand the test of time…and other things.
Granny Martha had tried to bulldoze them into accepting a new bed to go with this ridiculously luxurious flat that was her wedding present, and Martha was used to getting her way, but on this the Bransons had stood firm. Tom had given in on their living quarters, but there were just some things that were not negotiable. And his wife had agreed. The flat was just a space, after all. He would have lived in a cardboard box if he had to, to be with Sybil.
Tom rolled over onto his side, facing his wife. Looking into her beautiful eyes, he still couldn't believe that he had won this prize, that a woman raised in the lap of the aristocracy was content to spend her nights wrapped in his arms in an old bed in Dublin. But here she was, and the look in those eyes told him that she was more than content. Much more.
"What are you thinking?" asked Sybil.
"Oh, just that Ireland is falling apart at the seams, getting more violent every day, and when I'm with you, I just don't care. If this was to be my last day on earth, I'd be happy if I could spend it right here, as long as you were with me. You are my life, mo chroi."
Sybil sighed, her eyes misting. What was it about the Irish that everything they said sounded like music, she wondered. Or was it just her Irishman? She turned over and moved into him, and as his arms came around her she felt his words engrave themselves on her soul, and knew that it didn't matter where they were, as long as it was together.
But preferably in this bed, she thought with a smile, as she drifted off to sleep.
September 13, 1919
Murphy's Pub
Maire had been as surprised as anyone when Colum had agreed to give her a job. She seemed to attract trouble without trying, and often acted impulsively without regard for the consequences. An escapade back in June had nearly gotten her sister-in-law killed, and for awhile she'd been banned from the pub altogether.
But Colum had a soft spot for Maire. He'd told her once that she reminded him of his sister Nell, feisty and pretty and mischievous. And last month he had offered her a job as a server in his pub, telling her with a wink that he'd feel better with her inside the place with his eye on her than outside doing God knows what. He was only half joking.
Maire had been an immediate success. She was feisty, with a devilish sense of humor, and she had the Branson good looks in abundance, which turned out to be an added benefit with the male customers. At first Colum was a bit concerned about her popularity, but he needn't have worried. Maire was kind and funny, but there was something about Colum's new waitress that warned her customers not to get too close.
Maire Branson did not trust men—at least, not romantically. Growing up with overprotective brothers, she had had little experience in the art of flirting and courtship. She had reached the ripe old age of twenty-one without having had a serious relationship. Then back in June she had met an attractive man who had treated her like a woman, and had thoroughly enjoyed the new feeling…until he turned out to be a militant from Northern Ireland who was using her to get at her family.
The experience had left her ashamed and afraid. Ashamed that her stupidity had put the people she loved at risk, and afraid to put her faith in any man, ever again. The moment a pair of male eyes lit on her long chestnut hair and snapping blue eyes with appreciation, Maire backed off. Men soon learned that if they wanted this lovely girl to be nice to them, they'd better skip the flirting. Colum was quite pleased; it made his job easier if he didn't have to beat his customers off.
He would not have been so pleased had he known that Maire had begun to use her job to collect information for her brother Michael. No one was turned away at Murphy's, and English soldiers and the RIC often came into the pub. They never realized how much distrust and hatred seethed under the surface, or how fervently their lovely server wanted to pour their Guinness over their heads. It would have been a waste of good beer, though. So instead, as she went about her job, she listened.
No one paid attention to a barmaid wiping the table next to them. They would have been surprised to learn that this particular barmaid was an avowed republican and a supporter of the Irish Republican Army, and that many of the things that were said over that third cup of ale went straight back to Michael and his fellow soldiers.
It was convenient that Maire and Michael still lived at home; it made the passing of information easier. But if Mam had known that once in a while she visited him at the docks when a message was critical, Maire wouldn't put anything past her mother for punishment. Mam wasn't above using the broom to make her point; her age wouldn't matter a bit.
Tom and Sybil did not know about Maire's side activity; the truth was, she was afraid her older brother would be disappointed in her for taking such risks, and she couldn't stand it when he was angry with her. Besides, she didn't trust him not to tell Mam "for her own good". Kathleen didn't know, either, nor did Patrick. It was safer if she kept it as her secret…hers and Michael's.
As Maire wiped down the tables at Murphy's Pub, she reflected on what she had just heard at the table in the back. It might be important; it definitely justified a trip to the docks. She sometimes wondered if she were possessed by a touch of madness, to be putting herself at risk like this…but she knew she wouldn't stop. Not as long as there was a chance it helped.
Colum barely blinked when she asked him if she could leave a bit early, but the British officer seated at a table across the room took notice of her abrupt exit. He looked at the table the pretty barmaid had been wiping down for a rather long time, and then at the one next to it where some of his fellow soldiers were drinking and talking a bit too loudly, and he wondered. Lieutenant Robert Martin decided that he might want to spend a little more time at Murphy's Pub in the future.
September 19, 1919
Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery, Dublin
Deaglan Collins was going to get fat, if he kept buying cakes every other day from Mooney's. His mother and sisters were beginning to wonder where all the pastries were coming from, and if they ever found out his secret, the teasing would never end. He was spending his hard earned money just to be near a girl who didn't know he was alive.
It was pitiful, really. The girl hardly noticed him as she packaged up his purchases. She smiled at him like she smiled at every other customer. He wanted her to smile at him, see him. Did she even know how beautiful she was? Her long blonde hair cascaded down over her slender shoulders like a waterfall, and her aquamarine eyes glowed in a face that should have been in pictures, instead of a bakery in Dublin. Oh, Lord, if he didn't get a grip he was going to start writing poetry!
Kathleen Branson smoothed her hair and smiled to herself as the handsome lad left the store with his bag of oatcakes. That was the third time this week, she thought; he must have a girlfriend with a sweet tooth. She didn't mind his coming in so often, to tell the truth. He was very handsome, and it didn't hurt to look, did it? His hair was so dark it was almost black, and his eyes the blue of the Irish Sea. She loved how they sparkled when he smiled. Goodness! Since her nineteenth birthday last month, she was turning into a simpering idiot. If she kept thinking like this, she'd soon be slipping him love notes with his pastry!
Pronunciation Guide:
Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn
Deaglan - deck + lan
Maire - my + ra
Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree
A/N: On August 23, Francis Murphy, aged 15, was shot by British soldiers as he sat by the fire reading a book. An inquest found the military responsible, but they denied involvement. As far as I know, Francis did not have an uncle named Colum. But he might have.
