The Soldier's Song Page 2

  Keogh was dismayed that he came out so quickly. He should have stayed in, checked his answers, made adjustments. Even after he’d gone through the paper line by line, Keogh wasn’t satisfied. Was he sure? Had he done everything he could? It wasn’t enough just to pass – any fool could pass. He had to excel. But Stephen knew he’d excelled, and wasn’t surprised when he opened the letter from the university. Keogh had wept with joy when he showed him the result. A sizarship to study mathematics at Trinity College. It was his greatest achievement in twenty years of teaching, and his greatest victory in a lifelong battle with the Christian Brothers. But they conceded it only grudgingly. Noses were turned up and disapproving stares directed at Stephen. The boy had a gift, no doubt, but why couldn’t he go to the Catholic university? Surely the Protestants would corrupt him. As the pressure mounted, Stephen had wavered, but Keogh remained defiant: ‘Don’t you listen to them, Stephen: they’re only jealous, the small-minded bastards. You’ll show them. You’ll be better than they ever were.’

  ‘Stephen! Up here!’ The shout rang around the square, and Stephen looked up to see a moon face thrust under the sash and an arm waving furiously from a window on the top floor of the Rubrics. Billy was in his new lair – one of the corrupting Protestants. He smiled to himself. If they only knew, the Christian Brothers would be in like a light, dragging him out by the scruff of his neck. He waved back.

  ‘Come up! Come up and see!’

  He went up by the narrow winding stairs. The Rubrics was the oldest building in the college and it smelled like it. The top floor was like something out of a tenement, with low ceilings, warped floorboards and patches of horsehair showing in the walls. As he came up to the landing he could hear pigeons cooing in the attic above and he wondered how long Billy would last this time? Every year he took rooms in college and every year, when the damp and the squalor became too much, he vacated them by Christmas. When this happened he went back to his aunt’s mansion in Rathgar, but he could never settle there. Billy wasn’t comfortable in the bosom of his family, and by Easter he would be dreaming of a poky little room he could call his lair.

  The last door on the landing stood ajar, and when Stephen looked inside he saw Billy’s round face looking back at him from the oval mirror of a dressing table.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he beamed. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  Stephen stepped through the door and stumbled over a suitcase lying open on the floor.

  ‘Oh, dear me, Stephen. Are you all right? Do excuse the mess. Just moving in, you know. What do you think of the place?’

  Straightening up, he found his head almost touched the ceiling, which was cracked and yellowed and cobwebbed in the corners. Apart from the dressing table, which seemed to double as a desk, the only furniture was a chair and a narrow bed, both of them covered with suitcases and clothes and stacks of books and papers. A white silk evening scarf hung over the reading lamp and Billy stood in a clearing at the window, doing something with his tie.

  ‘It’s a bit small, isn’t it?’ Stephen answered dubiously.

  ‘It’s cosy, Stephen. That’s the word you were looking for. Cosy – not to mention well appointed.’ He gestured out the window, where the Front Square lay before him. ‘I have the most agreeable view in the college and the bathroom is just next . . . Stephen, why are you making a face?’

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Oh, that? Mothballs, I believe. Or turf. The previous tenant was of a rustic persuasion and used to burn it in the grate. The discerning palate may also detect a hint of damp, I admit. But it’s not so bad once you get used to it.’

  Stephen knew what mothballs smelled like, and he was familiar with turf smoke. This was neither. ‘It smells like a dosshouse,’ he said bluntly.

  The grin faded from Billy’s face. He sighed.

  ‘You’re right. It does pong a bit, doesn’t it? I suppose I shall have to leave the window open for a while to air it out. And those flaming pigeons had better go to sleep at a reasonable hour!’ He stopped fiddling with his tie and turned away from the mirror, ‘Can you do something with this, Stephen? I have the fingers of a navvy.’

  Stephen dropped his top hat and cane on the bed and set to work on the knot while Billy obediently stood still and looked past his shoulder. Billy was a good deal shorter than he and much broader around the waist. He had sparse blond hair and bright little eyes that shone out from behind his round spectacles.

  ‘So how are things chez Ryan?’ he asked, ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Billy, this would be much easier if you didn’t talk.’ The collar stud had come undone and he deftly closed it without letting go of the tie.

  ‘Sorry.’

  The stud popped open again.

  ‘Billy!’

  A mute apologetic smile as Stephen closed the stud again and swiftly whipped the tie into a neat knot.

  ‘Since you ask, things are not good chez Ryan,’ he said grimly, adjusting the tie so it sat straight under Billy’s chin, ‘As a matter of fact, everything is far from all right. I’ve just had another row with my flaming brother.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You can talk now.’ Stephen put a hand on each shoulder and turned him back towards the mirror.

  Billy admired himself for a few seconds before he asked, ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just now, before I came out.’

  ‘Oh dear! He’s not still moaning about you going to college when you could be earning an honest wage, is he?’

  ‘A variation on that theme. He told me I should be ashamed of myself, going to a party with my father lying sick in his bed.’

  ‘But your father’s been sick for ages. I don’t see how donning the sackcloth and ashes is going to make him any better.’

  ‘That’s more or less what I said. But I don’t think it’s the party he objects to as much as who’s throwing it.’

  ‘Ah, of course!’ Billy took his jacket from a hanger and shrugged it on, ‘Old man D’Arcy was no friend to the workers during last year’s unpleasantness, was he? To a trade union man like your brother I’m sure it looks very much like you’re supping with the Devil. But I’m sure he’ll get over it eventually. And how is your father? Bearing up?’

  ‘Hanging on is more like it,’ Stephen said bleakly, and he sat down on the edge of the bed and told Billy about Phillips’s visit and what he’d said about his father’s leg.

  Billy listened attentively, watching him as he talked. Strange how he chose to confide in him of all people – after all, they’d only known one another for three years. But what a change Billy had seen in that time. He remembered the boy he’d seen on his first day in college: an ungainly-looking creature in a threadbare suit and heavy boots. But the suit, though ill fitting, was clean and freshly pressed, and the boots were polished to a high shine. He didn’t have much, but he made the best of what he had. There was a dogged pride in his bearing – he knew he couldn’t match all the blazers and bowlers and silk ties, but if he didn’t come up to scratch it wasn’t his fault. Still, there was no mistaking another misfit, and one painfully aware of it too. It was that which had drawn Billy to him in the first place; a mixture of pity and curiosity propelling him across the square to where Stephen stood eating thick sandwiches from a parcel of newspaper. To look at him now, with his silk topper and silver-topped cane, was to see the butterfly emerged from the chrysalis.

  Still, he often wondered how they had become such close friends. They had little enough in common – different backgrounds, different classes and one enormous difference that Billy still quailed to think of. That misjudged kiss. God! What was he thinking? It had happened in a dingy little room just like this one, after they’d whiled away half the evening talking and joking together. A few glasses of sherry and he’d seen the shy, reticent scholarship boy melting away and the real Stephen opening like a flower. He thought he’d seen something else too, but in the giddy heat of the moment he had misjudged it. Oh, he was sure he was being so bloody co
smopolitan, chattering on about Oscar Wilde. A former student here, did he know? Of course he knew. He was anything but stupid. Of course he’d read the plays – and the poems, and the prose – but not out of any devotion to Wilde. He’d read them because he read everything he could get his hands on, but Billy never thought of that. The sudden urge that came on him had blotted everything else out. Their friendship was barely two weeks old and he’d nearly wrecked it with that foolhardy, hasty kiss. He knew it the moment he felt Stephen pushing him away and standing up. The look of shock on his face nearly stilled his heart. He was still sitting on the bed, his legs still crossed, one sweaty hand on the coverlet, but he almost fainted at the thought of what might happen next. An appalling vista opened before him; shame, rejection. He would be sent down at the very least, his life ruined. But Stephen had stopped with his hand on the door. He was disconcerted, but not disgusted.

  ‘I’m not like that,’ was all he said, and sat down again.

  Listening to him now, Billy realized that any guilt he might have felt was as nothing compared to Stephen’s. Poor devil, he thought. The Christian Brothers had done a right job on him in that department. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. What could he do for his father but make the best of his gifts? He had a talent for mathematics – a rare talent if the reports were true – but guilt would eat it all out of him if he wasn’t careful. And his flaming brother didn’t help. He had a neck, accusing Stephen of living it up when he paid the rent and put food on the table by giving lessons and tutoring schoolchildren. But Joe’s words had hit home and hurt; Billy could see it even in the way Stephen sat on the bed, perched on the edge, not quite at ease.

  ‘Very moral, your brother,’ Billy said when Stephen finished talking. ‘And I don’t mean that in a good way. Look where morals have brought us now, look.’ He picked up a newspaper from the cluttered desk and handed it to Stephen, who read the headline:

  GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA

  Stephen gave him a sceptical look.

  ‘Moral? I’m curious to hear how you think war is moral.’

  ‘It’s not! Of course it’s not!’ Billy called over his shoulder as he rummaged around his desk, ‘But I bet you’ll find that all those top-hatted buggers who started it are terribly moral. Fine, upstanding, churchgoing men one and all. Men of honour, I’m sure they’d say. They honour their stupid bloody terribly moral treaties – for Brutus is an honourable man! I dare say they’d stand by a bargain with the Devil. I mean, there’s Germany going to war with Russia because one’s got an agreement with Austria and the other with Servia. No other earthly bloody reason to fight, but they’ll do it anyway because a couple of old farts shook hands on it. And we’ll be in it next – you mark my words. We cannot stand aside, they say. We’re all chained together by flaming agreements, the whole bloody lot of us. Ha!’ Billy triumphantly held up a half-bottle of Bushmills and shook it at Stephen, ‘What about a snifter before we walk up?’

  ‘Why not?’ Stephen threw the newspaper on the bed, but his eye was drawn to it as Billy went looking for glasses. ‘I’m sure it’ll all blow over,’ he said, absently reading the words again. ‘It’s all just bluster. They’ll sort something out.’

  ‘You must be bloody joking,’ Billy chuckled, and Stephen noted the high colour in his cheeks. He always flushed when he was excited, though that was usually only when he got started on Home Rule. ‘It’s gone too far for that now. They’re bombing Belgrade already. Did you hear what Lord Grey said in the Commons? About the lamps going out all over Europe. Well, when the Foreign Secretary starts talking doom like that, you know the game is up. King Solomon couldn’t sort this one out. We’ll be at war next week, no two ways about it, and God help us all.’

  He picked two glasses from a drawer, cleared a spot on the desk and poured a generous measure of whiskey into each. He handed one to Stephen and raised his own.

  ‘Well, here’s to all those moral people and the trouble they get us into.’

  ‘Here’s to them,’ Stephen agreed, and swallowed half his glass, wincing as the whiskey burned his throat. He shook his head as if to clear it, and added, ‘Though I’m not sure if Joe is as moral as all that. Did I tell you he’s got a gun?’

  The sombre look that had settled over Billy’s face cleared in an instant. ‘A gun?’ he asked disbelievingly, ‘What sort of gun? And where did he get it?’

  ‘Howth, I imagine,’ Stephen said with a shrug, and went on to tell him about finding the rifle in the parlour, and how he had sprung it on his brother before storming out.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Billy exclaimed, ‘But how do you know it was part of the Howth shipment? Are you sure?’

  ‘I know a thing or two about guns, Billy. It was a single-shot rifle, rather old, German-made. I’d say it fits the bill, according to what I read in the newspapers.’

  ‘Well, well, well! A smuggled rifle!’ Billy broke into a delighted grin and sat down on the bed beside Stephen, ‘Not that there’s anything unusual about that. I mean, every dog, cat and devil seems to be smuggling guns these days, but still! Where is it now? Has he still got it?’

  ‘If he does, he’s moved it out of the house. And good riddance – it damn near ruined my suit with all the grease.’

  ‘But how did he get it? The National Volunteers brought in those guns. Your brother’s not in the Volunteers, is he?’

  ‘No, the Citizen Army.’

  ‘But I heard they didn’t get on with the Volunteers.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t before. But I dare say with the Unionists smuggling in their own guns and the war coming, they didn’t want to be left out. Anyway, according to Joe, his friend Connolly is the coming man in the Citizen Army, and he’s much more of the Volunteer way of thinking.’

  ‘God’s my life,’ Billy sighed. ‘All these guns. It’s bound to end in a fight!’

  II

  The richness of the scene was overpowering: candlelight and the rustle of taffeta and the thump of dancing feet and the swish of dresses whirling past. The air was heavy with the smell of perfume and cologne and hummed with polite conversation. It was making him dizzy.

  ‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to your brother,’ Billy was saying, ‘that you are striking a blow for the workers simply by being here.’ He paused to gesture as expansively as he could with a champagne flute in one hand and an overflowing plate in the other. ‘I mean, every morsel of food you eat comes directly from the coffers of old man D’Arcy. And since he’s usually as tight as the proverbial duck’s arse, the fact that our cups overfloweth at his expense makes it all the more tasty, if you ask me.’

  Stephen smiled and rocked back on his feet. He wasn’t terribly drunk, but he was drunk enough to feel his face flushed and his skin prickling. He should never have let Billy talk him into polishing off that bottle of Bushmills. Whiskey had never agreed with him and he’d felt a sullen heaviness settle on him after the first glass. When it finally came time to leave he felt muzzy and tired and it took an effort just to get up off the bed. Billy was still rattling away fourteen to the dozen about the war and Home Rule and how it was all such a mess, but Stephen could hardly hear him. When he got out onto the landing, a wave of nausea washed over him and he had to steady himself against the wall as Billy bent down to lock the door, taking an inordinately long time to insert the big iron key.

  The short walk up to Kildare Street had done little to clear his head. As they crossed the patio to the ballroom, the music blared out at him, unnaturally loud, and he stopped at the door, dazzled. The band was playing a waltz, the floor filled with whirling couples, and the golden light of hundreds of candles was reflected in a rolling sea of sequins and shining silk. He wasn’t ready for this, he thought; he was an impostor, a costumed fool who’d be found out the moment he opened his mouth. He felt his resolve failing, and he had to overcome the urge to turn around and walk away. It was all right for Billy – he was born to this. He was already inside, gazing around and laughing, completely in his elem
ent. But fearing Billy might slip away into the crowd, Stephen found himself hurrying after him, automatically straightening up and squaring his shoulders.

  ‘Sigh no more, ladies.’ He grinned, when he caught up.

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Billy hardly looked at him. He had spotted the buffet table, which stretched the whole length of one wall, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. What about a bite to eat before we start?’

  That was twenty minutes ago and they were still at the table. Billy was on his second plate of smoked salmon and vol-au-vents, but Stephen had no appetite. He had tried a single sliver of ham on brown bread, but found it turned to ashes in his mouth. Even the champagne tasted sour and fizzy. He was feeling more and more unwell, and all he wanted to do was to sit down somewhere quiet for a while.

  But the rhythmic motion of the dancers was hypnotic and he felt himself slipping into a trance as he watched them fly past. Now and then a familiar face appeared in the throng. There was Mary D’Arcy herself, flashing by in a turquoise gown and diamonds. He followed her for a few moments, watching the bob of her head and the flash of her smile. Ah, Mary, Mary, quite contrary! Strange how little she moved him now. He remembered the first time he ever saw her, how smitten he was. He thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes on: as small and delicate as a doll, with a porcelain-white face and dark green eyes. He’d craved a smile, a look, anything to show that she had noticed him, but eventually he realized that it would never come. He’d screwed up his courage once and bid her good morning, braving the curious looks of her friends as they walked to an early lecture. She’d smiled at him then, but it was merely polite, nothing in the eyes, and when he walked away he’d heard them laughing behind his back. He’d hated her then, but even that had faded and now he realized that she meant nothing to him, neither good nor bad. It seemed to him that she hadn’t changed in three years. She was made up differently, she wore a different dress, but the essence hadn’t changed. He heard her high trilling laugh and knew it was the same laugh he’d heard before. Exactly the same – like the call of some exotic bird. There was nothing else to her, he reflected. All she had was her looks and her laugh. Nothing more. She was a doll.