Émile had heard the stories many times but he never grew tired of them.
The story of how his grandfather had left England when all his friends were signing up to fight the Boers in South Africa but he wanted no part of killing people whose name he couldn’t even spell correctly. Instead, he came to the south coast of Ireland where he met an Irish girl, married her and brought up their son, Stephen, to love dogs, the ukulele and the novels of Sir Walter Scott.
The story of how Marie left France for Ireland when her parents died and Stephen found her sitting in a tea shop on the afternoon of her twenty-third birthday while he was strolling back to his father’s farm.
The story of how he’d sat by the village pump until she came out and he asked her to come to a dance with him some night and she said, ‘I don’t go dancing with strange men,’ and he said, ‘Sure I’m not strange, do I seem strange to you, I’m not a bit strange, am I?’
The story of how the dance had gone well, not to mention the wedding at Clonakilty parish church later that same year and how they’d wanted a child for a long time but none would come and only when they’d given up on the idea of it did Émile suddenly appear, out of the blue, a gift to the pair of them, and then their family was complete and neither of them had ever been so happy in all their lives as when there was just the three of them together at home, cuddled up on the sofa, reading their books.
These were stories that Émile had heard many, many times. But sure how could he ever grow tired of hearing them when they made him feel so wanted, so happy and so loved?
The posters had arrived four days before the night of the broken window in a long tube sealed in cardboard and brown tape, with eight stamps on the surface bearing the image of King George, who looked like an awful grump. Mr Devlin, the local postman, waited until evening time to deliver it. Émile suspected that he’d been watching out for Stephen to return home from work and only then did he knock on the door.
‘What do you suppose it is?’ asked Stephen as he, Marie, Mr Devlin and Émile stood at all four corners of the kitchen table, staring at the tube as if it was an unexploded bomb.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Mr Devlin. ‘Would you not open it, Stephen, no?’
‘Ah I don’t know about that,’ said Stephen, shaking his head and frowning. ‘Sure you’d never know what might be in there.’
‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ said Marie, taking the bread knife from the counter and picking up the tube to slice her way down the tape. ‘We can’t just stare at it all night.’
‘Be careful there, Mrs,’ said Mr Devlin, standing back as if he was afraid that it might blow up in all their faces.
‘Will Mrs Devlin not have your tea on?’ she replied, taking the cap off the tube and giving it a shake until the rolled-up sheets of paper eased their way out into her hand. ‘Should you not be getting home?’
‘The food is always burnt to a crisp as it is. A few extra minutes won’t make it any less edible.’
Marie sighed as she held the posters out for everyone to see.
‘What’s this now?’ asked Mr Devlin, leaning forward and reading them for himself. ‘This has something to do with the war, is it?’
Stephen picked up the tube and shook it again and a note fell out. His eyes moved back and forth across the lines, his lips mouthing the words quietly to himself.
‘Goodnight, Mr Devlin,’ he said a moment later, turning to the postman.
‘There was something else in there, was there?’ he asked, pointing at the note. ‘Is it an explanation of some sort?’
‘Goodnight, Mr Devlin,’ repeated Stephen, opening the front door and standing there with his hand on the latch until the postman gave in and made his way towards it.
‘There was a time when a man got a cup of tea when he visited a house,’ he announced in an insulted tone as he left. ‘Those days are gone now, it seems. Goodnight all!’
‘What’s in the note?’ asked Émile, when there was just the three of them left.
‘Maybe you should go to your room,’ said Stephen.
‘Who is it from?’ asked Marie.
‘James.’
‘James who?’
‘James, my cousin James.’
‘In Newcastle?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what does he say?’
Stephen cleared his throat and began to read.
Dear Stephen, he said.
I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long but I’m not a man for letters, as you know. All is well here but it’s raining today. Here are posters that you can paste around your town as we need as many soliders soldiers as we can find or we’re going to lose this war. I know all you Irish don’t know which side to stand on but you’ll be better off on ours. We’ll see you right for it in the end, I’m sure of that.
I have bad news. Do you remember the Williams twins who you used to pal around with when your dad brought you over to see us when you were a lad? Both killed at Verdun. And Georgie Summerfield, who lived next door to us? Well he’s been in hospital these last few months, they say he can’t stop shaking or hold a sensible conversation. It’s a rotten business but –
He stopped reading and put the letter down.
‘Oh,’ said Marie, her forehead wrinkling a little as she thought about this.
Émile wondered why Georgie Summerfield couldn’t stop shaking but guessed it had something to do with the war. It had been going on for almost three years now, since July 1914. His parents and his teachers never grew tired of talking about it even though it was happening across the sea in Europe, which was miles away from West Cork. A boy he knew, Séamus Kilduff, had an older brother who’d signed up to fight with the Brits and half the town said he was a traitor for taking sides with a bunch of Sassenachs who’d been making life hell for the Irish for years. The other half said he was very brave to put himself in danger for people he didn’t even know and that the only way to secure peace was for everyone who believed in the freedom of nations to do their bit. There was fierce debate over it and everyone took a side. Émile heard stories about fights in the local pub and a rule being made on the GAA team that no one could discuss Séamus Kilduff’s brother before a match as it only led to trouble. But then word came that he’d been killed in the Battle of the Somme and the whole town turned out for his funeral. Father Macallie said he was a credit to his family, a credit to his religion and above all a credit to West Cork, which would one day achieve independence from the rest of Ireland and be allowed to manage its own affairs as God intended.
A copy of the Skibbereen Eagle appeared in their cottage most evenings and Marie pored over it, engrossed by every piece of information that she could find. Her own country, after all, was being overwhelmed by fighting. Her two brothers had fought to keep the Germans out of their home town of Reims but both had been arrested and she hadn’t heard from them in a long time. Émile had learned not to mention their names, as she would only start crying inconsolably.
But Marie wasn’t the only one who read the papers. Émile did too. He’d become interested the previous Easter, when all the trouble had been happening up in Dublin and a group of men had barricaded themselves into the General Post Office on O’Connell Street demanding that the Irish be left alone to look after Ireland and the English had come along and said, sorry about that, lads, but no chance. And there’d been lots of shooting and lots of killing and one of the men from the GPO had been brought out in a terrible sickness, barely knowing who he was or what he was doing, and was tied to a chair so the English could turn their guns on him for showing cheek to their King.