There was nowhere for Billy Donnelly to go; he had to talk now.
He sat back, remembering that night.
‘All right the Blueshirts didn’t just turn up. They wanted Vincent.’
‘I’d worked that out.’
‘There was a feller he’d been with. He’d written Vincent some letters. The sort of things people write and wish to God they never had. Vincent was mad about him. From up the arse to true fucking love! Jesus! He wasn’t just anybody, this feller, either. I don’t know what happened but he wanted the letters back. The Blueshirts came to get them. All Vincent had to do was hand them over, but he couldn’t see it was your man who sent the bastards in the first place. He thought he was protecting the feller, hiding his fecking billiedoos. So he ran. He stuck the letters in a bloody envelope and sent them to me! They wouldn’t look in the same place twice! That’s what he wrote.’
‘So did he come back here that night?’
‘No. The letters came, a couple of days later, but he never did.’
‘Where are they now?’
Billy Donnelly still didn’t want to say it.
‘You know, don’t you, Billy?’
‘I gave them to Sergeant Lynch. I don’t know how he found out they were here, but he did. I’d kept them. I did think Vincent would come back. I should have just put them on the fire, but I couldn’t. They didn’t mean a thing to the man who wrote them but they meant everything to him. Jimmy Lynch turned up about a year later, asking about Vincent, about the letters. It didn’t matter what I said; he knew. So he put me away. I took six months of it. For what? Vincent was dead all that time. But then, I still thought he — ’
‘Was Jimmy Lynch there that night, with the Blueshirts?’
‘No, he was fucking IRA before he was a Broy Harrier, wasn’t he? I don’t know who they were.’
‘What about the man who wrote the letters?’
‘There wasn’t a name. All I know is what Vincent told me. He was some sort of teacher, not a school teacher … it was the university. And the bastard was a priest.’
The train from Baltinglass arrived at Kingsbridge just after ten the next morning. It was barely a week till Christmas now. Tom had come to Dublin with his grandmother and grandfather and Stefan had a day off. It was a day to gaze at the windows of the shops in Grafton Street and O’Connell Street, to look at Christmas trees and Christmas lights, to buy the small presents they would put round the tree in the sitting room at Kilranelagh. A day to eat dinner in the restaurant in Clery’s and have tea at Bewley’s Cafe. And there would be a long time to spend looking in one window in particular, just to the left of the clock outside Clery’s, where the tricycle still sat, surrounded by glitter and tinsel, toy soldiers and dolls, tin drums and teddy bears.
Stefan and Tom were in Bewley’s when Dessie MacMahon found them that afternoon. Pretending they had something else to do, David and Helena were out Christmas shopping for Tom and Stefan; Tom and his father had been Christmas shopping for them too. It had involved another slow walk past Clery’s window, and a last look at the tricycle, which Tom had, with impressive resolution, persuaded himself Santy might not be able to bring all the way to Baltinglass. Dessie came over to the table with a cup and saucer and sat down. He poured himself some tea from the pot. It was thick, black and tepid, but nothing was undrinkable with enough sugar in it.
‘
He eyed the coconut macaroon in the middle of the table.
‘You can have it if you want it, Dessie,’ said Tom.
‘Well, if it’s going begging.’ He didn’t wait to be asked twice.
‘I think she’s a bit pissed off with you. Jesus, that tea’s disgusting!’
‘I can’t do anything now, Dessie. I’ll phone her later.’
‘Well, she’s at the synagogue in Adelaide Road with Mr Field. Funeral arrangements and all that. That’s where she was going anyway.’
He got out a cigarette and lit it.
‘She was on about seeing you.’
The grin on Dessie’s face was irritating Stefan now.
‘Did she have something to say?’
‘I should think that one’s always got something to say.’ He winked at Tom. Tom laughed, though he hadn’t got any idea what he was laughing at.
Stefan hadn’t thought about Hannah all day, but now she was in his head. He wanted to see her, and he wanted to see her as himself, not as Detective Sergeant Gillespie. This was who he was, sitting here with his son. The rest was only what he did. They still knew almost nothing about each other. And he was sure she must want to see him too. That’s why she kept phoning. There were two hours before he had to meet his mother and father at Kingsbridge Station. He looked at the bill on the plate beside him and fished in his pocket for some shillings and a half crown. When he got up to leave with Tom, Dessie stayed where he was. He called over the waitress.
‘Can you freshen this pot up, darling? It’s stewed to buggery.’
The tram to Adelaide Road was another part of Tom’s day in Dublin; sitting upstairs, looking at the streets and the people, was its own entertainment. As they walked past the terraced houses to the synagogue it started to rain. Hannah was waiting on the steps of the big red and white brick building.
‘This is Tom. Tom, this is Hannah.’
‘Hello.’ Tom looked slightly sheepish; he wasn’t used to new people.
Hannah smiled, sensing his awkwardness.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Tom. Are you having a good day?’
‘Yes. We’ve been to Clery’s.’
‘Looking at toys? Well, you would be just now, wouldn’t you?’
Tom’s expression was very serious. ‘Were you at Clery’s at all?’
‘Yes, lots. I can’t remember the last time though.’
‘Did you ever see the bike?’
‘I don’t think I did, no.’
‘It’s in the window, right by the clock. It’s a tricycle.’
‘Will I have a look next time I’m up there?’
Tom thought she should. She glanced at Stefan and winked. She already knew about the tricycle. Her eyes seemed very bright as Stefan looked at her. Tom’s nervousness had suddenly gone and he was smiling. He liked her. The rain was falling harder now. Hannah took Tom’s hand.
‘Come on, you’ll both be soaked,’ she laughed. ‘We all will!’
She hurried up the steps with Tom. Stefan followed, running. The rain was beating down. As they entered, he instinctively reached to take his hat off. Hannah touched his arm, smiling, pushing it back on his head.
‘It’s the other way round. Just leave it on!’
Tom looked at the dark interior. It was full of unfamiliar things, but it was enough like a church to feel familiar all the same. It smelt like one too.
‘Is it a church, Daddy?’
‘Yes, a Jewish church.’
Tom watched as several children walked past, wet from the rain.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot you were having the day off.’ Hannah spoke more quietly. ‘I hope I didn’t mess it up. You should have ignored me!’
‘It’s fine.’ He felt she seemed slightly more awkward now. Perhaps it was just being in the synagogue, perhaps it was the sense that they were still somehow standing on the bridge between what was personal and what was professional in their relationship. More children hurried past them. Tom was looking at the dark interior more closely now, the rows of pews and the high gallery above, but his eyes kept coming back to the children, his own age and older, now closely packed in front of the Torah Ark, by a branched candelabrum, laughing as the elderly rabbi told then the Hanukkah story.
‘You can go and listen,’ said Hannah gently.
Tom looked up at Stefan doubtfully.
