Read Fools of Fortune for Free Online Page B

soldiers known as the Black and Tans because of the colour of their uniform had been sent to Ireland to quell the spreading disobedience. By reputation they were ruthless men, brutalized during the German war, many of them said to have been released from gaols in order to perform this task. The Irish gunmen who rampaged through the countryside had become, in turn, ruthless themselves. They gave no quarter and, knowing the lie of the land, were often more successful in the skirmishes that took place. There was a Black and Tan force at Fermoy, which brought this spasmodic but intense warfare close to us.
    It was perhaps brought closer still by the visits of Michael Collins. When he came the second time he was on his own, but on all future occasions there were the men who waited in the motor-car while he and my father talked. And the second occasion was the only one on which he arrived on his motor-cycle.
    ‘I’m delighted you could find the time for us,’ my mother said, bringing me with her into the drawing-room, where Collins and my father were standing by the French windows on an excessively hot day in June. I remember Collins as being a little ill at ease, tall and heavy in his brown motor-cycling leather, the cast of his features suggesting a simplicity which was contradicted by a snappish gleam that came and went in his eyes. I didn’t know at the time that without a revolution to make him famous he would have been working as a clerk in a post office.
    ‘I’m pleased to be here again, Mrs Quinton.’
    ‘And this is Willie,’ my father said.
    ‘How are you, Willie?’
    They talked about the weather, hoping the heatwave we were having would last. ‘Let me fill that up for you,’ my father said, reaching out for the visitor’s glass. ‘No,’ Collins said.
    There was tomato soup for lunch, and chops and summer pudding, and wine. The conversation was desultory. My father talked about the mill, Collins listened. When he might have spoken himself, he appeared to prefer silence.
    ‘I believe you know Glandore, Mr Collins,’ my mother said in one of these lulls.
    ‘I know it well, Mrs Quinton. I come from round about.’
    ‘A charming place.’
    ‘Ah, it is of course.’
    My sisters did not have lunch with us that day, and it must have been a Saturday because Father Kilgarriff hadn’t been to the drawing-room that morning. I remember the windows being open and the scent of flowers wafting in. I felt it was an honour to be sitting there with a famous revolutionary in motor-cycling clothes, even though I did not once speak.
    ‘You’ll remember today,’ my mother said afterwards as we walked together through the garden in search of my sisters. My father and Collins were in the study, drinking coffee. I did not see him again, but heard the roar of his motor-cycle on the avenue. And a fragment from a conversation my parents had that evening remains vividly with me. They talked together in the gathering gloom of the drawing-room, not arguing yet faintly disagreeing.
    ‘It’s money he came for, Evie.’
    ‘Maybe, but even so.’
    My father sighed, and for a moment nothing was said. Then my father spoke again.
    ‘Doyle has been threatened. I shouldn’t have taken that man back.’
    ‘Is Doyle spying for them?’
    ‘God knows, God knows. Look, I promise you, Evie, the best we can do is to give Collins money. There is no question whatsoever of drilling fellows at Kilneagh. Absolutely not.’
    I crept up the dark stairs and afterwards lay awake, astonished at the sternness there had been in my father’s voice. I wondered what Father Kilgarriff would have thought if he’d heard this talk of drilling men at Kilneagh, and I was sorry that my mother’s wish had not prevailed: nothing could surely have been more exciting than revolutionaries on the lawns and in the shrubbery. I dreamed about them, with Michael Collins in his motor-cycling clothes, but when I woke up in the morning the first thing I remembered was