Trouble Down at Duffy’s

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIII, Issue 20930, 8 January 1938, Page 12

Trouble Down at Duffy’s

By

RUSSELL HEATLEY

QUTSIDE the evening was warm, with a promise of rain. Inside the house, too, it was warm, yet every now and then Celia O’Callaghan found herself shivering unaccountably. Looking across at the broad Irish shoulders of her husband, she wondered what could be the cause of this intangible, tenuous premonition of evil which had hung over her all day . . . Michael was busy again on one of those eternal letters or speeches or something. Of their precise significance she knew little or nothing. He had been so silent and preoccupied all day. With a curious feeling that this had all happened before, she addressed him in the clipped English voice which he had loved to mimic ever since he brought her here from London. “Arc you going out this evening, Michael?” “This evening, Celia? Oh, yes . . . yes.” He spoke casually, too casually; as if he ejcfrected immediate protest. “There’s something on down at Duffy's to-night. They asked me to go along, so I think I’d better—” "Oh, please, Michael! Don’t go. Don’t!” In his wife’s swift interruption there was a note of anguish. Immediately she knew that she had made a mistake to appear so concerned. But—Duffy’s! Nothing that Michael could have said would more strongly have confirmed her premonition of evil. She arose, moved across to him, but he flinched as if sensing the appeal to his emotions which he felt coming. Yet she persisted, placing white arms on his shoulders. "Not to-night, Michael, I’m positive something . . . Michael, I’ve a terrible feeling.” He patted her hand comfortingly, as if she were a child, and smiled lightly and easily. But there was no real change in his expression. “How often must I tell you, my sweet,” he said, in the musical brogue which still had fascination for her ears, "that there is nothing for you to fret about because I sometimes go to Duffy’s! If you were an Irishwoman you’d take it all as in

the day’s work! But you're English, and you have that kind of English imaginativesness which English people will never admit. Really, there’s nothing to fear. In three weeks . . . three weeks ... we shall be masters, and all this ...” he pointed to the letter he was writing.. “will be over.” He saw that she was not convinced. "To-night is merely a routine meeting, but for various reasons I simply must go. Take yourself out for a little drive, and blow those silly fears away.” He stood up, kissed her. and was gone. For several minutes after she had heard his motor-cycle leave to take him the three miles which separated them from the town—and Duffy’s—she remained immobile. Then she went through the door into the garden, and gazed thoughtfully at Venus, just visible in the evening light between two clouds. Again she wondered if she would have come from the certainties of London to this strange, disturbed Ireland, where every man stood in fear of his neighbour, if she had known the kind of man she was marrying. For a time, the lovely spaciousness of the countryside had been heavenly after her rather stuffy suburban home life. But soon, so soon, there had fallen the shadow of Michael’s coming and going at night under political activities. * Strange men cover of secrecy . . . whisperings . . . agitated meetings behind sealed doors. Always, when she mentioned her fears, Michael would roar with laughter and tell her not to bother about such things. But she continued to worry . . . Above all, there was the constant menace of Duffy’s. Down below, in the valley, she could see from the garden the twinkling lights of the town, and in the centre she could only too vividly imagine Duffy’s, the ramshackle old building which was the headquarters of the men with whom Michael associated. Her knowledge of exactly what Duffy’s stood for was vague, for

on this point, more than any other, Michael shirked direct questions. But she knew it was dangerous... And its incessant demands upon Michael’s time had only accentuated the slight feeling of estrangement which had lately grown up between them. Michael had grown quiet lately. On the whole he laughed less and spoke less. And again, she seemed to sense in him a quality of foreignness which had never been apparent to her during their brief association in London before their marriage. And as her doubts and fears had grown, so too with them had developed a consciousness of the fundamental difference of temperament and mental outlook differences which, until now, she had slurred over, content to forget them in the finest perfection of their love. Sometimes, lately, she had felt uncomfortable, actually uncomfortable, with Michael. What a relief it was, for example, when Michael’s friend. Ted Schuster, came to the house. At the very thought of Ted, her tense expression relaxed, and she smiled ... an easy smile. Not for the first time she wondered if Michael suspected that Ted might mean something to her. Suddenly she saw Ted clearly—his freckles, nondescript hair and features, his impossibly shapeless and almost white felt hat; his enormoqs ulster coat. He was so very American! She heard his quiet Boston voice, so homelike, amid these Irish tongues, in the quiet resemblance to the vanished voices of her London girlhood. If he had been English, if he had worn a bowler hat and carried an umbrella, he could not have appealed more to one facet of her nature, or more vividly symbolised that past for which she sometimes felt an acute nostalgia. Among a variety of other amusing activities. Ted acted as local correspondent for an American newspaper, which for some obscure reason was interested in, and supported, Michael and his friends. When Michael brought him to the house, Celia wa** Jelighted. She felt easy and amazingly at home with this garrulous little

American, in a way which she had never felt since Michael brought her to Ireland. With her husband, she was increasingly conscious of an invisible barrier of race and temperament. With Ted she could be lighthearted and jocular in an easy way because his lazy, light-hearted cosmopolitanism reminded her of her English friends. She could never feel like this with Michael. So she encouraged Ted’s visits, and of this he took full advantage. From Michael’s compliance it was evident that he could not conceive anything more than a harmless friendship between his wife and the matter-of-fact, unglamorous little American. Then one evening Ted stammered, in an abnormally nervous manner for him, that he loved her. And even while she smiled incredulously at him, she knew that, although she must remain faithful to her husband, she nevertheless loved this hesitating little man. She sighed, and went inside again Once again the premonition of evil seized. In spite of Michael’s protests she felt certain that something . . . something . . . would happen to-night at Duffy's. She felt an urgent need of reassurance. It would be good to hear Ted’s cheery, matter-of-fact voice. She reached for the telephone. “Is that you, Ted? Oh . . . it’s good to hear your voice. Ted . . . I’m worried. Michael’s gone down to Duffy’s this evening, and I’ve a terrible feeling . . It’s silly, but . . .” “Listen, honey.” The voice at the other end was a trifle impatient. “Don’t you worry your little head about Michael. He’ll be all right. Don’t you know by this time that the natives aren’t happy unless they’re plotting something or other? It’s the only pastime in a country which doesn’t enjoy the civilising influence of baseball. Say—” ' "Really, Ted! I am worried.” But already Ted’s voice had made the world seem sane and ordinary again. "Listen here. Celia. I don’t figure that Michael’s behaviour lately has justified all this worry on his behalf.” "You mustn’t say that, Ted. You mustn’t. I’ve told you—” “I know. I know! But here am I eating my heart out for you. And I’m your sort and you know it,

sweetheart. How about if I just popped in now . . . accidentally as it were . . . for about half an hour Michael’s never back until late when he goes to Duffy’s. We could talk things over cosily.” For a second Cecia hesitated. Half an hour of sanity with this lovable little man was just what she wanted. But even while she pondered she was laughingly saying "No.” •O.K.,’’ said the voice at the other end of the line. "But you’ll change your attitude some time. Good night, honey.” When he rang off she felt lone and dispirited. For half an hour she read, but nothing could shift the black mood of depression that had descended upon her. The problem of Michael and Ted, and her own irrational dread, filled her mind to the exclusion of all else. The problem of husband and would-be lover was irritating and insoluble because, in an exasperating sort of way, she felt that she loved both men. Michael, vibrant, forceful eloquent, touched some chord within her which Ted could never reach. Even now. she felt fearful for his safety. She had been hearing such disturbing tales of shootings and trouble lately. Restless, she took out her own little car. and drove to town to a cinema, where for an hour she unseeingly watched a very old film. Soon she was bored, and came out half-way through. Hardly had she driven a mile along the road towards her home before a muffled sound of shots and shouts from behind startled her already ragged nerves. Furiously, heedless of the crowds all surging in the same direction she drove towards Duffy’s . . . The hubbub grew more intense. The crowd thickened, and amid the shouting, gesticulating mob she was forced to slacken to a crawl. Panic-stricken she saw ahead a dull red glow in the sky. By now the firing was intense. Half a mile from Duffy’s the crowd became a dense, impenetrable mass, held back by a cordon of soldiers with fixed bayonets. 4 Leaving the car in a side street, she hurried up to a policeman on the corner. “What’s happened?” she gasped. ‘‘l —I must get through.” "Sorry, lady. It can’t be done. I have my orders. No one may pass. And why—” She ran back to her car. A hatless man, running by shouted to a friend through the din. “Caught them red-handed, and

loads of ammunition. But they’re putting up the devil of a fight.” “H’m!” said another spectator. “They may as well be shot there as up against a wall later on.” Celia felt faint. Trembling, she reentered her car, and drove back, her mind a chaos. Gradually the shouting and the firing died away in the distance. As she approached her house everything was peaceful. Half dazed, she let herself in. Pulling herself together with an effort she said to her little Irish maid, "Is Mr O’Callaghan in yet?” The negative answer, though expected, was a profound shock. What had happened to Michael? It was vital to get news to kill this awful suspense. Ah, Ted might have heard something. It was his business. Almost mechanically, she asked for the number of Ted’s office. He was out. She tried his home, without success, leaving the same message for him to ring her as soon as he returned. Now in her hour of need, she felt a desperate desire for the little American’s jaunty certainty. He would know what to do . . . She was pouring a drink when a motor-cycle drew up outside. She looked through the window. It was Michael. In a moment he came in, smiling more contented-looking than when he went out. "Are you all right. Michael?” she asked. Without looking round, he answered in an ordinary voice, “Of course, sweetheart. Why not?”

Celia started. She stared at his back, moved as if to rise, then, mastering herself, said casually: “So everything was all right at Duffy’s?” He turned, smiling good-naturedly. “I told you it would be. Merely a routine meeting." Then something he saw in Celia’s face made him stop short. “Why . . • what?” Celia spoke slowly and deliberately. “Duffy’s was raided—by soldiers—-to-night!” There was a moment while her words sank in. Then he threw away his cigarette and with .a shrug said: “Looks as if the game is up. I was not at Duffy’s to-night. I haven’t been there more than once or twice in the last three months. To-night I’ve been twenty miles in the other direction . . There’s a cottage , . . Another woman.”

He paused and looked, almofet apologetically, at Celia. “I’m sorry Celia. But for a long time we haven’t . . . what Ted would

call .. . mixed, have we? So this—sort of happened. It had to, some time. I—l’m sorry.” The telephone jangled at Celias elbow. It was Ted’s office. “You asked Mr Schuster to ring you . . . urgently?” “Yes.” "I’m sorry—bad news—Mr Schuster was accidentally shot while covering the affair at Duffy’s this evening. Mr Schuster is dead.” Michael rushed forward to catch his wife as she fainted. But in the fraction of time before she lost consciousness he saw an expression in her eyes which he had never seen there before . . . (Copyright)