THREE

      After all the storms, Sunday 3 September 1939 dawned sunny and warm, a perfect late summer’s day. Kathy was up early and got breakfast just for Danny, as everyone else would be taking communion. ‘The broadcast is at eleven, isn’t it?’ she asked Barry.

      ‘Aye, and you can bet every person in this land will be listening in, and we’ll be no exception.’

      The church was fuller than usual and Kathy wondered if they were all praying as fervently as she was. Peace was out of the window now, and Kathy sat head in hands, almost overcome with sadness at it all. There was little chattering in the porch that day, everyone wanted to be away home to get the dinner on so they could listen to the broadcast.

      Just before it began, Kathy was startled by how still it had become outside. She glanced out of the window. The streets were deserted, no baby cried, no toddler shrieked or chuckled, and no dog barked. Even the children seemed to know what an historic moment it was, for they’d picked up the atmosphere from the seriousness of the adults. So many people were crowded into the O’Malleys’ house that Lizzie and Danny, as usual, had crawled under the table, but even amongst such a mass of people there was an uneasy silence, and Kathy realised she could hear no tram rattling along Bristol Street, nor the drone of the occasional car or the clop of horses’ hooves. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting, and then they heard the dreaded words.

      ‘I am speaking to you from the cabinet room of Ten Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now, no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, this country is at war with Germany.’

      For a moment there was silence, and then everyone began speaking at once, saying that it was only to be expected and that the Jerries needed teaching a lesson. Underneath the table, Lizzie told Danny, ‘We’re at war.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      Lizzie wasn’t sure, but no way was she going to admit it. ‘Oh, it means there are lots of soldiers about,’ she said. ‘And guns and bombs and things, and Daddy might have to go away and fight bad people.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Danny, mightily impressed.

      People were dispersing back to their own homes, Lizzie noticed, peeping out from between the chair legs, until there was just Auntie Bridie and Uncle Pat with Sheelagh and Matt between them.

      ‘Well,’ Pat said, looking across at Barry, ‘I’m away for a pint.’

      They exchanged a look that Kathy didn’t really understand then, and Bridie snapped scornfully, ‘Away for a pint? Any excuse for a drink, you. It’s nothing to bloody well celebrate.’

      ‘Oh, let them go,’ Kathy said despondently. ‘I’m away to Mammy’s anyway. She’ll feel it badly, and Daddy too, with them both remembering the Great War so well. Are you coming?’

      Bridie shrugged. ‘Might as well. We won’t see the pair of them till closing time.’

      We might, Kathy thought, if you moaned less about it, but she said nothing.

      Rose was already at the Sullivans’ house when Kathy arrived with Bridie and the children, Sean having gone with the other men. ‘They called for Michael,’ Mary said. ‘And that bloody Maggie’s slipped out somewhere.’

      Only Carmel was left, and she suddenly looked very young and vulnerable. ‘All right?’ Kathy said.

      ‘I suppose,’ Carmel said uncertainly, with a slight shrug, and then she asked, ‘What’s it all mean, Kathy, will there be bombs and things?’

      ‘Maybe,’ Kathy said. ‘But don’t worry, you’ve got a stout cellar like ours. We’ll be fine.’

      How easy it was, thought Kathy, to reassure children. Not so easy to reassure adults, and she noticed for the first time that her mother’s jet-black hair that she’d passed on to her three daughters and her youngest son was liberally streaked with grey, and deep lines scored her face.

      There were tears in Mary’s eyes and Kathy was shocked, for she’d never seen her mother cry before. ‘Ah, Mammy, don’t upset yourself.’

      ‘What’s the use of crying over it at all?’ Eamonn said, almost roughly. ‘Wasn’t the last one supposed to be the war to end all wars, and what did I get out of it but buggered-up lungs and a partitioned Ireland?’

      Kathy felt a lump in her throat. She’d heard this before, but it had never seemed to mean that much. All men of her father’s time would probably feel betrayed, she thought, all those who had fought through the carnage, the blood and the mud of the trenches to make a land fit for heroes. As for the Irish, who had fought in order to obtain home rule for their country, it was even worse, because at the end of it all they’d only gained control of twenty-six of the thirty-two counties.

      Disillusioned, and with no wish to return to his native soil, for his home in Beleek, Fermanagh, was still under British rule, Eamonn Sullivan and his wife Mary had settled with their two sons and one daughter in Edgbaston, Birmingham. His chest had a constant wheeze and rattle and he could do little without getting breathless. Kathy had never worried much about it; it had been like that all the years of her growing up. Once she’d asked her mother what was wrong with her daddy and had been told that the unit he was in had been gassed in the war, and that it had wrecked his lungs.

      Mary knew that Eamonn, fit only for light duties, would have found it hard getting a job in that bleak time if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d saved an officer’s life in France in 1915 by dragging him across the sludge of Flanders to the relative safety of a dugout. The injured officer had proved to be the son of the owner of a small button factory, based in Duddeston, a Mr Charles Sallenger.

      Sallenger had sent five sons to the front, and one by one they’d all died, except for the youngest, Henry, saved by the young Irishman. The man’s gratitude was sincere and touching, and when Henry explained about Eamonn’s lungs, eaten away with gas, he was given a light job and knew he was set for life, and all because he’d been in the right place at the right time.

      Now,