Free The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising by Dermot McEvoy Page B

spare desk.
    “No.”
    “Then you’ll learn.”
    “When do I start?”
    “After you get some decent clothes.”
    “What?”
    “You can’t be wearing rags like those and working for me.” Collins sat down and scribbled some words on a piece of paper. “Here, take this over to Fallon’s in Mary Street and get yourself a suit. I’ll pay for it. You signed up with Vinny’s battalion, right?”
    “Second battalion, Dublin South.”
    “Good—get yourself a Volunteer’s uniform, too. Do this right now.”
    “Why are clothes so important?” asked Eoin, who had no sense of fashion at all.
    “Clothes aren’t all that important, but people think they’re important.” Eoin looked confused. “Let me put it this way. If you wear a suit and tie, you can get away with a lot of things. Society respects clothes but for all the wrong reasons. We start early around here, so be here at eight tomorrow morning. Alright?”
    Eoin was so overwhelmed by Collins’s whirlwind performance that he didn’t even ask what his salary was. “Remember,” added Collins, “we’re in this together!”
    Together indeed , thought Eoin, as he headed over to Mary Street to pick up his new clobber.

16

    E OIN’S D IARY
    M ick taught me how to type today. Well, not exactly. He told me to use the middle keys on the typewriter and to keep my hands astride of the G and H and go up and down. He told me to forget the numbers. He calls it being a “touch” typist. He said I’ll practice for a half-hour every morning until I become expert .
    The first day, he looked me up and down in me new suit. “Very nice,” he said. I had my sleeves rolled up, and he asked me why. I told him for some reason the cuffs didn’t have any buttons to hold them together.
    “That’s because you’re supposed to use cufflinks.” I shrugged because I didn’t have a clue. “Here,” he said, removing his own cufflinks, “take these. I’ll commandeer another pair during the day. There’s no point in wearing French cuffs if you don’t display them—and that’s that.” I asked Mick if they were named for Lord French, the failed Great War British field marshal who helped to suppress the Rising. Mick just gave me a vicious smile as his own French cuffs stiff with starch, stood at attention without the aid of a cufflink.
    We get all types here at the office. Weeping widows, crying children, men down on their luck. Apparently half of Dublin was in the GPO Easter week. Word is spreading about the free money. Mick is very circumspect when he’s interviewing people. Very solicitous. Sometimes he gives a stipend, sometimes he doesn’t. The ones who don’t get any money don’t realize it until they’re on the street, Mick is so smooth with the talk.
    At the end of this first day, Mick locked the office door and had a heart-to-heart with me. “Eoin,” he said, “there’s more to this office than meets the eye.” I nodded. “We’re a legitimate organization,” he added, “but we’re here to do more than be the Fenian St. Vincent DePaul Society.” I nodded again. “We’ll be doing the work of the Republic here. Do you understand?” I nodded for the third time. “Are you a fucking mute?” said Mick as he leapt out of his chair, grabbed me by the arms around the shoulders and lifted me to the ceiling. That made me howl and got a big laugh out of Collins. He then put me down.
    “The British have just three rules,” he said. “One, they make the rules. Two, they want you to play by the rules. Three, they never play by the rules.” Mick looked me dead in the eye before adding, “We’re going to make a new rule—we make our own rules!”
    “Fook ‘em!” I exclaimed, leaping out of my chair, immediately ashamed that a dirty word had escaped my lips.
    Mick didn’t say a word. Only a smile told me he approved of what I had said. I had a feeling we would be getting out of the charity business shortly.

17

    “ H ow’s your arse,