He held back a bush expertly and exposed a hole that had been hacked between the greenery with the bushes left at the front of hide it, which they did effectively. ‘I found this when I was bringing the sheep down with Daddy a few days ago,’ Dermot said. ‘One of them got stuck in there, its horns caught around the bramble bushes, and Daddy was miles away. Took me ages to free the sheep and pulling at it like that, I saw the hole. I didn’t tell Daddy or anyone, but I thought as soon as school finished I would come up here and explore.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘You’ll soon see.’
Rosie looked at the uninviting hole, dim because little light penetrated through the canopy that would be above her head and so low that she would be bent nearly double. She had no desire to go in there. Hadn’t this gone far enough? Dermot was too used to grown-ups giving in to him. She’d left in the middle of a busy morning to come traversing the hillside on the mere whim of a child.
‘Look, Dermot,’ she said. ‘I can’t do this. I must go back.’
‘Oh no!’ Dermot cried and Rosie saw actual tears in his eyes. ‘You must come. You must see…I can’t tell anyone else.’
‘Oh, Dermot.’
‘Please?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll hold the bushes for you.’
Rosie gave a sigh and decided she really must find out what had affected her young brother. Bending low, she entered the tunnel. Dermot slipped in behind her and the bushes fell into place with a rustle.
Now it was darker than ever, for the canopy above them successfully hid them from the sun. Unseen branches tugged at Rosie’s hair, scratched at her face and snagged at her shawl. Time and again she had to stop to disentangle herself and Dermot would often cannon into the back of her. She was glad of her stout everyday boots that protected her feet from what was underfoot, though she stumbled many a time.
It was impossible to talk and so even when Rosie saw the undergrowth thinning and the dappled light shining between the trees, she made no comment.
Then, suddenly, they were in a clearing. Someone had taken the trouble to cut down the bushes surrounding the cottage. Danny had told her the place had originally been used by shepherds years before, and had been nearly falling down when Danny had used it.
Because of that, Rosie had expected to see a ruin, but this cottage was no ruin. It had new walls built up and was recently whitewashed, the rotting thatch that had obviously been on the roof was lying in a heap to the side of it and had been replaced by new. Even the door seemed new.
‘Is this what you had to show me?’ Rosie asked.
Dermot shook his head. ‘Not the cottage alone,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
As they approached the place, Rosie noticed the solitary window was so begrimed with dirt that she doubted much light reached the cottage through it, but the door opened without even a creak. Rosie stood in the doorway and surveyed the place. Someone had been here and not long ago either, for peat embers lay in the grate and the place didn’t smell of dust or decay or damp, it smelled of cigarettes and paraffin. She saw two lamps either side of the mantelshelf, a box of matches between them.
The floor was packed-down mud, covered over by a large hessian rug. She crossed the room, leaving the door ajar, and lit one of the lamps for extra light. Dermot’s eyes were dancing with excitement.
‘Now you’ll see,’ he said as he fell to his knees and rolled the rug back.
Rosie joined him and could plainly see the place where the floor had been cut away in a square and she kneeled beside her brother as he ran his fingers along the edge of the sizeable square and lifted the sod of earth out. Rosie leaned closer, bringing the lamp nearer, and saw that the earth below had been dug away to produce a roomy hole and she gave a sudden shiver of apprehension.
‘Look,’ Dermot said triumphantly and he pulled two canvas rolls from the hole and began to unwrap them. There were six rifles in each roll and Rosie sat back on her heels and let out a gasp of shock.
She was used to guns, having been brought up on a farm. Her own father as well as Matt and Danny would often shoot rabbits, both to save their crops from being eaten and to supplement the pot, and foxes were also killed. That was normal and natural, but those guns weren’t hidden away in what had once been a derelict place.
Dermot, still ferreting about in the hole, brought out tin boxes full of bullets and then some more pistols, again wrapped in cloth. She sat back and surveyed the cache of weapons before them. What on earth should she do?
Suddenly the room darkened and she looked up in alarm. Phelan was standing in the doorway. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Now you know. What d’you intend to do about it?’
Rosie looked at Phelan aghast, her mouth open in shock, her eyes troubled. ‘Phelan, I…’
‘If you’ve sense, and you value your life and that of our families, you will put those things back where they came from, go home and say nothing, forget all about it,’ Phelan said coldly.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Let’s say I’m warning you.’ Phelan said. ‘These are desperate times and anyone that is not for Ireland is against her and becomes her enemy. What cannot be borne is a spy in the camp.’
‘Phelan, I’m not a spy, I’m your sister-in-law,’ Rosie said hotly. ‘And Dermot is a child.’
‘I thought no-one knew of this place,’ Phelan said angrily. ‘It seemed a perfect place to store ammunition.’
‘Danny knew of it.’
‘God, aye, but he’d never come up here, not now. He used to meet Shay and the other lads here when they were boys. It was Shay who took me here first. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he couldn’t have used it as it was. The roof leaked like a tap, the mortar was crumbling in the stone walls and the door had rotted away. Left to itself it would be just a pile of rubble by now. We spent ages patching it up. How did you find it?’ he suddenly demanded of Dermot.
Dermot loved and admired Phelan, but he was unused to him shouting and being cross – he was unused to anyone being cross with him, come to that – and so he replied angrily. ‘I just did, and so what, Phelan? It doesn’t belong to you.’
The blow to the side of Dermot’s head knocked him sideways. No-one had ever struck him before and he cried out with the pain and shock of it. With an angry look at Phelan, Rosie put her arms around Dermot. ‘There was no need for that.’
Phelan ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes looked wild and filled with fear. ‘There was every need,’ he cried. ‘For the love of God will you understand the danger you’re both in? Tell me, Dermot, how you found the place and the arms, or I’ll beat it out of you and even Rosie won’t be able to save you.’
‘Phelan, what’s got into you?’
‘Shut up, Rosie,’ Phelan yelled, and he looked at the boy. ‘Well, Dermot?’
Dermot was scared of Phelan for the first time in his life. He saw the suppressed fury in him, his fists balled at his sides. He licked his lips nervously and told Phelan the same story he’d told Rosie about the tangled sheep. ‘I didn’t have time to explore the cottage then, I had to wait till the holidays, and I came up early this morning.’
‘Alone?’ Phelan demanded.
‘Aye, alone.’
‘Then what? How did you find the weapons?’
‘Well,’ Dermot said. ‘The place was dark because I shut the door. I knew there were paraffin lamps on the mantelshelf – I’d seen that much when I’d first opened the door – and so I made for there. But the mat must have been ruched up or something because I tripped over it and went flying. Then, when I lit the lamp and lifted the mat to straighten