Suvla

By Anthony O'Farrell

Charles Pollard is the son of a wealthy Dublin barrister, and is enjoying his care-free student days, in the summer of 1914. Now freed from the constraints of boyhood, he has taken his first steps into the adult world. Finding new freedoms and with few responsibilities, his future looks bright. He has a sweetheart, Sarah, and is filled with the joys of first love. But there are dark clouds on the horizon as Europe moves ever closer to war.
Torn between his loyalty to King and country, his family and sweetheart, and the excitement of going to war, the story follows Charles and other young Irishmen as they leave Dublin for Alexandria and Gallipoli. The book encompasses the terrible reality of that war.
It examines the political situation in Ireland at that time and the reasons why so many young Irishmen volunteered to join the British Army. Using anecdotes from diaries, letters and other historic records the author has taken great care to give the reader a fresh understanding of those tragic days, and remembers the thousands of young Irish lives lost in the forgotten battlefields of Gallipoli.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony O'Farrell
• Release date: Mar 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458143846

Anthony O'Farrell

Anthony O'Farrell is a member of the Dalkey Writers Group. He lives in Dublin Ireland and has written a number of plays for the stage and radio,as well as short stories for adults and children. Sulva is his first novel.All comments will be welcome and replied to at [e-mail]

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Suvla

Anthony O’Farrell

Copyright Anthony O’Farrell 2011

Published at Smashwords

Preface

February 1980

He had passed away sometime during the night. Died in his sleep, most likely. He had not been sick or ill, nor had he suffered in any way. Just an old man, whose life had ended quietly that damp February morning.

The black hearse pulled slowly away from the gates of Our Lady’s Grove nursing home in Bulloch Harbour. It would travel down the hill, past the quiet harbour, before turning right towards Sandycove and the Forty Foot, and then inland for the short distance to the funeral home.

Nurse Kate and Mrs Kelly were in the old man’s room, clearing out his few belongings in preparation for its next inhabitant, beds in Our Lady’s Grove being in constant demand. It was always a sad little task for the staff, but one in the natural cycle of any nursing home and, by and large, life in this home was not unhappy.

Kate opened an old Jacobs’s biscuit tin which she had found in the locker beside the old man’s bed. There was nothing of particular interest inside, a few bank notes and some coins, and an old photograph tattered and stained by time, and faded to a yellow-brown, showing two young men, boys really, arms linked, smiling.

Recognising the location as the Forty Foot just up the road, she smiled to herself as she spotted the sign on the wall above the boys’ heads. ‘Gentlemen’s Bathing Place’ it read. Aware that the same sign was still on that wall, she wondered how long ago the photograph had been taken. She knew the old man used to walk there almost every day.

On the back of the picture was written; ‘Harry and Charles June 1914,’ and Kate had her answer.

An old pocket bible in badly faded leather was the only other object in the tin. She opened it carefully and a sheet of paper fell out onto the bed. The inscription inside the cover read ‘Charles Edward Pollard, born January 22nd 1894, to Horace and Elizabeth Pollard, Rathdown House, Military Rd, Killiney.’

Kate picked up the fallen paper and opened it. Scribbled words on a sheet of the nursing homes headed notepaper, almost illegible. She struggled to decipher it, folded it again, and placed it back between the leaves of the little bible.

Look at me now lads

And what would ye say?

That smart arse codger is old, sick and grey.

Too tired to fight, too afraid to pray

Hanging on, for just one more day.

Weary from the haunted years,

Empty from the lack of tears.

Silent, unable to tell.

Guilty as fuckin’ Hell.

Cast out, the one to survive.

Cursed for staying alive.

Failing our gallant test

Undeserving to share your rest.

But Christ lads, I remember everything.

Chapter 1

The sun was already warming the old granite steps of Rathdown House on Military Road, Killiney as Charles Edward Pollard bid good morning to his mother, and took his place at the breakfast table in the sunlit conservatory. Freshly squeezed orange juice was just too much to resist on a morning like this, but Charles declined the cooked breakfast prepared for him, favouring instead some fresh toast and a hot cup of tea served to him by Mary, the new maid.

He thanked her politely, aware that she seemed a little nervous in his mother’s presence.

‘Has Father gone to work?’ asked Charles.

‘Yes, and there is something in the post for you.’

‘Oh dear!’ replied Charles, buttering his toast as he looked at the envelope. ‘I recognise that tone Mother, it must be bad news! It’s from the accountant.’

‘Turf accountant to be precise, Charles’ said his mother sternly, ‘and your father wishes to speak to you about that!’

‘Nothing to worry about Mother, it’s all in hand.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

Charles sipped his orange juice and smiled at her.

‘Well, what are your plans today?’ she asked from behind her bone china teacup.

‘I promised father that I would pop into Crawfords in Kingstown, he seems rather anxious that I hound poor Mr Crawford over the delay with his new car.’

Elizabeth Pollard smiled at her son, thinking how handsome he looked in his white linen shirt. ‘And after you have harassed Mr Crawford, Charles, how will you flitter away the rest of this lovely day?’

‘You know, you are so right, Mother dear. It is a lovely day and far too precious to waste even a moment of it. I plan to take a long run and plunge into the sea.’

‘Oh really Charles! What a child you are, and where exactly do you propose to take your swim? Not that ‘Forty Foot’ again I hope, you know I don’t approve of that place, Charles, it’s quite unbecoming!’

Charles grinned as he wiped crumbs from his mouth, his bright blue eyes mischievously eyeing his mother over the rim of his cup. ‘It’s all those naked men you object to,’ he said smiling, gazing at her steadily. Elizabeth looked down, and Charles beamed with victory.

‘Precisely Charles,’ she said, mocking indignation. ‘A young gentleman in your position has certain standards to maintain...’

‘And swimming naked as God created me,’ interrupted Charles a tad loudly, ‘is somehow going to let the family down?’

‘Charles!’ snapped his mother crossly, and he saw her eyes look in the direction of Mary, who was clearly blushing and uncomfortable as she waited by the conservatory door for her instructions.

‘That will be all for now, Mary. Thank you,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Mrs O'Rourke will find something for you to do in the kitchen.’

The train station at Killiney was only a short walk from Rathdown House. It was from here that Charles set out for Kingstown on his father’s errand.

He lit a cigarette on the platform while waiting for the train to arrive, cupping his hands to protect the struggling flame from the fresh sea breeze.

He snapped the lighter head closed. He loved that lighter, the sound it made when he closed it, the weight of it in his pocket. It had cost his father a pretty penny.

He remembered the day it had been bought for him to commemorate his first day as a law student in Trinity. His father had surprised him by turning up after lectures, and walked him across the road to Foxe’s tobacconist on College Green to make the purchase.

Exhaling the blue smoke, Charles chuckled to himself as he remembered the commotion his father had created in the shop. What a fuss pot, or so it seemed to Charles.

Horace E. Pollard was a highly respected barrister-at-law, and Charles knew that most people were intimidated by his presence, but not his son. He was fussing now about his new car, and that was the reason Charles was going to see Crawford, but he would not put pressure on the garage owner, for that was not in his nature. Most likely they would chat over a cup of tea, and Charles would politely enquire when his father could expect delivery.

He didn’t have long to wait for the train and, boarding it, he sat on the right hand side of the carriage from where he could best view the wonderful scenery on his short journey to Kingstown. The tide was almost fully in. He watched a group of small children paddling in the sea. The white foamy waves wrapping around their ankles seemed to be chasing them up the pebbled beach. An excited black mongrel, barking and hopping between the stones, accompanied its master.

It was good to see people enjoying the weather, enjoying the sea. A smile crossed his face as thoughts of Sarah entered his mind. It had been a wonderful summer, and their long days and nights together gave him a sense of fulfilment he had never known before. It occurred to him that sharing this time with her had made him aware of himself as a man. No longer a mere schoolboy or even college student, Charles was filled with exhilaration.

Ahead of him he could see Killiney Hill with the strange obelisk on its crown. The large houses on the hill and along the Vico Road had the most beautiful views in Dublin. Looking out to sea they enjoyed the stunningly beautiful panorama, from Dalkey Island with its Martello tower and Sorrento Terrace below it, to Bray Head in the distance.

‘Ireland’s Bay of Naples’ they called it. He had never been to Naples, but judging by the plethora of Italian sounding place names in the area, he accepted the comparison.

His journey took him through the tunnels at the end of Killiney Bay and stopped briefly at Dalkey village before continuing to Kingstown.

He had no intention of wasting too much time in the garage, as he was anxious to enjoy the day. Charles would call for his friend Harry who would accompany him to the Forty Foot, for what he knew would be a most refreshing swim.

It was Sarah Darcy’s bright blue eyes that first caught Charles’ attention, almost six months ago. They were introduced by a friend of Harry’s in the clubhouse of Clontarf Rugby Club. Charles had gone to watch Harry in his first match as captain of the Trinity team. Poor Harry had taken a most frightful thrashing at the hands of the Clontarf team, and he was soliciting as much sympathy as he could gather, from any attractive young ladies in the room.

Anxious to make her acquaintance, Charles was growing impatient with his friend’s reluctance to move on to the next young lady, having already spent quite enough time with this one. He quietly asked the victorious Clontarf full-back to effect the introduction.

Not one to be overawed, Charles nevertheless would freely admit that he was stunned by her beauty. There was an almost gypsy-like quality about Sarah. Her large bright blue eyes peeped from under dark curly hair, which sat loosely on her slender shoulders.

Her fresh complexion, rounded face and full lips were enough to make Charles struggle to concentrate on their conversation, but her daring cleavage, exposing her shapely and generous bosom, almost left the poor young man stuttering.

Sarah was a good conversationalist. Sharp witted, intelligent and good humoured. Her response to the introduction had been, ‘You don’t look like a rugger-bugger!’ Momentarily floored by this remark, Charles felt as though he had been tackled by a prop forward.

‘But I only play with girls!’ he retorted, and then instantly fearing that he had just dropped the ball, he held his breath, awaiting her reaction.

‘Well I’m a girl,’ she said, widening her eyes at him, ‘but nice girls don’t play rugby!’

‘Thank God for that!’ exhaled Charles.

Time seemed to be held in suspense while Charles freely allowed her feminine spell to entrap him.

Open and good humoured, Sarah spoke freely with Charles, telling him about her upbringing in Wexford.

Born before Charles, she had been orphaned at an early age. An only child, she had few memories of her parents, and possessed little in the way of mementoes. However, her father being a successful shipping merchant in Wexford town had left her well provided for; she had inherited a substantial sum at the age of 21.

‘So you’re twenty one?’ interrupted Charles.

‘Twenty two actually,’ said Sarah.

‘Older than me,’ he said, teasing her now.

‘And…?’ she responded.

‘And … you have lovely eyes.’ said Charles, smiling.

Sarah smiled back, acknowledging his parry.

Charles told Sarah of his life in Rathdown House, and she traded with him stories of her upbringing in Co.Wexford.

She had lived most of her life with her bachelor uncle, Tom. An unusual upbringing indeed, but one that instilled in her an independence of mind and freedom of spirit that set her apart from many of her contemporaries. Her guardian was a kind and generous man, whose zest for life was an inspiration to Sarah. Despite the whispered disapproval of neighbours, clergy, and others, her upbringing in New Ross was nurtured in a most loving environment.

Schooled in a Catholic convent and taught in the main by nuns, she would credit her education to her uncle, a man of enormous intellect, who never failed to challenge her thoughts, her reading or her aspirations.

They remained seated together for the rest of the evening and enjoyed the gentle teasing of her friends and even Harry’s none-too subtle banter.

Much to his satisfaction, before the end of the evening Charles had secured a promise to meet again in Kingstown.

As the weeks passed Sarah would often tease Charles, telling him that she understood his Unionist views, but would not accept them in him, or in any Irishman, until he had himself challenged and questioned them.

Aware of her social surroundings from an early age and frustrated by the limitations placed on her sex, Sarah developed an early interest in politics. Her nationalist views and republican leanings were in sharp contrast to Charles’s strictly unionist, Protestant and very British upbringing.

For how could any Irishman inherit Britishness? Surely only a fool would just accept it without question?

Charles would playfully dismiss any such thoughts and deny any such suggestions, but in quieter moments, he did admit to himself that he probably had merely inherited, and never questioned, his political views. This was not a thought that bothered him particularly, it was just that he had not yet come around to such self-examination. In a typically male way, he would push the problem aside in his mind, to be addressed at some later stage.

Sarah’s first love was art. A talented artist from an early age, she filled the small cottage she rented in Spencer Villas in Glasthule with sketches, pen and ink drawings, and watercolours. Charles loved Sarah’s cottage. Its rather bohemian ambiance and cosiness gave him a welcome privacy, free from the formality and governance of Rathdown House. Charles’ father knew nothing about his son’s relationship, and his mother knew only the little which her son had told her. Charles, whenever possible, would find an excuse to absent himself from home and spend the night with Sarah. Together they had discovered the joys of physical love, and their time together was filled with happiness and promise.

Harry lived in Sandycove, only a short walk from Sarah’s cottage, a convenience that Charles exploited to the full. He did not want to lie to his parents, but it was far easier to just tell them he was going to stay overnight with Harry.

Harry’s father was the manager of the National Bank in Dalkey. He had spent many years working as a clerk, and almost a lifetime’s faithful and obedient service and gradual promotions had passed before he was finally appointed manager. To say that he was proud that his son had been accepted to study law in Trinity College would be an understatement. It was the crowning achievement of his life. It was success itself, reward for his years of toil and, intent on enjoying this reward he never missed an opportunity to tell everybody and anybody that his son was a law student at Trinity. Unbeknown to him, it became a source of humour, almost ridicule, in the community and within his workplace.

‘Here comes Mr Waldron, whose son is in Trinity!’ was whispered behind his back, when he walked to the bank every morning, and again in the evening.

‘Good morning, Mr Waldron,’ was a familiar cry, ‘whose son is in Trinity’ a muttered continuum.

He was also very pleased that his son was a friend of young Mr Pollard, and a regular visitor to Rathdown House.

Mr Waldron had become a snob of the highest order, but for all that, he was a good man and Harry recognised the sacrifices that his father had made for him.

‘Staying at my place tonight?’ Harry teased, as they walked towards the Forty Foot. ‘Shall we prepare the guest room?’

‘As long as your father doesn’t mind,’ replied Charles smiling.

‘Ha!’ laughed Harry. ‘You must stay sometime though, he’d love it, and it’d be all over south Dublin by morning. Perfect cover!’

‘I may need a hiding place, the old man’s on the warpath; I got a letter from the bookies this morning!’

‘How bad is it this time?’

‘Nothing major, but you know how he fusses.’

‘He’s bailed you out before, my father would kill me!’ said Harry.

‘Timing couldn’t be worse,’ continued Charles. ‘He’s been in an awful flap these last few days; I have just come from the garage on an errand for him, but I just didn’t have the heart to tell Crawford how worked up my father is over the delay in getting his new car.’

‘Well, he’ll have to wait a while, if the rumours of a war are true,’ said Harry. ‘It’s all over the papers. So what do you think, Charles ... should we join up?’

‘Lord no! That would be no fun at all. All that marching and saluting: ‘Yes sir! No sir!’ No way, my friend, not for me!’

‘Go on admit it. You’re just afraid they might lock you up in some barracks away from your sweetheart.’ laughed Harry. ‘I don’t know,’ he followed, ‘I think she would love you in uniform.’

‘Maybe, but not a British uniform, you know what she’s like.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Harry, ‘I must admit I have a mild fancy to be Captain Waldron. We could be heroes.’

‘Don’t even think about it, Harry!’

As the two pals reached the bottom of Sandycove Avenue, they caught their first glimpse of the sea. ‘Ah great!’ exclaimed Harry. ‘A full tide!’

‘Looks a bit choppy to me.’ said Charles.

‘Just the way I like it.’ said Harry. ‘A bit of life in it!’

As they continued along by the well-named Sandycove, where generations of Dubliners flocked whenever the sun permitted, Harry spotted a friend.

‘I say, Gus!’ he shouted.

Gus turned, and recognising the two young men, waited for them to cross the road and catch up with him.

‘It’s a bit rough for old Charles today,’ jibed Harry. ‘Maybe he should swim in the cove with the women and children.’

Charles smiled as Harry continued, ‘Don’t worry about it, old chap, Gus here is a capital swimmer; swims here all year round, don’t you, Gus?’

Charles turned to Gus. ‘I swam here last Christmas morning, and that was enough for me. You won’t find me here if there is an ‘r’ in the month, that’s for certain.’

‘It’s jolly good for you,’ said Gus. ‘Ask any of the old-timers who swim here every day of the year. The key to longevity, that’s what they’ll tell you.’

‘Oh really!’ said Harry. ‘Probably more to do with the hot whiskey in Finnegan’s afterwards!’

They had reached the steps down to the Forty Foot, and Harry had gone out of his way to bid good-day to a group of young ladies, looking particularly attractive in the bright sunlight. Each of them wearing wide-brimmed straw hats, colourful dresses of varying hues, and one or two sporting fashionable parasols.

The Forty Foot (named not as most people believe because it is forty feet deep but rather because the 40th Regiment of Foot had been stationed there many years before) had been for hundreds of years a favourite bathing place for the people of Dublin. Its rocky landscape chiselled by the treacherous sea, and by time itself, had been altered by dynamite when its rocks were blasted to provide much needed raw material for the construction of the massive harbour walls in Kingstown.

It was the infamous captain Blythe himself who had designed and supervised the building of the North Wall across the water in Dublin Bay, which allowed for safe passage and anchorage for the many great ships of the world that graced Dublin’s beautiful but treacherous bay.

For an unknown number of years now the Forty Foot had been a ‘Gentlemen’s Bathing Place.’ The wearing