There but for the grace of....

While researching and writing my third book (1938-1945) in the series Beloved Reconciliation , I have considered many characters whom I would love to include. However, seeing as the series started with one family and now follows four by marriage and adoption, I have quickly realized that reader confusion is not an engaging strategy. Thus, the short stories I’ll post here for the next four weekends will highlight those characters and events I only imagined but did not add. Please let me know what you think of them and if they warrent being part of the longer historic fiction.

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There, But For the Grace of…

The Killiney Beach was incredibly blessed by this gorgeous October day. The tide had come in gently. The tide had gone out gently. The waves were sparkling a late afternoon sunlight rarely seen in this autumn month. They seemed to magically lift a soft body of breezes onto the shore. Swirling arms rose above the beach, caressing furze and oak trees that lined a path leading up to the Dublin-Killiney railroad tracks. Departing passengers took one last glimpse at the scene behind them and inhaled one last breath of solemnity.

This was a place of rare, natural peace in 1917 given the unnatural, man-made tragedies impacting the island of Ireland. World War I was in full force in the Balkans, North Africa, and Persia. The ramifications of the Dublin-based, Easter Rising in April ‘16 were festering as independence leaders Pearse and Clarke had been executed and Countess Markievicz and Michael Collins remained imprisoned.

Life had been particularly chaotic for two additional individuals: Harry Malone and his sister Emma. They sat now at the edge of the small cove leading to the Killiney Bay, their respective garments pulled up above bare shins. Naked toes were tucked under the cooling sand. Each individual was reflecting, not on the scene before him or her, but on what had occurred in their family during the previous year.

As children in the first decade of the 1900’s, Harry and Emma had often come to Killiney Beach with their parents and younger siblings. The only day their father had off from his Harland & Wolff engineering job was Sunday. Despite being regular church goers in the Winter, the Malone family followed a different ritual in the Summer. Sundays were not spent inside a physical building called church. Rather, the Malones worshipped outside in what their father said was God’s natural setting.

Mr. Malone delivered the same testimony every Sunday during their train ride from Dublin to Killiney: “Why would God have created the sea and sun for only those days when everyone is trapped inside working? He wants us to enjoy both on the seventh day as well. Why else would he have entitled it Sunday?” Each Malone loved the seaside. Father treasured the tranquility to read his Sunday papers; his wife the time to write her letters. The children cherished swimming and building sandcastles. The family would first settle their picnic items on an old bedspread, next say a short prayer in thanks for whatever Father chose, and finally imbibe in the sheer pleasure of being together outside.

Now, years after the family’s last bucolic gathering, Harry and Emma gazed out at the sea.

“It’s been such a terrible year, hasn’t it?” Emma finally asked of her brother. He had been silent most of the afternoon except for an occasional compliment about the food Emma had prepared or for a passing question about her teaching at St. Ita’s Primary School in Dublin, founded by the Pearse family.

“Aye, it has been,” Harry replied.

He bent his head down toward the cuff of his right sleeve, empty of the arm he had lost at Somme. He knew he should have been dead, but he wasn’t.

Emma nodded her head. “Indeed, it has been a hard year and, yet, here we are able to look out on this glorious scene, knowing that life goes on regardless of the pain, regardless of the deaths, regardless of the poverty. Life is continuing and now we have to decide how we’re going to live it.”

Emma reached for her brother’s left hand. “You were brave, my brother. You were incredibly brave and for that you have lived. There, but for the grace of God, you are here for some additional purpose.”

He raised his head and looked out at the sea. “Aye, I have lived, but, where was God’s grace for those others who didn’t. What more could I have done for them?”

Under fire, Harry had carried two of his wounded mates back to safety from the front line. He had been shot numerous times and, thus, had lost his arm. To this day, he could not acknowledge his heroic act nor how closely he had enticed his own death.

Emma did not answer her brother’s question. Like him, she was living with her own guilt about her companions who had been killed at the Dublin Post Office during the Rising. She had been next door in the make-shift clinic attending the wounded and dying. Could she have done more?

As they sat silently, they looked out onto the waves. A young woman was swimming about fifty yards before them in a line parallel to the beach.

“Oh, look,” said Emma. “There is Fanny Murphy. I thought I saw her on the train. She’s doing her weekly lap in the bay. Didn’t she go to our Summer Sunday church? I remember her swimming with us here. What a strong, aquatic lass she has become.”

Harry smiled, staring at the distant figure steadily gliding, arm over arm, stroke over stroke. “She has, indeed,“ he said.

Agnes noticed a hesitation in his speech. “Wasn’t there a time when you were keen on her?”

“Yes, I was. But, you know me, Emma. I couldn’t dream a girl as beautiful as she would be interested in me.”

“Ach,” Emma humphed. “I bet she was impressed with you being the righteous- looking altar boy you were then? And she must have known you were a favorite of Patrick Pearse at St. Enda’s, especially attending that Shakespearian play A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream. You were such a handsome Lysander. Maybe she doesn’t yet know you were also top in your class at university nor of your bravery in the 16^th Irish Division.”

Harry stopped his sister continuing her ego building campaign. “Emma, what are you assuming? Fanny certainly wouldn’t think favorably of me now that I am disabled.”

Emma stood up, her face red with frustration. She grabbed Harry’s left hand.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have a mind! You have a body! You have a soul! You are the kindest and bravest man I have ever known. She would certainly cherish all that. Now, come on, you can still swim with one arm so let’s go out to meet her.

Harry looked at his sister. “How can I swim with just one arm?”

“Good grief, Harry. Don’t you remember how we used to do that as children? We would keep one arm behind our back and kick like mad, being sure our heads were always above water, eyes open and mouths shut. Come on, scaredy cat. I brought your swim trunks and my bloomers just in case. Change and let’s go out to meet her on her way back!”

Within less than five minutes, the two plunged into the water and were laughing, splashing water into each other‘s faces.

They glanced out into the bay and saw Fanny on her return lap. She suddenly stopped and started to wave at them. They waved back until they noticed she was raising her arms frantically.

“She’s in trouble,” said Harry. “Maybe a cramp?”

Emma froze.

Harry did not.

He immediately dove under the water and emerged six feet ahead of Emma, stroking madly toward Fanny with his one arm. Kicking furiously, he went left arm over left arm, left hand over left hand towards the struggling woman. As he approached, Fanny disappeared under the waves.

For a second, he could hear the sounds of cannons exploding around him and bullets flying. “I’m losing her. I’m losing her,” he thought. He dove under the water and kicked downwards searching for her. He rose without her and dove again. The cacophony of cannons and bullets suddenly ceased. The next time he emerged, he had secured her with his left arm. Emma was now beside the two. Harry held Fanny’s face up above the water, Emma her torso. Fanny started to gasp, expelling sea water from her lungs. She was alive and was going to survive.

two men on shore had had quickly assessed the calamity and secured a rescue dingy. They were vigorously rowing toward the trio. Upon arriving, they lifted Fanny into the boat and took her ashore.

Emma and Harry remained in place, sweeping their three arms in circles before them. Their heart beats began to calm, like the water around them.

Emma faced her brother. “Harry, look what you have done again.”

Harry stared at his sister. “What have I done?” he asked.

“Oh, you are such eejit! You did exactly what you did in Somme; you saved a life here like you saved lives there. Don’t say grace wasn’t with Fanny today. You were her grace.”

Harry turned toward the beach. They swam to it saying no more.

Within six months, Harry and Fanny were married in the chapel right behind Killiney Beach. One of the prayers that was said during the service was composed by Emma.

It read:

There, but for the grace of you, go I.

There, but for the grace of I, go you.

There, with grace, go we.

There with grace all abide.

Margaret Maxwell McLaughlin 7/25