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Derrys daughter

The Laundry of Treason and the Lemon Curd

The morning had begun with a deceptive sense of normalcy. The Quinn kitchen was, as always, a battlefield of domestic grievances. Joe was currently embroiled in a heated debate with the toaster, which he claimed was "colluding with the British" by only browning one side of his bread. Gerry was staring into the middle distance, likely wondering if there was a corner of the planet where he wouldn't be constantly insulted by his father-in-law, and Mary was in a state of high-velocity productivity.

"I’m doing the sheets!" Mary announced, her voice echoing from the upstairs landing like a herald of doom. "And I’m doing the curtains! And if I find one more half-eaten bag of Tayto under a bed, I will personally see to it that the culprit is sent to a convent in the deepest, darkest part of County Mayo!"

Mave, sitting at the table and trying to focus on her geography notes, felt a sudden, icy needle of dread prick the back of her neck.

"Mam!" Mave shouted, her voice jumping an octave. "You don't need to do our room! I did it yesterday! It’s pristine! It’s practically a surgical ward!"

"Don't you lie to me, Mave Quinn!" Mary’s voice drifted down the stairs. "I saw a dust bunny the size of a small terrier trailing after Orla this morning. I’m stripping the lot!"

Mave stood up so quickly her chair shrieked against the linoleum. Her mind raced through the inventory of her bedroom. The history books—fine. The school uniform—fine. The loose floorboard under the wardrobe where she kept the short-wave radio and the encrypted ledger—mostly fine, provided Mary didn't decide to polish the floorboards with the fervor of a woman possessed.

But then, she remembered.

The laundry.

She had been out late two nights ago, scouting the back routes near the Creggan. It had been raining—that fine, Derry mist that soaked through to your very soul—and she had come home drenched and shivering. She’d shoved her wet gear into the bottom of the wicker hamper, intending to wash it herself when the house was empty.

The black wool jumper. The heavy combat trousers.

And the beret. And the balaclava.

"Mave, you look like you’ve seen a vision of the Virgin Mary, and she’s told you you’re failing your exams," Michelle said, leaning through the back door with her usual lack of a knock. "What’s the crack? Why are you vibrating?"

"My Mam," Mave hissed, grabbing Michelle by the arm. "She’s in the room. She’s doing the laundry."

"So? Unless you’ve got a Protestant fella hidden in the wardrobe, what’s the big deal?" Michelle asked, then her eyes widened. "Wait. Is it a fella? Is he a ride? Is he a rebellious poet with a motorbike?"

"It’s not a fella, Michelle! It’s... it’s sensitive!"

Mave bolted for the stairs, but she was too late. She reached the landing just as the door to the room she shared with Erin swung open. Mary was standing in the center of the room, the wicker hamper upended on the floor.

The silence was absolute. It was the kind of silence that precedes a lightning strike—heavy, ionized, and terrifying.

Erin was sitting on her bed, her mouth hanging open in a perfect 'O' of shock. She was holding a glittery hairbrush, frozen mid-stroke. Between them, lying atop a pile of white school blouses and Orla’s mismatched socks, was a pool of midnight-black wool. The beret sat there, its shape unmistakable, and beside it, the ribbed opening of the balaclava looked like a dark, screaming mouth.

Mary didn't move. Her hand was resting on the edge of the dresser, her knuckles white. She looked at the items, then she looked at Mave standing in the doorway.

"Mave," Mary said. Her voice wasn't loud. It was worse. It was quiet—a low, trembling vibration that suggested the very foundations of the house were about to crumble. "What is this?"

Mave felt the air leave her lungs. For the first time in her life, the quick-witted, tactical mind of 'The Ghost' failed her. She couldn't think of a lie. She couldn't invoke the French Revolution or a history project.

"It’s... it’s for a play, Mam," Erin blurted out.

Mave looked at her twin. Erin was pale, her eyes darting between the black wool and her mother’s face.

"A play?" Mary turned her gaze to Erin. "A play, Erin? In the middle of a war zone, the Drama Society has decided to put on a production that requires a Provisional IRA uniform? Is that what you’re telling me?"

"Yes!" Erin scrambled to her feet, her voice gaining that familiar, high-pitched frantic energy. "It’s a very... avant-garde piece. It’s called 'The Woolen Mask of Oppression.' It’s about the duality of man, Mam! The struggle between the internal self and the external... knitted... garment!"

"Shut up, Erin," Mary snapped, not taking her eyes off Mave.

Mary walked over to the pile and picked up the balaclava. She held it between two fingers as if it were a dead rat. "I’ve spent twenty years trying to keep the Troubles outside that front door. I’ve spent twenty years scrubbing the smell of CS gas out of your clothes and praying to every saint in the calendar that your father doesn't get pulled over by a jumpy paratrooper."

She stepped toward Mave, the black wool swinging. "And I find this in my own house? In my daughter’s laundry?"

"Mam, I can explain," Mave whispered, though her throat felt like it was full of glass.

"Explain what? That you’ve been sneaking out at night to play at being a martyr? That you’ve been putting a target on the back of every person in this family?" Mary’s voice finally broke, rising into a scream. "Do you have any idea what they do to girls who get involved, Mave? Do you think the Brits care that you’re a 'good student'? Do you think the RUC will give you a cup of tea and a biscuit while they’re interrogating you at Castlereagh?"

The door downstairs slammed, and the sound of heavy footsteps hurried up the stairs. Joe, Gerry, and Sarah appeared in the doorway, Michelle and James hovering behind them like a Greek chorus of the bewildered.

"What’s the shouting? Is the toaster on fire?" Joe demanded, then stopped dead. He looked at the balaclava in Mary’s hand.

Joe’s face, usually a mask of grumpy defiance, went strangely blank. He looked at Mave, really looked at her, and for a second, Mave saw something in his eyes that wasn't anger. It was a terrifying, ancient recognition.

"Mary," Joe said quietly. "Put that down."

"I will not put it down, Da! Look at it! Look at what she’s doing!" Mary turned on Gerry, who was looking like he wanted to phase through the wall and disappear into the neighbor’s garden. "And you! You’re her father! Say something! Tell her she’s an idiot! Tell her she’s ruined her life!"

Gerry looked at Mave, his eyes filled with a desperate, paternal sorrow. "Mave... love. Please tell us this is some kind of joke. Tell us you found it in the street."

Mave looked around the room. She saw James, who looked like he was about to vomit. She saw Michelle, who was uncharacteristically silent, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and a strange, dark respect. She saw Aunt Sarah, who was squinting at the beret.

"It’s a very flattering shape, to be fair," Sarah murmured. "Very chic. Very 'resistance leader.' But it’ll do terrible things to your fringe, Mave. The static alone would be a nightmare."

"Sarah, for the love of God, shut up!" Mary wailed.

Mave took a step into the room, closing the door behind the crowd, sealing them all into the small, floral-wallpapered space. The air felt thin.

"I’m not playing, Mam," Mave said, her voice steadying. The lie had failed, so she took the only weapon she had left: the truth. "I’m not 'playing' at anything. I’ve seen what’s happening. I’ve seen the soldiers kicking in doors on our street. I’ve seen them humiliate Da at the checkpoints just because he has a Derry accent. Someone has to do something."

"And that someone has to be a seventeen-year-old girl with a B in Home Economics?" Mary hissed. "You’re a child, Mave!"

"I’m the same age as the boys they’re putting in the ground!" Mave shouted back. "I’m the same age as the soldiers holding the rifles! Why is their war real, but mine is just 'playing'?"

"Because you’re mine!" Mary grabbed Mave by the shoulders, shaking her. "You’re my daughter! I didn't raise you to be a name on a mural, Mave Quinn! I didn't bring you into this world so I could spend the rest of my life visiting you through a glass partition in a prison!"

Erin stepped forward, her face streaked with tears. "Mave, stop it. Just tell her you’ll stop. Tell her you were just... confused. Tell her you’ll give it back to whoever gave it to you."

Mave looked at her twin. This was the gulf she had felt for months, now widened into a canyon. Erin wanted the safety of the kitchen, the comfort of the bickering, the luxury of worrying about headbands. Mave wanted those things too, but she couldn't have them while the world outside was screaming.

"I can’t, Erin," Mave said softly.

"You can and you will," Mary said, her eyes flashing with a terrifying resolve. She turned to the pile of laundry, grabbed the black jumper and the trousers, and marched toward the door. "I’m burning the lot. I’m putting it in the bin out back and I’m lighting a match."

"No!" Mave lunged for her mother’s arm. "Mam, you can’t! If someone sees the smoke—"

"I don't care if the Queen sees it from her balcony!"

"Mary, wait," Joe said, stepping into his daughter’s path. He was surprisingly agile for a man who complained about his knees every time he sat down. He took the black wool from Mary’s hands.

"Da, give it to me," Mary commanded.

Joe didn't look at her. He looked at Mave. "Who are you with, Mave? Is it the boys from the Bogside? Is it Seamus O’Donnell?"

Mave didn't answer.

"It’s Seamus, isn't it?" Joe sighed, a sound that seemed to age him by decades. "I should have known. He always had that look in his eye. Like he was trying to carry the whole mountain on his back."

"Joe, what are you doing?" Mary asked, her voice trembling. "Tell her she’s finished with this. Tell her!"

Joe looked at the balaclava in his hand, his thumb tracing the rough knit of the wool. "I can’t tell her that, Mary. Because if I’d been ten years younger when the parachutists came, I’d have been wearing this myself. And you know it."

"Joe!" Gerry gasped. "You can’t say that! You’re encouraging her!"

"I’m not encouraging her, you gormless prick!" Joe roared, turning on Gerry. "I’m acknowledging the world we live in! We live in a cage, Gerry! And some people are content to sit in the corner and whistle, and some people want to rattle the bars!"

He turned back to Mave, his expression softening into something profoundly sad. "But Mave... your mother is right. This isn't a game. They won't just arrest you. They’ll break you. They’ll take everything that makes you Mave Quinn and they’ll grind it into the dirt."

"I know the risks, Grandda," Mave said, her voice small.

"You think you do," Joe said. "But you don't. Not until you’re sitting in a cell hearing the keys rattle. Not until you have to look your mother in the eye through a wire fence."

He handed the black wool back to Mave.

Mary let out a strangled cry of betrayal. "Da! How could you?"

"Because she’s a Quinn, Mary!" Joe shouted. "And she’s stubborn, and she’s proud, and if you burn that, she’ll just go out and get another one, and she’ll be even more careful, and we’ll never know where she is or if she’s coming home!"

He pointed a finger at Mave. "If you do this, you tell us. Not the details. I don't want to know what’s in the bags or where the meetings are. But if you’re going to be out late, you tell your mother you’re with 'the committee.' And if you don't come back by the time the news is over, we come looking. Do you understand?"

Mave nodded, tears finally blurring her vision. "Yes, Grandda."

"And for God’s sake," Joe added, his voice returning to its usual gruffness, "hide your gear better. Your mother is a woman who can find a single grey hair in a dark room. You’re lucky she didn't find the radio."

The room went silent again. Mary looked at Joe, then at Mave, then at the floor. She looked like a woman who had fought a long, exhausting war and finally realized that the territory she was defending had already been lost.

"I’m not okay with this," Mary said, her voice flat. "I will never be okay with this. I will pray every night that you grow out of this, Mave. I will pray until my knees bleed."

She walked over to Mave and pulled her into a hug so tight it bruised. She buried her face in Mave’s hair, smelling of lavender and floor wax and the mundane, beautiful safety of the Quinn house.

"If you get hurt," Mary whispered into her ear, "I will never forgive you. Do you hear me? I will never forgive you for leaving me."

"I’ll be careful, Mam," Mave sobbed. "I promise."

Mary pulled away, wiping her eyes with her apron. She looked around the room at the assembled group. "Right. Not a word of this. Not to the priest, not to the neighbors, and especially not to that woman across the street who thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba because she has a new Ford Fiesta."

"My lips are sealed," Sarah said, making a zipping motion across her mouth. "Though I still think the beret would look lovely with a bit of a brooch. Just to break up the black."

"Sarah!" everyone shouted in unison.

James looked like he was about to faint. "I think I need to sit down. I think I’m having a panic attack. Is it possible for an English person to be an accessory to terrorism? Because I feel like I’m an accessory."

"Oh, shut up, James," Michelle said, though she put a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. "You’ve been an accessory to Erin’s fashion sense for a year. This is a step up."

Erin sat back down on her bed, clutching her hairbrush. She looked at Mave, her eyes still wide with a lingering terror. "Mave... does this mean you’re... a real one? Like, on the posters?"

Mave sat down beside her, the black wool hidden behind her back. "I’m just Mave, Erin. I’m just your sister."

"But you have a code name," Erin whispered, her imagination already beginning to spin the trauma into something she could process. "You’re like a character in a spy novel. 'The Girl with the Hidden Heart.' Or 'The Shadow of the Bogside.'"

"It’s 'The Ghost,' actually," Michelle put in, leaning against the doorframe. "I heard it from Eoin. He said there’s a girl they call The Ghost because the Brits can’t catch her. I didn't realize it was you, Mave. I thought it was just some ride from the Creggan."

Mave felt a flush of heat in her cheeks. "It’s just a name, Michelle."

"It’s a cool name," Orla said, appearing from behind Joe. She was holding a slice of lemon curd toast. "I want a code name. I want to be called 'The Penguin of Justice.'"

"No one is calling you a penguin, Orla," Joe grumbled, but he reached out and patted her head.

The tension in the room began to dissipate, replaced by the familiar, chaotic gravity of the family. Mary began to gather up the laundry again, though she pointedly ignored the black pile on Mave’s bed.

"Right, downstairs, the lot of you," Mary commanded. "Gerry, the tea is cold. Make a fresh pot. And Joe, if you mention the toaster again, I’ll throw it through the window."

As they filed out of the room, James lingered for a moment. He looked at Mave, his face full of a quiet, English bewilderment.

"Mave?"

"Yeah, James?"

"Just... be careful. Please. I don't want to have to explain to the British Consulate why my cousin’s twin is on the most wanted list. The paperwork would be a nightmare."

Mave smiled, a genuine, tired smile. "I’ll do my best, James."

When they were finally alone, Mave and Erin sat in silence for a long time. The sound of the house rose up from below—the clink of spoons, the roar of the television, the distant sound of an argument about the price of ham.

Erin reached out and touched the black beret. "It really is a bit dour, Mave."

"I know, Erin."

"But," Erin said, looking at her twin with a fierce, sudden pride, "I suppose if anyone’s going to save the country, it might as well be a Quinn. We’re very good at being loud. And you’re very good at being quiet."

"It’s a team effort," Mave said.

That night, Mave didn't hide the gear under the floorboards. She put it in a box at the back of the wardrobe, behind her school books and a stack of old magazines. It was still a secret from the world, but it was no longer a secret from the house.

As she lay in bed, listening to the familiar rhythm of Erin’s breathing, Mave felt a strange sense of peace. The war was still there, waiting for her in the shadows of the Bogside. The soldiers were still on the walls, and the sirens were still wailing in the distance.

But for the first time in months, the air in the Quinn household didn't just smell of lavender and fried bread. It smelled of a truth finally told.

And as she drifted off to sleep, she heard the distant, muffled sound of Joe shouting from downstairs.

"I’m telling you, Gerry! The lemon curd is a British conspiracy! It’s too yellow! No fruit is that yellow naturally!"

Mave smiled into the dark. Some things, it seemed, would never change. And that was exactly what she was fighting for.