This Evening's Performance (Niamh)

[Nathan Whyte]

The young Flight Sergeant pulled at his buttoned collar, wishing away the smart black "monkey suit" he'd chosen to wear this evening. He hadn't worn it for what seemed like years, and in that time his neck must have doubled in width as he could never remember it fitting so snugly. It definately wasn't his first choice of clothing, usually settling for some loose trousers and a polo, but he was making an effort tonight.

The taxi rolled to a stop outside the large theatre, brilliantly lit by several spotlights. Until only a few months ago, that kind of display would have been strictly prohibited, but with the German Army being pushed further and further and back in to France, the blackout was drawing to a close. After settling the fare with the driver, who wished him a 'good night' with a thick cockney accent, Nathan stepped in to the cool October evening, smiling at the freshness after the horrible odour of the cab.

He'd accepted an invitation to the premiere performance of A Long Way To Tipperary, a play about the war based upon the popular song. They'd sent a few of the invitations to the various military units around the town of Birmingham where they were, and Nathan had been lucky enough to recieve one of the 3IDs ones. Out of a total of three given to the Division, he knew that one had been given to a Sergeant from Able Company, but he had no idea to whom the other had been given to, which would make it especially interesting as it was organised seating, so he could be beside anyone from Captain Patterson to a member of the kitchen staff.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

She didn't want to go. She didn't want to be among all her comrades, who were in the perfect picture of health, save for a bad liver or set of lungs from their alcohol and tobacco habits, respectively. She wanted to be back at her hotel, or better yet, back in Ireland, taking care of her family's horses and spewing curses at her Uncle Daragh's youngest sons, who were taking after Cillian's band quite nicely. However, she hadn't seen her cousin Magdalene - or "Magpie" - for ages, and the woman had invited her to a play that one of Magpie's friends was acting in. It was called A Long Way To Tipperary, or something like that.

With a sigh, Niamh shuffled along, dressed in a beige jacket that was buttoned up because of the cold. Beneath it, she wore a simple, ruffled pink dress, one that faded out into a whitish-pink at the bottom. To the insistence of her Aunt Norma, Magpie's mother and lover of all things fashionable, the young Pavee also had a light blush on, the cold turning her cheeks red and making it stronger than it already was. Niamh's hair was at its pre-war norm, down to the shoulders and its typical auburn - she had to admit, it was nice having her hair down again. Ever since she had been excused for medical leave, all because of her injured wrist, Niamh had begun to realize how much she had missed from her time as a civilian.

It wasn't hard to find the theatre - because the German planes were less of a threat now, it was all lit up, showing off for the play's big opening night. Cameras snapped, young men and women chortled and chatted with one another, and Niamh silently prayed no one would recognize her. Something as big as an entire cart of medical supplies being lost, all because of one woman's pride, was bound to circulate at some point or another. Niamh wasn't quite sure what she would do if someone pointed her out during her time at the theatre.

Walking into the theatre and up to the ticket master, Niamh handed the man her ticket with her left hand, keeping her right well hidden. It was still in a cast because of doctor's orders; the injury to her hand had been a brutal one. The Irishwoman still sometimes could see the German's face in her mind's eye, raising his boot as she frantically tried to grab for her knife, and bringing it down upon her helpless hand. It was an image that, to that night, still caused a shiver to run down her spine. As soon as she was well enough to make sense of things, it had hit Niamh hard realized just how close she came to death that night.

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan pulled back his sky-blue shirt sleeve under his suit displaying a beautiful silver watch, the strap and rim of the face ingraved with minute Maori carvings, it was still a wonder to Nathan how they had been made so precise while so small. The dark face of it told him there was still a good half hour before the play began, and he knew he would look exceedingly anti-social if he walked in now and took his seat.

He shook his wrist as he dropped his arm to make the sleeve drop over his watch and coughed in to his shoulder. He only had one real choice of course, and that was to walk around and try to spot somebody he recognised. He began walking a loose circle around the congregation, not unlike stalking German fighters in the sky, finding a particularly good looking target and closing in on it.

He noticed the back of a head first, a familiar auburn which he couldn't quite put his finger on where he had seen it before. He carried on circling around, trying to spot the face, but she almost seemed to know the chase was on, walking briskly in to the theatre. She passed the ticket man, and Nathan quickly began patting his pockets for his ticket. He found it in a particularly obscure pocket of which he didn't have any clue to how it got there. He passed it to the man, only half paying attention as he talked. He took back his stub and walked through the door, craning his neck to spot the lady.

He found her, and he closed in, smiling with recognition. "Well I'll be... Is that you under that hair Niamh?"

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Maybe it was combat training, maybe it was her slight paranoia, but whatever it was, Niamh couldn't help but suddenly feel like someone was watching her. She briefly looked over her shoulder, but saw no one that appeared to be following her; the woman shrugged the feeling off. Still, Niamh quickened her pace, just in case someone was stalking her through the large crowd of people. It would be easy for someone to hide among the throng of theatre-goers, especially if they were dressed for the occasion.

All of a sudden, there was the sound of footsteps directly behind her, and a familiar, twang-y voice that said, "Well I'll be.... Is that you under that hair Niamh?" The young woman stiffened, pivoting on her heel, startled to see the face of an old acquaintance. It was none other than Nathan Whyte, a pilot in the 3rd Infantry Division - the last division whose bases Niamh had been working at, along with several other women. She had never been assigned to the kitchens of the division's Air Force, though, and thus, had not seen Nathan for several months. There had been a few letters written back and forth, but otherwise, Niamh had not seen or talked to him since Christmas Day of the year past.

"N-Nat'an!" the Pavee stammered. "Er...well. I didn'th expecth ye tho be 'ere...uhm...s-small world, huh?"

Well, wasn't that incredibly awkward. Her cheeks flushed, and the blush just looked more red. Niamh hoped she wouldn't have to take her bad hand out of her pocket, and let the questions start rising - who knew how Nathan might react. She had seen him get angry before, back at the pub while he was mourning his dead brother, and still remembered him smashing a drunkard's glass into the middle of the man's forehead. Especially with her being a Pavee, she didn't want to begin hearing the "incompetent Gypsy" comments, especially from him.

"Uhm...yes...'ello t'ere, t'en..." Niamh added, attempting to be sociable and flashing a small smile. At least, she hoped it looked like a smile.

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan sighed with relief, after Niamh confirmed it was her, and he wasn't just going to look like a lunactic leaping out at her from nowhere. He noticed her quickly blush as he walked over to her, and he quickly ran his eyes over her to check if she was doing anything particulraly embarassing. It didn't seem so, and she looked a picture in her dress.

She seemed a bit taken aback, and was struggling to string a sentance together. "Are you a bit nervous there, Niamh? Is that blush for anything?" He laughed a little before stopping half a metre in front of her. "How are you doing then, Niamh? Been keeping yourself busy since we last met?" Apart from a few letters, they hadn't been in contact since last Christmas, when he had been drowning his sorrows, and her hiding from fights.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

If Niamh's cheeks could turn redder, they would have. But she could see why Nathan would make the remark about the blush - one wouldn't think Niamh as one to wear makeup. But Norma O'Hannagain was adamant when it came to ladies' wear, and Niamh wouldn't have heard the end of it had she not complied with her aunt's wishes.

"Ith was...me aunth's idea," said the Pavee with slight sheepishness. "She's one o' t'ose...thypes...t'at likes tho doll t'emselves up. Kepth sthickin' ith in m'face an' sayin', 'Oh, puth t'is on Nivvy! Ye'll be absoluthely lookin' smashin'!' Feh...never needed t'at sthuff, dunno why I should now. I 'spose ith's fer t'e greather good; me cousin Magpie's goth a friend in t'e play. Besth t'at I look me besth fer t'em an' all, eh?"

The young woman's Irish accent had thickened with stress. It was a most curious thing, her manner of speech - the English accents had seemed to dull her birth accent, the only sign it was there some sayings of hers, as well as her tendency to switch around her "t's" and "th's", as was the case with some Irish pronunciation. As with most accents, though, they always shone through, just as a person's character did in the face of adversary. It made sense in both cases that, in the face of a friend and a comrade, and one in the division whose medical supplies she had lost at a vital time, she was showing a different side. A shyer, more subdued side, which was typical of her after a stressful or uncomfortable event, such as a bad fight with someone.

"How are you doing then, Niamh? Been keeping yourself busy since we last met?" Nathan asked cheerily.

"Fine, very well, t'ank ye," replied Niamh. "Been workin' as a cook - 'tis a good job. Noth fun when someone raids t'e kithchens, buth ith's a good job. Which reminds me - ye'll have ta speak wit' some o' yer boys. T'ey keep sthealin' food from t'e Officer's Mess. Don'th thell me ot'erwise, because I know an Air Force uniform when I do see one!"

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan gave a small chuckle, remembering the previous Christmas. When they were talking, they often misunderstood each other, and here Niamh thought that when he was referring to her cheeks flushing red, it was the make-up upon them. He didn't bother correcting her, though, instead trying to work his way through her thick accent.

"A cook?" he asked, slightly surprised, and feeling that he had been rumbled. She quickly swooped in on him, reprimanding him and his men for their snackings. "Ah, well, you see, um, sometimes we're in hurry and the queues in the…” The lame excuse petered out there and he just smiled lamely.

Behind him, he heard a large door open, and a small, unimposing man in a smart red suit step out, clearing his throat and speaking in what seemed to be an impossibly posh voice, asking for quiet, and if people would mind entering to take their seats. Nathan turned again to Niamh, and, accompanied with a small head gesture, asked her if she’d like to enter. “Head Chef,” he started, putting on an over-the-top, posh accent, “May I accompany you to your seating?” He put on an extravagant bow, and as he stood up again, he quickly tucked his tie back in place, from where it had whipped out uncontrollably. He held out an arm, and looked over his shoulder to see a rather unimpressed look from the staff member at the door, but Nathan just took pleasure in this, he just didn’t get high off of this whole posh situation.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"T'at's right, no excuses," said Niamh sternly. "'Specially when ye tear open sthuff and thoss ith e'erywhere. Ith's disgusthing tho 'ave tho clean up smeared food. Do ya t'ink ya could be a liththle cleaner, Nat'an?"

Her berating of the pilot would have continued, but the announcing of the need to be seated shoved that thought aside. The crowd gladly obeyed the man in the red suit, heading to the showing area so that they could seat themselves for the show. Nathan, in an accent meant to poke fun at the posh way of speaking the man in red had shown, offered to escort Niamh to her seat. His bow, the small move of his head, and the fact that he had called her "Head Chef" all caused Niamh to giggle a little."Oh, so now you're a genthleman, eh?" she jabbed, putting her visible hand on her hip and raising her eyebrows at the pilot. "Well, all righth, since ye offered ever so nicely. And don'th call me 'Head Chef' - I'm not. If I was, ye'd be stharving back in France."

The Pavee looped her arm around Nathan's, allowing herself to be led along, not unlike one of the horses back at her parents' farm. She wasn't the only one being led along as well; it seemed as several of the theatre-goers had brought friends or dates, whom they were busy giggling with, or discussing a variety of things. Niamh recognized a few of the faces from France, although she couldn't call anyone there a friend, except for Nathan. The other volunteers she knew were still out on the front, and Stephen...well, she hadn't heard from him at all. A bit worrying to the paranoid, perhaps, but Niamh didn't really consider herself that. Still, it would have been nice to know if the Devon lad was all right or not. Compared to the other soldiers, he seemed quite vulnerable, and was definitely softer, more green to the harshness of warfare. The young Irishwoman had never forgotten that night in the graveyard, Stephen unable to recognize anyone around him, scared half to death and thinking bombs were dropping all around him.

"So, Nat'an," began Niamh, "ot'er t'an not payin' aththenthion tho your lads when they go a-raidin' me kitchens, whath's life been like fer ye? Any word from yer family back 'ome, maybe?"

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan's eyes took a moment to adjust as they went from the brightly lit foyer in to the dim theatre. He pulled his ticket stub out of his pocket and glanced quickly at his seat number, 35K. It sounded quite far back, and he led Niamh along the red carpet of the floor towards the large staircase going down the center of the rows of seats.

"Ah yeah, funny you should mention it, but I just recieved a letter from home yesterday. Everyone is keeping well, unfortunately one of my closest friends from when I was about 10 bought it in Italy last month, which was a bit upsetting, but everyone on the Farm is fine, it's booming with America asking for so much wool from New Zealand, Dad's had to bring on extra hands to replace me and..." His voice peterred out there, as he thought once again of Jack, his younger brother who had died not too deep in to enemy territory. He coughed loudly, hiding a slight sob before taking up the conversation again. "I've spent a lot of time recently working on a big mission for the good Captain Patterson, he wants me to do some highly classified stuff on an enemy installation. If I told you any more, though, I would be shot, so we'll keep this on the down-low, if you know what I'm saying. And how about you Niamh, hows your family been recently?"

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"Ah yeah, funny you should mention it, but I just received a letter from home yesterday. Everyone is keeping well, unfortunately one of my closest friends from when I was about 10 bought it in Italy last month, which was a bit upsetting, but everyone on the farm is fine, it's booming with America asking for so much wool from New Zealand, Dad's had to bring on extra hands to replace me and...."

He seemed uncomfortable as he trailed off, as if his train of thought had unexpectedly hit a sore spot. Niamh's brain finished the sentence for Nathan, but she did not speak her thoughts; it had been less than a year since the death of Jack Whyte. Having seen the effects of grief on the front and in her own family, Niamh knew the subject was touchy at best, and to discuss it would probably make things worse. The awkward cough Nathan gave - following a brief moment of silence from his end - furthered the Pavee's suspicions.

"I've spent a lot of time recently working on a big mission for the good Captain Patterson, he wants me to do some highly classified stuff on an enemy installation," continued the Kiwi. "If I told you any more, though, I would be shot, so we'll keep this on the down-low, if you know what I'm saying -"

"I do, Nat'an. I know 'ow t'ese t'ings work - "

" - And how about you Niamh, hows your family been recently?"

"Grand," said the Irish girl. "Fat'er's finishin' up wit' thrainin' a few colths, which he's sellin' 'alf fer plough 'orses, 'alf fer army 'uns. Mot'er's kniththin' socks fer t'e boys. Uncle Daragh's boys are fine, t'ough Brian's goththen in a bith o' throuble wit' goofin' off on duthy, alt'ough Cillian'll never leth 'im 'ear t'e end o' ith 'cause o' t'at. Drum's fine, thoo - bein' worked as usual."

To be honest, though, Niamh wasn't that sure on how her horse was doing. Although he was hers first, her brother in a horse's body and her one true friend, he was now the property of the British Forces until further notice. When the Pavee was sent home to recover, he stayed behind, a carthorse to the end or until he was no longer useful. Whenever the young woman thought about him, she grew anxious, worried that he would end up dead in a ditch somewhere. She knew she could do nothing about the situation, so she tried to keep it at the back of her mind, and focus her thoughts on other things.

"Whath's yer farm like, Nat'an?" the Pavee asked after her turn to have a moment of quiet. "Ya sound like ya raise sheep. Anyt'ing else? Like 'orses? Or maybe vegethables, chickens...ya probably already know where I'm from. An' when did ya geth back tho England?"

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

Not so gut, Nathan.


CP:
Flight Sergeant Knight: 6CP

Niamh Dunlevy: 7CP


~Dan