Jeremiah (Short Story) - Copyright Darren Darker 2026
Jeremiah
It was beautiful sunny August morning in 1942 and the TSS Cambria has just berthed at the Dun Laoghaire mail pier, carrying passengers and several large heavy burlap mail bags from England. The ship’s crew hand the bags over to the two waiting Gardai - Sargeant Fran Murphy, a burly man in his fifties and an eager Garda James O’Reilly, who was in his late twenties. They load them into the back of their battered Ford Model B Garda car and bring them the short distance to the local Garda stationed located behind the Court House on Georges Street.
There they meet two naval reservists, who were waiting in the shade of the building. The more senior man was Bobby Brennan, an experienced man in his late twenties and with him was a fresh recruit of only seventeen, Jeremiah Kelly. All four were tasked by the Department of Defence and, specifically, the Controller of Censorship with censoring the letters coming into the country through the port
‘Hi Bobby, it’s going to be another hot day,’ Sargeant Murphy said smiling warmly, as he looked up into the bright blue sky as if to check the weather had not changed in the few minutes since he last looked.
‘It certainly is.’
‘Who is this?’ Murphy, who was in his fifties, asked as he opened the back door of the car and began to unload the bags.
‘This is Jeremiah Kelly. He is filling in for Johnny today. Jeremiah, this is Sargeant Murphy and Garda James O’Reilly. We’ll be working with them today,’ Bobby told his young colleague.
‘Hello,’ Jeremiah replied nervously.
‘First day?’ Murphy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t worry Jerry, we’ll take it easy on you,’ O’Reilly said as he slapped the young lad on the shoulder.
‘My name is Jeremiah, not Jerry,’ Jeremiah replied sternly. The venom of his response shocking the other men.
‘Okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ O’Reilly replied defensively.
Murphy gave Bobby an inquisitive look, the naval reservist returned a shrug in reply.
Jeremiah, seeing how the men were reacting to his outburst, was now more determined than ever not to show himself up to the other men deliberately selected the biggest looking mail bag and with a lot of effort managed to get it up onto his shoulder.
‘You be careful lifting that. It is bigger than you are,’ Bobby said, looking concerned.
Jeremiah, followed Bobby into the station, his legs buckling under the weight of the bag as he went. He just managed to deposit the bag into the room they were using before his strength ran out. Covered in sweat he went back out to retrieve another one. When all of the bags were inside, the Sargeant disappeared briefly, returning a few minutes later with an old battered briefcase, out of which he took several business stamps, ink pads and sheets of coloured stickers with which to reseal the envelopes after they had been read.
The room was at the rear of the building was austere, just a table that was too large for the room and four chairs around it. The single window high on the wall had bars on it, preventing it being opened more than a few inches, making the room feel hot and stuffy. With the men and bags in the room, it felt quite claustrophobic. Apart from O’Reilly, the men removed their official tunics and hung them on the back of their chairs before sitting.
‘You look familiar Jeremiah. What did you say your surname was again?’ Murphy asked, eyeing up the young lad.
‘Kelly, sir,’ Jeremiah replied somewhat self-consciously.
‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m from Tivoli Road.’
‘That’s it. I thought I recognised you. I knew your parents. I was sad to hear of their passing. That fire was a terrible thing,’ Murphy said, shaking his head.
Jeremiah did not say anything, he just nodded slightly.
‘How is your sister Margaret?’
‘My sister’s fine,’ Jeremiah said, a gleam coming straight back into his eye. ‘She is in England staying with family in Derby. She is working in a big factory, but she is not allowed to say what they make. It’s a secret.’
‘I remember her. She was always an independent young lady,’ Murphy replied.
‘She is,’ Jeremiah said proudly.
‘Where are you living now?’
‘With my aunt on Cumberland Street.’
‘Right, enough chit chat. Let’s get on with it. It’s too nice a day to be stuck in here,’ Bobby said interrupting them.
‘Yes of course,’ Murphy said and the men starting pulling letters out of the bags nearest to them.
‘Jeremiah, you know what you’re doing?’ Bobby asked.
‘Yes, I’m to open each letter and make sure no one passes on information that could be useful to Hitler,’ Jeremiah answered.
‘Or Churchill,’ Bobby added conspiratorially.
‘What could anyone write that either Hitler nor Churchill don’t already know?’ O’Reilly scoffed.
‘Censorship is a necessary part of the defence of the island. Of our neutrality,’ Bobby replied.
‘We have hardly any soldiers. Hitler and Churchill could march in here and roll up the country in a matter of days.’
‘Maybe a few years ago but it is 1942, I think they both have bigger fish to fry these days.’
‘What about our ports? There are rumours the yanks want our ports to help fight against the kraut’s submarines.’
‘And what? Do you really think the yanks would invade us? The millions of Irish in America would be up in arms,’ Murphy scoffed.
‘Never mind all that. What do you do with the letters afterwards?’ Bobby asked, eager to bring the conversation back to the work at hand.
‘If there is nothing wrong with the contents, I reseal the end with a pink sticker and then use the stamp that says Sorta An Scruidor.’
‘Good. And if there is something that shouldn’t be in it?’
‘Eh..I eh,’ Jeremiah mumbled, obviously not as sure he should have been.
‘It is okay. If you’re not sure, just pass it over to one of us and we swill deal with it. Okay?’
‘Yes,’ Jeremiah said, relieved that he did not have to make those decisions on his first day.
The room descended into silence as the men began taking letters out of each of their bags, cutting the ends open using a letter opener and settled in to read them. As most were only a page or two long, they went through them quickly.
After a while, Bobby noticed that Jeremiah’s face went white then bright red.
‘Are you okay?’ Bobby asked, concern in his voice.
‘It’s, its…it’s an intimate letter from a husband to his wife. Its sordid,’ he said, obviously embarrassed by what he had read.
‘And what would you know about such things?’ O’Reilly mocked.
‘And you’re a man of the world?’ Bobby asked, defending his junior.
‘I’ve never read such things. You should tell the priest, he should …’
‘That is enough Jeremiah. These are difficult times for families. Husbands and wives separated because of the war,’ Bobby interjected.
‘But…’
‘But nothing. Give it here and let me see it,’ Bobby said as he took the letter and read it.
‘You are lucky. All of mine are just full of banalities,’ Murphy interjected, trying to break the tension.
‘Its fine. Just seal and stamp it,’ Bobby said and handed the letter back to his junior.
‘You’re such a child,’ O’Reilly jeered.
‘No, I’m not,’ Jeremiah shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘I’m seventeen.’
O’Reilly stood as well, his stance aggressive and his fisted clenched.
‘Yes, you are!’
Bobby got up quickly and moved between the two of them.
‘Stop it both of you. Sit down and do your jobs,’ Murphy ordered, thumping the table for effect.
Both cowed young men hesitated for a moment before slowly returning to their seats, then with a high degree of tension permeating the cramped room, the men slowly went back to work. As they read the piles of censored letters on the table grew, making the room feel even more smaller and cluttered.
‘It is hot, isn’t it,’ O’Reilly said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead and finally removing his jacket.
‘Getting too much for you?’ Jeremiah mocked, sensing an opportunity to get one over on the young guard after his earlier jibes.
‘You’re one to talk Jeremiah, I’ve done about fifty already. And you are only on twenty,’ O’Reilly said to Jeremiah trying to rile him.
‘I’m doing it right, you’re just rushing it,’ Jeremiah said defensively.
‘And I’m nearly finished my first bag,’ Sargeant Murphy said to O’Reilly. ‘So, stop annoying the lad and pay attention to your own work before I put you on report.’
O’Reilly looked like he was going to say something but stopped, turned green and then suddenly ran out of the room and bursting into the nearby toilet. They could hear him vomiting.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Bobby asked Murphy.
‘He had a hard night last night in the Purty Kitchen. He was stepping out with his new dolly bird,’ Murphy replied smiling.
‘Well, that explains why he is so cranky today,’ Bobby said.
O’Reily returned a few minutes later looking ashen.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said meekly and sat back down and took a fresh envelope from his bag and slicing the end, removed it and began reading.
None of the other occupants said anything, they just continued their work.
The time dragged sand everyone started getting restless and fidgeted in their seats.
‘These are so boring. Why are they even sending them?’ O’Reilly asked after a while.
‘They are boring because they know they are being read and censored by strangers, so there is no point in writing something that is going to redacted or even cause it to be thrown away.’
‘So, why even bother writing?’
‘I wondered that myself and they can still tell family of births, non-military deaths and marriages, but I suppose it is really let the recipient know that they were thinking of them. It is a way to maintain a tenuous connection to family in these dark times.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘What time is it?’ Bobby asked Murphy.
‘It is nearly midday,’ Murphy replied after checking his watch.
‘I’m thirsty. Jeremiah, make tea for everyone will you.’
‘My job isn’t to make tea,’ he replied defiantly.
‘Your job is to do whatever I tell you to do. So, please make tea,’ Bobby said slowly and confidently, making sure the young lad knew who was in charge.
‘I’m not making him tea,’ Jeremiah spat in O’Reilly’s direction.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘And get some sugar from the desk Sargeant. And don’t mind if he tells you he hasn’t any because we all know he hides a stash in the public office,’ Murphy added.
Jeremiah went to say something but stopped himself and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
O’Reilly looked after him and just shrugged.
‘You’re not helping.’
‘He is an Omadhaun,’ O’Reilly mumbled.
O’Reilly sighed deeply before cutting open another envelope and sliding the single page out and began reading it. Bobby noticed that the colour drained from O’Reilly’s face.
‘What?’ Bobby asked.
O’Reilly did not reply. With some trepidation he just passed over the letter to him.
‘What?’ Murphy asked, sensing something important was happening.
‘Can I have the envelope?’ Bobby asked O’Reilly, who pushed it across the table. Bobby picked it up and studied it. Turning it around in his hand several times.
‘Where did Jeremiah say he lived?’ Bobby asked.
‘Cumberland Street,’ Murphy replied.
‘This letter is addressed to Jeremiah.’
‘What is after happening?’ Murphy asked.
Bobby thought about it for a moment and then read the letter out loud.
‘Dear Jeremiah, I am writing to tell you that Maggie has been killed in a Luftwaffe bombing raid on the Rolls Royce engine factory where she was working. The lone German aircraft struck early in the morning just as they were walking through the gates to begin their shift, killing 23 people including your sister and Aunt Jane. The firemen did what they could, but they could not save them. Mercifully the ambulance men said it was quick and neither woman suffered. We had to bury them both in the local church. I am sorry, but there was no time to contact you. It was a lovely service. Maggie was a beautiful young woman and we will all miss her. Your uncle John.’
The room descended into silence.
‘Christ,’ Bobby said.
Jeremiah came back in carrying the tray with a tray and 4 mugs of tea. Everyone turned to look at him.
‘What?’ Jeremiah asked.