1949 (10 page)

In October of 1928 the broadcasting station moved into quarters in the General Post Office, which was still undergoing restoration. The new home of 2RN boasted three studios instead of one, and enough offices for an expanding staff. The doorman, “Mac” McClellan, met everyone from delivery boy to government official with a cheery greeting and a comment on the weather.

Although the improvement in space was dramatic, there were drawbacks. Entry was on the Henry Street side and uncomfortably close to the constant babble of the open-air market in Moore Street. When the windows were opened for ventilation, noise came boiling in. Because the station shared facilities with the post office, the one small lift to the upper storeys was always crowded. The ride was accompanied by a high-pitched screech of machinery reminiscent of a fingernail on a slate.

Visitors emerging on the third floor found themselves in a long, bleak corridor lined with offices. The walls were painted in flat shades of cream and gray that swallowed the light. At the end of the corridor a private staircase led to the broadcasting studios on the floor above. For acoustic purposes, the ceilings of the studios were hung with heavy draperies made from old army blankets.

The station had a distinctive, institutional smell. “Rather like burnt dust,” was the way Ursula described it in a letter to Felicity.

Fliss wrote back, “How I envy your career! My days are an endless round of boring social events where I only see the same boring people. I long to meet someone different. Right now I'm stalking Sir Oswald Mosley, the new Labour MP. He is wonderfully unpredictable, having changed political parties at least twice. He is making speeches in Parliament advocating socialism, which my father insists would destroy life as we know it. Sir Oswald's wife Diana is one of the famously gorgeous Mitford sisters and was married to one of the Guinnesses—the Irish brewing family, you know. Are they friends of yours?”

The Guinnesses with their Georgian mansions and their English titles and their fine airs? Friends of mine? Hardly, Fliss. I've never even tasted the stout they brew. Ladies don't drink stout
. Ursula frowned.
I wonder why not?

On her way home from 2RN she went into the nearest pub and ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender was embarrassed for her. He meant to refuse until he got a good look at her eyes.

He pulled the pint.

Ursula drank it.

She left the pub with dried foam clinging to her upper lip and did not bother to wipe it away.

 

The station's limited newscast announced that the government planned to establish a volunteer defense force. The regular Free State army would be reduced to 5,000 men. These would act as instructors for the new recruits—who would
not
be members of the Irish Republican Army.

 

Henry Mooney was convinced that taking his family to America had been the right decision. His financial situation had improved dramatically. Ella's style and grace made her welcome in the best social circles. Their two little girls, Isabella and Henrietta, were thriving. America was good for all of them. Henry was even thinking of taking out citizenship.

“This is an amazing country,” he wrote to Ursula, “truly the land of opportunity. The stock market has gone through the roof and everyone, myself included, is heavily invested in stocks and shares. At first I was too cautious to do more than take a little flutter, but when the money began rolling in I bought more. I can afford to be
flaithiúlach
^*
now. I can do those things for my family which I have always wanted to do.”

To illustrate his letter, Ella had drawn a caricature of herself swathed in jewels and attended by a coterie of servants.

At year's end an attempt was made to reconcile the various shades of out-of-power republicanism and create one cohesive political voice. Representatives from the IRA, Sinn Féin, Cumann na mBan, and the Republican left gathered in Dublin, where the long-awaited constitution of the Irish Republic was unveiled.

The document had been drafted by Mary MacSwiney, sister of Terence MacSwiney, the late lord mayor of Cork who had died on hunger strike in a British prison. The Republican constitution promised liberty, equality, and justice for all citizens, free universities, health insurance, unemployment compensation, pensions for the elderly and disabled, and a housing scheme for the underprivileged.
¹

In effect there were now two diametrically opposed governments on offer for Ireland. And two armies.

When the text of the Republican document was published Ursula added it to the box of newspaper clippings she was collecting. As soon as she had time, she meant to start a new scrapbook.

Ursula was outraged when a spokesman for the Free State used 2RN to denounce the Republican conference and its delegates. He sneered at their constitution and rejected their efforts to create a political dialogue. “While in the city these dangerous individuals shall be kept under the closest observation,” he assured his listeners.

“Our people are being demonised,” Ursula wrote in her journal. “If I were station manager I would never have let him in the door!”

 

A few days later a collection of books including works written by Victor Hugo and George Bernard Shaw were burned in County Galway on the order of the bishop of Tuam.
²

Book burning, the deliberate destruction of ideas, was anathema to Ursula. She expected some member of government would come to Henry Street to speak up against this outrage.

None did.

In a dark mood she took herself to the pub which had served her first pint of Guinness, and ordered another.

Tension was growing between the IRA and the Cosgrave administration. There were numerous reports of illegal Republican drills and marches. More than one treatyite down the country had been shot by shadowy men who vanished into the night. Nervous cabinet members suggested the Republicans might try to seize power by force.

Two issues of
An Phoblacht
, the major Republican newsletter, were suppressed by government order. Members of its staff were arrested. In spite of this, de Valera went ahead with his plans for the
Irish Press
.

 

Ursula Halloran celebrated the New Year by redeeming Saoirse's saddle from the pawnshop.

 

In the first month of 1929 W.T. Cosgrave and Desmond FitzGerald, the minister for defense, went on a tour of the United States to encourage support for the Free State government. As a parting salute, 2RN played an hour-long program of American popular music, including jazz.

Listeners flooded the station with letters of complaint. When Ursula came in to work she found them piled on her desk with a note: Please answer these at once.

After reading the first dozen she sought out Séamus Clandillon. “Every one of these letters refers to Catholic values,” she told him, “and a number of them are from the clergy. The archbishop of Tuam condemns jazz as the ‘mesmeric rhythm of sensuality.'
³
We're being accused of corrupting the innocence of Irish youth! Can you believe it?”

Clandillon's expression was glum. “At Mass our parish priest condemned the broadcast in the strongest terms. And me with my whole family sitting there. The wife was not best pleased, I can tell you.”

“How am I supposed to answer these complaints?”

“Tactfully. Apologize for upsetting them, and give the impression—without actually saying so—that we are, as always, in complete agreement with the Church.”

Ursula looked disgusted. “I'll feel like a perfect hypocrite. Are there any other impossible jobs you'd like me to do while I'm at it?”

“I'm sorry to put you in this position. But I'll make it up to you,” Clandillon promised.

A few days later he told her the station was going to use one of her program suggestions: a biographical sketch about Guglielmo Marconi, the developer of wireless communication, focusing on his connections with Ireland.
^*
“Would you like to submit a sample script?” Clandillon offered. “Give us some interesting details about his Irish wife, that's what the women would like to hear.”

Ursula worked all night on the script, writing, rewriting, staring into space looking for the perfect word or phrase, wadding up the paper in impatience and starting again.

She was dismayed to admit to herself, as gray dawn light filtered into the room, that perfection was not possible. But she had done the best she could. As she gave the script to Clandillon, she said, “Mr. O'Hegarty once told me I have a good speaking voice. May I read this on air?”

He scanned the pages. “I'm afraid not.”

“But women are presenting programs all the time. You're even letting Mairead Ní Ghráda be relief announcer.”

“Only when Séumas Hughes is unavailable. You're missing the point, Ursula. What you have written is a scholarly piece employing an impressive vocabulary. It isn't suitable for a female presenter.”

“It's
my
vocabulary and I'm a female.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry. We'll take the piece though, and pay you for it.”

She could no longer hold her temper. “I understand entirely! There is a certain ‘place' for women in Ireland, and we won't be allowed to step outside it. We might as well stay home and have babies. That's all you really want us to do, isn't it?”

“Surely you know me better than that. I have to operate within the limits imposed on me, Ursula; we all do.” He gave her a wan little smile. “The revolution's over, you know.”

Writing to Henry, Ursula complained, “You once assured me that new opportunities had opened for women. Perhaps so, but not in Ireland. The other day I read an article in
The Votes of Ireland
. The author—a woman herself, I am ashamed to say—claimed that ‘the over-involvement by women in politics has led to the neglect of sweeter and more pressing matters.
⁴

“What has gone wrong, Henry? We served as equals with the men during the revolutionary years. Now we are being relegated to menial positions again.”

Henry responded, “Ireland is still living in the last century, an era when women were to be cherished and protected. I am old-fashioned enough to subscribe to that philosophy. But America has opened my eyes to what is possible for people who accept no limits on their ambition. Do not let anyone put you in a box, Ursula.

“I have done some expanding myself. After a considerable amount of soul-searching I have sold the newspaper and purchased a small printing company in Dallas. Advertising leaflets, calling cards, headed notepapers. ‘Quality a Specialty' is our motto.

“Ella never came right out and said she was unhappy in Muleshoe, but her joy at living in a city again is obvious. We are building a new house with six bedrooms and the latest in electric lighting.

“Ella plans to have redbud and dogwood trees lining the approach to the house, and crepe myrtles and snowballs and many other shrubs I never heard of before. Yesterday we ordered a set of wicker rocking chairs. On hot summer evenings we shall sit on the veranda and drink iced tea and watch the fireflies twinkle on and off like stars.”

 

When Henry thought of Ireland it was usually Ursula's face he saw. He was unaware that his letters had begun to sound like those of a rejected sweetheart trying to impress a lost love with his current situation.

 

The majority of IRA Volunteers were survivors of the Black and Tan reign of terror that had ended with the War of Independence. The Volunteers had obeyed the order to dump their weapons after the subsequent Civil War, but some had never demobilized emotionally. They believed the Republic was still to be won and were actively soliciting aid from America. This took the form of cash for operating expenses—and weaponry such as Thompson machine guns.