1949 (13 page)

Seán Lester was sensitive to undercurrents. Waiting until Mairead and her former employer were engaged in reminiscing, he said softly, “Ernest isn't as bad as some people think, Miss Halloran. I've known him since we were boys together in Antrim, and he was my best man when I married Elsie.”

“That's nice,” murmured Ursula, stirring her soup. Carrot and parsnip. Not enough salt. She briefly surrendered to her old habit of earwigging; eavesdropping shamelessly on the conversation across the table. Mairead glanced up and met her eyes; smiled.

Why should she not use her friendship with Blythe to get a promotion?
Ursula asked herself.
I got my job through my friendship with Henry. That's how the world works, isn't it?

Even if it's not fair
.

Seán Lester was saying, “Things haven't always been easy for Ernest. When he was barely fifteen he had to go to work as a clerk in the Department of Agriculture under the old British administration. But he's always thought of himself as Irish. Did you know he's the first northern Protestant to become a government minister in the south? He's very proud of the fact, he even likes to be called Earnán de Blaghd.”

Ursula broke off a piece of bread and buttered a small portion. “It takes more than using an Irish name to make one an Irishman.”

“Ernest's done a lot more. He joined the Dungannon Clubs that Bulmer Hobson founded in Belfast to unite young Protestants and Catholics in the effort to achieve independence for Ireland. Some say the Dungannon Clubs inspired Arthur Griffith.
¹
Eventually, of course, they were absorbed into Sinn Féin.”

Ursula ate slowly, listening to Lester make a case for Blythe. His loyalty to a friend impressed her.

Lester said, “Ernest and I were both members of the Gaelic League—he learned Irish from Sinéad Flanagan, who is de Valera's wife—so he recruited me for the Dungannon Clubs as well. The membership was never very large, but always ardent. You should have seen us: students and clerks and shop workers dreaming of overthrowing the British Empire! Have you ever heard of the Irish Republican Brotherhood?” he asked abruptly.

She frowned as if trying to remember. “The IRB? Is that not a secret organization?”

Lester gave her a shrewd look. “I suspect you know very well what it is. Anyway, Sean O'Casey invited Ernest to join the IRB. He went to the Kerry
Gaeltacht
^*
to improve his spoken Irish and became an organizer for the Irish Volunteers. He was imprisoned by the British for his activities, so he did not get to fight in 1916.”

Ursula leaned forward eagerly. “My Papa fought in the GPO with Pearse and Connolly.”

A spark kindled in Lester's eyes: the ember that smoulders though the raging fire is extinguished. “Did he now? I joined the Volunteers myself, Miss Halloran. I was sworn in by Seán MacDermott, who was another friend of mine, but I didn't take part in the Rising. I was with Eoin MacNeill at his house
²
when he canceled the orders; I thought there would be no Rising.” He stared into the middle distance. “And now here we are in Wynn's Hotel.” Obviously the significance was not lost on him.

“Here we are indeed.” Ursula glanced across the table at Ernest Blythe, who was still engaged in conversation with Mairead. He did not seem nearly as interesting as the man sitting beside her. She turned the full force of her smile on Seán Lester. “Tell me more about yourself.”

He made a self-deprecatory gesture, a gentle wave of long, elegant fingers. “I'm no one special.”

“Please.”

“Well…in 1923 Desmond FitzGerald asked me to help publicize the Free State. He wanted to give the new government the best possible image while it was getting up and running. After a couple of years the publicity office closed, and I was put in charge of correspondence for the Department of External Affairs. That's what I've been doing ever since. Until now, that is.”

“Your job isn't who you are,” said Ursula, “any more than mine is me.
Who
is Seán Lester?” Folding her hands beneath her chin, she held his eyes with hers.

He was not accustomed to talking about himself, but it would have taken a surly man indeed to resist the flattery of her focused attention. “I was born in Carrickfergus,” Lester said, trying to decide what she might find interesting. “My father was a grocer. And we were Methodist,” he felt impelled to add. In the north one was always identified by religion. It was claimed that a Jew in Belfast had been asked, quite seriously, if he was a Protestant Jew or a Catholic Jew.

“When I was a boy my family moved to Belfast, to a house in the Ormeau Road,” Lester continued. “My formal education concluded with two years at Methodist College, and in 1909 the
Portadown Express
hired me as a trainee reporter. It was not a happy experience for either of us. Portadown is a stronghold of the Orange Order, and I'm afraid I was not as diplomatic as I should have been in expressing my views. When I left the
Express
in 1911 they gave me excellent references, but…anyway, I changed employers several times after that, as one Unionist editor after another discovered that I sympathized with Ireland's desire for independence.

“In 1913 I went west and joined the staff of the
Connacht Tribune
. By that time Ernest had sworn me into the local IRB. I fell in love with the west of Ireland, but the best place for an ambitious journalist was Dublin. So eventually up I came to the city. Again I found doors closed in my face because of my politics. Fortunately Arthur Griffith gave me work on some of his publications, and even helped me get a job with the
Freeman's Journal
as news editor.”

“You must have known my Uncle Henry!” Ursula exclaimed. “Henry Mooney? He published articles in the
Journal
.”

“There was no better journalist in the business,” Lester assured her, “and a man of great compassion. You're fortunate in your relatives.”

“Henry's not really my uncle, it's more of a courtesy title.”

“Having Henry even as a courtesy uncle speaks well for you. Tell me how it came about.” Lester listened intently while Ursula sketched out her life for him. Instinctively she felt she could trust Seán Lester—though she did not go so far as revealing her tenement origins.

She never did that.

Blythe's voice cut through their conversation. “What are you two talking about with your heads together? You look like conspirators.”

Lester replied, “This young woman was telling me about her schooling in Switzerland. Did you know she speaks French and German? Your broadcasting service has a real prize here, Ernest.”

Ursula felt a blush flood her throat and cheeks. Blythe was looking at her curiously. “Is that true, Mairead?” he asked.

“It is true. We're very proud of Ursula at the station.”

“But not proud enough to give me a rise in wages,” Ursula said under her breath, just loud enough for Lester to hear.

When Mairead resumed talking with Ernest Blythe, Seán Lester asked Ursula, “Are your wages so small, then?”

“It's not just the size of the pay packet. Civil service employees who come straight into broadcasting without working in some other department first are classified as temporary. We have no security of employment and no pension rights.”

“I see. Would you be interested in a better paying job?”

Her imagination went galloping off unbidden. With more money she could bring Saoirse east and put him in a livery stable in Dublin, and ride him every day, and…

She reined in her thoughts. “I love working in broadcasting, Mr. Lester.”

“If we're going to be friends, I hope you'll call me Seán. And if you ever change your mind about the job I hope you'll contact me. I'm going to need people like you. Irish people with a knowledge of French and German are mighty thin on the ground.”

“In External Affairs?”

He laughed. “Oh, I'm out of that now. Didn't you know? I've just been appointed Irish representative to the League of Nations.”

While Ursula was staring at him in astonishment, Blythe said, “Do you have your wallet on you, Seán?”

“I do of course.” Lester stood up and reached into his pocket.

“Good, you can pay for lunch. It wouldn't do for a man with his hand on the government purse strings to look like he's spending some of that dosh on himself.”

With the exception of the Mooneys, everyone and everything she loved was in Ireland. Besides, she dreaded traveling on a ship again. Her stomach cringed at the thought.

One final reason was more persuasive than any other. Ursula Halloran had taken part in the birth pangs of the nation. The dream of a noble republic had been replaced by grim survivalism, but she still believed things could be made to come right.

Síle Halloran had always said things could be made to come right.

And Constance Markievicz had counseled women, “Take up your responsibilities and be prepared to go your own way depending for safety on your own courage, your own truth and your own common sense.”

Ursula meant to stay and fight for the Irish Republic with whatever means came to hand.

 

A few days later Seán Lester and his family departed for Switzerland. True to his word, as soon as he was settled in Geneva Seán sent Ursula his new address. “We have a nice flat at 43, Quai Wilson, overlooking the lake and with a splendid view toward Mont Blanc. It is serving as both home and office for now, and a bit crowded,” Lester wrote, “but Elsie and I would be delighted to have you stay with us for a while. You could observe the situation firsthand and see if you would be interested in joining my staff. We have several good people already and it promises to be a congenial group. Do at least think about it.”

How could I not? But my place is here
.

 

In June there was a ceremonial reopening of the GPO. Ursula joined the crowd that gathered in O'Connell Street. Staring at the reconstructed building. Hearing the echoes of the gunshots and the boom of artillery. Pressing fingers into the bullet holes that still pocked the stone columns of the portico.

Here. It happened here
.

Something deep inside her longed for it all to happen again. And herself to be part of it.

To give the Irish Free State a stronger international identity, the government opened diplomatic relations with the Vatican. France and Spain were powerful Catholic nations, both of whom had a history of conflict with Protestant England. Ireland was deliberately courting a connection with them through the Church.

The sixteenth of June marked the beginning of countrywide celebrations to mark the centenary of Catholic Emancipation. On the twenty-ninth there was an eclipse. Ireland was still in festival mood and although clouds obscured the sight in many parts of the country, people made the eclipse an excuse to dance the night away.

Henry Mooney had taught the small Precious to dance, waltzing her around and around in Louise's parlor to gramophone music, while she stood on the tops of his feet. Ned and Síle had danced too. But only with each other.

Now Ursula stood in her window gazing down at the exuberant crowds in Gardiner Street. All the women seemed to have men with them.

Who wants to dance anyway?
she asked herself wistfully.

Finally she went to the pub and ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender knew her by this time. It was not uncommon for her to drop in on her way home from work and order a pint. One pint, never more.

And, as he remarked to the owner of the pub, she always drank it like a lady.

On the twenty-ninth of July W.T. Cosgrave officially opened the Ardnacrusha Hydroelectric Station in County Clare. He predicted that Ireland would now begin to grow industrially. With the coming of hydroelectric power to the west, rural electrification might be possible within ten years.

In August Séumas Hughes informed listeners, “Yesterday the first Free State airmail service to the United Kingdom was inaugurated, flying from Oranmore Aerodrome outside Galway to London's Croydon Aerodrome.
¹
And for those of you with an interest in European affairs, the name of the combined Serbo-Croat-Slovene kingdom has been changed to Yugoslavia.”

“We're extending broadcasting hours and there's some talk of hiring another announcer,” Ursula said one morning at breakfast. “I could do the job if they would give me the chance.”

From behind his copy of the
Irish Times
, Hector remarked, “You should concentrate on getting yourself a husband.”

“Getting trapped, you mean. I refuse to be defined by my relationship with some man.”

“Where do you get such ridiculous notions?” Hector put down his newspaper. “Is there something wrong with you, that you turn your back on the highest honor a woman can receive?”

Look at him
, thought Ursula.
Smug as a cat in the sun. The sort of man who was content to be dominated by a foreign king, and believes men have every right to dominate women
.

Excusing herself, she left the table.

Later she asked Louise, “How could you have married an aspiring Brit?”

Pleating her apron between her fingers, the older woman said softly, “I was growing old alone, Precious. Please God you never learn what loneliness can do to a woman.”

Almost every day thereafter the subject of Ursula's marriage was broached at number 16. Louise dutifully supported her husband on the issue. At last Ursula announced she needed to live closer to the broadcasting station, packed her things and moved out.

Since number 16 was only a short walk from Henry Street, Louise saw through the pretext but wisely said nothing.

“That girl will come to no good,” Hector Hamilton predicted.

Ursula found a furnished room above a greengrocer's shop in Moore Street. A weather-beaten blue door opened onto a gaslit stair that led up to a cramped warren of rental accommodations. The landlady, who was bent almost double with the degenerative bone disease that afflicted many elderly Irish women, had a beaky, avaricious nose and a voice that could slice meat. “Pay every Friday and don't be takin' no men upstairs,” she stipulated. “This is a daycent house.”

Instead of a wardrobe to hang clothes in, Ursula would have a piece of rope angled across a corner and concealed by a limp curtain. Hygienic facilities consisted of a rusty cold-water tap and a shared toilet on the stair landing. Yet the room was luxurious compared to the nearby tenements, which had no running water and only a single privy in the yard to serve a dozen or more large families.

As soon as Ursula moved in she borrowed a hammer from one of the shopkeepers in Moore Street and drove a nail into the wall opposite her bed. There she hung an old bridle of Saoirse's. Every morning when she opened her eyes, it would be the first thing she saw.

Next she put up shelves to hold her growing collection of books, including Ned's textbooks from Saint Enda's, Irish poetry, French plays, and German philosophy. Her latest purchase was a secondhand copy of
Ann Veronica
. This early novel by H.G. Wells, with a heroine who rejected conventional marriage, had inspired generations of feminists.

Ursula searched the room until she found a floorboard that could be lifted. The area beneath became a secret repository for the Mauser—and, carefully pressed between two pieces of pasteboard, a dried white rose.

Her room was only a two-minute walk from the broadcasting station. She emerged every morning into the cheerful bustle and excitement of the Moore Street market, where every stallholder soon learned her name and shouted a greeting. Her flashing grin was their reward.

In October Séumas Hughes was promoted to assistant station director. Mairead Ní Ghráda became the full-time announcer. Although an Irish speaker, she opened each day's transmission simply with “Station calling, Dublin 2RN.”

23 October 1929
BLACK THURSDAY
Wave of Panic Selling Hits U.S. Stock Market

29 October 1929
WALL STREET CRASHES!
Stock Prices Fall $14 Billion
Nationwide Stampede to Unload Shares