Mrs Brogan knew this was an outright lie but she never challenged the assertion. She had learnt early on that the way to maintain calm in the Brogan house when Daddy was around was for no one to cross a word he said.
Noel cast his eyes around the room as he drank his tea, wishing someone else would engage Patrick in conversation. If Dana did by some miracle happen to be accepted by St Angelus, dealing with Patrick was something he didn’t want to do. His priority this morning was to collect the fertilizer and the feed. He didn’t have one of the most productive farms in the west of Ireland because he sat on his laurels and he had no time for lovesick young men.
‘I wish Patrick would just leave everything to me and his daddy,’ he had said to Dana’s mother the previous evening, after a skinful of Guinness. ‘She will marry him because I will fecking tell her who she will fecking marry. Nurse or not, she will do what is best for the family and the farm.’ At that point he collapsed, as was his way, over the kitchen table.
Without speaking, Patrick picked up his own mug of tea. Patrick had plans. His sights were set on the Brogan farm. He knew that with no sons and only a daughter to speak of, Noel Brogan needed Dana to make a good match. Patrick was the eldest son on the neighbouring farm and it made perfect sense to combine the two properties. He had wanted Dana to be his wife ever since he could remember and their fathers had agreed.
‘And sure, why wouldn’t it happen?’ Mr O’Dowd had asked when Patrick had asked him a year ago if he was certain Dana would accept him, as she didn’t seem awfully keen. Every time he had tried to kiss her, she had given him short shrift. He still smarted at some of her more hurtful rejections.
‘Have you ever seen a toothbrush, Patrick? Ye have green teeth that grow fur and they revolt me,’ she had said, as he tried to pin her against the barn wall during harvest.
That was just before she thumped him. That was when he had been a boy. He had now altered in both stature and attitude. No longer the adolescent, he had grown up in a household where violence was commonplace and had learnt his father’s ways of dealing with women.
‘If Dana is keen, she has a funny way of showing it,’ he had told his da. ‘I’ve yet to feel her titties. She just pushes me away.’
He was not expecting the blow that had caught him hard across his ear and the side of his face, or the mouthful of dirt he had swallowed as he hit the floor. Driven all his life by envy of Noel’s fertile land, Mr O’Dowd had plotted for years to ensure it fell into the hands of his own family one day.
‘Don’t ye be touching her, unless ye can be sure ye can stop yerself,’ he had bellowed at his son. ‘Take yer pleasure elsewhere in the village, and don’t be darkening our doorstep. Noel Brogan is my friend and you cannot do better than marry his daughter and take that farm. You can have his daughter on the night you marry her and not before. Do you understand that?’
From his back, lying on the ground with a loud noise ringing in his ear, Patrick could see the frayed laces of his father’s boot dangerously close to his already swollen eye. He knew that if he uttered one wrong word that boot would land with full force, straight in his face.
‘Yes, Daddy,’ he had spluttered back through his bleeding nose.
‘Try that woman Monica who sits at the bar at the back of Murphy’s butchers. She will sort ye out while ye wait. Dana is the catch; don’t feck it up. That farm is a gold mine. Ye won’t get a better opportunity than that, or land that grows as well, anywhere in these parts.’
Patrick had done as he was told. He had honed his skills with Monica and now he was ready to make his move. To ease Dana’s disappointment when she was rejected by St Angelus. That’s what his mammy had told him he must do, when Mrs Brock had delivered her news and he left their milking shed to make his way across the yard and down the lane to the Brogan farm.
‘Jesus, everyone knows she would never get in. God knows why ye are having to go through this performance. It’s not right keeping you waiting, so it isn’t,’ his mammy had said as he went. Her whistled words rolled over her gums, her teeth long since removed by his father’s handy and mostly drunken fists. ‘Play clever now, Patrick. Be nice and considerate when she gets the news. ’Twill make your proposal easier for her to accept if she knows ye are a nice understanding lad, like ye are. Sure, ’tis no pretence. Isn’t he just the greatest-looking lad around these parts?’ to no one in particular, as she milked the cow with one hand and soothed the yellowing lump of a bruise on her thigh with the other.
*
When Dana returned to the kitchen, her mammy handed over the letter with a shaking hand and a smile. If she had heard the parting words of Patrick’s mammy as he left, she would have slapped the woman herself. As Dana took the letter from her hand, she extracted a rosary from her pocket and began to pray. The last thing she wanted for her daughter was a replay of her own life, and if there was one man she didn’t want her daughter to marry, it was Patrick O’Dowd.
‘I want ye to do the things I could only dream of,’ she had told her daughter. ‘I want ye to see the places like the pictures in the magazine they sometimes get in the post office. Go on, go and get out of Ireland. Don’t be me with chapped hands, varicose veins and haemorrhoids to boot, with only a hysterectomy to look forward to. Jesus, there has to be more to life than that in this day and age.’
Dana noticed that her father made as if to say something, as her mother prayed over the rosary beads, but thought better of it. Noel did not have the same control in his own home as Patrick’s father had in his. Dana’s mother had threatened to leave him if he ever raised his fists to her long before they were married, and he was smart enough to know that she meant it. Dana knew her mother was openly praying for good news, while her father and Patrick secretly prayed for bad. Whose prayers would win out?
‘Open the letter will ye, for heaven’s sake,’ her grandmother gurned as she stuffed boxty bread and milk in her mouth.
Playing to the moment, Dana picked a knife up from the blue checked gingham tablecloth. It was covered in butter and she slowly wiped it clean with a cloth.
‘Mammy,’ she said, ‘is there any tea in the pot? I’m parched.’
‘Oh my Lord,’ yelled her mother, blessing herself for having committed the sin of blaspheming as soon as the words had left her mouth. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured the tea and Dana knew she must put her out of her misery. Using the knife to slice open the envelope, she pulled out the letter.
‘I think, ’cause ’tis a thick letter, ’twill be good news will it not?’ said her mother, almost in a whisper.
Dana had thought the same thing. Slowly, she extracted the thick wad of papers from the envelope. ‘Shall I read it out loud?’ Completely ignoring her father and Patrick, she looked directly at her mother, who had moved to stand next to her, slipping her arm around Dana’s waist so that she could look over her shoulder as she read.
‘Go on then,’ said her mother, grinning. ‘Read, for goodness’ sake, before her next door knocks on for me to go to mass and I have to send her away.’
Dana began,
Dear Miss Brogan,
I have pleasure in informing you that you have been accepted for state registered nurse training at St Angelus, Liverpool, following receipt of the results of your entrance examination and recent interview. Upon successful completion of the preliminary training school examination at twelve weeks, you will undertake a three-year course.
Dana’s eyes blurred and the page swam before her as she clasped a hand to her mouth. She had prayed to the Holy Mother and St Agatha every day since her interview, asking for just this result and now here it was, written before her on the sheet of paper now trembling violently in her hands. She could hardly believe it. As she looked up and scanned the kitchen through watery eyes, silence was the only response.
It was more than an old wives’ tale – it was a fact that St Angelus only accepted girls from the better families and schools in Galway and Dublin. The girls who were not one bi
t concerned at the prospect of walking through the doors of the Sherbourne Hotel in Dublin to attend an interview, because walking through those doors was something they often did anyway. Sitting in the drawing room and being served tea while they waited for their name to be called, a waiter filling their cups from a silver pot on an ornate silver stand kept warm by fancy candles, as Dana had done. Scared out of her wits. Neither Dana nor her mammy knew of any girl from a family in rural Mayo who had been successful in securing a place at St Angelus, for the state registration training. Some had been accepted to become state enrolled, but none had made it to the status of staff nurse. Dublin was where the nursing dreams of the country girls began and ended.
‘I can’t read any more, Mammy.’ The tears began to trip down her face and her mother gave her the handkerchief from her own apron pocket as they laughed and cried and hugged each other.
Noel Brogan had wanted Dana’s letter to provide him with an easy life. To fit in with the plans he and his neighbour had made in the course of many a whiskey-fuelled conversation over the years. Plans to save what generations before them had struggled to preserve. A productive marriage between Patrick and Dana was the answer to the future. It would make sense of the past and right the wrong and the shame Noel Brogan had been forced to endure because he had fathered a lone daughter and not a single son.
‘Daddy, I made it. I’m in. I’m in,’ Dana almost shouted through her sobs as she extracted herself from her mother’s arms and turned to face him. But she was talking to the back of the kitchen door, which had slammed on her happiness.
Chapter three
Dana worked throughout the summer both at Mr Joyce’s shop in the village and on the farm, which her father now took every opportunity of mentioning would one day have to be sold, since the chances of her making a good marriage were so much reduced. Joyce’s sold everything from tin baths to tinned pears and she worked twelve hours a day in order to save enough money to buy the books she would need in order to pass her preliminary training exam. Joyce’s did not sell any of the essentials she had been instructed to take with her to Liverpool. When she asked Mr Joyce whether it would be possible for him to obtain some white kirby grips, he just looked at her, bemused. She worked on the farm in the evenings, to ease her mother’s burden, knowing that her leaving home was going to make Mrs Brogan’s workload heavier at a time when it should be getting easier. Even so, she gave thanks each day that her mother didn’t have the life of Mrs O’Dowd next door. She and her mother both knew the source of the yellow and purple bruises that appeared on Mrs O’Dowd’s face and arms from time to time.
‘Never let a man use his fists,’ her mother had confided. ‘If he does it once and you let him away with it, he will do it twice. If he does it twice and he’s away with it, he will never stop. Ask Mrs O’Dowd if you don’t believe me.’
Dana wondered how you would stop a man as big as Mr O’Dowd using his fists. She did know that her mammy had some hold or other over her father, although she could not imagine what it might be, because Mrs Brogan most definitely ruled the roost and Dana’s father did just what he was told, often claiming it was for a quiet life. He had never once laid a finger on her mammy, and he never touched Dana. That was more than could be said for her mammy though. Dana had felt the bottom of her slipper or a wooden spoon many times. She had learnt to be quick. In the time it took Mrs Brogan to kick off her slipper and bend down to retrieve it, cursing as she did so, Dana was off.
*
Noel Brogan begrudgingly agreed to allow his wife and daughter to accompany him to Castlebar on market day. The list of required essentials on Dana’s list was long and could have been written in a foreign language. She was totally at the mercy of shop assistants, and in the end she bought nothing, but returned to her mother empty-handed and almost in tears.
‘Stop now,’ Mrs Brogan said as they sat in the café opposite the market. ‘Ask Mr Joyce will he take ye with him to Galway. I’m sure now he will if ye ask.’
Dana knew there was an unspoken understanding between her mother and Mr Joyce.
She hadn’t asked for the job in the shop. It had been offered to her, and the first thing her employer said every morning when she arrived was, ‘And how’s yer mammy this morning?’ Not how are ye, or your pa, or the cow the vet came out to see yesterday? It occurred to Dana now, as she sat in the café with her mother, that Mr Joyce had never once asked about her father. She had no idea what stopped her, but she felt it would be better not to ask why.
‘Would you give me a seat to Galway?’ she asked the following morning. Mr Joyce was the only person, as far as she could tell, apart from her own mammy, who was delighted with her achievement. Jealousy was rife in their small village.
‘Sure, I’ll do better than that,’ he replied. ‘How about we make a day of it and take yer mammy too?’ Dana wasn’t too sure how her daddy would feel, but as it turned out he wasn’t allowed an opinion even on that.
As Dana and her mother walked in and out of the shops, Dana dutifully ticked off the must-haves from her list. Mr Joyce had some business to attend to and had arranged to meet them at three o’clock outside the entrance to the hotel. They still had time to spare when they emerged from the last shop, and Mrs Brogan gave a sigh of relief. ‘Do we have everything now?’ she asked.
Dana read the list out loud. ‘“Two nightdresses; one candlewick dressing gown in a suitable colour; one wash bag with contents including medicated shampoo, toothpaste and toothbrush and soap; talcum powder; four pairs of black Lisle stockings” – why do you suppose I need four pairs, Mammy? – “two sharkskin full-length underskirts; one navy blue cardigan for night duty; one fob watch with pin; one pair of Spencer Wells forceps; one pair of nurse’s scissors; one pair of black leather lace-up shoes, heel size one and a half inches; one sewing kit; two pillow cases with draw strings, clearly marked to be used as laundry bags; hair nets,” and, the last thing, “white kirby grips and tortoiseshell hair clips for those with longer thicker hair”.’
‘They’re right about the stockings,’ her mother said. ‘You’ll be washing them every five minutes. All we are missing is those forceps things. Where in the name of God would we find those? What are they, anyway?’
‘Mr Joyce said there was a medical and nursing suppliers at the bottom of this street and that is where I will get the scissors and the forceps from. Let’s have a quick cuppa in the café over there, and then you can wait here while I walk down.’
Dana’s mother looked relieved. ‘Aye, well, Mr Joyce would know. There isn’t much he doesn’t know and the success of his business has proved that all right.’ She extracted a wad of notes from her purse. ‘I want you to keep the money he pays you to see you on for your first few weeks, because I don’t want to think of you being hungry. But it’s important we get your rig-out sorted now, so we’ll use this to buy a nice day dress for yerself, and a couple of twinsets and a skirt. I’ll just about have that pink cardigan finished by the time ye leave.’
Dana had seen the bundle of knitting on the chair in the kitchen and each night she had gone to bed knowing her mother would be sitting up well into the small hours, surviving on far less sleep than was good for her as she worked like a mad woman to finish the clothes she wanted to send Dana away with. Clothes she could be proud of. She had already knitted the navy blue cardigan on the list and was worried sick that the two little pockets she had worked into the front would make it unacceptable for wearing on the wards.
‘The food is very different over there in Liverpool. It’s not what you would be fed at home,’ she whispered under her breath as she looked around the café, not wanting to offend anyone who might be visiting from Liverpool. As she spoke, the waitress placed two plates of buttered seed cake on the table. ‘And I doubt there’ll be any of that. I hear they are still on the rationing, God help them.’
But it wasn’t the seed cake her mother really wanted to discuss, or the shortage of butter. That wasn’t the reason she had agre
ed to hitch a seat with Mr Joyce, and traipse around Galway. She wanted time with her daughter alone, out of the house. It was the men in Liverpool she wanted to talk about.
‘Listen while I tell ye, Dana,’ she said, pouring the steaming tea from a large brown earthenware pot through the strainer balanced on her cup, ‘the men in Liverpool, they can be very forward so they can. Different from Irish boys altogether. I want you to promise me ye will keep away from all men until ye have finished the training, and that ye will come home and visit me as often as ye can, so I can see for meself now that ye aren’t wasting away. And Dana, ye must attend mass at least twice a week. Never miss mass, Dana, promise me that now, make me that promise. I know it’s going to be hard with your shifts, but you must pledge me those three things, will ye? That’s all I ask. Jesus, I don’t care if ye never get married, not at all I don’t. There are better things can happen in this life and I’m all for the nursing.’
Dana knew her mother was lying. As the mother of an only girl, Mrs Brogan wanted a lot more for her daughter than green-toothed Patrick and the house next door. She did want her to marry, and to marry an Irish boy at that, but she was also scared of losing her.
‘I don’t want to become one of those women who only gets to hear about her children in a letter,’ her mother was continuing. ‘Sure, Mrs McGuffy, she hasn’t seen her lad since he left home five years ago, not once. Mind, ye have to ask why would he want to come home with a father like that. I’d keep well away too, but I feel sorry for her so I do, on the days when she’s not soaked in the drink, anyway. I dread people asking me so how long is it since you’ve seen your Dana now, knowing full fine well I will have to lie to save me the embarrassment. I’ll never be off my knees, I can see it now.’ Her voice was beginning to rise as she contemplated having to atone for the sin of lying.
The Angels of Lovely Lane Page 4