1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “My father belongs to a union,” Mary retorted, “which got him injured in a riot, as Ned here knows very well. If he stayed out of it we would be better off. Employers prefer people who don’t make trouble.”

  Eliza’s eyes flashed. “You don’t seem to mind sharing the benefits of the association’s successes. Because of them you have this afternoon off. And you don’t have to live in a dormitory, either.”

  Ned raised his eyebrows. “A dormitory? What’s wrong with that? I live in one at Saint Enda’s. It’s clean and cheerful and the other lads are good company.”

  Eliza began folding and refolding her napkin. “Perhaps some dormitories are nicer than others. I wouldn’t know about the nice kind. You see, Ned, Dublin drapers provide lodging for their employees so they don’t have to pay them a living wage. Brown Thomas stopped last year in response to pressure from the association, that’s why Mary can live at home. But a lot of us aren’t so lucky.

  “I lodge in an old barn of a house off Stephen’s Green. Fifty young men and women live there in drafty, curtainless rooms with not a bath in the building, so we have to go out to the public baths. We must keep clean and tidy or we would lose our jobs. Everything we use is taken out of our wages, even soap and shoe polish. The food we are given is the plainest possible—and not very much of that. Fines are levied for unnecessary talking in the rooms, or leaving an article of clothing lying about, or being out at night without a signed docket. Once I was fined tuppence just for losing my copy of the rules.”

  Ned shook his head in sympathy.

  “It’s a cold, dreary life and no mistake,” Eliza went on. “Although,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial level—“there is a depression worn in the floorboards between the men’s and women’s rooms.”

  Mary exchanged glances with her, and both girls giggled. Ned was dismayed. Surely Mary did not understand, he told himself. He was thankful she lived at home and was not exposed to the life her friend described. Nothing coarse must ever touch her.

  Mr. Pearse was known to have a great devotion to the Virgin Mary. With all the passion of a boy’s virgin heart, Ned was developing a similar devotion toward Mary Cosgrave.

  After lunch they walked Eliza to her lodgings near Stephen’s Green, then he and Mary spent the rest of the afternoon together. They strolled the streets of the city observing other pedestrians, complaining about the deteriorating weather, gazing into shop windows at the spring fashions. Mary seemed to have an endless appetite for shop windows.

  “Last year I was terribly extravagant,” she confided with a giggle. “Sports costumes were the newest vogue for ladies and I quite lost my heart to a cream corduroy ensemble. I managed to put a few shillings aside for a deposit, and I’ve been paying it off ever since.”

  Ned asked in surprise, “You take part in sports?”

  “I do not. They’re too messy and sweaty. But the color will look grand on me, don’t you think?” She pirouetted in front of him, inviting him to imagine her in cream corduroy.

  Ned, who had never had such a conversation before, was enchanted by the revelation of her femininity. When she allowed him to escort her all the way home, he walked the considerable distance without his feet ever touching the ground. Once they paused to watch a detachment of cavalry ride by in cross-belted red coats and tall black shakos. For Ned their sabers were a painful reminder of Bloody Sunday, but Mary clasped her hands together and murmured, “Aren’t they splendid in their uniforms!”

  That night in his bed at Saint Enda’s Ned recalled her every word and gesture. On Sunday he awoke to a steady, relentless rain. When he went to Mass he bowed his head in prayer, yet the image in his heart was not that of Christ. A younger, fresher vision filled him with radiance in spite of the gloom of the day. He was like someone intoxicated.

  When Ned envisioned Mary he first saw her eyes: liquid eyes, deer’s eyes, luminous and vulnerable. And she had a habit of wrinkling her nose to emphasize certain words, he remembered that. And the way the hair curled around her temples as if caressing them. The skin of her throat above her Limerick lace collar was so soft.

  His mind lingered on details of Mary. He thought each unique. Surely no one else had such a lilting laugh or such small hands. And of all the women in the world, he had no doubt, she possessed the loveliest ears, flat against her head yet curving in a way that tempted his finger to trace the delicate outer flap.

  God made Mary, Ned thought with a sense of wonder. Never had he been so aware of the Creator as in contemplation of His creation. Was this, he asked himself, the real if unacknowledged reason behind the powerful human impulse to worship? Shrouded in the mysteries of religion was there a deeper, simpler truth, a more perfect miracle?

  Chapter Nineteen

  FATHER Paul O’Shaughnessy made some discreet inquiries. What he learned did not add to his peace of mind. Among the New York Irish, particularly recent immigrants, there was considerable support for an armed Rising against British rule in Ireland. Viewed from a safe distance, the idea seemed both justifiable and romantic.

  Not all of the Irish community concurred, however. Exposure to life in America had slowly but surely modified their antipathy toward Britain. If imperialism had been the cause of centuries of tragedy in Ireland, the commercial scope of the British Empire had contributed toward American prosperity. Many second- and third-generation immigrants, beneficiaries of that prosperity, felt only a teary nostalgia for “the auld sod.” They could not get excited about winning Ireland’s freedom.

  John Devoy and his followers in Clan na Gael represented a minority, but it was a passionate minority. About such men there was more than a whiff of danger.

  When Kathleen told Paul, “I’m determined to be involved in some way in the wonderful work Mr. Pearse is doing,” he urged her to reconsider. But she had the bit in her teeth and would not listen.

  She wrote to her brother:

  I have met your Mr. Pearse, Ned, and he is everything you said. He spoke in the most complimentary terms of you, but even more exciting was what he had to say about Ireland. I feel—oh my dear, I hardly know how to express this—I feel as if I left home too soon!

  I should be there now, as you are, to help with the work that lies ahead. When you write of your friend the countess I am so envious. To think of her marshaling her own little army! She puts me in mind of Saint Joan. I imagine her in shining armor, riding on a massive horse.

  In my own small way I too shall help. I plan to invite a number of ladies of my acquaintance to a luncheon to raise funds for Mr. Pearse’s cause. Alexander took quite a bit of persuading to allow me to do this, but at last I was successful.

  She did not say more. Delicacy forbade giving details of the marital relationship to her brother.

  But she did confess to Father Paul, “Alexander is so difficult about anything I want to do on my own. He finally gave permission only when I assured him the money was for Saint Enda’s. A gentleman could hardly refuse to allow his wife to benefit her own brother.”

  “We had this conversation before, Kathleen. The money won’t be going to the school, surely you understand that. If you told your husband it would, you lied.”

  “Yes,” she said, and dropped her eyes. She did not sound contrite.

  That night Father Paul took a long time to fall asleep. When at last he dropped into an uneasy doze, he found himself standing on the side of a hill overlooking a train track. A figure came walking toward the track from the other side. As it came closer he could tell it was a woman. Reaching the track, she signed the Cross on her bosom and stretched herself out on the rails, then turned her face in his direction.

  It was Kathleen Campbell.

  In his dream the priest shouted a warning but she did not respond. Cold with sudden terror, he raced down the hill. A train was coming; he could hear it rushing toward them. Still Kathleen did not move. When he reached her she merely smiled up at him with the expression of an innocent child.

  He bent and sco
oped her into his arms. The feel of her was totally convincing. He experienced a rush of throttled desire at the heat and weight of her body. But when he tried to carry her off the tracks, his feet stuck fast to the earth. No matter how hard he tried to break free he could not. With every moment the train was coming closer. At last in desperation he kissed Kathleen hard upon the mouth—wondering at his audacity as he did so—then flung her to safety.

  The train was right on top of him. With a sense of awful inevitability he turned to face it…

  …and woke up trembling and sweating in his bed.

  The sensation of her lips against his was the clearest thought in his mind.

  After Mass the next morning he was unable to eat any breakfast. His housekeeper fussed over him like a hen with one chick. “God love you, Father, try just a bite of hot porridge or a wee taste of egg and sausage. You have to keep your strength up. So many people depend on you.”

  He gave her a brooding look. “They do, Mrs. Flanagan. I know they do.”

  He spent several hours in his study, then late in the afternoon sent a message to the Campbell house. “I need to see you on a matter of some urgency,” he wrote Kathleen.

  He honestly believed as he penned the words that he was referring to her ill-advised fund-raising.

  She came to him the next morning after Alexander had gone to work. Mrs. Flanagan ushered her in as always, seated her in the parlor, offered her coffee and freshly baked scones with marmalade. When Paul entered the room a few minutes later he noticed that she had touched neither. Like me, he thought, she has no appetite. Like me.

  As soon as Mrs. Flanagan left the room he asked, “Do you know why I sent for you?”

  “A matter of some urgency, your note said.”

  “Yes.”

  She was gazing at him expectantly. In an effort to focus his thoughts he took a step closer to her chair. When she tilted her head back to look up to him he saw that there were dark shadows under her eyes, and her lips were trembling.

  Paul knelt down beside her chair. “About this luncheon of yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have expressed my misgivings to you before.”

  “Yes.”

  As if it had a life of its own divorced from any volition on his part, Paul’s hand began stroking Kathleen’s dark hair. He said, “Devoy and those like him are planning an armed insurrection. Involving yourself would be madness.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely you cannot condone the willful overthrow of authority!”

  “Yes.” His hand was cupping the back of her head. She was not hearing his words, only the deep rumble of his voice making her bones resonate like the sounding board of a harp. Her eyes closed.

  Insurrection, thought Paul. The overthrow of authority. God help me.

  Then she was in his arms.

  Neither of them moved. He could smell her scent and hear the clock ticking on the mantel.

  As long as I do no more than this, the priest told himself, it is still all right. I am comforting a parishioner.

  She had slipped to the floor so that she knelt with him. The top of her head was just below his clerical collar. He had no intention of pressing his lips to her fragrant hair. He never told his arms to tighten so that her breasts were crushed against him.

  Mrs. Flanagan’s step in the hall outside broke their trance. With a guilty start they pulled away from each other. Kathleen slipped back into her chair; Paul got to his feet and made a futile effort to smooth his clothes with his hand. The housekeeper entered the room carrying a tray with a fresh pot of hot coffee. She set it on the table with her eyes politely averted. Well trained, she knew it was her role to be invisible.

  But after she had left the room she paused outside the door. Why had they looked so flustered, the pair of them? Could Mrs. Campbell have been admitting some misbehavior to her priest outside the confessional? A pretty young woman in a wicked city like New York, surely she had temptations. People knew her husband was with White Star and sometimes went away on business.

  Mrs. Flanagan wondered if Alderman Claffey’s housemaid ever noticed anything suspicious next door. The Claffeys had employed Bridie Lynch after Mrs. Campbell refused her services, and had given her a room at the top of their house. From such a vantage point a young and naturally curious woman like Bridie would have an excellent view of the neighbors.

  KATHLEEN left the presbytery in a daze. The unimaginable had happened and she could not yet take it in. Instead of returning home she simply walked and walked, hugging herself. She needed all her strength to hold in the elation that threatened to burst out of her.

  At the same time she was appalled by the gravity of her sin. To love a priest! So far they had done nothing more than hold one another, but the very fact that she could think in terms of “so far” meant that she anticipated going farther.

  Spring was in the air, New York spring. Kathleen did not know how long she had been walking, nor how far, until she found herself at one of the entrances to Central Park. Ahead were masses of trees clothed in achingly tender leaves, flower-starred meadows, gentle slopes, leafy glens, rocky ravines. Nature in all her abundance, bursting free.

  In Ireland, Kathleen would have taken off her shoes and walked on the grass. In Ireland…

  “It’s May Day,” she said to herself, astonished that she had forgotten. “Beltane!”

  A gray pigeon strutting past her on the sidewalk paused to cock an eye in her direction as if he understood what she was talking about.

  At home the young girls would have gone out before sunrise to collect the dew of the first day of May to bathe their faces in. Everyone knew May morning dew had the magical ability to bestow beauty.

  “Do you suppose he thinks I’m beautiful?” she asked the pigeon. She had to speak to someone, had to acknowledge what was happening. Under the circumstances she could hardly confess to her confessor. Perhaps she could have told her mother, but Theresa Halloran was at the bottom of the Atlantic.

  “Does he?” she demanded of the pigeon.

  The bird fixed her with an imperious glare, then pointedly began pecking at the sidewalk near her feet. Its eye was circled with bright yellow; its tail was banded with a darker shade of gray. A handsome bird, it was not interested in the vanity of humans, only in their ability to provide corn and crumbs. When the woman failed to take the hint it lost interest and strutted away.

  She watched it go. I’m as giddy as some foolish girl, she thought. Imagine talking to a pigeon.

  But she was not a girl. She was a married woman with full knowledge of the possible consequences of her actions.

  Entering the park, Kathleen walked for a while longer before she realized how tired she was. Then she sat down on a bench, hugging her guilty secret, and watched the passersby. What would they think if they knew? Would they be shocked? That well-dressed woman there with her arm linked through her husband’s—it must be her husband, her touch was so proprietary—suppose she knew Kathleen had been locked in the forbidden embrace of a priest?

  But perhaps that was not her husband at all. Perhaps he was—she hesitated over the word, even in the privacy of her mind—perhaps he was her lover. And they were going to some discreet little hotel on the other side of the park to spend the afternoon in a room with the blinds drawn…

  In the third drawer of the mahogany highboy in the bedroom she shared with Alexander was a cheesecloth bag of lavender. Years ago her mother had explained to her, amid many blushes and stammerings, that married women must always keep lavender to tuck among the sheets. “It lessens the smell of certain…male discharges,” Theresa had confided. Marriage to Alexander Campbell had taught Kathleen the wisdom of her mother’s advice.

  Now she found herself wondering if Paul’s semen would smell so strong, so unpleasant. Or would it be clean and fresh like everything else about him?

  Kathleen struggled to check her riotous thoughts. Her emotions were running counter to everything she had been taught. A hu
ndred years of repression by the clergy had made sexual pleasure the ultimate sin. Sex was bad, sex was wrong; its only purpose was the conception of children, and to take any enjoyment from the act was to make oneself lower than the animals. As for desiring a priest…

  But I do, Kathleen Halloran Campbell admitted to herself as she sat on the wrought iron bench in the warm sunlight. I want him. If I burn in Hell for it, I want Paul O’Shaughnessy.

  Chapter Twenty

  IN the middle of May, Pádraic Pearse returned from America. On the morning he was expected at Saint Enda’s, the Senior Boys took banners and trumpets onto the roof to give the headmaster a festive welcome. The rest of the students lined the drive in a fever of anticipation. Young Denis Larkin was anxious to show the headmaster his plaster cast. He had broken his elbow in a hurling match and was feeling very much the wounded hero.1

  The headmaster’s sisters stationed themselves at the gates so they would be the first to see Pearse when he arrived. A stocky, plain woman, Margaret was a dedicated worrier. “Is there no sign of the motorcar yet?” she kept asking Mary Brigid. “You don’t suppose something’s happened to him, do you? Can you see the car?” Rising on her tiptoes, she waved her handkerchief back and forth in the air like a tiny white flag.

  In addition to her unstable temperament, Mary Brigid was a hypochondriac who wrapped herself in heavy coats even in the warmest weather. “Isn’t it hot?” she remarked as she fanned herself with her hand. “Don’t you find it dreadfully hot today, Wow-wow?” But she never took off the coat.

  On the front steps Mrs. Pearse waited with Willie and the rest of the staff. She too had her handkerchief out, but she was using it to dab at her eyes. From time to time she squeezed her son’s arm. “It’s glad I am that you didn’t go off and leave me too, Little Man,” she said. “I need my boys, you and Pat both.”