The Girls of Ennismore

by Patricia Falvey

  CHAPTER 29

  At the dawn of 1916 a casual observer in Dublin may still not have noticed the growing unrest that seethed beneath the city’s surface. The war, which was supposed to last only six months, dragged on, casualties mounting every day. The Home Rule Bill, which would have given Ireland some measure of self-determination, still lay in limbo. Nationalist ardour gained traction in Dublin and across the country. Enrollment in military organizations grew – farm boys from rural counties signing up alongside teachers, clerks, poets and scions of the Protestant Ascendancy – all with the same goal of overthrowing English rule. Dubliners, with typical scepticism, dismissed the notion out of hand, calling the Volunteers chancers and dreamers.

  Victoria heard all this bantering as she went about her daily business at the Union and was inclined to agree. But for Brendan and his comrades it was a deadly serious proposition. After the night he and Victoria met at the Abbey Theatre, they had become constant companions. They lingered in small, dark pubs or in cafés or, when the weather improved, strolled through Phoenix Park or rode a tram to the beach at Sandy-cove.

  They were a world unto themselves in which their social differences were of no account, where being together and in love was as natural as rain, and where no clouds dimmed the future they dreamed of. Even at night, when she was alone in bed, Victoria refused to let doubt enter her mind. Why should she not be with Brendan? Why should she not support the coming revolution as fiercely as he did? And when it was over, and Ireland was independent, why should she not marry him? Anything was possible in this safe little world they had created.

  But as the threat of an uprising grew, Victoria found herself growing more and more torn about Brendan’s revolutionary talk. She continued to let him think that she supported him, but when she was alone, grave doubts began to creep into her mind, and she found herself thinking more and more about her family. If the Volunteers and their comrades were successful, would such a revolution give rise to more violence around the country? What would happen to Ennismore? She still loved her home passionately and would not be able to bear it if the old house and her family came to harm.

  And then there was Valentine. She had thought him safe while he was delayed in Dublin and had prayed the war might be over before he shipped out to France. But now, with her brother still part of the Dublin garrison, he would also be brought into the conflict. She could not bear the thought that her beloved brother and the man she loved would be enemies. How was she supposed to choose between them?

  How could she explain to Brendan that her concern for her family and Ennismore did not mean that she wanted to go back and live there in the way she had in the past? She loved her freedom in Dublin, and she loved Brendan. She would live with him anywhere. But she knew that Brendan saw love and loyalty as the same thing. How was she ever to make him understand?

  For the first time, Victoria found herself suspended between two worlds. She thought of Rosie. This was exactly the fate Rosie had suffered. She had never fully understood it until now. Sympathy for her friend swept through her. She wished that she could talk to her. She had heard nothing from Cathal O’Malley, so assumed Rosie still did not want to see her.

  At last she could stand it no longer. She had to be honest with Brendan.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Brendan,’ she began one evening as they sat in the snug in Toner’s – the same private snug where Rosie had once sat with Cathal.

  Brendan smiled. ‘I thought that’s what we were doing, darlin’.’

  ‘This is serious, Brendan.’

  He gave her a look of mock alarm and knocked on the partition to signal the barman. ‘In that case I think we need another drink.’

  ‘I told you. This is serious. Please.’

  He stared at her, his dark eyes alert, reminding her of the way he had first looked at her back in the servants’ hall at Ennismore – wary, but with a hint of passion.

  ‘It’s about the revolution,’ she began. Then the words poured out of her – all the anxieties she had been hoarding up alone at night – her fears for her family, and Ennismore, and Valentine. ‘And I don’t want to have to choose between all of you. I just can’t do that,’ she finished up.

  Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him. He said nothing. The barman arrived with two lagers and disappeared. She waited, searching his face for some indication of his reaction. He picked up his glass and took a long slow sip, all the while his eyes never leaving her face. She could not guess what emotions were coursing through him and was suddenly fearful that she had lost him forever. When he finally spoke his voice was cold.

  ‘Well, well. They say the leopard can never change its spots. I should have realized it’s the same with the gentry. So, I’ve let you make a fool of me again, Victoria Bell – first beyond at Ennismore and now in Dublin.’

  She began to protest but he put up his hand to silence her.

  ‘You’re a very good liar, I must say. You really had me believing you were behind me all the way, that you had left the gentry life, and that you loved me.’ He swallowed noisily as if holding back tears. Then he laughed. ‘And like an eejit I believed you. I believed you were ready for a life with me when all of this is over. But all the while you were making a fool out of me. All that sweet talk about getting married. It was all shite.’

  He fixed his eyes on a point over her shoulder. ‘I saw Rosie at Cathal O’Malley’s house on Christmas Day last. Now there’s a girl knows who she is and where she came from, no matter how much your kind tried to spoil her. She’s even joined the Cumann na mBan, the women’s auxiliary. She knows where her loyalties belong. She would never stoop to lying about it the way you did.’

  ‘But, Brendan, I do love you. And I have left the gentry life. I wasn’t lying about that part.’

  He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘For God’s sake, Victoria, no more of this. You’ve made yourself plain. I’ll never belong in your world, nor you in mine. And that’s an end of it! Go back to your own kind and leave me alone!’

  Before she could answer, Brendan had thrown some money on the table, reached for his jacket, and stalked out, leaving the snug door banging on its hinges. She stared after him, unable to move. The barman came in, took the money and collected the glasses. He gave her a sympathetic look.

  ‘Take your time, miss,’ he said, ‘sure there’s no rush.’

  Eventually, she rose and left the pub. She walked in a daze towards Fitzwilliam Square, turning every word that was said over and over in her mind. She had hoped against hope that Brendan would accept her love without insisting on her loyalty to the revolution. But deep down she had known he would not. He had confused her lack of loyalty with an unwillingness to abandon the gentry way of life. She balled her fists, suddenly angry. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Why did she have to fight to prove herself to him?

  The anger fuelled her and she walked faster. But by the time she reached Aunt Marianne’s house a heavy, dark blanket had wrapped her in a cocoon of despair from which she would not soon emerge.

  CHAPTER 30

  Rosie awoke to the sound of sobs coming from the room below. It was the middle of the night and she thought surely she was dreaming. She turned over and pulled the bed covers up to her ears but still the sound persisted. This was no dream, she realized, it was Cathal.

  In the days following Valentine’s visit, she noticed changes in Cathal’s behaviour. His vigorous cheerfulness had ebbed, leaving behind only a faint politeness of manner. He spoke to her as if he didn’t know her. Valentine’s revelations had become a wall between them. Since that first night when Cathal had explained to her what had happened with Emer, he had not spoken of it again.

  Rosie desperately wanted to talk about it in the hope that it might help him, but each time she broached the subject he cut her off. She thought if she told him about her own past, it would open the way for him to reciprocate. But although he listened attentively to her story of life at Ennismore, her hum
iliation at the hands of Lady Marianne, and Valentine’s betrayal, he remained silent.

  Around the offices of the Sword the whispers began. Cathal appeared to have lost all interest in the Volunteers. He missed meetings, and when he did appear, people said, his moods swung between euphoria about the uprising and dire predictions of defeat. The Volunteers, they said, who practically worshipped Cathal, were confused and dejected by his unpredictability. Such news distressed Rosie. She realized that Valentine’s accusations had brought up painful memories for Cathal, and understood why he might have sunk into melancholy. But something more was amiss, she felt it in her bones.

  One evening, when he was away from the house, she slipped into his bedroom. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but was determined to solve the mystery behind his behaviour. She tried to suppress the guilt that engulfed her as she tiptoed about the room. She was breaking the trust that had underpinned their relationship since she moved in to Moore Street. He had never once set foot in her room, and it was understood that she would never enter his. Each of their rooms represented a sacred covenant of privacy outside which their friendship was free to blossom.

  She was shocked when she saw the unmade bed, the pile of dirty clothing on the floor and the row of empty whiskey glasses on the bedside table. The room smelled of stale sweat and alcohol. She was tempted to open the windows to air it out, but she did not dare. Such squalor did not fit the Cathal she knew – the one who always appeared bright and scrubbed, favoured clean, starched linens, and smelled of good soap and tobacco. She opened a cupboard and found a jumbled assortment of bottles, jars and vials. She assumed they were various medicines left over from his days as a practising doctor. She tried to read the labels, but most were in Latin. She picked through them and was about to close the cupboard door when one label caught her eye. There was no mistaking this one. Morphine! Rosie sank down on a nearby chair, holding the vial with trembling fingers. All at once she knew the truth. Pity washed over her as she tried to imagine what desperation had brought him to this abyss.

  ‘Ah, Cathal, no,’ she whispered aloud.

  From then on she had watched him closely for signs of his addiction. They were all there – euphoria, confusion, distraction, fatigue. How could she have missed it before? For a while she cursed Valentine, but stopped when she realized the futility of such thoughts. She lay awake at night wondering how she could help him. Victoria came immediately to mind. She was a nurse at the Union hospital. Surely she would know what was needed. But the thought left her as soon as it came. How could she throw herself on Victoria’s mercy after the harsh words they had exchanged? She also knew that seeking any outside help would betray the unspoken trust between her and Cathal that their private lives would remain private. She finally realized that any help would have to come from her.

  She read everything she could find about morphine addiction – perusing files at the newspaper office and at the library. She even went to a doctor under an assumed name and asked for his advice. What she learned frightened her. She began to understand how relentless and crippling the addiction was, and how nearly impossible it was to overcome. If she was going to help him, she thought, she would have to confront him. His response was as she had feared.

  ‘In the name of God where did you get that notion? ’Tis a rich imagination you have, girl.’

  ‘It’s not my imagination. I’ve been reading up on it, and you’re showing all the signs.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re a doctor now, are you?’

  ‘No, but I know what I see.’

  He banged his fist on the table. ‘Enough, Rosie!’

  ‘Please, Cathal. I want to help you.’

  ‘No one can help me.’

  Her heart ached for him as he stalked out of the room. She had not dared tell him she found the morphine and had all the proof she needed. Well, if he wouldn’t listen to her, she would take the bull by the horns and attack the problem at its source. She waited until she heard the front door close behind him and went immediately to his room. This time the morphine was easy to find, and she slipped the two vials in her pocket and left. Later that night she heard him thrashing around in his room followed by the slam of the front door as he left the house. The next morning he said nothing to her, although she suspected he knew she had taken it. She tried not to think how easy it would be for him to get more at the Union. No matter, she thought, I will not give up that easily. She waited a few days and went back to his room and retrieved two more vials. The third time she tried, the door was locked.

  How ironic it is, she thought, when you have nowhere else to turn, you turn to God. In recent years she had done nothing but curse God for her troubles, but now she prayed for forgiveness and asked Him to heal Cathal. She cried as, night after night, she lit candles in the cathedral and bowed her head in prayer. At first she noticed Cathal’s symptoms growing worse. His twitching became uncontrollable and he had bouts of vomiting accompanied by alternating chills and sweats. Was God laughing at her? If so, she could hardly blame Him, she thought. The cheek of herself asking for a miracle after all she had accused Him of! But after a time she realized that these new symptoms were signs of withdrawal and she got down on her knees and thanked Him.

  It was during those terrible days that Rosie finally admitted to herself how much this man meant to her. Her fear of losing him was overwhelming. She realized that she had not just come to rely on his friendship and protection, she had come to love him. Despite her fantasies about making love to him, and her jealousy when he brought women home, this realization took her by surprise. She had thought she knew what love was with Valentine – a sweet, passionate yearning. But this love was different. Apart from the physical attraction which, before his illness, had been growing palpable between them, this love also expressed itself as a steadfast devotion, based on a mutual respect and concern, and a willingness to reach out beyond oneself and put the welfare of another above one’s own. She had never imagined she was capable of such selflessness. And as she thought of Cathal’s pain she acknowledged that, while her own life had been painful at times, she had never suffered in the way that he had.

  Now, as she lay in bed listening to his sobs, she was overwhelmed with a desperate need to comfort him. She must go to him. She didn’t care about their covenant of privacy. He needed her. Before she could change her mind, she slipped out of bed and put on her robe. Clutching it to her, she left her room and padded down the stairs. The door to his room was unlocked. She crept in and closed it gently behind her. It took her eyes time to adjust to the dark. She approached the bed on tiptoe and bent over him. He continued to sob, unaware of her presence. Quietly she lay down beside him and gathered him in her arms.

  He murmured incoherently as she held him, at times attempting to cling to her with weak hands that gripped her arms briefly before slipping limply away. Rosie held him tighter. She had strength enough for both of them. He drifted in and out of sleep, shouting as he fought off imaginary demons. Each time he quieted she kissed him gently on the brow. She moved her body closer to his, admitting to herself that she had come not only to give comfort but to seek it. She was unaware until now of how lonely she had grown without the old Cathal. They lay together that night, equal in their desire for the warm comfort of another living, breathing human being beside them.

  After that first night Rosie went to Cathal’s room often. She was always gone by dawn. She came to think of his bed as a secret place of healing and peace. She lay beside him whispering soothing words while he clung to her, then pushed her away, then clung to her again.

  During the daytime Cathal said nothing about her night visits. Rosie supposed he thought it was a dream. But as he began to heal, she realized that he had stopped believing it was just a dream. While he still never mentioned it, she could tell by the way he looked at her – curious, tentative, flashes of passion in his eyes. And when he touched her he let his hand linger more than usual before abruptly snatching it away.

 
Over the next weeks, his health continued to improve. No more sobs came from his room and Rosie ceased her nighttime visits. While she was delighted that he was well again, a part of her was sad that he no longer needed her to comfort him. She was sad, too, that she was now denied the comfort such visits had brought to her. She had resigned herself to the loss, when one evening he knocked on her bedroom door. When she opened it he stood before her, smiling, his hands outstretched. Without a word he led her down to his own room.

  Her heart leaped in her chest as he drew her to the bed. Without waiting, he took her in his arms. Even though she did not resist, she knew what was about to happen and she was frightened. She had never made love to a man before although she had a general understanding of such matters from books she had read, and from listening to the awkward, crude couplings of Bridie and Micko. But it was not her ignorance that frightened her – it was knowing that her entire life was about to change. After tonight she would no longer be a girl but a woman.

  Until now, when she imagined herself making love it was always with Valentine in some idyllic place – in the woods near the fairy fort, on silk sheets in his bed at Ennismore, or stowed away on a ship to America. They were beautiful, childish fantasies. But now, here in this room, here in this bed, with Cathal naked at her side, his breathing ragged and his arms strong around her, this was no fantasy. She chased away an image of her old parish priest lecturing on purity. She was about to leave that state of purity. She was about to give the gift of herself to Cathal.

  Her heart pounded as she edged closer to him. She let him slip her nightgown over her head. His gentleness reminded her of the night he cleansed and bandaged the wounds Micko had inflicted. Slowly her fright ebbed away as a warmth filled her body. She began to touch him, tentatively at first, and then with deliberateness. She remembered how often she had secretly stared at his broad shoulders, his muscular arms and long legs and wondered what it would feel like to touch him. Now she caressed him like a greedy child, her hands travelling over his shoulders and down his torso to his hips and thighs. As she did so, Cathal cried out, a fierce whimper, and pulled her so tightly to him she could scarcely breathe.