‘What unites the people in this room is that each of you has, through those that have gone before you, a connection to the events of Easter Week in 1916. Those people, the mothers and fathers of Irish democracy, gave everything they had to free our island of tyranny and maltreatment, with far too many paying the ultimate price. They were, to a man and woman, unwavering in their belief that Ireland was, and should be a sovereign nation, free and equal with all the democratic nations of the earth. They fought and they died, Many went on to fight in the War of Independence between 1919 and 1922, and sadly more again went on to fight in the subsequent Civil War. Our history is one of hardship, violence, loss and grief, but also one of bravery, tenacity and pride. Those men and women, whose blood flows in the veins of many of you gathered here today, deserve to have their contributions recognised. Through this initiative, to commemorate the 1916 Rising next year on its centenary, we hope to honour their work and their sacrifices. And not just the leaders, those names that, as Yeats put it, ‘Stilled our childish play.’ The names of Pearse, Connolly, Mac Diarmuida, Plunkett, Ceannt, Clarke, and MacDonagh are commemorated and remembered daily in the place names of our streets, our public buildings, our bridges and our train stations. But I, and I suspect they too, would want us to recall to mind those who have perhaps been forgotten by history. We hope that we can reignite the flame of remembrance to those men and women whose stories you each hold dear.
‘A gathering such as this, will no doubt give us many new and interesting perspectives on an era that was so fundamental to our country, then and now. You who have gathered here are part of something much bigger than any individual or group. You share in that history which they made – your mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, cousins or friends, whomsoever you are here to tell us about, are, I feel sure, looking down on us and wishing us well in our commemorative endeavour.
‘Go raibh mile maith agaibh go leir.’
The applause went on for a long time as the Taoiseach smiled and shook hands with the team of academics and historians on the platform. The enthusiasm and nostalgia in the room was palpable. Scarlett looked around at the faces of those nearest to her. Jubilation, pride, loneliness, and relief echoed from face to face, and she found herself longing to know and tell their stories. Her eyes rested on Eileen, who was not clapping or cheering but was standing silently with tears pouring down her face. A thought struck Scarlett; their stories would make a great book!
‘Eileen.’ She touched the older woman’s arm. ‘Are you ok?’
‘I wonder if he’s right, I wonder are they here, watching us? We’ve kept faith for so long, so long. I never dreamed I’d ever come back here, to this place.’ Scarlett was at a loss as to what to do. Eileen seemed to be talking to herself more than to Scarlett.
People were wandering around the ornate hall that was adorned with military pictures and memorabilia as the researchers set up tables and chairs around the room. Teas and coffees were being served outside in a little cafe attached to the museum, and Eileen had been given a table number to approach when she was ready where her flag would be photographed and her story recorded. There must be several hundred people at the gathering, and Fiachra had explained earlier when they had arrived that this event would run for four more days, such was the response to the call for artefacts. He seemed to be responsible for Eileen, while other official looking people took care of others who were clearly here with the same purpose as they were.
Sensing Eileen needed a bit of space, Scarlett led her friend to a table in the glass conservatory adjoining the cafe and settled her there while she went in to get them some tea.
‘Well, Scarlett how are things? Did you enjoy the Taoiseach’s address?’ Fiachra was in front of her in the long line for coffee.
‘Oh hello again! Yes, thanks, though I couldn’t understand the Gaelic parts. Eileen can though, which is amazing considering she has never been to Ireland, I believe. She was very moved by the whole experience this morning.’
Fiachra nodded, ‘He’s a great speaker and this is a cause that is very dear to his heart, of course. He’s a direct descendant of one of the signatories, and his family is steeped in the history and politics of this country. He’s really driving this thing. There must be so much information out there...’
‘Well, he did a good job of recruiting people,’ Scarlett agreed. ‘It’s amazing the stuff that must be left in all the corners of the world. Still, finding people, contacting them and all of that, it’s a huge undertaking for you.’
‘I’m delighted to be involved. I studied history at college and the decade from 1913 to 1923 really fascinated me. Since entering the civil service, most of what I do is administrative and so this is something new and really interesting. I’m looking forward to hearing Mrs Chiarello’s story particularly. She’s an impressive lady, isn’t she? Have you known her long?’
‘Well, no actually. Only a few months,’ Scarlett replied.
‘Well, she seems to trust you. She strikes me as a good judge of character.’
‘Yes, well, we had a kind of peculiar start. It’s a long story.’
Fiachra seemed to sense it was not a story Scarlett was going to go into and changed the subject. ‘So did you all sleep well last night?’
‘Oh yes, and once I had my mother and Eileen tucked up, I went for a stroll around the city. It’s a good looking town, though there was a lot of partying going on,’ Scarlett joked, remembering the groups of young people who were singing and revelling on the streets.
‘I suppose you went into Temple Bar, so? That’s the kind of touristy hang out in the city. Big gangs of lads and girls from all over Europe descend there at the weekends for hen and stag parties.’ Noting her look of confusion, he went on, ‘I think you call them bachelor parties?’
‘Oh yeah, sure. I guess that’s what I saw last night then. They sure weren’t holding anything back.’
Fiachra rolled his eyes. ‘Hmm. Yes, I can imagine. Please don’t hold it against us. Most of us are fairly civilised. There are some really nice places to go in the city and even a bit outside. How long are you here for?’
He seemed so relaxed as he smiled his thanks to the lady serving and went to a nearby table for milk and sugar, that Scarlett wished she could talk to him for longer. He seemed so nice. She joined him, having got her drinks and began adding milk to Eileen’s tea.
‘Two weeks, we are going to do what Eileen needs to do as regards her flag, and then we thought we might rent a car and take a bit of a tour around the country.’ Scarlett glanced in the direction of Eileen, worried she had left her alone for too long, but she was deep in conversation with a man in military uniform and seemed perfectly happy.
‘That’s a great idea. I’m guessing with a name like O’Hara you have some Irish blood somewhere along the line?’
Scarlett paused for a moment. Her stock response to that frequently asked question was that there probably was, and that she had no idea who they were or when they had emigrated to the United States. But for some reason, she had the urge to tell him the truth.
Fiachra took her pause to mean he had offended her and began immediately, ‘Me and my big mouth. I don’t know how I ever wound up in the diplomatic business, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so nosy...’
Scarlett put her hand on his arm. ‘Relax, I’m not going to bite your head off. I was just deciding whether to tell you the official party line on my Irishness, or to tell you the truth.’
‘And which is it going to be?’ His eyes twinkled mischievously.
‘Well, the truth I think, if you want to hear it, but I’d better bring Eileen her tea, though she seems deep in a chat.’
He glanced over in Eileen’s direction. ‘She’s in safe hands. Here, give me the tea and you hold that table. That’s Commandant Seán Kelly. He’s in charge of Military Archives here so he’ll be fascinated with her story.’
As Fiachra crossed the room, Scarlett watched him. He really was gorge
ous, she admitted to herself. Since the debacle with Charlie, she’d decided she was sworn off men for good, but there was something about him, his unassuming manner hiding a quick intellect. He was obviously in a senior position so was a political animal like herself, but there was something candid about him. After spending a lifetime with people who had an agenda, or their own cause to promote, she found him refreshing. He was so kind to Eileen, never patronising her. But he did realise that at her age there was a limit to how much energy she had. He had called the hotel yesterday evening and spoken to her just to check that she had everything she needed, and was waiting for her when she arrived this morning. Such genuine kindness was unusual in a politician, so she was impressed. He had a few quick words with various people as he made his way back to her. Clearly, he was someone people knew.
He sat down opposite her, ‘I’m intrigued now, Ms Scarlett O’Hara, tell me everything about your Irishness. You can trust me, I’m a politician.’ He chuckled.
Scarlett thought again how un-Irish he looked, with his dark features and those chocolate brown eyes ringed by the longest eyelashes she had ever seen. They seemed to be wasted on a man.
‘You don’t look very Irish yourself, I must say,’ she joked.
‘Well, I’m Irish alright, but my parents adopted me from Romania when I was two and a half. I don’t remember anything about my life before I came here, but judging by what I know of those places that’s probably a good thing. My mother had ovarian cancer as a young woman which, thankfully, she survived, but the treatment left her infertile so they decided to adopt. They actually adopted four of us from the same orphanage in the end. I’ve an older brother and two younger sisters. We get some funny looks, alright, when we are out together because Mam and Dad are both red haired, like yourself, pale skin and freckles, the whole lot, and we are all dark then. You’d look more like their child than we do. ’
Scarlett smiled. ‘Wow, they sound like great people.’
‘Ah, they’re brilliant. We were so lucky, I can’t imagine how different my life would be if they hadn’t rescued me. I appreciate them now that I’m older, more than I did years ago. They sacrificed a lot for us, you know?’
‘I guess. I wish someone would have adopted me!’ Scarlett joked.
Instead of laughing along with her joke, Fiachra sipped his coffee and then asked ‘Why?’
Scarlett took a deep breath. She never discussed her past with anyone. Nobody from her adult life apart from Lorena, Eileen and Artie had the faintest idea where she came from, but something about Fiachra made her want to confide in him. Maybe it’s the whole stranger on a train idea, she thought, blurting out your deepest darkest secrets to someone you know you’ll never meet again.
‘Well, my father was Irish, not like fifth generation or anything, but actually from Ireland, someplace around Mayo, I think. He came over to New York in his twenties, met my mother, a Southern Belle. Well, you’ve met her, and they got married and then had me.’
She paused, then went on, ‘He was a violent alcoholic, and he made our lives hell until he was killed in a road accident when I was fifteen. The best day of my life. My mother loved the movies. She used them as a way of escape, I guess, and she loved Gone with the Wind best of all. So when she had a little girl, and she already had the last name of O’Hara, then Scarlett I became. Growing up with red hair and freckles and looking nothing like Vivien Leigh didn’t help. So there you have it. The reason why I wish I’d been adopted.’
Fiachra seemed to know instinctively that her telling him this was a big deal. He reached over the table and squeezed her hand. ‘Sometimes life deals us a bad hand, Scarlett, but then every so often something great happens to restore your faith in the world. You might curse your father, and you have a right to, but without him, bad and all as he was, you wouldn’t exist.’
The normal guardedness with which Scarlett lived her life seemed to evaporate. ‘Are you married?’ she asked.
‘No. You?’ He was still holding her hand.
‘No.’ She smiled.
‘Will you have dinner with me on Friday night?’ he asked.
Heart thumping and throwing her usual caution to the wind, Scarlett grinned. ‘I’d love to.’
Chapter 32
Mary was walking back from the creamery along the quiet country road. She liked this part of the day best, because it allowed her to be alone with her thoughts. So much had happened in the weeks since the rising and her heart was heavy with grief. The O’Dwyers were so welcoming and kind to her, but they, like their children, were heartbroken. The loss of Rory was something they were all finding impossible to bear.
After that final goodbye, they did exactly as Rory asked, going back to Eileen’s small bedroom at the Carmody’s house. By the time they got back from the prison, it was so late that everyone was sleeping. They slipped out early in the morning and caught the train to Limerick. Mary and Eileen had serious reservations about abandoning Mrs Grant and Mrs Kearns to the wrath of the master, but Rory had assured them that he was to be dealt with as soon as possible by the Volunteers, so once he was gone, they would be safe.
Mary felt huge sadness at not saying goodbye to the two women that had come to mean so much to her, and she wished she could have gone back for her bundle of letters from Rory, but he had been insistent and she wanted to keep her promise to him. The idea that she would never again open a letter from him, or hear his voice, or feel her hand in his filled her with all pervasive despair. When she was alone, she could allow the pain in, but when she was with any of the O’Dwyer family, she felt that they had more of a right to his memory than she did. After all, he was their son, their brother, and she had only known him for three years.
The newspapers were full of the executions but she couldn’t bring herself to read them. There had been no official communication to say Rory had been executed, but that meant nothing. They probably wouldn’t bother to notify his family. She’d read about the execution of Seán Dempsey and immediately her thoughts went to his wife and daughters. But the British became concerned about the backlash of public opinion against them in the wake of the executions of the signatories, and so were only releasing very limited information. Some tenacious journalists were finding things out but it was frustrating not knowing.
Yesterday, Eileen had pointed out a small section in the paper, detailing the discovery of the body of Mr Edward Grant in the Dublin mountains following an anonymous tip off. He had been shot at close range and the police were calling it an execution. Her first reaction was one of relief, but that was closely followed by fear that it had taken the Volunteers too long. Rory seemed sure they would pick him up immediately after they left, but weeks had gone by. God alone knew what he had done to the mistress and the housekeeper in the meantime. She had sent a postcard to Mrs Kearns, posting it from Kingsbridge Station on the day they left so it couldn’t be traced to her, just saying that she was alright and that she would be in touch. She hated the thought of the housekeeper worrying, but she didn’t want to put her in even greater danger by allowing Mrs Kearns, who was the only mother Mary had ever known, to know where she was.
As she walked along, she composed a letter in her head. She would write it tonight, knowing the master was dead and it was safe. Remembering that terrible night so long ago, she was glad that at least Mrs Grant would never again feel his fists. Mary dreaded to think of the fate of that kind, brave woman, the only comfort being that at least she had Mrs Kearns. Days with the O’Dwyers passed in a blur, sometimes racing by, but mostly at a deathly crawl. Eileen was withdrawn and silent, dealing with Rory’s death in her own way, and the younger children seemed wary of her. Mary tried to comfort her friend, but her grief made her seem unreachable, a different girl to the carefree, vivacious Eileen that she loved.
Mary knew she should be thinking of what she was going to do next. Going back to Dublin wasn’t an option. Though Mr Grant was dead, that didn’t mean she was safe, But apart fro
m that, something much more painful was keeping her away. She couldn’t bear to be in the place where she had been with Rory. It would be too hard, remembering at every corner the times they had when they were young and in love and believed the whole world was theirs for the taking. They had thought that no matter what happened, they were invincible. Maybe all young people thought that, that’s what gave them the courage to do the things they did. Mary marvelled even more at the bravery of people like Mrs Kearns, of Tom Clarke, who had seen so much more of life and probably knew better than she and Rory how it would all end, but went ahead anyway.
The sun was warm and she removed her cardigan as she walked along, mulling over her options. She had no reference and while she knew Mrs Grant would give her one, she couldn’t risk her new employer finding out her connection to the Grants, what with everything that had happened. A political past and links to an execution were not the attributes needed to be a good maid. Everyone in the townland in Limerick knew what she and Eileen and Rory had been involved with, and so any future employer in the area wouldn’t have to do too much digging to find out. She could go to England, she supposed, but she hated the British with such passion, she couldn’t bring herself to consider it seriously. America was somewhere she’d read about before the Rising, but the journey was so expensive, and anyway she just couldn’t motivate herself to go so far away, feeling as she did. Perhaps somewhere in the northern part of Ireland, maybe she could get a maid’s position up there where the happenings in Dublin were remote and irrelevant.
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 62