It was only as they reached Tullamore that she began to feel apprehensive. She never really knew why, but it always happened. Her stomach would churn and the palms of her hands would grow damp and clammy. Then, when she got out of the car in front of the house, there was the sound of the calliper as it hit the stone pavement. And, as she walked up the path to the house, she would try to remember what her mother looked like and how her voice sounded, so she was prepared when they met once again.
When she reached fifteen or sixteen, one of the teachers brought an electric typewriter into the hospital classroom. Angela was interested as they had an ancient manual typewriter on a desk at the turn of the stairs at home and she had often sat at it, painstakingly copying sentences from her books. The new modern typewriter looked lighter and much easier to use.
The older children were all given a go on it whilst the others gathered around watching from their wheelchairs. They took turns to move into the chair at the desk, laughing and mildly jeering each other as they searched for the letters which seemed to be scattered around the keyboard in no particular order. The teacher showed them how to hold down the key for capital letters and use the return button to move to a new line. She then asked them to try typing their own names, which took most of them three or four goes to get it right. After that, she set them the task of typing out the first verse of WB Yeats’s poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree.
Angela was delighted as it was a poem she had in one of her poetry collections and had learned it off by heart. She said nothing when the teacher gave each of them a sheet with a copy of the poem. Then they all gathered around the chair as the first person sat down to have a go at typing it out, looking at her sheet and reading down through it before beginning to type.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
As the others took their turns at typing, Angela joined in with the encouraging comments, but her mind was still on the verse of poetry and the image that it conjured up. She loved the idea of the quiet and solitude in what she imagined was a beautiful setting, and she wondered then, as one of the girls banged away at the typewriter, if she would ever find a peaceful place in the future to call her own.
Within minutes the novelty of the typewriter and the exercise had worn off. Most of the boys had abandoned the task halfway through the verse – bored already – and some of the girls. The others plodded on with it but, by the end of the session, only Angela and another girl had shown any great interest in it.
It was only when the teacher showed surprise at Angela’s aptitude for typing and her speed at finding the keys, that she confessed to already knowing the poem and having the old typewriter at home.
“It’s still good,” the teacher said. “It’s not an easy skill to pick up.”
Later that afternoon, the typewriter disappeared along with the teacher, but months later another older woman who worked in the Polio Fellowship Office came in to talk to the current group in the hospital classroom about future careers. After she gave the general talk, which included information about training courses in areas that might suit some of the group, the woman spoke to individuals about particular courses they were interested in. When Angela approached her she gave her information about a course in shorthand and typing, saying she had heard from one of the teachers that she was a perfect candidate for the course.
A number of things had started to move quickly in Angela’s life around that time. It had become apparent that the last operation on her leg and foot had made a good difference and had more or less finished all the treatment the hospital had to offer. She was seventeen now, and was mobile enough to become completely independent.
Her parents had made it plain that there was a home and work for her back in Tullamore. Her father had told her repeatedly that they would love her to work in the shop or bar, but going back to Tullamore was the last thing that Angela wanted. She had a good group of friends from her hospital days and she also had her Aunt Catherine and Joseph nearby.
All things considered, she preferred life in Dublin. She was used to the city, and couldn’t imagine settling back down in a country town she had no real ties with, apart from her family. But, even at that young age, she knew that the decision she made now was going to have a big impact on her life.
Going home to Tullamore would be easier in many ways as everything would be organised for her. It would simply be a case of packing up her bags and moving back into the room she had used on her visits back home. She would not have to worry about the financial things that some of the other girls leaving the hospital were anxious about like lodgings, household bills and travel costs. Her parents would cover all that for her as they had done in all the years she had gone back and forth between Tullamore and Dublin.
If she went back she knew she would eventually get over the self-conscious feelings, and would settle into work in the shop and life in Offaly. She didn’t know the people as well as her sisters, but she knew they were decent and would welcome her home. She took her time and gave the decision great thought, talking it over with one of the nuns who nursed in the hospital and whom she had known and trusted for a number of years. Then, one Monday morning she made her decision. In many ways she felt it was inevitable. Regardless of how difficult it was, she was going to stay in Dublin.
Within a few weeks it was organised that on her discharge from hospital she would move into a boarding house for young working women in Leeson Street, and would attend a college in the city centre that ran the required courses.
It was only later, when she phoned home to tell her mother that she was leaving the hospital and moving to a new address, that she realised she had done all this without consulting her parents. It just had not occurred to her that she should.
Her parents were both shocked at her decision, and tried to get her to change her mind. Her father in particular tried to persuade her to come home and work in the shop, but she told him she had already accepted a place at college and that working in a city office was really all that she wanted to do. The phone calls home over the next few weeks were strained but gradually Angela realised that her decision had been accepted.
The shared house in Leeson Street had been fine and had helped her on the road to independence – and she had made good friends with some of the other girls – but she was hoping for a move to a better place sometime soon.
After she had washed and dried the teapot and spoon she had used, and put the milk jug back in the fridge, she came back down to her room with her mug of hot tea. She placed it on the small table beside her deep armchair and then went over to the shelf where she kept a biscuit tin, and took a digestive out of it. The tin – oval-shaped, with a picture of Victorian carol singers carrying lamps in the snow – had been given to her as a present from her Aunt Catherine when she was in hospital some years ago. She had received lots of gifts over the years at birthdays and Christmases, numerous biscuit and sweet tins which she hadn’t bothered keeping. But something about this particular tin, the cosy, olde-worlde cover perhaps, had made her reluctant to throw it away.
She liked the fact that she was reminded of her Aunt Catherine every time she lifted the biscuit tin. She visited her aunt and her cousin Joseph out in Lucan every few weeks. She had always been closer to them than to the rest of the family, because her aunt had been so good to her during her hospital years.
Recently, she had become aware that there was a growing distance between her aunt and her mother. It was rare that Angela heard her aunt complain about anyone – especially their mother – but before Christmas her aunt had said that in the last year her sister wasn’t phoning or ringing as often, and she was upset about it.
Angela said she had no idea why her mother wasn’t keeping in touch, but she told her aunt that if she got the opportunity, she would tactfully broach the sub
ject next time she was home.
Her Aunt Catherine had suddenly looked worried. “No, Angela, it might be best if you don’t say anything to your mother about it.”
“I won’t say anything directly,” Angela had said. “I won’t say that we were talking about it. I was just going to say that I’d noticed she hadn’t been in touch with you as much as before.”
“She’ll guess we’ve been talking. She knows you visit me and Joseph regularly, and she’ll put two and two together. She’ll think I’m trying to come between you, and I don’t want that.” She shook her head. “No, Angela. It might make things worse. I know your mother, and I know how her mind works. She would never forgive me if she thought I’d tried to get you on my side, and I can understand it. I wouldn’t like anyone to come between me and Joseph.”
Angela sat down in her chair now with her mug of tea, grateful for the ease to her leg and hip. The fire had caught on and the room was warming up. She swallowed down the aspirins and then sipped at the tea, thinking of the things she still had to do.
A short while later, she went over to get her cake-stand from the cupboard. Then she opened the fruit loaf and cut four slices from it and buttered them. She put the slices on the lower part of the cake-stand and then opened the box of fresh cream cakes: two meringues which her father liked, a chocolate éclair for her mother and a vanilla slice in case they fancied a change.
She began to move around the room more easily now, feeling the benefit of the tablets. She put more coal on the fire and brushed up any stray ashes, and then ran a damp cloth over the mantelpiece and generally tidied around. Then, as she viewed the perfect, warm room she felt herself beginning to relax.
She went over to the dressing-table mirror and spent a few minutes brushing out her dark hair, and then powdering her face and refreshing her lipstick. She decided she looked okay, and then she thought how much warmer she was now. She unbuttoned the blue cardigan and took it off, then pulled the short-sleeved sweater over her head. She put them on a hanger and hung them in the wardrobe. They were fresh on this morning and she would get another wear out of them for work.
She then lifted another hanger out with a pale-yellow blouse with three-quarter sleeves and a loose tie-bow at the neck. She put it on and re-arranged her hair, then walked down the hallway to the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil and sort cups and saucers on a tray. She could hear voices and, when she got to the door, she saw two of the other girls who lodged in the house – Jeanette and Maureen, both of whom worked in The Bank of Ireland head office. They were chatting whilst heating up a pan of soup.
“Hi, Angela,” Maureen said. “We were thinking of going to the cinema tomorrow night, if you fancy coming.”
Angela thought for a moment. She had nothing planned. “What are you going to see?”
“Madame X,” Jeanette told her. “We saw it before but it’s brilliant. Have you seen it?”
“Yes,” Angela said, “but it’s worth seeing again. What time are you going?”
“It’s on at eight, so if we leave around half seven?”
“Great,” she said. “Give me a knock when you’re passing the door.” She went over to the cupboard. “I’m just sorting a tray now as my mother and father are due shortly and I want to be ready for them.”
Jeanette rolled her eyes. “Sure, you’re always ready, Angela. You must be the best-organised person I know.”
“You can’t know too many people then,” Angela laughed.
She put the cooled-down kettle back on to boil again, then got the tea caddie and spooned tea leaves into an empty pot and put it to the side.
“If anyone comes in,” she told the girls, “tell them not to touch that.”
Maureen glanced out into the hallway. “You’d be better to hide it in the cupboard,” she said in a low voice. “That one in room five will use anything that’s left out. She took Jeanette’s last KitKat the other night.”
“A KitKat!” Jeanette said, shaking her head and laughing.
“It doesn’t matter what it was,” Maureen said. “She shouldn’t have touched it. She denied it of course, but she was seen walking along the corridor eating it. It’s the last time I leave expensive chocolate biscuits in the kitchen.”
Angela rolled her eyes. Petty things like that happened in the house, and it was one of the reasons she wished she had her own place. She chatted to the girls for a few minutes while she sorted the tea things on the tray and then took them back to her room.
Everything ready and waiting, she went to stand by the window, watching for her father’s car to pull up outside so she could get out of her room and out to the main door to let them in. As soon as she saw the car, she moved as quickly as she could.
When she opened the front door, her mother was standing there, holding a cake box double the size of the one that Angela had brought back from the shop, and she had a bag with magazines dangling from her arm. She put the cardboard box up on the arm carrying the magazines, put the other around Angela’s shoulder and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“We’re a bit later than we thought – the traffic was busy on the quays,” she said. She gave a shiver. “And it’s freezing out as well. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it snowed.”
“As long as you got here safe and sound,” Angela said. She held the heavy outside door open. “I’ve got a good fire on so the room is nice and warm.”
Her mother came into the hallway first. “You should get back inside, and put a cardigan on. You’re only wearing a light blouse – you’ll catch your death of cold.”
“I’m fine,” Angela said. “I took my cardigan and sweater off because it was too warm in the room.”
“Now, you don’t need to be worrying about anything because we won’t be staying long.”
Angela heard a strained note in her mother’s voice which made her shoulders tense.
“We have your Aunt Catherine to see as well. Just a cup of tea will be fine...”
Angela took a deep breath. There was no point in getting annoyed or upset about her saying they wouldn’t be staying long. Making it sound as though the visit was an ordeal. She always said that – every single time they came up to see her. This was how her mother was – half the time she didn’t even realise what she was saying. It was stupid to expect anything different from her.
Then, she found herself smiling when she saw her father following behind with a huge box of groceries.
“Oh, Daddy, you shouldn’t have,” she said, although she was delighted. “You gave me loads of stuff when you dropped me last week.”
“Will you stop! Wouldn’t it be nice if I came with one hand as long as the other?” he said, laughing. “We’re making sure you get the best of Tullamore food. You couldn’t be sure what you were eating up here in Dublin – they could give you any oul’ shite at all.”
“Seán!” her mother said. “The language of you! It’s your daughter you’re talking to, not one of the boys in the bar.”
Seán winked at Angela. “As I say, Angela, at least you know the beef and the lamb is coming from the butcher just down the road from us.”
They all went down the hallway and Angela opened the door to let them into her room.
“Oh, it is nice and warm,” her mother said, looking around her approvingly. “And you have the place looking lovely too.”
Angela wondered how she managed to make a compliment sound like a criticism.
“You wouldn’t think you could fit so much into one room...a bed and a wardrobe and the table and armchairs and everything...” She paused as though she’d been about to say something then changed her mind. She handed Angela the cake box and the bag with the magazines. “I thought I’d bring something to have with the tea, but I can see you’ve already bought some cakes...”
“It doesn’t matter,” Angela said. “I wanted to have something for you anyway. If there’s too many you can always take some of them with you to Aunt Catherine.”
Nance Tracey nodd
ed her head, although her eyes looked distracted.
“Or I can take some into the office in the morning – they won’t go to waste.”
Her father put the grocery box down on the table then came over to give her a big hug.
“You’re looking great, Angela,” he said, stepping back to look at her. “I don’t know where you got the good looks from.”
Her mother laughed now. “Well, that’s a nice thing to be saying!”
“Go on!” he said, throwing an arm about his wife’s shoulders. “You know perfectly well you’re like two peas in a pod.” He beamed at Angela. “How many times have I said it? You’re just like your mother was at your age. The spit of her. Fiona and Bridget are a mix of the two of us, but there’s no denying who you take after. You were the lucky one taking your mother’s looks.”
Angela smiled back at him and shook her head. “You better not let the others hear you saying that.”
“Pay no heed to him.” Her mother wriggled out from under her father’s arm, rolling her eyes and making an exasperated sound. “He’s talking nonsense. He’s forever telling Fiona and Bridget how good-looking they are too. Nobody pays a bit of attention to him.” She went over and sat down in one of the armchairs, glancing around her.
“That’s nice,” Seán Tracey said, in mock indignation. “A poor man trying to give his wife and his daughter a compliment and he gets told he’s talking nonsense.” He went over to stand by the fireplace. “A fine room, Angela. And in a fine old house.”
“Well, sit down now in front of the fire,” she said. “The kettle is boiled and I’ll have the tea ready in a few minutes.”
Her mother started to get up from the chair. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I only have the teapot to bring down from the kitchen – everything else is already here.”
A Letter From America Page 3