The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  The hospital receptionist recognized Norah King’s children because they’d visited every day, and she gladly waved them back to the women’s ward. “Wait’ll ya ma sees ya’s!”

  Patients and personnel applauded and called out as the striking foursome rushed by.

  “Look at the beautiful bride!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Congratulations to you and the three grooms.”

  “We’re her brothers.”

  “What in the world’s going on?”

  “Our mother’s a patient here.”

  When Norah heard what sounded like her own children’s voices, she was puzzled—and then Kay appeared in the ward’s wide doorway, brothers John and Joe on either side of her, Pat trailing behind with the train and veil.

  Kay’s fresh Lilly of the Valley fragrance wafted through the stuffy room as she rushed to her mother’s bedside accompanied by the sighs and best wishes of the other women in the ward. “Hi, Mum. How do you like my wedding dress?”

  Norah beamed with pride. These gorgeous young people are me own. Her hands reached for Kay’s face. “Oh my darlin’ girl, if you aren’t the most beautiful bride I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  After the gorgeous foursome left, Norah lay back on her pillow with every intention of finishing the Rosary, but, for the moment, she closed her eyes and blissfully recalled her own love story and wedding day.

  John Joseph King promised Norah Catherine Foley that he would one day come to America “when the time is right,” but her hope waned. It had been too long.

  Like Norah’s family, John Joseph’s owned their farmland outright, along with a couple of cows, several pigs, lambs and chickens, one rooster, and that small fishing boat. No matter how hard times got, with English occupation and merciless discrimination toward Roman Catholics, the Kings always had the ability to put food on the table. And in Norah’s mind that was the problem. John Joseph King was much too comfortable. Though he’d never own the farm—it would go to his eldest brother Ian upon the passing of their father—John Joseph did have the promise of always being provided for, but he alone. The farm wasn’t big enough to support another family.

  Then, in Ireland’s desperate move for self-government away from English rule, came the Easter Rising of 1916. It began in Dublin’s General Post Office, where a Proclamation of Independence was read, and the grand Greek Revival building, burned and gutted in the ensuing battle. All of Ireland suffered as patriots were hanged, shot or imprisoned. Many young men were wrongly targeted as I.R.A., and none were free of suspicion—even in the small village of Carna, on the west coast of Ireland, that John Joseph called home.

  Norah Catherine Foley never lacked for suitors in America but she didn’t like “steppin’ out” with a lot of fellas. It’s not respectable. I’ll know the one when he comes along. I did once and I’m confident God will be right there helpin’ me as before. To date, no one had taken her first love’s place. From time to time, John Joseph would write to her with news and a hint of affection. “Though I’m lonely for your company, I’m getting on fine.” “How’s Boston?” “Me mother met her Maker.”

  At last, the kind of letter Norah hoped and prayed and looked for every day for five years finally arrived.

  To Norah Foley,

  This is to let you know that I’m coming to America on the Allan Line Steamship Laurentian, the first of August 1917. I can only assume you’ll know where we berth and will be there to meet me. I want to marry you Norah Foley and would like to do so as soon as the United States of America deems our union legal. My father and brother are sending me off with some money so as soon as we can I’d like to set up housekeeping and get on with it. This is of course unless you’ve met someone else. In that case, I’ll still be coming to America and trust you’ll tell me where I can find work and board. I await your answer to both situations and send you my love. I hope it’s not too late.

  John Joseph King

  Ard East, Carna, County Galway, Ireland

  According to an old Irish saying, “November is the time to wed, the harvest’s in and it’s cold in bed.”

  The Traditional Irish Wedding

  by Bridget Haggerty

  John did indeed arrive in Boston on August first, the engagement was short, and the long-separated couple selected a November date for their nuptials.

  Mr. and Mrs. Collins were delighted by Norah’s news, and so fond of the maid they came to call “practically a member of the family,” they offered to give Norah and her young man a small wedding.

  The Collinses sat where Norah’s parents would have, front pew, left side of the middle aisle, Saint Aidan’s Church, Brookline, Massachusetts, November 21, 1917. When Monsignor John T. Creagh asked, “Who gives this woman to this man?” Mr. Collins stood dutifully at Norah’s side and answered, “I do, in proxy of her father, Mr. John Patrick Foley, who lives in Ireland.” Mrs. Collins nodded in agreement, and the feathers on her full-brimmed, aubergine hat nodded with her.

  Saint Aidan’s Church

  BROOKLINE, MASS.

  That Norah and John had a formal wedding at that particular church was extraordinary for the time and place. They were, respectfully, a domestic and a laborer. Saint Aidan’s was one of the most prosperous and beautiful parishes in the archdiocese, and his Eminence, Cardinal O’Connell, Archbishop of Boston, moved to Brookline with the express purpose of making it his own church home.

  When Mr. and Mrs. John Joseph King stepped out of Saint Aidan’s into the crisp autumn air, Norah glowed, Husband and wife … Her long veil blew in the wind and danced around them both while brilliantly colored leaves fell from surrounding trees and swirled on the ground, as if in merry celebration. John Joseph impetuously lifted his bride, and she held on to her headpiece with the same hand that held her bouquet; the other clung to his shoulder. The elated groom gave his bride two short kisses while church bells tolled and guests threw rice. Norah had never been happier than at this moment. And now we’re at the beginnin’ of our life together.

  The reception took place at the Collins home on tree-lined Fuller Street, with a celebratory lunch of amber consommé; Waldorf salad,; crown roast beef; mashed potatoes; gravy; a relish tray of celery, olives, gherkin pickles and radishes; green peas with pearl onions; fresh horseradish; and Parker House rolls—compliments of Norah’s dear friend Mary Flaherty.

  When the meal was over, Mr. Collins extended an invitation to the twenty guests. “Please come into the parlor.” The formal room was festooned with white tulle, chrysanthemums, and ferns.

  The wedding cake, displayed on a small table, was topped with two small china bells, each hand-painted with tiny shamrocks and tied together with a white satin ribbon bow, its long streamers cascading over the three layers of white cake and butter cream frosting. More ferns encircled the traditional confection, and the table’s edge was scalloped with additional tulle.

  Norah took a silver cake knife into her gloved hand and whispered, “Will you join me now, John, and we’ll cut the first piece together?”

  John Joseph put his huge hands over her one, pushed down on the cake without announcement, and looked up with a smile. “There. It’s done now, Mrs. King.”

  Norah beamed, and everyone in the room lightly applauded. Next, Mrs. Collins and her friend Mrs. Rose Kennedy, who lived only two streets over on Beal, walked to the piano, stood side by side, and sang “Oh Promise Me” to the accompaniment of teenage Elizabeth Collins’s skillful playing. “Oh promise me that you will take my hand.”

  Last May, the Kennedy children’s nanny had taken ill at a most inopportune time—the christening day of their second child. Norah volunteered her Sunday afternoon off to fill in and accompany the prominent family (Mrs. Kennedy’s father, “Honey Fitz,” was a former mayor of Boston) to Saint Aidan’s Church, where she looked after active two-year-old Joseph while his baby brother, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was being duly christened by, Monsignor Creagh.

  Mayor John F. “Honey Fitz”


  Fitzgerald

  City Hall and Kings Chapel

  SCHOOL STREET, BOSTON, MASS.

  Rose Kennedy never forgot a kindness and offered to assist Madeline Collins however she could with “dear Norah’s wedding lunch.” “Oh Promise Me” and the exquisite wedding cake bells did very nicely.

  Remembering those bright, hope-filled days brought Norah Catherine Foley King such joy, and she prayed that Kay and Steve would have a long, happy, peaceful life together. “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

  CHAPTER 13

  Oh Mary! We crown thee with blossoms today

  Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May.

  “BRING FLOWERS OF THE RAREST”

  MARY E. WALSH

  MARRIED LIFE AGREED WITH KAY King Chalpin, all four weeks of it. She appreciated the well-being of living “close enough and far enough” in nearby Quincy. Should her disgruntled father decide to drop by, it would take some effort and that’s exactly the way Steve wanted it for his bride’s peace of mind.

  The newlyweds lived on the top floor of a large Victorian home long ago converted into apartments. Theirs was the smallest, and according to the neighbors, who’d all had a look, also the coziest, with cute curtains Kay had sewn herself, and a few pieces of fairly decent hand-me-down furniture from here and there: bed, dresser, rocking chair, and hassock.

  Steve’s parents gave them a brand-new brocade sofa, a bit blue for Kay’s taste but she was too appreciative to say a word. And the small mahogany coffee table in front of it was a gift from their entire wedding party who pooled their money in order to get the couple “something solid.” Rosemary suggested the table and they all jumped at the idea.

  Prior to the wedding, Kay had been particularly excited when they found a kitchen table and chairs at a wholesale furniture store. “This is exactly what I had in mind. I love it!”

  Steve said it was too pricey. “We can use the coffee table for the time being.” But he surprised his bride, and the maple set was in place when they returned home from their honeymoon in Plymouth.

  The new Mrs. Chalpin quickly made two tablecloths, “one in use, and one in reserve.” Everything was falling into place nicely, and now Kay was looking forward to completing her classes at The Katherine Gibbs School and getting a better job.

  The personnel manager of The Commonwealth Bank of New England was seeking to hire a couple of upcoming graduates who, “are really on the ball” and went to The Katherine Gibbs School to find them, with the request that they should be of Irish descent, if at all possible. The bank’s founders had established this policy from the beginning. “Not to the exclusion of others,” they explained, “but simply to give our own a running start.”

  Miss Olive Gilmore, one of the school’s foremost teachers, was intrigued by Kay King, now Chalpin, impressed by the working-class student’s ability to catch on quickly and equally impressed when she reviewed her student’s written work. However, it would be remiss to omit what Miss Gilmore said to one of her colleagues when she learned Miss King was to be married. “What a waste of that young lady’s abilities. Now she’ll be keeping track of diapers instead of ledgers.”

  Shortly before graduation, and out of common courtesy, Miss Gilmore asked Kay what she’d already asked several other students in her advanced accounting class. “So, Miss King, I mean Mrs. Chalpin, what do you intend to do after graduation?”

  Kay knew people like Olive Gilmore had pat assumptions about South Boston’s Irish because of what the teacher had said in the past. “Miss King, you’ve enlightened me. I was under the impression parochial schools emphasized creed over the three R’s. Your math skills tell me otherwise.”

  Kay gladly stated what she and her husband had planned. “First of all, Miss Gilmore, I’ll begin looking for a better paying job. My education here has made that possible. Thank you. Then my husband and I plan to save for a down payment on a house, and I’ll keep working, so we can build our savings up again. After that, God willing, we’ll begin a family.”

  “Wonderful. Tell me now, is your husband in the service? How in the world is this Southie couple going to buy a house? No doubt her husband’s an enlisted man.

  Kay caught Miss Gilmore’s drift. “My husband’s a packaging engineer, and Uncle Sam says he’s more valuable to the war effort stateside because of his job.” The new wife was ready to pop her buttons because of her husband’s professional status. “The Company he works for provides food to the military.”

  “Excellent, excellent. A home-front soldier.” Got herself a college man. Beauty can do that.

  “Thank you for asking, Miss Gilmore” Bet she thought I was headed for barefoot and pregnant.

  Young Mrs. Chalpin and her older sister boarded a train for downtown Boston, and there wasn’t a seat to be found, until Kay spotted one. “Over here, Ro. Age before beauty, you take it.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. You’re the old married woman, you take it.” Kay did.

  Rosemary put her hand through an overhead loop, and their knees kept bumping against each other as they discussed the day’s activities, primarily shopping at department stores. They’d search the racks at R.H. White (and buy some hand-dipped chocolates); Gilchrist’s, Jordan Marsh, and Filene’s upstairs, and then hunt Filene’s Basement. “Our usual route, right, Ro?”

  “Don’t forget the Public Garden. I still want to see the flowers. Patsy said they’re like something out of a storybook, crocuses, tulips and daffodils everywhere.”

  “This spring’s so late. It’s a miracle they even showed up.”

  “So, you’re game, Mrs. Chalpin?”

  The Boston Public Garden

  There’s no place quite like the beautiful city of Boston in the spring. “And it happened that the tulips in Copley Square opened that day, and shone in the sun like lighted lamps.”

  The Promised Land

  by Mary Antin

  “Fine with me. But let’s take the scenic route instead of Tremont. Okay? And then back to Jordan’s for those delicious muffins.” Kay had been looking forward to the delectable blueberry baked goods all week.

  “Perfect. And let’s buy something for Rita. She was so sad not to join us.”

  “I don’t know who felt worse, Rita or Mum feeling bad for Rita. But work is work, and she has to be there or else it’s out the door, no more job at Grants.”

  “It still feels empty without her.”

  This was a shopping ritual for the King sisters: get dressed up; go downtown. The Public Garden was an unusual detour.

  The two eye-catching young ladies were oblivious to turning heads as they walked up Park Street, past the State House and along Beacon Street in the sunny, unseasonably cold weather, both without hats. Kay was freezing to death in her khaki all-weather coat, so wrongly named, but wore the stylish balmacaan because it was new and complemented her dark curls. Rosemary was snug as a bug in the red coat, and slipped her arm through Kay’s. “I’ll keep you warm, kiddo.” Her golden hair bounced with every step.

  “Can you believe we both found something today?” Rosemary was jubilant. They’d had great luck at Filene’s Basement and carried the department store bags two in hand so they could remain walking arm in arm.

  “Rita’s going to love those slippers,” Kay happily declared.

  With straight-backed strides and vibrant smiles they appeared, as they were, confident and delighted in each other’s company, and every so often, they stopped to admire a Beacon Hill mansion along the way.

  “Ro, can you imagine how wonderful it would be to live in one of those swanky houses?”

  Jordan Marsh

  Blueberry Muffins

  Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Grease and flour a 12-cup muffin tin, and also the top of the pan (batter may spill over).

  ½ cup butter (Jordan›s used Crisco)

  1 cup granulated sugar

  1/2
teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  2 eggs

  2 cups all purpose flour

  ½ cup milk

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1-½ cups of blueberries, cleaned and rinsed

  Sugar for sprinkling on top

  Cream together butter, sugar, and salt for 3 minutes. Add baking powder and eggs and mix well. Add flour, milk, and vanilla, and mix well again. Gently fold in blueberries.

  Fill cups to the top. Sprinkle sugar on each muffin.

  Bake at 450° for 5 minutes and drop temperature to 375°. Bake 25 to 30 minutes more and watch closely at this point. Check doneness by poking a knife in the center of one muffin. When it comes out clean, the muffins are ready. Cool slightly and remove from pans.

  Rosemary stepped back. “At one time this coat did.” She made a quarter-turn and tucked her arm through Kay’s again. Rose Red and Snow White ended the afternoon with a much-anticipated treat.

  Jordan Marsh’s Tearoom was alive with the sounds of Saturday shoppers: the hum of conversations, clink of silverware, cups returning to saucers, bustling steps of waitresses, whoosh of the swinging in and out kitchen doors, and the rustle of shopping bags being placed by or picked up from beside their owners feet like cherished pets. The room smelled of coffee, tea, baked goods, hot dishes, cigarette smoke, and a plethora of perfumes.

  The King sisters drank pots of hot tea and ate “too many of those scrumptious muffins,” and Kay announced her good news. “Ro, I have an interview with The Commonwealth Bank of New England. Can you believe it?”

  “Fantastic. How did that come about?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. You’ve seen their building, haven’t you? It’s by the old State House.”

  “Of course, but I never thought my sister would be working there.”