1949

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Where do you get such ridiculous notions?” Hector put down his newspaper. “Is there something wrong with you, that you turn your back on the highest honor a woman can receive?”

  Look at him, thought Ursula. Smug as a cat in the sun. The sort of man who was content to be dominated by a foreign king, and believes men have every right to dominate women.

  Excusing herself, she left the table.

  Later she asked Louise, “How could you have married an aspiring Brit?”

  Pleating her apron between her fingers, the older woman said softly, “I was growing old alone, Precious. Please God you never learn what loneliness can do to a woman.”

  Almost every day thereafter the subject of Ursula’s marriage was broached at number 16. Louise dutifully supported her husband on the issue. At last Ursula announced she needed to live closer to the broadcasting station, packed her things and moved out.

  Since number 16 was only a short walk from Henry Street, Louise saw through the pretext but wisely said nothing.

  “That girl will come to no good,” Hector Hamilton predicted.

  Ursula found a furnished room above a greengrocer’s shop in Moore Street. A weather-beaten blue door opened onto a gaslit stair that led up to a cramped warren of rental accommodations. The landlady, who was bent almost double with the degenerative bone disease that afflicted many elderly Irish women, had a beaky, avaricious nose and a voice that could slice meat. “Pay every Friday and don’t be takin’ no men upstairs,” she stipulated. “This is a daycent house.”

  Instead of a wardrobe to hang clothes in, Ursula would have a piece of rope angled across a corner and concealed by a limp curtain. Hygienic facilities consisted of a rusty cold-water tap and a shared toilet on the stair landing. Yet the room was luxurious compared to the nearby tenements, which had no running water and only a single privy in the yard to serve a dozen or more large families.

  As soon as Ursula moved in she borrowed a hammer from one of the shopkeepers in Moore Street and drove a nail into the wall opposite her bed. There she hung an old bridle of Saoirse’s. Every morning when she opened her eyes, it would be the first thing she saw.

  Next she put up shelves to hold her growing collection of books, including Ned’s textbooks from Saint Enda’s, Irish poetry, French plays, and German philosophy. Her latest purchase was a secondhand copy of Ann Veronica. This early novel by H.G. Wells, with a heroine who rejected conventional marriage, had inspired generations of feminists.

  Ursula searched the room until she found a floorboard that could be lifted. The area beneath became a secret repository for the Mauser—and, carefully pressed between two pieces of pasteboard, a dried white rose.

  Her room was only a two-minute walk from the broadcasting station. She emerged every morning into the cheerful bustle and excitement of the Moore Street market, where every stallholder soon learned her name and shouted a greeting. Her flashing grin was their reward.

  In October Séumas Hughes was promoted to assistant station director. Mairead Ní Ghráda became the full-time announcer. Although an Irish speaker, she opened each day’s transmission simply with “Station calling, Dublin 2RN.”

  23 October 1929

  BLACK THURSDAY

  Wave of Panic Selling Hits U.S. Stock Market

  29 October 1929

  WALL STREET CRASHES!

  Stock Prices Fall $14 Billion

  Nationwide Stampede to Unload Shares

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the day the American stock market collapsed eleven speculators committed suicide and hysterical crowds gathered in Wall Street. The reassurances of bankers and brokers were not believed. An unprecedented spree of easy money and overconfidence had come to an abrupt end. Countless investors saw themselves facing ruin.

  Within hours shares began to fall dramatically in London as well. The repercussions spread outward in concentric circles of despair until a pall of financial disaster encircled the globe. Even in Ireland, which had little direct experience of stocks and shares, people huddled around the wireless, listening anxiously to the latest reports, worrying about sons and brothers who had gone to the States to make their fortunes.

  2RN advertised for a news editor. “Male, of course,” as Ursula said scornfully.

  In Washington the new president, Herbert Hoover, asked Congress for extra funds for a massive federal construction program to create jobs for the millions who were suddenly out of work. A proposed £42 million public works program was announced in London, but Tories and Liberals alike agreed it would be too little, too late.

  More suicides were reported.

  “Dear Henry,” Ursula wrote, “Are you all right? Did you lose any money in the panic? Please send me a letter as soon as possible. I am worried.”

  Henry wouldn’t do anything foolish, she assured herself. He has too much common sense.

  She waited with growing anxiety for a letter that did not come.

  In November a new dirigible piloted by an Irishman flew along the east coast of Ireland on its first trials.1 Ursula went out into the street to gaze up at the sleek airship floating over Dublin in immaculate silence.

  Magic.

  “Sorry?” A man on the footpath was looking at Ursula quizzically.

  I must have been thinking out loud. “I said magic,” she repeated, indicating the silvery shape overhead.

  “Not at all. Don’t you know how it works? The whole thing’s full of gas, y’see, and…” Removing his cap and tucking it under his arm, he explained his own version of the aerodynamics of airships. His tone was that of one instructing a very small child.

  “You’re very kind,” Ursula murmured when he finished. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly understand. I’m only a woman.”

  Still no letter from Henry. She wrote again, with Urgent printed large on the envelope.

  At the end of November the new Savoy Cinema was opened by W.T. Cosgrave. The theater’s first offering was a documentary film entitled Ireland, produced by the government. After carefully counting and recounting the coins in her purse, Ursula joined the queue to buy tickets. A cold drizzle was falling. She turned up the collar of her coat.

  “Still standing in line, I see,” remarked a voice behind her.

  She spun around to gaze up into Finbar Cassidy’s warm brown eyes. Her spirits lifted on an unexpected tide. “Will you join me?”

  “I’d much rather stay out here in the rain freezing to death,” he said. “But sure, we can’t let you go in alone.” He offered his arm.

  Ursula had changed, he noticed. The planes of her cheekbones were sharper and the line of her jaw was leaner, but her smile still raced his heart.

  There was a thrill of excitement as the house pianist played a thundering overture. The film itself proved to be thinly disguised Free State propaganda. Had she been alone Ursula would have walked out halfway through. Finbar was not impressed, either. “They’re trying to convince us that everything’s wonderful when the dogs in the street are howling about the depression,” he said. “Ag duine féin is fearr a fhios cá luíonn an bhróg air.”

  “‘The wearer best knows where the shoe pinches,’” Ursula translated. “I didn’t know you spoke Irish.”

  “The language isn’t as popular as it used to be,” he said. “After independence Gaelic language and culture underwent a massive revival, but enthusiasm is beginning to fade now. I think it’s been promoted too hard. A lot of people want to think of themselves as modern, whatever that is, and resent being pushed back into the past.

  “I’m Gaelic from topknot to toenails, me, and proud of it. I learned Irish before I learned English. But I’m also a civil servant, so I trim my sails to the prevailing wind. One must do that in government.

  “Sometimes, though…” he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, “sometimes I think we’d be happier with no government at all. Anarchy’s better suited to the Irish character.”

  As he had intended, Ursula laughed. “I can’t qu
ite picture you as an anarchist, Finbar.”

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know. I’m an amazing man entirely. Going to run for office one of these days.” He ran his thumbs under the lapels of his jacket. “Do you fancy me as a T.D.?”*

  Ursula thought he was still teasing. “Representing the anarchist party, I assume?”

  Finbar shook his head. “Joined Cumann na nGaedheal a while back.” Suddenly she realized he was serious. “Cosgrave’s doing his best under incredibly difficult circumstances. He’s established an excellent police force and is trying to return the country to normal, God help him. Besides, he looks like the manager of a dry goods store and I find that refreshing after all those Republican characters swaggering around in trench coats and slouch hats.”

  Ursula bit her lip but said nothing.

  After the cinema she let Finbar walk her back to her lodgings. On the stoop she hesitated. This was not Gardiner Street, with Louise waiting to offer a prospective suitor a glass of whiskey and an apple cake baked in a bastible with hot coals on the lid.

  “I’m afraid I can’t invite you in,” Ursula said. “I only have a furnished room upstairs and no gentlemen are allowed above the ground floor.”

  “I’ll forgive you if you’ll promise to come out with me again.”

  When Finbar invited her to a pre-Christmas party in his office she accepted.

  The Free State government consisted almost entirely of young men thrust into a situation for which nothing had prepared them. They were learning as quickly as they could, usually from the mistakes they made. Those in External Affairs thought of themselves as diplomats in training. Quickwitted and articulate, they specialized in stimulating conversation.

  Ursula thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

  Later she lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling, envisioning a map of Europe superimposed over the cracked plaster. New political movements were sweeping from country to country. Communism, fascism, and resurgent nationalism were shaping the postwar world. Ursula could almost feel the energy crackling across the Continent.

  Its own revolution over, Ireland was tame by comparison. The drama was elsewhere.

  Finbar Cassidy joined the exodus of city dwellers who traditionally returned to their families for Christmas. He traveled to Donegal; Ursula went to Clare.

  She was startled when she saw Norah Daly. The old woman had grown frighteningly thin; her clothes hung on her body like a dress on a wire hanger. Her only explanation was, “I just don’t have the appetite I used to.”

  “If something’s wrong with you, Aunt Norah, use the money I send for Saoirse’s oats and go to the doctor.”

  Norah shook her head. “No need. No need at all.”

  When Ursula leaned on the gate and whistled, the gray horse came trotting toward her across the meadow. He looked well-nourished. His coat, though winter shaggy, had been recently brushed, and his hooves were freshly shod.

  But he was no longer a stallion. Some things could not be healed.

  Next morning Ursula walked the fields, saddened to observe they had not been properly tidied after the harvest. Frank had left too much stubble and too many broken stalks. Field walls had stones missing. The lower pasture needed draining and the earth gave off a boggy, sour smell.

  Ned Halloran arrived at the farm two days before Christmas, bringing the traditional gift of a box of lemons and oranges. He was more gray and grim than ever, but at least he was home. For a little while. Like a bird perched on a branch, he seemed about to fly away at any moment.

  Eileen and her husband made no appearance at the farm. No one mentioned them. They had ceased to be.

  The talk around the table was mainly about the farm and the worsening economic situation. One evening Norah produced a letter with a foreign stamp on the envelope. “This arrived in the post today. From Kathleen. She and her husband have been estranged for a long time, you know, and now—”

  “Estranged?” queried Ursula. “I should have thought they would be divorced by now. Is there not divorce in America?”

  Norah was shocked. “Our Kathleen’s a good Catholic! But her marriage is over anyway, so it is. That husband of hers lost a lot of money in the crash and has killed himself.”

  The Hallorans exchanged looks around the table. “She’s better off without him,” Ned said at last.

  “God forgive you,” Norah breathed.

  “It’s true. Alexander Campbell was a domineering man who made her life a misery. Pass the cream, will you?” He sniffed the proffered jug suspiciously. “Has this turned?”

  “What will Kathleen do without a husband?” Frank wondered aloud. “Will she be wanting to come home?” Behind his eyes Ursula saw the sums already being done, the careful calculation of the cost of another person on the farm.

  Norah shook her head. “The girl wasn’t left penniless, thank God. When they separated Mr. Campbell gave her a settlement in her own name, and she tells me she had the good sense to invest in property rather than shares.”

  “She can make a new life for herself,” Lucy remarked enviously. “Ned, was there not some other man she liked very much? Some American?”

  Ursula turned toward Ned. “The priest who married you and Mama was an American, and I overheard you telling Mama that he was a close friend of Kathleen’s. Is he the—?”

  “Not a priest!” cried Norah, throwing up her hands in horror. “Our Kathleen would never!”

  “You remember too much,” Ned growled to Ursula in an undertone. He told the others, “Ursula was just a wee child at the time. She misunderstood.”

  She nodded meekly. “I’m sure I did, Papa.”

  Lying in bed that night, she heard Norah’s words echo in her mind. “That husband of hers lost a lot of money in the crash and has killed himself.”

  Before Ursula returned to Dublin she posted another urgent letter to Henry Mooney from the Ennis post office. She rode into town on Saoirse, aware that she was trying to recapture a time forever lost.

  But for a little while it came back. Clean wind off the western sea; little fields nestled within the embrace of low stone walls; the road ahead bracketed by a pair of gray ears.

  On the second day of the new year the All-India National Congress overwhelmingly passed Mahatma Gandhi’s resolution demanding complete independence from Britain. “They won’t get it,” Ursula predicted gloomily. “And even if they do, the British will have some nasty trick up their sleeve at the end, like partitioning the country before they leave.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  3 January 1930

  Dear Ursula,

  I apologize for not writing sooner. I dislike sending bad news. I did lose money in the crash, quite a lot in fact, but not to worry. With Ella’s love and encouragement I will get through this. At least we have our health and each other. Many people are worse off than we are.

  Thank you for telling me about Kathleen. Although I never met the lady I shall send her a letter of condolence, for Ned’s sake.

  When time allows and I am not rushed off my feet playing catchup, I shall write a good long letter and tell you everything. Until then, do not forget

  Your Henry

  As the year progressed the world was caught in the grip of the Great Depression. Ireland suffered along with everyone else.

  From the start of independence some of the Anglo-Irish had simply pretended that 1921 never happened and nothing had basically changed. Their interests remained limited to bridge games and golf and watching rugby at Lansdowne Road, or to the racecourse and the hunting field. The more thoughtful Irish Protestants, however, felt themselves to be genuinely Irish and resented being called “West Brits.” They took a sincere interest in building up the new state and were a valuable asset.

  Yet none of them could escape the consequences of the economic collapse. Members of the landed gentry who had been forced to sell the bulk of their estates after the War of Independence found that what remained would not support their Big House lifestyles.


  Ordinary farmers were having a struggle. Cattle and sheep prices fell drastically as former export markets dried up. Butter and bacon no longer could be sold abroad.

  In urban areas salaries were cut and unemployment levels soared. Anyone with a job held on to it with fierce determination. Women in office work comprised less than 2 percent of the paid labor force.1 Everyone told Ursula how lucky she was to draw a pay packet every week.

  In childhood she had accepted poverty as the norm. Ireland was poor, the people she knew were poor, that was just the way it was. Money was not discussed because no one had any.

  Until the depression, Ursula had never thought of the lack of money as a negative force sufficient to crush the soul. But in America people were jumping out of windows because they had lost their money. And in Dublin, if people were not talking about the depression, they were carrying it in their eyes.

  Ursula began sending a monthly postal order to America. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Henry Mooney. The accompanying note read simply, Thank you.

  The high point of 1930 was the election of the Irish Free State to the Council of the League of Nations.

  Ursula immediately sent a letter of congratulations to Seán Lester. He replied, “I am grateful that you remember me. Your cheerful letter brought a breeze off the Liffey into this stuffy office, so please do keep writing. I promise to keep you apprised of events here. Soon we will be busier than ever. Ireland will hold in turn both the presidency of the Council and the acting presidency of the Assembly.” Lester did not repeat his offer of a job, however. The Free State government was penurious when it came to External Affairs.

  Finbar Cassidy called occasionally to take Ursula out for a meal or to the cinema. She accepted because he never pressured her. And he was amusing.

  But in the small hours of the morning when she could not sleep, she felt as if invisible walls were climbing higher around her. Penning her in.