1949

by Morgan Llywelyn

  During the decade that followed the Great War no one had wanted to be reminded of its horrors. As the depression bit deep, the war acquired a perverse popularity. Memoirs, novels, and plays on the subject proliferated, competing with one another to match the black mood of the public. Bookstores offered large displays of All Quiet On the Western Front, A Farewell To Arms, and T.E. Lawrence’s runaway bestseller, Revolt in the Desert.

  Conversely, since the Civil War interest in Irish culture was waning. Traditional music was no longer popular and even the language movement was in decline. The government was not encouraging the Celtic Revival that had inspired the leaders of 1916.

  Christmas 1930 was very bleak.

  In 1931 Winston Churchill remarked in the House of Commons that under the Statutes of Westminster Ireland could, at any time, legally repudiate every provision of the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921.2 There was no reaction from the Free State government—which the Treaty had brought into power.

  One or two newspapers repeated Churchill’s words on the inside pages, but they were not mentioned on the wireless.

  Ursula once again approached Clandillon. Experience had taught her that a man could be straightforward about what he wanted but women must be circumspect. “The Dáil is criticizing us for playing too much highbrow music,” she told the station director.

  He sighed. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Ursula noticed that his feet were clad only in woolly socks. It was a bad day, his gout was bothering him.

  “They also say the station is costing too much. My latest request for funds got nothing but a sharp remark about the depression.”

  “I’m not willing to take a smaller salary to help Posts and Telegraphs balance their budget,” Clandillon grumbled. “My wife…” He sat down heavily and began massaging his legs.

  Ursula said brightly, “If there’s too much classical music, might we not cut a bit of it and have a longer news program? Include a little analysis of what’s happening abroad. Quote the latest from Winston Churchill, for example. If we expanded the news department we might get more advertising revenue.” She treated him to one of her smiles.

  Clandillon’s eyes glinted with a sudden vision of possibilities. “More advertising revenue?”

  “To help us become self-supporting. Of course,” Ursula murmured, “that’s just an idea.”

  “We only have one news editor,” Clandillon said slowly, thinking through the ramifications, “and he sometimes doubles as a part-time sound technician. We could hardly handle any expansion of the news department.”

  “Is there any reason why we couldn’t employ an assistant editor?”

  He slumped in his chair. “You know the reason. We can’t afford it.”

  “Suppose…” Ursula looked toward the ceiling as if seeking inspiration, “…just suppose we had someone in-house already who would take on the additional work without expecting higher wages? At least until the advertising revenue picks up?”

  1 June 1931

  Dear Henry,

  Your Little Business is now assistant news editor at 2RN! I am increasing my correspondence with friends abroad and will be grateful for any newsworthy nugget from America. Hard news only, please. No social items, no household hints or cookery. I intend to monopolise the international end of things and leave domestic news to the senior editor. I also am going to make a point of personally thanking the newsreader after a good programme. No one bothers to do that, but I know I would appreciate it if I were newsreader.

  I have been given a battered (but new to me) desk and filing cabinet, plus access to the telephone. My salary is increased to the princely sum of three pounds ten shillings a week. Best of all, I am relieved from tea-making duties.

  Ursula added her small pay rise to the sum she put aside to repay Ella.

  In her next letter from England Fliss wrote, “I finally arranged to meet Sir Oswald Mosley through a mutual acquaintance. My father would be furious if he knew. Sir Oswald is the most remarkable man, Ursula. Even his physical appearance is striking: very tall and elegant. He commands attention wherever he goes.

  “Sir Oswald has left the Labour Party in order to form a new socialist political party. He is full of ideas that will shake this stodgy country of ours to its foundations. Can you believe it, he actually disparages his title for having no meaning? I think that’s very courageous.”

  One Saturday afternoon while she and Finbar were having lunch at Flynn’s in Fleet Street, Ursula mentioned Mosley.

  Finbar frowned. “From what I’ve heard of the man, he’s an out-and-out Fascist, Ursula. Your friend would be well advised to avoid him.”

  “Mussolini is a Fascist and the pope seems to think he’s all right.”

  Finbar’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Pope Pius and Benito Mussolini have something in common.”

  “They’re both Italians, you mean?”

  “More than that. Each man wields supreme authority in what amounts to a totalitarian state, firmly opposed to communism and laisser-faire capitalism alike.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke? What would the priests do if they heard you calling the Church a totalitarian state?”

  “I was teasing and you know it. Roman Catholicism and the nation of Italy are both conservative but there are crucial differences. The pope represents centuries of theological thought. Mussolini is a former socialist who switched to the far right simply because that was the only route to power in Italy after the war.”

  “So he’s an opportunist. That’s no crime.”

  “Mussolini’s not just an opportunist, Ursula; he’s a dictator. And there’s no such thing as a benevolent dictator. The breed is notoriously self-serving.”

  “We’ll never have a dictator in Ireland anyway,” she said confidently. “In a republic, supreme power is held by the people.”

  “This isn’t a republic,” Finbar reminded her.

  7 August 1931

  Dear Ursula,

  Your promotion is good news. (No pun intended.) Congratulations. It is heartening to hear that someone is doing well these days. Things are not so good here. I finally had to let my employees at the printing company go. It was very hard, because they have families too.

  God bless Tilly Burgess, who is willing to go on working for us even though I cannot offer her more than room and board. Tilly is doubly necessary now because Ella has insisted on coming in to help me run the business. “One must work with what one has,” the Cap’n says. You should see her sitting at a desk with little Henrietta on her lap while she does the paste-ups.

  On the fifth of September Mrs. Margaret Pearse, the mother of Pádraic and Willie, ceremonially started the presses rolling for the first edition of the Irish Press.

  On that same day Ursula wrote to one of the blond Florentine twins she had known at Surval, inquiring about Benito Mussolini.

  The Italian girl described Mussolini as a man of striking physical presence and almost hypnotic charm. She wrote, “In 1919 Mussolini founded a movement called Fasci di Combattimento, named for the symbol of ancient Roman authority. During the civil unrest that followed the end of the Great War the people had become very disillusioned with their leaders. The government was corrupt from top to bottom. Mussolini and his Fascists urged the appointment of a dictator who was energetic enough—and ruthless enough—to make a clean sweep of Italian politics.

  “At the height of a huge general strike in 1922, Mussolini and his personal militia, the Blackshirts, brought down the government. That October Mussolini became the youngest prime minister in Italian history and promptly set about stabilizing the national economy.

  “His speeches are almost like conversations with the people and we love it. We ask questions and he answers, sometimes he even makes jokes. With the army behind him and the people at his feet, Mussolini will create another Roman Empire. He is II Duce;* our new Caesar!”

  20 October 1931

  IRA OUTLAWED

  Saorstát Éireann Declares Irish Republ
ican Army an Illegal Organisation

  Chapter Nineteen

  The lessons of the Irish Civil War had not been lost on the men now in government. By declaring the IRA illegal, the treatyites hoped to pull the Republicans’ teeth. The nation could allow only one army within its borders and that army must be apolitical, giving its allegiance to the Free State rather than to any individual.

  This was the opposite of the ancient Irish custom whereby warriors swore themselves to their chieftain.

  Finbar Cassidy was in love with Ursula. He never spoke of it, never even hinted. He was glad she was willing to go out with him at all. For now, it was enough to be friends.

  For now.

  Centuries of abusive landlordism had left the Irish with a passion for owning their own homes. As she lay dying of tuberculosis, Finbar’s mother had extracted a promise that he would not marry until he could afford to buy a house for his wife. On a civil servant’s income that was still years in the future. So when he was with Ursula, Finbar tried to behave as if a priest were looking over his shoulder.

  Ursula was a puzzle to him. She never spoke of her childhood. From her passport, Finbar knew that her parents were Ned and Síle Halloran. When he tried to learn more about them she was evasive. “My mother was murdered by the Tans. I don’t like to talk about it. Aside from that, I was an ordinary child and my parents were ordinary parents. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  He was not sure he believed her, but mystery was part of her attraction. Everything about Ursula attracted him. The way she moved could make his groin heat embarrassingly. When she thought no one was watching, her stride lengthened into a lovely bold swinging walk such as Eve might have employed in the Garden; the walk of a creature natural and free.

  It was more than mortal man could bear, watching her walk like that.

  Ursula was thankful that Finbar seemed content with a platonic relationship. Yet occasionally she could not help wondering if he even found her attractive.

  One Saturday afternoon she lowered the blinds, stripped off her clothes, and studied her reflection in the discolored pier glass in the corner of her room. I really am too thin. Those protruding collarbones make me look like a starved bird. But at least my bones are straight and I have good teeth.

  No one could tell I was a tenement child. My parents could be anyone.

  Anyone.

  15 November 1931

  Dear Henry,

  Our mutual friend Finbar Cassidy hopes to stand for office in the next general election. Unfortunately Finbar belongs to Cumann na nGaedheal, so he will not get my vote. I have joined Fianna Fáil.

  Ursula began compiling biographical information on de Valera and doling it out to the announcer in judiciously selected snippets. Only successes, never failures. By polling day, listeners to 2RN would believe that Dev could walk on water.

  “You know my feelings about Irish politicians,” Henry Mooney wrote to Ursula, “but the political route is the only viable one now. If we continue to employ violence we are no better than those who have used violence against us for so many centuries. And that means they win. They will have made us into themselves.”

  As 1931 wound down electioneering got underway in earnest.

  “If my party nominates me as a delegate to the Dáil, will you campaign for me?” Finbar asked Ursula.

  “For a treatyite? Under no circumstances.”

  He laughed. “I knew your answer before I asked.”

  “I might run for office myself some day,” she remarked with elaborate casualness. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get much encouragement.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a woman,” Finbar said bluntly.

  “What! Why, women were the backbone of Sinn Féin! And when Dev founded Fianna Fáil, Countess Markievicz and Tom Clarke’s wife and Pádraic Pearse’s sister were part of the Executive Committee.”

  “That’s as may be, Ursula, but Irish politics is becoming more conservative because Ireland’s becoming more conservative. It’s a man’s game these days. Besides, if the IRA puts its muscle behind Dev there may be violence in the general election.”

  She lifted her chin. “Do you think I’m afraid?”

  “I don’t think you’re afraid of anything,” he said with unconcealed admiration. “But I would feel better if you’re not involved.”

  Ursula snapped, “I’m not living my life to make some man feel better.”

  Long before the general election, tempers boiled over. De Valera’s Irish Press, which had begun publication the previous September using funds from America, printed stinging editorials that only slightly fell short of calling Cosgrave and his supporters traitors.

  Cosgrave fought back. A Cumann na nGaedheal election poster depicted de Valera being marched along by a gun-carrying member of the IRA, with the caption His Master’s Voice.1

  Members of the two parties had fistfights in the streets.

  Finbar Cassidy was not selected by Cumann na nGaedheal to stand for the Dáil. “It’s just as well,” he breezily assured Ursula. “An aspiring politician should never succeed the first time he seeks office; it’s bad luck. The dogs in the street know that.”

  In reality the pain of rejection bit deep, but he was determined not to show it. He had to live up to Ursula. He knew her better than she realized. Ursula ardently desired nobility of the soul. Her flame scorched everyone who came in contact with her. If he fell short of what she subconsciously demanded he would be discarded without hesitation.

  When the party manifestos were published it was obvious that Cumann na nGaedheal was campaigning for the retention of the status quo. Fianna Fáil was proposing sweeping constitutional, economic, and social changes. Both parties claimed to have the support of the Church.

  “Surely God can’t be on both sides,” Ursula remarked to Geraldine Dillon one Saturday afternoon. Geraldine, with a husband and growing children as well as a full calendar of social obligations, had little free time. On rare occasions she was able to meet Ursula in the Gresham Hotel for afternoon tea.

  Geraldine had ordered Earl Grey with no milk. She took a critical sip before committing herself to drinking the entire cup. The late Joe Plunkett’s sister was a woman of strong opinions, and one of those concerned the proper brewing of tea.

  Satisfied that the beverage met her requirements, she asked, “Why can’t God be on both sides, Ursula? God is on the side of all humanity. That’s what Joe believed.”

  “People say your brother was a mystic,” Ursula replied. “It must be wonderful to have faith as strong as that.” She envied Geraldine, who had known them all. Plunkett, Pearse, Connolly, MacDonagh, MacDermott, Clarke, Ceannt…the slain leaders of 1916, whose faith in God and Ireland had carried them to their deaths with unflinching courage.

  Fianna Fáil was gaining the upper hand in the God-is-with-us stakes. Because the Church condemned secret societies, Fianna Fáil election posters proclaimed, Freemasons Vote for Cosgrave’s Party. You Vote for Fianna Fáil. They are to God and Erin True.

  A seemingly tireless Eamon de Valera campaigned throughout the Irish Free State. Wearing a flowing black cloak and mounted on a white horse, de Valera swept into country towns escorted by a cavalry of Volunteers mounted on horses with tricolor ribbons braided into their manes.

  The IRA flocked to support him. Their idealism had been curdled in their bellies by the actions of their former comrades, and they saw Dev as a new broom that would sweep away the Free Staters once and for all.

  In the cities de Valera led torchlight processions accompanied by a Volunteer honor guard. Men and women wept as he summoned the ghosts of the Rising in his speeches. He spoke in a slow, grave monotone that lacked oratorical brilliance, but he did not have to be an orator. He was saying the words they wanted to hear.

  The “de Valera Show” drew huge crowds and was mentioned in almost every news broadcast. When complaints were received from Cumann na nGaedheal, Ursula m
ade certain that Cosgrave was mentioned just as frequently—in boring recitals of bureaucratic business that had listeners turning off the wireless.

  Meanwhile, she collected every newspaper item she could find about the campaign. She was not above taking discarded newspapers out of rubbish bins to obtain clippings, though she never did it if anyone was watching.

  There were rumors that should de Valera win, he would be prevented from taking office by force.

  On Monday Ursula did not return to the broadcasting studio after lunch. She joined Helena Moloney and the other Republican women who were marching up and down Dame Street carrying placards emblazoned with de Valera’s face and party slogans.

  That night over thirty thousand Dubliners attend a final preelection rally. Eamon de Valera made a point of thanking as many of his supporters as he could, including Ursula Halloran. He only spoke with her for a few moments, but he did say, “I knew your father, he was a fine man.”

  The use of the past tense gave Ursula a start. “He’s still alive!”

  “Of course, of course.” Dev’s long face was ravaged with fatigue. “You’re working at 2RN, I believe?”

  “I am.”

  “I understand I have you to thank for those helpful preelection broadcasts. Once we’re in office I hope you will come to see me.”

  De Valera moved off to speak to someone else, leaving Ursula rooted to the ground. Eamon de Valera! Thanking me personally! She thought she would burst with pride.

  Election day, the sixteenth of February, was a Tuesday. That morning Ursula did not tumble into her bed until dawn. Hoarse from singing rebel songs, red-eyed from cigarette smoke, so overwrought she could not fall asleep, Ursula eventually dragged herself back into her clothes and went off to vote as soon as the polling station opened.

  On the seventeenth of February the Irish Press triumphantly announced: FIANNA FÁIL TAKES 72 SEATS, CUMANN NA NGAEDHEAL 57. WE’RE IN!