1949

by Morgan Llywelyn

  She did not move.

  His breathing grew ragged. His hands slipped farther forward. Cupped the soft swell of her breasts.

  Until that moment Ursula had never known that her breasts ached to be touched. Never known that it would bring a profound sense of completion to her whole being.

  Eyes still closed, she leaned back against Finbar Cassidy.

  Her nipples were painfully erect. Her body knew exactly what it wanted him to do. She made a tiny movement that brought her nipples into contact with his searching fingers. He gave a gasp.

  No one noticed. The pair of them could have died where they stood and no one would have looked around, enthralled as the great crowd was with the moment and the Mass.

  Enthralled, Ursula let Finbar explore the uncharted topography of her heart.

  A blare of trumpets sounded. “King of Kings!” thundered the chorus. “Lord of Lords!”

  As it had done when Saint Patrick celebrated the Mass all those centuries ago, a bell signaled the moment of transubstantiation. The bread and wine of the Eucharist were transformed into the actual body of Christ. A million heads bowed. A million fists beat a million breasts.

  The congregation as one turned its eyes toward the altar.

  In the silence one could hear the wings of seagulls overhead, on their way to the sea.

  Finbar’s face was flushed. “Are you all right?” he asked in a choked whisper. “I never meant to—”

  “I’m all right.” Don’t ruin it by saying anything, Finbar. Please don’t!

  The estimate of a million people in the Park had been, if anything, conservative. When the Mass was concluded, the huge crowd formed itself into a giant procession. Men and women marched together, alternately praying and singing as they slowly left the Park and made their way toward O’Connell Bridge. Thousands of spectators lining the route joined in the hymns and prayers. Many adults had tears of joy streaming down their cheeks.

  “Christ Himself is here with us,” a ruddy farmer was telling anyone who would listen. “I saw him with me own two eyes. He came down out of the sky as a white dove.”

  Ursula’s entire body was ablaze with heat. It lay bog-thick in her throat, choking her.

  Appalled by his own temerity, Finbar was afraid Ursula would never speak to him again. He took a firm grip on her arm and let the crowd carry them to O’Connell Bridge, where another altar was set up. There a final blessing was given to the people as evening shadows lengthened.

  At the foot of the bridge another crew from 2RN was conducting interviews. They recognized Ursula and waved her over. “Say something to the nation, Miss Halloran,” a man urged, thrusting the microphone into her face. “Tell us what this experience means to you.”

  My first time on the wireless. Now’s my chance. But the heat, the crowd…Finbar touching me…

  “I’m speechless,” she blurted.

  Her interrogator smiled. “I am certain that would apply to tens of thousands today. Thank you so much for your insight, Miss Halloran.” He turned away to interview someone else, leaving her furious with herself.

  “Would that be Miss Ursula Halloran by any chance?” A man stepped forward from the crowd on the bridge.

  The handsomest man Ursula had ever seen.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A tall man with a neat moustache and sharply cut features. His eyes were sky blue. When he removed his hat his hair gleamed gold, like wheat in the sun.

  “You are Miss Halloran?” His upper-class English accent represented everything Ursula had schooled herself to hate.

  Yet his deep, mellifluous voice resonated in her bones.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said faintly.

  “My name is Lewis Baines.” He held out his hand. “I’ve heard Felicity speak of you many times and I must say, her description fits you perfectly.”

  “You know Fliss?”

  “We’re great chums. Our fathers were at Cambridge together and her brother and I served together in the war. When Felicity heard I was coming to Dublin, she insisted I knock you up.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know, call on you. Are you unfamiliar with our English slang?”

  Ursula drew a deep breath to steady herself. A voice like that should be registered as a lethal weapon. He makes ordinary words sound like poetry. “Forgive me, Mr. Baines; of course I know what the phrase means. My train of thought is a bit derailed just now, that’s all.”

  “I found the Mass quite moving myself,” Baines acknowledged, “though only as an observer. I’ve been covering the Congress for the Daily Mail in London.”

  “You’re a newspaperman?”

  “A foreign correspondent, actually, but it’s more a hobby than a profession. Something to do whenever I want a spot of travel. A cousin of mine owns the paper so I’m always assured of an assignment.”

  “My Uncle Henry bought a newspaper in America a few years ago.” What am I thinking about at all! Imagine me showing off for an Englishman!

  Finbar Cassidy cleared his throat in the manner of a man who had cleared his throat before and no one noticed.

  Ursula gave a start. “Oh, I am sorry. Mr. Baines, this is Finbar Cassidy. Finbar, may I introduce…”

  “Howd’youdo,” said Finbar. He and Lewis Baines locked eyes in instant antipathy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baines, but I need to take Miss Halloran home. She’s had an exhausting day, what with the heat and the emotion and so forth.”

  Baines made a gallant little bow. “Quite, old fellow. By all means take care of her. Miss Halloran, will you permit me to call on you when you’ve recovered a bit? Tomorrow evening, perhaps? I have your address, Felicity gave it me. She neglected to include your telephone number, though. Perhaps—”

  “Many of us are not on the phone,” Finbar interjected.

  Baines gave him a penetrating look. “I see.”

  Ursula said, “You don’t see at all, Mr. Baines. I should like it very much if you would call on me tomorrow. I shall be home from work by seven if that’s convenient. Good day.” She shook his hand again, then turned and walked away. With an athlete’s ardent stride, long-legged and free. Both men followed her with their eyes.

  After an awkward moment Finbar muttered, “Excuse me,” and hurried after her.

  When he caught up with Ursula she would not look at him. “How dare you do that!” she hissed out of the side of her mouth.

  “Do what?”

  “You know what I mean. Have I ever said or done anything that would give you the right to imply to Mr. Baines that you and I share an address?”

  “I did no such thing, Ursula.”

  “My mother could smell a lie at fifty paces and so can I,” she said. “I’m going home. You can walk with me or not, just as you like.”

  “But I thought we were going to have a meal.”

  “I’m going home now,” said Ursula Halloran.

  The following day was a Monday, but the spell cast by the events of the preceding week lingered. People went to work as in a dream. Ursula’s thoughts kept drifting; she had to snare them like rabbits. She did remember to congratulate the outside broadcasting teams on a job well done, and one of the men replied, “You’re the bright spark around here for sure, Miss Halloran.”

  That evening Lewis Baines called to take her to dinner. He brought Ursula a box of violet creams from Fortnum & Mason’s, and had booked a table at Jamet’s.

  Dublin’s premier restaurant was almost empty, a sure sign of the times. There were fresh flowers on the table and new candles. The heavy silver flatware gleamed. The handwritten menu was three pages long. Lewis studied the much shorter wine list, then summoned the headwaiter. After a conversation punctuated with French phrases, a dusty bottle of a superior vintage was produced from some hidden cache.

  Whatever Lewis Baines did was marked by total self-assurance. Ursula had never seen anyone so at home in his own skin. Sitting at ease in Dublin’s most expensive restaurant, he might have be
en at home in his own parlor. Drawing room, she mentally corrected. He would have a drawing room, not a parlor.

  Ursula had never been to Jamet’s, but fortunately Surval had prepared her for dining in luxurious surroundings. The school also had equipped her with rules for a variety of social situations, including dinner with a man one did not know well. Begin with neutral pleasantries. Then seek mutual acquaintances. Find a subject of interest to both of you for general conversation. Avoid unpleasant topics.

  And try to control the butterflies in your stomach, Ursula admonished herself as Lewis began to talk to her in his mesmerizing voice.

  The conversation opened with a discussion of American jazz, after which Lewis related several anecdotes about Fliss and her brother Cedric, who was now a pilot with the Royal Mail service, then moved on to the subject of aviation in general. Not once did he mention the depression. His glance never wandered around the room. The moment Ursula’s glass was empty he summoned the waiter with the lift of one eyebrow.

  Ursula never mentioned her work at 2RN. She only wanted to listen. Over cheese and biscuits, Lewis described a few of his experiences as an aviator during the Great War. Thrilling battles in the skies. Tiny planes duelling thousands of feet above the earth. Pilots on both sides saluting one another before opening fire.

  Forgetting herself entirely, Ursula leaned forward with her elbows on the table. When Lewis flew his hands through the air to demonstrate aerial acrobatics, her eyes sparkled. “How I envy you! Are you still flying now that the war’s over?”

  “I have a little plane of my own, a DH Moth. She’s in Bristol now but I might fly her over one of these days and take you for a ride. In fact, you should have a pilot’s licence, Ursula. You’d make a fine aviatrix.”

  “Oh, I’ve thought about it,” she lied airily. If feeding a horse is expensive, what must it cost to take flying lessons?

  Lewis locked her eyes with his. “Don’t just think about it. At the end of life one only regrets what one did not do. I once sat in a plowed field holding my copilot’s head in my lap after we’d crashed. He was dying and we both knew it. He said to me, ‘I never walked on a beach barefoot, Lew. Not once. And now it’s too late.’”

  Lewis took out a silver cigarette case from which he extracted a black Turkish cigarette. “You don’t mind, I trust,” he said, without waiting to see if she did. The waiter hurried forward to light it for him.

  Ursula thought the cigarette smelled like burning tar. But she did not complain.

  The full moon slipped through ragged cloud like a coin falling through a hole in a pocket. As Ursula stepped out of the taxicab, a sudden wash of moonlight illumined the sculpted face of Lewis Baines.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she told him.

  He gave another of his courtly little bows. “If I didn’t have to return to London in the morning, we would do it again tomorrow night. But we shall meet again. I promise.”

  Bending down, he took her face between his two hands and kissed her. Slowly and very thoroughly.

  Without saying anything more he walked her to her door, and waited until she was safely inside before going back to the taxicab.

  Ursula stood with her back against the closed door. Eyes closed.

  I promise.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  On Friday evening Ursula went to Confession.

  One should always begin with the worst sin, she believed. Once that was out of the way the priest would find it easier to forgive the others. But which was the worst sin? Letting Finbar touch her body? Or letting Lewis put his tongue in her mouth?

  Her flesh remembered. How vividly her flesh remembered!

  Anonymous in the shadows of the confessional box, the priest listened through the grille as she struggled to describe her experiences. Even with her educated vocabulary the words did not come easily. Irish women simply did not say such things.

  “You allowed a man to put his hands on you? At Mass?” The priest’s outrage hissed through the grille.

  “I did, Father.” No point in lying about it. God sees everything. You can’t lie to Him.

  Ursula waited with bowed head while the priest chastised her savagely. The blame was not ascribed to Finbar but to herself, the female, the weak vessel. “You have been an Occasion of Sin, young woman!” When the tongue-lashing was over the priest heaped her with penances.

  How long will it take to say ten decades of the Rosary every day for a week? How many can I do before I go to work? I’ll have to get up earlier.

  A waspish voice snatched her thoughts back. “I said, have you anything else to confess?”

  “I…er…let a man kiss me, Father. And…and put his tongue in my mouth.” Ursula did not bother to add that she had enjoyed it. Enjoyment was a word one dare not use when speaking of sex.

  “The same man, I assume?”

  “A different man, Father.”

  “You shameful and perverted creature! The devil has his mark on your soul, young woman. If you continue in this way you are in great danger of being excommunicated.”

  When Ursula escaped the confessional box she did not kneel in a pew and pray. Instead she left the church and walked aimlessly through the streets of Dublin. She had much to think about. Henry Mooney always said the best way to think was to take a long walk.

  What’s so terrible about kissing? Married men and women do it all the time. Ned and Síle certainly did; I saw them.

  And touching…Finbar touched my breasts but it did me no harm. I’m still a virgin. That’s the most important thing to the Church, isn’t it? Virginity? Like Mary’s?

  A deep and stubborn anger was rising. I refuse to believe we did anything wrong. It was just a moment’s pleasure for both of us. Pleasure as simple and thoughtless as enjoying the sun. How can that be so evil that God might turn his face from me forever?

  Is it God? Or the Church?

  Walking with her head down, watching her feet on familiar cobbled pavement, Ursula let her thoughts follow untrodden paths. For the first time she questioned a theology that condemned the very pleasures which God had built into the human body. Was such condemnation not, in itself, a perversion?

  And yet, and yet…

  Her thoughts and her feet rambled on.

  Catholic Ireland does have a very special magic. Luminous occasions of innocence and beauty. Benediction, May Altars, First Communion. The sacrament of the Eucharist. The exalted way one feels, partaking of the body of Christ.

  Ursula paused in her walk. She was standing in front of a church in one of the most impoverished areas of northside Dublin. Catholic Ireland also has a God who must be bargained with; a condemnatory God who sells indulgences for money. Those who can afford it least give the most. Tenement women spend money that should buy shoes for their children in order to buy their parents out of purgatory. Meanwhile the bishops wear gold embroidery.

  Is this what Christ intended?

  There was more than one version of Irish history. The one sanctioned by the Church described an unbroken continuum from Saint Patrick to present-day Catholicism. The Faith as it always had been and always would be. Unchanged and unchangeable. World without end amen.

  But in dusty, forgotten tomes in secondhand bookshops Ursula had read a different story.

  New forms of Catholic devotion had been introduced into Ireland in the nineteenth century. These displaced the earlier tradition, a tolerant and peculiarly Irish blend of Christian and pre-Christian, Celtic and Norman. The new version of Catholicism was solidly Roman. The clergy and the religious orders now owned the Church that originally had belonged to its people. The laity had become merely supplicants.

  Although it stressed the importance of family values, the Church replaced the home as the center of life. Rituals traditionally performed by women, such as publicly mourning the dead, were taken over by a patriarchal priesthood. Through the Requiem Mass the priests had appropriated death, but they were biologically unable to appropriate birth. So they found a
nother way to marginalize women. Irish women were given the cult of the Virgin to identify with—a pure, unquestioning, submissive woman whose innocence was not soiled by sexual intercourse.

  Virgin Mary, Queen of Ireland.

  Ursula longed for the serenity of absolute faith. Why do the priests make it so hard?

  She heard nothing from Finbar Cassidy for almost a week. Then one evening he was waiting for her when she left the broadcasting station. Standing on the pavement with his hat in his hands. “Have you forgiven me?” he asked.

  She gave him an innocent stare. “Forgiven you? For what?”

  “You know.”

  “Do you mean for being so rude to Mr. Raines? I have not; it was quite unforgivable.”

  “I’m talking about what happened in the Park.”

  She tilted her head to one side as if trying to remember something of absolutely no consequence. “What happened in the Park, Finbar?”

  “Please, Ursula! You know exactly. It’s haunted me ever since. I have to know I’m forgiven.”

  “If that’s so important, I can’t understand why you’ve waited until now to ask.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d see me.”

  “So you ambushed me?”

  Prodded past endurance, Finbar lost his temper. “You’re such a Republican I thought you would appreciate an ambush!”

  Ursula gave a soft laugh and linked his arm with hers. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  Finbar felt dazed.

  “Dear Ursula,” Fliss wrote. “Perhaps I should have warned you that Lewis Baines was coming to Ireland, but I thought it would be fun to surprise you. Is he not a Greek God? We girls are all crazy about him. You must have made an impression, though. At a house party last weekend Lew said he’s planning to visit Ireland again soon.”