1949

by Morgan Llywelyn

  April 30 saw the banning of private motoring throughout Éire. In Dublin the price of secondhand bicycles soared from a few shillings to ten pounds—more than a month’s wages for the average worker.

  On the fourth of May the bombers came again. This time they targeted the shipyards and Short’s aircraft factory. Once again Éire was quick to offer help, which was gratefully accepted.

  Ursula received a letter from Ella Mooney. It arrived in a bluish-gray envelope thinner than tissue paper, with a patriotically striped border and the words V Mail printed on it. The letter paper was equally thin and lightweight.

  Dear Ursula,

  Can you find out anything about my relatives in Belfast? We just learned of the bombing and I am worried about their safety. Enclosed is a list of their names and addresses. I also have written to my brother Edwin in Dublin, but I suspect you are much more resourceful.

  Within a week Ursula was able to write reassuringly to Ella. “Everyone on your list is fine; no injuries, no property damage. I am told that the spirit in Belfast is tremendous.”

  Ursula stopped in her work and looked up. Aside from the ubiquitous clouds of an island at the rim of the Atlantic, the sky was empty. Silent except for the soughing of the wind. Yet elsewhere that same vast dome was crisscrossed with planes intent on deadly missions.

  London writhing under the blitz. Refusing to give in.

  Ursula admired their spirit.

  But what of the spirit of the pilots flying the planes, setting out to kill people they would never see? They were probably just men who loved to fly.

  The way Lewis Baines loved to fly.

  It had been a long time since she thought of Lewis. The farm and the lives being lived there were too immediate.

  Although Ursula put Barry first, the farm made endless demands. Cattle to milk, eggs to gather, customers provided with milk and butter, visits to the market to buy and sell. Brood mares to look at, decisions to make, accounts to balance.

  The barn cat had seven kittens.

  All life was here, filling Ursula to the brim.

  Except…when she remembered the way the light fell on Lac Léman, or the coal-and-turf smell of Dublin, or the heady excitement of those days at 2RN and the League, herself at the heart of the action…

  Or the warmth of a man’s arms. And one extraordinary moment whose memory sometimes came to her entire, like a butterfly encased in amber.

  On the last night of May a 500-pound German bomb fell in the North Strand area. Two smaller bombs fell on the North Circular Road and on Summerhill Parade. Áras an Uachtaráin and the nearby American embassy were damaged when a 250-pound bomb landed in the Phoenix Park.

  The air raid occurred too late to make the newspapers that the Ryan brothers brought to the farm. Ursula knew nothing about it until she went into the house to fix Barry’s lunch, and paused as was her habit to listen to the one o’clock news bulletin on the wireless.

  “Dublin this morning was a strangely silent town,” the newsreader began. “Last night four or five bombs all told were dropped on this city, bringing the war to neutral Ireland. The North Strand and the Five Lamps district seem to have taken the worst of it.

  “So far thirty-two are known dead, but that figure may rise. Many await identification at the morgue. In some cases this will be all but impossible.

  “Over eighty people with severe injuries have been taken to Jervis Street Hospital and the Mater. The fire brigades and ambulance service have been stretched to their utmost. Upwards of thirty houses were completely demolished by the bombs and hundreds are left homeless. Areas of the city are covered with a layer of ash like fine dust.

  “This morning shaken people were talking to one another in somber undertones, gathering on street corners to compare their experiences. A woman who lives in the North Strand relates that she was sitting in her kitchen having a last cup of tea well after midnight, when suddenly she heard a high, eerie whistle. A moment later the entire window came in on her.

  “A man tells of seeing bloody clothing that had been blown onto the top of a lamp post, but there was no sign of the body it had clothed. Another describes seeing corpses on stretchers being loaded into a morgue wagon. Their torsos, which had been ripped wide open by the explosion, were held together with garden twine.3

  “A North American bison at the zoo in the Phoenix Park took fright during the air raid and bashed his way out of his enclosure. The zoo’s only elephant simply lay down and refused to get up, although it was uninjured.”

  Dear God. Ursula started to turn off the wireless but her hand froze in the act. Did he say the North Strand?

  The bubble rose from its dark pool and she knew. Knew, and cursed the gift of knowing.

  She ran out to the field where the roan mare was grazing and led her back to the farmyard. When she put Saoirse’s saddle on the mare, the animal arched her swayed back in indignation. Ursula tightened the girth. The roan laid her ears back and tried to cow-kick her tormentor.

  Talking around the straw he was chewing, Gerry Ryan remarked, “Yer one’s not a saddle horse.”

  “She is now,” Ursula told him, “because I’ve no time to waste with the wagonette. Mind Barry ’til I get back.” Ignoring the stirrups, she vaulted onto the mare’s back before the animal knew what was happening.

  The mare valiantly tried to buck her off. Ursula’s lips tightened over her teeth. She sawed the reins to pull the horse’s head to the left, then right, then left again in quick succession. The distracted mare stopped fighting for a moment.

  “Open the gate, Gerry!”

  Ursula alternately bullied and cajoled her unwilling mount down the long lane. By the time they reached the road, the roan mare had surrendered to the stronger will. Ursula turned toward her Clarecastle and kicked her into a jarring gallop. Without shafts on either side to keep her going straight, the mare careened all over the road.

  “I’m going to give you some proper training,” Ursula warned the animal. “You’re an embarrassment.”

  Someone else was using the telephone at the post office. Ursula waited with ill-concealed impatience. As soon as she had the Dublin Broadcasting Station on the line, she said, “I need information about the bombing of the North Strand.”

  An unfamiliar voice replied, “That will be on the next bulletin which is broadcast at—”

  “You must be new,” Ursula interrupted. “My name is Ursula Halloran and I worked there for years. When I request information I am always given it. This is important. I have to know the names of the casualties.”

  “The evening newspapers will—”

  “Bugger the bloody papers!” Ursula exploded. “Tell me now or I’ll have your job! I’m a personal friend of Eamon de Valera. Ask anyone there!”

  “I’ll get the casualty list for you right away,” said the voice on the other end of the wire.

  While Ursula waited, civilizations rose and fell.

  The ride back to the farm seemed very long, though in reality it was only a couple of miles. The subdued mare read Ursula’s mood. She gave no trouble aside from trying to snatch a mouthful of weeds from the roadside. The warm, sweet air smelled of life and summer.

  The sun should not be shining today. How dare the sun shine today? Finbar Cassidy. Oh, God. Finbar. I don’t believe it.

  I do believe it.

  Ursula willed herself not to cry, but it was impossible. As impossible as identifying some of the bodies? Maybe it wasn’t Finbar after all. It might have been someone else.

  But she knew.

  Her vision blurred with tears.

  When they reached the farm lane the mare quickened her pace and tried to turn in. Ursula automatically tightened her grip on the reins. “Not ’til I tell you,” she said to the horse.

  An old man was hobbling down the road toward them from the direction of Ennis. He wore a pack on his back and was leaning heavily on a cane. Ursula roused herself from her grief long enough to feel a twinge of pity. Poor creature look
s destroyed. Turning the mare’s head in the stranger’s direction, she gave the reluctant animal a sharp kick in the ribs and rode toward him. I’ll bring him in for a cup of…

  Her mouth went dry.

  The man was not old, and he was not a stranger.

  “Papa!”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Immediately following the North Strand bombing Edouard Hempel, the German minister to Éire, went to the Department of External Affairs on behalf of his legation to discuss the incident. “I suspect the British dropped the bombs themselves to force Éire into the war,” he said.1

  Frank Aiken, who had been appointed as minister for defense by de Valera, already had information on his desk to the effect that the bomb fragments carried German markings. He replied to Hempel politely but noncommittally and sent him away.

  Dear Henry,

  Buiochas le Dia,* Ned is home at last. I found him in the road on his way to the farm. It is a great relief that he is alive, though he is very changed. His hair has turned to pure silver. His face is sunburnt almost black, and as deeply lined as crumpled paper. The only features that are familiar are the cleft in his chin and those green, green eyes.

  I have put him to bed and am feeding him all he will accept, which is not much at this stage. He is dreadfully thin and weak and suffers from occasional spells of blindness. They do not last long, but they are incapacitating when they occur.

  He is very confused. I hope it is only temporary and will clear up when he regains some strength. There appear to be great holes in his memory. He cannot tell me where he has been since the Spanish war ended, he does not seem to remember Spain at all. Yet he clearly recalls things that happened over twenty years ago. As far as he is concerned the Rising is a recent event. He calls me Precious and does not understand about Barry.

  “I don’t understand about Barry either,” Henry commented as he read the letter aloud to his family.

  “Hush,” said Ella. “And go on.”

  “Well, Cap’n, which is it? Hush or go on?”

  She laughed. “Oh you.”

  Henry read, “ ’Síle is still alive to Ned. He calls her name every time a door opens. His conviction is so total that I expect to hear her quick, light step in the passage. You cannot imagine how eerie that is.

  “‘He also asks for Frank and Norah and Lucy. When I tell him they have passed away he does not hear me. I am going to bring Eileen out here to visit as soon as he is a bit stronger. She will be so glad to see him. He always was her favourite.’”

  “Home is the hero, home from the hill,” Bella trilled.

  “You’re misquoting again,” said her father. “It’s the hunter who’s home from the hill.”

  “What does that matter, you know what I mean. Isn’t it romantic? Ned fought courageously and was horribly wounded and yet somehow found his way home to the bosom of his family to recover from his dreadful ordeal.”

  Henry replied, “I don’t think Ned’s spells of blindness are the result of anything that happened in Spain. He took a nasty head wound during the Rising in 1916 and it’s affected him ever since, off and on.”

  “I wish I was in Ireland,” Bella went on, enraptured with her vision. “I would nurse him back to health myself. I would wear one of those starched white—”

  Her sister interrupted, “You hate sickness and mess, you wouldn’t last five minutes. Great Judas priest, Bella, how can you be so…”

  “Language!” Ella snapped. “Hank, that sort of language is not used in polite society.”

  “Pop-Pop says ‘great Judas priest.’ And besides, this isn’t polite society, it’s Texas.”

  Henry Mooney spluttered with laughter.

  Ella was not amused. “We are ‘polite society’ in Texas, young lady. I ask you to remember that and behave accordingly. Your father has managed to regain his position in the business world and your sister will be making her debut at the Idlewilde Ball this year.”

  “She’s welcome to it,” said Hank. “Boring reception lines and wilting gardenias and a lot of sweaty boys stepping all over your feet. When I’m eighteen I’m not going to have a debut. I’m going to join the circus and be a trapeze artist. So there.”

  In the excitement of Ned’s homecoming Ursula managed to keep thoughts of Finbar Cassidy at arm’s length. Most of the time. But they were always there. Under the surface. Beneath the joy.

  Taking care of Ned was almost like having another child. At first he required almost constant supervision. On days when the clouds hunkered down on the hills and the air was soft with rain, he was easy enough to manage. But when the sun shone he grew desperate and shouted orders to an army of phantasms.

  Lucas Mulvaney finally had drunk himself into a permanent stupor and abandoned his family, so Ursula decided to ask Eileen to move back to the farm. She could help look after Ned and the little Mulvaneys would be company for Barry.

  “I’m going to have to feed them anyway,” Ursula told Ned, “so we might as well have them here.”

  “Why do you have to feed Eileen?” he asked. “Doesn’t Norah do that?”

  Ursula patiently explained—one more time—but he did not comprehend. To Ned Halloran, his Aunt Norah was still in the kitchen, cooking meals for the family on the black iron range.

  When Ursula extended the invitation Eileen only pretended to think it over. The next morning she arrived at the kitchen door with her brood of unwashed, half-wild youngsters, all barefoot, and their few belongings wrapped up in a bedsheet.

  Defeated by life, Eileen had long ago given up trying to teach manners to her children. There were five of them still living, ranging in age from two to seven. Her oldest two had died of tuberculosis, another had died in infancy, and one had been miscarried when Lucas beat his wife. Thank God, Ursula thought without a twinge of conscience. There are quite enough already.

  “Training this lot,” she remarked to George Ryan, “is going to be a lot harder than training the roan mare to saddle.”

  He sniggered. “Gonna use a whip on ’em?”

  “I don’t use a whip on anything,” Ursula said frostily. “Except maybe on hired men who get above themselves.”

  After the bombing of the North Strand Ursula suffered from a sporadic but graphic nightmare. She was with Síle Halloran, but a very tall Síle, while she herself was small. Hand in hand they were running through a narrow laneway. Suddenly there was a whistle followed by a thunderous roar. The wall beside them exploded into a deadly rain of bricks and mortar.

  Ursula always awoke at this point, bathed in sweat.

  To everyone’s surprise, it was Barry Halloran who had the most influence on Eileen Mulvaney’s children. He was smarter and more self-confident than any of them, even the oldest. In no time the little band was looking to Barry for direction. If Barry wanted to play in the orchard, everyone played in the orchard. When Barry was hungry, everyone was hungry.

  Throughout the summer Ned spent most of his time in bed. Eileen tended him lovingly, cooking special treats to tempt his appetite, putting cold cloths on his eyes when the blackness overtook him. From her busy schedule Ursula somehow carved out time each evening to sit with him, trying to find topics of conversation that would stimulate him. She shared her newspapers with him, but it was hard to know how much he understood of what he read. Again and again she found herself having to explain recent history. He would listen for a time, then just seem to drift away.

  In August Churchill and Roosevelt proclaimed an Atlantic Charter to confirm the alliance of their two nations.

  By September the foot-and-mouth crisis in Ireland was over. Britain began buying more Irish beef than ever before.

  The Irish Press alleged that imported British cattle had brought the disease to Ireland in the first place.

  At the Halloran farm three shaggy Irish draft mares slumbered in the autumn sun, up to their fetlocks in lush grass. Come spring, Ursula planned to take them to a stallion in Limerick, a slender, nervous, hot-blooded animal with a c
areer on the racetrack behind him and a proclivity to jump out of paddocks, no matter how high the fence.

  “I am a horse breeder now,” she wrote to Fliss. “A serious one, hoping to make a living out of the business someday—not like the landed gentry who just play with their horses and do not care how much money they lose.”

  When she reread the letter she crossed out the last sentence before making a clean copy.

  Under Archbishop MacQuaid’s influence the diminution of the role of women in Irish society, which had begun with the 1937 constitution, accelerated. De Valera had been able to resist the more extreme blandishments of Cardinal McRory, but resisting John Charles McQuaid was a different matter. McQuaid was a close family friend. He and Vivion often went target shooting together—and the priest was the better shot.

  He was also a dedicated social reformer who set about imposing his will on the whole of Éire. The highly devout Irish people had, for centuries, been taught to obey their clergy without question, but the new archbishop took that obedience to unprecedented heights. A great admirer of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, McQuaid emulated Hoover’s technique of controlling through fear. He established a vigilance committee to amass files on politicians and priests, nuns and nurses and teachers and trade unionists and even housewives.

  Within a short time Archbishop McQuaid was exercising enormous influence over almost every aspect of Irish life.

  7 December 1941

  JAPANESE ATTACK PEARL HARBOR

  Chapter Fifty

  Suddenly, violently, America was propelled into what could now truly be described as a global war. In one of his famous “fireside chats,” President Roosevelt described America as the arsenal of democracy.