Rebel Sisters

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘You must have a portrait done wearing your new hat,’ he insisted and the next day they went to photographer Roe McMahon’s studio in Harcourt Street where he paid for her to have a photograph taken wearing it.

  Muriel was overcome by the fact that she had the kindest, most romantic and generous of husbands.

  Their small upstairs flat soon became a place filled with friends, many dropping in after the theatre or a concert, a ceili or a lecture. Sundays became their evenings at home. MacDonagh welcomed everyone with open arms and James Stephens, George Russell, Padraic Colum, Mary Maguire, Padraig Pearse and a host of other friends, as well as her sisters and his brothers, all regularly called in.

  Discussions and arguments raged, with opinions on everything: plays, poetry, politics. The new Home Rule Bill – would it be passed or not passed; the shortcomings and inadequacy of the Bill and unionist opposition; how the glory days of the Abbey Theatre were gone, its programme now mostly peasant plays … MacDonagh sat in his armchair, in his element in the midst of it all, his friend Joe Plunkett – returned after months away in Algiers – by his side voicing his own strongly held opinions.

  Muriel made cakes and scones and stews, and provided cheese and homemade bread for their visitors. As she and MacDonagh looked after their guests there was often music, songs and stories, and she sat and listened as new poems, plays and prose were read and debated in their small literary salon. She was entranced as she listened to their friend James Stephens read from his remarkable new novel The Crock of Gold.

  The April newspapers were filled with the tragic story of the Titanic. The great passenger liner built in Belfast had sunk following a collision with a giant iceberg as she crossed the Atlantic on her maiden voyage. Muriel could not put it from her mind. MacDonagh held her and comforted her in the middle of the night as she dreamed of hundreds of men, women and children drowning in the icy Atlantic seas with no one to hear their cries or to rescue them.

  ‘Hush, my love. You are safe here with me,’ he soothed.

  MacDonagh was not only busy with lecturing and with his work on the Irish Review, but was also excited as he watched rehearsals of his new play, Metempsychosis, which was being staged by the Theatre of Ireland. All their friends came to see it and support him, but Muriel knew that he was disappointed when it garnered mixed reviews, with some of the audience unable to understand its complex theme and dialogue.

  ‘You must continue writing for the stage,’ she encouraged him. ‘You are a wonderful playwright and even the critics say your work shows great promise.’

  Their happiness was complete when she discovered that she was going to have a child. MacDonagh lifted her off her feet, swinging her around with excitement at the thought of being a father. She knew that he would be a wonderful father and prayed that she would be a good mother too.

  ‘I want us to have lots of children,’ he teased, ‘like in your family.’

  ‘Twelve children!’ she protested. ‘I cannot imagine it. All of us here, cramped together in our little flat.’

  ‘Then five or six – that is a good number.’

  ‘Let us wish for a child that is well and healthy and strong,’ she said seriously. ‘That is all I ask.’

  ‘Already you are a beautiful mother,’ he said, softly reassuring her.

  Chapter 32

  Isabella

  ISABELLA SAT ENJOYING afternoon tea in the garden with her daughters. This summer their roses were at their best, heavy with scent and in full bloom, while the herbaceous border was filled with towers of tall hollyhocks, pink foxgloves, pretty perfumed stock and blue lobelia.

  ‘I heard the suffragettes attacked Prime Minister Asquith and John Redmond on their way to address a meeting here about Home Rule,’ she sighed, sipping her tea. ‘It is a miracle that poor Mr Redmond only has a cut to his ear and was not more seriously injured, as apparently two of them flung an axe at their carriage, and others planned to set fire to the Theatre Royal where they were due to speak.’

  ‘It was a small axe thrown by two British suffragettes,’ retorted Sidney defensively. ‘They were only trying to persuade Mr Asquith and Mr Redmond to agree to amend the Home Rule Bill for Ireland to include votes for women.’

  ‘Committing such an act of violence against the prime minister is certainly no way to get attention,’ Isabella countered angrily. ‘Only last month that Sheehy-Skeffington woman and her friends smashed the windows of the GPO, Dublin Castle, the Custom House and City Hall for their so-called cause. Those women are a disgrace.’

  ‘Mother, how can you not support the cause of women’s suffrage,’ Grace chided her, ‘when you have the six of us?’

  ‘Do you not think we all deserve to vote?’ pressed Sidney.

  Isabella had to admit she was rather taken aback. Her daughters had a point, for they were exactly the kind of young women who demanded to vote and, she suspected, would be most unwilling to kowtow to any man and blindly follow his political beliefs.

  ‘Of course you do,’ she found herself agreeing. ‘Women of intelligence, education and means deserve the right to vote, but I do not approve of using violence to obtain it.’

  ‘Mother, sometimes women must stand up and fight for what they believe in,’ expounded Sidney, getting up from her wicker chair to go inside.

  Isabella said nothing. She suspected that both Sidney and Grace were involved with the suffragettes. She had seen them regularly talking to Hanna Sheehy-Skeffington and her journalist husband, Frank. The couple lived nearby and by all account were agitators.

  ‘Don’t mind Sidney,’ said Muriel soothingly, moving slightly into the shade. ‘Being a journalist, she’s so intense about everything!’

  ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’

  She and Frederick had welcomed the news that Muriel and her husband were going to have a child and that they would be grandparents again.

  ‘A little tired, especially when I have to carry the messages up the stairs.’

  ‘Then you must rest,’ Isabella advised. She had noticed that Muriel was rather drawn and pale, but her daughter was very much looking forward to motherhood.

  ‘You need to get MacDonagh to help lift the messages,’ teased Grace.

  The following week Isabella and Frederick left for Greystones and Isabella was glad that Muriel and her husband had agreed to join them for a week. Escaping the city and taking the fresh sea air was most reviving and would do her daughter good.

  By September, however, Muriel’s legs and feet seemed puffy and there was a slight blue shadow under her eyes and around her mouth. Isabella could not help but be concerned for her daughter; she had noticed while on holiday that even a promenade along the seafront seemed to tire her.

  Dr Kathleen Lynn was called to see Muriel and admitted her to the Rotunda Hospital, saying that her condition was of great concern and that she needed complete rest until the birth of her child in November.

  Desperately concerned, MacDonagh spoke to Isabella and Frederick, worried about Muriel staying in their Baggot Street flat all day alone while he worked, so Isabella insisted that her daughter return home to Temple Villas to stay with them. Dr Lynn discharged her from hospital on condition that she had bed rest and care, with no walking, lifting or housework. Isabella knew that Thomas was deeply concerned for his wife and unborn child, and the most sensible solution was that Muriel was entrusted to the care of her family.

  ‘She will have complete rest and all her meals served to her and will be totally cosseted,’ she persuaded him. ‘Muriel’s health and wellbeing is paramount to all of us.’

  MacDonagh agreed. He would remain in the flat and Muriel would return home.

  She was pale and very unwell, both her legs swollen, the pregnancy taking a huge toll on her as she lay resting in her bed in her old bedroom.

  ‘I’m sorry to be a bother to everyone,’ she apologized.

  ‘We will have no talk of that,’ chided Isabella as she fussed around fetching her cologne and books.<
br />
  ‘I’m afraid I do not feel much like reading,’ Muriel sighed, ‘but I do want my pen and writing set so I can write to MacDonagh.’

  ‘Of course, my dear, though I do believe he will call this evening to visit you.’

  Her son-in-law visited every day, and Grace, Sidney, Nellie and Kate did their best to entertain their sister and lift her spirits. Grace and Sidney played card games and amused her with their day-today goings-on and gossip. Essie fussed over her as if she were a child, making her hot milky drinks and nourishing broths, while Isabella visited her room a few times a day to check how she was feeling.

  ‘Mother, I am quite well,’ Muriel tried to reassure her. ‘I am resting and doing all I have been told to do. I just wish my baby would be born soon.’

  ‘The baby will come when it is ready,’ Isabella informed her. ‘They always do.’

  However, as the days went on her concern for her daughter heightened. Despite the rest, Muriel seemed exhausted and drained, often sleepy. The doctor and nurse called regularly to check on her blood pressure and general condition.

  Isabella herself had enjoyed a strong constitution during each of her pregnancies, a trait she had inherited from her mother, Emily, who had borne nine children, and her grandmother Emily, who had married her grandfather Captain Claude Hamilton Walsh at sixteen and went on to have twenty-three children, including twins. However, she and Frederick had lost their first child at birth – a pale little thing that had not breathed. She had collapsed with grief and despair.

  It was Frederick who had held her in his arms and, despite her sobs, promised that in time there would be more children. The birth of each of their sons and daughters had been a blessing – though she admitted she was never much taken with the day-to-day care of babies or small children and instead was happy to trust them to the care of their nanny.

  She constantly promised Muriel that soon she would deliver a healthy baby and all would be well, but she could not shake off a niggling fear that her daughter might follow Frederick’s poor mother, who had not long survived his birth.

  There was immense relief throughout the household when Muriel gave birth to a healthy boy in November. The baby was christened Donagh after his father, to whom he bore a strong resemblance. MacDonagh, to Muriel’s delight, wrote a beautiful poem for his newly born son.

  Muriel and MacDonagh were both overjoyed with their baby and were keen to take him home, but within only a short time, much to everyone’s shock, she became very unwell again. Seeing her condition, the doctor ordered her to remain with her parents. Frederick insisted they hire a nurse to help with the care of the new baby and attend to Muriel.

  Christmas came and went and Muriel continued to stay with them, far too sick to return home to their flat. Poor MacDonagh was beside himself with worry and felt guilty that he could not help more with his wife and child.

  ‘She and the baby are safer staying here with us,’ Isabella had to tell him as the old year passed and a new one began.

  Gradually her daughter’s health improved and she slowly began to recover. Her baby boy, now known by everyone as Don, was thriving.

  ‘He’s going to be a lively young lad,’ Frederick laughed as he held him in his arms.

  ‘I cannot wait to bring him home,’ said Muriel, who was getting stronger day by day.

  Isabella thanked heaven as she watched the little family pack up to leave and return to their own home a few weeks later, Muriel proudly holding their baby in her arms as her devoted husband helped her into the carriage.

  1913 – 1915

  Chapter 33

  Nellie

  DUBLIN BASKED IN the dog days of late summer and Nellie took an early tram into Sackville Streetfn1. She needed to purchase a sturdy pair of walking shoes and a few aprons before returning to work in Meath next week. She would get off at the Nelson’s Pillar stop, as it left her closest to Tyler’s boot and shoe shop and MacInerney’s Drapery on Henry Street.

  The tram had barely crossed over the bridge on to Sackville Street when, without warning, the crowded passenger vehicle came to a grinding halt in the middle of the street.

  It must be some kind of mechanical failure, for Nellie could see the tram driver and conductor were standing outside on the street, agitated, talking. Then she realized that all the other trams around them on Sackville Street had also come to a halt, some in the middle of busy junctions. No doubt a fault with the electricity system. Was it safe, she wondered anxiously.

  There was confusion among the passengers, but suddenly their conductor returned briefly to inform them of the situation.

  ‘We are on strike!’ he announced defiantly. ‘Mr Murphy and the Dublin United Tramways Company have forbidden us from joining the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union and threaten us with dismissal if we do join. Mr Murphy has sacked forty men who worked for his newspaper for joining the union and now he wants to sack us too. We are all on strike until the matter is resolved.’

  ‘Young man, what about getting to the horse show in Ballsbridge?’ enquired a grey-haired man. ‘Will those trams run?’

  ‘There are no trams or transport in the city.’ The conductor shrugged. ‘If you want to get to the horse show you’se will have to walk or take a carriage.’

  As she got off the tram Nellie felt only sympathy for the tram-workers, who were rumoured to be poorly paid and treated. She hoped that the tram company would deal fairly with their employees and resolve the dispute. Later, having completed her purchases, she was fortunate to find a horse-drawn cab to take her home.

  By the next day the trams were running on schedule again, manned by new relief workers. The strikers were now protesting against the employment of scab workers by the tram company.

  Dublin was in a strange state of unease as the tension between the tram company and other businesses and their workers throughout the city worsened. William Martin Murphy and the city’s other large employers were united in their hatred of Jim Larkin, the union leader, and his demands for improved pay and conditions.

  ‘Don’t go into town,’ warned Father. ‘The police are expecting trouble with all this union business. They’ve been ordered to keep the trams running for the Dublin Horse Show and there may well be fighting and disturbances.’

  ‘Nellie, do say you’ll come to the party in Surrey House this evening,’ cajoled John. ‘Count Markievicz has just returned from Poland today and the countess is having a big party to celebrate. Their parties are always splendid affairs.’

  ‘It will be fun with the three of us together,’ agreed Grace.

  A party with her sisters would most definitely be fun and Nellie was delighted to show off the new cream silk dress she had just purchased in Arnotts. Grace urged her to wear her beaded headband too. John was in her usual blue satin, while Grace wore a striking layered chiffon dress that she had designed and made herself. She was obsessed with style and creating an individual look, and she pirouetted in front of the bedroom mirror for them.

  ‘You’ll turn heads tonight,’ Nellie teased.

  ‘Well, that is the intention!’

  Satisfied, they set off for Surrey House, which was only a few minutes’ walk away on Leinster Road in Rathmines. The three-storey red-brick building was all lit up, its windows flung open on such a warm summer’s night, and the music playing inside could be heard from the road.

  As they approached they noticed a group of Dublin Metropolitan Police officers standing outside the house, watching it and the comings and goings of guests.

  ‘Why are they here?’ Nellie asked.

  ‘The Castle hate Madame – they keep her under watch at times,’ whispered John. ‘They know she’s a supporter of Larkin and his union.’

  Count and Countess Markievicz’s housekeeper, Mrs Delaney, opened the door to them. She was like a guard dog, protective of the countess, and for a moment Nellie was aware of her steely gaze raking over her; however, as John had become close friends with her mistress, she welcomed th
em warmly inside.

  The party was in full swing, the house thronged with people, abuzz with noise and laughter. Countess Markievicz, dressed in a purple lace gown with some kind of feathers in her hair, immediately came to welcome them, telling them that Casimir, her husband, had just returned from Poland and the party was in his honour.

  The house was full of books. They were everywhere – on tables, shelves and sideboards and stacked on the floor. The walls were covered with paintings, for the countess, like Grace, had studied at the Slade and was a very fine artist. A portrait of Constance Markievicz by her husband hung on one wall, while a human skull sat on a shelf close by it along with bronze busts of Robert Emmet, Wolfe Tone and Henry Grattan. Stage posters, programmes and scripts littered a circular table in the corner.

  Grace and John introduced Nellie to lots of artists and theatre people – she was delighted to meet a few of her favourite actors.

  Helena Molony was there and Nellie found herself chatting to her as her sisters, along with the countess, lit up their cigarettes and smoked. She had tried cigarettes herself a few times and found it vaguely pleasant but was not a huge fan of tobacco. Con Colbert, a friend of MacDonagh’s who taught in St Enda’s and helped train Countess Markievicz’s boys in the Fianna, came to join them and entertained them with a story of their recent camping trip up in the Dublin Mountains in July.

  ‘We camped in tents and the boys had lessons in scouting and orienteering, and even did a bit of fishing. The countess is a powerful shot and told the boys about how she grew up hunting all kinds of birds in her home in Lissadell in Sligo. She showed some of the older boys how to shoot.’ He laughed. ‘I swear I never saw anything like it, for the young fellas must have shot every poor blackbird, crow and thrush in the place.’

  Countess Markievicz chatted easily to her guests, but often moved to the window where she would stand for a few minutes, smoking her cigarette as she watched the policemen grouped outside her home. Nellie also noticed that their hostess seemed rather distracted and kept disappearing off into another room. A burley young man seemed to be standing guard outside it, while drinks and plates of food were brought in and out of it by the housekeeper.