Rebel Sisters

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘But you still have your core of men in the Volunteers,’ said Muriel as she tried to soothe him. ‘The ones you can trust and depend on.’

  ‘Yes, we are badly reduced but the men we have now are committed to our cause, to Ireland,’ he agreed, but he was unable to hide his crushing disappointment and disillusion from her.

  For those remaining Irish Volunteers, training became even more intense. Gun handling and shooting practice in rifle ranges were held a few times a week and war games were organized between Volunteer companies. MacDonagh, appointed director of Training for the whole country, insisted on discipline from all members and even set up a sniping division.

  Muriel admired his determination but worried that her husband was doing too much, writing on his typewriter, engrossed in working on the script of a new play, Pagans, which he hoped would be staged in the Irish Theatre. He even wrote ‘Freedom Hill’, a song for the Volunteers, which he would sing for her and Don. It constantly amazed her that the man she loved seemed to have such endless energy and stamina, never tiring and finding everything around him interesting.

  ‘Ask a busy person …’ he joked as he set off to give a lecture in the university.

  Chapter 44

  Nellie

  NELLIE STROLLED THROUGH Palmerston Park. She could see circles of snowdrops under the trees and the first tips of spring crocuses were beginning to push through the ground. As a child she had always considered this park an escape from home, a place where, undetected, she could climb trees and make secret hideouts and play games away from the watchful gaze of Mother and her nanny.

  ‘That’s where we used to play Robin Hood,’ a voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘And you made a bow and arrow.’

  She turned around, recognizing the voice of Harry Johnson, her childhood friend. His parents lived close by and he and his brothers and sisters had always been regular visitors to their home.

  ‘And this was our Sherwood Forest,’ she laughed. ‘Though it looks a bit small now.’

  ‘Nellie, how are you?’ He smiled as he joined her. ‘I haven’t seen you for an age. I heard you were working down the country.’

  ‘I was, but for the past year I’ve been back in Dublin, doing some work for the union in Liberty Hall.’

  ‘Larkin’s lot!’ She caught a look of puzzlement passing over his open, freckled face.

  ‘I teach cookery and, believe it or not, recently I’ve started to give dance lessons to the union members.’

  ‘I could do with them,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘I’m not much of a dancer.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve just finished working in the old man’s insurance company and am shipping out with my regiment on Monday.’

  ‘Oh Harry – don’t tell me you’ve joined up!’ Nellie could not hide her dismay.

  ‘I’m with the Dublin Fusiliers along with three pals from my rowing club,’ he said proudly. ‘We are all in it together.’

  ‘Where are they sending you?’

  ‘Salisbury for training and then on to France, but my friend George thinks it’s likely we’ll be sent straight to the front line as they are desperately short of men.’

  Nellie studied the flowerbeds, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Why did you enlist?’

  ‘Duty, I suppose … It seemed the right thing to do,’ he answered softly. ‘I’m not much good to anyone just sitting at a desk in an office working out quotes and rates. Robert is already out there in Belgium and Father thought it might be a good idea for me to join up too for a few mm-months.’

  She noticed his very slight stammer. When he was younger Harry had been plagued with it, teased by his schoolfriends and, worse still, by some of his siblings. She remembered one time Mother had invited him and his sister and brother to a party in the house and one of the other neighbours’ boys had started to taunt him as they played out in the garden.

  ‘H-Haarry, Hhh-harry …’

  She could still see his face and that sad look in his eyes, and she remembered feeling outrage and turning on the other boy, chasing him and punching him for being mean. Harry had shyly thanked her at the end of the party when he was leaving.

  ‘Harry, promise me that you will take care of yourself over there,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Of course I will, Nellie.’ He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I’ll be like Houdini and get out of anything!’

  ‘I just wish that you weren’t going …’

  ‘I’ll be home before anyone misses me.’ He gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said, realizing that she meant it. She had always liked him. She found Harry easy to converse with, with his unassuming manner and tall, gangly frame and sandy-coloured hair and freckles. Any time she met him it was as if the years fell away and the friendship between them remained.

  ‘Nellie, would it be all right if I wrote to you sometimes?’ he asked shyly. ‘All the fellows have someone to write to and I …’

  His mother, Georgina, had died of tuberculosis three years ago and his father had always been a rather gruff, distant type of man.

  ‘Of course, and I promise to write back to you with news too.’

  ‘Perhaps we can have tea or go for ddd-dinner when I return?’ he suggested, suddenly nervous.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she smiled as they shook hands and parted. Harry walked briskly out of the park to the tram stop.

  Walking back home, Nellie realized that she was looking forward to sharing a meal with him, rekindling their friendship. She wished that she had not been so stupidly formal and had at least given Harry a hug to wish him well …

  Chapter 45

  Grace

  GRACE WAS MEETING Norman Morrow again tonight at an art exhibition that included black-and-white illustration.

  He greeted her warmly and she introduced him to her friends as they mingled and chatted, talking about their work. Norman fitted in well with her circle. He was over in Dublin for ten days and they had had dinner last night and were going to the Abbey tomorrow.

  As they climbed the stairs of the United Arts Club, Norman gently touched the nape of her neck and told her she was beautiful.

  ‘Behave!’ she laughed, though she had to admit she did enjoy his romantic attentions.

  They both had a piece on display at the latest exhibition and they stood making complimentary comments about each other’s work, which attracted attention. Countess Markievicz joined them and admired his etching, which had also been exhibited in a gallery in London.

  ‘The problem with the war is that no one is buying anything.’ He shrugged. ‘All the papers want is news journalism and work by war artists.’

  Afterwards they slipped away quietly from the crowd to spend time on their own in a nearby café. Grace sat smoking and enjoying a glass of wine as Norman again tried to persuade her to join him in London.

  ‘Grace, it is impossible for someone like me to make a living in Dublin,’ he said, running his hands through his thick, curling hair. ‘At least in London there is more opportunity for illustrators and political cartoonists like us to work.’

  ‘You were just saying earlier that no one is buying,’ she teased.

  ‘Perhaps not as much as usual,’ he conceded, ‘but war or no war, people will always buy art in London. And there are so many print newspapers and magazines. My brother George has made his fortune working for Punch and I am getting some good work from magazines too.’

  ‘I work for the Review and the papers and magazines and theatre here too,’ she argued.

  ‘But you told me they rarely pay you,’ he reminded her.

  Grace blushed. ‘Art is not just about money,’ she retorted hotly.

  ‘I know that,’ he apologized, stroking her hand. ‘It’s just that you are so talented and would definitely get work. Can you imagine us both in London, living and working together in our studio?’

  Grace took a slow pull of her cigarette, giving consideration to what he was s
aying. She was a little in love with him, but Norman had never gone down on his knee or sworn undying love for her; he just talked about them living and working together in some kind of bohemian way. She presumed he meant marriage.

  He held her hand and put his arm around her and she tried to imagine sharing her life with him …

  ‘Let’s enjoy the next few days,’ she said as the pianist began to play ‘The Song That Stole My Heart Away’ and Norman pulled her into his arms to dance.

  When the time came for him to return to London, he promised to write and told her he fully intended to persuade her to join him in the next few months. But Grace was unsure. She could no longer imagine spending the rest of her life in London so far from her family and friends and Ireland …

  His letters came regularly, some filled with cartoons and drawings, and she wrote back immediately, adding her own squiggles and sketches. But as the weeks passed she realized that, while she cared deeply for Norman and treasured the time she spent with him, she did not love him enough to move to London to live with him. He in turn did not actually love her enough to make the move to live and work in Dublin.

  She wrote to him less and less.

  ‘Are you sad about Norman?’ asked Nellie.

  ‘A little – I do miss him sometimes,’ she confessed, trying not to dwell too much on their failed romance.

  A few months later Norman wrote to tell her that he was going overseas to work as a war artist for one of the newspapers.

  Chapter 46

  Muriel

  MACDONAGH WAS APPROACHED about a professorship in English at a university in Switzerland. Eoin MacNeill had recommended him for the position at Fribourg University, which not only offered a good salary but included accommodation for his family.

  The idea was certainly tempting, thought Muriel as she read the correspondence on the matter. Switzerland was a neutral country, and they would have a home near the university and perhaps be in a better financial position.

  ‘I would probably have far more time to devote to my writing,’ he said, excited by the prospect.

  Their baby would be born in only a few weeks, however, and Muriel found it hard to imagine raising their children in Switzerland so far from her family and friends. What would happen if she fell ill again? She knew that he was torn about the offer, but was hugely relieved when he declined it.

  ‘It is far better for the baby and Don to be here in Dublin close to their families,’ he explained. ‘Besides, I have far too many commitments with the Volunteers to consider moving.’

  In March their daughter Barbara was born, petite and quite beautiful. Muriel felt well and strong again almost immediately. MacDonagh had composed a poem for their new, golden-haired baby. He called it simply ‘Barbara’ and as he read it to her Muriel felt as if her life could and would never be happier.

  Minding the baby and Don was often tiring as MacDonagh was so busy and away so much.

  ‘How did Mother do it with twelve of us?’ Muriel sighed.

  ‘Your mother had staff – a nanny, a cook and maids,’ he reminded her, laughing. ‘I’m sure that Isabella rarely bathed, dressed, fed or changed any of you.’

  Muriel blushed, realizing the truth of it. Bridget, their nanny, was the one who had raised them and tended to them when they were younger and were practically banished to the upstairs nursery. She remembered that Mother and Father would only dine with one of the children once a week. They had all considered it quite an ordeal sitting at the table with their parents and trying to make conversation. She would never permit such a thing to happen under her roof.

  MacDonagh employed a girl from north Dublin to come to help with the children for a few hours three times a week. Mary was friendly, kind and capable, and not only loved the children but helped Muriel with the housekeeping and laundry.

  ‘How can we possibly afford to pay her?’ Muriel fretted. ‘We will be in debt.’

  ‘Muriel, I don’t want you to get ill again,’ he insisted. ‘I work hard and what I earn is sufficient to provide for Mary’s wage.’

  Muriel hugged him. He was the kindest, most generous-hearted man and they cared deeply for each other and their children, she thought as she watched him leaning over his desk writing, working on revisions to his new play which was rehearsing the next day and due to open soon.

  He passed her a few pages to read. She curled up on the couch, surprised by his ability to capture a woman’s thoughts and feelings so well on paper. She began to read the script aloud: two women meeting in a drawing room, a wife and former lover discussing the man they both had loved.

  ‘Pagans is a very different play from your others. It is modern and feels real, but it is controversial.’

  ‘Joe felt the same when I gave him the script to read before he went abroad,’ he said, lifting his head. ‘But that is what our theatre is about, taking risks and putting new work on our stage. Jack thinks it is a grand piece of drama and he makes a great husband.’

  ‘I do wish that I could attend the opening, but I cannot leave the baby yet.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he sympathized. ‘There will be more plays, and you will be at my side then.’

  On the play’s first night Muriel waited up at home for MacDonagh’s return, anxious to hear of the reaction to Pagans. She could tell he was excited and he said his cast had served him well: Una O’Connor was wonderful in the lead role; Elta MacMurrough had played the artist with relish, while his brother was the perfect returning husband. There had been warm applause from the audience, with many of the women telling him that they had been taken aback by the honesty of his writing.

  ‘Countess Plunkett and Grace and Nellie all liked it. Helena teased me about how I learned to think like a woman. I told them I have a wife, a daughter now, and a rake of sisters and sisters-in-law, which helps!’

  MacDonagh was invited to speak at a women’s anti-war meeting and was surprised when his friend the pacifist Frank Sheehy-Skeffington wrote an open letter to him afterwards urging him to remember his humanity and to stop training the Volunteers to kill.

  ‘Would Frank prefer that they die defending Ireland?’ he sighed, showing Muriel the letter.

  ‘You know that he and Hanna will not tolerate violence of any kind,’ she reminded him. ‘They are both peacemakers opposed to the war and guns, that is all it is.’

  In her own mind she agreed with the Sheehy-Skeffingtons, for peace and an end to this terrible war were desperately needed.

  At night their back room was becoming a regular meeting place for MacDonagh and the other leaders of the Volunteers. He was closer than ever to Padraig Pearse, Sean Mac Diarmada and Tom Clarke, the inner group that was at the organization’s secret heart. Muriel worried about her husband, for he seemed even more caught up in things than before and lately had taken to wearing a gun.

  ‘Why do you need to wear it?’ she had questioned him.

  ‘I am not a violent man, but Tom Clarke says the DMP and the army may well be watching us and could take us or shoot us whenever they want. This pistol is my protection,’ he said firmly, hiding it inside his jacket.

  Muriel could not help but be afraid, not just for MacDonagh but for herself and the children too.

  Chapter 47

  Nellie

  NELLIE AND FATHER were enjoying breakfast together when he put down the morning paper.

  ‘I was in the club last night and I met Arthur Johnson. He was in a bad way, poor chap. Found out only a few days ago that his boy was killed in Flanders – terrible thing.’

  Nellie felt a chill run through her.

  ‘Which of the Johnson boys is it?’ she demanded of him.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He looked puzzled. ‘They’ve three or four sons.’

  ‘Robert and Harry are the ones serving in the army. Which one is it, Father?’

  ‘He was upset about his boy. He’d had a few whiskeys.’ Father looked stricken. ‘The awful thing is that he cannot even bring him home to bury him with his p
oor mother.’

  Nellie’s mind was in turmoil, gripped by a cold, strange dread.

  Father slowly resumed eating breakfast, while she sat feeling sick to her stomach. She sipped her cup of tea and pushed her plate away.

  ‘It’s the boy with the stammer,’ Father said suddenly, putting down his knife and fork. ‘Apparently his regiment of the Dublin Fusiliers had only arrived in Belgium a few days before and came under heavy attack at Ypres. Arthur heard that the British and allied lines were decimated by the Germans using some new sort of poison chlorine gas they have invented. The soldiers had no chance of escape – none at all …’

  ‘That’s Harry!’ she cried.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, to be the bearer of bad news. I remember you were all friends when you were younger and played together.’

  ‘I met him in the park only a few weeks ago. He told me that he had joined up with some friends from a rowing club.’

  ‘Poor chap! Lord rest him.’

  Nellie got up from the table and pushed her chair away.

  She escaped to the park and sat on a bench for hours. The crocuses and snowdrops were gone now and pink and white cherry blossom covered the trees. Golden daffodils grew in clumps along the pathways and a curious squirrel watched her before darting up the branch of a chestnut tree. Alone, she listened to the stillness.

  Harry was gone.

  She blamed the army generals, parliament and King George. They were the ones responsible for his death and the deaths of thousands of other young men just like him. She abhorred this war.

  A week later the postman delivered Harry’s only letter to her.

  He wrote of the crowded train and transport ship. Of miles of trenches and battle-weary men and the order to move up the line … He told her that he was afraid. Nellie cried her eyes out, then carefully folded the letter and hid it away in the drawer of her bedside table.