Dublin's Girl

by Eimear Lawlor

  The room was in desperate need of repair but clean, and an over-swept red carpet told of a woman who had too much time on her hands. Veronica realised then that this room was her new home, not the whole house.

  Betty got up slowly, and hugged Veronica, her bony arms giving Veronica a fright. Betty’s mouth smiled a welcome, but her eyes showed no joy. Betty was smaller than she remembered, her once red hair now speckled with grey, and the bouncing curls had gone.

  After a few awkward seconds, Betty said, ‘It’s not as generous as what you are used to, and we don’t have a lot. Tom has a job in the brewery. We get by.’ She had a quiet voice and paused for a moment, her eyes distant. ‘The war has made everything expensive. It’s only the two of us now.’ She moved slowly, her face pinched in pain. ‘I will show you to your bedroom.’

  Her bedroom was a few feet from the sitting room, which also seemed to be the kitchen. Tom poked the fire, moving the embers to let the room fill with heat. Veronica could hear voices below, mixed with the noises from the street. She wondered how she would get used to the new sounds. Betty stood at the bedroom door. Silent. Something invisible had taken hold of her.

  She said something, but Veronica had to bend down to hear her.

  ‘This is your room. Assume you’re tired.’ Pausing, she said, ‘How are your mother and father?’

  ‘They are both well, Aunt Betty,’ she said as her eyes hovered around her new bedroom.

  The light from the lamp fell into a bare room with a bed, a wardrobe, a small desk with a jug and bowl on it for washing.

  ‘You can hang your coat on the hook and put your clothes in the wardrobe, and there’s a candle on the desk.’

  The wardrobe door was ajar, the sleeve of her dead cousin’s jacket poking out.

  ‘I’ll leave ye be.’

  Alone now, Veronica closed the transparent brown curtains. Fog misted the small window which refused any remaining daylight into the room.

  Someone knocked on her bedroom door, and Tom came in.

  ‘Your case, Veronica. I hope you’ll feel welcome; Betty is sometimes… well, since Padraig is gone, she can be distant.’ After a second, he continued, ‘He didn’t want to be lifting barrels his whole life. The money in the army was good. He got one pound a day. He said he wanted to do something exciting. And that he liked being with other lads.’ Tom paused. ‘He wanted to see the world. Recruited in Grafton St, he was, and then he was gone – gone for good.’ He sighed and looked around the room. ‘Sure, I know it’s smaller than you’re probably used to. I’ll leave you to get settled. Rest for a while and Betty will have supper for you.’

  He closed the door tight after him.

  Veronica sat on the edge of the bed. It was not as soft as her own but she smiled. This was her room. No more sharing. She could be as messy as she wanted; no more Susan nagging her to be tidy. She would prove to her father he had made the right decision and show Susan how this was more exciting than baking scones. She pushed down the butterflies in her stomach to explore her new room.

  She ran her hand across the top dresser and over a stain beside the water jug, before opening the drawers, which thankfully were empty. She laid her clothes on the bed, wondering if they were too lavish. The clothes men and women she had passed on the way to Thomas St had shocked her, especially the dirty, barefoot children. At home, she saw shoeless children, but they didn’t have the desperation in their eyes the Dublin children had.

  The package her father gave her sat on the bed. Tom hadn’t mentioned it again, and her father’s words reverberated in her head. Don’t show it to Betty. It was only about the size of a book wrapped in brown paper tied tight with brown string. But it was heavier than her reading books. She squeezed her index finger under the string, but it held firm. She dropped the package on the bed, her interest gone.

  Another small knock and her aunt entered. ‘Here,’ she said, and handed Veronica a steaming cup of tea and some bread. ‘Tom said you’d a long day so you can eat it here and get to sleep early. Tomorrow will be even longer.’

  Her aunt’s face seemed lined with disappointment that it wasn’t her son she was handing a cup of tea to. She nodded at Veronica and turned as a coughing fit took hold of her and she held onto the doorframe.

  Betty was right. After tea, Veronica lay on the bed exhausted and watched the lamp’s wick flickering, trying to hang onto its last breath. As it drew its last gasp at life, the room went dark, and Veronica was soon asleep.

  6

  The following morning Veronica woke to a loud, shrill whistle. It took a minute to remember she was in Dublin. Stretching her arms behind her, she wondered how her six-foot cousin had slept in such a small bed. The whistle stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Veronica stretched with excitement at her new life as pinpoints of light crept through the thin curtains. She listened to the new noises. Embers scraped in the fire in the living room and voices drifted in from the street.

  In the biting morning air, she washed with the cold water that Betty had left in the porcelain jug on her bed-stand beside the framed picture of her family. She put on her cream blouse and best Sunday skirt. She felt stiff, restrained by her Sunday clothes.

  She used the new mother of pearl hairbrush to tame her curls before pinning them tight as best she could, but a few refused to be restrained. She put the unused pins in the bottom drawer of her music box and opened it to watch the ballerina twist and turn to the notes. As a small girl, it had fascinated her when she got the music box for Christmas. The ballerina pirouetted to the music, thinking she was free. She smiled and closed the lid. This was the start of her new life.

  In the kitchen, Betty poked the fire into life. The frost had arrived early, the warmth of the summer long gone.

  Veronica stood in the doorway, waiting for Betty to say something, unsure of what to do. Betty’s skeletal frame and her ill-fitting clothes that hung too loosely on her, reminded Veronica of the homesick girls at boarding school. They had hoped starvation would bring their parents to the school to take them home, but Veronica had taken a different approach. In the middle of the night, she’d stolen one of the nuns’ bicycles and cycled home from Carrick-on-Suir. Her father had returned her to school as soon as she’d arrived home.

  Veronica coughed.

  Betty rubbed her back as she stood, the fire now alive. ‘Come and sit, eat your breakfast while it’s still hot. Did you sleep well?’

  A rectangular wooden table with four chairs filled the centre of the room. The kitchen table at home had up to ten chairs, usually filled up with the farm labourers. There was no white linen cloth or covering, unlike on the dining table at home. There were no fresh flowers in the middle of the table either, or any flowers anywhere. The dull silver cutlery matched the dullness of the room.

  A large ginger cat rolled around on the rug in front of the fire purring, his tail moving in rhythm with the flames. He jumped on the mantelpiece, expertly rubbing his tail in between the statue of the Virgin Mary and a brass jug. A small picture of Padraig smiling in his British army uniform was on the centre of the mantelpiece.

  Betty placed a steaming bowl of porridge beside a blue and white Delph cup on the table. The table was set for four, and there were crumbs on the table, evidence someone had eaten already. The place setting to her left was untouched.

  The sparse kitchen was clean and neat, but bare. The dresser had more blue and white Delph porcelain but not as many pieces as their dresser at home. She thought of what Mrs Slaney would say: ‘It lacks soul.’ Veronica believed that this was her excuse for not being good at her job, only ever half tidying the kitchen.

  Beside the fire, there was a well-worn armchair with a blanket loosely thrown around the back of it, and a pair of knitting needles and wool on the ground. The room felt homely.

  The front door creaked, and Tom came into the room backwards dragging a sack. ‘Those stairs are getting tougher,’ he said while stretching and rubbing the small of his back.

  ‘That
’s the fuel to keep ye warm for the day, it’s going to be a cold one today,’ he said. ‘I think the winter will be a cold one this year. I’m sure of it, I can feel it in me bones.’

  ‘Tom, wash your hands before you eat your breakfast.’

  He shivered as he immersed his hands, a useless task without hot water and soap. The coal was embedded into his fingernails, and only in death would they be scrubbed clean.

  ‘People don’t like black nails to deliver their barrels of the black stuff, but they will have to do,’ he said, wiping his hands dry on his trousers and sitting beside Veronica.

  Betty put two bowls on the table. Veronica noticed her movements caused her to grimace.

  ‘Rheumatism,’ Tom whispered to Veronica. ‘It’s always worse in the winter. Damp doesn’t help us, so we try to keep the place warm, and someone told me copper helps.’

  Betty handed him a cup of tea. He thanked her with a softness in his eyes, a look that Veronica had never seen pass between her father and mother. Veronica didn’t know if she should talk. At home constant conversation flowed at the breakfast table, from her mother fussing over the list of chores for Susan and Veronica, or the farm hands looking for more tea.

  ‘Well, love, ready for your big day?’ Tom said.

  Rubbing her knuckles – a habit she had had since she was a young girl – Veronica tried to keep her voice steady. ‘It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever done.’

  Tom rose, squeezing her arm gently as he stood. ‘You’ll be grand, love. We’d better be going soon. Remember to walk along the route I’m going to show you. Along the quay, best to keep by the river, the back streets can be dangerous – the pickpockets, and now the rebels.’

  ‘The rebels?’

  ‘Volunteers, and with the English soldiers, you never know what will happen. The soldiers are ruthless when they catch one of the volunteers.’

  Eddie’s gun drifted into her mind.

  Veronica lifted a spoon of porridge to her mouth and then put it down, pushing the bowl away. It was tasteless and watery, unlike the milky porridge Mrs Slaney made with the right amount of salt so that when sugar was added, it tasted perfect.

  ‘I’m not very hungry, Betty.’

  Betty nodded and pushed a small brown packet into her hand. ‘Your lunch, and I’ll have something for you when you return.’

  As they left, the smell of soot on Thomas St stung her nostrils and bit her eyes, making them water.

  ‘Com’ on, love, up you go,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll do my deliveries on the way back. But remember the way I show you. It’s longer but safer as we don’t want anything to happen to you. Sometimes the soldiers patrolling the streets can harass young women.’ The horse moved at a slower pace than he had the day before, with the heavy barrels strapped tight on the dray. ‘I’ll show you some of the sights of Dublin. I’m sure it’s a lot different than Virginia.’

  Veronica nodded. She was still in awe of life in Dublin.

  A group of children ran beside the dray as it moved, pushing sticks into the wheels so that it made a rhythmic, clacking sound. Turning from The Maltings onto the quays, she took in the new sights and smells. It excited her. This was her chance for a life of her own.

  Two barges moved up and down the river to deliver goods and bring the empty barrels of Guinness back to the brewery. To her right, the streets were dark and uninviting. A young boy and girl in torn, dirty clothes ran out in front of them, a man shouting and waving his fist behind them. ‘Thieves!’ He chased after the children, but they soon disappeared among the laneways.

  ‘Uncle, does everyone in Dublin live like this?’

  ‘Tom, call me Tom. On the other side of the bridge, it’s nicer.’ Tom gestured to a white bridge in the distance.

  ‘Well, why do they live here? Why don’t they move to somewhere nicer and bigger?’

  ‘Ah, where else would they live? Would people in the country move if they wanted something better?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe not.’

  ‘Look, it’s the same here in the city; they’ve little choice in the matter. They have no money; most have little or no work. Rich people moved out to the country and rented out the houses they left behind. They couldn’t sell them, so they put loads of families in them. Up to fifteen families can live in one house. The place is filthy, full of diseases, with TB. It’s an absolute disgrace if you ask me, expecting people to live like this and children dying, not just from disease, but hunger as well.’

  Leaning forward, he said, ‘Veronica love, there’s little that can be done, some people are just more unfortunate than we are.’

  The sun was rising above the buildings as they passed, falling on a group of soldiers marching along the quays on the opposite side of the river. The buildings were showing signs of life as shop doors opened. Haberdasheries, furniture shops with tables and chairs lining the street outside the front. A woman in a once-white apron swept the path outside a bread shop.

  ‘Not long now.’ Tom pointed to his left across the river. ‘That big street across O’Connell Bridge is Sackville St, and that’s Nelson’s Pillar.’

  On Sackville St, she saw flower sellers at the bottom of Nelson’s Pillar. The colourful flowers were a stark contrast to the damaged buildings from the Rising. Buildings that had once stood on either side of the wide main street of the capital lay in ruins. The GPO looked undamaged, but she had read in the papers it had been burnt inside and that the shell of stone was all that remained.

  They were passing a large wooden gate. ‘Trinity – Protestants,’ Tom said with disdain, as they passed along the stone-walled building with the largest wooden doors she had ever seen.

  Tom was right. On the other side of the city, it was a different Dublin. ‘That’s the bank now,’ he said, pointing to a white round building whose pillars reached into the sky.

  ‘That was once our parliament.’ He gave the reins another flick. ‘We’ll be at Leinster St in a few minutes.’ He slowed, pulling on the horse’s reins to bring them to a stop. He turned to her with a smile, and gently squeezed her arm. ‘You’ll be fine, Veronica. If you’re like your father, you won’t find this a challenge at all.’

  Veronica hesitated. ‘The package Daddy told me to give you… I left it under the bed.’ It didn’t seem right to call it her room, or worse still Padraig’s room.

  ‘Later, I’ll get it later. Go and start your course.’

  Veronica felt her optimism wavering.

  ‘Go on, love, you’ll be fine. Don’t forget to walk back the way I showed you, and make sure you are back before the curfew.’

  As she walked across the road, a bicycle bell tinkled. ‘Watch yerself,’ a boy screamed at her. She steadied herself as she tripped on the kerb. Holding her lunch tightly, she looked at the sign above the door: Underwood School of Typing. Three laughing girls walked past her linking arms as they walked into the building, followed by two more chatting girls. This was it. This was the doorway to her future, but now she was here, she felt suddenly overwhelmed by how alone she was. She turned back to her uncle, but he had gone.

  Staring at the sign for a moment, Veronica inhaled deeply. It was now or never. She walked into a bright and airy hall, full of girls standing along the walls. Veronica joined them, trying to appear relaxed, but her heart was pounding. A few of the girls chatted but most looked at the floor or their shoes. She didn’t want to stare so she coughed into her hand to look at them. Some wore hats that matched their coats, and their shoes shone so that you could see the reflection of electric light. She looked at her shoes, now regretting not shining them as her mother had told her to do, and smoothed her skirt. She noticed a loose thread at the cuff of her cardigan and pulled the sleeve down. One of the girls in the matching hat and coat put her hand to her mouth and whispered to one of the other girls, and they giggled while looking at Veronica. A door squeaked followed by hurried clipped steps down the stairs to the end of the corridor.

  ‘Girls, this way,’ said a short, sto
ut man in a sing-song voice. ‘Follow me, and I will show you to Mr Begley’s room.’

  Veronica had counted twenty-four girls and assumed they would be split into two groups. They followed him to Mr Begley’s room where sunlight fell through four large windows and the nine-feet-high ceilings. Dispersed evenly were four rows of six tables, each with a black typewriter.

  ‘Girls, find a seat,’ sang Mr Begley in a similar accent to the first man. He was a stern-looking man with a tall and narrow frame and his nose held high. He looked at them over his round-rimmed spectacles. ‘First, I’ll do a roll call. When I say your name, say “present, sir,” and soon we will begin.’

  Mr Begley stood at the head of the room. He was a welcome change to the nuns, but Veronica thought that it was just like school. The girl at the next desk moved her book around the table and put her gloves on top of the lunch and then under it. Veronica’s leg jittered, but most of the girls in the room sat rigid in their seats. The girl on her right side leant towards her and whispered, in an accent Veronica now recognised was a Dublin one, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Veronica.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Mr Begley squeaked as his gaze wandered over the girls.

  ‘Mine’s Bridget,’ the small freckled face said quickly before Mr Begley could continue. Her red curls moved as she spoke.

  Mr Begley closed the door and continued with the roll call, ticking each girl present, then with a slight cough he said, ‘Now, girls, let’s begin.’

  He talked all morning, showing the girls the ribbon, the keys, and how to bring the carriage back to type the next line.

  ‘The course will take eight months, and then you will be secretaries.’

  Veronica hung onto Mr Begley’s every word, repeating every sentence in her head – a memory trick she had used in school. It had kept her mind from wandering in class at the convent where she often thought of fishing at the lake in Cavan, especially during sewing class, and when Sister Lavinia shouted at her to pay attention, she would be forced back to her sewing.