Betty greeted her with a timid hug, and the house was warm. ‘I’ve soup and bread for you.’
Veronica handed Betty a parcel of food. ‘Are they all well at home? Your mother and father, are they well? Eddie?’
‘Eddie is fine.’ It was great to hear Betty chat, but she didn’t want to talk about Eddie. ‘Betty, I’m not hungry, I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘Veronica, before you go,’ she took Veronica’s hands, ‘thank you for the lovely present. I’ll leave ye be and rest easy.’
The following day Veronica walked to Leinster St, careful as the pavements were slippery. As she walked the temperature rose, and the snow melted. The streets of the beautiful white city were slowly transformed into a slow-moving river of melted snow, the sludge grey and black. It was not a day for observing her surroundings or watching the soldiers on the street corners. Finally, at school, her stockings soaked and her feet cold, she met Bridget as she entered the building. Bridget’s face broke into a broad smile when she saw Veronica and she took her arm affectionately. ‘Isn’t it great to be back? I enjoyed Christmas, but I love it here.’
‘True, just a few more months, and we’ll be qualified in shorthand and typing.’
Mr Begley coughed as the girls sat down, ready to begin his monologue on secretarial etiquette. Just as he opened his mouth, there was a knock at the door, and a thin, tall priest entered. The men shook hands over a few quiet words.
The priest looked at the girls, and each one stared back at him. He removed his black hat to reveal his wispy hair.
He cleared his throat. ‘Veronica. Veronica McDermott.’
Veronica didn’t answer him, her mouth dry. Why did a priest want to speak to her?
He repeated her name.
‘Yes, Father, I’m here,’ she said, stiffening in her seat. She straightened her skirt as she stood. She didn’t like to be singled out. Her mind whirled. Had Mr Begley called him to report her for something she did?
When he spoke, his bones moved with his narrow face. ‘Hello, Veronica. My name is Fr O’Flanagan. I need someone to take shorthand for me a few days a week, and Mr Begley has recommended you.’
Mr Begley walked past Veronica, his hands behind his back, and said in a hushed voice, ‘Well done, Veronica.’ At the top of the classroom, the two men had quiet words, and they shook hands warmly before the priest left.
Veronica didn’t know what to think. She glanced at Bridget, who mouthed to her, ‘Well done.’
She tried to control her shaking hands. She glanced around the room at the other girls. Some of them stared at her with envy and others with curiosity.
She’d got a job without looking, a real job. Job – the word reverberated inside her head.
‘Veronica, come to me at the end of class, and I’ll tell you how to get there,’ Mr Begley said and continued with the lesson.
Veronica’s stomach fluttered. This was the reason she’d left Virginia.
At the end of class, Mr Begley stopped her on her way out. ‘Tomorrow, Veronica, you start tomorrow.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You start tomorrow, Veronica. It’s 42 Pembroke Road. Your uncle will show you how to get there. And don’t be late.’
She was about to ask how her uncle would know the address, but Mr Begley then told her more details about her work, and that she would get paid for the two days at the end of each month.
On her way home, Bridget walked with Veronica. The girls linked arms and stopped at O’Connell Bridge.
‘Veronica, I’ll miss you at school. You know what the other girls are like, so snobby and full of themselves.’
Veronica laughed, ‘Bridget. I only go there two days a week, and then I come back here for the other three. There’s no typewriter in the priest’s house, and I’ve to go back to the school to type the letters. Anyway, he’s a priest – how many letters does he need typing?’
‘Imagine! You’ll be a working woman. Did he say how much you will be paid?’
Veronica shook her head, ‘I don’t know. Does a priest have money? I never thought of that.’
With one last hug, the girls parted to go to their homes. Veronica loved this time of year. The few minutes of extra daylight in the evening promised spring was around the corner. The chill of winter was still present though, and Veronica walked briskly to get to the warmth of her home.
Over dinner, she shared the good news with Tom and Betty. Tom nodded in between mouthfuls of stew and said he would take her to Pembroke Road.
‘It’s nice there, and quieter as well.’
‘Oh, do you know Fr O’Flanagan?’
Tom stopped eating but didn’t look at her. ‘I’ve heard of him. He’s involved in politics here in the city, and up the country.’
She ate in silence, trying to digest her new job and practising her shorthand in her head.
Betty said, ‘Veronica, I’ve made bread and butter pudding – your mother sent it to me.’
Veronica smacked her lips. That was a real treat as Betty hadn’t made anything sweet since her arrival. Betty opened the oven, and the waft of sweet raisins teased her taste buds.
‘That smells lovely,’ Tom said as he winked at Veronica.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang from the kitchen. Tom ran over to Betty who was leaning over the basin of dirty water.
‘Love, what’s wrong?’
‘I’m fine. It’s nothing. I’m just a bit lightheaded.’
Veronica got up and cleaned the contents of the saucepan from the floor. The cat was already licking the stew on the ground, disappointed with the lack of meat, a valuable commodity to everyone.
‘Come on, love, you go to bed. Veronica will clean up.’
The small kitchen didn’t take long to clean. Veronica scrubbed the few plates in a couple of minutes. Nobody had left any of the thin watery stew on their plates. She placed the pan of bread and butter pudding on the sideboard; they could eat it with tomorrow’s dinner. On the table beside Betty’s chair lay the notebook she had seen Betty use before. Sticking out was a bit of silver ribbon, an angel wing. Veronica put her fingers lightly on the notebook, wanting to open it, but something held her back.
*
After the usual breakfast of tasteless, watery porridge, Veronica got her coat and her hat, fixing the blue ribbon and pulling it tight so the yellow bow didn’t come loose. She wanted to look her best. This was probably the most important thing she had ever done.
‘Good luck, Veronica, an’ here’s some lunch. Wrap up warm.’ Betty looked down at the grey tiles and murmured as Veronica was leaving, ‘I’m glad you’re back.’ She returned to her usual silence to wash the dishes.
The morning was grey and still. The light from the gas lamps on the street had receded to a yellow glow.
‘It’s further than Leinster St, so I can’t delay as I’ve to do the daily deliveries, so we’ll make a start. We’ll go the back way to Leinster St. It’s quicker, but don’t go this way on your own, walk on the quays.’
A young boy in bare feet ran after a squealing pig, waving a stick. A girl ran after him holding her once-white dress so that she wouldn’t trip on it. The pig ran into a corner. Soon the pig was surrounded by a ring of children so that it couldn’t escape; two of the boys carried it by its squirming hooves into a nearby house.
Tom looked at Veronica and said, ‘I know you think it strange the way city people live, but as I said they have no choice. Pigs and cows. They have nowhere else to keep them, so they keep them in the backyard. For meat and milk.’
They passed many men idly dragging the last puff from cigarettes on the street corners. Tom nodded over to them. ‘The women sometimes earn more money than the men. Some women sell fish, others sell flowers every day, or you will see them on the side of the streets selling bags or even small homewares they made themselves.’
‘The church, would they not help?’ Veronica said with a sense of despair.
Tom shrugged, giving the horse a flick of the r
eins. ‘Not a chance.’ He added, ‘Country people make money from the war. It’s been good for them, selling food and the like, but here it’s hard. And some women, they… well, it’s not for you to understand.’
Veronica knew what Tom meant. Bridget had pointed these ladies out to her, calling them ‘Ladies from The Monty,’ and had lowered her voice. ‘You know, the women who entertain the soldiers for money.’
Veronica blushed, her face mottling thinking about what Bridget had said. The cold air swept over her face as the dray gathered pace, and the streets became wider when they reached Trinity College.
She thought about the two sides of Dublin life. Trinity College, with its wide entrance, had a commanding presence. The students who entered every day, men dressed in suits carrying books, rushed to gain knowledge that promoted them to a position in society that only Protestants could attain. But the new Catholic University gave Catholics a chance to better themselves, a chance once denied to them by their birth, the university that her parents hoped Eddie might go to.
As they passed Merrion Square, a different way of life now emerged – the stench of the Liffey gone, as well as the smell of humans. Here everything was calmer, the air quieter, not spoiled with noise. Women in black and grey clothes pushed prams bringing babies out for the day to get fresh air. Nannies were an uncommon sight near Thomas St, and certainly in Virginia.
Veronica remembered the street names. They passed the Shelbourne Hotel onto Baggot St and reached Pembroke Road, a wide tree-lined street. Number 42, her new place of employment. She clutched her lunch bag tighter, her breath caught in her throat. As she climbed down from the dray, Tom took her hand. ‘You’ll be fine, love.’
Her heart raced as she rapped the shiny brass knocker. Veronica turned to give her uncle a wave, but he was already busy on his way.
14
The door opened. A girl stood in front of her, about the same age as Veronica, and she wore a dull brown dress the same colour as her hair. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’m Veronica McDermott.’
She stared at Veronica with a blank expression. Veronica thought she had the wrong address, or worse still Fr O’Flanagan had changed his mind, but the girl stood aside, gesturing for her to enter. ‘Mrs Brown is expecting you.’
The hallway spoke of a house with a lot more money than her aunt and uncle’s home. Small things like the vase of snowdrops on the hall stand, and a crimson red runner in the hall where her aunt and uncle’s house had bare floorboards. Veronica had no idea who Mrs Brown was. The girl brought Veronica into a warm room packed with logs and turf. The smell of turf was rare in Dublin. It reminded her of home where there was an abundance of bogs. A tall, middle-aged woman stood in front of the three book-lined walls. Her cream dress hung elegantly on her, highlighting her slender frame.
She stuck out her slender hand to Veronica, ‘Welcome. You must be Veronica? I’m Mrs Margaret Brown.’
Veronica nodded.
‘Right, dear, follow me, and I’ll show you what you have to do.’
Mrs Brown explained that she was the sister of a doctor, who was a good friend of Fr O’Flanagan. She added that Veronica would have to type replies to letters, and that Fr O’Flanagan was involved in elections. All her words ran together, and Veronica tried to take it all in, nodding as Mrs Brown spoke, afraid to ask questions.
‘A good friend of Fr O’Flanagan,’ Mrs Brown repeated. ‘Now, dear, we need a good shorthand and typist. Fr O’Flanagan has lots of letters to answer and wants you to put them into order first, and then into a topic category. Don’t look so puzzled, dear. It’s easy. Some people may just be offering him support, or favours to get some land. He is in Sinn Féin. Some people don’t like that he is involved in politics as he is a priest, and sure you know who that is…
‘The bishop,’ said Mrs Brown nodding her head.
Veronica followed Mrs Brown through a door at the opposite side of the room into a dark corridor, and downstairs to a basement. There were no windows, but three lamps and a fire. In one corner, there was a large mahogany desk with stacks of papers on it, and Veronica could see the long task she had. ‘Fr O’Flanagan won’t be here for a while. If you sort out the paperwork, he’ll be back at some point for you to take shorthand. So, for the moment file the letters by date and separate into piles. The ones that require an answer Fr O’Flanagan will deal with first.’
Alone, Veronica immediately set to work. She had no idea which letters needed an answer; this was a responsibility she never imagined would be bestowed on her, but after reading a couple of letters, it was easy.
My son needs a letter from a priest to say he can sit the scholarship exam.
My brother needs to get help to keep his farm as he has no money, and the landlord wants him gone.
My neighbour stole my pig.
She thought it was a policeman he needed, not a priest. The letters with Fr O’Flanagan’s signature had something scribbled beside his name. She squinted and pored over it but had to hold it to the lamp for light. It read Vice President. Sinn Féin.
She couldn’t believe she was now working for Sinn Féin, let alone the vice president. In her own small way, she was helping the country to remove Ireland from the clutches of British rule, of British suppression. She knew who Sinn Féin were. They opposed Home Rule and organised marches and protest rallies in Dublin and other counties around the country. Life for people in Dublin was affected by British occupation. Hunger, poverty, no future; that was the destiny for many people in Dublin, and she knew it was the same in most of the country folk as well. One difference was some country people could have a small farm, and even with that, they would still go hungry. She now realised she had had a sheltered childhood because her father had land and business.
Fr O’Flanagan’s handwriting was neat and elegant. As she read his letters, she could see him writing sermons to stand on his pulpit, sharing his eulogies with his congregation.
After a few hours, the door opened. ‘I’ve got a drop of soup for you, dear,’ said Mrs Brown entering with a tray of a steaming bowl of soup and buttered bread. ‘It’s stuffy. Can you concentrate? I sometimes get a headache when it’s too hot. A good brisk walk in the fresh air usually sorts me out.’
Mrs Brown spoke without waiting for an answer. The heat from the fire did fill the room, but Veronica had no problem concentrating. She had gotten lost in the pleasurable world of filing and organising the letters. Mrs Brown placed the tray on the small dark wooden table.
‘I’ll just have a cup of tea with you,’ Mrs Brown said and then asked Veronica about her family and her course.
‘It’s great more women are involved.’ She paused and spoke with a far-distant look in her eyes. ‘Maybe someday we’ll… Well, enough of that, eat up, and later, before you go, I’ll introduce you to the other staff.’
A warm feeling went through her when she was called staff. Finally, she was achieving something, and Mrs Brown seemed to think women were worth more than just being wives or housekeepers to their husbands.
After lunch, the day passed quickly. In the evening, Mrs Brown came back.
‘Well, Veronica, all done?’ she said, ‘I hope you didn’t find the work too hard.’
‘It was no problem at all. I enjoyed it.’ And she meant it; never in her life had Veronica felt so satisfied doing any task.
‘Grand dear, it’s late. Come back on Thursday morning at nine, and Fr O’Flanagan will be here. He’ll dictate shorthand to you then.’ She looked in the mirror to fix a loose strand of hair. ‘I thought he’d be here today, but he must have been held up at a meeting. He’s a very busy man with the elections and everything.’ Mrs Brown talked as she walked up to the stairs. Veronica grabbed her coat following her to the front door. Before she could open it, Fr O’Flanagan entered, shaking his umbrella.
‘I’ve had to come back early, Mrs Brown.’ He extended his hand, shaking Veronica’s hand with vigour as if shaking the hand of an old friend. ‘Ah, you must be
Veronica. You know, I know your father well. He does great work in the Gaelic League, and so does your brother, Eddie. Good people, excellent people.’
Veronica nodded, thinking that people from all parts throughout the country seemed to know each other.
‘Come back again on Thursday. That’s every Tuesday and Thursday. I’ll have some filing for you to do, and you’ll take shorthand, which you will take back to Leinster St to type.’
Veronica left Pembroke Road, feeling like a real worker, a woman with a job. On the way home, she saw Bridget outside Joyce’s hairdressers talking to a tall man in a suit. His hat was pulled low over his face. The man moved closer to Bridget, but she pulled away quickly and turned and rushed at a pace which Veronica found impossible to equal. The heavens opened again, and people ran for shelter, or to their destination. Veronica called out to Bridget, but she didn’t hear. Soon the distance between them increased, and Veronica lost sight of her friend.
When she reached Thomas St, she met Tom on the front steps, ‘Well, love, how was it? Did you meet Fr O’Flanagan?’
‘It was great, and yes, I met him. I’ve to go back again on Thursday.’
‘That’s great.’ Tom put on his cap. ‘I’m off to a meeting. Betty’s inside waiting for you.’
Veronica rushed up the stairs wondering which of her day to share with Betty first, and she was starving. For once, she looked forward to Betty’s dinner.
In the kitchen, Betty spooned out stew onto the blue and white plates. ‘There’s a letter for you,’ she said nodding towards the mantelpiece above the smouldering fire.
A white envelope rested against the statue of the Virgin Mary. She removed the letter, careful not to knock the rosary beads, which Betty held every night with the small picture of Padraig while she sat staring into the flames of the fire. The neat handwriting was Eddie’s. The postmark said Belfast. Tearing open the letter, shock replaced her initial excitement when she read the address:
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