Dublin's Girl

by Eimear Lawlor

Crumlin Road Prison,

  17 January 1918

  Belfast

  My dearest Veronica,

  It is with great regret I must tell you this. You were right when you said the gun would come to no good. I was made the captain of the Volunteers in Lurgan, and during a foot drill, I was captured by the British. My sentence is eighteen months in prison.

  ‘Are you all right, Veronica?’

  Speechless for a minute the reply struggled to reach her throat, ‘Eddie is in jail.’ She handed the letter to Betty, her hands shaking.

  ‘I know. Your father wrote to me last month. He didn’t want to worry you.’

  Betty put the pot of stew down on the table and wrapped her arms around Veronica, but the warmth of Betty’s arms didn’t console her.

  After a few minutes, Betty said, ‘Sit down, leave the stew, and I’ll make us some tea.’

  Veronica watched the letters smudge as the ink ran into each other as her tears fell onto the page. She wished she had told her father about the gun. It was all her fault.

  Betty scalded the teapot. ‘Don’t take it too hard,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ she said, drying her eyes with her handkerchief, ‘but it’s all my fault. I found the gun and should’ve told Father. He would’ve taken it away. Instead, I told him if he didn’t ask Daddy to send me to learn to type I would tell.’ She placed her head in her hands. ‘Oh, God I could have stopped him.’

  ‘Here, pet, drink your tea.’ Betty stood beside Veronica holding the teapot in one hand and the other hand on her hip. ‘I can tell you now it would’ve done no good. If it’s on a boy’s mind to do something, he’ll do it.’

  This statement brought Veronica back to reality. Eddie was in jail, alive, and Betty’s only child was dead. She took Betty’s small skeletal hand in hers. ‘You’re right. It would have done no good.’ But she didn’t believe her words; she felt she could have stopped him.

  Betty sat in her armchair. ‘Write to him, writing is good, it helps heal. I write to him all the time.’

  ‘Eddie?’

  Betty slowly shook her head. She held the brown leather notebook with the angel decoration Veronica had made placed between its pages. She knew who Betty meant.

  ‘Padraig?’

  Betty nodded. ‘I write and tell him how Tom, his father is. Initially, it was to write my pain, how taking a breath would hurt, how my heart was ripped in two, I felt I was splitting in two.’

  Betty stopped talking, her cheeks wet. ‘Then you came, and I would tell him what you did and how I think of him when I look at the angel you made.’

  Veronica knelt beside her and rubbed her hands, the way her mother did when she was upset when she was a child. ‘Betty, I know it’s hard, but I’m glad you can talk to me.’

  ‘I sometimes open the window in the spring breeze and close my eyes and feel his arms wrap around me, and hear his voice whispering my name in the wind. And this,’ she pulled the angel from her notebook, ‘Thank you, Veronica,’ she said, her voice full of tears. Betty closed the notebook and stood. ‘Let’s get some sleep, pet, I’m sure Eddie will be fine.’

  *

  The next morning started the same as every other day. The warmth of the kitchen greeted her as soon as Veronica walked in and sat at the breakfast table. She eyed the usual neat empty place setting with the empty, clean bowl and shiny spoon and thought of Eddie, his seat at the table at home in Cavan also vacant.

  15

  Veronica settled into her new routine attending many meetings at Pembroke Road, taking notes in shorthand, typing them later in the school. Her two-day week soon turned to three days. The cosy basement equalled the warmth she received from Fr O’Flanagan and Mrs Brown. She liked the mixture of working in Pembroke Road and returning to the secretarial course, especially to see Bridget.

  Words like rebellion, retaliation, Irish rights, were a constant in the letters she typed. Initially, the words meant nothing to her, but slowly she wondered if there could be a connection between her father’s midnight meetings and what they wrote in the letters. She knew her father had an interest in politics.

  Fr O’Flanagan met men in his drawing-room, men of means. They wore expensive suits, white shirts and ties, unlike her uncle in his grey shirt and work boots. One day, Fr O’Flanagan called her into his office.

  ‘Veronica, I want you to take some shorthand for me. Dear Eoghan, now we have enough money to buy more guns, I would like…’

  Veronica stopped writing and felt her cheeks heat.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Veronica. We have to help the people of Ireland get their independence – by whatever means. They’re my people. I took a commitment to serve God, but, I also think it’s my commitment to look after the people of Ireland as well. Because I am a priest, some people think it’s wrong. I think the living are equally as important.’ Pausing he continued, ‘Sometimes their help often requires more than a prayer.’

  Some days, Fr O’Flanagan would join Veronica for soup. After the soup, he would lean back in his armchair, smoking his pipe and listen to her as she told him about her life in Cavan and how it differed in Dublin. She was unsure if she should confide in the priest that Padraig had been in the British army. He could be sympathetic because he was a priest, or unsympathetic because of his involvement against the English. She took a deep breath and blurted, ‘My cousin Padraig, Uncle Tom’s son, was killed in Turkey two years ago. My Aunt Betty is lost without him.’

  He pulled on his pipe. ‘I know, dear; it’s terrible to lose a child, but a lot of young lads were urged to their deaths with promises of money. They thought we would get Home Rule, that would be good for us. But it isn’t really, Catholics can’t get employment, most pay rent. Home Rule means all our taxes still go to England, leaving our people with no means to even have food on their table. It’s cruel. Your uncle and aunt must be so sad, and he was their only child. They’re lucky they have you now.’

  A knock on the door and Mrs Brown entered with the welcome smell of two bowls of vegetable soup, and a plate of thick bread spread generously with butter.

  ‘Veronica, you should have your lunch here every day,’ she said.

  Veronica welcomed the suggestion as the thick soup had more vegetables than Betty’s stew. She still let Betty continue to make the bread and butter every day, but she gave her lunch away to the children she met on her walk to work. There were so many children running the streets.

  The work was demanding, and her days passed quickly, especially on the two days at her secretarial course when she had to type the letters at great haste before class. The course was to finish soon, and now she was well practised, she wondered about getting a full-time job. One Friday evening in February as she was leaving the house, and dusk was setting in, Mrs Brown called her back. ‘Fr O’Flanagan wants to see you. He’s in his study.’

  The door of his study was slightly open, and she coughed. He sat behind his desk. His head bent, and from the speed he was scribbling, she knew he was adding his signature to letters. She could see his scalp. The few thin wisps of fair hair remaining on his head would soon be gone.

  ‘Ah, Veronica, good. Come in, close the door behind you and sit.’ He stretched his back before he spoke. ‘I’ve to go away for a few weeks, so I’d like you to go to the Sinn Féin offices in Harcourt St to type from now on. Harcourt St, it’s near St Stephen’s Green. You’ll go there every day, and you’ll start next week.’

  Her heart missed a beat, and she twisted her hands. ‘My course finishes soon.’

  ‘It’s fine, Veronica. Mr Begley said you can go back to take the exams, and he’s confident you’ll pass.

  ‘They need a good typist and someone to do shorthand. Let me explain what we are doing. Sinn Féin is a party and in opposition to John Redmond’s Irish Parliamentary Party. They promised the British that if we agree to conscription and let our men fight for them, they will give us Home Rule. But we’re not going to let that happen. For starters, we want to have an Ir
ish government here, and they can get their own killed. They can fight their war.’

  The following day at school, during lunch break the girls took their usual seats in the yard. Bridget stretched her legs out, trying to catch the weak February sun. ‘I love this time of year, but imagine, we’ll be finished soon!’

  Veronica gulped and gushed, ‘Bridget. I’ve got a job, a real job, and I start next Monday. In five days!’

  Bridget sat up, spilling her can of milky tea over the flagstones. ‘Veronica, where? How? That’s brilliant.’

  A flash of sadness crossed Bridget’s face, but with her usual optimism, Bridget hugged her saying, ‘That’s wonderful, you’re so lucky.’

  She told Bridget how she was going to work for Sinn Féin. It was the only time Bridget was speechless, but not for long.

  ‘That’s a big job! Imagine! You’ll meet the people everyone is talking about.’ Sighing, she said, ‘I’ll help my aunt in her shop for another while; my uncle never recovered fully from the flu. And I think she likes the company. It gives me a chance to do something waiting for something to come up.’

  ‘Bridge, don’t worry. We’ll still see each other and keep in touch. I’ll write often.’

  ‘Your parents will be so proud of you.’ Bridget hugged her again, her eyes wet. ‘We’ll write and arrange to meet. Oh, I’m so excited for you.’

  Veronica thought back to the pride on her uncle’s face the night she told him. ‘Veronica, I’m delighted and proud of you and so is your father.’ Later that evening in her bedroom, she remembered her uncle’s words and thought it must have been a mistake. How could her father be already proud of her since she only just found out?

  16

  February 1918

  On Monday morning Veronica woke groggily after another night of unrest on the streets. Her sleep broken from the patrolling vehicles and shouting soldiers, she didn’t welcome the morning light trying to penetrate the flimsy curtains. The smell of fresh bread from the kitchen next door told her it was time to get up. Betty managed to make edible bread from the meagre food parcels of flour and eggs her brother sent to them from the farm.

  Even though she hadn’t slept well, she was alert to start her new job. She put on her clothes she’d laid out the night before on the chest of drawers in the corner of her room. She was glad her mother had insisted she brought the brown skirt and cream wool cardigan. The heat of the fire had not yet replaced the crisp air in the kitchen. Her morning ritual of splashing ice-cold water onto her face and flattening her curls was interrupted with a shout from the kitchen.

  ‘Veronica, your uncle is leaving soon. He’ll take you, but you’ve to eat first.’

  ‘Coming.’ She rechecked herself in the mirror.

  Betty was checking the clothes drying over the fire. ‘Morning, are you all set for your day?’

  Veronica detected a small change in her voice, something positive.

  Her aunt looked closely at her. ‘You look pale, are you ill?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. God, I’m sick with nerves,’ she said and sat at the table tugging her fingers. ‘I feel this job is more important than typing for Fr O’Flanagan.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are always people in to see Fr O’Flanagan and they usually meet in the drawing-room. When I arrive in the morning, men are leaving, and they pull their collars up, pull down their hats to cover their faces, their clothes crumpled as if they have been up all night. I hear some of them say to Fr O’Flanagan I’ll drop that letter, or whatever into number six. That’s where I’ll be working, 6 Harcourt St is on so many of the letters I typed.’

  ‘Veronica, you’re overthinking it. Get some breakfast into you. It’ll be all right. I know it’s more responsibility. You’ve only to type letters and take shorthand.’

  Veronica stared at her porridge, forcing herself to put some on a spoon. ‘I know I have worked for Fr O’Flanagan, but the Sinn Féin headquarters. I read about them all the time in the papers and the work they do. I never thought I’d work for them. Fr O’Flanagan said it’s important work.’

  ‘Go on. You’ll be fine, girl. Now don’t delay, your uncle is waiting outside.’

  Veronica pushed her bowl away. ‘I’m not hungry at all. I don’t know if I’ll be any good at this job. It’s just they are so important. I don’t want to let myself down.’

  Betty smiled, giving her an unexpected hug. ‘Go, you don’t want to be late.’ Veronica went downstairs to her waiting uncle, who had the dray ready. She looked up at Betty, who stood in the window above, and waved to her as they moved off.

  Veronica shifted on the seat on the dray trying to get as comfortable as possible. Her leg jittered, and she wrapped her scarf close to her neck. As they left Thomas St towards the quays, her uncle looked at her jittering leg and put his hand over her gloved hands.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Veronica.’

  ‘I know, but this is a real office with real people.’

  ‘Fr O’Flanagan is a real person, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he is a priest. And I worked in his house. Now I am a … what is it Bridget called it? A professional working woman.’

  He laughed, but Veronica didn’t notice. The morning was breaking and, in the distance, fingers of light appeared in the sky above O’Connell Bridge. Outside Trinity, a group of soldiers gathered in conversation with the DMP.

  Tom continued down Grafton St. A motor car crossed in front of them beeping, causing the docile horse to jump. Tom pulled the reins to calm him. The car turned left and stopped in front of a large grand pristine building. The driver got out to open the door of the car for its passengers.

  Tom stopped and pointed to a white building with large polished windows, the sun bouncing off the brass name. A doorman in hat and tails stood outside. ‘That’s the Shelbourne Hotel. For the English and posh people. It’s not for our kind.’ He flicked the reins. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Tom soon stopped outside a four-storey brown brick building, Veronica’s new place of work. 6 Harcourt St. To the left of the white arched doorway, there was a large sign, Sinn Féin Bank. A stream of men walked up the steps, some turning left into the bank and others going straight into the building.

  Tom squeezed her arm as she got down from the dray. ‘Go on, love, you’ll be fine. Take a deep breath. It’ll be grand.’

  When Veronica entered the building, she immediately noticed how different it was to Pembroke Road. To her left, she saw silhouettes of men through a frosted glass window. A phone rang followed by loud talking but she couldn’t quite catch what they were saying. Another phone rang. Few places had a phone, but to have two in the same building was something she could never have imagined. The bright hall was alive with a continuous stream of people going up and down the wide staircase in front of her.

  A man rushed past her but turned back. ‘Can I help you?’ he said in a similar accent to Mr Begley.

  ‘I’ve to meet Mrs O’Reilly. Fr O’Flanagan sent me.’

  The large handsome man pointed upstairs. ‘She is on the first floor, and the door is straight in front of you.’

  People moved in and out of the building like a steadily flowing river. On the landing, a group of men gathered deep in discussion, shuffling through their papers comparing notes. She excused herself past them and followed to the half-open door, hearing the familiar click-click of a typewriter. She hesitated outside the brown door and politely knocked. Nobody answered. Her heart pounded louder. She took a deep breath and formed a fist to knock harder. Finally, a voice shouted, ‘Come in.’ Veronica couldn’t decide if it was a woman or a man.

  When she opened the door, light flooded onto her from the two large windows in front of her and a fire burned at the back of the room. The heat mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke and leather reminded her of her father’s study. Beside the fireplace were large piles of papers stacked neatly against the wall. A rounded, wrinkled woman sat at a large desk and squinted over her glasses, looking Vero
nica up and down.

  ‘Can I help you, dear?’ she said in a husky voice.

  ‘Fr O’Flanagan sent me.’

  The silver-haired lady stood, her hips full with a waist to match. ‘Dear, you are welcome. You must be Veronica. You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?’

  She shook Veronica’s hand, her plump fingers soft and warm.

  ‘Come on, dear, I’ll show you what you’ve to type.’

  Veronica’s heart thumped so hard that it hurt her chest, and she was sure Mrs O’Reilly could hear it.

  Doors slammed, and there was continuous shouting up to the top floor. Heavy boots on the wooden floors reverberated through the building. There was a strange noise; a faint whirring from the top floor. The chaos was welcome.

  ‘I’d say it’s a lot busier than Fr O’Flanagan’s,’ Mrs O’Reilly said with a slight throaty laugh. ‘He comes here, but like everyone else, he is always on the go.’

  A soft voice behind Veronica said, ‘And who are you, dear?’

  ‘Mrs Moore, this is Veronica. She’s here to help to take shorthand and type,’ said Mrs O’Reilly. Mrs Moore had beautiful cream coloured skin and not a line on her face. Her hair showed few signs of her age.

  ‘Veronica, such a lovely name. Here to work and help with our cause? I work upstairs, but I like to come down for a chat – it’s all men up there, and they don’t appreciate a good chat. Isn’t that right, a good cup of tea before we start the day?’ Mrs Moore said, opening a few buttons of her blue coat that was the same colour as her shoes. Veronica had never seen blue shoes before.

  ‘Yes… yes.’ Veronica wasn’t too sure how she was involved with the cause now she didn’t deliver any more parcels.

  ‘Good girl. Mrs O’Reilly, I was delayed. Soldiers were questioning and arresting some young lads, and they took one of them away. They found he had a small pistol.’

  ‘God, did they stop you?’ Mrs O’Reilly said.

  ‘No, no. I’m just a lady out for a stroll enjoying the morning. Thankfully, I got the letters posted for Michael. He wants to organise a rally in Sligo.’