Irish Above All

by Mary Pat Kelly

  “Good morning, Mother,” I said. “I’m Nora Kelly.”

  “I know, my dear. How could I forget you? Maura O’Connor and I often reminisce about that great adventure. The two of you dressed in habits with that redheaded man in a cassock, marching right past the Black and Tans.”

  “It seems like a dream now or a scene from a movie,” I said.

  “Much quieter here now,” she said. “Peace at last. To think the world went to war again. Horrifying. Many of our girls and past students suffered. I pray every day for those fathers and husbands, brothers and sons who served. Not all of them survived.”

  We both were silent for a moment.

  “Mother,” I said. “The redheaded man who was with us that night and dressed as a priest, Cyril Peterson, I was told he came here again.”

  “And who told you that?”

  “A man who was at the IRA camp when the young man came there to avenge Michael Collins and…” I stopped because Mother Columba had turned her head away and closed her eyes.

  “A terrible, terrible time. Brother fighting brother. Families torn apart. There was even division among the sisters. It was as if a kind of madness took over the entire country. It’s best not to go back. Ireland has come to a kind of peace but the wounds are very close to the surface. I really can’t tell you anything, my dear.”

  “But you have to. If Peter Keeley is buried here, at least tell me where. I’d given up the hope of finding his grave. I was told his body was never recovered from the sea. But I don’t believe that’s true…”

  “Not in the sea,” she said. Now Mother Columba opened her eyes and turned to me. “What are your intentions, my dear?”

  “What do you mean? I just want to visit his grave. Perhaps have a Mass said here for him. Do something.”

  “But he is not buried in our graveyard.”

  “Where then?”

  “I don’t know. You see, he did not die here. He survived. We nursed him but as soon as he was able he left. He made us promise to tell no one that he was alive.”

  What? Alive! Peter had been alive?

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t think you know the true story of what happened. The professor told me and I think you should know, too. He was seriously wounded by that young man but he defended himself. He killed the fellow and was so full of guilt that he actually prayed to die. And when he didn’t, when his strength returned, he said he would spend the rest of his life doing penance.”

  “Penance. Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. Cyril Peterson drove him away but that was many years ago. The professor was not in good health, mind or body. I doubt if he is still alive.”

  “You’re alive. I’m alive. Peter Keeley may be alive. I have to find him.”

  “Do you really think that’s wise? Surely he would have written to you if he wanted you in his life. When we enter religion we sacrifice the past. Our families. The world. The only way to truly do God’s will is to leave all distractions behind. That is the path I believe Professor Keeley chose. You must respect his choice. I suggest you return to America. That is where God has placed you. Acceptance is a great gift.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I simply can’t.” Mother Columba shook her head.

  “I fear you are opening yourself to a lot of suffering. Go home, Nora. There are things in Ireland that you will never understand. The Civil War almost destroyed us. We have finally begun to heal. Leave us to it, please.”

  I wanted to shout at her. Scream until my voice bounced against the green marble walls. I can’t, I wanted to say. I can’t. I’m going to find him dead or alive and God Himself can’t stop me. Love is stronger than all your piety, Mother. I will not give up. I remembered Bridget, with her Ojibwe wisdom. Could Peter be alive?

  * * *

  “Peterson. A mother and son, and her husband was a docker. Died young. They lived in this building.”

  John O’Connor had driven me to the Galway train station that afternoon. One thing the British did leave Ireland was a decent railway system. I was in Dublin by 5:00 p.m. and walking up to this row of flats in the north side neighborhood that Cyril had taken me to all those years ago. There had been rubble in the street then left from the bombardment by British naval guns in response to the 1916 Rising.

  The debris had been cleared away but the neighborhood still had that hardscrabble look I knew from areas of Chicago where the buildings seem to lean against each other. Sad and tired. The bricks darkened by soot. Cold out. The narrow street funneled the wind that battered me with a near-Chicago force as I stood in front of the door held half open by a woman with a black shawl draped over her head.

  “And who are you to be asking?”

  “A friend,” I said. She laughed.

  “Never heard of them having any Yank friends. Dublin people didn’t go running to America like the culchies in the West did. Ma Peterson wouldn’t have been shy about any connections. Would shatter your ear but she did have a good heart, God rest her soul.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Of course she’s dead! The woman lived until ninety. Isn’t that enough to expect from anyone. Served her time did Ma Peterson.”

  “She went to prison?”

  “What? She never—although the peelers did take her in a time or two. But that was when Cyril was on the run. They tried to get her to inform on her own son. Imagine. But then they tortured all of us. I remember as a young girl being turfed out by the soldiers. Said they were raiding the flats looking for fugitives. They knew right well that no fugitive would go home and hide with his own family. Just an excuse to make all of us stand outside, shivering in our nightclothes. Some of the children in nothing more than raggedy shirts. Wouldn’t even let us get dressed but Ma Peterson would give out to them. After Independence, Cyril arranged to get a medal for her when he got his job in Government Buildings.”

  “So Cyril is an official?”

  “Not sure official is the right word. What he does is give tours when folks come up from the country anxious to have a look at the Dáil. That’s what we call the parliament. Renamed everything in Irish. Which is a bit difficult for the old ones who don’t have a word of it. I studied the language in school so I have a few words. And I can spell ‘Taoiseach,’ but my mother still calls Dev the prime minister. So if you’re looking for Cyril that’s where you’ll find him.”

  She started to close the door.

  “You’ll think I’m terribly rude not asking you in for a cup of tea but times are powerful hard. We thought if we got rid of the English we’d be away in a hack. But those British bastards are still acting the maggot. Not paying decent prices for Irish goods. Doing all kinds of underhanded things hoping the whole country will fall flat on its face. Read the Irish Press. You’ll see.”

  I took out the wad of money Ed had given me and found a twenty-pound note and held it out to her. She stepped back.

  “Christ on a crutch. Did you think I was begging?”

  “Of course not. But please take this. Consider it an early Christmas gift.” I put the note in her hand.

  “Are you mad entirely?” she said. “This is twenty quid. A fortune. Do the Irish earn this kind of money in America? No wonder all the country people headed for the ships. What my brothers should have done. Too late now.”

  “Why? There’s plenty of work, and soon there’ll be visas available.”

  “Visas? They’re both dead, love. One got shot fighting with Mick Collins and the other with Dev.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, looking for more words.

  “Doesn’t bear thinking about. Between the wars and one thing and another most of the men were taken. Ah well, at least my mother and I will have a happy Christmas, thanks to you. Take care of yourself, love. And give our regards to Cyril if you meet him. Too much of a muckety-muck for his old neighbors. But sure, that’s the way of the world. Always some people do well no matter what.”

  The desk clerk at
the Gresham Hotel helped me send a telegram to Ed. “Remaining in Ireland. Please have American Airlines hold my ticket with an open date.” But after I paid him, the clerk watched me recount the money I had left. “Best find a B and B, miss. Our rates wouldn’t suit you,” he said. I had five ten-shilling notes left. Two and one-half pounds, around $15.

  Maud Gonne, I thought. She lived in a house on St. Stephen’s Green. A long walk but possible though the cold had settled in now. Thank God for my coat. And even O’Connell Street was dark. Only a few dim streetlights. She’d lied to me but I’d decided she’d been a victim of Cyril’s deception too. He was alive and in Dublin. In twelve hours I would be confronting him. Except when I knocked at the door of the house on St. Stephen’s Green where Maud had lived, the maid who answered the door had never heard of Maud Gonne MacBride. She did allow me to step out of the night into the foyer. But that was as far as I got. The new owner made it clear he was not about to invite a strange woman into his house. No hard times here, I thought. Even though it was late in the evening he was dressed in a suit and a tie. Probably in his mid-fifties. Yes, he had purchased the house from Madam MacBride though he didn’t know exactly where she lived. Somewhere out in the country he thought. And that was it. So much for Irish hospitality, I thought as I walked down the steps.

  Ten o’clock now. No one on the street. The bulk of St. Stephen’s Green looming across from me. I began walking. Wait. Here was the church Maud had taken me to. Administered by the Jesuits, I remembered, as a kind of chapel for the students at the university. I walked down the steps. Tried the door. Unlocked, thank God. I stepped in. Such a familiar space. The faint scent of incense. The rows of vigil lights, small dots of flame, and then the larger tabernacle light glowing behind red glass. I looked up. Another huge Sacred Heart. I went straight up to the stand of candles below the portrait. I’m giving you a chance, I said. Then stuck a ten-shilling note into the brass box attached to the stand and took the taper from the shelf under the candles, put it into a flame, and lit up a whole row of vigil lights. Alright, I prayed. If there’s anybody up there at all you’d better get to work. I need some good news.

  I sat down in a pew. Could I just sit here all night? Why not? Remind the Sacred Heart to get to work. I nodded off. Woke up stiff and uncomfortable. What the hell, I thought to myself and stretched out full length in the pew. At least I have my warm coat. I turned up the fur collar and fell asleep.

  “Missus, please, wake up. Wake up.” It was a young boy shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes, sat up to see an altar boy and a priest. Both vested and ready for Mass.

  “Good morning, Father,” I said. “My name is Nora Kelly and I thank you for the use of your church.”

  “My dear woman, whatever possessed you to—”

  “Money, Father. Or the lack of it. It’s a long story,” I began when I heard noise in the back of the church and realized his congregation was arriving. What is it about daily Mass? The same mix of about twenty women and older men here as at Mass at Holy Name every morning. Retired fellows starting the day at church rather than the office, and the women, well, women of all ages always had something to pray for.

  The service was quick-paced just like in Chicago, and Father had the good manners to forego a sermon. No collection either. These people did not need any frills. They had their own lines to God and the saints, as the priest well knew. They were only asking him to provide a focus and to give them Communion.

  I knelt on the cushion that padded the step under the altar rail.

  “Corpus Christi,” the priest said as he placed the host on my tongue.

  “Amen,” I said. Walked back to my pew. Knelt down and prayed. If there was anything at all in what I both believed and didn’t believe, then surely somehow I’d find Cyril Person today. And he’d lead me to Peter Keeley. I’d pictured myself in a country churchyard laying a beautiful wreath of roses in front of a Celtic cross. I won’t allow myself to imagine him alive and us together. False hope. False hope. But the Sacred Heart was staring at me. Why not believe in a miracle? What could I have to lose?

  * * *

  There Cyril stood in a uniform, no less. Dark green woolen jacket and trousers. Silver buttons up the front of him. He was at the bottom of a flight of marble steps that led from the lobby of this two-hundred-year-old mansion up to the parliamentary chambers. Twenty plus years since I’d seen Cyril. He must be seventy—more. His red hair was white now but he still reminded me of the early bird who catches the worm. His head moved in time with his words as he spoke to his tour group. Country people, as Peterson’s neighbor had said. Most of them stared up at the vaulted ceiling, taking in the walls with their intricate molding, the tall windows and velvet draperies. This was a rich man’s house that now belonged to them.

  I stood out of sight in a kind of foyer across the lobby. I could hear every word. Cyril’s lecture sounded like a vaudevillian’s patter.

  “Well now, I won’t say welcome because this is your house now and you pay the salary of every single person who works in it. The TDs, the senators, the security people, the cleaners, and yours truly, Cyril Peterson present and accounted for, depend on you.” He clicked his heels and threw back his shoulders. Before he’d become a revolutionary, Cyril had been a private in the British Army.

  “Now you may wonder what a fellow with a name like mine is doing here in the Oireachtas. Well my father was an Englishman—I’ll pause to let you nudge each other and roll your eyes—but remember Padraig Pearse’s old dad served in the British Army so no one’s perfect. Take for example where we’re standing right now. Leinster House. The ducal palace of one of the grandest families in Ireland. Dripping with honors from the crown for centuries and yet who are they when they’re at home? The Fitzgeralds. And stuffed to the gills with rebels. Anyone here ever hear of Silken Thomas?”

  One man lifted his hand.

  “Good on you, sir,” Cyril said. “He led a revolt against that fat heretic Henry VIII and Thomas wasn’t twenty years old. But even then he had a bit of a flair. His fighters wore fringe on their helmets and so they called him Silken Thomas. All of them young, but then our 1916 men were not much older. But here’s the interesting part about Silken Thomas. The Fitzgeralds and the Tudors were cousins. Strange isn’t it but as you know their name means son of Gerald. The great-great, well many greats, grandfather of Thomas came to England with William the Conqueror way back in the eleventh century. The Normans, who were really Vikings, had acquired a bit of polish in France. This Gerald took over Wales and married a Welsh princess, a Tudor. And had a lot of children. Sent one of his younger sons across the water to us and he proceeded to marry the daughter of an Irish chieftain. But she was a strong woman and made a proper Irishman of him. The sons followed the mother until the English complained that all the fellows they sent over to conquer Ireland were conquered themselves.

  “More Irish than the Irish. After a few generations the Fitzgeralds didn’t even speak the same language as the Sassenach. Wrote poetry an Gaeilge but they were clever and learned to stay in with the Brits after what happened to Thomas. He’d been lured into peace talks in London only to be hanged, drawn and quartered with five of his uncles. That’ll teach him, the Brits thought, and if the rest of the clan wanted to keep their land and titles and money they had better take the soup. And as you can see from this place they got a hell of a lot more than soup. Ah well, the rich get richer. They were the lords of Kildare, the dukes of Leinster. But by the start of the eighteenth century there were Fitzgeralds scattered all over the country. Most of them without titles but true to their Catholic faith. Decent altogether.”

  The man who’d raised his hand spoke. “I’m from Limerick. Lots of Fitzgeralds in Brue, but most of them in the States now. They went to Boston and doing alright for themselves. Though they were far from rich when they left.”

  “All from the same clan though,” Cyril said. “But the family fell on hard times. Had to sell off Leinster House more than a hund
red years ago. The Royal Dublin Society bought the place and used to hold their big horse show right out on the lawns. All those ride-to-the-hounds Protestants jumping over hurdles on their horses outside and drinking Pimm’s Cup No. 1 never imagined that one day we Fenians would own the whole shebang and culchies like you would be tripping across the marble floors and attending our very own parliament and senate renamed the Dáil and the Seanad. That would have given Silken Thomas a good laugh, thank you very much. I’ll be turning you over to my colleague now who will take you into the chambers, but first I’d like you to raise your eyes and take in that portrait just above the staircase. A grand lady but nothing to do with the Fitzgeralds. That’s Countess Constance Markievicz herself and I’m sure you know her.”

  The portrait was of Con alright but as a young woman in a full-length ball gown, a tiara on her piled-up hair. I’d met her a good ten years later when she wore the uniform of the Irish Citizen Army that she’d designed for herself, complete with a slouch hat and a holstered pistol at her waist.

  “You wouldn’t think to look at her that she commanded a combat unit in St. Stephen’s Green during the Easter Rising,” Cyril said. “But then the best of the toffs landed on our side. Look up Yeats’s poem about the countess and her sister, the Booth-Gore girls, ‘One beautiful, one a gazelle.’ Now, on your way and be sure to have my colleague here point out the framed copy of the Proclamation at the top of the stairs. ‘Irish men and Irish women.’ The countess was only one of loads of women fighting to free Ireland as that American lady who’s trying to hide herself across the way could tell you.”

  He pointed over at me. Of course the whole crowd looked over. I smiled and half waved but the other tour guide was not about to let them linger and he started the group up the marble steps as Cyril walked over to me.

  “So did you enjoy my performance, Nora?” he asked. Bold as brass as if we’d met two days ago. Before I could say anything he went on. “A little heavy on the Fitzgeralds maybe, but it’s important for people who still remember what it was like to be terrorized by some landlord to realize that they own the big house now.”