by Amy Harmon
I slowed, curious and predictably drawn to the words, but Eoin surged ahead. I was propelled through the door being patiently held open by a man who tipped his hat as I passed. All thoughts of newsprint and words were replaced by wonder and dread as I looked around at the high shelves and wide aisles, the displays, and the décor and tried to ascertain exactly where to start. There was no canned music being piped into the store and no fluorescent lighting. Lamps were suspended overhead, spilling warm light on the highly buffed wood floors, and I turned in a complete circle to get my bearings. I was in the men’s department and would need to explore.
“Clothes, stockings, a pair of new boots, a pair of shoes, a hat, a coat, and a dozen—two dozen—other things,” I murmured, trying to make a list that would keep me from crying in a corner. I had no idea how far my money would take me. I peeked at the price tag on the overcoat hanging to my right. Sixteen pounds. I started doing mental calculations and gave up immediately. I would simply buy as much as I could for one hundred pounds. That would be my limit. The other sixty would be my emergency money until I could earn more or until I woke up. Whichever came first.
“Nana always goes up the stairs where the dresses are,” Eoin prodded, and I let him lead the way once more. We climbed a broad staircase, which opened up to the second floor, revealing elaborate hats, colorful fabrics, and perfumed air.
“Hello, Mrs. Geraldine Cummins,” Eoin cried, waving at a woman about Brigid’s age who was standing behind a nearby glass display. “This is my mother. She needs help.”
Another woman shushed him loudly as though we were in a library and not standing amid racks of clothes. Geraldine Cummins moved out from behind the glass and walked toward us, her posture regal, her figure plump.
“Hello, Mr. Eoin Gallagher,” she greeted sedately. She was well coiffed in a navy dress with a loose sash, her enormous bosom covered with a drooping bow of the same shade, her sleeves elbow-length, and her flowing skirt brushing just above her ankles. Her hair was a tidy gray cap of shellacked waves hugging her round face, and she met my gaze unblinking, hands clasped in front of her, heels together like a soldier at attention.
She didn’t seem surprised the way Mr. Kelly had, and I wondered if Brigid had made a trip to Sligo while I was recovering. I decided it didn’t matter as long as the woman could help me and as long as I didn’t have to answer any questions.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Anne Gallagher?” she said, wasting no time on polite introductions and small talk.
I began to rattle off my list, hoping she would fill in the blanks.
She raised one hand in the air, summoning a young woman standing next to a huge rack of hats. “I will take Mr. Eoin Gallagher with me. Miss Beatrice Barnes will personally assist you.”
I realized that Eoin called Geraldine Cummins by her full name because she called everyone else by theirs, title included. Beatrice Barnes was hurrying toward us, a helpful smile pasted on her pretty face.
“Miss Beatrice Barnes, this is Mrs. Anne Gallagher. You will assist her. I trust you to be prudent.”
Beatrice nodded emphatically, and Geraldine turned away, extending a hand toward Eoin.
“W-where will you take him?” I asked, certain good parents did not just hand their children over to complete strangers. Eoin knew her, but I did not.
“The toy department upstairs, of course. And then we will go to Ferguson’s drugstore for a treat.” She smiled down at Eoin, two deep dimples appearing on her powdered cheeks. When she met my gaze again, her smile was gone. “My shift is over. I’ll bring him back at half past the hour. That should give you plenty of time to see to your purchases without the lad underfoot.”
Eoin bounced on his toes, clasping her hand in excitement before his face fell and his shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Mrs. Geraldine Cummins,” he said, “but Doc said I must stay close to my mother and help her.”
“And you will help your mother most by coming with me,” Mrs. Cummins said briskly.
Eoin looked at me, hope and doubt in his smile.
“Go ahead, Eoin. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine,” I lied.
I watched Eoin walk away, his hand in the older woman’s grasp, and desperately wanted to call him back. He was already showing her his pocket watch, babbling about our recent adventure at the pawnshop.
“Shall we get started, Mrs. Gallagher?” Beatrice said, her voice high, her eyes bright.
I nodded, insisting she call me Anne, and stammered through my list of needs once more, eyeing the prices as we walked, pointing out the things I liked and the colors I preferred. The average dress was around seven pounds, and the way Beatrice was prattling about dinner dresses and house frocks and winter wear and summer clothes, not to mention hats, shoes, and handbags, made me start to feel faint.
“You will need slips, corsets, knickers, and stockings as well?” she asked discreetly, though there was no one near us.
“Yes, please,” I said, deciding it was time to lie a little if I was going to accomplish anything. “I’ve been ill for a long time, you see. And I’m afraid it’s been so long since I purchased clothing that I don’t know what size I am or what’s in fashion. I’m not even sure what a lady needs,” I said, and it wasn’t hard to make my eyes well up pathetically. “I hope you’ll be able to give me some advice, bearing in mind that a whole new wardrobe could get expensive. I need the basics, nothing more.”
“Of course!” she said, patting my shoulder. “I am going to take you to a dressing room, and we will begin. I have a good eye for sizes. This is going to be great fun.”
When she returned, her arms were filled with white frills.
“We have some lovely artificial silk just in from London and knickers that fall above the knee,” she purred. “We also have some new corsets that lace up in the front and are quite comfortable.” An image of me at my writing desk wearing drawstring cotton pants and a ribbed tank flitted through my mind, and I swallowed the bubble of panic that wanted to break free.
The “artificial silk” felt like rayon, and I wondered how well it would launder, but I did my best to wiggle into the corset, appreciating the relative ease of the front laces and the long ruffle that fell halfway down my thighs. It was designed to wear over the chemise, which fit like a square-necked slip and provided little lift or support to my breasts but was soft and comfortable. I slipped on the knickers Beatrice had whispered about and decided it could be worse.
I tried on a deep-blue dress with a square neckline and sheer elbow-length sleeves. The lines were straight and simple, with a bit more volume at the hem of the skirt so it swished softly a few inches above my ankles. A sash gave the dress some shape, and Beatrice studied me, her lips pursed.
“The color is good. The style too. You have a lovely neck, and you could wear this with jewels and dress it up for dinner or wear it plain with just a hat for Mass. We’ll add the rose-colored one just like it to the stack.”
Two cotton blouses, one pink and one green, with lapels that created a wide V above three buttons could be worn with the long gray skirt Beatrice insisted was a staple. I tried on two “housedresses” next: one peach, the other white with tiny brown dots. Both had deep, thigh-high pockets and long, straight sleeves that ended in thick cuffs. They were simply styled with round necklines that skirted the collarbones and a pleated waistband that separated the bodice from the shin-length skirt. Beatrice set a wide-brimmed white straw hat decorated in peach flowers and lace on my head and declared me perfect. She added two shawls to my purchases, one a soft green and one white, and scolded me when I tried to tell her no.
“You were born in Ireland, yes? You’ve lived here all your life. You know you must have shawls!”
Beatrice brought me a long wool coat and a matching charcoal hat decorated with a spray of black roses and a black silk ribbon. She called it a cloche hat. Instead of the stiff circular brim and round dome of the straw hat, the cloche hat was snug and flared around my face coquettishly, following the
line of my head. I loved it and left it on while I moved on to the next thing.
I started making a pile. In addition to the underthings and clothes, I would need four pairs of stockings, a pair of brown kid pumps, a pair of medium-heeled black T-strap shoes, and a pair of black boots for the colder months. I could also use Anne’s old boots for long walks or chores. I mentally balked at the thought of chores, wondering what kind of chores a woman in 1921 was typically tasked with. Thomas had servants, but he’d said he wanted me to assist him with his patients. I reassured myself that the boots would suffice for that as well.
I’d been keeping a tally in my head—stockings four for a pound, shoes and shawls three pounds apiece. The cotton dresses were five pounds each, the boots and the linen dresses were seven, the chemises and knickers were a pound apiece, and the skirt was four. The blouses were two and a half pounds, the corset a little more, the hats as much as the cotton dresses, and the wool coat fifteen pounds all by itself. I had to be getting close to ninety pounds, and I still needed to buy toiletries.
“You need a dress or two for parties. The doctor is often invited to the homes of the well-to-do,” Beatrice insisted, a frown curving between her brows. “And do you have jewelry? We have some beautiful costume jewelry that looks almost real.”
I showed her my ring and earrings and indicated that was the extent of it. She nodded, biting her lip.
“You also need a handbag. But that can wait, I suppose. When winter comes, you’ll wish you had another wool suit,” she added, eyeing the ugly, outdated suit I’d worn coming into the department store. “That’s not the . . . loveliest . . . suit I’ve ever seen. But it will be warm.”
“I won’t be going to any parties with the doctor,” I protested. “And this suit will have to do. I’ll have my shawls and my coat. I’ll be fine.”
She sighed as if she’d failed me but nodded her assent. “All right. I’ll have your purchases wrapped and boxed up while you finish dressing.”
26 October 1920
Black and Tans and Auxiliaries—forces pumped into Ireland from Great Britain—are everywhere, and they don’t seem to answer to anyone. Barbed wire and barricades, armoured vehicles, and soldiers with fixed bayonets patrolling the streets are all commonplace now. It’s quieter in Dromahair than in Dublin, but we still feel it here. All of Ireland is feeling it. In little Balbriggan, just last month, the Tans and the Auxies set half the town on fire. Homes, businesses, factories, and whole sections of town were burned to the ground. Crown forces said it was a reprisal for the death of two Tans, but the reprisals are always excessive and are always completely indiscriminate. They want to break us. So many of us are already broken.
This past April, the Mountjoy jail was full of Sinn Féin members whose only crime was political association. The political prisoners were mixed in among the regular criminals, and in protest of their incarceration, several of them began a hunger strike. In 1917, a political prisoner, a member of the IRB, went on strike and was force-fed. The brutal way in which he was “fed” cost him his life. As the crowds outside Mountjoy Prison grew, the national attention grew as well, until Prime Minister Lloyd George, still feeling the sting of worldwide outrage from the hunger strike of 1917, capitulated to their demands, gave the men prisoner-of-war status, and moved them to the hospital to recover. I was able to see them at the Mater Hospital in an official capacity, as a medical representative appointed by Lord French himself. I volunteered. The men were weak and thin, but it was a battle won, and they all knew it.
The Dáil, Ireland’s newly formed government made up of the elected leaders who refused to take their seats at Westminster, has been outlawed by the British administration. Mick and the other councilmembers—those who aren’t in jail—have continued to carry on in secret, establishing a working government and doing their best to create a system under which an independent Ireland can function. But local mayors, officials, and judges who work in a more public capacity can’t hide as easily as the Dáil officials can. One by one, they have been arrested or murdered. The lord mayor of Cork, Thomas MacCurtain, was shot in his house and his elected replacement, Terence MacSwiney, was arrested during a raid on Cork City Hall not too long after he took office. Mayor MacSwiney, along with the ten men he was arrested with, decided to go on a hunger strike to denounce the continued unlawful imprisonment of public officials. Their strike, just like the one in April, has attracted national attention. But not because it ended well. Terence MacSwiney died yesterday in England at a Brixton jail, seventy-four days after he began his hunger strike.
Every day it’s another terrible story, another unforgiveable event. The whole country is under immense strain, yet there is an odd hopefulness mixed with the fear. It’s as if all of Ireland is coming awake and our eyes are fixed on the same horizon.
T. S.
10
THE THREE BEGGARS
You that have wandered far and wide
Can ravel out what’s in my head.
Do men who least desire get most,
Or get the most who most desire?
—W. B. Yeats
Beatrice was waiting for me when I emerged from the dressing room, my hair a little disheveled. I was wearing one of the cotton dresses and a new hat that covered the worst of my hair. Beatrice left the brown kid pumps, as she called them, for me to wear out of the store as well, saving me from having to lace Anne’s boots by myself. Beatrice had taken Anne’s old brown suit, hat, and boots to be boxed with the rest of my purchases. I looked much better than I had when I arrived, but my side ached, and my head pounded from overexertion. I was glad the adventure was almost over.
Beatrice prattled on beside me, inquiring over my toilette. I told her I needed a shampoo for my hair and something to smooth the curl. She nodded as if shampoo was a known term. “I need products for my . . . menses?” It was the most old-fashioned word I knew to describe a woman’s period. But Beatrice nodded again, clearly understanding.
“We have sanitary napkins and menstruation belts on a discreet display with a little money box beside them so that women don’t have to purchase them publicly. Most ladies are more comfortable with that. But I’ll put them in your box while no one is looking and add them to your total,” she murmured. I thought it better not to ask what a menstruation belt was. I would figure it out.
The two most important things tackled, I followed her to the cosmetics department on the lower floor, scouring the products stacked and displayed and pointing gleefully at names I recognized—Vaseline, Ivory soap, and Pond’s Cold Cream. Beatrice began making a receipt, writing the items in a neat row and adding my selections to a pale-pink box that reminded me of something from a bakery. Beatrice added Pond’s Vanishing Cream to my purchases.
“Cold cream at night, vanishing cream in the morning,” she instructed. “It won’t make you shine, and it works well under powder. Do you need powder?”
I shrugged, and she pursed her lips, studying my skin. “Flesh, white, pink, or cream?” she asked.
“What do you think?” I hedged.
“Flesh,” she said confidently. “LaBlache is my favorite face powder. It’s a bit more expensive, but worth the extra. And maybe a soft pink rouge?” She took a small tub from behind the glass and unscrewed the metal lid. “See?”
The color was a little too pink for my taste, but she reassured me. “It will be the softest blush on your cheeks and lips, and no one will even know you are wearing it. And if they do, never admit it.”
That seemed to be the goal, to look like you weren’t wearing any “paint,” which suited me fine.
“There’s a new lash cream—we always used Vaseline and ash growing up. Well, not anymore.” She unscrewed another small container, no bigger than a lip balm, and showed me the black grease inside. It didn’t resemble any mascara I’d ever seen.
“How is it applied?” I asked.
Beatrice closed the distance between us, told me to hold still, and dabbed her pointer finger in
the goo and then against her thumb. With absolute confidence, she rubbed the ends of my lashes between the pads of her blackened fingertips.
“Perfect. Your lashes are already so long and dark, you hardly need it. But they’re more noticeable now.”
She winked and tossed it into the box. She added some coconut-oil shampoo that she swore would make my hair luxurious, as well as some talcum powder to “keep me fresh” and a little glass spritzer of a perfume that didn’t make me sneeze. I added a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, a little box of silk “tooth floss” as well as a comb-and-brush set. When I asked where I could settle my bill, Beatrice gave me an odd look. “It’s already settled, Anne. The doctor is waiting for you at the entrance. Your purchases are there as well. I thought you were simply being frugal.”
“I would really like to pay for these things on my own, Beatrice,” I insisted.
“But . . . it’s done, Mrs. Gallagher,” she stammered. “Your bill has been added to his account. I don’t want to cause a stir.”
I didn’t want to cause a stir either, but embarrassment welled in my chest. I took a deep breath to tamp it down.
“These things have not been added to his tab.” I raised the pink box in my arms. “I will pay for my toiletries,” I insisted.
She looked as though she wanted to argue, but nodded, veering to the cash register near the entrance and the mustached clerk who waited there. She handed him the receipt for my toiletries.
“Mrs. Gallagher needs to purchase these things, Mr. Barry,” she explained, taking the box from my hands so I could pull out the thick paper money pouch Mr. Kelly had given me.
“Dr. Smith said for me to add Mrs. Gallagher’s purchases to his account,” Mr. Barry said, frowning.
“I understand. But I will be paying for these items,” I said firmly, matching his frown with one of my own.
