The Girls of Ennismore

by Patricia Falvey

  It occurred to her at times as she peered out through the glass pane that she was like Mr Burke, butler at Ennismore, who used to sit at his office window watching the servants in the servants’ hall. She smiled at the memory. Her cubbyhole only had space for a small table, the chair on which she sat, and another for visitors. Any papers and records she needed resided in a cardboard box at her feet. From here she greeted League members bringing notices of events to be advertised, pamphlets to be typeset, and donations, dues and expenses to be recorded. Rosie had no typewriter, instead making do with paper and ink to make notes and a ledger in which to record the financial matters of the League. In time, she grew bolder in making grammatical corrections to the notices presented to her and suggestions for improvement in the layout of pamphlets. On evenings, when things were quieter, she stayed late to practise on a typewriting machine that sat on the editor’s desk, and over time she was pleased with her progress.

  One such Friday evening she sat practising at the machine. The newspaper staff had all left to celebrate the ‘putting to bed’ of yet another issue. The old printing press in the basement had groaned and grunted all day as the pages were prepared and now the new edition lay, bundled and banded, waiting for the boys who would come in the morning to distribute it across the city. For once, the offices were quiet.

  The two upper floors of the Moore Street house were residential apartments. Rosie had no idea who lived up there, but the floor directly above was a frequent venue for meetings. She had seen men with serious faces, young and old, tramping up and down the staircase so often she paid little attention to them. Someone had mentioned they were Irish Volunteers who met to discuss politics and strategy. She had seen them at her first meeting of the Gaelic League, gathered in the small, side room, where she had also seen Cathal O’Malley. At times she wondered if he might be with them, but she had not seen him, and was by now so engrossed in her work that she gave little thought to them.

  She was getting ready to leave when she heard the shuffle of feet on the floorboards above, and the door to the upstairs apartment open. The sound of voices drifted out onto the landing followed by feet on the stairs. She reached quickly for her coat, hoping to get out the door ahead of them, but they were already streaming past her. She sighed, deciding to wait until they were all gone, and make sure that the door was securely locked behind them. They had a habit of leaving the door wide open swinging on its hinges. She nodded to the last of them and moved again to pick up her coat but a heavy tread on the stairs made her pause. There was always one more dawdling behind the rest.

  ‘Upon my word, if it isn’t Miss Roisin Dubh from County Mayo herself!’

  Rosie froze in the midst of putting on her coat and swung around.

  ‘Mr O’Malley!’

  He gave her a small bow and moved towards her. ‘The very same.’

  She looked up at him. He was as handsome as she remembered – strong, angular face, longish brown hair – but she saw now that his eyes were a startling emerald green, unlike her own hazel ones. She stared into them for longer than was polite.

  ‘Is it editing the paper you are? Sure I took you for a clever one the first time I met you.’

  He drew closer and she could smell the good, clean soap he used, the starch of his linens and the woolly damp of his long overcoat. There was a faint smell of pipe tobacco and whiskey on his breath.

  ‘No, I’m just practising,’ she said, trying to stem the blush that rose on her cheeks. ‘I’m working for the Gaelic League as their secretary. That’s my office over there. She smiled. ‘It’s not much, is it?’

  ‘With a queen such as yourself in it, it’s a palace indeed!’

  She blushed again and began to fidget with the buttons of her coat, growing nervous under his scrutiny. He came closer to the desk, pulled out a chair and sat down, so that she felt obliged to sit down as well.

  ‘I saw you at the recent League meeting,’ he said, ‘but you scurried away like a rabbit before I could speak to you.’

  ‘I didn’t scurry! Geraldine Butler pulled me away. Anyway you were in the middle of a speech.’

  ‘Ah, I was that. Well, we can have a chat now.’

  He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He gazed at her expectantly.

  Rosie’s nervousness grew. She tried to think of something to say but no words came. He waited in silence, openly appraising her.

  ‘Are you a member of the League, then?’ she managed.

  He laughed, showing strong teeth. ‘Ah, nothing that grand. I’m in charge of a squadron of volunteers – trying to take some eager young lads and tell them what soldiering is all about.’

  ‘You’re a soldier then?’

  ‘Not officially, no. But I’ve seen a lot more of army life than those lads. Some of them are no more than farm lads come to the big city in search of adventure. They want to fight for Ireland. I tell them if you want to fight, join the British Army and get paid for it.’ He paused and grinned. ‘But, no, ’tis Ireland they want to liberate. I admire their passion, but I wouldn’t want to be responsible for sending them to their deaths, and them not much more than babies.’

  ‘Do you think it will come to that? Sure Home Rule’s been passed already.’

  ‘So it has, but people are growing impatient. Nothing will come of it while the war’s on.’

  ‘Everyone says the war will be over by Christmas.’

  He shrugged. ‘They’re talking through their hats. ’Twill drag on for years.’

  A fleeting image of Valentine passed through Rosie’s mind, but she chased it away. She stood up again and began buttoning her coat, deliberately closing them one by one and turning up the collar. He rose to help her with it, but she shrugged him off. ‘I have to be going home,’ she said, ‘it’s late.’

  ‘Aye, far too late for a young lady to be walking the streets on her own. I’ll escort you, so.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ said Rosie, ‘I will be perfectly all right.’

  He laughed aloud. ‘Ah now, I remember how perfectly all right you were the night I met you on the O’Connell Bridge with them two ruffians beating the living daylights out of you.’

  Rosie blushed. At first she wanted to berate him for having the bad manners to bring the matter up. But for some reason she suddenly saw the funny side and laughed with him. ‘Aye, you have me there,’ she said.

  She walked towards the door. He stood and followed her. She allowed him to put his hand on her elbow as she stepped out into the street.

  ‘Make sure the door’s locked,’ she said.

  The wind seared through her as she walked with him in the darkness. She could barely see him but felt his rhythmic stride beside her and the pleasant sensation of his hand on her elbow. She pulled her coat more tightly around her, looking enviously at his greatcoat. It would be a lot warmer than her own, she thought. But he had not even buttoned it up. It swung open as if he were impervious to the elements. They said little as they walked, and Rosie found his presence comforting. For once no drunks lunged towards her and no prostitutes spat at her. She allowed herself for a moment to sink into the sense of safety he provided. It was only when they neared Foley Court that she began to fret. She would need to stop him at the corner. She could not allow him to see where she lived. It was bad enough that Valentine and Victoria had both been exposed to Foley Court’s horrors, she didn’t want yet another person whose opinion she cared about to see it and pity her too.

  ‘I’m just around the corner here,’ she said, stepping away from him. ‘This will be grand.’

  But he ignored her and took her elbow once more, gently urging her forward. She had no choice but to keep walking. She bit her lip as she walked and sped up. They were nearly at number six. It would be over soon.

  Cathal O’Malley looked up at the building. Even in the darkness it provided a ghostly spectre, as if proclaiming all the horrors within. His touch became gentle on her arm as he turn
ed her towards him. ‘Nothing shocks me, Roisin Dubh. I’m sorry you thought it would.’

  Rosie blushed scarlet in the dark. He had detected her shame. Part of her wanted to burst into tears, but she was saved by a sudden anger.

  ‘It’s too bad the League doesn’t see this,’ she said. ‘They’re too busy writing about the grand Irish culture – the lovely music and poetry and theatre and dance. Well this is Irish culture too. Why don’t they write about this?’

  She trembled now, still fighting back tears. He had not let go of her so she wrenched herself away and turned toward the house.

  ‘Why don’t you write about it?’ he said from behind her.

  She hurried up the steps. ‘Good night, Mr O’Malley,’ she said without turning around.

  ‘It’s Cathal,’ he called after her.

  CHAPTER 24

  1915 dawned and with it Rosie’s optimism about the future. She had settled well into her role as League secretary, and now had seen her work in print in the Sword. She had taken Cathal O’Malley’s suggestion seriously that she write about the poor in Dublin. Tentatively, she presented her first article, a piece about the hardships endured by the poor during the Lockout, to the editor, and signed the piece ‘Roisin Dubh’. She stood nervously beside him as he read it, frowned and read it again. Eventually he had looked up at her in astonishment.

  ‘You’re after writing this yourself?’ he asked.

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘Have you more?’

  ‘No. But I can write more.’

  In the end the editor agreed that she should write one piece a month. Rosie was filled with pride when she saw her first article in print with her pen name ‘Roisin Dubh’ on the byline. She rushed home to show Bridie who read it with tears in her eyes. She wished she could also have shown it to Valentine, but quickly put the thought out of her mind.

  Cathal O’Malley was filled with praise.

  ‘Fair play to you, Roisin Dubh,’ he boomed at her on the day her article appeared. ‘I knew you had it in you.’

  He was much too big to squeeze himself into her small space so he stood outside her cubbyhole peering in like a giant in a fairytale. Rosie blushed as she looked up at him. His loud voice attracted the notice of others in the outer offices. The editor of the Sword winked at her from his desk.

  ‘Thank you, Mr O’Malley . . . er, Cathal. It’s nice of you to say so.’

  She tried to busy herself with the papers on the table, but he was not to be put off so easily.

  ‘I’d say this calls for a celebration. Come with me now to Toner’s and I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘But, it’s the middle of the afternoon,’ said Rosie, flustered.

  He laughed aloud. ‘You can have a cup of tea if you’re not up for the drink this early.’

  ‘No. I mean I can’t just leave. I’m on duty till five.’

  But Cathal was still not dissuaded. ‘Get your coat,’ he said, leaning in to take her by the arm. ‘You’ve earned a few hours off.’

  A short time later they entered Toner’s on Baggot Street. The pub was a well-known gathering place, frequented by writers and journalists. Rosie would never have stepped into such a place alone. Not so for Cathal O’Malley. He was apparently a regular there, judging by the hearty greeting from the barman when they entered. It was a small, dark and aromatic place with a stone floor, a long bar with brass taps, and an area stocked with groceries at one end. The barman led them to a snug – a small private space enclosed by a door – the sort of place a man might bring his mistress, or politicians might engage in whispered conversation. Rosie wondered if the barman thought she and Cathal might be lovers and the fact that she had such a thought shocked her. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

  Cathal ordered a stout for himself and a glass of sherry for Rosie. As they waited for their drinks they sat regarding one another across the rough wooden table. Rosie again felt her colour rising under his scrutiny. She was glad when the barman interrupted the silence to set their drinks in front of them.

  ‘Slainte,’ said Cathal.

  ‘To your health,’ she replied.

  Rosie thought back to the days when she had been very tongue-tied around Valentine. But she was only fourteen then. Now she was a grown up woman. There was no need for her to be acting like a love-struck girl. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Cathal,’ she began. ‘All I know is that you are from Westport, and you are training Irish Volunteers.’

  Cathal smiled. ‘That’s about the size of it, Roisin Dubh. Nothing much more to tell.’

  Rosie smiled back. ‘I’d wager there’s a lot more to tell.’

  ‘I could say the same about yourself, Miss Killeen.’

  ‘Ah, but I asked you first.’

  Cathal drained his glass and ordered another. Rosie sipped her own drink slowly. She could see that he was arranging his thoughts. He’s a dark horse, so he is, she thought. He’s deciding which of his secrets to tell me and which to keep to himself.

  ‘I was born in Westport where my da was a doctor,’ he began. ‘I had a fine Catholic upbringing. As a young man I got into more than a few scrapes, owing to me bad temper. I was tossed out of a few schools, then sent to the military. In the end me da disowned me and I came on up to Dublin. I made a bit of money here and there – enough to buy a house on Moore Street next door to where you work.’ He leaned back and gazed at her, his green eyes clear. ‘And that’s the story. I said there wasn’t much to it.’

  Rosie didn’t know whether to laugh or rage at him. In the end she laughed.

  ‘I’ve met donkeys have more to say for themselves than that,’ she said.

  He laughed along with her, appearing relieved. ‘’Tis not much, but ’tis all true,’ he said, grinning like a schoolboy.

  Rosie shook her head, finished her drink and accepted another glass. She realized he was going to tell her nothing more.

  ‘Now what about yourself?’ he began.

  Rosie put up her hand. ‘Ah, fair’s fair, Mr O’Malley. The more you tell me, the more I’ll tell you. And since you’ve told me nothing so far, I’ll be telling you nothing either.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘You have a bargain, Roisin Dubh.’

  As they were finishing their drinks, Cathal’s expression grew serious.

  ‘There is one thing I would like to talk to you about, Roisin.’

  Rosie waited. Again, Cathal appeared to be arranging his thoughts.

  ‘Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it ever since I saw where you’re living.’

  Rosie’s spine tightened.

  ‘I know I said you’ve nothing to be ashamed of, and I believe that. But . . . but ’tis a terrible slum altogether, and ’tis not safe for a girl like you on her own to be walking up to that place night after night.’

  Rosie rose to her own defence. ‘I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time now. I’m no stupid girl up from the country with stars in her eyes.’ Cathal put his hand on her arm. She let it rest there. ‘And I never said I was ashamed of it! It’s where my family lives and it’s where I belong.’

  ‘’Tis not where you belong,’ he said. ‘But before you say anything else I want you to consider my suggestion. As I told you, I own a house on Moore Street. I only need the first and second floors. There’s an acre of empty space up on the third floor. You could live there for no charge.’ He paused and grinned. ‘And I promise I’d behave like an altar boy, so you’d have nothing to fear from me. I don’t expect anything from you in return.’

  A range of emotions tore through Rosie as she listened – embarrassment, followed by anger, followed by outrage. How dare this man make such a proposal? What kind of woman did he take her for? Colour suffused her cheeks – this time not from shyness but from outrage. She opened her mouth but no words came forth.

  He tightened his hold on her arm. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Roisin, that if I respect
ed you I would never suggest such a thing. But ’tis out of respect for you that I’m doing it. I realize you have no reason to believe that I’m nothing but a blackguard out to take advantage. But I beg you to believe that my intentions are honourable. You have my word on it.’

  Rosie pushed his hand away and stood up. ‘Your word?’ she cried. ‘I hardly know you. What good is your word to me?’ She talked hurriedly as she pulled on her coat. ‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life, Mr O’Malley. I want to hear no more from you on the subject. In fact, as of now, I would thank you to never speak to me again!’

  With that she tugged open the door of the snug and strode out, leaving Cathal staring after her.

  Rosie might well have never spoken to Cathal O’Malley again had it not been for an incident that took place early in the spring of 1915 – something she had long feared might occur and long prayed that it would not.

  It was an unusually warm night for May. Not a breeze fanned the humid air that pressed down on Dublin like a leaden hand, poking its long, damp fingers through the crevices that riddled the rotting window frames of the city’s tenements. Rosie sweated with the rest of the citizenry as she made her way home from the League offices. The women of number six Foley Court sat as usual on the front steps, fanning themselves, and passing around a bottle of gin. They glared at her as they did every night but said nothing. She nodded back at them and climbed the steps to the front door.

  The damp heat assaulted her as soon as she entered the dank, airless building and she gasped for breath. It would be a long, uncomfortable night, she thought, and once more cursed the fate that had landed her here. She thought, as she did every time she came back to Foley Court, about Cathal O’Malley’s offer of accommodation, and once more she dismissed it. Such a thing was out of the question. She hoped that with the extra money she earned from her articles she would in time have enough money to persuade Bridie to leave Micko and move out of this squalor with Kate and herself. Until then she must bide her time.