The Girls of Ennismore

by Patricia Falvey

  ‘You get better now, that’s the girl.’

  The child looked up at her with wide eyes so like Ma’s that it caused Rosie to choke up again. Quickly she got up, lifted her bag and left the room.

  When she returned to Cathal O’Malley’s house that afternoon she found that he had prepared the third-floor bedroom for her. Clean linens were on the bed, along with fresh towels and a jug of water. The room was swept and the window left open to air it out. And on a small dresser sat a vase of fresh-cut flowers. She sat down on the bed and began to weep.

  As the weeks passed they settled into a routine. Each came and went of their own accord. He had usually left by the time she rose in the morning, and often was not home when she returned at night. He had presented her with a key to her bedroom door, and each night she locked it as if locking out the world. Still, she found herself listening for his key in the front door and his tread on the stair before she could settle into sleep.

  Sometimes he brought company home with him. Often she heard men’s voices rising from the parlour; other times the throaty laughter of a woman drifting up from his bedroom beneath hers. It was the woman who caught her attention, even though she told herself it was none of her business. She lay in bed wondering what the woman looked like and curious about her relationship with Cathal. Was she a prostitute, or a casual acquaintance, or was she someone from his past whom he cared about? The thought that Cathal might have a romantic past that she knew nothing about caused a twinge of jealousy to creep in before she forced it away. Hadn’t she been the one who had been insulted when he first invited her to live in his house? Hadn’t she readily agreed to their ‘rules’ of privacy and insisted on locking her door every night? Still, as time passed, she could not deny her growing attraction to Cathal O’Malley.

  She knew she had become the main subject of gossip around the Sword offices and among members of the Gaelic League. The old Rosie would have been mortified with shame at such speculation, slinking past her colleagues, aware of the abrupt halt in the conversation her appearance brought. But now, she held her head high, smiled and greeted them and, as so often happens when gossip finds nothing to feed on, it dissolved. She went about her work as diligently as always, and found an ever-widening audience for her columns. For now, she was content.

  In time she grew so comfortable around Cathal that she often invited him to share a meal she planned to cook. On those evenings he would present himself early at the kitchen table, looking pleased and filled with compliments. After dinner, as they sat by the fire in easy conversation, Rosie had a sensation of contentment mixed with a vague longing. As he talked, she could not help becoming lost in fantasy, imagining the feel of his hair under her fingers, or the touch of his hands on her body, or how it would be to lie naked with him, his long limbs entwined around her own. With difficulty she would bring herself back to the conversation, nodding when appropriate, asking a question here and there.

  The feelings took her by surprise. The only fantasies she had ever had involved Valentine. Could they so easily now be transferred to Cathal? And yet she sensed this was different. Her thoughts about Valentine had been ethereal, even childlike, but Cathal was a real flesh and bone man and he was here beside her every day.

  She wondered if he was imagining similar things. Certainly she felt she was not mistaken when she noticed how his hands lingered too long on hers when she handed him a dish, or when she turned suddenly and caught him gazing at her. Still, she told herself, they had made a pact, and she would not be the one to break it.

  As wide-ranging as their conversations were, they were both careful not to touch on personal matters. Rosie never asked about his past, or how he spent his time during the day. He had never asked these questions of her, either. And that might have continued had it not been for Cathal’s chance encounter with Victoria at the Union hospital. It so happened that evening Rosie had cooked a stew and baked soda bread and she had invited Cathal for supper.

  ‘I met a friend of yours today,’ he began when they had settled by the fire in the parlour.

  Alarm bells sounded in Rosie’s head. He may only have been referring to one of the Butler sisters or another League member, but her past was never far behind her.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked as casually as she could.

  ‘Victoria Bell,’ he said. ‘Lovely girl. She said to tell you that she misses you and would love to be friends again.’

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs before the fire.

  Rosie’s mind raced. Victoria? Where on earth had he met her? What had she told him about their past? What had she said about Valentine? Had she told him how Rosie had tried to pass herself off in society? Each time a new thought entered her head, her panic grew.

  ‘I met her at the Union hospital. She works there.’

  ‘And what were you doing there?’ she said, trying to deflect the subject.

  ‘Ah, just some business. Anyway, she’s a lovely girl. Brought up at Ennismore.’

  Rosie nodded and said nothing. She folded her arms in front of her.

  Cathal took a sip of his whiskey. ‘She told me the two of you were brought up there.’

  ‘I had lessons with her, that’s all.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, that certainly accounts for your fine way with words, and your gentry manners. I never quite took you for a poor farmer’s daughter.’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘What else was she after telling you?’

  ‘Not much more, other than the two of ye were great friends one time.’

  ‘Aye, well that’s all in the past now.’

  It was Cathal’s turn to shrug. ‘I’m only the message boy.’

  Later that night Rosie lay awake. Why couldn’t they all just leave her alone? That life at Ennismore with Victoria and Valentine was over. She had made a new life for herself here in Dublin. Please, God, let her live it without interference. But this was Ireland, she thought, and the past was never far behind the present.

  CHAPTER 28

  Rosie gazed from the window down on to snow-covered Moore Street. It was the day after Christmas, St Stephen’s Day, and the normally bustling street was almost empty. The gaudy flower and fruit carts were covered by tarpaulins upon which the snow had piled up in pristine drifts. Church bells rang across the silent city as the old mantel clock chimed five times in the parlour. She turned back from the window. Cathal had gone out on an errand and the house was quiet. The evening firelight glowed while lighted red candles cast shadows across the room. The earthy scent of pine cones and the tart smell of holly berries mingled with the lingering aroma of yesterday’s roast goose.

  Cathal had brought the goose home for Rosie to cook for Christmas dinner. She had prepared and dressed it the way Ma used to do and served it with hearty vegetables, followed by a plum pudding and sherry trifle. Cathal was delighted with the spread. He had invited Padraig Pearse, the teacher and poet who was the leader of the Volunteers, and a number of the young Volunteer recruits who were away from home, to join them. To Rosie’s surprise, Brendan Lynch had been among them, and when she got over her shock she welcomed him with the rest. As if by silent agreement, no word of Ennismore was spoken between them.

  Later, Rosie brought the leftovers and other gifts to Foley Court. She prepared herself for the encounter with Micko – the first since the night he had assaulted her. She refused to let his presence interfere with her attempt to make Christmas a little brighter for Bridie and Kate. He was sullen and silent, regarding her from beneath lidded eyes. The room was bitterly cold, and ice had formed along the window ledge. Rosie was glad she had brought woollen blankets as well as food. She cried when she returned to Moore Street. Later she decided she would entitle her next article ‘A Poor Christmas in Dublin’.

  As she thought back to the visit, she found herself thinking about home. On St Stephen’s Day the young men of the village dressed up in gaudy costumes and carried a pole with streamers upon which rested a basket containing an eff
igy of a dead wren. The ‘Wren Boys’, as they were known, called at each house asking for a ‘penny for the wren’. Ma would give out red apples and sweets and Rosie would stand at the door watching them as they danced on their way, colourful birds in the snow.

  While Rosie was lost in thought, she was unaware of another richly plumed creature making his way towards her house. Valentine Bell, his scarlet uniform brilliant against the white of the snow-covered pavement, strode purposefully towards Moore Street. When the doorbell rang, loud and insistent, Rosie assumed Cathal had forgotten his key. She smiled and ran down the stairs calling out.

  ‘I’m coming, Cathal. Sure you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on!’

  When she opened the door she froze in place. Valentine stood scowling down at her. With effort, Rosie gathered her wits about her.

  ‘I thought you were in France,’ she said.

  ‘Obviously not.’

  His tone matched his scowl. What on earth was wrong with him? she wondered. She had never seen him like this – angry, impatient and arrogant. She scarcely recognized him.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said, her tone matching his.

  ‘I must speak to you.’

  ‘I told you before, we have nothing more to say to one other. Please go.’

  As Rosie attempted to shut the door he put his foot forward to wedge it open. ‘Are you alone?’ he said.

  Irritated, she nodded.

  ‘Then please let me in, Rosie, there’s something you have to know.’

  She saw that he was shivering. He wore only his uniform, no overcoat like Cathal always wore. The few passers-by in the street were beginning to stare. She realized she could not have a British soldier lingering on her doorstep. She opened the door and let him in.

  ‘I’ll give you five minutes to say whatever you have to say, then you must promise to leave.’

  A faint look of regret crossed his face.

  ‘Why aren’t you in France?’ she said, as he followed her up the stairs.

  He shrugged. ‘My unit has been slow to ship out, and I appear to be at the end of the list.’

  They entered the parlour. Valentine looked around, taking in the cosy fire and decorations. Rosie did not offer him a chair or refreshment. It hurt her heart to treat him like this, but she knew she must. She stood facing him.

  ‘Now say what you have to say and be quick about it.’

  It was a moment before he spoke. Then he stood erect, puffed out his chest, and began.

  ‘Since I’ve been in Dublin, I’ve been anxious about your welfare.’ Rosie opened her mouth to interrupt but he put up his hand. ‘Regardless of what you think, Rosie, I still care about you very much. Victoria said she did not know of your whereabouts, so I made my own enquiries. I discovered you were living in this house with a man named Cathal O’Malley.’

  ‘That’s correct and I’ve no intention of moving out. So you can leave now.’

  ‘You may change your mind when you hear what I have to say. I have made enquiries about this man and have discovered some very disturbing things. He is a dangerous man, Rosie, and you must get away from him at once.’

  ‘He’s a soldier training the Irish Volunteers. That hardly makes him dangerous, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But being a murderer does.’

  His words struck her like an explosion, followed by deafening silence. Rosie stared at him in astonishment. He continued speaking, his words clipped and reproachful.

  ‘I have it on good authority he killed a woman in Westport. He was a trained doctor and after he lost his licence he turned to morphine. He is a murderer and drug fiend and you must get away from him this instant. I want you to pack your things and come with me.’

  Rosie was gaping at him when she heard a cough from the doorway. She swung around. There stood Cathal. Valentine followed her gaze.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Cathal’s voice betrayed a cold fury.

  He strode into the room, his right arm tensed and fist clenched as if ready to set upon the visitor. Sensing the danger, Rosie placed herself directly in front of Valentine.

  Valentine stood erect. ‘Second Lieutenant Valentine Bell of the Irish Guards. I am here to take Rosie away to safety.’

  Cathal’s jaw tightened. He looked at Rosie and for a moment she thought he was going to push her out of the way and strike Valentine. He appeared to struggle with himself before backing away and glaring at him.

  ‘Bell, is it? From Ennismore then?’ The casualness of the words could still not disguise his anger.

  ‘The same.’

  Rosie found her voice. ‘Cathal. He is making terrible accusations against you. They can’t be true, surely.’

  Cathal went to the sideboard, taking time to regain his composure. He poured out a whiskey, took a sip, and turned towards her.

  ‘I am not in the habit of defending myself to British soldiers, but for your sake, Rosie, I will.’ He paused and drew a deep breath. ‘It is true I killed a woman in Westport.’ He ignored Rosie’s cry. ‘That woman was my wife. She was in a very difficult labour with our child. She needed a caesarean.

  I insisted on operating on her myself even though I was not sufficiently qualified to do so. They both died on the table.’ He spoke with no emotion, as if reading from a report. ‘I blamed myself. I started taking morphine – to ease the guilt and dull the memory. And while I never lost my licence, I stopped practising medicine.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me, Cathal?’ Rosie whispered.

  ‘Why would I? I’ve tried to forget that part of my life.’

  Valentine spoke up, scarcely hiding the triumph in his voice. ‘You see, I was telling you the truth, Rosie.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Cathal. ‘And I won’t blame you if you want to leave with him.’

  Rosie looked from one man to the other. She didn’t know who she was angrier with – Cathal for withholding this from her, or Valentine for telling her.

  ‘Was that what you were doing at the Union? Operating?’ she said to Cathal.

  He nodded. ‘Aye, they’re badly in need of doctors over there. It took me a while to get back my nerve, but I’ve not killed anybody on the operating table yet.’ He gave a wry laugh.

  A sudden fury engulfed Rosie. She pushed Valentine backwards, beating her fists on his chest. ‘Get away from here now, Valentine Bell, and never come back. All you Bells have ever done is try to ruin my life. Get away!’

  Rosie shoved Valentine towards the door. He looked at her in alarm, much of his earlier hubris gone. He bowed. ‘As you wish, Rosie.’

  When Valentine had gone, Rosie and Cathal sat in silence beside the fire listening to the ticking of the mantel clock.

  Darkness had fallen that evening when Cathal finally began to speak. He spoke quietly, as if to himself.

  ‘Her name was Emer,’ he began.

  Rosie awoke from her doze and sat erect in her chair.

  ‘She was the most delightful girl I had ever met. She had a contagious laugh. I was a very serious lad back then, not much for laughing, but I couldn’t help myself when she was around. Ah, she loved a joke. She’d play tricks on me and then she’d laugh and laugh. I still can hear the sound of it – like a waterfall.’

  He paused and took a drink from the glass of whiskey on the table beside him. ‘She had the face of an angel, ah, but she could be a divil when she wanted. She was stubborn and fearless and opinionated. Sure she didn’t give a damn what people thought of her.’

  He fell silent for a moment, as if remembering some long-ago incident.

  Rosie waited.

  ‘I met her in London where I was studying medicine. Her da was one of the professors. She was Irish though, Dublin born. She was like a child when she came back to Ireland with me and saw the west for the first time. I was posted to a rural area miles away from Galway city. I thought she’d be bored, but she was delighted with everything – the mountains, the bogs, the wild Atlantic. I saw everything through new eyes �
� her eyes.’

  Rosie smiled in spite of herself as she imagined this young girl falling in love with the west of Ireland.

  ‘We were very happy in each other’s company, but we were overjoyed when we learned we were to have a child.’ Cathal stirred and seemed to register Rosie’s presence for the first time. ‘Did I tell you that despite her fearlessness she had an irrational dread of hospitals? Odd, isn’t it, her being a doctor’s daughter and a doctor’s wife?’

  Rosie nodded her head in the dark.

  ‘All went well enough in the beginning. We engaged a midwife and waited for her time to come. But when it did, it was evident something was wrong. She was in labour for a day and a night and still no sign of a child. By then I knew she needed a caesarean but she refused to let me take her to the big hospital in Galway. So I decided to do the operation myself, with the midwife as my nurse.’

  He uttered a sudden cry which startled Rosie.

  ‘Ah, why did I think I could do it? Arrogant young eejit – I should have known better. I was a qualified surgeon, but I’d never done a caesarean before. Why didn’t I take her to the hospital no matter her protests? Why did I wait so long? I should have acted sooner. I let her stay in labour far too long.’

  Rosie fought back tears as she listened. His grief was raw and there was nothing she could say to help him. She wanted to enfold him in her arms. She began to get up, thinking he had finished his story, but he was not done. The worst part was yet to come.

  ‘The child was alive when I took him,’ he uttered between sobs. ‘I laid him on her chest and she looked up and smiled that beautiful smile of hers. And then she was gone. And . . . and within minutes the child was gone too.’

  Rosie was crying openly now, along with Cathal. He had finished speaking. He did not have to explain to her about the morphine addiction and how he had lost himself. His guilt had crushed him. She wanted to tell him it was not his fault, that what he had done was out of love for Emer, but it would have done no good. Her forgiveness would not matter – he had to forgive himself.

  She stood up and walked to him and sat down on the edge of his chair. She put her arms around him and rocked him as he sobbed, his head buried in her chest. Her thoughts turned to Valentine. How could she ever forgive him for resurrecting Cathal’s pain?