The Girls of Ennismore

by Patricia Falvey

  That evening, Victoria made her way to Moore Street and to Rosie. The front door was open and she crept in, cradling the news she brought to her breast like a sick infant. She found Rosie alone, sitting in a chair in the parlour by the unlit fire, her eyes focused on some faraway image. She did not move as Victoria took a seat in the chair opposite her. Silence enveloped them. Memories of the past few weeks filled Victoria’s mind – Cathal lying wounded in this room, his burial days later in Dublin’s Glasnevin Cemetery in a plot reserved for rebel leaders, Rosie’s pale and stoic face as she dropped a white lily on his coffin. She waited for her friend to acknowledge her.

  ‘Victoria?’ Rosie’s voice was no more than a whisper as she finally shifted her gaze. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  Victoria smiled. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you. You appeared lost in thought.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘It’s where I live these days. In my mind. In memories.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Let me make you some tea.’ Rosie made to stand up.

  ‘No, let me.’

  Victoria was glad of the chance to delay her news. She busied herself in the kitchen and, when she could linger there no longer, returned to the parlour. Some colour returned to Rosie’s cheeks as she drank and she became more alert.

  ‘I’m glad you came.’ She waved her hand. ‘I’ve had so many visitors. Cathal had more friends than I ever realized. But it’s grand to have one of my own friends come – my best friend.’

  Victoria swallowed hard. The fact that Rosie had finally acknowledged her as her best friend would at any other time have filled her heart with joy. But today Rosie’s best friend was here to bring her the most dreadful news. She put down her cup and knelt down before Rosie, holding both of her hands.

  ‘Rosie, I would have given anything not to be the one to bring you this news. But yet I know it should not come from anyone but me. Poor Bridie has died. She caught the fever that’s been raging in the city. We did all we could to save her, but she hadn’t the strength to fight it.’

  She felt Rosie’s hands stiffen in hers.

  ‘Little Kate has survived,’ Victoria rushed on. ‘They are keeping her at the hospital. Micko is nowhere to be found.’

  There was nothing more to say. She waited for Rosie to speak. Instead her friend stood up, walked to the window and stared down on Moore Street.

  ‘Cathal left this house to me,’ she said, her voice flat, ‘and I was going tomorrow to fetch Bridie and Kate and bring them here. I wasn’t going to let Micko stand in the way any more.’

  Silence fell between them again. At length Rosie turned back from the window. ‘Where is she now?’ she said.

  Victoria started. ‘Kate? She’s still at the hospital.’

  ‘Bridie.’

  ‘Bridie? Ah, she’s at the hospital too.’

  ‘She needs to go home.’

  ‘Yes, of course. My aunt has offered to have her sent by train to Mayo.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Aye. She would want to be buried there.’

  Two days later a young nurse escorted Victoria home from the Union after she had collapsed exhausted on the floor.

  Lady Marianne telephoned her sister-in-law at Ennismore. ‘We must arrange for her to be brought home immediately, Thea,’ she said. ‘I cannot be responsible for her. She is very ill.’

  Victoria held onto Celine’s hand as she lay on the daybed listening to her aunt. ‘I cannot go back there, Celine,’ she whispered. ‘I promised Brendan. And besides, I must stay here to be close to Rosie. She will need me now.’

  Celine frowned. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, as she patted Victoria’s hand.

  The next morning a motor car drew up in front of the house on Fitzwilliam Square. Victoria’s heart sank. Had her mother arrived so soon? She pulled together what strength she had, prepared to resist. But it was not her mother who came into the downstairs hall. She heard a man’s voice talking to her aunt, then a rustle of activity as Celine came into her bedroom.

  ‘D’accord. Your aunt has arranged a car to take you home. I must pack a few things. I am to accompany you.’

  ‘But I told you, I cannot go back there. Please, Celine.’

  The maid, ignoring Victoria’s pleas, began pulling items of clothing from drawers and cupboards and hurriedly thrusting them into a suitcase. When she finished she turned back to Victoria and saw that she was in tears. She came closer and knelt down before her and took her hands.

  ‘Don’t you realize how sick you are, mademoiselle? You must go where you can be cared for. You need only stay at Ennismore until you are well again. Please, come!’

  She stood and pulled Victoria up to her feet, then led her downstairs and into the hallway. Lady Marianne stood at the drawing room door. She hugged her niece, tears hovering on her eyelashes. ‘I wish you a safe journey.’

  All protest left Victoria.

  ‘Goodbye, Aunt Marianne,’ she said. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  Celine helped her down the front steps to where the car waited. The driver reached for the suitcases and put them in the boot. As Victoria stood waiting for him to open the rear car door she realized someone sat in the front seat. She held her breath as the door opened and Rosie got out, handing her young niece to Celine. She came towards Victoria, her arms outstretched, a smile on her face. Without a word, Victoria moved forward into Rosie’s embrace.

  ‘We’re going back to Ennismore, Rosie,’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye, we’re going home.’

  PART FIVE

  HOMECOMING

  CHAPTER 35

  Rosie gazed out of the car window while Victoria slept beside her. As the noise and grime of Dublin slipped away, so did her harsh memories of the last four years, replaced by long-buried, gentler reflections. With every passing mile she drank in the changing scenery like a wanderer sating his thirst. Every sight filled her with pleasure – yellow gorse spreading its cloak over the fields and hillsides, budding fuchsia preparing to dress the hedgerows in scarlet, delicate white starflowers waving from the bogs.

  Farther west, farmers guided their carts to the side of rutted lanes to let them pass, tipping their caps, smiles on their weathered faces. Rosie’s heart ached as she thought of her da. He and she were a part of this place and these people. This was their home – this place so full of hardship that the conqueror Oliver Cromwell likened it to hell, this place with land so poor farmers fertilized it with seaweed, and which suffered more than any other during the famine. She was sad that she had ever abandoned her home and family.

  Victoria moaned softly in her sleep and leaned her head against Rosie’s shoulder. Rosie tucked the blanket Celine had brought more tightly around her friend. They rode in the back of the car together while Celine sat beside the driver in the front, little Kate sleeping in her lap. No one had spoken since they left Dublin. Rosie studied the back of the driver’s head. The proud set of it and the way the breeze rustled his thick brown hair reminded her of Cathal. She pictured him that first night on O’Connell Bridge chasing away the taunting prostitutes. Even then she had known he would be someone special in her life.

  She didn’t want to think about Cathal because it was too painful. But his image kept appearing before her, his eyes searching her face. She recalled the first night she cradled him in her arms as he sobbed. When they awoke the next morning they both knew an unspoken bond had formed between them that could never be severed. He was flawed, yes, and still she had loved him without judgement. She had never thought herself capable of such loyalty. Certainly she had not felt this way about Valentine – judging him harshly at every turn, ridiculing his loyalty to family, duty and traditions. Cathal had taught her that people did not always have a choice where their loyalties lay – his was to the uprising and the young Volunteers, willing to risk everything, including their relationship, for it. She’d seen, too, how the young Volunteers would sacrifice their lives for loyalty to the cause they believed in. She sighed. She accepted now th
at life, people, and she herself were far more complicated than she had ever allowed.

  It was evening when they arrived at Ennismore. There was no warning of their arrival, so no one stood on the steps to greet them. Rosie took a deep breath as she recalled her early years there. How grand it had all once seemed. Now, as she gazed at the crumbling stone and ragged grasses beside the front steps, she realized the house no longer had any hold over her. Instead, Ennismore looked like a forlorn, neglected old woman whose beauty was long past.

  At the sound of the car, a curious Mr Burke opened the door. The driver alighted and helped Celine out of the front seat, taking the child in his arms. Rosie gently woke Victoria and with Celine’s help slid her out of the car, supporting her as she stood unsteadily on the gravel driveway. Mr Burke’s face registered alarm when he saw Victoria. He rushed towards her and putting his arm around her waist, led her up the steps. Mrs Murphy appeared and looked around in confusion.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Murphy,’ said Rosie, ‘this is Celine, Victoria’s maid who has come with her from Dublin. As you can see, Victoria is not well. She collapsed a day ago from the fever, and her aunt asked me to bring her home.’

  Mrs Murphy looked from Rosie to Celine and the child. ‘This is Bridie’s child, Mrs Murphy,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m bringing her home to Ma.’

  Rosie could not bring herself to talk about Bridie’s fate. They would all know soon enough. Not wanting to linger, she hurried back into the car with Kate and the driver and rode away.

  The driver parked on the grassy apron at the gate of the Killeen farm. Rosie took Kate in her arms and thanked him as he handed out her suitcase and drove away. She walked up to the cottage and, as she approached, she expected to see their old dog, Rory, coming to greet her. Then she realized Rory would have died long ago. She felt her throat tighten. As she drew closer to the front door where Ma waited, she was crushed to see the deep sorrow in her mother’s eyes. Wordlessly, she handed little Kate over to her. Ma took the child in her arms and clung to her, then turned and walked back into the cottage. Rosie stiffened. The black wreath hanging on the front door told her that Bridie’s coffin already lay inside the house. Fighting back her tears she followed her ma through the door.

  The sky was bright and the wind blustery on the day of Bridie’s funeral. An overnight rain had washed the landscape, leaving the grasses a brilliant green and the wildflowers a dazzling profusion of colour. Six pallbearers – Rosie’s da and three brothers, stiff in coarse new suits, and her two red-faced uncles – carried the coffin from the cottage. A small procession of mourners, family and neighbours, walked behind it down to the main road and out towards Crossmolina and the church. Along the roadside people stopped and bowed their heads, blessing themselves as the cortège passed. Ma held young Kate by the hand, while Rosie held tight to Ma’s arm, aware of how small and fragile it felt in her grasp.

  St Brigid’s church was full when they entered. Rosie recognized farmers and shop owners, girls and boys she had played with years ago, now fully grown, and a group of elderly, black-scarved women who were fixtures at every mass she had ever attended. As she walked towards the altar she saw Mrs O’Leary, head bent and sobbing quietly, kneeling beside Mrs Murphy and the rest of the Ennismore staff. She looked at the pew in front of them, expecting to see some of the Bell family, but the only one there was Sofia who knelt, deep in prayer, her head in her hands.

  Rosie was relieved when the mass was over. The organ music swelled as the men bore the coffin back down the aisle towards the door. She looked straight ahead as she walked behind it, still gripping her mother’s arm, while the mourners shuffled out of the pews. She had been in this church many times. She was baptized here, made her first Holy Communion and Confirmation here, attended christenings and weddings and funerals here, as well as mass on Sundays and holy days. Yet now she felt like a stranger. She mourned the innocent girl she was but would never be again.

  St Brigid’s Cemetery sat in the shadow of a soft green hillside on which cows grazed freely. A statue of St Brigid, Ireland’s best known female saint, stood in the centre of the graveyard. Beside it was a holy well where pilgrims came to pray for healing miracles. A small hawthorn tree stood to one side, covered in colourful ribbons, bird feathers and dried flowers – all offerings to the saint. Rosie had a vague memory of watching Ma tying a strip of bright red velvet to a branch while praying for her oldest daughter, Nora, sick with pneumonia, who later died. She turned and walked to the open grave where Nora lay, and where Bridie would now join her.

  The priest read prayers aloud, the pages of his missal flapping in the breeze. When he finished he threw a shovel full of dirt on the lowered coffin. Little Kate, guided by Ma, tottered forward and dropped a lush, red rose into the grave. Her simple action moved the mourners to tears as each came forward to toss in more flowers while a lone bagpiper’s music filled the air. One by one the Ennismore staff came up to pay respects to the Killeen family. Mr Burke bowed solemnly while Mrs Murphy wept and muttered how fond she had been of Bridie. Anthony Walshe shook hands with Da. Thelma blushed and said little, while Immelda muttered a few words. Sadie nodded while casting sidelong glances at Celine who hugged Ma and kissed little Kate, murmuring in French.

  When the funeral ended, everyone was invited back to the Killeen cottage for food and drink, as was the custom. Rosie turned Ma over to Da and stood back while the mourners streamed out through the cemetery gate.

  ‘Excuse me, Rosie?’

  Rosie swung around. Sofia stood beside her, her hand outstretched.

  ‘I wanted to give you my condolences,’ she began, sounding rather formal. ‘I’m sorry I’m the only one of the Bell family here, but they are so greatly concerned about Victoria’s health they did not want to leave her.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘It’s all right, I understand. How is she?’

  Sofia frowned. ‘There is no change. We have had the doctor in daily since she came home. All we can do is follow his instructions and keep watching her. Celine, er, Lady Marianne’s maid, has not left her side except to attend the funeral today. The girl seems very devoted to her.’

  The women looked at each other as if they had much left to say, but neither of them wanted to say it. Rosie felt a vague discomfort.

  ‘Well, thank you for coming,’ she said, unsure how to address Valentine’s wife, ‘it was thoughtful of you. Will you come down to the cottage?’

  Rosie was relieved when Sofia shook her head. ‘You are very kind, but I must be getting back. My son Julian will be looking for me. We always have lunch together.’

  ‘Of course.’

  An uneasy silence fell between them once more. Turning, Sofia walked away briskly down the road. Rosie waited until she was far ahead of her before making her way back to the Killeen cottage.

  Later that evening the staff of Ennismore filed into the servants’ hall.

  ‘Put on the kettle for a cup of tea, Thelma, there’s a good lass.’

  Mrs O’Leary sighed as she limped in, sat down and removed her hat, and bent over to massage her tiny feet. ‘Funerals are all right for auld ones the likes of ourselves, ’tis only the natural way of things. But when you have to watch them bury a young one like our Bridie . . .’ She let her words hang in the air.

  The rest of the staff took their usual places at the table. Mrs O’Leary sighed again.

  ‘And to watch that poor wee dote Kate drop that rose on the coffin. It would scald your heart to see it.’

  No one answered her as they sat, each lost in their own thoughts. Thelma came in and served tea. Always stout, Thelma had gained more weight in the last year so that her white fingers now resembled fat rolls of dough wrapped around the handle of the teapot. When she finished serving, she sat down, her bovine eyes wide and dreamy.

  ‘Weren’t Rosie’s brothers so handsome, all dressed up?’

  Mrs O’Leary glared at her. ‘Arrah, will you whisht with your foolishness, Thelma. Sure weren’t we all there to pay our respects to
Bridie’s family, not to be mooning about over handsome men?’

  Thelma looked defiantly at the cook. ‘Well you couldn’t help noticing. Besides, I saw Sadie looking at them as well.’

  ‘I was not,’ said Sadie, tossing her copper curls. ‘I passed no remarks on them at all. Anyway, I was more interested in that French one Victoria’s after bringing home with her. A bit above herself for my liking. Imagine insisting on eating with Victoria instead of down here with us?’ She sipped her tea. ‘Things won’t be the same here any more. I should have gone to America along with my cousins when I had the chance. I could have been living in luxury by now.’

  ‘Or you could be lying drowned at the bottom of the ocean,’ snapped Mrs O’Leary.

  As silence fell once more upon the small group, Anthony Walshe stoked his pipe and took a long draw of tobacco. ‘’Tis many’s the change we’ve seen in the last few years,’ he said. ‘Master Thomas dead and buried, Master Valentine away in the army and Miss Victoria sent away to Dublin only to come back sick with the fever. And down here, poor Bridie and poor Seaneen gone, and Brendan in prison. Not to mention the Rising in Dublin.’

  ‘Ah, sure nothing stays the same, Mr Walshe,’ put in Mrs Murphy.

  ‘And it will get worse before it gets better, mark my words.’ Immelda suddenly spoke up. ‘The Easter Uprising was just the beginning of it. There’ll be trouble across the length and breadth of Ireland and the likes of the Bell family will be rousted out and sent back across the water with their tails between their legs, so they will.’

  There was a collective gasp around the table at Immelda’s words.

  ‘On my oath I’d say Immelda’s right,’ said Anthony at last. ‘The tide’s been turning against the English ever since they executed the leaders of the Rising. Now that the ordinary Irishmen have had a taste of revolution they won’t be too anxious to let it go.’