Mrs. Chiarello followed Scarlett into the small hallway and indicated the door on the right. The small, bright room was not as bad as the kitchen, some books and pictures taken off the walls and smashed or torn, but the intruders obviously decided there was nothing of value in there. Scarlett guided the old lady to an easy chair beside the little fireplace and handed her the tea.
She picked up the photographs from the floor and tried to save them. They would need new glass but they were ok. It was only as she tried to rectify the vandalism that she noticed something unusual about her surroundings.
The walls were adorned with black and white photographs of men and women in military garb, and standing in the corner of the room was a green, white and orange flag. Over the mantelpiece was a framed copy of the Irish Proclamation of Independence and Irish memorabilia dotted every surface. With the last name Chiarello, Scarlett had assumed the woman to be of Italian extraction, not Irish.
Mrs. Chiarello’s eyes rested on the photograph on the mantelpiece of a woman, dressed in a military uniform, which had survived the burglary. The old woman spoke quietly. ‘That was my mother.’
Scarlett picked up the photograph carefully.
‘When was this taken?’ she asked.
‘Easter week 1916. In Dublin. It’s the only one in existence I believe. It was found among the papers of a friend of hers, a Mrs Grant, in Ireland, when she died back in 1960, and her lawyers managed to track my mother down and send it to her. I remember the day so clearly. She stood in this room, just where you are standing now, and opened the envelope. I think Mammy must have been in her early sixties then. She was surprised at the Irish postmark. She had contact with people from there when she first came here, but less so as the years passed. There was a letter from a lawyer, saying this photograph, as well as some letters, were found among the personal effects of Mrs Grant, and as they knew from the name written on the back who it was, they managed to locate my mother. She was so choked with emotion she couldn’t speak, and she wasn’t that kind of person given to emotions. But I’ll never forget that day, not as long as I live.’
‘Was she involved with the revolution?’ Scarlett was intrigued. She had grown up listening to Dan drunkenly roaring about the political troubles in Ireland, so the rebellion of Easter Week 1916 and the subsequent War of Independence were indelibly printed on her memory.
‘Oh yes, dear, she certainly was. She was in Cumann na mBan, the women’s army, women who fought and died and were wounded right alongside the men. She fought, to free Ireland. Along with so many others.’
Mrs Chiarello paused. She crossed the room and took down a large photograph from a side table, and gestured for Scarlett to come and see it. Scarlett placed the photo of the woman carefully back on the mantelpiece and crossed the room, avoiding the broken glass on the carpet. It was a wedding picture, the bride clearly the woman in the other photo. She was very petite and pretty. Her hair was long and her features tiny and perfect, like a doll’s. She wore a lace wedding dress and a long scarf on her head, a look Scarlett had seen before in photos from the nineteen twenties. The bride’s hand rested gently on the arm of the tall man at her side. He was in a military uniform and looked very handsome, though he looked like a giant beside his bride.
‘What a handsome couple! They look very glamorous in their finery.’ Scarlett remarked.
The woman smiled. ‘They were my parents. They got married when my father got back from England, in 1917, before all the trouble happened with the treaty. Half of the people at their wedding fought on different sides during that war, a great many of them never survived.’
She seemed to assume that Scarlett understood the intricacies of Irish politics. The Northern Ireland issue was one most New Yorkers were familiar with in some way or another, but despite her voracious interest in politics, she was ambivalent at best about the goings-on in the birth place of her father. She recalled from the depths of her memory the details about the War of Independence that followed the uprising of 1916. Ireland had been colonised by Britain centuries earlier, and in 1916 the Irish had made a bid for freedom. After two years of war, the British agreed to negotiate a peace settlement but refused to hand over some parts of the north of the country, which split the Irish. Some people thought it was a stepping stone to full independence, but others disagreed and felt that they should have kept on fighting.
‘So your parents were patriots then?’ she asked kindly, smiling at the pride that shone from the old lady’s eyes as she gazed at the picture.
‘Yes. Patriots, I suppose they were. Then one man’s patriot is another man’s terrorist, isn’t that what they say?’ she shook her head. ‘I never thought of them like that. They were young and in love, so in love that nothing else mattered. Freeing their beloved country and being together, that was all they wanted.’
‘Well, Mrs Chiarello, I know this has been an awful ordeal for you, but at least you still have your precious photographs.’
‘Eileen, my name is Eileen. That’s just it, though, I have the photos, but there was something else, something my mother held so dear to her, all her life, and I think it might be gone. I don’t know what I’ll do, if…’ her voice faded to a whisper.
‘What was it? Maybe it’s not gone. The place is in such a mess that maybe it’s around somewhere? If you tell me what it is, then I’ll be happy to look for it.’ Scarlett spoke gently. This wasn’t how she imagined her day panning out, but it felt good to have a purpose. She didn’t know it, but Eileen was helping Scarlett as much as Scarlett was helping her.
‘It was a sheet. Well, a flag, wrapped in a sheet. I kept it in the sideboard there, but I looked after the burglar left, before the police came, and I couldn’t find it.’
Eileen was devastated. ‘It’s of no use to anyone, it just looks like an old rag really but it meant the world to my mother, and I hate to think it just ended up in a dumpster when he realised it was of no use.’
Scarlett got up and went to the sideboard that Eileen had indicated. There was a canteen of cutlery in there and some china bowls, two of which had been taken out and smashed. There was no sign of a sheet.
‘Maybe they took it upstairs, to put things into?’ she offered.
‘Maybe.’ Eileen was despondent. ‘Though I can’t imagine why.’
Scarlett thought for a moment. Eileen was too shaken to be dragged upstairs, and on top of that she had no idea what state the rooms were in on the next floor. When the police came yesterday, she was so shocked she probably didn’t register details. Scarlett had heard horrible stories of burglars soiling beds with excrement after break-ins, and Eileen could really do without that horror. She decided to go upstairs alone and survey the damage.
‘Why don’t I take a look upstairs and if I find it I’ll bring it down to you? You just rest there for a while.’
Eileen just nodded sadly and sat back down, lost in her thoughts.
The little house was everything Scarlett as a child imagined as a perfect home. Little knick-knacks were on surfaces, no fear of being smashed in a drunken rage. The carpet was soft beneath her feet and the house smelled of lavender. If she’d had a grandma, then she would have wanted an Eileen, she thought. When Dan was on one of his benders, she remembered wishing she had a lovely Grandma who baked cookies, and whose house looked just like this, to escape to.
The two bedrooms upstairs were in disarray, but thankfully no other damage was done. An empty jewellery box was thrown on the bed in the main bedroom, and some clothes were torn from the closet. But as she replaced them and straightened out all the things on the locker, she was relieved. At least Eileen would be able to go to bed tonight in relative order.
The second bedroom had the contents of the closet and the drawers pulled out also. Eileen obviously kept winter coats and extra blankets and that sort of thing in there. As she began to replace the old style heavy woollen blankets, she saw on the floor a greying cotton parcel, around a foot square and
tied with a length of silver ribbon. It could be the flag Eileen described. She finished tidying the room, and went quickly downstairs.
‘Is this it?’ Scarlett asked hopefully.
The long controlled tears finally flowed down Eileen’s old cheeks, and Scarlett felt good about herself for the first time in ages.
‘Thank you.’ Eileen squeezed Scarlett’s hands as unadulterated joy shone from her face. She took the greying piece of fabric from the parcel. It had been folded with care many years ago and was frayed on the creases. She opened it out gently in case it fell apart, and she laid it carefully across the table.
Scarlett was intrigued. There was no doubt that the fabric was old, but it wasn’t a flag in any sense that she understood the term. It was more like a sack of some sort, which was ripped down the seams. There appeared to be two roughly cut holes on one end and the fabric was darker around them. The fabric itself was soft and heavy. There were a variety of stains on it, from tan to dark brown in colour.
Then she noticed something on the corner. In very faded, almost invisible print were written the words Bolands Mills.
A memory flashed in Scarlett’s mind. The name brought her back to their apartment in Yonkers, years earlier. She was in bed and she could hear Dan roaring out on the street. It must have been in the early hours of the morning. Someone was trying to shut him up while she cringed in her bed, knowing that once he got in he would either collapse on the couch and pass out or else start on Lorena. The other voice was quiet and impossible to make out. Scarlett prayed it was a cop who might arrest him and lock him up overnight.
The voice seemed to be calming Dan until she heard his loud rough voice again, ‘Whadda you know about it? You call yourself Irish, but where was your De Valera when he was needed? You tell me that. Lemmie tell you where he was, hiding down in Boland’s Mills!’ That reference to Boland’s Mills was a regular motif of her father’s drunken ramblings. He considered himself quite the authority of Irish history, though his rhetoric was based much more in rabid Republicanism than on any actual knowledge of the facts.
Eileen interrupted her reverie. ‘This means more to me that anything else in the world. She brought it with her, you see, from Ireland. It sort of represents her life there and everything that happened. I couldn’t bear to have lost it.’ Eileen touched the old fabric affectionately.
‘I’m glad it wasn’t taken. Now, let’s see about getting this place cleared up, will we? How about you go upstairs and lie down? You must be exhausted after everything that happened. I’ll make a start in the kitchen.’
Eileen looked intently at Scarlett. ‘I’m not sure of many things at this age, Scarlett. That’s what happens as you get older. The black and white certainty of youth disappears to be replaced with lots of grey, but I’m sure of this. Someone sent you to me today. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.’ Eileen squeezed Scarlett’s hand.
‘It’s no problem. As I said, I don’t have much going on these days. It’s nice to have a diversion.’ Scarlett smiled. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt a connection to this woman.
Chapter 9
Dublin 1913
‘Just leave it there Mary, I doubt I’ll have time for more than a cup of tea this morning.’
Mary Doyle placed the breakfast tray on the sideboard of the bedroom as her employer sat at her dressing table pinning her long dark hair under an elegant hat.
‘Mr Larkin is speaking at the Imperial Hotel this morning despite the Viceroy’s edict that he shouldn’t speak in public. He is either a very brave or a very foolish man. It’s difficult for one to see which at the moment... pass me that pin there please... Mr Grant is incensed of course. Well, you heard him yourself at dinner last night. Threatening to lock every single last one of the men out who follows Larkin.’
‘Yes Ma’am.’ Mary helped her employer to fix her hat on her head. Glancing in the looking glass, she admired the older woman. Her employer must be in her early forties, yet her figure was that of a girl. She was always immaculately groomed and her hair always shone beautifully. She had intelligent hazel eyes which radiated kindness. Mary was used to Mrs Grant’s regular discussion regarding the growing unrest in the city. She voiced her opinions freely to Mary, but usually just agreed with her husband when he expounded on the stupidity and danger of Unions and Larkinism. Mr Grant, and many employers like him, were refusing to allow the workers to join a union or do anything to make their appalling situation any better.
‘He simply refuses to accept what is factual evidence, that’s the thing. Dublin has the highest infant mortality rate in Europe, the third highest in the world for goodness sake! I don’t know what, but something will have to be done. People are living in atrocious conditions, with no proper healthcare or even adequate nutrition. The poor will be out with guillotines next, demanding the heads of the wealthy, and who could blame them? Tell me, Mary, has he left for the factory?’ Mrs Grant turned to face her.
‘Yes, Ma’am, about twenty minutes ago.’ Mary remembered seeing him leave by the front door. He always tried to touch her hand as she handed him his coat and gave her an oily smile. He made her shudder. It surprised her that someone as beautiful as Mrs Grant would be married to such an unattractive man. He was balding and wiry and wore what was, in Mary’s opinion, a ridiculous moustache which covered a lot of his thin pale face. He never spoke to his wife with any kindness or love, and everything he said seemed to be a sneer or a cutting remark. Mary wondered why someone as lovely as Mrs, Grant would have married someone as awful as the master.
‘Very good then, I shall be going also to Liberty Hall. Countess Markowitz is feeding three thousand people a day down there. The families of the locked out workers are starving, literally starving in front of our eyes. I know that some of the women down there are begging their husbands to go back to work, to accept their employers conditions, no matter how awful, for the children if nothing else, but if they do that, well...’
Mrs. Grant walked over to the sideboard and sipped her tea.
‘Perhaps you should eat something, Ma’am, if you’re going to be working all day?’ Mary spoke quietly. It was one of the reasons she’d got the job over so many other applicants. Mrs Kearns, the cook and housekeeper, who’d interviewed her for the job three months earlier, had explained that the master didn’t like loud voices, and so Mary with her soft Tipperary accent would suit them fine. The other girls waiting to be seen that day were chatting while they listened for their names to be called, but Mary remained quiet, only answering direct questions with single word answers. She needed this job badly and was determined to get it. The others, who were discussing boys and dances and the lock-out with such enthusiasm and sometimes colourful language, seemed not to think they were being overheard.
When it came to her turn, Mrs Kearns asked her what she knew about being a maid, and she explained she had grown up in an orphanage and so was very used to cooking and cleaning, though serving at a fancy table wasn’t something she had ever done. She had a nice reference from the nuns claiming she was a good girl, hardworking and honest, with a deep faith. Sister Benedict had asked in her letter that Mary’s new employer not hold the girl’s lack of parentage against her, for it was through no fault of her own that she was the product of a sinful act. Mary reddened with embarrassment as Mrs Kearns read the letter aloud in her broad Dublin accent. Up to that moment, Mary had no idea what it contained. The envelope was addressed to ‘The employer of Miss Mary Doyle.’ Sister Benedict had merely handed it to her on her eighteenth birthday, telling her that she was no longer the responsibility of the community, and dismissed her without a trace of affection or concern.
That day, Mary walked down the avenue of the only home she’d ever known, feeling a myriad of emotions. She was overwhelmingly relieved to be free. Free of the drudgery of daily hard physical work and living under the constant knowledge that she was a nobody, with no family to give her a position in life.
But she would miss the others, especially the little ones, and one or two of the nuns who were kind to her. The order had taught her to read and write, and had taken care of her physical needs reasonably well, but there was never any love or affection. She was never allowed to forget how she was the result of a sin and was therefore tainted. Starting out in the world, alone and without one single person to call her own, was daunting but liberating.
She had enough money, given to her by the nuns, for a bus ticket and a few nights’ accommodation. She had never been to the capital city, or anywhere else for that matter, but it seemed like a better option that staying in Tipperary. Sister Margaret, who was always kind to her, told her to try to get a job in a big house and apparently there were plenty of those in Dublin. She was good at sewing and mending and could cook well and would be fine if she got a job with accommodation. The nun had given her the name and address of an old school friend in Glenageary, a Mrs Carmody, who might be able to help Mary find a job if she mentioned she knew Sister Margaret. The nun told Mary to say she was a friend of Kitty Kennedy’s. Mary gazed in amazement at this revelation, that the kind Sister Margaret was once a girl called Kitty Kennedy. She told her that she would pray for her every day and asked that Mary write and tell her of her fate. Sister Margaret was a late vocation, not entering the convent until she was in her late twenties, and was from Dublin, so she was a bit more worldly wise than some of the other sisters.
Mary had walked to Nenagh and waited for the bus to Dublin. The journey lay through lush green countryside which eventually gave way to houses, and what looked like factories. Mary gazed with a mixture of horror and excitement at the scene before her as the bus edged its way up the quays of the River Liffey. Horses, trams, delivery carts and even a few motor cars fought for space among what seemed like thousands of people, confidently making their way about their business. She got off the bus and after a few false starts, navigated the huge city with difficulty. She eventually made it, hours later, to the address the nun had given her.
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 42
