Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars

by Jean Grainger

  ‘Sure,’ she said, knowing she sounded like a grumpy teenager.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Scarlett, all Vivien Leigh and hurt and dramatic. You know if I could be with you, I would be.’ Scarlett heard the edge in his voice. Charlie was impatient and had low tolerance for those who weren’t seduced by his charm, even when he was totally in the wrong. Scarlett knew that to push the point that she felt betrayed would only antagonise him further. At least a few phone calls and texts were better than nothing. Everything in Charlie’s life was made right by those around him, his wife, Scarlett, Sam. Even now they were protecting him. Scarlett wondered why people like Charlie seemed to not be subject to the same inconveniences or pain as ordinary mortals.

  The press had backed off in recent days, chasing the next big scandal. A young socialite was found dead in her apartment in Manhattan three days ago, and Scarlett felt an inappropriate gratitude to the girl.

  ‘So Red, what are you doing with yourself these days without me around taking up your time?’ he murmured. ‘Entertaining yourself somehow?’ His low, sexy chuckle caused Scarlett’s stomach to flip over.

  ‘Well, I’m doing a little bit of work for Artie, remember my old boss? And seeing my mother, that kind of stuff.’ She tried to inject some breeziness into her voice. She was about to tell him about Eileen and the flag when he cut across her thoughts.

  ‘Great. Are the reporters still camped outside?’

  ‘Uh... no. There were one or two yesterday, but that homicide downtown seems to have taken the heat off, thank God.’ She wished she could shake the niggling feeling that his concern was less for her welfare and more on how to limit possible further damage.

  ‘Good, good. You’re doing great, Red, really great. Just don’t say anything to anyone and try to be a neutral as possible when you are out. You know how they can get a shot of you laughing, or sad, or something and blow it out of all proportion.’ He paused. ‘So, how about those plans you mentioned, to do a bit of travelling? Great opportunity for you now that you’ve no ties, no work ties, I mean.’ He added hastily.

  Was he trying to get rid of her? She dismissed the idea immediately. Charlie loved her, of course he did.

  ‘No,’ she said slowly, trying to decide the best thing to tell him. ‘I’m kind of getting into a story for Artie, just a local thing but it’s something and so I’m gonna stay put for a while.’

  His hesitation was palpable. ‘Oh right, I didn’t realise it was an actual job. I thought you just dropped by and he got you to do something. Yeah, that’s great, good. I’m glad.’ His words were contradicted by his tone, and she tried to tell herself she was imagining it. They were both all over the place.

  ‘I’d love to see you.’ She tried not to sound pathetic.

  ‘Me too Red, me too, but you know what it’s like. I’m being watched twenty-four seven. This whole thing is at a very delicate stage. How things go down in the next few weeks will decide the way the electorate reacts to the story. It’s vital we play this right.’

  Weeks. She knew how it was, but she hoped he’d find some way to see her. The idea of not seeing him for weeks filled her with misery. She heard murmuring in the background. He surely was alone if he was calling her?

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked

  ‘Who?’ he answered smoothly.

  ‘A voice, like someone talking to you while you’re talking to me.’ There was no way he would allow anyone to hear him on the phone. She wondered if the phones were being hacked.

  ‘No, there’s nobody here. Must have been the TV. I have it on behind me. So anyway, Red, I have to go. You’re doing such a great job. Just keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll talk again soon, ok?’ She could have sworn she heard the murmuring voice again.

  ‘And be careful of anyone approaching you. Hacks are using all kinds of stunts, but hey, who am I telling, eh?’

  He chuckled, but she was hurt by the implication that she was the kind of journalist who used stunts to trick people into divulging things to her. That wasn’t her style at all, but she bit back the words of admonishment. She only had a few precious moments on the phone with him every few days. She didn’t want to waste it arguing.

  ‘Ok, bye Charlie.’ She waited for him to tell her he loved her. She couldn’t say it first.

  ‘Bye Red. Take care.’ And the line went dead.

  Chapter 14

  September 1914

  Mary watched the miserable hordes of people queuing up at Liberty Hall from a cheap café across the street. Countess Markowitz had set up a soup kitchen to feed the poor and the hungry, but even with her considerable assets, and the support of some of her gentry friends, supplies were short. The police kept records of anyone connected with the labour movement and were likely just to pick suspect people up on a whim. There was a lot of patrolling going on, so she decided to bide her time before trying to get into the building. The authorities knew that Liberty Hall was a meeting point for the union and watched those who entered carefully.

  Mrs. Grant knew that there was to be an event on in Dublin Castle this afternoon, so military presence on the street would be diminished. If Mary was stopped by the police, she was to claim that she was hoping to volunteer at the soup kitchen and thought she should go around the back. The banner across the front of the building that read ‘We Serve Neither King nor Kaiser but Ireland’ always gave her courage.

  As she sipped her cup of tea, she thought back to the first Cumann na mBan meeting last April in Wynne’s Hotel. She’d felt so out of place in the sumptuous surroundings, but Mrs Grant had spoken so well and with such passion that she found herself getting more and more courage with every passing minute. These women, some of them university professors and doctors and the daughters of wealthy Protestants, but many more from the working class, were gathered to set up a council of Irish women. They talked about getting the vote, something Mary had found exhilarating, but more importantly about how it wasn’t enough for the women of Ireland to sit at home and wait patiently while the men made a bid for Irish freedom.

  They would form a group, one to work alongside the Volunteers who would do more than just knit socks and cook dinners. The proposals the women made were so exciting. Women could learn first aid, make stretchers, learn to drive ambulances, and raise money to equip the men with weapons and uniforms. She could recall vividly the fire in Mrs Grant’s eyes when she spoke about the absolute need to remove Britain from Irish affairs. How the Irish were entitled to rule themselves, and to cherish all the children of the nation equally. She wished Rory could have heard it.

  Mr. Grant had remained ignorant to his wife’s political fervour until the day after the mistress’ public speech. Though she was magnificent, Mary was worried what the master would do if he found out what his wife was involved in, something he would see as treasonous. He was as loyal to the king of England as anyone from London or Liverpool. As they went home after the speech, the mistress was so elated at the response by the women of Dublin that she gave no thought to the consequences of her actions.

  Mary still shuddered when she thought about it, and it would remain forever etched on her mind. It was the day after the meeting, and life in the Grant house was exactly as normal until the master stormed in the front door two hours early, almost knocking Mary aside as she polished the parquet in the hall. Mrs Grant was in the drawing room, alone. Mary heard the door slamming upstairs and then the scream. Mrs Kearns came running from the kitchen at the sound, and together they stood in horrified silence as the banging and crashing from the drawing room was interrupted only by the anguished cries of the mistress and the roars of the master.

  They looked at each other as the minutes and violence ticked on, terrified and unsure of what to do. Furniture was being thrown, glass smashing, and the shouting and screaming was relentless. Should they get the police? Mrs Kearns was rooted to the spot, but Mary realised that if she didn’t do something, the master was surely going to kill the mist
ress. She ran, without any real plan, up the passageway to the drawing room and burst in, just in time to see him throwing his wife to the floor. He had ripped her dress, leaving her body exposed and was about to unbutton his trousers. His intentions were clear. Mary grabbed the first thing she could see, an onyx statue of a leaping trout.

  ‘Get away from her!’ she shouted. The master turned and the mixture of shock and rage on his face sent a bolt of terror through Mary.

  ‘You little bitch!’ he roared. ‘How dare you tell me what to do in my house. Get out before I...’

  Mrs. Grant tried to get up, but he punched her in the face and blood spurted from her nose. Mary ran and hit him as hard as she could on the temple with the statue. He fell sideways, stumbling on the hearth of the fireplace.

  He lay on his back staring up at her, his trousers open and his hair dishevelled, incredulous at her audacity.

  ‘Mrs. Kearns is getting the constable, and I saw him pass by only a minute ago so he’ll be here any second now.’ Mary was amazed that any sound came out of her mouth at all, but her words had the effect of diffusing the situation.

  Downstairs there were voices.

  He got up, walked right up to Mary, and stared into her face.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, by God, I’ll see to it that you pay dearly.’

  He marched past the women as if they didn’t exist and stopped momentarily at the looking glass in the hallway to remedy his appearance. He buttoned his trousers, tucked his shirt and straightened his jacket and tie. Then he removed a hairbrush from the hall stand and calmly brushed his sparse hair into place. Once he was happy with his reflection, he placed his hat firmly upon his head, walked out, and slammed the front door.

  Mrs. Grant was seated on the fireside chair, her hair hanging about her face. Her dress and undergarments had been torn from her body, and she was bleeding profusely from her nose. Mary took a shawl that was lying on the back of the chaise longue and wrapped it around the lady who had shown her such kindness, feeling helpless.

  ‘Thank you, Mary dear.’ Mrs Grant whispered as the housekeeper entered the room.

  ‘Ma’am, Jimmy went for the constable but he couldn’t find him. Should we get the doctor this time?’ Mrs Kearns hesitated. Scandal was to be avoided at all costs. As Mary caught the glance between her employer and the old cook, she realised this was not the first time this had happened.

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Kearns. I’ll be fine. If you could just help me to my bedroom, and Mary, perhaps you could run a bath for me.’ She winced as she tried to stand.

  Mrs. Grant saw her pale and smiled weakly. ‘No one said it was going to be easy, Mary. There are going to be battles everywhere, some with uniformed men and weapons and others in the drawing rooms of the wealthy. Either way, blood must be shed and lives lost if necessary. My husband disagrees with my ideology, but that is to be expected. What we will, no, what we must, achieve will destroy everything he holds dear. It is inevitable that he would resist.’

  ‘But Ma’am, you’re bleeding…’ Mary protested.

  ‘It matters not a jot, my dear. More blood than mine will be shed setting Ireland free. Now if you could help me up, I’ll try to clean myself up. I’m meeting someone later, to discuss the future plans for the movement, and I can’t look like this.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Grant, you can’t go out now, not like this. What if the master finds out…’ Mrs Kearns was pleading.

  ‘We shall just have to be extra careful then, won’t we? My husband cares nothing for me, we all know that, but having his wife, his property – as he sees me – publicly speaking out against the kind of tyranny he metes out, and now my stance on the Irish Republic, well, you saw how he reacted. Someone let out a jibe about men controlling their wives at his club and he was incensed. At my actions, of course, but possibly more at the fact that I defied him. He and his cronies want everything to remain exactly as it is now. He won’t want a scandal, however, so I think as long as I keep my involvement more low profile, everything will continue as it was.’

  Shaking her head, Mrs Kearns went to fetch some warm water and some antiseptic ointment. Muttering how no good could come of this.

  Left alone with Mary, Mrs Grant spoke urgently. ‘I need you to be my eyes and ears, Mary, now more than ever. The freedom I’ve enjoyed up to now will, I fear, be severely curtailed by my husband. I daren’t risk antagonising him further, not through fear, but without my help financially the movement will suffer. I must maintain my marriage as it protects us, you see. The British would blanch at the idea of arresting or mistreating someone of my status, and while we, and women like us remain free, we can achieve great things.’

  ‘But Ma’am, how can you go on? He’ll kill you the next time.’ Mary was anguished. Mrs Grant’s face was swelling quickly, and a large clump of hair had been pulled out of the side of her head.

  ‘No, he might injure me but he won’t kill me, He couldn’t bear the scandal, police and courts and so on, dear me no! Now, to more pressing matters. Perhaps Mrs Kearns is right. I must look frightful so I’ll remain at home, but you can go in my stead, my dear. I need you to bring this to Liberty Hall. It’s a note, and deliver it straight into the hands of Mrs Sheehy-Skeffington. Do you think you can do that? We are living in dangerous times, my dear. Exercise extreme caution, and place the note under your bodice. The police won’t search a young lady, and anyway there’s a ceremony in the Castle this afternoon, so many of them will be attending that.’ Handing her a small folded piece of paper, Mrs Grant squeezed Mary’s hand.

  Mary watched the army move on towards the castle. She left the café, skirting around the ever growing queue for food to the back door as she had been instructed. She mounted the stairs, unsure of where to go. She had seen Mrs Sheehy-Skeffington at the first meeting of Cumann na mBan, but wasn’t sure she would recognise her. As she reached a landing, she heard muffled voices behind a large panelled door.

  Tentatively she knocked, mentally preparing her speech.

  ‘Yes? Who are you?’ The man who opened the door was very tall and thin with unkempt grey hair protruding over his ears. He was wearing a shirt without a coat or tie, and his trousers were tucked into heavy boots. His accent was rough and Mary quaked inside.

  ‘I have a message for Mrs Sheehy-Skeffington.’ She spoke barely audibly. She was worried how she could remove the note from down her bodice in front of this man.

  ‘Mary!’ The door opened wider and she looked up in amazement.

  ‘Hello, Rory,’ she smiled shyly.

  ‘Come in girl, what brings you around here? Are you joining up with the Citizen Army?’ He laughed.

  Rory led Mary by the arm towards a battered looking desk where a third man sat. He was poring over a paper, and it wasn’t until he looked up that she recognised the round face and bushy moustache of James Connolly, leader of the Citizen Army and a co-agitator with Jim Larkin during the lockout of the previous year.

  ‘Mr. Connolly,’ began Rory, ‘I’d like to introduce a friend of mine, Mary Doyle. She and my sister Eileen were with me when we got arrested that time at the dock in Kingstown.’

  James Connolly stood up and came around the desk, his hand outstretched.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Doyle. I have no fear for the future of our nation with yourself and young Rory here leading the way. Now, can we do something for you?’

  Mary gulped back her nerves.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m to deliver this message to Mrs Sheehy-Skeffington.’

  ‘Well, leave it with Rory there and he’ll see she gets it.’ He spoke kindly but she knew she was being dismissed. Connolly left the room to discuss something with the tall man. When they were gone, she tried to avert her eyes from Rory. She hadn’t seen him since the day on the pier. Though she’d imagined several times in her head what it would be like to see him again, she was now burning with embarrassment. Eileen had met him a few times, but only briefly. He was very busy with the moveme
nt, she said.

  ‘So Mary, where’s the note?’ Rory smiled innocently.

  ‘You’ll have to turn around.’ She was just barely able to mutter.

  ‘What? Oh…oh I see…’ Rory grinned and turned his back to her while she dug deep into the bodice of her dress extracting the note.

  Handing it to Rory, she gathered her courage to speak again,

  ‘I’m glad they let you out, the last time I mean.’ She felt foolish.

  ‘More fool them.’ He grinned. ‘Out to do more mischief! Well, I’m glad your Mrs Grant was able to rescue you. ’T wasn’t too bad, was it?’ he asked.

  ‘No then, ’twas fine. A bit smelly and too many women in there, but I survived.’ She smiled.

  ‘Well, at least ’twas winter time. The jails get fairly unbearable in the heat. The cold keeps the smell down they say! Sure you’re made of tough stuff, and I knew it the first time I met you. It’s lovely to see you again, Mary, but I have to go. I’m only here on an errand myself, but maybe we could go for a walk on Sunday? All three of us, I mean, Eileen too?’

  He looked like an eager little boy and his blue eyes twinkled in his tanned face. His hair had grown a bit longer than when she’d seen him last, but he seemed older somehow, and she realised it had been almost a year since she’d last seen him. She’d longed to ask Eileen about him, but was afraid to. She was lovely and such a good friend, but Mary had her doubts that she’d be too happy at a girl from an orphanage setting her cap at nice respectable Rory O’Dwyer.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘I’m off this Sunday actually,’ she continued, praying she wasn’t being too forward. She was glad he suggested Eileen go as well. She wouldn’t know what to say to him if they were alone.

  ‘Oh, this Sunday I’ve to go down the country.’ He looked disappointed. ‘I can’t really go into it, but maybe the Sunday after that?’