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

by Jean Grainger

  If you are in possession of any such material, and would be willing to allow it to be used as part of our research, then we, The Department of An Taoiseach and the Irish people would be in your debt.

  In the event of your co-operation with the research we would, of course, make any arrangements necessary to view and document the items, with no cost whatsoever to you. These items would remain solely your property.

  I look forward to hearing from you,

  Fiachra McCarthy,

  Department of An Taoiseach.

  She stumbled over the last word again.

  ‘Tee-shock,’ Eileen repeated and smiled. ’It’s a difficult language I know, but it’s beautiful and so expressive. Much more so than English.’

  ‘Wow!’ Scarlett was fascinated. ‘Do you think it’s genuine?’

  ‘Oh yes, undoubtedly. I believe it is because there’s a telephone number on the letter, so I called and asked to speak to this man Fiachra McCarthy. He explained that he is heading up a research team on behalf of the Irish government to put together a big exhibition next year to commemorate the Rising. He explained that because there were so many Irish who ended up here and all over the world, it was conceivable that there are bits of information scattered everywhere and they are trying to gather it together. He knows it’s a tough task, but they thought the only way to do it was to ask.’ Eileen was circumspect.

  ‘I never heard that name before.’ Scarlett examined the name on the bottom of the letter, struggling to pronounce it, ‘Is it Irish?’

  ‘Ah Scarlett, if you’d grown up in Ireland you would have known that name very well indeed.’ Eileen chuckled. ‘That name means raven, and it was the name of one of the sons of Lir, a king, who after the death of his wife married a woman called Aoife, in order that his daughter and three sons would have a mother. Aoife, though, was jealous of the love Lir had for his children, and so she turned all four of them into swans. Fiachra was one of the boys, and they were destined by her evil spell to spend nine hundred years on three seas. It’s a very sad story but every Irish child knows it.’

  Eileen smiled. ‘Maybe all Irish stories are sad. The story of the Rising certainly is. It must be a bitter-sweet thing for these researchers to dig out all these letters and photographs and things. You see, this happened, not just in an academic way to be analysed and debated, but to real people, with real lives. People like my mother. I liked that Fiachra man. He seemed to understand that.’

  ‘And do you have things they might like to see?’ Scarlett asked.

  The old woman thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that flag for a start. Also some photographs, letters, that sort of thing. They were belonging to my mother and father, though, and I have just inherited them. I explained to him that I needed time to think, and he was most courteous and kind. There is to be a gathering, in Dublin, where anyone who has anything they want to share is invited to attend. The items will be documented, photographed and so on and the stories told for posterity. Then there’s to be a large exhibition for the year of the centenary if people are willing to lend their items to the Irish state. The thing is, my mother, Mary Doyle was just an ordinary girl, born in extraordinary times. I don’t mind sharing the photographs, even some of the letters, but the flag is special. My flag, well her flag really, is really just a tiny part of the story, part of the whole experience of those who lived through the Rising, and of those who died too, of course. It represents something for those people in her life at that time, though it’s not of national significance or anything. The thing is, I couldn’t let it out of my sight again.’

  ‘Well,’ Scarlett exclaimed, ‘surely in that case you go with it. I’m sure this guy in Dublin, or the authorities there in charge of this stuff, will understand. I’m sure lots of people are in the same position. They’d like their things to be part of the commemoration, but they are precious and so they are wary of handing them over.’ Scarlett was trying to figure out a way to help Eileen. She felt the woman wanted to participate in the remembrance and for her mother to be represented there.

  Eileen shook her head sadly. ‘Twenty years ago maybe, Scarlett, but I’m too old to make that trip at this stage. It’s too far and I don’t have the stamina or the confidence I once had. That’s what happens when you get old, your world shrinks. I just stay around this neighbourhood now, it’s safer.’

  ‘I could go with you.’ Scarlett heard the words come out of her own mouth before her brain had even processed them. Initial horror at the madness of her offer immediately gave way to hope that Eileen would agree.

  Eileen said nothing for a moment, sitting calmly. Then she smiled. ‘I believe in God, and that those who have died and gone before us are here with us. I’ve always believed that, but how you erupted into my life when I needed you most, I’ll never understand. I do know you have your reasons that go beyond me and my flag, for taking a time out, as they say. But I like you and trust you, so if you want to accompany me and my flag back to Ireland, then let’s do it.’

  Eileen stuck out her hand and Scarlett clasped it, smiling and laughing, as tears shone in Eileen’s eyes.

  Chapter 27

  Mary wondered if she would ever be able to hear properly again. The volume of noise inside the now decimated General Post Office was relentless and deafening. The cacophony of continuous shellfire, gunshot, explosions, cries of agony and barked orders had been going on twenty four hours a day. She and Eileen were exhausted, their uniforms filthy and encrusted with dried and fresh blood, and their hair hung limply, long escaped from neatly pinned caps. The British had put a gunboat on the River Liffey and were steadily smashing the city to smithereens. Mary felt like they wouldn’t stop until every last man, woman and child in the city was dead. Reports from the couriers who were still alive were consistently dismal. They had lost again. The floor of what remained of the second storey was covered with bodies, some of them dead, others close to death, and yet others screaming for relief from the pain of their injuries, which was impossible to provide. Supplies were long since gone.

  Eileen was cleaning the head wound of a boy, no more than sixteen years old, who was crying pitifully for his mother. Mary thought once more of Rory. Where was he? Mrs Grant was still alive, despite being injured badly by a shell blast when she was delivering a message down to Boland’s Mills. She had managed, however, with the help of two teenage girls and a handcart, to bring up some fresh flour bags earlier, which they were about to cut up to use as bandages. Her former employer, now totally unrecognisable, was leaning against the wall, bleeding from a wound to her leg.

  ‘Mrs Grant, let me see that, I want to clean it for you,’ Mary said, grateful that the older woman was still alive at least.

  ‘Oh Mary my dear, how lovely to see you! You and Eileen are doing so well, and the Countess was just saying to Pearse how you two are simply magnificent.’ Despite the obvious pain, her voice was bright and enthusiastic.

  ‘Well, we’re doing our best. If we had more antiseptic, we could do more. Or if we could give something for the pain, but our supplies have run out.’ Mary spoke as she cleaned Mrs Grant’s wounds with a cloth and cold water. Her employer barely flinched.

  ‘Well at least that new load of flour bags means we have bandages,’ Eileen called from where she was instructing two young girls on how to cut them for maximum use. ‘Is it Friday morning?’ she asked exhaustedly as she sat briefly beside Mrs Grant, having left the girls to their cutting.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Mary replied. ‘I’ve lost all track of time. I was hoping to see Rory somewhere. Mrs Grant, did you see...?’

  ‘All women downstairs, now please.’ Tom Clarke was walking through the upstairs, carefully avoiding the many bodies lying on the floor. ‘Pearse wants all the women downstairs, this minute please.’

  Mrs Grant inhaled and tried to get up.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘Not injured women, I’m sure he didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Tom!�
� the mistress called as Clarke walked by. ‘Tom!’

  He stopped and looked down to where Mrs Grant sat.

  ‘Ah Angeline, ’tis yourself. Are you hurt?’

  The three women looked at the man who was arguably the driving force behind the Rising. He refused any military rank, and insisted on being called just Tom by all he came in contact with. He had been in prison for many years before the Rising because of his political stance on Irish Republicanism, and looked older even than his fifty-nine years. His wire glasses and bushy moustache almost hid his long gaunt face. Mary remembered going into his tobacco shop months before for a message, and how she had loved the sweet unfamiliar aroma. She recalled the respect with which Rory spoke of him. How despite his unassuming presence, there was something fortifying about him. He made all those with whom he came into contact braver and more determined to succeed.

  ‘Yes Tom, a little, but I’ll survive. Now, do we all need to go downstairs or can the girls bring the message up to me if I send them?’ Mrs Grant was now gasping between words with the pain.

  ‘Can you get down at all?’ he asked kindly. ‘If the girls help you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Clarke and Mrs Grant locked eyes. ‘He’s putting us out, isn’t he?’ she said

  Clarke just nodded. ‘They’ll let ye go. It’s over now anyway. We want ye out and safe before we surrender.’ He shouted to be heard over the din. Mary felt tears come to her eyes. It had all been for nothing. Tom Clarke noticed the disappointment and exhaustion on Mary’s face and spoke directly to her,

  ‘Don’t worry, Mary, isn’t it?’ Clarke went on. ‘We failed this time but it’s one step closer to victory. Next time we won’t fail. Me and the others might not be around to see it, but you will, and your sons and daughters, please God. Don’t forget, this isn’t defeat; it’s another step closer to freedom. The next generation will build on this and then, then there will be a free and independent Ireland.’

  Something about the way he spoke, with his lovely Northern Ireland accent, made Mary believe him. He gave her hand a quick squeeze and was gone.

  Mary and Eileen held Mrs Grant between them and made their way downstairs to the area where the leaders were deep in discussion, though conversation was proving close to impossible because of the constant noise around them as they waited for Pearse. Mary fought profound feelings of disappointment and despair. It was over, the Rising had failed. Pearse was younger than Tom Clarke, more popular maybe, but it was the tobacconist that had the vision of a free Ireland. If he was saying it was over, then there was no hope. She thought of the men downstairs, and in the garrisons around the city who had signed the Proclamation. They might as well have signed their own death warrants. Maybe he was right, maybe the British would let the women go, though they were furious that the women were involved in the first place, it seemed. But Tom Clarke, Padraig Pearse, the schoolteacher, Joseph Plunkett, the dreamy poet, whose neck was in bandages before the rising had even begun because he had to have surgery on his glands, James Connolly, who believed so fervently in the equality of men and women and was now lying down after being shot in the legs, would all pay a heavy price for their actions. Tomas MacDonagh was down in Boland’s with De Valera, and he was a signatory too. She remembered Eileen’s remarks when she had seen him at a meeting a few months earlier, about how handsome he was. Mary had replied in a whisper that he wasn’t her type, and Eileen had joked that she had passed the test. She only had eyes for Rory. If Mary couldn’t see how good looking MacDonagh was, then she must be really in love.

  Leaning heavily on his stick, needed because of childhood polio, another signatory, Sean MacDiarmuida, stood to the side, beside his mentor and dear friend Clarke. Mary wondered what they were talking about. What would she and Eileen talk about if they knew they were facing death together? She wondered about the fate of Eamonn Ceannt, the last signature on the Proclamation, and thought of his wife, Áine, and their little boy. Would the memory of his heroism be a comfort to them when he was gone? He was holding the Marrowbone Lane distillery and the Dublin South Union with Cathal Brugha. It all seemed so hopeless. Volunteers were lying sprawled on sandbags, and many were valiantly returning fire from the smouldering walls of the GPO. The only light was natural light through the holes where the windows had once been, but sandbags were piled high to take the impact of the incessant gunfire, and so the whole area was in murky semi-darkness.

  The discussions between Clarke, Plunkett, Pearse, MacDiarmuida, and Connolly were heated and they roared to be heard over the noise. Women gathered all around, waiting to be addressed. Many were injured, and Mary thought how they were unrecognisable as the group of proud and well turned out Cumann na mBan members of the previous Monday. Despite their bedraggled appearance, though, there was a determination there as well. The men still stood and the women would stand beside them, to the end.

  Pearse then stood forward and spoke with intense passion to the crowd. He spoke of the gallantry of the rebels who fought with fire and steel. As he spoke of this glorious chapter of Irish history, glass was smashing and fires were starting where shells landed. By now most of the building was in flames. He praised the bravery and dedication of the women, and then he ordered them out of the building and instructed that they present themselves at Jervis Street hospital. They were to bring as many of the wounded with them as they could, and have one girl out in front waving a white flag, which he said he hoped would allow them safe passage through the numerous checkpoints the British had set up all around the city.

  Before they gathered their things to go, they all knelt on the glass and rubble strewn floor and said a decade of the rosary. The men had their beads in their pockets, the women had theirs around their necks. A priest who had come from a house in Moore Street, just adjacent to the building, gave the gathered crowd a hurried general absolution, and just for a brief moment the shelling stopped. The Lord had absolved them of their sins, so no matter what came next, they were ready to face their maker with clean souls. The sense of gratitude to the priest was palpable in the air.

  Eileen caught Mary’s eye. They would have to try to manage Mrs Grant between them, but of Mrs Kearns there was no sign.

  ‘You try to carry Mrs Grant and I’ll look for Mrs Kearns.’ Mary shouted, straining to be heard over the racket of the destruction all around. ‘You’re stronger than me.’ That was true. Eileen, raised on a farm, was as strong as a horse, and when Mary’s arms ached with weariness and frequently when her hands shook from over exertion from carrying and bandaging, Eileen had helped her.

  All around women were protesting but there was no way to avoid it. Pearse had issued an order, not a request, and they had to go. Mary made her way to the makeshift kitchen area and found, to her surprise, large quantities of food, and not just bread and milk either. There was meat and fish and prepared dishes. She later learned that these supplies had been liberated from Findlaters, the exclusive grocer shop, with a promissory note from the Provisional Government that they would repay it after the revolution. Apparently the kitchen of the Gresham Hotel was also required to throw open the larders to feed the rebels. Mary knew that the GPO was unique in that respect. According to the couriers going around the city, food was in terribly short supply in the other garrisons.

  She pushed through the men gathered around, searching for Mrs Kearns.

  ‘No, I’ve showed you before you amadán! Are you deaf or what? You need to cut the bread thinner than that...’ Mary heard her before she saw her, berating her underling in the catering section, a young Volunteer who was sheepishly trying to prepare everything exactly as she instructed.

  ‘Mrs Kearns!’ Mary yelled to be heard. ‘Mrs Kearns, we have to go now. Everyone, all the women, we have to go on Pearse’s orders. Before the whole building goes up in flames.’ By now Mary had reached her and was pulling on her sleeve.

  ‘I have to stay here, sure these fellas haven’t a clue, and the men need to be fed. We’re getting food down to
Boland’s and to Michael Mallin as well, not just here in the GPO, and these lads are grand but they need to be told what to do. I can’t go now.’ Mrs Kearns was adamant.

  ‘Please, Mrs Kearns, we don’t have a choice. Pearse insists we go now. The building could collapse any time. There’s fires everywhere and...’ Mary tried to make herself heard, wincing as the acrid smoke stung her eyes.

  Mrs Kearns drew Mary back, into the recesses of the building where the noise wasn’t as deafening. She drew Mary close so she could hear.

  ‘Mary dear, I’m an old woman, who lived under the hand of the English and the well to do gentry of this city all my life. My darling girl was taken from me by TB because we had no money for the doctor or the medicine she needed. The child of the woman I worked for then got it too, and they sent her to a sanatorium in Switzerland where she got better. That woman was a right auld rip too. She was horrible, not a bit like Mrs Grant. Why did her girl live and mine died? Because they and their kind, Irish or English, makes no difference, they were all the one. What divides us is them what have money and them what don’t. These lads in here that I’m feeding, and some of them are only kids themselves, they believe that my Kathleen was as important as that girl. Not more important, mind, just the same, and I don’t care if I die trying to get that to be the way here. If I die, I can face my daughter in heaven with a happy heart.’

  Mary was struggling to find the words. Mrs Kearns had only mentioned her daughter once in all the years Mary had known her, and even then only in passing. The sheer conviction and pride in the woman’s eyes was deeply moving.

  ‘I understand that, Mrs Kearns. I really do. I had nothing coming here and I now feel like I’m part of something, but we are no good to anyone dead. The food is all there, they can help themselves, and we’ll be needed again. Please come with us. Mrs Grant needs us. She’s been injured and Eileen and I can’t manage her on our own.’