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

by Jean Grainger

  ‘Are you hungry? Do you want tea?’ Rory was anxious to make her as comfortable as he could.

  ‘No, I had a big lunch at the Grants’, and Mrs Kearns has been feeding me like a prize pig since I got back from the Castle.’ She joked.

  Rory held out his hand and Mary placed her small one in his. He led her up the stairs to a bedroom at the back of the house. The room was dominated by a large bed, covered with a handmade patchwork quilt. A fire burned in the small grate. Rory closed the curtains and turned the gas lamp low so the flickers from the fire danced on the walls. Mary sighed and wished with all her heart that she could stay in this safe cosy place with him forever. She wouldn’t have to leave and he wouldn’t risk being shot or arrested every day.

  ‘What a lovely room.’ She smiled at him. ‘Do you often stay here?’

  ‘A fair bit, but we have lots of houses we go to. ’Tis best not to have a pattern and people are very kind. We’re well looked after, Mary, don’t worry.’

  He kissed her then, tenderly on her battered face. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as much, it looks worse than it feels,’ she whispered.

  ‘You are beautiful, always were, and always will be.’ He led her to the bed and helped her out of her dress. They made love slowly and with such tenderness that Mary felt her heart might break at the thought of leaving him. They both tried to block out the fact that they were to be parted once more, in a matter of hours.

  In the small hours of the morning, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, chatting quietly. They talked about everything, about John and Peg, and the children, about their new nephew, Rory Óg as he was being called to distinguish him from his uncle, and how it was great for Eileen and for Peg and John that she was so close. Kate was doing marvellous things with her little nephew and was planning to go to Dublin in the summer to study midwifery. Rory told Mary that his sister had been nervous telling him of her plans, thinking he would hate the idea of her being in Dublin, but he would be glad to have a sister in the city again. He really missed Eileen. Mary suggested that she could stay with Mrs Grant and Rory said he’d ask her. The idea that Rory could just call in to Mrs Kearns and Mrs Grant sent a stab of pain through her heart. Coping without Rory all this time was made possible by the knowledge that she could sit by the range in the kitchen or upstairs with the mistress at night and have a cup of tea and a chat. Or working hard to ensure the families of the men who had died were taken care of, there was always so much to do. Now how was she to fill her days?

  Eventually the time came to go. Rory walked to the boat with her as dawn broke over the city, and stood beside her as she queued up to go up the gangplank. As the purser called her forward to check her ticket, she clung to Rory, only releasing him when the woman behind her, who was travelling with several children, urged her on.

  ‘The minute it’s over, either way, I’ll send for you. I promise,’ he whispered urgently.

  ‘You’d better, Rory O’Dwyer. I need you.’ Mary was mock stern through her tears.

  ‘I need you too. Goodbye my love. I’ll see you soon.’

  She handed the man her ticket and turned to catch one last glimpse of her husband. He looked so forlorn standing on the quayside, so alone.

  The journey was uneventful. She got a ticket to New York in Liverpool, leaving four days later. She checked into a boarding house Mrs Grant had recommended until it was time to go. She was nauseous and miserable during the Atlantic crossing, despite having a second class cabin to herself, and when she arrived to New York, she was washed out and exhausted as she shuffled with the others through Ellis Island. Everything was so big and loud and every language on earth seemed to be babbled in the cavernous immigration hall. Normally second class passengers didn’t have to go through the health inspections, but there was a fear of cholera, so she shuffled along with the rest of the people. She looked with pity on those who had travelled in steerage, often without a word of English, and many of them were so young and bewildered looking. She was grateful at least for the money in her suitcase and the fact that someone was meeting her. The idea of trying to get around on her own in such a strange place was terrifying. Rory had ensured everything was in order, all her papers, and after a few hours and checks she found herself on another boat to the shore, where she was deposited on the quayside.

  ‘Hey lady, you got somewhere you wanna go?’ A man wearing only an undershirt and a vest appeared to be offering his services with a horse and cart. He had a gold tooth, something Mary had never seen before, and she hated the way he looked her up and down suggestively. She tried to ignore him, standing on the quayside, feeling bewildered and alone. Finally she heard her name being called.

  ‘Mary O’Dwyer? Mary O’Dwyer?’ she turned to see a man dressed in a beige overcoat and wearing a hat. Whoever he was he looked an altogether better prospect than the man with the cart.

  ‘I’m Mary O’Dwyer.’ She answered quickly.

  ‘Are you Rory O’Dwyer’s wife?’ His accent was unmistakably American.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, unsure of herself.

  ‘Ok then! Welcome to America! Give me that suitcase there and come with me.’ He took the heavy case and he walked ahead of her, elbowing his way through the densely packed quayside. He led her to a car, bigger than any she had ever seen in Ireland, and opened the door for her.

  ‘Er, thank you for meeting me.’ Mary instinctively trusted him, but everyone had warned her to be careful in New York where there were plenty of unscrupulous people waiting to prey on recently arrived immigrants.

  ‘No problem, we’ve been expecting you. I’m Sean Chiarello. My mother was a Deasy from Cork and I’m married to an Irish woman, so I’m more Irish than Italian despite the name. My mother knows Mrs Grant who contacted her here and asked me to meet you. My mom is a fundraiser for Cumann na mBan over here.’

  Mary relaxed for the first time in weeks. If this man was connected with Mrs Grant, then she was in safe hands.

  As they drove through the streets of the biggest, noisiest, place Mary had ever seen, she tried to take it all in. She had been below deck, throwing up, as the ship approached New York so she had missed out on the first sight of the Statue of Liberty.

  Eventually they pulled up at a large house, with steps up to the wide front door. It reminded Mary of the lovely houses on Merrion Square or St Stephen’s Green in Dublin. A black woman answered the door and Mary tried not to stare. She’d only ever seen black people in books. The woman took Mary’s suitcase and her coat and led her to the sitting room upstairs where an elderly woman sat at a writing desk.

  ‘Ah, you must be Mary.’ She smiled in welcome.

  ‘Yes.’ She was unsure of what to say. ‘Thank you for arranging someone to meet me. Your son told me you are a friend of Mrs Grant?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, dear. We are both involved with Cumann na mBan but I have never had the pleasure of meeting her personally. We do however have several mutual acquaintances. It was through one of those that I received the message to meet you.’ There was still a slight trace of Irish in her accent, but Mrs Chiarello gave the impression of a very well got American lady.

  ‘Now my dear, let me get you some coffee or tea, or perhaps you would like something more substantial?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Mary said, ‘I’m fine.’ She was unsure what she was doing here. Was she to stay here with these people, was she to work for them?’

  ‘Sit down, Mary,’ Mrs Chiarello said, leading her to a beautiful wing backed chair by the fire.

  ‘I … I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you, my dear.’ The woman began and Mary felt her blood run cold. Her throat constricted and she could hear drumming in her ears.

  ‘I received a telegram a few days ago. Mrs Grant intimated I should tell you everything. There’s no easy way to tell you this, but your husband Rory was picked up by the British two days after you left. He was taken to Dublin Castle where he was shot and kil
led. The officer in question said that he was interrogating your husband when he attacked him and the officer shot him in self-defence. I’m so very sorry, Mary…’

  Mary was numb. The woman’s voice crashed over her like waves on the ocean. Once before she believed Rory was dead and he came back to life, Michael Collins had said he was like a cat, he had more lives left, this woman had it wrong, Rory wasn’t dead, he was injured maybe, Johnson would have seen to that, but he wasn’t dead.

  Mrs Chiarello handed Mary a telegram. It was from Mrs Grant and it said exactly what this woman had said. It was true so. Mrs Grant would never lie to her nor get something like this wrong. It was true, Rory was dead. Gone, forever. The words swam in front of her eyes, refusing to penetrate her brain.

  She then gave Mary a newspaper, The Irish Echo, which carried the story of Rory’s murder. Painstakingly she read the way Rory’s body was dumped on Dame Street, almost unrecognisable, the report explained.

  ‘I want to go home.’ was all Mary said.

  ‘I’m afraid there was another telegram, insisting that under no circumstances are you to return to Ireland. It was signed by Michael Collins himself. It is too dangerous for you, because this Captain Johnson is determined to find you as well. In fact, even here you are not safe. He is apparently a man of considerable influence. This has apparently gone far beyond the Irish struggle. This man has a vendetta against you and your husband. It seems he lost a lot of money as a result of the death of Edward Grant and things have gone badly for him since then. In addition, his superiors seem to have become aware of some irregularities in his dealings and he is currently under investigation. He holds you and your husband responsible. Now, I know this is so much to take in, but I am going to make a suggestion. Many people, when they arrive to this country, take a new name. In fact, the staff at Ellis Island, I believe, have a suggested list, as so many of the foreign names are too difficult to pronounce. I suggest we change your name. You are welcome to use ours, Chiarello, and it would then be most unlikely this man or his associates will be able to find you. They will be looking for a Mary O’Dwyer, not a Mary Chiarello.’

  Mary’s head was spinning. What was this woman talking about? First she says that Rory is dead, then she is going on about changing my name? Mary felt it must be a nightmare and that she would wake up any moment in her little bed in Mrs Grant’s house.

  Mary sipped the brandy Mrs Chiarello gave her, with Rory is dead, Rory is dead, going round and round in her head.

  ‘I want to send a telegram. Is that possible?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Of course, my dear. To whom do you wish to send it?’ The woman was anxious to do anything to help this distraught young woman.

  ‘Mrs Grant.’ Mary knew her voice was flat and distant and that she should thank this woman for her kindness but she couldn’t.

  The woman rang a little bell and the maid reappeared.

  ‘Abilene, can you fetch the telegram boy as quickly as possible, please. Now, Mary what do you want to say?’ The woman poised her pen on a clean sheet of paper.

  ‘I want to come home. MC says no. Please! M,’ she dictated. She needed to be with her people, to be with John and Peg as they buried their boy. To feel their love around her. She couldn’t stay in this strange place, alone.

  ‘Very well, Mary, it will be sent right away. Now I think you should have a lie down.’ She rang the small bell again. The maid appeared once more. ‘Ah Abilene, can you ask Dr Bozek to come up now?’

  Mary looked worried, what was going on? Everything was moving too quickly around her and she couldn’t take it in.

  ‘You have had a terrible shock, and a horrible sea crossing. You need rest and I’ve asked the doctor to come and give you something to help you sleep. Please don’t worry now. We will take care of you.’

  The days turned into weeks as Mary recovered in the Chiarellos’ home. Mr Chiarello, who insisted on being called Remo, was a jolly Italian who loved to cook at home even though he owned a whole string of Italian restaurants. Carmel Chiarello was kindness itself, but nothing could take away the pain in her heart. They fed her up on food she had never tasted, gnocchi in a sage and butter sauce, which was delicious, rich lasagne with meaty tomato sauce, spaghetti with cheese, and Remo gave her huge bowls of gelato for dessert.

  Mrs Grant had written and begged Mary to stay where she was. Apparently Johnson had received a dishonourable discharge after the details of his nefarious dealings had come to the attention of his superiors. He arrived at the Grants’ house one night and threatened them at gun point. By the time they managed to let the IRA know, he was gone, seen off by Mrs Kearns with the mistress’s Webley, but he was still at large. The fear was that he had gone to the United States in search of Mary. He was crazed with anger and bitterness, it seemed, and blamed Rory and Mary entirely for his demise. It was vital that she remain out of sight.

  Mary signed the papers to change her name, feeling like she was letting go of the last vestiges of her marriage and her life at home. She felt numb, the initial distraught feeling of despair had gone, but in its place was a cold, empty ache.

  One morning, several weeks after her arrival in New York, Mary realised she was pregnant. She was nauseous all the time and her period was late. Carmel arranged for the doctor to confirm the good news, but Mary just nodded as he congratulated her. The feelings of joy and excitement she knew she would have felt if Rory was by her side were absent. She sat with her hands on her still flat belly, in the bright sunny bedroom Carmel had given her at the front of the house. She cried silently as she looked unseeing out onto the street in this strange city. The Chiarellos were kind, but they were strangers. They were doing their best, but to have a hopelessly despondent girl, now pregnant, in their house must be a strain. She wondered what would become of her and the baby, alone in this big city. She couldn’t stay with the Chiarellos forever. They had their own children and little grandchildren to consider.

  Despite everyone begging that she stay, she decided to take her chances and go home. She would go through the pregnancy in New York, and once the baby was born, she would board a boat for Ireland. If she was honest, she cared little for whether she lived or died at this stage now anyway. Let Johnson catch her. Let him do his worst, at least that way she’d be with Rory. She would go back to Dublin. At least she was married and would have the respectability of being a widow, not like those poor girls who found themselves pregnant without having wed. Mrs Grant and Mrs Kearns would help her rear the baby, and she could spend holidays with the O’Dwyers in Limerick. Rory’s son or daughter would be reared by people who loved him or her, and if Colonel Johnson had his way and he killed her, their child would at least have family around. If he found her here, the child would end up in an orphanage, just as Mary had done, and that was a fate she would wish on no child. No, the only thing to do was to have the baby, and then go home and face whatever might come. At least she had enough money to rent an apartment, as they called it, and see a doctor about delivering the baby and then she would go back. Despite their dire warnings to stay where she was, she knew Mrs Grant and Mrs Kearns wouldn’t turn her away, not if she was standing on the doorstep with a baby in her arms.

  Abilene knocked on the door and entered. She had been so kind to Mary in the past weeks that Mary wished she could reciprocate the other woman’s warmth but she felt frozen inside.

  ‘Miss Mary, there’s a letter for you.’ Abilene had started addressing her as Mrs O’Dwyer, but it seemed wrong to Mary. Abilene was much older that her and after all they were both servants. She asked to be called Mary, but Abilene said that it wouldn’t be right, so they settled on Miss Mary.

  ‘A young man come by just now with this letter. He said it was delivered to some other address in Staten Island, but they sent it back to Ireland, since they didn’t know where you were. It’s been readdressed to here.’

  The envelope, well battered, had an address scribbled out, and the Chiarello’s address writ
ten alongside. Abilene held out the silver platter bearing the letter to Mary.

  She couldn’t move, even the effort to raise her hand and take the envelope seemed too difficult. She recognised the writing immediately.

  Sensing her distress, Abilene took the envelope and opened it, putting the pages into Mary’s hands. She led her to the fire and sat her down.

  The words blurred in front of Mary’s eyes, and her hands shook so badly she couldn’t focus, but she moved to the fireside chair and took a deep breath. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse and read:

  My darling Mary,

  I’m just back in the doctor’s house and I’m looking at the bed. The fire is still glowing and I think I can smell you from the pillow. I’m not ashamed to say I held it up to my face for ages when I came back, trying to relive our last night together. Was it only a few short hours ago we lay there in each other’s arms? Letting you go up the gangplank this morning was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I was trying to let on that I was fine about it, that it was for the best, but deep down I wanted to grab you by the hand and pull you back to me. I know what they say is right, that bastard Johnson won’t be happy till he sees me dead, and you with me, but honest to God, Mary, I feel like just going up there and roaring at him to come out and face me. Let him do his worst, whatever he thinks he can do to me, but to protect you, I think I could have the strength of ten men.

  May God forgive me, Mary, but I’d put a bullet in his skull as quick as look at him. I’ve never felt such murderous hatred for anyone, but I can’t even think about what he did to you my sweet, sweet, girl. The rest of them, sure they’re just doing their jobs, and we have to fight them but I don’t hate them. I just want them to go home. Johnson, though, he’s pure evil.

  You never asked for this, this life of fear and violence. I wanted to give you so much you know? A home, children, a lifetime of love. I’m not a violent man, I hope you know that, in fact I hate it. I hate all of it and I’m so tired, Mary, but we have no choice but keep going. It has to be this way, us taking them on, despite the bloody and sometimes almost unbearable consequences. You should see what they’ve done to some of our lads below in Cork. Having to give the broken, battered, bodies of boys, and that’s all some of them are, after they’ve been interrogated and their bodies dumped for us to pick up, back to their mothers to bury, I just can’t describe it to you. But there’s no going back now, for if we back down now, they’ll enslave us forever. ‘Twill all have been for nothing. And they won’t forget, no. We’ll pay for having the cheek to demand to run our own country. One of the many, many, reasons I love you is that you understand that.