Chapter Eleven
2RN extended its range of offerings. As the small orchestra expanded there was more music than ever, although no songs relating to the Great War were played. They were perceived as “British”—or as too painful to the sensibilities of Irish people who had lost menfolk in that war.
Other programs included Spanish for beginners, vocal impressions of famous people, and information about the care of animals. A debate between George Bernard Shaw and G.K. Chesterton was rebroadcast courtesy of the BBC. Mrs. Sidney Czira, another of Grace Gifford’s sisters, presented a popular series entitled The Ballad History of Ireland under the pseudonym of John Brennan. She had been a contributor to the station since its very beginning.
In May of 1928 Seán T. O’Kelly spoke heatedly in the Dáil about John Brennan. Her contract for broadcasting had been broken because one of her letters was published in the newspapers. The letter expressed her political opinions, O’Kelly said, which were not the same as his, but he strongly disapproved of depriving her of part of her livelihood for simply expressing her opinion.1
Ursula volunteered for every job that came up within the station and offered numerous ideas for new programs. Other women were presenting cozily domestic radio shows. Drawing and Painting for Children was one of 2RN’s most successful offerings. Ursula’s suggested programs were intended for a wider audience with a more international view. To buttress her position she quoted the editor and poet George Russell, better known as AE: “Nationalism in every country requires a strong admixture of internationalism to prevent it becoming a stupefying drug.”
Séamus Clandillon listened patiently to her arguments. Ursula had a sense of being patted on the head, like a child who has done a clever trick but is not allowed to take part in grown-up conversation. Her suggestions were not accepted.
Instead she was moved to the front of the office to greet visitors with her smile.
“We are going to have a new Republican newspaper in a year or so!” an excited Ursula wrote to Henry Mooney. “You should have stayed in Ireland. Eamon de Valera and several of his supporters intend to establish a daily called the Irish Press. They are offering share subscriptions in all the Dublin papers except the Irish Independent, which refused to accept the advertisement.2 I pawned Saoirse’s saddle and bought five shares myself. Your Little Business is now a woman of property.”
On the thirtieth of July, 1928, the Irish tricolor was raised for the first time at the Olympic Games in Amsterdam. Competing in the hammer throw, Dr. Pat O’Callaghan became the first citizen of an independent Ireland to win a gold medal in the Olympics.
When the news reached Ireland, Ursula Halloran, who hated all domestic chores, sewed in her room all night with the door locked. When she was satisfied with the result she folded a heap of fabric, wrapped it in brown paper, and slipped out of the house shortly before dawn.
Dubliners on their way to work that morning were greeted by a banner on the front gates of Trinity College, bastion of Anglicized education. Made of white cloth trimmed in green-and-orange ribbon, the banner proclaimed in bold letters: “Congratulations Pat O’Callaghan, first Olympian of the Irish Republic!” The banner was torn down, but not before a number of people saw it.
Hector Hamilton bought a wireless set for number 16, and Louise installed it in a place of honor in the parlor. The wet battery had to be carried to a garage for recharging. Fourpence was set aside for this purpose, saved in a jam jar on the mantle until required.
Ursula hurried home from work each day to join Louise and Hector in front of the set. While the women watched, Hector fiddled authoritatively with the cats-whiskers antenna. They crowded close to him to share the sounds leaking from the headset, which he controlled by virtue of being the man in the house. Sometimes the crackle was so loud nothing else was audible, but on rainy evenings Ireland’s despised weather was an excellent conductor. Then there could be a few hours of magic.
The evening broadcast opened with a stock exchange list, brief news bulletin, and weather report. Few in Ireland knew anything about the stock exchange, but everyone was obsessed with the weather. News was the station’s weakest element. Information was haphazardly gathered from the Dublin evening papers and BBC broadcasts.
At the start of one evening’s program in late May it was announced that the governor-general, Tim Healy, would be giving a talk on air later. Ursula made a wry face and stood up to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” asked Louise.
“I want to be well away before Healy starts talking. He’s nothing but a puppet of the British.”
“Well, I want to hear him,” declared Hector. The dentist was an unprepossessing little man teetering on the far rim of middle age, a compulsive talker who had discovered that the wireless gave him additional topics for conversation. When he had patients helpless in the chair, he could hold forth as never before.
Ursula left the room, muttering under her breath, “Is binn béal ina thost.”*
Healy did not speak that night after all. The news ran over time; even the weather would be cut short. “Ursula, come back and hear this!” Louise called up the stairs.
Ursula returned to the parlor. Hector gave her the headset just as Séumas Hughes said, “Gangs of loyalists in Belfast are putting Catholic neighborhoods to the torch. Early this morning a young mother who fled from her blazing home with her infant in her arms was stoned in the road. To the accompaniment of taunts and jeers from the loyalists, the child was battered to death together with its mother.”
Ursula related his words verbatim to the other two.
“Monsters!” gasped Louise.
“Hooligans,” said the more temperate Hamilton, “who are an insult to the name of loyalism. I cannot believe His Majesty would ever condone…”
Incandescent with anger, Ursula whirled around and ran back up the stairs.
In one corner of her room was a carefully loosened skirting board. Behind it, chiseled into the plaster, was a recess. She eased the skirting board away from the wall and reached into the recess. Her fingers touched the reassuring surface of a Mauser semiautomatic.
The gun had once belonged to Síle Halloran, who had purchased it to replace a Luger confiscated by the British. When Henry Mooney set off to report on the War of Independence, Ursula had sneaked her mama’s pistol into his luggage to keep him safe.
Henry had never spoken of it to the girl, never even mentioned he had the gun or guessed where it came from. But when he packed Ursula’s belongings and sent them to number 16 while she was in Switzerland, he had included the Mauser.
She knelt on the floor for a long time, holding the gun. Turning it over and over in her hands. Fascinated by its singularity of purpose.
If I had stayed with Papa in Clare I could be wherever he is now. We would be fighting together to protect our people.
She had no doubt that Ned Halloran was in the north. Once she could have found him easily. As a wild young girl who galloped her horse across Clare with vital messages tucked into her knickers, she had been a trusted part of the IRA communications network. Between then and now lay a stretch of years. Both Ursula and Ireland had changed. The old contacts were broken.
If she asked Clandillon for time off he would give her a few days. But even if she could find Ned, he might not want her with him. She recalled all too well their last meeting. Ned Halloran was unpredictable, capable of violence.
It’s a risk worth taking.
Ursula’s spirit leaped from her body and ran out into the street brandishing a pistol.
Her body did not follow. Her physical self remained in the room.
She felt like a piece of paper being torn in two.
At last she put the Mauser back into its hiding place. For a long time she stood at the window, gloomily staring down at the street. A fine mist had begun falling. The mellow light of street lamps glinted on timeworn cobblestones. Walking along the pavement was a member of the Garda Síochána* doing his rounds.
The Garda Síochána had been developed from the Royal Irish Constabulary, which was disbanded in 1922. Many members of the RIC were on the organizing committee of the new police service. There was no mention of “Royal” in the title. This was to be a new police force for a new Ireland. Although some civilians joined, preferential recruitment had been given to members of the Free State army. After the Civil War the gardai, or guards, were distributed throughout the country to keep the peace of the fledgling state.
Their uniforms were totally distinct from those of the old RIC. They consisted of fitted tunic and trousers of navy blue worsted woven in Ireland, with a stiff collar, snug leather belt and smart cap that bore no resemblance to the intimidating spiked helmet of their predecessors.
The largest change was in the matter of weaponry. It was felt that Ireland had suffered far too much from the consequence of armed force. With some reluctance the late Kevin O’Higgins had created a separate department known as Special Branch that was trained in the use of firearms, but they were to be employed only in exceptional situations. Ordinary members of the Garda Síochána were unarmed.
Feeling eyes upon him, the young garda in the street looked up. He could see Ursula silhouetted against the gaslight in her room. He paused long enough to touch the brim of his cap to her, then went on his way.
Her eyes followed the man until he vanished into a pool of night between the street lamps. What sort of courage, she wondered, must a man have to face the darkness without weapons?
Chapter Twelve
In October of 1928 the broadcasting station moved into quarters in the General Post Office, which was still undergoing restoration. The new home of 2RN boasted three studios instead of one, and enough offices for an expanding staff. The doorman, “Mac” McClellan, met everyone from delivery boy to government official with a cheery greeting and a comment on the weather.
Although the improvement in space was dramatic, there were drawbacks. Entry was on the Henry Street side and uncomfortably close to the constant babble of the open-air market in Moore Street. When the windows were opened for ventilation, noise came boiling in. Because the station shared facilities with the post office, the one small lift to the upper storeys was always crowded. The ride was accompanied by a high-pitched screech of machinery reminiscent of a fingernail on a slate.
Visitors emerging on the third floor found themselves in a long, bleak corridor lined with offices. The walls were painted in flat shades of cream and gray that swallowed the light. At the end of the corridor a private staircase led to the broadcasting studios on the floor above. For acoustic purposes, the ceilings of the studios were hung with heavy draperies made from old army blankets.
The station had a distinctive, institutional smell. “Rather like burnt dust,” was the way Ursula described it in a letter to Felicity.
Fliss wrote back, “How I envy your career! My days are an endless round of boring social events where I only see the same boring people. I long to meet someone different. Right now I’m stalking Sir Oswald Mosley, the new Labour MP. He is wonderfully unpredictable, having changed political parties at least twice. He is making speeches in Parliament advocating socialism, which my father insists would destroy life as we know it. Sir Oswald’s wife Diana is one of the famously gorgeous Mitford sisters and was married to one of the Guinnesses—the Irish brewing family, you know. Are they friends of yours?”
The Guinnesses with their Georgian mansions and their English titles and their fine airs? Friends of mine? Hardly, Fliss. I’ve never even tasted the stout they brew. Ladies don’t drink stout. Ursula frowned. I wonder why not?
On her way home from 2RN she went into the nearest pub and ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender was embarrassed for her. He meant to refuse until he got a good look at her eyes.
He pulled the pint.
Ursula drank it.
She left the pub with dried foam clinging to her upper lip and did not bother to wipe it away.
The station’s limited newscast announced that the government planned to establish a volunteer defense force. The regular Free State army would be reduced to 5,000 men. These would act as instructors for the new recruits—who would not be members of the Irish Republican Army.
Henry Mooney was convinced that taking his family to America had been the right decision. His financial situation had improved dramatically. Ella’s style and grace made her welcome in the best social circles. Their two little girls, Isabella and Henrietta, were thriving. America was good for all of them. Henry was even thinking of taking out citizenship.
“This is an amazing country,” he wrote to Ursula, “truly the land of opportunity. The stock market has gone through the roof and everyone, myself included, is heavily invested in stocks and shares. At first I was too cautious to do more than take a little flutter, but when the money began rolling in I bought more. I can afford to be flaithiúlach* now. I can do those things for my family which I have always wanted to do.”
To illustrate his letter, Ella had drawn a caricature of herself swathed in jewels and attended by a coterie of servants.
At year’s end an attempt was made to reconcile the various shades of out-of-power republicanism and create one cohesive political voice. Representatives from the IRA, Sinn Féin, Cumann na mBan, and the Republican left gathered in Dublin, where the long-awaited constitution of the Irish Republic was unveiled.
The document had been drafted by Mary MacSwiney, sister of Terence MacSwiney, the late lord mayor of Cork who had died on hunger strike in a British prison. The Republican constitution promised liberty, equality, and justice for all citizens, free universities, health insurance, unemployment compensation, pensions for the elderly and disabled, and a housing scheme for the underprivileged.1
In effect there were now two diametrically opposed governments on offer for Ireland. And two armies.
When the text of the Republican document was published Ursula added it to the box of newspaper clippings she was collecting. As soon as she had time, she meant to start a new scrapbook.
Ursula was outraged when a spokesman for the Free State used 2RN to denounce the Republican conference and its delegates. He sneered at their constitution and rejected their efforts to create a political dialogue. “While in the city these dangerous individuals shall be kept under the closest observation,” he assured his listeners.
“Our people are being demonised,” Ursula wrote in her journal. “If I were station manager I would never have let him in the door!”
A few days later a collection of books including works written by Victor Hugo and George Bernard Shaw were burned in County Galway on the order of the bishop of Tuam.2
Book burning, the deliberate destruction of ideas, was anathema to Ursula. She expected some member of government would come to Henry Street to speak up against this outrage.
None did.
In a dark mood she took herself to the pub which had served her first pint of Guinness, and ordered another.
Tension was growing between the IRA and the Cosgrave administration. There were numerous reports of illegal Republican drills and marches. More than one treatyite down the country had been shot by shadowy men who vanished into the night. Nervous cabinet members suggested the Republicans might try to seize power by force.
Two issues of An Phoblacht, the major Republican newsletter, were suppressed by government order. Members of its staff were arrested. In spite of this, de Valera went ahead with his plans for the Irish Press.
Ursula Halloran celebrated the New Year by redeeming Saoirse’s saddle from the pawnshop.
In the first month of 1929 W.T. Cosgrave and Desmond FitzGerald, the minister for defense, went on a tour of the United States to encourage support for the Free State government. As a parting salute, 2RN played an hour-long program of American popular music, including jazz.
Listeners flooded the station with letters of complaint. When Ursula came in to work she found them piled on her desk with a note: Please answer thes
e at once.
After reading the first dozen she sought out Séamus Clandillon. “Every one of these letters refers to Catholic values,” she told him, “and a number of them are from the clergy. The archbishop of Tuam condemns jazz as the ‘mesmeric rhythm of sensuality.’3 We’re being accused of corrupting the innocence of Irish youth! Can you believe it?”
Clandillon’s expression was glum. “At Mass our parish priest condemned the broadcast in the strongest terms. And me with my whole family sitting there. The wife was not best pleased, I can tell you.”
“How am I supposed to answer these complaints?”
“Tactfully. Apologize for upsetting them, and give the impression—without actually saying so—that we are, as always, in complete agreement with the Church.”
Ursula looked disgusted. “I’ll feel like a perfect hypocrite. Are there any other impossible jobs you’d like me to do while I’m at it?”
“I’m sorry to put you in this position. But I’ll make it up to you,” Clandillon promised.
A few days later he told her the station was going to use one of her program suggestions: a biographical sketch about Guglielmo Marconi, the developer of wireless communication, focusing on his connections with Ireland.* “Would you like to submit a sample script?” Clandillon offered. “Give us some interesting details about his Irish wife, that’s what the women would like to hear.”
Ursula worked all night on the script, writing, rewriting, staring into space looking for the perfect word or phrase, wadding up the paper in impatience and starting again.
She was dismayed to admit to herself, as gray dawn light filtered into the room, that perfection was not possible. But she had done the best she could. As she gave the script to Clandillon, she said, “Mr. O’Hegarty once told me I have a good speaking voice. May I read this on air?”
1949 Page 9
