Rebel Sisters (12 page)

‘These are called the Uilleann pipes,' he explained. ‘Master Pearse said if I practise almost every day I will in time become a fine piper.'

As she walked around, Muriel could see that St Enda's bore no resemblance to the schools she and her brothers and sisters had attended. The school emblem, which was displayed widely, was certainly different: it was a Gaelic warrior holding a sword with the words ‘Strength in our limbs, truth on our lips and purity in our hearts'. The school's corridors, instead of the usual boring charts and maps, displayed art and sculpture, and each classroom was named after a legendary Irish figure – Cuchulainn, Oisin, Brian Boru. The boys at St Enda's played Gaelic sports, hurling and football, and everyone was expected to train and be physically fit. Sean told them that, unlike in his old school, there was no corporal punishment for misbehaviour.

‘I really must find out more about Mr Pearse's philosophy in setting up this school,' Nora Dryhurst said, equally impressed. ‘Maybe I will see if I can find him.'

‘I should like to talk to him too,' agreed John. ‘I want to write about this place.'

‘I can bring you back to the master,' offered the boy.

‘You two go. I'll just ramble around a bit more,' said Muriel, not wanting to intrude.

‘Very well, my dear, we will see you back in the big hall,' said Nora with a smile as she and John followed the boy.

Muriel was intrigued by a small plot of vegetables planted at the back of the school. Potatoes, cabbage and beans were growing there.

‘Padraig believes the boys should be able to learn how to grow food and support themselves if needed,' interrupted a voice.

She turned to find Mr MacDonagh watching her. ‘He wants our pupils to not only be academic but practical too.'

‘It's all wonderful, truly it is,' she said sincerely. ‘If I were a boy it is a school I would love to attend.'

‘That is what Padraig is hoping, that this break with years of old-fashioned tradition and methods will encourage students, and of course their parents.'

‘I'm sure it will.'

‘Where is Mrs Dryhurst?'

‘She and my sister have gone to meet Mr Pearse to discuss the school and his principles.'

‘They could be a while then,' he grinned. ‘Would you like to continue the tour?'

As he showed her around the rest of the school she discovered that his mother and father had both been teachers too.

‘My mother is a wonderful teacher – she even teaches the piano.'

Muriel could tell that Thomas MacDonagh was equally well regarded by his own students, as boys kept coming up to greet him. He knew all their names and chatted easily with them.

‘What about you, Miss Gifford, what are your interests? What does a young lady in your position enjoy?'

She sensed a slight cynicism in his voice and felt annoyed at his presumption of her being idle and wealthy.

‘I don't get as much time as I want to pursue the things I like because I always seem to be working.'

‘Work?' She could tell that he was surprised. ‘I'm training as a nurse in Sir Patrick Dun's,' she explained. ‘It's my day off, but my sister insisted on dragging me along here.'

‘I'm glad that she did,' he said, his eyes resting on her face.

Muriel felt embarrassed by his attention.

He laughed, sensing her discomfort. ‘It must be time for us to go to the Halla Mor. Padraig will be ready to give his address.'

They walked together back towards the large room, where Muriel was relieved to sit down and rejoin her sisters and Nora. They listened for about twenty minutes as Padraig Pearse outlined the ethos of his school and his aim – to teach and educate young Irish men who would be able to make a valid contribution to Irish society and life and their nation. St Enda's education principles were rooted in the Gaelic language, literature, poetry and history, a love of the countryside and traditional Irish games, culture and music.

‘Stirring stuff,' agreed Nora as everyone applauded.

Mr Pearse was a born orator and swept everyone along with him. Following his speech, a number of boys got up and sang in the choir, the notes of a traditional song filling the hall. It was so beautiful that Muriel couldn't help being captivated by their voices. For an instant her eyes met those of Mr MacDonagh, who was standing at the side of the stage listening. She glanced away quickly.

Afterwards there was tea, sandwiches and cakes made by Mr Pearse's sister. Muriel stayed in the group, noticing that the curly-haired teacher was busy, engrossed in talking to some prospective parents. Instead, Willie Pearse joined them. Strange, but Muriel felt slightly disappointed.

As they were leaving, Thomas MacDonagh came over to say goodbye to them.

‘I do hope that we will see each other again soon,' he said. ‘Young ladies are always welcome along to the Gaelic League and our ceili evenings.'

‘I'm sure we would all love to go,' replied John, smiling.

Walking home, Muriel had to admit that the thought of meeting up with Mr MacDonagh again was rather appealing.

MUSIC FILLED THE
still evening air as Muriel and her sisters joined the crowd gathering outside on Harcourt Street. They had decided to take Mr MacDonagh up on his suggestion and attend a Gaelic League ceili. They couldn't wait to join the dancers inside.

Muriel noticed that Mr MacDonagh was deep in conversation with a few friends on the other side of the big, high-ceilinged room. A few people were up dancing already, girls and young men of all ages hand in hand in a large circle as a group of musicians played their fiddles, whistles and bodhran.

Immediately on seeing them Thomas MacDonagh came over to welcome them, just as a lively jig began to play.

‘Congratulations on your play, Mr MacDonagh.' Muriel, Grace and John had all attended
When the Dawn Is Come
, his play about a rebellion which had been staged by the Abbey Theatre only a few weeks earlier.

‘I'm afraid there were quite a few faults with the production,' he admitted rather humbly. ‘Costumes and the set, unfortunately, left a lot to be desired.'

‘To have a play staged at the Abbey with Miss Sara Allgood is surely the thing,' said John enthusiastically, ‘and it was very well received by the audience.'

‘You are most kind, Miss Gifford.'

‘We very much look forward to your next production,' Muriel encouraged him, conscious that he must have been wounded by the poor reviews his play had received.

Mr MacDonagh invited them all up on to the dance floor, gesturing for his friends to join them. Muriel was suddenly aware of his strong, muscular arms holding her as he almost spun her around the floor, grasping her elbow firmly.

‘I'll get dizzy!' she laughed.

‘Then look at me,' he ordered.

The music was fast and furious and Muriel had never enjoyed anything like it. Grace was dancing with Willie Pearse, while John was swung around the room by one of his friends.

‘These are all teachers from St Enda's,' Thomas MacDonagh said formally when the dance was finished, introducing them to his brother Joseph and his friend Con Colbert.

‘Is Mr Pearse here this evening?' Muriel enquired.

‘Yes, but Padraig is not much of a dancer.' He shrugged. The other men laughed aloud at the suggestion.

Next they danced ‘The Walls of Limerick', a rousing jig, followed by a slower set. After that they sat for a time listening to the band as they sipped some lemonade. Muriel listened intently as Eamonn Ceannt, a friend of MacDonagh's, played the Uilleann pipes. The music was so beautiful and haunting – a real contrast to the piano and violins of the usual bands and orchestras that entertained them.

Padraig Pearse appeared then and the room hushed as he stepped up to recite two poems that he had written in Gaelic. Muriel didn't understand them, but those around her clapped loudly.

The ceili band started up again and they danced until they were out of breath, their hearts racing. She couldn't believe it when the fiddles finally ceased and it was time to go home.

‘I do hope you all enjoyed the night, Miss Gifford,' Mr MacDonagh said, smiling at her as they prepared to leave. ‘Perhaps you and your sisters will return another time?'

‘Thank you, Mr MacDonagh, I'm sure we will.'

‘MacDonagh,' he corrected her. ‘My friends always call me MacDonagh!'

Riding home in the carriage, they were all agreed that the young men and women of the Gaelic League were certainly an interesting crowd. Thomas MacDonagh and his friends were part of the movement to revive not only the Gaelic language but also Gaelic music and culture, which certainly had an attraction.

‘Thank heaven for a night with no boring, polite drawing-room conversation or dance cards and dreadful waltzes,' pronounced Grace.

‘Mother would hate us being involved with such people,' teased John. ‘So I do think we should definitely come again.'

MURIEL FELT GIDDY
as she climbed the stairs to the ward. It had happened to her a few times over the past two days, but somehow she had steadied herself.

Dr Rutledge passed her and glanced over, mildly curious, as Muriel took a few slow, deep breaths before she continued up the stairs.

By mid-afternoon her head was reeling and her throat was sore. She was on duty in the sluice room washing bedpans and jars, a job she detested. By teatime she was hot and flushed and running a temperature. The ward sister was annoyed at her as she was not fit to continue to work.

Muriel had to stay at home for weeks as she had rheumatic fever and all her bones and joints ached and she felt as weak as a kitten. Her summer exams were only a few weeks away and she urgently needed to study, but even lifting her head off the pillow seemed to leave her sweating and exhausted.

‘Are you sure you are fit to return to work?' Mother worried on the day she finally felt able to get up and was preparing to take the tram into town. ‘Heaven knows what other disease or illness you may pick up from those people you have to look after.'

‘Mother, I am fine,' she lied.

‘Nurse Gifford, I see that we are blessed with your presence,' the ward sister commented sarcastically when she went back to the hospital. ‘I hope you are returned to full health.'

‘Yes,' said Muriel quietly, not wanting to engage in any discussion with her as she returned to the wards.

There was much work to be done, with three patients back from theatre all needing full attention. Blood loss and haemorrhage, shock and sepsis – events for which they must all be on high alert. Muriel watched appalled as the young appendectomy patient in the middle bed began to shake and shiver, his teeth chattering so hard that he could barely breathe. She immediately fetched him a blanket and took his temperature before informing the sister that he needed a doctor.

His parents came that evening, but his breathing was already laboured, his lungs filling with fluid. Two hours later he was dead, and Muriel wiped away her tears as she and her colleague Lucinda were given the task of washing and laying him out.

Most of her day-to-day nursing work was tedious: making beds, emptying and washing bedpans, endlessly scrubbing and cleaning the wards and corridors, and helping to feed and wash patients who needed assistance. She tried to study in the evenings, but often was too tired to read her medical books and notes.

‘Are you all right?' asked her friend Hannah. ‘You still look peaky.'

‘I'm fine,' she lied, sitting on the corner of an empty bed.

On the day of the exams Muriel followed her fellow probationers into the exam hall and sat down. She tried to concentrate as she read the exam paper over slowly and began to fill in the answers. Walking out of the hall afterwards, she felt a strange sense of calm. She had written as much as she could and believed she had imparted as much nursing and medical knowledge as she was able.

Over the next ten days they all waited in trepidation for their results. Muriel had been assigned to assist in the crowded outpatient clinic, where people came in with every type of wound, injury or illness, from influenza to dysentery, scabies to lice, abscesses in their mouths and on their bodies, to broken bones and jagged cuts that needed stitching.

One poor soul had dropped a kettle of boiling water on her leg and her screams of pain haunted Muriel as the junior doctor attended to her. She squeezed tightly on Muriel's hand as he began to examine her burns.

‘Nurse, are you stupid? Run and fetch me more dressings and a bowl with some iodine solution,' he shouted.

‘I'm afraid my patient needs me,' she objected, trying not to upset the poor woman.

‘You do what I say, Nurse Gifford,' he ordered. ‘Let go of her hand.'

The minute she did, the woman began to wail and scream again.

The consultant in charge, Dr Stevenson, heard the commotion and came over, admonishing the young doctor before taking over tending to the patient himself.

‘Nurse Gifford, are you quite recovered from your own recent illness?' he asked kindly as they worked together, gently dressing the burns. Muriel assured him that she was.

On Tuesday each of the probationers in her group would have an interview with Superintendent Haughton at which they would not only discuss their exam results but also their position and progress. Like everyone else, Muriel was anxious about it.

Lucinda emerged from the superintendent's office crestfallen. She had, as predicted, failed her exams. Miss Haughton had discussed her leaving the hospital, but she had been given a brief reprieve and would continue her training for another six months and then resit her exams. Failure this time would mean a definite end to her nursing career.

‘I have been given one last chance,' she confided to her fellow students.