Rebel Sisters (14 page)

She attended a meeting of the Daughters of Ireland at which Maud Gonne MacBride, who had recently returned from France, addressed the gathering.

‘I am appalled by what I have seen, the deplorable conditions that the poor children of Dublin must endure, living in such abject poverty in the slums, tenements and lanes of Dublin.' Maud passionately implored the members of her organization to rally together to help them.

‘We have to feed and nourish these children. Westminster has brought in free school meals for children in Britain, but has unfortunately refused to implement the same policy in Ireland.'

Everyone was in agreement: the Daughters of Ireland would step in to provide school meals for poor children and Muriel, well used to seeing the poverty of some of her patients in the hospital clinics and wards, immediately volunteered her own services. She also persuaded her sisters to help with the meals in schools in High Street and St John's Lane when they were available.

The schools were surrounded by tall rows of run-down tenement houses. Once the fine Georgian homes of Dublin's wealthy merchants, they now lay in a state of utter decay and neglect and housed hundreds of poor families. Many were forced to live in the overcrowded, dingy squalor and filth of a single room. Broken doors, steps and stairways could be seen everywhere; sewers overflowed and there was little sanitation. Muriel wondered how people survived living in such terrible conditions.

Jim Larkin, a union man from Liverpool, had set up the Irish Transport and General Workers' Union to fight for better pay and conditions for these people – bus, rail and tram workers, factory workers, and thousands of casual workers who barely eked out a living.

The children of these city streets and lanes were dirty and hungry, sores around their mouths, hair unwashed, often dressed in rags and barefoot. Muriel's heart filled with pity for them. School was their only refuge from the filthy, crowded rooms where they lived. Their teachers helped them to learn to read and write to give them the tools of an education which might some day lift them from the hell of poverty into which they had been born.

When Muriel and Grace first came to help in St John's Lane, Grace paled as they were met by the sight of long tables of hungry children, eyes huge and staring, all waiting to be fed.

‘Grace, remember they are only children like we were,' Muriel reassured her as the boys and girls noisily nudged and shoved against each other. ‘For most of them this small bowl of stew is often the only meal they get.'

The children were each served a nourishing bowl of stew with meat, potatoes and vegetables on most days, and on Fridays they got rice pudding and jam. The food was provided in big containers by the Ladies Committee in Meath Street, but Maud Gonne and Helena Molony demanded that Dublin Corporation should rightfully incur the costs of the meals.

Rolling up her sleeves, Muriel accepted an apron from one of the other women as Maud Gonne helped to ladle the hot stew evenly into bowls. Studying her discreetly, Muriel could understand why men lost their hearts to her, for Maud was a truly beautiful woman, with large, soulful eyes and high cheekbones, poised and elegant, and possessed of a great kindness. It was no wonder that the poet William Butler Yeats was said to adore her. She had a daughter by a French man and had been involved in a very public divorce scandal from her husband Major John MacBride and a battle over their son, but Maud made no mention of such things and instead involved herself energetically with the revolutionary organization she had founded.

Muriel and Grace helped by passing the bowls around the tables of waiting children.

‘I'm starving, miss,' murmured one little girl, shoving a spoonful of food into her mouth.

‘You can take your time,' Muriel promised. ‘No one is let take your bowl.'

The girl looked doubtful.

‘The Ladies Committee would never permit it,' Muriel assured her, smiling as she saw the child relax and actually properly taste and enjoy the meal.

She went up and down the tables, serving bowl after bowl to the children. A few of them paid a little for their food, but most could not afford it. One or two asked for second helpings which unfortunately they were not permitted.

‘They are good children, but some try to bring their meal back for their families,' cautioned Madeleine ffrench-Mullen, one of the organizers. ‘The meal we serve here is a school dinner, which means the parents will make sure the children attend, as these dinners are often the only form of regular nourishment some of these children will get.'

As Muriel gathered up the piles of empty bowls and spoons for washing up, she felt guilty for the life of privilege and wealth she and her brothers and sisters had enjoyed. How could families and children live in such a state less than a mile from the leafy road where she grew up?

THE RESIDENTS OF
Rathmines and Ranelagh breathed a great sigh of relief when Padraig Pearse announced his decision to move his Gaelic boys' school, St Enda's, from Cullenswood House in Ranelagh to The Hermitage, a much larger property in Rathfarnham on the outskirts of Dublin.

‘We will all certainly feel safer without those young rebels in our midst,' declared Mother, who was certainly no fan of Mr Pearse's school and its nationalist educational system. Muriel did not have the heart to tell her that she had heard rumours that the Pearses were now considering opening a Gaelic school for girls in its place.

She and her sisters were delighted to accept an official invitation from Padraig Pearse to the opening of the new St Enda's in September. They were curious about the greatly enlarged school and, turning up the long, tree-lined driveway, they could not help but be impressed. The Hermitage was a rather grand, rambling granite house with a large portico, tall columns and steps, set in acres of land and with a magnificent view of the Dublin Mountains. The fresh air and country setting would be better for the boys, and they certainly would have more space for classrooms and dormitories to fit more pupils, as well as fields for sports and training.

Many of their acquaintances came along to support Padraig Pearse and his family in this new endeavour, and Padraig and Willie were both proud to show off the school's facilities. Countess Markievicz walked around declaring that this was an ideal place for her Irish boy scouts group, Na Fianna. Many of the boys from St Enda's had enrolled in it and here they would have no shortage of fields for outdoor training, drilling and activities.

As Muriel strolled around the grounds, MacDonagh fell into step with her, pointing out a tree carved with the initials of the 1803 Irish Rebellion leader Robert Emmet and his sweetheart Sarah Curran.

‘Sarah's family lived nearby and they used to meet here secretly.'

‘That's so romantic,' Muriel said, touching the indentations in the bark.

‘Unfortunately Emmet was hanged before they could marry.'

‘How sad,' she murmured. ‘But this is such a beautiful place, no wonder Padraig wanted to move his school here.'

‘The boys will be able to enjoy the countryside and fresh air, especially the boarders, but I'm not sure if the day-boys and their families may find the school is too far from the city.'

She was surprised to hear from MacDonagh that he had not rejoined the full-time staff of the school but would perhaps teach there only part-time.

‘I am undertaking a Masters degree in English in the university,' he explained, ‘so I need time to research my thesis on Thomas Campion, the English poet and composer. I also hope to concentrate on my own writing.'

She congratulated him warmly on the publication of his new collection of poetry,
Songs of Myself
, which she considered very personal and suspected were based on his youth.

‘You will know me better than myself,' he said quietly and Muriel flushed.

MacDonagh had been away in Paris for most of the summer and had recently moved into a small gate lodge in Rathfarnham which he was renting from Professor David Houston, a lecturer friend.

‘The rent is thankfully affordable and I am happy to mostly keep my own company there.'

Muriel was puzzled, as he was usually the most sociable and outgoing of men, surrounded by friends.

‘But perhaps some time I will invite you and you will come?' he suggested.

‘I would like that,' she answered, meeting his eyes, both of them aware that something had somehow changed between them.

Weeks went by and Muriel had no word of him. Then, in January, MacDonagh wrote to invite her and her sisters to visit him at Grange Lodge House. She was glad to see that his time of being a recluse was over.

MacDonagh's cottage in Rathfarnham was small and rather isolated, surrounded by frost-covered fields, a fire blazing warmly in the chilly drawing room. The house soon filled with visitors – his good friends Padraic Colum and Mary Maguire, writer James Stephens and poet Francis Ledwidge. Muriel and Grace offered to make pots of tea, while John perched herself on a cushion on the floor and engaged in a lively discussion of poetry.

‘I think you are creating a new literary salon here in the cottage,' teased James Stephens.

MacDonagh, Padraic Colum and Stephens were full of setting up a new literary monthly magazine, the
Irish Review
, which they would run from this cottage and which would provide a much-needed journal of political and literary discussion for the intelligent reader. David Houston would help to finance it and Padraic offered to serve as its editor, with MacDonagh as sub-editor.

‘You will be inundated with books and poems to review,' warned John, ‘and with contributors.'

‘And perhaps I will illustrate for you,' laughed Grace.

‘All I can do is to buy the
Irish Review
and read it,' Muriel promised.

A few days later Muriel met MacDonagh again, this time at the United Arts Club exhibition of post-impressionist painters. It was the talk of Dublin, and Count and Countess Markievicz, the founders of the club, were proud to have such a fine collection of work by Paul Gauguin, Henri Matisse, Vincent van Gogh, Henri Manguin, Pablo Picasso, Paul Signac and Paul Cézanne on display in their gallery near St Stephen's Green.

‘Muriel! Come and see the Van Goghs!' urged Grace. ‘And look how Paul Signac manages to paint with such colour and light.'

Muriel had to admit that she too had never seen such a wonderful collection of paintings. If this was modern art, then she certainly was a fan. She was especially captivated by Van Gogh's painting of an orchard in Provence.

‘Good evening, Miss Gifford.'

Muriel smiled as MacDonagh came over to greet her. Grace had disappeared to join Jack Morrow and his group, who had just arrived. As always, MacDonagh was charming and friendly to her, telling her how impressed he was with the paintings, and the two of them chatted as they moved around to view the work together.

He introduced her briefly to his friend, Joseph Plunkett, a tall, thin, bespectacled, rather serious young man who politely shook her hand.

‘Joe is learning Gaelic,' said MacDonagh with a grin. ‘He is a fine writer and poet and keeps me on my toes.'

‘What do you think of the exhibition, Mr Plunkett?' asked Muriel politely. ‘Isn't it wonderful?'

‘People think so,' he said rather cryptically, before moving away to talk to someone else.

‘Some people are such heathens as far as art is concerned,' Grace complained angrily when she joined them later. ‘Why would they even bother to come to the exhibition?'

‘Art, like literature, should be controversial,' MacDonagh joked.

‘See that stupid fellow there with the glasses? I saw him scribbling on his programme as he was standing near me. He wrote that Picasso is an idiot and Van Gogh should be shot. Honestly, I was tempted to punch him or shoot
him
myself.'

Muriel laughed, conscious suddenly of Joe Plunkett's return clutching the offending exhibition programme in his hand as Grace threw her eyes to heaven and deliberately moved away.

‘Muriel, I'm not sure if I told you that Mr Plunkett has a keen interest in theatre,' interjected MacDonagh, diplomatically avoiding any discussion of the art on show. ‘He is due to act in the Theatre of Ireland's new Russian play,
The Storm
.'

‘I'm sure it will be a success for you,' Muriel told him with an encouraging smile.

As they were driving home in a cab, she told Grace about the play that MacDonagh's friend Joe Plunkett was due to appear in. Grace was always keen to hear of new productions.

‘Joe's father is Count Plunkett, the art historian and director of the National Museum.'

‘Well, thank heaven that it's the museum he's in charge of, not the National Gallery,' quipped Grace wryly.

THE LETTER CAME
a few days after they had met at the exhibition. Muriel was excited when she read MacDonagh's invitation to join him for afternoon tea.

‘You are very welcome to bring your sister or a friend along,' he had added politely. With little persuasion, John agreed to go with her.

That Saturday Muriel changed her dress three times. She couldn't wear the black, as Thomas MacDonagh had seen it already. The pink was too fancy, so in the end she chose her navy blue with its white lace trim, which showed off her neat waist, her complexion and red hair.

‘You look divine,' John promised as they walked to the nearby tram stop.

‘What will we talk about?' Muriel fretted when they reached their stop. ‘What will I say to him?'

‘MacDonagh is the type of man who is never short of conversation,' her sister reminded her as they approached the tea-rooms.

MacDonagh was already there, sitting at a table near the window.

‘Best seat in the house,' he laughed, pulling out their chairs politely. ‘I am so glad that you and your sister could make it.'