Rebel Sisters (22 page)

‘You can learn to use it yourself,' he said and he taught her how to insert the film, adjust the focus and capture an image within the box.

Muriel was entranced, and she took photographs of the baby and of her husband and family, pleased with the results.

Her sisters invited her to join them at the Irish Women's Franchise League's Daffodil Day Fête in Molesworth Hall.

‘Everyone will be there. I am helping with the set for the
tableau vivant
,' enthused Grace.

MacDonagh insisted that she join them and offered to mind little Don for the weekend.

Muriel received a warm welcome from Helena and all her friends. Many, like her, had enrolled at the beginning of April in Cumann na mBan, or the Irishwomen's Council, the new women's group that would work alongside the Irish Volunteers and which now included most of the members of Maud Gonne's Daughters of Ireland.

For the ‘Tableau of Famous Women in History', John had been chosen to play the brave Anne Devlin, the staunch young nationalist who had supported patriot Robert Emmet and had been tortured and imprisoned for her beliefs.

‘At least I don't have to speak on stage,' she grinned, her eyes sparkling dramatically. ‘I just have to look suitably broken but sad and strong.'

‘I told them that I am much better with a paintbrush,' said Grace, who had refused to play a part.

Nellie had volunteered as usual to help organize refreshments for the large group over the two days.

Muriel soon found herself roped in by organizer Hanna Sheehy-Skeffington to play the part of Queen Maebh in the tableau.

‘Do say you will do it, Muriel dear. You are perfect for the role and everyone is giving a hand.'

Hanna could be very persuasive and before long Muriel had agreed.

She studied her costume – a long purple robe and a torc-type crown, with a huge Celtic brooch on her shoulder holding her flowing cloak of green. Countess Markievicz handed her a wooden spear and a cardboard shield to carry on stage. Muriel wasn't at all sure this was what the legendary warrior queen, Maebh of Ulster, would actually look like; she suspected the colour of her hair was the only reason she had been selected to play such a part. She would have far preferred to be Florence Nightingale, but that role had gone to someone else.

Countess Markievicz was playing the warrior Joan of Arc and she certainly fitted the part in a suit of armour she had fashioned out of linoleum that had been painted silver; it looked very effective with high boots, some kind of fitted legging and a sword. Everyone clapped wildly when she appeared.

‘I could imagine her on a battlefield leading an army,' whispered Grace, who had helped her with the costume.

The sight of Joan of Arc – this time played by Kathleen Heuston – being burned at the stake brought gasps from everyone as they watched her silent demise amidst the flames.

The tableau got a generous reception from a large female audience who were pleased to applaud their favourite heroines.

‘It makes a difference to see women instead of the usual male heroes,' said Nellie approvingly, watching her sisters trying to remain perfectly still on stage.

Later the group turned their attention to discussing the important issue of women's suffrage and Home Rule for Ireland.

The countess told them that there were three great movements going on at the same time – the national movement, the women's movement and the industrial movement – but she believed that they were in essence the same movement, because they were all fighting the same fight for the extension of human liberty. Everyone agreed wholeheartedly, with Muriel, like her sisters, proud to be part of it all.

The fête ended the next day with a Cinderella Ball, at which the Women's Orchestra provided the music and Muriel got up to dance with her sisters and friends, all laughing and spinning around the hall together.

MacDonagh had minded the baby and she could tell when she returned home that he was distracted.

‘We've had news that the Ulster Volunteers have got guns,' he sighed heavily. ‘They have landed thousands of guns and rounds of ammunition at Larne and Bangor.'

‘Why would they do such a thing?' she asked, alarmed.

‘Now Carson and his men are armed, the Ulster Volunteers will not budge on Home Rule. They are openly arming to fight it and us every inch of the way in order to stop it.'

‘But parliament and the prime minister have promised us that Home Rule for Ireland will come.'

‘Parliament will not be able to stop a force that is heavily armed and trained and prepared to defend the north of Ireland,' he explained. ‘Without rifles we cannot expect to stop Carson and his Ulstermen's demands to be governed by Westminster rather than Dublin. The Irish Volunteers may need to arm too if we want to defend Home Rule.'

‘But how would you afford such weapons?'

‘We would have to fundraise, not only here but in America.' His eyes were serious.

‘And what happens if you are both armed?' she asked, worried.

‘Then I'm afraid there could be a war between us, as we both want different things. We want an independent Ireland with our own parliament here in Dublin, and the unionists want to be governed by Westminster and to have nothing to do with us.'

Muriel felt suddenly afraid, frightened by her husband's talk of guns and fighting and war. She went to look at their small son sleeping in his cot. MacDonagh was an intelligent, bright man. Surely he and his fellow Volunteers would never let such a thing happen?

GRACE STOOD ON
the busy quayside with her parents, waiting for her sister to board the boat to Liverpool. John's luggage was stacked neatly to one side, ready for a porter to collect it. Grace still could not believe that her youngest sister was moving to New York. Admittedly John had often talked about going away to work, but Grace had always presumed that it was just idle chatter and that she did not really intend leaving Ireland. Then John, with great bravado, had shown them all her ticket for America.

‘I want to work in New York,' she announced. ‘It's such a big adventure, but I can stay with Ada until I can afford a place of my own.'

‘Why are you going away?' Grace asked, puzzled, for John was a well-known journalist with plenty of work on papers and journals like
Sinn Fein
, the
Irish Citizen
and
Irish Freedom
.

‘Grace, I know that I am fortunate to write for popular papers, but do you know how many million people live in New York and the rest of America? How many papers and journals and magazines they have there?'

Grace shook her head.

‘I have a hunch about going to America and trying to make my name in journalism over there. Tom Clarke has given me a list with some useful contacts of his from when he and Kathleen were living there, and he has written a letter of introduction for me to John Devoy, the editor of the
Gaelic American
.'

Grace knew that John had always been the ambitious one, craving attention and notice with her mimicry, her sharp tongue and lively wit. Now she was ready to take on New York – a very brave step, one that Grace was not sure she would have the courage to take herself. Perhaps a part of her had hoped that her sister would ask her to join her on this great adventure, but John had made it clear she was going on her own and Grace was certainly not a part of her plans.

‘Promise that you will write and tell us everything. Ada is hopeless and hardly ever writes any more.'

‘Of course I will,' John promised. ‘I'm not like her.'

Father kept checking his fob watch as if they were waiting for a tram.

Her parents had objected to John's decision to move, but she had informed them that she had more than enough in her bank account to purchase her own ticket and was going with or without their permission. She knew Mother found it very difficult that her youngest daughter was leaving home to live so far away.

‘Don't fret, in two years I will return,' she promised them.

Mother looked thin and anxious, fiddling with her gloves as the other passengers began to move. Father seemed older and smaller as the horn sounded and John set off towards the wide gangplank. Grace supposed it must be hard for them: Liebert away at sea; Ernest and Cecil living in America and Canada; Gabriel in London; and now even Claude and Ethel had become inveterate travellers, moving between Ireland and Canada. Ethel had some family connections in that country and her older brother had decided to set up a legal office there. Ada was settled in New York, and now John … Poor Mother and Father. The Giffords were scattering across the world.

Suddenly, in a swirl of perfume and kisses, her sister was gone, joining the rest of the passengers as they began to board.

They stood for an age watching until the ship had left the quays and was moving out of Dublin Bay and into the Irish Sea, Father and Mother desperately trying to catch sight of John as the boat continued to gain momentum and sail away.

The house was quieter without John. Now only she and Nellie were left at home. When she was younger Grace used to long for peace and quiet and wished that she had been part of a smaller family. Now the house seemed rather lonely, as Nellie spent most of her time in Liberty Hall. So Grace buried herself in work, determined to make her own name. She was printing and selling some of her caricatures and sketches and had recently exhibited in the United Arts Club, which had helped her to get some commissions.

She studied a pen-and-ink drawing she had done for the
Irish Review
. She would let it dry and later post it to the editor, Joe Plunkett, in the hope that it would be printed and she might receive some payment. She regularly sent him work and was getting used to his letters either accepting or rejecting her drawings.

He and MacDonagh were now involved in another new venture together, setting up the Irish Theatre Company. Joe would provide the theatre, an old hall in Hardwicke Street that his mother, Countess Plunkett, had bought that needed renovation. MacDonagh would manage the performances and Edward Martyn, who had fallen out with William Butler Yeats at the Abbey Theatre, would provide the money and write some of the plays. It was all so exciting and Grace was delighted to be asked to design a poster for them. She showed the strange, crooked figure of an old man standing looking in at the new theatre, a figure reminiscent of those who featured in the plays of the other theatres – the theatre of old now, being confronted by a newcomer with a very different programme of plays. Her brother-in-law and Joe Plunkett told her that they planned to produce up to fifty plays a year, which would mean plenty of design work for programmes, posters and stage backdrops. Jack Morrow would most likely get the lion's share, as he regularly worked with Joe and MacDonagh, but Grace would certainly try to get some more work from them.

She was friendly with Jack and his producer brother, Fred, as they were both very involved with the theatre and with staging pageants. Of late she often found herself in the company of their brother Norman, who was also an artist. She would invariably end up talking to him, smoking a few cigarettes with him or sitting beside him at a play or dinner. Norman worked mostly in London but was a regular visitor to Dublin and she found him entertaining company with his stories of the London art world and his work.

‘One time I was asked to design the costumes for a big pageant about health and germs that Fred was directing. We had Mr and Mrs Microbe. What do microbes look like? I asked myself.'

‘What a task!' Grace grinned.

‘I was inspired and made two great big ugly trolls with masks and we had little children running away from them on the stage. I promise you, I had no idea about Lady Aberdeen at the time.'

‘You are wicked!' Grace burst out laughing, for Lady Aberdeen had earned the sobriquet ‘Lady Microbe' for trying to banish TB from Ireland.

Norman enjoyed dining out and was always good company. As five of his brothers were artists, he seemed to know everyone in the art world. Striding into a room in his rather theatrical style, he would make her smile as he tried to persuade her to move to London to work so that they would be nearer to each other.

‘Norman, I'm happy here and have some work,' she protested, but she had to admit Dublin seemed always a little quieter while he was away.

ISABELLA INSPECTED THE
dining table. The cut glasses and crystal decanter sparkled against the crisp, white linen tablecloth, an arrangement of garden roses at the centre. She had checked that all was in hand with their new housekeeper Julia's preparations in the kitchen. The lamb was roasting, the prawns in aspic were setting on ice in the cold room, the soup was made, the salmon ready to be served. For pudding there were twelve individual lemon possets in their glass serving dishes and a rich cream and apricot layered pastry tart to which Frederick was always partial.

Everything was in good order as Isabella went upstairs to dress before their guests arrived. Tonight she would wear the pale lavender-coloured silk dress which was based on a French design; Frederick said it made her look ‘
très jolie
'. Fixing her hair with a pretty mother-of-pearl comb, she made her way downstairs to wait for their guests.

They had invited three of Frederick's dearest legal friends and their wives, her friend Henrietta and her husband Albert, and their neighbours Jerome and Iris Quinn who lived only a few houses away from them. She greeted each guest warmly as Julia took their wraps and jackets. Iris and Jerome were the last to arrive.

‘How is it the closer one lives to one's hosts, the later one always seem to be?' apologized Jerome as they joined everyone in the drawing room.

Isabella smiled to see that the conversation was already in full flow, which she considered a good omen for the rest of the evening. The men all stood together while the ladies sat in a group, laughing gaily. At the signal from Julia, they led their guests into the dining room.