Rebel Sisters (24 page)

‘Perhaps we are needlessly worrying and it will blow over quickly,' murmured Frances hopefully as the band began to play.

But there was no end … no sense to it …

Isabella could hardly bear to look at the newspapers, for the war quickly escalated. Day after day young Irish men joined the Royal Irish Fusiliers and other regiments. Wives, families and sweethearts waved them off at the Dublin docks as they were sent to fight in Flanders and France, where they faced battle in miles of muddy, rat-infested trenches. There were horrific stories of mounted cavalry units and of horses and riders mowed down by pounding machine guns. Mons, the Marne, Ypres – one battlefield after another where so many brave young English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish men died or were injured. She could see fear and anxiety in the faces of their friends and neighbours as they waited for news of their sons.

‘They are fools,' murmured Nellie angrily.

‘Nellie, I will not have you saying such things about brave Irish men prepared to do their duty and fight for a small nation like Belgium,' scolded Frederick. ‘These young men all deserve your respect and loyalty for fighting in this great war.'

THE WAR WAS
all anyone talked about. Young men full of bravado wanting to go off to fight against the Kaiser to teach Germany a lesson. Muriel's own brothers itched to be a part of it too. Cecil, Ernest and even solid, reliable Claude were all considering enlisting.

‘I have some good news!' She laughed as she told MacDonagh that they were expecting another child. She caught the flicker of apprehension in his eyes, her husband unable to disguise his concern for her health and wellbeing, fearing that she would be so very ill again during and after this pregnancy.

‘I am very well,' she assured him. ‘I feel different this time – better. Tell me that you are pleased about it?'

‘Of course I am,' he promised her, pulling her on to his lap. ‘We both know that all little Don wants is to have a brother or sister to play with.'

‘Then he will have a playmate next spring.' She smiled, happy at the thought of their expanding family.

Muriel wrote to John telling her their news. From her sister's letters it was clear that it was proving more difficult to find work as a journalist in New York than she had expected. She had met their old family friend John Yates whose portrait painting was much in demand, but unfortunately work for writers was scarce.

‘John should have stayed here – plenty for a journalist to write about with the war,' said Grace sagely.

On his return from a heated meeting held in the Gaelic League in Parnell Square, MacDonagh had confided to his wife that Padraig's suggestion that the Volunteers should concentrate on defending Ireland and securing its ports during the war had met some opposition, for Eamonn and some of their group believed that England's calamity was the perfect opportunity to strike a blow for Ireland.

‘What do you believe?' Muriel pressed him in alarm.

‘Ah, I'm torn over the whole thing,' he sighed, slipping off his jacket and shoes.

The long-awaited Government of Ireland Bill had finally become law in mid-September, but MacDonagh was disappointed when the prime minister made it very clear that it was not possible to implement Home Rule and the formation of an Irish parliament until after the war.

‘While Britain is at war, Ireland is no longer a priority for Westminster,' fretted MacDonagh. ‘I fear that Home Rule will be delayed even further.'

‘But Asquith and parliament have promised it,' she reasoned with him. ‘They will not renege on that.'

To his disbelief, John Redmond, leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party, had assured the prime minister that Ireland and the Volunteers were loyal to Britain and were prepared to fight in the war.

A week later, speaking at a massive Volunteer Rally in Woodenbridge, Redmond had called on their men not to shrink from duty by staying at home protecting Ireland's shores but to enlist and join the field of battle.

‘You should have heard him, Muriel,' MacDonagh said angrily. ‘He told our men to join the British army and do their duty by fighting because the interests of Ireland are at stake. And the worst of it is, the men listened to him and believed him.'

Her husband and Eoin MacNeill and others issued a statement in the
Irish Review
urging Volunteers not to enlist. MacDonagh, incensed, wrote and published ‘Twenty plain facts for Irishmen', which outlined his belief that the role of the Volunteers was to protect Ireland and not to march off to fight under a ‘Union Jack flag'. Muriel was proud of her husband's stance.

But it was futile. Words and wisdom were useless, for Redmond controlled much of the committee. There was a massive split in the Volunteers. The vast majority of the 170,000 members made the decision to follow Redmond's leadership and enlist in his new National Volunteers, while only 10,000 men stayed on as Irish Volunteers.

MacDonagh, Eoin MacNeill and Padraig Pearse were brokenhearted. Thousands of men from all across Ireland whom they had trained and drilled had chosen to obey Redmond's ‘call to arms' and were now enlisted in the British army.

‘The fools, they believe what Redmond says – that the war won't last and that once the war is over, parliament will honour its agreement and introduce Home Rule,' MacDonagh said bitterly. ‘They have no idea what they are facing: miles of trenches, with bayonets and rifles against heavy machine guns. Far too many good men have already been lost and maimed, and now our lads will join them …'

‘But you still have your core of men in the Volunteers,' said Muriel as she tried to soothe him. ‘The ones you can trust and depend on.'

‘Yes, we are badly reduced but the men we have now are committed to our cause, to Ireland,' he agreed, but he was unable to hide his crushing disappointment and disillusion from her.

For those remaining Irish Volunteers, training became even more intense. Gun handling and shooting practice in rifle ranges were held a few times a week and war games were organized between Volunteer companies. MacDonagh, appointed director of Training for the whole country, insisted on discipline from all members and even set up a sniping division.

Muriel admired his determination but worried that her husband was doing too much, writing on his typewriter, engrossed in working on the script of a new play,
Pagans
, which he hoped would be staged in the Irish Theatre. He even wrote ‘Freedom Hill', a song for the Volunteers, which he would sing for her and Don. It constantly amazed her that the man she loved seemed to have such endless energy and stamina, never tiring and finding everything around him interesting.

‘Ask a busy person …' he joked as he set off to give a lecture in the university.

NELLIE STROLLED THROUGH
Palmerston Park. She could see circles of snowdrops under the trees and the first tips of spring crocuses were beginning to push through the ground. As a child she had always considered this park an escape from home, a place where, undetected, she could climb trees and make secret hideouts and play games away from the watchful gaze of Mother and her nanny.

‘That's where we used to play Robin Hood,' a voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘And you made a bow and arrow.'

She turned around, recognizing the voice of Harry Johnson, her childhood friend. His parents lived close by and he and his brothers and sisters had always been regular visitors to their home.

‘And this was our Sherwood Forest,' she laughed. ‘Though it looks a bit small now.'

‘Nellie, how are you?' He smiled as he joined her. ‘I haven't seen you for an age. I heard you were working down the country.'

‘I was, but for the past year I've been back in Dublin, doing some work for the union in Liberty Hall.'

‘Larkin's lot!' She caught a look of puzzlement passing over his open, freckled face.

‘I teach cookery and, believe it or not, recently I've started to give dance lessons to the union members.'

‘I could do with them,' he admitted sheepishly. ‘I'm not much of a dancer.'

‘What about you?'

‘I've just finished working in the old man's insurance company and am shipping out with my regiment on Monday.'

‘Oh Harry – don't tell me you've joined up!' Nellie could not hide her dismay.

‘I'm with the Dublin Fusiliers along with three pals from my rowing club,' he said proudly. ‘We are all in it together.'

‘Where are they sending you?'

‘Salisbury for training and then on to France, but my friend George thinks it's likely we'll be sent straight to the front line as they are desperately short of men.'

Nellie studied the flowerbeds, not trusting herself to speak.

‘Why did you enlist?'

‘Duty, I suppose … It seemed the right thing to do,' he answered softly. ‘I'm not much good to anyone just sitting at a desk in an office working out quotes and rates. Robert is already out there in Belgium and Father thought it might be a good idea for me to join up too for a few mm-months.'

She noticed his very slight stammer. When he was younger Harry had been plagued with it, teased by his schoolfriends and, worse still, by some of his siblings. She remembered one time Mother had invited him and his sister and brother to a party in the house and one of the other neighbours' boys had started to taunt him as they played out in the garden.

‘H-Haarry, Hhh-harry …'

She could still see his face and that sad look in his eyes, and she remembered feeling outrage and turning on the other boy, chasing him and punching him for being mean. Harry had shyly thanked her at the end of the party when he was leaving.

‘Harry, promise me that you will take care of yourself over there,' she blurted out.

‘Of course I will, Nellie.' He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I'll be like Houdini and get out of anything!'

‘I just wish that you weren't going …'

‘I'll be home before anyone misses me.' He gave a hollow laugh.

‘I'll miss you,' she said, realizing that she meant it. She had always liked him. She found Harry easy to converse with, with his unassuming manner and tall, gangly frame and sandy-coloured hair and freckles. Any time she met him it was as if the years fell away and the friendship between them remained.

‘Nellie, would it be all right if I wrote to you sometimes?' he asked shyly. ‘All the fellows have someone to write to and I …'

His mother, Georgina, had died of tuberculosis three years ago and his father had always been a rather gruff, distant type of man.

‘Of course, and I promise to write back to you with news too.'

‘Perhaps we can have tea or go for ddd-dinner when I return?' he suggested, suddenly nervous.

‘I'll look forward to it,' she smiled as they shook hands and parted. Harry walked briskly out of the park to the tram stop.

Walking back home, Nellie realized that she was looking forward to sharing a meal with him, rekindling their friendship. She wished that she had not been so stupidly formal and had at least given Harry a hug to wish him well …

GRACE WAS MEETING
Norman Morrow again tonight at an art exhibition that included black-and-white illustration.

He greeted her warmly and she introduced him to her friends as they mingled and chatted, talking about their work. Norman fitted in well with her circle. He was over in Dublin for ten days and they had had dinner last night and were going to the Abbey tomorrow.

As they climbed the stairs of the United Arts Club, Norman gently touched the nape of her neck and told her she was beautiful.

‘Behave!' she laughed, though she had to admit she did enjoy his romantic attentions.

They both had a piece on display at the latest exhibition and they stood making complimentary comments about each other's work, which attracted attention. Countess Markievicz joined them and admired his etching, which had also been exhibited in a gallery in London.

‘The problem with the war is that no one is buying anything.' He shrugged. ‘All the papers want is news journalism and work by war artists.'

Afterwards they slipped away quietly from the crowd to spend time on their own in a nearby café. Grace sat smoking and enjoying a glass of wine as Norman again tried to persuade her to join him in London.

‘Grace, it is impossible for someone like me to make a living in Dublin,' he said, running his hands through his thick, curling hair. ‘At least in London there is more opportunity for illustrators and political cartoonists like us to work.'

‘You were just saying earlier that no one is buying,' she teased.

‘Perhaps not as much as usual,' he conceded, ‘but war or no war, people will always buy art in London. And there are so many print newspapers and magazines. My brother George has made his fortune working for
Punch
and I am getting some good work from magazines too.'

‘I work for the
Review
and the papers and magazines and theatre here too,' she argued.

‘But you told me they rarely pay you,' he reminded her.

Grace blushed. ‘Art is not just about money,' she retorted hotly.

‘I know that,' he apologized, stroking her hand. ‘It's just that you are so talented and would definitely get work. Can you imagine us both in London, living and working together in our studio?'

Grace took a slow pull of her cigarette, giving consideration to what he was saying. She was a little in love with him, but Norman had never gone down on his knee or sworn undying love for her; he just talked about them living and working together in some kind of bohemian way. She presumed he meant marriage.

He held her hand and put his arm around her and she tried to imagine sharing her life with him …