Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1901 – 1902
Chapter 1: Isabella
Chapter 2: Nellie
Chapter 3: Isabella
Chapter 4: Isabella
Chapter 5: Nellie
Chapter 6: Isabella
1904 – 1909
Chapter 7: Nellie
Chapter 8: Nellie
Chapter 9: Grace
Chapter 10: Grace
Chapter 11: Nellie
Chapter 12: Muriel
Chapter 13: Grace
Chapter 14: Grace
Chapter 15: Muriel
Chapter 16: Grace
Chapter 17: Grace
Chapter 18: Grace
Chapter 19: Muriel
Chapter 20: Muriel
Chapter 21: Muriel
Chapter 22: Muriel
1910 – 1912
Chapter 23: Muriel
Chapter 24: Muriel
Chapter 25: Muriel
Chapter 26: Muriel
Chapter 27: Muriel
Chapter 28: Muriel
Chapter 29: Muriel
Chapter 30: Muriel
Chapter 31: Muriel
Chapter 32: Isabella
1913 – 1915
Chapter 33: Nellie
Chapter 34: Nellie
Chapter 35: Nellie
Chapter 36: Nellie
Chapter 37: Nellie
Chapter 38: Muriel
Chapter 39: Grace
Chapter 40: Isabella
Chapter 41: Muriel
Chapter 42: Isabella
Chapter 43: Muriel
Chapter 44: Nellie
Chapter 45: Grace
Chapter 46: Muriel
Chapter 47: Nellie
Chapter 48: Isabella
Chapter 49: Nellie
Chapter 50: Muriel
Chapter 51: Grace
Chapter 52: Grace
Chapter 53: Grace
Chapter 54: Grace
Chapter 55: Isabella
Chapter 56: Grace
1916
Chapter 57: Nellie
Chapter 58: Grace
Chapter 59: Nellie
Chapter 60: Grace
Chapter 61: Muriel
Chapter 62: Nellie
Chapter 63: Grace
Chapter 64: Nellie
Chapter 65: Isabella
Chapter 66: Muriel
Chapter 67: Nellie
Chapter 68: Grace
Chapter 69: Muriel
Chapter 70: Nellie
Chapter 71: Grace
Chapter 72: Nellie
Chapter 73: Grace
Chapter 74: Nellie
Chapter 75: Nellie
Chapter 76: Isabella
Chapter 77: Muriel
Chapter 78: Nellie
Chapter 79: Nellie
Chapter 80: Nellie
Chapter 81: Nellie
Chapter 82: Nellie
Chapter 83: Muriel
Chapter 84: Nellie
Chapter 85: Grace
Chapter 86: Grace
Chapter 87: Grace
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Marita Conlon-McKenna
Copyright
THE MAGDALEN
PROMISED LAND
MIRACLE WOMAN
THE STONE HOUSE
THE HAT SHOP ON THE CORNER
THE MATCHMAKER
MOTHER OF THE BRIDE
A TASTE FOR LOVE
THREE WOMEN
THE ROSE GARDEN
For more information on Marita Conlon-McKenna and her books, see her website at www.maritaconlonmckenna.com
TRANSWORLD IRELAND PUBLISHERS
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Transworld Ireland is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in the UK and Ireland in 2016 by Transworld Ireland
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Marita Conlon-McKenna 2016
Marita Conlon-McKenna has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction though based on historical fact. Names, characters, places and organizations are based on real people and real settings but the incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508606
ISBN 9781848271999
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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For my wonderful daughter Fiona,
who encouraged and helped me
every step of the way with this book.
We are ready to fight for the Ireland we love
Be the chances great or small:
We are willing to die for the flag above
Be the chances nothing at all.
Verse from ‘Easter 1916’ by Constance Markievicz,
published in the Worker’s Republic on Easter Saturday, 22 April 1916
Friday, 28 April 1916
NELLIE GIFFORD LOOKED out over Dublin, a city at war. She could see clouds of thick smoke rising high in the fiery red sky from the buildings still burning across the other side of the river. Many of the shops and buildings on Sackville Street, Dublin’s main thoroughfare, were in flames following the heavy bombardment and gun battles of the last few days.
Perched high on the roof of the College of Surgeons, she looked over St Stephen’s Green, the city park with its leafy trees clothed in their spring blossom and its well-tended flowerbeds. Now the park was barricaded and empty, the trenches and shelters they had dug clearly visible.
Countess Markievicz said the rebellion had brought the city to its knees. There was pandemonium, with no trams or trains, no bread, milk or food, and many of Dublin’s shops and businesses were closed as the mighty British army tried to regain control.
They still held the General Post Office and the Metropole Hotel on Sackville Street, although despatches said that James Connolly, Tom Clarke and their men were now under severe attack from a heavily armed British gunboat anchored on the River Liffey. There were rebel garrisons in Boland’s Mill and the Four Courts. Eamonn Ceannt and his men controlled the huge South Dublin Union with its workhouses and hospitals, while Thomas MacDonagh was the commandant in charge of Jacob’s Biscuit Factory.
She heard a barrage of shots … A nearby sniper? Another army attack? Who could tell? On alert, Nellie crouched down on the narrow parapet of the roof, scanning the nearby buildings. In the Shelbourne Hotel at the other side of the park, a machine gun and rifles were directly trained on them.
Four days ago, on Easter Monday, Nellie had proudly taken her place marching with the Citizen Army and the Irish Volunteers through Dublin’s streets, ready to rise up against British rule and join the fight for Irish freedom and independence. Their orders were to take ‘the Green’ and surrounding area. It was hard to believe that they were occupying one of the finest parts of Dublin.
They had set up a garrison there and dug in, fighting hard to hold their position under heavy attack. On Tuesday Commandant Mallin had given the order to evacuate the open expanse of the park. They had been forced to flee here, to the College of Surgeons, where they were now under constant bombardment from enemy snipers and heavy machine-gun fire.
Food and supplies had run out in their garrison two days ago. Nellie had searched the building and kitchens, and she and the other women had eked out rations as far as they could, making soups and porridges, but now there was absolutely nothing left to eat and she did not see how they would survive much longer.
Down below in the distance she could see an overturned milk float and the bloody, rigid corpse of a horse that someone had shot, still lying on the road. A dead dog, caught in the crossfire, lay sprawled in front of the building, blood and flies everywhere. The shooting was getting nearer and heavier as the city was flooded with new regiments sent from England to suppress the Rising.
Nellie took a deep breath, trying to compose and steady herself, refusing to give in to the fear and trepidation she felt as she thought of her family … her sisters …
A rebel, like the rest of the men and women in her garrison, she was determined to fight and hold firm and steadfast against the attacks of the approaching British army for as long as she possibly could …
ISABELLA GIFFORD STUDIED herself in the mirror. She turned slowly around. She was still a good-looking woman and despite having so many children had somehow kept her slender figure and fine features. She fingered her expensive white lace collar, a contrast to the rich black satin of her dress; French and exquisitely made, it gave a lift to her skin. Patting her fair hair into position, she dabbed her wrist with her favourite perfume.
From upstairs she could hear bedlam as Bridget, their nanny, organized the children for church. Every Sunday it was the same, and although it was important to keep the Lord’s Day, she had to admit she found it very difficult when the household staff all enjoyed an afternoon off. But Frederick insisted on the staff having the chance to go to church and then later, time to relax. She lifted her hat and pinned it lightly to her head, gathering her lace gloves and purse.
‘Bridget, do make the children hurry up!’ she called impatiently as she stood on the landing of their large home.
The boys came first, five of her six sons appearing in an orderly fashion. They were educated, polite young men and boys, the type of whom a mother could be proud. She sighed as she heard Bridget arguing and pleading with her six daughters and went downstairs to wait. She glanced at the clock and was about to send Cecil back up to get his sisters when the girls began to run down the stairs. Giggling and laughing, their long red hair tumbling down their shoulders, her daughters fastened on their warm coats. They all wore a black armband of mourning.
‘Are we ready to go, my dear?’ enquired Frederick, suddenly appearing from the sanctuary of his book-lined study.
‘Hats,’ she reminded the girls. ‘Where are your hats?’
Kate and Muriel ran back upstairs to fetch them, returning with all the hats. Isabella ignored the grumbling and mutterings of Nellie, Ada, Grace and Sidney as they each pulled at the elastic of their headwear. Satisfied that they were now suitably attired for church, she declared them finally ready.
‘Remember you are respectable young ladies!’ she warned as Sidney, their youngest daughter, swung on the front gate.
Their home, 8 Temple Villas, was situated among the finest enclaves of Dublin’s wealthy and privileged society. As they walked out on to the broad tree-lined avenue of Palmerston Road, with its grand, red-brick Georgian houses and large gardens, Isabella smiled to herself – the large Gifford family was something to be proud of. The girls’ felt hats she had designed herself; she considered them stylish but still serving to keep her daughters’ luxuriant hair somewhat hidden.
At the end of the driveway she and the children turned right and Frederick doffed his hat as he turned left towards Ranelagh and the local Catholic church where he worshipped.
Holy Trinity Church was filling up as Isabella and her sons and daughters filed into their usual pew only five from the front. She tilted her hat at a slight angle, picked up her hymn book and silently checked the children. The Gifford family were certainly striking, not just because of their number but because of their strong family resemblance. She dearly wished that Frederick would come to church with them, but he stubbornly refused and insisted on following the faith in which he was raised.
‘I think an hour or two to pray in my own church on a Sunday is little to ask,’ he said firmly every time she broached the subject.
She glanced around and saw that most of the congregation were respectfully dressed in black today, many already wearing black mourning bands on their sleeves. The organist began to play and she joined in the hymn, Gerald’s strong, almost-tenor voice clear above all the others.
Coming to service always reminded her of her childhood, of her own father, a country rector who had done so much for the people of his Carlow parish. She had loved to hear him read the Bible and sing – he had a wonderful baritone voice, and had often given sermons that even as a child she could follow. His death had been untimely, leaving her mother an impoverished widow trying to raise the nine of them, all of them distraught at their father’s passing. Her uncle, Frederick Burton, the renowned artist, in an act of great kindness had stepped in to fill the void left by his brother and had generously supported the family over the years.
‘Today we remember and dedicate our service to our late queen, Victoria,’ said Reverend Samuel Harris, coughing for a moment before looking around the watchful congregation. ‘Queen Victoria was a monarch who ruled with fairness, strength and great wisdom for many long years. She will be greatly missed by her Church and her people in Great Britain and Ireland, and across all her colonies and dominions. Her visit to Ireland only a few months ago is one that will always be remembered by the people of Dublin, her loyal subjects. We give thanks for her long life and reign.’
The congregation nodded and muttered in agreement.
Isabella bowed her head and tried to control her emotions. The queen had been old, a woman of eighty-one years, but it had always seemed she would reign for ever. The queen had been so much a part of their lives, her life …
Queen Victoria had knighted her uncle, Sir Frederick Burton, for his services as the director of Britain’s National Gallery in London. It was a fitting reward for his life’s work, something her kind uncle so richly deserved. His death last March had upset her deeply and she still mourned him. Now the nation was in mourning for Queen Victoria, a monarch whom no one could or would ever forget.
As Reverend Harris took up the Bible, Isabella reached for her handkerchief and daintily and discreetly dried her eyes. God bless the queen!
‘Father, we prayed for Queen Victoria today at service,’ Sidney announced as the family gathered for Sunday lunch. ‘Everyone was sad.’
‘Her death is tragic,’ Isabella sighed.
‘Isabella dear, how can you call it tragic?’ Frederick chided her as he helped himself to horseradish sauce. ‘She was an old woman who perhaps reigned for far too long.’
‘She was our queen!’ Isabella protested loyally.
‘Victoria was a very fine queen, a good monarch and held the empire together for years,’ he agreed.
‘Many call her the Famine Queen for what she and her government did to Ireland during the Great Famine,’ interjected Nellie from the end of the table. ‘Those who faced starvation will certainly not mourn her.’
‘Nellie, I will not have you speak of the late queen in such a fashion,’ Isabella reprimanded her loudly.
‘Nellie’s observation is valid, for the queen may not have been a perfect ruler, but I fear we will never see her like again,’ Frederick replied. ‘Without Queen Victoria on the throne I’m not sure what will happen throughout the empire.’
‘Father, what do you mean?’ pressed their youngest boy, Cecil.
‘The empire might fall,’ said Frederick, catching their full attention.
‘Never!’ shouted their eldest sons, Claude and Gerald, fervently. ‘The British empire will never fall.’
‘It is a possibility that must be considered.’ Frederick touched his moustache and top lip thoughtfully. ‘Queen Victoria’s is a large family, much like our own. Her children are wisely married to half the crowned heads of Europe. But brothers and sisters and cousins – even royal ones – often do not agree, and may perhaps squabble and fall out, especially without a strong hand like the late queen’s to keep the peace.’
‘They are royalty,’ Isabella reminded him.
‘Families fight and argue. Without the queen to keep the royal families of Europe in line there is a very real worry about what may or may not happen. The nations may fall out.’
‘Edward is our new king,’ Isabella insisted. ‘He will be a good ruler.’
‘I am not so sure.’ Her husband sounded serious.
Isabella flushed. There had been rumours about the Prince of Wales’s drunken and lecherous behaviour over the years, but now that he was king surely things would be different.
Nora, their maid, came in quietly and went to the long mahogany sideboard. She took their plates away, then served the apple sponge pudding before disappearing.
‘This pudding is delicious,’ Frederick said as he spooned it into his mouth. ‘She’s added something to the apple. I must compliment Essie.’
‘I made it and I put in a little nutmeg,’ admitted Nellie. ‘I just used a hint.’
When seventeen-year-old Nellie had told them that she had no intention of doing her final school exams and had pleaded with them to be allowed to stay at home and learn how to cook, Isabella had at first objected to such a role for their daughter. However, Nellie, who had never been academic and certainly did not harbour the same ambitions as her sisters, had soon proved her culinary skills. She was learning to become a fine cook under Essie’s guidance and displayed a great ability for organizing and helping with the day-to-day running of such a large household.
Isabella watched approvingly as her six daughters politely ate only a few spoons of the delicious apple pudding. Everyone knew that it was only manners for a young lady, no matter how hungry, to leave a good portion of pudding behind her.
‘Father, if the British empire falls, does that mean Ireland will be free?’ questioned eleven-year-old Sidney.
‘Don’t be such a ninny!’ retorted Claude, who was sitting across from her. ‘We are part of the empire.’
‘Where do you get such silly ideas?’ added Gerald. ‘We are part of the union, ruled and governed by a British king or queen and the parliament in Westminster.’
‘But someday Ireland will be free again,’ Sidney continued doggedly.
‘Boys, your little sister may have a point,’ interrupted Frederick calmly as one side of the table erupted into a fierce argument. ‘Many people believe that in time Ireland should have Home Rule with a proper parliament of its own here in Dublin.’
‘Westminster will never agree it,’ argued Claude pompously, as if he were in court.
Isabella sighed. She knew well that it was their nanny and maids who had encouraged such liberal thoughts. Bridget, with all her songs and stories of Irish rebellions and heroes! She had warned Frederick about it, but it was only a minor foible given that the children adored her and she was a very valued and essential member of their household.
‘Well, I for one am proud to be part of the union and a loyal subject of the crown,’ Isabella joined in. ‘Like everyone at this table.’
Sidney stuck out her lip as if she were about to say something.
‘And there will be no more arguments on the matter,’ Isabella added, giving the signal for Nora to come and clear the table.
NELLIE ENJOYED COOKING and learning the daily regimes of the kitchen and household at 8 Temple Villas.
Father liked to eat beef four times a week, fish once a week and other meats or fowl on the other days. He insisted on a good cheese-board and enjoyed a different pudding every day of the week. A selection of fine clarets, burgundies, ports and bottles of his favourite malt whiskey were always kept in the drinks cabinet. When his old friend the portrait painter John Butler Yeats visited in winter, both men enjoyed hot toddies with plenty of cloves as they discussed affairs of the day and legal matters. Mother preferred a lighter diet – chicken, fish, lean meat and soufflés. She liked blancmanges and custards, and a special peppermint cordial was kept to aid her digestion. Nellie’s sisters, with the exception of Ada, abhorred kidneys. Grace refused to eat semolina or tapioca, while Sidney hated peas. The boys ate mostly everything, though young Cecil seemed to get a rash if he ate strawberries. Her brother Gerald of late had been craving thick slices of gingerbread and fresh ginger biscuits, claiming they aided his study; he was doing his final law exams and often worked till the middle of the night.
‘Ginger is good for the brain and for concentration,’ he declared as she cut him big pieces of her homemade cake.
The ginger clearly worked, as he passed his exams and took up a position with Father and Claude in the family law firm.
It was only a few weeks later when Nellie noticed that Gerald had not attended breakfast or Sunday lunch, claiming he was not hungry – a rare occurrence in any of her brothers.
‘Will I make you a sandwich?’ she offered as he drank a glass of cold water in the kitchen.
‘No, I’m not hungry,’ Gerald murmured. ‘I’ve got a thundering headache.’
‘It’s probably after all that studying for your exams,’ she consoled him, noticing that her twenty-four-year-old brother was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes.
‘I took a knock playing rugger with a few of the fellows yesterday. Maybe I just need to have a bit of a rest,’ Gerald said quietly, disappearing off up the stairs.
Returning from helping all afternoon at the church fair with Mother and her sisters, Nellie went to change her shoes and put away her jacket. There was no sign of Gerald at teatime, so later she carried him up some tea and two scones. He seemed drowsy and she made him sit up a bit.
‘I’m fine,’ he mumbled. ‘I just want to sleep.’
She looked in on him again before she went to bed, relieved to see that he was in a deep, heavy sleep.
When Gerald did not appear the next morning, Nellie decided to bring up his breakfast on a tray. Her brother lay curled up on his side in bed and barely looked at her. She pulled open the heavy damask curtains.
‘Close them!’ he yelled. ‘The light hurts my eyes.’
She did what he said but went over to stand beside him. He looked awful, and then she noticed the blotchy rash on his arms – purplish, nearly black, like blackberries.
She went immediately to her parents’ room. Father was getting dressed for work, fixing his tie and pulling on his waistcoat.
‘It’s Gerald! He’s much worse,’ Nellie interrupted.
She could read the alarm on both their faces once they saw Gerald. Father told her to send Nora or Essie for their neighbour, Dr Mitchell, as quickly as possible. He arrived immediately.
Nellie waited anxiously in her room as he examined her brother. The doctor took an age, then at last she saw him talking, serious-faced, to her parents on the landing.
‘It’s some kind of brain infection, meningococcal, very vigorous and in the fluid around Gerald’s brain, judging by that rash. I have only seen it a few times, but I’m afraid his condition is grave.’
‘Should we move him to the hospital?’ demanded Mother. ‘Get the proper treatment there?’
‘Unfortunately I think your son is far too ill to move,’ said James Mitchell calmly. ‘He needs total rest, peace and quiet in a darkened room. The next few hours, the next day or two, will be very critical.’
‘Critical?’ repeated Father.
‘Frederick, his condition is grave – very grave. I will organize for a nurse to come and attend Gerald. But you must send for me at once if there is any change.’
Nellie sat with her brother in the darkened room as Mother went to dress. Father refused to go to the office.
‘I have my briefcase, so I can read files and case notes here at home,’ he insisted.
Nellie listened to her brother’s laboured breathing. His eyes were firmly shut and his face had a strange pallor.
‘Gerald is strong, always has been,’ Father assured her, watching him. ‘Boys often have falls and knocks, but they get over them and so will he, just you wait and see.’
Nellie didn’t know what to say.
‘I’ll be in my study,’ he said, shutting the door gently and going downstairs.
Mother came and sat with Gerald awhile. She read aloud from her father’s Bible, but Nellie wasn’t sure if her brother could hear her.
The nurse arrived two hours later. She checked his pulse and temperature and made them go outside while she examined his skin. The rash had worsened.
Mother rested for a while in the afternoon and Muriel, who had returned from school, sat with Nellie and sang their brother some of his favourite songs softly.
‘He loves to sing,’ Nellie explained to the nurse. ‘He has a fine tenor voice.’
Muriel sat patiently beside Gerald for hours, asking the nurse how she could help. She sponged his face and moistened his lips so they would not dry out, talking quietly to him all the time.
Claude arrived after work to see his brother and they all took turns sitting by his bedside. He was no better but certainly no worse. Dr Mitchell called to visit him after dinner, conferring quietly with the nurse about his condition. She would stay through the night and another nurse would take over in the morning.
The doctor came again after breakfast. He was most concerned about Gerald’s breathing and the fact that he could not be roused.
‘The brain at times shuts down to protect itself,’ he explained, ‘but often this can worsen so the patient slips deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.’
‘But he will recover,’ Mother said firmly.
‘I cannot say or promise that,’ Dr Mitchell replied quietly. ‘Gerald’s position is most unstable.’
The new nurse was older and she gently sponged her patient down. ‘You poor, poor boy,’ she said kindly, turning down his sheet and combing his hair.
By the time Muriel, Grace, Cecil and Sidney had returned from school, Gerald was much worse. They all sat in the kitchen as Essie made endless cups of tea. Nora took up a tray for Mother and Father, who sat with him, pale-faced and exhausted, Mother holding his hand in hers.
Then the nurse urged them all to come upstairs quietly to say goodbye to their brother. Nellie was shocked, unable to take in the fact that Gerald was going to die. They crowded into the room, each taking a turn to kiss his cheek. Sidney and the twins, Grace and Cecil, were so upset that Nellie had to take them outside. Twenty minutes later it was all over.
Nellie sat on her bed looking out on the dark road and the shadowed plane trees in the moonlight, wondering why this had happened. Her brother had never done a bad thing in his life, never hurt anyone. But now Gerald was dead, her strong, healthy brother taken cruelly from them.
ISABELLA SAT BY her son’s bed. He looked as if he was asleep, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. Her boy – Gerald would always be her boy. He was handsome in his own way, strong and muscular, always happy to have a ball in his hand, football, rugby, tennis or cricket. A lock of hair fell across his brow; unconsciously, she pushed it off his face. Frederick had said the undertakers would arrive soon. Until then Gerald was hers.
He would take no wife, have no child, but stay as he was now on the brink of his life and manhood, his hard work, his years of study no more use to him. It was unfair, unjust and inhuman, what the Lord had done, taking her son. She sat listening to the clock on the landing tick as his hand seemed to grow colder and colder.
Frederick came in and stood beside her. He touched her shoulder.
‘Nicholls will be here in an hour,’ he sighed, drawing up a chair beside her.
‘Then we have an hour with him,’ she said as Frederick’s large hand clutched hers, his eyes red and raw.
The funeral took place on Thursday in their crowded local church. Reverend Harris’s sermon reflected on the shortness of life and the need to become closer to God. Friends, family, neighbours and some of Gerald’s old friends from High School and fellow law students from university attended the service. Afterwards he was taken to be buried in Mount Jerome Cemetery.
Standing beside his grave, Isabella was overcome with a strange sense of light-headedness and had to clutch on to Frederick’s arm for fear of fainting as the earth, the open grave and grass spun giddily about her. Sidney, white-faced and sobbing, was being comforted by Bridget, while Grace, Cecil and Muriel huddled miserably together. Her other sons were trying to stand tall and maintain their composure; only Liebert, away at sea, was missing. Kate’s and Nellie’s and Ada’s lips moved in prayer.
Afterwards they walked slowly back to the horse-drawn carriages with their black plumes as the gravediggers flung the dark-brown earth in on her boy in his wooden coffin.
Essie and Nora served their guests tea and cordial, offering a small sherry to those who sought one, as Isabella forced herself to stand in the drawing room receiving sympathy and expressions of sorrow for her troubles. Frederick was red-faced, standing near the fireplace, a malt whiskey in his glass.
‘He passed his law finals with honours and had just taken his place working with Claude and me in the family firm,’ he was explaining loudly. ‘His was a fine legal mind. Gerald was a great man for detail. His loss is … enormous to all of us.’
The two Lane boys, Ambrose and Eustace, came over to Isabella. They and Gerald had been great friends; both of them had regularly visited and stayed in the house. Tears welled in Ambrose’s eyes and she was tempted to pass him her embroidered handkerchief.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said over and over again. ‘Gerald will be so missed.’
Her eldest daughter, Kate, made Isabella sit down, bringing her sweetened tea.
It was raining outside, rivulets of water running down the windowpane, and she dared not think of her son in his resting place.
A few of the neighbours clustered around, fussing over her like a crowd of bees. She knew they meant well, but she was too fatigued, too drained to say much. Frederick was deep in conversation with John Yeats, who was doing his best to comfort him. He had lost his own wife the previous year. His son Jack had accompanied him and was discussing illustration work with Gabriel and Ada.
Eventually Isabella could tolerate it no more. She made her excuses and went upstairs to her bedroom, stepping out of the confines of her black satin dress. Nora had put a warming pan on her side of the bed and the heat and softness enveloped her. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she lay on the pillow. Grief … She had felt grief before, for her father, her uncle, friends; but nothing had prepared her for this – this pain that seemed to rip through her. The loss of a son – this was true loss.
Hours later, Frederick stood before her. He too was exhausted and, opening her arms, Isabella held her husband tightly as he gave in to grief, his body racked with heavy sobs for what was gone from them.
IN THE WEEKS following Gerald’s death Isabella found herself enveloped in a strange inertia, unable to think clearly or raise any enthusiasm about anything that was happening around her. She knew the children were equally upset about the loss of their brother, but she had not the heart or energy to contemplate any discussion of the matter. She could not put thoughts of Gerald from her mind and felt a deep anger at the way he had been so suddenly taken from them. Everyone kept reminding her that she and Frederick were fortunate to have been blessed with such a large family. She found no consolation in this fact, for it was her boy Gerald whom she missed, for whom she grieved constantly and who filled her mind.
Every summer they went to Greystones in Wicklow for two months’ holiday at the seaside, the days filled with picnics, swimming, walks, tennis parties and musical nights. This year she did not know how she would endure such things and suggested to Frederick that they remain at home instead.
‘My dear, a few weeks at the sea with fresh air and sunshine, away from this house, are exactly what we all need,’ he insisted, refusing to consider changing their holiday arrangements.
Isabella stood on the granite steps of their imposing, red-brick Georgian residence, supervising operations while Bridget, Nora, Essie and her daughters Kate, Nellie and Ada followed her orders as they carried the trunks of clothes and items needed for their annual trip to Greystones out to the waiting carriage. She had written a list and ticked off items as they were placed down on the gravelled driveway ready to be loaded.
It seemed such upheaval and turmoil arranging for their large family and staff to transfer to another home for the summer weeks. Normally Isabella relished the change from day-to-day routines and responsibilities, but this year was different. Perhaps once she saw the familiar curve of the Sugar Loaf Mountain and Greystones harbour with the sea beyond she would somehow feel more at ease. As usual, Frederick would travel to Dublin some days during July, but for the month of August he too was on holiday as the courts and his law firm closed. He was a diligent man and well deserved a break from the busy world of contracts and legalities.
‘Grace, there is an easel already in the house,’ Isabella warned, noting her daughter’s attempt to bring her usual boxes of art paraphernalia with her. ‘Your sketchbooks and a few small canvases should suffice. So please put the rest back.’
Grace looked as if she was about to argue.
‘Do what your mother says, Miss Grace,’ nodded Bridget, who always seemed to be better able to manage the children than she ever could herself. Unfortunately, their long-serving nanny had recently given her notice, announcing that she intended to marry. Bridget planned to return to her native county, where she and her husband hoped to run a simple boarding house.
Muriel, as ever, was organized, looking serene and lovely as she placed her belongings beside the carriages. She always reminded Isabella of a beautiful swan gliding along while everyone else flapped and splashed around her like ducks.
It mystified her that, having given birth to twelve children, they could all be so different. When she had held each of her newborn children she had thought them so alike, cherubic mirror images of each other, but as the months and years followed they changed, slipping away from her. And now dear Gerald was gone, lost to them for ever.
‘Mam, do you want the good linen tablecloths and napkins?’ interrupted Nora.
Isabella forced herself to think.
‘Yes, Nora, please pack them,’ she ordered and the maid disappeared quickly back into the house to fetch them as they climbed into their waiting carriages.
The train was busy, packed with holidaymakers and residents returning from the city to Bray and Greystones and Wicklow. As it made its way through Blackrock, Kingstown, Dalkey and Killiney they enjoyed sweeping views of Dublin Bay, the sea and the coastline. They stopped in the seaside resort of Bray with its wide promenade overlooking the beach, an array of hotels, tea-rooms and cafés all along the seafront. Sidney and Cecil gave whoops of excitement as the train shuddered and began to move once more, clinging to the curving railway track along by the cliffs to enter the dark of the railway tunnel.
Isabella tried not to think of the speed and precarious position of the train, and instead began to gather up her bag, gloves and the tickets for their arrival as Greystones, with its fishing harbour, North Beach and South Beach, came into view.
‘We’re here!’ shouted Muriel and Grace as the train stopped. Isabella took control as they alighted from the train and the porters ferried their luggage from the station to three waiting carriages. As the horse clip-clopped along Marine Road towards the imposing white-gabled house overlooking the sea, she had to admit she could already feel her heart begin to lighten.
NELLIE WATCHED AS Mother sat reading a book under a large garden parasol. Since they had arrived in Greystones she would often sit for hours reading a novel, or dozing, saying that she was not in the humour for going to the beach or joining in their usual excursions and summer concerts.
‘Your poor mother needs to rest,’ Bridget reminded them gently. ‘She has suffered a terrible loss.’
Father had taken her brothers, Claude, Gabriel, Ernest and Cecil, fishing earlier this morning, carrying their fishing lines and a big box of wriggling, smelly worm bait.
‘You are on holiday too,’ Father had reminded Nellie, telling her that for the next few weeks she was not expected to help in the kitchen or with the house.
‘Mam, as it is such a warm day I thought to bring the girls for a walk down by the harbour and maybe have a paddle on the beach and let you have a bit of peace,’ suggested Bridget. ‘Miss Ada and Miss Kate have gone to play tennis with friends.’
Mother looked relieved – she would have the garden to herself.
‘Bridget, the girls must all wear their hats in this weather,’ she reminded the nanny, noticing that they were not in their straw boaters. ‘With their colouring they will get burned and red in no time.’
‘I’ll fetch them straight away, mam,’ Bridget said, disappearing back into the house.
‘I’m not wearing my stupid hat,’ brown haired Sidney protested stubbornly.
‘Then you may stay in the garden in the shade with me,’ Mother insisted.
Bridget reappeared with the hats a few minutes later and Nellie was annoyed as, under Mother’s gaze, she had to plomp her hated straw boater on to her head.
Down at Greystones harbour boys sold fish to passing holidaymakers as the fishermen cleaned their nets. They walked up by the imposing new Grand Hotel, where guests played croquet on the front lawn, and past the rocky cove, where the tide was out, revealing tempting, deep, rocky pools and the stony beach below.
‘Bridget, please can we go down to the cove and hunt for crabs and shells?’ begged Sidney.
Bridget agreed and they carefully climbed down to the beach. For the next hour or so they had the steep, rock-bound cove to themselves as they scrambled around searching in the rockpools for startled crabs and little fish.
‘Don’t get your dresses wet!’ warned Bridget as she found a shady spot to rest for a bit.
Too late, thought Nellie, aware of the heavy wet hem of her dress as she pushed her silly straw boater towards the back of her head. She clambered out on the rocky promontory to see if there was any sign of Father and the boys. It was slightly breezy and her stupid hat was so annoying … Suddenly it lifted off her head and she couldn’t resist it – Nellie grabbed the boater and flung it out over the waves. The straw was so light it caught the wind and seemed almost to fly across the water before dipping down and floating into the distance. In a few minutes it was engulfed, disappearing into the deep blue sea.
With a whoop of glee Sidney joined her, sending her hat like a skimming stone as far as she could across the water. The sisters all watched as it bounced lightly for a second or two, before being caught by the waves and floating along. All of them laughed, and immediately Grace defiantly cast her straw hat out over the water too, then Muriel did the same. Grace clapped as she got three – four – bounces along the top of the water from her boater.
‘What are you four doing?’ demanded Bridget, coming over to see what all the fun was. ‘Where are your sun hats?’
‘In the water,’ they replied in unison, ‘and good riddance!’
‘Oh dear Lord! What will your mother say?’ fretted Bridget, aware of the seriousness of the situation. ‘I’ll be murdered!’
‘No, you won’t,’ they assured her loyally.
‘We’ll tell Mother the wind and the sea took them,’ added Sidney calmly.
Bridget looked doubtful, for she knew well that their mother had the eyes of an eagle and nothing, but nothing, got by her.
‘Hey, there’s Father,’ called Grace, spotting the boat in the distance.
‘You are all creating such a racket your poor father can probably hear you, and I’m sure you are scaring all the fish away!’ admonished Bridget as they walked towards the South Beach with promises that they could paddle there.
Two hours later, as they walked back along Marine Road to the house, Nellie’s skin felt hot and already she could see a line of freckles on her arms. Bridget had promised a family picnic on the beach and swimming tomorrow for anyone who wanted. They were all good swimmers, as Father had insisted on them having lessons.
‘Can we go for a ride on the donkeys too?’ begged Sidney.
‘Of course. It wouldn’t be summer without a few donkey rides on the beach,’ laughed Bridget as they turned in at their gateway.
‘Nellie, your face is as red as a turkey cock and I can see freckles everywhere!’ chastised Mother as she greeted them. ‘Where is your sun hat?’
‘I’m sorry, but the wind caught it and it blew out to sea,’ Nellie responded nervously with her half-truth as she stood in the tiled hallway.
‘And where is yours, Muriel? You have a red patch on your nose. And Grace, your hair looks like a hayrick! You are all a disgrace! Bridget, why aren’t the girls wearing their sun hats?’
Poor Bridget – Nellie could see that she looked totally flummoxed, torn between loyalty to her employer and fondness for her charges.
‘Mother, it wasn’t Bridget’s fault,’ Nellie said defensively. ‘She was sitting on the beach and we were all down on the rocks at the water’s edge.’
This was their last summer with Bridget and Nellie would not have Mother blame her for their antics.
‘Mother, I’m sorry,’ Grace explained, looking innocent. ‘The strong sea breeze just caught my straw boater and it floated out over the water and then …’
‘The wind took all our hats and blew them away,’ added Sidney dramatically. ‘It wasn’t our fault, Mother.’
‘I’m sorry, mam,’ apologized Bridget, ‘but it was far too dangerous for us to try to retrieve the hats with the rocks and the current and the waves.’
Nellie could see that their mother was not at all convinced by their description of events and suspected they had all simply defied her.
‘Why is it that you girls can never obey or heed me?’ she complained angrily.
They all tried to look suitably apologetic as Mother raged on.
‘I am most put out and vexed. I do not know where we will find suitable sun hats at this stage of the holiday. In this weather it is paramount that a lady protects her good complexion.’
‘Yes, mam,’ Bridget nodded meekly.
Nellie was relieved finally to escape upstairs to her bedroom, wondering why Mother, even though they were on holiday, still managed to annoy them so with her stupid etiquette and manners, her rules and regulations.
As the weeks went on, Father gradually persuaded Mother to go for walks or come down to the beach or take a jaunt in the pony and trap to Rathnew or Delgany with him.
Their annual picnic to Sugar Loaf Mountain was one of the summer’s special outings. Along with a number of friends’ families, the Giffords rented a large wagonette to drive them all up to have a picnic on the grassy lower slopes of the mountain.
I wish Gerald was here with us, thought Nellie as they joined the Garveys, the Duggans, the Hancocks, the Heustons with their twin boys, and the Goodbodys. All the young people raced to climb to the top of the mountain; later they would be rewarded with sandwiches, cheese and pickles, hardboiled eggs and cups of homemade lemonade, buns and sweet cake from the picnic hampers as they played games and chased each other.
‘Isabella, I’m so glad that you came today,’ said pretty Mrs Heuston, squeezing Mother’s hand as she joined the coterie of women sitting on cushions and rugs in the sunshine. Mother’s friends and neighbours in Greystones were full of kindness and understanding of her grief, fussing over her as they talked about Gerald and remembered him with great fondness.
As the days of summer ended, Nellie dreaded having to say goodbye to Bridget, the nanny who had helped to raise them all, loving each and every one of them in turn.
On their last evening Mother and Father had gone out to dinner and a summer music concert down at the seafront, so Essie and Nora decided to organize a farewell party for Bridget in the kitchen. Nellie had secretly made her a large chocolate sponge cake and there were coconut macaroons and cherry Bakewells and large jugs of lemonade for everyone, and they also had to sing or dance or do a recitation. Kate, Ada and Muriel performed ‘Three Little Maids’ from The Mikado; Gabriel and Ernest did a funny sailor’s dance. She, Grace and Muriel sang ‘Gypsy Rover’, one of Bridget’s favourite songs, and everyone joined in, singing verse after verse. Sidney read a beautiful poem she had written about Bridget which had them all in tears.
‘My work is done, for you are all growing up to be fine gentlemen and young ladies to be proud of … too old to have a nanny!’ Bridget said, blowing her nose noisily. ‘Hopefully you will all remember your old nanny and come to visit Mr Byrne and me in our little home in Wexford, where you will always find a warm welcome.’
Nellie and her sisters and brothers felt immensely sad, wishing that Bridget never had to leave them. Nellie had brought her violin along and Bridget asked her to play a few tunes to get everyone tapping their feet and dancing. When Mother and Father returned from the concert they heard the singing and music, so they joined them in the kitchen and the whole family said a fond farewell to Bridget.
‘MY DEAR, IT is good to see that you have colour back in your cheeks,’ said Frederick encouragingly on their return to Dublin.
Isabella finally sat down to tackle the vast correspondence they had received following their son’s death, the letters often making her weep as she drafted a reply. Then she turned to their social engagements. Frederick always relied on her to organize their calendar of social affairs and entertaining. She made notes in her diary of the usual Law Society dinners and balls, and of dinner and lunch invitations from friends for the next few months; but she was still in mourning and not sure she could face them yet, so she sent out polite notes of apology and regret.
‘Mother, why don’t you invite your friends to tea?’ Kate pleaded.
‘I will consider it in a few weeks,’ she promised, though she had no inclination at present to host her regular afternoons at home.
One morning Isabella realized that months had passed and their garden was now filled with bright spring daffodils and purple lilac blossom.
Claude had announced his engagement to Ethel Parks, a rather serious young woman whose family lived nearby on Temple Road. Claude was devoted to her and their temperaments seemed well suited. While Ethel seemed quiet and rather solitary, Isabella suspected that she was possessed of a much stronger character than appeared and was well cut out to be the wife of a talented young barrister, with all the demands the role would bring.
‘Ethel and I plan to marry at the end of the summer,’ Claude told her happily, ‘and we hope to rent a home near both families.’
‘We are very pleased for you,’ Isabella smiled, hugging her son but saddened by the fact that Gerald would not be there to see his older brother wed.