Mr. de Valera didn’t come in very often, she told me, as the tea was generally brought to him in his office by Mrs. Hennessy herself, but from time to time he might pop his head in the door if he was looking for someone and take a seat with some of the backbenchers, gauging the mood of the party. Tall and skinny, a bit gormless looking, she said he was never anything but polite and once reprimanded one of his own junior ministers for clicking his fingers at her, an action that earned him her eternal gratitude.
The girls she worked alongside were full of concern for my mother’s situation. Seventeen years old by now, with a fictitious husband dead in a war that had finally come to an end and an all too real child ready to push its way out into the world, they regarded her with a mixture of fascination and pity.
“And your poor mammy died too, I heard?” asked an older girl, Lizzie, as they stood by the sink one afternoon washing dishes.
“She did,” said my mother. “A terrible accident.”
“I heard it was the cancer.”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “I meant a terrible misfortune. That she got the cancer at all.”
“They say it carries down the family line,” said Lizzie, who must have been the life and soul of any party. “Would you not worry that you’d get it yourself one day?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought about it before,” said my mother, stopping what she was doing and considering it. “But I’ll think of nothing else now that you’ve said it.” For a moment, she told me, she wondered whether she might, in fact, be in danger of developing the disease until she remembered that her mother, my grandmother, was alive and well and living with her husband and six straw-brained sons two hundred and thirty miles away in Goleen, West Cork. She relaxed again after that.
The Great Plan
In mid August, Mrs. Hennessy called her into her office and said that she thought the time had come for my mother to leave the job.
“Is it because I was late this morning?” asked my mother. “It’s the first time that’s ever happened. But there was a man standing outside my front door as I was leaving and he had a look on his face that said he wanted to murder me. I didn’t want to go out alone while he was still there. I went upstairs and looked out the window and it was another twenty minutes before he turned on his heel and disappeared down Grafton Street.”
“It’s not because you were late,” said Mrs. Hennessy, shaking her head. “You’ve always been punctual, Catherine, unlike some of them. No, I just think the time has come, that’s all.”
“But I still need the money,” she protested. “I have my rent to think of and the child and—”
“I know, and I feel for you, but would you take a look at yourself, you’re as big as a house. You can’t have more than a couple of days to go. Is there nothing stirring, no?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.”
“The thing is,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “I’ve had…would you sit down, Catherine, for God’s sake, and take the weight off. You shouldn’t be standing in your condition anyway. The thing is, I’ve had complaints from some of the TDs.”
“About me?”
“About you.”
“But sure I’m never anything other than polite. Other than to that gombeen-man from Donegal who presses against me every time he passes and calls me his cushion.”
“Oh I know that well enough,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “Haven’t I been watching you myself over these last three months? You’d have a job for life here if it wasn’t for, you know, the fact that you will have other responsibilities soon. You’re everything I look for in a tea girl. You were born to the role.”
My mother smiled, deciding to take this as a compliment even though she wasn’t entirely sure that it was one.
“No, it’s not your manners they’re complaining about. It’s your condition. They say that seeing a woman so far along in her pregnancy puts them off their custard slices.”
“Are you having me on?”
“This is what they’ve told me.”
My mother laughed and shook her head. “Who said these things?” she asked. “Will you name names, Mrs. Hennessy?”
“I won’t, no.”
“Was it one of the MayBes?”
“I won’t say, Catherine.”
“Party affiliation then?”
“A little bit of both. A few more of the Fianna Fáil crowd, though, if I’m honest. But you know what they’re like. The Blueshirts don’t seem so bothered.”
“Is it that little weasel that calls himself a Minister for—”
“Catherine, I’m not going to get into specifics with you,” insisted Mrs. Hennessy, holding a hand in the air to silence her. “The fact is that you’ve only got days left anyway, a week at most, and it’s in your best interests to stay off your feet. Would you not just do me the favor of calling it a day without any trouble about it? You’ve been wonderful, you have, and—”
“Of course,” said my mother, realizing that she would be better off not begging for more time. “You’ve been very kind to me, Mrs. Hennessy. You gave me a job when I needed one and I know it wasn’t the easiest decision to make. I’ll see out the day and leave with a special place in my heart for you.”
Mrs. Hennessy breathed a sigh of relief and sat back in her chair. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re a good girl, Catherine. You’ll make a wonderful mother, you know. And if you ever need anything—”
“Well, there is something, actually,” she replied. “After the baby’s born, could I come back, do you think?”
“Come back where? Come back here to the Dáil? Oh no, that wouldn’t be possible. Sure who’d look after the baby for one thing?”
My mother glanced out the window and took a deep breath. This would be the first time she had spoken aloud of her Great Plan. “His mother will look after him,” she said. “Or her. Whichever it is.”
“His mother?” asked Mrs. Hennessy, baffled. “But—”
“I won’t be keeping the baby, Mrs. Hennessy,” said my mother. “It’s all arranged. After I give birth, there’s a little hunchbacked Redemptorist nun who’s going to come to the hospital to take the child away. A couple on Dartmouth Square are going to adopt it.”
“Heavens above!” said Mrs. Hennessy. “And when was all this decided, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I decided on the day I found out that I was pregnant. I’m too young, I have no money and there’s no chance that I can provide for the child. I’m not heartless, I promise you that, but the baby will be better off if I give it up to a family who can actually give it a good home.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Hennessy, considering this. “I suppose these things do happen. But are you sure you’ll be able to live with your decision?”
“No, but I think it’s for the best nevertheless. The child stands a better chance with them than it would with me. They have money, Mrs. Hennessy. And I haven’t a bean.”
“And your husband? Is it what he would have wanted?”
My mother couldn’t bring herself to lie anymore to this good woman and perhaps the shame showed in her face.
“Would I be right in thinking that there was no Mr. Goggin?” Mrs. Hennessy asked finally.
“You would,” said my mother quietly.
“And the wedding ring?”
“I bought it myself. In a shop on Coppinger Row.”
“I thought as much. No man would ever have the sense to choose something so elegant.”
My mother looked up and smiled a little and was surprised to see that Mrs. Hennessy was starting to cry, and she reached into her pocket for a handkerchief to pass across to her.
“Are you all right?” she asked, surprised by this unexpected surge of emotion.
“I’m fine,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “Not a bother on me.”
“But you’re crying.”
“Only a little bit.”
“Is it something I said?”
Mrs. Hennessy looked up and swallowed hard. “Can we think of th
is room as akin to the confessional?” she asked. “And that what we say between each other stays in here?”
“Of course,” said my mother. “You’ve been very kind to me. I hope you know that I have great affection and respect for you.”
“That’s sweet of you to say. But I always guessed that the story you gave me wasn’t quite true and I wanted to show you the compassion that was never shown to me when I was in your position. Maybe you won’t be surprised if I say that there was never a Mr. Hennessy either.” She extended her left hand and they both looked at her wedding ring. “I bought that for four shillings in a shop on Henry Street in 1913,” she said. “I haven’t taken it off my finger since.”
“Did you have a child too?” asked my mother. “Did you have to bring it up alone?”
“Not quite,” said Mrs. Hennessy hesitantly. “I’m from Westmeath, did you know that, Catherine?”
“I did, yes. You told me once.”
“I haven’t set foot in the place since I left. But I didn’t come to Dublin to have my baby. I had it at home. In the bedroom I’d slept in every night of my life until then, the same room where the poor child was conceived.”
“And what happened to him?” asked my mother. “Was it a him?”
“No, it was a her. A little girl. A beautiful little thing. She didn’t last long. Mammy cut the cord once she was out of me and Daddy took her out the back where a bucket of water was waiting and he held her under for a minute or two, long enough to drown her. Then he threw her in a grave that he’d dug a few days earlier and covered her over and that was the end of that. No one ever knew. Not the neighbors, not the priest, not the Gardaí.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” said my mother, sitting back in horror.
“I never even got a chance to hold her,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “Mammy cleaned me up and I was put onto the road later that same day. They said I was never to return.”
“I was denounced from the pulpit,” said my mother. “The parish priest called me a whore.”
“Those fellas have no more sense than a wooden spoon,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “I’ve never known cruelty like the cruelty of the priests. This country…” She closed her eyes and shook her head, and my mother said that it looked like she wanted to scream.
“That’s a terrible story,” said my mother eventually. “I suppose the baby’s daddy didn’t offer to marry you?”
Mrs. Hennessy gave a bitter laugh. “He wouldn’t have been able anyway,” she said. “He was already married.”
“Did his wife find out?”
Mrs. Hennessy stared at her and when she spoke her voice was low and mixed with shame and loathing. “She knew well enough,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that she cut the cord?”
My mother said nothing for a moment and when she finally realized what Mrs. Hennessy meant she put a hand to her mouth and felt that she might be sick.
“As I said, these things happen,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “Your decision is made, Catherine? You’re going to give the child up?”
My mother couldn’t find her voice but nodded.
“Then give yourself a couple of weeks afterward to get better and then come back to me. We’ll tell people that the baby died and soon enough they’ll forget all about it.”
“Will that work?” asked my mother.
“It will work for them,” she replied, reaching over and taking my mother’s hand in hers. “But I’m sorry to say, Catherine, it will never work for you.”
Violence
It was growing dark as my mother made her way home that evening. Turning the corner onto Chatham Street, she was annoyed to notice a figure emerging unsteadily from Clarendon’s pub, the same man whose presence outside her door that morning had made her late for work. He was wildly overweight with a wrinkled face gone red with the drink and two or three days’ growth of beard that gave him the appearance of a vagrant.
“There you are now,” he said as she walked toward her front door, the stench of whiskey on his breath so strong that she was forced to pull back from him. “Large as life and twice as ugly.”
She said nothing but took the key from her pocket and in her anxiety she struggled to insert it correctly.
“There’s rooms up above, isn’t there?” asked the man, glancing up toward the window. “A rake of them or just the one?”
“Just the one,” she said. “So if you’re looking for lodgings, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“The accent on you. You sound Cork-born to me. Where are you from? Bantry? Drimoleague? I knew a lass once from Drimoleague. A worthless creature who went with any man who asked her.”
My mother looked away and tried the key again, cursing beneath her breath as it jammed in the lock, causing her to twist the metal violently to release it.
“If you could just step out of the light,” she asked, turning to look him in the eye.
“Just the one flat,” he said, scratching his chin as he considered this. “So you live with them, do you?”
“With who?”
“That’s a curious arrangement altogether.”
“With who?” she insisted.
“With the queer fellas, of course. But what would they want with you anyway? They’ve no use for a woman, either of them.” He stared at her belly and shook his head. “Did one of them do this? No, sure they wouldn’t have it in them. You probably don’t even know who’s responsible, do ya, ya dirty little slut.”
My mother turned back to the door and this time the key slid in easily and the lock released. Before she could step inside, however, he pushed past her and marched into the hallway, leaving her standing on the street, uncertain what to do. It was only when he began to make his way up the staircase that she regained control of her senses and grew angry at the intrusion.
“Get down here, you,” she called up to him. “This is a private residence, do you hear me? I’ll call the Gardaí!”
“Call whoever the fuck you like!” he roared back, and she looked up and down the street but there wasn’t a sinner in sight. Gathering all her courage, she followed him up the staircase, where he was rattling ineffectively at the door handle.
“Open this now,” he said, pointing a fat finger at her, and she couldn’t help but notice the dirt that lived beneath his long fingernails. A farmer, she decided. And his accent was Cork too, but not West Cork or she would have been able to identify it quickly. “Open it now, little girl, or I’ll put my foot right through it.”
“I will not,” she said. “And you’ll leave these premises or I’ll—”
He turned his back on her, waving her away, and as good as his word lifted his right boot, gave the door an almighty kick and it burst open, slamming against the wall and causing a pot to fall from a shelf into the bathtub with a terrific clatter. The living room was empty but even as he stumbled inside with my mother in hot pursuit the sound of anxious voices could be heard from the bedroom beyond.
“Get out here, Seán MacIntyre!” roared the man, reeling in his drunkenness. “Get out here now till I beat some decency into you. I warned you what I’d do if I ever caught the pair of you together again.”
He lifted his stick—my mother hadn’t even noticed the stick until that moment—and brought it down solidly against the table a few times, hard enough to make her jump at the noise of it. Her own father had a stick just like this one and many was the time she had observed him set upon one of her brothers with it in a fury. He had tried to use it on her on the night that her secret was revealed but, mercifully, my grandmother had held him back.
“You have the wrong place,” cried my mother. “This is madness!”
“Get out here!” roared the man again. “Get out here or I’ll come in there and get you myself. Come on now!”
“Leave,” said my mother, pulling at his sleeve, but he pushed her away violently, causing her to fall against the armchair whereupon a swift pain coursed through her back and ran along the length of her spine, like a mouse s
currying for cover. The man reached for the bedroom door, flinging it wide open, and there, to my mother’s astonishment, were Seán and Smoot, naked as the day they were born, sitting up against the headboard of the bed, expressions of utter terror on their faces.
“Jesus Christ,” said the man, turning away in disgust. “Get out here now, you dirty little bastard.”
“Daddy,” said Seán, jumping from the bed, and my mother couldn’t help but stare at his naked body as he rushed to cover himself with trousers and shirt. “Daddy, please, let’s just go downstairs and—”
He stepped into the living room but before he could say another word the man, his own father, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and smashed his head hard against the one shelf that stood affixed to the wall and carried only three books, a Bible, a copy of Ulysses and a biography of Queen Victoria. There was a terrible sound and Seán let out a groan that seemed to emerge from the very depths of his being, and when he turned around his face was pale and a black mark stood out on his forehead, pulsating for a moment as if uncertain what was expected of it, before turning red as the blood began to pour. His legs gave way beneath him and, as he collapsed to the ground, the man reached down and dragged him with one hand toward the doorway, where he began to kick him repeatedly, beating him with his stick and issuing blasphemies with every fresh assault.