1949 (14 page)

On the day the American stock market collapsed eleven speculators committed suicide and hysterical crowds gathered in Wall Street. The reassurances of bankers and brokers were not believed. An unprecedented spree of easy money and overconfidence had come to an abrupt end. Countless investors saw themselves facing ruin.

Within hours shares began to fall dramatically in London as well. The repercussions spread outward in concentric circles of despair until a pall of financial disaster encircled the globe. Even in Ireland, which had little direct experience of stocks and shares, people huddled around the wireless, listening anxiously to the latest reports, worrying about sons and brothers who had gone to the States to make their fortunes.

2RN advertised for a news editor. “Male, of course,” as Ursula said scornfully.

In Washington the new president, Herbert Hoover, asked Congress for extra funds for a massive federal construction program to create jobs for the millions who were suddenly out of work. A proposed £42 million public works program was announced in London, but Tories and Liberals alike agreed it would be too little, too late.

More suicides were reported.

“Dear Henry,” Ursula wrote, “Are you all right? Did you lose any money in the panic? Please send me a letter as soon as possible. I am worried.”

Henry wouldn't do anything foolish
, she assured herself.
He has too much common sense
.

She waited with growing anxiety for a letter that did not come.

In November a new dirigible piloted by an Irishman flew along the east coast of Ireland on its first trials.
¹
Ursula went out into the street to gaze up at the sleek airship floating over Dublin in immaculate silence.

Magic
.

“Sorry?” A man on the footpath was looking at Ursula quizzically.

I must have been thinking out loud
. “I said
magic
,” she repeated, indicating the silvery shape overhead.

“Not at all. Don't you know how it works? The whole thing's full of gas, y'see, and…” Removing his cap and tucking it under his arm, he explained his own version of the aerodynamics of airships. His tone was that of one instructing a very small child.

“You're very kind,” Ursula murmured when he finished. “But I'm afraid I couldn't possibly understand. I'm only a woman.”

Still no letter from Henry. She wrote again, with
Urgent
printed large on the envelope.

 

At the end of November the new Savoy Cinema was opened by W.T. Cosgrave. The theater's first offering was a documentary film entitled
Ireland
, produced by the government. After carefully counting and recounting the coins in her purse, Ursula joined the queue to buy tickets. A cold drizzle was falling. She turned up the collar of her coat.

“Still standing in line, I see,” remarked a voice behind her.

She spun around to gaze up into Finbar Cassidy's warm brown eyes. Her spirits lifted on an unexpected tide. “Will you join me?”

“I'd much rather stay out here in the rain freezing to death,” he said. “But sure, we can't let you go in alone.” He offered his arm.

Ursula had changed, he noticed. The planes of her cheekbones were sharper and the line of her jaw was leaner, but her smile still raced his heart.

There was a thrill of excitement as the house pianist played a thundering overture. The film itself proved to be thinly disguised Free State propaganda. Had she been alone Ursula would have walked out halfway through. Finbar was not impressed, either. “They're trying to convince us that everything's wonderful when the dogs in the street are howling about the depression,” he said. “
Ag duine féin is fearr a fhios cá luíonn an bhróg air
.”

“‘The wearer best knows where the shoe pinches,'” Ursula translated. “I didn't know you spoke Irish.”

“The language isn't as popular as it used to be,” he said. “After independence Gaelic language and culture underwent a massive revival, but enthusiasm is beginning to fade now. I think it's been promoted too hard. A lot of people want to think of themselves as modern, whatever that is, and resent being pushed back into the past.

“I'm Gaelic from topknot to toenails, me, and proud of it. I learned Irish before I learned English. But I'm also a civil servant, so I trim my sails to the prevailing wind. One must do that in government.

“Sometimes, though…” he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, “sometimes I think we'd be happier with no government at all. Anarchy's better suited to the Irish character.”

As he had intended, Ursula laughed. “I can't quite picture you as an anarchist, Finbar.”

“There's a lot about me you don't know. I'm an amazing man entirely. Going to run for office one of these days.” He ran his thumbs under the lapels of his jacket. “Do you fancy me as a T.D.?”
^*

Ursula thought he was still teasing. “Representing the anarchist party, I assume?”

Finbar shook his head. “Joined Cumann na nGaedheal a while back.” Suddenly she realized he was serious. “Cosgrave's doing his best under incredibly difficult circumstances. He's established an excellent police force and is trying to return the country to normal, God help him. Besides, he looks like the manager of a dry goods store and I find that refreshing after all those Republican characters swaggering around in trench coats and slouch hats.”

Ursula bit her lip but said nothing.

After the cinema she let Finbar walk her back to her lodgings. On the stoop she hesitated. This was not Gardiner Street, with Louise waiting to offer a prospective suitor a glass of whiskey and an apple cake baked in a bastible with hot coals on the lid.

“I'm afraid I can't invite you in,” Ursula said. “I only have a furnished room upstairs and no gentlemen are allowed above the ground floor.”

“I'll forgive you if you'll promise to come out with me again.”

When Finbar invited her to a pre-Christmas party in his office she accepted.

The Free State government consisted almost entirely of young men thrust into a situation for which nothing had prepared them. They were learning as quickly as they could, usually from the mistakes they made. Those in External Affairs thought of themselves as diplomats in training. Quickwitted and articulate, they specialized in stimulating conversation.

Ursula thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

Later she lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling, envisioning a map of Europe superimposed over the cracked plaster. New political movements were sweeping from country to country. Communism, fascism, and resurgent nationalism were shaping the postwar world. Ursula could almost feel the energy crackling across the Continent.

Its own revolution over, Ireland was tame by comparison. The drama was elsewhere.

Finbar Cassidy joined the exodus of city dwellers who traditionally returned to their families for Christmas. He traveled to Donegal; Ursula went to Clare.

She was startled when she saw Norah Daly. The old woman had grown frighteningly thin; her clothes hung on her body like a dress on a wire hanger. Her only explanation was, “I just don't have the appetite I used to.”

“If something's wrong with you, Aunt Norah, use the money I send for Saoirse's oats and go to the doctor.”

Norah shook her head. “No need. No need at all.”

When Ursula leaned on the gate and whistled, the gray horse came trotting toward her across the meadow. He looked well-nourished. His coat, though winter shaggy, had been recently brushed, and his hooves were freshly shod.

But he was no longer a stallion. Some things could not be healed.

 

Next morning Ursula walked the fields, saddened to observe they had not been properly tidied after the harvest. Frank had left too much stubble and too many broken stalks. Field walls had stones missing. The lower pasture needed draining and the earth gave off a boggy, sour smell.

Ned Halloran arrived at the farm two days before Christmas, bringing the traditional gift of a box of lemons and oranges. He was more gray and grim than ever, but at least he was home. For a little while. Like a bird perched on a branch, he seemed about to fly away at any moment.

Eileen and her husband made no appearance at the farm. No one mentioned them. They had ceased to be.

The talk around the table was mainly about the farm and the worsening economic situation. One evening Norah produced a letter with a foreign stamp on the envelope. “This arrived in the post today. From Kathleen. She and her husband have been estranged for a long time, you know, and now—”

“Estranged?” queried Ursula. “I should have thought they would be divorced by now. Is there not divorce in America?”

Norah was shocked. “Our Kathleen's a good Catholic! But her marriage is over anyway, so it is. That husband of hers lost a lot of money in the crash and has killed himself.”

The Hallorans exchanged looks around the table. “She's better off without him,” Ned said at last.

“God forgive you,” Norah breathed.

“It's true. Alexander Campbell was a domineering man who made her life a misery. Pass the cream, will you?” He sniffed the proffered jug suspiciously. “Has this turned?”

“What will Kathleen do without a husband?” Frank wondered aloud. “Will she be wanting to come home?” Behind his eyes Ursula saw the sums already being done, the careful calculation of the cost of another person on the farm.

Norah shook her head. “The girl wasn't left penniless, thank God. When they separated Mr. Campbell gave her a settlement in her own name, and she tells me she had the good sense to invest in property rather than shares.”

“She can make a new life for herself,” Lucy remarked enviously. “Ned, was there not some other man she liked very much? Some American?”

Ursula turned toward Ned. “The priest who married you and Mama was an American, and I overheard you telling Mama that he was a close friend of Kathleen's. Is he the—?”

“Not a priest!” cried Norah, throwing up her hands in horror. “Our Kathleen would never!”

“You remember too much,” Ned growled to Ursula in an undertone. He told the others, “Ursula was just a wee child at the time. She misunderstood.”

She nodded meekly. “I'm sure I did, Papa.”

Lying in bed that night, she heard Norah's words echo in her mind. “
That husband of hers lost a lot of money in the crash and has killed himself
.”

Before Ursula returned to Dublin she posted another urgent letter to Henry Mooney from the Ennis post office. She rode into town on Saoirse, aware that she was trying to recapture a time forever lost.

But for a little while it came back. Clean wind off the western sea; little fields nestled within the embrace of low stone walls; the road ahead bracketed by a pair of gray ears.

On the second day of the new year the All-India National Congress overwhelmingly passed Mahatma Gandhi's resolution demanding complete independence from Britain. “They won't get it,” Ursula predicted gloomily. “And even if they do, the British will have some nasty trick up their sleeve at the end, like partitioning the country before they leave.”