1999 (9 page)

On the nineteenth of April a tribunal headed by Lord Chief Justice Widgery, which had been established to look into the events surrounding Bloody Sunday, issued its report. The tribunal fully exonerated the British army and laid sole blame on NICRA, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, for organising the march.

Eyewitnesses to the event joined relatives of the victims in claiming the tribunal had been a whitewash. The British government ignored them. Northern Catholics rightly interpreted the government's attitude to mean that they could expect no support from the state. As usual, they were on their own.

No British soldier was ever convicted or even disciplined for his actions on Bloody Sunday.

The IRA stepped up its campaign of violence against the British army in Northern Ireland.

 

Try as he might, Séamus could not guess how old Ursula was.
Funny,
he thought,
once you reach a certain age the years don't matter so much but the generations do. Ursula and I must be almost the same generation; we remember the same music.

He was unaware how often his eyes followed her about the house.

In her one small suitcase Ursula had made room for a well-worn paperback novel. McCoy found her curled up on the couch in the parlour, totally absorbed.

“What are you reading?” he wondered.

She glanced up; smiled. “A favourite of mine, an historical novel called
Julian
, by Gore Vidal, an American writer. Fascinating if you're interested in Roman history.”

“I'm interested in Irish history. But I don't read novels.”

Keeping a finger in the book to mark her place, Ursula sat up. “Listen here to me, Séamus. History—whether Irish, English, Russian, or Chinese—is about people, and all people have something in common. A good historical novel gives you access to their feelings as well as to the events that shaped them, so you can understand the whole picture better. For example, this book tells the story of Julian the Apostate, who tried to swim against a mighty tide of change. Do you know anything about him?”

“Can't say I do.”

“Here, sit down by me.” She patted the couch. “Julian was the nephew of Constantine the Great, the emperor who converted to Christianity and made it the state religion of Rome. When Julian himself became emperor in
A.D
. 361 he set about trying to reverse the process. Vidal gives you a fascinating look at the two belief systems, pagan and Christian, from Julian's point of view. Seen through his eyes the ‘religion of the dead Jew' was absurd, contradictory—and not at all original. Many of its tenets were taken directly from the ancient cult of Mithras. Listen to this…” She riffled through the pages, found the passage she wanted, and began to read aloud.

They did not realise how much time had passed until the afternoon light began to fade. Ursula put the book aside. “How about a drink, Séamus?”

“Delighted.” McCoy followed her to the kitchen. He hid his disappointment when she began the time-honoured ritual of brewing tea, and said gallantly, “That's just what I need, I'm a divvil for a hot brew.”

Ursula gave him a cup of tea.

Then she poured herself a whiskey.

She felt she needed it in order to face another boring evening when little was discussed but plans for the wedding. Many of the details were not at Barbara's instigation but at Isabella's; the result of numerous transatlantic telephone calls from Texas.

During the meal Barbara complained, “Mom says I have to write a personal letter to Cousin Winnie in Belfast to include with her wedding invitation. Since I've never met the woman, Mom says a ‘nice letter' to introduce myself is called for. As if I don't have enough to do already.”

Barry reached for the butter. “Who's Cousin Winnie? You never mentioned having relatives in Belfast.”

“Oh yes, there's a whole batch up there. I don't know any of them, but they're all related in various ways to my grandmother Ella. Winifred's the matriarch, she's older than God. Now let me see if I have this straight.” Barbara began ticking facts off on her fingers. “Winnie's maiden name was Speer and she married Ernest Mansell, my grandmother's first cousin.”

Ursula's eyes began to glaze over, as they always did when someone listed their familial connections.

Barbara continued headlong. “After Mansell died Winnie married another cousin of my grandmother's. He was a widower who lived in Belfast but had extensive holdings in Canada; Toronto, I think. According to Mom, Donald Baines left Winnie an absolute fortune when he died.”

Ursula snapped to attention. “Did you say Donald Baines?”

“Yes, did you know him?”

“In Ireland everyone knows everyone else, or knows someone who does. Many years ago I was acquainted with a man whose surname was Baines.”

Barry slanted a look in his mother's direction. “I didn't know you'd ever been to Belfast.”

“I have never been to Belfast. I met Mr. Baines here in Dublin when I was working for Radio Éireann during its early years. There was some mix-up about his doing an interview for us.”

“Mr. Baines? Donald?”

“Not Donald,” Ursula said in clipped tones, slamming the door on the subject. “Please pass the butter if you've finished with it.”

That night she could not sleep. Looking for another book to read she wandered downstairs, then into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She noticed the red light burning over the pantry door.

“Barry? Are you still working this late?”

“Be right out,” he called. In a few moments the red light went off and he emerged, looking bleary-eyed. His mother was already preparing a cup for him too. They sat side by side in the kitchen like two old friends, drinking their tea and talking about this and that.

It seemed a night for confidences.

Barry remarked, “I've always wondered why you called your father ‘Papa.' It's not an Irish term.”

Ursula took another sip of tea. “I couldn't very well call him Da because he wasn't my real father.”

Barry could not have been more astonished if the law of gravity were repealed. “What are you talking about?”

“Human life is a search for identity, Barry. Some people think they know theirs from the beginning. Others are forever wondering who they are.”

Ursula smiled at the bewilderment on her son's face. “It's grand to be my age,” she told him. “When I was young I said whatever I thought, but with maturity I learned to be more circumspect. There were secrets to keep and feelings to spare; you understand. Now I'm old enough to talk straight again and it's wonderfully liberating.

“I don't know who gave birth to me, but I was approximately four years old in 1914. That's when Ned Halloran found me wandering in a Dublin street. I couldn't tell anyone who I was or where I came from. The only name I'd ever heard myself called was ‘Precious.'

“My mother, whoever she was, took advantage of the chaos surrounding the Bachelor's Walk Massacre
^*
to abandon me. She was probably destitute, a woman of the tenements on the north side of the city. When Ned found me I was undernourished and in shock. He took me to Jervis Street Hospital, where the nuns gave me the name ‘Ursula Jervis' so they would have something to put on their records. When I was strong enough they sent me to an orphanage. But I was one of the lucky ones; Ned and Síle rescued me a second time and raised me as their own. For a long time they continued to call me Precious. I always called them Mama and Papa.”

Barry was stunned.

Ursula went on, “Thanks to Church and State illegitimate is the worst label one can apply to a child in Ireland. The Irish Free State was illegitimate, the forced mating of British guile with Irish expediency. The current Republic of Ireland is a bastard too, a con trick that's a far cry from the Irish Republic we fought for in 1916. That's why I continue to support the IRA.”

“I think I need more than tea,” Barry told his mother. “How about a whiskey?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

 

Dressed in the latest American fashion—with sturdy corsetry underneath—Isabella Kavanagh arrived at Dublin Airport in the morning. Her short, tightly curled grey hair was tinted an improbable shade of lavender, resembling an exotic moss. She had brought two oversized Pullman cases, two slightly smaller matching suitcases, a fitted bag holding six pairs of shoes, an Italian leather vanity case, and a brown-and-white-striped hatbox. Isabella rode to Harold's Cross in the Austin Healey with Barry and Barbara. A taxicab had to be hired for her luggage.

Isabella was strict with her face. She allowed it no expression that might cause lasting lines. Upon first seeing the boardinghouse she conveyed her disapproval by a momentary narrowing of her eyes. “You'll want to buy something nicer now,” she told Barry as she got out of the car.

Ursula opened the front door. “You're very welcome, Isabella,” she said with a smile.

“You ought to take better care of your complexion, Ursula,” the other woman answered. “I hardly recognised you. Of course I haven't seen you since we were over here in '64, on our way to Italy for Barbara's opera training. A woman can age dreadfully in eight years if she's not careful.”

Ursula struggled to keep smiling as she reached for Isabella's vanity case. “Here, let me carry this upstairs for you.”

“I'll take it myself. If you drop it you'll break something and my entire Elizabeth Arden collection's in there.” Isabella noticed Séamus McCoy standing behind Ursula. “Are you the porter?”

McCoy was startled. “I'm…a friend.”

“Oh. Well, you look like a porter. Get those suitcases, will you?”

Barry interposed himself between McCoy and the luggage. Taking the handle of a Pullman case in each hand, he hefted the two with no apparent effort. Isabella watched as he carried the heavy suitcases up the stairs. “My,” she remarked, “he's very strong, isn't he? I had forgotten he was a farm boy.”

“My son's a university graduate. And a successful professional photographer,” Ursula added. The smile was but a memory.

“You'd never know it to look at him,” said Isabella. “Of course I don't know what a ‘professional photographer' is supposed to look like. Some sort of Bohemian, I suppose.”

The initial few minutes would set the tone for Isabella Kavanagh's entire visit. She trailed criticism like cigarette smoke, finding fault with everything. Her opinions were absolute; incapable of change.

That afternoon Barbara was recruited to help her mother unpack. Isabella began by taking an embroidered silk pouch from her vanity case and handing it to her daughter. “Your grandmother Ella's pearls,” she explained. “They'll be your ‘something old,' but not borrowed. She would want you to keep them but you must take very good care of them, Barbara; they were the most expensive jewellery Pop-Pop ever gave her. A family heirloom, you understand, never to be sold under any circumstances.”

Next Isabella flung back the lid of a Pullman case to reveal a wedding gown nestled in layers of tissue and complete with train and veil.

“I wanted to choose my own!” Barbara wailed.

“Nonsense, dear. The least you could do is let me supply your gown. I didn't have one for my wedding because we ran away to get married. In those days I thought an elopement was romantic.” She gave a sniff. “We live and learn.” She unfolded the dress and held it up. “Anyway, this is the gown I never had. Isn't it luscious?”

Barbara gazed in dismay at a voluminous white satin confection smothered by tiers of tulle and lace.

When she went downstairs she found Ursula reading in the parlour. “Disaster,” Barbara groaned as she sank into a chair. “Absolute disaster.”

Ursula looked up. “What is?”

“Mom's brought a wedding gown that looks like a huge wedding cake. She purposely bought something that will make me seem positively obese, so she'll look skinny standing next to me in the wedding photos.”

“I can't believe Isabella would do that,” Ursula said with a total lack of conviction.

“Oh yes, she would. She has. And there's no arguing with her, it just makes her more stubborn. What can I do?”

Ursula carefully closed her book. “You can go with me to see Mary O'Donnell. She's making my dress for the wedding and she can make yours too. One you will like.”

“Mom will never allow it.”

Ursula's eyes danced. “Leave her to me.”

That evening she casually remarked, “I'm having the first fitting of my dress for the wedding tomorrow. Early in the morning, as soon as the shops are open. I would invite you to join me, Isabella, but I'm sure you're exhausted after your journey.”

Isabella had a distasteful mental image of a poky little Dublin shop, draughty and badly lit, smelling of cheap fabric. “Absolutely exhausted,” she agreed. “I'll have to stay in bed tomorrow or I'll be a wreck. I think I'll go up now, in fact.”

“Quite wise,” said Ursula. “You always have had good sense.”

Isabella started toward the door.

Ursula turned toward Barbara and raised her voice slightly. “My dear friend Mary O'Donnell is making my frock herself. I'm sure you've heard of her; Mary trained in New York with the great Sybil Connolly…”

Isabella paused at the doorway.

“…and now she's the foremost designer in Ireland,” Ursula continued. “Barry's done some fashion photography for her, it's in all the magazines.”

Isabella turned around.

“The cream of Belfast society come down to Dublin to have Mary design clothes for them. I expect your cousin Winifred is a client of hers,” Ursula concluded.

The following morning Barry drove his mother and his fiancée to Mary O'Donnell's atelier. Barbara could hardly contain her glee. She twisted around to say to Ursula in the backseat, “What fun that was last night! My mother actually begged you for an introduction to your friend. And then you deliberately misunderstood her and thought she meant me.”