Rebel Sisters (11 page)

‘Working as a journalist, one has to always be curious,' Nora Dryhurst declared.

‘And what do you do with such knowledge?' Mother asked.

‘Why, Isabella, I edit it and then write it in my column. That is what I am paid to do.'

‘I wish that I could find such stories, but Dublin is a bit of a backwater,' admitted John enviously.

Grace could not help but smile to see how Mrs Dryhurst was well able to charm and get her way around Mother.

‘I'm afraid I have to leave you, Nora,' Mother apologized after a while. ‘Sidney should have given me better notice of your visit, but I had already made other arrangements with one of my neighbours and cannot let her down. Perhaps we will meet again.'

‘I'm sure that we will, Isabella dear,' replied Nora, smiling as she stood up to say goodbye to her.

‘Your mother is nothing like what you told me!' she teased John and Ernest.

She enquired about Muriel's work as a nurse. ‘It is such a wonderful vocation, my dear, but the work is so demanding. I have no doubt that you give great care and comfort to all your patients.'

‘The wards are always so busy,' Muriel agreed, ‘but it is rewarding.'

‘Now, Grace dear, tell me about your artistic endeavours.'

‘I have had a few caricature sketches published in two newspapers,' Grace replied ruefully, ‘but little else for the past few weeks.'

‘Talent often takes time to be discovered,' said Mrs Dryhurst gently. ‘But often giving a push in the right direction can prove very helpful. I'm invited to George Russell's home on Sunday. I never miss his salons when I am in Dublin, as he is what I would call a renaissance man, blessed with the type of intellect that is open and interested in everything and everyone. Why don't you all come along with me? It's a wonderful place to meet people – contacts that might prove useful.'

‘George Russell knows everyone!' John laughed, delighted at the invitation. ‘His salons are famous.'

‘Then it is agreed that we will all go.' The older woman clapped her hands in delight. ‘And Ernest, will you escort the ladies on Sunday?'

Embarrassed, Ernest flushed slightly, but with a little persuasion agreed that he too would attend.

‘But as I said, George's is always rather different, so we must dress up and find the right costumes for such an evening. What do you say?'

‘Yes,' agreed Grace excitedly, knowing that an invitation to George Russell's At Home was considered a great entrée to Dublin's literary and arts world.

‘Then we will find the costumes we need and ready ourselves for Sunday,' smiled Nora Dryhurst as she sipped a second cup of tea.

EXCITED BY THE
prospect of Mr Russell's costume party, Grace dressed as an Egyptian, wearing an off-white robe that was patterned with gold and fashioning a golden headband to go with it. She had borrowed a black silk cummerbund of her father's, which she wrapped tightly around her middle, and used heavy black liner to define her eyes in the Egyptian style. Pleased with the rather striking result, she turned to help Muriel, who was wearing a green and pink floral-patterned silk gown which was meant to resemble some kind of Chinese robe. Grace braided her sister's long red hair with a ribbon and showed her how to highlight her eyes. John chose a sweeping length of purple chiffon she had bought only a few weeks ago and wound it around her so that it vaguely resembled an Indian sari. Ernest had hunted through the house and was dressed like a Russian peasant, with boots, purple and green patterned waistcoat and a fur hat. Standing together, they created a rather bizarre-looking theatrical spectacle.

Mother was visiting some friends for the evening but Father stepped out into the hallway on hearing the commotion as they got ready to leave.

‘Where are you all off to?' he asked, taking in their attire. ‘A fancy-dress party, is it?'

The evening was warm and dry and, as they walked to George Russell's house on Rathgar Avenue, their strange attire attracted much attention from passers-by. When the large, bearded figure of Mr Russell opened the door, Grace could see immediately that their literary host was both amused and surprised at their appearance. Nora Dryhurst appeared and immediately ushered them inside the crowded drawing room to introduce them to the assembled company of artists and writers.

‘You all look divine,' she gushed. She herself was attired in a deep-green gown with a billowing skirt and a wrapover tartan scarf. She announced the Giffords as if they were some type of famous heroic figures.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the wonderful spirits from a bygone age – Deirdre, Fionnuala, Grania and of course the Great Cuchulainn himself,' she proclaimed with a flourish.

Looking around the book-filled room, Grace could see the other guests staring at them, torn between mirth and bewilderment at their clothing, for no one else was in costume as they had been told, but in conventional dresses and skirts, suits and jackets. Ernest was absolutely horrified at the position they were in. Grace, deeply embarrassed and humiliated by their appearance, just wanted to escape.

‘Don't be so self-conscious and shy,' urged an unrepentant Nora, pleading with them to enjoy the company and party, but the four of them fled to the safety of a smaller front room which was unoccupied except for a man sitting petting a dog.

‘Let's go home,' Muriel begged. ‘I don't want to stay. I'm so embarrassed.'

‘Nor do I,' agreed Grace, disappointed that the salon she had so looked forward to attending was such a disaster. She pulled the golden band from her head.

Curious, the little dog came over to them to sniff at their brother's boots and Russian costume.

‘Do you like dogs?' the man interrupted, showing no reaction to the way they were dressed. For some reason he too had obviously sought sanctuary away from Mr Russell's other guests.

‘We thought it was a costume party,' explained Ernest apologetically. ‘That is why we are dressed up in these ridiculous costumes.'

‘I expected tonight that only two or three other writers would attend,' the man confided. ‘George asked me to come along to read him some of the poems from my collection, but I certainly did not expect such a large and illustrious gathering.'

‘His salon is very famous,' added John, ‘but we really did expect that everyone would be dressed up in costume too.'

They introduced themselves and discovered that they were talking to the writer James Stephens.

‘Are you intending to rejoin the rest of the guests?' he asked.

Muriel, Ernest and Grace had no interest in any further humiliation, though John was tempted to swan in and join Nora Dryhurst.

‘Absolutely not, Mr Stephens, we intend leaving quietly,' Grace said firmly. She had no intention of staying on at the party, no matter what her sister said or did.

‘Then let us all make our escape together,' he suggested.

At the hall door George Russell came politely up to say goodbye.

‘I'm sorry that we did not get the opportunity to converse properly this evening, but do say that you will all come and visit me again,' he entreated them.

‘Yes, we will,' Grace promised. She knew well the importance of being accepted by Mr Russell and his coterie of artist and writer friends if she hoped to become part of the Dublin art scene.

‘MURIEL, DO SAY
you want to come with Grace and me to see St Enda's, the new school Mr Pearse has opened in Ranelagh,' urged John. ‘Mrs Dryhurst has invited us to join her.'

‘I'm not sure I want to be involved in another escapade with your friend after all the embarrassment she caused us at Mr Russell's house,' Muriel replied tartly.

‘This time will be different,' her sister promised. ‘Mr Pearse has some very revolutionary ideas about education, and Nora says that he may even agree to let me write a piece about his new school.'

‘Oh very well,' she sighed. She had done a week of night duty at the hospital and was still tired, enjoying her well-earned day off before she was back on duty tomorrow.

Her youngest sister was enthralled by Mrs Dryhurst, who seemed always to get invited to openings and exhibitions and enjoyed bringing along a few female friends for company.

St Enda's, the new school for boys, was in Ranelagh, close to their home in Rathmines. Mother considered it a nest of vipers, a school full of nationalists and Sinn Feiners and Gaelic Leaguers.

‘They speak Gaelic and have no business opening such a school in a good area like Ranelagh,' she complained.

When they arrived at the school in Oakley Road, Mr Padraig Pearse, the headmaster, was outside, standing there with his mother to welcome guests. He was a serious young man, dressed in a tweed suit and dark tie, his hair short, and his grey-blue eyes were earnest as he greeted them.

‘I'm very much looking forward to seeing your school, Mr Pearse,' said Nora Dryhurst enthusiastically. ‘I have heard great reports about St Enda's and the Gaelic-based curriculum you offer the boys instead of the British system.'

Despite her reservations, Muriel had to admit that she was curious.

They were just about to take the steps when a young man with tousled, curly brown hair bounded towards them.

‘Mrs Dryhurst, how nice to meet you again,' he said formally.

‘I am glad to see you, Mr MacDonagh,' she beamed. ‘I have asked some friends to accompany me, as I do believe they too will be fascinated by your new school.'

Muriel studied him. He seemed pleasant and more at ease than Mr Pearse.

‘Oh, I am forgetting my manners,' continued Nora. ‘This is Mr Thomas MacDonagh, the deputy principal, but also a gifted writer. His new play is being staged at the Abbey. Let me introduce you to my friends. These beautiful young women are the Gifford sisters, Muriel, Grace and John. Aren't they wonderful? My advice to you, Thomas, is to fall in love with one of these girls and marry her!'

Muriel could feel the redness flush her cheeks. John was laughing and Grace had a sphinx-like smile on her face. Was she the only one to feel absolutely embarrassed and put out by Mrs Dryhurst's very forward comments?

Thomas MacDonagh threw his head back and laughed aloud. ‘That would be easy, for they are all utterly charming. The difficulty would be to decide which one.'

Muriel prayed that the ground would open up and swallow her. She should never have listened to her sister; she should have stayed safely at home. Mr MacDonagh caught her eye and had the good grace to look at least momentarily contrite.

‘I do hope you will enjoy seeing the school and gain an understanding of what we are trying to do here. Our school is bilingual, the boys learning and speaking both Gaelic and English. Padraig's work will not only change minds, I believe, but also I suspect the future of education here in Ireland,' he said proudly.

‘Don't let the Castle or Westminster hear you say that!' Nora teased. ‘I hear they do not take well to change.'

‘Please excuse me, ladies – I have a few things to do. But I'm sure we will talk later. There will be refreshments served.' A few boys were hovering around and Mr MacDonagh beckoned to one of them to come over.

‘Sean, please show these ladies around and bring them back to the halla afterwards.'

The classrooms along the corridor were large and bright with tall, long windows, the desks forming a semicircle around the teacher. There was the usual blackboard, but on one wall were pictures of Irish monuments, Celtic crosses, round towers, old castles and the burial mounds at Newgrange.

‘These are the important places in our land, our heritage,' said young Sean proudly.

There was a large map of Ireland and its counties, showing its rivers, mountains and roads. As they had had only a map of Britain in her school, Muriel knew it's rivers, counties and countryside far better than those of her own country, she was ashamed to say.

Along another wall hung prints and paintings of famous Irish men – Robert Emmet, Theobald Wolfe Tone, Charles Stewart Parnell, Daniel O'Connell and Irish chieftains of old. The next classroom had the alphabet in Gaelic and simple words written in Irish.

‘This is for the younger boys,' explained Sean. ‘To help them learn the basics, they practise songs and rhymes and poems. Master Pearse believes that learning our native language is essential but should be made easier.'

He led them to the art room next, where vivid canvases almost covered one wall and a range of clay animal models stood on a long table. A tall young man was talking to two or three other visitors.

‘Art is an important part of our curriculum,' he was saying. ‘We believe that even the youngest student is able to express his inner self through colour and form.'

A few minutes later, Grace introduced them to Willie Pearse. ‘We went to the Metropolitan School of Art together. Willie is a wonderful sculptor.'

‘How does a sculptor come to work here?' asked Nora, curious.

‘Padraig is my older brother,' he explained, ‘so it's hard not to become involved in his endeavours. Besides, I enjoy teaching and it leaves me time for my own work too.'

‘That is good to hear,' nodded Grace.

‘Some of my pieces are on display in the school if you want to see them, Grace?' he offered.

Muriel could tell her sister was anxious to talk to Willie.

‘You run along, Grace dear,' urged Nora. ‘We will catch up with you in a while, but for the moment we'll continue our tour with young Sean.'

Grace threw them a glance of gratitude as she and Willie disappeared, talking together.

Muriel was impressed with the music room, noting that the instruments included fiddles, simple tin whistles and a drum that Sean told them was called a bodhran. The young lad picked up an unusual instrument that looked a bit like a small set of Scottish bagpipes and, sitting down, he began to play. The haunting sound of ancient Irish music filled the room.