Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
May 1969
Maura
“Good morning,” I say as Geraldine arrives at work.
She’s wearing slender-legged trousers that show off her ankles and she has a newspaper rolled like a telescope tucked under her arm.
“Well, do I have a bone to pick with you,” she says.
I glance at the grandfather clock next to the rack of ladies’ blouses. Geraldine is twenty minutes late for work for the second time this week. If anyone should be picking bones, it’s me. “What is it, Ger?”
She sighs and joins me behind the counter. She’s unrolling the newspaper and spreads it across the desk.
“What did I tell you about marriage?” she says. “I said it, didn’t I? I warned you that dating leads to weddings.”
I look down at the paper. Geraldine has circled the engagement announcement in blue pen. I let out an excited squeak and my feet pedal the ground as if I’m riding an imaginary bicycle.
“?‘It is with delight that Mr. and Mrs. Charles Flynn of Rathgar, Dublin, announce the engagement of their only daughter, Maura, to Dr. Christopher Davenport of Rathmines, Dublin,’?” Ger reads aloud in a most posh and proper accent.
It makes me belly laugh.
“Oh, Ger, isn’t it wonderful?” I say.
“If you’re happy, then yes. Yes it is.”
“I am happy. I am so very, very happy.”
My mother insisted on placing the announcement in the paper the moment Christy and my father returned to the kitchen.
“I’ll call the Irish Times first thing in the morning,” she said.
In all the excitement, Christy didn’t have a chance to actually pop the question directly to me, but my parents’ enthusiasm left no room for technicalities like an actual proposal. Luckily, Christy and I managed to steal a kiss and a hug alone in the garden later.
“I’m going to give you the most wonderful life, I promise,” he said, between soft, warm kisses pressed onto my lips.
“I’ll miss you something terrible,” Geraldine says now, with a voice crack that cuts through my daydreaming. “You’re nothing like the other girls here. You have a good head on your shoulders, Maura. Don’t let becoming a doctor’s wife knock it off.”
I’m not sure what Geraldine means but I smile and promise not to change.
“When do you have to give up work?” she asks, closing the newspaper and shoving it under the desk.
“The wedding is the twenty-first of June.”
“So soon.” Her eyes widen as she counts dates on her fingers. “That’s only five weeks away.”
“I know,” I say, as nervous excitement fills me to the brim. “But I can work right up until the big day.”
“And then you can never work again. Can’t even apply for a bloomin’ job because you’re someone’s wife. It’s ridiculous.” Geraldine jams her hands on her hips and puffs out, “It makes my blood boil. Married women can work everywhere else, you know.”
I shake my head. I’ve never heard of a married woman working, unless she was a teacher.
“They do,” Ger says, indignant. “My cousin lives in England and lots of women with children and everything work over there. I bet they work in America too. I bet women can do whatever they want in America.”
“I doubt any woman can do whatever she likes no matter where she lives, Ger,” I say, not in the mood for another of her fanciful arguments about women’s rights. “And besides, I don’t mind. Christy says we’ll probably have a baby by early next year. I’ll have my hands full then.”
“Then you’ll be someone’s wife and someone’s mother.”
I smile, proud as punch.
“Just promise me you won’t forget you were Maura Flynn first?” she says.
“I promise.”
“You’ll come see me, won’t you?”
“All the time.”
I choke back sentiment and set myself the task of refolding the cashmere jumpers. There’s a mustard one I quite fancy and I think about buying my first pair of trousers to pair with it. I envisage myself wearing the chic going-away outfit as I step into my new life and my new name. A tingle runs down my spine.
“I have something for you,” Geraldine says.
“Oh?”
“It’s a secret,” she whispers. “When the other girls come in, we can take our break.”
Intrigued, I’m about to ask what it is when a couple of older ladies come in looking for hats. The morning drags, and by the time two of the other girls arrive in, my tongue is hanging out for a cup of tea.
In the alleyway nearest the shoes and accessories entrance Geraldine and I share a cigarette, cups of tea, and half a packet of biscuits. The alley smells of the fishmongers nearby and I suggest stretching our legs with a walk, but Geraldine guides me into the doorway of a boarded-up shop. She reaches around her back, pulls a newspaper out, and shoves it into my hands.
“Another paper?” I say, surprised. I’ve never seen Ger read the newspaper before and yet today she’s sharing two.
“Shh.” Geraldine places her finger against her lips. “It’s not the Irish Times this time,” she says.
I unroll the paper and read the header. “The News of the World ,” I whisper.
Geraldine’s smile grows wide and full of mischief as I open the paper and flick through the pages. I gasp when a large-breasted, topless woman on page three stares back at me. I slam the paper shut and, flabbergasted, accidentally drop it on the damp ground. Geraldine tuts and bends down to pick it up. She wipes the back of the grubby paper against the leg of her trousers and stands up again.
“Haven’t you ever seen boobs before?” she asks.
“No! And certainly not in a newspaper. It’s a bit… erm… a bit…”
“Liberating?”
“I was going to say shameful.”
Geraldine shakes her head and sighs. “A woman should never be ashamed of her body.”
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“My cousin in Manchester sent me a copy. The one who works even with a husband and two children.”
“You shouldn’t have this,” I say, concerned. “It’s banned. You must know that, surely?”
“Of course I bloomin’ know that. Why do you think I have to get my cousin to send it over?”
I cringe and feel the heat of embarrassment creep across my cheeks.
“Who do the government think they are, banning a newspaper, for Pete’s sake? What do they think will happen; we’ll see boobs and all go mad?” she puffs out, defeated. “They can read this in Northern Ireland.” Ger jams a long nail against the paper, poking a small hole. “Did you know that?”
I assume her question is rhetorical, but nonetheless she glares at me as if she’s waiting for an answer.
“Isn’t that just the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? Ireland is one island with completely different rules for the North. It’s not fair.”
“One island is geography. Two different governments is politics,” I say as I glance over my shoulder, making sure there’s no one in earshot, because the conversation makes me increasingly more uncomfortable. “Why would you even want to read this filth anyway?”
“Because who’s to tell me what I can and can’t read? Who, huh?”
“Oh, Ger. I love the bones of you, but this feisty temperament of yours is going to get you in trouble someday. I worry about that, you know?”
“Do you want the damn paper or not?” she says, pinching her brows.
I look at her, not entirely sure why I would. “You’re about to become a married woman,” she tells me. “And someone needs to open your eyes to the ways of the world.”
“I’m five years older than you,” I remind her.
“And none the wiser for it.” She laughs. “There’s articles in here you wouldn’t believe.”
“Like what?” I say, slightly concerned that we shouldn’t be reading about such matters.
“Women in America are burning their bras because they’re sick of being second-class citizens,” Ger says, her eyes wide and almost wild with the thoughts of it. “They’re sick of being expected to look pretty or dress a certain way. They’re sick of listening to rules. They’re protesting in the streets. They’re fighting for their rights.”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out.
“They’re standing up to their government. Could you imagine something like that happening here? Wouldn’t that be great?”
Geraldine is my friend. I like her very much. But she’s young and full of colorful ideas about changing the country. I’m confident that when she grows up some more, she’ll understand that life is about compromise. Women have compromised for centuries. It’s just the way it is.
“I like to look my best,” I say. “I like lipstick and nail varnish because it makes me feel good inside. When I am married, a beautiful wife will make my husband proud. This is the life I want. I don’t want to see topless women or read about women burning their bras. Ger, I hope you understand.”
Geraldine rolls the paper and lifts her blouse to tuck it between the waistband of her trousers and her back. “I do understand.” She takes the last biscuit from the packet and bites into it. “But if you ever change your mind, you know where to come looking.”
I inhale and nod, confident that contraband anything is not something I will ever actively seek out.
“Come on,” Geraldine says. “We better go back inside before the girls start a rumor that I tried to have my wicked way with you.”
“Ger!” My voice comes out an octave higher than usual.
She cackles. “Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”