Chapter 49
CHAPTER 49
Maura
What should be a fifteen-minute journey across town takes an hour, maybe more. It begins to rain as I reach Grafton Street. Umbrellas appear to open out of nowhere and the people under them pick up their pace as if they can outwalk the weather. I look up at the sky, grateful for the gentle drops that fall on my face and cool me. My clothes stick to my clammy skin and my palms are blistering from gripping my crutches. I’m disgusted by my grubby toes where my foot peeks out beneath my trousers. Brownish-black blood has dried in the creases of my big toe where I cracked it against a raised cobblestone on the way.
Finally, Bewley’s comes into view, with its stained-glass windows, green-and-cream-striped canopies, and window boxes of emerald-green shrubs. The mosaic tiles at the door are slippery, and a man much better kitted out for the weather in a long tan trench coat comes to help. He cups my elbow and guides me inside. He offers to carry a tray for me, but I tell him I’m meeting friends. And I hope so much that proves to be true.
I make my way toward the counter, and I’m about to ask for Nuala when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“I knew you’d come,” Geraldine says as I turn around. She throws her arms around me and hugs me tight. It hurts, but I don’t say a word. “God, you look rough. When did you get out?” she asks, as if I’ve just broken free from a stint in prison. In many ways it feels as if I have.
“Earlier. Just today.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says.
I swallow. I was always coming. Although I’m not quite sure what I’ve come to.
“Come on,” Ger says, placing her hand on the small of my back. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
Several square tables are pushed together to form one long table, and a group of women sit at each side. They look up at Ger and me as we approach, and I am more self-aware than ever.
“You must be Maura,” one of the women says. She pushes her chair back and it squeaks against the tiles. She stands up. “I’m Nuala. Nuala Tyrone.”
“Hello, Nuala, nice to meet you,” I say, as if her name should mean more to me than it does.
Nuala pulls out the empty chair next to her, smiles with kind eyes and a mouth full of crooked teeth, and says, “Have a seat.”
I walk around the long table and she takes my crutches and leans them against the wall behind us. I lower myself slowly and awkwardly into the slightly wobbly timber chair as all eyes are on me. There are ten, maybe eleven women at the table. Younger than me, older than me, but none particularly old or young. They sit with teacups and plates of pastries in front of them, and almost everyone has a notebook and a pen. The space next to me is empty until Ger sits down. She tears a page out of her notepad and passes me the pencil that I hadn’t noticed tucked above her ear before now.
“Right, ladies, where were we?” Nuala says, and I can tell whatever this is, Nuala is clearly the ringleader.
“The marriage bar,” a woman across the table says, before she bites into a scone. “It’s got to go.”
“Hear, hear,” everyone cheers.
Nuala pokes her tongue between her teeth and concentrates as she writes in her notepad. “The. Marriage. Bar. Yes indeed, definitely. Bloody antiquated nonsense. Why should a woman have to become a housewife and quit her job just because she’s married?”
“Hear, hear.”
There’s more cheering and some of the women slap their hands on the table with animated approval.
“Equal education opportunities,” another woman, sitting near the end of the table, says. She has to raise her voice to be heard.
“Absolutely.” Nuala writes again.
“And protection of the family home,” someone else shouts. “My brother-in-law is a gambler. My sister can’t sleep at night for worrying that he’ll sell the house out from under her and the kids if things get bad enough.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Nuala says.
The woman stands. She’s distressed and I can’t tell if she wants to scream or cry. Or both. “He would ’n’ all. Things are that bad. And there’d be nothing my sister could do if the mood takes him to up and sell their house. He’d be well within his rights, and she and the children would be out on their ears. She has four children under six.”
“Christ,” Nuala says, shaking her head before she reaches for her cup to sip some tea. “What is wrong with this country, eh? Well, it’s about to change, ladies. We’re going to see to that, aren’t we? We’ll knock on every politician’s door. We’ll march on every street corner. We won’t stop until women’s voices are heard. Enough is enough.”
There’s whooping and cheering and the other patrons of Bewley’s stare toward us, rather unimpressed with our voracity and enthusiasm.
“Keep them coming, ladies, keep the ideas coming. Every single word is going in the manifesto. Let’s see them keep us quiet then.”
I lean toward Ger and whisper, “What is this? What is happening here?”
Ger’s face lights up with a smile that would charm the birds from the trees. My question is redundant and we both know it. I know exactly what’s happening. Ger has made space for me in the women’s rights movement as if I belong here. Fire burns in my belly. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating and I’ve never felt anything like it before.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Ger says. “Most of these women are journalists. Or they’re connected to someone who works in radio or TV. Imagine that—they can write about women’s problems and actually get it published. In the paper.” Ger draws an invisible circle around the table, encapsulating us as a united group. Female warriors. Our weapons are pens and paper and our words are our ammunition. “Imagine old farts like Murph in the pub reading about equal pay for women or married women working. He’d probably choke on his pint. I’d pay good money to see that, if I’m honest.”
I laugh. “Me too. But I’m not a journalist, Ger. I’m not sure I should be here.”
“You’re a woman, Maura. That’s enough.”
Geraldine stands up, and I catch the sleeve of her cardigan quickly. “Where are you going?” I say, horrified at the notion of her leaving me.
“I’m getting you a cup of tea and a bite to eat. This could be a long day and I don’t want you ending up back in the hospital. We need you here.”
I fidget nervously. I’m not sure what Geraldine expects from me. What value she’s hoping I can bring to the group.
“It’s all right, Maura. Them women don’t bite.”
I look at Nuala once more. She’s tall and broad, with thick-rimmed glasses and long, curly hair that’s graying at the temples. She carries herself with a confidence most women only dream of. I’ve no doubt she could bite if she needed to.
“Don’t be afraid to speak up,” Geraldine says. “I know you have ideas; share them. Be brave.”
My stomach is knotted. “I’m not brave.”
Geraldine squeezes my hand. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But I’m still not sure why.”
Geraldine takes a deep breath. “You’ll figure it out. It’s why we’re all here. We are women trying to figure out how to live in a man’s world.”
There’s a coolness that whips around me when Geraldine leaves and I feel the eyes of strangers upon me.
“What happened to you?” the woman sitting directly opposite me asks. “You look as if you’ve been in the wars.”
“I… eh…”
“Your husband?” she asks.
“Um…”
The woman’s eyes sweep over me as if she’s looking for something. The secrets of my marriage revealed on my clothes or in the contours of my face. I don’t like her, I decide as I stare back, without blinking.
“Is that why you’re here? To get back at your husband?” she asks.
“What? No. Ger invited me.”
She snorts. “Ger invited you. You didn’t bring a pen or paper. And you show up looking like that. What paper do you write for? I’ve never seen you before.”
“I didn’t know this was a press meeting.” I glance around, trying to spy Geraldine in the queue gathered at the hot-food counter. My eyes settle on her back and I will her to turn around. She doesn’t.
“I’m just a housewife,” I say.
“It’s not a tea party, love. We take this seriously.”
“I… I… I’m taking this seriously.”
“Oh, shut up, Sharon,” Nuala says, taking off her glasses to rub her eyes. She slips them back on and shifts her gaze to me. “Don’t mind her, Maura. She’s just jealous of your perfect hair and fancy clothes. But I’m willing to bet a housewife with a rich husband has her fair share of problems, am I right?”
“Yes,” I blurt nervously. “Big ones.”
Sharon’s eyes burn into me but she’s not glaring at me to shut my mouth—she’s waiting to hear what I have to say. I know I better make it good.
“I used to work with Ger. In Switzers.”
“Lovely,” Nuala says.
“Yes. I loved it there. But then I got married and—”
“And that was that,” Nuala finishes for me.
I nod. “I’m a housewife now. I should be at home minding the baby. Or babies, I suppose. But that’s the problem, actually. I don’t want a baby. I did. At first. But not anymore.”
“Why did you get married if you don’t want children?” Sharon asks, making a face.
Nuala shoots her a look that would hush most people.
“What?” Sharon says, jamming her hands on her hips. “I’m curious. Most housewives want at least a few babies. What else is there to do with your time?”
“That’s my business,” I say, and I’m glad my knees are hidden under the table where Sharon can’t see them shaking. “It’s my body. It should be my choice.”
My words cut through the air as if I’ve thrown a samurai sword. Mouths open and eyes widen. Any of the women who hadn’t paid attention to me before now suddenly look my way. For a moment I want to rewind. I want to take my words back.
Sharon lights up a cigarette, takes a drag, and puffs a small tuft of smoke out.
“But you’re a married woman,” she says. “If your husband wants children—”
“Are you joking?” Nuala cuts her off. “If a wife says no and he still goes for it anyway, then it’s bloody rape, isn’t it?”
“It’s not rape if they’re married. That’s just the way it is.”
I’m filled with anger. It bubbles inside me like water boiling on the stove. It’s about ready to boil over and I don’t know where to put it.
“Look.” Sharon turns toward me with round, sympathetic eyes. “It was good of you to come along today, but I think you’ve missed the point here. We’re serious about change and women’s rights. We don’t have time for marital tiffs.”
I wonder if Sharon has ever had a man force himself on top of her. I wonder if she’s ever felt his hot skin against her back when her eyes sting with tiredness. Or woken to his cigar breath on her neck. Had a man whisper I love you after he has hurt her and will hurt her again. Carried a baby, lost a baby, and known that she was not strong enough to go through it all again but she had no choice. It is all in your husband’s control. Your life, your worth, your body. Sharon may write stories for a living, but her own life story must be blank, because were it not, she would be consumed with the knowledge that owning her own body is her greatest right.
Arguing erupts. It’s heated and passionate. Voices are raised, language is foul, and hands are banged against tables. I watch as the aftermath of my words ripples across the generations of women. The tide catches me and tries to pull me under, but I hold my head high and refuse to go down with it.
“Do you have friends like you?” Nuala asks, raising her voice so I can hear her above the shouting. “Do you know more housewives who don’t want babies? Or any more babies?”
I think of Bernie and her beautiful girls. I think of the little boy she lost and how Dan took himself off to the spare room and it almost broke their marriage. And I nod.
“Look at us,” Nuala says, pointing around the table. “We’re the Irish Women’s Liberation Movement—desperate for change, determined for change. And yet, we’re all so conditioned by the rules and regulations that surround us that we’ve unknowingly allowed them to shape us. The lines of acceptable change are blurred. We might be journalists prepared to pen our woes and print them, but we need women like you, Maura. We need the ordinary housewives of Ireland to stand alongside us. We need every woman in Ireland to fight.”
Geraldine returns with a tray. On top are two fresh cups of tea and two Madeira buns with icing.
“Jesus, what did I miss?”
“Um… I think I caused this.”
Geraldine sets the cups and buns down on the table. When she sits, I stand. It takes me a while to position myself fully upright, and by the time I do, tempers are flaring even brighter.
“I’m sorry if I upset some of you,” I say, my words not making a dent above the noise.
Nuala catches my gaze from the corner of her eye. She nods encouragingly.
I try again. Louder. “Listen, please.”
The arguing continues. Nuala claps her hands. No change. Finally, she shoves two fingers into her mouth and whistles loudly. Heads turn like those of commanded soldiers and all eyes are on their leader.
“Maura wasn’t finished speaking,” Nuala says.
Sharon groans, and I wish Bernie were here. She’d tell Sharon to fuck off. I’m not as brash or daring with my words, but I am determined to make my point whether Sharon likes it or not.
“As I said, I’m sorry; I’m new here and I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
“We’re all new here,” Sharon jibes. “It’s our first meeting.”
I think Sharon is expecting laughter. A giggle or two at least, but there is silence until Ger says, “Jesus, Sharon, will you give it a rest? Maura clearly has something to say.”
“Go on, Maura,” Nuala says. “We’re listening.”
I swallow and try not to overthink my words as they spill out. “I know sex isn’t something any of us like to talk about. But if we never talk about it, nothing will ever change.”
“What about sex needs to change?” Sharon asks. “As far as I know, it’s worked the same way since the Stone Age.”
Geraldine shoots Sharon a look that warns her to pipe down, but I think Sharon’s question, although facetious, is a helpful starting point.
“I’m not talking about the mechanics of making love, Sharon, but thank you for your observation. I’m talking about everything that sex encompasses. The different consequences the physical act brings to a man and a woman. For a man, sex ends the moment his body separates from a woman’s. For a woman, often, sex is just the beginning. She can fall pregnant whether she wants to or not. She can carry a child for nine long months whether she wants to or not. She can go through the labor and pain of birth whether she wants to or not. The stakes of sex are so much higher for a woman than for a man.”
Sharon softens. The dark cloud of anger in her eyes is gone. She is listening. Dare I say it, she’s even invested. “What are you saying? You want sex made illegal?”
I roll my eyes. Sharon is an idiot, I decide. “No. Of course not. I want sex made fair.”
“And how do you propose to do that? God made sex unfair from day one. We’re trying to take on the government here. Not the Lord above.”
“Contraception,” I say, using a word I’d read in Ger’s newspapers. “It’s that simple. There are ways and means of preventing pregnancy. The pill, French letters, diaphragms and such, and others that I bet we haven’t even heard of. But they’re there. Woman all around the world have access to these methods of birth control and yet Irish women are being forced to live in the dark ages.”
There is silence. No one dares say a word. Maybe no one knows what to say.
“We deserve to work just as a man does. We deserve a roof over our heads just as a man does. You’re right, and it’s a tough fight and I will support you every step of the way. But surely we deserve control of our own bodies most of all.”
The silence is shattered by whooping and cheering. Feet stomp, hands clap, and my heart races.
“Contraception for women,” Nuala says.
“Contraception for women,” everyone echoes.
The other patrons stare and not a single woman at our long table lowers her voice or curbs her enthusiasm. Even Sharon claps and chants, “Contraception for women.”
Geraldine moves my hair away from my ear and leans in to whisper, “I think you’ve started something, Maura. Something amazing.”