Chapter 60
CHAPTER 60
Early May 1971
Maura
With so much talk of trains, it would be no exaggeration to liken my house to a train station. Letters continue to roll in from women all over the country, more than we have time to read and reply to. Bags of them are stacked under the stairs. Nuala tripped over a bag yesterday and the list of profanity that she strung off dazed me for hours. The hall is equally as crowded. Thick cards lean against the walls; heavy white cardboard sheets with the words IRISH WOMEN ’ S LIBERATION MOVEMENT written in thick black marker. Dan promised he’d stop by later and attach some timber stakes to the back of the cards for us.
Of the one hundred women who signed up to join us on the train, less than half have remained committed and I panic every day that we will lose more. Their excuses and apologies are reasonable and fair.
My family will never speak to me again. My husband will leave me. My adult children will be ashamed of me. My parents will kick me out.
I hug every single woman who must pull back, and almost all of them cry and promise to support us silently from the sidelines.
“What good is that?” Nuala sulks. “Silence will get us nowhere.”
“There are forty-five women here today,” I say sternly. “Let’s count our blessings and not scare them away too.”
In the kitchen, the noise of sewing machines rattles. Women who volunteered to sew are busy creating a cloth banner that we plan to hold over our heads when we return to Dublin victorious. I donated a large green tablecloth. It was Christy’s mother’s. He didn’t notice that I ironed it and draped it across the table last Christmas and on his birthday. I’ve also parted with some of his expensive tweed suits. There is a moment of release and I almost cry out with satisfaction as his suits are cut and chopped to create letters for our banner. I-R-I-S-H W-O-M-E-N-S. There’s disappointment when we run out of material, but I smile widely, showing off my teeth.
“Not to worry, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
I dash upstairs and gather some of Christy’s finest shirts and his favorite pin-striped trousers, then toss the pile of clothes on the table. “There we are. Take what you need.”
Teresa, one of the youngest women, picks up a baby blue shirt. She’s little more than a grown girl, really, with pigtails in her hair and a shiny new wedding ring on her finger. I don’t ask her how old she is, but Bernie thinks she’s about twenty or twenty-one at most.
“This looks expensive,” Teresa says, turning the shirt back and forth, and I can tell she’s reluctant to take her scissors to it.
I shrug and try to offer her an encouraging smile.
Teresa reads the label and shakes her head. “But this is from Switzers. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes.” I nod, catching the end of the soft cotton between my fingertips to stroke it. “This is a very beautiful shirt. The man who wore it was beautiful too—on the outside. Inside, he was ugly to the core.”
Teresa nods and snaps her scissors shut, instantly cutting off a sleeve. She laughs and so do I.
“Imagine when he sees this on the news,” Nuala says. “Do you think he’ll know they’re his clothes?”
My heart skips a beat. My rebellion always feels tainted with the mention of Christy’s eyes on me in some way. I hadn’t thought about Christy seeing me on television again. And I especially hadn’t thought about him recognizing his finest clothes spelling out IRISH WOMEN ’ S LIBERATION MOVEMENT . My palms sweat.
Sharon uses her connections in RTé to ensure that our journey is documented.
“There’ll be a chap there with a camera. He’s a friend of a friend. I can’t guarantee it’ll actually make the air, but it’s worth a shot.”
I can see the remaining women’s faces change with the mention of television coverage.
“He’ll record us getting on the train in Dublin. Come along with us and follow us around Belfast. Then he’ll shoot some more back in Dublin. RTé will probably bin the whole thing. But say a Hail Mary that we get at least two minutes of news time.”
“It’s going on the telly?” Teresa says, cutting around an O shape in the sleeve of Christy’s shirt. “Oh sweet Lord.”
“It’s all right,” I say.
I’m worried she’ll cut herself. Or throw down the scissors altogether and race out the door.
“What will I wear?” she says. “I’ve nothing to wear. Not for telly.”
Sharon laughs. “That’s your biggest worry?”
Teresa’s cheeks flush. “This is my ma’s dress.” She tugs at the hem of a full-skirted black dress that was in fashion in the late fifties. “I can’t wear something like this.”
“I’ve some nice pieces,” I say. “I used to work in Switzers.”
Teresa’s face lights up at the mention of my previous employment.
“We seem about the same size,” I continue, looking her up and down. “Take a peek in my wardrobe. If you see anything you fancy, please help yourself.”
Some of the other women ask to borrow clothes too, and soon many of us are upstairs laughing and giggling and trying on dresses and hats and boots as if we’re about to make our catwalk debut. I am so busy laughing that I don’t hear the doorbell ring, but Bernie calls out to me.
“Maura. Maura. There’s a man at the door for you.”
I leave my bedroom and peek my head over the banister to catch Bernie’s eye. “Who is it?”
She shrugs, and I detect a hint of concern on her face. I come downstairs in a fancy maroon dress that sits above my knees, and my feet are bare.
“Hello?” I say, as I reach the bottom step. “How can I help you?”
The man is dressed head to toe in a black suit as if he’s on his way to a funeral. He’s made an attempt to brighten his somber ensemble with a blue checked tie and a matching handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket.
“My name is Michael Lloyd,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it reluctantly. “I am a solicitor at Lloyd, Lloyd, and Shaw.”
I know the solicitors’ practice he’s speaking about. They have an office on Wicklow Street just a few yards down from the back doors to Switzers. They stick in my mind because they place an oversize Christmas tree in their window every year. It’s the most tastefully decorated tree and people often stop to stare open-mouthed at it.
“I am here on behalf of Dr. Christopher Davenport.”
“Christy!”
“Yes.” Mr. Lloyd nods. “I am the solicitor taking care of the sale of Dr. Davenport’s residence.”
“This residence,” I say, my words catching in my throat.
“This residence. Number eleven The Gardens. Yes.”
“But this is my home.”
“This is Dr. Davenport’s property,” Mr. Lloyd says matter-of-factly, and I wonder if he is capable of showing emotion.
“But I live here. I still live here. Where will I go?”
Mr. Lloyd opens his mouth but I continue before he speaks.
“I’m his wife. I’m Christy’s wife. This is our house.”
Mr. Lloyd inhales. The shoulders of his jacket rise and remain up for a moment even after he exhales.
“I’m afraid it is Dr. Davenport’s intention to go ahead with the sale. You have thirty days to vacate the property. I wish you the very best of luck, Mrs. Davenport.”
He glances at the placard lying closest to his feet, just inside the door. It proclaims, RIGHTS FOR WOMEN , punctuated with a thick black exclamation mark. Mr. Lloyd tuts and shakes his head before he turns and walks away.
“Oh, Maura,” Bernie says as I close the door. “He can’t. He just can’t.”
“He can. And he will. We both know that.”
“But this is your home.”
I shake my head at the irony. Christy’s last punch is not with his fists, and yet it hits the hardest.
“You can stay with us,” Bernie says.
Bernie has little enough space for her family as it is.
“I know it’s tight, but we’ll make it work. We’ll think of something.”
I listen to the unfamiliar noises in my home. Voices chatting, doors opening and closing, footsteps walking around overhead, sewing machines working.
“Dan won’t mind at all, if you’re worried about that. Sure, he thinks the world of you.”
My feet are firmly on the floor, but inside, I’m swaying as if I’m on a boat deep out to sea during a terrible storm. If I hold on tight, I might be able to weather it, but there’s really no way to tell for sure.
“Maura. Oh, Maura, won’t you say something?”
“We have more important things to worry about right now,” I say, gazing at the placard that offended Mr. Lloyd.
“Maura, I know how much this movement means to you, but this is the roof over your head we’re talking about.”
I think about the storm hitting my house. I imagine swirling winds ripping the bricks from the walls one by one. “It’s bricks and mortar. Nothing more. Houses come and go. But we only get one future.” The swirling ocean in me calms, as if the sun is slowly appearing on the horizon. “I’ll be damned if Christy Davenport is going to take that from me too.”