Chapter 58
CHAPTER 58
14 November 1970
Maura
Bernie told me once that she would change the world for her daughters if only she could. I used to think I would need to be a mother to understand. But slowly, I am learning that all the daughters of Ireland deserve a better country. A brighter future. And so, when Nuala, Sharon, Geraldine, Bernie, and I set out for our first open-invite meeting, we are full of enthusiasm and hope.
Geraldine’s brother knows someone working in The Shelbourne and they offered us a function room to use for an hour, but when the manager finds out the room will be used to host a women’s liberation movement meeting, he boots us out. Determined not to lose hope, we gather on the front steps of the hotel and wait. Within twenty minutes there are forty women on the steps. The rain is torrential, and we huddle under umbrellas. Nuala does all the talking.
“We’ve had enough. We are standing up and standing strong.”
Women cheer. Rain pours. Traffic chugs by, throwing up road spray and soaking us all. No one gives up. Not until the guards arrive. The manager stands in the doorway with his arms folded and his foot tapping, watching as Nuala argues with a tall guard, his feet as large as a clown’s. The manager doesn’t recognize me, but I know him. He shook Christy’s hand on our wedding day and wished us a long and happy life together. Then we walked out those very doors and Christy hit me for the first time. The memory is surprisingly easy to push aside when there’s a fracas next to me. Sharon has jumped into the argument, and Geraldine too.
“Men like you are the problem,” Geraldine shouts, her fiery temper on display. “You don’t want women to have any rights.”
“I’m just doing my job, ladies,” he says. “You’re causing an obstruction. You have to move.”
“Fine,” Sharon says, stepping off the bottom step onto the footpath. “Then we’ll move here.” She points to a far end corner of St. Stephen’s Green. “Or here.” She points to the opposite side. “Or here, or here, or here.”
“Ah, ladies.” The guard sounds genuinely perplexed. “Have you no homes to go to?”
“What do we want?” Nuala shouts.
“Contraception,” some voices reply, more timidly than I imagine she was hoping.
“When do we want it?”
“Now.”
The voices grow louder. I join them.
“What do we want?”
“Contraception!” I scream, my voice scratching the back of my throat.
“When do we want it?”
“Now!”
The guard warns us that if we don’t move on peacefully and quietly, he’ll arrest us.
“Haven’t you ever heard of the right to free speech?” Geraldine says. She seems more petite than usual next to the policeman.
“Haven’t you ever heard of disturbing the peace?” he says, bending his neck so he can glare down at her.
“What do we want?”
The replies are quieter and less enthusiastic as more gardai arrive. Women grab a friend or two and hurry away with heads bowed. All too soon it’s Nuala, Sharon, Geraldine, Bernie, and me alone.
“Is there going to be any more trouble, ladies?” the guard asks.
Nuala ignores him and turns toward the rest of us. “Tea? Anyone fancy a cuppa? I’d murder a chockie bickie too.”
Confident that our meeting has dissolved, the guards leave.
Sharon shakes her head. “You can’t be serious, Nuala. How can you think of biscuits at a time like this? It’s a disaster. Everyone left.”
Nuala winks. “They did. But they also came. Women showed up. It’s a start. A good bloody start.”
I feel a smile twinge at the corners of my lips. Women did show up. Not as many as we would have liked, admittedly, but some. Maybe there will be more next time. And more the time after that. Maybe, just maybe, there will be enough that if the guards show up again we won’t be scared. We won’t budge.
“Right, so, tea?” Nuala says again. “Where will we go?”
“How about in here?” I say, tilting my head toward the beautiful brass door of The Shelbourne. “Let’s show everyone we won’t be scared away.”
“I like it,” Nuala says, grinning. “We are ladies who drink tea in The Shelbourne and we are not afraid of anyone.”
As we march up the steps, my legs are shaking, but I concentrate on taking slow, even breaths to bury my nerves. Bernie takes my hand. I feel her clammy palms.
“Hello again,” Nuala says as we meet the manager at the top step. “We would like a table for five for tea, please.”
The manager pushes his shoulders back and I wait for him to ask us to leave. “No funny business,” he says as he steps aside, and we walk past.
“No funny business,” Nuala says, once we are out of earshot. “That’s for damn sure. This business is serious. Pure and simple. Serious.”