GRACE HAD CALLED in to the Irish Theatre in Hardwicke Street with some sketches she wanted to show MacDonagh for a new production they were mounting. She was surprised to find Joe Plunkett there. He had been abroad for months. She had seen him at the big O’Donovan Rossa funeral, but then he had disappeared again, leaving her brother-in-law and Mr Martyn to run the theatre.
He seemed distracted and her heart sank, for he barely acknowledged her presence.
‘I hope you enjoyed your travels,’ she said, trying to appear friendly.
‘I was kept busy,’ he replied, concentrating on a set of figures on a ledger page before him. ‘As always, I found it interesting but now it is good to be home.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re back.’ She couldn’t believe that she had said such a thing. She was a professional artist dealing with a potential employer whom she was canvassing for work. What must he think of her?
‘Did you miss me, Miss Gifford?’
‘Things have been quiet at the theatre in your absence …’
‘And now you hope we will give you a commission.’
She stared down at her hands, noticing a broken nail and the tell-tale sign of charcoal under her nail bed. She wished she was a better businesswoman, better able to canvass for work and appear insouciant and calm; but she wasn’t.
‘I have some sketches I promised MacDonagh.’
He gestured for her to show them to him.
‘Yes – these would seem to fit the bill. If you leave them with me I will pass them on to Edward and we will be in contact with you in a few days,’ he said, barely looking at her.
Grace flushed, gathering up her bag. At times he could be so offhand he was almost rude, so caught up in his work he hardly noticed those around him. She guessed producers and editors were like that, used to firing orders at people.
‘Miss Gifford, what do you think of this?’
She just about caught the script he tossed at her.
She sat down again across from him to read it. Perfect – a scathing play about class distinction.
‘On stage an extravagant, plush drawing room and a simple box or a table with a candle,’ she proposed, ‘and for the programme or bill, a sketch of a big, heavy, jowly English man and a thin, handsome young Irish man.’
‘How will we know that he is Irish?’
‘Why, he will have a tin whistle,’ she teased.
Joe laughed out loud. Grace smiled, unable to disguise her pleasure.
‘You should do that more often,’ he told her.
She stopped.
‘Smile, I mean.’
He was a fine one to talk. Joe Plunkett was always so serious and distant, hunched over his desk or so deep in conversation that you felt you couldn’t disturb him.
It was as if he read her mind.
‘All work and no play, isn’t that what they say? Well, I guess it’s time for the latter if you care to join me?’
She was rather thrown by this question and found herself nodding idiotically in agreement.
‘Let’s get out of this office and do something different.’
‘Yes, please,’ she said with another smile, intrigued.
He grabbed his tweed jacket and began to lock up.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as they fell into step, walking quickly down Hardwicke Street towards the Rotunda.
‘You’ll see,’ he replied, his eyes bright and laughing as he turned into the entrance of the Rotunda roller-skating rink.
Grace looked nervously at the large advertising posters of figures and families skating happily.
‘Miss Gifford, have you ever roller-skated?’
‘No,’ she admitted, giggling. ‘Never.’
‘Then this will be the first time,’ he said happily, paying for two tickets.
‘My brothers Cecil and Ernest had skates, but Mother wouldn’t let my sisters and me ever use them as she said skating was unladylike,’ she confided as a plump lady in the kiosk enquired about her shoe size and passed her a pair of metal roller skates; she handed Joe a much fancier-looking pair.
‘Well, I am betting you will enjoy it.’ He beckoned for her to sit down as he fitted and fastened the skates to her shoes. ‘Does that feel all right?’
‘Yes.’ She tried to stand up and almost slipped, Joe grabbing her and making her sit back down while he pulled on his own pair of skates.
‘Try to walk on your toes to the rink,’ he advised as she clunked and stumbled along beside him towards the entrance. Music played and girls, boys, men and women all skated around at speed, lost in a haze of colour, noise and laughter.
Panic overwhelmed Grace. She could hardly stand let alone move in the heavy, awkward metal skates with their rolling wheels. She felt so unstable and unsure.
‘I will hold you and help you,’ Joe reassured her, ‘but I promise you will soon get the hang of things.’
She felt like a small child trying to learn to walk, the wheels of her skates going in all directions, making her slip and slide and wobble alarmingly.
‘Push one foot and skate forward and then the other,’ Joe instructed her gently, keeping a firm hold of her arm.
‘I’m going to fall!’ she wailed, grabbing hold of his sleeve.
‘I won’t let you,’ he promised, and he held her securely as they began to skate around the edge of the rink.
She was so slow and so rigid, more terrified than she had ever been. She was also frantically trying to maintain her decorum and wished she had worn a better skirt as she tried to keep her balance and not fall. Slide, roll, slide … somehow she was getting round the rink.
The other skaters, sensing her nervousness, were giving her a wide berth as they flew around her.
Laughing, Joe caught her as she almost lost her footing and fell.
‘It happens to everyone,’ he soothed her.
She could not believe his patience and kindness as he skated gently, almost supporting her, round and round.
Gradually she was beginning to get a sense of how her feet and wheels worked, and was managing to stay a little more upright as she achieved a very slight rhythm. Young boys and girls skated briskly past her, but she grimly continued, determined to get the feel of it.
‘Grace, you are doing very well for a beginner,’ Joe praised her, his dark eyes darting in his long thin face.
‘I don’t know,’ she sighed.
‘I am a qualified skating teacher,’ he told her adamantly, ‘and, Miss Gifford, you are proving to be a very good pupil.’
‘Thank you, Mr Plunkett,’ she laughed, almost going down and grabbing frantically at his jacket to save herself, suddenly conscious of his long, strong arms gripping her fast and holding her.
Over the next hour he brought her back and forward, further into the centre of the rink away from the rails. He encouraged her to skate a little on her own. He even got her to increase her speed.
‘I have to have a rest,’ she begged. ‘Please!’
She sat near the edge, watching as he skated off on his own, conscious of his speed, height and sureness on the roller rink as he sped around, then did a number of jumps and fancy manoeuvres which brought gasps from fellow skaters. Joe Plunkett, a skater! She would never have believed that the serious editor, writer and poet would have the slightest interest in such a pastime. But it was clear from the greetings of some of the other skaters that he was a regular here. As he skated, he looked younger, more relaxed, enjoying the speed as his thin frame stretched and hurtled in all directions.
Ten minutes later he was back, encouraging her to join him again.
‘Where did you learn to skate like this?’ she asked as he got her back out on the rink.
‘I was never built to play rugby or some of those other sports, but being all arms and legs seems to work with skating. It is fast and requires dexterity, and is pretty good exercise, don’t you think?’
This time she really concentrated, keeping close to him and using her own long, thin frame the way he did. Grace was relieved as she managed to skate and keep her balance. She was finally beginning to somewhat enjoy it.
They had tea and cake afterwards in a nearby café and she wondered if he would ask her to come skating with him again. But he said nothing. Instead, he politely escorted her to the tram stop, telling her that he had business in town and needed to call to his friend Tom Clarke’s tobacconist’s shop.