GRACE MET JOE again a few days later at Muriel’s. She was just about to leave to go home when he stopped her at the front door.
‘I was wondering if I could perhaps call on you on Saturday,’ he said, his eyes scanning hers. ‘I could take you out for a walk or a meal?’
‘Take me out?’
‘I mean as work colleagues, as friends,’ he said awkwardly.
She could feel his gaze was fixed on her.
‘Yes, that would be nice, Mr Plunkett.’
‘Then it is all arranged. I will collect you at three.’
She was about to give him her address.
‘Temple Villas, isn’t it?’
Grace nodded, realizing that they had been in postal correspondence with each other for a number of years.
Saturday was fine and she decided to wear her new green skirt and her favourite white blouse. Long after three o’clock there was still no sign of him, so she was about to go upstairs and change again when she heard the loud noise of an engine outside on the road and peeped out the window. It was a big black motorcycle and side-car stopping just at their gateway. Joe Plunkett dismounted and walked up to the house.
‘Grace, there is a gentleman here to see you,’ Father called loudly as she hurried to greet him.
Joe stood in their drawing room holding a helmet and goggles, looking around politely as she introduced them.
‘Father, this is Mr Joseph Plunkett. He’s involved in the Irish Theatre with MacDonagh.’
‘Of course, we have heard mention of you,’ Father said, shaking his hand. ‘Is that your motorcycle outside?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said proudly. ‘It is a fine machine and a joy to ride once you get the hang of it.’
Joe had surprised her again. She would never have imagined him riding, let alone owning, a motorcycle. He had always seemed so serious and intent and bookish.
‘I promise to take good care of Miss Gifford, sir. She will ride in the side-car, which is very safe. My mother and sisters have all been passengers.’
Grace had to stifle a laugh at the idea of the bulky figure of the renowned Countess Plunkett even venturing into such a contraption.
‘Well, I shall rely on you to do that,’ replied Father rather sternly.
‘Grace, I suggest you bring a warm coat or wrap and a scarf, as it can get rather blowy,’ Joe advised as they prepared to leave.
She ran upstairs, meeting Mother on the landing. ‘Who is that caller with that motorcycle? Is it someone your father or brothers know?’
‘Mother, it is a friend of mine, Mr Plunkett, and we are going for a ride on it.’
‘You are going on a motorcycle? It is hardly very ladylike or safe,’ Mother reminded her.
‘Mother, I promise that I will be fine,’ she smiled, putting on her coat and wrapping her scarf around her.
‘Who is this Mr Plunkett?’ Mother pestered.
‘He is very respectable,’ Grace explained. ‘You must know his parents, Count and Countess Plunkett.’
‘Those people – the Plunketts. I’m not sure that the family are at all suitable.’
‘Mother!’ she exclaimed, exasperated. ‘Mr Plunkett and I often work together. He is a good friend of MacDonagh and Muriel’s and is a highly regarded writer, poet and editor.’
‘I still believe a lady should not be seen riding a motorcycle.’
‘Oh Mother!’ Grace pushed past her and headed towards the door where Joe was waiting. ‘You are so old-fashioned.’
She was conscious of her parents watching her as Joe helped her into the side-car. It was small and low, and she felt nervous as she stepped into it. He closed her door, making sure she was comfortable before climbing on to the motorcycle and starting up the engine, which seemed to roar loudly in her ear as they took off and began to move along the leafy road.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, peering down at her as the houses, gardens and trees sped by.
She could see people stop to look as he turned the bike and headed on the road out of town. Although she was meant to be protected, she was glad of the scarf as her hair blew across her face and the wind caught her eyes, taking her breath away. It was exhilarating and strange but she liked it.
‘I thought we might drive out by Enniskerry. There is a nice tea-room in the village where we can stop.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ she shouted above the noise.
The side-car seemed to be almost flying, barely touching the road as they roared along. Sometimes when they slowed she was aware of the bumpiness of the road surface beneath the wheels and the strange rattle coming from the walls that enclosed her.
They passed Dundrum and continued up along winding country roads, passing green woods and fields. Finally they came to a stop in the village with its stone houses, pretty church and square. When Joe opened the door of the side-car to let her out her legs felt like jelly and he had to catch her to stop her from collapsing on the ground as she tried to regain her composure.
‘Grace, are you all right?’ He sounded concerned.
‘I’m fine and dandy, but a little shaken.’
‘It is a bit of a bone-rattler,’ he admitted with a grin as they made their way through the village. She needed to stretch her long legs a bit, so they walked for three quarters of an hour before sitting down at a table in the tea-room.
As he put his helmet and goggles down, it struck Grace that Joe was different from any of the men she had known. He was excited, explaining to her about engines and telling her that he was building a wireless radio.
‘You must come up to Larkfield and see it sometime.’
‘I always presumed that you were only interested in poetry and plays, and words and politics,’ she mused as the waitress brought them a pot of tea. ‘But you are like my brother Ernest, good with machines and mechanical things.’
‘The world is changing faster than we know, with all kinds of new inventions. It’s exciting, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’ Grace hadn’t given it much thought, but his enthusiasm was infectious.
‘It seems strange talking about such things when there is the war which is bloody and awful and they invent new weapons, new gases capable of such carnage. For some, this unfortunately is what science has come to.’
‘My brother is with the expeditionary forces in France,’ she said quietly.
‘One of my good friends, Frank O’Carroll, was killed in August,’ he said, struggling to control his emotions. ‘He was only twenty-one. We also lost George, one of my relations, at Gallipoli.’
‘Oh Joe, I’m sorry. It must be hard on you.’
‘The war is hard on everyone,’ he said, passing her a slice of rich, treacly ginger cake, Grace, noticing that he had five or six rings on his fingers while she had none.
‘This ring I bought at a market in Algeria. It is a special stone and is said to bring luck and protection,’ he said, deliberately lightening the conversation. ‘This gold one used to be my grandfather’s,’ he said, turning his hand. ‘This one is said to date back two hundred years and is a family heirloom. This one is for my poetry book The Circle and the Sword, and this last one I got on my birthday. It has two beautiful sapphires.’
He looked at her bare hands, touching her fingers.
‘With painting and drawing I have a tendency to lose things,’ she explained.
‘Some day you will wear fine rings and gold and diamonds on those pretty fingers,’ he said solemnly.
‘I’m not sure that I ever will,’ she sighed.
They sat for an hour or two, talking about everything. Grace told Joe about her large family, her passion for art and about attending the Slade art school in London. He told her of his childhood, how he had been sent away to warmer climes because of illness and had gone to schools in France, Ireland and England.
His mother had often been away, leaving him and his brothers and sisters to fend for themselves in their large country house with hardly any food or money, his father often too caught up in his work to notice.
‘Poor you – it all sounds very different from my mother, who always wants to know everything we do and keeps tight control of our household. She even used to design and make our dresses and hats when we were younger.’
‘Ma would be far too busy for that and would never worry about such details as new clothes that would actually fit us, or about food or money.’ He shrugged. ‘My sisters and brothers and I were often left to our own devices, so we had to find our own way.’
‘What parents we had!’
‘They meant well,’ he said. ‘Besides, they encouraged us to be independent.’
They talked about religion, which surprised her, for he was deeply spiritual. Because his health had been bad, he had travelled a great deal, visiting Africa, America and most of Europe, and he had the ability to speak many languages.
‘That’s how I met MacDonagh,’ he laughed. ‘I wanted to learn my own native tongue, Gaelic.’
Joe Plunkett might seem showy and dramatic, and cosseted by his upbringing and family background, but it was very clear that he cared deeply for his country and longed for it to be free of British rule.
‘The time is coming for change,’ he said fervently.
‘You mean Home Rule when the war is over? My parents and brothers are all opposed to any break from the crown and Britain.’
‘I am not sure such promises to Redmond will ever be kept by a British parliament, so perhaps Irish men will have no choice but to take what is rightfully theirs.’
His eyes were serious, and she could see a vein throb in his neck. He might be tall and lanky and thin, but there was a huge gravity and strength to him that few possessed. He was the type of person who said exactly what he meant.
The waitress hovered about them, clearing away their tea things.
‘We must go,’ he said abruptly, standing up and going over to pay the bill.
He touched her hand as she climbed into the side-car and she felt as if a spark of that new electricity was running through her. His eyes met hers, both startled.
At home, he helped her out of the side-car, holding her as she steadied herself. He thanked her for coming. She hesitated, not wanting to go inside.
‘I do hope you will agree to come for a ride with me again?’
She moistened her upper lip.
‘When?’ she blurted out.
He looked momentarily surprised, fiddling with his glasses.
‘Next week, if that suits you, Grace?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘It most definitely would.’
‘Perhaps if the weather is clement we might take a picnic …’
Stepping inside the house, she watched as Joe Plunkett rode off on his noisy motorcycle. It was strange: they had known each other for years and yet only now was she discovering that he was the most interesting, exciting and complex man she had ever met.