JOE BROUGHT HER out on his motorcycle again. This time they went to Killiney, where they sat on a rug and shared some sandwiches overlooking the sweeping seascape of Dublin Bay. He kissed her and she enjoyed it, so he kissed her again and again. His eagerness and passion surprised her, and on her own part she returned them. She soon found herself counting the hours and days between seeing him.
They went to the theatre and to ceili dances together, and to dinner. Joe wrote her letter after letter and poems too. She sat curled up on the window seat reading them. She had never been wooed in such a fashion and to her surprise she found she liked it. When she wrote back she often attached silly drawings to her words.
‘I see the poor postman is being kept busy again,’ teased Nellie as another letter from Joe arrived.
‘I do hope that you are not getting yourself too involved with that young Plunkett man, Grace. It is clear he has a poor constitution and I hear rumours that he was in a sanatorium a few years ago,’ warned Mother.
‘That was when he was much younger. He is well again now,’ she replied hotly, wishing that her mother would stop interfering in her life.
‘No young woman wants to bind herself to an invalid,’ Isabella warned dramatically.
As the weather became colder Joe collected her in his motor car, which she had to admit was far more comfortable. He took her on romantic drives up around Stepaside and Dublin’s pine forest.
‘Grace, I’ll teach you to drive,’ he laughed one day, stopping suddenly on a quiet country road.
‘I’m afraid, Joe,’ she protested in alarm. ‘I don’t know how to work a mechanical engine.’
Joe slipped out of the car and made her slide across into the driver’s seat and take the wheel, while he sat beside her on the passenger side. Terrified, she felt the car shudder and start, then it began to move. He made her drive for about two miles, one moment the car going slow and the next thing speeding up alarmingly as Grace tried to concentrate on keeping hold of the wheel and steering, which was much harder than it looked … But suddenly she began to get the hang of it and Joe insisted that she keep driving for another few miles until they came to a fork in the road. Laughing and nervous, Grace felt exhilarated, realizing that her life with Joe would never be boring or dull. He was a risk-taker and would always be at the centre of things, ready for something new.
‘Now I think it’s best I do the rest of the driving,’ he teased as she moved back into the passenger seat and they motored on towards a little place in Kilmacanogue where they would have lunch.
They would sit for hours and talk – talk about poetry. Grace was moved by many of his poems. Her particular favourite was ‘I See His Blood Upon the Rose’, and he would explain it to her, along with its spiritual significance. Books were another passion, and they discussed the sad realism of James Joyce’s Dubliners. They enjoyed arguing about art, both classical and modern, or talking about theatre and cinema, or discussing life and death, spirituality, religion and the existence of an afterlife. Joe was a passionate, highly intelligent man and when they were together Grace was never bored. He made her think.
When he took her hand as he looked into her eyes, Grace knew without any doubt that already she was beginning to fall in love with Joe Plunkett – and somehow it scared her a little to realize how important he had become in her life and how much she was growing to care for him.
Coming out of Clerys, having delivered the finished design work for advertising a new soap and cologne, Grace found herself suddenly drawn to go to visit the church that Joe always talked about, St Mary’s, the Pro-Cathedral. It was situated right in the heart of the city, just off Sackville Street and close to the Abbey Theatre and Liberty Hall. She often passed it but had never even considered going into the Catholic church, which looked like a tall Grecian temple situated on a narrow Dublin street.
Joe’s religion was deeply important to him, and Grace was curious to see if the cathedral lived up to his fulsome praise. As she went through the heavy doors she suddenly became conscious of the absolute quiet and stillness inside. It was almost empty except for two or three people praying. Grace sat down and looked around her. It was a beautiful old building, ornate compared to their church, with a high marble pulpit and statues and carvings. It had a Roman feel to it; she knew that the main high altar with its angels had been carved by Peter Turnerelli, a Dublin-based sculptor with Italian parents.
Sunlight filtered through the tall stained-glass windows depicting Mary and the Irish saints Kevin and Laurence O’Toole. The high dome and windows ensured the church was bright. She instantly liked it. After only a few minutes she forgot that Sackville Street with its trams, hotels and shops was so close by. She felt strangely cloistered here. It truly was a place of prayer and she knelt down in silence. Joe was right – it was a very special church.
She watched as an old beggar man shuffled down from one of the front pews, her nose wrinkling at the sour smell as he passed. He would not even have been let into her church, let alone allowed to sit up at the front. A young mother with small children slipped into a pew a few rows ahead of her, lost in momentary prayer, her baby in her arms. So this was the house of God, the house of prayer. Bowing her head, Grace prayed too.
As she was leaving the church the young mother was also going.
‘Excuse me, but a friend told me that the choir sings here sometimes,’ said Grace.
‘The Palestrina choir sings at mass here on a Sunday,’ the sharp-faced young woman confirmed. ‘’Tis like listening to the angels. You should come along, miss, though the church gets very crowded at times.’
Grace vowed to return.