It was a relief to simply concentrate on her university work, especially her rebellion project, for the next few days. Nicky felt oddly free now that the relationship with Seb was over. It had only lasted four weeks, she realised. A mere drop in the ocean of her life, unlike her relationship with Conor.
At last, the day arrived when she was due to go back to Dublin – on the Wednesday before the Easter weekend. She was surprised at how much she was looking forward to it – seeing Gráinne again, also seeing Jimmy, Eileen and any other relatives. She’d hear the rest of Supergran’s story. And she’d made a list of places in Dublin that had played a significant part in the uprising. Her plan was to take at least one trip into the city, to tour around and see them at first hand. The GPO, which she knew had been the headquarters of the rebellion, was, of course, right at the top of her list.
The journey was easier this time, now that she knew what she was doing and where she was going. When she went to a cashpoint a day or so before, to get some money she could change for Irish punts in Dublin, she was pleased to see her bank balance had gone up. Mum must have transferred some money to cover the cost of the flights, again. That was kind of her, and would save Supergran from having to pay.
She emerged into the Dublin airport arrivals hall and looked around for Jimmy who was supposed to be meeting her. She spotted him, standing with a huge grin on his face. He gave her a brief hug and kiss when they met, as though they were old friends. ‘Good to see you again, Nicky! I’ve something to show ye. Come on, follow me.’ He took her bag from her and led the way out of the airport and into the short stay car park. There was his car, the familiar Ford Galaxy, and he stood in front of it. ‘Ta-da!’
She grinned, but couldn’t understand what he was showing her. It was the same car. Cleaner, perhaps. Tidy inside. ‘You’ve cleaned it?’ she said.
‘Yes, and …’ Jimmy pointed to the back of the car, beside the numberplate.
‘Oh wow! You’ve registered as a minicab driver!’
‘Yes! I was after thinking about what you said, about people wanting the bigger cars for airport runs and me living so close and all, and decided to go for it. And it’s working! I’ve done a half-dozen trips this week already, made myself a few quid, and kept myself off the streets, as my auld mammy would say. It was all your idea, cousin Nicky, so I must thank you for it.’
‘I’m so glad it’s working out.’ He was such a genuinely nice man, he deserved some good luck.
‘Well, in you get, so. I’ve a booking in an hour, so I need to get you to Gráinne’s now.’
He was his usual cheerful self, but Nicky thought he stood a little taller and seemed a touch more confident than he had on her last visit. A steady income would be helping with his self-esteem, perhaps. She felt proud to have played a small part in that.
Her great-grandmother was delighted to see her again, and there was a homemade vegetarian pizza waiting to be heated up, and a bowl of salad. ‘Eileen was round earlier with these,’ Supergran said. ‘I wasn’t altogether sure about the pizza, but she said it’s what you young people eat, so who am I to argue?’
‘I love pizza,’ Nicky said. ‘I’ll thank Eileen for it when I see her.’
‘And I’ve been busy,’ Supergran said, ‘writing down places you should visit, with a few notes on what happened in each one. Not much, mind, I’m not a one for writing. Not with these hands.’ She held up her misshapen, arthritic hands. ‘Anyway, here it is, and I hope you can read it.’
Nicky took a sheaf of papers from the old lady, and glanced through them. Gráinne’s handwriting was spidery and wobbly, but easy enough to make out. She’d listed plenty of sites in Dublin, many that Nicky knew of from her own research and that she’d already earmarked to visit, but also others that were unfamiliar. ‘This is marvellous, thank you Supergran!’
‘You said you’d want to go into the city, and now that Jimmy’s busy as a taxi driver he can’t spare the time to take you. But he did get this for you, and I’ve marked the spots on it.’ Supergran handed Nicky a map of Dublin, and there were red pen rings around a few locations.
‘That’s me sorted for tomorrow then. Thank you so much!’
‘Ah yes, and Jimmy’s going to call at nine o’clock to give you a lift to Malahide station. He says he can’t do any later as he has bookings.’
‘Nine o’clock’s perfect.’ Well, it was a bit early for Nicky’s liking but she’d manage. She was touched by the efforts everyone had gone to, to help her with this project. She owed them a lot.
Nicky caught a train the following morning as planned, with Jimmy dropping her off at the station. He promised to pick her up as well if he was free, if she called to tell him what time she’d be getting back. ‘I have one of these mobile phone yokes now,’ he said, waving it at her. ‘So I’ll give you the number and you can call and let me know. As long as it’s before six o’clock. I’ve tickets to the rugby this evening. No doubt Leinster will be given a hammering by Munster, but even so, I need to be there to cheer on the boys in blue.’
She smiled. ‘Enjoy the match. I can walk back. It’s not so far.’
‘Ha. You’ll be tired, so you will, after a day stomping around the city. Well, I’m here if you need me, if it’s not too late.’
The journey into Dublin’s Connolly station took around half an hour, with the train passing through industrial and residential areas of north Dublin. Connolly station was named after one of the leaders of the 1916 rising, Nicky realised, along with Pearse and Heuston, the other principal railway stations in the city.
From there she walked the short distance to O’Connell Street, the main shopping area of Dublin. This had been called Sackville Street back in 1916. Supergran’s map had the GPO prominently marked, about halfway along. It had been the headquarters of the Rising, the place from where Connolly and Pearse had established the first government of the Irish Republic. It had only lasted a few days, until the Rising was quashed, but still, this was where it had been based.
When she reached the GPO she stood outside for a moment, gazing up at its neo-classical facade. It was an imposing building, with a huge portico in front, supported by Ionic columns. There was a plaque on the wall commemorating the Rising, which she read, and then she headed inside, not at all sure what she expected to see. Some sort of museum, perhaps? Display boards, reconstructions? But no – it was a working post office, with a row of counters behind glass, and a queue snaking back and forth in front. There were a number of leaflet stands holding forms for passport applications, motor tax payments and the like, and a photo booth near one entrance.
Nicky gazed around, taking in the marble floor and the high windows, but really there was little there to help her imagine what it would have been like in 1916. She knew from her research that heavy ledgers had been piled against the windows as protection, and that by the end of the week the building had been on fire and the remaining rebels had had to evacuate. There were a few old photos in the foyer, showing the building in near ruins. She studied these carefully.
From the GPO she headed down O’Connell Street, past the department store Clerys where Supergran had worked before getting involved with Constance Markiewicz and the Cumann na mBan. It was a grand-looking building, with an array of fashions and household goods in the windows. If Mum was here, Nicky thought with a smile, she’d want to go inside and browse for hours. But she wasn’t here to shop. She was here to research. She headed on down the street, past the Anna Livia statue and fountain, that Jimmy had told her was nicknamed the Floozy in the Jacuzzi. She laughed, liking that name. Anna Livia, an information plaque read, is a character from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, supposed to represent the spirit of the river Liffey.
A few minutes later, she reached the banks of the Liffey. Referring to Supergran’s map, instead of crossing it she turned left along the northern bank and walked a short way. Here was a tall building that stood on the site of the old Liberty Hall. James Connolly had used Liberty Hall as the headquarters of his Irish Citizen Army in the run-up to the Easter Rising, Nicky knew. She’d seen a photo of it with a banner across the entrance, reading We serve neither King nor Kaiser but Ireland. Stirring words for the middle of the Great War, designed to boost Irish nationalism.
The building had been flattened during the Easter Rising, as British troops had assumed it was the headquarters of the rebels. It had been rebuilt, but later demolished and the current sixteen-floor tower built in its place.
Once more, not much to see or imagine from the Rising, but it was good to get a feel for distances between the various locations. Nicky checked her map, crossed the river and walked along Grafton Street. Here there were more shops, and on impulse, she nipped into Bewleys and bought a couple of boxes of chocolates. One for Supergran, and the other to take home and give to her mother. She’d paid for two lots of flights, and given her the idea for the project. She might be an annoying, controlling, overly fussy mother, but, Nicky was gradually beginning to realise, she really did have Nicky’s best interests at heart. She wasn’t all bad, not by a long way.
Nicky smiled to herself. Was this a sign, could it be that she was ready for a new, better relationship with her mother? Those weeks with Seb had changed her. And the work on the rebellion project was changing her too. You fought for what you believed in, but some things were worth fighting for more. Hadn’t Mum said something similar, on her last visit to Brighton? And change – even when imposed from outside, even if not everyone agreed with it – was sometimes for the better. Like banning smoking in one campus bar.
At the end of Grafton Street, she reached St Stephen’s Green, and walked through a gate in the iron railings to reach the park. Ah, this was better. This square hadn’t changed much since 1916. It was flanked by Georgian and Victorian buildings, with a more modern shopping centre on one corner. There was a lake, rose beds, a fountain and several paths criss-crossing the area. Here was where Constance Markiewicz and her company had dug trenches, thinking that was the best way to hold this area. Nicky glanced up at the Shelbourne Hotel on the north-eastern corner.
‘Oh Constance, was it not obvious that you were sitting ducks down here, with the British army shooting from that hotel’s windows?’ Nicky muttered. Elsewhere in the city, the rebels had set up their strongholds in buildings, but here, for unknown reasons, they’d chosen open land and been unable to defend it. They’d had to retreat, in the end, to the Royal College of Surgeons on the west side of the Green. Nicky looked around and noted that building – she’d walk past it later, when she’d been round the park itself.
There was a plan of the park and its features, and Nicky wandered over to study it. It showed the location of a number of statues; one of which was a bust of Constance Markiewicz. Supergran hadn’t mentioned that being here. Nicky found the bust, and stared up at the bronze features of a woman who’d believed so strongly in her cause she’d taken up arms along with the men and been imprisoned for it. All of this back in 1916 when women didn’t yet even have the right to vote.
Nicky took a few photos of the Green, the bust, the buildings around it. She’d get the film developed back in Brighton, and the photos would help her picture the locations she was writing about.
She consulted her map. Where to go next? A bridge on Mount Street was ringed – she recalled the name as a place where a couple of Irish Volunteer gunmen had held out for a long time against repeated attacks by squadrons of British soldiers. They’d shot many – it was the worst loss of life of the conflict. Near there was the bakery where Éamon de Valera, who she recalled Jimmy had told her later became Ireland’s Taoiseach and then President, had commanded a unit against the British. But in the other direction was Dublin Castle and City Hall. She decided to go that way – a castle sounded more interesting than an old bakery and a bridge over a canal. She headed back up Grafton Street, intending to turn left along Dame Street when she reached Trinity College.
Her stomach rumbled and she realised it was mid-afternoon. Time to get some lunch in a pub, perhaps? Down a side street off Grafton Street, she spotted an inviting-looking little pub – McDaid’s. Its small frontage was painted in dark colours surrounding arched windows. Inside there were a series of snugs and dark wood panelling. It was the kind of place that probably hadn’t changed at all since 1916. Nicky ordered a veggie burger and chips and a glass of lager, and sat at a table near the window. She could imagine the 1916 rebels meeting in a place like this, poring over maps and discussing tactics. She pulled out a notebook and jotted down a few points.
A middle-aged woman, who’d been sitting on a stool at the bar, picked up her pint of Guinness and moved over to Nicky’s table. ‘Hello there, would you mind if I sit with you? You look to be on your own, and so am I, and I’m after fearing we’ll pick up all the local nutters if we don’t join forces. I’m Céline.’ She gave a friendly smile.
Nicky laughed. ‘Sure, sit down, please. I’m Nicky.’ She gestured to a spare chair at her table.
‘You’re working, I won’t disturb you, sure I won’t.’
‘It’s all right. Just jotting down a few thoughts before they disappear.’
‘Writing a novel?’ Céline asked.
‘No. University project on rebellion, for my history degree.’
‘The 1916?’
Nicky nodded. ‘Great guess!’
‘Ah so, you’re English, you’re here in Dublin, what else would it be? So you’re checking out the locations? What a great idea.’
‘Yes. And I’m hoping to write about the part women played in the rising.’
‘Countess Markiewicz, Elizabeth O’Farrell who handed over the surrender note, Margaret Skinnider the only woman to be injured?’
Nicky smiled. ‘Yes, all those.’ Supergran had mentioned those names. ‘You know a lot about it all?’
Céline laughed. ‘Sure aren’t I a history teacher, teaching at Leaving Cert level. Delighted to meet a fellow history lover!’
Nicky grinned. She couldn’t believe her luck. She opened her notebook to a fresh page, picked up her pen and looked expectantly at Céline. ‘Right then … shoot!’
The next hour passed quickly, with Céline telling Nicky lots of details about the Easter Rising that she hadn’t previously heard. Céline was delighted to hear that Nicky’s great-grandmother had played an active part, and offered to read and comment on Nicky’s essay when she’d written it. Nicky wrote down her email address and thanked her.
As Céline was leaving, she stopped and turned back to Nicky. ‘Don’t forget the ducks in St Stephen’s Green.’
‘What about them?’
‘During the Rising, there were occasional ceasefires in the Green to allow the park-keeper access to feed the ducks. Rebellion or no rebellion, someone had to think of the animals.’ Céline grinned and gave Nicky a wave as she left the pub.
Nicky wrote that last little snippet down. It would all help to add colour.
That evening, Nicky watched the news on TV with Supergran. The British Prime Minister, Tony Blair, was in Belfast, attending talks at Stormont in Northern Ireland. The newspapers were reporting that there might be a breakthrough in the peace talks, and an agreement could soon be reached.
‘Do you think it’ll happen?’ Nicky asked Supergran.
‘I hope so, my dear, I really do. A lasting peace in the north is my greatest wish for this country.’
As they watched, Blair emerged from talks and stood at a podium to say a few words to the reporters gathered there. He was surrounded by reporters and photographers, and dozens of flashes went off as he began to speak.
‘Now is not the time for soundbites,’ he said, ‘but I feel the hand of history upon our shoulder.’
Nicky snorted with laughter. ‘Listen to him! “Not the time for soundbites” and then he comes up with a really cringeworthy one. “The hand of history upon our shoulder.” I’ll tell you what, if this set of talks comes to anything, he’ll be remembered for saying that.’
‘He’ll be remembered for achieving peace in Northern Ireland,’ Gráinne said. Her tone was wistful. This really meant a lot to her, Nicky realised. Her fight for Irish independence as a young woman had ended with a divided country and conflict on and off over the decades. Now it looked as though there was a major step towards lasting peace at long last.