Gráinne stopped counting the days after the wedding of Joseph and Grace. Some days began like the others – with the hideous sound of the firing squad and the almost unbearable knowledge that another of their number had been shot. The women, by unspoken agreement, would keep quiet at this time, squeezing each others’ hands and silently mouthing prayers that helped no one but perhaps brought the women a crumb of comfort. For a couple of days there were no executions, and then a day came on which they counted another four volleys of shots. Later, they’d ask around and find out who had been executed.
She estimated she’d been in Kilmainham for about a fortnight when, finally, she and the other women in her group were called out and told they were free to leave. She emerged into a grey and damp Dublin day, blinking and confused, wondering what she should do and where she should go. Emmett was, as far as she knew, still incarcerated, though whether in Kilmainham or elsewhere she did not know. There had been rumours that some rebels had been taken elsewhere.
Walking out through the gates of the prison, she recalled the day they were marched inside amid the jeers of the crowd, and remembered some women who were calling for them all to be shot, every last one. Well, many of them had been. Were the people of Dublin happy now? She, and the others released with her, began to walk, slowly, away from the jail, all of them working out where to go, what to do. A small crowd gathered as they left, and Gráinne steeled herself for jeers and taunts. But to her surprise they applauded the women. One man stepped forward and patted her shoulder. ‘Well done, all of you. You’ve done Ireland proud.’
The change of mood of the Dublin people was astonishing. Gráinne couldn’t quite process it, and the others with her simply shrugged and went on their way.
Dad. She needed to get to her father. He’d know what was going on. And maybe he’d have news of Sean and Emmett. She made her way into the city and then turned southward. With no money for trams or buses she had no choice but to walk. She passed by some areas that had been rebel strongholds. The devastation in the city was immense – whole blocks of buildings had been reduced to rubble or blackened and gutted by fire. Still people were going about their daily business – working, shopping, patching up shop windows and reopening businesses. It was almost as though the Rising had never happened, and yet there was a shift in the mood of the city that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as though the Rising, or the aftermath of it, had turned the tide of opinion and now, only now! the Republicans had the support of the people. Why this had happened she didn’t understand. But it was a good sign, for any future fight.
Slowly, surely, and with the help of a lift from a tradesman in his cart, she made her way to St Enda’s school. With Pearse executed, would it even be open? Who would be running it? Would her father be there?
She approached the grand building with some trepidation, but was pleased to see its doors were open and there were boys milling about. So it was open, and functioning, and surely her father would be there. She went up to his rooms and tapped on the door. It opened almost immediately.
‘Gráinne! Oh, my darling girl! I saw you walk up the drive and I was coming down to meet you.’ He wrapped her in his arms and for a brief moment all her cares melted away, she was a child again and her father could make everything all right.
Except she wasn’t, she was a grown woman, and her cares and problems were bigger than anything one man could fix. She found herself sobbing, the trials and intense experiences of the last few weeks overwhelming her. He led her into his rooms and bade her sit on a sofa, while he made tea – the Irish cup of tea that could make anything better, even if only by a little.
As he put the cup beside her and sat opposite, his eyes were kind and concerned. ‘I received your letter from Kilmainham but was not allowed to see you or send a reply. Thank the good Lord you are now out. When I heard about the executions, Pearse, and MacDonagh! Both were friends of mine. Both gone. A terrible thing.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So tell me, Gráinne, all that has happened, all that you have done.’
She told him, in stuttering sentences, of her part in the Rising, of the surrender, the night in the open, the march to the prison and the agony of hearing the firing squads each morning. As she got to that part, he came to sit beside her, holding her tightly as she sobbed into a handkerchief. She told him too of Grace and Joseph Plunkett’s wedding. Partway through telling him that, she realised the handkerchief she had pulled from her pocket was the embroidered one with their initials entwined. The one she ought to give back.
‘Have you heard, Dad, anything from Sean? Or Emmett? Or any other news?’
He nodded. ‘I have plenty to pass on to you. Emmett was kept at Kilmainham for a few days but I understand he has been moved to an internment camp in Wales. I have an address, and you will be able to write to him.’ She gasped, but he patted her hand to reassure her. ‘He will not be executed, you can be certain of that. I expect he will be released after a little while.’
‘And Sean?’
‘He has been classified as a deserter. He will face a court-martial if he is found by the British army, but frankly, I think they have more pressing problems here in Ireland than searching for him.’ Dad shook his head sadly. ‘It is not a label I would have wanted for him, though I understand why he could not return to the Front. I do not know where he is or how he is, I only hope he is safe and in time he can return to us.’
She nodded, it was how she felt too. ‘I’ll look for him, when I am recovered.’
‘No, love, don’t. If you go enquiring after him and you find him, you will put him in danger of being found by the authorities. It’s better just to leave him be until the war in Europe is over. He will contact us then. He knows where to find me.’
She’d do it discreetly, Gráinne thought. She’d go to places he knew and look for him in person. She had to at least try. ‘What news of the Rising, and its aftermath?’ Gráinne asked next. It was still puzzling her how the rebels had been jeered at when they were arrested but cheered when they were released.
‘There is a feeling that the authorities are going too far with these executions. There are protests – people are saying enough is enough. But General Maxwell is in charge and it seems he has a bloodlust, and won’t stop until all those who signed the Proclamation, and all those who were commandants are executed.’
Gráinne shivered. ‘That would include the Countess.’
Dad shook his head. ‘If he had a woman shot, the outcry would be immense. I don’t think he will do it. I think she will be safe. Likewise, Éamon de Valera who was in charge at the Boland’s Bakery outpost – because he was born in the United States, I think he too will be spared. His execution would simply bring Republicans even more support from our American friends. They will not dare to shoot him.’
‘I hope you are right. They have shot enough.’ Gráinne shuddered again, thinking of the horror of those mornings waking up to the sound of firing squads at dawn.
They sat in silence for a while, Gráinne sipping her tea and trying to picture how life might go on. As if reading her thoughts, Dad asked, gently: ‘What will you do, now? And where will you live?’
Gráinne shrugged. She had no plans. In prison she had not been able to imagine her future; she could only live from day to day, minute to minute. The Countess was still in jail, and likely to be for some time. So she could not go back to Surrey House. Her old job at Clerys was not an option; the department store had been razed to the ground during the Rising. No doubt it would be rebuilt, but that would take time. Her father had only one room.
‘You must stay here,’ he said, when she did not answer. ‘Take my room, and I will make up a bed on the sofa. Until something else comes up, I will look after you.’
She felt a rush of love for him. ‘Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.’ It was what she needed now – simply to be looked after by someone, just for a while, until she could get back on her feet.
A few days later, the newspapers reported that another two rebels had been executed. One was James Connolly, who’d been carried out to the prison yard and placed on a chair to face the firing squad as his injured ankle meant he could not stand. Gráinne wept and said a prayer for him. ‘He was a gentle, kind man,’ she said to her father. ‘I know he was at the forefront of it all, so he could not expect to escape, but even so.’ He held her while she wept, and tried to comfort her.
Thankfully, those were the last executions. Her father had been right that they didn’t dare execute the American-born de Valera or a woman. The main effect of the executions had been to rally the Irish people to the Republican cause. Gráinne discussed this with her father over many a pot of tea.
‘We rose up and they condemned us, but if we did so now, they’d support us,’ she concluded.
He nodded. ‘Yes, you are right. It is only a matter of time, now. There will be more bloodshed but Ireland will be independent eventually.’
‘Do you think now that it is the only way?’
He smiled sadly at her. ‘I wish it weren’t.’
Gráinne stayed with her father for two months, and then, in the summer, felt well enough to find lodgings in the city and a new job, working in a women’s outfitters on Grafton Street. It was odd being back in the city centre, walking past City Hall and St Stephen’s Green, and all those other places where the fighting had been intense. Liberty Hall had been flattened by the artillery bombardment, and Sackville Street, including the GPO itself, was still in ruins though there were plans to rebuild it and work had already started.
She came across Grace once, shopping in Grafton Street. The two women stood staring at each other, oblivious to other shoppers passing either side of them. Grace looked drawn and tired. Her usual sparkle was gone, at least for now. Gráinne struggled to find anything to say, and in the end, they simply embraced, sharing via their hug all that they wanted to say, all that there were no words for. Gráinne realised that to Grace she was a reminder of those dark days, a reminder of all Grace had lost. It was better, perhaps, if they did not continue their friendship. They parted, with a last squeeze of each other’s hand, and a lingering glance that told of sorrow and understanding.
She wrote to Emmett twice a week at his internment camp in Wales, and received many letters in return. Some had been censored, but she was able to deduce that he and others held with him were already making plans for the next stage in Ireland’s fight for independence. He mentioned the name of Michael Collins frequently. Gráinne remembered the tall handsome man who’d been Joseph Plunkett’s aide-de-camp at the GPO. It seemed as though Collins was emerging as a possible future leader.
As the year wore on, and autumn and then winter came around, Gráinne settled into her new life. At last, in early December, a letter arrived for her that changed everything. It was from Emmett, and it confirmed that he was to be released. He was due to arrive in Dublin in just two days.
Gráinne arranged for time off from her work so that she could be at Dublin Port to meet him off the ferry. She washed her hair, put on her best clothes, and left on a cold but sunny morning in good time. Her stomach was churning with excitement and also nerves – how would things be between them, after all this time and after all they had been through? What if he no longer felt the same way about her? Would he be well, or would he need nursing back to health? He had given little indication in his letters of his physical wellbeing. The one thing she was sure of was that his Republican beliefs were as strong as ever, stronger even than they had been before the Rising, and that he was not about to give up the fight.
She stood at the docks, watching as the huge ferry made its approach and docked. She peered up at the railings – was he on deck, looking out for her? But she did not see him then. She remembered the last time she’d been here, to meet Sean, back in April. Just a few days before the Rising began. So much had happened since then! Sean had come home changed, damaged by the war and disillusioned by his part in it. And he had never gone back. What would Emmett’s state of mind be?
At last, the gangplank was lowered and people began to stream off the ferry. She saw businessmen, plenty of soldiers home on leave, families with children and then – there he was! Almost last off, dressed in shabby clothing that didn’t fit, his hair long and unkempt but his eyes were bright and shining, his mouth smiling, and his bearing upright and proud, unbeaten by his months of incarceration. He spotted her at almost the same moment she saw him, and he began to hurry down the gangplank as she ran across the tarmac towards him.
He dropped the small bundle he was carrying as they neared each other, and held out his arms to her. She allowed herself to fall into them, wrapping her arms around his back as he pulled her close and leaned over, resting his cheek on her head as she leaned against his chest. ‘Oh, my Gráinne! I have dreamt of this moment. It is what kept me going. And now, here you are!’
‘Emmett! Oh, Emmett!’ All the words she’d thought she would say to him deserted her and all she could say was his name, over and over, as she relished the feel of his arms about her. He felt thinner than she remembered, yet beneath the clothes there was toned muscle. She pulled away a little to gaze at his face. He looked older, more lined, and there was a streak of grey hair above his ear; but he was still handsome, sparkling, and full of love for her. All her doubts about whether he would feel the same melted away. She knew, without him having to say it, that his love for her had grown rather than diminished over the months. As had hers for him.
As she gazed at him, he smiled at her. She pulled him close and, remembering the promise she’d made herself during that terrible night in Sackville Street, whispered in his ear. ‘We’ll never be parted again, Emmett. We’ll marry, and we’ll marry soon, my love.’ He nodded and returned her smile.
Her eyes dropped to his lips and then he was kissing her and she was remembering the feel of him, the taste of him, the joy of him, and she knew that she was his for ever and that nothing else mattered. The years stretched ahead, years of love between the two of them, of renewed fights for Ireland and in the fullness of time, independence and peace.