When we emerged from the pub into the afternoon I was astonished to see that the clouded sky had partially cleared. The sun shone through and drops of light rain were falling. It gave me a giddy feeling. “April showers,” I exclaimed. I had a quick flash of the same joy I’d felt as a child in a London park, when the dismal weather turned to sun and sparkle.
In a gesture that surprised and touched me, Grace took my arm. We walked arm in arm through the maze of cobbled streets, our bodies gently pressing against each other. The craze and chaos of the morning had melted away, and we scarcely seemed to pass anyone. I mentioned this to Grace and she reminded me that was Good Friday, and that a lot of people would be in church.
“This is a very old part of Dublin called the Coombe, where I was raised,” Grace said. “Did you know the city was settled by the Vikings?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted.
“The Norsemen were here long before the English,” she said cheerfully. She suddenly leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. My heart jumped.
“Grace . . . on the street?”
“I’m so glad you came back!” she exclaimed.
“I am too,” I said. I really meant it. I felt content just to be walking down the street with her like this. It was something we’d never done, I realized. We’d never been out in public together. Now we were no longer a maid and a governess; we were two women who had a perfect right to walk together if we wanted to.
“You told Jack about us then?” I said suddenly.
“I did,” she replied, after a moment’s reflection. “At first, when we came back to Dublin from Thornley, I didn’t know what words to use; I wasn’t sure he’d understand. I said you were my friend. But when I got kicked out I told him everything. I said that I wasn’t ashamed, but that I was afraid it would get around. He said he wouldn’t tell a soul. But someone else blabbed—Jones, maybe.”
“I liked him,” I mused. “He didn’t seem the type.”
She smiled. “Anyway, whoever tattled didn’t seem to know I was caught with a woman, so maybe it wasn’t him.”
I giggled nervously. It was strange to hear her talk about being caught in bed with me. It seemed like something that had happened in another life. It was not that I had lost my desire for Grace, but that I felt a mixture of emotions now. Desire was one of them. Perhaps it had always been like that for her, I thought: she had not had the luxury of being able to immerse herself in her desire for me. And perhaps it had blinded me to who she really was. Now I saw more. If there were good qualities in Grace, there were flaws too. The same held true for me, I knew. Perhaps one day we could be comfortable together, like the Grimsbys...
Thinking of them made me start. “Oh, Grace—I should drop Mrs. Grimsby a note. She’ll be worried.” I explained briefly who Mrs. Grimsby was, where I had met her, where she lived.
Grace nodded. “A note would be best—it’ll reach her by this evening. We’ll go to the GPO.”
That the General Post Office was a Dublin landmark I had already gathered from the time I’d spent in the city. As Dubliners navigated along the broad artery of Sackville Street, divided by the plinth of Nelson’s Pillar, they would judge where things stood by how close they were to the GPO. It was a huge white classical building set off from the street, and it was a public building, so it was in a sense theirs.
I looked at the building with an artist’s eye, but Grace saw it differently. She whispered proudly in my ear, as we walked through the great doorway, that this was where Patrick Pearse would proclaim the Republic in two days time. I shivered. The carefree note in her voice was odd. It was as if she were describing the script of a play.
“Will you be here, Grace?”
“No, I’ll be with the Countess at Stephen’s Green.”
My God, I thought. That was where I had sat while Amelia fed the ducks, where Grace and I had had our brief reconciliation, where my tears had fallen onto her hand. I could not imagine the peaceful park full of soldiers, rifles pointing out through the black iron railings.
“I’d like you to come here on Sunday, though,” Grace said earnestly in a whisper as we paused inside the doors. “I’d like you to listen to him, Caroline.”
Looking at her for a moment, I wondered if she could read in my eyes that I still did not fully believe this was going to happen. They’ll shelve it at the last moment, I thought. They’ll have to. It’s suicidal. Nobody will march out to be slaughtered like sheep.
“I’ll do that, if you want me to,” I said uncomfortably. She touched my shoulder, and I followed her into the vast, sleepy chamber of the post office.
I bought a piece of paper and an envelope from a clerk and stood at the long mahogany counter composing my note. Grace looked around with a knowing, almost smug air. She seemed in excellent spirits. I turned my thoughts to Mrs. Grimsby.
Dear Mrs. Grimsby, I scribbled.
I have decided to remain away for a few days until I know what to do. Please forgive me for not returning this evening and for causing you some worry. You mustn’t worry about me even if you don’t hear from me. Things went well today, and . . .
I paused. I wanted to warn them, I realized. They were such decent people. But what could I say? Whatever I said would only alarm them further, and probably convince them that I was delusional as well as reckless.
“I’m in good hands,” I finished, blushing slightly. “All my love, Caroline.” I put the note into the envelope and licked the flap.
Grace came up and stood beside me. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Rathgar?” she murmured. “It’s safe, and you’d be much more comfortable. We could meet again after it’s all over.”
Her warm breath, her hair, the closeness of her body suddenly overwhelmed me.
“Oh, Grace, no. I’ve had enough of comfort. I just want to be with you. It’s an easy choice, believe me.”
“You’ll be alone a lot,” she said solemnly.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m alone when I’m with the Grimsbys because I can’t talk frankly to them. I had to lie to her, say you were a man.”
For some reason, those words seemed to bring us even closer. She leaned over to whisper in my ear, her lips brushing my cheek. “But you’re glad I’m not.”
“I am,” I said, heart beating. “Are you glad I’m not?”
She laughed softly. Her eyes glowed a particularly soft, sensual shade of green.
“Yes,” she said teasingly. “It means we can share a bed without being improper. If your Mrs. Grimsby ever asks, you can say, ‘I spent the nights with a woman friend.’”
“She knew I was going to the Cloak and Dagger,” I told her, anxious suddenly. “Could Jack get into trouble? Hughie will tell her that I asked for Jack and that when he last saw me I was speaking to him.”
“Jack won’t breathe a word,” Grace said firmly. “This is his final day there, anyway. He won’t be working tomorrow; it’s his last chance to see the family and his girl.”
“Jack has a girl?”
“A lovely young thing called Noreen Clarke. It tears him up to leave her. She’s not takin’ all this very well. She’s worried sick.”
Tired, suddenly, we silently climbed the steps of a tall, dilapidated old building off Sackville Street not far from the river. The smell of mold, old food, smoke, and rotting rubbish lingered around the entrance as Grace pushed the door open. She looked at me with a hesitant shrug, as if to say, “I’m sorry, this is all I can offer.” I smiled back, but had to suppress a feeling of dread as I walked inside.
“I live up on top,” Grace said. She seemed eager to get in, to climb the stairs without being bothered by the pale, sickly children I saw lingering at the open doors on each landing. I noticed the yellowed and peeling wallpaper in some faded floral design. Sixty years before, the house might have been quite nice; a hundred years before it had probably been the townhouse of some wealthy merchant family. It held no traces of its former glory.
“As these places go,” Grace said, panting slightly, “it’s not too bad. At least it’s not falling down around us. The draft isn’t too strong, and it doesn’t leak much when it rains.”
She threw open a door at the top of the stairs.
“This is it,” she said rather bleakly.
I walked in. My eyes took in a few things: a large bed, a fireplace, a blackened kettle on the hob, a wardrobe, a small table and battered chair. A dirty window looked down onto the street.
“You share this room with your friend,” I said in a tone of wonder.
She nodded. “She was kind enough to take me in.”
“The bed too?” I was suddenly stricken by the thought of them sleeping together night after night.
She nodded again. “I shared a bed in Thornley as well. I never told you that, did I?”
I shook my head.
“Sheila’s just a friend, Caroline,” Grace said wearily. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’ve no cause to worry.”
She knelt down by the fire and started crumpling newspaper, her face drawn and almost haggard.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I said suddenly. She had obviously not had the kind of breakfast I’d had, I thought with a pang.
She nodded. “There’s food in the cupboard. Get the tea, it’s in a tin.”
I fetched the tea and watched as she hung the kettle over the fire. It would take a while to boil. I buttered some bread at the table and we devoured it quickly, standing up.
“This is the Dublin diet,” Grace said, hardly smiling. “Bread, butter, and jam if you’re lucky.”
“Oh, Grace,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She turned away instantly, going over to the bed and taking off her boots. She lay on the bed without a word.
I lay down beside her. Turning on my side, I watched her face. The room dimmed as the evening drew on.
“Are you sleeping?” I asked after a few minutes.
Grace shook her head, opening her eyes, which seemed glazed with weariness and sadness. “I just don’t want you to pity me.”
“Grace, I don’t pity you. It’s not that. I love you, and I wish your life had been better.”
She sighed. “Some have it worse. Most women have three kids and a drunken husband by my age. I know my mother did.”
She snuggled against me and I held her close. I thought of how vibrant she had been in the post office and how fragile she was now, like a wounded creature. I stroked her soft brown hair, grateful that I had acted on impulse and returned to Ireland. I would never have forgiven myself if I’d stayed on in London and heard that the rising had broken out. Much better that I should be here with her, I mused, so that I could know the worst and maybe protect her from some of it. If she would let me.
“Sheila didn’t work out of here,” she said suddenly. “She worked out of a brothel in Meath Street. In case you’re wonderin’, we never brought customers back to the room.”
“It didn’t occur to me,” I said gently.
“It must seem sordid to you, that’s all,” she murmured.
“It’s not romantic,” I said, laughing suddenly in spite of myself.
Grace gazed at me and began to laugh too. We shook with laughter. She began to kiss my face lightly, with teasing little kisses. I lay still, smiling, hardly responding to these delicious caresses, for I had taken her words seriously earlier on.
“Caroline,” she whispered, “kiss me. Just kiss me.”
I rolled over onto her and our mouths met. We kissed fiercely, her hands loosening my hair so that it flowed down my back. She pushed her tongue deep into my mouth. With a shock, I felt her unbuttoning my blouse, pulling up my undergarment, and then her skilful fingers caressing my small breasts, pinching my hardened nipples. Pinning me down on the bed, she began to suck my nipples with slow, sensual strokes of her tongue and teeth. I trembled and sighed with pleasure, relaxing into her familiar touch.
Finally she raised her head. The room was almost cozy now, the firelight glinting on the walls.
“I thought you didn’t want to,” I murmured.
“Let me pleasure you,” she whispered. “Can I?”
“Yes, but...”
“Believe me, I want to,” she said softly. Fully clothed as she was, she began to undress me slowly and dreamily, pulling off my skirt and petticoat, unfastening my stockings. When I lay naked in front of her, she lowered herself on to of me, kissing me, stroking my breasts, parting my legs with her hand, pushing a finger inside me, and then, once her thrusts caused me tremble helplessly against her, sliding her head down between my thighs.
She had built me up into a frenzy. The quick, light movements of her tongue against my intimate parts drove me wild. My legs buckling and my hips moving against her, I began first to moan and then to scream. More loudly than I ever had at the Wilcoxes’, I urged her on with my cries. My whole body was aflame.
“Close your eyes for a minute,” Grace whispered.
I obeyed. I heard her moving around the room, pulling something out of a drawer. She came back to the bed. I felt her hesitation and wondered dreamily what she could possibly do next.
“Do you trust me?” she whispered.
I nodded, eyes still tight shut. I felt her parting my thighs with something blunt, and then the strangest sensation: something slowly pushing up inside me.
I gasped. It was painful for a little while, but I did not ask her to stop. Once it was fully in place, she began to pump the object inside me gently with her hand. I grasped the bedpost, moaning, as her strokes deepened. I scarcely knew where I was. My neck was arched back, my eyes flickering open, gazing sightlessly at the ceiling. Minutes or hours could have passed. I climaxed with a groan and my whole body jerked rapidly.
I opened my eyes. Grace was watching me lovingly, as flushed and breathless as I was. We stared at each other for a charged moment. I pulled the coverlet over me, but just as quickly she pulled it back.
“No,” she said. “I want to look at you.”
“What did you use?” I asked.
“This,” she said with a mischievous little smile. She handed me something I had never seen before: a long, polished, curved object like a male member. It was stained with blood.
“You’ve made me bleed,” I said wonderingly.
“I know,” she said. “Are you angry with me? I thought it might be your first time.”
I shook my head, a little stunned.
“It’s not mine. It’s Sheila’s. She got it in England off a working girl there. She has a lot of queer, fancy stuff for customers. Whips and things.”
“It’s a dildo, isn’t it?” I asked, blushing. I had never said the word, but I remembered reading somewhere that there were such objects, which women used to pleasure each other. How depraved, I had thought then, how shocking. Yet Grace had shown me what I was capable of.
“Yes,” Grace said, smiling and self-possessed. “That’s what she called it. Did you like it, being fucked that way?”
I felt a twinge of shame at the word. “Couldn’t you tell? I adored it. You’re turning me into a slut, Grace!”
She leaned down and kissed me tenderly. “I loved doin’ it to you. I knew I would. I like seeing you that wild, wantin’ it that bad.”
I clung to her. I felt childlike, my body warm and tingling, loved and at peace with the world. The kettle steamed gently away over the fire.