Moling, County Wexford, Ireland
April 9, 1919
My Dear Brigid,
Thanks so much for your letter. I must apologize for not
replying sooner, but one thing or another put me off. I do not
think I have anything further to add to what I have told you
already. I was sorry to be the bearer of so much bad news, but
you were bound to hear it sometime.
Mrs. Kelly is settling in. I think she and Thomas get on
well—they always did. Why don’t you write to him? It must
seem strange to Thomas that you don’t. Even though I have
them next door, I don’t get to see a lot of them. How I might
say I’ve no one belonging to me, but God’s will be done, they
are far better off.
I have got three kiddies. The two eldest are at school, so
I’ve only Agatha at home. Will you find us some news of James
when next you write? We hear so many different stories about
him—one time he is dead, another time married, another
in the army. I am sure Ben does everything to make you
comfortable. God gave us both good husbands. I often think of
the old days and all our foolishness and how I suppose we were
no different from others.
This place, as you may guess, is lonely now. Even the
Healy girls have left. They started a hotel in Dublin and are
doing splendidly.
In spite of a good husband and three dear kiddies, I often feel very lonely thinking of all that are gone and how if I am at home of an evening, I haven’t one of the old crowd to go to. I wonder, will we ever meet again in this world? But I suppose even if we do, we will be disappointed—things can never be the same, for people have changed. So, I suppose, have I. I am afraid a trip to Yankeeland is out of the question for us, unless we get rich sooner than we expect. Why don’t you people who have no encumbrance pay a visit to the old land? We would all be delighted to see you. My good man has gone for a motor run to Dublin today with a friend. So, I am left alone, and I do not at all like it, even though we have a mission on here at present—isn’t that great excitement! Can you picture Moling at all? Just now looking out when writing this, the thought just struck me that if you could arrive in the village this minute you could imagine (except for all those that are gone) that it was only yesterday you had left the place. Sometimes I get very sick of it all. Like you when growing up, I always wished to get out of it, but here I have to remain for the rest of my days. I do not think I have anything else to tell now, so shall conclude with love and best wishes from all and hope that you won’t drop us out of your life altogether but still write occasionally at least.
Your fond cousin Molly
In July 1886, Brigid was the firstborn to businesspeople who ran the village shop, gentle, warm, and loving, just like her mother. The light of their lives, she always set a good example to the younger ones and was adored by everyone. As her siblings were born, Brigid was never far from their cradle. First James, then Kate, then Thomas. As Thomas entered this world, their beautiful mother left, victim of a postpartum hemorrhage.
There was to be no talk of what had happened to their mother, no thought given to a need for explanation to her children. It was simply “God’s will.” Their loss was particularly felt in the mornings with no fires lit, no table set, and only the constant ticking of the clock, their mother’s pride and joy. It was all darkness but for the light from the store, where their father shuffled from shelf to shelf, lost to his world ofthe damned stock. All light had been sucked from their warm, loving home and replaced with individual struggles to exist. Even at the tender age of six, Brigid, with her sense of responsibility and an innate protectiveness, knew it was up to her to keep their mother’s memory alive, even if their father forbade it. He’d demanded they clear all traces of her from their home, never to be spoken of again. For Brigid, the day her mother had died all sense of belonging died with her. An ache remained, and a want to escape this life that had been shattered by grief.
Brigid grew sullen, moody, and withdrawn with the years. It was of no help that she had access to the pictures in the magazines, pictures of what the world outside her village had to offer. She loved nothing more than to sneak into the store and look at the magazines that were forbidden to her, taking a copy of Lady of the House, lingering over the “high-class” journal devoted to fashion, the beautifying of the home and person, and many other matters of interest to educated women. Brigid paid particular attention to the fashions and cosmetics, as she knew that her new life would require a bit of a transformation. Her father had a sense of her wanting to change her life, hushing it all away as just silly notions.
Molly knew everything, including Brigid’s deepest of secrets. With only a few houses, their shop, a pub, and the church in the village, it was just as well they had each other. Molly lived in the big house; Brigid lived across the lane over the shop. Inseparable since birth, their mothers had been sisters.
Brigid and Molly’s grandfather, knowing there was never any question that either of his daughters would take over his doctor’s surgery, had bought the adjoining shop from the spinster Easton sisters, wanting to provide a future for his beloved girls. Brigid’s mother was first to marry, taking over the shop with her new husband,Patrick. Molly’s mother remained in the big house until she herselfmarried, a doctor like her father. She took on the care of her parents and the running of the farm.
Brigid made sure to stay in bed until after she heard Molly’s voice below, knowing her father had called her in from next door, asking her to help out with the papers before the morning rush after mass. Brigid was lost to her thoughts of how she hated life in this sleepy village that suffocated her and vowed to get as far away as she could—and soon. “Brigid, would you get up out of that bed!” shouted Patrick from the store below.
Patrick, always teasing her and her big ideas, often reminded her of her responsibility to her family. He’d made it crystal clear that she would not be getting the place; it would be going to James as the eldest son. Not that she wanted it for all the tea in China. Brigid’s sister Kate was what they called “different.” One year of age when their mother had died, she was excused as having the “trauma” in her soul. As far as Brigid was concerned, she was an embarrassment, that’s what she was. Kate had no get-up-and-go in her, causing nothing but upset with her strange ways. The five years between them could have been twenty. They had never been close, and Brigid hated how Kate was the one her father always worried about. He was always telling Brigid to be kind to Kate, making her take Kate out with Molly on their jaunts. That was never going to happen, as there was no way Kate could know of Brigid’s dreams; it would never do to have her getting ideas. Molly and Brigid vowed to always share their hearts. Nothing could ever come between them, as they considered themselves to be the real sisters.
Thomas was quieter, while James was gentler. Thomas had his reason for being quiet—it wasn’t easy for a six-year-old boy to focus solely on keeping his hands out of sight. He could see others wince at his crusted warts at mass as he shook their hand at the sign of peace, and he dreaded the weekly shaming. Father Dempsey would tell him at the top of his voice from the top of the altar, “Do not even think of using those hands in the Lord’s house,” as Thomas hid behind his father’s back at the altar.
His condition had its pluses; he would never be forced to have a career as an altar boy, although he wasn’t sure which was worse, mass or his father asking him to work behind the counter in the shop. Father Dempsey had confirmed his contamination, who would want him to serve them with those hands? They were a constant reminder of the badness in him, and he knew when customers pretended to be intently reading some item or other while keeping a watch of their place in the queue. Morning, noon, and night all he could think about was how he could get through the day without using his hands. Then one morning Granny took him to see old Mr. Hartigan. He had a gift, she said. He was mad, said everyone else. Just like that, old Mr. Hartigan took his hands and held them like they were the holy chalice. The smelly old cloth he wrapped them in reeked so badly it brought a tear to Thomas’s eye. Only God himself knew how many inflictions it had seen. As Mr. Hartigan held his hands, he closed his eyes, mumbling words that made no sense. Granny closed her eyes too. Thomas refused to close his eyes—he was not going to miss a minute of this madness.
“Off you go now, son. You won’t be troubled anymore,” said old Mr. Hartigan.
Granny told him to say thank you and to trust in the gift he had been given. The next morning, as the day dawned, so did the feeling that he no longer had the badness in him. Both of his hands were perfectly smooth, without a mark to tell they had ever been any different.
Patrick, with four young children and a business to be run, needed a woman by his side. He had done his best in the early years after Ellen had passed away, managing the home and the children, knowing at some point he would have to bring another woman into their home. It was expected of him—a man of his standing needed a woman by his side and those poor unfortunate children needed a mother. Patrickhad done his best to deter the goodwill of the parish ladies, but Father Dempsey’s little chats after mass every Sunday were wearing him down. Patrick had been acutely aware that the day Ellen was laid to rest there was not a person in the church who was not wondering who was going to be the next Mrs. Kelly, acknowledged in the nods and winks and the hushed tones by her graveside.
As soon as Father Dempsey knew Patrick was ready, the prospects were drawn up. Biddy O’Connor, leading the parish ladies, had set to work on who was in and who was out. The first task at hand, the required attributes: available, no encumbrance, preferably barren, basic levels of intelligence, strong of stature, and above all, proven housekeeping skills—cleanliness, after all, was next to godliness. Aftermuch deliberation and a lot of tea, a suitor was successfully recruited: Miss Agnes O’Brien from the parish of Kilgowna. Agnes, a spinster living at home with her parents, was acutely aware of the stigma this held for a mature single lady. She made no bones about explaining her choice of path in life, happy to tell all and sundry she’d had other professions open to her in which the hours were shorter, the work more agreeable, and the pay higher than looking after a husband.
When approached about the idea of marrying Patrick, Agnes did not at first quite see the importance of this arrangement. However, it was decided that the four young children needed her far more than her elderly parents, and the town needed the business to operate efficiently. No consideration was given to the need for love—the love of Patrick and his new wife or the love the children would need from the new mother in their lives.
Brigid was eleven years of age the year Patrick and Agnes married.Agnes assumed her new role with precision planning. At the top ofher list were those children. They’d had more than enough time to getover their loss and there was nothing quite like routine. A meeting washeld to review the tasks and her expectations. She had her list, and they had theirs. No dillydallying. There would be no breakfast untilher inspection was complete. She had given up her life to devote it tothis family; the least they could do was to show her the respect shedeserved. Agnes loved to lament the crosses she had to bear: raising those children, having to travel to Dublin to buy their clothes—nothing but the best for the Kellys, who needed to be kept in the style they were accustomed to. But the children themselves had never cared, nor had their father. It was all of her own doing.
As the boys became more and more involved with their father in running the shop and the farm, it was to be the girls who bore the brunt of Agnes’s authoritarian ways, which transcended not only the home. The village school, a short stroll away along the back road, did not escape her attention. Mr. Brennan was the principal, alongside his wife, Winifred. They had no children of their own, accepting theircalling in life to educate the children of Ireland, with priority given totheir religious and moral instruction. Prior to the introduction of the Free Education Act, the lighting of the fire and the cleaning of the outhouses had been left to the less well-off pupils. Now Mr. Brennan felt it was his duty to provide all children with an education, not only on their literary but also their moral obligations in life.
A rotation list was done up for the chores: The boys looked after the fire and the girls cleaned the outhouses. There was to be no discrimination—the jobs were assigned between all the boys and girls irrespective of their social standing. That was, until Agnes got involved. Never before had the principal of the school been questioned.
“No daughter of mine, step or otherwise, will be cleaning toilets—their own or those of others,” declared Agnes.It was not up for discussion, not even with Patrick. He had tried to intervene and begged Agnes not to make a fuss for the sakeof the children. Father Dempsey was called in and Agnes said the It was not up for discussion, not even with Patrick. He had tried to intervene and begged Agnes not to make a fuss for the sake of the children. Father Dempsey was called in and Agnes said the pope himself would not change her mind. It was an impossible situation. Mr. Brennan would not back down and Father Dempsey was raging. Four weeks passed with little or no sign of a resolution. Father Dempsey, underpressure from Patrickto resolve the issue for the sake of everyone’s sanity, was left with no choice. Down came the commissioner for education from Dublin. His decision was final: Either Brigid and Kate resumed their cleaning duties, or they would have to consider alternative arrangements for their education.
And so it was that they were forced to travel by foot or bicycle the five milesevery day to school in the parishof Kilgowna. Agnes’s cousin was the principal and ran a far more “suitable” operation in his school. There the role of the children from the lower classes attending to the upkeep of the school was not questioned. It was inconceivable that the Kelly girls would carry out such tasks that were far beneath their station simply becausethey were female.Patrick knew they were the talk of the town and probably the county, but Agnes held firm. Molly was distraught. She would no longer have Brigid by her side, their morning routine taken from them. No more skipping up the backroad to the schoolhouse, gigglingabout their secretsin the safety of the surrounding fields. Those days would be no more.
