Alice was out on Regent Street for drinks at the Café Royal, a thriving Victorian restaurant known to cater to the upper crust and apparently British spies. And then she was off to the Savoy for dinner with her international crowd. Like mother like daughter, I suppose. Christmas eve
she’d be traveling to Ireland, spending more and more time in Kilkenny. She even had dreams of living there. I suspect my Irish bug bit her, too. And she even expressed it to me in a letter:
Dearest Mommy,
The Irish are such delightfully kind and amusing people. It is nothing like English hunting, either field or country, everyone helps everyone else, and no one swears at anyone and you’re always welcome in the country if you’re a stranger.... I think Ireland is the freshest, simplest, nicest country and people I have ever met, and I love every inch of it, so you can say ‘I told you so’ and crow over me to your heart’s content now. You were right! And I love you!
My stepdaughter, Eileen, wrapped gifts in the parlor. Nearby were her daughters, Ann Moira and June Mary, which now made John and I official grandparents.
Winston and John were in the library deep into cigars, gin and political talk with our son-in-law, William, while Clementine and I sat sipping sherry in the drawing room, the doors closed. My newest friend, Jessie Louisa “Louie” Rickard, an Irish writer, whose romantic novels we all devoured, joined us, listening on as Clementine cackled about some latest fashion.
My eyes watered up for the tenth time that day. I didn’t intend for her to notice but she instantly figured it out as I turned the other way to avoid eye contact.
“Hazel,” said Clementine, leaning in, her voice full of pity, “Hazel, look at me.” I turned as she gained my full attention. “You must gather yourself, darling girl.”
“Oh Clemmie, I don’t know how to...”
“Of course, you don’t. You’re American,” she said, patting my hand. “But try you must.”
“He was the love of...”
“...your life, yes, I know. But he’s gone. It’s been years,” said Clementine. “Those chapters of life are best left unpublished.”
Then she eyed my wardrobe, black from head to toe, compared to her layers of lapis and pitch blue – a bias-cut dress with belted waist and large yoke collar. “And Hazel, dearest, you’re not in mourning, you’re married...”
“Well, I suppose marriage is a form of mourning.” The three of us women shared a look.
“Fer sure,” said Louie with her Irish brogue. She was sporty. Wearing high waisted sailor pants and striped blouse.
As I admired their zest for life in the present, I longed to tell them right then and there that I mourned not only for Michael, but for our unborn child, and the recent loss of yet another one of Michael’s friends.
“It’s been so difficult, ladies. You’re the only ones I can confide in except for Michael’s sister, Hannie. We’ve stayed close. My love for him is always with me. He once said we were like swans who mate for life.”
“Pain comes from always wanting...” said Louie, trailing off and turning the other way, like a true romantic writer, gazing out the window. Whenever she spoke, rain practically fell on cue.
Clementine began pinching the puffed sleeves on her dress and then gazed up at me, clearing her throat to speak. “I have five tips for any woman where the living men are concerned, not the dead ones.”
“Oh?” I sat up, eager.
“Firstly,” said Clementine, “it is important that a man hires you a skilled staff and has an admirable career. Second, that he makes you laugh. Third, it is important to find a man you can count on who doesn’t lie to you. And that this man loves you and spoils you. And, finally,” she added, “it is most important that these four men don’t know each other!” A pause, and then Clementine burst out laughing.
“Oh Clemmie, you’re wretched! Is this your way of saying I should have an affair?”
“It’s time dear. It’s time.”
“I concur!” said Louie.
“But I’m a Catholic now,” I declared, “I don’t believe in divorce.”
“Nobody is saying to divorce, just have a good ole roll in the hay with a man more your age,”
said Louie, tipping her head to suggest John was very old.
I regretted the way that I segued into the next words that fell from my mouth since rumors had already begun circulating about me. “And Kevin O’Higgins is dead, too. Michael’s friend.”
“Another one?” asked Clementine. “Dead?”
“Yes, back in July, didn’t I tell you then... though it feels like yesterday. The assassins poured lead into his body just like they did to Michael except they murdered him on his way to Mass.”
“Disgraceful!” said Clementine.
“Sometimes, I just feel frozen in misery,” I added.
“So, you were close, yeah?” asked Louie.
Trying to avoid the question instead reframing with a different answer. “I was watching polo at Ranelagh when I was told the news. The first thing I thought was the same thing I always think
when I hear of the death of a man close to me. It’s always the men close to my life who die.”
Leaning forward I poured more sherry, and topped Clementine’s off, too. “O’Higgins so much wanted to see Michael’s achievements and endeavors for the country. They’re saying he was perhaps the greatest diplomat of them all. You know, he wrote me the most charming note. Ended it by saying he wished I could be there as his Parliament meets again. And then he went on about how much the Irish appreciate my help and sympathy.”
Clementine studied her sherry glass, took a sip, and then spoke, “Hazel, I suspect that your views of Ireland are unsuited to the harsh reality of sectarian strife.”
“But I love Ireland so. It was purely by accident of birth that America claimed me. Although,” I said, easing back into the chair and pouting, “Perhaps John was right. He once said that ‘Hazel’s Ireland is as unreal as a mirage in the desert.’”
