her twentieth birthday she receives a letter from the Mater Hospital
offering her a place as a trainee nurse, pending an interview, character references
and the payment of a fee. On a September morning she boards the train at Woodlawn
Station and is ferried across the country, into the unknown. Somewhere in the midlands
the sky darkens and the train slows to a halt in the middle of nowhere. There is
an eerie silence in the carriage. Suddenly a fork of lightning cuts the sky in two.
With her heart crossways she watches the lighted sky as each angry flash erupts and
dazzles and disappears.
She resides in the Nurses’ Home among other girls from the country. Every morning
she dons her starched uniform and white shoes and goes on duty. In the evenings she
attends classes. She is eager, and learns quickly, in both theory and practice. At
night she sits on her bed poring over her textbooks, occasionally startled by a siren
in the streets outside. She writes to her father every fortnight and to Claire in
New York almost every week. On her days off she walks along O’Connell Street, gazing
in shop windows, occasionally entering Clerys to buy nylons or a cardigan and once,
during their winter sale, a herringbone tweed coat with a fur collar and cuffs. She
goes to the cinema with a girl from Cork, but mostly avoids social gatherings and
nights out. The shyness she feels among others, and the terrible need to fit in,
cause her such anxiety that when the evening arrives the prospect of going among
people renders her immobile, disabled, sometimes physically sick. Whenever possible,
she opts for night duty, the low lights and the hush of the ward offering the closest
thing to solitude available in a working life. When she meets the gaze of an attractive
young doctor at a patient’s bedside she blushes and averts her eyes, longing to respond
with a flirtatious smile or remark, like the other girls do. She joins the library
at Phibsborough, borrows two novels each week, goes for walks along the city streets
and down by the river. One day, on Townsend Street, she stands at the entrance to
a new building that houses a swimming pool and reads a notice for swimming classes.
She has an image of herself cutting a swathe, a solitary furrow, through still blue
water. During the two years of her training, and afterwards as a ward nurse, she
is warm and polite with her colleagues, but fails to form one lasting friendship.
Occasionally, on a Saturday when she is off duty, she meets up with Maeve, in from
her digs in Blackrock, and the two sisters stroll around the city. Once, in February,
as they walk along the footpath outside the GPO, a street photographer appears before
them and takes their picture. They are walking arm in arm, both in fashionable tweed
coats and pointed black shoes. Later when Tess looks at herself in the photograph
she sees for the first time what others must see—a young woman with a nice enough
face and smiling eyes—something that does not accord with the image of herself she
carries within. She places the photograph in an envelope and writes a note and addresses
it to Claire, care of her aunt Molly’s, 731 West 183rd Street, New York. She looks
at the address for a long time. 183rd Street. She says it aloud. She sees Claire
there, sitting in a chair. She feels something, a streaming across, at that moment.
With each trip back to Easterfield, changes accrue. Captain is gone. He slunk from
the shadows on his belly one day and lay under the wheel of the car as it entered
the yard. Often, she replays this image in her mind and remembers his small black
eyes gazing into hers on those nights when she took him up to her room. Mike Connolly
returned to his own people in Connemara, too old and ill now—and no longer needed—to
endure the labour or fulfil the duties he had performed at Easterfield for nearly
thirty-five years.
Oliver, more than anyone, has changed. He is tall and handsome with a shock of blond
hair and
offering her a place as a trainee nurse, pending an interview, character references
and the payment of a fee. On a September morning she boards the train at Woodlawn
Station and is ferried across the country, into the unknown. Somewhere in the midlands
the sky darkens and the train slows to a halt in the middle of nowhere. There is
an eerie silence in the carriage. Suddenly a fork of lightning cuts the sky in two.
With her heart crossways she watches the lighted sky as each angry flash erupts and
dazzles and disappears.
She resides in the Nurses’ Home among other girls from the country. Every morning
she dons her starched uniform and white shoes and goes on duty. In the evenings she
attends classes. She is eager, and learns quickly, in both theory and practice. At
night she sits on her bed poring over her textbooks, occasionally startled by a siren
in the streets outside. She writes to her father every fortnight and to Claire in
New York almost every week. On her days off she walks along O’Connell Street, gazing
in shop windows, occasionally entering Clerys to buy nylons or a cardigan and once,
during their winter sale, a herringbone tweed coat with a fur collar and cuffs. She
goes to the cinema with a girl from Cork, but mostly avoids social gatherings and
nights out. The shyness she feels among others, and the terrible need to fit in,
cause her such anxiety that when the evening arrives the prospect of going among
people renders her immobile, disabled, sometimes physically sick. Whenever possible,
she opts for night duty, the low lights and the hush of the ward offering the closest
thing to solitude available in a working life. When she meets the gaze of an attractive
young doctor at a patient’s bedside she blushes and averts her eyes, longing to respond
with a flirtatious smile or remark, like the other girls do. She joins the library
at Phibsborough, borrows two novels each week, goes for walks along the city streets
and down by the river. One day, on Townsend Street, she stands at the entrance to
a new building that houses a swimming pool and reads a notice for swimming classes.
She has an image of herself cutting a swathe, a solitary furrow, through still blue
water. During the two years of her training, and afterwards as a ward nurse, she
is warm and polite with her colleagues, but fails to form one lasting friendship.
Occasionally, on a Saturday when she is off duty, she meets up with Maeve, in from
her digs in Blackrock, and the two sisters stroll around the city. Once, in February,
as they walk along the footpath outside the GPO, a street photographer appears before
them and takes their picture. They are walking arm in arm, both in fashionable tweed
coats and pointed black shoes. Later when Tess looks at herself in the photograph
she sees for the first time what others must see—a young woman with a nice enough
face and smiling eyes—something that does not accord with the image of herself she
carries within. She places the photograph in an envelope and writes a note and addresses
it to Claire, care of her aunt Molly’s, 731 West 183rd Street, New York. She looks
at the address for a long time. 183rd Street. She says it aloud. She sees Claire
there, sitting in a chair. She feels something, a streaming across, at that moment.
With each trip back to Easterfield, changes accrue. Captain is gone. He slunk from
the shadows on his belly one day and lay under the wheel of the car as it entered
the yard. Often, she replays this image in her mind and remembers his small black
eyes gazing into hers on those nights when she took him up to her room. Mike Connolly
returned to his own people in Connemara, too old and ill now—and no longer needed—to
endure the labour or fulfil the duties he had performed at Easterfield for nearly
thirty-five years.
Oliver, more than anyone, has changed. He is tall and handsome with a shock of blond
hair and
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