November 2, 1935
“Why, I can hardly believe my own eyes. Is it Rose Sullivan I’m looking at?”
Rose stared back at the well-dressed woman who was standing at her counter in the Wanamaker’s Ladies’ Dress Department. The woman had on a fox trimmed gray coat, there was a string of pearls at her neck, and her silver hair peeked out from under a black wide-brimmed hat tilted at a jaunty angle. She had a round, fleshy face and merry green eyes, and although she looked familiar, Rose could not place her as someone she knew.
“You don’t recall me? Why, I suppose that’s to be expected. It’s been near 50 years since we last spoke. It’s me, Mary Driscoll herself. Do you not remember that name, Rose?”
It was like an electric shock to Rose. “Is it you, Mary?” she said. “This is a surprise, after so many years. To be sure, I am sorry I did not recognize you.”
“Well, I doubt you’ve been thinking much of poor old Mary Driscoll all these years,” Mary said. “I admit I look different, though. I’ve come up in the world, as you can see.” She adjusted her fur and struck a pose.
“Aye, you always wanted fine things, as I remember,” Rose said. “I’m glad it has all worked out for you.”
“And what of you, Rose?” Mary said. “How are things with you?”
Rose saw that Mary was looking at her plain gray dress, the parsimonious touch of makeup on her face, her white hair cut in a sensible bob.
“Fine, to be sure,” Rose said. “I am surviving, Mary. Now, can I help you? I take it you are here to buy a dress.”
“Oh, Rose, don’t be so formal,” Mary said, taking her hand. “We grew up together in Skibbereen, remember? I know there was a falling out between us, but it’s late in life and we should forget those old grievances. Let’s not hold on to those grudges the way so many of our countrymen like to do.”
“I am holding no grudge,” Rose said, taking her hand back. “It is only that this is my place of employment, Mary. I cannot be standing around chatting with the clientele about times past, you see. I am lucky enough to have a job in these hard years, and I want to keep it.”
“I understand, Rose,” Mary said. “But I believe it’s a good sign that I happened upon you today. I hardly ever come to Wanamaker’s on my own, you understand. I usually send my maid Christine to pick up a few things for me. I’m only here because I’m leaving for Ireland tomorrow and I needed to buy a few last minute items, and Christine is busy with other errands.”
Rose detected a gleam in Mary’s eyes at the mention of a servant. Of course, Mary would want her to know that she was able to afford her own servants now, that the wheel had turned since those days so long ago when she was a servant for others.
“Anyway,” Mary said. “‘Tis a miracle, me running into you like this, and I don’t want to pass it by. Let’s go out to lunch, Rose, just you and I. We can talk over old times, and catch up on our lives.”
“Out to lunch?” Rose said. “After all these years, Mary?”
“Why not?” Mary said. “It’s ten minutes before noon. You do get a lunch break, don’t you? I know a lovely little tea room just around the corner on Market street, and we could have a delicious lunch and a chat. What do you say?”
Rose shrugged. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Hedges, my superior, if it’s all right. I only get 30 minutes, though, so we can’t be long.”
Mrs. Hedges was a woman with the posture of a ballerina and the frosty mien of a curmudgeon. She rarely smiled, and never got chummy with her staff. She agreed to Rose’s request with a simple, “Be back in 30 minutes,” without ever looking up from the paperwork she was doing at her desk.
At the tea room, which was full of women like Mary who oozed money and elegance, Mary ordered finger sandwiches and tea for them, folded her hands, and said: “So, Rose, how have the years been for you?”
Rose sighed. She knew very well that Mary had probably heard all about her troubles many times over. After all, Mary had written the letter years ago to Rose’s father in Ireland telling him that Rose had gotten pregnant before she married Peter Morley. Mary was very connected to the Irish community in Philadelphia, and since she had always been a gossip, Rose figured she knew a lot.
“I would suppose you’ve heard a bit about me, Mary Driscoll.”
“No, I have not,” Mary said. “It may surprise you, but Philadelphia is a big enough place that a person can disappear from sight. You don’t keep in touch with anyone I know. Of course, we travel in different circles now.” It was another show of Mary’s status, but Rose ignored it.
“I can understand why you might feel shy about telling me anything,” Mary said. “I know I was the cause of some trouble for you when I wrote that letter to your father. Sorry I am for it now, Rose. I was just a broth of a girl, you understand, and I was angry at you for making me lose my position with the Lancasters.”
“You stole from Mrs. Lancaster, Mary.”
“That I did, and it was wrong,” Mary said. “I made a mistake or two in my youth, I am ashamed to say. You’ll get no argument from me about the right or wrong of it. It’s just, I wanted something better than what we had in Ireland, Rose, and I didn’t know how to get it. And when I lost my position, well, it was like a death sentence. No proper lady would hire me after that, and I thought I’d have to go back to the old country and live in shame for the rest of my life. Can you see how it would make me a bit mad?”
Rose said nothing.
Mary smiled. “Ah, well, I know, there’s no use in digging up old grievances. Let the past be dead and buried, I say. I’ve come a long way since then, as you can see.”
“You look well, Mary.”
Mary smiled at the compliment, pleased as could be. “It’s just a bit o’ luck, I suppose. I had a hard time of it those first few years, Rose. I don’t want to talk about all the things I did to keep body and soul together. I found myself living a desperate life, with a hard crowd of people.”
She took a sip of her tea, holding her finger aloft like a lady, and then putting her cup down on the saucer daintily. “Those were bad years, Rose. I often wondered what was going to happen to me, where I’d fetch up. After ten years of living hand to mouth, with some days not enough food to keep a field mouse alive, God smiled on me and I found a respectable position. I was hired at the seminary, of all places, to be a housekeeper for the priests who taught there! I got a nice, clean room, three square meals a day, and all the confessions my soul could handle.”
“I never knew you to be a religious woman, Mary,” Rose said. “I well remember how you wouldn’t get out of bed on Sunday mornings to go to Mass with me.”
Mary laughed. “Oh, I was a pagan in those days, Rose, to be sure. I couldn’t be bothered with priests and all their fussing. A few years of hunger will change a woman’s mind, though. Another year and I’d have surely become a nun, if they’d have taken me.” She laughed in her jolly way, and Rose couldn’t help but smile.
“A nun!” Rose said. “I have a hard time seeing you in a nun’s habit. You always liked fine clothes, Mary.”
“Lucky for me it didn’t happen,” Mary said, winking. “I was saved by the priests, and I showed them my gratitude by being the best housekeeper they ever had. It was a happy time for me, and I made a lot of good friends among the clergy. And all the good that’s happened to me since is a result of my time at the St. Charles Seminary.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re still working there, Mary?”
“No, Rose, I left that position years ago. I met a good Catholic man named Francis Dillon, a man who had a small bricklaying company. He was hired to work on an addition to one of the buildings at the seminary. I met him, and it was love at first sight. Oh, I don’t say he lit all the candles for me, you understand, the way some others did. Francis was a quiet, simple man, but I had had enough of the other type, and I was ready for a man like him. And he has taken good care of me, I must admit.” She emphasized her point by holding out her hand to show Rose the several gold rings on her fingers, including an elaborate diamond wedding ring.
“I take it he’s a man of wealth,” Rose said.
“Not when I met him,” Mary said. “No, he was a simple bricklayer, with a half a dozen fellows working for him. But I have helped him to expand his business, so to speak. Why, today his company is one of the largest in the city for brickwork. He does all the work for the archdiocese.”
“Does he now?”
“Yes,” Mary said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It so happens that one of the young priests I met back in my seminary days was Dennis Joseph Dougherty. You’ve heard of him, of course? The Cardinal?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Rose said. “They call him ‘The Great Builder’ because he’s put up so many new churches and schools.”
“To be sure,” Mary said. “And my Francis’ company is usually the one doing the brickwork. The Cardinal has been good to us. Why, I can’t tell you how many dinners I’ve been to at his residence, grand affairs with many important people at them. He’s a very powerful man, you know. The Mayor, the Governor, all the politicians come calling on him. They want the Catholic vote. And there’s me, Mary Driscoll from Skibbereen, sitting there talking to them, like I was born to it. Can you imagine?”
“You’ve done very well for yourself, Mary,” Rose said. “I am happy for you.”
“And how about you, Rose?” Mary said. “How have things been for you? Are you still married to that handsome coachman named Peter?”
This is the beginning of Book Three of "Rose Of Skibbereen". To read more, please purchase the book on Amazon or Smashwords.
“Why, I can hardly believe my own eyes. Is it Rose Sullivan I’m looking at?”
Rose stared back at the well-dressed woman who was standing at her counter in the Wanamaker’s Ladies’ Dress Department. The woman had on a fox trimmed gray coat, there was a string of pearls at her neck, and her silver hair peeked out from under a black wide-brimmed hat tilted at a jaunty angle. She had a round, fleshy face and merry green eyes, and although she looked familiar, Rose could not place her as someone she knew.
“You don’t recall me? Why, I suppose that’s to be expected. It’s been near 50 years since we last spoke. It’s me, Mary Driscoll herself. Do you not remember that name, Rose?”
It was like an electric shock to Rose. “Is it you, Mary?” she said. “This is a surprise, after so many years. To be sure, I am sorry I did not recognize you.”
“Well, I doubt you’ve been thinking much of poor old Mary Driscoll all these years,” Mary said. “I admit I look different, though. I’ve come up in the world, as you can see.” She adjusted her fur and struck a pose.
“Aye, you always wanted fine things, as I remember,” Rose said. “I’m glad it has all worked out for you.”
“And what of you, Rose?” Mary said. “How are things with you?”
Rose saw that Mary was looking at her plain gray dress, the parsimonious touch of makeup on her face, her white hair cut in a sensible bob.
“Fine, to be sure,” Rose said. “I am surviving, Mary. Now, can I help you? I take it you are here to buy a dress.”
“Oh, Rose, don’t be so formal,” Mary said, taking her hand. “We grew up together in Skibbereen, remember? I know there was a falling out between us, but it’s late in life and we should forget those old grievances. Let’s not hold on to those grudges the way so many of our countrymen like to do.”
“I am holding no grudge,” Rose said, taking her hand back. “It is only that this is my place of employment, Mary. I cannot be standing around chatting with the clientele about times past, you see. I am lucky enough to have a job in these hard years, and I want to keep it.”
“I understand, Rose,” Mary said. “But I believe it’s a good sign that I happened upon you today. I hardly ever come to Wanamaker’s on my own, you understand. I usually send my maid Christine to pick up a few things for me. I’m only here because I’m leaving for Ireland tomorrow and I needed to buy a few last minute items, and Christine is busy with other errands.”
Rose detected a gleam in Mary’s eyes at the mention of a servant. Of course, Mary would want her to know that she was able to afford her own servants now, that the wheel had turned since those days so long ago when she was a servant for others.
“Anyway,” Mary said. “‘Tis a miracle, me running into you like this, and I don’t want to pass it by. Let’s go out to lunch, Rose, just you and I. We can talk over old times, and catch up on our lives.”
“Out to lunch?” Rose said. “After all these years, Mary?”
“Why not?” Mary said. “It’s ten minutes before noon. You do get a lunch break, don’t you? I know a lovely little tea room just around the corner on Market street, and we could have a delicious lunch and a chat. What do you say?”
Rose shrugged. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Hedges, my superior, if it’s all right. I only get 30 minutes, though, so we can’t be long.”
Mrs. Hedges was a woman with the posture of a ballerina and the frosty mien of a curmudgeon. She rarely smiled, and never got chummy with her staff. She agreed to Rose’s request with a simple, “Be back in 30 minutes,” without ever looking up from the paperwork she was doing at her desk.
At the tea room, which was full of women like Mary who oozed money and elegance, Mary ordered finger sandwiches and tea for them, folded her hands, and said: “So, Rose, how have the years been for you?”
Rose sighed. She knew very well that Mary had probably heard all about her troubles many times over. After all, Mary had written the letter years ago to Rose’s father in Ireland telling him that Rose had gotten pregnant before she married Peter Morley. Mary was very connected to the Irish community in Philadelphia, and since she had always been a gossip, Rose figured she knew a lot.
“I would suppose you’ve heard a bit about me, Mary Driscoll.”
“No, I have not,” Mary said. “It may surprise you, but Philadelphia is a big enough place that a person can disappear from sight. You don’t keep in touch with anyone I know. Of course, we travel in different circles now.” It was another show of Mary’s status, but Rose ignored it.
“I can understand why you might feel shy about telling me anything,” Mary said. “I know I was the cause of some trouble for you when I wrote that letter to your father. Sorry I am for it now, Rose. I was just a broth of a girl, you understand, and I was angry at you for making me lose my position with the Lancasters.”
“You stole from Mrs. Lancaster, Mary.”
“That I did, and it was wrong,” Mary said. “I made a mistake or two in my youth, I am ashamed to say. You’ll get no argument from me about the right or wrong of it. It’s just, I wanted something better than what we had in Ireland, Rose, and I didn’t know how to get it. And when I lost my position, well, it was like a death sentence. No proper lady would hire me after that, and I thought I’d have to go back to the old country and live in shame for the rest of my life. Can you see how it would make me a bit mad?”
Rose said nothing.
Mary smiled. “Ah, well, I know, there’s no use in digging up old grievances. Let the past be dead and buried, I say. I’ve come a long way since then, as you can see.”
“You look well, Mary.”
Mary smiled at the compliment, pleased as could be. “It’s just a bit o’ luck, I suppose. I had a hard time of it those first few years, Rose. I don’t want to talk about all the things I did to keep body and soul together. I found myself living a desperate life, with a hard crowd of people.”
She took a sip of her tea, holding her finger aloft like a lady, and then putting her cup down on the saucer daintily. “Those were bad years, Rose. I often wondered what was going to happen to me, where I’d fetch up. After ten years of living hand to mouth, with some days not enough food to keep a field mouse alive, God smiled on me and I found a respectable position. I was hired at the seminary, of all places, to be a housekeeper for the priests who taught there! I got a nice, clean room, three square meals a day, and all the confessions my soul could handle.”
“I never knew you to be a religious woman, Mary,” Rose said. “I well remember how you wouldn’t get out of bed on Sunday mornings to go to Mass with me.”
Mary laughed. “Oh, I was a pagan in those days, Rose, to be sure. I couldn’t be bothered with priests and all their fussing. A few years of hunger will change a woman’s mind, though. Another year and I’d have surely become a nun, if they’d have taken me.” She laughed in her jolly way, and Rose couldn’t help but smile.
“A nun!” Rose said. “I have a hard time seeing you in a nun’s habit. You always liked fine clothes, Mary.”
“Lucky for me it didn’t happen,” Mary said, winking. “I was saved by the priests, and I showed them my gratitude by being the best housekeeper they ever had. It was a happy time for me, and I made a lot of good friends among the clergy. And all the good that’s happened to me since is a result of my time at the St. Charles Seminary.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re still working there, Mary?”
“No, Rose, I left that position years ago. I met a good Catholic man named Francis Dillon, a man who had a small bricklaying company. He was hired to work on an addition to one of the buildings at the seminary. I met him, and it was love at first sight. Oh, I don’t say he lit all the candles for me, you understand, the way some others did. Francis was a quiet, simple man, but I had had enough of the other type, and I was ready for a man like him. And he has taken good care of me, I must admit.” She emphasized her point by holding out her hand to show Rose the several gold rings on her fingers, including an elaborate diamond wedding ring.
“I take it he’s a man of wealth,” Rose said.
“Not when I met him,” Mary said. “No, he was a simple bricklayer, with a half a dozen fellows working for him. But I have helped him to expand his business, so to speak. Why, today his company is one of the largest in the city for brickwork. He does all the work for the archdiocese.”
“Does he now?”
“Yes,” Mary said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It so happens that one of the young priests I met back in my seminary days was Dennis Joseph Dougherty. You’ve heard of him, of course? The Cardinal?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Rose said. “They call him ‘The Great Builder’ because he’s put up so many new churches and schools.”
“To be sure,” Mary said. “And my Francis’ company is usually the one doing the brickwork. The Cardinal has been good to us. Why, I can’t tell you how many dinners I’ve been to at his residence, grand affairs with many important people at them. He’s a very powerful man, you know. The Mayor, the Governor, all the politicians come calling on him. They want the Catholic vote. And there’s me, Mary Driscoll from Skibbereen, sitting there talking to them, like I was born to it. Can you imagine?”
“You’ve done very well for yourself, Mary,” Rose said. “I am happy for you.”
“And how about you, Rose?” Mary said. “How have things been for you? Are you still married to that handsome coachman named Peter?”
This is the beginning of Book Three of "Rose Of Skibbereen". To read more, please purchase the book on Amazon or Smashwords.
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