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  ‘It is a problem that has to be solved,’ Kate decreed wisely. ‘We must try to find exactly the right opportunity for you.’

  A week later Kate came bounding excitedly into the bedroom and passed Nellie part of the newspaper.

  ‘Read it,’ she urged.

  Nellie glanced at the printed page – details of a concert and a ballet and piano recital.

  ‘The other side,’ her sister prompted impatiently.

  Nellie read the advertisement over and over again. It was for a course run by the Department of Agriculture and Technical Instruction in the School of Domestic Economy in Kildare Street to train as a rural domestic instructress. The course was for six months and participants would attain a qualification linked to a job travelling the country teaching cooking and domestic skills.

  ‘Do you think I should apply?’ she asked.

  ‘Most definitely,’ her sister assured her.

  A few days later, Nellie slipped on her hat and gloves and went along to the college. She enjoyed a very agreeable interview and was immediately offered a place on the course, which would start in September. Now there was just the question of breaking the news to her mother and father, and paying the tuition fees. She had absolutely no money of her own and relied on her parents to cover the general costs of her clothes and going-out money.

  Mother had grave reservations about the course, saying she wasn’t at all sure it was suitable for a young lady of her background and means.

  ‘Don’t come complaining to us if this course isn’t what you expect,’ she warned. Nellie suspected she was put out, as she realized her daughter would no longer be at her beck and call to help with cooking and household affairs.

  As usual, Father said little, but he agreed to pay.

  ‘I do believe that you will enjoy this, Nellie, and make a success of it,’ he said, handing her a cheque for the fees. ‘Also, the benefit is that you will have a proper qualification.’

  Delighted, Nellie hugged him. This was her opportunity to be independent and perhaps, if she passed the course, to have a career of her own.

  Chapter 8

  Nellie

  FOR THE FIRST time in her life, Nellie enjoyed her classes. She had a huge regard for the lecturers in the School of Domestic Economy, who constantly reminded their students, ‘Ladies, you will be professional and are expected to always behave as professionals.’

  She relished the practical work and soon learned about hygiene, storage of meat, budgeting, correct and safe use of new household mechanical, electrical and gas stoves and equipment, special invalid diets, sewing and design, catering for large numbers, baking and breadmaking, choosing cuts of meat, and de-boning, gutting and cleaning fish, game, meats and fowl. She had an ability to keep calm and work under pressure that some of her classmates envied. She suspected it had been gained from working with Essie in the kitchens of Temple Villas catering for their large family.

  To her delight, after six months she passed not only her practicals but also her written exams and qualified as a rural domestic instructress.

  Kate took her out for lunch to celebrate.

  ‘It’s hard to credit that I am now qualified to teach people how to cook, and use new ranges and stoves and equipment, which are safer and far more labour-saving than the way they cooked before,’ said Nellie, laughing.

  ‘Well done,’ smiled her sister. ‘I am so proud of you.’

  ‘I’ve been offered a position in Meath already,’ Nellie confided. ‘I will be based in different parts of the county, giving practical lessons in cookery and the use of these new stoves to groups of people.’

  ‘Are you going to accept it?’

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t told Mother and Father yet.’

  ‘Miss Independent.’

  ‘You can talk,’ Nellie teased. ‘When are you going to study in Germany?’

  ‘Next year,’ Kate said, blushing modestly. ‘I hope to study at the university in Berlin and I plan to give language classes too.’

  ‘What if you meet a handsome German man?’

  ‘Nellie, I doubt that will happen.’ Kate laughed. ‘I’m sure German men are much the same as Irish or English ones and are not exactly keen on carrot-haired women of a certain age and demeanour.’

  Kate was the kindest sister, blessed with an amazing intelligence but overly conscious of her homely face, high colouring and red hair.

  Linking arms as they approached Temple Villas, Kate promised to lend her moral support when Nellie told Mother about the position she had been offered.

  As predicted, Mother took the news badly.

  ‘A young woman travelling the countryside without a chaperone, exposed to all kinds of situations? It is certainly not desirable, and not what your father and I would have wanted or expected for you,’ she remonstrated. ‘What would our neighbours and friends think of us if we should let one of our daughters be involved in such a thing, traversing the countryside and at risk of all kinds of things?’

  ‘They would think what forward-looking parents the Giffords are,’ retorted Kate. ‘What bright, intelligent young women they have raised, ready to take up careers of their own and be independent.’

  Mother coloured.

  ‘Mother, it is very safe, I promise,’ Nellie assured her. ‘I will be transported to each place where I am to give my demonstrations and lessons, along with my equipment, and I will stay there for a few weeks giving the course to local women.’

  ‘And where will you stay – in some local hotel with rough salesmen and tradesmen?’

  ‘It is arranged that I will lodge and have meals with a respectable local family in their own home, either in the town or on a farm,’ she explained. ‘There would be no impropriety involved, Mother. It is a very respectable position, I am assured.’

  Mother didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Nellie is very competent and able,’ interjected Kate. ‘Otherwise she would not have been offered such a position. What would you have her do – return to cook here at home for you and Father while the rest of us go on to study and have careers? My sister deserves better and should at least be given the opportunity to prove herself.’

  Kate’s appeal was like some legal argument and, much to Nellie’s surprise, Father and Mother agreed, with the proviso that, if her position proved unsuitable, she would agree to return to Dublin.

  ‘Well done!’ chorused her sisters and brothers when she proudly told them the good news of her official appointment.

  Three weeks later she nervously stepped off the train in Meath with all her cooking equipment and was met by a man in a pony and trap, already loaded with her stove, ready to bring her to where she was to set up in an old hall in the middle of Enfield town. She was staying with an elderly couple who lived only a few doors away from the hall and made her feel immediately welcome. A woman had been assigned to help her during the six-week course she was teaching in basic cookery and domestic skills.

  As Nellie looked out on the sea of eager faces when she stood up to talk in her new apron, she put her nervousness behind her and concentrated on the task in hand, passing on the knowledge and experience she had gained. Young wives eager to learn; women wanting to discover how to feed a large, hungry family on a small budget, or how to feed workhands on a busy farm; single girls with no idea how to manage a kitchen; two older women who planned to set up a boarding house of their own … Nellie gave everyone attention as she tried to demonstrate how to use the new stove correctly to cook and bake a wide variety of meals.

  The classes filled up quickly. Sometimes when she saw hungry faces she ensured that at the end of class they got to take home any leftover food and ingredients to their families.

  She enjoyed the freedom of the countryside, as well as earning a wage and being self-sufficient. At times her accommodation was rough and not very comfortable, but most of the people she stayed with tried their best to provide her with a fairly clean room of her own and shared their simple meals with her. The countrysi
de may be lush and green, the fields full of crops and animals grazing, but many people she met were poor, barely eking out a living from the soil and land they tended, often living on smallholdings and unable to support their large families, their children forced either to work in the cities or take the boat to Liverpool and London.

  She always appreciated returning home to Temple Villas to her family, friends and comforts, but Nellie had to admit she welcomed getting back to the freedom of rural life and her independence.

  Chapter 9

  Grace

  GRACE GIFFORD GAZED surreptitiously at her fellow passengers on the tram, trying to gauge if any of them were new students like she was, bound for Dublin’s Metropolitan School of Art. She should have been returning to school in September like the rest of the girls in her class at Alexandra College, but she had somehow managed to persuade Mother and Father to let her continue her studies at the famous art school instead. She had no interest in studying maths or Latin or geography but just wanted to spend all her time painting, drawing and sketching, and now she had the opportunity to do just that.

  Gabriel and Ada had both studied art at the college and Mother always boasted to them of how she had met Father at the evening art classes there. Now it was Grace’s turn.

  She tried to hide her nervousness as she entered the art school building on Kildare Street. In an effort to make herself appear older than sixteen, she had pinned up her long, golden-red hair neatly and wore a dark-green skirt, white blouse and her fitted navy jacket, borrowing a brown leather satchel of Ada’s to hold her pencils and pads. She joined the crowd of students pushing and shoving in the hall as they checked the large noticeboard with the college’s enrolment list, searching for her own name among the Gs.

  A girl from the tram was standing beside her, looking down the columns of names.

  ‘Gray,’ she said aloud, searching, her long, thin finger running down the sheet. ‘There I am!’ she added triumphantly.

  She blushed suddenly, aware of Grace’s gaze. ‘I’m Hilda Gray,’ she introduced herself.

  Falling into step, Grace and Hilda made their way up flight after flight of stairs. On the second floor there was a large lecture hall and they slid into seats beside each other, chatting as the room filled up. A striking girl called Florence flopped down beside them.

  Richard Henry Willis, who had only recently been appointed head of the School of Art, stood in front of them. A well-respected artist, with a long beard and kind eyes, he made it clear that his tenure would bring some changes to the school.

  ‘We may be part of the great British tradition of art schools, but to my mind there is no denying the influence of our Gaelic and Celtic heritage, an influence that I hope will now be encouraged and fostered here in the Metropolitan School of Art. We want all our students to develop expertise and knowledge in an area of art which satisfies them creatively and also to gain the technical skills that form the basis of any good working art discipline.’

  Grace paid full attention as Mr Willis outlined the curriculum they would study, which included not only all types of painting, sculpture, charcoal, etching, stained glass, enamel work, mosaic and design, but even traditional Irish lacemaking. It all sounded exciting and new to her, and she was determined to learn as much as she could.

  ‘Are there any questions?’

  A few brave people put up their hands, but Grace kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead as one young man near them asked question after question about the use of a private studio and then, unabashed, wanted to know when they got to paint nude models.

  Grace could see a few of the girls blush at the mention of the word ‘nude’. The college principal looked momentarily uncomfortable.

  ‘All life-drawing classes are segregated,’ he reassured the young ladies present. ‘Now I want to introduce you to Mr Child, who will advise you of your daily and weekly lecture schedule and bring you on a tour of the school of art.’

  Grace took out her notepad and wrote furiously as he launched into the day-to-day classes they would attend, then the exam timetables and the broad list of lectures that would be held here in this hall and which they would be expected to attend.

  ‘Non-attendance is frowned on,’ he reminded them firmly.

  An hour later they were conducted on a tour of the buildings – a real rabbit warren of rooms, studios and offices.

  ‘I don’t know how we are expected to remember it all,’ groaned Hilda dramatically. Grace had always prided herself on a good sense of direction and made a mental note of the layout as best she could.

  The class was split into groups and soon afterwards she found herself in a bright, sunny studio faced with a composition of fruit and a jug laid out on a wooden table. She opened her sketchpad and began to draw exactly what she saw before her.

  ‘Nothing is what it seems,’ their tutor reminded her. ‘Consider the light on the apple, the shade, the shadow on the jug, the slight decay already evident on a few of the grapes. Use your eyes well before you even begin to draw a line.’

  Embarrassed, Grace turned over to a new page and began again.

  The weeks passed quickly and Grace was happy to spend hours and hours with sketchpad and pen or pencils. They had fine lecturers and tutors and she considered it a particular privilege to study under William Orpen, the celebrated portrait painter who worked between London and Dublin. She hated antique drawing with a vengeance – she hadn’t the patience for it, far preferring to draw and sketch people. She also enjoyed design and lettering and the formal use of black and white. When she attended a few classes on printing, she discovered to her surprise that she enjoyed designing patterns. Stained-glass work was difficult, but she loved the effect of creating simple shapes and patterns in various glass colours under the guidance of Mr Child and Miss Purser.

  Grace cycled into Kildare Street most days like many of the students. Soon she made a few friends and was finding the Metropolitan School of Art a far happier environment than her old school. She suddenly felt grown up and, attending a lecture given by her father’s friend John Yeats at the Royal Hibernian Academy after Christmas with her parents, brother and sister, she was delighted when he and his family congratulated her on joining the illustrious world of art.

  Everyone was full of talk about the opening of the new Abbey Theatre two nights earlier in the old Mechanics’ Institute building on Abbey Street, which, thanks to the generosity of benefactor Miss Horniman, had been transformed into a very fine theatre. It had opened with two of John Yeats’s son William’s plays and one by Lady Gregory, all of which had received a great reception from the packed audience.

  ‘We most definitely will get tickets,’ promised Father and Gabriel.

  To Grace’s annoyance, Mother deemed her too young to attend the Abbey and its programme of what she considered Irish nationalist-type plays.

  Grace decided to attend the college’s evening classes in sculpture. It was an area she knew little about: she loved sculptures but had no experience with working in clay and plaster and was curious to discover the process from model to mould to bronze or from stone to statue.

  The students who attended the evening classes often worked and used the opportunity to study after their day’s labours. She was full of admiration for them. The age group was generally older and the students more serious.

  ‘Tonight we all make a horse,’ announced their teacher, sculptor Oliver Sheppard. ‘Take your clay in your hands and begin to model.’

  ‘Here, better put this on,’ advised the student sitting next to Grace, passing her an apron. ‘You don’t want to destroy your clothes.’

  Grace was about to protest that she was fine, but already she could see the table was spattered with clay, so she pulled on the protective apron and tied it.

  She watched enviously as the young man with the floppy dark hair beside her worked easily and soon had a perfect horse standing on the table in front of him. Its ears, head, fetlocks, back were all perfect, she thought, as she c
lumsily tried to shape her own strange equine creature.

  ‘Too small, and the clay is difficult to work with,’ advised her neighbour. She tried to make it bigger. ‘And now too big, and those long legs will fall off.’

  Aware of his scrutiny, she took a deep breath and concentrated on letting her fingers work as finally a small, stocky horse took shape.

  ‘Your beautiful horse is a racehorse and mine, I suppose, is a carthorse,’ she suggested.

  They both burst out laughing, and the young man politely introduced himself as Willie Pearse.

  ‘My father is a stonemason so I usually work with marble and stone,’ he explained, ‘but it’s tempting to try bronze and using the foundry. There is much to learn from someone like Mr Sheppard.’

  Willie was very involved with the Gaelic League and he taught Gaelic language classes in the art school which were becoming very popular. Grace and her friends immediately signed up to attend them. Grace found it difficult to learn this new language, which they had never studied in school, but over time she managed to learn new words and sentences which she tried to use. Mr Willis himself sometimes joined them.

  She far preferred going to the ceili dances that Willie Pearse and his friends helped to organize. They were lively affairs, with everyone joining in and being swung around the room to traditional fiddle music. Mother and Father objected at first, saying she was too young to attend college socials and the famous Nine Arts Ball, but thankfully her brothers and sisters interfered on her behalf and they relented, giving her permission to go along with the other young ladies in her class.

  Grace was happier than she had ever been before, studying and drawing during the day and in the evening attending a constant round of concerts, exhibitions, lectures and dances with Hilda and Florence and her friends.