1949 by Morgan Llywelyn Page B

those between twenty-five and forty would spend the rest of their lives single. Mass emigration and a stern Catholicism that condemned sensuality and forbade sex for any reason other than procreation within marriage were largely responsible.

    Finbar Cassidy was not easily discouraged. At the weekend he called on Ursula and invited her to the cinema. She meant to refuse, but it was simpler just to say yes. We’ve already attended a concert together. What harm can there be in going to a film?
    Outside the theater Finbar bought her a vanilla ice cream and teased her about a smear of cream on the end of her nose. Ursula’s smile was so magical it made his heart leap.
    Yet in unguarded moments he glimpsed a lurking sadness in the girl.
    A fortnight later he accompanied her on a tour of Dublin’s museums. The various collections were much as the departing British had left them, only shabbier. The government had no money to spare for items it deemed nonessential. It pained Ursula to see Ireland’s cultural heritage gathering dust. We wrested our treasures out of the lion’s paw…for this?
    Afterward they paused in St. Stephen’s Green to rest. Sitting upright on a park bench with her hands folded and her eyes downcast, Ursula reminded Finbar of a grave, quiet child who expects the worst.
    He resolved to make her smile more. From then on, whenever they went out together he regaled her with jokes and funny anecdotes. When she laughed he felt as if she had given him a present.
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    Ursula found Finbar as comfortable to be with as an old friend, but he was also, she concluded, an amiable lightweight who never entertained a serious thought. She could not imagine him being willing to die for Ireland.
    Finbar Cassidy did not compare to the pantheon of heroes in her heart.
    When he asked Ursula to go to Mass with him she declined. Attending Mass with a young man implied a possible future together, and there could be none. After that she was always busy when he invited her out. Eventually he stopped calling.
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    Most single Irish women—and a surprising number of married ones—were ignorant of the mechanics of reproduction. But Ursula had spent her adolescence on a farm. When neighboring farmers brought their mares to Saoirse for breeding, she had held the stallion’s lead shank because no one else could control him. She had watched him mount his mares. Watched the plunging hindquarters, the thrusting, giant phallus. Smelt the heated musk. Felt passion vibrate down the lead shank into her hand.
    And wondered…
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    Sometimes Ursula took out the only picture she had of Síle Halloran, a photograph of herself and Ned together. Called a “cabinet portrait,” the glossy sepia print revealed two young people uncomfortable at the camera’s scrutiny, leaning against one another as if for support. When they were together a golden circle seemed to surround them, shutting everyone else out.
    Ned had changed almost beyond recognition since that picture was taken. But Síle Halloran was frozen in time. Solid cheekbones. Eyes slanted like a cat’s. A wide, sensuous mouth.
    The little girl called Precious had overheard someone say, “That Síle’s a man’s woman and no mistake.”
    A man’s woman .
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    On Saturday afternoons Ursula’s female contemporaries went to the cinema together to weep over the latest romance from Hollywood. In the evenings they met at one another’s homes for card parties and sandwiches filled with Galtee cheese and sliced celery. Mostly they talked about their husbands’ faults—or about finding husbands.
    Ursula accepted one or two such invitations, struggled to conceal her boredom, and never went again.
    Instead she began attending the meetings of Dublin’s Republican women, making friends among the generation that had taken an active part in 1916. Women like Geraldine Plunkett Dillon, Helena Moloney, and Kathleen