The Way of Grace
Harbour
HARBOUR
Crying never hurt anybody; it cleared the mind of painful thoughts that injured the heart. It was good to cry; to feel release as each tear drop falls. At least that was how Grace O' Hara saw it as she sat on the damp wall, watching the blinding sun rise over Cobh Harbour. She had sat on this wall many times before; to cry, to laugh, or just to think. The crashing sounds of the gentle waves washed over her like a soothing calm.
This had been her home for nineteen years, her whole life was here; her friends, her family and as much as they disliked each other her father was also here. Today, she was leaving him and everything else behind. So today, she had a right to cry as she soon realised the image of the rising sun, dancing rays against the rocking sea would be the last time that scene would unfold in front of her for a very long time.
Taking a long, deep breath; inhaling the smell of moist, salty air she quickly jumped down from the wall before wrapping her shawl around her shoulders and heading towards home.
She wondered if her father would be up yet, if he would want to spend some time with her before she left?
But the doubt in her mind only served to proof her right. Inside the house gave her fierce chills and numbed her fingers.
Besides anything else she knew the cold was something she would not miss. Quickly filling the fire with wood and coal she lit it until a large blaze illuminated the open living room. She sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace and waited for the shivers to subside.
As her skin began to warm and tingle, she removed her shawl from her shoulders and with gentle foot steps, crept to the kitchen, in fear the creaks from the old wooden floors would stir her father.
But she was not long alone, before heavy feet trampled down the stairs. Her father, Mike, was dressed in a dark suit and polished shoes. This slim, tall man that always demanded respect stood in front of her every single morning but even on the day she was due to leave home for months his reception towards her was no different to the day before.
“Morning Grace,” he greeted, hardly looking at her.
“Morning Dad.”
“Have you not boiled water for tea?”
It was only now that he looked at her, his dark eyes gazing down at her, filling her with coldness.
Instead of retorting with cheek, she decided to bit her tongue and nod, shuffling her feet to fill a pot with water and rest it on the hob.
Her father, born and raised in Dublin City moved down to Cobh in 1915 to begin work as a shipbuilder. There, he met Rose, Grace's mother and worked his way up the social and money ladder until he found he could live comfortably, running a shipbuilding yard and in just ten years turned his work clothes from torn and dirty to expensive suits. He came from the slums of Dublin to being a well respected business owner and he never failed to remind Grace of how lucky she was to be in such a position; to have a father who could afford to have her educated.
She may well have been taught to read and write but no amount of money of this earth could buy his affection. Instead, they passed in and out of the house, staying out of each other's way and only speaking when they sought necessary.
She placed a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge down in front of him, letting him add his own milk and sugar. Taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, she sipped on the hot liquid before taking a deep breath to speak.
“I'm leaving at ten,” she commented, hoping he would answer.
“I know, you told me.”
“Auntie Angela said she would pop down to see me before I leave.”
“Grand.”
He still had not once met her eyes.
“She said she would cook you a few dinners in the evenings too, if you're stuck that is.”
“I can hire someone to do that. I don't want that aunt of yours fussin' around this house. She gets in the way too much.”
“She's only trying to help Dad.”
“Grace, I don't need her help, now be quiet!”
She rolled her eyes and took another sip of her tea. This man was impossible to deal with.
“Anyway, like I said, I am leaving at ten. I hung your other suit up in your wardrobe last night and there is enough sugar and butter there to last a few days.”
“Grand,” he repeated, slurping on the porridge.
She gnawed on her lips before letting her tongue let loose. “Dad, I'm leaving for Spain today, you could at least say a little more than “grand”. I am going to be gone for a long time.”
“Don't start, lass, it was your choice to go over there and volunteer. But I guarantee you'll be back here before the month is out. You won't last over there. It's a war zone. A war that isn't yours to fight by the way. You're not strong enough for it.”
She had heard this plenty of times before, all spoken in the same confident, doubting tone. He would do anything just to see her fail; if not fail at least he wanted to see her settled down with some rich boy and have a few children.
“Mam did it, didn't she. She was strong. She went to France during the War and she came back a stronger person. If she can do it then so can I.”
Violently, he slammed the palm of his hand against the table, making the tea spill over the edges of the cup.
“You are nothing like your mother and if you ever think you're as good a nurse as she was, then you have another thing coming to you my girl. Don't you ever compare yourself to her again.”
Fighting with the bitter lump in her throat, Grace swallowed back the painful tears threatening to slide down her face. She didn't want to leave this way. Although everyday was a battle with her father, she was sure going to Spain with this on her mind would only add to her worries.
“I'm sorry, I only want to show you how much I love what I do and that I am good at it. I am going to succeed in this Dad, I can promise you that.”
“Well I hope you can prove me wrong Grace.”
And she meant it, she was going to do everything in her power to do this, not just for her father or herself but for her mother. Her aunt Angela always told her stories of her mother and how much she loved Grace and how proud she would have been to see her do so well as a nurse.
Rose died of the consumption when Grace was just three and other than they're walks to Cobh Harbour she had no real memories of her.
Only for Angela she would have had no mother figure at all because if she was counting on her father to show some sort of love towards her than she would have been as cold as ice.
Looking at him then, she wondered if there was ever a time he laughed with her. She knew that he loved her mother and that he just didn't miss her but pined for her everyday. There was never anyone else after that, even though he was just a tender twenty six when she passed away. He drowned himself in his work and Grace always fought hard to remember any happy times she had with him as a child, but she couldn't.
Angela thought it was because Grace resembled her mother so much, her fiery red hair and emerald eyes brought back too many painful memories for him. Maybe it was life's way of punishing him for something; for what, Grace never knew but in his eyes she only ever saw a longing for the love he lost.
With that came a loud knock on the front door, and blessed with the escape she jolted to answer it. Smiling back at her on the other side was the round frame of her Aunt Angela. Her dark hair that was greying at the temples was tied back into a bun and her shallow eyes nested a happiness of someone twenty years younger.
“There's my beautiful niece,” she chuckled, making her eyes set into deep wrinkles before embracing Grace in a smothering hug. “So girl, are you all set for Espana?”
Grace couldn't help but laugh at her aunt's enthusiasm.
“I don't think I'll know that until I get there.”
“Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Do me a favour though, love?”
“I'll do my best?”
“Bring me back a good beastly Spanish man.”
“Angela!” Grace exclaimed. “You're too bold.”
Giggling, they both entered the kitchen where Mike was finishing his tea. Grace could tell he was trying to make a quick exit. Angela and he never got on too well.
“Well Mike, I see you're your same cheerful self.”
“Good morning to you too Angela,” he half grunted.
“Jesus Christ will you crack a smile, or is your face going to stay like the tragedy it is?”
He didn't respond, instead he just stared at her for a moment before quickly looking away. He never argued back with Angela, he knew he could never win.
“Alright girl, have you everything packed?” She asked in her deep set Cork accent.
“Just about. I have to pack one or two more things and I'll be on my way. I don't need much anyway, I'll be in my uniform most of the time.”
“Come on then, I'll go up and help you pack,” Angela tried to usher her out the door but her father stood to his feet and interrupted.
“Angela, if you don't mind, I would like to speak with Grace alone for a moment.”
“Go on, don't be long,” she said and Grace soon heard her feet dance up the stairs.
Like a boy he ran his hand over his bald head before folding his arms. He was trying to get something out and he was obviously having a hard time with it.
“I have to go to work now,” he managed.
“OK?”
“Grace I know we don't get on the best of times but I want to wish you good luck in Spain. Be safe and take care of yourself. And don't forget to write to us and let us know that you are alright. Prove me wrong and the Spanish soldiers will be lucky to have a nurse like you.”
She didn't actually know what to say to that. That was probably the nicest thing her father had ever said to her and she was not used to it. She stuttered over her words for a minute and blinked at him with wide eyes.
“Thanks Dad,” was about all she could muster together. “I appreciate it. And I'll write as much as I can.”
“Goodbye Grace. I'll see you soon.”
“Goodbye Dad.”
And then, he was gone.
Crying never hurt anybody; it cleared the mind of painful thoughts that injured the heart. It was good to cry; to feel release as each tear drop falls. At least that was how Grace O' Hara saw it as she sat on the damp wall, watching the blinding sun rise over Cobh Harbour. She had sat on this wall many times before; to cry, to laugh, or just to think. The crashing sounds of the gentle waves washed over her like a soothing calm.
This had been her home for nineteen years, her whole life was here; her friends, her family and as much as they disliked each other her father was also here. Today, she was leaving him and everything else behind. So today, she had a right to cry as she soon realised the image of the rising sun, dancing rays against the rocking sea would be the last time that scene would unfold in front of her for a very long time.
Taking a long, deep breath; inhaling the smell of moist, salty air she quickly jumped down from the wall before wrapping her shawl around her shoulders and heading towards home.
She wondered if her father would be up yet, if he would want to spend some time with her before she left?
But the doubt in her mind only served to proof her right. Inside the house gave her fierce chills and numbed her fingers.
Besides anything else she knew the cold was something she would not miss. Quickly filling the fire with wood and coal she lit it until a large blaze illuminated the open living room. She sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace and waited for the shivers to subside.
As her skin began to warm and tingle, she removed her shawl from her shoulders and with gentle foot steps, crept to the kitchen, in fear the creaks from the old wooden floors would stir her father.
But she was not long alone, before heavy feet trampled down the stairs. Her father, Mike, was dressed in a dark suit and polished shoes. This slim, tall man that always demanded respect stood in front of her every single morning but even on the day she was due to leave home for months his reception towards her was no different to the day before.
“Morning Grace,” he greeted, hardly looking at her.
“Morning Dad.”
“Have you not boiled water for tea?”
It was only now that he looked at her, his dark eyes gazing down at her, filling her with coldness.
Instead of retorting with cheek, she decided to bit her tongue and nod, shuffling her feet to fill a pot with water and rest it on the hob.
Her father, born and raised in Dublin City moved down to Cobh in 1915 to begin work as a shipbuilder. There, he met Rose, Grace's mother and worked his way up the social and money ladder until he found he could live comfortably, running a shipbuilding yard and in just ten years turned his work clothes from torn and dirty to expensive suits. He came from the slums of Dublin to being a well respected business owner and he never failed to remind Grace of how lucky she was to be in such a position; to have a father who could afford to have her educated.
She may well have been taught to read and write but no amount of money of this earth could buy his affection. Instead, they passed in and out of the house, staying out of each other's way and only speaking when they sought necessary.
She placed a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge down in front of him, letting him add his own milk and sugar. Taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, she sipped on the hot liquid before taking a deep breath to speak.
“I'm leaving at ten,” she commented, hoping he would answer.
“I know, you told me.”
“Auntie Angela said she would pop down to see me before I leave.”
“Grand.”
He still had not once met her eyes.
“She said she would cook you a few dinners in the evenings too, if you're stuck that is.”
“I can hire someone to do that. I don't want that aunt of yours fussin' around this house. She gets in the way too much.”
“She's only trying to help Dad.”
“Grace, I don't need her help, now be quiet!”
She rolled her eyes and took another sip of her tea. This man was impossible to deal with.
“Anyway, like I said, I am leaving at ten. I hung your other suit up in your wardrobe last night and there is enough sugar and butter there to last a few days.”
“Grand,” he repeated, slurping on the porridge.
She gnawed on her lips before letting her tongue let loose. “Dad, I'm leaving for Spain today, you could at least say a little more than “grand”. I am going to be gone for a long time.”
“Don't start, lass, it was your choice to go over there and volunteer. But I guarantee you'll be back here before the month is out. You won't last over there. It's a war zone. A war that isn't yours to fight by the way. You're not strong enough for it.”
She had heard this plenty of times before, all spoken in the same confident, doubting tone. He would do anything just to see her fail; if not fail at least he wanted to see her settled down with some rich boy and have a few children.
“Mam did it, didn't she. She was strong. She went to France during the War and she came back a stronger person. If she can do it then so can I.”
Violently, he slammed the palm of his hand against the table, making the tea spill over the edges of the cup.
“You are nothing like your mother and if you ever think you're as good a nurse as she was, then you have another thing coming to you my girl. Don't you ever compare yourself to her again.”
Fighting with the bitter lump in her throat, Grace swallowed back the painful tears threatening to slide down her face. She didn't want to leave this way. Although everyday was a battle with her father, she was sure going to Spain with this on her mind would only add to her worries.
“I'm sorry, I only want to show you how much I love what I do and that I am good at it. I am going to succeed in this Dad, I can promise you that.”
“Well I hope you can prove me wrong Grace.”
And she meant it, she was going to do everything in her power to do this, not just for her father or herself but for her mother. Her aunt Angela always told her stories of her mother and how much she loved Grace and how proud she would have been to see her do so well as a nurse.
Rose died of the consumption when Grace was just three and other than they're walks to Cobh Harbour she had no real memories of her.
Only for Angela she would have had no mother figure at all because if she was counting on her father to show some sort of love towards her than she would have been as cold as ice.
Looking at him then, she wondered if there was ever a time he laughed with her. She knew that he loved her mother and that he just didn't miss her but pined for her everyday. There was never anyone else after that, even though he was just a tender twenty six when she passed away. He drowned himself in his work and Grace always fought hard to remember any happy times she had with him as a child, but she couldn't.
Angela thought it was because Grace resembled her mother so much, her fiery red hair and emerald eyes brought back too many painful memories for him. Maybe it was life's way of punishing him for something; for what, Grace never knew but in his eyes she only ever saw a longing for the love he lost.
With that came a loud knock on the front door, and blessed with the escape she jolted to answer it. Smiling back at her on the other side was the round frame of her Aunt Angela. Her dark hair that was greying at the temples was tied back into a bun and her shallow eyes nested a happiness of someone twenty years younger.
“There's my beautiful niece,” she chuckled, making her eyes set into deep wrinkles before embracing Grace in a smothering hug. “So girl, are you all set for Espana?”
Grace couldn't help but laugh at her aunt's enthusiasm.
“I don't think I'll know that until I get there.”
“Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Do me a favour though, love?”
“I'll do my best?”
“Bring me back a good beastly Spanish man.”
“Angela!” Grace exclaimed. “You're too bold.”
Giggling, they both entered the kitchen where Mike was finishing his tea. Grace could tell he was trying to make a quick exit. Angela and he never got on too well.
“Well Mike, I see you're your same cheerful self.”
“Good morning to you too Angela,” he half grunted.
“Jesus Christ will you crack a smile, or is your face going to stay like the tragedy it is?”
He didn't respond, instead he just stared at her for a moment before quickly looking away. He never argued back with Angela, he knew he could never win.
“Alright girl, have you everything packed?” She asked in her deep set Cork accent.
“Just about. I have to pack one or two more things and I'll be on my way. I don't need much anyway, I'll be in my uniform most of the time.”
“Come on then, I'll go up and help you pack,” Angela tried to usher her out the door but her father stood to his feet and interrupted.
“Angela, if you don't mind, I would like to speak with Grace alone for a moment.”
“Go on, don't be long,” she said and Grace soon heard her feet dance up the stairs.
Like a boy he ran his hand over his bald head before folding his arms. He was trying to get something out and he was obviously having a hard time with it.
“I have to go to work now,” he managed.
“OK?”
“Grace I know we don't get on the best of times but I want to wish you good luck in Spain. Be safe and take care of yourself. And don't forget to write to us and let us know that you are alright. Prove me wrong and the Spanish soldiers will be lucky to have a nurse like you.”
She didn't actually know what to say to that. That was probably the nicest thing her father had ever said to her and she was not used to it. She stuttered over her words for a minute and blinked at him with wide eyes.
“Thanks Dad,” was about all she could muster together. “I appreciate it. And I'll write as much as I can.”
“Goodbye Grace. I'll see you soon.”
“Goodbye Dad.”
And then, he was gone.