The Importance of Being Kennedy. Laurie Graham

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       THE RIGHT KIND OF FAMILY

      I came to work for the Kennedys in the spring of 1917. I'd been five years in America by then, come over to be with my two sisters. Marimichael Donnelly from across the lane was on the same sailing as me. They waked us two nights together before we left, with whiskey drummed up from somewhere by the Donnelly boys, telling us what a grand future the both of us had and then weeping and clinging on to us to keep us at home. We'd neither of us been out of Westmeath before. I'd never appreciated that sky and water could stretch so far, and I know they say the world's like an apple and doesn't have an edge a ship can tumble over, but I've never understood how they know. I was braced for the end all the way, till I saw the roofs of East Boston.

      Marimichael had a sister who'd gone ahead too. That was how we did it in those days. The oldest one went, then she'd send the fare for the next and so on, till everyone was settled. It was the only thing to do. The factories were starting up around Tullamore so the demand for hand-knitting was dropping off and there was no other way to make a living.

      We were six in our family, one boy and five girls, except Nellie was in the graveyard, dead with the measles and only four years old. Ursie's the oldest. She left for Boston in 1909. Took a correspondence course in bookkeeping and taught herself the Pitman shorthand and she was off. She got work in the office of Holkum, Holkum and Jauncey, and to hear her she ended up practically running the place.

      Ursie always had ideas. Writing paper without lines was one of her things, not that there was a lot of letter writing went on in our house, but she said lined paper was common, and she used to have a fit if ever Mammy put the milk can on the table instead of the china pitcher. After she got to America and started earning she'd send us marvellous things, not only money. Caramels and hatpins and silk stockings, and a beautiful handbag for Mammy one Christmas, real leather from Jordan Marsh, with a big, gilt snap. Dear God, we had everyone from Ballynagore come in to view that handbag. We should have charged to see it.

      She must have had some courage to go off like that, not knowing a living soul in America. When they were handing out gumption I reckon Ursie got Edmond's share. He's hardly been further than the foot of the stairs.

      Margaret went out to join Ursie in 1910 and I cried myself sick. Ursie wasn't the kind of sister you missed, except like an aching tooth after it's been pulled, but Margaret had always been my pal. We'd shared a bed, even. When Mammy and Deirdre went to wave her off on the bus I couldn't bear to go with them. I was convinced I'd never see her again. She kept saying, ‘You will too. I'll send for you and then you'll send for Deirdre.’

      But Deirdre could never have gone to America. She had a sweet nature and the voice of an angel but she was the kind of girl that would easily be taken advantage of. She used to get confused enough in Tullamore market so she'd have been lost in a minute in Boston. Anyway, Father Hughes said a girl like Deirdre would likely be blessed with a vocation, so we all prayed for that and our prayers were answered. She went to the Maryknoll Sisters, and then to Africa to teach little black children about our Risen Lord, which left just me at home and Mammy and my brother Edmond.

      Ursie kept writing that I should still think of going to America. Mother won't stand in your way, she wrote. She didn't call her ‘Mammy’ any more, since she worked for Holkum, Holkum and Jauncey. She'll be a lot happier knowing you're making something of yourself. She has Edmond to take care of her.

      Edmond was supposed to be the head of the house. Dada had the Irish disease and after we lost Nellie he just turned his face to the wall and died.

      Mammy used to say, ‘Edmond's a thinker. He doesn't rush into things. And did you ever see such a fine head of hair on a man?’

      Well, that part was true. I believe it acted like a goose-feather comforter. It kept his noddle so warm and cosy his brain fell asleep.

      I don't know whether I would have gone and left Mammy in his care, but anyway, as things turned out it was Mammy who left us. She'd a growth under her left bosom that had eaten her away inside and she'd been too shy to say anything until it was too late.

      ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I've had a good life. I've had my span.’

      But she'd only had forty-seven years and she could have had more if she hadn't been such a muggins about taking off her vest in front of the doctor. She died in the autumn of 1911 and before the year was out Edmond took off his thinking cap and announced he was marrying the Clavin widow from Horseleap and bringing her to our home. So my mind was made up for me. I couldn't have stayed in the house with that woman. She'd a face would turn fresh milk. Margaret sent me the fare and I was on my way.

      Marimichael went into a cotton mill when we got to Boston, same as her sister, and Margaret could have got me a start at the grocer's where she worked, but Ursie had bigger ideas.

      She said, ‘You've a brain in your head, Nora. Use it. Nursing would be suitable. The uniforms are very attractive.’

      But I liked the idea of going into service, somewhere where I'd have my own room.

      I said, ‘If I'm going to wipe BTMs and mop up dribble I'd as soon do it for a nice sweet little baby as somebody who smells of sickness or some grouchy old feller. I'll go for a nurserymaid.’

      ‘Just be sure it's the right kind of family,’ she said. ‘A doctor, or a lawyer, like Mr Jauncey. Cultured, professional people. There are people who have money to run a full staff but no breeding. You don't want to end up with a family like that.’

      I got a start with the Griffin family in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to look after Loveday who was three and the baby who was on the way, Arthur. Ursie seemed to think they were good enough for me, even if they were a bit modern. Dr Griffin was a scientist at the university but he thought nothing of pushing the bassinet out on a weekend. There was only me, a housemaid, a woman who came in on Mondays to do the laundry and a man who helped with the garden. Mrs Griffin did all the cooking and I had every Sunday off and one night a week. I used to meet Margaret at a soda fountain and she'd give out to me about Ursie while we watched the boys go by. That's where we met Jimmy Swords and Frankie Mulcahy.

      It's a funny thing about boys. They go around in pairs and if one of them is good-looking the other's sure to be a poor specimen. That was Frankie. He always looked like he'd lost a dollar and found a cent, but Margaret fell for him, and Jimmy was keen on me. The only problem with Jimmy and Frankie was they worked as fish porters. They were always washed and shaved and dressed in a nice clean collar and tie when we saw them, but there was still that smell. You can never get rid of it. Jimmy seemed steady though. We never quarrelled, and the Griffins liked him because he used to bring oysters for them or a lobster, when he came to walk me out.

      I had my nursery and my own room up under the roof and I had my beau. I was very suited, but then Dr Griffin said he was moving to a different university, in California, and I had to decide whether to go with them. Ursie thought I should.

      She said, ‘You've made a good start, Nora, now build on it. The Griffins think highly of you and you mustn't flit from position to position. It doesn't inspire confidence.’

      But Jimmy didn't want me to go.

      He said, ‘I'm putting money by. Stay in Boston and we'll get married. Next year.’

      So the Griffins went off to California and I applied for a new position, in Beals Street, Brookline. The Kennedy family. They had a little one just walking, Joseph Patrick, and another one on the way.

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