We're delighted to present an extract from On Dangerous Ground: A Memoir of the Irish Revolution, the revolutionary period memoir by republican and activist Máire Comerford and edited by Hilary Dully, published by Lilliput Press.
This striking memoir, one of the last of its era, includes Comerford's original text, written mainly in the 1940s and ’50s, and new material unearthed from her extensive archive.
In this extract, Máire relays her experiences of securing safe houses for Seán Etchingham, Michael Collins and Molly & Erskine Childers. This features the home of Mrs Woods, who later came to be affectionately known as 'Maa Woods of Donnybrook' and often hid ammunition in her cooking: 'And, when it came to hiding a hacksaw in a cake, Maa Woods was an artist. Her delicious cakes played a part in two escapes from Mountjoy Prison, in 1918 and 1920.'
Housekeepers
Lily O'Brennan heard of 'a grand house’ that would suit Seán Etchingham because the Bean an Tí (woman of the house) was warm-hearted, brave and skilled in nursing – a woman who would look after a delicate man, past his youth. Seán had dozens of friends around Dublin and was never short of a meal, or a place for the night, but pressure on reliable safe houses was intense. Seán had stayed with Mrs Kilkelly – a most kind hostess in Fitzwilliam Square – but Richard Mulcahy, IRA chief of staff, was protective about the security of ‘his houses’ and wanted that one for himself. Lily directed me to 131 Morehampton Road, and to the home of Mrs Woods, who later came to be affectionately known as ‘Maa Woods of Donnybrook’. If God created another Irish woman to match her it would be my urgent aim to get acquainted, and as soon as possible. She had the best little man who declared that he was ‘no Republican’ for a husband, and three boys and girls, beginning with Tony, who was, when I first met him, a very young Volunteer.
On this first meeting Maa Woods answered her door and led me into her parlour. Then, the brightest eyes examined me through spectacles and we got to know each other very quickly. Mrs Woods was a little stout, her hair always pinned back tightly in a bun at the back of her head. She was a Sligo / Roscommon woman, a lover of tradition, of poetry and literature and a council member of the National Literary Society. I soon got to know that Mrs Woods extended her sympathy and hospitality to students from India and Egypt, whose countries were also struggling against British rule. It was in Morehampton Road that some of us listened to first-hand accounts of poverty and degradation in India under Crown rule, and of the leadership role played by Mahatma Gandhi in their struggle for freedom.
There was no household task that Mrs Woods could not do; she was a splendid cook and there was always a spare place laid at her generous table. And, when it came to hiding a hacksaw in a cake, Maa Woods was an artist. Her delicious cakes played a part in two escapes from Mountjoy Prison, in 1918 and 1920. I was behind her in the hall when, one evening, she opened her door to find men, who had been caught up in an explosion, supporting a badly injured comrade. Maa wanted to send at once for an ambulance but at the same time, she assumed control and made the men welcome in her home. Men on the run were always sure of help and food from Mrs Woods, and even, on occasion, the use of one of her husband’s suits to facilitate escape. Mr Woods was a member of a wholesale grocery firm whose butter boxes were transported by rail to numerous destinations. These boxes did not always contain only butter in their comings and goings.
There was a famous story that on one particular day Mrs Woods had a big cooking job to do; she decided that along with her normal gas cooker, she would also bake in the range, which was rarely used. Maa had just lit the range when she heard a ring at the front door. On the doorstep she found a strange woman, who began to introduce herself. As the women spoke a loud explosion came from the house. Mrs Woods, with her usual grace, smiling and eyes twinkling, moved out onto the doorstep, closing the door gently behind her. She began to hastily cover up a situation that she herself did not understand. It turned out that Volunteer Noel Lemass had hidden some ammunition in the little used range, and once the fire took off the bullets exploded. Life in Morehampton Road was anything but dull, so it was no surprise that from the minute Seán Etchingham crossed the threshold of No. 131, it became his second home.
forces in 1921 (Pic: Eva Comerford)
At the end of 1920, I was visiting Louise Gavan Duffy’s home in St Stephen’s Green. There were several people there, most of whom I knew well. But I noted the presence of one stranger in the group; I remember wondering why no one addressed him by name. It was my habit then to watch for any hesitation when men were leaving a house at the end of an evening, looking out for indecision as to the direction a man might take when he reached the street. Those with no homes to go to could be detected at that moment. On the night in question the stranger looked firstly one way and then the other. ‘Are you alright for a stop,’ I whispered. ‘Would you know where Seán Etchingham is,’ the stranger asked. I led him to Maa Woods’s house in Morehampton Road. By all the rules this was not a good thing – to bring a stranger to one of our secret places was forbidden, yet instinct resisted all the set rules. It was late night when we got there and I did not go into the house, but did wait anxiously while the stranger was admitted, and then proceeded through the house to Seán Etchingham’s room. Then to my relief, I heard a gregarious shout, and laughter and greetings, and all was well. Liam Mellows, home from the States after many adventures since the Rising, had reached his old friend and his band of comrades, who were destined to serve and help him during his few remaining years.
Liam’s alias was ‘Mr Nolan’, a commercial traveller. He was fitted out to the smallest detail with pricelists, notebooks and trade papers. ‘Mr Nolan’ was uncommonly fair-haired – the palest gold. Mrs Woods was tasked with the job of dying his hair, and there was much fun and quizzing as we sat around to watch while she worked to make his moustache match the rest of his hair. It was certainly our opinion that her decision to make his hair only some shades darker than natural was a much better option than to dye him black or brown. William Cosgrave was the same kind of blond as Liam but he used a very dark dye. Those of us who got the chance to study the question at close quarters decided that Maa Woods’s job was the better one!
Seán Etchingham went by ‘Mr Quinn’, a journalist in the racing world. He had a line of racing talk, starting in the most casual way, which made raiding parties lay their guns aside and forget why they had come. It began when Seán wondered whether he might be detained so long as to prevent him being able to put his 2/6 on a certain horse. From that, a situation generally developed and wide-eyed Black and Tans sat on Seán’s bed eagerly awaiting every each-way betting tip that came from his lips. This happened once, early in the morning, when a raid on 131 Morehampton Road started viciously. While a tea cosy in the middle of the breakfast table covered a revolver, and danger was in every corner, ‘Mr Quinn’ and ‘Mr Nolan’, in the same big bed, drew the raiding party into a discussion of the racing column in the morning newspaper, and all ended in civility, with no prisoners taken.
I happened to be at No.131 on a day when Mrs Woods was talking about a house on St Mary’s Road, Ballsbridge, which she had secured on behalf of the government for the particular use of Michael Collins. It was her job to make all the arrangements so that Collins could live like a young man with elderly relatives. ‘Who will we get to go in there and pretend to be Mick’s aunt,’ she asked. ‘I’m sure that Mother will do that for you,’ I replied without thinking. Mother was in Ballycourcey so I sent a telegram asking her to come to Dublin. I met her off the train from Wexford and then by appointment we met somebody else, and Mother was taken away. I was warned not to go near the house in St Mary’s Road and not to try and see Mother. In her brief sojourn as ‘Mick’s Aunt’ Mother was impressed with his indifference to the curfew law. The strong likelihood that he might be caught abroad in some volley-racked street did not prevent Michael Collins from burning the candle at both ends. When his escorts left him at his door, they went on their dangerous way, and certainly not to homes of their own.
Mother’s time as Mick’s aunt did not last long because she had been given a false name to cover her new identity. Quite quickly she discovered that the lady living next door was a fellow member of Greystones Golf Club, where Mother had once been Lady Captain. There were also other old acquaintances living in the vicinity of St Mary’s Road. The result was that Mrs Comerford was somebody else to the milkman and others associated with her new ‘auntie’ role, but was herself when she went out, or inevitably had to offer her old acquaintances a cup of tea. The complications became too great and after about three weeks an alternative arrangement was made.
Another house that was constantly abuzz with revolutionary activity was the home of Molly and Erskine Childers. Molly, an American, was in the public spotlight for one brief hour during her forty years of political activity in Ireland. Despite physical challenges (she was unable to sit or walk without pain) it was Molly who steered the yacht, the Asgard, into Howth Harbour carrying arms for the Volunteers in 1914. Her name slipped back into obscurity until Éamon de Valera paid tribute to her on the fiftieth anniversary of the Howth gun-running. I was brought one day to the Childers Home in Bushy Park by my old friend Daa Barton, a cousin of Molly’s husband Erskine. Molly Childers was crippled and although she went upstairs to bed, and to the dining room for meals, she spent the rest of her time on a couch in the drawing room. This was a tastefully furnished room, which extended from the front of the house to the back; the predominant colour was crimson, lined with books in beautifully fresh condition, with coverings on the couch of the loveliest silken materials. On this first visit, neither Daa nor I were quite at home in this plush setting. I in tweed, jumper and thick shoes, my everlasting mackintosh and bicycle; Daa in tailor-mades, well broken-in and hefty country shoes.
Over the years I was often in and out of the Childers house on different errands. Molly suffered a lot but she was always smiling and, in her own way, humorous. She lay there all day, seeing people, acquiring nuances in the information or current affairs of the time, being a bit mysterious, making never-ending cuttings from a host of newspapers – always somewhat fathomless. Occasionally, Erskine came in from his study and took a cup of tea. He stood with it in his hand to the back of our chairs, courteous to everyone present, responding a little to what they said, but keeping his own thoughts together during a short break from work, which, it always seemed, he intended to resume immediately.
Molly Childers followed the battles and the deeds of the Republican army with the most excited interest, and she always knew more about what was happening behind the scenes than I did. I gathered that she was in touch with Volunteers all the time, and that men from the flying columns came to visit her. To my mind, Molly really knew a lot more than she understood. Using her mystery technique to absorb the news we brought her, for consideration at levels over our head – in short, not discussing things she shouldn’t, while also being a very expert conversationalist.
It is my belief that Molly had more influence in the background of the events of that time than any other woman in Irish history. It was not, to my mind, a revolutionary influence in the spirit of Pearse and Connolly, but I am sure that it began as such.
She knew Michael Collins from his early days in London and had recognized his genius, advising him as to the books he should read. It is certain that Molly held money for Collins from time to time, which belonged to Dáil Éireann. How and when she broke with Michael Collins I do not know, but the fact of the friendship makes it all the more difficult to understand the enmity Collins had for her husband, Erskine Childers. I was in the Childers house on the night before, and on the morning when Molly’s husband Erskine was executed before a Free State firing squad (November 1922). I know that Molly was in spiritual and political harmony with Erskine up to and on the day of his death. Molly also had a long friendship with Éamon de Valera. Many years were to pass before I gave up trying to understand her unwavering support for Dev’s policies, which must have broken everything except the memory of past friendship between them.
‘Houses’ were all important in the revolution, but the word had a different meaning from the usual one. A hunted man’s ‘house’ was not his home. It was a place where he could count on a bed and food, and perhaps the news and some interesting conversation. A man’s ‘house’ (or houses) changed as the enemy found them out, and he had to move on. Often a man and his ‘house’ were complete strangers when they first met. Townspeople met country people; rich met poor in this business of ‘houses’. Many a man got his first sight of a comfortable home when he woke up in a strange place, and stepped out onto a Dun Emer carpet. For some, the houses they had known ‘on the run’ were the first stage on a journey towards material betterment; for others the experience was a passing one in a life filled with tragedy and hardship. Among the latter however, were many who would retain through life warm-hearted memories of gracious living and generous people, whose world was that of the professions or of the universities, of art, of literature or even of good-natured leisure, accompanied by sufficient means to support it.
It was only natural that some of the hosts and hostesses had their own reasons for doing what they did; but so far as I know, they were overwhelmingly well and kindly intentioned. And very little was given to the IRA that had not been well earned. This provision of ‘houses’ was primarily woman’s work. It took a woman to hold her own floor and hope to be left behind on it after the raiders were finished.
On Dangerous Ground: A Memoir of the Irish Revolution, by Máire Comerford and edited by Hilary Dully, published by Lilliput Press, is out now.
