Free 1949 by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

these days a woman must be unmarried or widowed, you know.”
    â€œI have never been married. Nor do I have plans to be.”
    He dropped his chin and peered at her over his glasses. “You aren’t one of those gunwomen, are you?”
    â€œGunwomen?”
    â€œFemales playing a role God never intended for them. Sadly, many of the women who helped the Volunteers during the War of Independence enjoyed the excitement in a most unfeminine way. All that swashbuckling went to their heads like strong drink. They took to first-aid, drill, and guns, and thought of nothing else. They were all but unsexed. One might say their mother’s milk blackened to gunpowder.” 1
    Ursula said nothing. Her gloved hands were neatly folded in her lap. Only a sharp eye would have noticed that her fingers were clenched around her thumbs.
    â€œTo the gunwomen the Truce was an irritation and the Treaty a calamity,” O’Hegarty went on, warming to his topic. “In the Civil War the gunwomen fought more fiercely against their fellow Irishmen than they ever had against the Tans. † In 1923 the Free State government held over three hundred females in Kilmainham Gaol, ranging in age from twelve to seventy. 2 All rabid Republicans.”
    â€œHow interesting,” Ursula said, as if the matter were of no interest.
    â€œWhat are your own feelings about the Civil War, Miss Halloran?”
    â€œHaving political opinions is unfeminine,” she replied. Hands in lap. Eyes demurely cast down.
    â€œWell said! We must find a position suitable for such an intelligent young lady. Did Henry tell you I’m overseeing the Free State Broadcasting Service? Not that I approve of wireless broadcasting, mind you. A waste of valuable funds on a fad, if you ask me.”
    Trying to conceal her excitement, Ursula said, “You did say I speak well.”
    â€œOnly the male voice is really suitable for broadcasting,” O’Hegarty stated flatly. “I suppose there’s no harm in women presenting programmes intended for other women, but the female voice lacks gravitas . There are a couple of clerical openings in the Dublin station, however. Would you consider one of those?”
    When she nodded, he went on, “The director over there is Séamus Clandillon. Clandillon recently made some unauthorized appointments, including his own daughter and Grace Gifford’s sister Katie 3 —one of those gunwomen I spoke about—and he’s been ordered to get rid of both of them. My department will supply his staff from now on. If you pass the civil service examination, I can guarantee Clandillon will take you.”

Chapter Seven
    Dr. Douglas Hyde had inaugurated the new broadcasting service from Dublin the previous year. Officially it was the Dublin Broadcasting Station, but the public preferred to use the call letters, 2RN—a clever pun on “to Erin.” Originally 2RN was only on air from 7:45 until 10:30 each evening. As time went by those hours were extended. Urgent news was broadcast immediately.
    Although dedicated to providing an Irish voice for an Irish people, station policy was to avoid any semblance of the raging political debate that had plunged the country into civil war.
    The 2RN studio was in Little Denmark Street, off Henry Street. An employment exchange occupied the ground floor of the building. The porter at the door directed Ursula up a crooked, poorly-lit stairway to the first floor, where she entered a dingy room crammed with tables, stools, packing boxes, and unidentifiable electronic equipment. A piece of carpet black with ground-in coal dust was laid over the linoleum floor.
    Trying not to brush against anything, she edged sideways into the room. A middle-aged man with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a cigarette tucked behind his ear was crouched over a table, fiddling with a large black box and muttering under his breath. He glanced up distractedly. “You