Patricia Falvey (29 page)

“I’m sorry, missus,” she muttered.

James and the guard took me between them and, almost lifting me off my feet, dragged me to the door and out onto the pavement. A black motorcar idled at the curb. James pulled me toward it.

“Get in!” he commanded. “You’ll have the coppers here with your carrying on. And I have no intention of being caught.”

I wrestled against him. “No!” I screamed. “I’ll go nowhere with you ever again.”

James shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and got into the car.

As the car sped off, a sudden sweat drenched me, and the world began to spin.

When I came to, I was sitting on a bench outside the post office, sipping water, my coat open and my blouse unbuttoned at the throat. The guard knelt beside me, patting my hand.

“You’ll be all right now, love,” he said. “Sure you just took a bad turn.”

I nodded. “Aye.”

“Can we send word for somebody to take you home?” he said.

“No.” I shook my head.

“I’ll be going, then.”

I watched him walk away down the street. I was in a daze. Something had happened. Something awful. But what? I couldn’t remember what. Slowly, I got up and stumbled in the direction the guard had gone. I had no idea where I was going. A loud buzzing clogged my ears, and a wicked headache almost blinded me. As I walked, passersby nodded. I nodded back. They acted as if I knew them, but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure I rightly knew who I was myself.

The October day was closing in. Soon it would be dark. I buttoned my coat against the chill and kept walking. I arrived at the edge of Newry and stood looking out on the Belfast road that led out of Newry to the north. What was I doing? Did I intend to walk to Belfast? Why? I knew nobody in Belfast. Dear God, what was happening to me? As tears streamed down my face, I wiped them away with my fist. An awful sadness descended on me, so heavy that my knees buckled. I sank down on the pavement and gave myself up to sleep.

“Move along, there, missus. You’re violating the curfew!”

A sharp stick poked me in the ribs.

“Get on home with you now.”

I opened my eyes and stared up at the policeman who bent over me. He peered closer at me. “Are you all right, missus? Have you been on the drink?”

I shook my head.

He took out his flashlight and shone it in my face. I shrank back at the shock of the light in my eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t Eileen Conlon,” he crowed. “Watching out for the husband, is it?” He cackled. “Fine lookout you are, falling asleep on the job.”

He pulled me roughly by the arm. “Get up out of that now and go home before I take you down to the station.”

My tears began to flow again.

“I don’t have a home,” I sobbed. “I don’t have anything.”

He let out a curse under his breath. “Another O’Neill gone astray in the head,” he said. “Stay there. I’ll send for P. J. Mullen to come and get you off the street before you disgrace yourself altogether.”

I slumped down to wait. As I did, memory slowly slithered into my body, smooth and venomous as a snake. James. James had taken everything I had. Ever since the night he had taken my innocence, I had known he would not stop until he had taken my dreams. Then the betrayals would be complete.

Truce

L
oneliness lay upon me heavy as a stone. I sat at night stirring the fire, lost in my thoughts. I worried that I was turning out like Ma. Soon I’d be staring out in the distance with no recognition of anybody or anything.

It was Aoife who preserved my sanity. At almost a year old, she was already walking and babbling a blue streak of half-formed words. She needed her own way in everything and stood, tiny hands on her hips, crying out her demands. Her face might have belonged to James, but her personality was all mine. I recognized myself in her stubbornness, the way she planted herself in front of me and would not move until she got what she wanted. There was no ignoring Aoife.

Maybe it took losing everything for me finally to embrace my daughter. Up until now I had always carried a deep, shameful resentment toward the child. She represented to me the death of my past and the birth of my future. Now I realized that with my dream in shambles, Aoife, my little warrior, was here to force me to keep living. She would not let me give up either on my dream or on my future because she was part of it, not separate from it. In Aoife, James had unknowingly given me a gift more powerful than he could ever have imagined.

Billy Craig came often, a foolish smile on his big face. He brought sweets for Aoife and fancy cakes for me. He would sit on the floor and play with Aoife, who was delighted with his attention. When she fussed he soothed her with tender notes from his tin whistle. As I watched them, I envied their innocence.

Fergus came at times, on his way home from work. He would sit drinking tea, his dark eyes blazing brighter than the flames in the hearth. Over and over, he apologized to me for what James had done, each time his anger growing more intense. I tried to play things down in front of him; I was afraid his anger would boil over and he would kill James.

Terrence came as well. He brought me news of my mother, even though it was always the same: She was in good health, but no, her mind was not back yet. I did not go as often to see Ma anymore. Once, when I brought Aoife to see her, she had turned her face to the wall and begun to weep. She upset the child—and me.

Terrence was more than willing to talk about Ma, but I had to drag information out of him about Frank. P.J. was a better source of news.

“Ah, he’s the quare fellow all right,” P.J. said, drawing slowly on his pipe. “Nobody can tell what side of the fight he’s on, but he’s profiting from it just the same. He’s been seen parading through Newry in the best of finery, carrying a big walking stick like he owns the town.”

“If you’re saying he’s smuggling over the border,” Terrence said fiercely, “I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong. Frank was not brought up to be a turncoat.” Terrence’s black eyes blazed. I wondered why he was so quick to defend Frank.

P.J. shrugged. “Think whatever you like. But a stable boy doesn’t get that kind of money shoveling dung!”

A desperate thought entered my head. “He hasn’t sold the house, has he?” I cried.

P.J. and Terrence both turned to me. “No, love,” said P.J. “He’s asking such a fortune for it nobody sane would ever buy it.”

Terrence and P.J. also brought me money that they said came from James. I didn’t believe them, but I took it all the same. P.J. brought Paddy every now and then. The boy’s quiet presence was a comfort in the long evenings. No sign of his temper showed these days. He appeared to have grown out of it. I still went to mass with him on Sundays and took him and Aoife for lemonade afterward. I could hardly afford bread in the house, but I would not give up the small pleasure of spending an afternoon with my wee family. It kept me sane.

Word came to me from James once in a while. A young fellow would show up at the back door, the way James had done, and shove a note or a fistful of pounds into my hand and away like a rabbit before I could speak to him. The notes said little, just that he was alive but could not come to the house because he was in hiding. I stuffed the pounds in my pocket and ripped up the letters. I didn’t care much whether he was alive or dead. If it weren’t for Aoife’s sake, I wouldn’t care at all. I read newspaper accounts of incidents—soldiers ambushed, farmers taken out and shot because they were suspected of informing, and the like. I knew James was involved with much of it. The country was in turmoil.

Worry gradually replaced my anger. What was I to do? The money came less often from James, and the pounds were fewer. As long as the Cause needed it more, there would be none for me. There were no jobs anywhere—certainly not for Catholics. I still went to the Ceili House, even though it took all the courage I had to stand up and play in front of all those people as if nothing had happened to me. The little bit of money it brought kept Aoife and me from starving. There was always the workhouse, I thought grimly, the gray, ugly building that loomed over Newry and made everybody shiver when they walked past it. No. I would not see Aoife and myself in that oul’ place. James’s mother was dying to take the child. She didn’t give a tinker’s curse about me, but she kept sending Theresa over to the house to ask would I let “Mary Margaret” go down to her until I got settled. Poor Theresa. I slammed the door in her face. I worried about the house as well. It belonged to the mill, and neither James nor I worked there anymore. It was only a matter of time until they put me out.

I thought about going to see Frank, but I realized he wouldn’t help me. If anything, he would get pleasure out of my predicament. Frank had not changed. If he had, he would have come to my wedding or to Aoife’s christening. And if P.J. were to be believed, he was up to his neck in no good. I assumed he was biding his time at my grandfather’s farm until he could make his own way—if he had not left already. My grandfather! Now there was a laugh. I would dig ditches before I would lower myself to go and beg from that old git the way my mother had done. But where else was I to turn? The Mullens had done enough for me already. The more I thought about it, the more it became clear to me. I had to go to Owen Sheridan. He was my only hope.

ONE NIGHT LATE
in December 1920, I shined my boots, put on my best coat and hat, left Aoife with Billy, and rode my bicycle up to Queensbrook House, where the Sheridans lived. I had seen the house often enough from a distance but had never gone close to it. It stood on a hill overlooking the mill yards, a sprawling granite manor surrounded by a low stone wall.

The house was dark. It had not crossed my mind that Owen might be away for the coming holidays. As far as I knew, there was to be no Christmas Eve celebration on account of the Troubles. Maybe he had gone away to London with his fine blond wife. Sweat drenched me in spite of the cold. How would I ever get up the nerve to come here again? It had taken many sleepless nights to get myself to this point. I was coming to the English manor house to beg, just as so many of my ancestors had been forced to do in times of trouble and famine. A deep shame washed over me. If he wasn’t in, I told myself, it would be just as well. I would find another way.

I leaned my bicycle against the gate and walked up the pathway to the front door. It was a beautiful night, clear and frosty, and the moon lit the ground around me as if it were day. It was very quiet up there on the hill. I looked down and saw the outline of the mill buildings like hulking shadows crouched together in sleep. I remembered the first morning I had come in to Queensbrook on the tram with P.J. and saw the ugly buildings and chimneys in the first sunlight. But now they looked docile, almost comforting in their slumber.

I sucked in a deep breath, pushing my pride down into my stomach, and walked up the steps to the front door. I took the bell pull and heaved on it. The sound echoed away into silence. I stood back and waited. Eventually, a light flickered on the side panels of the door, casting yellow shadows on the tempered glass. A young girl in a white apron curtsied when she opened the door.

“Good evening,” she said, and then her jaw dropped.

She straightened up quickly and looked me up and down, an expression between disgust and curiosity on her broad, red face. She recognized me, and I her. She was Mary Galway’s young cousin up from the country. I had seen her at the Christmas Eve balls and occasionally at the Ceili House. She was thick featured, but with the same sharp black eyes as her cousin. She knew me straightaway.

“What is it you’re wanting?” she said. How servants everywhere loved it when they could let down the polite pretense and take out their frustrations on one of their own. “D’you have an appointment?”

“Appointment my arse,” I began, but before I could go on, Owen Sheridan’s soft, firm voice drifted up behind her.

“Show the visitor in, Kathleen, there’s a good girl.”

The girl glared at me and stood aside as I entered a dark, paneled hallway. The place smelled faintly musty, and there was a portrait of a sour-looking oul’ fellow on the wall. A bit of a shiver crept over me. Owen Sheridan appeared in the hallway. It had been a while since I had seen him out of uniform. He was wearing a worn tweed jacket over a white linen shirt and fawn-colored trousers. He looked every inch a Protestant country gentleman.