Another Kind of Life (12 page)

‘Are ye all right, Cecilia?’

Her voice was full of concern, her eyes kind. For a wild moment, Cecilia almost blurted out what had happened on the way up the stairs. Just in time, she stemmed the impulse, forced back the
tide of words already forming behind her lips. Telling tales brought its own punishment, and today was going to be bad enough.

‘Aye,’ she said abruptly. She gestured towards four children hovering uncertainly near Miss Morris’s stand.

‘Are these ’uns for the wipin’ down?’

Cecilia looked at the unhappy faces of the four doffers who stood in front of her. What age were they? Ten, eleven, or younger? She tried not to feel too sorry for them: if she had been able to
bear it, then so must they.

Miss Morris nodded.

‘Go with Cecilia, now, girls: she’ll tell ye what to do.’

For the next five hours, Cecilia supervised her charges as they emptied the water troughs under the spinning-frames and scrubbed them vigorously with wide brushes. Within an hour, their
petticoats were soaked with brackish water and mucky residue. Their faces grew red, their small hands became raw and speckled with blood. Cecilia herself remembered how, within a very short time on
muck-up day, her own body used to quiver with exertion, muscles strained and knotted by the demands of the unfamiliar. The young doffers did what they were told without question. Cecilia got down
on her knees and showed them how to use their hands to drag out the black, silty mass of thread and dust that had accumulated in the bottom of each trough, her stomach revolting at the foul smell,
eyes watering in her effort not to be sick. The children used their scrapers energetically, hacking away at the stubborn, dried dirt, freeing the shores of the gluey residue which had settled there
since their last cleaning. Cecilia had to push them hard to stop them flagging: the longer the mucking-up took, the more work was lost as the machines lay idle.

‘Hurry up! There’s another frame off. How many for wipe-down?’

Voices were heard calling all over the spinning room as the half-timers were urged on to greater efforts. Finally, they carried buckets of water to each machine, which they dashed over the
frames, washing them down and scrubbing the stone-clad passes beneath.

And then it was over, until the next time. No matter how well the half-timers adapted to the noise, the heat and the smell, Cecilia remembered all too clearly that the hatred for muck-up day was
universal and abiding.

At twelve o’clock, the hooter sounded. Cecilia was grateful for the sudden silence, for the absence of the shouting and running and hurrying which had made her head split
since early morning.

She deliberately played for time, wanting to leave only when Alice and Marian were well in sight. She’d have to be careful after this morning, watch her back. Such whispered threats as
this morning’s were rarely idle ones.

She caught a glimpse of Alice’s fair hair and quickly pushed her way into the crowd, intent on their going down the stairs together, side by side. She couldn’t reach her in time, so
she held on to the banisters instead, scanning the crowd below anxiously for Mary’s face. She saw her at once, and was overwhelmed with gratitude. Now she would be safe.

‘Keep walkin’, Cecilia. Don’t even look round. Them ’uns are spoilin’ for a fight. Hurry.’

Mary kept her eyes on the ground and walked rapidly down Amelia Street in the direction of home. Cecilia followed without a word. Just ahead, she spotted Alice and Marian, and then her heart
seemed to stop. Blocking the exit from the street was a crowd of at least a hundred girls and women. She tugged wordlessly at Mary’s sleeve. She could hear her sister’s sharp intake of
breath.

‘Don’t stop. They’ve t’other end closed off as well. Just keep goin’. Don’t get involved.’

Cecilia couldn’t help it. Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the crowd in front, following the progress of Alice’s bright head. She just knew something bad was going to happen to her.
As she made to pass through the narrow passageway between the two sections of the crowd, someone reached out and pushed Alice, hard. She lost her footing on the uneven street and her arms flew out
in front to break her fall. But there was no fall. From the other side of the massed bodies, two girls pushed Alice back and she stumbled again, this time back into the first group. Back and
forwards they pushed her, back and forwards, laughter and taunts ringing out into the now crowded street.

‘Dirty wee taig! She’s gone and pissed herself!’

Then the beating started in earnest. Four women set upon Alice, pulling her hair out in clumps, beating her around the head and shoulders with their fists.

Cries of ‘We’ll have no Pope here!’, ‘Fenian whores!’ and ‘No Home Rule!’ filled the air as Mary and Cecilia looked on helplessly.

‘Jesus help us, Cecilia, we’re for it.’

For the first time, Cecilia saw fear glaze her sister’s eyes. That, more than the waiting crowd, made her afraid as never before. Mary had always minded her, looked out for her, knew all
the short cuts away from trouble. Her very presence last night had made Cecilia feel safe, that nothing really bad could happen once she had Mary by her side. But not today.

Alice was screaming, her eyes and her voice beyond terror. Suddenly, Cecilia couldn’t stand it any longer. If they were trapped, then they were trapped, and she’d had enough. She was
going to go down fighting.

She wrenched her arm away from her sister’s and ran all the way down the street towards the waiting mob. Outside herself she knew there was confusion, the ugliness of hurled insults,
Mary’s terrified screams. Inside, a complete silence had descended; her mind was clear and unafraid. She couldn’t just stand there and watch Alice, her friend, being beaten senseless.
Her anger grew white, focused. Alice was such a gentle girl, she didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

But Cecilia never reached her. Somebody’s foot shot out and tripped her just as she reached the outer ranks of the crowd. She fell heavily, gashing her forehead on the cobbles. Suddenly,
she felt as though her scalp were being torn from her head, piece by piece, as her body seemed to move of its own accord through the forest of kicking feet. She was being dragged by the hair right
into the centre of the crowd of women, which now closed round her on all sides. Rough hands turned her over on to her stomach, wrenching her arms behind her back.

‘Back to get more o’ what we gav’ ye this mornin’, taig?’

That voice. She’d remember it for ever.

‘C’mon, Agnes! Give her a hidin’!’

The crowd’s blood was up. Agnes Neill was encouraged from all sides. A fist crashed into the back of Cecilia’s neck and there was the sound of bone splintering. Her mouth filled with
something liquid, warm and tasting of metal. There was nothing else in the whole world but pain. She closed her eyes, then, and welcomed the darkness.

Dr Torrens closed the door quietly behind him. Mary’s anxious eyes seemed to fill the narrow hallway, her face a greenish colour from the weak light of the single gas
lamp.

‘Will she be all right?’

‘She’s badly shocked and bruised, and she’s lost some teeth.’

The doctor paused. He suspected erysipelas, but couldn’t be sure yet. He badly wanted to give this girl hope.

‘She has a slight shadow before her eyes, and that’s the one thing that worries me. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.’

Mary looked away from him.

‘You must report this, you know,’ he said gently. ‘The people who did this must be punished.’

She turned to him then, her face alight with anger.

‘There were two policemen
there
! They looked
on
while it was happening!’

Tears threatened to spill over as she remembered the complete, paralysing terror of her own helplessness.

‘They
laughed
when that mob tore the dresses off two girls from Dover Street!’

Mary tried to stop her voice from shaking. She could still see the two RIC men standing at the edge of the crowd, impassive. They mostly looked away, off into the distance, above the heads of
the people.

‘Folded their arms, they did, and enjoyed the sport! Just like last night – just stood there, so they did. Don’t tell me nothin’ about reportin’!’

Dr Torrens put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Nevertheless, you must report it. I’ll write up Cecilia’s injuries. Let me help you.’

Mary’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had ignited; all that was left behind was a profound weariness.

‘You are helpin’, Doctor. I just want to see Cecilia well. I don’t care about much else.’

He nodded.

‘We’ll talk about it again in the morning. In the meantime, keep her quiet, and lying down. If anything changes tonight, send someone for me.’

‘Aye, I will. Thank you.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning. Try and rest yourself.’

Mary closed the front door and made her way quietly into the kitchen. She knew she was going to cry. Neighbours had been calling all evening, bringing food, blankets, anything they could lay
their hands on. She was grateful for their support, for their companionable anger. But Myles hadn’t come yet, and she was terrified something had happened to him, too.

She didn’t want to live like this any more. She felt old at eighteen, as though she had lived several lifetimes in the last twenty-four hours. Cecilia might never be the same again; she
could read between the doctor’s words. At fifteen, she was finished; she’d probably never work again. They had nothing to stay for in this seething cauldron of a city. What she
didn’t know yet was how she was going to get both of them out.

M
AY
HAD
ALWAYS
been afraid of Grandfather Delaney. On stiff family visits over the years, he had always
appeared to her as forbidding, supremely impatient of children. Hannah was his favourite, if he could be said to have a favourite, and Eleanor sometimes raised an indulgent smile. But May seemed to
be invisible. He simply paid no attention to her; it was as though she did not exist for him.

She felt obliged to sustain this illusion during the weeks they all stayed in his home, just after their hurried return to Dublin. She rarely spoke in his presence, and padded softly around his
house, taking care not to disturb him, or anything belonging to him. Eleanor and Hannah, however, seemed to become more boisterous in his company: it was as though they challenged him to notice
them. Mama simply worried: that was all she did these days. She worried. Her face was white and pinched, and May noticed more and more grey filaments invading the smooth cap of her dark hair. She
felt vaguely guilty, sad and sorry all at once that her mother was suffering, and that she, May, could do nothing to make it better.

And so she had been surprised to find, in the unfamiliar surroundings of Grandfather Delaney’s house, an unexpected refuge. Its very strangeness made it easier to forget Belfast, forget
what they’d left behind, and the reason for their being here. It was like starting over. The three months spent with him before the move to Leinster Road were some of the happiest May could
remember. His solid, gruff presence was somehow comforting. Once his long-established routine remained uninterrupted, he expected nothing from his granddaughters except impeccable behaviour.

And Grandfather Delaney’s routine was nothing if not sacred. Breakfast was followed by some hours closeted in his study, where he wrote letters and attended to business. He preferred to
lunch early, and alone. The afternoon was spent with his pipe and his newspaper in front of the drawing-room fire: very quickly the girls learned to place wagers on how long it would take him to
fall asleep. Whoever timed the first snore correctly was the winner. He ate dinner with them in the late evening, and his testy manner softened, May noticed, after the first two glasses of red
wine. Hannah, in particular, was often silent at dinner: May had learned that the dull, oppressive afternoons in town with Mama set her teeth on edge, sometimes made her want to scream.

May could still remember her mother’s face when she impressed upon the girls the hours when activity around the house was permitted, the extent of that activity and the periods of time
when silence had to be observed, no matter what their personal inclination might be. Behind all her words, May could hear her grandfather’s language, even his inflexion. Sophia’s face
had been strained, anxious, and she spoke in a half-whisper, although before lunch was not supposed to be one of the quiet times.

May had no difficulty keeping the silences: she liked the afternoon hours of quietness which Grandfather had imposed upon her, hours in which she could slip away to his study and surround
herself with the books which lined the entire room, floor to ceiling. She liked the old-fashioned, almost fusty smell of the room – a not unpleasant mixture of old damp, woodsmoke and pipe
tobacco. She usually spent the time there on her own. Hannah was always needed by Mama for some errand or other, and Ellie preferred to play in the room she and May shared. She didn’t like
the study – found it too dark and dreary.

They were all allowed access to the books on the lowest shelves: a lot of Tennyson, lives of the saints, unbearably dull books on history and religion. There was not much to feed a
twelve-year-old’s growing appetite for novelty. Grandfather had said they were to read as much improving matter as they could, given that they probably would not start school again until
September. May was particularly glad about this. To her own surprise, she had loved her time at St Dominic’s in Belfast, but school in Dublin still held memories of gasping for breath in the
darkness. She was glad to put off her return for as long as possible.

May was content to do as she’d been told for the first few weeks in Grandfather’s study: she enjoyed simply handling the books, feeling the fineness of the binding, admiring the
marbled insides of the covers. Some of the gold lettering of the titles was flaking away, and she made sure to treat the books carefully, as she had been bid.