Another Kind of Life (16 page)

She turned to me.

‘Mouse, you must promise, too.’

She only ever called me Mouse on very special occasions. I nodded, wordlessly, feeling suddenly important, like one of the heroines in Mrs Gaskell’s novels. I wondered if I was going to
faint. But nothing that dramatic ever happened to me. Papa was ‘away’, we had always been told, working in New York, learning new and important things about banking. Mama had a brother
there, too, and she told us a lot about that young and thriving city; she had made it sound vibrant and exciting. She even read Papa’s letters to us which arrived from America on a monthly
basis. May always asked for the stamps, which were much more exotic than our own.

New York was so far away, Mama told us, and the sea journey too long and too arduous, and Papa had far too much to do. That was why he could not come home, not even at Christmas. One day soon,
she had promised us, Papa would come home, and it would be for good.

I, for one, had pretended to accept her explanations; I voiced no word of doubt. I had grown over the years to believe her a little – because, as a child, I desperately wanted to. I knew
that nothing could take away the shadow of the two tall men at my father’s side; nothing could change the fear on Katie and Lily’s faces; nothing could truly convince me that
Mama’s distress that April afternoon in Belfast had been anything other than despair laced with humiliation. Once I had recovered from the initial surprise of Hannah’s slip of the
tongue, it all made perfect sense to me. I was relieved by her revelation: now I could admit openly to myself that I knew, that I had always known.

That night, locked into Hannah’s bedroom, the three of us solemnly swore to each other a sisterly pact: that we would pretend this had never happened, that we would allow the fiction of
Papa’s travels to take root and to grow with all of us as the truth.

When I think about it now, I am amazed at how expertly we all kept these things, each from the other. If Mama suspected, she never said. And so we lived, each concealing what we knew, child
protecting parent just as parent protected child. And now it seemed the day had arrived for Papa to come home. I didn’t know how I felt about seeing him again. Would he still call me
‘Mouse’? Would he still be the same, or would everything about him have changed dramatically in three years? I couldn’t ask these questions, of course. I had to believe what I had
just been told: that Mama was sending us all away on a nice holiday to County Cork, where we could get to know our cousins.

I heard her and Hannah’s voices, late that night, rising and falling in the empty air of the drawing room. I made myself stay awake, listening for Hannah’s footsteps on the landing.
I waited until I heard them, and the sound of Mama’s door closing.

As silently as I could, I crept out of my room and made my way across to Hannah’s bedroom door. I tried the handle noiselessly. It wouldn’t give. I was afraid to call her name,
afraid that Mama would discover me and that all our secrets would be out. I tried the handle again. Still nothing. Then I remembered the unaccustomed noise I’d heard soon after Mama and
Hannah had parted on the landing.

For the first time ever, my sister had locked her door against me.

H
ANNAH
REFUSED
TO
allow herself be drawn into the company of her girl cousins. At sixteen, she was a
year older than Theresa, a full six years older than Frances. She had decided not to be impressed with Bantry; with her aunt and uncle; with their home way out in the countryside, miles away from
anything civilized. She maintained an aloof silence, impenetrable in its iciness. Several times, she caught May and Eleanor about to melt, to respond warmly to the shy smiles and tentative
invitations of their cousins. She would call them away at once then, ostensibly to braid their hair properly, to write a letter to Mama, to spend time together in their room. Her indignation
followed her around like a cloud for four full days, until Uncle Paul brought home the bicycles.

The three girls were in their room after breakfast. The last button had been fastened on May’s boot, the last bow tied on Eleanor’s unruly braids when they heard a commotion just
underneath their window. May and Eleanor fled from their seats by the mirror, not caring about Hannah’s disapproval. They had had enough of her, she had already begun to sense their
impatience – it was high time for diversion. Hannah had been no fun this week. She had even avoided all occasions for playing the piano. Aunt Elizabeth had not asked her directly, but Hannah
could feel the invitation hovering in the air at night after dinner. Theresa’s playing was stiff, her fingers wooden; Frances didn’t play at all. Hannah felt the chill of her
aunt’s disapproval on the three occasions when she had kept her head in her book, rather than follow her cousin to the piano. The unspoken rebuke had hung in the air like a question mark.

Now Hannah stood behind her two younger sisters at the big, open sash window that looked out on to the driveway. There, on the gravel sweep in front of the house, were two brand-new, shiny
bicycles. Theresa and Frances were jumping up and down in delight, Frances clapping her little plump hands together, her one fat plait leaping up and down her back in contrapuntal rhythm.

‘Oh, Papa, are they really for us?’

‘Yes,’ said Uncle Paul. ‘They’re for you
and
your cousins. You already know how to cycle, Theresa, so you’re to help the others.’

Hannah had the impression that his words were meant to be overheard. He was standing directly beneath their open window. She wasn’t quick enough. Just as she had decided to stand back, to
move out of his line of sight, he looked up. His broad face was smiling at them, knowingly.

‘Come on down, Eleanor, May. Get a turn in before your big sister!’

There was no time to reply. May and Eleanor simply ran from the bedroom, pushing each other to get through the door first, no longer heeding Hannah’s call. Reluctantly, she followed them
down the wide staircase and out the front door to the driveway.

‘It’s too difficult here,’ Theresa was saying. ‘All the little stones make it too hard to pedal. Help me push them down to the gates – the laneway outside is much
easier for bicycling.’

There was nothing else for it. Hannah followed the four younger ones as they hurried towards the gates, the high, childish voices of Frances and Eleanor bright in the summer air. Hannah kept her
shoulders stiff, her back erect. She couldn’t help the feeling that someone was watching them, smiling, from the drawing-room window.

May got the first turn.

Theresa sat on the saddle of one bicycle and instructed May to do exactly as she did.

‘Mind you keep your skirts out of the way, otherwise they’ll get caught up in the spokes, and you’ll fall off. Look.’

Quickly, expertly, Theresa drew her skirts up and sat firmly on the saddle, a great swathe of fabric bunching out from under her. She kept one foot on the ground, the other turning the pedals
which made a pleasant, whirring sound. Hannah had a moment’s envy: she was older, after all, she should really go first. She had heard about this craze all last year in school: some of the
more daring girls already belonged to the women’s cycling clubs in Rathmines and Churchtown. Hannah had heard them discuss their outings at weekends accompanied by their older sisters. Some
of them wore divided skirts to make the sport less dangerous, and there were whispers of more senior spinster ladies wearing trousers. Despite herself, Hannah had been intrigued. And now, here was
her opportunity to try out ‘the latest’ for herself. She decided the time had come to be kind.

‘I’ll hold the saddle for you, May, until you get your balance.’

None of the others even noticed her magnanimous gesture. She could take part or not, as far as they were concerned. Theresa continued, enthusiastically addressing herself to May.

‘Stand up while you pedal, at first. When you get up a little speed, sit back on the saddle. Hannah, you must run to keep up with her – but don’t let her go until she’s
ready.’

Hannah nodded. Theresa’s tone wasn’t even bossy: she was far too excited at initiating her cousins into the secret art of bicycling. For once, she was way ahead of them at
something.

May took off quickly, Hannah holding on to the saddle as her sister wobbled her way towards finding her balance. Theresa caught up immediately, shouting encouragement, her face already reddening
in the sun, her bright hair escaping everywhere.

‘That’s it! That’s it! Now sit! Hannah has you! You’re safe!’

The two girls cycled side by side at a good, steady pace. Hannah began to lose her breath, her boots were hurting her. Suddenly, astonishingly, May seemed to take flight – there was no
longer any pressure against Hannah’s wrists. She let go of the saddle abruptly, saying nothing. She could hear Theresa’s excited shouts, watched as May went speeding away from her. Then
just as suddenly as she’d taken off, May began to wobble again. She tried to glance over her shoulder, and the next moment she came crashing to the ground, ending up in a hopeless tangle on
the grass verge, half on top of the bicycle, half underneath, the wheels still spinning. Hannah hurried towards her, suddenly anxious.

‘May! May! Are you all right?’

May’s face was pink and contorted. Hannah was frightened for a moment – was she crying? Had she broken something?

By the time Hannah helped her up, May was helpless with laughter.

‘That was
so
wonderful! Hannah, you must try it!’

Theresa’s smile seemed to reach all the way to her ears.

‘I’ve never seen anyone do it the first time! Don’t look back in future. You only fell off because you knew that Hannah wasn’t holding you!’

Eleanor and Frances arrived, breathless, excited, wanting their turn, but too gleefully terrified to try.

‘I think Hannah should go next,’ said Theresa gravely. ‘She can have my bicycle.’

Hannah felt instantly grateful. She understood the gesture of friendship, the need to accept it. It was time to melt, time to be gracious.

‘Why, thank you, Theresa.’

She turned at once to little Frances, and smiled at her.

‘Then I’ll help you, Frances, shall I?’

The small face smiled up at her, bravely trying to conceal her disappointment at being the youngest, the smallest and always the last to try everything.

Hannah stooped and whispered in her cousin’s ear.

‘I’ll give you three turns for every one I get – shall it be our secret?’

The child nodded, her eyes brightening at once.

It took Hannah a lot longer than May, just about the same time as Frances. Seven false starts, three tumbles, one of them painful – although the sense of her status as
the eldest was the most badly bruised – and at last she was away.

Aunt Elizabeth finally had to send Nuala from the kitchen to come and fetch them for lunch. The girl arrived at the end of the laneway hot and gasping, her apron flapping, her face creased and
cross with effort.

‘Did ye not hear me callin’?’

Theresa and Hannah exchanged a conspiratorial glance and followed her meekly back to the house, each of them pushing a bicycle. They were all warm, dusty, and in the highest spirits Hannah could
remember for at least three years.

She began to feel the first stirrings of regret about going home.

I
DIDN’T ENJOY
the first few days of our holiday in County Cork; nor did Hannah or May. Hannah was furious, and sulked the whole time. May missed
Mama terribly, and grieved for her, for home, and for Grandfather Delaney. I wanted to put all thoughts of Papa out of my head, but the more I tried, the more impossible it became. I saw him
everywhere, heard him call me ‘Mouse’, felt his moustaches tickle my cheek as they used to when he said goodnight.

Our girl cousins, Theresa and Frances, were very nice to us, particularly as we showed no appreciation of their kindness at first. I think we made them feel out of their depth: they were at an
absolute loss to understand our unfriendliness. Each of the three of us was preoccupied in her own way. Each of us wanted to be home, and, with the cruelty of children, we made sure that our
country cousins received the brunt of our discontent. I can still see the way their tentative smiles faded when yet one more overture on their part was rejected by one or all of us.

I think it was on the Thursday that Uncle Paul brought home the two bicycles. That was the turning point. Without their timely arrival, I suspect that our Aunt Elizabeth would have been very
glad indeed to see the back of us.

Years later, I was able to tell Theresa, the elder girl, something of what had been happening in our lives at that time. She looked at me blankly – she didn’t remember it like that
at all. In fact, they had quite enjoyed having three girl cousins to show off to friends and neighbours. They lived out in the countryside, beyond Bantry, and we found their dresses and their
accents strange, almost quaint. For their part, they admired our city ways, our different way of speaking. They saw us as somewhat exciting and liked to boast about us, to bask in the innocence of
our reflected glory. Once we all learned to bicycle together, the hostility of the first few days disappeared, forgotten by them instantly. They were truly good-natured girls, much too used to
being overshadowed by their older brothers, James and Arthur, whom we saw only fleetingly during that week. Theresa’s reaction to my confession made me smile at the time, and makes me smile
again now: it makes me recall a similar discussion between you and me after our first quarrel. Do you remember how we, too, had cause to ponder the wildly varying memories shared by two different
people of the same event?

Lily and Katie came to Cork city to collect us when the week was over. They met us at the station and looked after us on the train journey home. They settled us into our compartment, with strict
instructions not to move, and then they left us, reappearing from time to time with food and a thermos of hot chocolate. We became giddier and giddier as the train approached Amiens Street Station.
We hadn’t spoken of Papa at all during our holiday, but I think each of us knew that he occupied all our thoughts, particularly now, to the exclusion of everything else.