Another Kind of Life (39 page)

‘Here you go, young mother,’ she said softly. ‘Breakfast is required.’

Once the baby had started to feed, Hannah turned to her.

‘Thank you, Mama, for being here. You’ve been wonderful.’

‘I’m so glad I was here for this little one’s birth. You’ve no idea what it means to me.’

‘Was Charles here?’

Her mother laughed.

‘We had to forcibly eject him, three times. He’s the proudest father I’ve ever seen. He didn’t want to wake you.’

Hannah nodded. She hoped it was true, that he was proud and happy with another baby girl.

‘He made me promise to waken him, so I’ll do just that and leave the two of you alone.’

Hannah watched as her mother stood up stiffly from the chair. With a pang, she realized that she was no longer young. As though she’d heard her, Sophia said:

‘I’m afraid I’m past the age of sleeping in chairs all night!’

‘Get some proper rest, Mama. I’ll be fine now.’

‘I’ll see you later, my dear. Sleep all you can.’

Charles seemed delighted enough. Hannah watched his face for any sign that this child was less welcome than Eileen, any indication that she had disappointed his secret hopes.
Whatever he may have felt, his outward self was smiling hugely, eyes bright with love.

Hannah was grateful for the hours he spent with her that morning. She had discovered, although Charles had never told her, that he was losing contract after contract to the Protestant firms all
over the city. He, and firms like his, were being sidelined by the politics which seemed to dog this part of the world everywhere she turned. Hannah didn’t even pretend to understand the
bitterness and prejudice which seemed to have the whole of Belfast constantly on edge these days. As yet, there were none of the overt terrors of the carriage ride to the station all those years
ago; instead there was a subterranean sea of silences and secrecies and bigotries which threatened to erupt and carry everyone with it in a tidal wave of unprecedented fury.

She knew that her furtive reading of Charles’s post had been wrong, but she could never get him to share the truth of his other life with her: the one which happened between eight and six,
and late in the evenings when he was delayed or, simply, chose some activity other than coming home. Perhaps all men existed under the same pressures, forced to divide their very selves into
acceptable domestic and public faces, no matter how the two collided. She was disappointed; she had hoped that they would do better: that by sharing, they could somehow halve the trouble. But
Charles resolutely kept his concerns to himself, and she had learned that she could not change him.

There were times when Hannah feared for her children, all the others she knew she would have. While they were small, living in the protection of a tolerant, civilized town, all could still be
well. But when they were grown, what would happen to them then? Would they have to endure being regarded as second-class citizens, watching people’s faces change when the names of their
schools marked them out as taigs and fenians? Would they have to live among hostile others who asked ‘What are ye?’ rather than ‘How are ye?’ as a greeting? She did not want
her children to absorb the mindlessness of tribal hatreds, to feel that their place was always the lesser one because someone else’s tradition had deemed it so.

Hannah had grown to love her adopted town. She had even learned to appreciate the poetry of the surrounding countryside, with its liquid, magical names. Wolf Hill, Ardglass, Kilkeel, Annalong .
. .

But Belfast, and all it stood for, would never claim her heart.

I
LOVED
A
BBOTSFORD
from the moment I first saw it. I loved its rambling oddness, the solidity of its comforts, its innocent lack
of modern elegance. May brought me to see her future home just a few days before her wedding. Mama did not want us to undertake the journey, given that the wedding preparations were so far
advanced, so demanding of everyone’s time, but May was insistent that I see her home before my return to St Bartholomew’s.

‘I want you to take this memory back with you,’ she said. ‘I can’t describe it well enough in letters – you must see it for yourself.’

Richard came in the trap to collect us from the station. I thought both my sisters fortunate, in their different ways, in their choice of husband. Richard was a plain man, direct in his ways,
open in his devotion to his future wife. I was glad. I could see the tenderness she felt towards him, and I hoped she would be happy, as well as secure. It was to be many years before Hannah told
me about Philippe, about her conviction that he and May had been intimate; many years, therefore, before I understood how May must have needed this marriage.

The farm was a good distance from everywhere. There was no village close by, and we passed but a few farmhouses on our journey, each scattered from its neighbours by long tracts of ploughed
land. I wondered would May be contented to be so much alone. Then I thought that the openness of the countryside would most probably suit her: she had always found Dublin and Belfast difficult. She
needed room to breathe.

A long driveway led up to the house, green lawns sloped away on all sides, and as we turned the corner into the yard, the glittering waters of a stream were just visible in the distance. I
turned to my sister, surprised to catch the mute appeal in her eyes.

‘It’s beautiful, May – the house, the view – everything about it! I shall very easily imagine you here!’

Richard looked gratified.

‘My father’s house,’ he said, nodding. ‘And his father before that. Our roots run deep here.’

The pony came to a halt in the middle of the cobbled yard and Richard helped May and me to descend from the trap. A large grey and white dog lay sleeping beside the water pump, his pink tongue
lolling. He opened one rheumy eye as we stepped into the yard, and his bushy tail gave a single, feeble wag.

‘All right, Boy, it’s all right.’

Richard’s voice was kind as he leaned down to stroke the old dog’s head.

‘Just about had it, poor old Boy,’ he said. ‘He should go in his sleep any day now.’

I felt a stab of sympathy for the animal. If my memory is accurate, Boy died the morning Richard and May were married. When they returned to Abbotsford, the Duggans had already buried him.

Inside, the farmhouse was cool. Having been in Hannah’s home so recently, I was struck by how shabby everything was here. It was all clean and neat as a new pin, but it had not had a
woman’s hand for some time. Richard cooked and cleaned for himself, I learned, and had done so for the previous ten years, with occasional help from a girl in the nearest village, some five
miles distant. It was clear that he had survived well, but the finer points of cleaning incandescent mantles and removing dust from picture rails were obviously way beyond his capabilities. Or
perhaps Sister Sheridan had just made me oversensitive to such matters.

I was charmed by all of it. We walked the land at Richard’s invitation and he provided us with excellent afternoon tea. I felt rather sad leaving – I should have liked to spend a
longer time there. My cold dormitory began to seem even more unattractive after my brief visit to this homely, welcoming place. I felt quite depressed on our return to Dublin.

The wedding passed as all weddings seem to do – with a great deal of fuss beforehand, large quantities of cake and wine on the day, and so many sad and wilting flowers
afterwards. May had not wanted the Shelbourne; she preferred the intimacy of home.

Papa behaved himself on that day; by early afternoon, Mama’s anxious looks were diminishing in frequency. Hannah had both her babies at the wedding: the now highly active two-year-old
Eileen, and her placid, two-month-old sister, Maeve. Charles was even more the doting father this time around – he really was a most unusual man. I was loath to leave all of them. All I could
think of was the year ahead. I should be engaged once more in scrubbing toilets and enduring the sharp tongue and beady eye of Sister Sheridan.

For some time after May’s wedding, I think I even envied my sisters a little. Now, I find that ironic. I had not even begun to comprehend the range and depth of your love, already in the
process of transforming the rest of my life.

R
ICHARD
LOOKED
NOT
so much uncomfortable as incongruous in his good suit. He was a man who cared little
for clothes in his everyday life, but it was clear that he had made an effort for the day of his wedding. And yet, although his suit fitted him well, May couldn’t help feeling that it had
been made for another man altogether. It seemed to hold itself apart from Richard, or he from it, so that they appeared to be two separate entities. There was Richard; and there was his suit.

When May walked down the aisle towards him on her father’s arm, he turned to greet her, his big face transformed by the warmest smile she had ever seen. He looked almost handsome, she
thought, his face coloured, but not yet weather-beaten, by his outdoor chores. He had chosen to invite only the Duggans, his friends and neighbours from a nearby farm. May had insisted, in the
interest of fairness, that her number of guests be small, too.

‘My dear, you’re a picture.’ Bridie Duggan beamed at her, hugging her close as soon as she could get May on her own. They had bumped into each other on the stairs at home,
after May had removed her hat and Eleanor had laced flowers into her dark hair. The guests waited downstairs, and May was glad to receive Bridie’s kiss, to return her hug.

‘He’s the best of men, you know that. And a lucky one. Now don’t forget – there’s no formality in our part of the world. You call on me whenever you need anything,
d’ye hear me?’

‘I do indeed, Bridie. I shall look forward to it.’

May felt warm towards everybody that day. Mama had done a beautiful job in arranging the wedding breakfast. She had placed posies of spring flowers everywhere, and May appreciated all her
efforts to make the day special, despite her disappointment at her middle daughter’s choice not to have a more public display at the Shelbourne.

Hannah had brought Mary with her to help. Katie had long since retired from service and Lily had surprised everyone by getting married a year ago, to a small farmer from her home town in
Tipperary.

May was so glad at making her own escape that she felt able to be generous, affectionate and deeply grateful towards her mother. In the early afternoon, the Duggans left, anxious to tend to all
the animals. Richard had told May they could stay as late as she wished – they had no need to be at Abbotsford until tomorrow. The Duggans had promised to look after everything until their
return.

She watched him as the Duggans were leaving. He looked suddenly forlorn, as though a connection with something essential had just been broken, or stretched beyond endurance. She slipped out to
the hallway, catching a last glimpse of Mick and Bridie as they ascended the carriage.

She slipped her warm hand into his.

‘Let’s go very soon,’ she said.

His face lit up, his eyes darting towards the departing carriage as though very soon could mean right now, this minute.

Then he recovered himself.

‘Don’t you want to stay longer?’

She shook her head. She was done here.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d like to go home.’

He squeezed her hand, his open face full of joy. She knew it would take them some time to get away, but she wanted to make this gesture, to reassure him that she would never keep him from what
he cared for. His land would always come first, and she knew that, had grown to accept it. It was a fair exchange, she thought.

She no longer actively thought about Philippe. He was there always, colouring everything she did, acting as the standard against which everything was measured. But she could push him away more
easily, now. More and more, he resided somewhere below the top layer of the life she was living. She could manage quite well without him. It was only when something disturbed the carefully arranged
surface of her life that he struggled upwards, eager to fill all the empty spaces.

R
OUTINE
HAS
THE
most extraordinary effect of dulling the senses, does it not? I believed I should never
become accustomed to the sight of blood, the stench of gangrene, the helpless moans of those afflicted by the diseases of poverty, and yet by virtue of mere familiarity, all these things somehow
insinuated themselves into the interior of my everyday life. I grew used to the ebb and flow of each long day, learned to rejoice in the comfort and security offered me by Sister Sheridan’s
immutable daily structure. I remember the early winter mornings most of all, with so many of us Irish girls running through the already bustling meat market as we made our way to Ely Place for six
o’clock Mass; I remember our breathless arrival on the wards afterwards, frantically settling our caps into place, smoothing our blue and white striped dresses. Our faces were raw from the
wind or from a hasty dousing in cold water. I remember, too, the sharp smell of bleach which heralded the start of the all-consuming cleaning duties. I even grew to enjoy the physical demands of
mopping and scrubbing – I liked the feeling of alertness which followed such exertions, the sense of being truly awake, the blood singing in my hands and feet. I even grew to understand the
need for the terror which Sister Sheridan inspired, to regard it as instrumental in the refinement of my skills, and the development of my natural abilities as a nurse.

Do you remember our first days on the wards? The fear of being caught out, of being found wanting in some vague and ill-defined way, filled my dreams at night – that is, once I finally
succeeded in sleeping. You, on the contrary, seemed to me to be so calm, so knowing. I began each day safe in the knowledge that, with you as my daily partner, I could survive all the difficult
hours ahead, learn something new and gather my strength to respond to the faces, the pleading eyes, the mute appeals for comfort that greeted even the most inexperienced of us. It was deeply
humbling to see the powerful effect of a kind word, a soothing hand. You, more than anyone, taught me by example. Where I saw merely the symptoms, or the injury, or the difficult patient, you saw
the individual pain, the need for reassurance, the terrible vulnerability of the old or ailing.