Patricia Falvey (15 page)

AS I RODE
the tram home, I thought about the evening. I felt sorry for Theresa, cooped up in that house with that old hypocrite. And as for the James fellow, well, I was prepared to hate him, too, priest or no priest, letting his sister and brother work like slaves to pay for him. But there was another feeling inside me: So this is what friendship is? I thought of the girls I had seen at the mill or on Hill Street in Newry, arm in arm, giggling at everything in front of them. I always thought that they were eejits. But I had to admit that beneath my scorn there lay another feeling—envy. Now, as I considered this new feeling of friendship, I turned it over and over like a stone in my hand and felt something creep into my heart. It wasn’t as strong as joy—I realized I was not yet ready for joy—but it was a warm feeling just the same. I leaned back against the wooden seat of the tram and smiled.

AS CHRISTMAS EVE
1913 approached, I was in very bad form. For months I had been asking to be promoted to spinner. I knew every inch of the job, I said, so there was no reason I should not move up. I had been a doffer for eight months. Even the slowest of them usually moved up within a year—except for the likes of Josephine, who was not fit for anything else. But every time I opened my mouth, Shields turned me down. “It’s not time,” he would say. “There’s others more deserving ahead of you.” I was supposed to swallow that and go back to my corner. I knew fine well that the real reason was that I had complained to Owen Sheridan about the conditions in the mill. Shields was getting even with me, and Mary Galway was going along with him.

I had saved a fair few pound already, but it was slow going. I could save twice as much working as a spinner. My plan was to spend a couple of years proving myself as a spinner and then move over to the weaving mill and run a loom. Weaving was considered a higher skill than spinning, and the workers were paid by the piece instead of by the hour. I was a hard worker, so I knew I could do well there. I’d also have dry feet for a change, I thought, even though I’d be exchanging the hot, humid conditions for pouce—the name the weavers gave to the flax dust that clogged their lungs.

“What would you want to go to that oul’ place for?” Theresa said when I mentioned it to her. “Sure it’s so noisy over there the weavers can’t even talk to one another. They have to use sign language. And the pace is so desperate they don’t have time to scratch their arses. There’s no
craic
over there at all.”

“I can do without the
craic
,” I said. “The money is what’s important.”

“Life’s what’s important, Eileen,” she said, “enjoying yourself while you’re young. You’re going to be an old woman before your time.”

In early December, Theresa ran up to me full of excitement.

“Are you going to the ball, Eileen?”

“The what?”

“Och, do you never pay attention to anything? The Spinners’ Ball. It’s going to be a big do on Christmas Eve. All the girls are talking about it. I’m in charge of the committee. The Sheridans have agreed we can use the Community Hall, and they will pay for a band and all the food. No drink, of course, but it will be great
craic
. There’ll be a lot of fellows there from all around and there’ll be dancing, and—”

“But can you dance?” I blurted out. I could have bit my tongue off. I sounded just like Theresa’s ma.

Theresa grinned at me. “Och, aye. I just drag this old thing around after me,” she said, looking down at her club foot.

I felt a rush of admiration for her. “I don’t think I’ll be going, Theresa,” I said. “I’m not one for social events.”

“Well then,” said Theresa, “we’ll just have to book the Ulster Minstrels.”

The day before the ball, Theresa presented me with a white satin blouse she had made. It had a low neckline and wee pearl buttons on the sleeves. Unlike me, Theresa was a great hand with a needle.

“It’ll go well with your long black skirt,” she said, pleased that I liked it. “And for Jesus’ sake wear some jewelry. I’ll lend you one of my necklaces. It’s only glass, but it’s a lovely green color—it’ll match your eyes.”

I thanked her and laughed. There was no opposing Theresa. Small as she was, she always got her way. I promised I would wear whatever she gave me, even though I would feel awkward all decked out and drawing attention to myself. Wasn’t my size enough to cause remarks, without lighting myself up like a bloody Christmas tree?

ON CHRISTMAS EVE
night, I rode in the tram to the party along with P.J. and Mrs. Mullen. I had persuaded P.J. and the boys to play, even though P.J. was scandalized that there would be no porter to wet the throat. I wore Theresa’s white blouse, a necklace of glass emerald-colored stones, and a green ribbon threaded through my braid. The band uniform was black trousers and white open-necked shirts, so I wore a long black velvet skirt. Mrs. Mullen got tears in her eyes and said I looked lovely.

We joined the crowd of people walking toward the Community Hall in the middle of the village. The night was chilly, and there were flurries of snow. People were wrapped up in mufflers and hats, and everyone talked away a mile a minute. When we entered the hall, I gasped. The place was like a fairyland. It was lit by gas lamps and lanterns. Streamers of green, white, and red crisscrossed the ceiling. Holly wreaths with red berries and dusted with white hung around the walls. Bunches of mistletoe hung here and there. Dozens of round tables covered in white tablecloths and adorned with candles and colorful Christmas crackers ringed the hall. On one side of the room, a long table was piled with roast beef, ham, bread, fruit, and pastries, along with big bowls of fruit punch and cider.

Theresa rushed up to us, her face glowing. “Och, you’re here,” she breathed. “Isn’t it lovely? I designed all the decorations myself.”

“It’s grand, Theresa,” I said, “and you look well.”

She blushed and looked down at the jade velvet dress she wore. It was low cut in front, with a lovely long full skirt. The color of the dress made her hazel eyes shine. Her dark hair was coiled up on top of her head. She looked elegant. The club foot seemed a faraway thing at that moment.

“Me ma says the dress is scandalous.” She giggled. “She said a rosary for me before she came out of the house tonight, to save me from the devil. The blouse looks well on you.”

I touched the smooth sleeves. “It’s lovely, Theresa. Thank you, even though you could choke a horse with this necklace.” I fingered the emerald beads.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Mullen. “It’s beautiful on you.”

P.J. looked around the room. “So this is the place?” he boomed. “I never thought I’d be playing for the Temperance Society. No matter…” He paused and patted the pocket of his coat. “I have a wee drop of insurance with me in case I faint from the thirst.”

Mrs. Mullen gasped. “Och, P.J. Don’t let them be seeing you with that!”

“Never mind, darlin’. They’ll turn a blind eye, or they’ll do without the finest fiddler in Ulster!” P.J. puffed out his chest. He looked like a rooster strutting the walk. Mrs. Mullen and I both laughed out loud at him.

We threaded our way through the crowd toward the stage to set down our instruments. Many of the women from the mill waved and called hello. I didn’t recognize some of them without their scarves and aprons. They wore a rainbow of colors, their hair arranged just so, their cheeks red from the cold air. The men looked awkward in jackets and tight collars, their hair brushed back and smoothed with oil.

Mrs. Conlon sat in state at a front-row table, clutching her walking stick, her little eyes roaming over the crowd. She nodded toward me but said nothing. Terrence, Fergus, and Gavin were already seated on the stage. They each patted their coat pockets and nodded toward P.J. Jesus, I thought, I hope they don’t disgrace me. I sat down and we waited for the crowd to settle themselves. A tall, elegant, dark-haired woman in a lovely bonnet came in holding the arm of a gray-haired man with a craggy, stern face.

“Them’s the Sheridans themselves,” whispered P.J.

A younger, pale blond woman along with a ruddy-faced middle-aged man followed them in. I shifted my eyes away from them and stared toward the door. I realized I was looking for Owen Sheridan and was vaguely disappointed when I didn’t see him. I busied myself tuning up my fiddle. And suddenly there he was. His family was already seated when he came in the door, shaking snowflakes off his overcoat. I tried not to watch him, but I couldn’t stop myself. He looked well in a black tuxedo suit, white shirt with a high, starched collar, and black bow tie. His blond hair was longer than last I saw him, and he ran a slender hand through it to shake off the snow. He stood rod straight and flashed a smile at Miss Galway as she made a beeline for him. She took his arm and escorted him in the direction of the Sheridans’ table. The oul’ bat was making sure none of the mill girls could get close to him. He nodded and smiled around at the crowd. My throat tightened. I saw now what the women meant—he was indeed a handsome man. He must be ten years older than me, I thought, a fact that should have made him more interesting than the fellows my own age. But the truth was I did not know what to make of him. Then he saw me. Surprise lit his face. He must not have realized I was going to be there. I tore my gaze away and went back to tuning my fiddle.

Joe Shields was in his element as the master of ceremonies. He almost burst out of his tight, shiny black suit. His chest and belly formed an arc under his white linen shirt. All in all, he looked like a fat seagull. He cleared his throat and looked down at the notes he clutched in his pudgy hand. Stupid eejit, I thought, he can’t even remember the names of the people without help.

“Welcome one and all to the first annual Spinners’ Ball,” he boomed.

There was loud applause.

Shields pointed toward the Sheridans’ table. “I’d like to thank the Sheridan family for their kind patronage in making this event possible…” He went on, spreading the compliments thick as butter. Mrs. Sheridan lowered her eyes and stared at the table, as did Owen and the other couple. Only old Mr. Sheridan seemed ready to take his bow—he nodded around at the assembly, although no smile cracked his stern face.

“And last but not least,” Shields went on, “I’d like to thank the workers’ committee, chaired by Miss Theresa Conlon. I think you’ll agree they made a lovely job of it.”

I looked over at Theresa and caught her wide smile. Her mother sat next to her, glaring straight ahead.

“And now, it’s my pleasure to introduce to you the Ulster Minstrels, featuring our very own Fergus Conlon on the mandolin, and Miss Eileen O’Neill on the fiddle.”

As the applause rose again, Owen Sheridan grinned widely at me. Our eyes met briefly, and his mother followed his gaze. Then, as P.J. tapped three times with his foot, the Ulster Minstrels began to play.

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT
a holiday party, no matter how crowded, that makes you fiercely aware of the people missing from your life. As I watched the dancers, I imagined Ma and Da twirling around the room, Da’s bright red hair springing out in all directions as he smiled up at my lovely, graceful ma. I wondered if Great-Grandda Hugh’s ghost was there, enjoying the
craic
. I wondered how Frankie was that night. I pitied him crouched in the cold stables, alone with his anger. I thought about Lizzie. She would have been almost ten and not old enough to be there, but Da would have brought her anyway. I imagined her dancing with Da or Frankie in a pretty blue dress, her long blond hair tied in matching ribbons. And Paddy—lonely, troubled child—I wondered if he would ever grow up and enjoy flirting with the girls like the young chaps there tonight.