Patricia Falvey (30 page)

“Eileen… er, Mrs. Conlon,” he said. “How pleasant to see you.” He was a cool customer, I thought. He showed no surprise at all at seeing me on his doorstep. I wished I had his control. “Kathleen, bring us some tea, will you?”

The maid bobbed a curtsy at him while throwing me a daggers look and then disappeared down the hall. He showed me into a big room at the back of the house with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the garden. Gas lamps washed everything in a mellow light. A fire glowed in the fireplace. Family photographs crowded the yellow mantelpiece. Two chairs covered in a faded, flowered print sat on either side of the fire, with a low wooden table between them. A daybed draped in an embroidered quilt sat against the window. The carpet, red and blue and gold in a swirly pattern, was faded and a little threadbare in places. I supposed it must be an antique, but I wouldn’t have given it house room. There were books everywhere, crowded on shelves, lying on tables, and stacked on the floor. He moved some off one of the chairs so I could sit down.

“Here, let me take your coat.”

I removed my coat, my hands trembling with nerves, placed it on the back of the chair, and sat down.

“It’s a wonder your head’s not sore with all this reading,” I said without thinking.

He smiled. “Books are my passion,” he said. “And I have difficulty throwing them away. I suppose they have stacked up, haven’t they?” He looked around as if faintly surprised. He shrugged. “My family leaves this room to me. It’s become my study and”—he sighed—“I suppose my sanctuary.”

Sure what would he need sanctuary from? I thought. Hasn’t he the fine life? But I said nothing.

We made small talk for a few minutes. He asked about Aoife. I told him a friend was minding her. He seemed faintly disappointed at that.

“She would have been very welcome,” he said.

Kathleen brought in the tea. She banged white china cups and saucers with gold rims on the table along with a matching milk jug and sugar bowl. There was also a plate piled with sandwiches cut in white triangles with the crusts trimmed. If he noticed her rudeness, he said nothing.

“Oh, the child would have been a holy terror in here,” I said truthfully. “She’d have the place torn apart in minutes.”

He smiled. “That would have been something to see.”

He poured the tea, added milk and sugar, and handed me a cup. His hands were white, not the hands of a workingman, I thought. I wondered suddenly what they would feel like on my body. I was shocked to blushing that such a thought had entered my head. I choked briefly.

“Is it too hot?” he said, concerned. “Let me add more milk.”

“It’s grand,” I said sharply. “I’m just not used to drinking from cups made for dolls.”

I put down the cup and smoothed my dress. I had fought with myself over what to wear. Why should I bother dressing up for the likes of him? But I told myself that good manners required I should at least wear what I would wear to mass. I had settled on a dress of dark green wool that Theresa said matched the color of my eyes. I had lost weight in the past month, and it was a bit loose on me, but I cinched it with a leather belt and it looked well enough. I had brushed my hair and braided it again so no stray wisps escaped. The familiar motion of plaiting the hair through my fingers had calmed my nervousness. Sheridan stared at me, saying nothing. I began to get agitated under his gaze.

“I… er, I…” I could get no words out.

“Take your time, Mrs. Conlon,” he said.

“I thought you might be away in London with your wife,” I blurted, for want of something to say. It was none of my bloody business, and I knew it.

He gave me a sharp look. Jesus, I was done for now, and I hadn’t even had the time to get out the words I had come to say.

“Mrs. Sheridan is indeed in London, visiting friends,” he said quietly. “She finds Ireland rather boring these days and”—he paused—“that appears to include myself. Apparently I’ve become a far cry from the cavalier and amusing chap I was before the war.”

I had no ready answer. “Well, I suppose you’re away a lot,” I stumbled, “what with the Troubles and all. Just like my own husband.”

He nodded. But I knew that line of conversation was over.

I gulped down more tea. I stiffened my shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. It was now or never. “I came to ask you for help,” I said. “I was sacked from the mill, and James is not able to give me any money.” I was not about to tell him what James had done to me. “And I’ll probably be put out of the house,” I went on, “and Aoife and myself will be on the street. So if you could see your way to helping me find another job, I’d be very grateful—sir!” I spat the last word, a tiny defiance even as I begged for my life. Sweat poured off me. I felt like a schoolgirl after confession waiting for the priest to pronounce penance.

He put down his cup and picked up a sandwich, chewing it slowly. He took his sweet time about answering me. Couldn’t he just say no and throw me out and get it over with? My annoyance grew. I clenched my fists in my lap. At last he wiped the crumbs from his fingers and set down his plate.

“Well, that’s quite a litany of troubles,” he said blandly. He was a piece of work, this boyo. He knew how to take control of a situation.

He leaned back in his chair and stared directly at me. “How long have I known you, Mrs. Conlon? Five years? Seven? And in all that time I have known you to be an intelligent, ambitious, and brave woman. But you are also a hothead, and you look for trouble.” His voice grew sterner. “And, of course, I know about your more recent involvements with the uprising, although I’m willing to put most of that down to the influence of your husband.”

Red flashed in front of my eyes. “I’m under nobody’s influence but my own,” I shouted. “I joined the uprising of my own free will and for good reason.”

“No reason is good enough to maim and kill,” he said, his voice rising.

“I never killed anybody,” I protested, “at least not knowingly.” And then, because I could never keep my mouth shut, I added, “But I would if I had to. Those bastards killed my da.”

“Killing them won’t bring him back,” he said.

“Well, I can see this is no use,” I said. “I must have been astray in the head to come here.” I stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sheridan. I’ll not be bothering you again.”

He jumped up and put a hand on my arm. “Not so fast, Mrs. Conlon. There are a few home truths you need to hear, and then you are free to stay or go as you wish.”

The anger in his voice startled me, and I sat back down. I had never heard this tone from him before. Gone was the calm, controlled manner. Owen Sheridan had a temper that could equal James’s any day of the week.

“Do you have any idea,” he shouted, “how often I have pleaded your case to Joe Shields and my father? Do you?” He left me no time to answer. “Of course you don’t. I have saved your job for you more times than you can imagine. But this last time you went too far.”

I bristled. “Those friggers wanted to put all of the women out of their jobs, just like down in Belfast. Somebody had to stand up to them,” I shouted.

“And it had to be you?”

I shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“As I said, you are a hothead. It is time you grew up and thought about the consequences of your actions. After all, you have a child to look after now. You cannot come running to me every time you get yourself in trouble. I am not your savior. You must give up your reckless ways, Mrs. Conlon, or—”

“I’ll not inform, if that’s what you mean,” I cried.

“I would never dream of asking you to do that,” he said. “First of all you would never do so, and if you did, it would put your life in grave danger and I would not do that.”

I was silenced. He was right, of course. Informers were found every day of the week with their throats cut and a placard around the necks with the word
Traitor
written in big, black letters.

“What I meant,” he continued, “is that I need your word that you will give up all your violent activities. You will not so much as take or deliver a message. You will attend no meetings. You will harbor no known insurgents—”

“I’ll not turn against my husband!” I protested.

He raised a pale eyebrow. “Such loyalty, after the man has effectively left you and his child to starve.”

And worse than that, I thought. I hated James for what he had done to us, but I was not going to admit it to him. “He’s still my husband,” I said.

“Quite so, and to bar him from the house would put you in danger. I would not expect you to do that. But if I am to go back to my father and make another plea on your behalf, I must be able to assure him that you have given up your life of violence.” He paused and looked directly into my eyes. “And,” he continued with a faint smile, “if you were to agree to some volunteer work, I’m sure my father would be gratified to hear it.”

Silence fell as we both stared into the fire, thinking our own thoughts. What he was asking me to do was not that unreasonable, and besides, it had been a long time since I’d been out on any missions. Something in me kicked and screamed at being told what I could and could not do. Eileen O’Neill, warrior, would never have put up with it. But I was also Eileen Conlon, mother, and I had my child to think about. I would have to swallow my pride for the child’s sake.

“But I promised my da,” I whispered, “that I would fight for the O’Neill legacy. I promised I would get our house back and bring us all home.”

The tears escaped now, and I brushed them away roughly. Sheridan leaned forward and took my hands gently in his.

“Sometimes promises are made rashly,” he whispered, “and to please others. Surely your father would not want to see you putting your life in danger. And anyway, I don’t see how ambushing armored lorries will get you back your family home.”

He was right, of course. When you said it outright and logical, it made no sense. How was I to explain that I was so mixed up between revenge and anger and helplessness that I had to hold on to something? I could not let the warrior die as well.

As if reading my mind, he went on, “I know that there are many who feel helpless to change things, and see violence as the only answer. But believe me, it is not.” He sat back and looked into the fire. “I saw horrors in France that I would not wish on my worst enemy. There was no glory in the mud and mutilation on the battlefield. I realized the Quakers had been right all along. Problems must be solved by peaceful means.”

“But you still joined up again,” I said. It was more of a question than an accusation.

He nodded. “I believe I explained that to you when we last met. I am trying hard to contain the violence. Tempers are raw on both sides, and there is little discipline.” He sighed. “I hope I am making some difference.”

We lapsed into silence again. He stared into the fire. I stared at my rough, red hands. Aoife, I thought. I have to do it for Aoife.

“All right,” I whispered.

Sheridan jumped as if he had forgotten there was someone else in the room. “Pardon?” he said.

“All right! All right!” I shouted. “Do you want me to sign it in blood, too?”

He smiled then. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

LATER THAT NIGHT
, I heard from Terrence that the Government of Ireland Act had been passed in England. The act called for two parliaments to be set up, one in Ulster and the other in the South of Ireland—both parliaments to be tied to England. The act had been proposed by a fellow called Walter Long, a Unionist leader in Belfast. Under pressure from Ulster Unionists, six of the nine counties of Ulster were partitioned from the rest of the island to form Northern Ireland, a new territory separate and distinct from the rest of the country. The Unionists accepted the new Northern Ireland parliament. Meanwhile, the Republicans in the South refused to take their seats in the newly created Southern Ireland parliament and vowed to continue to fight for a free and independent Ireland. Would freedom for Ulster continue to be included in that fight, I wondered, or had the betrayal of Ulster begun? And, I wondered, had my own betrayal of my warrior self also begun?

CHRISTMAS CAME AND
went, with no word from Owen Sheridan. My shoulders slumped in shame every time I thought about what I had done. I had lowered myself and begged—something I was sure my da would never have done. Certainly my ma, when she was in her right mind, had never done so. I remembered the time I slouched behind her as she strode into the Royal Bank of Newry, bold as brass in her best hat, and had put Mr. Craig in his place. She wouldn’t even bend to her oul’ da when he would have forced her to leave her husband. She had turned on her heel and walked away, pride stiffening her shoulders. I was ashamed of myself. What kind of an O’Neill was I at all? I could not shake the faint sense that I had betrayed myself and Da.