Patricia Falvey (4 page)

Our troubles began to creep in on us, stealthy as spirits, one Sunday night late in the following year. We were all in the kitchen waiting for Ma to serve up Sunday tea.

“Will you hand me over the pie, Tom?” she said.

Da took down a towel from a hook beside the fireplace and reached in among the turf bricks to retrieve the iron skillet that held the baked apple pie. He pulled it out by the handle and turned to bring it over to the kitchen table.

Suddenly, the skillet fell to the stone floor. The lid flew off, and hot applesauce and brown pastry scattered out of it. Cuchulainn ran over to sniff the mess.

“Ah, Jaysus,” said Da. “I’m sorry, Mary, it dropped out of my hand.”

Ma said nothing but took a broom and pan and swept up the remnants of the pie.

“Och, Ma, can we not save any of it?” pleaded Frankie. He loved apple pie.

“We’re not that poor yet we have to be eating off the floor,” Ma snapped. “Get the dog out of the way.”

Da sank back down into his chair beside the fireplace. He studied his right hand, turning his wrist this way and that. “I took a weakness in my hand,” he muttered to no one in particular. “It’s grand now.”

But it was not grand. By the spring of 1907, Da’s hands had grown weaker. I could see plainly that they were no longer the hands Da once had—slender and white like the stems of flowers. You would hardly recognize these hands. His fingers grew gnarled and crooked like the branches of an old tree. Hands like these belonged on a workingman, a man who had done hard labor all his life. They did not belong on an artist like my da. I imagined that a bad fairy had come in the middle of the night and stolen Da’s hands, replacing them with these grotesque things. I knelt up at my window at night and prayed to Mrs. Gullion to take away the bad fairy’s spell.

Ma spent evenings rubbing Da’s hands with liniment, cradling them in her own, and humming the tune called “The Spinning Wheel” she used to sing to us as babies. The smell of the liniment was strong, like disinfectant.

Sometimes Da cried, the tears flowing down his thin face.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said.

“Ssh. Things will be all right.”

“I can do nothing on the farm these days.” He gazed up at her sadly.

Da had always struggled to make a go at farming, but the truth was that he was not fit for it. He was not lazy, my da, he just didn’t have the persistence it took to run a farm. He never got a fair price for his crops or his cattle. He sold off the sheep because he could not stand the thought of slaughtering the lambs every spring. He himself admitted that he was a soft touch. My da was born a dreamer, not a farmer.

“I had to put a mortgage on the house,” he whispered one evening as she was rubbing his hands.

Ma dropped his hands. Her face turned white, then red.

“You did what?” she cried.

Da’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “It was that or sell what was left of the land. It was the only way to pay off the debts from last year and buy new seeds for planting, and give us a bit of money to live on…” Da’s words trailed off.

Ma picked up his hands again and began rubbing them fiercely with the liniment. I wondered if she thought she could make his hands better. Didn’t she understand the real wound was in his heart, not his hands?

“We’ll see,” was all she said.

THE NEXT MORNING
, Ma hitched Rosie to the cart and jumped up to take the reins. I had never seen her like this before. Her face was set as firm as granite.

“Get your coat, Eileen, and come with me,” she commanded.

Frankie ran out of the door, his face dark. “What about me?” he cried.

Ma hesitated for a moment. Then she said, “No, Frank, stay and help your da mind Lizzie.”

“But that’s
her
job,” spat Frankie, pointing at me.

“It’s your job now,” Ma said, her voice cold, “and that’s enough back talk. Get in, Eileen.”

“Where are we going?” I whispered.

“To the bank,” she said. “We’re going to get this house back.”

I climbed into the cart and Ma chucked the reins. Rosie began her slow trot out through the broken gate and down the hill toward the village. It was a blustery spring day. Young buds emerged on trees, holding their ground defiantly against the strong breezes. Pale clouds mottled the sky, and a weak sun shone through their scrim. I wondered why Ma had brought me with her instead of Frankie. It would have been natural for her to bring him since he was the oldest and, as I believed deep down, her favorite. So I was delighted that she had chosen me instead. I stole a glance at her. She sat erect in the cart. She wore her best hat, the one she always wore to mass on Sundays, the one I was told she had worn when she married Da. It was made of brown velvet with silk flowers sewn on the side of it, a brown grosgrain ribbon around the brim. When Ma wore this hat, her back straightened up, as it did now, and she grew an inch taller. The hat transformed her into the person she used to be: the daughter of a prosperous landowner—a person who deserved respect.

I thought we were going to the bank in Glenlea, but Ma drove straight through the village main street without stopping. We passed Kearney’s pub at a trot, then Quinn’s Chemists and Mary Moloney’s grocery shop. Mary was sitting on a chair outside the shop door, and she waved as we passed. I waved back, but Ma paid no attention. Some of my schoolmates, off for the Easter holidays, leaned against the wall, and they waved up at me, too. I waved back and smiled, proud to be seen sitting beside my beautiful mother. Some of the village men doffed their hats, but the women just stared, as they always did. No matter how long she had lived in Glenlea, the villagers still treated her as an outsider. It didn’t occur to me then that she was an outsider not because she was not born there, but because she was different. My ma was a lady, and they recognized it. I smiled and moved closer to her.

We drove on to Newry, the biggest town in the area, which sat on the border between Counties Armagh and Down. I had been there only a few times before. The streets were filled with people, carts, and bicycles. It was market day, and people were enjoying themselves. Ma turned off the main road and crossed the bridge over Newry Canal. Bright boats and barges were tethered against the banks, their flags fluttering in the breeze. I craned my neck to look at everything. We drove on into the main part of the town, a large square with a clock in the middle. A big golden teapot hung from a wall above one of the shops. I looked up at it in delight, remembering it from past excursions. I had always loved it. I smiled up at Ma, but she paid me no attention. She slowed the cart to a stop and stepped down. I followed her. She called to a young boy and handed him Rosie’s reins along with some coins. He led the horse and cart away. I was amazed at Ma’s command of things.

The Royal Bank of Newry seemed to my young eyes as big as Newry Cathedral and just as frightening. It was built of granite, with stout stone columns standing on either side of its heavy oak doors. Ma took my elbow and led me up the steps and in the door without so much as a by-your-leave to anybody. I felt her determination burning through my arm where she gripped me. I looked up from the marble floors, past the high arched windows to the carved ceiling, and felt myself shrink. I moved closer to Ma. The customers were well dressed and smelled of perfume and tobacco. They all stood just as erect as Ma, as if they were in a pantomime. Many of them turned to stare at us and whisper as Ma swept straight up to the front of the big room. She stopped in front of a grim, thin-faced woman who sat on a stool high up behind the counter.

“I need to speak to the manager,” said Ma, nice as you like.

The woman stared at her. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

“Mr. Craig. I am Mary O’Neill. Please tell him I wish to see him.” Ma’s tone was sharper than that of any priest giving out a big penance.

The woman jumped off her stool as if she were on fire. “Wait here,” she snapped.

Ma and I sat on two wooden chairs at the side of the counter. Customers stared at us openly now. One or two of the men doffed their hats, and Ma nodded back. It was clear to me that they knew who she was even all the way over there in Newry. My ma must be very important, I thought, and I sat up straighter.

After a while, a short, thin man in a pin-striped suit and oiled hair came over. He extended a small white hand to Ma.

“Ah, Mrs. O’Neill,” he said, “what a lovely surprise to see you. Why, I remember when you used to come here as a little girl with your father…”

Ma put out her hand. She had put on gloves over her callused red hands. Poor Ma, she had not been reared for the rough work of farming. She shook his hand briefly and stood up. “Yes,” she said, cutting his blather short, “I am here on urgent business, Mr. Craig. May we speak in private?”

Craig looked at a sudden loss. He was obviously not used to people interrupting him. I stared in awe at Ma.

“This way,” he said as he turned on his heel.

We followed him into a big, dusty office. Piles of paper covered the desk and tables and chairs. I wondered how he ever found anything. The walls were covered with black-and-white photographs: men in top hats wearing banners and shaking hands or cutting ribbons; well-dressed couples around a big dining table; drummers marching with lilies in their caps. Protestants, all of them. I clenched my fists as I stood behind Ma and hoped these people would not invade my dreams.

Craig dusted off a chair for Ma and sat behind his desk, peering at us over the pile of papers. “I hear your husband is not well,” he said, and clucked his little tongue like a hen.

Ma ignored him. “I understand my husband has taken out a mortgage on our house,” she said.

Craig leaned back in his chair. “Yes, yes,” he said. “He was lucky to get it. We do not grant mortgages lightly these days, particularly to…”

“To Catholics,” Ma put in sharply.

“That has nothing to do with things,” Craig snapped back, “but it would not have been granted save for your father’s connection to the bank.”

“I want it removed,” said Ma, without waiting for him to finish. “I am prepared to sell off more of our land to meet the obligation and give us some cash. I wish to keep a few acres to graze our cattle and raise the hens, but I am prepared to sell the rest. I am sure buyers can be found?”

Craig sat straight up in his chair. He chuckled, shook his head, and as if talking to a child said, “But my dear Mrs. O’Neill, the remaining land will not bring enough money to pay the mortgage. You see, Mr. O’Neill…”

Ma’s face turned red. “Mr. O’Neill sold that land to John Browne for next to nothing, and well you know it, Mr. Craig. I intend for you to sell the remaining land at a fair price. This is what I will take and nothing less.”

Ma leaned over and lifted a gold-nibbed pen from Craig’s penholder, took a pad of paper, and wrote something on it. Then she shoved it toward Craig. “This is the minimum amount I will take per acre,” she said.

Craig reached for the pad, read it, and raised one thin eyebrow.

“I, I, er, don’t know if we can get close to this. This is a large amount,” he said. Then he leaned back in his chair and bared his small teeth in a smile. “Would you not do better to go to your father? I’m sure if he knew the circumstances…” He let the words hang in the air, but Ma ignored them.

“I’m sure you can find a suitable buyer, Mr. Craig,” Ma said, smiling at him with no humor at all. “I have great faith in you.”

Craig barked at the woman behind the counter to fetch some papers. We waited while he made a great show of filling in particulars. When he was finished, he folded the papers and handed them to Ma.

“Mr. O’Neill will have to sign,” he said, all business now.

“He will,” said Ma, putting the papers in her bag and standing up. She put out her gloved hand to Craig, and he hesitated before he took it.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Craig,” Ma said. “And by the way, Billy is doing just grand, in case you wanted to know.”

Craig’s face turned pale. He said nothing. Ma shoved me out of the office and pulled me through the bank foyer and out the front door.

“Why would he care about Billy?” I said, unable to picture a connection between this little man and big simple Billy with his tin whistle.

“He’s Billy’s da,” Ma said, a bitter edge to her voice. “Not that you would ever know it. He disowned Billy long ago.”

We walked to the corner in silence. The young lad saw us coming and hurried for the horse and cart. We climbed in and Ma chucked the reins.

I was starving all the way back to Glenlea, but I was afraid to ask Ma to stop. For one thing, she was so caught up in her own thoughts that I doubted she would even hear me, and for another thing, I was suddenly afraid I would be showing weakness. So I put my arms over my stomach to stifle the growling and wondered for a while about how so small a man as Mr. Craig could have a son as big as Billy.

I glanced at Ma now and then as she drove. I had always sensed there was something more to her that she kept hidden from us. I had glimpsed it now, and inwardly I wondered if it was my ma and not my da who was the O’Neill warrior. Then I realized the lesson she was teaching me was that a woman can be no less a warrior than a man.