Patricia Falvey (41 page)

My body felt heavy. I dragged myself to the mill and back. I lost my appetite, and the smell of Aoife’s morning porridge turned my stomach. I lived on strong tea and bread. I had missed my monthly curse two times in a row. I put it down to the annoyances of all that had gone on since Halloween.

On Christmas Eve I went up to the hospital, bringing brightly wrapped presents and sweets for the young fellows in the ward. I brought Aoife for the first time. She cried when she saw the big stone building and pulled at my hand, refusing to go in.

“I know, love,” I said. “I felt the same way when I first saw this place. But come on now. There are sick people in there waiting for presents.”

Reluctantly, she let me lead her in through the big wooden door and up the stairs to the men’s ward. My heart sank when I saw the poor lads, all scrubbed, waiting for the Christmas visitors. Sister Rafferty had changed the visiting rules for the holidays, but not even presents or visitors, I thought, could make up for the fact that these poor mites were in this cold place and not home by a warm fire.

I should have known Aoife would change her tune. When she realized she was the center of attention, she climbed up on each bed to hand over a present and get a big kiss or hug. She smiled and laughed more than I had ever seen her do. My heart filled with love as I watched her.

Christmas Day came and went. I tried to be cheerful for Aoife’s sake. For once I was grateful for Theresa and her desperate efforts to have the perfect Christmas. Her house was choked with decorations—garlands, holly wreaths, a fine Christmas tree, and mistletoe. She sat up all night Christmas Eve wrapping presents and stuffing them into a big pillowcase that Aoife had hung up for Father Christmas. We all went to midnight mass. The service included a children’s pageant. Aoife strutted on the altar in a lovely pair of silver angel wings Theresa had made for her. The Mullens came with Paddy. He would turn thirteen the next day. He had grown as tall as myself, and while he still had Lizzie’s fair hair and blue eyes, he looked less and less like her as he grew. I realized as I looked at him that I hardly knew him at all. Would I ever come to know what was in his mind or his heart? He said little to anybody. Apart from the outbreak of anger I had witnessed with Frank, he was polite and well behaved at home and at school, and he was very good with Aoife. The child adored him and trailed after him the way Lizzie used to trail after our Frankie. I sighed. Frank? Instinctively, I turned around to see if he was in the church, but there was no sign of him.

Theresa made a big Christmas dinner. But I hardly touched any of it. Oul’ Mrs. Conlon eyed me sharply.

“You’ve not much of an appetite there, Eileen,” she said.

I ignored her remark.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in the family way,” she said.

My stomach lurched.

“And how could that be,” I snapped, “when my husband has not spent a night in the house this many’s a month!”

“I was wondering that myself,” she remarked.

Theresa looked at me closely, as if examining me. My anger rose.

“Will youse leave me alone!” I shouted. “I’m not hungry.”

They went back to eating and drinking, and Tommy McParland, always the good host, called for a song.

“Did you bring your fiddle, Eileen?” he said. “I’ll get out the old squeeze box and we’ll have some music. Just like your old times at the Yellow House.”

For some reason, I wanted to cry. “I didn’t bring it,” I said.

“No bother,” said Tommy. “We’ll have one of the lads run up to your house and fetch it. Give us your key, now.”

I handed him the key. It was hard to argue with Tommy when he had his mind set on something. I was in no mood to be playing music, but at least it would get the conversation away from me.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough. Paddy, it had turned out, had a beautiful singing voice, and he entertained the gathering with a couple of ballads so sad there wasn’t a dry eye. I thought of Da and allowed my tears to flow as well. I had wanted to cry all day and was glad of the excuse to let the tears come. I didn’t even know why I was so sad, but somehow I felt a great sense of loss. I was alone in the midst of all these people. I told myself it was because Ma and Da were absent and that I was lonely for the Yellow House, as I always was this time of the year. But deep down I knew it was more than that. I felt like half of me was missing. And that half, God help me, was Owen Sheridan.

THE NEW YEAR
of 1922 arrived, and along with it snow and ice the likes of which we had not seen in donkey’s years. I sent Aoife down to Theresa’s house with Billy for New Year’s Day with a message that I had a bad cold and was going to stay in bed.

“But you’re not sick, Mammy,” she said. “Your nose is not red.”

“Never you mind,” I said as I pulled on her coat and hat. “Now off you go, and hold Billy’s hand so you don’t fall on the ice.”

I watched them walk down the street. They made a comical pair: big, hulking Billy wrapped up in his woolly hat and muffler, and little Aoife in her red coat. Something tugged at my heart as I watched her. How my love for this child had grown since the early days when I had resented her very presence. Now she had become my lifeline—my wee warrior—and I knew I could never bear to lose her. A shiver crept over me, as if someone had walked over my grave.

I was never a great one for drinking, but that night I poured a glass of the whiskey I kept in the house for visitors and sat in a chair by the fire. The unthinkable skulked around me like an unwelcome ghost. Two months had passed since my curse had stopped, and there was still no sign of it. I was sick in the mornings, retching in the outdoor toilet before I could set foot toward the mill. I had lost weight, and my clothes hung on me like rags on an old stick. But that would change if… I could not bring myself to form the thought. I drank the sharp liquid, and it burned my throat. Mother of God, what was I to do? It had never occurred to me that this could happen. Hadn’t I slept with James a hundred times since Aoife was born? I always believed there would be no more children. The thought that I could get pregnant ever again was as remote to me as the man in the moon. There! I had used the word! Fear and panic swirled inside me. I took another drink. How could I go to the mill with a swollen belly and everybody knowing it was not James’s child? James! Mother of God, what would James do? He would destroy me. I had to get rid of it. Images of old crones with knitting needles in back alleys swarmed into my mind. The old mill women used to tell stories of them to us young girls to warn us of the dangers of lying with a man. Out of nowhere, I started reciting the rosary—“Hail Mary, Mother of God, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…” Oh, how blessed is the fruit of my womb? The devil’s child—conceived in passion and in sin. I drank some more. Owen’s face passed in front of me. No, not the devil’s child. Owen’s child. Beautiful, like himself. Och, Owen—what will I do?

I awoke in the middle of the night. The fire was out and I was freezing with the cold. Outside, some drunkards were shouting, “Happy New Year!” I poured another glass of whiskey and carried it upstairs to bed.

Secrets

S
ecrets are the cancer of families. Like tumors, they grow ever larger, and if they are not removed, they suffocate the mind and spirit and spawn madness. As long as they remain, they cast a shadow on every truth that is uttered, clouding it, constricting it, distorting it. Secrets hurt the secret keeper as much as the poor souls from whom the secret is kept. And even once the secret is out, its shadow echoes into the future, the remnants of its memory leaving us vigilant and fearful.

The spring thaw was a long time in coming. The mill reopened after the Christmas holidays, and the workers flocked in muffled up in coats and scarves. We shivered as we took off our boots and tiptoed onto the cold, damp floor to start up our spinning frames.

“We’ll all die of pneumonia,” they complained.

But we stuck it out. What else were we to do? There were plenty of people waiting to take our jobs. I caught the cold I had lied to Aoife about having a week before. God’s justice, I suppose. Although I was freezing, I was pouring with sweat at the same time. Even Theresa broke down and showed me some sympathy.

“You don’t look so well, Eileen,” she said. “Sit down and rest. I’ll cover for you.”

She had a good heart. I patted her arm.

“Thanks, but I’ll be all right. I’ve made it through worse, I can make it through this.” I gave her a wan smile.

“You’d think the bloody bastards would find a way to get a bit of heat into this place before we all catch our deaths,” she said, “but that would cost them money out of their pockets.”

“Maybe there’s not much they can do,” I said. “The flax has to be kept damp.”

“Oh, go ahead, defend them,” snapped Theresa. “I forgot they’re your friends.”

I ignored the remark, and Theresa went back to her machine. I worked away, although my pace was a lot slower than in the past few weeks. Even Shields noticed it.

“I see you took my advice,” he said. “But don’t be slowing it too much, now. We still have our quotas.”

I glared at him. Fat bastard thought the whole world revolved around him.

On the second day back, Owen appeared at my side. I jumped out of my skin. He had kept his distance so much since our last conversation that I had begun to believe he had heeded my words with relief. What did he want now?

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Eileen. I just wanted to see how you are.”

“And how would I be?” I snapped. “I’m freezing my arse off with the rest of them.”

Owen sighed. “We are doing what we can to make the place more comfortable. I’m afraid—”

“Never mind the excuses,” I said. “I’ve heard them all before.”

I sneezed, and alarm crossed Owen’s face.

“My goodness, Eileen. You are ill. You must come and sit down.” He put his hand on my elbow. I shook it off.

“And who’s going to take my shift if I sit down? And who’s going to pay me the money I’ll be short?”

“Your health is more important…”

“Aye—I’ll be the healthiest pauper beyond in the workhouse.”

He let the remark go. Then he said, “Speaking of the workhouse and the hospital, any word of Lizzie? My offer still stands, you know. I will be glad to help you locate her.”

“I don’t need your help,” I muttered. “We are taking care of it.”

He nodded. I was aware of the others slowing down their work to watch us. The familiar flush rose up my neck and burned my cheeks.

“I have work to do,” I said sharply.

He disappeared back into Shields’s office, although I had the feeling he was watching me from behind the glass window.

I HAD TO
tell someone. The burden was becoming unbearable. Oh, Ma, I wish you could hear me. But what good was herself sitting there like a statue? I decided to confide in Terrence.

“Any word on Lizzie?” I said when he came over not long into the new year.

“Not yet. You don’t look so well, Eileen. Sit down.”

He rummaged around the kitchen and found the bottle of whiskey and poured me a glass. “Here, drink this. It will ward off the cold.”