Patricia Falvey (5 page)

DA SIGNED THE
papers and the land was sold. The bank removed the mortgage from the house and we settled into our own peaceful world. Ma smiled and talked a lot more than she had ever done, and my da talked less. Ma told us stories about her childhood growing up in the big house outside Newry, a topic she had never touched on before. Frankie and I were bursting with questions, and she answered us patiently, her eyes lighting up occasionally at some happy, silly memory.

The Music Men continued to come even though Da could no longer play the fiddle. Instead he joined in on the bodhran, thumping away at the drum with his broken hands, and although he smiled and sang once in a while, I could tell his heart was no longer in it.

The Music Men brought news from the outside. There was talk of a world war, and fear of it had left Home Rule stalled in its tracks. Republicans, supporters of Home Rule, were getting more and more frustrated and restless, even though their leader, John Redmond, tried to restrain them. Meanwhile, Ulster opposition to a united Ireland under Irish rule continued to fire resentment against the Catholics. There were stories of Catholic tenants being pulled out of their houses by Protestant landlords. But we owned our house free and clear, I told myself, so they could not touch us. I held on to that belief even as faceless ghosts came out of the darkness and laughed at me.

AND SO 1907
slipped by softly, and I came to believe that we would be all right, that the bad spirits had done their worst. Ma and Da had made peace with each other. Lizzie had grown into a lovely child. She had blue eyes, and pale gold hair, and a smile so bright she dazzled friends and strangers alike. Old women put the sign of the cross on her forehead so that the fairies would not steal her away. Frankie and I went to school, although I could tell he was growing restless. There wasn’t much more they could teach him, and he hadn’t the patience to read a book. I, on the other hand, loved school and read every book I could lay my hands on. In the spring of the next year, Ma’s belly swelled, and I guessed another baby was on the way, even though no one had said a word as yet. Da arranged for a friend with a camera to take a picture of the whole family standing outside the house, and Ma set the photo on the big mantel in the kitchen.

I suppose we all get lulled into dreams born of our wishes. At the time, I fervently wished for us all to be happy and live together forever in the Yellow House. But I had been wrong. The bad spirits were not yet finished with us. And while we looked anxiously for signs of trouble outside, trouble itself began from within.

It was coming up on Halloween of 1908. Lizzie had not been herself for days. Her bright smile and chatter dimmed, and she turned fussy and tearful. Even Frankie couldn’t coax a laugh out of her. One October afternoon, Frankie and I came home from school to find Dr. Haggerty from the village just climbing down from his pony and trap. His shoulders hunched over with the cold, and he clutched a small leather bag in one hand. I grabbed Frankie’s arm, but he shook me off. We followed the doctor through the front door. Ma sat by the fire holding Lizzie while Da held a rag to the child’s forehead. Something was very wrong. Ma’s face was strained as she rocked Lizzie and sang to her—the old lullaby called “The Spinning Wheel.” The song had a gentle, soothing melody that always calmed us as we drifted off to sleep.

Da didn’t even offer the doctor the usual cup of tea to ward off the cold. The doctor took off his coat and hat and knelt beside Lizzie to examine her, feeling her head and throat with his fingers, taking out his stethoscope and listening with an intent but unreadable expression. He asked Ma a few questions about how long Lizzie had been sick and what her symptoms were. Sighing, he opened his bag and took out a brown bottle and handed it to Ma.

“Give her a tablespoon of this twice a day. There’s not much else I can do,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been out all over the countryside the last few days. So many children sick. I can come back to look at her in a few days. But I would advise she go to hospital now.”

Ma flinched. “But we’ve no money for a private hospital,” she said. “We’ve hardly enough to pay you.”

Dr. Haggerty reached for his coat and hat. “There’s always the Fever Hospital, Mrs. O’Neill,” he said. “They do not charge.”

“But that’s part of the workhouse,” cried Ma, “where they treat the paupers. God knows what they do to people in there.”

The doctor shrugged and tipped his hat. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said, “but there’s so many…”

He let the words trail off as he went out the door. I followed him and watched him drive down to the gate, the cart wheels grating on the gravel. The sun had already set, and the short October day had vanished. I turned and went back into the house.

THE NEXT MORNING
, Lizzie’s fever was no better, and Ma handed her to Da. She went upstairs and came down wearing her coat and best hat and gloves. She nodded at Frankie and me. “Get your coats. We’re going out.”

I looked from her to Da, but Da said nothing. “Hurry now,” said Ma.

We were out the gate and on the road to Newry before I dared to ask Ma where we were going.

“On a visit,” was all she said.

I wondered if we were going to the bank again to borrow money from Mr. Craig. But the day was Saturday, and I wasn’t sure if it was even open. I shrugged and sat back. I supposed I’d know the answer when we got there. It was a fine crisp morning. The countryside was painted in browns and golds, and the leaves fell from trees as we passed, drifting like feathers down to earth. I turned around and looked back at Slieve Gullion. My lovely mountain was shedding her bracken cloak, and here and there patches of scarred granite, like gray wrinkled skin, were exposed amid the mossy grass.

We turned off onto a road that ran around Newry, so I knew we were not going to the bank. The road narrowed to a winding, country road overgrown on both sides by trees and bushes.

At length we turned in through an open iron gate and up an avenue with trees lining either side of it. As we came out into a clearing, I saw a huge stone manor house. The main house was three stories high with a low wing on either end. It looked like a great stone bird sitting there with its wings outstretched. But the arched windows made me shiver. I felt eyes watching me. Ghosts, maybe.

Ma stopped the cart and stepped down, straightening her coat and hat. Without a word she marched toward the house, sighing and clucking her tongue as she looked at the weed-filled flower beds spanning the front of the house. She went up the three stone steps, Frankie and me following at a distance, and raised and lowered the heavy iron knocker on the front door. Ma waited and then knocked again, with more force.

All was quiet except for the rustling of leaves against the grimy windows and the sound of our own breathing. At last the door creaked open and we heard grunting and coughing from behind it. Staring at us was an old man in a hunting jacket that had seen better days. He was stout, with a florid face, grizzly gray whiskers, and small brown eyes. He looked at us with disgust, as if we were some kind of vermin that had arrived at his doorstep.

“Hello, Father,” Ma said, her voice quiet but firm.

The old man stared at her, and recognition dawned slowly on his face. But even so, the contempt remained.

“I suppose you want to come in,” he said at last, standing back and opening the door wider. He turned on his heel and was swallowed up in the cavernous darkness of the hallway.

Ma followed him, and Frankie and I crept along behind her. I jumped as the old grandfather clock in the hall chimed. The place smelled of the damp and of boiled dinner and brandy. We followed him into a big study with heavy furnishings and thick velvet curtains that let in hardly any light. He sat down in an armchair, picked up a glass from a side table, and began to drink. Two old dogs lay motionless at his feet. He waved his hand at Ma to find a seat. Frankie and I may as well have been invisible. We sat on an old sofa.

“What do you want?” he growled. “If you’re looking for dinner, it’s the cook’s day off. Would you like a drink?”

Ma shook her head. “I have not come for hospitality, Father,” she said.

“And what have you come for?” he said. Then he turned to Frankie and me and studied us for a long time. “The girl is an O’Neill brat by the look of her,” he grunted, “and the other one, well, who knows who he takes after? Not the Fitzwilliams, at any rate. I hear you have one more at home, and another in the oven, I see!”

“I’m a proud O’Neill,” I declared, “and so is my brother!” I don’t know where I got the courage to speak up, but I was determined to protect Frankie’s pride at that minute. The truth of the matter was that the old man was half-right. Frankie did not look much like the O’Neills, but God help him, he was the spit of the old man in front of us.

“This is Frank and Eileen,” Ma said, her voice unusually high, “and I also have another daughter at home.”

“Catholics!” he snarled.

He reached for the decanter and poured himself another drink. Frankie glared at him, his fists thrust in his pockets. I put my hand gently on his arm, but he shrugged me off. I shifted on the coarse horsehair sofa and looked around. There were hunting prints everywhere, but on a table in the corner sat a black-and-white photograph of a handsome woman with two young girls kneeling beside her. They were all wearing white lace dresses. I wondered which girl was Ma.

“It is about my other daughter, Lizzie, that I have come to see you,” Ma said. “She is sick with the fever and needs medical attention.”

“Have you no doctors over in that godforsaken place?” snapped her da.

“We do,” Ma said quietly, “but she needs a hospital.”

“What’s wrong with the Fever Hospital?” he said. “Not good enough for you and your brats?”

Tears welled in Ma’s eyes. I could see she was losing her hold on things.

“She’ll get no care in that place,” she cried. “She needs a private hospital and, well, we have no money for it. That’s why I’ve come to you. Please, Father, will you not help us?”

Ma sobbed full tilt now, but the oul’ feller’s face did not soften one bit. He was the image of the devil, I thought.

“Please?” Ma said again.

Her da looked at her. “You’ve some neck on you, girl, coming here for charity after the disgrace you brought on this house. It was your carryings-on that killed your mother, God rest her soul. “

Ma bowed her head. “Mama would have found kindness toward me. She knows what it’s like to lose a child.”

The old man rose from his chair. He coughed and spat into the fireplace.

“Is it not enough for you that I saved you from being thrown out of your house!” he growled.

“I know you helped Tom get the mortgage, and I am grateful for that, Father,” said Ma. “That’s why I thought you might…”

The old man sighed. “Bring the sick child here and I will see she is taken care of,” he said.

Ma’s face lit up. But he was not finished.

“On one condition. You leave that fool of a man you married and come back to live here.” He glared at Frankie and me. “And bring them with you if you must.”