Patricia Falvey (14 page)

“For God’s sake, Paddy, what happened?”

I crouched down in front of him and looked into his face. He stared back at me but said nothing. Instead of Lizzie’s sweet face, I suddenly saw Frankie’s defiance, and my anger exploded. I shook him by the shoulders.

“What do you think Da would say to this behavior?” I shouted.

“Da’s dead,” he said.

His words were like a shower of cold water. Shocked, I dropped my hands from him. “What?” I whispered.

“Da’s dead,” he said again.

A torrent of sadness washed through me. Oh, the poor wee lad. It had finally sunk in that his da was really dead and not just “visiting heaven,” as he used to say. As for his ma—I shuddered at the image of her screaming at him like a banshee to get away from her. Jesus, no wonder the boy was angry. I reached out and crushed him against me. He didn’t resist.

“I’m sorry, love,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

I leaned back and clutched his shoulders between my hands. “I promise I’ll not leave you, Paddy,” I said. “I’ll bring us all back to the Yellow House.”

After that, neither I nor the Mullens questioned him. We went on about our lives as if the school incidents had never occurred. At home, he was a good child, quiet and helpful. Mrs. Mullen took it on herself to teach him to read, and it turned out he loved books. P.J. taught him to play simple wee tunes on the fiddle, and I took him to mass with me on Sundays—just the two of us. Afterward we would go for lemonade, and I would buy him a picture book. I think those outings kept us both sane.

T
he quiet routine of life suited me. I had no need of friends. But it turned out God had other ideas. A few months after my sixteenth birthday, He arranged for a girl named Theresa Conlon to interfere with my life and turn it upside down.

Theresa came to work at the mill and started, like the rest of us, as a doffer. She was a year younger than me. I was put in charge of teaching her. If anyone could be called great
craic
—the Gaelic word for fun and good company—it was Theresa. She was always joking and laughing, and she did a wicked imitation of Miss Galway. On top of that, she could swear better than me. I couldn’t help liking her. It turned out she was the sister of Fergus Conlon, the tall, reed-thin Music Man who used to play the mandolin with the group at the Yellow House and whom I played with nowadays in the Ulster Minstrels. When she invited me to her house, though, I didn’t know what to say. First of all, I had heard all the stories from Ma about what a harridan oul’ Mrs. Conlon was, so I was in no hurry to meet her. Even more to the point, I had never had friends, and I was sure I did not want any—they would only interfere with my purpose. But Mrs. Mullen was so delighted at the prospect of my having a friend that I hated to disappoint her. When I told her I had been invited to tea, she went into a dither of what I should wear, what I should bring, and all the rest of it.

THERESA AND I
must have looked an odd pair as we walked down the hill from the spinning mill toward the village of Queensbrook. I had grown to six feet tall, with big feet and hands and hair that fell in a long auburn braid down my back to my waist. I was slender, thank God, but strong as a horse. My new friend Theresa, by contrast, was only five feet in height, and she walked with a limp on account of being born with a club foot that left her with one leg shorter than the other. She was a lovely girl all the same, with long, wavy brown hair, big hazel eyes, and a smile that would light the road at night.

I had never seen the village up close. I had no interest in exploring the place; when work finished I always made a beeline for the tram. Now I saw it as P.J. had described on that first day we rode the tram to Queensbrook. It was like a toy town. Small, tidy houses with red geraniums in window boxes stood shoulder to shoulder in two big squares. In the middle of each square was a green where men bowled, and children played while mothers sat on wooden benches watching them. Trees and shrubs grew here and there. The pavement that ran around the greens and in front of the houses was clean and smooth. Along the main road that linked the squares stood two churches, a community hall, a library, and two schools. Well-tended shops sold meat and vegetables and dry goods. As P.J. had said, there was not a pub to be seen.

Theresa watched me as I gazed around. “Have you never been to the village?”

“No.”

“It was built by the Sheridans. By the way, I hear you know the son.” Theresa’s eyes blazed up at me. I had found out already that she was a terror for the gossip. I decided to stay clear of it.

“Not really,” I said.

Theresa shrugged. “Anyway, it’s all mill workers that live here. My brother Fergus is a bleacher. My da was a hackler before he died. Ma’s convinced the dust killed him, and so is my other brother, James. He hates the mills. But I don’t mind it. I’m just glad that Ma’s finally let me out of the house.”

“What about your brother?”

“Fergus? He lives here, but we don’t see too much of him between his work and playing at the Ceili House.”

“No. The other one.”

“James? Well, he’s studying to be a priest. He’s away at the seminary down in Dublin at the minute. Ma sent me to work to help pay for his school fees.”

I had known from Ma that Fergus worked as a bleacher at the Queensbrook Mill and that all his wages went to pay the school fees of his younger brother, James. Now I learned that Mrs. Conlon had put Theresa to work in the cause of James, too. I was prepared to hate this James on sight.

She pushed open the front door of a house halfway up the right-hand side of the second square and pulled me in after her. “Ma? We’re here,” she called.

A small woman, thin and short as Theresa, came into the parlor. Her steel gray hair was cut blunt around her head and secured with clips. She had a sharp beak of a nose, thin lips, and cheeks dotted with red blotches. Around her neck hung a silver crucifix. I had expected a much bigger woman. I suppose, to be fair, I was not what she was expecting, either. She fixed her little brown eyes on me.

“You’re a tall one, aren’t you?” she said by way of greeting. Her voice was surprisingly strong given her frail appearance. “My James is tall like you,” she went on. “Theresa now, she took after me. Our Theresa’s the runt of the family.”

“Ma, this is Eileen O’Neill,” said Theresa, ignoring her mother’s remarks. “Sit down, Eileen. Make yourself comfortable.”

I looked around the parlor. I didn’t see how anybody could be comfortable in this room with its stiff furnishings, not to mention the pictures and statues of Jesus, his Mother, and the pope staring out at you. I chose a small red armchair beside the fireplace.

“Oh no, not there!” Mrs. Conlon blurted out.

I jumped and Theresa giggled. “I forgot to warn you,” she said. “That’s James’s chair. You know, the prince has to have his throne.”

“But I thought he was away,” I said, confused.

Theresa sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. “Sit here,” she said.

I handed the tin of biscuits Mrs. Mullen had sent to Mrs. Conlon and sat down beside Theresa. I looked around the room again, trying to avoid Mrs. Conlon’s glare. The odor of wax on the floors and furniture nearly choked me, and I smelled bleach off the curtains and the tablecloth. A fluffy gray cat sat on an outside windowsill and meowed. I supposed the oul’ bat wouldn’t even let the cat in for fear it would dirty the place. I wondered that she had not told me to take off my shoes.

“Do you have the tea made, Ma?” said Theresa, kicking out her legs and sighing. “We’re famished with the hunger.”

Mrs. Conlon turned her eyes up toward heaven. “Och, why don’t you make the tea, Theresa? My legs are killing me. I was on my hands and knees all day.”

Theresa winked at me. “She says the rosary. For penance, you know.”

Mrs. Conlon bristled. “Somebody has to pray for the sinners of this world.”

Theresa hauled herself up off the sofa and went into the scullery, dragging her club foot behind her. Mrs. Conlon made herself comfortable in the armchair that sat on the other side of the fireplace from James’s chair. “So you’re up at that oul’ mill, too? It will probably kill youse, like it did her da.” She sniffed. “Of course, there’s them that’s lucky enough to get married and out of there that might survive, but I wouldn’t put you among them. Her neither—” She nodded toward the scullery, where Theresa was banging around cups and pots. “The deformity, you know.” She paused and sighed. “Och, well, we all have our cross to bear.”

“But why did you send her to the mill, then?” I blurted out, astonished.

“She can earn more there than working as a shop assistant. And we need the money for James’s fees. What our Fergus earns is not enough. It’s a sacrifice worth making to have the great blessing of a priest in the family.” She stared heavenward again and crossed herself.

As long as you’re not the one making the sacrifice, you oul’ bitch, I thought.

Theresa came in from the kitchen carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. Her mother looked at what she had set out and sniffed. “I was saving that ham for tomorrow,” she said.

“Eileen plays the fiddle at the Ceili House in Newry,” Theresa said. “She knows our Fergus.”

Mrs. Conlon blessed herself again. “That den of devils!” she shouted. “That’s where our Fergus went astray. Lord save us from the drink. There was never a drop of it in this house. And, praise the Sheridan family, not a drop of it in this village.”

Theresa rolled her eyes, and I thought that her poor da could have done with a drop now and then to put up with this old harridan.

“I’ll say a novena for you,” Mrs. Conlon added, “that you may be spared a life of the drink.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or hit her.

“O’Neill?” she said, settling in for the inquisition. “Are you a relation to that Tom O’Neill as was shot?”

“Ma!” cried Theresa.

“He was my father,” was all I said.

There was silence as we chewed on the ham sandwiches and drank the tea. I noticed some of the spirit had oozed out of Theresa.

“Is your son long at the seminary?” I said, trying to steer the conversation.

Mrs. Conlon brightened, and the red spots on her face glowed like stigmata. “Two years this September,” she said. “He’s eighteen now. He has years yet to go.”

“If he stays,” muttered Theresa.

Mrs. Conlon shot up in her chair. “And why wouldn’t he?”

Theresa shrugged. “Maybe he’ll join the army,” she said sourly. “The English are talking about a war coming soon. And then there’s the unrest that’s happening around Ireland. Maybe he’ll leave and fight for the Revolution!”

Mrs. Conlon rose to the bait. Her face turned scarlet, and she clutched her crucifix.

“He’ll be a soldier of Christ,” she said shrilly. “That’s what he was born to do. And mind your manners, miss.”

“Would you like more tea?” said Theresa, holding out the pot to me.

I saw my chance and stood up. “No, thanks, I should be going.” I nodded toward Mrs. Conlon. “It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the tea.” God forgive me, I thought, for the lies I’m telling.

Mrs. Conlon did not get up. “Well, Theresa’s never had many friends,” she said. “I’m glad to see she’s finally made one.”

Theresa pushed me out the door. She stormed down the pavement, dragging her leg behind her. “No friends my arse,” she muttered. “She drove them all away, that’s why. Sanctimonious old bitch.” She looked back at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”

I shook my head. “No bother,” I said. “I’ve met worse.”

Theresa giggled. “Well, if there’s worse, I’d like to meet them.”

We both laughed. She waited for me to catch up, and she linked her arm in mine.