Patricia Falvey (16 page)

Theresa whirled in front of the stage in the arms of a young, fresh-faced fellow not much taller than herself. She waved at me and winked over his shoulder. I smiled back. Oul’ Mrs. Conlon’s glare followed Theresa, her mouth set in a prim line, while she fingered the silver cross at her throat. Mrs. Mullen had made the mistake of sitting beside her. She looked up at me and rolled her eyes. The Ulster Minstrels had the place hopping—people clapped their hands and tapped their feet and cheered us after every set. I had long ago overcome my shyness on the fiddle, and I was in great form. When the time came for a break, I was exhausted and covered in sweat. I climbed down from the stage and pushed my way through the crowd toward the door to get a breath of air. I stepped outside and bumped straight into Owen Sheridan.

“Miss O’Neill!” he said, as if surprised to see me. “Are you finished playing? I was hoping to hear more. You have developed into an accomplished musician.”

I shook my head. “Och no, sure we’re only taking a break. P.J. and the boys are back in there taking a little refreshment.”

“Punch, I assume?” he said with a laugh.

“Aye,” I said.

I shivered a little and wrapped my arms around myself. He took a cigarette out of a silver case for himself and then offered me one. I shook my head no. He snapped the case shut, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply. His movements were slow and graceful.

“You smoke, too, I see,” I said. “I wouldn’t take that for a Quaker habit, either.”

He laughed. “You have me again, Miss O’Neill. I’m the prodigal son. I assume you have no bad habits to speak of?”

“Oh, I take the odd stout once in a while,” I said, “and I can curse a blue streak. Besides that, I’m as close to a saint as you can get.”

I didn’t know what had come over me. I tried my best to sound relaxed, but the truth was I was shaking more with nerves than from the cold. “It’s time I went in,” I said.

He put a hand on my arm. “You’ve not had a chance to dance… ,” he began.

“I don’t dance,” I said quickly.

“Nonsense. All the Irish dance. It’s in their blood. Like poetry. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

I shook my head furiously. “I can’t,” I said. “I have to play.”

“Och now, we can do without you for one dance, love.” P.J.’s voice boomed out from behind me. I swung around and glared at him. He winked back at me.

The boys struck up a Viennese waltz as Owen Sheridan escorted me into the hall, his hand resting on the small of my back as it had done weeks before on Slieve Gullion. My face burned as he turned me around, placed my hand on his shoulder, and took my other hand in his. I thought of how I used to waltz with Da when I was a little girl, but the image faded as we moved to the music. Everyone in the hall was watching us. I knew what they were thinking—it was scandalous for one of the gentry to be dancing with the likes of me. But it didn’t seem to bother Owen Sheridan. He was the black sheep, after all. He smelled of clean soap and mild cologne. I felt the fine thread of his jacket through my fingers on his shoulder. Heat radiated on my back where his hand pressed lightly against it. My face was even with his, and I stared directly into his eyes. They were dark tonight, almost violet. As we spun to the music, I felt a grace I had never known before. Suddenly my hands and feet were not as big, my body not as taut. I was no longer primed for battle. I closed my eyes and flowed with the music to some distant place. I held my breath.

“So, you are still at the mill?” His voice cut through my trance.

My awkwardness returned and my guard went up. “And why wouldn’t I be?” I snapped.

He looked as if he were sorry he had spoken.

“Well, while Mr. Shields tells me you are happy being a doffer, I’m not sure I believe him. I took you for a more ambitious girl.”

I stopped dead in the middle of the dance. “That bloody bastard!” I cried. “He’s refused to move me up even though I’ve asked a dozen times.” I was glad of the anger. I was back on safe ground. “It’s because I interfered—about the splash boards.”

Owen Sheridan caught my hands again with a sudden strength and forced me to dance. I was aware of stares. “Surely not,” he said mildly.

“You don’t feckin’ know him,” I said, tightening my grip on his shoulder.

He nodded and smiled toward the other dancers, deflecting their stares. “I will speak to him,” he said.

“Oh, don’t do that,” I said, “you’ll only make things worse.”

He smiled. “Worse than being condemned to be a doffer all your life?”

The music ended, but he held on to my arm. “Shall we get some punch?”

“I should get back to the band.”

“They seem to be doing quite well without you. Shall we sit over here, near the door where it’s cooler?”

He led me to a chair and then went to fetch the punch. The mill women winked over at me and whispered among themselves. I tried to look unconcerned. Theresa brushed past me, her dance partner in tow, as they made for the door. “You’ll tell me everything next week,” she whispered.

He came back carrying two glasses of punch and sat beside me. He looked around the hall. “I shall miss all this,” he said.

I shot a look at him. “Why, where are you going?”

“I’m leaving for England after the holidays. I have accepted a commission in the army.”

“Why in the name of God would you be doing that?” I blurted out.

He smiled. “Because England will be at war soon. They will need good leaders.”

“But you’re a Quaker,” I insisted. “I thought Quakers don’t believe in fighting.”

He grinned. “Ah, you have me yet again, Miss O’Neill. But I believe in doing service for my country, even if it requires taking up arms.”

I swallowed some punch. Then the devil danced into my head. “Och, you’re probably just looking for a bit of excitement,” I said.

His eyes flashed. “You think me that shallow, Miss O’Neill? I am sorry I have given you cause for such a low opinion of me.” Annoyance filled his voice. So he had a temper after all! He wasn’t always the cool, calm, and collected fellow he made himself out to be. For reasons I did not understand, I was pleased.

He caught himself then. “I am joining up because I hope to make some difference in the world,” he went on more calmly. “God knows I’m not contributing much with my present way of living.” He looked at me and sipped some of the punch. “Or, as you say, maybe I am just looking for some excitement.”

He looked toward the head table where his parents sat. “I haven’t told my parents the news yet,” he said. “It’s going to be a difficult conversation. My mother in particular abhors violence.”

“Have you no wife to knock some sense into you?” I said.

He looked back at me. “No. I don’t.”

Jesus. I had gone too far again. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, “that was forward. This tongue of mine will be the death of me.”

He laid a hand on my arm. Again, I was aware of his slender fingers, so like my da’s. He smiled. “On the contrary, it’s refreshing to meet a woman who speaks her mind. Although I was rather hoping that you would simply say that you would miss me.”

I was pondering the notion of being called a woman when a shrill voice cut in.

“Oh, Mr. Sheridan, I have been looking for you. I’m going to take you up on that dance offer.” The shadow of Mary Galway rose above us, her buckteeth bared in a false smile.

Owen Sheridan stood up, and I stood with him. “Forgive me, I must go,” he said. “Thank you for the dance, Miss O’Neill, and Happy Christmas.” Then he leaned over and brushed his lips across my cheek.

I stood stunned. My cheek burned. I looked up and saw a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. Slowly I walked toward the stage, ignoring the smiling and winking mill women. It was only a Christmas kiss, I told myself. He’ll probably be pecking away at old Mary Galway’s cheek in a minute. No matter, I had no time for men or for their foolishness. I had my life all sorted out.

I reached the stage and gave P.J. a dirty look, as if everything were his fault. Then I took up my fiddle and began to play with ferocious energy.

War

O
n the fourth of August 1914, Britain declared war on Germany. As Ireland was under British rule at the time, that meant Ireland was at war as well. The newspapers were full of reports of Irish boys, Catholic and Protestant, joining up. There was no conscription, but for a variety of reasons they volunteered anyway. About fifteen thousand men of the Ulster Volunteer Force, the Protestant paramilitary organization, joined to show their allegiance to the mother country. Catholic nationalists who had been pushing for Home Rule for Ireland were committed to the war by their leader, John Redmond, on the grounds they should support Belgium, which had been invaded by Germany. He called Belgium a small Catholic country in bondage, just like Ireland. He said this move would help cement Home Rule for Ireland.

Some Catholic boys joined because the money was good. An unskilled worker could more than double his pay in the army. Others were simply after the adventure—to see what war was like and to feel like grown men. Theresa’s brother James turned out to be one of these.

“He’s left the seminary!” Theresa screeched one morning as we walked up the stairs of the mill.

“Who?” I said.

“James!” she cried. “He’s enlisted. Me ma’s destroyed with worry.”

I shrugged. I could not see that there was much to choose between the seminary and the army. One was as bad as the other. But I felt sorry for Theresa all the same.

“Och, he’ll be all right,” I said. “He probably just wanted to see a bit of the world.”

Theresa bit her lip. “Me ma’s on her knees praying morning, noon, and night,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m going to put up with it.”

“At least you can leave the mill now. You won’t be needing to pay any more school fees.”

Theresa looked horrified. “I’d rather go to work in hell than listen to Ma crying all day long.”

“Aye.”

AS TIME WENT
on, word came of other boys joining up. Tommy McParland, Theresa’s dance partner at the Spinners’ Ball, volunteered and they took him even though he was only five feet three inches in height. I supposed the government didn’t care as long as you could carry a gun. A number of other men around Queensbrook volunteered as well, even some who had the skilled jobs. I made inquiries about Frank. He was eighteen now and old enough to join up. I thought maybe he would jump at the chance to escape from the Fitzwilliam estate, and I would not have blamed him. But P.J. reported that he was still at the farm. I was relieved that he was safe but wondered what had kept him there.

“If conscription comes, he’ll have to face it, though,” P.J. said.

The war was good for the linen industry. Demand went up, and Shields and Mary Galway drove us like slaves to produce more. I was moved up to a spinner right after Christmas. You should have seen Shields’s face when he told me. He would rather have given the job to the devil than to me, but I knew he had no choice. I had opened my mouth again to Owen Sheridan, and Shields had been told to promote me. I shrugged. Feck him, I thought, I hardly needed the likes of him as my friend. The whole atmosphere on the floor changed, though. Because spinners worked on time and not by the piece, they had been used to a certain pace that let them slow down once in a while and enjoy the
craic
or celebrate the occasional birthday or engagement. Sometimes an operator would leave a few loose threads flying on the spinning frame while she enjoyed a break, and the management would not pass any remarks. Now, though, the minute Shields or Mary Galway saw this happening, one or the other would swoop down on her like a vulture. She was to tie the threads immediately and not be slowing production. Those two had eyes in the backs of their heads. Women were threatened with the sack if they gave any guff. There were plenty of women whose husbands were in the war that would be glad of their jobs, Shields would say.

The worst of it came when Mary Galway announced we would be fined if we were caught talking, singing, laughing, or even straightening our hair. Bloody nerve of them! If I wanted to live in silence, I would have joined the Carmelite nuns. The trouble was, we had never heard of unions. If we had, we would hardly have put up with the conditions as they were—working in that hot hellhole until the color drained from our cheeks and we caught our deaths from pneumonia. Now they wanted to take away what little comfort we had. What added insult to injury was that Mary Galway herself, being the only woman in management, refused to speak up for us.