Patricia Falvey (17 page)

I was fit to be tied when I told P.J. about the change the first evening.

“Are these fines even legal?” I shouted.

“No. But what can you do, darlin’?” he said. “Sure a strike is the only answer. But you’ve no organization, and you’ll not get one at that place—the Quakers are antiunion. You’d have to get them all to follow you out at the one time, or you’d be sacked as a troublemaker.”

“I’m already a troublemaker,” I said.

P.J. put more tobacco in his pipe and tamped it down, then lit it and inhaled slowly as he always did when turning things over in his head.

“Aye, but you don’t have Owen Sheridan around to protect you now he’s away in the army.”

I flared up at the comment. “I don’t need his or anybody else’s protection,” I said.

But I knew P.J. was right. Even though I had never admitted as much, there was always the thought in my mind that if I needed something at the mill, I could go to Owen Sheridan, and as long as it was a reasonable request, he would get it done. He was my weapon against Shields, who would sack me as soon as look at me. I wondered, not for the first time, how Owen Sheridan was faring in the war. Had he gone to the front yet? The sensation of his kiss on my cheek on Christmas Eve had long since cooled, folded away in a chest of sweet and childish memories. He had said he hoped I would miss him. The truth was I did. I had not seen him since the Spinners’ Ball, and his absence caused a new and unexpected void in me, tiny as a pinprick, which I filled with work and single-minded focus on my dream. I said a silent prayer for his safety.

“You’ve a fair bit saved now?” P.J. said.

I smiled and nodded. “Aye. I’ve a long way to go before I could think of buying any house, let alone the Yellow House. But I know one day I’ll be able to do it.”

P.J. said nothing. He knew by the question he had set my mind in motion. Was I willing to risk my dream to get justice for the mill girls? Wasn’t I better off keeping my head down and my mouth shut? The O’Neill warrior inside me wanted to strike out and lead the charge. But then I thought of Ma sitting in that old place surrounded by madwomen. I had made her a promise. And I had made a promise to Paddy. I couldn’t risk letting them down.

I sighed. “You’re right, P.J.”

He nodded. “You have to learn to pick your battles, girl.”

As I lay in bed that night, Da’s face appeared to me. “You’re a warrior, darlin’, a descendant of the great O’Neills.” I fought back tears.

“I’m not the warrior you wanted me to be, Da,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I’m letting you down.”

ON A SEPTEMBER
Sunday in 1914, about a month after war was declared, I strolled down Hill Street in Newry, holding Paddy by the hand. We had been to late mass at Newry Cathedral. It had become our habit to go together to the twelve o’clock mass. I craved this time alone with my brother, and he seemed willing enough to go with me each week. He was a quiet lad, so we never talked much, but it was lovely just the same to kneel beside him in the church and then take his hand in mine as we dandered along the street, stopping every so often to look in shop windows.

Old Father Dornan had given a long, boring sermon on our obligation to pray for the boys going to war, no matter what their religion, that they might come to no harm. He could have got it across in five minutes, but as was usual for him, he made a bloody big meal of it. The oul’ blatherer loved hearing himself talk. I was parched with the thirst from listening to him.

“Will we go and get a lemonade, Paddy?” I said.

He looked up at me, blue eyes suddenly bright, and nodded.

I reached up and took off my hat. Unlike Ma, I hated hats and wore one only to mass. Paddy pulled off his cap, too, and stuffed it in his pocket. I shook out my long braid and inhaled the soft, cool September breeze.

“Ah, freedom.” I laughed. “Shall we go?”

I grabbed for Paddy’s hand again and swung him around so that we could walk in the direction of the café. As I did so, I collided with a man in a British Army uniform. Startled, I jumped back.

“Please excuse me, sir,” I muttered. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Well, and if that isn’t the nicest apology I’ve ever had from you,” said a familiar voice. “In fact, I think it’s the
only
apology I’ve ever had from you.”

Owen Sheridan beamed at me from beneath an army lieutenant’s peaked cap. I swallowed hard, as if I’d had the wind knocked out of me. He was thinner than I remembered—not thinner, exactly, but more lean and taut. He stood erect, the sun glinting off the buttons of his jacket. I forced my eyes away from him and looked down at Paddy instead.

“This is my brother,” I said, “Paddy O’Neill. Paddy, this is Mr. Sheridan.”

“‘First Lieutenant Sheridan,’ if you please. I didn’t go through all that training not to get my full title.” He smiled as he spoke, the old teasing kind of smile I remembered.

I shrugged. “Lieutenants are nineteen to the dozen these days.”

Paddy tugged on my arm and gave me a wistful look. I remembered the lemonade.

“I, er, I just promised Paddy I would take him for a lemonade,” I said. An odd feeling had come over me. I wanted to get away from Owen Sheridan in order to collect myself, but at the same time I didn’t want to say good-bye. I had been thinking about him on and off for months, and now here he was big as life and me at a loss for words.

“Wonderful idea!” he said. “Please allow me to accompany you. It will be my treat.”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, he stepped to the outside of the pavement and linked his arm in mine, urging me forward.

“Morocco’s Café, I assume?” he said, nodding and smiling at passersby as if he were the cat who got the cream. I kept my head down as people turned around to look at us. I recognized many of them from the mill or as customers of the Ceili House. There would be quare gossip about this. The talk about his dance with me at the Spinners’ Ball had only just died down; now it would start up again. I held on so tightly to Paddy’s hand that he finally wrenched himself free and skipped on ahead.

“Fine-looking boy,” said Sheridan.

“Aye,” I said.

We wound our way through the crowds that filled the pavement. Many were families with a young man in army uniform in their midst. Young soldiers were everywhere, eager and ready for adventure.

Morocco’s Café was a popular meeting place in Newry. It had an exotic appeal with its gold-lettered signs, walls covered with paintings of faraway landscapes, and an owner of unknown origins. Mr. Morocco, if that was his real name, was dark-skinned and spoke little English. His Irish wife translated for him. She was not from Ulster, either. Their two daughters were as dark-skinned and mysterious as their father. When you entered the café, it was as if you were transported to an enchanted and slightly dangerous world.

Paddy raced in ahead of us and claimed a table and three chairs near the window. Owen Sheridan escorted me over to the table, his hand on the small of my back radiating warmth. When Paddy and I were settled, he went over to the counter to order. I watched him as he walked up and down, inspecting the pastries and breads set out on big wooden trays and pointing to the ice-cream bin in the far corner. He chatted easily with the owner, who smiled when he saw him and reached over to shake his hand. Funny, I never took him for one who would come to a place like this. I always imagined that he would be taking high tea in some posh hotel, but it was obvious that Mr. Morocco knew him. I set my hat on the windowsill behind me and unbuttoned my dark green jacket. I was glad it was Sunday and I had worn the best clothes I owned. I was not one for style like Theresa. If I was not wearing my mill apron, I wore my band uniform—except for Sundays. I don’t think up to then I could have told you what giddiness felt like, although I recognized it sometimes in the mill girls. But now the fluttering in my stomach and the racing of my seventeen-year-old heart confirmed that even I, Eileen O’Neill, was not immune to it.

Owen Sheridan returned with a tray loaded with food and drinks: lemonade, steaming tea, wedges of cake with pink icing, and three paper cones filled with ice cream. Paddy’s eyes widened and he clapped his hands. Dimples creased his cheeks. He stared at Sheridan in awe.

“Thanks, mister,” he said.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I corrected, grinning. “Jesus, you bought out the shop.”

Sheridan grinned back. “I was born with a very sweet tooth.”

We ate and drank. Between bites, I learned that he was home on leave before shipping out to France. He had two days before he left. Paddy, having overcome his shyness and stuffing in all the cake and ice cream he could manage, asked him a lot of questions about being a soldier. Sheridan answered politely, leaning back in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

“And have you ever killed anybody?” asked Paddy.

“Jesus, Paddy! That’s an awful question to be asking.”

“A fair one, just the same,” said Sheridan. His smile faded and he sat straight up in his chair. The earlier ease had gone, and now he was tense as a rabbit sensing a fox.

“I have never killed anyone, Paddy. But I do not doubt that I shall when I get into the war.”

“You don’t seem too keen on it,” I said, finishing off the last of my cake.

He stirred his tea in an absentminded way. “No, I’m not,” he murmured, “but it’s inevitable. I have wrestled with the thought for months.”

He looked at me and his eyes clouded. “I just hope to God I’m doing the right thing.”

The mood at the table had turned somber. Owen Sheridan became lost in his own thoughts. I was annoyed that things had taken such a turn. I didn’t want to talk about the war. I wanted to talk about lighter, happier things. This dark talk did not fit my mood. Paddy began to fidget. I pressed some coins into his hands.

“Go and pick out a cake to bring home to Mrs. Mullen for the tea,” I said. He jumped down off his chair and ran up to the counter.

“Damn it, I had to do something!” Sheridan’s sudden outburst startled me, and I sat up straight. “I couldn’t go on the way I was living—shallow, without any purpose. I had to find something I believed in. I had to find a way to give my life meaning, to make a difference.”

It was as if he were talking to himself.

“The mills give my father purpose, but I find no pleasure in them. They are horrible, sordid places.”

I wanted to pass a rude remark, but for once I curbed my sharp tongue.

“I’ve considered teaching,” he went on, “someday, perhaps, but not now. What life experience and wisdom do I have to pass on to young people? How to rebel against your parents?” He gave a snort and lit up a cigarette.

“How did your parents take your decision?” I said, not just for want of something to say. I was truly interested. This was a side of the man I had never suspected. Doubts? Search for a meaning? Even in my young mind, I felt in that moment we had much more in common than I would ever have thought.

“Well, Father was stoic as usual, but disappointed. And Mother cried for days. Not only because I’m going to the war and she fears for my life, but because I am committing the final rebellion against everything they stand for. They abhor violence. And here I am going off to kill men.” He sighed and took a long draw on his cigarette. He finally looked at me, as if just realizing I was there. “The irony is that this rebellion is different. I am not going against their values just to show them I can do it, as I did when I was younger. This rebellion is necessary to save my soul.”

I was so mesmerized, listening to him, that I jumped when Paddy came back and dropped a huge chocolate cake on the table.

“You didn’t eat your ice cream, Eileen,” he said.

“Oh, right,” I said absently, and brought the paper cone to my mouth. The ice cream had melted, and some of it ran down my chin. Paddy started laughing, and I blushed in confusion. Owen Sheridan reached into his pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief.

“Here, let me,” he said softly, and reached over and wiped my chin as if I were an infant. I sat motionless while he did it. Echoes of Ma’s soothing voice as she bathed a scratch on my small cheek drifted into my head. How long had it been since someone had taken care of me? I had forgotten what it was like. When he was finished, he folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. He stood up.

“Well, I must be going, Miss O’Neill. Big family farewell dinner tonight.” He winced. “Not that I shall have much of an appetite.”

“Not surprising,” I said, looking at the empty dishes on the table. I tried to make my voice jaunty in hopes of raising his spirits, the way I sometimes did with Ma or Da. I also wanted to shake off the memories that had just come over me.

Paddy ran out into the street. I lifted my hat from the windowsill and buttoned up my jacket. Sheridan studied my hands as they closed the buttons. I hoped he did not notice the mended buttonholes or the frayed cuffs. Suddenly he put out his hand and touched my sleeve.

“Would you do me the honor of writing me a letter now and then, Miss O’Neill?” He smiled. “I understand soldiers always welcome news from home. You can address the letters in care of Queensbrook House.”