Patricia Falvey (20 page)

AFTER THE DECISION
was made about Paddy, a loneliness I had not known before settled over me like a heavy shawl. I went on living with the Mullens. I went to work each day at the mill, but my legs and arms felt heavy as I tramped up the stairs. Suddenly I wondered, what was the point of it all? My dreams were being ripped into shreds. What was I killing myself for? Why didn’t I just give in and put my mind to finding a husband like all the rest of the mill girls? But the thought of myself got up in a fancy frock and high heels and wiggling my arse every time a man walked by was so ridiculous, I almost laughed. I’d be more suited to a nun’s habit than that, I thought. Wearily, I went about my work at the spinning frames, resigned to whatever life God had in mind for me.

As it turned out, what God had in mind was James Conlon.

a cognizant v5 original release september 16 2010

T
he first thing I noticed about James Conlon was that he was clean. He looked as if the grime of ordinary life had never touched him. His tanned face glowed with health, and his thick, brown wavy hair fell back in shiny ripples from his broad brow. Even the cotton bandage and sling that held his injured right arm was as snowy white as a priest’s robe.

He came home in late 1917 after taking a bullet in France. Theresa, giddy from the minute he arrived, pestered me until I came to visit.

He sat in the small red armchair beside the fireplace in the Conlons’ house, his long legs stretched out toward the hearth. On his lap sat the big gray cat that I had seen often before, but always outside on the windowsill. As he stroked it with his free hand, it purred loudly.

“James. This is my friend Eileen I was telling you about,” said Theresa.

He looked at me with clear gray eyes. It was a direct look that gave no hint of his opinion. I found it more unsettling than if he had leered at me. I pushed down a vague sense of anger.

“Eileen O’Neill,” I said evenly, returning his gaze.

He set down the cat and, resting his free hand on the arm of the chair, eased himself up. I thought how ridiculous it was for a man that tall to be folded into a wee chair like that. When he straightened up, he was a couple of inches taller than me. He was too big for the room, like a giant in a doll’s house.

“I’m very pleased to meet any friend of Theresa’s,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t shake hands.”

His voice was deep and musical, with the lilting cadence common in the speech of natives of South Armagh.

“No bother,” I said, looking at the sling.

“O’Neill,” he said. He grinned, showing a full mouth of white teeth. “A descendant of the great O’Neills, then.” It was a statement, not a question.

“So I’m told,” I said.

Theresa bustled out to the scullery and came back carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. I sat on the sofa and studied him as Theresa set a cup and plate on a small table beside him. He smiled up at his sister. He was a powerfully built man—and even though he was only twenty-one, a year older than me, he had the bearing of someone much older. His face was broad, with a firm jaw and full lips. His long nose had a wee bump in the middle of it. You would have thought the bump on the nose would interfere with his looks, but somehow it made him even more attractive. He was a handsome bugger—there were no two ways about it. I supposed the women must all be mad for him. He wore a crisp white cotton shirt and gray trousers with a crease so sharp, it could have cut butter. You could have seen yourself in the boots, they were polished so well. And yet he was as at ease as if he had been wearing a pair of old overalls.

Even old Mrs. Conlon was smiling. When she came in from the scullery and sat beside me on the sofa, she looked at James as if she were seeing the beatific vision.

“Isn’t he the grand chap, Eileen?” she said to me.

A bit of a smile played on his lips. “Aye, Ma, the grandest chap to desert the army,” he said.

Mrs. Conlon shot straight up. “Don’t be saying that,” she cried. “Sure weren’t you over there two years and took a bullet for them.” She looked at me. “They discharged him fair and square. Don’t be listening to his nonsense. He’s only codding you.”

James sipped his tea. “Well, let’s say then I couldn’t wait to get back to Queensbrook and go to work at the mill.” There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Again Mrs. Conlon turned on him. “But you’re going back to the seminary, lad. You’ll be taking up where you left off.”

James shook his head. “Now, Ma, you know I’m not. I was never cut out to be a priest.”

Mrs. Conlon raised her hands in exasperation. “Sure it’s that oul’ war has turned his head,” she said to me. “He’ll come around after he’s been home awhile.”

I almost felt sorry for her at that minute. It was clear to me James meant what he said.

“There’ll be plenty of work at the mill,” I said. “Many of the men have volunteered. You could get on there easy, I’m sure.”

It was the worst thing I could have said, I realized, after I saw the look of disgust on both their faces.

“I always thought I’d go to hell before I went there,” spat James. His eyes darkened as if a sudden squall had disturbed their calm. “That place killed my da.”

“Now, James… ,” began Mrs. Conlon.

“Don’t ‘now, James’ me, Ma,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “You know I’m right. And look at our Fergus—his hands are destroyed from the bleaches. It won’t be long before he’ll have to give up the mandolin.” He paused and said more quietly, “I suppose I may have to go for a while until I get myself sorted out. I have other plans, but they may take a while to organize.”

I was about to ask what other plans he had, but a glare from Theresa stopped me.

“James, why don’t you tell Eileen some of the great stories you were telling us,” said Theresa. “You know, about all the people you met. Or maybe about the ladies in Paris.” She turned to me. “James says they all have great style.”

We passed the rest of the evening pleasantly enough. James was a great storyteller. He reminded me a bit of Da the way he dressed things up for the sake of the story. He had a fine sense of humor, and by the end of the night, his eyes brightened and were calm again.

Theresa walked me as far as the tram stop.

“Didn’t I tell you he was lovely?” she said, grinning.

I nodded. “Aye, there’ll be quare
craic
at the mill when they see him coming,” I said, and I believed it.

Theresa shrugged. “Aye, well, he’s always had girls after him. It’s nothing new to him. But I think he liked you.”

She gazed up at me, her big eyes shining in the dusk. “I told him you played the fiddle, and he was very interested. He might come to hear you at the Ceili House.”

It was my turn to shrug. “The admission’s free,” I said.

As I rode home on the tram, I thought about James Conlon. He was not at all what I had expected—a spoiled, pious little mother’s boy. No, James Conlon could give me a run for my money. He could well have been an O’Neill. I recognized the warrior in him as surely as I knew it in myself. I had seen it in his eyes. There was a fire inside him just like the fire inside my beloved Slieve Gullion. An image of Owen Sheridan drifted before me. There was no sign of the warrior in him, I realized, even though he went into war. James Conlon, on the other hand, would kill without a second thought if it served his purpose. Unlike Owen Sheridan, James Conlon would never doubt his war. I knew him as well as I knew myself—James Conlon and I were two of a kind. I shivered slightly, as if someone had just walked over my grave. I would do well to steer clear of him, but even then I knew I was being drawn to him as surely as a moth to a flame.

AS I HAD
predicted, the women went wild when they caught sight of James Conlon. He showed up on the spinning room floor on a Monday morning in March 1918, and all work stopped. He was immaculate in a white cotton shirt, black trousers, and a black waistcoat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing strong brown forearms flecked with dark hairs. The sling was gone from his right arm. He nodded at me as he walked past but ignored the other women. I suspected he was enjoying the attention all the same. Cocky bastard, I thought.

“Hello, Eileen,” he said in his lilting voice.

I looked down at my bare feet, suddenly embarrassed by their nakedness. He followed my gaze. His smile dimmed. “I see conditions haven’t improved much since me da’s day,” he said. “Theresa told me about this, but you have to see it to believe it.”

I shrugged. “You get used to it,” I said.

He strolled to a machine at the far end of the room and set down his toolbox. He had been taken on as a mechanic—tenters, they called them—on account of he was good with his hands and had had some experience with it in the army. I thought to myself that they wouldn’t have given tuppence for his experience if there had been a Protestant fellow around. Skilled jobs like this never went to Catholics. But the war had changed things, and they took whoever they could get. Theresa beamed with pride as she watched him.

“That’s me brother,” she announced.

She had hardly a need to say it. They all knew full well who he was. Word had spread within a week of his coming back home. There wasn’t a woman for miles didn’t know he was Theresa Conlon’s handsome brother. Now they licked their lips and clucked like hens at laying time.

“Would you ever come over here and look at my frame, love, it’s running very stiff. Maybe you could liven it up for me?”

It was surprising how many machines suddenly broke down that March.

“
I NEVER SEE
your brother at the Ceili House,” I said to Theresa as casually as I could one day as we sat on the mill wall. My curiosity had got the better of me.

A shadow crossed her face. “I wish that’s where he was,” she murmured.

I knew right then something was wrong. “What d’you mean?”

Theresa sighed. “Well, it’s just that he’s been very secretive lately. He goes out every night and doesn’t come home till all hours.”

“Probably has a woman somewhere,” I said.

Theresa played with her sandwich. “I want to think that,” she began, “but if it was a woman, James would be boasting away about it. And anyway, women with him are nineteen to the dozen. He’s never satisfied with just one.”

“So what does he tell you?”

“Meetings,” said Theresa. “He says he’s been to meetings. And Ma’s climbing the walls. She thinks he’s involved with politics.”

“Politics?” I was more than curious now.

“Aye. You know there’s a lot of trouble down in the South. They want a free Ireland. The movement may be taking hold up here, too.”

“Och, so what if he goes to a few meetings,” I said, trying to reassure her, “what’s the harm in it?”

Theresa shoved her uneaten sandwich back in the bag and wiped the crumbs off her apron. “I don’t know. Me ma’s afraid he’ll do something stupid and get himself shot again. He hasn’t been the same since he came home from the war. He met up with some fellows over there from the South and they told him all about the troubles down there, and now it’s all he seems to talk about.” Theresa’s eyes were wide as she looked up at me.