Patricia Falvey (27 page)

I bathed James’s bruises and pulled thorns from his bare feet. I made him strong tea with a shot of whiskey and gave him a blanket. He sat by the fire and sipped his tea. He looked up at me with those misty gray eyes of his that always softened my heart.

“I’m sorry, Eileen,” he said. “I’ve given you a lot of trouble, I know. But it’s all for a better—”

“Stop,” I said before he finished. “I know what you’re going to say. But I don’t believe it, James. How can abandoning your wife and child be for the better? I don’t give a feck what you say about the cause of Irish independence. Your place is here with me and your daughter.”

James looked surprised at the mention of Aoife. It was as if he had forgotten she existed.

“How is she?” he whispered.

“A holy terror,” I replied. “Just like yourself. She’s been raising ructions since you left.”

I couldn’t resist a small smile. James smiled, too, and reached for my hand.

We made love that night—sweet and hungry and anxious. Later, as I lay in his arms, I found myself thinking back over my life. How had I ended up here? Here in this bed with this man of passion and moods, a man with his own demons? If I had been looking for security and safety, James Conlon was the worst choice I could have made. And yet something in his restless nature had called to me; I recognized my own self in him. And together we had created a restless, rebellious child. Tiredly, I turned away from him and fell into sleep.

James was awake before dawn. I got up with him and made tea. We sat at the wooden table in the small kitchen, a gray light creeping through the window.

“What now?” I said. “Shields gave away your job.”

“I know,” he said. “I can’t go back in any case. There is too much to do.”

“But, James,” I blurted out, “for God’s sake, what if we can’t win this way? Isn’t it enough we have made headway in the elections? Surely in time the political process—”

I stopped as soon as I realized I was repeating Owen Sheridan’s words. It was the first time I had expressed any doubt, and it surprised me as much as it did James. He grabbed my wrist.

“It’s not over, Eileen. Not until we have a united Ireland. Too many good lads have died for it.”

He took a swallow of his tea and went on more gently, “Do you want us and Mary Margaret to live the rest of our lives in a place where we are treated like dogs, where we have no rights at all, where we have no jobs and no say in the government? In a place where the Ulstermen march with their drums banging in our ears, and give their righteous speeches ridiculing our religion? Is that what you want?”

For once I ignored his use of the child’s other name. “No,” I said. “It isn’t. But for God’s sake, James, why do we have to be the ones to make all the sacrifice?”

He looked at me solemnly. “Somebody has to, Eileen.”

He got up and put on the clean clothes I had washed for him. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’ll try to get money to you when I can. Kiss the child for me.”

He kissed me lightly on the cheek, took up the packet of sandwiches I had made for him, and was gone. I sat for a long time staring after him, until Aoife’s wails finally stirred me.

I
saw James only once in a while after that. He came to the back door like a thief in the night, always looking like a cat dragged through a hedge backward. He was a far cry those days from the dandified James I had first met. I would clean him up and make him sandwiches. It occurred to me then that I had become just like the women I had complained about to Michael Collins: relegated to making sandwiches while the men fought. James brought money on occasion, and I never asked where he got it. It was well enough deserved, I thought, given the sacrifices we were making. But still and all, money was scarce, and without my job we would have been out on the street. I could no longer add to my savings account; in fact, I worried that one day I would have to draw it down. I kept to myself at the mill, avoiding Shields and keeping my mouth shut. The new fellow in James’s job did his best to get my goat, but I stared him down, and he finally gave up.

Word of the Troubles filled the newspapers. Killings on both sides were reported, and Belfast appeared to be in a state of near riot. It was no time to be Catholic in the North, and certainly no time to be an opinionated one. I prayed for James and cursed the Ulstermen.

I suppose I knew at some point they would come looking for him. One night in late August, an almighty rap on the front door made me jump straight up in bed. On cue, Aoife started bawling. I grabbed her from the cot and went downstairs, carrying her in my arms. Two uniformed men stood on the doorstep. B-Specials, the bastards, I thought as I recognized their uniforms. They had their rifles drawn, and one was pointed straight at me and the child.

“Is this the house of James Conlon?” barked one of them. “Is he here?”

“He’s not.”

“When was he last here?”

The one that was doing all the talking was a big, burly customer with a head on him the shape of a bullet, pointed on top.

“He’s not been here,” I said. I was defiant, and I knew it was not good for me.

He angled his rifle and pushed it against my neck. I felt the cold, raw steel against my skin. He pushed me backward, and I almost lost my balance.

“No lies, missus, or you’ll get what’s coming to you. You can go to jail or worse for harboring a criminal.”

“Youse are the criminals,” I spat.

A younger fellow stood beside him, laughing under his breath. “She’s got a mighty mouth on her, Georgie,” he said. “Maybe we should teach her a lesson.”

Aoife squirmed in my arms and bawled louder.

“Shut that child up,” said Bullet Head, pushing me farther back on the doorstep.

I opened my mouth to shout at him, but a voice from the shadows startled me into silence.

“Leave the woman and child alone, Campbell,” he said. “Back away now. And lower your rifles, the both of you.”

Owen Sheridan stepped into the light. He wore a British Army captain’s uniform, and his voice was soft as a kiss. They minded him, though, the two of them backing away, growling beneath their breath. He stared at me, shock evident on his face. So he was here by chance, I thought. He had no notion this was my house.

He took off his peaked cap. “I apologize for my men, Mrs., er…?”

“Conlon!” I snapped.

He knew rightly who I was, but I guessed he did not want the bullies to know that. He looked straight at me, his eyes bright in the lamplight.

“I will need to ask you a few questions about the whereabouts of your husband. May I come in?”

The question hung in the air.

“You can come into the kitchen,” I said at last, loud enough so the other two could hear me. “I have no need of the neighbors knowing all my business. But I won’t be offering you a chair.”

“Thank you,” he said, and turning to the others, “You two go to the end of the street and wait for me there. We do not want to be tarnishing Mrs. Conlon’s good name.”

He followed me into the house, and I turned on the gas lamp. I hoped he did not see that my hand was shaking. But he missed nothing. He laid his hand on my arm.

“I’m sorry, Eileen,” he said softly. “Those ruffians should be court-martialed for treating you and your baby that way.”

I shook off his arm. “It’s ‘Mrs. Conlon,’” I snapped, “and it would take more than the likes of them to put fear in me.”

He stepped back and bowed, formal again. I supposed he could see the way of things; after all, we’d left each other that Christmas Eve night with no love lost. It all seemed so long ago now. But the old resentment had risen back up inside me. Or was it hurt? I did not want to think about it. Instead I looked him up and down. The gold wedding band on his finger glinted in the light.

“Still in the army, I see,” I snapped. “I thought you gave it up after the war gave you that limp.”

It was a cruel thing to say. He looked down briefly at his leg.

“And promoted to captain as well,” I went on. “You must be a fine soldier after all.” Sarcasm filled my voice.

“It’s easy enough to gain promotions over the backs of dead soldiers,” he said, “it takes no talent at all.” He paused and looked directly at me. “I had indeed retired out,” he went on evenly, “but when I came home and saw what was happening in the streets of our own country… well, I couldn’t stand idly by.”

“Couldn’t stand by and watch the likes of yourselves torturing the rest of us, is that it?” I snapped. “Wanted to be part of the action?”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Conlon, I felt that these volunteers needed some army discipline. Otherwise who knows what atrocities they might commit.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” I retorted.

He nodded. “I do what I can,” he whispered.

Aoife stopped crying and eyed him with interest. He smiled at her and offered her his hat. She reached out and took it in her chubby hands.

“A fine child,” he said. “She took after her father, I see.”

There was an awkward silence. He looked around the kitchen. It was hard to read his face, but it softened as he took in the bright dishes on the shelves and the fire in the hearth. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. I waited. Aoife let out a cry of protest as I pulled his hat away from her just as she was about to suck on its brim. Her cry startled him. He took out his notebook and a pencil and got down to brass tacks.

“I need to ask you a few questions. Would you not be more comfortable sitting?”

“I’ll stand, thank you.”

There followed a string of questions about James and his doings. I suspected he knew a lot more about that than I did. As it was, I told him nothing of importance. I said I did not question James on his activities and he never discussed them with me. No, I had not seen James since he disappeared two months before. He knew, of course, that I was lying. He nodded and put away the notebook. I opened the front door to let him out, and he paused on the doorstep.

“You know, you could be in danger, Mrs. Conlon. The more we know, the more we can protect you. If there’s anything you want to tell me that might have slipped your mind—”

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” I interrupted.

“Well,” he continued, “should you have more to add, you can find me at the barracks most evenings.” He put on his hat. “Good night to you now. And lock the door.”

I slammed the door on his heels and turned out the light. I watched from behind the curtain. He stood for a moment looking up at my house. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and rubbed them as if he were cold, although it was a mild evening. Then he squared his shoulders and limped away on down the street and around the corner. I watched him until he was out of sight.

I went back into the kitchen, cradling Aoife in my arms. All sleep had been driven from me, but at least the child had drifted off. A strange confusion crept over me. I should hate that man, but I could not raise the feeling inside me. I should be frightened as well. He clearly knew more than he was letting on about James and me. Yet I felt safe knowing he was there. It made no sense to me. I sighed. This whole bloody business was driving me astray in the head. I thought maybe Ma was just as well to be where she was, wrapped up in her own private world. I looked down at Aoife, who was peaceful now, smiling in her sleep. They say babies see angels when they dream. I hoped they were good angels. Maybe they would drive away the bad ghosts.

AS JAMES HAD
predicted, trouble began to fester at the mill. Rumors spread like fire that the Protestants were going to picket at the gates to stop the Catholic workers from going in to work. The same thing had been happening up in Belfast at the shipyards and at other mills around the province. It was estimated that ten thousand Catholics had been put out of their jobs. The Sheridan family had never discriminated against Catholics in employing unskilled workers, so no one believed they’d sack us just because we were Catholic. But it was clear our Protestant co-workers were out to make our lives miserable for us.

The rumors came true of a Monday morning in October a couple of months after Owen Sheridan had come to my house. Myself and dozens of the other workers found our way barred by a line of picketers at the mill gate. It was only a dozen or so of them, but they were carrying signs and cursing at us as if we were animals. I hovered about with the rest of the women, not knowing what to do. Surely the police would come and break it up. But after fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of them. Some of the women fled away down the street, crying. My temper rose. How dare these bastards stand in our way?