Patricia Falvey (35 page)

“There are a lot of things wrong in our world, Eileen,” he said mildly.

I wanted to spit. “Stop the blarney right now!” I shouted.

People began to stare, but I ignored them. “You stole the Yellow House right out from under me. You stole it, even though you knew it was the only thing in the world I ever wanted. You took advantage of me and the situation. You…”

He stood up and took my arm firmly. “Let’s walk a distance,” he said. It was a command, not a suggestion. He led me away from the crowd of curious workers to a small park on the far grounds of the mill. He stopped and faced me.

“I did not steal it,” he said firmly. “I paid your brother a fair price.”

“Frank would never give anybody a fair price,” I snorted. “But I suppose you would have paid anything to get back the family honor, and, and to spite me!” I finished lamely. I realized as I listened to myself that I sounded hysterical.

His voice was curt. “And just why would I want to spite you? Didn’t I give you back your job?”

“Aye. And you made sure I had to grovel to the likes of Shields and Mary Galway. I suppose it amused you to think of me on my knees in front of them.”

He did not crack a smile. “I doubt that anyone would ever have the pleasure of seeing that.”

I broke down then. My accusations made no sense. They were petty and childish. But the pain was so great that it finally ruptured and tears flowed unbidden.

“But why?” I wailed. “Why did you do it? You knew how much I wanted it.”

Suddenly his hand was on the small of my back. The old warm, safe feelings as before radiated through me. I did nothing to resist.

“Let’s go over here and sit down.”

He led me to a bench that stood on the edge of the park. I slumped down, and he sat next to me. He turned to look at me. His face was somber.

“I’m sorry to have caused you such pain, Eileen,” he said. “I had no idea the house meant so much to you.”

“But I tried to tell you,” I said through my tears.

He nodded. “Yes, you did. But it did not register with me. After all, you said it belonged to your brother and that you had no money to purchase it from him. I’m sorry, but I did not realize how deeply you felt about it.” He sighed and turned away, watching a robin frolicking on a tree branch.

“Mr. Craig approached me at the beginning of the year. He had been asked by your brother to find a buyer for the place. But, as you suspect, your brother was asking much too high a price, and buyers were scarce. Anyway, I had been thinking I wanted to buy a home for my wife and me, so that when she returned from England we would not be living at Queensbrook House with my family. I thought if we had a place of our own, well…” His voice trailed off. He turned back to me.

“So I bought the house—at an inflated price. Your brother seemed delighted to sell to me, some sort of inside joke that I did not understand. I began at once to restore it, and then I went to England to see Joanna.”

He stopped abruptly. I waited. Then curiosity got the better of me.

“And?” I prompted.

“And, I brought her back here.” He looked into the distance as if imagining a faraway scene. “I took her up Slieve Gullion. It was a beautiful day, and I thought she would love the view. But she complained about ruining her shoes.” He looked at me with a rueful smile. “Anyway, I pointed out the house to her and she did not have much response. Then we came down and I took her closer to it. I pointed out all the renovations. I told her how I imagined the two of us living in it with our children—” He broke off.

For once I said nothing.

“Anyway,” he continued at last, “she said she had already begun divorce proceedings. Nothing I could say would persuade her to change her mind.” He looked straight into my face, his eyes sad. “So you see, Eileen, like you I had a dream that if I bought the Yellow House, my wife would come back to me and we would live there and raise a family and be happy ever after.”

I pushed back a wave of pity that welled up in me. “You weren’t meant to have it,” I said quietly. “It belongs to the O’Neills.”

He was silent for a minute. “Perhaps so,” he said at last. “And I would gladly sell it back to your brother. But he would just turn around and sell it again.”

“What will you do with it, then?” I said. “Will you live in it?”

He sighed. “I doubt it,” he said. “Not now, at any rate. Perhaps in time.”

He stood up and put on his cap. He gave me a little nod of his head.

“I’m sorry for your troubles, Eileen,” he said, turned, and walked away from me. His limp was worse than before.

“I’m sorry for yours, too,” I whispered after him.

LATER THAT SAME
month, Michael Collins and the Irish Republican Army signed a truce with the British government. It was the first step toward a treaty that would eventually give the South of Ireland its freedom from British rule. I, too, signed a truce that month: a truce with Owen Sheridan. In that moment when he looked at me with such sorrow in his eyes, I realized that the rich and privileged people can have their dreams shattered, too. We were not so different after all. As I look back now, I realize that moment caused a pinprick of light to shine on my soul, a light that would gradually illuminate a new understanding of myself and the world around me—an understanding that was shaped not by legacy or history, but by a knowledge of myself.

Passion

P
assion flames like a bright candle, but all the while it is melting into tears of wax. You want it to burn forever, but you know in your heart it will consume itself in the end. The wick will turn black and charred, and the wax tears will cleave into a cold, formless mass. The light and warmth and scent will dissolve into a wisp of smoke and you will descend into emptiness.

Besides betraying me, James had deserted me. He had not been near the house since the day he stole my money. I supposed he might be afraid I would try to kill him for stealing my savings—and he was right. My anger still boiled inside me, and I yearned for another chance to confront him. His desertion had only added insult to injury: the fact that he had chosen the Cause over me. There were times I wished James had died in the fighting. At least I could have held my head up as a proud widow. But as it was, I may as well have been a widow for all the company I had in my bed at night, and there was no pride to be had in that.

My anxiety had made its way into Aoife. The poor child cried every night and had to be coaxed and rocked to sleep. One August night in 1921, about a month after the truce had been signed, when I finally kissed her and left her in her bed, I went into my bedroom and sat in front of the mirror. My face looked thin and yellow in the low lamplight; the face of an old woman stared out at me. I winced and put up my hands and began unbraiding my hair. I picked up my brush and smoothed the hair with long, quiet strokes. Brushing my hair like this always calmed me down. I hummed the same tune to myself that I had just been singing to Aoife. The quiet was interrupted by an almighty bang on the back door. I froze. Who could that be at this time of night? The B-Specials again? UVF fellows bent on doing me and the child harm? I stood up and gathered my long nightdress around me and went down the stairs. The banging came again.

“Eileen!”

James’s voice was unmistakable. I hurried over to the back door but hesitated, frozen between alarm and anger.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” James cried.

Hurriedly, I released the locks and the bar.

“What took you so long?” James growled as he pushed his way past me and into the kitchen. I closed the door and followed him in. He stood rubbing his hands in front of the dying fire. Jesus, I thought, if I did not know his voice, I would not know who he was at all. His hair was down to his shoulders, and a scruffy black beard covered his face. He wore a dirty, torn soldier’s uniform and heavy black boots with no laces.

“Will you stop gawking and make me some tea,” he barked. “I’m famished with the hunger.”

I did not move. I stood, trying to get my bearings. How I had waited for this moment of confrontation—but now that it was here, I was unable to move any more than if I had been turned to stone. James’s eyes burned into me.

“I said to get me some tea, woman!” he shouted.

Still I did not move. We stared each other down like bulls in a field. Then James grabbed my arm and shoved me aside. He strode to the hob and lit the gas under the teapot. He rummaged in the cupboards, pulling out crockery and banging it down on the table. He reached for a loaf of bread and turned in circles, looking for a knife. When he found the big bread knife, I instinctively jumped back toward the door. Furiously, he swung the knife at the loaf, slicing it into jagged wedges. He spread butter in thick chunks on the bread, poured scalding hot black tea into a mug, and sat down to eat. I watched him as he gulped everything down. Jesus, he looked like the Antichrist, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

“What are you feckin’ looking at?” he growled. “You’d think you’d never seen your husband before.”

I bit back a sharp reply. Something in me put me on my guard. What if he had come to pay me back what he had stolen? A faint wisp of hope sputtered deep down within me. Be cautious, Eileen, I thought. Watch your mouth.

“Terrence tells me things are worse than ever,” I said quietly, “a lot more dangerous than before.”

He put down his bread and bared his teeth at me in an ugly smile.

“And you are concerned about my welfare, I suppose?” It was said with a cackle more than a laugh.

“What do you mean?” I said, hanging on to my temper like a sail in a windstorm.

He leaned over and grabbed my wrist hard. “What do I mean?” he roared. “I mean you’ve hardly time to be thinking about me or anybody else while you’re gallivanting around with the British Army!”

Ah, so that was it. I should have known that’s why he came. He had not come to say he was sorry for leaving me and the baby destitute. And God knows he had not come to pay me back my money. He had come to vent his anger on me.

“I… ,” I began, even though I knew there was no point.

“There’s no point in denying it.” He said the words for me. “You’ve been seen with him. And his car has been seen outside this house late at night.”

“And what feckin’ business is it of yours?”

James banged his fist on the table. “I came here to tell you to stay away from him.”

Something snapped in me. The disappointment of my foolish, dashed hopes passed. Now anger rent my cautious guard and spilled out. Eileen O’Neill, warrior, was back. I walked over and planted myself in front of him.

“And who the feck are you to be telling me what to do?” I cried. “You who left your wife and child to starve. You who stole all the money I had in the world, money I had worked my fingers to the bone for from the time I was fifteen. How dare you waltz in here and try to give me orders?”

He jumped to his feet. His face had gone white. He looked like the devil.

“You’re still my feckin’ wife!” he shouted.

“You don’t own me, James Conlon,” I cried.

He reached up and slapped my cheek. The shock of it stung me into silence. James had never slapped me before. No matter how much we had fought, he had never laid a hand on me.

“You’ll not disgrace me by informing,” he yelled, “or God help me, it’s more than a slap I’ll be giving you.”

I reached out and pushed him. I was blind with tears and fury. I wanted him out of my house. He shoved me back, pinning my arms behind my back. I spat in his face. “I’m no bloody informer,” I cried, “and well you know it!”

It was then the old passion roared back. I felt its fire rushing through me, burning my insides. It struck James at the same time. He let go of my hands and grabbed my hair, forcing my head back. Then he brought his mouth down on mine in a fierce and brutal kiss. But I would not give in. I tried to fight him off. I bit back on his lips. I pounded at him with my fists, but his weight threatened to overpower me. It was Aoife’s sudden loud cries that gave me the strength I needed. I tore myself away from James and grabbed the knife that still lay on the table.