Patricia Falvey (36 page)

“Get out!” I cried. “Get out now and don’t ever come back.”

James stared at me in astonishment. “This is my fecking house!” he roared. “You can’t keep me out of it!”

“It’s not yours anymore,” I shouted, moving closer to him, the knife shaking in my hand. “It’s mine. I’m the one still slaving up at the mill. I’m the one paying the rent on it. You have no right here. Now get out, or so help me I’ll swing for you.”

I lunged at him. Aoife’s cries were deafening now. James stared at me, his eyes wary. He put out his hands.

“Now, Eileen,” he began, as if trying to soothe a panicked animal.

I lunged forward again, and he backed up to the kitchen door. “Get out!” I cried.

Slowly, James reached behind him for the door handle, opened the door, and backed out. I advanced on him until he was well away from the house. I waited until he turned, leaped over the back wall, and was gone. Then I ran back inside and closed the door. I slid to the floor, my heart thumping in my chest.

DESPITE MY FEARS
, James did not come back to the house. For a time I jumped at every late night noise, and my anxiety continued to affect Aoife. We were both a bundle of nerves. I was glad I had stood up to him. I would do the same again. But still and all, I knew he was not a man to take rejection easily. He would have seen it as insubordination. He would have shot one of his followers for less. I knew I had not seen the last of him.

Meanwhile, the truce continued to inflame the Republicans in Ulster. In the negotiations with the British government that followed the truce, Collins was the chief spokesman on behalf of the Irish. There was heavy pressure on him to recognize the two-parliament system that had been established the year before under the Government of Ireland Act. Would Collins be willing to compromise? Did he stand on the brink of betraying us? I thought of the night I had been mesmerized by Collins’s speech in Dundalk. After all his lovely words about Irish freedom, would he really sell out part of Ireland? I did not want to believe it. But I had seen so many betrayals already—husband against wife, brother against sister—that I thought anything could be possible.

Terrence brought me word of the meetings above the Ceili House. James was fit to be tied, he said, but he still had faith in Collins. My immediate reaction was that I was glad. Now it was his turn to be betrayed. James, who had abandoned his wife and child, who had given up all hope of a decent life, who had set himself up to be shot at any time of the day or night—how would he ever go on if his great hero let him down? While orders had come to stop the fighting, James and his men not only ignored them, but stepped up their attacks. Railway lines were blown up and troop trains were derailed. The newspapers were full of similar stories. Part of me felt a strong urge to get back into the action. I was as angry as the rest of them. And once again anger, my old friend, saved me from brooding on my own rapidly decaying dreams.

Fergus kept up his visits. I told him what I had done to James, and he feared what James might do to me.

“He’s not a fellow you cross, Eileen,” he said.

“I know. But I had good cause.”

“You did, surely, but all the same…”

According to Terrence, Fergus had become James’s right-hand man and confidant. Some of James’s men had abandoned the fight, and it seemed that Fergus was the only man James trusted. I wondered, not for the first time, whether James
should
trust Fergus. Ever since the night Fergus had been lifted by the police in the room over the Ceili House, his behavior had become more and more strange. He was jumpy and secretive, and there was, God help me, a hint of evil in his eyes that made me shiver when I looked at him. Was he informing? I wondered. Not that I could have blamed him after the way James and his mother had treated him all these years. Still, I feared for him.

“Terrence says James thinks there’s an informer in the squad,” I said, trying to sound offhand. “He says the police often seem to know where they are almost before they know themselves.”

“Aye, but sure how do you prove it?”

“All the same, Fergus, it’s terrible things they do to informers when they do find them. I worry about my brother Frank; bastard that he is, I would not like to see him dumped on the side of the road with a placard round his neck.”

Fergus looked up at me, his eyes wary. “Aye, your brother needs to watch himself, so he does. He’s taking mighty chances working with both sides.”

“Aye,” I said, and got up to stoke the fire.

AUGUST GAVE WAY
to September, and October dawned, surprisingly bright and clear after the bleak summer. The good weather lifted people’s spirits. I had fallen into the pattern of volunteering at the hospital. I baked soda bread and cakes and brought them up to the fellows on the ward. Jesus, I was turning into a right Florence Nightingale. I laughed at myself, but still and all I had to admit Owen had been right. I had a new sense of pleasure I had not known before when I saw their shy smiles and heard their grateful, “Thanks, missus. It’s even better than me ma’s.”

I was careful at first to go to the blue medallions as well as the red, but after a while I forgot even to look. Those boys were all the same, except for a few rough blackguards. They had all been caught up in the excitement, and yes, the hate. I tried not to see myself in them, but at times it was like looking in a mirror. I suppose they had all seen themselves as warriors—and look where it had landed them. I thought of Owen’s letter from France. I recalled his words:
All I can be sure of now is that there is no glory in war.
Looking at these boys, I began in a small way to understand what he meant. And yet surely Ulster’s fight was different. How else were the Catholics ever going to get their equal due in their own land? Wasn’t the sacrifice worth that? And then I thought of Da, and I was ashamed of myself for my moments of doubt.

Sister Rafferty said she was delighted with the effect I was having on the young fellows.

“You’re a real tonic for them, Mrs. Conlon,” she said. “Mr. Sheridan was right to bring you. But then he would recognize a person of charity when he met one.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Sure Mr. Sheridan is a very giving man himself. The work that he does with those workhouse children…” She clasped her hands together, and her face lit up.

She saw my puzzled look and smiled. “Of course, he doesn’t make a big show of it. He would not have told you. But he has arranged for apprenticeships for many of the boys and girls. He’s even arranged for some of them to go to England for training at his own expense. He often looks in on them when he travels to England. And not a Christmas goes by that he doesn’t come loaded down with presents.”

Well, I thought, Owen Sheridan is a dark horse. Not for the first time, I realized I had jumped to too many conclusions as far as he was concerned. I was glad Sister Rafferty had told me. It put a new light on things and why making a difference always seemed so important to him.

I timed my Sunday visits so I could go and see Ma. I brought her flowers every time, but she no longer seemed interested in them. She turned her back and wouldn’t even watch me put them in water. Nellie Leonard, the nurse in Ma’s wing, eyed me with curiosity every time I went in. I knew she was looking over my shoulder for Owen, and I was glad to see her face fall when she realized he was not there. Occasionally, I ran into Terrence as I was leaving. Ma was not allowed more than one visitor at a time, so he would wait until I came down the stairs. Again, I was struck by how steady he had been in visiting Ma all these years. I don’t think a week ever went by without him going to see her. I was grateful to him for it, and for the fact that I could find comfort in talking to him about her. He was the only one who understood.

I had not seen Owen in two months. His visits to the mill had stopped. Word was that his father was in ill health and Owen was spending a lot of time with him in England. Theresa announced that she had it on great authority that his divorce was final. The news left me with an unsettled feeling, but I didn’t press her for details. I wondered if he would sell the Yellow House. Since he had been away so much, the talk about him and me had quieted down, and I was glad of it. I wanted to keep my head down and not draw attention to myself. Maybe he had heard the gossip himself and decided to put space between us. I told myself I didn’t miss his company, but then I lied well to myself. The truth was that I thought about him more than was good for me. Glimpses of him making tea in my kitchen, his eyes searching my face, all jumped in and out of my mind. The images came when I was at my spinning frame, or doing the washing, or lying in bed at night. The ones at night were the worst. They left me agitated, my entire body on a state of alert. It was a state neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The more I tried to distract myself, the more intense the images became. I was sure I was going mad.

As I smoothed the threads on the bobbins one morning in October, another image came to me and I lost hold of the yarn. Flushing, I turned around to see if anyone had noticed. And there he was, standing behind me still as a statue. How long he had been watching me I did not know.

“Will you spare a body the shock of creeping up on them like that?” I said, but I could not help smiling.

He smiled back. “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

I went back to my work. All heads turned to watch us, but if he was aware of it, he didn’t show it. Sweat streamed down my face. I stole a glance at his left hand. His wedding ring was gone.

“I have been asked if you would transfer to the Fever Hospital for the next couple of weekends. They need help sorting out and updating their records, and”—he paused and grinned—“it seems you have greatly impressed Sister Rafferty not only with your kindness, but with your intelligence.”

“You’ve no need to soft-soap me,” I said, “but my sister, Lizzie, died in that place when she was a child. I’d rather stay with the lads in the men’s ward.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’d forgotten that you told me that.” He looked at me with pity. “I’m sure Sister Rafferty will understand. But you know, Eileen, sometimes facing the past can be very healing.”

I fiddled with the threads on the spindles and said nothing. I felt eyes boring through the back of my head, and I wished fervently that he would go away.

“They are very much in need of the help, Eileen,” he went on. “It would only be for two days at the most, and I would take it as a great favor if you would reconsider.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, would he not give it up? Now he was trying to make me feel guilty. “I can accompany you there if it would make things easier,” he said.

“I know where the bloody place is,” I said sharply.

He nodded. “I just thought it might be helpful…”

“No,” I said firmly, “it’s best I go alone.”

“Very well.” He smiled again. “They will expect you this Saturday. Perhaps you can let me know when you are finished with the project.”

“Look, I agreed to go. That’s enough. If there’s any reporting to be done, I’ll talk to Sister Rafferty.”

He looked at me with the old teasing grin I remembered from years ago. “As you wish, Eileen,” he said. “Cheerio, then.”

He left. I glared around at the others and went back to my work, tugging so hard on the yarn that I broke the threads.