Patricia Falvey (40 page)

ON MONDAY MORNING
, I stood at my spinning frame whipping the trestle back and forth like a demented woman. Shields came past a few times and paused to watch me.

“The place isn’t on fire, you know,” he said. “You can slow it down a bit before you break the machine altogether.”

“Never known you to worry about a body working too fast,” I snapped.

He shrugged and went away about his business. Theresa eyed me from the other end of the room but said nothing. I was caught in the chaos of my own thoughts. I had slept poorly after Frank left. Aoife had fretted as if she knew something was wrong. She’d sweated and tossed and whimpered in her sleep. By dawn, all sleep driven from me, I’d gone down and made tea and waited until it was time to take Paddy to the tram. I realized that the news about Lizzie had been buried under the commotion of the last two days. It was hard to think about her without thinking about Owen, and I did not want to think about him at all. I didn’t even dare look over my shoulder in case he was in Shields’s office. What in the name of God would I say to him? How could I look at him without the whole world knowing what had gone on? I had to take hold of myself, I realized, or I would go stone mad.

At lunchtime, I went to sit on the wall outside the mill. It was freezing, and I sat there shivering, but I had to get some air. He must have been waiting for me. He approached wearing a greatcoat over his uniform. At least he’s not freezing his arse off, I thought. He sat beside me.

“Hello, Eileen,” he said.

I nodded.

“Are you all right?”

“And why wouldn’t I be?” I said sharply. I could feel the flush warming my cheeks despite the cold.

“I miss you,” he said simply.

I sat up straight. “Look,” I blurted out, “the other night was a mistake! I wasn’t in my right mind, what with Lizzie and all. So don’t think I’ll be making a habit of it. I’m a respectable woman, and I’ll not be… be seduced again by your sweet talk or anybody else’s. So just leave me alone before people start to talk more than they already are!” My words punctured the frigid air. Small wisps of cloud from my hot breath floated in front of his face.

He watched me in silence for a moment. “It wasn’t a mistake,” he said.

“It was!” I shouted.

“I don’t believe you, Eileen,” he said. “How can you say this? How can you say that what we had was not real, and passionate—and loving? You don’t believe it was wrong any more than I do.”

I looked around to see if anyone was listening. My whole body trembled.

“Did someone threaten you?” Owen’s voice cut in sharply.

I swung back to face him. “No,” I cried again.

He looked at me. His eyes were clear and gentle, and I saw an understanding and a pity in them that angered me.

“And I’m not needing your pity, either,” I snapped. I took a deep breath. “Please,” I said softly, “give me what’s left of my pride.”

He nodded. “I love you, Eileen,” he said, “but I don’t want to make things hard for you. I have heard some of the rumors. The mill workers are judging you harshly, I’ve heard, but no harsher than my own family and friends are judging me. If it was up to me, I would have us both ignore them, but I realize it is not that easy.” He paused and let out a long sigh. “Do you love me, Eileen?”

His eyes riveted mine. I began to sweat. How could I answer him? Of course I loved him. But how could I tell him that and then ask him to leave me alone? I took a deep breath.

“No, Owen. It was a mistake, as I said. I was just in need of some comfort.”

I could hardly stand the look of pain that passed over his face. I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him that I was lying and that I loved him more than life itself. But how could I? I was a married woman and a Catholic. And he was a Quaker and the son of the mill owner. I could not encourage this anymore. And so I said nothing.

“Forgive me, then. I misunderstood. ”

He stood up. His voice and manner became more formal. He was the polite but distant soldier once again.

“I would still like to do what I can to help locate Lizzie.”

“Thank you. But it’s best if I do it myself.”

“I understand. Good-bye now.”

He left. I knew I had hurt him. But sure hadn’t I hurt myself more? As I watched him go, tears stung at my eyes. I rubbed them with my sleeve. Bloody love! All it ever caused was heartbreak. I was as well off without it, even if I had to cut it out of my heart the way a butcher cuts meat.

THAT EVENING, TERRENCE
came to the house. Billy was already there, playing with Aoife. I was glad of the distraction. For a while, I could ignore the pain in my heart that had been there all day since I saw Owen. I tried to focus on the good things.

“Isn’t it wonderful news about Lizzie?” I said.

The excitement I had wanted to feel began to build inside me. I was giddy.

Terrence nodded slowly. “Aye, Eileen. God works in unexpected ways.”

“We’ll find her, won’t we? You must have connections in Belfast?”

“I do. We’ll leave no stone unturned. Trust me! I want it as much as you do. I want your mother to see her in the flesh.”

I wondered again about the other evening when Ma had been all dressed up and waiting for Terrence. But this did not seem the right time to ask.

I leaned back and sighed. “Isn’t it grand, Terrence? I always knew one day we could all be back together. Now wouldn’t that be the real miracle?” I knew I sounded like a silly sod, but I couldn’t help myself. “Now if only we could get the Yellow House back, we could bring Ma and Paddy, and me and Lizzie, and maybe even Frank…”

The words trailed off.

“So you still have the same old dream,” Terrence said gently. “It’s a lovely idea, but not very practical now, is it?”

“Not everything has to be practical,” I said. “And you of all people should be a believer in miracles. After all, you’re still hoping Ma will get better.”

Terrence rubbed his hands together. They were square and brown, not at all like Owen’s. God forgive me, I thought. I have to get that man out of my mind.

“I told you I will be delighted to search for Lizzie,” Terrence said. “She may not remember much about you, but she’s your sister, and she should know your family.”

“Aye,” I said, “such as it is.”

For the first time, I had a pang of doubt. Would Lizzie really want to know our family? What was she like, anyway? She’d be almost twenty by now. What if she was reared in style by well-to-do people? Would she want to know that our da was a dreamer who almost forced us into poverty? Would she want to know that her ma was astray in the head, and her sister was an adulteress, and her brother Frank… well, God only knew what was in Frank’s heart. Holy Mother of God, would I be opening a hornet’s nest best left untouched? I think Terrence was reading my mind.

“Don’t worry, Eileen. I am sure she will want to know the truth anyway. And then if she wants to meet you, it will be her decision.”

“But, the Yellow House… ,” I began.

“That’s your dream, Eileen, not hers,” Terrence said quietly.

FOR THE NEXT WEEKS
, I kept my head down. I said little to anybody. My production at the mill broke all records.

Theresa came over to me. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Eileen,” she said, “but the devil himself must be driving you. You’ll slow down if you know what’s good for you. The workers are starting to talk. You’re making them look bad.”

“I don’t give a feck about them,” I snapped. “It’s a sad day for them if they can’t keep up with me!”

“Watch yourself,” she said. “They haven’t forgotten the other business.”

She was right. Ever since Fagan and his cronies had tried to stop us from coming in for our shifts that morning, they had gone out of their way to aggravate me. Little things, like cracks in the spindle or damp, tangled flax on my bobbin in the mornings. I knew it was them. But what was I to do? I ignored them and went on about my business. Eventually, they eased off, but I smelled their resentment every time I walked past. The truth was that I was not on a tear to make money or show anybody up. Cranking up my machine to the breaking point was the only way I could make it through the day. My nerves were shattered, and I could not relax enough to look sideways.

There had been little sign of Owen. A couple of times he nodded from the other end of the floor, but I showed him no encouragement, and he went about his business. My heart broke at the sight of him. I told myself he didn’t matter—he was a mistake born of my weakness. But on the long, lonely nights when I lay in bed, sweating and tossing, images of his sweet face calling to me, I realized the truth that I was in love with the man. An odd thing, love. No one ever teaches you how to recognize it. I supposed I must have been in love with James. After all, I liked him well enough to marry him. It must be love, surely. It was no different from the way the mill girls prattled on about their boyfriends. No different from how Theresa felt about Tommy McParland. It was a matter of choosing someone—the best of the available men—and marrying them before you were written off altogether as an old maid. Is that how it was with James? I liked to think there was something more than taking myself off the shelf before it was too late. I found a kindred spirit in James, restless, yearning. It matched my own feelings. Surely, then, this must be love? But Owen. Owen was not restless. Instead he was a lovely, safe harbor into which I could sail and pull anchor, a harbor where I could find shelter from the storms that battered my life. And more than that, a man who knew me to my core, no matter that we had exchanged few words. When I came to Owen, I knew instinctively I had come home—a home more secure than even the Yellow House. A home that was eternal.

I pushed aside such thoughts and kept working. I had no news from Terrence or P.J. yet on Lizzie. I was mad to find her. I pestered them every time I saw them. I had not seen James since the night I threatened him with the bread knife. The newspapers still carried stories: IRA GUNMEN IN A PITCHED BATTLE WITH ULSTER FORCES OUTSIDE NEWRY. I waited for news. I wondered how long he could survive. Once in a while, there would be a quote from Captain Owen Sheridan. Would Owen and James ever confront each other? I wondered. The question troubled me so much, I put it out of my mind.

THE CHRISTMAS SEASON
came, but there was little joy in it for Ulster Catholics. In December 1921, Michael Collins signed the treaty that amputated part of Ulster from the rest of Ireland. We were stunned. Even though all the signs had been there, we had refused to believe it would happen. And now the ultimate betrayal had taken place. We had been left to the mercy of the Unionists. They had yet to redraw the border that would eventually redefine Ulster, which left us in a sad and uncertain limbo. Our dream of freedom for Ulster was over, and our future could not yet be imagined. The country was plunged into a civil war, with pro- and antitreaty forces fighting each other. Men who had fought together were now bent on killing one another. There was a tinge of sadness when you looked at the Christmas candles that glowed in cottage windows. “We need to keep it up for the children,” people said, but their hearts were not in it.