The Linen Queen

by Patricia Falvey

  I stood now, shivering in the chill March air. The other women wore coats and mufflers and old boots, but I wasn’t going to be caught dead in a getup like that. Instead I wore my best coat, thin as it was, my bare legs freshly stained with tea, and high-heeled shoes. And, as usual, I had forgotten my gloves. I was freezing. I recognized many of the women from Queensbrook. The young ones chatted away, but the older ones looked dreary and defeated like my ma. We all carried empty canvas bags, hoping to fill them up with bread.

  “What passes for bread these days is a disgrace,” said one.

  “Aye, nothing but water in it. No good for the children.”

  “And still they make you queue up and beg for it like dogs.”

  The line moved slowly. Darkness fell, and the wind picked up. I wrapped my coat tighter around me. Just as I reached as far as Mulcahy’s the shutters came down on the windows and door. Mulcahy himself, an oul’ boy with a red face, came out to confront us.

  “Sorry, ladies. We’re closed. You may go home now. And come back on Monday.”

  Groans and curses erupted from the line. Some of the women turned and left, a look of resignation on their faces. Others pleaded and coaxed, but Mulcahy shook his head.

  “Go home now,” he said again. “The bread’s all gone. And I haven’t all night to be arguing. Why hello, Sheila, I didn’t see you in the crowd.”

  His voice turned sweet when he saw me. He grinned broadly, exposing yellowed teeth. “And how’s your mammy, love?”

  “She’s not well at all,” I lied. “She’ll be desperate when I arrive back with no bread for the tea.”

  I knew exactly what I was doing. Some of the women watched me with mouths open. Mulcahy came over and put a hairy arm around my waist.

  “Och, I’m sorry to hear that, love. Come with me now, sure I might be able to find a bun or two for your poor ma. Lovely woman, lovely woman.”

  I didn’t know which of us was the bigger hypocrite. We both knew Mulcahy wanted to get me in the shop so he could press himself up against me and blow his hot stale breath on my cheek. I shrugged. I could tell him to feck off, or I could go in and put up with him so I could get the bread and not have to listen to Ma complain. I tossed my head at the women who were gaping at me.

  “See youse Monday, girls,” I said. “Safe home.”

  “So I hear the Linen Queen competition is at Queensbrook this year,” Mulcahy said as he shoveled the bread into my bag. “A pretty girl like yourself should stand a grand chance of winning.”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t been picked yet,” I said.

  “Och you will, love,” Mulcahy said.

  I thought if I kept the conversation going I could keep him at his distance.

  “Besides,” I said, “even if I’m picked, I have no money for a frock, so there’s no point getting my hopes up.”

  It was the worst thing I could have said. Mulcahy laid down the half-full bag on the counter and pressed in close to me. “If it’s just a matter of a frock,” he whispered, “sure I’ll be glad to see you right on that, love. I’d be happy to do you the wee favor.”

  I felt his heavy breath in my ear and the weight of his thick body pressing against me. I swallowed down the bad taste that rose in my throat. Soon his lips moved across my cheek and found my mouth. I stood paralyzed while his tongue slobbered over mine. He pulled back. “I’d want nothing for the favor, except for you to be nice to me, love.”

  He pulled away and winked. “Now let’s fill up the rest of this bag.”

  He finished pushing in the bread and buns and scones and handed the bag back to me. “You just let me know when you need the money, love.”

  I backed out of the shop without answering him and hurried down Monaghan Street in the direction of the tram to Queens-brook. I let one tram go. I wasn’t ready yet to go home and face Ma. I sat down on a bench and leaned forward, my elbows on my knees and my palms on my cheeks. I thought over what Mulcahy had said. What if I was picked and needed money for the frock? Would I take his offer? The thought sickened me. But there again, how badly did I want to get out of this place? Shouldn’t I be willing to do anything? The thoughts gave me a sore head and I closed my eyes.

  It was well after seven in the evening when I stepped off the tram in Queensbrook. A cold, spitting rain hit me in the face like needles. My hands and feet were freezing. I opened the door quietly, hoping Ma was still in bed and that Kate and Kevin were out. But Ma was waiting for me in her armchair beside the fire.

  “It’s about time, miss,” she said.

  “I’ll put the bread in the scullery,” I said, ignoring her bad temper. “I got the last of it.”

  “We were all waiting for it for the tea,” Ma complained. “It’s probably stale by now.”

  “Well, we have some now,” I said wearily, “and don’t ask me what I had to do to get it.”

  Chapter 2

  The atmosphere at the mill on Monday morning was giddy. The spinners could talk of nothing but the Linen Queen competition.

  “I saw some lovely material in Foster’s on Hill Street. It would make a gorgeous dress,” Patsy said.

  “Well for you has the money to be dealing with Foster’s,” I said.

  “Sure I’ll take the price out of me winnings!”

  “But material is rationed.” Kathleen was always the cautious one. “After all, there’s a war on.”

  Patsy laughed. “Well, if we can’t get it here there’s nothing to stop us smuggling it up from the South.”

  “Except the customs men,” said Kathleen.

  Patsy laughed louder and grabbed her breasts. “Sure they’ll be too busy looking at these to bother about what’s in me bag!”

  Kathleen reddened. “You’re an awful case, Patsy, so you are.”

  The week dragged on as slow as a funeral march. My thoughts swung between tipsy hope and sober despair. I fought to reason with myself. If I wasn’t picked it would all be for the best. I wouldn’t have the worry about the frock and all the rest of it. And to be picked and not win would surely be worse than not to be picked at all. But a faraway voice would always cut in. What if I was picked? And what if I won? The possibility of it sent me into a state of fever just like the one I suffered when I first came to the mill. I was so weak I could hardly stand, and I wanted to vomit. I found myself praying for Mrs. McAteer to appear and put us all out of our misery.

  Our singing had reached a crescendo on Friday afternoon as we repeated the chorus of “The Boys from the County Armagh” for the third time when Miss Galway reached for her whistle. She wouldn’t even have needed to blow it—we all stood immediately at attention. But blow it she did and clapped her hands. We turned off our machines without bidding and crowded around her. Mrs. McAteer appeared, carrying a paper in her hand. You could have heard a mouse in the room it was so quiet.

  “Hello again, ladies,” she began. “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for all week.”

  Get on with it, I thought. I had no patience for any rigamarole and nor did anyone else.

  “Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.”

  She raised the paper in front of her and cleared her throat.

  “As I had mentioned last week, our plan was to choose three girls from the weaving shed and three from the spinning mill.” She paused. “Alas, we did not find any eligible girls in the weaving shed.”

  Patsy elbowed me. “Didn’t I tell you? They all look like fecking ghosts over there. All the more chances for us!”

  “And so that means we will have six from the spinning mill.”

  A cheer went up and Mrs. McAteer put up her hand for silence.

  “The first girl chosen is Miss Eileen O’Hare. Where are you, Eileen?”

  We all swung around. Eileen O’Hare had only been at the mill about a year. She was a pretty enough girl with red hair and white skin, small and slender, and quiet. We didn’t know what to make of it. But we clapped politely as she blushed and nodded. I took in a breath. One
down, I thought.

  “Congratulations, Eileen, we all wish you the best of luck,” Mrs. McAteer continued.

  For the love of God would she not hurry things up?

  “I’m dying to pee,” whispered Patsy.

  “Next, we have Abby Smith. Congratulations, Abby.”

  Abby Smith was one of the few Protestant girls on the floor. She kept to herself and none of us knew much about her. She was pale and fair-haired, with a long nose and thin face. We applauded halfheartedly as she bowed her head and uttered a muffed thank-you.

  I couldn’t understand what the logic was. Both Eileen and Abby were quiet girls, pretty enough, but no oil paintings. My heart began to sink. If they weren’t taking looks into it at all, then what chance did I stand?

  The third girl, Celia Foye, was called. Like the other two, she was quiet and tidy, with wide eyes and the look of a frightened rabbit.

  Three to go, I thought to myself. My fingers had turned to ice. I could scarcely breathe. If I did not get this chance, I thought, my life would be over. I would be doomed…

  “Kathleen Doyle,” I heard from far away. Could I have heard right? Kathleen was my friend, and a lovely girl, but she was hardly ft for a beauty competition. She was plain and stout and… och, Jesus…

  Kathleen gasped beside me. She threw her hands to her mouth. “Oh… oh,” she cried. “I don’t believe it. Oh, wait ’til I tell Mammy.”

  I shot a look at Patsy. Her mouth was open in shock. I swallowed hard and gave Kathleen a hug. “Well done, Kathleen,” I whispered, even though it took everything I had to get the words out.

  “And now, last but not least, Miss Patsy Mallon.”

  I was struck dumb. Patsy? Of all people—Patsy? I could get no words out. Patsy let out a yell that would have wakened the dead.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she screamed. “Can you believe it at all?”

  The young part-timers shouted and whistled and clapped. Patsy was very popular with all of them. Kathleen broke into a broad smile and hugged Patsy. Then she turned to me, jiggling with excitement. “You’re next, Sheila,” she said. “I know it.”

  When Mrs. McAteer began to fold up the piece of paper bearing the names of those chosen, it suddenly struck me. She had said “last but not least” before she called Patsy’s name.

  “But that’s only five,” I cried out.

  Everyone swung around to look at me. The room fell silent. I trembled with fear and passion and anger. Mrs. McAteer pinned me with a stare, a faint smile on her face.

  “You are correct, Miss McGee. I have only called five names. The sixth girl chosen is Mary McAteer.”

  “But that’s not fair,” I cried again. “She… she doesn’t even work in the mill.”

  “Oh, but she absolutely does,” said Mrs. McAteer in a sweet, calm voice. “Mary has worked diligently in the mill offices for the last three years. Without her you girls would not get your pay packets accurate and on time every Friday. I would say that more than qualifies her to be considered for the competition.”

  I did not have to turn around to know that Mary McAteer was watching from the doorway—all the spinners were staring in that direction. Instead I stood rooted to the ground.

  “Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Sheila?” boomed Patsy.

  I wondered if Patsy would have congratulated me had the situation been reversed. I said nothing. Kathleen came up and put her arm around my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Sheila,” she said. “You should have got a place instead of me. You deserved it.”

  Anger raged through me. “Why? Why do you think I deserve it, Kathleen? It’s only looks that would have got me through, and apparently that’s not enough in Mrs. McAteer’s books. I did nothing else to deserve it.”

  “She was afraid you would beat out Mary,” said Kathleen, ignoring my outburst. “You’re the prettiest girl here; we all know that, don’t we, Patsy?”

  Patsy shrugged. “I’m told beauty’s in the eye of the beholder,” she said, and walked away.

  The singing began again. In honor of the contestants “The Boys from the County Armagh” became “The Girls from the County Armagh” and was sung again with gusto. I put my head down as I started up my spinning frame and with every ounce of strength I had I held back the tears that threatened to erupt. I doubted that I would ever join in the singing again.

  Ma’s bad mood lifted the minute she heard I wasn’t picked.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” she said, beaming as if she’d just won the prize herself. “I knew you didn’t have what it took. If it had been me now—ah, I’d have been the first one picked. And I’d have won it too, no bother. There wasn’t a girl in the North could hold a candle to me when I was your age.” She paused and sighed. “And to think I threw it all away on the likes of your da!”

  I tried not to listen. I’d heard it all before—how Ma was beautiful and all the boys wanted her and she married my da only because she got pregnant with me. Ma lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  Aunt Kate sniffed. “Patrick was no slacker, either,” she said, referring to my da. “Every girl in the county was after him. He could have had his pick. And who knows what women in foreign parts had their eye on him.”

  Kate glared at Ma, but in turn Ma winked back at her. “At least the man had good taste,” she said.

  “I can’t get over them picking that Patsy Mallon though,” Ma went on, ignoring the look of pain on my face, “nor that wee mouse Kathleen Doyle.”

  “I hear that Patsy one’s a bad article.” Kate raised her eyes and blessed herself. “The stories I’ve heard!”

  “Och, she’s just out for a bit of craic like the rest of us,” I put in. I didn’t fully understand why I needed to defend Patsy just then, except that I knew Kate felt the same way about me.

  “At least Kathleen’s a lovely girl and devoted to her ma,” said Kate, looking directly at me.

  “Aye, not like this selfish wee bitch here,” said Ma. “This one can’t wait to run away. Am I right? Well the wind’s been taken out of your sails now, miss. Maybe this will knock the nonsense out of your head and you can start looking for a husband.”

  I ran to the front door and opened it as Ma’s words taunted me from behind. I stepped out into the street and took in gulps of fresh air. Would I ever hear the end of this? By even trying to join in the competition had I succeeded in making my life even more unbearable? Rain fell as I stood outside the Queensbrook house. I let it soak through me, praying it would wash out my pain.

  On the following Sunday I refused to go to Mass with the family, claiming I was too sick. When everyone had left I hurriedly dressed and went outside and lifted my bicycle out of the back shed. I didn’t even have to think where I was going. I always went up to the Flagstaff when I was feeling sad. The place gave me a comfort that no other place did.

  I sat now on a stone bench. The view across the shining water of Carlingford Lough towards the Mourne Mountains beyond would lift the spirits of a drowning man. Even on rainy days, the place had a mournful beauty. But the rough weather of the last days had passed, and the sky was a bright, clear blue and filled with fresh white clouds. From the top of the hill I could look out and see the three counties of Armagh, Down, and Louth. “The place where the three counties meet” was the saying of the locals. Gulls wheeled overhead and the wind rustled the bushes. The grasses, still damp from the rain, bore the lush, fresh look that always followed a storm. In the far distance the sound of church bells mingled with a ship’s horn. I sighed. Would I ever be on board one of those ships? Would it ever happen now? I rested my elbows on my knees and put my chin in my hands and gazed out at the horizon.

  I didn’t bother to turn around when I heard the noise. Instinctively I knew it was Gavin O’Rourke wheeling his bicycle over to where I sat. We often came here together on Sundays after Mass when his boat was in port. We didn’t usually talk much. There was no need to. We drew a comfort from each other and from the silence. Sometim
es he would read aloud to me from a book of poetry he kept in his pocket. Other times he would read silently to himself.

  As children Gavin and I played on the Flagstaff often. We used to climb to the summit from Upper Fathom Road where we both lived and lie down on our stomachs to watch the cargo boats coming and going up and down the Clanrye River on their way to and from the port of Newry. Gavin’s da and mine were both captains and we loved it when we recognized one of their boats coming in from the Irish Sea by way of the lough. As they came up the river they would blow their horns and we knew it was a signal meant just for us and we would stand up and wave like lunatics.

  Gavin threw his bicycle to one side and sat down on the grass at my feet. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply. He followed my gaze out towards the horizon.

  After a while he said, “You weren’t at Mass.”

  Something in his voice and manner seemed unsettled. Normally he would lie back lazily on the grass and blow rings of smoke into the air as if he didn’t have a concern in the world. It was what I liked about being near him—the comfort of his calm spirit. But today something was not right.

  “So what’s the craic?” he said at last.

  I shrugged. “Some craic,” I said. “I wasn’t even picked to compete in the Linen Queen competition, and the prize money would have been two hundred quid, and Patsy and Kathleen were both picked, and Ma is delighted I was passed over, and…”

  I stopped when I realized Gavin was paying no attention to me at all. He had turned his back and was gazing out to sea. His whole body appeared alert as if he were bracing for an attack.