The Linen Queen

by Patricia Falvey

  Gavin’s complaints echoed those of many of the seamen around Newry. Too many boats were being torpedoed by the Germans, they said. They believed the Royal Air Force should be giving cover to the merchant boats the same way it did for troop ships but, as Gavin had said, often it was nowhere to be seen and the merchant boats were left to fend for themselves.

  Gavin took another pull on his cigarette. “My da would turn over in his grave if he could see what I’m doing. That man died for a united Ireland. He hated the English, and here I am using his boat to run food and supplies to support their army.”

  “Is that all you have to tell me? Sure I’ve heard it all before.”

  “No. I wanted to warn you.”

  I looked at him puzzled. I had no idea what he was on about.

  “You see, it was the IRA boys took Grainne out of the convent and put the fear of God into that Father Flynn. And now they want the favor returned.”

  A bad feeling gathered inside me. “What do they want?”

  “They want to use the Ashgrove to smuggle guns for them.” He paused and looked at me. “They want me to pick up guns from the Germans and bring them back here. The guns will be disguised as cargo waiting in France. The Germans want to arm the IRA so they can go after the English here in the North. Anything that distracts the English helps the Germans.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “You’re not going to do it, are you? It’s too dangerous. No British boats are going across to France—it’s occupied by the Germans for God’s sake.”

  “Exactly. But the Ashgrove will be flying the Irish flag. The Free State’s neutral.”

  “But what about your reputation? You’ve built up a fine business; why would you throw it away for a crowd of stupid blackguards? And besides, once they get you involved they won’t stop at this. They’ll want more.”

  Gavin’s eyes glinted in the dark. “What choice do I have? If I don’t they’ll take it out on Grainne, and maybe on you. So in case something goes wrong, I want you to make sure the girl stays inside the house for the time being. And you’d better watch yourself—particularly after this!” He glared down at my uniform. “Go home and burn that getup.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” I said. “I joined up for good reason.”

  “Doing the Joel feller’s bidding, I suppose. I hear he’s back.”

  “I have a mind of my own. It has nothing to do with him. It was my own decision. He doesn’t even know about it yet. And I’m not giving it up.”

  Gavin shrugged and ground out his cigarette with his foot. “Suit yourself. I warned you.”

  “Aye, thanks a million.”

  I got up to go, but Gavin grabbed my arm and pulled me around.

  “Be as sarcastic as you like, you selfish wee bitch, but don’t come crawling to me next time you want something. It’s over, Sheila. I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you if the pope himself asked me.”

  As I walked away from the dock I heard shouts and singing in the distance as people drifted out of the pubs. Somewhere someone sang the Irish national anthem, the alcohol obviously oiling his patriotism. Patriotism? I looked down at my uniform and quickened my step.

  I walked along Monaghan Street towards Walker’s Row, turning over in my mind the cost of saving young Grainne. I had lost my home, almost lost my job at the mill, and I had lost my one big chance for escape. And now on top of that it had put Gavin in the debt of the IRA. Part of me realized it wasn’t the girl’s fault, but part of me wanted somebody to blame. I was angry when I arrived at the front door, but when I entered my temper spilled over. Patsy, Mrs. Hollywood, and her son, Alphie, all sat around the kitchen table drinking tea and talking and laughing to beat the band. Grainne sat in her usual chair by the fire, her legs up under her, stroking Mrs. Hollywood’s cat, Pirate, a big gray thing with a patch of black fur over its left eye. I glared at her and it. How dare they all be sitting here nice as you like as if they hadn’t a care in the world?

  “Hello, love,” said Mrs. Hollywood. “Sit down and I’ll make you a cup of the lovely tea Alphie’s just brought me. He brought butter, too. Nice to have a sailor son, ain’t it? He can get around the rationing a treat.”

  I would rather have sat down with the devil just then. If I spoke I would create a scene. Instead I walked towards the stairs.

  Patsy and Grainne exchanged looks and Patsy began laughing.

  “Jesus, Sheila, you’re the cut of Charlie Chaplin in that getup. Isn’t she, Alphie?”

  “A far cry from the Linen Queen right enough,” said Alphie in his slow, stupid voice.

  I hadn’t kept the fact that I’d joined the ARP a secret, but I hadn’t let them see me in my uniform. Usually I carried it with me and changed at the barracks.

  “You’re one to be talking,” I said to Patsy. “Just look at the cut of yourself.”

  Patsy was almost eight months pregnant and big enough you’d have thought she was ready to deliver any minute. She didn’t take the remark in good humor, and I hadn’t meant it as such.

  “Bitch,” she said. “You’re as bad as the rest of them. I can’t walk down the street in Newry without oul’ biddies gawking at me. Some even step off the pavement. You’d think I was bloody contagious, so you would. And then there’s the young ones in the shops refuse to serve me. And them no better than I am.”

  “It’s true, so it is,” said Alphie. “I’ve seen it.”

  Patsy put her hand on Alphie’s arm. “Aye, if it wasn’t for the likes of Alphie I don’t know what I’d do. He and Kathleen are my only real friends these days.”

  Her words stung. And who was I if not her friend? Who’d taken her in? Who was paying her keep? She read what was going through my mind.

  “And don’t be looking at me like that, Sheila. You think you’re better than me what with your parading around as Linen Queen and joining up with the auxiliaries. Well, you’re not.”

  “I’m nothing like you, you ungrateful bitch.”

  “Once a tramp, always a tramp.”

  Mrs. Hollywood slammed the kettle down on the stove and swung around.

  “Now that will do, girls.”

  Alphie stood up. “Time to go, Ma,” he said. “Cheerio, all.”

  Mrs. Hollywood went to her room and Patsy walked outside with Alphie. I heard them whispering. Probably complaining about me, I thought. I slumped down in a chair and sipped the tea Mrs. Hollywood had poured for me. What had got into Patsy? And what had got into me? I sighed. It had been a long day. Grainne eyed me from her chair by the fire. We were alone now in the kitchen. I wanted to round on her too, but I had no energy left for it. I tried to ignore her.

  “I suppose you think I’m ungrateful too,” she said.

  “Och, don’t start. I’m tired.”

  She set the cat down and stood. “I can tell by the way you look at me. You expect me to go down on my knees and thank you. Well, I won’t.”

  I stood too. It was all I could do to stop myself from slapping her.

  “It wasn’t you saved me from the convent,” she said. “It was Gavin. If it was up to you I’d still be rotting in that oul’ place.”

  So that’s what she thought. Gavin was the hero.

  I sighed. “Well, you’d better be getting down on your knees to thank him, then. He’s after getting himself in deep with the IRA over the head of you. It could get him killed.”

  I dragged myself up the stairs to bed. A heavy, dark feeling filled my head and heart. I realized it was loneliness.

  Chapter 22

  I saw Joel often after our visit to the farm in Millisle. He was delighted I had joined the ARP. I let him think it was on account of him. Well, I suppose in part it was. But I wouldn’t have done it just on his say-so. The image of those children’s faces had never left me, particularly the little girl crying for her home. More than once I dreamed about her. She was sitting not at the farm but on the dock beside my da’s boat.

  Joel hadn’t brought up the topic of his premonitions again, and I wa
s glad of it. Maybe he had just been depressed after coming back from England and seeing the way things were going for the Allies. I had no doubt the “major campaign” he had talked about was real. There’d been rumors flying all over the North about some big doings that were planned. Once in a while a drunken soldier would blurt out something about a plan that was going to use them as “cannon fodder.” I didn’t even know what the term meant, but it was clearly something that scared them. The officers denied the whole lot of it. But it was obvious to everybody that, as Joel had said, the Allies were going to have to pull off something big to destroy Hitler. The details were top secret he had said—but that didn’t stop the rumors. Anyway, Joel knew far more than he was telling. It was no wonder it was making him a wee bit crazy.

  One afternoon as we hiked up through Kilbroney Park in Rostrevor, I tried to explain to him what was really going on the night I went to see him at the barracks. At first he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “It’s all water under the bridge, Sheila,” he said. “We’re still friends, and that’s what’s important.”

  What he didn’t understand was that by trying to explain it to him, I was really trying to explain it to myself. I pressed on.

  “I was angry with you because you wouldn’t tell me what to do.”

  Joel raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that? It was your decision. If you came with me it should have been of your own free will and not because I convinced you to come.” He looked me in the eyes. “It wasn’t fair of you to lay that burden on me.”

  I bowed my head. “I know. It’s just that—well, I didn’t understand it myself.” I looked at him. “God, Joel, asking me to go away with you was the best thing that had ever happened to me. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what was holding me back.”

  “Conscience, maybe?” Joel’s gaze was direct.

  “You said that night you didn’t think I had a conscience.”

  “I was angry. And hurt. We all have one, Sheila. Even you.”

  We reached the Big Stone at the crest of Kilbroney Mountain and sat down. We had come here on Boxing Day almost two years before. I had not been back since. The weather was mild for November. The wind brushed the fallen leaves along the ground and lifted them up into a swirl. An amber leaf landed in my lap and I picked it up and held it in my palm. Joel glanced down at it.

  “I love this time of year,” he said. “Back in Ohio nature puts on a beautiful show—oranges and cinnamons and deep yellows. I used to love walking on the trails. The only sounds would be the birds and the crunch of the leaves under my boots. It was where I found peace.” He looked at me. “Of course the season has passed already in Ohio. It holds on here a bit longer.”

  There was such sadness in his face and voice that I wanted to reach out and hug him. Instead, I said, “Sounds beautiful.”

  We sat for a while in silence, looking out over the hills towards the sea.

  “Besides, you weren’t in love with me.”

  I swung around. What was I to say to that? But Joel went on talking.

  “I knew you weren’t, so it wasn’t fair of me to ask you to come away. I just thought if we could spend more time together—away from everything and everybody here—you might, in time, fall in love with me.” He leaned back and stretched out his legs. “So you could say we were using each other. All’s fair in love and war.”

  He attempted a smile, but it was empty.

  “I wasn’t using you…,” I began. But what was the point of lying. “Och, you’re right. It’s just what I was doing. If it hadn’t been you it would have been somebody else. But I was fond of you, Joel. I really was. And in time—who knows?”

  “Well, we’ll never know now, will we?”

  Was it really over? An unbearable sadness filtered through me.

  “For the life of me I don’t understand why you would want to leave, Sheila,” said Joel, waving towards the horizon. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

  “You don’t have to live here. All I’ve wanted since I was a child was to escape. It’s a prison to me. And when the war’s over I still mean to go.”

  Joel looked thoughtful. “It’s not Ireland you want to leave, Sheila. It’s your situation. You have the power to change that.”

  “No I don’t,” I said. “I’m a mill girl with no money and a bad reputation. How’m I supposed to change that, I’d like to know?”

  “Change comes from the inside,” he said quietly.

  I wanted to tell him he was full of shite, but I held back. It occurred to me that if I’d been talking to Gavin I would have said it without a second thought. I was always more careful around Joel.

  Joel looked at his pocket watch and stood. “C’mon, it’s getting chilly.”

  A sharp ache stirred in my heart. I wanted to put my arms around him and pull him close. I wanted to tell him that I did love him and had been too blind or too preoccupied with my own ambition to see it. I wanted to tell him that if I had it to do over I would go with him in a second. But it was too late.

  As if reading my thoughts, he pulled me up and folded me in his arms. He held my head to his chest and stroked my hair. The gentleness of his touch almost made me weep.

  “Oh, Sheila,” he whispered, so low I could hardly hear him above the wind. “I’m not the one for you. I never was. I had no right even to harbor a hope of it. You have your whole life ahead of you. And I can offer you no future. All the time I was seeing you, I knew in my heart it was wrong. Please forgive me.”

  My tears erupted, this time more from anger than sadness. I backed away and looked up at him. “Feck you!” I cried. “Is it that bloody death wish you’re on about again?”

  “It’s not a death wish. It’s just something I know, Sheila. Call it what you will. But it’s very real.”

  “You’re mad, so you are,” I cried. “How can any sane person talk like that? Just because your da killed himself doesn’t mean you have to.”

  I was out of control now. I didn’t care what I said.

  “I’m not talking about suicide,” he said evenly. “It’s something deeper and more profound…”

  “Profound my arse,” I said. “Just because you’re depressed you think you’re going to die. No, not even thinking it. You’re fecking willing yourself to die.”

  My shoulders sagged and I began to sob. He grabbed me again and held me close to him. As we stood entwined together, two lonely souls on top of the mountain ankle deep in the dying leaves, the words of the merrow poem my da had taught me drifted into my head.

  Joel agreed to spend Christmas night with me. I had told him I wanted to bring Ma, which at the time had seemed like a good idea. I hadn’t seen her in a dog’s age and I knew she would be lonely up in Queensbrook with Kate and Kevin and no craic at all. I had persuaded Joel to take us to O’Hare’s even though he would rather have gone to the Prince of Mourne pub in Warrenpoint. But O’Hare’s was where my da used to take my ma every Christmas in the good days, and I knew she’d be delighted.

  “OK, it’s a date,” he’d said. “I would hate to miss an evening with the lovely Mrs. McGee.”

  He’d grinned and dimples punched his sallow cheeks, lighting up his face. My heart leaped a little as I looked at him. He was what Mrs. Hollywood would call “a charmer” when he smiled. I wished he would do it more often.

  Christmas Day at Walker’s Row was pleasant enough—certainly better than the days spent at Queensbrook with Aunt Kate preaching about God’s grace and Uncle Kevin drinking himself into a stupor. Mrs. Hollywood had insisted we all help decorate the tree. She pulled out a box of ornaments. They were all pink, of course. Patsy and I looked at each other and burst into giggles. Our harsh words to each other the night of the Step Together Parade were long forgotten, and even though she had fits of temper more often now, I overlooked it because she was already more than two weeks past her due date. That morning we opened gifts that were under the tree. Patsy, who had taken up knitting, made
matching scarves, hats, and gloves for all of us.

  “I made two pairs of gloves for you,” she said with a laugh, “because you lose them as fast as you get them.”

  Grainne had no money of her own, but Mrs. Hollywood had slipped her a few pound so that she could buy herself something. Instead she spent the money on the rest of us—a box of sweets each for Patsy and me, and a lovely wee pink angel for Mrs. Hollywood to hang on the tree.

  Mrs. Hollywood bought each of us a lace blouse. She had surprisingly good taste. And she made her famous plum pudding with brandy, which she served aflame and to great applause. I bought Patsy a nightdress to wear in hospital, a new jumper for Grainne—one that fit her instead of the old hand-me-downs she usually wore. And for Mrs. Hollywood I bought a delicate gold necklace. She was delighted with it. Joel had helped me get it. There was not much jewelry to be had under the rationing. I got another one just like it for Ma.

  We lazed around the kitchen table for a couple of hours, stuffed from Mrs. Hollywood’s Christmas dinner. Mrs. Hollywood got a bit tipsy on port wine and started telling us stories from her childhood growing up around the carnival in Brighton where her da had worked.

  “Oh, my dad now, ’e was a caution, ’e really was!” she said. “He was a barker and his job was to get the people to pay their shilling and come into the carnival. Oh, the stories ’e made up about the acts—the two-headed woman, and the ’alf man, ’alf ape. Honest, it would make the hair stand up on your head.”

  Eventually I looked up at the clock. I could put it off no longer. I knew the Christmas dinner up at Queensbrook would be over by now. Aunt Kate would be out on her charity rounds and Uncle Kevin would be sleeping it off. If I was lucky I could get in and out without having to confront either one of them.

  I put on the new blouse from Mrs. Hollywood, a colorful skirt, and my best coat. I wrapped Patsy’s scarf around my neck, shoved the hat in my pocket—I didn’t want to ruin my hair, which I had painstakingly curled earlier that morning. I put on the gloves, picked up the gift for Ma, and waved good-bye, looking cheerier than I felt.