Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  Father MacVeigh looked after all the arrangements for the funeral. For three days and nights, the house was full of neighbours, friends, family who had travelled to Belfast from as far away as Tyrone and Donegal. Men took off their caps, drank whiskey and sang songs. Women talked incessantly, hugged Mary and Cecilia over and over, produced food from everywhere. Mary was surprised that sometimes the surrounding sadness would lift abruptly, to change into something lighter, happier. Da’s brothers told stories about him as a child, people laughed at their jokes, some recited poems and rhymes, others spoke softly of harder, older times. There were moments when Mary caught herself forgetting why everyone was there, crowding into the hall and the tiny parlour until she and Cecilia had had to go outside to make room for others to breathe.

  Everything was very flat and stale after Da’s body was taken away from the house. While his brothers were still remembering him in talk, while they could all look on his taut, yellowing face, his gnarled hands crossed peacefully over his chest, it seemed that something of him still remained behind. Then he was gone, and life, it seemed, still went on.

  Ma was determined that Cecilia stay on at school. It was the one subject that would shake her out of her torpor, the only topic that made the glaze go from her eyes. Mary nudged her with it every time she wanted to bring her mother’s vacant look back to the kitchen table, her mind back again from wherever it had strayed. Mary agreed, over and over again: she didn’t want to see her little sister at the mill, under the harsh eye of some bitter and withered doffing mistress, learning a trade that brought little but mill fever, consumption and toe-rot.

  Any dream that Mary had that her brothers would come back was long gone. She couldn’t blame them; she’d have done the same herself in their shoes, given half the chance. Belfast was no place for lads who refused to be happy being second best; who refused to lie down for their masters. They were all safer where they were.

  She’d promised to look after Ma now, and Cecilia.

  She’d spend the rest of her life trying, if that’s what it took.

  May: Autumn 1890

  HANNAH HELD HER hand all the way. At first, May protested.

  ‘I’m not a baby any more. I’m eight. I can walk on my own.’

  She tried to wriggle her hand away from Hannah’s, but her older sister held fast. She pulled May along behind her and increased her pace so that the younger girl had to run to keep up.

  ‘Mama said we were to hold hands. I’m in charge and Mama says I’m to look after you.’

  In charge. The words reminded May of Ellie, now almost six and longing to be in the same class as one of her sisters. She hated being on her own in Senior Infants. She had never settled into school, unlike Hannah and May. She chafed under its routine, the unaccustomed restriction of her movements. She still couldn’t understand why she was not allowed simply to leave her desk and seek out her sisters whenever she needed. She had cried this morning when the time came to say goodbye to Hannah and May, cried so hard that Mama had had to take her away while Lily gave the older girls their breakfast.

  ‘Be good, now, Eleanor,’ Mama had scolded, but gently enough. ‘Hannah and May are big girls and they have to go to their own classes.’

  That had only made Eleanor’s sobs worse.

  ‘I’m a big girl, too, Mama! I go to school! I don’t want to be all on my lonely!’

  Mama had promised Ellie that if she was good, May could take her to second class with her for one whole day, soon. May had heard the sobs subsiding as Mama made her way down the long hallway of their new house, soothing Eleanor as she went, stroking the small, struggling body into quietness. Lily would bring her to school, immediately after the older girls had turned the corner, taking her firmly by the hand. She didn’t cry too much when Lily said goodbye; but Mama would be upset for the whole day if she took her. She said it shattered her nerves.

  May felt a sudden, unaccustomed pride that she would be the one looking after her baby sister, that she would be the one Mama trusted. Up until now, it had always been Hannah, Hannah, Hannah: May never got even one chance to be in charge of her younger sister. Sister Paul had already said that Ellie would be welcome to spend the day in her classroom, to know where her sister was in case she needed her.

  May stopped resisting the pressure of Hannah’s hand; she’d better be good. She didn’t want Mama to change her mind, to decide that she, May, was badly behaved, unreliable, not to be trusted after all. And Hannah would tell on her, she was sure of that. The school gates were only a few minutes’ walk away, anyway, so it was worth it. She loved Ellie, loved the little girl’s bright smile and trusting eyes. She longed to show her off to Sister Paul.

  The sun was bright, the air humid even at this early hour, and the stiff material of May’s new uniform was already scratching at her neck and irritating the soft skin above her knees.

  ‘This is your line, May. Don’t forget to eat your lunch, or Mama will be cross.’

  The other girls were already queuing up, each with a school bag on her back, feet shuffling and scraping into a reluctant silence.

  ‘Be sure and wait for me at home-time,’ Hannah said, kissed her sister hurriedly and ran off to join the bigger girls in fourth class. As soon as May had taken her place, and darted a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure that Brid Byrne was nowhere near her, Sister Paul appeared at the head of the iron staircase. Immediately, complete silence descended on the yard. She hadn’t needed to ring the bell even once this morning.

  May looked up at the old nun, wanting to catch her eye, to smile and be smiled at. But she was busy just now, papers in her hand, her little glasses perched on the end of her nose. This was a different start from the normal. The girls sensed it and a low murmur began, rippling up and down each line, like the uneasy scrunching of boots on gravel.

  ‘Now, girls, quiet please.’

  The murmur died away.

  ‘We have some changes today. Please listen carefully.’

  Sister Paul settled her glasses more firmly on her nose, and turned over the first sheet.

  ‘Sister Mary Immaculate will be taking Junior Infants from today. Juniors, please follow Sister Mary to your classroom.’

  There was absolute silence now. Everyone held their breath. One change meant everyone changed. May’s eyes were drawn towards the group of nuns just below the stairs. Sister Raphael, Sister Annunciata and Sister Olivia were the only ones she recognized from last year. No one ever wanted Sister Raphael, the elderly, crabbed nun who used the strap far more than most, and certainly more than Sister Paul, who had never used it at all, not even once in the two years she had been May’s teacher. Sister Raphael’s face was creased into a permanent expression of discontent; her hands, too, frightened May and it was whispered among the girls that they were the hands of a witch.

  She held her breath. Please, please, she thought. Let it be any of the others; don’t let it be Sister Raphael.

  Waiting for the other classes to be assigned their teacher was agony. When it came to second class, May’s heart was beating so hard that she hardly heard what Sister Paul said.

  ‘Second class, please go with Sister Raphael to your classroom; I’ll visit you later on this morning.’

  May’s legs began to tremble. It wasn’t fair. Now they would all have to be silent and terrified. Sister Raphael would have nothing less.

  She watched as the sunlight glinted off the old nun’s glasses. Without a word, with only a sharp movement of her hooked hand, she led the snaking group of girls across the unwilling yard, and in through the main door of the school building. One by one, they filed into the bright classroom, standing around the wall until they were assigned their desks. May hoped that she would not have to sit beside Brid Byrne. She smelt bad, and Mama said she had nits.

  ‘Kathleen Mulhall, Margaret O’Connor.’

  The tone was sharp; the crooked arthritic fingers indicated their double desk at the top of the third row. For a moment, May hesitat
ed, startled by the unfamiliarity of her given name. No one ever called her Margaret, not even Sister Paul, once she had learned that ‘May’ was her preference. ‘It suits you,’ she had said, smiling at May’s red-faced admission that she never answered to ‘Margaret’. ‘That’s Our Lady’s month – a joyful month.’ May had sat down gratefully, then, pleased that she hadn’t got into trouble for her outspokenness.

  Now, she and Kathleen looked at each other and ventured a small smile. They slid along the polished wooden seat of their desk, almost colliding in the middle, each wanting to giggle, but knowing that they’d better not. She didn’t feel so bad any more. Having a new friend always helped.

  It was just after midday when Sister Raphael announced it was time for mental arithmetic. May felt the familiar sensation of panic: something stirred deep in her chest, just behind the buttons of her uniform. It was like the flapping of a tiny, frightened bird. Her mind seemed to close over, becoming a shuttered window, no small chinks of light anywhere. Sister Paul had understood that feeling, had told her, kindly, to take her time. Accuracy before speed, she’d always said, folding her hands in front of her as she waited for May’s halting reply. She could see the nun’s gentle face now, her intelligent eyes as they regarded her pupil over the tops of her glasses. Her face had been calm, her steady gaze encouraging.

  May knew there would be no such understanding at Sister Raphael’s hands. She waited, in growing agony, as the questions went all the way up the first row of desks, down the second, ready to start again at the front of her row, the third. She stared at the bright blue pencil lying in its little groove at the top of her desk, its paint indented here and there with tiny teeth-marks. She tried to focus on it, tried to stop her mind from skittering away in all directions as it usually did whenever she was frightened. She wished that something, anything, would stop the questions before they got to her. The problems had been getting steadily more difficult too, she was sure of it.

  ‘Multiply twelve by three, and add four,’ Sister Raphael said, nodding at Kathleen.

  May thought what a cold thing it was not even to try to know her girls by name; she seemed to have no interest. ‘You there’ or ‘Girl with red hair’ seemed to be enough for her. May missed Sister Paul sorely. If only . . .

  ‘Thirty-six plus four are forty,’ said Kathleen.

  The nun nodded. She turned to May.

  ‘Add twelve, then divide by four,’ she said.

  May couldn’t reply. She could see the nun’s lips move, understood that words had been spoken, that an answer was now required of her. But she was unable to make sense of anything that had been said. Even her limbs felt heavy, leaden. She wanted to sleep, or to wake from this bad dream. She said nothing.

  ‘You, girl, you’re not even paying attention!’

  The whole class sat silent, expectant. May stared blankly at the old nun, who was now beginning to harness the anger which had hovered around her, uselessly, restlessly, all morning: waiting for its moment to come.

  May felt the back of her neck growing hot. What was she to do first? Add something? Subtract? Divide?

  Still she didn’t speak. Even to herself, her silence seemed like defiance, a refusal to bend her will, rather than the muteness born of sheer terror.

  ‘You’re an insolent girl!’

  Sister Raphael rose from the desk, her hand already on the leather strap tied around her waist along with the rosary beads.

  ‘Hold out your hand!’ she commanded.

  May could feel Kathleen stiffen in the desk beside her. She well knew that if any girl didn’t do as Sister told her, the whole class would be punished. Playground lore terrified children into submission long before they met Sister Raphael. The unfairness of it all suddenly struck May. She would make sure that nobody else suffered because of her stupidity.

  ‘I’m not insolent, Sister. I need more time. Sister Paul said . . .’

  The old nun’s eyes widened in disbelief. The class held its collective breath.

  ‘How dare you answer me back!’

  ‘I’m not, it’s just . . .’

  May watched as the nun walked quickly towards her desk. Already she could feel the sting of leather across her palm and prepared herself for the inevitable. She spread her hands out in front of her, a gesture of apology, submission. Instead, there was a sudden sharp pain in her right ear as the nun dragged her across the classroom, pulling hard on her ear lobe. May was startled, conscious of nothing now except the jagged point of pain that seared its way down the right side of her face. She cried out, tried to raise her hand to ease the burning sensation which now seemed to flush hotly across her eyes, down the other cheek.

  And suddenly, all was darkness. For a moment, May couldn’t understand what had happened to her. There was the sound of a door slamming, then a sudden creaking and rustling all around her, unfamiliar whispers which made her heart beat even faster. Cautiously, she raised her hands and began to feel around her in the darkness. Dry, choking sobs escaped her from time to time. In front of her was a door, wooden, rough in places, but warm to the touch. Beside her were what felt like cylinders of paper, stacked four or five deep. Voices still reached her, but they were muffled, droning, sounding like your ears did under water. May pressed her cheek to the door and listened hard: the girls were chanting their tables.

  ‘Twelve threes are thirty-six, twelve fours are forty-eight, twelve fives are sixty . . .’

  The blood pulsed loudly, warmly, all down both sides of her face.

  She knew suddenly where she was. She was in the map cupboard. The cylinders of heavy paper were like those Sister Paul had hung across the blackboard every Wednesday, when she had pointed out continents, subcontinents, countries with strange shapes and stranger customs. May had loved those geography lessons; she loved repeating the names of rivers, exotic, unfamiliar, sometimes unpronounceable words: Nile, Ganges, Potomac, Amazon, Tigris, Euphrates.

  She pushed with both hands hard against the door. It wouldn’t give. Not even a thin shard of light insinuated its way into the cracks and joins of its sturdy surface. The darkness was complete, terrifying. What if they all forgot about her? What if they all went home and left her? Nobody would know where she was – not Mama, not Hannah, not even Sister Paul. What if she ran out of air? She could feel the panic rising again; a different panic from before. She no longer felt frozen. Now she felt open and vulnerable, watery and insubstantial. Tears threatened. The lump in her throat was already making it harder to breathe. She tapped on the door with the knuckles of her right hand and waited. No response. Sister Raphael was obviously determined to ignore her. She was afraid to tap again. She did not want to face the full force of the nun’s wrath, and, later, Mama’s displeasure, her tight-lipped silence and disapproval.

  She felt around her, desperately. There was no room for her to sit down, and her legs were getting cramped. It was hot; the material of her uniform felt even more scratchy than this morning. And she was so afraid of the dark. Mama always let her and Hannah have a night light burning in their bedroom, a fat tallow candle with a gas mantle for protection. She wished she were at home now, snug in bed with Hannah, watching the patterns made by the diffuse light on the bedroom walls and ceiling, making up songs and stories, giggling in the chiaroscuro of the chilly bedroom.

  Suddenly, she had an idea. How to take her mind off the darkness, the tiredness of her legs, the hot and stuffy cupboard. She began to sing to herself, not too loudly at first, but enough to hear the comforting sound of her own voice. Singing was always a happy thing to do, just like in bed at night, or when Hannah would let her sit down on the piano stool while she practised, and both of them sang together.

  May began to sing a few lines, tentatively at first, clapping to their rhythm, just as Hannah had taught her. It was a new song, one that Hannah had just learned. Remembering her older sister gave May a great surge of confidence. She sang five verses, making up words here and there, singing ‘la, la, la, la,’ when her im
agination, or her memory, failed her.

  She had even begun to forget about her fear of the dark, about the oppressive heat inside the cupboard, about the unjust punishment meted out to her when the door was suddenly wrenched open.

  There, red-faced and furious, stood Sister Raphael. Her head was wobbling from side to side, as though her neck had difficulty in supporting its weight. Her right hand fingered the smooth surface of her strap. All of this May took in, but her attention, for a couple of seconds, was drawn irresistibly elsewhere. Just over Sister Raphael’s left shoulder, she saw Kathleen Mulhall’s mischievous brown eyes looking at her, face pink with the effort not to laugh. She lifted her hands off the inky surface of the desk and slowly brought her palms together in silent clapping. Then she bowed with difficulty from the waist, still seated, trapped in the double desk.

  ‘. . . to Sister Paul, right this minute. And don’t think I won’t tell her just what you’ve been up to.’

  May snapped her attention back to the lined, angry face in front of her. Suddenly, light-headedly, she didn’t care. At least the door was open and she could breathe. Kathleen was her friend and Sister Paul would surely understand what had happened. She hadn’t meant to be badly behaved; it had all just come about, somehow, without her willing it.

  She stepped out of the cupboard with an air of bravado she didn’t quite feel, encouraged by Kathleen’s grin and the admiring glances of some of the other girls. Most of the faces, however, were terrified, and May felt a rush of pity for them all, a renewed fear for herself.

  She marched out of the classroom, her head held high. She walked much more slowly across the yard and into the hallway outside Sister Paul’s office. She knocked on the door and waited. Suddenly, starting with her legs, then her shoulders, she began to shake all over. Under her arms felt hot and cold at the same time. Her stomach began to cramp, as though she had eaten too much. Her palms were damp, clammy to the touch. She tried to draw a deep breath, but something dark and unforgiving in her chest seemed to obstruct the clean air, refusing to let it pass. Then the pictures on the wall began to shift, one after the other, in front of her eyes. Even the walls began to sway, to crowd in on her. She cried out to Sister Paul just as her legs crumpled under her and a thin, warm ache filled the space behind her forehead.