‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph help us,’ Katie whispered, making the sign of the cross. Then I heard Mama wail, in a voice I knew immediately to be hers, yet not hers. I wrenched the door open fully and ran down the hallway to the drawing room. Mama was lying on the floor, her face ashen, her arms clutching at Lily.
‘Quick, Miss Eleanor, ask Katie for the salts.’ Lily waved me out of the room. ‘Hurry now.’
I did as I was told. I felt strangely calm, a state I now know to have been shock. I remember watching, in a curiously detached way, as Lily was becoming more and more frantic. The salts had done nothing to revive Mama. She seemed to come to from time to time, only to lapse into fresh weeping again and again, and languish somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. She kept calling for Papa, or rather saying his name to herself over and over, as though trying to make it reveal something to her. His name was the only word I could distinguish; I could make no sense of anything else she said.
I ran to the window once I heard the front door close and I watched Papa leave. I understood even then that he was being taken away from us, and I wanted to cry out, to tell those men to leave him alone, but no sound would come. I can still see myself, all these years later, standing mute, frozen, by the drawing-room window. I was aware of what was going on around me, but powerless to respond.
Katie had come running from the kitchen once the detectives had left with Papa, and now I could hear her exclamations as she tried to help Lily with Mama. Together they tried to get her to stand, so they could at least carry her over to the sofa. But her body was limp and heavy; all her strength had abandoned her. I remember that the room and its occupants all came into focus once I heard Katie’s tone, really frightened now.
‘Surely we should call Dr Collins,’ she said, and I could see her glancing in my direction. I must have looked lost and terrified, because Lily called me over to her at once, shaking her head at Katie, trying to smile at me at the same time.
‘I’ll go get some water and lavender oil,’ she said. ‘I think she’s a little bit calmer than she was. If we bathe her forehead and her wrists, she should come round.’
She gripped my shoulders now, making me look up into her kind face. The touch of her large, solid hands made me feel real again.
‘Don’t worry, pet. Your mama has just had a shock. Come with me and help carry the water.’
I remember that I went with her obediently, glad to have something to do other than watch Mama’s shaking body, and listen to her great, gulping sobs. When we returned from the kitchen, Katie was kneeling on the floor, supporting Mama’s head on her knees. I was relieved that the sobbing had eased. I began to hope that everything would be all right again, that we would all get back to normal. The room seemed to be that little bit more familiar, the strangeness of catastrophe receding somewhat. Perhaps what had happened was the result of a misunderstanding. Everyone would soon be sensible again, the house would return to normal and Papa would come back, smiling and relieved.
‘Just a mistake, Mouse,’ he would say cheerfully. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just a mistake.’
Carefully, I carried the bowl of lavender water over to where Mama was lying. I touched her hand.
‘Mama? Are you feeling better?’
She smiled at me then, very weakly, but at least her face seemed to have lost some of its earlier formlessness.
‘Thank you, dear, yes.’
I watched Lily wring out the excess water, and apply the cool cloth to Mama’s forehead. A subtle scent of lavender drifted upwards. I liked the smell, liked the whole ritual of putting drops of oil into the water, wringing out the cloth, placing the compress on Mama’s forehead; all these smooth, deliberate movements seemed to calm everyone, not just Mama. Katie handed her a glass of water, and she sipped from it until it was almost empty.
Eventually, she was recovered enough to stand up.
‘Let me loosen your stays, ma’am.’ I heard Lily whisper to Mama, but I pretended not to. Mama nodded, and allowed herself to be led from the room. She turned to face me, just before she reached the bottom of the staircase.
‘I’m going to lie down for a while, dear,’ she said. ‘Lily and Katie will look after you. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.’
I remember that I ran forward, then, and gave Mama a kiss. I felt suddenly sad for the sagging body, the ghost-like face.
The last remains of my innocent existence were shattered for ever that April afternoon. I gave up waiting for things to return to what they had so recently been. Mama lay down on her bed and stayed there until the following morning. I knew that she did not want company. Katie and Lily whispered together all that evening; I was no longer welcome in their kitchen. And there was no sign of Papa’s return. I felt that jagged pieces of our former lives seemed to be all around us; nothing was whole any more.
As for me, I spent what I think still remains the loneliest night of my life. I crept into Hannah’s bed, in between her freezing sheets. I left her door open so that I could see the low light from the gas lamp on the landing. I knew not to ask Lily or Katie for the warming pan that evening, or for the flickering company of a candle for myself. But even in her absence, Hannah’s bed was far more comforting than mine. I know that I cried, but more than that, I wondered and wondered what my Papa could have done for those men to take him away. He still looked the same, had still said, ‘Goodnight, Mouse,’ the previous evening to me. His pet-name for me came from my babyhood, Mama had once told me. I was a very quiet baby, she said. Much more placid and contented than either of my sisters.
If someone didn’t sound any different, or look any different, then how was one ever to know whether they had done something bad? My Papa had just been arrested for embezzlement. Although as yet I didn’t know, all I could do that night was puzzle over his disappearance: wasn’t it true that only bad people were taken away by policemen? People who broke the law? Perhaps it was still some dreadful mistake, perhaps they really wanted some other man.
But still, I could not ignore a strong sense that Papa had indeed done something very wrong. Mama’s tears had been tears of desperation, of grief for something lost that had once been hers. They were certainly not the tears of a loyal, distraught wife protesting her husband’s innocence. There was no fight in her, no righteousness. Instead, she had the air of someone enduring what was both inevitable and unthinkable at the same time.
I remember agonizing over this well into the night. I think I expected some outward sign, some mark of Cain to indicate wrongdoing, to symbolize a state of sin for all to see. I was beginning to learn, even then, that life is not always that simple.
My head began to ache with the effort to understand. I needed to escape to somewhere different, somewhere bright and happy. I began to tell myself stories, about elves and shoemakers, princes and princesses, all the myriad wonders of fairyland.
Finally, I slept.
Sophia: Spring 1893
SOPHIA GOT UP at half past six the following morning. The whole house was quiet and dark. Lily and Katie had not yet risen to light the range or to prepare breakfast. She could hardly blame them. As far as they knew, they might no longer have any livelihood to speak of within this household. They would have a genuine fear of being left, literally, at the side of the road by their employers.
Sophia had lain awake most of the night, trying to work out how to extract all of them from the awfulness which Edward had brought on everyone’s heads. Now, this morning, she had practical things to organize. First, she would need to visit Edward’s solicitor personally, to try and ascertain what was to become of him, of all of them. She couldn’t bear to think about it: for Edward, the prison cell, the trial, the personal indignity. For all of them, the unbearable humiliation which would accompany such a very public fall from grace.
She could not stay in Belfast, that much was clear. Apart from the shame of Edward’s arrest, they had no money. She couldn’t possibly afford to keep the family here.
At some stage during last night’s sleepless hours, Sophia had held on to a faint hope that this might all be a mistake, that Edward was innocent. That hope had disappeared as soon as she had arisen this morning. In the dim light of her bedroom candle, she had seen his face clearly, as clearly as when he had stepped out into the hallway yesterday, flanked by the two detectives. He had turned to her in what she now realized was mute appeal – save me from this. She remembered that look now – and it made her angry. He was not a stupid man; he had to have known the implications of what he was doing. One simply didn’t ‘borrow’ government funds, no matter how firm one’s intention to pay them back quickly, no harm done. But she couldn’t think about that, not now. There were too many urgent decisions to be made before she could afford the luxury of bitterness and recrimination.
She had to get her girls back to Dublin. And Katie and Lily. She owed the two women that much. They had been with her for almost fourteen years now; she didn’t want to lose them, didn’t know how she would ever manage without them. But that was a problem for later, for Dublin. She finished dressing, her impatient fingers fumbling with the tight row of covered buttons on the front of her dress. She sighed in exasperation when she finally reached the last button, only to find no matching fabric loop to close it. She must try to be patient; bad temper at half past six in the morning did not augur well for the rest of the day. And she had Eleanor to think of.
Methodically, she undid the buttons one by one, and hooked them closed again carefully, making sure she got it right this time. She swept her long hair up into a simple knot that would do until later and made her way downstairs. Sophia felt her way around the carved rope-edge of the table in the hallway until her fingers made out the shape of the drawer in the centre. She opened it and took out a flat box of matches. Placed directly above the drawer was the tall, heavy gas lamp, its mantle clouded and sulphurous. Once lit, the flame guttered, throwing shadows on the wall in front of her. It settled, quickly, into a warm yellow glow.
She carried it with her into the dining room, its light sending strange, elongated shadows up the walls and on to the stretch of ceiling beyond her writing-desk. She pulled down the leaf of her desk and balanced the lamp carefully beside her, to her right. She took out headed notepaper and envelopes from the small compartments above. She needed to do this quickly. Her father must know, as soon as possible, what had befallen them. He was the only one who could help her in Dublin, once she got home. He would get his letter by this evening. That would give him time to reply, if he needed to, before they took the train tomorrow night.
Sophia addressed the envelope swiftly, pulled more paper down on to the blotter. She would write to Constance MacBride. She was the only person she felt she could turn to in Belfast. The imperious, elderly lady was a curious mix: discreet when discretion was necessary, yet straight, honest to the point of bluntness. She was a legend in Belfast society: her connections spread throughout the city, an intricate, overlapping tapestry of business, politics and philanthropy. She would have her letter by mid-morning.
Sophia would be back home again by early afternoon, and all she could do then was wait. She knew that Constance MacBride would not let her down. She would come, bringing sympathy and the smallest possibility of something, anything, to be salvaged. Sophia allowed herself that one last hope. Other than that, there was nothing else she could do.
She was going to have to rely on the charity of others.
There was a tap on the drawing-room door.
‘Come in.’ Calmly, Sophia put down the papers in her hand and waited.
Lily curtsied.
‘It’s Mrs MacBride, ma’am.’
‘Show her in, Lily, and bring tea.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Sophia felt grateful to Lily. No matter what she thought or felt, she was keeping up the pretence of normality.
Constance MacBride swept into the room, bringing a waft of cold air and energy with her.
‘My dear,’ she said, her round, plain face full of concern. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Sophia returned the sympathetic pressure of her hand, unable to reply for a moment.
‘I’m very grateful to you for coming.’
‘Nonsense, my dear, I’m only too glad to help.’
Sophia waited until the older woman had settled herself on the sofa, her voluminous skirts spread out all around her. She stood up, then, agitated, and walked towards the window. She waited for a moment, making sure that she was composed enough to speak, that her voice would have no telltale tremor. Constance MacBride’s large, kindly presence had made her feel her humiliation all the more keenly. For the moment, she kept her eyes fixed on the window, seeing nothing.
‘I need to get my girls back to Dublin, as soon as possible. Everyone is going to know about Edward by tomorrow, and even if I could afford to keep them here, Belfast is no place for them to grow up, not with that kind of shame.’
She paused. She had said it. No question of Edward’s being innocent. That much had to be understood between them.
‘Your father will help you.’
There was only the slightest change in intonation at the end of the sentence, as if Constance MacBride feared giving offence by asking the question too openly. Sophia turned away from the window now, her face composed.
‘I wrote to him first thing this morning. I’ve asked him to meet us off the evening train tomorrow. I’ve just written to him again this afternoon, asking if he could help to place Lily and Katie.’
Sophia pressed on her temples with the tips of her fingers. The beginnings of another awful headache, right behind her eyes.
‘I don’t know if we’ll be able to keep them with us, but I have a duty towards them. On the other hand, I don’t want us to be too big a burden for my father.’
Sophia paused. Of all the ignominious things to happen to her, she felt that nothing could be worse than this. Had Edward set out to punish her, to avenge himself for some unknown crime against him, he could not have chosen better. What could he possibly have been thinking of?
As though reading her mind, Constance MacBride said softly: ‘You can tell an old woman to mind her own business if you wish, but have you any idea, my dear, any idea at all what drove Edward to do as he did?’
Sophia turned and looked at her sharply. The shrewd blue eyes were fixed on Sophia’s, their gaze unwavering.
‘How do you mean?’
Sophia felt herself react at once, stiffly, to the older woman’s choice of words, to their implicit criticism. Nobody ‘drove’ Edward to be dishonest, he chose to be so himself. She felt the beginnings of indignation that Constance MacBride might assume that she, Sophia, could be complicit in her husband’s wrongdoing. Nevertheless, there was a small germ of truth nudging at her from underneath the other woman’s words, from the calm, almost benign expression on her placid face.
They had fought about money a good deal, that was true. But Edward had an important position, a civil service appointment of great seniority. Such a position implied a certain lifestyle, the maintenance of a certain standard of social intercourse. They had to attend the theatre, the opera; they had to entertain on a reasonable scale. She had never been lavish or wasteful, she was sure of that. But appearances were important. And the girls had to be educated at a good school. If there was a different way to do such things, then she didn’t know what that way might be.
‘Perhaps he felt under pressure, my dear. Living well is not cheap.’
Sophia did not reply.
There was a moment’s awkwardness before Constance MacBride spoke again. This time, her tone was almost hesitant.
‘May I ask – are you sure . . . let me be direct, my dear: is your lawyer to your satisfaction?’
Sophia nodded. How could she know, never having needed one before? Pride stopped her from asking the older woman’s opinion of Morgan, Bradshaw and Company. The sting in the tail of Constance MacBride’s sympathy smothered Sophia’s reluctant impuls
e to ask for any other help. It was all too painful: she would soon owe even her daily bread to others. She would not crawl. Enough was enough.
Constance MacBride watched as the struggle played itself out on the younger woman’s face. She watched as Sophia’s mouth tightened, as pride battled with humiliation, as maternal duty fought with the natural resentment of the impotent. She decided to say nothing more. For a moment, she regretted her earlier outspokenness. Perhaps she could have helped more by saying less. But the moment had passed: it was too late now. Instead, she moved effortlessly into the next phase of the conversation.
‘You must leave the arranging of this house to me. I will see to it that your belongings are packed and sent on to you. You need not worry about anything here.’
She let her crisp, no-nonsense words hang in the air between them. She knew that at least she had left Sophia thinking, and that was no bad thing. She was a good woman, a good mother, there was no doubt about that. Her girls were a credit to her. But she had a blind spot; there was no doubt about that either. She was more than impressed by money, by the trappings of solid, respectable, not necessarily glamorous, wealth. Constance MacBride suspected that she had pushed her husband too far, that she demanded a manner of living way beyond Edward’s modest resources. He was a government man, after all; up until now, respectable to his fingertips; but no civil service posting, no matter how senior, was going to make him a fortune. Constance MacBride liked him, liked both of them, had warmed to their family. They were people for whom she felt a genuine, kindly impulse. She should like to help.
‘Let’s have a wee look at what we can do for you here before you go. What do the girls need?’
Another Kind of Life Page 6