He waited until her tears had subsided.
‘It’s very early days, Mary,’ he said gently. ‘You haven’t even begun to get over Cecilia yet. Being among strangers, especially in service, would be very difficult for you – you can’t leave your grief behind, you know. You must take it with you.’
‘I know that. I just can’t stay here, knowing I’ll never get out, not for the rest of my life.’
‘And Myles McNiff?’
‘He’s a good man, so he is, but he’s trapped here, just like the rest of us. Father, I have to go while I still can.’
The priest sighed.
‘Very well, Mary. Of course I’ll help you. I’ll get in touch with Father Maguire, he’ll have plenty of contacts. I’ll come by and see you on Friday.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ And Mary fled.
It was done. Five more days and she’d know. She’d take all the work York Street would give her in the meantime. Work all day, stay close to home all night, out of Myles’s way. She could do it, she knew she could.
Hannah: Spring 1898
NOT ONE WORD was spoken in the brougham.
Hannah forced herself to be quiet, while the air between her parents seemed to fizz and crackle. She was not going to break this explosive silence: there was too much at stake to rush into pleas, demands, explanations. They would all have to wait until home.
She kept her eyes lowered. Her parents radiated that peculiar warm stillness of suppressed anger, a stillness long familiar to their eldest daughter. Hannah had learned to feel its presence between them, could measure its intensity by the shape of an eyebrow, the curve of a lip.
Every line of her mother’s profile spoke of agitation. In the seat opposite, her father kept his gaze directed out the window, but Hannah could tell he was looking at nothing in particular. His thumbs were anchored firmly to his waistcoat pockets – a sure sign that he was keeping his hands under control, resisting the urge to finger his moustaches.
Hannah was pleased that whatever rage they were suppressing no longer had the power to distress her. She had discovered a new and secure sense of herself, a quietness inside that was unusual. She felt that she was invulnerable. Whatever it was they had to say to her, she was ready for them. She felt calm, determined, ready for a fight.
All sorts of new possibilities had been expanding before her in the last few weeks. The joy of her musical talent seemed to have opened out her life before her, like the bright promise of water. Opportunities to be other than she was, to live a different kind of life, to be fulfilled and independent of her parents – all this seemed to be there for the taking now, unfolding before her astonished eyes. Miss de Vere’s praise and Hannah’s own growing confidence made her life feel like hers, in a way she had never imagined. She would do anything to hold on to that new vision of herself, now that she was, at last, certain of the kind of life she wanted. She needed to tread carefully. Hannah felt strongly that whatever was about to happen this afternoon must not affect the shape of her future; she had to make sure of that.
Sister Claire had come fussing into the classroom during French. There was some urgent whispering between her and Mademoiselle. The girls had looked up eagerly then; any distraction was worthwhile, anything to relieve the monotony of irregular verbs in the passe compose. Mademoiselle looked directly at Hannah and nodded. For a moment, Hannah felt a faint flutter of excitement. Was it something to do with the scholarship? Was Miss de Vere waiting for her, nursing the news that would help her change her life?
The other girls were all looking at her. There was some nudging and whispering as she gathered up her books. She didn’t care. There had been a slight frostiness in the air towards her once it became known that Miss de Vere and Sister Claire had singled her out for special attention, that she was the school’s great hope for the Royal Irish Academy of Music. Now some of the faces around her were smug. They seemed to know something she didn’t. Their eyes wished disappointment on her. That’s what you get, they seemed to say, for thinking you’re better than everyone else.
Hannah followed Sister Claire down the corridor. The elderly nun said nothing, just glided along the polished floors, the skirts of her black habit sweeping along smoothly. She looks as though she’s on wheels, Hannah thought, wanting to giggle.
The principal opened the door to her office, bustled over to her desk, and nodded at Hannah to close the door behind her. She seemed nervous, more edgy and fussy even than usual.
‘Your parents are coming this afternoon to collect you, Hannah,’ she said briskly, seeming to recover her composure once they were safely inside her territory. She immediately began rearranging the papers on her desk. Hannah felt stung by her curtness, as though she had already been rudely dismissed. ‘You will need to gather up your things.’ The nun’s long fingers seemed to become even busier; she had eyes only for her task.
Hannah looked at her stupidly, not understanding.
‘Why, Sister Claire?’ she said.
It was a genuine question, not a challenge to authority. Hannah felt everything around her sag somehow, slow down, while her heart speeded up. Why were Mama and Papa coming for her like this? How long would she have to be away? She began to experience real fear, a new and profound sense of her own powerlessness. She didn’t want to be taken home. She didn’t want to be taken anywhere. She waited for an answer, still looking at Sister Claire. The nun grew cross under the girl’s scrutiny. With an obvious effort, she raised her eyes.
‘I understand that you have made . . . certain arrangements . . . with Miss de Vere. Arrangements of which your parents do not necessarily approve.’
‘Do you mean the scholarship, Sister Claire?’
Hannah was immediately relieved – if that was the problem, then she was ready, eager to solve it. Miss de Vere was so much on her side that, together, they could persuade anyone of the rightness of what they proposed. A God-given talent, Miss de Vere had said. Who would want to thwart a gift from God?
‘I am not privy to all the details, Hannah,’ Sister Claire said stiffly, and Hannah knew she was lying. She had given her approval to Miss de Vere, Hannah was sure of that. No teacher in the school moved without permission from Sister Claire. She would have given it willingly, Hannah suspected, would have wanted to see the school covered in glory, basking in the success of one of its pupils. We did that, she’d be able to say; that’s the sort of girl the Loreto produces. Now she was taking a step back, abdicating all responsibility once the possibility of conflict with parents arose. Hannah wanted to say all of this, but knew that she couldn’t. Perhaps if she remained calm, kept her composure, she could still get what she wanted.
Sister Claire dismissed her brusquely, and sent her off to the dormitory to pack. As Hannah made her way down the corridor she deliberately tried to slow down her frantic thoughts. She made herself think back to less than two months ago, to the day when she had played one of Chopin’s nocturnes for Miss de Vere. Nothing could have changed that much, surely not within two short months? She wanted to feel the exhilaration of that day again, that sense of expanding possibilities, of a future there for the taking. She closed her eyes, remembering the stillness that had enveloped her once she’d sat down to play. Miss de Vere sat silent, as usual, to her right, one hand poised to turn the pages of Hannah’s well-thumbed manuscript. Her pencilled notes were everywhere, guiding her pupil, focusing her technique. Once Hannah had begun to play for her, she felt time slip away somewhere; it was no longer a measurable quantity. She felt far from her surroundings, worlds away from everything that was familiar. Her spirit began to respond to the music in a way that was new and aching in its tenderness.
As the last notes died away, Miss de Vere had stood up from her chair and clapped loudly, enthusiastically. Her normally pale, rather anxious face was pink with delight, and now she clasped her hands together for emphasis. Her small figure was suddenly animated, as though lit from within.
‘Hannah, that was wonderful, truly wo
nderful! Your playing was simply flawless.’
Hannah found the courage to look directly into her teacher’s eyes. She felt proud of what she had achieved, full of warmth towards the woman who had made it possible.
‘Thank you, Miss de Vere. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’m very grateful.’
Hannah blushed as she spoke, feeling the colour creep up her cheeks. She had practised her words of gratitude silently, over and over, for days now. She admired Miss de Vere as she admired no other person in her life. She wanted, passionately, to be like her. Her selfless dedication to her music, to her pupils, to her life as a teacher inspired Hannah, made her long for the same sort of life for herself.
She’d had a recurring daydream over the last few weeks as they had worked closely together on piece after piece, preparing for the school’s end-of-year recital. She had even become a little embarrassed by the vividness of her fantasy, often looking around her guiltily in class in case one of the nuns or one of the other girls was looking at her, knowing what she was thinking. She was terrified they would think her foolish. She had imagined both of them, an unchanged Miss de Vere and her older self, working together, teaching music, perhaps even running their own school. She had never thought about her future properly before, never really looked further than the end of her last term. But since last September, she hadn’t been able to stop wondering what would happen to her once the security and predictability of boarding school were finally behind her. She had found herself longing to talk to Mama and Papa about what was to become of her. Over the past months, she had had the growing feeling that she was, at last, discovering the purpose of her own life.
She began to feel calmer. She welcomed the slow return of confidence in her own abilities: that glowing sense that had become stronger, more familiar over the weeks of constant, exhausting playing. Once Mama and Papa really knew, really understood that she was good, truly good, they would give her their blessing, surely. After all, they were both musical – Mama had a fine soprano voice, Papa loved opera. Perhaps it was something to do with money; perhaps they were worried about fees, didn’t understand that there would be a scholarship. Without that, of course, she would never dream . . .
Hannah wondered what exactly Miss de Vere had written to her parents. Perhaps her letter had been such an unexpected thing that they were disturbed by the novelty of what it proposed, anxious on their daughter’s behalf. Perhaps all they needed was reassurance. Withholding their approval for now did not mean that they would never give it, surely?
All traces of calm suddenly evaporated and Hannah’s head began to ache with the unexpected complications of what last week had seemed so desirable, so simple. She would make them proud of her, then they would see the justness of what she wanted. They would see her at the end-of-year recital, would appreciate that she wasn’t just a competent musician, but that she had real talent. She would remind them of the parable that was one of Grandfather’s favourites: talents were to be used, not buried.
There would be no help from Sister Claire anyway, that much was clear. By the time she got to the dormitory, her trunk had already been retrieved for her from the trunk room. It stood beside the bed, shiny and still new-looking. Hannah found its presence somehow menacing. It was only a trunk, she told herself impatiently, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that its presence right here, now, conveyed an unhappy truth. It was too large, too solid – it spoke of long journeys, long absences from what she now regarded as her home.
Quickly, she put some of her clothes and books in, leaving the rest in her cupboard. She’d be back in a day or so. Her pieces for the recital still weren’t perfect, particularly Satie’s strange and exciting ‘Trois Sarabandes’. She knew they needed more work, but she’d have time enough for that. She stacked the sheet music neatly on the top shelf, ready for her return. Miss de Vere would wait for her, as demanding and exacting as ever. She must talk to her now, before Mama and Papa arrived. She needed urgently to find out what the letter had told them, even what Sister Claire had said before she had so cravenly changed her mind. She needed to reassure herself that she had a strong chance of one of the scholarships, at least. Once she knew that for sure, she was prepared to do whatever fighting it took.
Hannah desperately did not want to let this chance go, did not want to be an ornament in her parents’ drawing room, waiting until the time came to show off her accomplishments to some suitable man. She did not want to be condemned to a life of drawing pretty pictures, playing party songs on the piano and leaving visiting cards at all the most suitable homes in Dublin. That was not going to be her life. She had glimpsed another way, a way which promised dedication, usefulness, a life of significance. Even if she never became a performer, even if she weren’t nearly good enough for that, she could still be like Miss de Vere, and teach. She tried to respect her mother and father, always: knew that it was her duty as their daughter to do so. But she also knew, from unhappy past experience, that parents were not always right.
She left the dormitory quickly, taking the back stairs to the music room, in case she was stopped on the main staircase. She listened outside the door for a moment; no lesson was going on. Miss de Vere must be in there on her own. Gently, Hannah knocked on the door. No answer. She tried again, knocking harder this time. Still nothing. She tried the handle, turning it slowly, noiselessly. It wouldn’t give. She was surprised. Never, in almost five years, had the music-room door been locked. Pupils were always free to enter at any time, to practise whenever they had a spare moment. Miss de Vere had never believed in constant supervision: she believed her pupils had a duty to develop the skills of independent learning.
There was the distinctive sound of wheels on gravel. Keeping carefully to one side, Hannah looked out the window opposite the music room, knowing already what she would see. The door opened and Papa descended from the brougham, holding his hand out to Mama, who followed. It couldn’t be helped, she’d have to go.
Hannah ran along the corridor again, down the back stairs, around the corner and into the dormitory once more. She sat on her bed, as though she’d been waiting there all the time. Sister Louisa, a sweet old nun who no longer taught due to her failing sight, appeared at the doorway a couple of minutes later.
‘Hannah O’Connor? Sister Claire is waiting for you.’
‘Thank you, Sister Louisa.’
The elderly nun gestured towards Hannah’s trunk.
‘Don’t worry, dear. We’ll get Mr Peters to bring it to the carriage for you.’ She hesitated for a moment, then placed her hand gently on Hannah’s arm. She peered up at her, her weak blue eyes magnified hugely by the thick lenses of her glasses. ‘Such a shame, my dear,’ she whispered. ‘You have always been a delightful pupil, a real asset to the school.’
Hannah smiled at her.
‘I’m not leaving, Sister Louisa, at least, not for good. I’m just going home for a day or so. My parents – I, that is we – have some things to discuss. But I’ll be back again. Can you tell Miss de Vere for me in case I don’t see her before I go?’
The old nun looked confused. She patted Hannah’s hand distractedly, said, ‘Yes, yes, my dear, of course,’ and then led the way to the front parlour, where all guests were received.
Hannah knocked on the door. She entered immediately. There was no sign of Sister Claire. Mama was seated by the old fireplace, Papa was standing, his back to her, looking out the large window into the gardens.
She kissed both of them.
‘Mama, Papa, I’d like it very much if we could try to see Miss de Vere . . .’
Before she’d even finished speaking, her mother stood up.
‘That won’t be possible, Hannah. There are some matters your father and I need to discuss with you, at home. We are leaving at once.’
Hannah looked from one to the other. Tension was etched deeply into the lines at the sides of her mother’s mouth. Her face was closed, empty of all expression. Her eyes were looking down at her hands as
she pulled on her gloves. Her father’s face looked deeply shadowed; he wouldn’t leave his moustaches alone.
Hannah decided to stay silent. The convent parlour was not the place, this was obviously not the time. She followed her mother out the door. When she got outside, her trunk had already been safely stowed in the brougham.
They made their way quickly around St Stephen’s Green. The rapid blurring of the railings as they passed made Hannah feel slightly dizzy. Her stomach began to feel restless, edging towards nausea. But she would not look away. She had decided to gaze intently out the window to keep her eyes directed away from her parents. Any glance, any movement might break the deepening silence, and Hannah was determined not to speak now until she was home. She turned slightly away from them, seeming to find much to interest her in the carriages lined up outside Harcourt Street Station, and the purposeful air of passengers on their way to and from the trains. It started to rain as they made their way down the Rathmines Road, one of those always unexpected April cloudbursts. Hannah watched as the Town Hall receded into the distance, its facade darkening as the rain soaked everything on the street within minutes. Some young men dashed for shelter under the trees, women struggled with their umbrellas. It was all so ordinary. Other people’s lives just carried on as normal. Hannah held on to the window frame as the brougham turned sharply up the Rathgar Road. Just one more turn into Highfield Road, and then they would be home.
Hannah was conscious of her heartbeat beginning to quicken. She glanced anxiously in her parents’ direction, but nothing had changed. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself for the last few moments of the journey. She decided to close her eyes then and play to herself the final notes of Chopin’s Nocturne, Opus 15, No. 1. Hannah could see the sheet music before her, her fingers resting on the gleaming keys of the piano; could hear the dying notes, as clear and resonant as the day she had performed for Miss de Vere. She remembered the sudden elation she had felt, the strong sense that something wonderful had just happened. Her fingertips thrilled with the memory of their own success. She had done well that afternoon, and she knew it.
Another Kind of Life Page 15