Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  Finally, Hannah turned away from the mirror and gestured towards her mother, now waving at them furiously from the platform.

  ‘Let’s go, Ellie, and get this over with.’

  She led the younger girl towards the door, where a porter’s outstretched hand helped them both safely down the steps. Hannah kept her eyes lowered as they made their way up the platform towards the exit. She felt the familiar lurch in her chest as she thought about this life which others had decided for her. Once level with their mother, both girls stopped and waited obediently for her to take the lead.

  ‘Hannah, do look up.’

  Hannah did as she was told, startled by the unexpected change in her mother’s tone. It was no longer sharp; there was no sense of that edgy, unspoken anxiety that her eldest daughter was about to let the family down. Instead, the words had come almost as an appeal, with an undertow of resignation, a new sense of enduring the inevitable. Hannah was surprised: she had thought that those feelings were hers and hers alone. She searched her mother’s face, but could find no clue there, no change in the familiar expression. Her chin was resolute, her grey eyes directed down the platform as she searched for her husband.

  He was by now well in front, having made his way through the knotty crowds, a porter respectfully by his side. He had stopped just before he reached the barrier, waiting for his wife and daughters to catch him up. Hannah could see nervousness locked into every line of his body, in the way he pulled at his moustaches: first the left, then the right. She felt a hot surge of indignation as she looked at him. She was glad that he was suffering. She wanted him never to forget the last time his family had stood on this platform; she felt cruel enough to hope that he could still feel the shame of it all.

  Beyond her father’s slightly stooped shoulders, Hannah could make out the familiar outline of Constance MacBride – broad, squat, vastly hatted, apparently unchanged after five years. She was the one who had changed, Hannah realized, with a sudden, surprised stab of revelation. From thirteen to eighteen is a long time: enough to change from child to woman, enough to know the world a little more. From sixty-five to seventy is nothing, surely, just a very small proportion of a very old and unsurprising life. Beside Constance stood a tall, solid-looking figure, a man dressed in a black frock coat, already tipping his stovepipe hat to Hannah, his eyes, even at this distance, searching out hers.

  This was it, then. This was what she had fought about, dreaded, railed against for all these months. And now she was here. She walked towards him mechanically, no longer aware of Eleanor, of May, of her mother, or her father in the crowding distance. She was aware only that this would now be her future, that the rest of her years would be spent shadowed by the northern grimness she could once more feel all around her, as though she had never left. It was a city that she remembered without affection, a whole sea of memories upwashed by the harshness of the Belfast voices that now joked and jostled with each other in the air above her.

  For better or worse, she was home.

  Mary: Spring 1896

  FATHER MACVEIGH HAD written Mary a wonderful reference. He praised her honesty, her capacity for hard work, her resourcefulness. He read it to her slowly before folding the creamy notepaper in half and sealing it in a matching envelope.

  His eyes twinkled at her.

  ‘That good enough for you?’

  Mary smiled.

  ‘I hardly recognize meself, Father,’ she confessed.

  ‘Father Maguire has already spoken to the lady of the house, a Mrs Long, and she’s expecting you tomorrow. She wants her housekeeper to interview you. Just a formality, I’m sure, but put on your best bib and tucker, just in case.’

  ‘Is it a family, Father?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Aye, three children; I think the oldest’s nine. They’re one of Father Maguire’s wealthiest families, made their fortune in aerated waters, I believe.’

  Mary felt suddenly nervous. Now that she was effectively cutting her ties with Carrick Hill, she felt adrift, full of self-doubt. Since she and Myles had last spoken, he barely glanced in her direction any more. It might be her imagination, but it felt as if some of the warmth of the neighbours towards her had begun to cool, too. And Mrs McNiff was never at her downstairs window any more, where she used to perch for hours on end, her sharp eyes missing nothing of the comings and goings of the street.

  What if this didn’t work out? What if nobody wanted her? She knew that there was no going back, and going forward felt much more frightening now that it was real.

  ‘I have other possibilities up my sleeve,’ said Father MacVeigh. ‘You aren’t to become despondent if this one doesn’t work out.’

  He stood up, and opened the presbytery door for Mary.

  ‘The others are in Sydenham and in Malone Park. These new fancy houses seem to need an unending stream of servants. I think it’s a case of aping one’s neighbours.’

  His tone was dry, resigned. Mary didn’t really know what he meant, was too shy to ask. But she caught the undercurrent of disapproval, and it puzzled her. Why would anyone not want a nice house, nice things, far away from the bustle and grime of Belfast’s city centre?

  The following morning, Mary caught the tram just outside the railway station in Great Victoria Street, and positioned herself at the window. The tram was only half full, the early rush to work long over. Mary didn’t mind the journey. At least it was something different, and the fare was only tuppence from the city centre, no matter what the distance.

  She was nervous when she stepped out at Fortwilliam Park and tried to remember Father MacVeigh’s directions. Her hands were shaking a little, but at least their ugliness was concealed by Cecilia’s gloves. She had worn them for luck.

  She would try this household first, then Sydenham, then, finally, Malone Park. She would keep going until one of them took her on. All her other options were now closed off, some by the random hand of circumstance, some by her own choosing. She was dressed up in her Sunday best, and had trimmed her old hat with new flowers. The streets were wide and tree-lined and Mary breathed deeply, glad of the sensation that here there was more space and air, equal amounts for everyone.

  ‘I see you haven’t worked as a maid before.’ Mrs Long was looking doubtful, turning Father MacVeigh’s letter over in her hands. ‘I am glad to see that you have an excellent character reference. Do you think you would be able to manage the household duties?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am,’ said Mary eagerly.

  She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off the woman seated in front of her. She must have been about thirty, Mary reckoned. According to Father MacVeigh, she already had three children, the oldest nine years of age. Her hands were white and slender, her dress perfection. There was only the hint of fine lines around her eyes; no swathes of grey streaked her soft hair. Women in Carrick Hill who had three children were already stooped and faded, with straggling hair and several gaps where their teeth should be. Their constantly harassed expressions bore no resemblance to this woman’s serene face. And there wasn’t a child to be seen, or heard, anywhere.

  The room was like nothing Mary had ever seen before. It oustripped even Cecilia’s wildest imaginings. It looked out on to a glimpse of green garden, the window high and wide and draped with soft muslin. There was a writing-desk in the room, strewn now with sheets of paper covered in writing that was large and looping: an educated, confident hand. Above the desk itself, there were cubbyholes filled with different coloured papers, envelopes and what looked like the spines of notebooks. A pretty inkwell stood to one side, and a pen rested in the little dish beside it. To the left, there was a small brass bell which Mrs Long now took up and rang vigorously.

  ‘I think we’ll get Miss Mulqueen, my housekeeper, to have a chat with you. She runs the household very efficiently.’

  She paused for a moment, and almost smiled at Mary.

  ‘You would be her responsibility, should you be suitable.’

  Mary was imm
ediately nervous all over again. Another hurdle. Should she just go now, and avoid being told, ‘No – you’re not what we’re looking for’? Maybe she should just try one of the other houses, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so big and overpowering. But she had no chance to make her escape. Miss Mulqueen arrived almost at once. So quickly, in fact, that Mary wondered if she had been listening outside the door.

  ‘Are you sure you understand your duties? Tell me how your day would start.’

  Mary had followed Miss Mulqueen down to the basement, where they now sat at a vast, scrubbed, wooden table.

  She was dressed in the prim manner Mary soon learned to expect from all housekeepers: black dress, white collar, hair pinned back severely. There was one small, silver brooch clasped discreetly just under the point of her collar. Her eyes were pale and clear and she smelt of apples.

  ‘I’m to be up at six o’clock, miss, and open all the shutters downstairs. Then I’m to clean the range and light it, along with all the other fires in the house. Then I bring hot water to the washstands in all the bedrooms. While the master and mistress are dressing, I dust the dining room and lay the table for breakfast.’

  Mary stopped to draw breath. The list was endless, but she was undaunted. She could sense a seam of kindness in the other woman, and wanted, desperately, to have somewhere she could call home. Miss Mulqueen raised one hand. This time, she smiled.

  ‘That’s enough, Mary. I can see that you are bright, and quick. It won’t take us long to get you trained in. Your lack of experience is no hindrance, my dear, in fact it is a bonus. It means I won’t have to break you of any bad habits.’

  Mary could hardly hear her own voice over the beating of her heart.

  ‘Then the position is mine?’

  Miss Mulqueen looked at her, her expression grave.

  ‘You will have a trial period of one month. Then the position will be yours, for a further six months while you are being trained. Then, we will make our final decision. You will live in and, until you are trained, your salary will be eighteen pounds a year. Your half-day will be a Tuesday, for now, and, of course, some hours’ liberty on a Sunday. We shall look at all these issues again once you have gained sufficient experience.’

  Mary felt a great surge of happiness as she left Fortwilliam. Her room in the attic was small and cosy; her duties were nothing more nor less than she had done for Cecilia over the past two years, and she no longer had to worry where her next dinner was coming from.

  God had indeed smiled on her.

  Hannah: Summer 1898

  A YOUNG GIRL wearing an immaculately starched apron and a stiff, punishing white cap opened the front door as soon as they pulled up outside the MacBrides’ home at the top of Malone Park. Hannah managed to avoid Charles’s eye as he handed her out of the carriage. She wished that Constance MacBride would stop talking. Her voice was relentless. She had named every one of the city streets – from Great Victoria Street to Bradbury Place to University Road to Malone Road – as they’d passed through, offering details of their length and breadth and characteristics as some sort of sacred gift to her guests. She seemed astonished that the sisters remembered so little. Ellie was just a baby, Hannah wanted to fume at her, and May and I spent our time in boarding school. And have you forgotten that we all left in rather a hurry?

  Hannah spent most of the carriage journey imagining the impact of the words she knew she would never dare to speak aloud. She was grateful when their imprisonment ended, glad to be released from the stifling confines of the carriage’s hot interior. It was much easier to be busy once they reached the hallway. Hats had to be removed, coats hung on the hallstand, gifts and parcels despatched to God knows where around the vast house. Hannah thought she remembered its rooms vaguely, recalling some nameless afternoon in winter, years ago, when the heat had been tremendous. She had a blurry image of her mother and Constance MacBride on a sofa, teacups in hand, while she, May and Eleanor had been brought away to the kitchen for scones and milk.

  Margaret, a serving-girl little older than Eleanor, showed them all into the drawing room, and when they were seated – Constance MacBride and Hannah on the sofa, the others in armchairs scattered about the room – she curtsied her way out again, sent in search of tea. Constance MacBride pointed Eleanor to a small, stiff, high-backed chair, its tapestry somewhat faded, its whole purpose to keep its occupant bolt upright.

  ‘Sofas are bad for young people,’ she said to her, not unkindly. ‘Bad for the back; they encourage lazy posture.’

  Eleanor nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as though she’d just been given a great honour.

  Hannah felt sorry for her. Her soft eyes were already misted over with boredom; now she had to endure at least two or three hours of what passed in this house as adult conversation. May had almost disappeared into the background, sitting in a chair whose velvet covering was an almost exact match for the colour of her dress. Hannah admired her ability to withdraw herself from situations that promised to be uncomfortable. She simply seemed to fade away from company, to become separate, somehow, and discourage all attention. Poor Eleanor had no such opportunity: Hannah watched her as she tried to wriggle discreetly, defeated by the hard seat and the once again spectacular heat of the MacBrides’ drawing room. She was such a good little soul, so patient. Hannah was sorry she had no way of comforting her.

  ‘Did you find the journey pleasant, my dear?’

  Constance MacBride addressed herself directly to Hannah and the younger woman blushed. It was an acknowledgement of her new status, that of a woman about to be married. She sensed, rather than saw, her mother’s anxious look. Conscious, too, of Charles’s eyes on her, she kept her gaze resolutely away from both of them. She turned instead to Constance MacBride. And smiled.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Very pleasant indeed.’

  She felt the air in the room relax. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother cease to finger her pearls; her father finally left his moustaches alone. She hadn’t intended to make it easy for either of them, but now that she was here, Hannah felt the full weight of the century’s politeness settle around her shoulders like a yoke.

  Expectation filled the drawing room; it was almost as tangible as the heavy oak furniture around her, as delicately oppressive as the ornaments crowding every surface in the large room. She knew that something significant would be broken beyond repair if she publicly, humiliatingly, opposed her parents’ wishes. From the moment she had stepped off the train, she knew that she had given up the fight. There was no longer any point in pretending otherwise, to herself or to anyone else. The past few months seemed now to belong to another life, another person. She felt a sharp flush of bitterness, the acid taste of shameful self-knowledge. Was she really to be bought and sold so easily?

  She wondered about Charles. Was this as much of a trap for him as it was for her? Was he so much under the thumb of his imperious mother that he exercised no choice, made no decisions of his own? Or was she, Hannah, his last desperate attempt at escape? He was forty, only ten years younger than Papa. She knew he’d been at sea for almost twenty years. He must have seen the world, must have had other chances to marry, unless there was something wrong with him, some terrible defect in his nature. She knew nothing of his character, other than his seeming kindness. When he’d taken her hand at the railway station, and held her gaze with his, she had noticed, briefly, that his grip was warm, firm. Despite herself, that had pleased her. Mama had once said not to trust men with unemphatic handshakes.

  She would have welcomed the chance to observe him discreetly, but he stayed quietly in the background, his winged chair slightly to the left of the sofa which Hannah occupied with his mother. His gaze was making the back of her neck tingle. She’d have to look over at him soon, speak to him. But not yet. She intended to make him wait. At the same time, a small part of her was grateful for his unobtrusiveness.

  Tea finally arrived. All conversation ceased as one maid laid out the c
ups and saucers, plates and napkins, while the other put salvers of crustless cucumber sandwiches and scones on to the low table. Mrs MacBride waved the young girls away almost immediately.

  ‘All right, Margaret, Jane, you can both go. I’ll ring if I need more hot water.’

  The tea ceremony barely interrupted Mrs MacBride’s spirited tale of her late husband’s business interests. This monologue was directed solely towards Hannah’s father, who was sitting forward eagerly, thin forearms resting on his knees. Hannah felt her familiar contempt for his avidity, knew that he was once more absorbing this household’s wealth and status, silently congratulating himself again and again on, finally, a stroke of good fortune.

  Hannah was grateful for Constance MacBride’s volubility. She neither wanted, nor was expected, to reply. She wanted to block out her father’s greed, wanted not to hear the hidden text of negotiation and expectation that underlined every word her future mother-in-law uttered.

  She let her eyes take in the immensely cluttered details of the fashionably ugly drawing room. The wooden floors were dark and highly polished, only their borders visible beyond the soft depths of Chinese silk rugs. Whatnots, lacquered screens, luxuriant parlour palms – it seemed to Hannah that all movement was deliberately restricted here, that the only activity permitted was the art of conversation.

  ‘Sugar, my dear?’

  Hannah started. In one hand, Mrs MacBride held out the delicate bone-china cup and saucer like an accusation. In the other, she held the sugar bowl, with its silver tongs carved and ugly like turkeys’ claws. Hannah felt her stomach lurch with sudden nausea. The older woman kept looking at her. Her sharp eyes had registered Hannah’s distraction. They were eyes that missed nothing.