Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘Come in, please, and tell me your name again. Thank you so much for bringing me back my hat.’

  Mary followed her into the drawing room. She sat on the most uncomfortable chair she could find, while the young woman took the sofa, facing her unexpected visitor.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am,’ said Mary, quickly. She didn’t want to endure Betty’s baleful glare for a second time. She would put up with being thirsty, as long as she could get this over with.

  ‘My name’s Mary, ma’am, Mary McCurry. I understand you might be lookin’ for someone, to help about the house, like.’

  Nervously, she pulled Miss Mulqueen’s letter from the pocket of her coat. Abruptly, she stretched out her hand to the young woman who accepted the envelope, but didn’t open it. Instead, she smiled across at Mary.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Mary continued, words tumbling over each other in their rush to get said. She described her duties at the Long household, her expertise in washing, cleaning, scrubbing, mending. She told of her diligence as a willing worker, her ability to turn her hand to anything. Slyly, she mentioned the layette she had created for Baby Long, and was immediately terrified that she had made a dreadful mistake. Was it bad luck to mention the dead baby in the presence of the living? As it was, the young woman never seemed to notice; she was much more intent on listening to all the things which Mary was promising to do for her.

  Now that she was here, now that Mary had caught the briefest glimpse of sea and sky and fresh air, she wanted a future in this household, with this young woman and her child, her future children. It was one of those moments that could have no sensible explanation in the world of real things, tangible objects. It was an instinct, a feeling that she had arrived somewhere which might become home, that memories of Cecilia would be welcome here. And soon, there would be a baby to love. Someone else’s, to be sure, but a baby, nevertheless.

  ‘. . . I’m strong an’ I’m willin’, an’ I don’t know of no work in the house that’s beyant me.’

  Mary paused here in her long speech and looked steadily across at this elegant, beautiful young woman, who was probably not much older than she was. She kept her trembling hands as still as she could, almost holding her breath.

  Hannah listened carefully as Mary outlined all the household tasks she insisted she would undertake. She couldn’t even remember the duties, let alone the moral qualities required for this position – Charles’s mother would no doubt have a long and daunting list. But she didn’t care: this was a choice she wanted to make for herself. Betty had more or less come with the house, passed down by previous tenants like some well-used piece of furniture, still comfortable, but with sharp edges and fraying fabric becoming more noticeable with every passing year. Her character had been above reproach, of course, since she had once kept house for the parish priest. And the elderly woman had certainly done her best, although she complained constantly about being tired. Hannah had got used to her bossy ways, but now she wanted somebody different, younger, someone just like the girl sitting in front of her.

  Hannah felt more and more alarmed as the number and the details of Mary’s litany of essential household duties continued to grow. Was this really what this girl’s life was about – emptying chamber pots, lugging coal, black-leading the range, pummelling dirty laundry by hand, as well as cooking, mending, helping with a baby? She would have to speak to Charles – surely that was far too much work for one woman? She wanted to tell Mary to stop: her eagerness to be the perfect maid-of-all-work was beginning to make Hannah distressed. She was about to interrupt when she got the strong sense that the list was coming to an end. She heard Mary’s tone of voice change to one of pride, of satisfaction in her own expertise.

  ‘. . . I’m strong an’ I’m willin’,’ she concluded, ‘an’ I don’t know of no work in the house that’s beyant me.’

  Hannah caught the small gesture with which she tried to calm the nervous shaking of her hands. She didn’t need to hear any more.

  ‘Thank you for that, Mary. I think you’ll be very suitable. We don’t intend to stay in this house for too long – my husband has acquired a property on High Street, and we’ll be moving shortly. It would be good to have you to help with that.’

  Hannah put the letter aside, on a table to her right. Her mother-in-law could look at what it contained, if she wished. She, Hannah, had no desire to. She sat back, folded her hands and waited for Mary to say something.

  Mary heard the words, but not their meaning. She stared stupidly around her, disbelieving. Was it, could it possibly be, as easy as that? She couldn’t speak. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Mary could feel the words form, somewhere towards the back of her throat, but she couldn’t breathe life into them. She felt her face grow warm and glowing under the other woman’s scrutiny. Finally, the words she wanted to say exploded into sound. Her voice sounded shrill, higher than normal, she could hear it echo loudly, too loudly, inside her own head. She hoped she wasn’t shouting.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. You’ll not regret it. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll write to Miss Mulqueen this evening. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll go through your duties. I’d like you to start as soon as possible.’

  ‘Miss Mulqueen has already spoken very highly of you to my mother-in-law, and I understand you have received excellent training. You will be paid twenty-four pounds a year, plus your board and lodging.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll come back at the same time tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be very suitable.’

  The woman smiled at her again, a slow, warm smile that Mary had to believe was sincere. Her whole face smiled, not just her mouth. She, too, seemed to be relieved that this was over.

  Mary couldn’t believe her luck. Had she finally landed on her feet? She thought suddenly of Ma, of her stubborn lack of belief in good luck, in anything being put down to mere good fortune. If things go well, she’d always say, then God’s hand has touched you.

  The young woman, whom Mary suddenly remembered was called Mrs MacBride, opened the front door herself, and waited until Mary had reached the gate.

  She called out ‘Goodbye, Mary.’ And then, ‘Mind your hat!’

  Mary laughed out loud.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs MacBride – thank you!’

  She set off down High Street towards the station, her heart lighter than she could ever remember. She almost wished her hat would blow away – it would give her some excuse to use up the exuberant bubble of energy which seemed to rise from her feet to the top of her head, making her feel dizzy, tingly, as though her blood had just been aerated. She could imagine herself skipping down the street, just as she had done when she and Cecilia were only wains, even throwing her hat into the air with sheer delight. She cried, just a little, that her sister hadn’t lived to be part of this. That woman, young Mrs MacBride, was a kind person, Mary was sure of it. If God was good, this would be her home; she would never ask Him for another thing, not for as long as she lived.

  Hannah watched as Mary made her way down the garden path. She felt suddenly grateful for the comfortable life which was now hers. This young woman couldn’t be any more than twenty-four or twenty-five, and yet there was almost an oldness to her, some indefinable sense of lived experience that had nothing to do with her years. She felt suddenly, overwhelmingly, fortunate. She was glad that she had been able to do something small for Mary – even though she was really doing something for herself, her own ease. She sighed. It seemed that everyone’s existence was not as carefully mapped for comfort as hers.

  She was still astonished at the speed with which her own life had suddenly taken off – a little like the hat’s manic flight down High Street. Some things had been so easy – getting used to a new home, a new town, making domestic decisions herself, however small, even living apart from her sisters. In many ways, it had been a momentous year, but Hannah still didn’t have the feeling that all
these things were really happening to her. Being a wife, almost a mother, was like gradually being transformed into a whole new person. It was as though she had successfully acquired all the trappings of a grown up, without actually having to be one. She knew she had blushed slightly when she said ‘my husband’: it still sounded strange to her ears.

  And now it seemed that yet another hurdle had been overcome: she had just employed her first servant. Try as she would, she couldn’t help feeling other than ridiculously pleased with herself about that.

  May: Spring 1900

  MAY HATED PARIS. Once Nathalie and Jean-Louis had returned to school, she found the days on her own long and dreary. Her room was a tiny one, tucked into a far corner of the vast apartment, beside the cupboards where trunks and suitcases were stored. All the openness of the countryside was gone; she felt hemmed in, overwhelmed by brick and concrete. She had spent a lot of time there, in the first couple of weeks, growing accustomed to the sounds and smells of apartment life around her. The small slatted window above her bed gave out on to a courtyard, a busy place, full of washing lines; only the backs of buildings were visible here, their grimy, paint-flaking ugliness trapped in almost permanent shadow.

  And there was no word from Philippe; nothing. May’s only terrified consolation was that she had bled as normal, the month after their return from the countryside. In Philippe’s absence, May’s abhorrence of what they had done was almost absolute. What had seemed so natural, so right for betrothed lovers at the time, now took on another mantle entirely. What if she had conceived? All of Philippe’s declarations of love now seemed hollow, meaningless. May grew both angry and ashamed of herself as she tried to pry information out of the two children. She collected them from school each afternoon, and walked them home the long way, stopping off in a small local park where she felt she could breathe among the greenery. But the children knew nothing. Philippe seemed to be part of their summer lives only. May gathered that once Paris and school came around, it was natural to them that he went away again, appearing only at the occasional weekend, arriving on birthdays, Christmas, special times like that. She tried to find some hope, some comfort in their childish acceptance of Philippe’s absence; but try as she might, one small inner voice kept insisting that Philippe could have come to her, his wife in all but name, if he’d really tried.

  By December, May was missing everything and everyone that had once been familiar to her with an intensity that was close to physical pain. Hannah, Eleanor, Philippe, Rouen, Ireland – everything got mixed up into a constant ache that was there even during sleep. She had made brave efforts to get to know Paris. She felt she owed it to Grandfather Delaney. But nothing worked: not the galleries, not the arrogant beauty of the imperial buildings, not even the wide grandeur of the Champs-Elysées with its lively pavement cafes. If this was travel, then she wanted no more of it. May reflected bitterly that, if her grandparents could see her now, they would have very little to be proud of.

  And then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, Philippe came back. She heard his voice in the hallway of the apartment just as she was finishing Nathalie’s bedtime story. The wave of relief that accompanied the sound of his return washed away all the unhappiness of the previous three months. He was here – he had kept his promise. How could he have come sooner? Marseilles was so far away, and his father’s business so demanding.

  ‘Well, Nathalie, are you being a good girl?’

  He seemed to burst into the little girl’s room, full of energy and purpose. May watched as he sat on the edge of Nathalie’s bed and she leapt up, wrapping her small arms around his neck.

  ‘Philippe! Philippe! You’re back!’

  He laughed at her, teasing her in French which was too rapid, too colloquial for May to catch. She didn’t know what to do with herself. Should she wait, settle Nathalie after his departure? Or should she make her escape now, while she was still able? She was conscious of a slow burn of anger, felt his high good humour as keenly as another rejection.

  ‘And Mademoiselle O’Connor? Are you well?’

  His voice was jovial, as impersonal as any employer.

  ‘Yes, very well, thank you,’ she said, meeting his eyes.

  ‘Good, good! A moment, please!’

  Before May knew what to do, how to respond, he had ushered her out of Nathalie’s room into the narrow corridor. He closed the child’s door softly.

  ‘May,’ he said, and pulled her to him. She knew they were well hidden from the main room: the only danger was from the kitchen. May understood this in an instant and her anger suddenly took flight. What did he think she was? How long did he expect her to live her life waiting for him, skulking in servants’ quarters?

  With a strength she never knew she possessed, she pushed him away from her. She could feel her face colour, her whole body tingle with an energy she hadn’t felt since he’d left her.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ he whispered, his hands extended beseechingly. ‘I had no way of getting in touch. This is the first time I’ve been able to get away. Meet me at this address, tomorrow afternoon – please, give me the chance to explain.’

  He pushed what felt like an envelope into her clenched hand. May stood unmoving. She couldn’t reply, didn’t trust herself to speak. There was laughter from the dining room, a voice calling: ‘Where’s he gone? Where’s Philippe?’

  She left before he did. She turned on her heel and walked quickly down the long corridor to Jean-Louis’s bedroom. She knocked once, then let herself in and closed the door behind her.

  Paris had never looked less appealing. Grey early morning rain spread great swathes of darkness across the roofs and sheeted down the dull facades of shuttered buildings. It felt as if the whole city had closed its eyes on her, turned its back resolutely against her. Madame Ondart had bid her a cold, formal farewell in the dining room last night before the silent dinner had been served and endured.

  May still didn’t know how they had found out. At first, she’d thought that it shouldn’t matter, that Philippe would simply make his announcement about their engagement immediately, rather than delaying until his father’s health was better. Frankly, May had seen nothing wrong with Monsieur’s health: he seemed as robust and as objectionable as ever. In the eight weeks since Christmas, Philippe had returned from Marseilles only three times. Each time, he had sworn to May that he loved her, pleaded with her to understand that the time was not right. They must wait until he was back in Paris permanently before announcing their intention to marry.

  On his last visit, they had quarrelled.

  ‘I will wait for you, Philippe. I will even come to Marseilles. But I will not live a lie. You must tell your father, or I will have to believe that you have changed your mind. Please, just tell me the truth.’

  He had raged at her then, even wept a little. Of course he loved her, but she did not, could not understand. He could not assault his father with an announcement such as that – not while his whole business empire was crumbling right before his eyes. They had parted, tearfully, Philippe swearing his devotion.

  Soon after his departure, something changed in the atmosphere of the Ondart household. Nothing was said to May at any stage about Philippe, about the impossibility of such a match in Monsieur and Madame’s eyes, about their disappointment in her. Instead, everything was cloaked in obliquity.

  Suddenly, there was a great flurry of activity. Preparations for travel were undertaken with astonishing speed. Isabelle grumbled as she shook out the dust covers she had so recently folded and put away.

  Madame spoke to May with the greatest formality possible. It was unfortunate that Monsieur’s business now demanded their immediate departure for Marseilles. Unfortunate, too, that the children had not made more progress in their language studies. But many thanks to Mademoiselle O’Connor for her best efforts. The children would now be sent as boarders to the Ecole Internationale, where no doubt all Mademoiselle’s hard work on their behalf would ease the transition into their new envir
onment. Of course, her salary for the remaining four months would be paid to her on her departure, naturellement. She and Monsieur Ondart would most assuredly keep their side of the bargain. Mademoiselle would of course understand that the children must not on any account be upset. As yet, they were not aware of the changes planned for them, and Mademoiselle would make very sure that she let nothing slip.

  May had sat unspeaking through the long speech as Madame Ondart regarded her across the polished table, already set for an early dinner.

  Her throat felt constricted, her chest made of stone. She could feel Genevieve trying to be kind, nudging her gently as she served the soup until a sharp reproof from Madame sent her swiftly back to the kitchen. May had not understood all that was said; the French was too sharply dismissive for her to catch, although the sense was clear. Monsieur said nothing, as usual, except complain loudly to the air, in great staccato bursts, about the quality of his burgundy. Large, sudden hand movements accompanied his complaints, filling the air around him like smoke after gunfire.

  The children had been brought to say goodbye to her, one by one before bedtime. They shook hands with her, their faces filled with the sudden shyness she remembered from her first days with them. She wanted to stoop and kiss Nathalie, to ruffle Jean-Louis’s hair and tease him about his latest passion for stick insects, to watch his slow serious smile once he realized she was having fun with him; but Madame had already warned her.

  ‘The children have been told you are going on a journey. They understand you will be back. In time, they will forget. Their father and I do not wish them to be upset. Bid farewell to them simply and quickly. We’ll have no displays of emotion.’

  No displays of emotion. May repeated it to herself now, over and over, wanting to feel the keen bite of its bitterness, wanting it to hurt. Anger was the only thing which would help her keep control until all of this was over and she was home. She wanted to be home, now, without having to get home. The thought of the journey wearied her. Train to Calais, boat to Dover, train again to London, then Liverpool, ferry to Belfast. At least Eileen’s birth had made May’s journey to Holywood seem natural, understandable: of course she would want to be with her sister during such a momentous time. And she wouldn’t have to face Mama on her own, to feel the keen edge of her sharp eye just yet. If only for a few days, she would have peace with Hannah, who would understand everything. Her sister, at least, wouldn’t make her feel that she had, somehow, let everyone down. The baby’s fortunate timing took away the need for explanations, evasions, half-truths. May knew that she could not have kept her secret from her mother.