Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  She would do it, too. She had always had a determined, independent streak, ever since she was a small child. And May could see that she had grown and matured an amazing amount in the nine months since they had last seen each other. Of all three sisters, it seemed that only the youngest was destined to be a New Woman, deciding her life for herself, supported by work and purpose. Everyone was moving towards something new, something different, while she, May, was imprisoned, her will paralysed by the events of the last several months.

  She had a suddenly terrifying vision of herself spending the rest of her unwilling life under her parents’ roof, perhaps nursing them long into infirmity and old age. Her life stretched before her as something that would belong to her by default only – no choice of hers, right or wrong, would bring its circumstances about, but simply the cruel randomness of chance. The spinster daughter, the one who was left behind. The one forced into blind and dutiful obedience long into the resentfulness of a childless middle age.

  Panic-stricken, she fled the dining room, and ran silently up the stairs to her bedroom. She poured water from the ewer into the basin on her washstand, immersing her hands in the cool depths. Trembling, she bent down and splashed her aching forehead. She felt trapped, as though all hope for another kind of life must be abandoned.

  Single, alone, unwanted. She could not, would not, allow that to happen.

  Eleanor’s Journal

  I WAS VERY glad to hear the news that Hannah’s confinement had gone smoothly, and that she had been safely delivered of a baby girl. I am sure it is no compliment to myself to say that I welcomed the distraction which the recent arrival of my parents’ first grandchild afforded me. I was no longer the focus of their attention. Mama now had somewhere else to direct the overspill of her emotions. Papa could remain quite happily in the background, secure in the knowledge that no one was about to interrupt his daily lethargy, now that a beautiful, healthy baby had arrived to fill the gaps in everyone’s life.

  And Eileen was a delightful baby. I had been so looking forward to seeing her, and was only a little disappointed that May was chosen as the godmother, and not I. I was very surprised when she wrote of her early return from Paris – something about her family’s need to relocate to Marseilles. I did not believe a word of it. The tone of her letter was so subdued, so bleak almost, that I knew something terrible must have happened. As usual, Mama either feigned ignorance, or genuinely did not understand this; Papa continued to be oblivious to all but himself.

  Of the many journeys to Belfast my parents and I had shared, this one was without doubt the happiest. We were going towards something wonderful for once in our lives, rather than retreating from something unspeakable. We conversed freely, at least Mama and I did, and she reminisced about all our babyhoods, occasionally calling upon my father to validate her memories. It struck me for the first time that our very earliest years must have been the happiest time of Mama’s life. Thereafter, there seemed to be some sad, complicated relationship between our growing up and the increase in her discontent.

  Charles was waiting for us at the train station. He had the air of a man who was very pleased with himself. He was his usual polite and friendly self, and treated me with exaggerated courtesy. He answered Mama’s endless questions about her new granddaughter, answered them with generosity and humour, and the journey to Holywood passed pleasantly enough. He was lavish in his praise of his first daughter – the brightest, the prettiest, the best-behaved little infant who ever drew breath. I thought him quite endearing.

  Amid much embracing and kissing on our arrival at Hannah’s new home, I caught my first sight of May. Something within me felt squeezed, as though a painful pressure had been slowly exerted around my heart. I went straight to her and put my arms around her. I hugged her as hard as I could.

  ‘Oh, Ellie,’ was all she said.

  It was enough. I could hear the sound of her heart breaking in the way she said my name. I didn’t press her, didn’t beg for explanations. I knew my sisters well enough to know that I would be told, again, that I was too young, I wouldn’t understand, she’d tell me when I was older. I didn’t mind. I knew that May had Hannah, and that she would tell her eventually what was troubling her. I also knew that she hadn’t done so yet – the weight of her unshared burden was all too visible around her.

  She did her best to conceal her unhappiness. I don’t think that anyone else noticed. I tried not to watch her too closely during the days before and after the christening, but I was glad when Richard made her smile.

  I have always found this to be a strange irony between me and my sisters. They used to think, perhaps still do think, that youth somehow precludes emotional understanding – intuition, if you will. Never mind that there are precious few years separating all of us anyway – years that seem to become less and less significant as we all grow older. And yet, they still see me as Ellie, their baby sister. Perhaps they need to do this in order to comfort themselves that they grow no older as long as I remain a child.

  Child or no, I have intuition to burn. They have never understood that I possess more of it on my own account than they do between them. Does this sound less than modest to you? I do not wish to be arrogant or self-serving, merely faithful to how I felt at that time, and still feel, if truth be told.

  I have always known my sisters’ hearts better than they do themselves.

  May: Spring 1900

  THE DAYS THAT followed the christening were quiet. May was grateful for the sudden calm that descended on the house. All the other guests were long departed; even Constance MacBride did not outstay her welcome, but Mama and Papa did. She tried to conceal her impatience at their presence – Mama was in no hurry to leave, whereas Papa was agitated, impatient to be gone. The friction between them was like an additional, uneasy presence in the room, and May escaped their company as often as she could. She took refuge in Mary’s kitchen, leaving her mother to cluck and fuss with Nurse. May knew that Hannah was getting restless, too – she had spent the last week being told, in all sorts of silences and gestures, how she couldn’t possibly be capable of looking after her own daughter.

  And now they were on their way, back to Dublin. Charles had organized their carriage to the railway station, cheerfully carried their bags downstairs, and before they knew it, they were on their journey home. May had smiled to herself at how he had brought it about. There had been no discussion, no time for the enemy to prepare its pre-emptive strike: the carriage would be there at eleven; Matt was a good man, very reliable; he would not leave until they and their belongings were safely stowed in the first-class compartment he, Charles, had reserved for them. No, no, not at all, no trouble – this when Sophia was about to protest. May knew she wanted to protest about leaving so soon; Charles expertly turned it into a polite protest at his generosity, which, of course, he was far too much a gentleman to heed. May had to turn away. She had caught the beginnings of a smile from Hannah, and did not trust herself not to laugh. She was surprised: this was the first time she had felt like laughing for several months.

  Gradually, the sisters settled into a routine. In the mornings, they rested while Nurse took care of Eileen. Hannah was determined to care for her baby herself as much as she could – Nurse’s days were numbered. In the early afternoon, if the day was fine, the two sisters wheeled Eileen out in her baby carriage, ignoring Mrs MacBride’s sharp observation that only lower-class women wheeled their own children about. Hannah chose to do as she pleased. The afternoon walk was a double blessing, she declared: the baby got some fresh air, and she, Hannah, managed to be absent for several of her mother-in-law’s increasingly frequent visits.

  It was almost a month after her arrival at Hannah’s home that May felt able to tell her about Philippe. They were drinking tea in the drawing room, Eileen fast asleep by the fire in the kitchen, under Mary’s watchful eye. It was much too wet and dreary to go out; March winds blew with increasing ferocity across Belfast Lough. The sisters had been sittin
g in companionable silence for some time.

  Hannah spoke first.

  ‘It’s wonderful having you here, May. It’s like being children again – I don’t even feel like a grown-up!’

  ‘It’s been wonderful for me, too. I can’t begin to tell you how much.’

  ‘You were very unhappy when you came back from France, May – what happened there?’

  May smiled across at her sister. She had always had the ability to see right to the heart of the matter, to ask questions whose directness was matched only by their gentleness.

  May struggled to find the words to begin to tell her about Philippe. Instead, she started to cry, helpless to stop herself. Hannah came and knelt on the floor beside her, wrapping her arms around her sister’s waist. In turn, May rested her head on Hannah’s shoulder. It was a familiar pose for both of them.

  Once May began to speak, she couldn’t stop. All the misery of the Ondarts’ coldness towards her, her struggles to teach the children, her sense of isolation – all came pouring out in the safety of her sister’s drawing room. Her growing love for Philippe, and his for her; the day he asked her to marry him. Visions of him standing in the twilight, waiting for her, brought fresh torrents of weeping. It was such a relief to let it all go, not to be judged, not to feel so tainted and guilty over everything that had passed.

  ‘But the hardest thing is, he could have found me at any stage if he had cared enough to. In Paris, at Calais – even here. His family knows Charles’s family, for heaven’s sake. And it’s cruel to keep hoping, but I can’t help it.’

  Hannah stroked her hair, looking gravely at her sister’s tear-stained face.

  ‘And perhaps he will.’

  May shook her head.

  ‘No – I knew that night that he would not. I can’t explain, but I know them – I know how they will arrange things so that he can’t, and then he won’t want to. No. I have no reason to hope. I must do something else, something useful – I cannot spend my life waiting.’

  ‘You’re welcome here – to make your home here, if you wish. You know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said May, ‘I know that. And I’m very grateful, to you and Charles. I need some more time to think, to recover my wits. I’ll stay a little longer, but then I really must think of making plans.’

  May could not tell her sister of the furtive night she and Philippe had spent together. What other man would marry her if he knew? If Hannah guessed, then so be it: they would never speak of it. May’s regret at what she had done was matched only by her fear of being the sister who was left behind. Spinster; old maid; odd woman. Nor could she ever have thought of herself before this as being capable of such black ingratitude towards her parents, such wickedness. But watching them together, seeing the disappointment of their lives, their need to look beyond themselves and each other for solace, for interest, for entertainment – anything to make life worth living – May had felt herself grow cold. She needed to preserve herself, her own corner of the world. She could not be sucked back into the family home, surrounded by bitterness and failure. She would not settle into the emptiness of a solitary life, the pitiful state of an odd woman.

  She would stay with Hannah a little longer, but then she would have to take charge.

  Mary: Summer 1901

  MR MACBRIDE was very kind to her, very kind indeed. He thanked Mary more than once in the mornings before he left for his day’s work and always greeted her with something witty on his arrival home at night. He was truly a creature of habit, Mary thought. For well over a year now, he had walked briskly out of the house at the same time every day, and come home on the minute-past-six train every evening. His routine had never varied.

  Never varied, that is, until the news of Queen Victoria’s death sent the whole city into mourning. Mary went about her work quietly, kept her mouth shut in the marketplace, nodded politely to all around her, just as usual. But she could feel the tension in the air. All over Belfast’s streets, Union Jacks hung from lampposts, shop windows, trams – the whole city seemed to be an undulating mass of red, white and blue. She could imagine the silence that must prevail all around Carrick Hill, the agitation behind closed doors. She couldn’t help herself: in her imagination she relived all the awfulness of the riots of eight years earlier, feeling her heart clench with fear as she recalled how the days and terrifying nights had been spent waiting and watching. Even after the uproar had receded, she and Cecilia always seemed to go back to waiting, keeping quiet behind their own door, senses honed for even one unaccustomed sound.

  Unwelcome flashes of memory now disturbed Mary’s daily chores: she saw Cecilia, her face bruised and bloody, everywhere she turned. Her sleep was uneasy, filled with dreams that had her struggle into consciousness, dry-mouthed and fearful, in the early hours of the morning. Those were the times she cried, silently, missing her sister with an intensity she had believed dulled and eased by the last two contented years. And Myles. His face appeared before her more often than she cared to acknowledge, even to herself. His eyes bright with hurt, his step full of quiet dignity on the night she sent him away, had returned to haunt her here, where she had thought herself finally safe.

  And while Holywood was a whole world away from Peter’s Hill, with its genteel houses and discreet inhabitants, she was nevertheless taking no chances. You never knew who was listening, what damage could be done by a careless word. There were still houses in this town that let it be known, however quietly, where their loyalties lay, that wore their colours on their tailored sleeve; and then there were those that were silent.

  Mary became watchful during the days following the old Queen’s death. She was glad that Miss Hannah was so occupied with Eileen. And with the arrival of her sister May, she had developed an extraordinary ability to live within her own four walls, undisturbed by, and perhaps even unaware of, what surrounded her on the outside. Mary suspected that she was pregnant again, and hoped for her sake that she was. To be completely self-absorbed was the only way she could continue in ignorance about the night-time activities of her husband.

  He did not arrive home on his accustomed train, and Hannah grew frantic. Mary was surprised at the depth of the other woman’s distress. Privately, she thought her reaction a little bit extreme. Mary did her best to soothe her.

  ‘The trains are all late, Miss Hannah. There’s a torchlight procession tonight for the Queen’s funeral. Ye’re not to worry, now.’

  Hannah looked at her with relief, wanting to be reassured.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Aye. There was talk of nothin’ else in the market this mornin’. They said the whole o’ Belfast would be grindin’ to a halt.’

  Mary prayed to God to forgive her. She would burn that day’s newspaper as soon as she got the chance, in case there was anything there to contradict the lie she had just told. It was only a white lie, but still. And maybe there was something going on in the city centre, anyway: there had been some demonstration of loyalty to the dead Queen, in one form or another, every night this week.

  ‘Why don’t ye rest up this evenin’? You look tired, so ye do.’

  She felt easier in herself when Hannah nodded.

  ‘I am tired,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe I’ll do that – just go to bed.’

  Mary knew she was missing her sister, too. Miss May had gone back to Dublin, just for a week, to see their Mama, who was unwell. But Mary knew that Miss Hannah feared she would not return: although the two women had not said as much, Mary had had the sense that their Mama was trying to claim Miss May’s attentions for herself. There had been tears and regrets between them, and many promises on Miss May’s part to return; nevertheless, Miss Hannah had wandered around the house like a lost child ever since.

  ‘Aye. You do that. You settle yerself in bed. I’ll wait up – I’ve a pile o’ mendin’ to finish, any road. I’ll bring ye tea when ye’re ready, so I will.’

  ‘All right, then. Thank you, Mary. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’<
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  Mary felt herself glow. Miss Hannah exasperated her at times, with her childishness, her inability to master even the simplest household task, and her complete uselessness at managing money. But there was a core of warmth to the young woman to which Mary found it impossible not to respond. Her gratitude to Mary was heartfelt, simple – just like her view of life, Mary thought. Everything was either good or bad, black or white; people were either worth knowing, or they weren’t. And the same Miss Hannah had just a little too much respect for people with money. Mary thought that Miss May was a much more down-to-earth young woman, despite whatever unhappiness was troubling her.

  Mary often thought that it was as well that Miss Hannah had never tried to live her life among all the shades of grey that settled around the Belfast she and Cecilia had known. Mr Charles was a whole other kettle of fish, though. At home, he was easy-going to a fault, but he was nevertheless alert to all that was going on around him. He left the running of the household to the three women, but the running of the world was a different matter. Mary served his breakfast in the dining room every morning, and had by now become used to his outbursts over his morning coffee. At first, she had wondered why he bought so many newspapers – the Belfast Telegraph, the News Letter and the Irish News – as the contents of at least one of them seemed to enrage him so much on a daily basis. He had shattered a teacup one morning recently in his fury over that morning’s headlines. Jabbing a finger at the masthead, he roared, not at her, but to her: ‘What d’ye think of this outrageous bit of rubbish, Mary? The Irish “an inferior race, genetically incapable of ever being their own masters”?’