Mary froze. She managed so well with everyone – post office, tradesmen, church collections – that she knew he had no idea she couldn’t read. He had often complimented her on her quickness with figures. But that morning, he understood her expression instantly, and his anger deflated at once. He reminded Mary of the way boiling milk seethed and then settled, once it was taken off the range. He folded the paper abruptly.
‘Aye, well. That’s the sort of nonsense I must accept if I insist on buying the Telegraph, eh?’
She nodded, grateful.
‘Aye, sir.’
She understood his views, and they surprised her. He was one of the Catholics that used to make Father MacVeigh angry on occasion, wasn’t he? One of those who had escaped the fate of so many others, one who got educated and then seemed to forget about everyone else who had been given no such chance? And yet, here he was, morning after morning recently, raging over what he read, expressing views about the British Government that would not have been out of place anywhere on Carrick Hill. Maybe his years at sea had opened his eyes to the possibility of other existences less blessed than his own. His view of the world was certainly more complex than that of his wife, and yet he doted on her.
His occasional sharpness to Miss Hannah recently about overspending had surprised Mary. She had thought there was no shortage of money. By observing Mr Charles closely, however, by listening carefully to the suggestions he made to his wife, Mary believed she had a much clearer picture than Miss Hannah about the financial difficulties that seemed to be troubling him of late. He gave her the impression of a man with a lot on his mind. Gradually, gently, Mary had taken over the management of the household money. Miss May had been a great help – she seemed to be a naturally more frugal being than her elder sister. Together, although they never discussed it, they tried to teach Miss Hannah more careful ways, and bit by bit, Mary took over all the shopping and dealing with tradesmen herself. They’d not try to pull the wool over her eyes, so they wouldn’t.
All in all, she knew she was lucky. She had good employers, people who were kind to her. She would not see them taken advantage of. If only she could be sure that Belfast was not going to erupt again: Mr Charles’s bad temper over his morning paper was a bad sign. Her dreams of Cecilia were another: trouble was brewing again, she was sure of it.
Suddenly, Mary thought she heard the front door open. She stood up, letting the pile of mending on her knee slide to the floor. She walked out on to the landing and stood, alert and listening. No sound from the bedroom; Miss Hannah hadn’t woken, at least. Nor had the child.
Mary tiptoed downstairs, her heart beating a little faster than usual. What could there be to be frightened of? It had to be Mr Charles – he had let himself in with his key, after all. But that was unusual, too, for he rarely brought his key. He had his own signal, his own little tattoo which he would beat out gently with the door knocker, and wee Eileen would recognize it at once. He would wait for Mary to let him in, scooping up his small daughter, making her squeal with delight as he carried her on his shoulders into the drawing room, back to her Mama.
Mary made her way now down the long corridor towards the kitchen. As she got closer, there was a faint but peculiar smell. She grew alarmed; it was like tar – was there something on fire? She quickened her step and pulled open the kitchen door. In the almost complete darkness, she collided smartly with another body in the process of lighting his pipe.
‘Mr Charles!’
She couldn’t help it. Relief had made her tone accusing. How dare he frighten the life out of her.
‘Hush, Mary. Not a word now. I need some old clothes from you.’
She stood, staring at him stupidly, trying to make out his features.
‘Now, Mary; as a matter of urgency.’
There was no trace of mockery in his voice, none of his usual teasing humour. Instead, his tone was anxious, a little impatient. She turned at once and made her way towards the scullery. Bending down, she pulled the basket of laundry out from under the sink. She would do as he asked, without question, almost hoping he would not explain. She did not want to have to keep anyone’s secrets. She rummaged until she found a pair of trousers and a shirt, the same ones he had discarded just that morning. Wordlessly, she handed them to him. As he took them, she could see him more clearly now, her eyes grown accustomed to the dim light.
His hands were almost covered with some dark, sticky-looking substance, his clothes spattered with what looked to be the same. Suddenly, she recognized the smell that had been puzzling her. Bitumen. How could she have forgotten?
But Mr Charles was a grown man, a wealthy one – or, at least, a professional one. Surely he couldn’t be up to the same thing as all those youths from Carrick Hill? Daubing slogans was hardly the occupation for a gentleman. And this week above all? Police would be all over the city like flies, keeping sharp lookout for anything that might disturb the dignity of the old Queen’s send-off. Mary was shocked. She remembered the painted signs, scrawled on walls around where she and Cecilia had lived. ‘Home Rule Now!’ and ‘Self-Government for Ireland!’ ‘Irish Parliament for an Irish people!’ Cecilia used to read them all to her, while Myles told them of the ones on the shipyard walls. Obscene ones about the Pope and the horrors of ‘Rome Rule’. Was it really starting all over again? And had it now spread its tentacles to catch her out, just when she thought she was long enough and far enough away to have escaped?
‘Leave me while I change, Mary. Then I want to talk to you.’
She nodded and left the kitchen at once. Her stomach turned with sudden nausea. She tried to reassure herself. God knows, Holywood was a good distance from Belfast, and divisions weren’t quite so easily spotted here. Money and ease tended to cushion any differences which might exist, and the churches seemed to live together peaceably enough. But here was Mr Charles, ready to draw ruination on all their heads if he continued to lose the run of himself. She was still trembling when he leaned out of the kitchen into the corridor and called her name softly.
She went at once.
‘Not a word of what you’ve seen tonight, Mary. Not to anyone, mind, particularly not to Miss Hannah.’
She nodded, finding it hard to swallow.
‘Aye, sir.’
He was rolling down his shirtsleeves, his hands and forearms red raw from where he had scrubbed them. Her stiff brush and the washing soda were still on the laundry sink.
‘If you can’t clean the clothes, tell me. I’ll dispose of them myself.’
He looked more closely at her.
‘Don’t be frightened, my dear. I promise you you’re safe here. I’ll not bring trouble to my own door.’
She nodded.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Do we understand one another?’
‘Aye, sir,’ she said again. It was all she could think of.
‘Good. Off you go, now.’
She fled. She knew she’d be able to clean the clothes, to remove all traces. Paraffin, brown paper and a well-heated iron. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the next time, and the time after that. Mary was sure that the RIC didn’t come to homes like this with anything like the frequency they visited Carrick Hill. But still.
The whole thing made her uneasy. And she didn’t like keeping things from Miss Hannah. It looked as though a good night’s rest was going to elude her for some time to come.
Eleanor’s Journal
HOW COULD I ever have known what awaited me on that autumn morning when Mama and I set out for London? I still remember the day as clearly as if it were yesterday. Dun Laoghaire harbour was bustling – there was an extraordinary sense of suppressed excitement, of delighted anticipation, on all the faces I saw around me. My own experience of travel extended no further than the train journey between Dublin and Belfast. A sea voyage seemed much more daring to me, far more adventurous. No doubt my own frame of mind influenced what I saw reflected in the expressions of others – but no matter.
T
he sea was flat calm, with that intense blue that comes only with the autumnal clarity of early September. I could feel my heartbeat quicken as the time came to board our ship. I know I felt terrified that Mama would have forgotten something, that our tickets would not be valid, that our papers would, somehow, not be in order and I should be turned away. It was not an idle fear: Mama had been most reluctant to permit my removal to London. She and Papa had had a rare moment of unanimity on the evening, some two months previously, when I had told them of my plans to study nursing – and to do so at St Bartholomew’s, far away from home.
Mama’s face had gone quite white, and Papa had looked surprised, but, above all, irritated. It was as though I had disturbed his quiet existence, his comfortable assumptions that he had finished with domestic upheaval in all its forms.
‘Nonsense, Eleanor,’ Mama said. ‘I shall never allow it. Nursing is no life for a young woman like you.’
My arguments in favour of what I had already decided were logical, reasoned: times were changing; the new century brought greater opportunities for all young women; I had a deep need to make myself useful to others. I spoke quietly all the time, while my heart beat wildly in my chest. I knew that I was fighting for my life.
Papa had blustered at first, and then seemed to lose interest. But Mama had been more tenacious. During the following days and weeks, she moved from outright opposition to appeasement. There were perfectly good nursing schools at home, she had claimed, in a tone which tried to be firm, but lurched instead towards desperation. I had to fight my instinct to feel sorry for her, to want to make up to her for the sad emptiness of her life. She wanted me safely by her side in Dublin, to keep me close, now that my sisters had, as I believe she perceived it, abandoned her. Mama had developed a slightly aggrieved air, an unconscious aura of martyrdom, which she wore like a veil. Through this gauzy filament she regarded her world, now blurred and distorted by maternal disappointment: it was as though her children had treated her with nothing but unkindness.
I could not allow myself to be persuaded.
The fact that my escape had been organized methodically, deliberately, secretly, was an even greater blow to her. She could not claim that her youngest daughter had been seized by a sudden, irresponsible flight of fancy; instead, she had to endure the painful process of accepting that I, the baby, had consciously chosen to leave her, to make my life elsewhere. In the weeks preceding my departure, Mama suffered greatly. I know that. It is to her credit that, after her initial outburst, she never again threatened to withhold her official permission.
My sisters had both wished me well. Hannah pressed some money into my hands when Mama was absent from the room, and silenced my protests by putting her finger to my lips. May, on one occasion when we were all together, had drawn me aside from the others, and warned me not to weaken.
I must do as my heart dictated; I must not let this opportunity pass. In truth, it was her words which gave me courage in the final days before departure.
I was a little disappointed that my first sea voyage was not more eventful. I remember thinking that it resembled a smooth, silent train journey: with a little more motion, certainly, but what movement there was, was both gentle and soothing.
I insisted that Mama did not accompany me from our hotel to St Bartholomew’s on my first day. Perhaps I was cruel, but I could not bear for one moment longer to see her quivering lip, her averted eye, her hand clutching at her throat. Every sigh of hers made me more determined to free myself from the shackles of family, or, more accurately, from those of my parents. I ascended the carriage which was to take me to St Bartholomew’s, my trunk safely stowed, my travelling coat wrapped warmly around me. London was even colder than Dublin.
Mama stood at the open window, issuing last-minute instructions to me, dabbing at her eyes with her lace handkerchief. Impulsively, I leaned out and kissed her. It was the surprised gratitude of her expression that finally made the tears spring to my eyes.
‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said softly, ‘for being with me. I shall write soon, I promise.’
I felt wretched as we drove away. Every time I think of Mama now, that is how I see her – an elegant figure, but one with the lines of frailty already etched about her person, waving her handkerchief at the departing carriage, her left hand clutching restlessly at the pearls around her throat.
But I was already intent on looking forward, not back. I was filled with the excitement that comes from intense, youthful conviction: the sense of mission that makes one believe that one’s life can make a difference to others. I knew that I was no Elizabeth Blackwell – I did not have courage enough to be a pioneer. I had not the vision then to aspire to a career in medicine: I believed only that I was good enough to be a nurse. I had read everything I could about St Bartholomew’s. I knew of the hospital’s work among the poor, of the excellence of its patient care and the high standards of its training. I saw my future unfold itself before my delighted, terrified eyes: a life of caring for others, of womanly independence, of fulfilment. I could hardly bear to wait.
Those first months at St Bartholomew’s hospital were more terrifying than anything I have ever endured, before or since. But for you, I believe I should have gone truly mad.
The homesickness from which I suffered had an intensity that was akin to physical distress, a wound inflicted which took many months to heal. While it mended, silent and invisible to others, its residual ache lasted for months. I hope that I have used the memory of my then unhappiness to good effect in the training of my nurses over the years. You cannot heal others unless you have first learned to heal yourself.
I remember well my extraordinary confusion in those days: I had made good my escape from home, planned and executed it with admirable efficiency in my own eyes. And now, suddenly, the only thing I wanted was to be back. All I could think about was Papa calling me ‘Mouse’ with that wonderful tenderness that had lit up my childhood; and Mama – tending chilblains, braiding hair, making tears go away. Ironically, the routine of hospital life probably helped to save me. Gradually, the tearful occasions became fewer. After fourteen-hour days, all I wanted was to fall into bed and oblivion before the whole demanding cycle began again. All forty of us were on the wards by seven o’clock, emptying bedpans, making beds, feeding and washing patients, disinfecting every surface: there were many times when I angrily compared our lives to that of a step-boy. Where was the healing hand in our work? Where was the bravery, the occasion for compassion, the bringing of comfort and relief to the sick?
For that first year of our training, the lessons we learned most frequently were humility, discipline and the ability to hold your tongue when provoked beyond endurance by the unreasonable demands of Sister. Even the patients were obedient, cowed into silence by each unvarying day on the ward, by the need for immaculate beds, dust-free surfaces, and no visitor to disturb the relentless march of routine. I am sure that patients often felt themselves to be an inconvenience. Sister Sheridan could run the ward a lot better in their absence – their presence did nothing to assist in the smooth preparation of her domain for the visit of Almighty Doctor. This was not how I had imagined Florence Nightingale to behave in the Crimea, nor did it seem to reflect the newspaper accounts of the glory of ministering to the sick and wounded in the Transvaal. I was experiencing the terrible disillusionment of the young idealist. However, in the circumstances of our rigorous training at St Bartholomew’s, there was little time and less energy for fomenting rebellion.
Along with the natural disillusionment of those days came the valuable realization that I was tougher than I had thought. The sharp rebukes, the lack of physical comforts, the daily humiliations inflicted for some small transgression all served to make me more determined to finish what I had come to London to do. I grew an outer shell, a carapace that allowed me to survive underneath while pretending stoicism, patience and even humility whenever I was in the presence of Sister.
Wedged into our narrow beds at night,
with freezing sheets and ice forming frequently inside the windows, we girls would whisper to each other about Sister’s peculiarities – her dry cough whenever she was displeased; her irritating manner of intertwining the fingers of both hands, one thumb rotating around the other as she waited for the answer that her victim almost certainly did not possess; the silent eyebrow-arch of disapproval which could stop a young trainee in her tracks at forty paces. We would replay the day’s events, borrowing and inventing freely, with the express purpose of making the others laugh. Sometimes the laughter became hysteria, and we would have to stuff our fists in our mouths so as not to be heard beyond our dormitory. Despite our tiredness, we would often lie awake in the darkness, giggling again and again at some remembered foible, sending each other off once more into paroxysms of helpless laughter.
And so I passed the first, and the hardest year of training.
May: Autumn 1901
IT HAD ALL taken very little on May’s part, really.
She had written to Richard at Hannah’s request – one godparent to the other – and sent him the photograph taken on the morning of Eileen’s christening. The baby sat, in tiny solemnity, on her mother’s knee. She wore Hannah’s own christening robe. The guipure lace reached almost to the floor, giving the child a strange, elongated appearance. Charles had sat to Hannah’s left, while May and Richard stood, one to each side of the baby, in the traditional pose of guardianship. All the adults had remained breathlessly still, each hoping that Eileen would not choose that moment to move, to sneeze, or cry out with boredom or hunger.
Richard had written back at once, professing himself delighted with the photograph. His new god-daughter, he said, now adorned his mantelpiece, and very fine she looked, too. Other letters followed, and Hannah responded regularly, charmed by Richard’s apparently insatiable appetite for news of his small god-daughter.
Another Kind of Life Page 29