by Sandy Taylor
After I’d helped the mammy clear up, I washed and dressed and waited for Colm to take me to the workhouse.
As Blue trotted through the town and up the hill I started to feel awful sad again. Colm seemed to know how I was feeling; he reached across and held my hand.
Mr Dunne opened the big iron gates and Blue walked inside.
‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Cissy,’ said Mr Dunne. ‘She was a sweet child and we all miss her.’
‘I miss her too,’ I said.
‘I remember the two of you wandering around the house and getting into all sorts of mischief. You had poor Mrs Foley demented at times, trying to find you.’
I smiled, remembering.
‘Are you going round the back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want me to show you the way?’
‘I know the way, Mr Dunne. Me and Nora used to put flowers on the babies’ graves.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
‘And I’ll wait for you,’ said Colm. ‘Unless you want me to come with you?’
‘I’d rather go on my own.’
‘That’s grand then, meself and Blue will be here when you’re ready.’
I jumped down from the trap and walked around the side of the house to the gardens, then followed a path through a wooden gate and into the graveyard.
I stood for a moment and looked out across the field at the rows and rows of wooden crosses. These poor souls had ended their days here. Some had been here all their lives and never lived in the outside world or knew what it was to have a family of their own or to be loved. I thought it was the saddest of places.
It took me a while to find Nora because all the graves looked the same. None of them had headstones, just the simple wooden crosses to mark the spot. Nora’s grave was under a tree, away from the rest. That made me feel happy – as if Nora was special. I knelt down on the ground and traced the name that was written on the cross: Nora Foley. Nora Foley? She had the same name as Mrs Foley, now wasn’t that strange? I’d never even known Nora’s surname. Come to that, I hadn’t known my own when I lived in the workhouse. But to have the same name as Mrs Foley was nice because Mrs Foley had always loved her. Sometimes I thought she loved her more than she loved me. Maybe they were related in some way? I’d ask the mammy, she might know.
I sat on the hard, frosty ground and stared at the little cross. I knew that Nora wasn’t really there because she would be up in heaven with Holy God and all the saints and angels but in this place of silence I felt her near to me. I closed my eyes and I could almost feel her warm breath on my cold cheek. ‘I miss you, Nora,’ I whispered. ‘I wish you hadn’t left me, for I always had a dream that one day I would come for you and we would live together for the rest of our lives. I know that God must have wanted you to be with him but I need you too and I’ll never forget you.’ I put my fingers to my lips and touched the cross. ‘I’ll come again, Nora, I’m not frightened any more. Sleep peacefully, my friend. I love you.’
I was quiet as Colm drove back through the town and he seemed to understand that I was too full of emotion to speak. He dropped me outside the cottage and carried on up Paradise Alley.
The granddaddy was out of bed and in his usual place beside the fire. Mammy helped me off with my coat and hung it on the hook behind the door.
‘Are you glad you went, Cissy?’ she asked.
‘I am, Mammy, it’s made me feel better. I don’t know why I was so scared of going.’
‘You’re a sensitive girl, Cissy, and there’s no harm in that.’
I walked over to the granddaddy and knelt down in front of the fire. ‘I’ve been to see Nora,’ I said, holding my hands out towards the flames.
Granddaddy nodded his old head. ‘Yes, your mammy said.’
‘And I wasn’t scared.’
‘You have nothing to fear from the dead,’ he said. ‘It’s the living you have to worry about.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I said, smiling at him.
I stood up and went across to Mammy. ‘I found out the strangest thing in the graveyard,’ I said, sitting down at the table.
‘And what was that?’
‘Nora has the same name as Mrs Foley. Don’t you think that’s strange?’
Mammy didn’t answer me; it was as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘Did you hear what I said, Mammy? Nora’s name is Nora Foley. Don’t you think that’s strange?’
Mammy turned to face me. ‘Mrs Foley was Nora’s mammy, Cissy.’
I stared at her. ‘Nora’s mammy? Nora had a mammy and it was Mrs Foley?’
Mammy nodded.
‘Did Nora know that Mrs Foley was her mammy?’
‘She didn’t, she never knew.’
I felt the stirrings of anger in my chest. ‘But that’s not fair, she should have told her. Nora would have loved to have known she had a mammy. She died not knowing. I think that’s the saddest thing I ever heard.’
‘It wasn’t Mrs Foley’s fault, Cissy. She wasn’t allowed to tell her. The head of the workhouse said it would cause jealousy among the other children.’
‘Then I think the head of the workhouse is cruel and mean and I hate him for it, Mammy. I do. I hate him for it.’
‘Nora didn’t suffer because of it, Cissy. Mrs Foley loved that little girl with all her heart, even though she could never lay claim to her.’
‘Bastards, the lot of them,’ muttered Granddaddy from his chair by the fire.
‘Didn’t stop you sending us up there though, did it?’ snapped Mammy.
The granddaddy made a sort of snorty sound like the pigs up at Collins’s farm but didn’t answer.
Mammy sat down at the table. She reached across and held my hand.
‘Kate Foley and meself went into the workhouse on the same day. You and Nora were born only hours apart, maybe that’s why you were always so close.’
‘Did you look after me in there?’
‘I was allowed to care for you until you were weaned and then I was moved to the women’s section. It broke my heart to leave you, Cissy. I saw you as often as I could when you were little and only because Kate Foley sneaked me in but I knew that I was going to get her in trouble if I was caught so I bided my time until we could be together. The day I laid claim to you as my own and we walked out of those gates was the happiest day of my life.’
I could feel the tears behind my eyes. I had never known that Mammy had taken care of me, that I’d been held in her arms and loved. Her heart must have broken to leave me. I was beginning to understand why she got so cross.
‘What about Mrs Foley?’
‘Nora didn’t thrive, so Kate was allowed to stay with her longer. At that time the nursery was run by a gobshite of a woman called Mrs Riley. But she died, so Kate took over, on the understanding that no one should know that she was Nora’s mother.’
‘It’s still sad though, isn’t it?’
‘It is, but at least Nora was with her mother even if she never knew it.’
‘We both loved Mrs Foley.’
‘I know you did and that made leaving you less hard because I knew that she would look after you. Kate was, and still is, a good, kind woman.’
‘Do you think I should go and see her?’
‘I think she’d like that, Cissy.’
Chapter Eighteen
Christmas at the Hall was magical. There was a great big tree in the hallway and another in the drawing room, hung with silver and gold and glass and wooden ornaments, filling the house with the smell of the woods and pine and growing things. Huge garlands of winter foliage were wrapped around the banisters and draped across the marble mantelpiece. Tradesmen were coming and going all week, bringing hams and turkeys, oranges and sweetmeats. The butcher’s boy carried the turkeys into the kitchen by their scrawny necks, swinging them towards Annie, making her squeal in terror.
Mrs Hickey never stopped moving or giving orders. She had the girls from the village come to help make sausagemea
t and mincemeat, butcher the joints, prepare brandy butter and other treats, and peel and blanch vegetables and fruit. She spent hours up in the drawing room with Mrs Bretton devising menus and then adding extra ingredients to the lists she’d pinned up all around the kitchen so that there would always be plenty to eat for everyone, for no matter what time of day or night someone might be in need of a little refreshment.
The kitchen itself smelled of cinnamon and fried meat and pastry. Pies and puddings were lined up in the pantry on trays ready to be cooked and served. There were terrines and pastes in jars, potted shrimp and gentleman’s relish with a thick layer of butter on the top to keep it fresh. Mrs Hickey was constantly baking bread and mince pies. Her face grew red and shiny as she knelt in front of the oven, sliding trays of food onto the shelves. There was a permanent circle of sweat under her armpits staining her grey dress. Every time she was called upstairs she had to change into a clean one, which made her mumble under her breath about only having one pair of hands. Every now and then she burnt herself on the oven or a hot tray and she took her anger out on whichever poor soul was closest to her.
It was hard work but I loved the bustle of it all. I loved the glow of the candles that were lit in the drawing room after dark and how they were reflected in the grand mirrors and the silverware and the baubles that hung from the branches of the tree. You could feel the excitement. Parties were being planned, and guests would be coming. The men would be bringing their valets and chauffeurs. During the rest of the year, the Brettons only kept a small staff to run the house but at Christmas, as well as the girls from the village, extra staff was taken on; waiters and grooms to look after the horses. Some guests came by car but many would still be coming by horse and carriage.
On Christmas evening, once our duties were over, there was going to be a party downstairs for all the staff. In between baking and cleaning, the girls giggled and talked about what they were going to wear and how they should do their hair and who it was they hoped would grab them for a kiss under the mistletoe. All of this chatter and gossip was driving Mrs Hickey mad; she had no inclination to be kissed under the mistletoe or anywhere else for that matter, all that concerned her was the amount of food she was able to churn out before the big day.
In the cellar, the best bottles of wine were dusted off and the brandy and port were all ready to be decanted. Mr Bretton kept his cigars locked in a cabinet in the smoking room and they were taken out. I confess I liked the woody smell of them although of course the women didn’t smoke. Bridie explained that their lungs weren’t made the same as men’s.
We prepared all the bedrooms, making up the beds for guests and keeping them aired with bedpans. We polished the woodwork and the mirrors and got down on our hands and knees to make sure the floors were spotless. We could not have worked harder if we’d tried, and we didn’t mind it for a moment because we were all full of the spirit of Christmas and we were as cheerful as the little robins that sat on the handle of the gardener’s spade while he was digging up the winter veg.
Two days before Christmas, a tall young man walked into the kitchen. Mrs Hickey wiped her hands on a tea towel and stood beaming at him.
‘What do they feed you at that school of yours? I swear you’ve grown a foot since I last saw you,’ she said.
‘The truth is, Mrs Hickey, they starve me. I intend to eat you out of house and home.’
‘Oh, Master Peter, it’s good to have you back,’ she said, laughing.
‘And it’s good to be back.’
I stared at him – yes, I could see it now; those kind eyes and lovely smile. But he didn’t look like a boy any more, he looked like a man and oh, he was handsome, with his brown curly hair and blue eyes! I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Mrs Hickey saw me looking at him.
‘Master Peter,’ she said, ‘this is Cissy.’
‘Oh, Cissy and I are old friends, isn’t that right?’ he said, winking at me.
I could feel my face burning up as I remembered the last time I saw him and what I had called his sister.
‘Old friends, eh?’ said Mrs Hickey, looking a bit confused.
‘We met when we were children. If I remember rightly, you were delivering our milk.’
‘Yes, Master Peter, I was.’
‘And now you’re all grown-up and quite the young lady.’
I didn’t answer; it was as if someone had sewn my mouth up.
‘Is your sister home yet?’ asked Mrs Hickey.
At the mention of Miss Caroline, I could feel my face starting to redden again.
‘She’s arriving this afternoon and I expect we shall all know about it. Well, I just came down to wish you a very happy Christmas, Mrs Hickey.’
‘Oh, and a very happy Christmas to you as well, Master Peter.’
At the door he turned back and smiled at me. ‘Happy Christmas, Cissy,’ he said. Then he was gone and the kitchen was suddenly a very dull place indeed.
Chapter Nineteen
I’d worked all my days off in the weeks leading up to Christmas, so Mrs Bretton said that I could go home on Christmas Eve and attend Midnight Mass as long as I was back at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning to help Mrs Hickey prepare for the big day.
Me and Annie were sent off to collect logs from the woodshed. As we opened the kitchen door, Mrs Hickey screamed at us.
‘Jesus Mary and Joseph!’ she yelled. ‘Would you ever close that door?’
‘I don’t know how she thinks we can go outside without opening the door first,’ complained Annie, shutting it quickly behind us.
It was bitterly cold outside with a wind coming off the sea that would take your nose off you and yet I stood still, looking out over the garden. The grass was covered in crisp white frost that crunched under our feet and sparkled in the thin morning light. It spread out before us like a glistening blanket tumbling down to the water’s edge. The black branches of the trees stood stark against the whiteness of it all.
‘What are you doing, Cissy?’ scolded Annie.
‘Just looking,’ I said.
‘Sure, this is no time to be taking in the view. We’ll have Mrs Hickey on our backs if fires aren’t lit before the family wakes up.’
‘But don’t you think it’s beautiful, Annie?’
‘I don’t have time for such things,’ she said, bending down and lifting a heavy log into the basket.
‘Give me your hand,’ I said.
‘Oh, Cissy!’
‘Come on, give me your hand.’
Annie sighed, but reached towards me and I helped her up. We stood together looking out over the garden. Our breath was like wispy clouds floating around us and drifting off into the cold air.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘It’s nice, alright,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll grant you that.’
I closed my eyes and breathed in the sharpness of this December morning and I remembered a poem in one of the books I’d borrowed from Colm’s father.
‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,’ I recited, ‘Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness…’
And then a voice joined mine, a deep voice.
‘But still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.’
I opened my eyes to see Master Peter standing in front of me, smiling. ‘Mr Keats, Cissy, my favourite poet… but where did you learn that?’
It seemed that every time I saw Master Peter, I was making a fool of myself. Who was I to be spouting poetry when I should be knowing my place and helping Annie with the logs? ‘Out of a book,’ I mumbled.
I glanced at Annie, who looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her up.
Master Peter nodded his head. ‘We should all take the time to look at the beauty around us but we are mostly too busy to appreciate it.’ He smiled at me. ‘I’m glad that you do, Cissy.’
I didn’t know what to say except, ‘I have to get the logs in.’
‘I’m k
eeping you from your work. Have a nice day, Cissy,’ he said, walking away from me.
‘Blimey, Cissy,’ said Annie, ‘imagine Master Peter talking to you like you were a proper person!’
‘I am a proper person, Annie, and so are you.’
‘We’re not like them, though, are we?’
‘But we’re like us and that’s the way we are meant to be.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Annie reluctantly.
I could barely feel my fingers as I lifted the cold heavy logs into the basket, then taking a handle each, we carried them upstairs. We were sweating by the time we reached the drawing room, where we cleaned out the ashes from the grate and lit the fire. We held our cold hands out towards the flames, slowly getting some warmth back into them. By the time we had done the same in all the bedrooms we were more than ready for our breakfast. There were more people than usual sitting at the long wooden table and amidst the chatter and the laughter I was able to think about what had happened in the garden without anyone commenting on my silence. Maybe I hadn’t made such a fool of myself. Master Peter had looked pleased that I knew that poem and it was nice to think that we had a mutual friend in Mr Keats.
After lunch, Bridie came rushing into the kitchen. ‘Quick, Cissy,’ she said. ‘Miss Caroline has arrived. I need you to help with her bags.’
My heart sank as I followed Bridie out to the front of the house. A big shiny car was standing on the drive and a gorgeous young girl was being helped out of it.
‘Welcome home, Miss Caroline,’ said Bridie, reaching for one of the many bags.
‘Thank you, Bridie.’
‘This is…’ said Bridie, gesturing towards me.
The girl glared at me. ‘I know who she is,’ she said, before brushing past and climbing the steps up to the front door.
‘Jesus!’ said Bridie. ‘What in heaven’s name was all that about?’
I reached for one of the bags. ‘She remembers me,’ I said, ‘from before.’
‘From before what?’