100 Tiny Threads

by Judith Barrow

  Florence Duffy

  1839 – 1919

  Always Loved.

  Bill had been furious when the account from the undertaker had arrived and he’d discovered she’d spent twenty pounds on it. She’d stood up to him. After all, as she’d reminded him, if it wasn’t partly for her granny they wouldn’t have the house on Henshaw Street. She’d even dared to say it was her own money. Winifred smiled; it was ridiculous how satisfied she’d been standing up to Bill. And it was well worth the week of sulky silence from him.

  ‘It’s nice isn’t it, Mam?’ Tom jiggled baby Mary in his arms while Winifred placed the daffodils in the glass vase on the grave.

  ‘It’s lovely, Tom. Granny Florence would be pleased, I think.’

  It had taken her six months before she was able to visit the grave to see the headstone. Bill always tried to make sure he knew where she was every minute of the day. But Winifred had overheard him talking to one of the neighbours who also worked at the mine and she knew that, after his shift, he was going to a union meeting. With a bit of luck they’d be home before he was.

  Getting to her feet she stroked the top of the headstone. ‘Sorry Gran. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come again. It’s difficult.’ She knew in her heart she wouldn’t be back. ‘Right, love.’ She smiled at Tom. ‘We’d better get a move on. I know you’re tired and you’ve been such a good help to me today with the baby and everything.’ It had been a long day and he’d been so patient. At thirteen he was taller than she was and a strong lad. She knew he felt protective of her. ‘If we hurry we’ll be able to get the tram into Morrisfield for the three o’clock train. We’ll be home before Dad is, with a bit of luck. I should just have time to put his tea on. He need never know we’ve been out.’

  She knew she shouldn’t make Tom her accomplice in all the things she did without Bill knowing, but he was old beyond his years and she was aware he sensed the fear that sometimes quivered inside her. He didn’t understand that there were days, weeks, when she was content; when Bill was relaxed, even kind; like the man she first knew. She was aware that Tom treated Bill with a silent disdain, but never spoke to her about it. It was in his eyes though, and she dreaded the day that her husband recognised the emotion that seeped from Tom when there were rows.

  They hurried along Harrison Street, Winifred averting her eyes when they passed the shop.

  At the tram stop she gave Mary to Tom and stretched out her arms. ‘She’s getting to be quite heavy.’

  The shock rippled along her skin, her scalp. There was a loud humming in her ears. The man walking towards them was the image of Conal. An older Conal, there was some grey mingled in the thick blackness of his hair and he was sturdier than she remembered. But as he came closer she saw the same strong straight nose and determined chin.

  ‘I knew I’d find ya one day.’ There was elation in his dark eyes.

  He reached out to touch her.

  ‘No!’ Even as she yearned to feel his fingers on hers the anger flared. She couldn’t speak. She knew she was crying; she could feel the pain in her chest, the burning behind her eyes but she made no sound.

  ‘Win?’

  Ah, the sound of his voice, that endearing accent remembered from long ago. But the words hammered inside her head. ‘Too late. You’re too late.’ So many times over the years she had dreamt of this. The words were dragged up from her throat. ‘You’re too late.’

  ‘Mam?’ Tom had tucked Mary under his arm so he could catch hold of Winifred. ‘Mam, what’s the matter. Who’s this man?’

  Winifred wiped her face with the sleeve of her coat. ‘Sorry, Tom.’ She stepped away from Conal. ‘This is… This is an old friend of mine,’ she said, her tone dull with the despair that simmered under the words. ‘I haven’t seen him for a long time. It was a shock, that’s all.’ She took the baby from her son and held her close.

  She watched Conal glance then stop to look again at Tom for the first time. He turned to Winifred. She saw the question.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, quietly.

  Chapter 87

  The tram trundled into view.

  ‘And now I have to go.’ The nausea rose up even as Winifred spoke. But she needed to be strong in front of the children. Every muscle in her body was clenched with determination. ‘You shouldn’t have come back.’

  ‘Aw, no.’ Conal stiffened, reached out to her. ‘Ya can’t be after leaving it like this.’

  ‘I can, I have to. I can’t…’ Winifred threw the words at him, conscious of Tom’s concern, of the baby crying.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘No.’ When the tram screeched to a halt at the kerb she ushered the children up the step.

  ‘Win. Ya can’t be—’

  His last words were lost when the doors closed and the tram clanking on the overhead wires, set off.

  Winifred collapsed into a seat by the window. Conal was running alongside. Shouting. ‘When can we talk?’ he yelled. ‘We need to talk.’

  It was no use. The anguish in his eyes was too much. She knew she was asking for trouble but still she half-stood, both palms on the window. ‘There’s a park in Ashford. Skirm Park. By the lake. Monday morning,’ she shouted, oblivious to the stares of the people around her, not caring. He was frowning; she was convinced he couldn’t tell what she was saying. Oh, why had she said it was too late for them?

  The tram gathered speed and soon Conal was left behind. The last Winifred saw of him he was standing staring after them, hands dropped by his side. She slumped onto the seat. The shock, draining from her, made her legs shake.

  ‘Mam?’ Tom gripped her hand.

  Winifred forced a smile. ‘What a surprise,’ she said, brightly. ‘An old friend from years ago.’ It was the only thing she thought to say. ‘But don’t tell your dad about him, you know what he’s like. I’ll explain one day, Tom. I’ll tell you who that man was. Is. One day.’

  Chapter 88

  It had taken a lot of coaxing and two bottles of stout to get Mrs Jagger to take Mary for the morning.

  Winifred didn’t know what to expect from Conal; she had been alternately sick with excitement and anticipation and frightened that Bill might discover what she was about to do. Unable to eat or sleep she’d passed the weekend in a daze of hope and despair.

  Having left the baby with her neighbour she hurried to Skirm Park.

  He was there already, standing by the edge of the lake watching the ducks, hands casually pushed into his trouser pockets, whistling. Winifred was glad she’d worn her best hat and gloves; he looked so handsome and smart. When he saw her he walked to meet her and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘No,’ she peered around. ‘People might see.’

  ‘Aw, who cares?’ he whispered. His breath on her skin made her heart leap.

  She gave him a tremulous smile. ‘Let’s sit down over there.’

  She perched on the edge of the bench looking towards the lake. The park was almost deserted, but not taking any chances that they might be seen, she sat as far away from Conal as she could and took out a piece of stale bread from a paper bag, breaking it up. The ducks scrambled up the banking and waddled towards her.

  After a few moments she said, ‘Tell me what happened. That day of the protest. Where did you go?’ She spoke under her breath, conscious of a couple walking along the path nearby. ‘Don’t,’ she warned when he shuffled along the seat towards her. She couldn’t stand it if he came closer. ‘You just disappeared.’

  ‘Before we left I wrote a note. I said I would be back when I could.’

  ‘I received no note.’

  ‘And I wrote to the house on Gilpin Street for months. Honest to God, I was after thinking some of the lads there would get the letters to ya.’

  ‘They’d gone when I went looking for you.’ Winifred shook her head. ‘Some horrible people were living there.’ She flung a look towards him. ‘I got nothing from you.’

  ‘When I didn’t hear anything from ya. I believ
ed ya didn’t want me.’

  And didn’t come to look for me. ‘I didn’t get your note,’ she repeated. ‘Nor any letters.’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘Honest to God, I wrote.’

  There was nothing she could say to that. ‘So, tell me what happened.’

  ‘I searched for ya when the police left that day. But then I found Honora. She was in a cruel way; she’d been beaten. I couldn’t leave her. Sure, the only thing I could think to do was to take her home to Ireland. I was told the police were looking for both of us.’ Conal rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes.

  And you didn’t think to let me know? Winifred didn’t voice her recriminations but they were there, unwanted. Insistent.

  As though reading her mind Conal said, ‘Some friends got us to Liverpool and we were smuggled onto a ferry. It took a mighty time to get to our village. In the end she still died. But I think she was at peace knowing she was back home.’

  It seemed impossible that Honora, lovely, high-spirited Honora was dead. A deep sadness engulfed Winifred.

  ‘After Honora died and I lost ya—’

  ‘You hadn’t,’ Winifred interrupted.

  He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze and her skin tingled with his touch. ‘To be sure, cailín, I thought I had. I was wrecked for months. But then I thought if I’m going to be doing something with my life I should finish my training. And now I’m a doctor in Dublin.’ He hesitated. ‘I would have come looking for ya then but I got involved in the fight and I thought it wasn’t fair…’

  ‘The fight?’ Winifred stared at him. ‘You mean…?’

  He nodded. ‘After the Easter Uprising in sixteen. Oh, I wasn’t part of that but I knew lads who were. And then all the executions. It was wrong. Wicked.’

  She struggled to comprehend that all the years she’d hungered for him she’d been completely out of his mind. I could have been with him. Tom and I could have been with him.

  ‘The British Government brought men over from the mainland to retaliate; ex-soldiers, criminals, so they were. The Black and Tans.’ Anger tightened his mouth. ‘Vicious thugs. Murderous bastards.’

  ‘I read about some men being employed by the Government to quell some riots—’ Winifred jumped when he cut in.

  ‘Not riots.’ He let go of her hand. ‘Our fight for freedom; for ownership of Ireland. For Home Rule.’

  He’d changed. She no longer knew him. Perhaps she never had. Perhaps the fight for the vote for women, his involvement with the Suffragettes was just a cause he joined in on because he disliked authority. No, she chided herself, it was more than that, it was because he believed in freedom for all; the right for everyone to live life as they were entitled to do. She couldn’t think any less of him. She wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m trying to understand, Conal. I’ve tried to understand why you’ve been away for so long.’ She frowned in a concentrated effort to grasp what had been more important than the love he’d promised her.

  Conal leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. ‘I’ll tell ya something. Ya’ll be after understanding then.’ He breathed in, a great intake of air before he started. ‘One time, round about June in nineteen-twenty, I was with a group of men. We were on our way to a teach sábháilte. A safe house, ya know? Where some of us met? Ya understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’d been told a couple of comrades were injured. Because I’m a doctor they’d sent for me, ya see?’ She nodded. ‘We were ambushed by the Black and Tans. They beat one comrade to an inch of his life. He was only eighteen.’ His eyes were bleak as he glanced at her. ‘All because he wouldn’t say his name. His brother went after the one who was using his rifle butt and they shot him. By the time they were finished there was only me, one other and the boy alive. Why they let us live God only knows. They just walked away laughing.’ He rubbed his hand over his face. Winifred waited. The horror of what he was saying made her scalp crawl. It was too terrible to even envisage. ‘We took the boy to a nearby cottage. It wasn’t a safe house, just an old couple that live there. They cleaned him up and I did what I could for him. He died anyway. Two days later I went back to the cottage with food. As a thanks, ya know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The cottage was razed to the ground. The old couple were cowering in a shed in the back garden. The Black and Tans had heard they’d helped us and went back to burn the place down. They’d even killed their dog.’

  ‘Oh!’ Winifred gripped her hands so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. She wanted him to stop, it was all so horrible. But his next words shocked her.

  ‘The English are hated in Ireland.’

  The balance between them shifted. For the first time in three days, Winifred recognized that she had misread Conal; that, perhaps, after all, he hadn’t returned to claim her.

  ‘So what about me, Conal?’ The pain stunned her so much she choked the words out. ‘I’m English.’

  When he looked towards her his face was inscrutable. ‘It’s different, so it is,’ was all he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re different.’

  ‘I am. At least from those monsters, I am. But I’m still English. How could we ever be together?’

  The silence between them was unbearable. Unable to sit still any longer she threw the last of the bread onto the grass. When the ducks scattered she stood and walked towards the lake. The water was still, pale in its reflection of the light grey sky. Weeds floated under the surface. She folded her arms, hugged herself, thinking the vagueness of them was the same with Conal; there was something just out of her sight under his words.

  Turning quickly Winifred said, ‘Was it a coincidence? Our meeting. You being in Lydcroft on Friday?’

  ‘To be sure, partly it was,’ he admitted, a glimmer of a smile crossed his face. ‘I was looking for ya. I thought I’d start there. But ya weren’t at the shop.’

  ‘We sold it.’ But I lived there for years after you’d gone; I would have been easy to find then. But why had he come now?

  ‘Then I remembered ya once said where your grandmother lived and I went there.’

  ‘Granny died.’ She didn’t bother to explain that her grandmother had moved in with her. Why was she feeling apprehensive all at once?

  ‘Aw, I’m sorry, Win.’

  It was the first time he’d said her name since they’d met earlier. Bill’s name for her. The thought intruded, unwelcome, even through the guilt. Despite her husband’s moods she knew he loved her. And she loved him. He didn’t deserve what she’d been thinking; what she’d been willing to give up for this man.

  Conal was still talking. ‘But then I saw a family loading up a horse and cart so I asked them on the off chance.’ He laughed. ‘Lucky eh? The old woman said she was a friend of your gran’s. Bertha Corbett?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She gave me the address of where ya lived.’

  Winifred persisted, even as she dreaded the answers he might give. ‘So, why now, Conal?’

  ‘Shall we walk?’ He crooked his arm. ‘Ya’ll understand when I explain.’

  She didn’t want to slip her hand through it but found herself unable to resist even while the distrust lay heavy in her stomach. They strolled along the path away from the lake towards the far side of the park which was deserted.

  ‘Last month, in Dublin, I met a friend, from the old days in Lydcroft. Denny Logan. Ya once gave him a message for me?’ Conal squeezed her arm to him and smiled at her. ‘He told me about Tom. My son.’

  Up to that minute Winifred had forgotten the chance meeting with the man. ‘I remember him; Sophie’s boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s right. Poor Sophie.’

  ‘When I was looking for you,’ Winifred said. ‘I told him.’ The old panic returned so easily thinking of those early days when she found out she was pregnant. ‘I wanted you to know. To come back for me.’

  ‘He’d only just returned to Ireland, so he had. He was arrested in Londo
n for robbing a bank in nineteen twelve. He’d been in prison for twelve years.’

  ‘So you never knew about Tom.’

  ‘I never knew. Tis why I’m here now. I’ll… we’ll make things right, cailín.’

  Chapter 89

  Bill knew there was something wrong. There’d been a different feel to the house over the last few days. When he’d got home from work on Friday morning Winifred was singing as he crossed the yard. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her being happy, in fact it made him feel bloody good, much like he used to when they were first courting. When he’d opened the back door she’d looked surprised even though it was his usual time home from night shift.

  He’d hoped her happiness was because they seemed to be getting on better lately. He’d managed to keep his temper in check for months before that business with her gran’s headstone. It was a soddin’ lot of money but, as she pointed out, they wouldn’t be at Henshaw Street if it wasn’t for the old woman leaving Winifred the money. And he’d quite liked the way she stood up to him that day; bit like getting back the spirited woman he married.

  He’d grinned at her when he closed the door and held out his arms. ‘Are you all right, love?’

  ‘I’m fine, husband dear,’ she’d said. But she’d skipped out of his way when he’d suggested a kiss and a cuddle.

  ‘What? The state you’re in.’ Winifred kissed him on the cheek. ‘We’d both need to get in that if I let you come near me.’ She pointed to the steaming bath on the linoleum.

  ‘And that’s such a bad idea?’ Bill made another grab for her.

  She avoided him again. ‘I can hear Mary; she’s awake. How about you have a wash-up and I’ll get her down for breakfast.’

  Bill was thoughtful as he soaped the rough towelling cloth and rubbed it over his arms and legs. ‘Things are on the up,’ he said to himself.

  Even having to share her with Tom was really okay. He used to try to have a bit of a rough and tumble with the lad when he and Winifred were first married but it hadn’t gone down well and it had caused rows. So Bill had stopped trying to toughen him up. But they still sometimes sat at the kitchen table with the stamp collection, or when Tom read one of his books to him. He just didn’t seem to get the same admiration from the kid that he used to.