He held out a smooth, slender white hand, but I left it hanging there. Sheridan? I had come face-to-face with the devil himself. I stared at him in horror. He dropped his hand and went on. “You know, I think I met you once when you were a small girl. You were climbing Slieve Gullion with your father. He seemed to dote on you.” He smiled a smug, confident smile. At that, I let loose.
“How dare you talk to me about my father? It’s the likes of youse persecuted him and killed him. How can you live your soft life when my own poor family has been torn asunder? It isn’t fair. None of it is fair!” I didn’t care how nice and polite he was. The lemonade turned sour in my stomach. “I have to go,” I said.
He reached out and put his hand on my arm. I shook it off.
“I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss O’Neill,” he said, “but I assure you neither I nor my family are to blame. We are Quakers. We do not believe in violence.”
I looked at the glass of ale in his hand. “I thought Quakers didn’t believe in drink, either?” I snapped.
His smile returned. “Well, I suppose I’m the black sheep of the family.”
He looked me up and down, the smile of amusement still on his face, as if he were enjoying a conversation with a wayward child. My cheeks reddened under his gaze.
“Where do you live now, Miss O’Neill?”
I almost told him it was none of his fecking business, but I wanted to end the conversation, so instead I said, “I live with P.J. and his wife, and I work up at Queensbrook Mill.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Really? I can’t say I’ve seen you there—but then again I don’t often visit the mills. Are you in the spinning mill or the weaving mill?”
“The spinning mill. I’m a doffer.” And before I could stop myself, I added, “And I enjoy tramping around every day up to my arse in water, and nearly catching my death when I come out of an evening.”
He laughed aloud, a full, hearty laugh, and his eyes lit up. He was enjoying himself, the bastard, I thought, taking my words for a fine joke, making a mockery of me. I wanted to reach over and wipe the grin off his face. But before I could do anything, P.J. shouted down from the stage.
“Eileen? It’s time we were starting up.”
I turned on my heel and marched up to the stage.
“I like your spirit, Miss O’Neill,” he called out after me.
“Who was that you were talking to?” P.J. asked.
“Nobody special.”
I took up my fiddle again, but now anger had replaced my earlier nervousness. It took a while for it to seep out of me and let the rapture of the music replace it. Silently I again thanked Da for his gift to me. It might be the only thing that would help me hold my temper—and I was, I realized, in desperate need of that.
I CAUGHT MY breath when I saw Owen Sheridan walk onto the spinning room floor that following Monday morning. Now I was done for. My temper had got me in trouble, and my job was about to be over almost before it started. I hovered behind a spinning frame in the corner, pretending to adjust the bobbins. The frame operator scowled at me. I watched Sheridan walk, hands behind his back, his head bowed, listening to whatever it was that Joe Shields was whispering in his ear. I hated Shields for bowing and scraping to him like he was feckin’ royalty. But I had to admit he looked well just the same. His hair was blonder than I remembered from the Ceili House, and he carried his tall, slender frame with a mixture of arrogance and grace. He was a man you would look at twice. The other women obviously agreed with me. The frames slowed as they turned to gape.
“Who’s that fellow?”
“I think that’s the owner’s son.”
“Och, isn’t he lovely?”
“It will be well for the woman gets him—looks and money and the whole lot.”
“Maybe it’ll be yourself, Maureen—sure don’t you look grand in that apron?”
“I hear he’s a rake. There’s women in three counties mad for him, but not one of them’s been able to land him. Black sheep of the family, so he is. I hear he’s fond of a drink and gambling as well.”
“Well, he must do his drinking outside of Queensbrook—he’d be famished with the thirst for all the pubs we have in this town.”
“Aye. No pubs, no pawnshops, no police station,” they chorused, echoing the words P.J. had said that first morning on the tram.
The women laughed and joked. He turned and smiled, nodding at each one of them as if she were the only woman there, saying, “Good morning,” and, “How are you?” in that refined voice of his. He stopped in front of a frame where the steam spat water on him. He moved back, brushing off the front of his jacket. Serves him right, I thought, but I bit my lip. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? I watched as he talked to the operator. Blushing, she pointed down at her bare feet and the puddles of water on the floor. I slipped out of the corner and edged closer so that I could get a better look. He swung around as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
“Ah, Miss O’Neill,” he called aloud, “there you are!” His voice was pleasant enough, but I cringed. I waited for the ax to fall. “You see, I took your comments quite seriously. I decided to have a look for myself.”
Joe Shields stood beside him, glaring at me. “I agree these are regrettable conditions,” Sheridan went on, “however, I don’t know what can be done about them. I intend to speak to my father on the matter. Perhaps some other mills have found ways of containing the water. Do you have any ideas, Miss O’Neill? You seem like a bright young lady.”
He wore that same smile of amusement he’d had in the Ceili House. He was mocking me again. I wanted to lash out at him, but I just stood there like an eejit with no tongue in my head. Most of the spinning frames had stopped as the workers turned to stare at me. I flushed red to my ears.
“Well, good-bye, Miss O’Neill,” Sheridan said at last, “lovely to see you again. Let me know if you have any more concerns.”
He walked away with Shields at his side. Then he turned and said over his shoulder, “Oh, and you have no need to thank me.”
And he was gone.
The women started in.
“Well, some of us have friends in high places, don’t we?”
“Little doffer’s a dark horse, isn’t she?”
“Will you put a good word in for me, love? I could tame a man like him.”
I didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. I suppose I was both. I was so sure that he had come to sack me that I couldn’t take in that I was still there. Shields was a different kettle of fish, though. I had earned no points with him at all. Finally I shouted back at the women who were cackling away at my expense.
“Look, all I told him was the truth, that we were drowning up to our arses here in this feckin’ water.”
There was silence for a minute, and then the laughter started, and a few of them even clapped their hands. “More power to you, darlin’. There’s not many would have the brass to speak up to the likes of him.”
Miss Galway came up behind me. “Back to your work,” she said sharply. She was not laughing with the rest of them.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. But I knew I had not heard the end of it. I would have to pay for causing Owen Sheridan to interfere with their operations. I would be labeled a troublemaker, and they would watch me like a hawk.
I BECAME A regular with P.J. and the Ulster Minstrels at the Ceili House. My confidence as a fiddle player grew, and soon I was playing solos. I never saw Frankie there again after that first night, but Owen Sheridan appeared once in a while, always sitting near the back by the door. I did my best to avoid him. I couldn’t trust myself for what I might say to him and get myself in trouble again. I suppose I should have at least thanked him. He had arranged for splash boards to be installed on the spinning frames, and while they did little to ease the puddles of water on the floor, at least they stopped the spinners from getting drenched with the spray from the spindles. I earned the respect of the other women for speaking up, but Joe Shields and Miss Galwa
y were spitting mad over my interference. I was not about to suggest any more improvements to Mr. Sheridan.
6
One Sunday in late September, I took it into my head to go and see Frankie. He had been weighing on my mind since the night I had seen him at the Ceili House. I needed to know that he was all right. Something told me he was hurting desperately, and I could not bear to think of that. On the other hand, I didn’t know what kind of a welcome I would get, but I made up my mind that wasn’t going to stop me. I had survived worse than Frankie’s angry looks. P.J. wasn’t so keen, however.
“Sure I told you the lad was in fine fettle the last I saw him,” he said.
“Maybe. But I’ll go and see for myself.”
P.J. rubbed his cheek. “You may not get such a warm welcome.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
P.J. sighed. He knew I was not to be talked out of it, although I didn’t quite understand why he was trying to do so. We threw my old bicycle in the back of the cart and drove to mass. It was agreed that after mass P.J. would drive me as far as the village near the Fitzwilliam estate. He would wait in the local pub, and I would cycle the rest of the way up to the house. I wanted to visit Frankie alone.
It was a gorgeous late summer day as I rode out from the village. The last of the summer field roses bloomed wild along hedgerows, creamy clusters of meadowsweet and clumps of red clover painted the fields, the grass was a fresh, moist green, and everything seemed lush and ripe. Men passing me on the road touched their caps in greeting. Children laughed and waved. I waved back. But as I came in sight of the massive stone wall that surrounded the estate, my heart began pounding. I rode through the open gateway and dismounted, wheeling the bicycle beside me as I approached the big house. It looked as foreboding as ever, like a haunted house in a fairy tale. I felt soulless eyes watching me from the high arched windows. I looked down at the flower beds. No beautiful late summer blossoms grew there. Instead, dead brown twigs and weeds covered the ground. I dropped my bicycle and climbed the broken and cracked stone steps to the oak door. I squared my shoulders, lifted the heavy iron knocker, and let it fall. I waited. Eventually, I heard the squeal of locks being released and the grunt of the door as it opened.
“What do you want?”
My grandfather looked smaller than I remembered. He stooped forward and his clothes hung on his frame like a coat on a scarecrow. The change in him shocked me.
“I’m Eileen,” I began.
“I know fine well who you are,” he snarled. “What do you want? Your ma’s not here.”
I swallowed down a sudden anger. “I’m here to see my brother,” I said.
He looked me up and down, his rheumy eyes taking in every detail. I shivered. Then he opened his dry lips and let out a laugh that sounded more like a croak.
“Mr. Frank O’Neill, is it? I believe you’ll find that gentleman beyond in the stables where he belongs.”
Before I could answer, he stepped back and shut the door in my face.
“Oul’ bastard!” I swore out loud.
I backed down the steps, picked up my bicycle, and wheeled it along the path that ran around the house. I assumed the stables were somewhere behind the main house. So Frankie was out tending the horses? I winced, remembering how he disliked animals. God spare the horses, I thought. The path ended suddenly at the side of the house, but in the distance across a rough patch of grass, I saw a cluster of white buildings. As I walked toward them, wheeling my bicycle, I saw the stables. The buildings stood in a square around a wide, stone-flagged courtyard. A couple of horses peered over latched half-doors, and straw was scattered around the ground. As I approached, one of the half-doors opened and Frankie appeared, wearing overalls and carrying a bucket and a shovel. He did not see me right away, and I stopped and watched him. He had grown, although he was still a good six inches shorter than myself. His skin was brown from the sun, and new muscles stood out on his bare arms. He walked with his head high and his back straight, defiant despite the load of dung I guessed he carried. He was still the old Frankie. My heart soared at the sight of him.
“Frankie,” I called.
He stopped when he saw me, and the look he gave me made my heart squeeze shut. His dark eyes, like those of a missionary priest, seared into me. He set down the bucket and shovel and sauntered toward me, coming to a standstill so close to me that I could smell the sweat and dung off him. His sneer reminded me of my grandfather’s.
“Well, well,” he said. “The high and mighty Miss Eileen O’Neill, daughter of the great O’Neills, has come to see the bastard son.”
His words cut through me. I was about to lash back at him when I remembered his poor, frightened face the day he rode off from the Yellow House with Ma.
By this time, two stable hands had stopped their work to stare at us. They elbowed each other and giggled.
I turned on them. “I’m his feckin’ sister,” I yelled.
They giggled louder. I turned back to Frankie.
“Can we go to your room up at the house? I’d like to talk in private.”
He laughed—a low, mirthless sound. “You can come to my room if you like,” he said, “but you’ll have to watch out for the dung on your nice, shiny boots. My quarters are in there along with the horses.”
I gasped. “What?” I said.
“Aye. Quarters fit for a bastard like myself.”
“Och, Frankie, will you stop calling yourself that.”
“Frank to you, miss. The old Frankie’s long gone.”
I fidgeted with my bag and brushed my skirt. I had dressed in the long black skirt and white blouse I wore to play in the band. I had polished my boots that morning and brushed my hair until it shone. I wanted to look nice for Frankie. But now I felt overdressed and embarrassed.
“Can we walk a ways, then,” I whispered, “away from here?”
He shrugged but began walking across the courtyard and out toward the open fields beyond. I followed him. When we came to a stone stile over a brook, he sat down, and I sat beside him.
“I’m sorry, Frankie—er, Frank,” I said. “I didn’t know it was like this.”
He said nothing. A sudden anger shot through me. “How could Ma have let him treat you like this?” I exploded.
Frank waved his hand. “Sure I was her sin, don’t you remember? No punishment was too good for me.” His voice was sharp as acid.
“But it wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You had nothing to do with it.”
He shrugged. “I was here all the same. A reminder of the curse God had put on her.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out at the sky. “Anyway, she went astray in the head after that.”
“I went to see her,” I said. “She didn’t even know me.” Tears pricked my eyes. I turned to Frank. “Why didn’t you come to Da’s funeral? I needed you there.”
Frank snorted. “And why would I go to that oul’ eejit’s funeral?” he shouted. “He was nothing to me.”
“He was your da in every other way,” I said.
“Not in the way that counts.” Frank paused and laughed. “And since when did the proud Eileen O’Neill ever need anything or anyone?”
“That’s not fair,” I said.
We sat in silence. In the distance, horses’ hooves clattered in the stable yard, and dogs barked. The sun was high in the sky. Frank pulled his cap down over his eyes.
I sat erect and cleared my throat. “I have a job now,” I said, “at the Queensbrook Mill. And another job playing with the Ulster Minstrels.”
“Aye, I saw you once,” whispered Frank
“It was you, then,” I cried out in delight. “Why didn’t you stay?”
Frank shrugged.
“And I’ve a good bit of money put away,” I went on. “The Yellow House didn’t burn to the ground that night in spite of what the bastards tried to do, and when I have enough saved I’m going to get it repaired and move us all back—Ma, Paddy, you, and me—”
Fra
nk’s laughter cut me short. He stood up and faced me.
“Will you listen to yourself,” he said. “Jesus, will you just listen to yourself. The great Eileen O’Neill is going to make the world right for all of us!”
“I’m serious,” I yelled.
Frank stopped laughing. His face turned dark despite the sunlight. He felt in his pocket and pulled out the stub of a cigarette and a match. He struck the match on the ground and lit the stub, inhaling long and hard and blowing the smoke into the air. He coughed.
“Well now, I have a surprise for you, miss,” he said, looking straight into my face. “The Yellow House belongs to me. Isn’t that a joke? Oul’ P.J. came and told me that being as I’m the oldest surviving son, it’s to pass to me when I come of age. That eejit Billy Craig’s father beyond at the bank is holding all the papers on it.”
“But… but you’re not even an O’Neill,” I blurted out. I was sorry the minute I said it, but the shock had knocked all sense out of me.
“No, I’m not. And that’s why I’ll be selling it as soon as I’m able. Good riddance to all it stands for.”
“No!” I cried. “Ah, Frankie, no. You can’t mean that.” I reached out my hand to his. He shook me off. “But what about the O’Neill legacy?” I said.
“I don’t give a shite about the O’Neill legacy.”
“But you used to,” I cried. “You believed in it as much as I did. We used to fight over who would make the best warrior. Remember? Remember?”
He said nothing and turned to go. I caught his arm and wrenched him to a stop. “You can’t do this,” I cried. “This is my dream. This is what keeps me going.”
“You’ll just have to find another dream, then, won’t you?”
He strode off toward the stables.
“Have you no loyalty?” I shouted after him.
He turned briefly. “None at all,” he said.
I sat on the wall and watched him go. My body felt heavy, as if I had been thumped and pummeled by some marauding animal. I did not think I could move again. I rode the emotions that flowed through me: anger, sadness, shock, pity, fear—I could take my pick. Eventually, I picked anger, and I turned it on P.J. P.J. had known about the house ever since Da’s death, yet he had let me blather on for months like a fool about how I would restore it and reunite us all. Now I understood why he had not wanted me to see Frankie. He knew the truth would come out. The fury gave me energy, and I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled across the grass, past the stables, down the avenue, and out the gate. I had to get away from that evil place. It was cursed. I pedaled down to the village, the rosebushes a blur beside me, the greetings of strangers unheeded. I marched into the pub and tapped P.J. on the shoulder.
Patricia Falvey Page 8