Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  “I’m ready to go now,” I announced.

  P.J. did not press me. He knew by the look on my face what had happened.

  “We’ll go home, so,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “Take me up to Glenlea. I want to see the Yellow House.”

  I SAT ON Calmor’s Rock, an outcropping halfway up Slieve Gullion, where Frankie and I played as children. Images of the small boy grinning in triumph after he scrambled ahead of me and claimed the rock for himself brought unwanted tears. How could I stay angry with him? I could not hate him for clutching the small staff of power that fate had handed him and lashing out with it at everyone who had hurt him. I would likely have done the same myself. But I also knew myself well enough to know that I could not give up my rage. Rage is what had fueled me all this time. If I let it go, what would become of me? Would I become like all the other women beyond at the mill—passive, powerless, destined for a life of slow, creeping despondency that even marriage and children could not cure? No. I had been baptized a warrior. I was born to fight. And I needed rage to drive me forward. But where was I to find it now?

  I stared down at the ruins of the Yellow House far below me. No longer did she stand glinting gold in the afternoon sun. She stooped instead like a spent warrior, the damaged, scarred symbol of our broken family. Och, Da! I am so tired of fighting. Why can I not forget the glow of your face that night as you fought to save our house? Why does your ghost keep bringing me back here? I’m just a girl, Da. I’m only sixteen. What do you want me to do?

  A wet nose poking against my knee startled me. I looked down to see a rust-colored Irish setter with big brown eyes staring up at me. My heart jerked at the memory of our own old faithful dog, Cuchulainn. He had died the day after Da and was buried beside him near the Yellow House. This dog was more like Cuchulainn had been in his prime, lively and alert. I smiled in spite of myself and bent forward to pet him.

  “Hello there, lad,” I said, “and where did you come out of?”

  The young dog wagged his tail and put his head on my knee. A voice called out from the bushes.

  “Rory?… Rory?… Come back here, boy. Heel!”

  The dog pricked his ears, then turned and ran toward the main path. Still smiling, I watched him go. My smile faded when his owner came into view. Owen Sheridan. What the feck was he doing here? Could a body not have a bit of peace when she needed it without the likes of himself bursting in on her? I scowled at him as he tipped his cap to me.

  “Why, Miss O’Neill,” he said, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  Pleasant surprise my arse, I thought, but I said nothing. I hoped he would go on about his business, but instead he stood for a moment looking at me, then scrambled across the bushes and gravel until he was sitting beside me, bold as brass, on the rock. Rory ran in circles around us, panting and looking as delighted with himself as his master.

  “So Calmor’s Rock is one of your secret places, too,” Sheridan said, paying no heed to the dirty looks I gave him. “I used to hide out here when I was a lad. I didn’t think anyone else knew of it.”

  “Protestants don’t own everything in the world,” I snapped.

  He ignored me. Instead he gazed around us.

  “Is there ever a time of year when Slieve Gullion is not beautiful?” He sighed, removing his cap and scratching his close-cropped hair. He turned his eyes on me, and they were filled with delight.

  Eejit, I thought. I shrugged.

  “I particularly love her at this time of the year, though,” he went on.

  I also loved Slieve Gullion best in the late summer, although I was not going to tell him that. Her summer robe of bracken so thick now would soon be in tatters, exposing the scars and furrows on her surface. Crevasses formed millions of years ago by the ice age would be exposed, crossing her face like ancient wrinkles. But now the last of the summer flowers and grasses clothed her in a colorful robe. A rabbit darted past, and in the distance waterfowl cried from the many lakes. As I had climbed up today, I had paused at the ash groves in the Valley of the Fews, also called the District of Songs on account of all the poets said to have lived and walked there.

  As if reading my mind, Sheridan said, “I come here to read poetry when I am in the mood. I always hope the ghosts of the poets will inspire me to write something beautiful someday. But no such luck yet.”

  I said nothing but looked off into the distance, hoping he would go on about his business. Instead he turned to me.

  “My poor Miss O’Neill,” he began. “You seem troubled today.”

  “I wasn’t troubled until you came along,” I snapped.

  He paused, then stood up. “In that case, I will leave you in peace,” he said. “I came seeking some solitude myself, although I often think brooding on our troubles can make them seem greater.”

  I shrugged. What could he know about troubles? He whistled for Rory, and the two made their way back over to the main path. But just then, out of nowhere, I didn’t want them to leave. I supposed he was right. Thinking about things often made them more painful. I needed to move.

  “Wait,” I shouted, “are you going to the top?”

  A grin creased his face. “We are,” he said.

  “I was going up there, too,” I said, “but I was wanting to go alone.”

  He grinned more widely, flashing white teeth in his tanned face. “Well then, Rory and I will go ahead, and you can follow in your own time.”

  Cheeky bastard, I thought as he began to climb. Rory fell back and walked beside me. I studied Sheridan as I walked behind him. He wore a tweed jacket, linen trousers, and stout climbing boots. He was a fine figure of a man, I had to admit. He was about as tall as myself, and well built, but he had a fineness to him that made his movements graceful. As he climbed, he whistled, swinging his blackthorn stick in time to the tune. I realized he was putting on a show for me because he knew I was watching him. He had a bob on himself, did this one. Still, I found myself smiling because he put me in mind of Da, who used to swing his stick in the same way on our excursions up the mountain. For a moment, a chill crept over me. When I asked you what you wanted me to do, Da, I said to myself, I didn’t expect you to send me a Protestant as the answer to my question. What are you playing at, for God’s sake?

  I followed Sheridan up to the summit of the mountain. He stood motionless in the weeds at the shore of Lough Berra, the Lake of Sorrows. I clambered up behind him and stood erect. As always, the beauty of the landscape that swept out and around Slieve Gullion took my breath away. Slieve Gullion herself was ringed with a range of smaller mountains known as the Ring Dyke. Beyond the dyke, valleys and plains spread out as far as I could see, stretching green and gold and gray and purple all the way to the horizon. I turned in a circle as I did when I was a child, standing on my toes like a dancer, and stretched out my arms to greet the land. I had forgotten about Owen Sheridan until I heard his laughter. I swung around and scowled at him. He looked at me in a queer sort of way that made me blush.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Aye,” I said. “Do you know the story of the lake?” I added, as much to break the odd spell that had overtaken me as for any desire for conversation.

  “I do indeed.” He nodded.

  As if in answer, a sudden breeze blew across the lake, leaving ripples in the water. Rory plunged in.

  “Here, boy!” Sheridan called.

  “Afraid his hair will turn white?” I quipped.

  I was referring to the legend that anyone who swims in the lake will come out with their hair turned white.

  “No,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to risk it all the same. Your Irish legends can be pretty powerful.”

  I stared into the lake, inhaling the salty smell of the marshes. Da always said Finn’s hair turned white from sorrow because he lost the thing he loved most. Poor Da. His hair turned white from sorrow as well.

  Tears pricked at my eyes, and I turned away from Sheridan. I looked down at the ruins of
the Yellow House, and my tears flowed freely. I felt a touch on my shoulder. Sheridan stood so close, I could smell his tobacco and the fresh scent of his hair. He said nothing, only stared down with me at the Yellow House.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “I loved that house. And I loved my da,” I said before the sobs took over.

  We stood there for a long time. His hand lay gently on my shoulder like a warm balm. As its warmth spread through me, my sobs gradually eased. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a flask.

  “Would you like a drink?” he said, and then, smiling, added, “Don’t worry, it’s only water.”

  As I took the flask, a rush of wind overhead startled us.

  “It’s the wild geese,” I exclaimed through my tears. “Look, it’s the wild geese! They’ve come early!”

  I was a child again, standing beside my da, pointing up at the graceful birds. They usually came in late autumn, flying over Slieve Gullion on their way south.

  “They’re not due for another month!”

  Owen Sheridan watched them, too, his face upturned, smiling.

  “Did you know that two of them flew over Da’s funeral this past March?” I said with pride. “I think they came to escort Da to heaven. Da says great luck will come to those who see them!”

  He smiled at me. “I hope your da’s right,” he said. “I could use some good Irish luck just now.”

  I wanted to ask more, but for once I held my tongue. A shadow crept over his face and then was gone. “Well, shall we go?” he asked, all business.

  He insisted on escorting me down the mountain. Now that the earlier spell had been broken, I wanted to shrug him off, but the press of his hand on the small of my back was warm and comforting. The sun was setting in the west, taking its warmth with it. I shivered slightly, and my old irritation with Sheridan’s presence returned.

  “How are you getting home?” he inquired.

  “No bother of yours,” I said. “I have my bicycle.”

  “And where is it you live?”

  Jesus, it’s a nosy bugger he is, I thought. “Newry!” I snapped.

  “But you can’t cycle all the way to Newry. It will be dark soon.”

  I turned on him. “I have walked it in the middle of the night, half carrying my young brother,” I said. “I can surely ride a bicycle there without harm.”

  We had arrived at Kearney’s Pub in Glenlea village, where I had left my bicycle. I had told P.J. not to wait for me, but I saw him now sitting outside the pub, drinking a stout with Shane Kearney, the pub’s owner. I was grateful to see him. If nothing else, it would shut up Sheridan’s blather.

  P.J. raised an eyebrow when he saw us. “Och, Eileen! And Mr. Sheridan now.”

  Sheridan tipped his cap. “Owen, sir. Mr. Sheridan is my father.”

  “I ran into this eejit on the mountain,” I snapped, ignoring P.J.’s questioning look. “A body can’t get a bit of peace anywhere these days.”

  P.J. drained his glass. “Well, I’ll bring the cart around so,” he said with a grin. “Mr. Sheridan… er, Owen lad, can I be giving you a lift, too?”

  Sheridan grinned. “Ah, no, thank you, sir. There is a certain lady in these parts waiting to give me dinner. So I’ll be off. Good night, Miss O’Neill.”

  I glared at him as he lifted his bicycle, which had been leaning against the wall of Kearney’s Pub. So it was right what the women said about him, that he was a bit of a rake.

  P.J. grinned back. “Well, enjoy yourself.”

  I watched Sheridan cycle away, his blackthorn stick across the handlebars and Rory trotting beside him. Strange feelings crept up inside me, but I was too tired to dwell on them. I’d had enough emotion and confusion for one day. All I wanted now was to sleep.

  IN THE DAYS after my visit with Frankie, I tried to keep my head down and my nose clean. I was afraid if I thought too hard about things, I would fall apart. For the moment, I fixed my rage on my circumstances. I was female and I was Catholic and I was poor. Well, I could do nothing about the first two, but I could do my best to make money. Without money, I realized, I had no power in the world at all. So I went to the mill every day determined to be a model worker so they would have no cause to sack me. I hoped to move up soon to spinner; I had spent enough time as a doffer. I played every chance I could with the Ulster Minstrels. I bought a sewing machine and took in mending and dressmaking work. P.J. used his connections to get me bundles of handkerchiefs to hem with lace—clean, tidy work that was usually given to Protestant women. I did my best, but the truth was I had no talent for it. My hands were too big and clumsy, and I had no patience for the delicate work. I gave up eventually, sold the machine, and took a job serving whiskey and stout in the Ceili House two nights a week. Every Saturday, I brought home my pay envelope and gave half my wages to Mrs. Mullen to pay for Paddy’s and my keep.

  “I’m only taking it to save your pride,” she said, “but there’s no call for it at all.”

  I put the rest of my wages from the mill and the money I earned from the Ceili House in a big glass jar I kept beside my bed. I loved looking at the coins piling up. One day, P.J. took me to the post office on Hill Street in Newry and helped me open an account.

  “It’s safer in here, darlin’,” he said, “and it will be earning interest for you.”

  I took the passbook home and sat on my bed holding it reverently between my two hands like a Communion host. When I had enough, I told myself, I would buy the Yellow House back from Frankie. I had a few years until he was twenty-one and old enough to sell it. Surely he would sell it to me if I met his price. New hope fueled my energies.

  I clung more and more to my brother Paddy. Looking back on it now, I see that it was not fair to the child. He had only just begun to stand on his own feet again after months of refusing to sleep by himself and crying after me every time I went out the door. But my family was slowly slipping away from me, and I just could not chance losing him as well. At night, I told him stories about the Yellow House. In the beginning he had been all ears, asking questions and laughing at my stories about Great-Grandda Hugh and the merry ghosts. He wanted to know when Da was coming back—in his mind, Da was just away visiting heaven. I’m afraid I encouraged him to think that way. I wanted him to keep asking me when I was going to take him home. I didn’t want him to forget. I even took him once to see Ma, but she backed away and screeched so hard when she saw him that I had to rush him out the door. I didn’t take him back after that.

  He looked more and more like Lizzie every day. He had her same blond hair and wide blue eyes. It sometimes made me sad to look at him. I wanted him to grow up strong and happy, but just now I realized I needed him more than he needed me. If I let him go, I would have to let go of my dream. So I suffocated the poor child with hugs and kisses and tears. During those days I swear he was wiser than I was, the way he looked at me with a queer sort of patience and pity.

  It was only when the Mullens put him in school in September that we all realized the depth of the anger that was raging in Paddy. At the end of the first day when Mrs. Mullen went to collect him, he had bruises on his cheek and his sleeve was torn. Paddy refused to talk to her about what happened. The next day she went to see his teacher, who told her Paddy had been in a fight in the playground. It wasn’t unusual for a child to be in a fight on his first day, the teacher explained, and once he settled in, things would be grand. But things were not grand. Within a week, Mrs. Mullen was called to the school and told to take Paddy out. He had been picking fights with other children, even though many of them were much older than him. They would not let him back in until the next term, they said, until he was older and had learned to behave himself. I was as shocked as the Mullens.

  “For God’s sake, Paddy, what happened?”

  I crouched down in front of him and looked into his face. He stared back at me but said nothing. Instead of Lizzie’s sweet face, I suddenly saw Frankie’s defiance, and my anger exploded. I shook him b
y the shoulders.

  “What do you think Da would say to this behavior?” I shouted.

  “Da’s dead,” he said.

  His words were like a shower of cold water. Shocked, I dropped my hands from him. “What?” I whispered.

  “Da’s dead,” he said again.

  A torrent of sadness washed through me. Oh, the poor wee lad. It had finally sunk in that his da was really dead and not just “visiting heaven,” as he used to say. As for his ma—I shuddered at the image of her screaming at him like a banshee to get away from her. Jesus, no wonder the boy was angry. I reached out and crushed him against me. He didn’t resist.

  “I’m sorry, love,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  I leaned back and clutched his shoulders between my hands. “I promise I’ll not leave you, Paddy,” I said. “I’ll bring us all back to the Yellow House.”

  After that, neither I nor the Mullens questioned him. We went on about our lives as if the school incidents had never occurred. At home, he was a good child, quiet and helpful. Mrs. Mullen took it on herself to teach him to read, and it turned out he loved books. P.J. taught him to play simple wee tunes on the fiddle, and I took him to mass with me on Sundays—just the two of us. Afterward we would go for lemonade, and I would buy him a picture book. I think those outings kept us both sane.