Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  7

  The quiet routine of life suited me. I had no need of friends. But it turned out God had other ideas. A few months after my sixteenth birthday, He arranged for a girl named Theresa Conlon to interfere with my life and turn it upside down.

  Theresa came to work at the mill and started, like the rest of us, as a doffer. She was a year younger than me. I was put in charge of teaching her. If anyone could be called great craic—the Gaelic word for fun and good company—it was Theresa. She was always joking and laughing, and she did a wicked imitation of Miss Galway. On top of that, she could swear better than me. I couldn’t help liking her. It turned out she was the sister of Fergus Conlon, the tall, reed-thin Music Man who used to play the mandolin with the group at the Yellow House and whom I played with nowadays in the Ulster Minstrels. When she invited me to her house, though, I didn’t know what to say. First of all, I had heard all the stories from Ma about what a harridan oul’ Mrs. Conlon was, so I was in no hurry to meet her. Even more to the point, I had never had friends, and I was sure I did not want any—they would only interfere with my purpose. But Mrs. Mullen was so delighted at the prospect of my having a friend that I hated to disappoint her. When I told her I had been invited to tea, she went into a dither of what I should wear, what I should bring, and all the rest of it.

  THERESA AND I must have looked an odd pair as we walked down the hill from the spinning mill toward the village of Queensbrook. I had grown to six feet tall, with big feet and hands and hair that fell in a long auburn braid down my back to my waist. I was slender, thank God, but strong as a horse. My new friend Theresa, by contrast, was only five feet in height, and she walked with a limp on account of being born with a club foot that left her with one leg shorter than the other. She was a lovely girl all the same, with long, wavy brown hair, big hazel eyes, and a smile that would light the road at night.

  I had never seen the village up close. I had no interest in exploring the place; when work finished I always made a beeline for the tram. Now I saw it as P.J. had described on that first day we rode the tram to Queensbrook. It was like a toy town. Small, tidy houses with red geraniums in window boxes stood shoulder to shoulder in two big squares. In the middle of each square was a green where men bowled, and children played while mothers sat on wooden benches watching them. Trees and shrubs grew here and there. The pavement that ran around the greens and in front of the houses was clean and smooth. Along the main road that linked the squares stood two churches, a community hall, a library, and two schools. Well-tended shops sold meat and vegetables and dry goods. As P.J. had said, there was not a pub to be seen.

  Theresa watched me as I gazed around. “Have you never been to the village?”

  “No.”

  “It was built by the Sheridans. By the way, I hear you know the son.” Theresa’s eyes blazed up at me. I had found out already that she was a terror for the gossip. I decided to stay clear of it.

  “Not really,” I said.

  Theresa shrugged. “Anyway, it’s all mill workers that live here. My brother Fergus is a bleacher. My da was a hackler before he died. Ma’s convinced the dust killed him, and so is my other brother, James. He hates the mills. But I don’t mind it. I’m just glad that Ma’s finally let me out of the house.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “Fergus? He lives here, but we don’t see too much of him between his work and playing at the Ceili House.”

  “No. The other one.”

  “James? Well, he’s studying to be a priest. He’s away at the seminary down in Dublin at the minute. Ma sent me to work to help pay for his school fees.”

  I had known from Ma that Fergus worked as a bleacher at the Queensbrook Mill and that all his wages went to pay the school fees of his younger brother, James. Now I learned that Mrs. Conlon had put Theresa to work in the cause of James, too. I was prepared to hate this James on sight.

  She pushed open the front door of a house halfway up the right-hand side of the second square and pulled me in after her. “Ma? We’re here,” she called.

  A small woman, thin and short as Theresa, came into the parlor. Her steel gray hair was cut blunt around her head and secured with clips. She had a sharp beak of a nose, thin lips, and cheeks dotted with red blotches. Around her neck hung a silver crucifix. I had expected a much bigger woman. I suppose, to be fair, I was not what she was expecting, either. She fixed her little brown eyes on me.

  “You’re a tall one, aren’t you?” she said by way of greeting. Her voice was surprisingly strong given her frail appearance. “My James is tall like you,” she went on. “Theresa now, she took after me. Our Theresa’s the runt of the family.”

  “Ma, this is Eileen O’Neill,” said Theresa, ignoring her mother’s remarks. “Sit down, Eileen. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I looked around the parlor. I didn’t see how anybody could be comfortable in this room with its stiff furnishings, not to mention the pictures and statues of Jesus, his Mother, and the pope staring out at you. I chose a small red armchair beside the fireplace.

  “Oh no, not there!” Mrs. Conlon blurted out.

  I jumped and Theresa giggled. “I forgot to warn you,” she said. “That’s James’s chair. You know, the prince has to have his throne.”

  “But I thought he was away,” I said, confused.

  Theresa sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. “Sit here,” she said.

  I handed the tin of biscuits Mrs. Mullen had sent to Mrs. Conlon and sat down beside Theresa. I looked around the room again, trying to avoid Mrs. Conlon’s glare. The odor of wax on the floors and furniture nearly choked me, and I smelled bleach off the curtains and the tablecloth. A fluffy gray cat sat on an outside windowsill and meowed. I supposed the oul’ bat wouldn’t even let the cat in for fear it would dirty the place. I wondered that she had not told me to take off my shoes.

  “Do you have the tea made, Ma?” said Theresa, kicking out her legs and sighing. “We’re famished with the hunger.”

  Mrs. Conlon turned her eyes up toward heaven. “Och, why don’t you make the tea, Theresa? My legs are killing me. I was on my hands and knees all day.”

  Theresa winked at me. “She says the rosary. For penance, you know.”

  Mrs. Conlon bristled. “Somebody has to pray for the sinners of this world.”

  Theresa hauled herself up off the sofa and went into the scullery, dragging her club foot behind her. Mrs. Conlon made herself comfortable in the armchair that sat on the other side of the fireplace from James’s chair. “So you’re up at that oul’ mill, too? It will probably kill youse, like it did her da.” She sniffed. “Of course, there’s them that’s lucky enough to get married and out of there that might survive, but I wouldn’t put you among them. Her neither—” She nodded toward the scullery, where Theresa was banging around cups and pots. “The deformity, you know.” She paused and sighed. “Och, well, we all have our cross to bear.”

  “But why did you send her to the mill, then?” I blurted out, astonished.

  “She can earn more there than working as a shop assistant. And we need the money for James’s fees. What our Fergus earns is not enough. It’s a sacrifice worth making to have the great blessing of a priest in the family.” She stared heavenward again and crossed herself.

  As long as you’re not the one making the sacrifice, you oul’ bitch, I thought.

  Theresa came in from the kitchen carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. Her mother looked at what she had set out and sniffed. “I was saving that ham for tomorrow,” she said.

  “Eileen plays the fiddle at the Ceili House in Newry,” Theresa said. “She knows our Fergus.”

  Mrs. Conlon blessed herself again. “That den of devils!” she shouted. “That’s where our Fergus went astray. Lord save us from the drink. There was never a drop of it in this house. And, praise the Sheridan family, not a drop of it in this village.”

  Theresa rolled her eyes, and I thought that her poor da could have done with a
drop now and then to put up with this old harridan.

  “I’ll say a novena for you,” Mrs. Conlon added, “that you may be spared a life of the drink.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or hit her.

  “O’Neill?” she said, settling in for the inquisition. “Are you a relation to that Tom O’Neill as was shot?”

  “Ma!” cried Theresa.

  “He was my father,” was all I said.

  There was silence as we chewed on the ham sandwiches and drank the tea. I noticed some of the spirit had oozed out of Theresa.

  “Is your son long at the seminary?” I said, trying to steer the conversation.

  Mrs. Conlon brightened, and the red spots on her face glowed like stigmata. “Two years this September,” she said. “He’s eighteen now. He has years yet to go.”

  “If he stays,” muttered Theresa.

  Mrs. Conlon shot up in her chair. “And why wouldn’t he?”

  Theresa shrugged. “Maybe he’ll join the army,” she said sourly. “The English are talking about a war coming soon. And then there’s the unrest that’s happening around Ireland. Maybe he’ll leave and fight for the Revolution!”

  Mrs. Conlon rose to the bait. Her face turned scarlet, and she clutched her crucifix.

  “He’ll be a soldier of Christ,” she said shrilly. “That’s what he was born to do. And mind your manners, miss.”

  “Would you like more tea?” said Theresa, holding out the pot to me.

  I saw my chance and stood up. “No, thanks, I should be going.” I nodded toward Mrs. Conlon. “It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the tea.” God forgive me, I thought, for the lies I’m telling.

  Mrs. Conlon did not get up. “Well, Theresa’s never had many friends,” she said. “I’m glad to see she’s finally made one.”

  Theresa pushed me out the door. She stormed down the pavement, dragging her leg behind her. “No friends my arse,” she muttered. “She drove them all away, that’s why. Sanctimonious old bitch.” She looked back at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”

  I shook my head. “No bother,” I said. “I’ve met worse.”

  Theresa giggled. “Well, if there’s worse, I’d like to meet them.”

  We both laughed. She waited for me to catch up, and she linked her arm in mine.

  AS I RODE the tram home, I thought about the evening. I felt sorry for Theresa, cooped up in that house with that old hypocrite. And as for the James fellow, well, I was prepared to hate him, too, priest or no priest, letting his sister and brother work like slaves to pay for him. But there was another feeling inside me: So this is what friendship is? I thought of the girls I had seen at the mill or on Hill Street in Newry, arm in arm, giggling at everything in front of them. I always thought that they were eejits. But I had to admit that beneath my scorn there lay another feeling—envy. Now, as I considered this new feeling of friendship, I turned it over and over like a stone in my hand and felt something creep into my heart. It wasn’t as strong as joy—I realized I was not yet ready for joy—but it was a warm feeling just the same. I leaned back against the wooden seat of the tram and smiled.

  AS CHRISTMAS EVE 1913 approached, I was in very bad form. For months I had been asking to be promoted to spinner. I knew every inch of the job, I said, so there was no reason I should not move up. I had been a doffer for eight months. Even the slowest of them usually moved up within a year—except for the likes of Josephine, who was not fit for anything else. But every time I opened my mouth, Shields turned me down. “It’s not time,” he would say. “There’s others more deserving ahead of you.” I was supposed to swallow that and go back to my corner. I knew fine well that the real reason was that I had complained to Owen Sheridan about the conditions in the mill. Shields was getting even with me, and Mary Galway was going along with him.

  I had saved a fair few pound already, but it was slow going. I could save twice as much working as a spinner. My plan was to spend a couple of years proving myself as a spinner and then move over to the weaving mill and run a loom. Weaving was considered a higher skill than spinning, and the workers were paid by the piece instead of by the hour. I was a hard worker, so I knew I could do well there. I’d also have dry feet for a change, I thought, even though I’d be exchanging the hot, humid conditions for pouce—the name the weavers gave to the flax dust that clogged their lungs.

  “What would you want to go to that oul’ place for?” Theresa said when I mentioned it to her. “Sure it’s so noisy over there the weavers can’t even talk to one another. They have to use sign language. And the pace is so desperate they don’t have time to scratch their arses. There’s no craic over there at all.”

  “I can do without the craic,” I said. “The money is what’s important.”

  “Life’s what’s important, Eileen,” she said, “enjoying yourself while you’re young. You’re going to be an old woman before your time.”

  In early December, Theresa ran up to me full of excitement.

  “Are you going to the ball, Eileen?”

  “The what?”

  “Och, do you never pay attention to anything? The Spinners’ Ball. It’s going to be a big do on Christmas Eve. All the girls are talking about it. I’m in charge of the committee. The Sheridans have agreed we can use the Community Hall, and they will pay for a band and all the food. No drink, of course, but it will be great craic. There’ll be a lot of fellows there from all around and there’ll be dancing, and—”

  “But can you dance?” I blurted out. I could have bit my tongue off. I sounded just like Theresa’s ma.

  Theresa grinned at me. “Och, aye. I just drag this old thing around after me,” she said, looking down at her club foot.

  I felt a rush of admiration for her. “I don’t think I’ll be going, Theresa,” I said. “I’m not one for social events.”

  “Well then,” said Theresa, “we’ll just have to book the Ulster Minstrels.”

  The day before the ball, Theresa presented me with a white satin blouse she had made. It had a low neckline and wee pearl buttons on the sleeves. Unlike me, Theresa was a great hand with a needle.

  “It’ll go well with your long black skirt,” she said, pleased that I liked it. “And for Jesus’ sake wear some jewelry. I’ll lend you one of my necklaces. It’s only glass, but it’s a lovely green color—it’ll match your eyes.”

  I thanked her and laughed. There was no opposing Theresa. Small as she was, she always got her way. I promised I would wear whatever she gave me, even though I would feel awkward all decked out and drawing attention to myself. Wasn’t my size enough to cause remarks, without lighting myself up like a bloody Christmas tree?

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE night, I rode in the tram to the party along with P.J. and Mrs. Mullen. I had persuaded P.J. and the boys to play, even though P.J. was scandalized that there would be no porter to wet the throat. I wore Theresa’s white blouse, a necklace of glass emerald-colored stones, and a green ribbon threaded through my braid. The band uniform was black trousers and white open-necked shirts, so I wore a long black velvet skirt. Mrs. Mullen got tears in her eyes and said I looked lovely.

  We joined the crowd of people walking toward the Community Hall in the middle of the village. The night was chilly, and there were flurries of snow. People were wrapped up in mufflers and hats, and everyone talked away a mile a minute. When we entered the hall, I gasped. The place was like a fairyland. It was lit by gas lamps and lanterns. Streamers of green, white, and red crisscrossed the ceiling. Holly wreaths with red berries and dusted with white hung around the walls. Bunches of mistletoe hung here and there. Dozens of round tables covered in white tablecloths and adorned with candles and colorful Christmas crackers ringed the hall. On one side of the room, a long table was piled with roast beef, ham, bread, fruit, and pastries, along with big bowls of fruit punch and cider.

  Theresa rushed up to us, her face glowing. “Och, you’re here,” she breathed. “Isn’t it lovely? I designed all the decorations myself.”r />
  “It’s grand, Theresa,” I said, “and you look well.”

  She blushed and looked down at the jade velvet dress she wore. It was low cut in front, with a lovely long full skirt. The color of the dress made her hazel eyes shine. Her dark hair was coiled up on top of her head. She looked elegant. The club foot seemed a faraway thing at that moment.

  “Me ma says the dress is scandalous.” She giggled. “She said a rosary for me before she came out of the house tonight, to save me from the devil. The blouse looks well on you.”

  I touched the smooth sleeves. “It’s lovely, Theresa. Thank you, even though you could choke a horse with this necklace.” I fingered the emerald beads.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Mullen. “It’s beautiful on you.”

  P.J. looked around the room. “So this is the place?” he boomed. “I never thought I’d be playing for the Temperance Society. No matter…” He paused and patted the pocket of his coat. “I have a wee drop of insurance with me in case I faint from the thirst.”

  Mrs. Mullen gasped. “Och, P.J. Don’t let them be seeing you with that!”

  “Never mind, darlin’. They’ll turn a blind eye, or they’ll do without the finest fiddler in Ulster!” P.J. puffed out his chest. He looked like a rooster strutting the walk. Mrs. Mullen and I both laughed out loud at him.

  We threaded our way through the crowd toward the stage to set down our instruments. Many of the women from the mill waved and called hello. I didn’t recognize some of them without their scarves and aprons. They wore a rainbow of colors, their hair arranged just so, their cheeks red from the cold air. The men looked awkward in jackets and tight collars, their hair brushed back and smoothed with oil.

  Mrs. Conlon sat in state at a front-row table, clutching her walking stick, her little eyes roaming over the crowd. She nodded toward me but said nothing. Terrence, Fergus, and Gavin were already seated on the stage. They each patted their coat pockets and nodded toward P.J. Jesus, I thought, I hope they don’t disgrace me. I sat down and we waited for the crowd to settle themselves. A tall, elegant, dark-haired woman in a lovely bonnet came in holding the arm of a gray-haired man with a craggy, stern face.