Stories trickled out about clashes between Catholic and Protestant workers in Belfast and other towns around Ulster. Catholic workers on their way to the shipyards were pulled off buses and beaten. Riots broke out, policemen were waylaid and shot, and the papers were full of predictions of doom. For the first time since Da’s death, I began to put what had happened that night in the larger context of the religious and political divide in Ulster. Slowly a picture of the enemy emerged in my mind. Was this the direction in which I should turn my anger? Was this emerging sectarian war my personal war as well? The possibility of it chilled me, and I put the thought away at the back of my mind.
At the mill, we were under even more pressure. The war had left them short of skilled male workers, and we were expected to make minor repairs to our own machines where we could. The system of fines was still in place. Poor Theresa paid half her week’s wages in fines. She could no more keep her mouth from opening than she could keep the rain from falling from the sky. The women were all in bad form, and at lunchtime they sat on the wall swearing and complaining. They talked halfheartedly about striking, but I knew they would not go through with it. It was then that the devil danced into my head, as he often did. What if we didn’t exactly strike, but slowed down? What if, when Theresa blurted out a word or the bars of a song, we all talked or sang at once? What could Shields and Mary Galway do to us? They could hardly sack us all—they needed every worker just now. There would be no obvious ringleader to pin it on. Even if they suspected me, they couldn’t prove it.
I grinned with delight the first afternoon we tried it on for size. The look on Mary Galway’s face when we all started singing “The Star of the County Down” along with Theresa was worth the price of the fine. She stalked up and down the rows of spinning frames, her face scarlet with sweat and indignation.
“Youse are all fined!” she shrieked like an old crow on a wire.
We all nodded and laughed.
Then Theresa blurted out, “Och, I’m sorry, girls, I couldn’t help it.”
We all turned to her and answered her out loud:
“Don’t worry, Theresa.”
“No bother.”
“Sure what’s a tongue in your head for, anyway?”
We kept it up all afternoon and all through the next day. At the same time, we worked slow and steady, and production dropped. Shields was fit to be tied. But we waited him out, and by the end of the week he announced that he was suspending the fine system.
“But youse better put your arses into the work again,” he bellowed, “or so help me I’ll swing for the lot of you.”
A cheer went up throughout the room. We had won our point. And I had won my first battle.
ABOUT A WEEK after our victory at the mill, Joe Shields called me into his office. I’m done for now, I thought. Maybe someone had told him it was my idea to join in the singing and talking with Theresa. It would not have taken much to convince him, given my reputation for troublemaking. I squared my shoulders. I would not let him see that I was afraid.
“Sit down,” he growled.
I did as he said and waited.
“You’re the cheekiest girl that’s ever set foot in this mill, Eileen O’Neill,” he said as he eased himself into his chair. “Where you get your brass from I don’t know. And now this!”
I was right, I thought, sweat pouring down the back of my neck, I’m going to be sacked. With a shiver, my whole life passed in front of my eyes the way they say it does when people are dying. I saw Da firing the rusty rifle at the intruders outside the Yellow House; I saw Ma’s and Frankie’s faces as they left our house for the last time; I saw Paddy’s innocent eyes looking up at me as I promised him I would get back our home and bring us all together. Och, all the promises, all the dreams, they were slipping away like shadows in the night.
“Miss O’Neill!” Shields’s voice cut through my thoughts. I shot straight up in the chair. O’Neill was holding up an envelope in his broad, stubby hand.
“And now this!” he said again. “I almost can’t believe this!”
“What?” I said. Annoyance began to surface. “What’s that?”
“What’s this?” Shields’s face burned crimson, and bumps stood out on his bald forehead. “This is a fecking letter addressed to you from Owen Sheridan.”
“But he’s away in the war,” I said.
“So he is. But they can still write letters from over there. And this is addressed bold as brass to yourself care of me at Queensbrook Mill!”
I reached over to take the envelope, but he snatched it away. “You’ve gone too far this time, girl,” he said. “You’ve got above your station. Who do you think you are corresponding with the likes of Sheridan? How dare you interfere with your betters!”
Anger and confusion rose up in me. “I didn’t ask him to write to me,” I shouted, “and what business of yours is it if I did?”
His anger matched mine. “It’s my fecking business if you’re going behind my back and telling him stories about what is going on here in the mill—if you’re telling him rumors and lies about me and—”
“Och, don’t flatter yourself,” I cried. “If I was writing to him, I think I’d have better things to talk about than the likes of you!”
I thought he was going to slap me. He stood up, his whole body shaking, and raised his hand. But he must have thought better of it. Instead he pushed the envelope across the desk toward me. I picked it up and inspected it.
“I’m surprised you didn’t open it and read it for yourself,” I muttered.
Shields remained standing. “I would not stoop that far, miss,” he said, his voice more even now, “but I can tell you that you are in for a big fecking surprise if you think this fellow has any interest in you at all. He’s a rake, and you’re just one more foolish woman throwing herself at him. Oh, I’ve heard all about it—walking arm in arm with him bold as brass down Hill Street in Newry. Well, when the time comes he’ll marry his own kind, mark my words. And then the high and mighty Eileen O’Neill will get her comeuppance! Now go on, get out, and don’t be reading that thing on company time!”
A thousand answers ran through my head—words I wanted to shout at him. Marriage? What the feck was he on about? I never thought of Sheridan that way. And what I did was my own business. I didn’t have to answer to him or anybody! But in the shock of it all, I said nothing. I thrust the letter into my pocket for fear Shields might snatch it away and went back to my spinning frame.
WHEN I GOT home that night, Mrs. Mullen told me I looked pale. I seized on the excuse to go straight to my room. I lay down on the bed without even taking off my boots and stared at the ceiling for a long time. I went over in my mind everything Shields had said to me. Could he have been right? Was I throwing myself at Owen Sheridan? Did I have hopes of something more than a friendship? A faint shame crept over me as I recalled the playful, girlish dreams I had allowed to dance into my mind. But it was only a bit of fun, I told myself, it was nothing serious at all.
I sat up and shook off the shame, replacing it with my usual anger at Joe Shields. I examined the envelope. The postmark was France, and the date on it was July 15, 1916. Jesus, here it was almost September. Had that oul’ bastard Shields been holding it back all this time? And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’d opened it and read it and resealed it, no matter that he had denied doing anything of the sort. I sighed. And why was Owen Sheridan writing to me, anyway? I had not written to him. The cheek of him, I thought, taking it upon himself to write to me without so much as a by-your-leave. And look at the trouble he had caused me. I was good and angry by this point, and I tore open the envelope without another thought.
My Dear Miss O’Neill:
I hope you will forgive my impertinence in writing to you. I had hoped to receive a letter from you which would more easily justify my writing a reply, but no letter came. I suppose I never really expected one, but it would have been lovely all the same.
I hope you are well.
I get much news from family and friends at home, and so am aware of the changes taking place all over Ireland. I suspect much of the unrest suits your restless temperament—but I hope you will resist any urge to be brought into it. I realize I have no right to give you advice—not that you have ever shown any inclination to take advice from me or anyone else! You are your own woman, Miss O’Neill—it is what I admire most about you. Perhaps it is for this reason that I believe I can write things to you that I cannot put in words to my family or friends.
But first let me apologize for letting my black mood destroy our last meeting. I had no right to burden you with my troubles. You were only a young girl enjoying a pleasant Sunday outing and I cast a dark shadow on the day. Yet you listened bravely and without judgment, and I am grateful for that. I’m afraid I am about to cast more dark shadows in this letter, Miss O’Neill, so I will not blame you if you do not wish to continue reading.
You have no doubt heard by now about the Battle of the Somme. I never thought to see hell while I was still alive, but that is what it was—smoke and fire and torment. Men died in my arms, Miss O’Neill. In all, almost 6,000 of our own 36th Ulster Division perished. Do you know that many of them stormed the hill toward the enemy bearing their bright orange sashes—the symbol of their loyalty to England? Was that loyalty misplaced? Was the death of all these poor creatures a fair price to pay to forge a new order in Europe? I’m afraid I have no answer. All I can be sure of now is that there is no glory in war.
I thought war would give me my chance to create some meaning in my own life—a way to fill the emptiness which has always stalked me even as I played the carefree prodigal son whose only goal was amusement. But I was wrong. There is no meaning to be had from war, let alone any glory. There is no meaning to be had from killing other human beings as I have done. War is an abyss which sucks in souls both brave and desperate and spits them out again dead or disillusioned.
As I sit in this ditch under the French moon, my leg throbs with pain, but it does not compare with the pain in my heart. I worry now that our own dear Ireland is creating its own abyss into which valiant and resolute men will march. I can hardly bear the thought of it, Miss O’Neill.
You know, there is an old Quaker philosophy that says there is truth to be found no matter what the source, and we must be open to it. I believe I have found my truth here in hell. Take care, Miss O’Neill, and I wish you well in seeking your own truth.
Sincerely,
Owen Sheridan
I read and reread his letter, the flimsy paper clutched in my hands. A range of emotions coursed through me in wave after wave—joy, anger, pride, pity, and sadness among them. Tears clouded my eyes, and I set aside the letter and lay down.
Poor man! He had sounded so wretched. Sadness filled my heart as I remembered his face that day in Morocco’s Café. He had so much wanted this war to be the thing that changed his life. Obviously it had, but not in the way he expected. And while I was too young and inexperienced to understand the true depths of his despair, I felt a warm pride that he had chosen to bare his soul to me. I had bristled with annoyance at his attempts to teach me some lessons—but there again he recognized I was not one to be taking advice. I smiled when I read that. I was not sure I agreed with him on the uselessness of fighting, though—particularly given what was going on in Ireland. I would make up my own mind about that when the time came.
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, gently rubbing my fingers across my name on the front, imagining him spelling out the letters in the moonlight. I got up and went to the drawer where I kept the photograph of the Yellow House. I slipped the letter in underneath it. It was in that moment I realized that a bond had been forged between Owen Sheridan and myself, and that no matter what else happened or what other people came into our lives, it would never be broken.
AS 1917 DAWNED, the war in Europe still raged on and unrest at home continued to mount, but I minded my own business. When thoughts of Owen Sheridan came into my head, I chased them away. I had not replied to his letter. What would I have said? I did worry for his safety, but I decided God would do whatever He was going to do without my help or my prayers. My job for now was to keep my head down and my mouth shut as best I could and save my money. I had Ma and Paddy to think about.
Paddy had finally made his Holy Communion in March of that year. He had just turned eight. The priests had made him wait a year on account of his bad behavior at school. Although it had improved from the time he was first enrolled, he still had outbreaks of temper every now and then and lashed out at whoever got in his way. The priests said he couldn’t make the sacrament until he understood the difference between right and wrong. I was convinced he knew the difference fine well, but he just couldn’t control himself. Eventually the priests gave in, mostly because he was too clever to keep holding him back in school.
He looked so well in his Communion suit, with his hair brushed back and his shoes polished, that I had to wipe away tears. He looked like a proper young man. I missed the feel of his small hands around my neck as he nestled his head in my shoulder the way he did when he was a baby. He was reserved these days, polite but distant—the most I ever got was a kiss on the cheek.
I decided now was the time to bring up with the Mullens the subject of moving Paddy and me into our own house. I could afford the rent, and I would put Paddy into the Catholic school in Queensbrook. The Mullens were defiant. Paddy should go to the Christian Brothers’ school, they said, and then maybe, God willing, to the seminary. All the teachers said he had the makings of a priest. Sure he would grow out of his temper in time, they said, and such brains as his belonged in the priesthood. I raved and cursed at them. He was my brother—I would make the decisions.
Mrs. Mullen reached over and took my hand. “I know you want the best for him, love. I know you think it’s your duty to take care of him.”
“It is,” I cried. “We’re all that’s left of our family.”
“Aye, maybe so, but you’re a young woman now, Eileen, and entitled to your own life. You’ve no need to be saddled with a young lad.”
“It’s not like that,” I persisted. “I want to make a home for us. I’ve saved up for it. I can afford rent now. I know I promised I would take him to the Yellow House one day, but this is a start…” I let the words trail off.
Mrs. Mullen shook her head. “It’s not your business to be doing that, love,” she said gently. “Your business is to make a home for yourself and your own children someday. That’s what God wants. That’s what your ma and da would want.”
“I’m never getting married,” I said fiercely.
Mrs. Mullen laughed. “No? A fine-looking girl like yourself? You’ll see—when the boys come home from the war, they’ll be lined up. You’ll have your pick, so you will.”
I shook my head.
“Och, you’ll change your mind soon enough.” She sighed. “Now, about Paddy. You know he’s better off here. The poor child has had it hard enough without uprooting him again. He’s settled. And P.J. and I are delighted to keep him.” She smiled wistfully. “He’s like the child we never had.”
“Well, why don’t we ask him, then?” I shouted. “Just see who he thinks he belongs with. Just see if he’d rather be with strangers than with his own sister!”
I saw by the look on Mrs. Mullen’s face that I had hurt her, and I was sorry.
“I’ve lost everyone else,” I said more gently. “I have to keep Paddy and me together. It’s all I’ve thought about. It’s what’s kept me going.”
Mrs. Mullen went out of the room and returned with Paddy. He was still wearing his Communion suit. I walked over to him and took both of his hands in mine. He stiffened.
“Paddy,” I whispered, “you know I love you, don’t you?”
He nodded. His pale face was solemn.
“You know I want to look after you and keep you safe?”
He nodded again.
“Well, I’ve found a lovely hou
se in Queensbrook where you and I can live. And there’s a fine school there where you can make new friends, and…”
He was shaking his head from side to side before I even finished speaking.
“No,” he said, “no.”
“But I’m your sister. I’ve always looked after you.”
“No,” he said again. He pulled away from me, dropping his hands by his sides and balling them into fists. “I want to stay here, Eileen.”
“But—” I began.
“You only want this for yourself,” he cried, “it has nothing to do with me. Nobody ever asks me what I think! Nobody! Well, I won’t go, and you can’t make me!”
In horror, I watched the transformation before me. My beautiful, gentle Paddy had turned into a devil before my eyes. His face was red with anger, and his blue eyes were ice. Mother of God, I thought. Is this what the teachers have been talking about? His temper is worse than Frankie’s ever was. Stunned, I backed away from him.
Mrs. Mullen took him gently by the shoulders. “C’mon now, lad,” she said, “let’s get some tea.”
As she led him out of the room, he turned and looked at me over his shoulder. The gentle, solemn Paddy had returned.
“We can still go to mass together on Sundays,” he said softly.
That night, I took out the photograph of the Yellow House. It was wrinkled and a little torn from all the wear and tear of the years I had carried it with me. White cracks zigzagged across the black-and-white image. I rubbed my fingers over it gently, staring again at Ma and Da and wee Lizzie and myself, all of us smiling out at the camera. I touched Frankie’s solemn face and a tear fell on my hand. I would not let my dream be over—not yet—but it was dimmed and tarnished as the photograph itself.
Patricia Falvey Page 13