Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  Red flashed in front of my eyes. “I’m under nobody’s influence but my own,” I shouted. “I joined the uprising of my own free will and for good reason.”

  “No reason is good enough to maim and kill,” he said, his voice rising.

  “I never killed anybody,” I protested, “at least not knowingly.” And then, because I could never keep my mouth shut, I added, “But I would if I had to. Those bastards killed my da.”

  “Killing them won’t bring him back,” he said.

  “Well, I can see this is no use,” I said. “I must have been astray in the head to come here.” I stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sheridan. I’ll not be bothering you again.”

  He jumped up and put a hand on my arm. “Not so fast, Mrs. Conlon. There are a few home truths you need to hear, and then you are free to stay or go as you wish.”

  The anger in his voice startled me, and I sat back down. I had never heard this tone from him before. Gone was the calm, controlled manner. Owen Sheridan had a temper that could equal James’s any day of the week.

  “Do you have any idea,” he shouted, “how often I have pleaded your case to Joe Shields and my father? Do you?” He left me no time to answer. “Of course you don’t. I have saved your job for you more times than you can imagine. But this last time you went too far.”

  I bristled. “Those friggers wanted to put all of the women out of their jobs, just like down in Belfast. Somebody had to stand up to them,” I shouted.

  “And it had to be you?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “As I said, you are a hothead. It is time you grew up and thought about the consequences of your actions. After all, you have a child to look after now. You cannot come running to me every time you get yourself in trouble. I am not your savior. You must give up your reckless ways, Mrs. Conlon, or—”

  “I’ll not inform, if that’s what you mean,” I cried.

  “I would never dream of asking you to do that,” he said. “First of all you would never do so, and if you did, it would put your life in grave danger and I would not do that.”

  I was silenced. He was right, of course. Informers were found every day of the week with their throats cut and a placard around the necks with the word Traitor written in big, black letters.

  “What I meant,” he continued, “is that I need your word that you will give up all your violent activities. You will not so much as take or deliver a message. You will attend no meetings. You will harbor no known insurgents—”

  “I’ll not turn against my husband!” I protested.

  He raised a pale eyebrow. “Such loyalty, after the man has effectively left you and his child to starve.”

  And worse than that, I thought. I hated James for what he had done to us, but I was not going to admit it to him. “He’s still my husband,” I said.

  “Quite so, and to bar him from the house would put you in danger. I would not expect you to do that. But if I am to go back to my father and make another plea on your behalf, I must be able to assure him that you have given up your life of violence.” He paused and looked directly into my eyes. “And,” he continued with a faint smile, “if you were to agree to some volunteer work, I’m sure my father would be gratified to hear it.”

  Silence fell as we both stared into the fire, thinking our own thoughts. What he was asking me to do was not that unreasonable, and besides, it had been a long time since I’d been out on any missions. Something in me kicked and screamed at being told what I could and could not do. Eileen O’Neill, warrior, would never have put up with it. But I was also Eileen Conlon, mother, and I had my child to think about. I would have to swallow my pride for the child’s sake.

  “But I promised my da,” I whispered, “that I would fight for the O’Neill legacy. I promised I would get our house back and bring us all home.”

  The tears escaped now, and I brushed them away roughly. Sheridan leaned forward and took my hands gently in his.

  “Sometimes promises are made rashly,” he whispered, “and to please others. Surely your father would not want to see you putting your life in danger. And anyway, I don’t see how ambushing armored lorries will get you back your family home.”

  He was right, of course. When you said it outright and logical, it made no sense. How was I to explain that I was so mixed up between revenge and anger and helplessness that I had to hold on to something? I could not let the warrior die as well.

  As if reading my mind, he went on, “I know that there are many who feel helpless to change things, and see violence as the only answer. But believe me, it is not.” He sat back and looked into the fire. “I saw horrors in France that I would not wish on my worst enemy. There was no glory in the mud and mutilation on the battlefield. I realized the Quakers had been right all along. Problems must be solved by peaceful means.”

  “But you still joined up again,” I said. It was more of a question than an accusation.

  He nodded. “I believe I explained that to you when we last met. I am trying hard to contain the violence. Tempers are raw on both sides, and there is little discipline.” He sighed. “I hope I am making some difference.”

  We lapsed into silence again. He stared into the fire. I stared at my rough, red hands. Aoife, I thought. I have to do it for Aoife.

  “All right,” I whispered.

  Sheridan jumped as if he had forgotten there was someone else in the room. “Pardon?” he said.

  “All right! All right!” I shouted. “Do you want me to sign it in blood, too?”

  He smiled then. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I heard from Terrence that the Government of Ireland Act had been passed in England. The act called for two parliaments to be set up, one in Ulster and the other in the South of Ireland—both parliaments to be tied to England. The act had been proposed by a fellow called Walter Long, a Unionist leader in Belfast. Under pressure from Ulster Unionists, six of the nine counties of Ulster were partitioned from the rest of the island to form Northern Ireland, a new territory separate and distinct from the rest of the country. The Unionists accepted the new Northern Ireland parliament. Meanwhile, the Republicans in the South refused to take their seats in the newly created Southern Ireland parliament and vowed to continue to fight for a free and independent Ireland. Would freedom for Ulster continue to be included in that fight, I wondered, or had the betrayal of Ulster begun? And, I wondered, had my own betrayal of my warrior self also begun?

  CHRISTMAS CAME AND went, with no word from Owen Sheridan. My shoulders slumped in shame every time I thought about what I had done. I had lowered myself and begged—something I was sure my da would never have done. Certainly my ma, when she was in her right mind, had never done so. I remembered the time I slouched behind her as she strode into the Royal Bank of Newry, bold as brass in her best hat, and had put Mr. Craig in his place. She wouldn’t even bend to her oul’ da when he would have forced her to leave her husband. She had turned on her heel and walked away, pride stiffening her shoulders. I was ashamed of myself. What kind of an O’Neill was I at all? I could not shake the faint sense that I had betrayed myself and Da.

  Finally, word came in mid-January 1921 that I was to go back to the mill for my old job. I had hoped to get a place at the weaving mill or the finishing factory, but beggars can’t be choosers. I imagined Owen Sheridan’s self-righteousness as he thought of how I would have to lower myself and go crawling back to the likes of Joe Shields and Mary Galway. He probably thought it would be good for me. Well, I would not give any of them the satisfaction. I would march in like Ma with my head high and my shoulders straight.

  ON THE FOLLOWING Monday morning, I walked up to the mill. The crowds of workers seemed like ghosts hurrying through the gates as the horn blew. I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Where had my nerve gone?

  “Help me, Da,” I whispered.

  Shields came out of his office as soon as he saw me.

  “You’re back,�
�� he said, eyeing me up and down.

  My temper exploded. “And who do you think it is,” I snapped, “a feckin’ ghost?”

  He nodded. “I see your time off has done nothing to curb your temper, missus. Well, there’ll be no place for that here. You’ll keep your nose clean and your mouth shut. You’re on trial only, no matter what your fancy boy has told you.”

  “Fancy boy?”

  “Don’t get cute, missus. We all know you were up at the house. And who knows what you were willing to do to get back here. After all, we all know Sheridan’s reputation for the ladies. And you the great Republican! And him a Protestant!” He spat tobacco on the wooden floor, missing my bare feet by inches.

  I marched over to my old spinning frame. I made a big show of tying on my apron and arranging my tools. The place was silent. All eyes were on me. I tried to keep my hands steady as I oiled the flax and wound it onto the spindles and started the machine up. My heart pounded. I looked at nobody. I was more shocked than angry. Of course it should have occurred to me that the whole town would know I was up at Queensbrook House. Mary Galway’s cousin would not have waited to spread the gossip. But to make those accusations! God knows what she had said. God knows what these people were ready to believe.

  A cold foreboding crept through me. Had James heard about this? Had Theresa told him? Would he believe her? I pushed down the fear and let anger rise so that I was back on solid ground.

  Feck him, I thought. It was his doing drove me to beg. And if that meant I might have had to sleep with Owen Sheridan to get food for my child, what right did he have to judge me?

  All the same, bitter tears stung the back of my eyes at the thought that people were ready to believe I could have done such a thing.

  I worked steadily the rest of the morning. When lunchtime came, I tried to avoid Theresa, but she caught up with me, tugging at my sleeve. Her eyes were bright and she was bursting for news.

  “I heard you were up there,” she said. “I didn’t believe it at first. But now you’re back here, I suppose it must have been himself got you the job?”

  “Aye,” I said. “And believe what you like about how I got him to do it.”

  Theresa fell into step beside me. “Och, don’t mind them busybodies. Sure if there’s no scandal, they’ll make it up for the craic.”

  Well at least Theresa was ready to give me the benefit of the doubt.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “I’m more interested in the house. You know, the furniture and all?” Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, ready to take in everything.

  I shrugged. “Nothing to write home about. I’ve seen better in a tinker’s caravan.”

  Theresa’s mouth turned down in a pout. “Och, come on, Eileen. Give us the details. I’m dying to know.”

  I snapped then. I turned on her. “Well, isn’t it the desperate empty life you have, Theresa, when all you care about is how the gentry live.”

  Her face crumpled like a child’s. I knew I had hurt her, but I couldn’t help myself. Poor, innocent Theresa. What harm had she done me?

  The rest of the afternoon dragged on. When the closing whistle blew, I was the first one out.

  That night, I dreamed about the Yellow House. I had dreamed of it before, usually about happier times when we were all together and the music played. But this time it was a nightmare. I saw the burned skeleton of the house standing under a shrouded moon. I heard the cries of babies coming from inside while soldiers surrounded it and fired shots through its windows. I saw Da at the door, calling for help and then collapsing from a bullet. Frank was there among the soldiers, and I couldn’t tell whether he was firing at the house or defending it. James was in the dream, too; he rushed out from behind Da carrying Aoife, ignoring my cries to stop. He disappeared into the night. In the dream, I sat on a low stone wall across the road and watched. The grass in front of the house was trampled, and cigarette butts and other debris littered the path that led to the front door. A cold feeling came over me, as if I were looking at a corpse.

  16

  Shortly after I started back at the mill, I heard Owen Sheridan had gone back to England. I supposed he was trying to mend his marriage. He was gone longer than I expected. Miss Joanna Wharton must be taking a good bit of persuading. By March, however, he was back and spending more and more time at the mill. Word was that his da had fallen into bad health. I saw him often in Shields’s office, going over papers, Shields glaring down at his bent head. When he inspected the factory floor, I noticed that he was walking straighter, the limp barely noticeable. He often wore his army uniform and strutted with his hands behind his back. The women watched him with a mixture of hostility and fascination. He had aged in the last few months. His fair hair was more tinged with gray, and more lines etched his face than when he had first come back from the war. I had to admit to myself that the changes suited him. He looked more handsome now and mature—a far cry from the cocky, grinning fellow who openly admired the women as much as they admired him.

  He nodded in my direction now and then when he was on his visits. I was grateful he didn’t single me out. I had enough suspicious eyes on me as it was. But one day Shields came out of his office and barked at me.

  “You’re wanted in the office!”

  The spinning machines slowed down, and heads went up all over the floor. My face flushed. “Mr. Sheridan wants to talk to you,” he said aloud, and then, leaning into my face, he growled, “And don’t go getting above yourself, missus. I’m watching you.”

  I slowed my frame to a stop and went into Shields’s office. Owen Sheridan stood up from behind the desk. He smiled.

  “Ah, Mrs. Conlon. Shut the door, will you, and sit down.”

  Shakily, I pushed the door shut and sat down opposite him. He stared at me, and the flush on my face grew deeper. My discomfort set me on edge. I assumed he wanted to talk about whether or not I had kept my bargain and stayed out of James’s activities, so I decided to strike first.

  “I’ve not been involved in anything,” I snapped, “although it’s hard to stand by while you and your bloody volunteers run roughshod over innocent people. It’s time youse went home and minded your own business.”

  “I wish we could, Mrs. Conlon,” he said calmly, “but the other side won’t let us. They refuse to honor the Government of Ireland Act.”

  “They won’t back down, if that’s what you mean,” I said, the steam out of me now. “They believe in what they are fighting for.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Indeed,” he said. “However, I did not ask you in to discuss the political situation.”

  I waited.

  “You remember when you came and asked me to give you back your job?”

  I began to sweat. Jesus, he was going to change his mind.

  “If you recall, part of our bargain was that you would perform some volunteer work. It was obvious that you were not keen on the idea at the time, so I have waited until you were settled in again at the mill. But the need continues to grow, and now I am afraid I must collect on the promise.”

  His words spun around in my head. “Volunteer? Promise?” But there was no mention of the sack. My shoulders sank in relief.

  “If you are free on Sunday afternoon,” he continued, “I would like you to accompany me up to the Newry Hospital.”

  “I, er, is there not some other place I can go? My baby sister, Lizzie, died in there.”

  Thoughts of the hospital made me shiver. I went there, of course, to see Ma, but I had to admit my visits were fewer now than before. And I hadn’t set foot near the fever wing since Lizzie had been brought there.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I did not know you had difficult personal memories associated with it,” he said quietly, “but I think you could perform a great deal of good. I often find that volunteer work has personal rewards greater than one could imagine.”

  There was to be no changing his mind, I could see that.

  “All right,” I said. “I
’m a woman of my word. I’ll keep to the bargain.”

  He smiled. “Excellent! Shall we say Sunday, about one o’clock? Er, I assume mass is completed by that time?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “If that old blather Father Dornan is up there, the pubs could be open and closed again before he’s finished.”

  He grinned at me. “Shall I collect you at your house?”

  I shot a look at him. “Is it astray in the head you are? Sure what would the neighbors be saying at the cut of myself stepping out on a Sunday with the likes of you? Believe me, the heads would be bobbing behind the lace curtains to beat the band. Anyway, I still have to take Paddy and Aoife for their lemonade. I’ll meet you at the hospital main gate at two o’clock—although the thought of going up to that hard oul’ place again leaves me cold.”

  He leaned over and patted my arm. “I know, Mrs. Conlon, and I appreciate your willingness to go. But keep in mind we are trying to help those less fortunate than ourselves.”

  He stood up and dusted off his trousers. “I will see you on Sunday, then.”

  “Aye,” I said.

  He walked around the desk and opened the door. “I’m finished here, Mr. Shields. Thank you for the use of your office.”

  Shields came in, scowling at me.

  “Get back to work!” he barked.

  THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, I left Aoife with the Mullens. All I told them was that I was going to visit Ma; there was no need for them to know more. Then I walked up the hill that led to the hospital.

  I shivered in the damp, breezy air and pulled my coat tight around me. March had come in like a lion. “There’ll be no summer at all this year,” people said. “Sure no sun would shine in the midst of all the Troubles.” I climbed the hill slowly, looking down at my feet as I always did when I went to visit Ma in the insane wing. I never wanted to look directly at the grim old workhouse or the Fever Hospital itself. I remembered too well the painful ride all those years ago with Lizzie sick in Ma’s arms. Instinctively, I looked up in the sky for crows. Eventually, I reached the courtyard. I looked up at the cluster of gray, limestone buildings with their narrow, barred windows. I wondered, Was Ma watching me? Was poor Lizzie’s ghost staring out from behind one of them? Rain began falling. I shivered and hurried in through the tall arched doorway into the main hall.