Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  “Shut up, Theresa,” I shouted. “I want to hear no more of it.”

  I was raging. Aoife looked up from her doll and started whimpering.

  “You’ve frightened Mary Margaret,” said Theresa.

  “Her name’s Aoife!” I snapped. “Anyway, we need to go. Thanks for the tea.”

  “Any time.”

  I pushed Aoife out the door, ignoring her screams. I rushed home as fast as I could, half carrying and half dragging the poor child by the arm. I needed to get into my house and close the door as fast as I could. What was wrong with all these people? Couldn’t an innocent body go about her business in peace? But underneath my anger, a small voice was telling me that I could not ignore them. Was I going to have to stop seeing Owen Sheridan? Not that I was one to let people tell me what to do. And not that I was afraid of any of them, I told myself. But I had better battles to fight than over the likes of him. I could get along without his company. Somehow, the thought left me feeling a little hollow.

  17

  I went to the mill every morning, my head high, ignoring the stares and the gossip. I tried to make it up to Theresa for my bad temper. I bought her a lovely green scarf, but she sniffed and said she had enough scarves to hang herself with. I sighed and gave up. She was going to make me work to earn her forgiveness.

  The nightmares about the Yellow House kept coming back. Not since I was a young child had so many ghosts haunted my dreams. But I was not a child anymore, and after a while I made up my mind to face them. One Sunday afternoon in April, I asked P.J. to take me up to Glenlea and the Yellow House. As we drove, Paddy sat up in the seat between me and P.J. He held Aoife on his knee. I looked down at them and smiled. Paddy was still a solemn lad. You would have thought Aoife would be too active for him, but something in his mild presence calmed her down. She sat peacefully staring out at the scenery around her. I followed the child’s gaze to the budding hawthorn bushes that lined the road, and a rush of memories, sad and joyful, flooded back to me. I wiped away a stray tear as I looked out over the fields and up at my beloved Slieve Gullion. She had draped herself once more in a cloak of bracken and adorned herself with wild blossoms.

  “Look, Aoife,” I said, “look at the beautiful mountain.”

  As we rounded the corner past Kearney’s pub, I stiffened my shoulders and straightened my back, preparing myself for the spike of pain my first sight of the house always brought. But the pain did not come. Instead, my mouth fell open in disbelief. Where had the ugly, charred skeleton gone? As we climbed the hill, I stared at the house. Surely I was imagining things. Maybe the clouds were distorting my view. But it was a clear, sharp day and there was no mistaking what I was seeing.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, will you look at that?” cried P.J.

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” cried Aoife, clapping her hands.

  “What’s happened, P.J.?” I whispered, afraid the vision would disappear. “Is it the ghosts playing tricks on us?”

  P.J. let out a loud belly laugh. “If it’s ghosts, darlin’ girl, it’s the good ghosts.”

  He pulled at the reins on the pony and jumped down from the cart and ran to the house, his arms outstretched as if to touch it. I sat in the cart and stared. The skeleton was gone. New walls had been built and whitewashed. The roof had been restored. New panes of glass glittered in the sunlight. Planks of fresh new wood were stacked in the front yard beside troughs of gravel and cement. Wheelbarrows stood in silent witness to the miracle that was under way. P.J. poked his head through a window and then stood back, his hands on his hips.

  “It’s almost as good as new, darlin’,” he called.

  By now, Paddy and Aoife had struggled out of the cart and were running toward the house. I could not bring myself to move, afraid I would break the spell. I crossed my arms on my chest and breathed deeply. Did I dare believe it? Och, Da, how could I have ever thought of giving up the dream?

  After a while, P.J. escorted the children back to the cart.

  “Will you not come and see it for yourself, Eileen?”

  I shook my head, smiling. “No. It’s enough I can see it from here,” I whispered.

  P.J. nodded. “Aye, a shock for you, love. A shock for all of us.”

  “Frankie,” I whispered. “Frankie changed his mind. Thank God.”

  P.J. gave me a sharp look as he climbed into the cart.

  “How can you be sure it’s his doing, love?” he said.

  I turned to him. “But it has to be,” I said.

  P.J.’s face turned solemn. “He could have sold it, lass. This could be the work of a new owner.”

  “No. No.” I shook my head firmly. “Da would never have let Frankie sell it.”

  “But your da…,” began P.J.

  “I know,” I snapped. “But he still talks to me, and I know he must talk to Frankie.” I shook my head. “Anyway, if it had been sold, we would surely have heard word of it, wouldn’t we? I mean, it would have been in the newspaper. Or someone would have told us.”

  P.J. nodded. “You may be right, darlin’. But no one told us about the rebuilding, either. We’ll go in below and see what Shane Kearney knows.”

  He turned the cart around and started down the hill. “No,” I said suddenly. “No. Leave us back to Newry and I’ll ride out and see Frankie. I want to thank him.”

  P.J. gave me a queer look. I ignored it. I’m right, I thought, I must be right. Da would not see it sold to strangers. It was Frankie who’d had a change of heart.

  IT WAS WITH a light and glad heart that I rode my bicycle out to my grandfather’s farm later that same April Sunday. I rode fast as the wind past the lush hedgerows and wildflowers that lined the road. Like the late summer day so long ago when I had ridden this same road, I smiled and waved at old people and children out for their Sunday stroll. Even as I approached the massive stone wall that surrounded the estate, my heart did not sink. Instead, I flew through the open gateway like an excited child, my feet hardly touching the pedals.

  As I approached the house, my mind recorded some changes. The broken bricks had been replaced, the flower beds were filled with rows of sweet violets and bluebells, and the shutters had been painted. I circled around the pathway and across the patch of grass toward the stables. As soon as I reached the courtyard, I jumped off my bicycle and laid it on the ground. I rushed toward a young lad of about thirteen who was coming out of a stable carrying a bucket of dung and a shovel. I had a vision of the last time I had seen my brother in this same exact place, and my heart was fit to burst.

  “Is Frank O’Neill about?” I called urgently.

  The boy dropped the bucket and came closer. He wore a sly smile, but his eyes were sullen. “There’s nobody here by that name,” he growled.

  “Of course there is,” I said. “Can you find him, please?”

  The boy’s smile faded. “And just who would you be?” His tone was accusing.

  My temper flared. “I’m his feckin’ sister,” I snapped, “not that it’s any of your business, you wee git!”

  “What’s the trouble, Aidan?” a voice came from behind. I swung around. I recognized one of the stable hands from before.

  “I’m looking for my brother, Frank O’Neill,” I said.

  The fellow looked me up and down. I wanted to lash out and hit him.

  “Well, well,” he said, “there’s no Frank O’Neill here at the minute, miss.”

  He looked at the boy. They were enjoying a joke at my expense. I was ready to explode. “What the feck do you mean?” I shouted. “You know fine well he’s here.”

  The older fellow shrugged. He took a long draw on his cigarette. “Now, if you were to tell me you were looking for a Francis Fitzwilliam, then I’d tell you you’ll find him right enough beyond at the big house. But the fellow Frank O’Neill that used to work in the stables is not here any longer.”

  The boy snickered.

  “Suit yourselves,” I said, frustrated. I picked up my bicycle and turned on my heel.
I wheeled my way toward the house. What the feck were they on about? I wondered. “Eejits!”

  I pulled hard on the heavy iron knocker. I supposed I was going to have to face my foul old grandfather after all. I’d been hoping to avoid him. When the door opened, it was a small, bird-eyed woman who peered out from behind it.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m Eileen O’Neill… er, Conlon,” I said. “I’m Mr. Fitzwilliam’s granddaughter.” Jesus, the words caught in my throat. “Is he about?”

  She stiffened. “He’s not up to visitors,” she said.

  “Well, actually, I was really looking for my brother Frank,” I said.

  “Who is it, Rose?” a male voice came from somewhere behind her.

  “A woman who says she’s your sister,” called Rose with surprising force.

  “Bring her in, then.”

  She stood aside and let me into the dark, musty hall that I remembered. It was still dark, but it smelled now of wax polish and lemons. I walked toward the sound of the voice.

  Frank sat at a wooden table in the kitchen, hunched over a plate of meat and steaming potatoes. He looked up and his fork froze in the air.

  “What is it you want?” he growled.

  “Fine greeting for your sister,” I said, my earlier good mood almost gone. I pulled out a chair and sat down. The woman hovered in the background. Frank waved his hand at her.

  “Get her some tea, then leave us alone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I watched in amazement as she set a cup of scalding tea in front of me and quietly left the kitchen. I turned to Frank. “Sir?” I said.

  Frank shrugged. “She’s new here. It’s nice being waited on for a change,” was all he said.

  He had grown darker and stockier since I had last seen him. There was no trace of a boy left in him. To my horror, I realized he was the image of old Fitzwilliam himself.

  “What is it you want?” he said again. “If it’s money, you may as well leave now, because you’ll get none from me.”

  I suddenly remembered why I had come. My good mood returned. I laughed and put my hand on his arm. “Och, Frankie,” I whispered, “I’m here to thank you.”

  He frowned. “What for?”

  “For not selling the Yellow House after all. For repairing it instead. Ah, Frank, I was up there today and it looks grand, so it does. You’ve made me so happy. And Da, too, I’m sure of it.”

  Frank’s dark eyes pierced my face for a moment, and then his frown disappeared and a grin of understanding took its place. He put down his fork and laughed.

  “Jesus, that’s a good one!” he cried, slapping his knee. “Ah, now, that’s the best one I’ve heard in many’s a day.” He laughed until his face turned red. I stared at him, waiting, while a slow, dull spit began to turn in my stomach.

  When he was all laughed out, he shook his head. “Jesus, Eileen. I took you for a lot of things, girl, but never for this much of an eejit. You really thought…” The laughter threatened to erupt again. I stared at him, the sickness growing inside me.

  Frank leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes were cold. “Did you not understand what I told you before? I hate the O’Neills. I owe them nothing.” He grinned again. “I even changed my name.”

  “What?” I said, confused.

  “Aye.” He put out his hand as if to shake mine. “Francis Fitzwilliam, at your service.”

  I ignored his hand. What the feck was he talking about? I wondered for a minute if he had not gone astray in the head.

  “You see, darlin’ sister, our grandfather began to get frightened that the rebels would come and burn down his house and everybody in it. Of course, I fanned the flames a bit, as you might say—got some of my friends to come up here with torches and scare the daylights out of the old bastard.”

  He kept talking as if I weren’t there.

  “In time I got him convinced I was the only one could save him. I told him I hated the Catholics as much as he did, and wasn’t I a Protestant at heart and by blood just like himself. He took a bit of persuading, but he gave in. Signed everything over to meself as long as I would change my name and my religion. Small price to pay, wouldn’t you say?”

  I stared at him. He had gone astray in the head. I was convinced now.

  “After all,” he went on, smiling to himself, “there was nobody else for him to leave it to. Ma’s only sister died young and she had no brothers. I assured him I would keep the Fitzwilliam line going and his fortune intact. Ah, I have the devil’s tongue on me, so I do. You’d almost think I was an O’Neill. Are you not proud of me, Eileen?”

  I could not take in what he was saying. Frank had connived his way into owning the Fitzwilliam estate? He had turned Protestant?

  “Don’t be looking at me like that, Eileen,” he sneered. “Ma was a Protestant. You’re half a one yourself, no matter how fine a Republican you think you are.”

  “You’re a bloody turncoat,” I hissed at him.

  He shrugged. “I have no interest in either side. They’re all the same as long as it means money for me. And as for fighting for the bloody Cause the way you and your husband do—that’s for eejits altogether. If you’re going to lie and burn and kill, you may as well do it for your own profit, not for some feckin’ vision of glory! Look at what it’s done for you—a slave beyond at the mill, and your husband with a price on his head.” He grunted. “At least I have land to show for my actions. What have you?”

  I was growing weary. I wanted to jump up and beat him with my fists and yell and scream. But all the energy had drained out of me.

  “What did you do with the Yellow House?” I asked, my voice flat.

  Frank’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Ah, now that, my girl, was a masterstroke!” He laughed aloud. “Ah, that did my heart good. I sold it indeed, Eileen, and you’ll not guess in a thousand years who I sold it to.”

  I waited.

  “Och, be a good sport, Eileen. Go ahead, guess.”

  I said nothing. He stopped laughing, but the sly grin remained.

  “I sold it to Owen Sheridan,” he crowed. “Isn’t that a good one? I sold it back to the people the O’Neills stole it from in the first place. Isn’t that the greatest joke you ever heard?” He was cackling now, an evil, awful sound. “I took the O’Neill legacy and I shoved it up their arses.”

  I don’t recall how I got home that night. My eyes were a blur of tears. My mind was numb with confusion. I felt no emotion—not fear, not anger, not sadness. It was as if the very core of me had been ripped out and all that remained was flesh and bone.

  IN THE DAYS after my visit to Frank, I feared I would lose the last threads of my sanity. My money was gone, the Yellow House was gone. What had I left? It was Terrence who helped me hold on by stoking my fury. When he heard what Frank had done, he turned into a man I had never seen before. Gone was the sitting and staring into the fire on long quiet nights. Instead he paced the floor, cursing Frank and the Sheridans and James and anybody else he could name. He scared the daylights out of poor Billy so much that he fled up the stairs with Aoife in his arms and would not come down.

  “He’ll pay for it, Eileen. Mark my words, Frank will pay for his sins! He should burn in bloody hell for this.”

  The strength of Terrence’s anger shocked me. He had always been such a quiet, thoughtful man—no matter that I always sensed there was something passionate burning deep down inside him. What surprised me was that it was Frank’s actions that had unleashed that passion in him. I’d always thought Terrence secretly admired my ma, but what Frank had done made no difference to her. The world could blow up around her and Ma would be none the wiser.

  No matter. I seized on Terrence’s anger like a drowning woman and let it light my own passions. My fury grew, and as it did it suffocated the fear that stalked deep down inside me. Since I could not stand to go near Frank again, my anger turned toward Owen Sheridan. I marched into Joe Shields’s office and asked him outright where Owen w
as. He gave me a queer look.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, missus, but he’s away to England these three weeks.”

  “When will he be back?” I demanded.

  “How the feck should I know?” he said. “I’m not his feckin’ secretary. Now get yourself back to work.”

  So I had to bide my time. May came and went, and June dawned with the promise of a mild, wet summer. Theresa finally allowed me to make amends to her. I realized that she saw me as a rich source of information to fuel her need for gossip, and that outweighed my bout of bad temper toward her. She had let me cool my heels long enough. I smiled to myself. Poor Theresa was so innocent, you could read her like a book. I was glad for her company, though, since the other women still would not talk to me. I told her about how Frank had sold the Yellow House out from under me, and she seemed genuinely sorry.

  “It’s bad enough my brother stole your money,” she said, “but for Frank to do that to his own sister…” Her eyes turned bright. “You say he turned Protestant? Changed his name and all?” I could see her excitement building. This was great gossip altogether.

  ONE FRIDAY IN early July, I sat by myself at lunchtime on the wall that ran along the river near the mill. Theresa was out that day, nursing her ma, who thought she was dying. Old Mrs. Conlon had a bout of dying every few months. Theresa was made to stay home from work, the priest was sent for, and funeral arrangements were begun. But as they say, it’s hard to kill a bad one, and the oul’ bat always recovered. She would outlive the lot of us, I thought.

  “Hello, Eileen.”

  The voice came out of nowhere, interrupting my thoughts. I jumped so that I nearly lost my balance on the wall.

  “Christ almighty, would you not creep up on a body like that? I nearly fell in the feckin’ river.”

  I looked up and saw it was Owen Sheridan himself. I choked into silence. I suppose, looking back, it was just as well I didn’t see him at first, because I had no time to consider how I would react. He smiled down at me, his eyes glinting in the sun.