Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  I was careful at first to go to the blue medallions as well as the red, but after a while I forgot even to look. Those boys were all the same, except for a few rough blackguards. They had all been caught up in the excitement, and yes, the hate. I tried not to see myself in them, but at times it was like looking in a mirror. I suppose they had all seen themselves as warriors—and look where it had landed them. I thought of Owen’s letter from France. I recalled his words: All I can be sure of now is that there is no glory in war. Looking at these boys, I began in a small way to understand what he meant. And yet surely Ulster’s fight was different. How else were the Catholics ever going to get their equal due in their own land? Wasn’t the sacrifice worth that? And then I thought of Da, and I was ashamed of myself for my moments of doubt.

  Sister Rafferty said she was delighted with the effect I was having on the young fellows.

  “You’re a real tonic for them, Mrs. Conlon,” she said. “Mr. Sheridan was right to bring you. But then he would recognize a person of charity when he met one.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. Sure Mr. Sheridan is a very giving man himself. The work that he does with those workhouse children…” She clasped her hands together, and her face lit up.

  She saw my puzzled look and smiled. “Of course, he doesn’t make a big show of it. He would not have told you. But he has arranged for apprenticeships for many of the boys and girls. He’s even arranged for some of them to go to England for training at his own expense. He often looks in on them when he travels to England. And not a Christmas goes by that he doesn’t come loaded down with presents.”

  Well, I thought, Owen Sheridan is a dark horse. Not for the first time, I realized I had jumped to too many conclusions as far as he was concerned. I was glad Sister Rafferty had told me. It put a new light on things and why making a difference always seemed so important to him.

  I timed my Sunday visits so I could go and see Ma. I brought her flowers every time, but she no longer seemed interested in them. She turned her back and wouldn’t even watch me put them in water. Nellie Leonard, the nurse in Ma’s wing, eyed me with curiosity every time I went in. I knew she was looking over my shoulder for Owen, and I was glad to see her face fall when she realized he was not there. Occasionally, I ran into Terrence as I was leaving. Ma was not allowed more than one visitor at a time, so he would wait until I came down the stairs. Again, I was struck by how steady he had been in visiting Ma all these years. I don’t think a week ever went by without him going to see her. I was grateful to him for it, and for the fact that I could find comfort in talking to him about her. He was the only one who understood.

  I had not seen Owen in two months. His visits to the mill had stopped. Word was that his father was in ill health and Owen was spending a lot of time with him in England. Theresa announced that she had it on great authority that his divorce was final. The news left me with an unsettled feeling, but I didn’t press her for details. I wondered if he would sell the Yellow House. Since he had been away so much, the talk about him and me had quieted down, and I was glad of it. I wanted to keep my head down and not draw attention to myself. Maybe he had heard the gossip himself and decided to put space between us. I told myself I didn’t miss his company, but then I lied well to myself. The truth was that I thought about him more than was good for me. Glimpses of him making tea in my kitchen, his eyes searching my face, all jumped in and out of my mind. The images came when I was at my spinning frame, or doing the washing, or lying in bed at night. The ones at night were the worst. They left me agitated, my entire body on a state of alert. It was a state neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The more I tried to distract myself, the more intense the images became. I was sure I was going mad.

  As I smoothed the threads on the bobbins one morning in October, another image came to me and I lost hold of the yarn. Flushing, I turned around to see if anyone had noticed. And there he was, standing behind me still as a statue. How long he had been watching me I did not know.

  “Will you spare a body the shock of creeping up on them like that?” I said, but I could not help smiling.

  He smiled back. “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

  I went back to my work. All heads turned to watch us, but if he was aware of it, he didn’t show it. Sweat streamed down my face. I stole a glance at his left hand. His wedding ring was gone.

  “I have been asked if you would transfer to the Fever Hospital for the next couple of weekends. They need help sorting out and updating their records, and”—he paused and grinned—“it seems you have greatly impressed Sister Rafferty not only with your kindness, but with your intelligence.”

  “You’ve no need to soft-soap me,” I said, “but my sister, Lizzie, died in that place when she was a child. I’d rather stay with the lads in the men’s ward.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’d forgotten that you told me that.” He looked at me with pity. “I’m sure Sister Rafferty will understand. But you know, Eileen, sometimes facing the past can be very healing.”

  I fiddled with the threads on the spindles and said nothing. I felt eyes boring through the back of my head, and I wished fervently that he would go away.

  “They are very much in need of the help, Eileen,” he went on. “It would only be for two days at the most, and I would take it as a great favor if you would reconsider.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, would he not give it up? Now he was trying to make me feel guilty. “I can accompany you there if it would make things easier,” he said.

  “I know where the bloody place is,” I said sharply.

  He nodded. “I just thought it might be helpful…”

  “No,” I said firmly, “it’s best I go alone.”

  “Very well.” He smiled again. “They will expect you this Saturday. Perhaps you can let me know when you are finished with the project.”

  “Look, I agreed to go. That’s enough. If there’s any reporting to be done, I’ll talk to Sister Rafferty.”

  He looked at me with the old teasing grin I remembered from years ago. “As you wish, Eileen,” he said. “Cheerio, then.”

  He left. I glared around at the others and went back to my work, tugging so hard on the yarn that I broke the threads.

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY was the weekend before Halloween. When I got off my shift at the mill, I collected Aoife and brought her down to Theresa’s house. Theresa sewed up a fancy costume for Aoife and decorated the house with images of goblins and witches and banshees. She baked cakes and breads and laid out water and soda bread beside the hearth for the thirsty souls that would be wandering about all night. Tommy McParland, a great one for storytelling, sat around the fire with friends and relatives and their children, telling ghost stories that would make your hair stand on end. I was always sad on those nights. Tommy put me in mind of Da and the great stories and songs we used to have at the Yellow House on Hallows’ Eve.

  “Will you be down later?” Theresa asked, giddy with excitement.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know how long this job is going to take.”

  Curiosity shone in Theresa’s eyes. “Oh?”

  “Aye,” was all I said. “If I’m up to it after, I’ll be down. But don’t wait for me.”

  It occurred to me afterward that Theresa could easily think I was going to see Owen on the sly. Let her think what she likes, I said to myself. Sure she’ll think the worst anyway.

  As I rode the tram into Newry, I saw that people already had their Halloween decorations up. Soon buckets of water would stand outside on back steps for the thirsty souls to drink, candles would light up the windows, and children would be out going door-to-door, trying their best to scare the life out of their neighbors. I thought how we Irish still loved our pagan traditions, regardless of how much the priests had tried to beat it out of us. Superstitious lot, so we were.

  When I arrived at my stop in Newry, it was still early afternoon, but the bright sun did nothing to drive away the dark, grim
shadows of the workhouse and the surrounding buildings. Even though I had been going twice a week for almost a year, I could not still the shivers that came over me every time I set foot here. To get to the Fever Hospital, I had to enter through the main workhouse door into a big hallway. I imagined the thousands of poor souls who had collapsed on this floor at the end of their sad journeys. I imagined I could still hear their cries.

  I hurried down the hallway and in through a door on the right that led to the Fever Hospital waiting room. I froze as if I were rooted to the floor. The room had not changed from that night fifteen years ago when we had arrived with Lizzie. Peeling paint still hung from the walls, and smells of urine and disinfectant still filled the air, but the wooden benches and chairs, which that time had been filled with wretched adults and hollow-faced children, were mercifully empty. I glanced at the stairway where I last saw the straight-backed nurse climbing away with Lizzie, and my ears echoed with the cries of sick children pried from the arms of their mothers.

  I took a deep breath and walked across the room to a door marked “Office.” I pushed it open and coughed from the dust that swirled up from the floor. An old man sat at a desk, hunched over a pile of papers. I wondered how he could read anything in the poor light. There was no window, and the small lamp on the desk cast ghostly shadows on his bent head.

  “Who are you?” he growled when I walked in.

  Fine greeting for someone who’s come to work for nothing, I thought.

  “I’m Mrs. Conlon. Sister Rafferty asked me to come and help with organizing the records here.” I looked around at the piles of folders and dusty ledgers.

  He followed my gaze, then waved his hand with impatience. “Och, there’s no need for organizing things,” he said. “Sure I could put my hand on anything anybody wanted.”

  I supposed he was telling the truth, but there again, the man looked as if he were already at death’s door. Who would find things after he was gone?

  “Nonsense!” he shouted. “Waste of time.”

  I removed my coat. “Worth a try, anyway,” I said briskly. “Do you have any instructions for me?”

  He rummaged around the desk, picked up a yellowed notepad, and shoved it toward me.

  “The day girl left this for you. Lazy young bitch, needing somebody else to do her work for her.”

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve and stood up. “Well, I’ll be away, then, and leave you to your own devices. Don’t forget to lock the door behind you!”

  As he made for the door, a sudden panic rose in me. He was an oul’ git, but he was better than nobody. I didn’t want to be in this room alone.

  “Will you not be staying, then?” I cried.

  “What for?” he said. “Organizing? Bah! No need for it. No need at all!” And at that he walked out. I listened to his boots scraping across the floor of the waiting room, and then there was silence.

  I sighed and sat down behind the desk and rolled up the sleeves of my blouse. I leaned over and adjusted the lamp so it gave more light. Jesus, I could be blind by the time I was finished here. The instructions seemed easy enough. I was to take each ledger by year and copy out each name onto an index card, along with other particulars. Then the cards would be filed in alphabetical order, by year, and put in one of the new cabinets that had been purchased for this purpose. The day girl had got as far as 1904, she noted, and I should start with 1905. She had begun the first couple of entries so I could get the way of it. I looked at the cards. Her handwriting was large and clear, but the entries in the ledger looked as if a spider had scrawled them; they were almost unreadable. I sighed again. This job would try the patience of a saint—and I was far from a saint.

  As I fell into the pattern of the work, I found myself wondering about all the names I was copying. Who was this child or that old woman? Sometimes it seemed whole families, brothers and sisters and parents, had all come down with the fever at once. I shuddered as I wrote down the dates of death, mostly of the youngest children and the oldest adults—the weakest and the frail. I shifted in the hard chair and straightened up my back and shoulders, which were stiff from bending over the desk. I got as far as the month of April 1906, and then I could stand it no more. I needed to get up and walk around.

  I had not intended to reach for the 1908 ledger, but suddenly it was in my hands. I stared at it, afraid to open it. I held it to my breast and walked back and sat down. I laid it gently on the desk and ran my fingers over it, pushing away the dust. Lizzie’s name was in here. Did I dare look? Could I stand to look? Could I bear not to? At last I opened the cloth cover and ran my index finger down the front page. I was trembling.

  Get on with it, Eileen, I scolded myself, get on with it, or get up and leave. Don’t be sitting here like an eejit.

  Maybe it will tell you whereabouts she was buried, I answered myself. Maybe there’ll be some description of the plot in the pauper’s field, and you can get a headstone put there, and you can visit her once in a while.

  Before I lost my courage, I thumbed through the pages. I held my breath as I came to October, the month Lizzie had been brought in. And there it was, Elizabeth Cecelia O’Neill. I never knew her name was Cecelia. I blinked away dust that pricked at my eyes. Elizabeth Cecelia O’Neill, aged 4 years, daughter of Thomas and Mary O’Neill of Glenlea. Diagnosis: Scarlet Fever. Condition: critical. I braced myself to read the next column, which would record the date of her death, which I knew was November 10, 1908. I expected to see the word deceased. I could hardly bring myself to read it. But read it I had to. I needed to see it all. I wiped my eyes again and brushed away the dust from the page. “10 November 1908, adopted out.” I closed my eyes and opened them again. I moved my finger up and down the page to make sure I was reading the right line. But there it was: “adopted out.” I took in a stab of breath. “Mother of God,” I whispered. “I thought she was dead.” There was more writing beside that: “Alfred and Lydia Butler, Belfast.”

  How long I sat there, I don’t know. No thoughts or feelings ran through my brain or body. I sat mute and cold as marble, staring at the writing in front of me. Then with an eruption that rocked me to the core, I sprang up and furiously tore the page out of the ledger. I crumpled it and shoved it into my bag, grabbed my coat, and ran out of the room, leaving the door swinging open after me. I ran across the waiting room, past Nellie Leonard’s desk, and up the stairs to the ward for the insane.

  19

  I took the stairs two at a time. Nellie Leonard’s protests floated up the stairs with me—I was too early for visiting hours. I ignored her cries and pushed through the doors into the ward for the insane. I ran down the aisle between the rows of iron beds. Images of half-dressed, disheveled women rode past me as if in a dream, their taunts and cries silent as mimes. I had to get to Ma. I had to tell her the news.

  I pushed open the door to Ma’s room, and I came to a halt. Ma was not in her bed, as I had expected, but was standing by the window, absorbed in the activity in the courtyard below. She wore a pink dress I had not seen before, her long hair tied back in a matching ribbon, and she wore her brown velvet hat. She turned around, a broad smile on her face. She was wearing rouge.

  “Ma?” I could hardly get out the word.

  As soon as I spoke, her smile dissolved into disappointment. The smile was not meant for me. For a moment, I was again the abandoned child. Then I remembered why I had come. I ran to her and threw my arms around her.

  “Ma!” I cried. “Ma—I have news!”

  I hugged her tight. She did not resist me, but neither did she hug me back. She stood passive as a doll. I put my arm around her shoulders and led her over to the bed.

  “Sit down, Ma. I have something to show you.”

  Obediently, she sat down, smoothing out her pink dress, and waited. I sat beside her and reached into my bag, fumbling for the crumpled page I had stuffed in there. I pulled it out and smoothed it with trembling hands.

  “Listen, Ma,” I whispered, “listen.”
<
br />   I read the entry slowly. “Elizabeth Cecelia O’Neill…”

  When I had finished I grabbed Ma’s hands in mine. They were cold and stiff.

  “She’s alive, Ma,” I cried. “Lizzie’s alive. She did not die after all. All these years—oh, Ma, can you believe it?”

  Ma stared back at me, her rouged face showing no emotion, not even confusion. I tried again. I placed the paper on her knees and took her fingers and traced the words, repeating them aloud. Still silence. Fury filled me then, and I took her by the shoulders and shook her.

  “You have to understand, Ma. You have to. Lizzie’s alive. You don’t have to be insane anymore. Your sin did not cause her death. God never took her away from us. Oh, God, Ma. Please say you understand. Please listen!”

  “Eileen!” A male voice startled me. I looked up. Terrence stood in the doorway, Nellie Leonard hovering behind him. “Eileen! What in God’s name are you doing?”

  Terrence strode toward me and pulled me away from Ma and lifted me to my feet. His eyes blazed with anger. I realized in that moment that Ma’s smile had been meant for Terrence. I put up my fists and beat him away from me.

  “Have you lost your senses, girl?”

  The head nurse, in a white starched cap, appeared in the doorway, shoving past a frozen Nellie to demand an explanation.

  “Mr. Finnegan! Miss O’Neill!” She looked from one of us to the other. “You will both leave immediately. You have upset my patient.”

  I looked down at Ma. Tears streamed down her face, smudging the rouge into red blotches. She had removed her hat. She was trembling.