Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  “I don’t love him,” I cried. “I hate him for all the things he has done to me. But you’re right, Owen, I could not have forgiven you.”

  We sat in silence for a while, staring into the dying fire, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Owen had let James live on my account. How much he must love me to do that. I wanted to hold him in my arms and tell him how much I loved him, too, but the look on his face held me back.

  “I’m sorry, Owen. You’ve tarnished your reputation on my account. You’ll have no loyalty now from your men. You’ll have lost their trust—or worse! Och, Owen, they might kill you—shoot you in the back and say you were a coward or an informer!”

  “Yes, they well might. They would only be following the rules of this ugly war.” He smiled, an odd little smirk with no mirth behind it. “It was worth it, though, wasn’t it, Eileen? It was worth putting a price on my head to save your beloved James for you?”

  “That’s not fair!” Tears pricked at my eyes. “I didn’t ask you to spare his life. You made that decision yourself.”

  Owen’s temper flared. “What would you have had me do? You just admitted that you could not have forgiven me.”

  “No, I would not have. But what do you want from me now, Owen? Do you want me to get down on my knees and thank you for saving the life of the father of my child?” I sank to my knees in front of him. “Is this what you want?”

  Owen stared at me. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his eyes turned dark. Something cold wrapped around me, as if all heat had left the room.

  “There is no need for that,” he said. “Anyway, I have decided to retire from the army immediately. I don’t belong there. It was a mistake for me to reenlist.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  I reached over to hug him. “I’m sorry, Owen,” I cried.

  He pushed me away. “I must be going now,” he said. “Both sides will be looking for me. My men will be eager to avenge the deaths of their two comrades, and I am as likely a target as one of the Republicans. And of course, James has lived to fight—and kill—another day. I shall have to watch my back at all times.”

  He looked down at my belly. “Take care of yourself, Eileen.”

  “I’m so sorry, Owen… ,” I began, but he was already out the door.

  I realized that Owen had come to the house hoping against hope that I would say I didn’t care if he had killed James as long as he himself was safe. Jesus, I wanted to make myself say those words. But I could not. Much as I hated James for everything he had done, God help me, I was still not ready to see him dead—and certainly not by Owen’s hand. How could I live with Owen knowing he had been the one who killed Aoife’s father? Owen had given me his gift of James’s life, but it had cost me his love. It was a price I did not think I could bear.

  THERE WAS TALK at the mill about the gunfight at the Newry Viaduct. The story was in all the newspapers. The names of the dead were noted in the articles. James’s name was mentioned along with the fact that he had escaped. Theresa’s face shone. Again, she was the center of attention. The people around Queensbrook and elsewhere took a morbid interest in these reports. Old men recounted the events as if they had been there themselves. Most of the Catholics loved the notion that the fight for freedom was still going on, though few of them were willing to lift a finger to help the Cause. The Protestants praised the army and the Ulster Volunteers and the B-Specials for their bravery. They had no doubt that the IRA would give up eventually. After all, Collins had turned his back on them. No part of Ulster would ever be united with the Republic, they said; the fellows that kept fighting were eejits at best and murderers at worst. I said nothing. I had paid a higher price than most for the Cause, and I for one knew it had not been worth it. I had lost James over it, and now I had lost Owen as well. I wanted no part of the fecking Cause.

  Owen watched me from outside Shields’s office. I felt his eyes on me, but he made no attempt to come over and talk to me. I ignored him and went on with my work. My heart hurt at the thought of his sadness—and my own. There were no words I could say to him that would make things better. He would have to deal with it by himself. And if he could not… I didn’t want to think about that. I was tired. I just wanted to lay my head down somewhere and rest. I didn’t want to think about anything. I wiped my forehead with my hand, leaned over my machine, and closed my eyes.

  “All right there, Eileen?” Shields’s voice startled me.

  I straightened up. “Aye,” I said.

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard, girl. It’s home with your feet up you should be.”

  I looked at him. I opened my mouth to make a sharp remark, but Shields put up his hand. “I know. You’ll work until you drop or the child drops, whichever comes first.”

  He walked away. I saw Owen disappear into Shields’s office. If he had heard the exchange, he said nothing. I shrugged and went on with my work.

  ON THE FOLLOWING Monday night, Fergus appeared at my door. My heart sank when I saw him standing there. I was hoping that whatever it was he had wanted to tell me, he had thought better of it and decided to keep silent. I tried to get rid of him.

  “I’m dead on my feet, Fergus,” I lied, “I’m not up to visitors.”

  But he was not to be put off. He pushed in the door and took off his cap.

  “This won’t take long,” he said.

  I sighed. “I’ll make tea, then,” I said.

  He followed me into the kitchen and sat in the armchair beside the fire. He didn’t even wait for me to make the tea.

  “I… I have information that James and the boys are planning to set fire to the mill.” He spat out the words as if ridding himself of a poison.

  I slammed the kettle back down on the hob and swung around.

  “What?” I cried. “When?”

  “This coming Friday night.”

  “Who told you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Fergus. The old cautions about naming names never leave you.

  “How do you know it’s true?”

  “It’s true.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

  I stepped back and looked at him. He lit a cigarette and puffed away nervously.

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “Jesus, Eileen, you have to warn them. The Sheridans, Shields, the lot. They have to be warned.”

  “Why don’t you go to the police yourself?” I snapped. “I have a feeling maybe you have friends among them.”

  Fergus gave me a sharp look. “That’s not your business,” he said. “But let’s put it this way: If the police found out, they would let the mill burn first and enjoy the sight. There’s no love lost between them and the Sheridans because there’s still Catholics working at the mill. They’d stand back in the shadows, cowards that they are, and wait for the ashes to fall. Then they’d arrest James and his men after the deed was done.”

  I stared at Fergus. His words shocked me.

  “Anyway”—he sighed—“I’m tired of the whole bloody mess. I just want it finished once and for all.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  Fergus shook the ash from his cigarette and stared at the ground.

  “James and the boys are watching me,” he said. “They’ll know if I talk to anybody. But I can talk to you without any remarks being passed because we’re in the band together.” He looked up at me. “And I’m telling you because they’ll believe you, Eileen. It’s well-known you are close to the Sheridans.” He looked sheepish as he said it. “I mean nothing by that, it’s none of my business. But I don’t want it on my conscience if every workingman and -woman from here to Crossmaglen lose their livelihoods—and worse. What if some of them working a night shift are burned alive?”

  “And you take no pleasure in the notion that the Sheridans, the rich Protestant landlords, could lose their livelihoods as well? Surely you are not out for protecting them?” I could not explain my sudden anger.

  Fe
rgus moved back from me. “So you think I’m a Prod lover now? Bad cess to you, Eileen.” He threw his cigarette on the stone floor and stomped his foot on it, twisting his boot back and forth on the smoldering ash. He was calmer when he looked back up at me. “I would be delighted to see the Sheridans and the likes of them get what’s coming to them. Nothing would please me more than to see them taken down a peg or two and have to suffer like the rest of us. But the price the Catholics will pay will be far greater. My sister and I both work up there. Tommy’s out of work at the minute, and I’m the only support me ma has. How will we survive with no jobs?”

  He was right, of course. The Sheridans would be unlikely to rebuild the mill. They had plenty of other mills around Ulster. Then another thought struck me.

  “James may be misguided when it comes to the Cause,” I said. “You and I both agree on that. But why in heaven’s name would he want to do this? His own sister and brother work there. Besides, he’d lose what support he has left among the Catholics around here.”

  Fergus nodded. “It’s the same question I have, and some of his boys as well.” He looked steadily at me. “There’s some saying he’s so determined to get even with Sheridan—on account of yourself—that he’s lost his reason altogether.” His face turned scarlet. “I’m sorry, Eileen, but that’s the truth.”

  I couldn’t exactly say why I believed it was the truth he was telling me about both the plan and the reason behind it. It had occurred to me more than once that Fergus was jealous of James and could be informing. And he had a right to be jealous. Hadn’t he destroyed his hands working as a bleacher all these years to support the family, and the only thanks he got was his mother putting him out of the house when James came back home from the war? James’s words came back to me: The police often seem to know where we are almost before we know ourselves.

  “You’re the informer, aren’t you, Fergus,” I whispered.

  At first I thought he was going to deny it. But then he looked up at me with tears in his eyes and nodded.

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he choked out. “Remember that night the police lifted me in the room above the Ceili House?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, they gave me an awful beating. That’s when I snapped. I was sick and tired of taking it on the chin for James my whole life. By God, I thought, if this is the way it’s going to be, then I am going to get something out of it!”

  His voice grew stronger as he spoke, and I felt the torrent of his rage and resentment roll over me.

  “I thought there’d be money in it,” he went on, “but I know now that what I really wanted was revenge on James.”

  He lit another cigarette and stared into the fire. “Anyway, once I started informing there was no getting out of it.” He sighed. “I just want it all to be over,” he said again. “I’m sorry, Eileen.”

  I nodded. What was I to say? There was a time I would have exploded at Fergus for his cowardice, but now… well, now I understood that circumstances can drive us all to things we would never have believed we would do.

  “We all make our own decisions, Fergus.”

  Fergus looked up at me, smiling like a child. “We had grand times in those days, didn’t we? Before it all went wrong, I mean.”

  I nodded. “Aye. We were all so full of hope.”

  “Hope’s the province of the young, I suppose. We all grow out of it. Except for James. My brother’s a stubborn bastard. He’ll not give up no matter that a blind man could see we’ll never get our freedom in Ulster.”

  Was there a grudging admiration in Fergus’s voice? I didn’t know. Poor Fergus—always the short end of the stick. I made the tea, handed him a cup, and sat down opposite him.

  “Tell me more about this plan,” I said.

  “There’s not much to tell. James has been planning it for weeks now. None of us—his men, I mean—think it’s a great idea. But you know James. Nobody opposes him.”

  Fergus gulped down his tea and stood up. “I have to go.”

  He reached out and grasped my hands in his. I looked down at his poor hands, scarred and misshapen from the bleaching chemicals. A wave of sorrow washed over me.

  “You must warn them, Eileen. For God’s sake, you must.”

  I watched from the front door until Fergus was out of sight. I had been right. What he had to tell me would mean trouble. And I wanted no more of it. I dragged myself up to bed for the first of what would be many sleepless nights.

  26

  When I went to the mill the next morning, it was like walking into a strange new place. I looked at the workers in a way I had never done before. I knew something about all of their families and circumstances. Molly Hanlon’s husband was a cripple from the war and couldn’t work. They had six children. Mary Toal’s husband was a lazy brute who beat her unmercifully, particularly after he had the drink taken. He could not hold down a job. What would become of her if she was home with him all day long and no money coming in? Even the few Protestant women there worked out of necessity because their husbands had no job or did not earn enough to make ends meet. The Protestant men in the mill had the better-paying jobs. If they lost them, the wives would have to go out and try to find work or take in sewing or washing. The men would be disgraced. Alcoholism and brutality—the two things men seemed to turn to when they were down and out—would likely increase. Were all of their futures really in my hands? It was too much to think about, so I tried to put it out of my mind.

  My production slowed down—although I was still keeping up with the slowest of them. Mary Galway sniffed in disgust as she made a big show of counting my pallets. I ignored her. Shields just shrugged.

  “You’ll not be living in style anytime soon with this kind of a show,” he said. “There’ll be no pay rises or promotions. You’ll be buying no houses, yellow or otherwise.”

  “I’m doing just grand, thank you,” I said. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  I regretted the young fool that I was years ago, begging Shields for the job so I could buy the Yellow House and bring my family back together. I wondered if I had been stupid to refuse money from Owen. Time and again I had told him no. And I could hardly go begging to him now—the way things were. What an eejit he must have thought I was. Now I wondered how long I could keep going. I went home every night with my legs swollen like sausages.

  The nights were the hardest. I wanted to ask Terrence what I should do, but I could not betray Fergus. Anyway, I knew what Terrence would say. He would tell me to do the right thing. And the right thing was to warn the Sheridans and to go to the police.

  Owen’s face danced in front of me. I did not want to think about him. Did I owe him anything now? He had not spoken a word to me since he had come to my house that night expecting gratitude for the fact that he had spared James’s life. It was an ultimatum—James or him. He wanted to force me into a choice, and God help me, I was not sure I was ready to make it even after all that James had done.

  I tried not to let the thought creep into my head that if people’s lives were ruined, it would be my fault. Even though it was James who was planning to torch the mill, if I did nothing to stop the fire, the blame would be on me. I cursed Fergus Conlon for telling me just so he could clear his own conscience.

  Anyway, it was only property we were talking about—nobody would be working there on Friday night. It was just stone and wood and glass. Good riddance to it. We would all be better off without that horrible oul’ place with its smoke and dust and disease. I reasoned my way into a restless sleep that night and the next and the next. Each night, the words sounded more hollow in my brain. I became paralyzed with doubt and fear.

  ON THE MORNING of the Friday that Fergus had predicted the fire was to happen, I stood at my frame idly oiling the flax. I knew I must look a sight. Black circles hung beneath my eyes. My hair was unkempt and my hands shook as I tried to load the bobbin. Even Theresa came over and expressed concern.

  “You look awful,
Eileen,” she said.

  “Tell me what I don’t know,” I shot back.

  “Well, pardon me for caring,” said Theresa, her defenses up as always.

  I shrugged. I had no energy for this ritual anymore.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “Just tired.”

  She shot me a look. I saw pity mixed with suspicion. Then she walked away.

  “I have lovely ham sandwiches for lunch,” she said over her shoulder. “I can never finish them all by myself.”

  It was an invitation—Theresa’s way of offering me some comfort without coming right out. I was suddenly grateful to her. The thought surprised me, but God knows I desperately needed some company at the minute.

  I joined her on the low stone wall that ran along the river. It was a lovely late July day. The sun shone and the water smelled fresh as spring. I breathed it all in. It cleared my head. I took one of the sandwiches she offered and munched on it. I realized I had hardly eaten anything this whole week.

  “How is Aoife?” The words caught in my throat.

  Theresa’s face lit up in a smile. “Ah, she’s grand. She talks a streak, although she seems very serious for a child her age.”

  “She was never one for laughing,” I said. “She has an old head on her shoulders.”

  Theresa’s expression changed. “She doesn’t mix much with the other children on the street. But, sure Tommy says he and I are company enough for her. He plays with her like a big child. And you should hear her on that tin whistle!”

  I smiled. “I’m sure you are taking great care of her,” I said. “As long as she’s happy.”

  The words hung in the air. I did not say that I missed her more than anything, and I was weighed down with guilt at causing James to take her away. I did not inquire if she was asking for me. Theresa did not say that there was a shadow on her newfound happiness because it had come at my expense.