Patricia Falvey

by The Yellow House (v5)

  “Go on, open it.”

  Before I could do so, Mrs. Morocco came over to our table. She beamed down at Owen.

  “Oh, Mr. Sheridan,” she said, “my husband told me you were here. I had to come out and see you—and thank you.”

  I looked from her to Owen. He waved his hand. “No need, Mrs. Morocco.”

  She grabbed his hand in hers. “Oh, yes, Mr. Sheridan. Without your help we would have lost the shop—and after my husband had worked so hard…”

  Tears lit the corner of her eyes. Owen took his hand away from her. “You both worked hard,” he said softly. “I only did what anyone would have done.”

  She nodded and wiped her tears with her apron. “More tea?” she said.

  We both shook our heads no, and she moved away. I looked at Owen, waiting for an explanation. He shrugged. “I worked out a small loan for them. Their business dropped off during the war years. I just helped them get back on their feet. Now, open your present.”

  I pulled the box toward me and untied it slowly, my large fingers awkward on the delicate ribbon. I removed the lid. There on a bed of satin lay a lovely ring with an emerald stone. I dropped it as if it were on fire.

  “Emerald,” said Owen, “to match your eyes. Of course, if you don’t like it…”

  “Like it?” I cried. “What woman wouldn’t like it? But I can’t take it.”

  Owen’s eyes widened. “For heaven’s sake, why not?”

  “Because I’m not ready to marry you,” I burst out. “Not you or anybody else. It’s too soon. Don’t you see? I’ve only just buried a husband. For the first time in years I have my freedom. Och, Owen, I must be mad in the head to be refusing you now, but I need time. There are too many pieces of unfinished business in my life now, Frankie, Lizzie, Paddy, where I will live—all of it.”

  I realized he was laughing. He threw back his head and laughed louder than I had ever heard him do before. “Oh, Eileen,” he said finally, “my darling Eileen. Do you not think I know you well enough not to spring something like that on you? I don’t know what Miss Theresa told you, but this ring is to celebrate your birthday and the birth of our darling Saoirse!”

  I stared at him, my mouth open. “You mean you don’t want to marry me?”

  He leaned forward and took my hands in his. “Of course I do, my love. I would run away with you this minute if you would let me. But I realize you need some time. I cannot say that I am in no hurry, but I want the decision to be yours. I want you to come to me openly and willingly and without any doubts. That is the only way I will marry you!”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Where did I ever find a man who knew me to the core as this man did? Where did I ever find a man as understanding and unselfish as this man was? Och, Da, did you send him to me after all?

  Owen took my right hand in his and slipped the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly. I had a feeling Theresa had helped him with the size. I looked down at it and smiled through the tears that clouded my eyes.

  “It’s beautiful, Owen,” I whispered.

  When we arrived home, Theresa made a big show of taking the girls out for a long walk. If she noticed the ring on my right hand instead of my left, she said nothing—I would be in for the inquisition later. I smiled and closed the door behind her. Owen and I made love sweetly and passionately. Afterward, he told me he would be going back to England shortly. His father would not last much longer, he said, and wanted Owen’s decision as to whether he would take over the mill. If he said yes, he would need to spend time learning at similar mills in England. He did not know how long he would be gone, he said, but probably into the next year.

  “Long enough,” Owen said, “for you to make your decision as well, Eileen.”

  WORD CAME FROM Sister Rafferty that Frankie had woken up from his coma. Terrence came for me, and together we rode to the hospital. I left Saoirse and Aoife with one of the young nurses and rushed to where Frank lay. I trembled as I looked down at him. His eyes were closed. I sat down and clutched his hand. Sister Rafferty came over.

  “He goes in and out of it, love, but it’s a good sign. He’ll be back with us for good soon.”

  I nodded and looked up at Terrence. It was hard to read his expression. What would happen when Frank came to and saw him? Would he spit at him again the way he had done the night Terrence had prayed over him? I sensed Terrence’s anxiety, and he sensed mine.

  “It’s all right, Eileen,” he whispered. “I just want him well.”

  We sat waiting. Terrence murmured quiet prayers. I said a few of my own. I had not prayed in a donkey’s age. God had not been kind to me. But now I wanted so much for Frank to be back with me, I actually slid off my chair and got down on my knees beside his bed.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I murmured, “please help Frank. I know he sinned. I know he turned against you, the way I did myself. But it wasn’t his fault, Jesus.” I looked up, defiant. “If I can forgive him, why can’t you?”

  As if he heard me, Frank opened his eyes.

  “Frankie,” I screeched. “Frankie!”

  Frank examined my face. He looked puzzled. Could it be that he didn’t remember me? Oh, Jesus, no. “It’s me, Frankie,” I cried, “Eileen.”

  Frank stared at me and then at Terrence. His brown eyes were bright, as if he had a fever. I held my breath and waited. Terrence said nothing.

  “I’m your sister, Frankie,” I said. “Eileen. Don’t you remember me?” Tears of frustration pricked at my eyes. “Please, darlin’,” I said.

  Then a grin spread across Frankie’s face. It was a cheeky, smug grin. It was the same grin he’d flashed when we were children and he had just won a game against me.

  “Eileen,” he muttered.

  My heart leaped. “Aye, Frankie, Eileen.”

  He noticed Terrence then, and his eyes blazed. “Music,” he cried, “Music Man.”

  Terrence nodded. “Aye, Frank,” he whispered, “Music Man.”

  “Play a tune,” said Frankie. “Lizzie wants to dance.”

  A weight as heavy as Slieve Gullion herself settled in my belly. I could hardly breathe. I looked at Terrence, but he looked away.

  “Play!” shouted Frankie, his voice demanding.

  I tried again. I stroked his hand. “Do you not remember what happened, love?” I whispered. “Do you not remember the fire? Grandda Fitzwilliam?”

  He gave me a puzzled stare and shook his head, rolling it back and forth violently on the pillow. “I want to go home now,” he cried.

  “Where’s home, Frankie?” I whispered.

  He sighed in exasperation. “The Yellow House, you eejit,” he said.

  Sister Rafferty came up behind us. “I think that’s enough for now,” she said. I heard the pity in her voice.

  “But he doesn’t remember,” I cried. “He thinks he’s a child. God help me, he thinks we’re all still at the Yellow House.”

  Sister Rafferty patted my arm. “Sometimes it takes a while for the memory to come back,” she said softly. “We just have to be patient.”

  “And what if it never comes?” I cried. “What if he’s… he’s left like Billy Craig?”

  “We’ll just have to wait,” she said. “At least you have him alive.”

  Terrence and I hardly said a word in the car all the way back to the house. When we arrived, I put Aoife and Saoirse to bed and poured Terrence and myself each a glass of whiskey.

  “Well, so much for feckin’ prayer!” I said.

  Terrence drained his glass, then looked at me. “God works in mysterious ways, Eileen—”

  “Och, don’t give me that blather,” I cut in. “The O’Neills are going to have another mad one in the family, and that’s the size of it.”

  Terrence winced at the reference to Ma. He never liked to talk about the fact that she was insane.

  “Well, we’ll have to give it some time,” he said. “But if he doesn’t change, I suppose we should be thinking about arrangements.”

  I
looked up. “What arrangements?”

  “Well, he won’t be fit to run your grandfather’s farm.”

  “He can come and live with me!” I said, annoyed at the turn of the conversation. No matter what had passed between Frankie and me, he was still my brother, and he needed me. I would not abandon him now.

  Terrence nodded. “That’s not entirely what I mean. Someone will have to step in and take care of his affairs. The Fitzwilliam estate and the other lands will have to be sold. And you would have been the next in line, as I understand things. So the proceeds should go to you.”

  I rounded on Terrence. “Feck you!” I cried. “Frank’s not even in the ground and you’re talking as if he was dead. How can you be so cold, and him your own flesh and blood?”

  Terrence stared at me and then looked over at Saoirse, who was sleeping peacefully in her crib.

  “I’m just thinking of you, Eileen—and the children. In time you will see that I am right.”

  After Terrence left, I sat by the fire, seething with anger. How could he talk like that? How did he know that Frankie would not wake up tomorrow and be right as rain? God knows I would rather have the angry old Frankie back than this child that lay in his bed. But what if he didn’t change? I could hardly bear to think about it. I got up and dragged myself up to bed.

  IN THE END, it was Terrence who arranged everything. Frankie was brought to my house. There was nothing more the hospital could do for him. He learned to walk with crutches on his poor, damaged legs, but his mind did not heal. He was a ten-year-old boy. He played happily with Saoirse and Aoife. Terrence brought him a bodhran drum and he beat on it while Terrence played the pipes. Sometimes I brought him to the Ceili House, and the boys would let him come up and play onstage. He grinned like a big child. His temper was so sweet that in time it was hard to remember the angry, brittle man he had been.

  The property was all sold for a good price. I now had enough money to live without having to work again. Terrence planted the notion in me that I should buy my own house. After all, he said, you can’t live in a mill house when you no longer work at the mill.

  “They’d hardly throw me out,” I cried, “after what I did for them.”

  But Terrence knew me too well. He had hit a nerve of pride. I knew I could not stay.

  “The old Yellow House is up for sale again,” Terrence said casually one night.

  My whole body tensed. “Owen’s selling it?” I whispered.

  Terrence nodded.

  “Well, good luck to whoever gets it now. It won’t be me. I don’t give a rat’s arse about that place. It was always bad luck.”

  But the seed had been planted. Did I dare even think I could go back there? Was the dream still alive? Could I trust God this time? Had this been His mysterious way of answering my prayers, or were the evil ghosts still waiting for me? That night, Slieve Gullion appeared to me in my dreams. “Come home, darlin’,” she said, “come home.”

  30

  We moved in the week before Christmas 1922. The house had been transformed. It smelled new and fresh. Theresa had sewn flowered curtains for all the windows, bright rugs covered the floors, and a pair of brass andirons shone beside the fireplace. The walls had been painted a soft cream, and Ma’s pictures hung on them. Shane Kearney had been good to his word and kept everything that had been salvaged from the fire. I cried when I went into the back room of his pub with Theresa and saw Ma’s sewing machine, the desk with inlaid marble that Da had made for her, and her paintings. The “ghost chair” that always stood empty beside the fireplace for Great-Grandda Hugh was there as well.

  The outside of the house was still a bit drab. The whitewashed exterior was stained and chipped. Maybe in the spring I would paint it. I wasn’t quite ready for it to be yellow again. Maybe I would never want it yellow again—it might bring bad luck. I decided to leave the decision until spring, after the garden was planted.

  Word came from Lizzie that she would be home for Christmas. I was delighted. She did not say if it was to be for a visit or for good, but no bother, I would be happy to see her either way. I decided to throw a party for her on Christmas Eve, and I wanted everybody there.

  I sent a note to Owen. I tried to sound offhand in it, but the truth was I was desperate to see him again. I had cursed myself more than once for having let him go.

  Terrence and I got permission from the hospital to bring Ma home for the holiday. She sat beside me in the backseat of Terrence’s car, shrunken like a frail doll. She gazed out the window at the houses and fields as we passed. It was a dozen years since she had been outside. I squeezed her hand. When we pulled up in front of the house, it was hard to know if she recognized it. She got out and stood and stared up at it for a minute, but I could read nothing in her eyes. We brought her in and sat her down in an armchair beside the fire. Theresa had tea made and handed her a cup.

  “Thank you,” she said in the polite way I had come to know.

  Her hand trembled as she held the cup. Aoife toddled over to her and sat on the floor beside her, holding on to the arm of the chair.

  “Hello, Granny,” she said.

  I supposed Theresa had told her who was coming, but Theresa looked surprised.

  “How did you know she was your granny, love?” she said.

  Aoife said nothing but leaned closer to the chair. Ma looked down at her and smiled. She reached a thin hand down and stroked the child’s hair. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  THE WORD WENT out to everyone that the ceili was on at the Yellow House for Christmas Eve. I looked around the big kitchen. Theresa had decorated it as well as she had ever decorated the Temperance Hall in Queensbrook. She bustled about now, adjusting this and that. Ma sat in the armchair by the fire, Aoife on the floor next to her. Saoirse crowed in her cradle, and Frankie sat in a corner, occupied with a new puppy Terrence had brought him. We called it Cuchulainn, after our faithful old dog. The turf fire burned bright, while loaves of soda bread baked in its ashes. Bottles of porter stood like soldiers on the kitchen table along with a big bowl of apple cider. I looked out the kitchen window. A few flakes of snow swirled in the evening sky.

  “We’re having a party, Mrs. Gullion,” I whispered as I stared out toward my beloved mountain, “just like old times. What do you think of that? Aye, I know, it’s about time.”

  P.J. and Fergus were the first to arrive, stamping their feet from the cold and admiring the house. They had brought Joe Shields with them, along with his accordion. One by one they went over and took Ma’s hands in theirs and greeted her. She smiled a shy, thin smile but said nothing. Then they settled themselves on stools in the kitchen with bottles of porter, their instruments on the floor beside them. Terrence put a glass of porter beside Great-Grandda Hugh’s chair, and wee Cuchulainn bounded out of Frankie’s arms and settled himself on the empty chair, where we all knew an invisible hand petted him. I turned away before I would begin crying and making an eejit of myself.

  More people streamed in, and the music began. We had moved the furniture back against the walls so people could dance, and the jigs and reels were soon in full swing. Mrs. Mullen and Paddy had arrived with P.J. We were almost all there now. I kept watching the door. Where was Lizzie? And where was Owen?

  Lizzie arrived with Father Dornan, stamping her feet like the others and dusting the snow off her coat. She put out her small hands toward me, and I ran to her.

  “Lizzie,” I cried. “Och, Lizzie. Welcome home!”

  The music and dancing stopped. Everyone watched us. Lizzie smiled her lovely calm smile, tears edging her blue eyes. I took her by the hand and led her over to Ma.

  “Here’s Ma, Lizzie,” I whispered.

  Lizzie stood very still and gazed at the old woman in the chair. I wondered what she thought of this frail creature. Surely she looked nothing like the woman in Lizzie’s dreams—the tall, young, dark-haired woman with the beautiful eyes. Lizzie knelt in front of Ma and took both her hands in hers. Aoife moved away, and sile
nce hushed the room.

  “Hello, Mammy,” she whispered, “it’s me, Lizzie. I’ve come home.”

  Ma stared at Lizzie. She said nothing, but her face crumpled and tears flowed down her thin cheeks like a stream thawing over gray, frozen rocks. Lizzie began to hum “The Spinning Wheel.” Then suddenly Ma began to hum with her, a small, frail sound like a baby bird. Frankie and Paddy came to stand beside me, watching their ma and their sister. I squeezed them both close to me.

  “Thank God,” I whispered. “Thank God.”

  The party went into full swing. I played Da’s fiddle and people danced. P.J. played tunes in memory of Da and Billy Craig, as he called on God to give rest to their souls. Lizzie went over to Frankie and brought him to the middle of the floor to dance with her. This time it was poor Frankie and not Lizzie who shuffled on unsteady legs. I watched them with a joy and a sadness that threatened to break my heart wide open. Later, Lizzie took Saoirse on her lap and sat next to Ma. Tommy McParland brought the local children around the fireplace and told ghost stories. The craic lasted well into the early hours of the morning. People kept arriving, but no one left.

  I imagined myself standing on top of Slieve Gullion, looking down on the house bright with lights, the merry sounds drifting across the fields and valleys. I thought of Da and Billy Craig, and I knew they were watching us, too, and James as well—poor James. But despite all the warmth and joy of the evening, there was a hollowness inside me. Over the last weeks, the kindness of everyone around me had chipped away at my old armor. I was a changed woman now. I was happier than I had been even as a child. I had peeled away all the defenses I had built up over the years. I was naked as a newborn, ready to love and allow myself to be loved. And I had no shortage of love. My family was around me again. I had friends. I was back at the Yellow House, and like the Yellow House, I had been returned to life.