Another Kind of Life Page 13

  Quickly, expertly, Theresa drew her skirts up and sat firmly on the saddle, a great swathe of fabric bunching out from under her. She kept one foot on the ground, the other turning the pedals which made a pleasant, whirring sound. Hannah had a moment’s envy: she was older, after all, she should really go first. She had heard about this craze all last year in school: some of the more daring girls already belonged to the women’s cycling clubs in Rathmines and Churchtown. Hannah had heard them discuss their outings at weekends accompanied by their older sisters. Some of them wore divided skirts to make the sport less dangerous, and there were whispers of more senior spinster ladies wearing trousers. Despite herself, Hannah had been intrigued. And now, here was her opportunity to try out ‘the latest’ for herself. She decided the time had come to be kind.

  ‘I’ll hold the saddle for you, May, until you get your balance.’

  None of the others even noticed her magnanimous gesture. She could take part or not, as far as they were concerned. Theresa continued, enthusiastically addressing herself to May.

  ‘Stand up while you pedal, at first. When you get up a little speed, sit back on the saddle. Hannah, you must run to keep up with her – but don’t let her go until she’s ready.’

  Hannah nodded. Theresa’s tone wasn’t even bossy: she was far too excited at initiating her cousins into the secret art of bicycling. For once, she was way ahead of them at something.

  May took off quickly, Hannah holding on to the saddle as her sister wobbled her way towards finding her balance. Theresa caught up immediately, shouting encouragement, her face already reddening in the sun, her bright hair escaping everywhere.

  ‘That’s it! That’s it! Now sit! Hannah has you! You’re safe!’

  The two girls cycled side by side at a good, steady pace. Hannah began to lose her breath, her boots were hurting her. Suddenly, astonishingly, May seemed to take flight – there was no longer any pressure against Hannah’s wrists. She let go of the saddle abruptly, saying nothing. She could hear Theresa’s excited shouts, watched as May went speeding away from her. Then just as suddenly as she’d taken off, May began to wobble again. She tried to glance over her shoulder, and the next moment she came crashing to the ground, ending up in a hopeless tangle on the grass verge, half on top of the bicycle, half underneath, the wheels still spinning. Hannah hurried towards her, suddenly anxious.

  ‘May! May! Are you all right?’

  May’s face was pink and contorted. Hannah was frightened for a moment – was she crying? Had she broken something?

  By the time Hannah helped her up, May was helpless with laughter.

  ‘That was so wonderful! Hannah, you must try it!’

  Theresa’s smile seemed to reach all the way to her ears.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone do it the first time! Don’t look back in future. You only fell off because you knew that Hannah wasn’t holding you!’

  Eleanor and Frances arrived, breathless, excited, wanting their turn, but too gleefully terrified to try.

  ‘I think Hannah should go next,’ said Theresa gravely. ‘She can have my bicycle.’

  Hannah felt instantly grateful. She understood the gesture of friendship, the need to accept it. It was time to melt, time to be gracious.

  ‘Why, thank you, Theresa.’

  She turned at once to little Frances, and smiled at her.

  ‘Then I’ll help you, Frances, shall I?’

  The small face smiled up at her, bravely trying to conceal her disappointment at being the youngest, the smallest and always the last to try everything.

  Hannah stooped and whispered in her cousin’s ear.

  ‘I’ll give you three turns for every one I get – shall it be our secret?’

  The child nodded, her eyes brightening at once.

  It took Hannah a lot longer than May, just about the same time as Frances. Seven false starts, three tumbles, one of them painful – although the sense of her status as the eldest was the most badly bruised – and at last she was away.

  Aunt Elizabeth finally had to send Nuala from the kitchen to come and fetch them for lunch. The girl arrived at the end of the laneway hot and gasping, her apron flapping, her face creased and cross with effort.

  ‘Did ye not hear me callin’?’

  Theresa and Hannah exchanged a conspiratorial glance and followed her meekly back to the house, each of them pushing a bicycle. They were all warm, dusty, and in the highest spirits Hannah could remember for at least three years.

  She began to feel the first stirrings of regret about going home.

  Eleanor’s Journal

  I DIDN’T ENJOY the first few days of our holiday in County Cork; nor did Hannah or May. Hannah was furious, and sulked the whole time. May missed Mama terribly, and grieved for her, for home, and for Grandfather Delaney. I wanted to put all thoughts of Papa out of my head, but the more I tried, the more impossible it became. I saw him everywhere, heard him call me ‘Mouse’, felt his moustaches tickle my cheek as they used to when he said goodnight.

  Our girl cousins, Theresa and Frances, were very nice to us, particularly as we showed no appreciation of their kindness at first. I think we made them feel out of their depth: they were at an absolute loss to understand our unfriendliness. Each of the three of us was preoccupied in her own way. Each of us wanted to be home, and, with the cruelty of children, we made sure that our country cousins received the brunt of our discontent. I can still see the way their tentative smiles faded when yet one more overture on their part was rejected by one or all of us.

  I think it was on the Thursday that Uncle Paul brought home the two bicycles. That was the turning point. Without their timely arrival, I suspect that our Aunt Elizabeth would have been very glad indeed to see the back of us.

  Years later, I was able to tell Theresa, the elder girl, something of what had been happening in our lives at that time. She looked at me blankly – she didn’t remember it like that at all. In fact, they had quite enjoyed having three girl cousins to show off to friends and neighbours. They lived out in the countryside, beyond Bantry, and we found their dresses and their accents strange, almost quaint. For their part, they admired our city ways, our different way of speaking. They saw us as somewhat exciting and liked to boast about us, to bask in the innocence of our reflected glory. Once we all learned to bicycle together, the hostility of the first few days disappeared, forgotten by them instantly. They were truly good-natured girls, much too used to being overshadowed by their older brothers, James and Arthur, whom we saw only fleetingly during that week. Theresa’s reaction to my confession made me smile at the time, and makes me smile again now: it makes me recall a similar discussion between you and me after our first quarrel. Do you remember how we, too, had cause to ponder the wildly varying memories shared by two different people of the same event?

  Lily and Katie came to Cork city to collect us when the week was over. They met us at the station and looked after us on the train journey home. They settled us into our compartment, with strict instructions not to move, and then they left us, reappearing from time to time with food and a thermos of hot chocolate. We became giddier and giddier as the train approached Amiens Street Station. We hadn’t spoken of Papa at all during our holiday, but I think each of us knew that he occupied all our thoughts, particularly now, to the exclusion of everything else.

  It was May who first brought up the subject.

  ‘I wonder will Papa be there when we get home?’

  ‘I don’t know if I care,’ said Hannah.

  I was shocked. Her expression was cold again, disdainful, and she turned away from us and stared out the window.

  Neither May nor I said anything. I think I understood instinctively even then that Hannah felt displaced, that Papa’s return would somehow rob her of a privileged place in our household. She had been Mama’s confidante for three years, sharing her joys and sorrows. Once Papa was home, she would return to being, simply, a daughter.

  He was waiting for us in the
drawing room when we reached Leinster Road. He seemed smaller to me, almost sunken, his head withdrawn a little into himself like a tortoise. I know I felt suddenly shy. I looked to Mama, standing with her back to the window. The air in the room was strange, almost brittle, but she was doing her best to smile.

  ‘Hello, Mouse,’ he said softly. ‘My, but you’ve grown.’

  ‘Hello, Papa,’ I said, accepting his kiss, feeling a little wary. He smelt different, somehow, almost fusty.

  He turned to May and kissed her, too. She went bright red and stammered, ‘Papa – welcome to our home.’

  There was a silence, and his smile faded. May burst into tears and fled from the room. Once her sobs had calmed later, she turned to Hannah and me in bewilderment. She had really meant to say ‘Welcome home’, but it had all come out wrong. Poor May, she was inconsolable.

  I think he kissed Hannah, too, but I can’t remember. My memory seems to fall apart at the moment when May ran from the room. I really don’t know what happened next.

  The following days were subdued. I don’t think that anyone even attempted to keep up the subterfuge of New York – we simply never mentioned his absence again.

  Papa moved about the house quietly, keeping out of everyone’s way, as though he realized he didn’t belong. And Mama? I don’t know how she struggled through those days. She was the same with us, the same with Grandfather Delaney, and ladies started to come to tea again in the afternoons.

  I suppose our lives settled back into some form of normality late that summer. We learned to live around Papa, not quite with him. At twelve years of age, I decided I was no longer comfortable with his calling me ‘Mouse’. I was finally growing up. Still, I was reluctant to leave Mama when the time came to go back to school. I felt she needed someone to watch over her and, to be truthful, I felt, too, that Hannah had usurped far too much of her during the previous three years.

  Mama was easy to persuade: I think she liked the idea of having me at home. And so the decision was taken that I should go as a day-pupil to Loreto on St Stephen’s Green, rather than as a boarder like my sisters. They had each other, so they didn’t seem to mind.

  I settled into the luxury of my own room, my own books, and Mama. Papa and I circled each other warily for a time, and then he seemed to decide that I wasn’t worth the effort.

  Hannah: Summer 1896

  PAPA’S FACE HAD gone quite white. He seemed not to know what to do with his body. He looked around vaguely, after May had left the drawing room, as though searching for her, or forgiveness, or an escape – it was hard to tell.

  Welcome to our home.

  The air in the room seemed to grow suddenly still, then fill up with tension. Hannah stood very quietly after May’s outburst; Mama stood, unmoving, between the window and the heavy drapes. Her face was turned away from everybody. Nobody seemed inclined to speak. Hannah stepped forward.

  ‘Welcome back, Papa,’ she said, and allowed her cheek to receive a trembling kiss. ‘I hope you’re well.’

  ‘Well, yes, well,’ he agreed, nodding his head. There was an eagerness to his tone which saddened Hannah, made her suddenly want to cry. She wasn’t sure why she had stepped forward – she supposed it was a mixture of duty, embarrassment at May’s faux pas, and a sudden sympathy for the figure standing by the window. It seemed to come to life abruptly, to become Mama again, once the spell of silence had been broken by her father’s kiss.

  ‘Papa’s tired, dear, he’s had a long journey. Perhaps you could ask Lily to bring some tea.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  Hannah turned to Eleanor.

  ‘Come, Ellie. Come with me. Mama and Papa need some peace and quiet.’

  She had not intended to behave like this at all, but the warm glow of her recent visit to Cork made her disposed to be kind. She had glimpsed a life where it might be possible to feel happy again, carefree, invulnerable: a life where the worst thing that happened was a fall from your bicycle, a dusty dress, some hurt dignity. Besides, she could take little satisfaction now from raging against the shell of a man whose eyes seemed grateful when his eldest daughter condescended to let him kiss her cheek.

  Hannah went down the steps to the kitchen, still holding Eleanor’s hand. A nervous Lily promised to bring tea at once.

  ‘Let’s go and play with May,’ whispered Eleanor, once they were out in the hallway again. ‘She looked so terribly sad.’

  Hannah sighed. She did a rapid mental calculation. It was nearly July. Preparations for boarding school would begin again in late August. Seven full weeks, and then she could count herself as on her way, out of home again.

  She wished she could will the time away, or spend the long days in Cork, or be anywhere other than under her parents’ roof.

  September came, and with it the promise of company, of ordered convent days which flowed one into the other without effort, and Miss de Vere.

  Hannah felt a small thrill of delight when she thought about the lessons which awaited her. She had been singled out from the other girls after her music examination last term. Miss de Vere took only the brightest and most promising students for extra lessons. Hannah could barely contain her impatience. She wanted to throw herself into something that demanded discipline and focus. And Miss de Vere was known as a demanding teacher. Something of an eccentric, she taught her girls in a way that shouldn’t have been successful, but nearly always was. Those she chose became the school’s candidates for scholarships with the Royal Irish Academy of Music.

  For the last few weeks before returning to school, Hannah thought about nothing else. She had daydreams about being the successful candidate when her final year came, modestly receiving applause, the admiration of others.

  The dream brought with it a new determination to succeed. Something so wonderful and undreamt of would go a long way towards drawing a line under the last few unhappy years of everyone’s life.

  Mary and Cecilia: 1893–1896

  ONCE THE DEPOSITION was over, Mary wanted to know nothing more about it. She no longer cared what happened to the likes of Agnes Neill, felt no thirst for revenge. It was over, done, finished with. Now she needed to pay the rent, feed and clothe Cecilia and herself: keep body and soul together, as Ma would say. The only way she could do that was by using all the skills she had garnered over the last six years with Watson, Valentine and Company. She set about doing so, filled with the most extraordinary energy she had ever known.

  Mary knew that none of the mills could keep up with the demand for linen handkerchiefs, heard that hemmers were in demand everywhere, all over Belfast. Handkerchiefs, embroidered tablecloths, shirt-finishing: she would do it all, whatever it took, no matter how hard she had to work. She presented herself at York Street mill the Monday after Cecilia’s deposition, unwilling to return, ever, to Watson, Valentine and Company. A taciturn foreman pointed her grudgingly towards the warehouse.

  She felt almost eager when she saw the giant bundles of unfinished handkerchiefs, tray cloths and tablecloths. They lay there, rows and rows of them, waiting for her practised fingers.

  ‘What’s the piece-rate?’ she asked, pointing towards the handkerchiefs. The despatcher was tall, gangly, no more than a lad.

  ‘One and ninepence for twelve dozen, miss.’

  Mary was startled, thought she couldn’t have heard him correctly.

  ‘How many dozen?’

  ‘Twelve, miss.’

  One hundred and forty-four handkerchiefs hemmed and finished for one and ninepence? She felt suddenly shaky, the creeping numbness of disappointment filling all the spaces where hope had so recently been.

  ‘How many stitches to the inch?’

  ‘Sixteen, miss.’

  Grimly, Mary carried the bundles home with her on the tram. Cecilia would have to come with her in future: she’d need to carry far more than this if they were to have a hope of surviving. She forced herself to be optimistic, to appear cheerful when she got home. Mary knew that she was good with her needle
, that she’d grow quick and accurate before long. She’d find some way for her sister to help, anything to smooth away the lines of worry that were settling into permanent creases on Cecilia’s face, making her look old before her time.

  She and Cecilia quickly became familiar morning visitors to the York Street warehouse, often arriving long before six o’clock. Mary wanted to be first in line, wanted not to have to see the long queue of bedraggled women, of tattered children, their faces always snotty, their bare feet hard and blackened.

  On the first morning she returned with the finished handkerchiefs, Cecilia came with her, holding tight to Mary’s arm. She grew nervous long before they drew close to York Street; Mary knew she could smell the mill in the air. She wanted to get her sister in and out of there as quickly as possible. Once her work had been checked, the foreman handed her a chit for her pay. Quickly, Mary scanned the numbers. The sum was not what she had expected, not what she had carefully calculated with Cecilia the previous evening.

  ‘ ’Tis short,’ she said. ‘’Tis more nor a shillin’ short, sir.’

  She stood her ground, refusing to budge, to lose her place in the queue, until he paid attention to her.

  He snatched the piece of paper from her hand.

  ‘Deduction for thread,’ he snapped.

  Mary looked at him.

  ‘For thread?’ she repeated, stupidly.

  ‘Aye, for thread. A shillin’ for thread. Take it or leave it, but move away on outa here.’

  Mary felt her anger rise in a way she hadn’t done for a long time. She used to take it quietly when they fined her for talking or sneaking a drink of water. She had not reared up once, doing all the muckiest, filthiest jobs they gave her. She’d never answered back the spinning master, not once in six years. But this made her blood sing in her ears. She felt angry not just for herself but for all the raggle-taggle line of humanity waiting patiently, hungrily, behind her.