Another Kind of Life Read online

  Everything that day had struck her as beautiful. Waiting by the window for Miss de Vere, she had looked out on to the convent grounds below suffused with the russet glow of an autumn afternoon; the silence of the music room had been intensified by the light flooding on to the polished floorboards; even Sister Louisa’s star-gazer lilies, arranged in the glass vase on the piano, seemed more highly perfumed than usual, filling the air all around her. All of her senses had felt heightened, receptive. It was as though she were living the day with the volume turned up. Forte; the thought had pleased her.

  And now this.

  Whatever her parents had in mind, whatever the source of their anger, Hannah knew that, in some way not yet defined, their plans did not include their eldest daughter becoming a teacher. Chopin’s melodies faded into nothingness as the wheels of the brougham came to an abrupt, gravelly stop outside the door to her home.

  Hannah could feel Eleanor’s eyes on her as she ascended the steps to the front door. She had spotted her at once, the small anxious face peeping out from behind the drapes in the drawing room. Hannah had no time to speak to her, they simply exchanged a glance, sharing the intimate sisterly knowledge that something was wrong. Her mother sent Eleanor away at once.

  ‘What is it?’ said Hannah, once the door had closed behind her sister.

  ‘We’ve had a letter from a Miss de Vere, about your going on to study music in the autumn.’

  Hannah wondered why she said ‘a Miss de Vere’ like that, as though she’d never met her. Mama well knew who the Miss de Vere was; why was she making it sound as though she were some anonymous person, one of thousands of Misses de Vere?

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannah, ‘but only if I get the scholarship. She thinks I have a very good chance. I’m well prepared and . . .’

  At this, Hannah’s father raised his hand. She stopped.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ he said, simply.

  ‘But Papa, I really want this. I know I could be good enough, and the scholarship would pay all my fees. I can teach . . .’

  ‘This is not just about money, Hannah.’

  Her mother’s voice was sharp. Hannah realized she had touched, too soon, on the most painful topic of all.

  ‘Nor is life just about doing what you want. It is about doing your duty.’

  Hannah stayed silent. She thought that this was probably the first time that she had really hated her mother and all that she stood for. She could feel unaccustomed anger begin to burn somewhere deep in her stomach.

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘We have made other arrangements for you, Hannah. You are a young woman now, ready for adult responsibility.’

  He stopped.

  ‘May I know what my responsibility is to be?’

  Hannah spoke quietly. She had begun to shake inside. She knew what was coming. She was proud of herself that she gave nothing away, no hint of dismay, no quiver of anger: her voice was cold, steady. She had the satisfaction of seeing her mother fidget with the gloves in her lap, her father’s chin grow weak and uncertain. She waited.

  ‘We feel it best that you marry, early next year. We feel it is in everybody’s interest that you do so.’

  Her father was not looking at her.

  ‘May I ask how so?’

  ‘No, you may not.’ Her mother was clearly losing patience. ‘You will be married as we think best. It is our duty to secure your future for you. Marriage will do that, and we are happy that we have chosen well.’

  Hannah looked levelly at her mother. She would not lower her gaze. She would never have been able to utter the words, but her eyes were clear and challenging. A secure future through marriage? they asked silently. Just like yours?

  Sophia flushed angrily and turned away.

  ‘May I know to whom?’

  Hannah wanted only to remain composed now. She would not let them break her.

  ‘Charles MacBride,’ her father replied. ‘You already know Mrs MacBride, Constance, . . . from . . . before. They are an old, respectable Belfast family.’

  Hannah wondered if he was finished yet. She said nothing.

  ‘He’s a good man, a very good man,’ he added, almost appealingly.

  He wanted her to absolve him, she realized. He wanted her to make him feel better for selling off his eldest daughter. For money was at the bottom of it; of that she had no doubt. ‘Respectable’ families, ‘good’ families, ‘well-regarded’ families – she had become used to the words her parents used, down through the years, had learned to read the secret vocabulary they shared, the real significance that lay concealed just below the surface of their speech. All these words meant the same thing: rich families, moneyed people. Old money, new money, fortunes made in trade – her parents had a complex system of gradation for everyone they knew. Everything depended on the extent of one’s wealth; once that was established, only then did the manner of its acquisition become important. Old fortunes, inherited from generation to generation, were better than new, unexpected wealth from the stock exchange; stocks and bonds were, in turn, significantly better than money amassed through trade, however old and respectable the business. Finally, old money from trade was unquestionably better than new. ‘Nouveau riche’ was the supreme insult, implying, as it did, the resources to live like a gentleman without the pedigree and the savoir faire to do so. Life well lived was a right, a duty, conferred by long years of privilege. Hannah felt keenly the supreme irony of her parents’ snobbery. They had nothing, it seemed to her. Even this house belonged to Grandfather Delaney – they lived on his charity, leaving Leinster Road quickly, discreetly, on Papa’s return from prison. Once the epitome of solid, unflashy respectability, her father, the government man, was now nothing more than the career civil servant turned thief.

  All the old contempt for him that she had tried to suppress for five long years welled to the surface now. She didn’t care any longer. They could punish her in any way they chose. Nothing could be worse than this.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You want me to be married. To a respectable man.’

  The emphasis on ‘respectable’ was just enough to make her father flinch. He looked at her, without replying.

  She kept her voice steady, smoothed the front of her dress. She needed to do something to stop the shaking of her hands.

  ‘I hope,’ she said softly, ‘that you got a good price.’

  She turned on her heel and made her way, steadily, towards the drawing-room door.

  ‘How dare you!’

  Sophia’s voice exploded into the stunned silence.

  ‘Let her go, woman!’

  Her father’s anger followed Hannah out of the drawing room. She stepped outside into the hallway, and closed the door very gently behind her, waiting until she heard the click.

  Eleanor was sitting on the stairs, waiting for her. Hannah made her way past, holding her breath. She could not stop, not now. She placed her hand on top of her sister’s smooth hair, and continued to make her way up to her room.

  She closed and locked the door. She felt as though her body had become suddenly brittle, about to shatter. It seemed to be made up of millions of tiny pieces, like the cracked glaze she had seen on vases in the museum. She climbed on to the bed, lay on her back, and covered her face with her arms. She hadn’t even the will to cry. She stayed there, all night, ignoring the calls at her door.

  Eventually, they left her alone. She listened as the last set of footsteps made its way downstairs. She could stay here for ever, she thought. She wrapped herself in the counterpane, still in her day-dress, and slept.

  The night had been a restless one. A long thin thread of oblivion, it had been disturbed every so often by dreams which struggled to the surface, breaking into the air like shrill, discordant notes. She had been back in the music room at school again, but a room which had lost all the warmth of its recent familiarity. Everything was arranged differently, with its own peculiar dream logic. The metronome swayed silently, and Miss de Vere looked on disapprovingl
y as Hannah’s fingers refused to touch the black keys, no matter how hard she tried.

  She could feel her underarms grow damp. She tried to tell her teacher that everything had been so right, earlier. She had practised her Chopin endlessly, joyfully, for days. Her hands had skimmed delicately over the notes, loving the dip and dive of tone and rhythm, the quick swoops of bright melody and dark brooding that had flowed effortlessly from her, hour after hour.

  And now it was all slipping away from her. It was as though all her skill, all her inspiration had deserted her. Her fingers felt thickened by stupidity. Even her eyes were paralysed, powerless to stop the slow confusion, the blur of notes across her vision. For a sudden moment of brittle revelation, the minims and quavers, crotchets and semi-quavers seemed to be nothing more than meaningless black marks, like tiny footprints scattered across the sheet in front of her, marching away from her. It was as though she had never seen them before, as though she had suddenly lost the power to understand their language, once as familiar to her as speech.

  She crashed both hands on to the piano, sending a wave of silence washing around the emptiness of her bedroom.

  Her eyes jerked open. Her palms were sweaty, her hair in disarray. Hannah covered her face with her hands, remembering yesterday, remembering what had happened. She lay very still, re-imagining the music room which up until yesterday had been filled with optimism and purpose. Now, it felt flat and stale, all its tranquillity shattered. She could still recapture the smell of wax, the sterile cleanliness of the gleaming wood, the watery midday light filtering through the crowding oak trees just beyond the windows.

  Hannah wanted to hold on to those earlier feelings, when possibility and optimism had fuelled her every moment, but Papa’s voice kept intruding. You must make no plans. First and foremost, you have duties to others. Hannah wished the words away into meaninglessness, but they would not leave her.

  She would stay in her room for the rest of her life – she hated everyone, hated what they were forcing her to be. She would run away, and then they would be sorry. She would find Miss de Vere—

  There was a knock on her door.

  ‘Hannah? Your father and I would like to see you. Downstairs in the drawing room, please, at once.’

  Mama’s voice was brisk, matter of fact. There was no trace of appeal, no note of contrition.

  Hannah did not reply.

  She would not go to them. She would die rather than marry Charles MacBride.

  They would never force her. Never, never.

  Eleanor’s Journal

  I DON’T REMEMBER consciously setting out to draw Hannah from her room, but I must have had an instinctual understanding that the piano played a large role in her refusal to be part of the family. I had never known our house so silent before, so bereft of music. I remember feeling cheated that, at a time when I could have had Hannah all to myself, she refused to let me come to her. And so I set about drawing her to me – not a conscious choice, perhaps, but none the less deliberate for that.

  It was a Thursday afternoon and Mama and Papa had gone out on their weekly visit to Grandfather Delaney. He would rarely come to our home, certainly not since Papa’s sad and humble return from Belfast some two years earlier. And now he was ill, unable to leave his house. Whatever was happening, my father was no longer left behind when my mother made these weekly, dutiful visits. I understood later that his presence was tolerated by my grandfather, but not sought after. Katie and Lily were on their afternoon off. Hannah and I were alone in the house, each of us deemed to be responsible enough to look after ourselves for a few hours, and after each other, should the need arise.

  We had been learning some of Moore’s melodies in school at that time – ‘The Meeting of the Waters’ was a particular favourite of my teacher’s – and I decided to see if I could accompany myself on the piano. I have never been an accomplished musician – not even nearly as good as May, who in turn, was not nearly as proficient as Hannah. I left the drawing-room door open on this occasion and began to strike the notes as loudly as I could. I sang carelessly, as though I had no thought for anything but my own entertainment.

  It seemed to me that I played for some time without achieving the desired response. There was no sign of Hannah, no footstep that I could hear, no doors opening or closing. I was almost ready to stop – my sister was obviously not about to dignify my poor performance with her presence – when I sensed, rather than saw, a flash of blue to my left: Hannah, come to see me at last. I went to turn around and felt my long hair being pulled suddenly and furiously. I landed heavily on my back, my arms and legs waving in the air like a frantic spider. I don’t think I knew what had happened, even when I saw Hannah standing there, her eyes black with fury. The piano stool had fallen over with a crash, and sheet music poured out of its seat, lying whitely on the floor like spilt milk. I was too shocked to speak. I had never before seen Hannah in such a temper – cross, yes, even sharp and angry after the occasional exchange between herself and Mama, but never this black, unforgiving rage.

  I remember I cried, hugging myself, clasping my long arms close to my body for comfort. At one point, Hannah looked as though she was ready to soften towards me, but I wouldn’t let her. I howled, deliberately averting my eyes from hers. I shut her out, just as she had shut me out. I was not going to give her the joy of comforting me. I even shook off her arm as I ran out of the drawing room and upstairs to my bedroom, sobbing as I went. I cannot say that my tears weren’t real, but I do know that I pursued my advantage. I had made Hannah notice me, and simultaneously feel bad about her neglect of her youngest sister. As I slammed my door, I was conscious of a small feeling of triumph. I am almost ashamed to tell you this: I fear it makes me appear shallow and callous, but I have promised myself, and you, absolute truthfulness.

  It was Hannah’s turn now to want my company: and I should wait as long as it took for her to come and get me.

  Hannah: Summer 1898

  HANNAH LEANED HER head back against the warm glass of the window. She was tired of watching the hazy countryside hurry past, framed by the streaked grime of some other day’s rain. She knew that her mother willed her not to, so she closed her eyes, shutting her out, obliterating that grey gaze, those long fingers plucking at the pearls around her throat. It gave Hannah satisfaction to withdraw like this, to savour the silent power of her last defiance. She felt the sun against her face, the bright midday light making pinkly crazed patterns on the insides of her eyelids. The train jolted occasionally, but mostly its rocking motion was soothing, childlike. Hannah thought how nice it would be to sleep now, to shut everything out, once and for all.

  Eleanor shifted slightly on the upholstered seat, edging closer to her sister.

  ‘I think we’re nearly there,’ she whispered, her breath warm against Hannah’s neck. The older girl nodded and reached for the small hand. She could feel it lying uncertainly on the seat beside her, vulnerable, slightly sticky. She squeezed gently, filled with a rush of guilty love. She would never want Eleanor to feel closed off, abandoned. This silence was not for her. The young girl relaxed at once, comforted by the strength of her sister’s warm grasp. May sat beside her mother, her gaze following the restless countryside, her face impassive.

  No one spoke again until the train signalled its noisy arrival at Great Victoria Street. It snaked its way along platform one, finally shrieking to a long, juddering halt. Its cry echoed harshly, bouncing off the high metal roof, sending pigeons flapping whitely above the great billows of grey steam. Porters swarmed all over the platform, pulling at the peaks of their caps, sharp eyes on the lookout for the sweetest bit of business, the unwary traveller. Her father stood up at once, sliding back the door of their first-class carriage. He adjusted his hat with the air of a man accustomed to getting things done. Before he reached the bottom step, his left hand was already raised, half in summons, half in greeting. He moved rapidly along the platform, his gold-topped cane swinging in elegant rhythm with his foots
teps.

  ‘Come along, girls,’ their mother urged.

  Her voice was tight, the edges of her words jagged. May was already standing, fixing her bonnet without a word. Their mother tugged at her gloves, glancing irritably in the direction of her other two daughters. Neither moved. Hannah decided to count to ten before she even opened her eyes. Eleanor sat still, paralysed in equal measure by terror and delight at her sister’s bravado, drawing strength from her tightly held hand.

  ‘Eleanor, do as I say – at once.’

  Hannah gave her sister’s hand an extra little squeeze of encouragement and opened her eyes. She looked innocently at her mother.

  ‘Are we there yet, Mama?’

  Eleanor stifled a giggle.

  Her mother blinked rapidly. She pulled sharply on the drawstrings of her reticule, refusing to meet her eldest daughter’s eye.

  ‘Please don’t be childish, Hannah. Gather your things. Your father’s gone to get a porter.’

  She swept angrily out of the carriage, ushering May down the steps in front of her. Hannah watched as the feathers of her mother’s hat brushed against the top frame of the narrow doorway. They bobbed wildly for an instant, their careful arrangement distorted into sudden parody. A blue peacock’s eye drooped sadly, then swayed drunkenly back to its proper position again. That moment, out of nowhere, Hannah was assaulted by a feeling of sudden, raw pity for the departing back. She could see, with a fleeting, startling clarity, all the secret years of disappointments, measured by her mother’s small step, by the unyielding set of her shoulders.

  Eleanor’s cheeks were pink with suppressed laughter, her eyes shining. But when she turned back to Hannah, her sister seemed to have gone away from her. She was suddenly somewhere else. Her gaze was fixed on something in the distance, her expression had become blank again. Eleanor had seen so much of this in recent months that she now knew not to ask. She was too young, she’d understand when she was older, she wasn’t to worry. She’d grown tired of her sister’s responses, all of them the same, all of them filled with nothing, empty of reassurance. Quietly, she gathered up her book, her gloves, her ridiculous straw bonnet, and waited while Hannah smoothed her dress and pinned the crown of her travelling hat to the thick coil of hair they had plaited together that morning.