Another Kind of Life Read online

  ‘Thank you.’ Hannah reached towards the sugar bowl, nervous again. Her silence had caused offence. Now she would be made to pay for it. She tried to be attentive.

  She watched, fascinated, as Mrs MacBride poured hot water into the next cup, waited until the cup was thoroughly heated and then discarded the water into a china bowl provided expressly for that purpose. She then poured a little milk into the warm cup and filled it up with tea.

  ‘Pass that to your mama, my dear, please.’

  Hannah knew what was coming. First Mama, then Papa; then she would have to hand Charles his tea. Eye-to-eye contact could not be postponed any longer.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply, not engaging her with more than a brief smile.

  May and Eleanor drank their milk obediently, ate their sandwiches and scones quietly, politely, as they had been taught. Don’t speak with your mouth full. Hannah remembered from home all the exhausting evenings of good table etiquette. Mama had been such a stickler – she still was. Keep your mouth closed. Chew every mouthful twelve times. She remembered the agonies of her childhood self trying to manipulate knives and forks, glasses and spoons, plates and serving dishes, without once lifting the elbows or altering the stiff, upright posture of her back. Sit up straight; no elbows on the table. Keep your arms close to your sides. She remembered the particular difficulties she had had in the days when her feet didn’t even reach the floor. She would never complain: none of them would. There was the sense that once you had endured your polite agony, you would be released. You waited for that moment, your whole self straining towards the time when you would be dismissed. As a child, you were left in no doubt about your place at the table, in the family, in the whole scheme of things. Children should be seen and not heard.

  And now, tea was over. Charles got up to retrieve everyone’s cups and saucers. Hannah noticed that his hands were large, but he was not as solid-looking as he had seemed at the station, swathed in his black frock coat. She had thought he would be ungainly, awkward indoors, but he moved around his mother’s treasures with a quiet grace which Hannah found she liked. Mrs MacBride suddenly paused and drew breath.

  ‘Now then.’

  Even Eleanor and May looked up expectantly at such a brisk change of tone. Hannah saw how desperately uncomfortable her younger sisters were. She felt sorry for the flushed, bored faces, sorry for the distance imposed between them. She longed to give them a hug, to tell them they would soon be able to go home. The poor things had had to be silent the whole time.

  ‘I think perhaps Hannah might like to see the gardens, Charles.’

  There was the chinking of spoon against china as Charles entrusted the last cup and saucer to his mother’s outstretched hand. Hannah had a sudden, wild desire to run away. What would she say to him? Should May and Eleanor come too, as a sort of safe distraction?

  ‘Delighted,’ he replied, and offered Hannah his arm.

  It was all done in an instant. She was outside in the conservatory before she had even had time to think about her arm on his, the gentle pressure of his hand under her elbow. He steered her from the conservatory out into the formal gardens outside.

  ‘May I smoke?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Hannah, confused. They were outside, in his garden. What had her permission to do with it? She felt awkward again. Had a different reply been expected of her?

  They remained silent during the peculiarly calming ritual of his filling the pipe with tobacco, tamping it and finally lighting it. Charles inclined his head towards hers as he struck the match, cradling its flame with one hand.

  When he looked up, she suddenly lost all fear of him. There was air and freedom out here in the garden; she felt as though she had thrown off a great burden by escaping from the house. She could breathe, at last. He seemed different, too. He was simply himself out here, separate, no longer standing in his mother’s large shadow. He was smiling at her again, his eyes creased against the sunlight. He threw the spent match into one of the flowerbeds and held his arm out to her again.

  ‘Don’t tell Mama,’ he said. ‘She thinks smoking is a wicked vice.’

  She wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘Think smoking is a wicked vice?’

  ‘I’ve hardly thought about it at all. I’m sure there are worse sins.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She hesitated. How much did he know about her family, her father, about their ignominious retreat from Belfast five years ago? He’d been at sea, surely, during all their time here. Was that knowledge something his formidable mother would have imparted to him, or concealed from him, about his future bride?

  ‘Well, stealing, for one. Cruelty. And Mama says strong drink is another.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Aye. I’ve never practised any of those, y’ know, and I don’t intend to in the future.’

  He was looking at her sideways, his expression a comical mixture of amusement and sincerity.

  Hannah felt her face redden.

  ‘Oh – I didn’t mean . . .’

  He stopped and took his pipe out of his mouth and put it carefully on the white cast-iron table behind him. He took both her hands in his, forcing her to look at him directly.

  ‘I know you didn’t. But we both know why you’re here. Let me be very honest with you, Hannah.’

  Hannah felt suddenly panicked. Of course she knew why she was here, why they were both there, had known for months that this would happen. But now that the time was here too, everything felt suddenly rushed, hurtling her dizzily towards some fixed point in the future. It was as though her life had only now become predictable, changed and unexpected, all at the same time.

  She let her hands lie between his. He was no longer teasing; his expression was serious.

  ‘I’ll be good to you, Hannah, if you’ll consent to be my wife. I’m a ways older than you are, and I do like one or two wee whiskies from time to time. But I have the reputation of a gentleman.’

  He stopped for a moment. His eyes still held hers. She had the impression he was going to say more, but stopped himself.

  ‘Will you have me?’

  He was smiling at her. She liked his tone, was grateful to him for his generosity in pretending that she had a choice, that either of them still had a choice. Her eyes filled. How easy it was, she thought, and how reckless, to seal your life with just one word, one instant which could prove to be your making or your undoing. All the final whispers of dissent had to be silenced. It was now time. She knew that no matter what happened, this moment would be etched into her memory for ever: the sunlit garden, the warmth of his hands, her own curious mixture of dread and elation.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He stooped to kiss her. His moustache was softer than she’d expected, his breath tasted strongly of tobacco. But it was not unpleasant, Hannah thought, returning, hesitantly, the pressure of his lips.

  She took his arm again as they continued to stroll the length of the gardens. Now that the words had been spoken, and something apparently momentous agreed between them, Hannah felt relieved, almost faint. There was something breathless in the power of the words they had spoken, and she felt suddenly much older, much more womanly. The day now seemed at the same time to be of enormous importance and extraordinary ordinariness. They sat together on a bench in the shade of two old plum trees, and Charles pointed out the diamond-shaped flowerbed in the centre of the lawn which his mother had enjoyed digging and planting herself. He linked Hannah’s arm comfortably and puffed on his pipe in silence. Hannah at once knew that this was a sound she would get used to: the faint suck and whistle of his mouth on the stem of his meerschaum pipe. When he spoke again, his tone was faintly mocking.

  ‘She’s a demon gardener, so she is, my sainted mother. Can’t keep up with her, y’know.’

  Hannah liked the sound of his voice. His accent was softer than those she remembered from he
r earlier years here, the memory of their harshness not diminished with the passage of time. His was a deeper voice than she had imagined, quieter, lilting. She wondered if he sang.

  He was pointing to the plants in front of them, naming them for her. The extensive flowerbed was full of headily perfumed rose trees, pansies, cerastium, bellis. They thrived on the order imposed on them, their arrangement a formal pattern of alternating colours. The scented border behind where they were sitting was dominated by a row of sweet pea. Hannah liked the scent of the flowers, the feeling of tranquillity around her; she enjoyed the occasional dipping flight of passing butterflies, and the restful swathe of green lawn. She had a brief, unexpected desire for a garden of her own.

  ‘You’re musical, I understand.’

  It was more statement than question. Hannah nodded.

  ‘I love to play the piano. I took lessons, all through school . . .’

  She stopped, embarrassed. Mama had told her to make no assumptions, to ask for nothing. They would discuss everything, arrange everything on her behalf.

  ‘I like to sing accompanied, myself. I’m told I have a good tenor voice.’

  That was all that was said; it was all that was necessary. She knew she would have her piano. Once she could have her music and the company of her sisters from time to time, she cared for very little else. They sat a while longer in the afternoon sunshine, blue tobacco-smoke spiralling upwards in the still air.

  Constance MacBride: Summer 1898

  ‘WELL?’ ASKED CONSTANCE MacBride.

  Her son was sitting opposite her, nursing a whiskey, their guests just departed on the evening train to Dublin. She was impatient to find out what had happened between him and Hannah. God knows, he wasn’t the best candidate for marriage. Twenty years at sea and not one bit of growing up done in all that time. All that had happened was that he had grown older. Still as naive as the day he was born. She suppressed the familiar sense of disappointment, the ever-present undertow of irritation. Thinking about her two sons always depressed her. Here was the younger one, with not a shred of business sense between him and eternity. And as for his brother: better not even think about Robert, about his dissoluteness, his drinking. God alone knew what shame he was even now bringing to the family name. Their sisters would buy them and sell them twice over before breakfast. She waited, impatiently, for him to answer.

  ‘Aye, she’s a grand wee girl.’

  ‘Did you speak to her? Did you reach an understanding between the two of you?’

  ‘We did, surely. She’ll do rightly.’

  He would say no more on the subject, refused obstinately to be drawn further. His mother hoped he was right, that Hannah would do. She was certainly a good-looking girl, but there was a resistance to her, an independent streak which she didn’t know if Charles was ready, or able, to handle. It worried her: she had a strong feeling that this was her last opportunity to have him settled.

  But Hannah wouldn’t have too many chances, either, despite her looks and her accomplishments. She had her father’s reputation to contend with, although memories of his wrongdoing were probably fading now, with the years. From that point of view, it was a sensible match. Nothing like the lack of options to help people make their minds up quickly. She hoped it would work out, for all of them. She was getting too old for this, too tired to get Charles up and running at this stage of their lives. And so was he. Another few years and it would be too late. He needed a wife now, a home, children, a solid domestic anchor to distract him from the dangerous political waters he had been sailing recently. He was old enough to have more sense, but the fact was, he hadn’t. She wanted to make sure he was occupied. The situation was tense enough, without having one of your own involved.

  She sighed. Home Rule or no Home Rule, nothing was worth the risk of Charles getting involved in politics. Violence was simmering once more. It was only a matter of time. It was merely a question of how and when, not if, it would erupt again.

  Hannah: Summer 1898

  HANNAH COULD FEEL the sharp edge of her mother’s anxiety as soon as Charles had left them at the station. She deliberately stood with Eleanor and May on the platform once Charles had shaken hands formally with everyone and taken his leave. He had simply pressed both her hands in his and said, ‘Goodbye, then, Hannah.’ She was grateful to him for not making a fuss, for not kissing her hand, for not behaving more like a lover. Let Mama wait. She would give her no detail until she had to.

  Eleanor and May were both giddy. The escape from Constance MacBride’s drawing room was like a sudden, physical release for them, and they wanted to whisper and giggle with Hannah about this stout, imperious woman, about her stuffy house and her vast beaded bosom. Hannah encouraged their laughter, conscious of her mother’s eyes on her as she boarded the train after them.

  Mama would never ask her in the compartment, Hannah was sure of that. She could sense her mother’s disappointment, knew that she would have liked a quiet moment beforehand, but Mama would never discuss such matters in front of her two younger daughters.

  Hannah had a sense of deep satisfaction that her mother now had to wait until the three-hour journey was over before her curiosity could begin to be assuaged. She decided to spend the journey home as she had spent the outward one: she rested her head on the overstuffed cushion behind her, and closed her eyes. She allowed her face to incline gently towards the window, keeping herself turned away, just enough, from her mother’s gaze, but not so much as to elicit a rebuke for rudeness. That way, she could sleep or simply look out the window without anyone being any the wiser. She welcomed the opportunity to be silent, to mull over what she had seen and thought during the day.

  Charles was not what she had been expecting. He was considerably more boyish, less stiff and formal than she had imagined. His sense of humour was a pleasant surprise too – he certainly didn’t inherit that from his mother. And he had plans to become registered as an architect: an easy transition for a ship’s engineer, he assured her. She liked his easy, friendly way with her, she decided. Somehow it made him seem less old, less like Papa – a similarity she had been dreading.

  She would have her piano and her music, too, of that she was sure. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. At least she wouldn’t be poor: he had already promised her a honeymoon in Holland, and a new home in Holywood, County Down. A grand wee town by the sea, he had told her. Famous for its mild climate, its spectacular views across Belfast Lough, its gentility.

  She would never forgive her parents for spoiling her dream, not ever. But today had made her feel that perhaps she could live with what they had chosen for her. She had a brief moment of bitterness as she realized she had no choice, no power of her own. She brushed the feeling away – she had had too much anguish in the last few months. Live with reality she must – and, as Grandfather was fond of saying, learn to like it.

  Eleanor’s Journal

  I THOUGHT CHARLES kind. I saw him look right into Hannah’s eyes on that first day in Belfast, and smile. I remember how that smile surprised me: it was the smile of a boy. It lit up his rather large, sombre face, and creased his eyes in a most agreeable manner. I think he must have held my sister’s hand for a fraction longer than was necessary, for she looked away and busied herself uselessly about the luggage. I liked the way he shook hands gravely with me, taking his time to greet me amid the bustle of the crowded train station. It made me feel grown up.

  Constance MacBride was much more substantial than my shadowy recollection of her. The intervening years had not been kind: she seemed to have swollen, her flesh bulging against the severe lines of her clothing. My youthful imagination savoured the image of seams straining to splitting point, stitches exploding, white flesh spilling everywhere in a most unbecoming fashion. Even her hat was enormous – a most impressive creation of plumage and flowers, vastly superior to Mama’s; but her gown was suited to mourning. I wondered who had died. Months later, I found out from her daughter Emily that it was her husband, who had
passed away some twenty-five years earlier. Constance MacBride claimed that she properly respected his memory by never abandoning her widow’s weeds. Emily said that that was arrant nonsense; it was just her mother’s way of frightening away men, of terrifying any potential suitor into silence. I couldn’t imagine anyone fighting for Mrs MacBride’s hand, not even in her younger days. Wealthy she may have been, but, apart from her lack of physical charms, she had an air about her that discouraged intimacy, that proclaimed her a woman sternly convinced of her own superiority. I felt instinctively that she was quite repellent enough: she didn’t need the mourning clothes.

  She bustled about that day of our arrival, shooing us away off the platform as though we were ill-behaved hens. She had a carriage waiting under the porte cochère, right at the station entrance. Jaunting cars were lined up all along Great Victoria Street, waiting patiently for business. Their drivers were wreathed in clouds of tobacco-smoke, jesting with each other in accents that were about to become familiar to me again. The air of activity everywhere was intense, as was the heat. Busy, purposeful men hurried hither and thither, the enormous clock above us seeming to measure out the minutes of their important days. I wondered where they were all rushing to.

  Charles helped us all to ascend the carriage. First his mother, then Mama, then Hannah and May, then me, and finally Papa. Nobody spoke to me, and Hannah would not meet my eye. The others conversed in a polite, desultory fashion about the journey, the weather, the crowded Belfast streets. I can remember thinking how everyone knew the reason we had come, and yet deemed it improper to speak of it. With a child’s logic, I wondered why a wedding was an indecent topic for a carriage – surely it was as acceptable there as anywhere else? After all, wasn’t that the very reason we had all travelled to Belfast together? I had plenty of time to ponder this, and many other matters, during the lengthy afternoon I was about to spend inside the MacBrides’ unbearably hot and overstuffed drawing room.