Another Kind of Life Read online

  ‘You must miss your own home from time to time – you have sisters, am I correct?’

  He was looking at her kindly, his expression open, interested in her.

  To her horror, May felt her eyes well up. How had he known? How could he have seen inside her thoughts? It felt as though he had seen through her, to her most vulnerable centre, and decided to ambush her with understanding. It had been almost three months since anybody had spoken to her with such gentleness. She was unable to answer. Her throat felt as though it had closed over. She bent her head, not wanting him to see. A moment later, tears splashed on to her gown, and they continued to fall, uncontrollably. She could hardly breathe. It was impossible to stem the tide – holding back was beginning to suffocate her. The feeling was the same as on the day Sister Raphael had locked her into the map cupboard. But now she also felt shame, anger at having exposed herself, and a deep longing to have someone’s arms around her. She stood up, mortified, poised for flight. She couldn’t look Philippe in the eye. Dear God, what must he think of her?

  She could sense that he had stood up, too, could hear the concern in his voice as he took the wine glass from her hand. His kindness only made everything worse.

  ‘I’m sorry – please forgive me – I should never have touched upon such a sensitive subject . . .’

  She stretched out one hand towards him – a gesture to say please, leave me, don’t come any closer. Instead, he took it, and she felt the warm shock of his lips on her palm. She looked up at him, amazement and hope fighting in equal measure, already threatening to overcome her disbelief.

  ‘May . . .’

  She thrilled at the way he said her name. She forgot about her embarrassment, her tear-stained face, all the reasons why this was impossible. She felt all the strength ebb from her body. She wanted to lean against him, to use his solid presence to keep her feet on the ground.

  He drew her closer to him. He kissed her eyes, her wet cheeks, her mouth. His voice was urgent, full of emotion.

  ‘I love you, May. Don’t you know that? I’ve loved you since that first day in the garden. I haven’t been able to think of anything else.’

  He held her so tight she could hardly breathe.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  She nodded. Her first glimpse of him – a strange growth among the leaves – as he hid with the children in the oak tree, was etched for ever in her memory. Each time she thought of him, that was the Philippe she saw. No other meeting since had erased the powerful impact of that first time. The city clothes, the crumpled shirt, the delicious shock of his incongruity in a country garden. And his face: mobile, pleasantly ugly, full of humour. She had not forgotten.

  She pulled away and looked at him, still unable to speak. He was sincere, she was sure he was, but this was almost too much, too soon.

  ‘Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you feel how I care for you?’

  He whispered to her, pulling her close again, burying his lips in the softness of her neck.

  She shook her head. Tentatively, she wound her arms around his back. They stood like that for what seemed to be a whole lifetime. May had the strangest sensation that she had come home, that all her previous life had been directing her towards this astonishing moment. She wanted it to last for ever. The sound of his voice, telling her he loved her. The scent of jasmine, released in a heady rush by the huge, fat drops of rain that had suddenly started to fall. The feel of his warm shoulders under her trembling hands. He loved her. That was all that mattered.

  Hannah: Summer 1899

  CHARLES’S PRIDE IN Holywood was palpable. A few days after the return from their honeymoon, he and Hannah escaped, like guilty children, from under Constance MacBride’s maternal gaze, and made their way, alone, to their new home in Stewarts Place.

  ‘Let’s make a run for it, before Mama comes down to breakfast,’ Charles had urged, his face assuming the contours of a naughty child. Hannah was ready, willing above all to find room to breathe far away from the oppressively benign presence of her new mother-in-law.

  Charles insisted they drive from Belfast on this, their first occasion to visit Holywood. He wanted to show the many beauties of the scenery to his new wife: the convenience of the Belfast and County Down railway could wait for another, more prosaic occasion.

  Hannah was excited at the prospect of visiting her new home. She only half listened to Charles as the carriage took them through Ballymacarrett and Strandtown. ‘Bunker’s Hill,’ he was saying, ‘this is the place that gave its name to the famous Bunker’s Hill in America. Did you know that, my dear?’

  Of course, Hannah hadn’t known it, and he was pleased and gratified at her apparent surprise. He was warming to his theme.

  ‘See those hills there? They have the function of stopping the south-east and southerly winds that sweep across the bay, making the climate of Holywood ideal for those of a delicate constitution.’

  He affected the sonorous tone of a solemn, stuffy newspaper report.

  ‘Delicate like me?’ she asked, archly.

  He nodded vigorously.

  ‘Just like you, my dear, and my dear susceptible Mama.’

  Hannah laughed. The idea of Constance MacBride as a delicate flower in need of shelter from the prevailing winds was a truly ludicrous one.

  ‘Does this mean that she’ll be coming to live with us?’ she teased.

  Charles looked genuinely horrified.

  ‘Not for a moment. Mama is very firmly entrenched among the comfortable groves of south Belfast. She does very well there.’

  His tone was firm, as though reassuring himself.

  Hannah smiled at him.

  ‘Pray, Mr MacBride, do continue.’

  He stopped, mid-sentence.

  ‘You, young woman, are making fun of me.’

  She lowered her eyes demurely.

  ‘Not at all; I find your monologue most instructive.’

  She raised her eyes to find him laughing at her. She knew that this couldn’t continue, that it wasn’t possible to be this happy for ever. When Charles returned to work, when she had a home to look after, when all the messy, intricate domestic details began to take over – then, perhaps, she would really know what her life was going to be. But for now, she was so elated she was almost afraid to breathe, lest everything around her shatter.

  The memory of their honeymoon was still vivid. She could see the tulip fields stretching away from her. She would never forget the shock of their deep, flat masses of colour, rippling away towards the horizon. She had lazed in the shade while Charles painted: she was surprised at how good his eye was. Then Amsterdam with its canals and barges; a thriving, picturesque city, she had loved its busyness, its exotic streets, its difference from anything she had ever seen. She thought how May would have loved it.

  Good food, good wine – Hannah was dazzled at the way Charles knew his way around all the things which made her feel shy and uncertain. On their last night, she was filled with regret: she really didn’t want to go home.

  He had teased her out of her low mood, making her laugh over nothing. She wanted the feeling of intimacy to last; she didn’t want to give up feeling carefree so soon.

  Finally, he raised his glass to her.

  ‘There’s just one thing, my dear.’

  His face was so grave that she felt suddenly frightened. What had she done? In what ways had she disappointed?

  ‘When we go home, it would be advisable for you to change your appearance somewhat.’

  She stared at him blankly, not comprehending.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  She shook her head, feeling tears prickle. She knew it couldn’t have lasted. She felt all her happiness drain away, as though something inside her had slowly begun to deflate.

  He twirled the remains of wine in his glass. When he spoke his voice was very soft, with no trace of mockery.

  ‘You’ll need to temper your happiness a little. It wouldn’t do for all to believe that you’re a wanton w
oman. Mama would be scandalized.’

  At first, she blushed furiously, mortified, not knowing where to look. Then she caught his eye, her words choking somewhere between sobs and laughter. She would never get used to his teasing; she never saw it coming, never knew if its sometimes too-keen edge contained a criticism of her. Now he had taken her hand, kissed it, his eyes full of remorse.

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry, Hannah – that wasn’t fair of me. I’ve gone too far. Forgive me.’

  She was going to have to learn to give as good as she got. Now she looked across the table at him challengingly.

  ‘Then your sainted Mama will have to get used to it. That, or you can learn to sleep in the coal-house.’

  It was something she had never expected. Ever since their first night in the Shelbourne when she had lost all fear of him, their physical intimacy had grown quickly. She was glad that he had been able to teach her, that they had not fumbled and agonized in the way that so many of Mama’s hints had prepared her for. She enjoyed his lovemaking, enjoyed his frank delight in her response.

  ‘We’ve been very fortunate, you and I,’ he said quietly.

  She nodded.

  ‘I know.’

  And now they were on their way to Stewarts Place. A modest home, Charles had told her, just for now until the property in High Street became vacant. He had had his eye on it for some time. A much grander house, he had assured her, with several good bedrooms.

  ‘And I expect all of them to be filled. In due course, naturally.’ He was smoking, looking away from her as he said this. She waited until he turned to face her again, his expression serious. Now it was her turn.

  ‘Well, I expect that’s up to you. I can’t do it on my own.’

  Delighted, he beamed at her.

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  She didn’t tell him what she already suspected. Something felt different inside her. It was far too soon to tell for certain, she knew that, but she was learning to trust her intuition. It felt good. The prospect of a baby made the excitement of having her own home even greater. She didn’t care how modest it was. It would be hers, to make beautiful, show to her sisters, to enjoy as a statement of her new status as wife and mother.

  She wondered at how fickle she was. For now, she missed nothing of her previous life – not her music, not her sisters, not her old home, nothing. She wondered how long it could last.

  Mary: Autumn 1899

  MARY WAS DREAMING. It was a dream filled with liquid noises, muffled echoes that seemed familiar but never quite came into focus. At one point, she seemed to be in the middle of the rippling, undulating noise herself, conscious that she was asleep, aware that this was a dream from which she wasn’t quite ready to waken. Suddenly, the noises seemed to solidify, to be identifiable as running feet: more than that, as feet running up a stairway. She jerked awake, seconds before the frantic knocking on her doorway and Miss Mulqueen’s high-pitched voice.

  ‘Mary! Mary! Get up quickly, please! We need you to go for the midwife!’

  The footsteps retreated rapidly, before Mary had time to respond. She stumbled around in the dark, pulling on her woollen dress, feeling around on the floor for her boots. She could finish dressing later – this was enough for running down the street and around the corner. She pulled her shawl from the back of the small chair and threw it over her shoulders. She didn’t stop to wonder about the panic in Miss Mulqueen’s voice: she was an excitable creature at the best of times. Surely there was no need for such urgency in a house as well appointed and as experienced as this one? Even in Carrick Hill, birth was, more often than not, routine. She clattered down the back stairway and ran straight into the housekeeper. The gas lamps had been turned up in the kitchen, and Miss Mulqueen was vainly attempting to light the range, which looked as though it had recently gone out. The October chill was everywhere, the damp insinuating itself into every corner of the kitchen. Mary shivered, suddenly wishing she had taken the time to put on her stockings.

  ‘Be very quick, Mary,’ said Miss Mulqueen. Her face was grey with anxiety. ‘The master is worried – Madam has lost a lot of blood.’

  Mary nodded. She’d better hurry.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. There’s some kerosene in the scullery cupboard – throw a wee drop in the back of the range, and stand well back before you light it.’

  Miss Mulqueen looked horrified. Mary shook her head at her impatiently, pulling her shawl around her more tightly.

  ‘It’s safe, as long as you do it right. Leave it – I’ll do it when I get back. Twenty minutes’ll make no difference, one way or th’other.’

  Gathering up her dress, she ran down the garden path and turned right into Dunlambert Drive. Mrs Croft lived just a few minutes away – but it was the return journey that worried Mary. The midwife was elderly now, and not sure of her footing. Mary wondered how long it would take them to get back. There was probably nothing to worry about – a fourth child should be straightforward enough; Miss Mulqueen always did like to dramatize.

  Mary turned off Dunlambert into Seaview Drive. Here the houses were smaller, more crowded, some with a tiny patch of front garden – but still, a whole universe away from Carrick Hill. She hammered on the door of number seven, suddenly realizing she didn’t know what time it was.

  The top window opened. Mary saw the grey head, the short-sighted eyes peering down at her.

  ‘It’s Mary, Mrs Croft; Mr Long has sent me to get you. Madam needs your help.’

  The window closed as abruptly as it had opened. Mary waited, stamping her boots on the damp ground, blowing on her hands with frosty breath in a vain attempt to warm them. The front door opened.

  ‘What’s up, child?’

  Mrs Croft was pulling on a warm coat. Mary was surprised at its quality, until she remembered that a midwife would need such a coat, being called out at all hours in all seasons. She was frowning now at Mary, impatient, cranky at having been woken.

  ‘Miss Mulqueen says Madam has lost a lot of blood and . . .’

  Mrs Croft grabbed Mary’s arm.

  ‘Quick, child! Not another word! Go for Dr Abernethy, quickly now – mind you say I sent you . . . not Mr Long.’

  And she was gone, making her way up the street with surprising agility.

  Mary did as she was told.

  It all took no longer than twenty minutes, but they were too late. By the time they returned to Fortwilliam Park, the house was filled with a strange silence. Time seemed to hang suspended. There was no flurry of activity on their arrival, no running footsteps up and down the stairs telling them there was still time, there were still things to be done. Mary understood that quietness, knew it all too well: that deep emptiness that filled a house when someone had gone, called by a sometimes merciless God.

  Then a cry shattered the silence in waves, an unearthly howl that rushed to fill all the spaces left behind by the departing sea of silence.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Cook, suddenly appearing at Mary’s elbow. Her face crumpled, tears made their way down the cracks and crevices of her old cheeks.

  ‘Poor wee scrap,’ was all she said, over and over again.

  The following days were long and busy. Women came and went quietly, whispering to each other. Dr Abernethy arrived, bringing a nurse with him. A large, competent woman, she was a generous mix of warmth and briskness. Mary liked her.

  ‘A wee boy,’ she confided to Mary, outside the bedroom door, once the fire had been built up for the night and Madam was settled. ‘Lived only a few minutes, poor wee dote.’

  Mr Long went about his business like a quiet, grey ghost. There was an air of tension about the house which grew steadily with each passing day. Everyone felt it. There wasn’t even the semblance of a return to normality. Even Nanny was worried, confiding her fears to Cook over the now nightly glasses of sherry in the kitchen.

  Eventually, the master called them all together. It was just as Nanny had feared. The house was to be shut up, the trunks packed, the childre
n organized. Madam was being taken to Switzerland, where the air was pure. A full recovery was hoped for – perhaps in six months, perhaps in a year. Whatever it took. Mr Long’s voice was abrupt, clipped. No one dared question him as to their futures. Mary felt all the old fears again. Back to her needle. But where would she live this time? Her old home was closed to her, barred and bolted by now, gone for good.

  At a signal from the master, Miss Mulqueen stepped forward.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Long have been good enough to secure alternative positions for all of us. I have the details. Let us reconvene downstairs.’

  A reprieve, perhaps. Mary felt her eyes fill. Too much death, too much of it. She had already seen more of its callous hand than she cared to. She wondered what was coming next.

  May: Autumn 1899

  MAY KISSED THE two children goodnight, feeling almost ill with anticipation and fear. It was a heady mix – a rush of emotion that kept her senses almost unbearably sharpened, her nights restless.

  Philippe would be waiting for her, impatiently, out in the dusky gardens, hidden from view. It was getting more and more difficult to get away – Nathalie demanded another story, just one more. Ever since they had found the volume of fairy tales in English, hiding away in the old bookshop in Rouen, the child’s appetite for bedtime stories had become insatiable. Jean-Louis pretended indifference, but May noticed that he lay very still and silent in his bed, listening as she read. Sometimes his thumb crept towards his mouth, giving May almost painful reminders of Ellie. She read aloud as though reading to her younger sister; it helped her keep the tone light and affectionate. She simplified the language for them, too, but they didn’t know that.

  ‘You’ve had two long stories already, Nathalie! We’ll have none left for tomorrow!’