Another Kind of Life Read online

  May was so glad at making her own escape that she felt able to be generous, affectionate and deeply grateful towards her mother. In the early afternoon, the Duggans left, anxious to tend to all the animals. Richard had told May they could stay as late as she wished – they had no need to be at Abbotsford until tomorrow. The Duggans had promised to look after everything until their return.

  She watched him as the Duggans were leaving. He looked suddenly forlorn, as though a connection with something essential had just been broken, or stretched beyond endurance. She slipped out to the hallway, catching a last glimpse of Mick and Bridie as they ascended the carriage.

  She slipped her warm hand into his.

  ‘Let’s go very soon,’ she said.

  His face lit up, his eyes darting towards the departing carriage as though very soon could mean right now, this minute.

  Then he recovered himself.

  ‘Don’t you want to stay longer?’

  She shook her head. She was done here.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d like to go home.’

  He squeezed her hand, his open face full of joy. She knew it would take them some time to get away, but she wanted to make this gesture, to reassure him that she would never keep him from what he cared for. His land would always come first, and she knew that, had grown to accept it. It was a fair exchange, she thought.

  She no longer actively thought about Philippe. He was there always, colouring everything she did, acting as the standard against which everything was measured. But she could push him away more easily, now. More and more, he resided somewhere below the top layer of the life she was living. She could manage quite well without him. It was only when something disturbed the carefully arranged surface of her life that he struggled upwards, eager to fill all the empty spaces.

  Eleanor’s Journal

  ROUTINE HAS THE most extraordinary effect of dulling the senses, does it not? I believed I should never become accustomed to the sight of blood, the stench of gangrene, the helpless moans of those afflicted by the diseases of poverty, and yet by virtue of mere familiarity, all these things somehow insinuated themselves into the interior of my everyday life. I grew used to the ebb and flow of each long day, learned to rejoice in the comfort and security offered me by Sister Sheridan’s immutable daily structure. I remember the early winter mornings most of all, with so many of us Irish girls running through the already bustling meat market as we made our way to Ely Place for six o’clock Mass; I remember our breathless arrival on the wards afterwards, frantically settling our caps into place, smoothing our blue and white striped dresses. Our faces were raw from the wind or from a hasty dousing in cold water. I remember, too, the sharp smell of bleach which heralded the start of the all-consuming cleaning duties. I even grew to enjoy the physical demands of mopping and scrubbing – I liked the feeling of alertness which followed such exertions, the sense of being truly awake, the blood singing in my hands and feet. I even grew to understand the need for the terror which Sister Sheridan inspired, to regard it as instrumental in the refinement of my skills, and the development of my natural abilities as a nurse.

  Do you remember our first days on the wards? The fear of being caught out, of being found wanting in some vague and ill-defined way, filled my dreams at night – that is, once I finally succeeded in sleeping. You, on the contrary, seemed to me to be so calm, so knowing. I began each day safe in the knowledge that, with you as my daily partner, I could survive all the difficult hours ahead, learn something new and gather my strength to respond to the faces, the pleading eyes, the mute appeals for comfort that greeted even the most inexperienced of us. It was deeply humbling to see the powerful effect of a kind word, a soothing hand. You, more than anyone, taught me by example. Where I saw merely the symptoms, or the injury, or the difficult patient, you saw the individual pain, the need for reassurance, the terrible vulnerability of the old or ailing.

  Imagine my distress, then, on the day that Sister Sheridan separated us. She was right to do so, of course. I can see how much I relied on you, trusting your judgement above my own on all occasions. She was quite justified in forcing me to confront my problems on my own. Sister Sheridan simply took you away with her, leaving me with three other girls I barely knew, and Staff Nurse Smyth. I was bereft. How was I to get through this ordeal without you? I watched as you joined your new group and marched away from me, ascending the staircase to the second floor, your shoes eerily silent on the green linoleum.

  That was the day I first encountered the wonders of anaesthesia. My fascination with this new process was complete: I forgot to feel nauseous at the sight of so much blood. As the surgeon drew his scalpel along the patient’s distended abdomen, I held my breath, waiting for the young woman to sit up, to howl in sudden agony. The bright red line extended from navel to pubis, scarlet beads quickly forming in the wake of the knife, and still she never moved. Even when the surgeon pulled back the strangely white flap of skin, her face remained impassive. She continued to sleep peacefully, her breathing deep and regular. We watched as the surgeon plunged his hands into her abdomen, retrieving the small and miraculous body of a healthy baby girl. Her high-pitched cries soon filled the theatre and I cannot describe the joy of that triumphant moment.

  That was a turning point for me. It was at that instant I lost all fear – fear of the human body, fear of failure, fear of not being good enough for the work I had chosen, or which had, in truth, chosen me. I was filled with the most extraordinary sense of elation. There had been no mistake: this was how I would spend the rest of my life. This was modern medicine on the march; these doctors and nurses were now my family; this was true healing, true caring for those whose lives were blighted by poverty and loss. It was all that I had wanted, longed for desperately, ever since the dawning of my adult consciousness.

  From that time onwards, my sense of dedication was no longer that of a wide-eyed and innocent young girl. I had acquired a focus, a clarity of vision which has never left me. I feel fortunate in the path I have been able to follow: blessed in that, as in so many other things in my life. All subsequent decisions flowed from that day, including my wish to work among the poor, to help above all those women whose entire lives were an endless cycle of pregnancy and struggle. I knew that once my training was finished, I should return to Ireland.

  I decided to go back to Belfast. The thought of Dublin made me uneasy: I did not want to slide into Mama’s clutches again.

  I had had to harden my heart to her letters: Papa was simply disintegrating. I have often felt guilty over that decision. I could have nursed my father before the street urchins of Belfast, but I chose not to. My rationale was that he was responsible for his own condition, whereas they emphatically were not. He simply drank too much. They starved to death.

  I did not want to become acquainted with the private disappointments that may have driven my father to his current state. I was far too afraid of returning to an unhappy household from which I might never escape. Besides, I had the excuse of Hannah and her children. I hadn’t seen them in so long.

  My first visit to Hannah’s home in Holywood after my return from London in 1903 was another turning point in my life. In many ways, it was as momentous and shocking as the week of my father’s arrest in Belfast, which had taken place exactly, to the week, ten years earlier. I have spent many years trying to untangle the threads of why the warp and weft of my sister’s life had such a profound effect on me at that time. On the surface, all was well with her – more than well. A loving husband, two beautiful daughters, affluence, respectability – Hannah wanted for nothing.

  I think that many things contributed to my sense of shock at that time. First of all, I was no longer Ellie, the baby sister. I was then nineteen – as old as Hannah had been when she became a married woman. I had skills that she did not, experience of the complexities and injustices of the world that had passed her by. I was amazed to find myself suddenly her equal – more than that: in many ways I felt older, wis
er by far than she. Then there were all the ways in which she reminded me of Mama. She no longer played the piano, no longer dedicated herself in any serious way to a discipline which demanded her focus and attention. Now she merely tinkled – accompanied others for the rather staid and superficial musical evenings which reminded me so much of my parents’ drawing room. Do you think I judged her too harshly? I remember being struck by how Mary seemed to perform all the household, and family, tasks which I firmly believed should have been my sister’s duty.

  Perhaps most importantly of all, I could not help but be personally hurt by the contrast between my sister’s life and the lives of those I served. In all the ways that mattered, Hannah’s home might have been a million miles away from the streets of Carrick Hill.

  All of these thoughts and observations bore fruit in a strange way. You, my love, were not with me that week to listen to my confidences with sympathy and affection. I had none of the calming presence of May to help give equilibrium to my perspective. Nor did I even have Charles’s company to provide humour and distraction. He seemed to spend all his life at business in those days.

  And so I was consumed by the desire to begin a journal, to chronicle the events which had fashioned my family and given shape to all our different lives. I knew even when I began that whatever I wrote was not to be handed down to any children of mine: destiny had other things in store for me.

  By then, I knew that I had already met the companion of my heart; knew the love that was to sustain and comfort me for the rest of my life. It was for you that I began, and for you that I continue.

  It is, in the true meaning of the phrase, a labour of love.

  Constance MacBride: Spring 1903

  AFTER A SMALL hesitation, Constance MacBride accepted the carriage-driver’s assistance, and stepped, stiffly, on to the pavement below.

  ‘Come back for me in two hours, like a good man,’ she said, pressing a handsome tip into the leathery palm.

  ‘Aye, ma’am,’ he replied, tugging briefly at the peak of his cap.

  Mary already had the front door open for her. A good wee girl, Constance thought, practical and frugal, by all accounts. And not too pretty, either, which was just as well. Men could be such fools.

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’

  ‘Afternoon, Mary. Is your mistress at home?’

  Without waiting for an answer, the elderly lady swept past her and knocked smartly on the drawing-room door. She entered at once.

  ‘Hannah, my dear, you’re looking well.’

  She stretched out her arms to her daughter-in-law, accepting Hannah’s kiss.

  ‘And how are my wee beauties this afternoon, then?’

  She sat heavily on the sofa, and Hannah set Eileen and Maeve beside her, so that she could kiss them.

  ‘Never better, Grandmama, isn’t that right, girls?’

  Constance turned to look at her sharply, catching something in Hannah’s tone. A weariness, a resignation, bitterness perhaps?

  ‘Are you well, my dear?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. A little tired, that’s all.’

  There were blue-tinged shadows under the girl’s eyes, Constance noted, a strain about her whole person. She had seen this before, knew already what it heralded. Now she spoke softly.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me, my dear?’

  Hannah smiled, her eyes suddenly filling at the sympathy in her mother-in-law’s voice.

  ‘I’m in the family way again; Nurse Walker believes it’s twins.’

  Constance patted the sofa beside her. Hannah lifted her daughters back to their toys on the floor.

  ‘How may I help, my dear?’

  Privately, the older woman was pleased. With twins, perhaps Charles would have the son he longed for. Perhaps then he would be content to stay closer to the domestic hearth. She knew what her son was up to. Not the detail, of course, just the broad brushstrokes of what she firmly regarded as his stupidity. ‘Wee’ Joe Devlin and his Ancient Order of Hibernians were at it again, rabble-rousing all over the city. And Charles, despite his years, still had not a titter of wit. Did he not know by now that any association with this strident, defiant form of nationalism meant trouble for him, for his family?

  They had quarrelled bitterly the last time he had come to see her. He had insisted that Devlin’s voice was a legitimate one, that Catholics had to look after their own. She, in turn, had insisted angrily that they were no better than those they professed to oppose: Orange Order, Hibernian Order – whatever Order you liked, man dear – what in the name of God did he think they were at, parading up and down with their bands, rousing passions that were much better left dormant?

  She regretted their quarrel, now. She knew Charles of old: he would simply stop visiting. Or, if he did come to her, he would stubbornly refuse to be drawn. She sighed. She was getting on in years, too old to cope with this any more. Before she died, she wanted to be sure that his life was safe, settled. Besides, his wife and family needed him, now, far more than any cause.

  Hannah sat down beside her, trying to smile.

  ‘I will be pleased, really I will, as soon as this awful fatigue lifts. I have hardly energy for anything any more.’

  Constance took both her hands in hers.

  ‘Let us have some tea, dear, and then you must rest. Mary and I will gladly take these two for a walk. You mustn’t worry about a thing.’

  The girl looked at her gratefully. Constance suddenly felt very sorry for her. She had forgotten how all-consuming the physical demands of small children were. Now was not the time to tell Hannah that, no matter what age one’s children, the only thing to change was the nature of those demands, not their intensity.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hannah. ‘You’re very kind to me.’

  And she stood and rang for tea.

  Mary: Spring 1903

  IT WAS SOME time since Mary had let Constance MacBride in, and still Hannah had not rung for her. Perhaps she should knock discreetly to enquire if madam would like tea, or else just bring it anyway. Mary was unwilling to do anything untoward – she feared that any slip on her part would reflect unfavourably on Hannah. Just then, the bell tinkled, filling her with relief.

  Hannah opened the drawing-room door herself, Maeve in her arms.

  ‘Will you bring tea, Mary – and can you take the children for something?’

  Her face was very pale, Mary thought, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright.

  ‘Of course, ma’am,’ she said quickly, lifting Maeve, holding out her free hand to Eileen, who had come to the door at once on hearing Mary’s voice.

  She took the two babies with her to the kitchen, settling them both on the rug across from the range. She loved them, both of them, but her heart warmed more to Eileen Cecilia. She always thought of the older girl as Eileen Cecilia, and she had never stopped being grateful to Hannah for the generosity of this one, heartfelt gesture. Seven years had passed now, almost to the week. It was difficult to comprehend that Cecilia had been gone that long. Missing her got easier, mostly, but at times her sister appeared to her in sleep, bringing with her a ferocity of grieving that still took Mary by surprise. But she was happy here. Her only worry now was that Mr Charles would go too far with his politicking, and that she would be left without a home for the third time in her life.

  She prayed to St Jude every night that it would not be so. She didn’t think she could bear it.

  She handed each of the two little girls a piece of bread and butter dipped in sugar as she waited for the kettle to boil.

  No matter what happened, she had no control over any of it. She’d do her work, keep her counsel and trust that her favourite saint would hear her yet.

  May: Spring 1903

  BRIDIE DUGGAN WASHED her hands vigorously, the drops of water chinking against the sides of the blue-rimmed enamel basin. Steam rose from her hands as she turned the soap over and over, working up a good lather. Her hands looked even redder and coarser than usual aga
inst the delicate white froth. May was conscious of her warm presence, content in the peacefulness of her bedroom, soothed by the crackling of the flames in the fireplace. Occasionally, a log spat and fizzled out into the air, its flame lost in the early morning sunlight streaming through the window.

  Richard had finally given in to exhaustion and gone into the small bedroom next door to sleep.

  ‘You gave us quite a scare, my girl,’ said Bridie, drying her hands now on the towel that hung by the washstand. ‘Thank God and his holy Mother ye’re both safe. This little fellow was in a right hurry to make his appearance.’

  May smiled up at her dreamily. Her eyes kept closing, but she didn’t want them to. She wanted to keep awake for ever, to keep on looking and looking at the small, perfect form in the cradle beside her. A little boy. Richard had wept with relief and gratitude as the tiny wail had pierced the silence at five o’clock this morning, four short hours ago. They had been awake all night, May disbelieving that it was time: she had another three weeks to go, at least: it was only a pain in her back, it would go away if she walked, if she had a hot-water bottle, if she had another cup of tea.

  But it didn’t go away, and at one o’clock there was no longer any doubt. There was a great, warm, slippery gush under May’s skirts and she touched herself quickly to make sure it was water, not blood. Richard cursed himself for not having gone for help earlier. He finally threw his overcoat over his shoulders, torn between wanting to stay with his wife and wanting to get Bridie to help her through the birth. He was afraid of what she was about to endure, afraid she wouldn’t have the strength for it. But she surprised him.

  ‘Go, Richard,’ she’d said, calmly. ‘It will be some time yet.’

  When he returned with a breathless Bridie in tow, she had already built up the fire in their bedroom, and spread layers of old hemp sheets and flat, cotton towels over their bed. She was in her nightgown, barefoot, and paced the bedroom with one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other rubbing her distended stomach. Richard had charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He could have sworn he heard her talking as he reached the bedroom door. He couldn’t make out the words, only the tone: comforting, reassuring – for herself or for the child, who could be sure. She’d turned and smiled at both of them as Richard opened the door.