Another Kind of Life (33 page)

On his last visit, they had quarrelled.

‘I will wait for you, Philippe. I will even come to Marseilles. But I will not live a lie. You must tell your father, or I will have to believe that you have changed your mind. Please,
just tell me the truth.’

He had raged at her then, even wept a little. Of course he loved her, but she did not, could not understand. He could not assault his father with an announcement such as that – not while
his whole business empire was crumbling right before his eyes. They had parted, tearfully, Philippe swearing his devotion.

Soon after his departure, something changed in the atmosphere of the Ondart household. Nothing was said to May at any stage about Philippe, about the impossibility of such a match in Monsieur
and Madame’s eyes, about their disappointment in her. Instead, everything was cloaked in obliquity.

Suddenly, there was a great flurry of activity. Preparations for travel were undertaken with astonishing speed. Isabelle grumbled as she shook out the dust covers she had so recently folded and
put away.

Madame spoke to May with the greatest formality possible. It was unfortunate that Monsieur’s business now demanded their immediate departure for Marseilles. Unfortunate, too, that the
children had not made more progress in their language studies. But many thanks to Mademoiselle O’Connor for her best efforts. The children would now be sent as boarders to the Ecole
Internationale, where no doubt all Mademoiselle’s hard work on their behalf would ease the transition into their new environment. Of course, her salary for the remaining four months would be
paid to her on her departure,
naturellement
. She and Monsieur Ondart would most assuredly keep their side of the bargain. Mademoiselle would of course understand that the children must not
on any account be upset. As yet, they were not aware of the changes planned for them, and Mademoiselle would make very sure that she let nothing slip.

May had sat unspeaking through the long speech as Madame Ondart regarded her across the polished table, already set for an early dinner.

Her throat felt constricted, her chest made of stone. She could feel Genevieve trying to be kind, nudging her gently as she served the soup until a sharp reproof from Madame sent her swiftly
back to the kitchen. May had not understood all that was said; the French was too sharply dismissive for her to catch, although the sense was clear. Monsieur said nothing, as usual, except complain
loudly to the air, in great staccato bursts, about the quality of his burgundy. Large, sudden hand movements accompanied his complaints, filling the air around him like smoke after gunfire.

The children had been brought to say goodbye to her, one by one before bedtime. They shook hands with her, their faces filled with the sudden shyness she remembered from her first days with
them. She wanted to stoop and kiss Nathalie, to ruffle Jean-Louis’s hair and tease him about his latest passion for stick insects, to watch his slow serious smile once he realized she was
having fun with him; but Madame had already warned her.

‘The children have been told you are going on a journey. They understand you will be back. In time, they will forget. Their father and I do not wish them to be upset. Bid farewell to them
simply and quickly. We’ll have no displays of emotion.’

No displays of emotion. May repeated it to herself now, over and over, wanting to feel the keen bite of its bitterness, wanting it to hurt. Anger was the only thing which would help her keep
control until all of this was over and she was home. She wanted to
be
home, now, without having to
get
home. The thought of the journey wearied her. Train to Calais, boat to Dover,
train again to London, then Liverpool, ferry to Belfast. At least Eileen’s birth had made May’s journey to Holywood seem natural, understandable: of course she would want to be with her
sister during such a momentous time. And she wouldn’t have to face Mama on her own, to feel the keen edge of her sharp eye just yet. If only for a few days, she would have peace with Hannah,
who would understand everything. Her sister, at least, wouldn’t make her feel that she had, somehow, let everyone down. The baby’s fortunate timing took away the need for explanations,
evasions, half-truths. May knew that she could not have kept her secret from her mother.

And Philippe had never appeared. Her prophecy from last summer had been uncannily accurate. One very small part of her had held out hope that he would be waiting for her, miraculously, at the
Gare du Nord, or perhaps at the station in Calais. She wouldn’t give up hope, not yet, not until she had to.

1900
WAS
A
truly momentous year for us Bright Brilliant Sisters.

Hannah had just given birth to her first baby, Eileen. May had experienced the joy of travel, at last; and I was spending all my time planning my escape.

For the second time, I lived the summer apart from both my sisters, and I missed them terribly. Our house was deathly quiet; even Mama didn’t sing any more. There were ladies in our
drawing room on fewer and fewer occasions now, and Papa became more and more engrossed in ‘business’ which kept him out and about town a good deal. From what I observed, it seemed that
most of his transactions took place over long lunches at his club on Stephen’s Green, from whence he would return smelling of cigar-smoke and good brandy. I have often wondered how his
gentlemen companions must have regarded him. He cannot have been able to conceal his past completely; his acceptance there must have been yet another result of Grandfather Delaney’s
magnanimity and influence. Papa made great show, too, of ‘managing’ Grandfather’s properties all over Dublin, would murmur about his ‘responsibilities’ as a landlord
and generally took himself very seriously indeed. Mama would turn her head away from him when he arrived home after his club days, and I could not help noticing her barely concealed expressions of
contempt.

I learned later that Grandfather Delaney had been very careful to leave my father no real role in the management of his properties. After his death, all the significant business was transacted
by the old and highly respectable firm of Morgan, Lancaster and Company in Dawson Street, about which not one syllable of scandal had ever been breathed. Mama received a monthly income through the
hands of these gentlemen: the large, buff-coloured envelope would arrive with mathematical precision on the last Friday of every month. How much she gave my father remains a mystery – she
always went with him to his tailor, for instance, and his bootmaker, and I know she paid his club bills, too. I should not, of course, know these things, not any of them, but I had the disgraceful
habit of rummaging in Mama’s desk on the occasions when I was alone in the house. I feel ashamed of myself even now, confessing this to you. But I couldn’t help being curious; and the
fact that I was also on my own with both of them meant that my parents’ presence in my life that summer became, for the first time ever, a disproportionate one. I had no May to escape to, no
Hannah to make me laugh. Instead, I sensed Mama’s every mood, was present for any sharp exchange that might take place between her and Papa, and was in a position to observe all the unspoken
bitterness that filled the air between them. I longed for summer to be over. I wanted the company of other girls, needed the stimulation of study, the safe predictability of school routine.

At sixteen, I no longer wanted to be burdened by the emptiness of failed lives. I loved my parents, naturally, but I loved the possibilities of my own life more. I knew that Hannah was happy,
but her new world seemed to me to be very small. May’s sojourn in France, as I subsequently discovered, seemed not to have brought her any happiness at all: I heard no more talk about Africa,
the Americas or Europe. Just nine months as a governess with a wealthy French family, then back home at once to the safety of the familiar. That was how I felt at the time, how I saw things from my
corner of the universe, with all the indignation and arrogance of youth.

All that spring, the newspapers had been filled with excited accounts of the preparations for, and the arrival of, Queen Victoria at Kingstown. Although thousands of Dubliners lined the streets,
ostensibly to welcome her, I certainly remember no great outpourings of affection. Mama had been sadly disappointed at the elderly Queen’s appearance: she had seemed sullen, almost sleepy,
with no great elegance of person or dress. By summer, the newspapers were filled with accounts of a very different nature. The Boer War was suddenly everywhere: the relief of Mafeking, the fall of
Pretoria, the occupation of Johannesburg. At that time, I had little interest in the politics of conflict, but I was overwhelmed by the stories of common bravery: the heroic exploits of doctors and
nurses in their tending of the wounded, their extraordinary courage in bringing comfort and relief to the fallen, despite the danger to their own lives. I still have the cuttings that affected me
most, now brittle and yellowing, their print blurred all along the seams where they have lain folded for many years. I began, secretly, to gather all the information I could about becoming a nurse.
The nobility of the profession appealed to me, but more than that, I could make a good case for attending St Bartholomew’s teaching hospital in London. Thus I should escape Dublin, my
parents’ house, and the fate of my sisters. Little by little, I would make my way towards another kind of life, one that awaited me elsewhere, always elsewhere. I knew that I should have
nothing at all if I did not seize the first opportunity that presented itself. I had a bright vision of myself approaching an open door; all I needed now was to gather the courage to walk through
it and leave my sisters behind.

H
ANNAH
AWAITED
C
HARLES’S
return impatiently. She had already been to the window several times, and
there was still no sign of him. It was most unusual: he took the same train every evening, arriving home punctually at half past six from his office in Sussex Place. A knock on the drawing-room
door made her jump.

‘Come in.’

Mary stood at the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Is Mister Charles going to be very late, miss?’

‘I don’t know, Mary – there was no note in this afternoon’s post. I don’t know what could be keeping him.’

‘Not to worry – I’ll keep yer tea hot, so I will.’

It was really most unlike him to miss his tea. And the Burkes were coming tonight at eight – everything was set up for their musical evening together. Hannah pulled the curtain aside once
again. People were streaming up from the station now. She recognized Mr Reeve, who always got the same train as Charles. His little boy was pedalling furiously beside him as they made their way up
the hill together. He cycled down every night to meet his father; Charles had often remarked on the young fellow’s devotion. Hannah had wondered aloud if Charles’s pocketful of sweets
might have anything to do with the boy’s regular visits to Holywood station, and was rewarded with a look of genuine amazement. How had she known that? She refused to satisfy his curiosity,
thinking that he really had led a very sheltered life in many respects – he simply did not understand how women talked to one another.

She resisted the urge now to run outside and ask whether anyone had seen Charles. She was being foolish: anything might have delayed him. He was fond of saying that his business was not an exact
science. By ten to eight she was frantic. Mary came in and lit extra lamps around the drawing room, trying to soothe her.

‘Don’t be worryin’ yer head too much, Miss Hannah. Sure mebbe he stopped off for a wee drink after work.’

Maybe he had – but he usually found some way of telling her. Suddenly, she heard footsteps on the porch. His voice, loud and welcoming, and other voices that she couldn’t
distinguish. Of course! The Burkes. She had almost forgotten about them in her anxiety. Charles opened the drawing-room door wide, ushering his guests in before him. There was nothing else for it
– her questions must wait. She had guests to see to.

‘Hannah, you look wonderful!’

Bella hugged her, laughing as Hannah’s large stomach got in the way, no matter which way they turned.

James kissed her hand.

‘Blooming, my dear, blooming,’ was all he said. Hannah couldn’t help smiling to herself. The Burkes were only about ten years older than she was, and ten years younger than
Charles – yet their speech and manners seemed to have been absorbed from a much older, somehow jollier generation.

‘You’re both welcome: please, sit down.’

Hannah thought she might steal a moment with Charles while their guests were getting settled, but the only communication from him was a warning glance as he poured glasses of wine for Bella and
for her. The evening crawled. She tried her best to be gay, to accompany Charles and James as they sang together, two full, rounded tenor voices. Then Bella and James together, then Charles and
Bella. She thought she was going to scream.

When Mary brought the tea and cakes at ten o’clock, Bella leaned over to her, confidentially.

‘You look very tired, Hannah. You should rest. We’ll go soon.’

Hannah looked at her gratefully.

‘Yes, I am tired. I really cannot get past this hour of the evening, no matter how hard I try.’

‘Then don’t try. Be sensible. How long is it to your confinement now?’

‘Just eight weeks.’

Hannah couldn’t help the surge of excitement she felt each time she admitted how close she was to holding her baby. The great rush of love she felt made her prepared to forgive
Charles’s late return, no matter what the reason. It would all be something very simple, she was sure of that. In a way, it was probably good that they had had to entertain people – she
didn’t want to quarrel with him, not now.

She was glad when tea was finally taken and Bella stood up immediately.