Another Kind of Life (5 page)

At once, fifty voices fell silent; fifty small faces became still and waited for the day to begin.

S
OPHIA
GRIPPED
E
DWARD’S
arm nervously as they alighted from the carriage at Mount Eden Park. She
kept her eyes down, negotiating the three treacherous steps that led on to the safety of the glistening pavement below. Edward held the umbrella over her head. Sophia had not been impressed with
her first view of Belfast. It had looked grim and sooty, dirty rain falling heavily all the way from the train station. Even the buildings along University Road and Malone Road had struck her as
stout and practical: workmanlike rather than elegant.

This was not what Sophia had had in mind when she’d longed for Edward’s advancement, for a better life for their daughters. Leaving Dublin, her father, her wonderful new home, had
been a dreadful wrench. She had been assailed by grief, a deep, searing sense of loss whose intensity she could never have foreseen. Belfast seemed a grey and frantic place by contrast, no green
spaces to be seen anywhere. And there was not even the comfort of familiar streets to ease the transition from one home to the other.

She was not so much concerned about the girls. They would adapt, she knew: children always did. Her fear now was that she would not settle, that she would somehow let her husband down.

Edward turned to her, his normally stern face transformed by a huge smile.

‘Well, my dear?’

Only then did she look up.

‘Welcome to our new home.’

Sophia gasped. ‘Edward!’

‘Which one, Papa, which one?’

Hannah waited impatiently at the bottom of a flight of imposing granite steps. Now eleven years of age, she had developed a slightly imperious manner, a too-high regard for her own academic and
musical abilities. Sophia found herself frequently disliking her eldest daughter. It was time she was taken in hand, time she learned modesty and restraint. The last few months had been so busy
that Sophia felt she had neglected her eldest daughter’s social formation.

‘Be still, Hannah!’

But Edward was in unaccustomed good humour.

‘Number eight, Hannah. Take your sisters up with you. We’ll be there directly.’

Hannah went first, stung by her mother’s sharp reproof. She didn’t wait for her sisters. May took Eleanor’s hand and helped her up the steps to the front door.

Sophia clutched at her husband’s arm so tightly he winced.

‘Edward, is this truly ours?’

‘Yes, indeed, my dear. A fitting abode for Belfast’s new Postmaster, don’t you think?’

‘It looks wonderful! Can we really afford it?’

Sophia was almost afraid to ask the question. She had grown used to the increasing benefits of Edward’s advancing career; she no longer wanted to contemplate the possibility of their
living any other way. An elegant home, servants, the ease that accompanied rising social status: all had become necessary to her comfort, to the comfort of her daughters, over the past five years.
She waited, needing Edward to still the faint, nervous fluttering inside her that made her hands automatically reach to finger her necklace.

Edward patted her hand.

‘You are not to fret. It’s all taken care of, I promise.’

Sophia glanced at her husband as he gazed at the facade of the large house in front of them. The change in him over the last five years had been remarkable. He had taken to his new career with
enthusiasm, had built a reputation as a thorough, reliable, if uninspired, senior civil servant. She was proud of him, proud of his newfound self-confidence. This house would suit him, she knew,
even better than their previous home on the Rathmines Road in Dublin. This was solid, respectable red-brick: rather like Edward himself.

‘Shall we?’

He smiled at her, leading her up the steps to the front door. She could feel how pleased with himself he was. He had refused for weeks to give her any detail of their new home, had stayed
uncharacteristically tight-lipped after his last visit to Belfast.

‘Wait and see,’ was all he would say.

Lily was standing at the open door, her plain face wide with welcome. She curtsied briefly.

‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, ma’am,’ she said.

She disappeared back to the kitchen at once. She knew her mistress liked to find her way around on her own.

The house exceeded all of Sophia’s expectations. Five bedrooms, a vast bay-windowed drawing room, a dining room, kitchen, bathroom, scullery. She tried to estimate quickly what it would
take to run this household. She would need to speak to Lily and Katie at once; perhaps even more staff would be necessary. She would decide after they had all settled in. The pleasing aspect of the
rooms, the well-tended back garden, the heavy furniture all delighted her. Happily, she mentally arranged and rearranged, calculated and estimated, mediated in the girls’ disagreements over
bedrooms, and finally dispelled the gloom that had settled over her during the carriage ride from Great Victoria Street.

Above all else, she couldn’t quell the delightful feeling that they – she and Edward – had arrived at last.

T
HEY
WERE
FIGHTING
again. Hannah could hear the start of the angry, insect-like murmur just minutes
after the last guests had departed. She turned over in the bed, pressing one ear into the pillow, pushing down hard on the other with the palm of her hand. She did not want to hear another angry
exchange, did not want to listen to the buzz and hum of voices that would eventually separate somehow, each becoming distinct from the other, solidifying into words and phrases she did not want to
hear. She’d prefer not to know; she was tired of it. Every weekend recently had been the same. She’d begun to hate coming home. If it weren’t for Eleanor, she would have preferred
to stay in school on Friday and Saturday nights. Mama and Papa could come to visit her and May on Sunday afternoon, perhaps, like the parents of some of the long-distance boarders, and stay for
tea. They wouldn’t be able to fight there, not in so public a place.

Her father’s raised voice now reached her distinctly.

‘Have you any idea, any idea at all how much that
costs
?’

Money, it was always about money. Despite herself, Hannah now strained to hear her mother’s words. What was so costly this time? Was it school, perhaps, or piano lessons, or Christmas?
Could she and May help by giving up something – anything – in order to take the frost out of the atmosphere, not to be compelled to listen to the same old argument weekend after
weekend? She lifted her head off the pillow to try and catch her mother’s elusive reply, but at that moment her bedroom door creaked open. Eleanor stood, framed by the light of the sputtering
gas lamp on the landing. Hannah was startled. She looked like a small forlorn spirit standing there, her long curly hair frizzing out in shocked waves around her face.

‘Can I come into your bed?’ she whispered.

Hannah was already turning down the blankets on the other side.

‘Of course, Ellie. Come on.’

Eleanor scrambled up the side of the high bed, pulling the folds of her long nightdress out from under her knees as she struggled into the warmth beside her sister. She’d hated having her
own room ever since Hannah and May, one after the other, had become old enough to be boarders at St Dominic’s. She hated being abandoned at night. And May was no use to go to for comfort,
once evening was past. Once
she
climbed into bed, she slept instantly, heavily. From time to time, May would wander into Hannah’s room, still asleep, and Hannah would take her gently
back to her own bed. The first time Eleanor had seen this, she’d been upset. She hadn’t liked the absence behind her sister’s eyes, the useless search for recognition.
Sleepwalking, Hannah had explained to her. Eleanor thought that that was a good word; naming it had seemed somehow to make it less frightening.

‘Why are Mama and Papa fighting?’ she asked into the pillow, cuddling into the warm space made by Hannah’s body.

Hannah kissed her lightly.

‘Grown-ups do. They can’t enjoy themselves properly without it.’

Eleanor giggled.

‘Will we fight when we’re grown-up?’

‘No – we’re different. We’re the Bright Brilliant Sisters of Belfast – don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already? Anyway, it’s men and women who
fight, mostly.’

‘Why?’

Hannah shrugged into the darkness.

‘I suppose because they’re different. Don’t worry. They’ll be friends again tomorrow.’

But the voices continued, a steady angry stream, suddenly lower in volume. Hannah knew what they must look like by now, could see both their faces, read the tiniest flicker of each expression.
She had been an unwilling audience to last weekend’s fight when they’d forgotten about her, left her seated at the piano in the adjoining room. One of the folding doors had been partly
closed over, so she was hidden from sight. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, didn’t even want to be there. By the time she realized that she shouldn’t be overhearing this, it was
too late to move. She had sat listening to words she only half understood, most of them drowned out by the buzzing in her head. She hadn’t realized until later that she’d been holding
her breath.

Papa’s face had been red and creased, his moustaches bristling. He was tapping agitatedly on his cigar, blowing out great plumes of blue-tinged smoke. He threw his head back from time to
time, staring upwards, as though looking for answers on the ceiling above him. Hannah had seen him do it, watched him avoid Mama’s steady gaze.

She had been standing by the fireplace, her hands clasped in front of her, like someone about to sing her favourite operatic aria. But there was none of the smiling and nodding that always
preceded her drawing-room performances: instead, her face was pale, her lips almost translucent. She would not take her eyes off her husband’s face.

‘It seems that we must go without, while others in a lesser position . . .’

Her father had exploded then, rocking angrily back and forth on his heels.

‘There’s no question of anyone going without, for God’s sake, Sophia!’

At that moment, Hannah had heard low voices outside the door leading into the hallway. Katie and Lily, on their way to draw the curtains, turn down the beds. She heard her mother murmur:
‘Edward, please, the servants . . .’

‘Damn the servants!’

Hannah chose that moment to make her escape. If they heard anything, they would assume it was Katie and Lily making their way upstairs. She would be safe. She moved quickly then, leaving the lid
of the piano open, taking no chances. She waited at the bottom of the staircase until Katie and Lily had disappeared to the left, along the landing. She prayed that her mother would have no reason
to open the drawing-room door. She took the stairs two at a time, holding her breath again until she reached the safety of her own bedroom.

Lily was already there, smoothing the top of the broderie anglaise sheet over the counterpane. She’d just lit the lamp, and the light was still guttering, not yet settled into its pale,
steady glow.

‘Everything all right, Miss Hannah?’ she had asked, with her usual warm smile.

Hannah had nodded, tried to calm her breathing, hoped Lily couldn’t hear the hammering of her heart against her ribs. Luckily, she hadn’t seemed to notice anything. The voices
downstairs had been quieter after that, but the air was still tense and expectant the following morning.

It would probably be the same again tomorrow. Hannah sighed, looking down at Eleanor’s now calm face. She was only eight: her little sister shouldn’t have to be afraid like this. At
least she’d fallen asleep almost instantly, her thumb just resting at her half-open lips. Mama had tried to cure her of this habit by putting oil of cloves on both her thumbs. But Eleanor had
persisted in sucking, even growing to like the pungent, foreign taste. She had made her sisters promise not to tell.

Hannah lay awake for some time, trying to listen for voices below, but all had suddenly fallen silent.

I
THINK
I
MUST
have been aware for some time of the tensions in the household, but I was much too young to articulate any unease
that I might then have felt. My life was full at that time – I loved school, loved the many kindnesses of the nuns and the pursuit of excellence expected of all of us girls at St
Dominic’s. Hannah and May had been boarders for ever, it seemed to me, but at nine years of age I had to wait for some time before I could join them. How I envied them! I, too, wanted to have
that special status denied to the day-girl, to join my sisters in the recreation room each evening, to share whispered secrets in the quiet of a darkened dormitory. I hated being ‘too
young’ for all the interesting things in life: I suppose I was in a hurry to grow up. However, I had to content myself with their company at weekends, and occasional glimpses during the
school day. I have to confess that I missed them both sorely – Hannah and her lively talk and songs, May and her grave gentleness. It is from that time that I can date my passion for reading.
How else was I to find solace during the dull hours of long winter evenings? Reading, study, anything to do with books became more than a pleasure to me. I visited Mama’s bookshelves in
secret and discovered for the first time the joys of the novel: Oliver Twist, David Copperfield and Emma Woodhouse became my constant daily companions.

Mama was very preoccupied all that spring, and I gradually grew resigned to the fact that she had little time for me, little interest in my ordinary daily activities. She was frequently absent
in the afternoons when I returned from school, or else there would be a gathering of ladies in our drawing room, sipping tea and talking in high, tinkling voices. I was learning from
her
,
too, that I had to be self-reliant, to amuse myself as best I could.

On one such afternoon, towards the end of April 1893 – I have no difficulty remembering the dates of that momentous week – Lily had just poured me a glass of milk and handed me a
plateful of soda bread and home-made preserves. We were, as usual, in her and Katie’s domain, the kitchen, where I had become accustomed to seek out Lily’s company daily, needing her
warmth. She was usually so cheerful and interested in all my daily doings that I chittered away about school and about Sister Monica, our bespectacled and highly eccentric schoolteacher.