Another Kind of Life (8 page)

Sophia had lain awake most of the night, trying to work out how to extract all of them from the awfulness which Edward had brought on everyone’s heads. Now, this morning, she had practical
things to organize. First, she would need to visit Edward’s solicitor personally, to try and ascertain what was to become of him, of all of them. She couldn’t bear to think about it:
for Edward, the prison cell, the trial, the personal indignity. For all of them, the unbearable humiliation which would accompany such a very public fall from grace.

She could not stay in Belfast, that much was clear. Apart from the shame of Edward’s arrest, they had no money. She couldn’t possibly afford to keep the family here.

At some stage during last night’s sleepless hours, Sophia had held on to a faint hope that this might all be a mistake, that Edward was innocent. That hope had disappeared as soon as she
had arisen this morning. In the dim light of her bedroom candle, she had seen his face clearly, as clearly as when he had stepped out into the hallway yesterday, flanked by the two detectives. He
had turned to her in what she now realized was mute appeal –
save me from this
. She remembered that look now – and it made her angry. He was not a stupid man; he had to have
known the implications of what he was doing. One simply didn’t ‘borrow’ government funds, no matter how firm one’s intention to pay them back quickly, no harm done. But she
couldn’t think about that, not now. There were too many urgent decisions to be made before she could afford the luxury of bitterness and recrimination.

She had to get her girls back to Dublin. And Katie and Lily. She owed the two women that much. They had been with her for almost fourteen years now; she didn’t want to lose them,
didn’t know how she would ever manage without them. But that was a problem for later, for Dublin. She finished dressing, her impatient fingers fumbling with the tight row of covered buttons
on the front of her dress. She sighed in exasperation when she finally reached the last button, only to find no matching fabric loop to close it. She must try to be patient; bad temper at half past
six in the morning did not augur well for the rest of the day. And she had Eleanor to think of.

Methodically, she undid the buttons one by one, and hooked them closed again carefully, making sure she got it right this time. She swept her long hair up into a simple knot that would do until
later and made her way downstairs. Sophia felt her way around the carved rope-edge of the table in the hallway until her fingers made out the shape of the drawer in the centre. She opened it and
took out a flat box of matches. Placed directly above the drawer was the tall, heavy gas lamp, its mantle clouded and sulphurous. Once lit, the flame guttered, throwing shadows on the wall in front
of her. It settled, quickly, into a warm yellow glow.

She carried it with her into the dining room, its light sending strange, elongated shadows up the walls and on to the stretch of ceiling beyond her writing-desk. She pulled down the leaf of her
desk and balanced the lamp carefully beside her, to her right. She took out headed notepaper and envelopes from the small compartments above. She needed to do this quickly. Her father must know, as
soon as possible, what had befallen them. He was the only one who could help her in Dublin, once she got home. He would get his letter by this evening. That would give him time to reply, if he
needed to, before they took the train tomorrow night.

Sophia addressed the envelope swiftly, pulled more paper down on to the blotter. She would write to Constance MacBride. She was the only person she felt she could turn to in Belfast. The
imperious, elderly lady was a curious mix: discreet when discretion was necessary, yet straight, honest to the point of bluntness. She was a legend in Belfast society: her connections spread
throughout the city, an intricate, overlapping tapestry of business, politics and philanthropy. She would have her letter by mid-morning.

Sophia would be back home again by early afternoon, and all she could do then was wait. She knew that Constance MacBride would not let her down. She would come, bringing sympathy and the
smallest possibility of something, anything, to be salvaged. Sophia allowed herself that one last hope. Other than that, there was nothing else she could do.

She was going to have to rely on the charity of others.

There was a tap on the drawing-room door.

‘Come in.’ Calmly, Sophia put down the papers in her hand and waited.

Lily curtsied.

‘It’s Mrs MacBride, ma’am.’

‘Show her in, Lily, and bring tea.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Sophia felt grateful to Lily. No matter what she thought or felt, she was keeping up the pretence of normality.

Constance MacBride swept into the room, bringing a waft of cold air and energy with her.

‘My dear,’ she said, her round, plain face full of concern. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Sophia returned the sympathetic pressure of her hand, unable to reply for a moment.

‘I’m very grateful to you for coming.’

‘Nonsense, my dear, I’m only too glad to help.’

Sophia waited until the older woman had settled herself on the sofa, her voluminous skirts spread out all around her. She stood up, then, agitated, and walked towards the window. She waited for
a moment, making sure that she was composed enough to speak, that her voice would have no telltale tremor. Constance MacBride’s large, kindly presence had made her feel her humiliation all
the more keenly. For the moment, she kept her eyes fixed on the window, seeing nothing.

‘I need to get my girls back to Dublin, as soon as possible. Everyone is going to know about Edward by tomorrow, and even if I could afford to keep them here, Belfast is no place for them
to grow up, not with that kind of shame.’

She paused. She had said it. No question of Edward’s being innocent. That much had to be understood between them.

‘Your father will help you.’

There was only the slightest change in intonation at the end of the sentence, as if Constance MacBride feared giving offence by asking the question too openly. Sophia turned away from the window
now, her face composed.

‘I wrote to him first thing this morning. I’ve asked him to meet us off the evening train tomorrow. I’ve just written to him again this afternoon, asking if he could help to
place Lily and Katie.’

Sophia pressed on her temples with the tips of her fingers. The beginnings of another awful headache, right behind her eyes.

‘I don’t know if we’ll be able to keep them with us, but I have a duty towards them. On the other hand, I don’t want us to be too big a burden for my father.’

Sophia paused. Of all the ignominious things to happen to her, she felt that nothing could be worse than this. Had Edward set out to punish her, to avenge himself for some unknown crime against
him, he could not have chosen better. What could he possibly have been thinking of?

As though reading her mind, Constance MacBride said softly: ‘You can tell an old woman to mind her own business if you wish, but have you any idea, my dear, any idea at all what drove
Edward to do as he did?’

Sophia turned and looked at her sharply. The shrewd blue eyes were fixed on Sophia’s, their gaze unwavering.

‘How do you mean?’

Sophia felt herself react at once, stiffly, to the older woman’s choice of words, to their implicit criticism. Nobody ‘drove’ Edward to be dishonest, he chose to be so himself.
She felt the beginnings of indignation that Constance MacBride might assume that she, Sophia, could be complicit in her husband’s wrongdoing. Nevertheless, there was a small germ of truth
nudging at her from underneath the other woman’s words, from the calm, almost benign expression on her placid face.

They had fought about money a good deal, that was true. But Edward had an important position, a civil service appointment of great seniority. Such a position implied a certain lifestyle, the
maintenance of a certain standard of social intercourse. They had to attend the theatre, the opera; they had to entertain on a reasonable scale. She had never been lavish or wasteful, she was sure
of that. But appearances were important. And the girls had to be educated at a good school. If there was a different way to do such things, then she didn’t know what that way might be.

‘Perhaps he felt under pressure, my dear. Living well is not cheap.’

Sophia did not reply.

There was a moment’s awkwardness before Constance MacBride spoke again. This time, her tone was almost hesitant.

‘May I ask – are you sure . . . let me be direct, my dear: is your lawyer to your satisfaction?’

Sophia nodded. How could she know, never having needed one before? Pride stopped her from asking the older woman’s opinion of Morgan, Bradshaw and Company. The sting in the tail of
Constance MacBride’s sympathy smothered Sophia’s reluctant impulse to ask for any other help. It was all too painful: she would soon owe even her daily bread to others. She would not
crawl. Enough was enough.

Constance MacBride watched as the struggle played itself out on the younger woman’s face. She watched as Sophia’s mouth tightened, as pride battled with humiliation, as maternal duty
fought with the natural resentment of the impotent. She decided to say nothing more. For a moment, she regretted her earlier outspokenness. Perhaps she could have helped more by saying less. But
the moment had passed: it was too late now. Instead, she moved effortlessly into the next phase of the conversation.

‘You must leave the arranging of this house to me. I will see to it that your belongings are packed and sent on to you. You need not worry about anything here.’

She let her crisp, no-nonsense words hang in the air between them. She knew that at least she had left Sophia thinking, and that was no bad thing. She was a good woman, a good mother, there was
no doubt about that. Her girls were a credit to her. But she had a blind spot; there was no doubt about that either. She was more than impressed by money, by the trappings of solid, respectable,
not necessarily glamorous, wealth. Constance MacBride suspected that she had pushed her husband too far, that she demanded a manner of living way beyond Edward’s modest resources. He was a
government man, after all; up until now, respectable to his fingertips; but no civil service posting, no matter how senior, was going to make him a fortune. Constance MacBride liked him, liked both
of them, had warmed to their family. They were people for whom she felt a genuine, kindly impulse. She should like to help.

‘Let’s have a wee look at what we can do for you here before you go. What do the girls need?’

Sophia was grateful to her again. It was so much easier to accept help for one’s children than it was for oneself. It made her present humiliation a little easier to bear.

She was glad to turn the conversation to more practical issues, too. Constance MacBride had made her feel uncomfortable. And she had far too many other things to deal with at the moment.

W
HY
HAD
M
AMA
summoned them from school so urgently? Her letter had left no room for delay. Sister
Canice’s round face had been grave as she hurried Hannah and May into the carriage. ‘Now, girls, at once, please – no dawdling.’ She closed the door safely behind them.

‘God bless you both. Joseph will see you to the train. Remember, now, no talking to strangers. Stay close to Joseph until your mother comes for you.’

‘What’s happening?’

May spoke only after Sister Canice had waved them away, her cheerful gesture looking oddly normal, strangely out of place. May had been puzzled by the nun’s air of intense anxiety.

‘I don’t know – Mama seems to be in a hurry to get back to Dublin. Perhaps Grandfather is unwell, or something.’

Hannah’s voice seemed unconcerned, almost as if it had shrugged its shoulders. May was somewhat reassured, but still a small germ of suspicion itched away at her, like hives. She
didn’t reply, looking out the carriage window instead as they made steady progress down the Falls Road. As soon as they turned right on to Grosvenor Road, she sat suddenly bolt upright, her
hands clutching at Hannah.

‘What is it?’ Hannah was startled by her sister’s terrified expression.

‘Can’t you hear it? The shouting? Really angry shouting?’

Hannah shook her head once, then stopped and strained to listen. Their leisurely pace had not been interrupted, there had been no shout of warning from Joseph to indicate that anything was
wrong, and Hannah could hear nothing above the rolling rumble of the carriage wheels. She was about to dismiss May’s imaginings when, suddenly, she heard it. The whole world seemed to burst
open into riotous, human thunder. The road before them heaved into sudden life; swell after roaring swell of men’s bodies erupted blackly from behind every gateway, around every corner.

May clutched at Hannah’s upper arm, digging her nails painfully into the soft flesh.

‘What?’ she cried. ‘What is it?’ Her eyes were wide and blank in a chalk-white face.

‘Ssshh – I don’t know,’ said Hannah, trying desperately to see out over May’s shoulder.

She tried to keep her voice level, but some intuition was making the back of her neck prickle hotly. Instinctively, she crouched down low in the carriage, jerking May with her. Her
sister’s body was limp with terror.

‘Don’t worry, Joseph will take care of us,’ Hannah whispered, wishing she felt as sure as she sounded. What could this be? Was it, finally, the trouble that Papa’s
newspapers had been warning about? She knew that something political was afoot – Papa had recently taken to reading his papers more and more intently at weekends. She had heard him grumble
more than once about something called Home Rulers. Don’t know when they’re well off, he’d growled. Independence indeed. Stuff and nonsense. Biting the hand that feeds, more like.
She had paid little attention; it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her. Nobody spoke about such things in school, and besides, she had always thought that they were much too young
to have anything like politics touch their small lives.