Patricia Falvey (11 page)

Along the wall opposite the bar was a row of tiny rooms with curtains drawn across them. They reminded me of confessional boxes, but these were the snugs where people sat for privacy—a boyo with a woman not his wife, maybe, or a pair of women so respectable that they would not dare be seen in a place like this. The wooden floor was stained black from spilled ale and dirt, and worn from the tramp of a thousand pairs of feet. The place smelled of spilled whiskey, stale beer, and smoke. There were no windows; the air stirred only when someone opened or closed the front door.

The boys played here often, and even though I had called them the Music Men since I was a child, they performed under the name of the Ulster Minstrels.

“And it’s my pleasure to introduce to you now Miss Eileen O’Neill. Most of you remember her father, Tom O’Neill, God rest his soul.” There were murmurs and quick signs of the cross as P.J. mentioned my da. “Miss Eileen is playing with us in public for the first time, so please give her a big hand.”

Hands clapped and there were a few raucous cheers. The sweat poured off me, and I thought I might faint. P.J. led off with his fiddle, playing the same tunes we had played back in the days at the Yellow House. I raised my bow and brought it down on the strings and slowly coaxed out a sound. I felt Da’s hands on mine, strong and sure, and gradually I relaxed my grip and let the music flow freely through me. Ah, so this was what Da felt—the thrill of the music throbbing through your body like something alive, voices singing and feet thudding on the floor, and yourself in the center of it all, casting a spell over everything and everyone. How powerful this music that can mesmerize men and women into a trance of lightness and joy! I smiled and silently thanked Da for this miraculous gift.

We played for almost two hours without stopping, jigs and reels followed by slow laments. As I watched the crowds move to and fro, I noticed a young man standing at the back of the room, his cap pushed back on his thick black hair. Frankie, I thought, my God, it’s Frankie! I turned to P.J. “We have to stop,” I whispered.

We finished the tune and I put down my fiddle and flew off the stage, pushing my way through the crowd. Stale breath and yellowed teeth leered in my face.

“Grand wee fiddler, so you are. You’ll be as good as your da one day!”

As I neared the door, I knocked into a tall, fair-haired chap.

“Excuse me,” I said as I pushed him aside.

He leaped back, a look of concern on his face. I thrust open the front door and ran outside. I looked up and down the street, but I could not see my brother. “Frank?” I called out hopefully. “Frank?” But there was no sign of him. I was sure it had been him—didn’t I know my own brother? Why had he left so suddenly? My earlier pleasure in the music sank, and I trailed back in through the door.

“I’m really enjoying your music.”

“What?” It was the fellow I had nearly landed on his arse in my rush to get out the door. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“What for?”

“For nearly knocking you to the ground.”

He looked at me and smiled. Even in the dim light, I saw that his eyes were striking. They were the color of heather.

“Can I get you a drink? Lager, or lemonade, perhaps?”

His accent had an English tinge to it—cultivated. He seemed out of place in this pub.

“No, thanks,” I said automatically.

He looked let down. “But you look very hot and thirsty. Please?”

I nodded. “A lemonade would be grand.”

He ordered the drink from the barman. I watched him. His movements were smooth and confident. He was my height, with a slender build, and he wore an open-necked fine white linen shirt and khaki trousers.

He handed me the lemonade. “O’Neill,” he said. “Where is your family from?”

“Glenlea,” I said absently. I stared at the door, hoping that Frank would return.

“Any relation to Tom O’Neill? He lived in that bright yellow house at the top of the hill.”

I swung around to face him. Sudden anger welled up in me. “Did you not hear the announcement earlier, or are you deaf?” I snapped. “Yes, he was my father. He’s dead!”

I supposed by the look on his face that my abruptness caught him by surprise, but I didn’t care.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I’m so sorry. Of course I heard what happened to him. Terrible tragedy. I used to enjoy our walks up on Slieve Gullion.” He paused. “Oh, where are my manners? I’m Owen Sheridan.”

He held out a smooth, slender white hand, but I left it hanging there. Sheridan? I had come face-to-face with the devil himself. I stared at him in horror. He dropped his hand and went on. “You know, I think I met you once when you were a small girl. You were climbing Slieve Gullion with your father. He seemed to dote on you.” He smiled a smug, confident smile. At that, I let loose.

“How dare you talk to me about my father? It’s the likes of youse persecuted him and killed him. How can you live your soft life when my own poor family has been torn asunder? It isn’t fair. None of it is fair!” I didn’t care how nice and polite he was. The lemonade turned sour in my stomach. “I have to go,” I said.

He reached out and put his hand on my arm. I shook it off.

“I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss O’Neill,” he said, “but I assure you neither I nor my family are to blame. We are Quakers. We do not believe in violence.”

I looked at the glass of ale in his hand. “I thought Quakers didn’t believe in drink, either?” I snapped.

His smile returned. “Well, I suppose I’m the black sheep of the family.”

He looked me up and down, the smile of amusement still on his face, as if he were enjoying a conversation with a wayward child. My cheeks reddened under his gaze.

“Where do you live now, Miss O’Neill?”

I almost told him it was none of his fecking business, but I wanted to end the conversation, so instead I said, “I live with P.J. and his wife, and I work up at Queensbrook Mill.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Really? I can’t say I’ve seen you there—but then again I don’t often visit the mills. Are you in the spinning mill or the weaving mill?”

“The spinning mill. I’m a doffer.” And before I could stop myself, I added, “And I enjoy tramping around every day up to my arse in water, and nearly catching my death when I come out of an evening.”

He laughed aloud, a full, hearty laugh, and his eyes lit up. He was enjoying himself, the bastard, I thought, taking my words for a fine joke, making a mockery of me. I wanted to reach over and wipe the grin off his face. But before I could do anything, P.J. shouted down from the stage.

“Eileen? It’s time we were starting up.”

I turned on my heel and marched up to the stage.

“I like your spirit, Miss O’Neill,” he called out after me.

“Who was that you were talking to?” P.J. asked.

“Nobody special.”

I took up my fiddle again, but now anger had replaced my earlier nervousness. It took a while for it to seep out of me and let the rapture of the music replace it. Silently I again thanked Da for his gift to me. It might be the only thing that would help me hold my temper—and I was, I realized, in desperate need of that.

I CAUGHT MY
breath when I saw Owen Sheridan walk onto the spinning room floor that following Monday morning. Now I was done for. My temper had got me in trouble, and my job was about to be over almost before it started. I hovered behind a spinning frame in the corner, pretending to adjust the bobbins. The frame operator scowled at me. I watched Sheridan walk, hands behind his back, his head bowed, listening to whatever it was that Joe Shields was whispering in his ear. I hated Shields for bowing and scraping to him like he was feckin’ royalty. But I had to admit he looked well just the same. His hair was blonder than I remembered from the Ceili House, and he carried his tall, slender frame with a mixture of arrogance and grace. He was a man you would look at twice. The other women obviously agreed with me. The frames slowed as they turned to gape.

“Who’s that fellow?”

“I think that’s the owner’s son.”

“Och, isn’t he lovely?”

“It will be well for the woman gets him—looks and money and the whole lot.”

“Maybe it’ll be yourself, Maureen—sure don’t you look grand in that apron?”

“I hear he’s a rake. There’s women in three counties mad for him, but not one of them’s been able to land him. Black sheep of the family, so he is. I hear he’s fond of a drink and gambling as well.”

“Well, he must do his drinking outside of Queensbrook—he’d be famished with the thirst for all the pubs we have in this town.”

“Aye. No pubs, no pawnshops, no police station,” they chorused, echoing the words P.J. had said that first morning on the tram.

The women laughed and joked. He turned and smiled, nodding at each one of them as if she were the only woman there, saying, “Good morning,” and, “How are you?” in that refined voice of his. He stopped in front of a frame where the steam spat water on him. He moved back, brushing off the front of his jacket. Serves him right, I thought, but I bit my lip. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? I watched as he talked to the operator. Blushing, she pointed down at her bare feet and the puddles of water on the floor. I slipped out of the corner and edged closer so that I could get a better look. He swung around as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

“Ah, Miss O’Neill,” he called aloud, “there you are!” His voice was pleasant enough, but I cringed. I waited for the ax to fall. “You see, I took your comments quite seriously. I decided to have a look for myself.”

Joe Shields stood beside him, glaring at me. “I agree these are regrettable conditions,” Sheridan went on, “however, I don’t know what can be done about them. I intend to speak to my father on the matter. Perhaps some other mills have found ways of containing the water. Do you have any ideas, Miss O’Neill? You seem like a bright young lady.”

He wore that same smile of amusement he’d had in the Ceili House. He was mocking me again. I wanted to lash out at him, but I just stood there like an eejit with no tongue in my head. Most of the spinning frames had stopped as the workers turned to stare at me. I flushed red to my ears.

“Well, good-bye, Miss O’Neill,” Sheridan said at last, “lovely to see you again. Let me know if you have any more concerns.”

He walked away with Shields at his side. Then he turned and said over his shoulder, “Oh, and you have no need to thank me.”

And he was gone.

The women started in.

“Well, some of us have friends in high places, don’t we?”

“Little doffer’s a dark horse, isn’t she?”

“Will you put a good word in for me, love? I could tame a man like him.”

I didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. I suppose I was both. I was so sure that he had come to sack me that I couldn’t take in that I was still there. Shields was a different kettle of fish, though. I had earned no points with him at all. Finally I shouted back at the women who were cackling away at my expense.

“Look, all I told him was the truth, that we were drowning up to our arses here in this feckin’ water.”

There was silence for a minute, and then the laughter started, and a few of them even clapped their hands. “More power to you, darlin’. There’s not many would have the brass to speak up to the likes of him.”

Miss Galway came up behind me. “Back to your work,” she said sharply. She was not laughing with the rest of them.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. But I knew I had not heard the end of it. I would have to pay for causing Owen Sheridan to interfere with their operations. I would be labeled a troublemaker, and they would watch me like a hawk.

I BECAME A
regular with P.J. and the Ulster Minstrels at the Ceili House. My confidence as a fiddle player grew, and soon I was playing solos. I never saw Frankie there again after that first night, but Owen Sheridan appeared once in a while, always sitting near the back by the door. I did my best to avoid him. I couldn’t trust myself for what I might say to him and get myself in trouble again. I suppose I should have at least thanked him. He had arranged for splash boards to be installed on the spinning frames, and while they did little to ease the puddles of water on the floor, at least they stopped the spinners from getting drenched with the spray from the spindles. I earned the respect of the other women for speaking up, but Joe Shields and Miss Galway were spitting mad over my interference. I was not about to suggest any more improvements to Mr. Sheridan.