Patricia Falvey (33 page)

“Will you whisht, Theresa,” I interrupted her. “I don’t need to be giving you or anybody else a minute-by-minute account of my doings.”

Theresa pouted at being cut short midstream. She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’m only telling you—the walls have ears.”

“Aye,” I said.

We walked on awhile until it was time for Theresa to turn off for her street. She hesitated. “Tommy’s away to Donegal on a delivery. Will you come down for the tea?”

I looked at her. She was still looking away from me, but I could sense something in her voice besides satisfaction at her news. Loneliness, maybe? Her husband, Tommy, drove a delivery van for the mill and was often away overnight.

I thought about going home to my own empty house.

“I have to collect Aoife,” I said.

“Come down after, then,” she said, “and bring her with you.”

Theresa and Tommy had been married for two years, but there was still no sign of a child. I was surprised. All Theresa ever talked about was a family of her own. She would have six or more, she said, if God granted them to her. Well, apparently God was not in a giving mood when it came to that, no matter how many novenas her mother made. Her mother told her it was a cross to bear and seemed to take an odd satisfaction in Theresa’s misery. Twisted oul’ bat. I think she was happiest when there was misery about, for all the praying and kneeling that she did.

THERESA WELCOMED US
at the door of the tidy little house. You could eat off her floor, it was so spotless. I always had a twinge of guilt when I went in there, my own house being not as clean as it could be.

“The kettle’s on,” she said. “Sit yourself down. Why, hello, wee doll. How’s my lovely girl?” She bent and picked up Aoife, who gave me a look as much to say, “I’ll be able to get away with murder now. My aunt Theresa loves me.” She was right, of course. Theresa doted on the child. It broke my heart sometimes to watch her.

We sat down to bowls of savory stew, fresh bread, and hot tea. Theresa set everything out as you would see in a magazine.

“This is lovely, Theresa,” I said. “You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”

She smiled with pride. “Not at all,” she said. “Tommy and I eat like this every night when he’s home.”

I passed no remarks but ate and tried to stop Aoife from picking up her bowl of stew to drink from it. Later, we took our teacups and sat by the fire. Aoife sat on the floor, playing with a new doll Theresa had bought for her.

“I’m sorry, Theresa,” I said at last.

“What for?”

“For cutting you short that time—the time you asked about Queensbrook House.”

Theresa waved her hand. “Och, that! Sure I forgot about that weeks ago.”

I knew, of course, she still held it against me, but I smiled all the same. Theresa took her opening.

“But speaking of the Sheridans,” she said, “I just want to warn you, Eileen.”

Jesus Christ, I thought, would she never drop it? But I knew Theresa too well.

“Warn me about what, Theresa?” I said.

Theresa swallowed a drink of tea and straightened up in her chair. She was in her element. I sat back and waited.

“Well,” she said, “you know I’m not one for gossip, but it’s all over the mill about you and his nibs. Like I said, they know you went to his house, and yesterday you were seen meeting him up at the hospital, and afterwards he was seen escorting you home. The word is he goes to your house late at night and you let him in.” Theresa’s eyes were wide. “Is that true, Eileen?”

I shrugged. “If you’ve all these witnesses, then it must be,” I said sharply. “But you left out the times I was seen fornicating with him in the middle of the street outside the mill!”

My temper was gathering. These people would rather believe the lies, so what was the point in denying any of it? Theresa looked shocked.

“Don’t be talking like that, Eileen. Sure they’ll believe you.”

“I don’t care what they believe. Nosy oul’ biddies, the lot of them.”

Theresa drank some more tea. She looked at me solemnly.

“There’s them that’s saying you’re informing, Eileen. I know myself it’s not true, but you have to admit it looks suspicious. Captain Sheridan is in charge of a brigade of B-Specials.”

“And my husband is a known freedom fighter,” I retorted.

“Aye, right enough. But they’re saying you’re getting even on James for stealing your money and deserting you. Even Ma thinks that…”

“Who cares what that sick oul’ woman thinks!” I cried. “And how do they know about the money? Did you tell them?”

Theresa looked more than a bit frightened. “Why would I tell something like that on my own brother?” she cried. “It was Mary Dunn down at the post office told Maggie Sheehan, and she told—”

“Shut up, Theresa,” I shouted. “I want to hear no more of it.”

I was raging. Aoife looked up from her doll and started whimpering.

“You’ve frightened Mary Margaret,” said Theresa.

“Her name’s Aoife!” I snapped. “Anyway, we need to go. Thanks for the tea.”

“Any time.”

I pushed Aoife out the door, ignoring her screams. I rushed home as fast as I could, half carrying and half dragging the poor child by the arm. I needed to get into my house and close the door as fast as I could. What was wrong with all these people? Couldn’t an innocent body go about her business in peace? But underneath my anger, a small voice was telling me that I could not ignore them. Was I going to have to stop seeing Owen Sheridan? Not that I was one to let people tell me what to do. And not that I was afraid of any of them, I told myself. But I had better battles to fight than over the likes of him. I could get along without his company. Somehow, the thought left me feeling a little hollow.

I
went to the mill every morning, my head high, ignoring the stares and the gossip. I tried to make it up to Theresa for my bad temper. I bought her a lovely green scarf, but she sniffed and said she had enough scarves to hang herself with. I sighed and gave up. She was going to make me work to earn her forgiveness.

The nightmares about the Yellow House kept coming back. Not since I was a young child had so many ghosts haunted my dreams. But I was not a child anymore, and after a while I made up my mind to face them. One Sunday afternoon in April, I asked P.J. to take me up to Glenlea and the Yellow House. As we drove, Paddy sat up in the seat between me and P.J. He held Aoife on his knee. I looked down at them and smiled. Paddy was still a solemn lad. You would have thought Aoife would be too active for him, but something in his mild presence calmed her down. She sat peacefully staring out at the scenery around her. I followed the child’s gaze to the budding hawthorn bushes that lined the road, and a rush of memories, sad and joyful, flooded back to me. I wiped away a stray tear as I looked out over the fields and up at my beloved Slieve Gullion. She had draped herself once more in a cloak of bracken and adorned herself with wild blossoms.

“Look, Aoife,” I said, “look at the beautiful mountain.”

As we rounded the corner past Kearney’s pub, I stiffened my shoulders and straightened my back, preparing myself for the spike of pain my first sight of the house always brought. But the pain did not come. Instead, my mouth fell open in disbelief. Where had the ugly, charred skeleton gone? As we climbed the hill, I stared at the house. Surely I was imagining things. Maybe the clouds were distorting my view. But it was a clear, sharp day and there was no mistaking what I was seeing.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, will you look at that?” cried P.J.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” cried Aoife, clapping her hands.

“What’s happened, P.J.?” I whispered, afraid the vision would disappear. “Is it the ghosts playing tricks on us?”

P.J. let out a loud belly laugh. “If it’s ghosts, darlin’ girl, it’s the good ghosts.”

He pulled at the reins on the pony and jumped down from the cart and ran to the house, his arms outstretched as if to touch it. I sat in the cart and stared. The skeleton was gone. New walls had been built and whitewashed. The roof had been restored. New panes of glass glittered in the sunlight. Planks of fresh new wood were stacked in the front yard beside troughs of gravel and cement. Wheelbarrows stood in silent witness to the miracle that was under way. P.J. poked his head through a window and then stood back, his hands on his hips.

“It’s almost as good as new, darlin’,” he called.

By now, Paddy and Aoife had struggled out of the cart and were running toward the house. I could not bring myself to move, afraid I would break the spell. I crossed my arms on my chest and breathed deeply. Did I dare believe it? Och, Da, how could I have ever thought of giving up the dream?

After a while, P.J. escorted the children back to the cart.

“Will you not come and see it for yourself, Eileen?”

I shook my head, smiling. “No. It’s enough I can see it from here,” I whispered.

P.J. nodded. “Aye, a shock for you, love. A shock for all of us.”

“Frankie,” I whispered. “Frankie changed his mind. Thank God.”

P.J. gave me a sharp look as he climbed into the cart.

“How can you be sure it’s his doing, love?” he said.

I turned to him. “But it has to be,” I said.

P.J.’s face turned solemn. “He could have sold it, lass. This could be the work of a new owner.”

“No. No.” I shook my head firmly. “Da would never have let Frankie sell it.”

“But your da…,” began P.J.

“I know,” I snapped. “But he still talks to me, and I know he must talk to Frankie.” I shook my head. “Anyway, if it had been sold, we would surely have heard word of it, wouldn’t we? I mean, it would have been in the newspaper. Or someone would have told us.”

P.J. nodded. “You may be right, darlin’. But no one told us about the rebuilding, either. We’ll go in below and see what Shane Kearney knows.”

He turned the cart around and started down the hill. “No,” I said suddenly. “No. Leave us back to Newry and I’ll ride out and see Frankie. I want to thank him.”

P.J. gave me a queer look. I ignored it. I’m right, I thought, I must be right. Da would not see it sold to strangers. It was Frankie who’d had a change of heart.

IT WAS WITH
a light and glad heart that I rode my bicycle out to my grandfather’s farm later that same April Sunday. I rode fast as the wind past the lush hedgerows and wildflowers that lined the road. Like the late summer day so long ago when I had ridden this same road, I smiled and waved at old people and children out for their Sunday stroll. Even as I approached the massive stone wall that surrounded the estate, my heart did not sink. Instead, I flew through the open gateway like an excited child, my feet hardly touching the pedals.

As I approached the house, my mind recorded some changes. The broken bricks had been replaced, the flower beds were filled with rows of sweet violets and bluebells, and the shutters had been painted. I circled around the pathway and across the patch of grass toward the stables. As soon as I reached the courtyard, I jumped off my bicycle and laid it on the ground. I rushed toward a young lad of about thirteen who was coming out of a stable carrying a bucket of dung and a shovel. I had a vision of the last time I had seen my brother in this same exact place, and my heart was fit to burst.