Another Kind of Life (37 page)

‘Aye. You do that. You settle yerself in bed. I’ll wait up – I’ve a pile o’ mendin’ to finish, any road. I’ll bring ye tea when ye’re ready, so I
will.’

‘All right, then. Thank you, Mary. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Mary felt herself glow. Miss Hannah exasperated her at times, with her childishness, her inability to master even the simplest household task, and her complete uselessness at managing money. But
there was a core of warmth to the young woman to which Mary found it impossible not to respond. Her gratitude to Mary was heartfelt, simple – just like her view of life, Mary thought.
Everything was either good or bad, black or white; people were either worth knowing, or they weren’t. And the same Miss Hannah had just a little too much respect for people with money. Mary
thought that Miss May was a much more down-to-earth young woman, despite whatever unhappiness was troubling her.

Mary often thought that it was as well that Miss Hannah had never tried to live her life among all the shades of grey that settled around the Belfast she and Cecilia had known. Mr Charles was a
whole other kettle of fish, though. At home, he was easy-going to a fault, but he was nevertheless alert to all that was going on around him. He left the running of the household to the three
women, but the running of the world was a different matter. Mary served his breakfast in the dining room every morning, and had by now become used to his outbursts over his morning coffee. At
first, she had wondered why he bought so many newspapers – the
Belfast Telegraph
, the
News Letter
and the
Irish News
– as the contents of at least one of them
seemed to enrage him so much on a daily basis. He had shattered a teacup one morning recently in his fury over that morning’s headlines. Jabbing a finger at the masthead, he roared, not at
her, but to her: ‘What d’ye think of this outrageous bit of rubbish, Mary? The Irish “an inferior race, genetically incapable of ever being their own masters”?’

Mary froze. She managed so well with everyone – post office, tradesmen, church collections – that she knew he had no idea she couldn’t read. He had often complimented her on
her quickness with figures. But that morning, he understood her expression instantly, and his anger deflated at once. He reminded Mary of the way boiling milk seethed and then settled, once it was
taken off the range. He folded the paper abruptly.

‘Aye, well. That’s the sort of nonsense I must accept if I insist on buying the
Telegraph
, eh?’

She nodded, grateful.

‘Aye, sir.’

She understood his views, and they surprised her. He was one of the Catholics that used to make Father MacVeigh angry on occasion, wasn’t he? One of those who had escaped the fate of so
many others, one who got educated and then seemed to forget about everyone else who had been given no such chance? And yet, here he was, morning after morning recently, raging over what he read,
expressing views about the British Government that would not have been out of place anywhere on Carrick Hill. Maybe his years at sea had opened his eyes to the possibility of other existences less
blessed than his own. His view of the world was certainly more complex than that of his wife, and yet he doted on her.

His occasional sharpness to Miss Hannah recently about overspending had surprised Mary. She had thought there was no shortage of money. By observing Mr Charles closely, however, by listening
carefully to the suggestions he made to his wife, Mary believed she had a much clearer picture than Miss Hannah about the financial difficulties that seemed to be troubling him of late. He gave her
the impression of a man with a lot on his mind. Gradually, gently, Mary had taken over the management of the household money. Miss May had been a great help – she seemed to be a naturally
more frugal being than her elder sister. Together, although they never discussed it, they tried to teach Miss Hannah more careful ways, and bit by bit, Mary took over all the shopping and dealing
with tradesmen herself. They’d not try to pull the wool over her eyes, so they wouldn’t.

All in all, she knew she was lucky. She had good employers, people who were kind to her. She would not see them taken advantage of. If only she could be sure that Belfast was not going to erupt
again: Mr Charles’s bad temper over his morning paper was a bad sign. Her dreams of Cecilia were another: trouble was brewing again, she was sure of it.

Suddenly, Mary thought she heard the front door open. She stood up, letting the pile of mending on her knee slide to the floor. She walked out on to the landing and stood,
alert and listening. No sound from the bedroom; Miss Hannah hadn’t woken, at least. Nor had the child.

Mary tiptoed downstairs, her heart beating a little faster than usual. What could there be to be frightened of? It had to be Mr Charles – he had let himself in with his key, after all. But
that was unusual, too, for he rarely brought his key. He had his own signal, his own little tattoo which he would beat out gently with the door knocker, and wee Eileen would recognize it at once.
He would wait for Mary to let him in, scooping up his small daughter, making her squeal with delight as he carried her on his shoulders into the drawing room, back to her Mama.

Mary made her way now down the long corridor towards the kitchen. As she got closer, there was a faint but peculiar smell. She grew alarmed; it was like tar – was there something on fire?
She quickened her step and pulled open the kitchen door. In the almost complete darkness, she collided smartly with another body in the process of lighting his pipe.

‘Mr Charles!’

She couldn’t help it. Relief had made her tone accusing. How
dare
he frighten the life out of her.

‘Hush, Mary. Not a word now. I need some old clothes from you.’

She stood, staring at him stupidly, trying to make out his features.

‘Now, Mary; as a matter of urgency.’

There was no trace of mockery in his voice, none of his usual teasing humour. Instead, his tone was anxious, a little impatient. She turned at once and made her way towards the scullery. Bending
down, she pulled the basket of laundry out from under the sink. She would do as he asked, without question, almost hoping he would not explain. She did not want to have to keep anyone’s
secrets. She rummaged until she found a pair of trousers and a shirt, the same ones he had discarded just that morning. Wordlessly, she handed them to him. As he took them, she could see him more
clearly now, her eyes grown accustomed to the dim light.

His hands were almost covered with some dark, sticky-looking substance, his clothes spattered with what looked to be the same. Suddenly, she recognized the smell that had been puzzling her.
Bitumen. How could she have forgotten?

But Mr Charles was a grown man, a wealthy one – or, at least, a professional one. Surely he couldn’t be up to the same thing as all those youths from Carrick Hill? Daubing slogans
was hardly the occupation for a gentleman. And this week above all? Police would be all over the city like flies, keeping sharp lookout for anything that might disturb the dignity of the old
Queen’s send-off. Mary was shocked. She remembered the painted signs, scrawled on walls around where she and Cecilia had lived. ‘Home Rule Now!’ and ‘Self-Government for
Ireland!’ ‘Irish Parliament for an Irish people!’ Cecilia used to read them all to her, while Myles told them of the ones on the shipyard walls. Obscene ones about the Pope and
the horrors of ‘Rome Rule’. Was it really starting all over again? And had it now spread its tentacles to catch her out, just when she thought she was long enough and far enough away to
have escaped?

‘Leave me while I change, Mary. Then I want to talk to you.’

She nodded and left the kitchen at once. Her stomach turned with sudden nausea. She tried to reassure herself. God knows, Holywood was a good distance from Belfast, and divisions weren’t
quite so easily spotted here. Money and ease tended to cushion any differences which might exist, and the churches seemed to live together peaceably enough. But here was Mr Charles, ready to draw
ruination on all their heads if he continued to lose the run of himself. She was still trembling when he leaned out of the kitchen into the corridor and called her name softly.

She went at once.

‘Not a word of what you’ve seen tonight, Mary. Not to anyone, mind, particularly not to Miss Hannah.’

She nodded, finding it hard to swallow.

‘Aye, sir.’

He was rolling down his shirtsleeves, his hands and forearms red raw from where he had scrubbed them. Her stiff brush and the washing soda were still on the laundry sink.

‘If you can’t clean the clothes, tell me. I’ll dispose of them myself.’

He looked more closely at her.

‘Don’t be frightened, my dear. I promise you you’re safe here. I’ll not bring trouble to my own door.’

She nodded.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Do we understand one another?’

‘Aye, sir,’ she said again. It was all she could think of.

‘Good. Off you go, now.’

She fled. She knew she’d be able to clean the clothes, to remove all traces. Paraffin, brown paper and a well-heated iron. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the next time, and
the time after that. Mary was sure that the RIC didn’t come to homes like this with anything like the frequency they visited Carrick Hill. But still.

The whole thing made her uneasy. And she didn’t like keeping things from Miss Hannah. It looked as though a good night’s rest was going to elude her for some time to come.

H
OW
COULD
I ever have known what awaited me on that autumn morning when Mama and I set out for London? I still remember the day
as clearly as if it were yesterday. Dun Laoghaire harbour was bustling – there was an extraordinary sense of suppressed excitement, of delighted anticipation, on all the faces I saw around
me. My own experience of travel extended no further than the train journey between Dublin and Belfast. A sea voyage seemed much more daring to me, far more adventurous. No doubt my own frame of
mind influenced what I saw reflected in the expressions of others – but no matter.

The sea was flat calm, with that intense blue that comes only with the autumnal clarity of early September. I could feel my heartbeat quicken as the time came to board our ship. I know I felt
terrified that Mama would have forgotten something, that our tickets would not be valid, that our papers would, somehow, not be in order and I should be turned away. It was not an idle fear: Mama
had been most reluctant to permit my removal to London. She and Papa had had a rare moment of unanimity on the evening, some two months previously, when I had told them of my plans to study nursing
– and to do so at St Bartholomew’s, far away from home.

Mama’s face had gone quite white, and Papa had looked surprised, but, above all, irritated. It was as though I had disturbed his quiet existence, his comfortable assumptions that he had
finished with domestic upheaval in all its forms.

‘Nonsense, Eleanor,’ Mama said. ‘I shall never allow it. Nursing is no life for a young woman like you.’

My arguments in favour of what I had already decided were logical, reasoned: times were changing; the new century brought greater opportunities for all young women; I had a deep need to make
myself useful to others. I spoke quietly all the time, while my heart beat wildly in my chest. I knew that I was fighting for my life.

Papa had blustered at first, and then seemed to lose interest. But Mama had been more tenacious. During the following days and weeks, she moved from outright opposition to appeasement. There
were perfectly good nursing schools at home, she had claimed, in a tone which tried to be firm, but lurched instead towards desperation. I had to fight my instinct to feel sorry for her, to want to
make up to her for the sad emptiness of her life. She wanted me safely by her side in Dublin, to keep me close, now that my sisters had, as I believe she perceived it, abandoned her. Mama had
developed a slightly aggrieved air, an unconscious aura of martyrdom, which she wore like a veil. Through this gauzy filament she regarded her world, now blurred and distorted by maternal
disappointment: it was as though her children had treated her with nothing but unkindness.

I could not allow myself to be persuaded.

The fact that my escape had been organized methodically, deliberately, secretly, was an even greater blow to her. She could not claim that her youngest daughter had been seized by a sudden,
irresponsible flight of fancy; instead, she had to endure the painful process of accepting that I, the baby, had consciously chosen to leave her, to make my life elsewhere. In the weeks preceding
my departure, Mama suffered greatly. I know that. It is to her credit that, after her initial outburst, she never again threatened to withhold her official permission.

My sisters had both wished me well. Hannah pressed some money into my hands when Mama was absent from the room, and silenced my protests by putting her finger to my lips. May, on one occasion
when we were all together, had drawn me aside from the others, and warned me not to weaken.

I must do as my heart dictated; I must not let this opportunity pass. In truth, it was her words which gave me courage in the final days before departure.

I was a little disappointed that my first sea voyage was not more eventful. I remember thinking that it resembled a smooth, silent train journey: with a little more motion, certainly, but what
movement there was, was both gentle and soothing.

I insisted that Mama did not accompany me from our hotel to St Bartholomew’s on my first day. Perhaps I was cruel, but I could not bear for one moment longer to see her
quivering lip, her averted eye, her hand clutching at her throat. Every sigh of hers made me more determined to free myself from the shackles of family, or, more accurately, from those of my
parents. I ascended the carriage which was to take me to St Bartholomew’s, my trunk safely stowed, my travelling coat wrapped warmly around me. London was even colder than Dublin.