Friends Indeed

by Rose Doyle

  'You do.' I would have agreed to anything she asked of me. I put a shawl about myself and left, running as well as I could for Eccles Street and Dr Daniel Casey.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sarah

  I ran and I prayed.I prayed Dr Casey would be at home and would come with me. I prayed that Beezy might not lose too much blood and live. That my baby might not be harmed by the shock and my journey. I even prayed for the immortal soul of William Fleming. God was listening to at least the first of my prayers. Daniel Casey was at home and came with me at once, hiring a horse cab. I told him only that Beezy had been wounded in a fight. He was gentle, telling me to be calm for the sake of my baby, that he would look after things. He even tried to persuade me to stay in his lodgings for the night but I would have none of it. Beezy would need someone to care for her. William Fleming's body was gone from the floor of the hallway. There was a rug covering where it and his blood had been. Beezy was on a chair in the kitchen with a red-soaked pad to her face. Mary Adams, full of efficiency, had water boiling and was tearing up a sheet for bandages. The other women were nowhere to be seen. 'I'm glad to see you, Dr Casey.' Beezy drank from a bottle of whiskey in her lap. It was almost empty. I’ll need stitching.' she hesitated. 'Am I destroyed altogether?' She meant her looks.

  ‘I’ll do the best I can to see that you're not. I'll use a fine linen,' Dr Casey gently examined what the bottle had done to her face, ‘I’ll make the sutures fine as possible but you'll be marked. In time it won't be so bad. You've lost a great deal of blood. Do you feel weak?'

  'I don't know what I feel.' Beezy raised the bottle. 'The best medicine there is.' She tried a smile but the effort was too much. 'Do it now before I fall asleep,' she said, then closed her eyes and gripped the arms of the chair as he began. 'Tell me again about how the marks will be . . .'

  Daniel Casey, working with infinite care, didn't answer for a while. The cut was jagged, and half-moon-shaped, and the blood stopped running as he stitched.

  'You'll have red weals but in time they'll become white.' He stepped back. 'They should be subtle enough.'

  'What sort of time are you talking about?' Beezy opened her eyes. Her face was a patchwork, and bloodstained. She was an old woman.

  'Six months. Maybe a year.'

  'I'll have starved to death by then.' Beezy took a long slug from the bottle. 'May the man who did this and all who belong to him rot in hell.'

  'Who did it, Beezy?' the doctor asked.

  'I don't know,' Beezy said.

  Dr Casey knew better than to persist. 'You'll recover, Beezy, but the wound needs to heal.' He placed gauze over his stitching. 'You must have peace and rest and eat well for at least a week or two.'

  'It would be very bad for me to be seen like this,' Beezy agreed.

  'Is there some quiet place you can go?' the doctor said.

  'She'll be quiet enough here.' Mary Adams spoke for the first time. 'I'll look after her. You've done what you were brought here for. You'd best be going.'

  Daniel Casey looked at her in silence for a minute. He turned back to Beezy. 'A man who did a thing like this might come back,' he said. 'Will you talk to the police?'

  'The man is gone and he won't be back,' Beezy was curt, 'he was unknown to any of us here. It's over and done with.' She touched the gauze. 'There's none of us would know him again. But you're right that it would be better for me to go away. I'll go to the nuns for a week. It'll give them another chance to try saving my soul.' Her smile flickered again, and failed again.

  'I won't let you go from me. I'll care for you here.' Mary Adams threw herself on her knees in front of Beezy. 'I'll be better to you than any nuns.'

  'I couldn't rest here. There'll be comings and goings . . .' Beezy paused. 'It's best that I'm not here, on show with a wounded face. Bernie will look after things. It'll only be for a week. I'll be strong enough then to come back. The worst will be over by then too.'

  'I don't want you to go,' Mary begged and clutched at Beezy's arm, 'I want you to stay with me.'

  'I'll take you there now.' Dr Casey stepped between them and helped Beezy out of the chair, 'Sarah, pack some clothes for Miss Ryan. Let her go now, there's a good woman,' he prised away Mary Adams' hand, 'she's not strong enough for this.'

  'Tell him to go, Beezy, tell him you're staying…'

  'That's enough, Mary.' Beezy, brushing her aside, was harsh. She stood leaning on Daniel Casey. 'Sarah, see that this place is still standing when I get back. It's all I have between me and a pauper's grave. There's no need for you to know where I'll be. There's no need for anyone who comes looking for me to know either. Tell them I'm gone to a dying relative.'

  She came with me to pack her things and, when it was done, got into a carriage with Dr Casey and rolled away.

  I went into the yard behind the house and got sick. When I felt better I lay on my bed and tried to put visions of the man who'd been murdered out of my mind. It wasn't easy.

  I knew his body had been taken away by Beezy's henchmen. That Bernie and the other girls had cleaned up the bloody evidence. I knew there would be an investigation, that the police would come. And I knew that not a person in the house, nor in the whole of North King Street, would ever talk about what had happened.

  I never once thought about going to the police myself. I'd lived too long in the tenements, where people had to make their own justice. There would be no justice for Mary Adams at the hands of the police. She would spend the rest of her misfortunate life in the notorious Newgate prison or the madhouse. There would be no justice either for Beezy if the police were told, only ruin for her and her girls.

  And there would be no justice for me, and no pity for my baby.

  The police came anyway. Three days later. Bernie let them in and Bernie spoke to them. She denied everything. Carriages came every evening to deliver tall men in top hats, she said. They didn't give their names and they left after conducting their business. She'd never heard of a William Fleming, couldn't say whether such a person had ever been to the house or not. She told them Beezy was visiting a sick relative.

  The rest of us agreed with every word she said. Not a person in North King Street said anything different.

  The word on the street, though not for the police to hear, was that William Fleming wasn't greatly lamented by his family, who were bankers. He was childless and his wife was not inclined to spend much effort on a search for her missing husband. I thought the worst that could happen had happened, that it was over. I was wrong. Justice would have its terrible day.

  The only man to come near the kip house that week was Dr Casey. He listened to my baby's heart with his stethoscope and asked me a lot of questions. He told me I was lucky to have such good health and that my baby was fine.

  Mary Adams wandered about the house, day and night, mad-eyed and babbling to herself.

  'She'll have to go,' Bernie Cole decided near the end of the week, 'there's not a customer will come near the place as long as she's here. She's a lunatic and there's no living with her.'

  That night Bernie and the other women dressed themselves

  and went into the streets for business. Mary Adams wouldn't go with them.

  'If the mountain won't come to us then we must go to it,' Bernie declared as she threw a yellow fur about her neck, 'for the wolf must be kept from the door.' She laughed at her own wit as she went off into the street.

  'May they never return,' said Mary Adams as the door closed.

  It was a curse. I never saw any of them again and the next I heard of Bernie she was dead.

  Mary followed me to the kitchen where I was making bread. 'There's just the two of us now,' she said, 'just the two of us alone.'

  This was more than she'd said to me in days. I measured flour and salt. 'For a while anyway,' I said, 'until the others come back.'

  I was frightened. Only six days before this woman had beaten a man to death with a poker. I abandoned the bread-making. 'I'm tired,' I said, 'I think I'll go to m
y bed early.'

  'Bed's the best place for you,' Mary Adams agreed with a smile.

  I lay on the bed thinking about where I could go if I left Beezy's house. There was nowhere. Allie would be at home now and the dispensary closed. I was less prepared than ever to be a laundress in a Magdalen convent, to have my child taken from me at birth by the nuns. But even if I'd had an option I felt honour-bound to stay in Beezy's house, keep it in some sort of order until she came back.

  I was asleep when the fire started. I would have been burned alive were it not for Mary Adams insane need to be boastful about what she had done.

  'I've put an end to it all,' her hand on my shoulder and voice in my ear, shouting, woke me. 'Fire cleanses. You thought you would take Beezy from me but she'll know now I was the one to save her. I have cleansed this house of all that has happened here and she will thank me.'

  'What have you done?' I fell from the bed. The smell of smoke was everywhere. When I got to the door I could hear crackling too. 'You've set fire to the place . . .'

  ‘Fire drives out fire. All of the filth and evil will be driven away. Beezy will be free.' She left my room and went into the kitchen, clapping her hands and laughing. She was wearing a white shift and I had never seen anyone so beautiful, nor so mad.

  I followed her. The crackling was like a forest burning when I got to the hallway. Mary Adams was climbing the smoke-filled stairs.

  'We must get out of here, Mary, come down!' The smoke burned my throat as I screamed at her.

  'Fire cleanses,' she cried again, 'we will all be cleansed by fire.'

  She reached the landing and opened the door to Beezy's room. The smoke which billowed out was black and dancing with flames. She laughed as she walked into and died in the inferno she'd started.

  I could have died then, too, if Beezy's henchmen, roaring and half-drunk, hadn't thrown the front door open and been brave enough to pull me from what, within minutes, became a burning hell. They fought the blaze until dawn but by then I was with Beezy.

  Once out of the house I sent for Dr Casey, who came immediately.

  'I must tell Beezy what's happened,' I said, 'and I must have shelter for myself and my baby.'

  He took me to where Beezy was staying in a Magdalen convent in Drumcondra. We met and talked in a long, high corridor, sitting on a polished bench. Nuns passed silently by.

  'It wouldn't have happened if I was there,' she said, 'I knew how to keep Mary from becoming light-minded. I'm not blaming you, Sarah.'

  She put an arm about my shoulder, briefly. The stitches were still covered with a gauze and she was puffy-eyed but she seemed strong enough otherwise, and upright.

  'I'm just saying what's true. I might have been better to leave her in the gutter when I found her there. She might have caused less harm. But we'll never know that.'

  She was quiet for a while and I let her be. When she'd thought things through she said, 'Mary lit that fire when the others were out. She came then to warn you. She didn't intend killing anyone but herself.'

  I hadn't thought of this but it was probably true.

  'Wait for me here,' Beezy stood. 'I must consider what's to be done.'

  She walked away from me. I sat there, for maybe an hour, waiting for her to come back. It was very cold in the corridor. But it was quiet and the nuns didn't bother me and I felt safe. I don't know where Beezy went. She may even have gone to pray. Whatever, she came back full of purpose.

  'I've made a plan. There's a place for you in it too so you'll need to understand how things stand.' She took my arm. We walked up and down, slowly, while she talked. 'There will few to mourn Mary Adams. There will be a commotion but the landlord has insurance so it won't be too great. Even so, it would be better if I was gone for a while, out of Dublin. The girls will have to fend for themselves, and so will you.'

  'I'll go to the Curragh . . .'

  'You'll go to the Curragh all right, but not yet. I brought my few jewels and money here with me.' When I showed surprise she gave a short laugh. 'Did you think I'd be foolish enough to leave all I have between me and the workhouse where a band of whores might lay their hands on it?'

  'I didn't think about it at all,' I said.

  'I pay the nuns for my keep,' she said, 'I prefer it to working in the laundry. I had enough of that as a child.' She shrugged and put a hand to her sore face. 'This is the convent I grew up in after my mother died. I'm a disappointment to the sisters but they'd never turn me away. They are forgiving, and so am I. They serve the God of Mammon too, just as I do. They will take you into the laundry to work until your time comes.'

  'They cannot have my child. I'd rather go now, take my chances . . .'

  'Are you mad? You would run around the countryside in the black winter with your belly swollen like that? Where will you

  birth your child if you don't find your man? If the army won’t recognise you?'

  'I'll find lodgings and a midwife,' I said, ‘I’ll pay for it with the money you owe me.'

  But I knew she wouldn't give it to me and I was right.

  'You won't get a penny out of me for such stupidity.' Beezy waved a dismissive hand. 'We will both stay here until your baby comes. Then we'll both go to the Curragh. I've heard tell of women who live in huts they've made themselves on the plains. There's a woman I know living there . . .' Beezy paused but said nothing more about this woman. 'They're known as Bushwomen and some of them do business with the soldiers. When my face heals I'll do a bit of business too. We'll leave when you have your baby. I'll arrange it. The Bushwomen will give you and the infant shelter until you find and set up with your soldier.' She took my arm. 'Come with me now.'

  I followed her through a door at the end of the corridor, into the grey rooms of the convent. Somewhere in the distance I heard nuns' singing. My soul, for several minutes, was quiet.

  'In the autumn, when my face is healed, I'll go to America,' Beezy said, 'there's ships going every week from Londonderry. I'll get myself a passage on one of them and go for New York. If your soldier fails you I've money that'll pay for a ticket for you and the child too.'

  'He won’t fail me.

  'You don't know. We don't know anything, you and me, about our futures,' Beezy said, 'but we can plan.'

  I slept that night in a high, narrow dormitory with twenty other women. In the morning I went to work for my keep in a stone-built, steam-filled room, boiling and wringing sheets and towels.

  I'd joined the women of the Magdalen laundry, something I'd sworn never to do.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Allie

  'It was one of the most debauched events ever held in this city. Decent people still talk about it with disgust.' My mother gave a tasteful, shivering indication of her own revulsion. 'Alicia cannot be allowed to attend. It's not even something I care to discuss.'

  For the first time that winter my mother had got out of her bed early to breakfast with my father and me. The Roomkeepers' Ball was the only subject she'd discussed since joining us.

  'I've agreed to go . . .' I began.

  My mother crashed her cup loudly into its saucer. She glared at my father. 'I don't know what your friend Mr Ned Mulvey was thinking about when he invited her,' she said, 'the idea is entirely inappropriate.'

  'He's attending for his mother's sake,' I said, 'and wanted a partner. There's nothing inappropriate in that.'

  'And you were the only person in the city of Dublin that he could think to ask? Don't be ridiculous.' My mother, who hadn't actually looked at me yet, did so now. I'd have preferred not to face her cold dislike so early in the morning. 'You put yourself in the way of his invitation. You seem intent on living your life on the improper edge.' She gave another shiver of distaste. 'Is there no end to your brazen behaviour? You continue in that dispensary and insist on a ridiculous loyalty to that strumpet Sarah Rooney . . .'

  'Sarah's not a strumpet.'

  I saw no point in saying more. The terrible events in Sarah's life had separated us and
I hadn't seen her since she'd taken refuge in a Magdalen convent a week before. But I would.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Ned,' my father said as he finished the last of his fish with energy, 'his mother is one of the organisers of the Roomkeepers' Ball. He assures me that steps have been taken and that there won't be a repeat of last year's scandal.'

  'You will allow her to go then?' My mother looked disbelieving. 'It will destroy what good name she has left, Leonard. She'll be on our hands forever, with a reputation that will repel any decent man.' She picked up and put down a piece of toast. 'This whole business has destroyed my appetite.'

  'You well know, Harriet,' my father stole a quick glance at the wall clock, 'that the Roomkeepers' Society is a fine and worthy one and that it's in their interest not to have a repeat of last year's carry-on. Edith Mulvey's presence on the committee should be enough to assure you of that.'

  He would have left the table if my mother, with a hissing intake of breath, hadn't stopped him. 'You will not leave, Leonard,' she said, 'until we have resolved this business.'

  'Alicia may go. It's resolved.' My father pushed back his chair. 'Now I must leave. I've got business to attend to.'

  'If Alicia goes to the Roomkeepers' Ball then the very least we can do, as responsible parents, is go along too.' My mother gave a resigned sigh. 'She needs to be supervised. We will all go together, the four of us.' Appetite regained, she picked up her toast.

  'You know I don't enjoy these events,' my father was querulous, 'she'll be perfectly safe with Ned.'

  'The Lord Lieutenant has agreed to go,' my mother said.

  My father grunted, looked at the clock again, cleared his throat. 'Since it means so much to you,' he sighed and walked to the door, 'then we'll go. But I don't want to hear another word about it.'

  My mother and I finished our breakfast in silence.

  Things didn't work out quite as my mother intended. Her

  plan that we should all go together to the ball was changed when Ned Mulvey called for me in a carriage a full half-hour before the agreed time. He wore an evening suit with scarlet lining and a scarlet waistcoat. His necktie was red too, with a black stripe. He looked like a magician and I wondered if that was his intention. Beside him my father looked like a gouty parish priest.