The House Children

by Heidi Daniele

  While walking to town the following day, I tried to teach Ryan different words. When I pointed to a horse pulling a cart on the street, he said, “Orse, orse,” and Mrs. Hanley and I clapped with excitement. That was when I decided to teach him to say “Peg.”

  Mr. Hanley watched as I sat with Ryan after supper, trying to get him to say my name.

  “Peg, he’s like a puppy, ya’ve gotta give em somethin ta get a response.”

  I had nothing to give him, so I made funny faces and clowned around to get his attention, all the while saying “Peg, say Peg.”

  It was during the third day of my visit when Ryan finally said, “Peg.”

  I was thrilled, and in an odd way, hearing him say my name made me feel special. I gave him a hug and a kiss, and it was obvious that the Hanleys were very impressed.

  Ryan napped every day after lunch for two hours, and during that time, I had Mrs. Hanley all to myself. I’d given up hope of living with them, but I still loved spending time with her, and dreamed about staying with them anyway.

  I was glad to see Granny when she came for her mid-week visit, but I’d noticed she kept calling Ryan the wrong name. Mrs. Hanley was very upset by this, and I was taken aback when she snapped at her mam.

  “Stop callin him Martin!”

  After Granny left, she told me that her mam forgets a lot of things lately.

  Mrs. Hanley sat on the bench in Eyre Square watching me walk Ryan around the park. I brought him over to the other children and they thought he was my little brother. One of the girls said he looked just like me, so I pretended to be his big sister.

  On our way back to the house, we walked along Forster Street, and I looked down the drive where a large wooden gate, between high stone walls, had been left ajar. There was a building that looked similar to the industrial school and I asked Mrs. Hanley about it. “Tis a home, but not fer children. The Maggies live there.”

  “Who are the Maggies?”

  “They’re women who work doin laundry fer the nuns.”

  “Is it an industrial school for adults?”

  She hesitated before answering me.

  “Somethin like that, but they haven’t got it as good as ye.”

  I was disappointed we didn’t see Delia and her daughters or go to the beach during this visit, but I still enjoyed myself. We went in to town frequently, and during one of our trips, Mrs. Hanley bought me a red purse, and Mr. Hanley put a shilling into it.

  In bed at night, I tried not to entertain thoughts about living with them, but it was a struggle. I wanted to live in this house and be part of this family. I wanted a normal, acceptable life. It would be perfect. I could be the big sister. I could help Mrs. Hanley around the house and watch Ryan. People would think we were really siblings with our matching hair and eyes.

  On Sunday morning in mass, I prayed to God, once again asking Him to let me stay. I was surprised at how sad I felt about leaving Ryan. From the window on the train, I waved goodbye and wondered if the little boy would miss me.

  When I returned to the industrial school, I hid my new purse under the clothing in my box and hoped the nuns wouldn’t take it. As I headed for the yard, Sister Constance stopped me in the hallway. She was giving instructions to a group of girls and told me to help them.

  On our way out to the barn, we had to pass the greenhouse, where Mathew Campbell stood in the doorway waving a big, fat, red tomato, trying to get our attention.

  “Who wants one? I’ve got plenty in here fer ya.”

  I was ready to run over, but one of the girls stopped me.

  “Don’t ya dare. He just wants ta kiss ya and get in yer hole.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’ll be wantin ta touch ya and get in yer pants.”

  Mr. Campbell was waiting for us with several pails of fresh milk lined up by the barn door. The pails were heavy and I was glad when we stopped for a break after passing the greenhouse. Two girls pulled tin cups out from under their clothes and filled them with the thick, fresh cream that floated to the top of their pails. Then they passed their cups around so each of us could do the same.

  “It tastes heavenly!”

  “Why don’t we get this in our cocoa?”

  “The nuns take the cream and give us the watery stuff at the bottom.”

  When we were done, I looked for Mary and Patsy in the yard, but they were nowhere to be found. At supper they told me that they’d jumped the gate and went into town again. Mary boasted about the good time they had.

  “We were running all over town and now I’m starvin.”

  “Well, I’m not that hungry because I had globs of cream today! Tis a shame ya missed it.”

  The following day, after completing our jobs, Sister Constance doled out extra assignments. Mary and I were sent to the creamery to help Sister Bernadette make butter. Fortunately, for me, Patsy was sent to clean the dorms, and I would have time alone with Mary. I mentioned my surprise that she’d taken such a risk going to town while Sister Constance was here; it was very unlike her. She didn’t respond. When we passed the greenhouse, I warned her about Mathew Campbell. Up ahead I could see Sister Bernadette waiting for us outside the creamery, a small stone building by the barn.

  Over the next few days, we churned gallons of milk into butter, paddled it, and then poured it into crocks and molds. It was hard work, and Sister Bernadette’s presence kept us from having a private conversation, but at least we were spending time together, without Patsy. The only time we were alone was when we had to haul wagons loaded with butter up to the convent. We’d stop after passing the greenhouse and pop a few pats into our mouths, savoring the rich, salty butter. I felt like this time together brought us closer again—so when we went to confession at Saint Michael’s on Saturday I was upset that she partnered with Patsy. I fell into line behind them with Erin. As the line of girls snaked through town, I watched the two of them ahead of me talking and laughing. When we turned onto Market Street, Erin nudged me and pointed up the hill toward Saint Grellan’s Terrace, a government housing development for poor families.

  “C’mon, let’s go see my mam.”

  Without thinking, I joined her running up the hill and through the maze of tiny houses. Her mother, a large, somber-looking woman, was sitting on a chair outside her front door. She struggled to her feet and gave Erin a big hug and a kiss. Then she turned toward me.

  “And who’ve we got here?”

  “This is Peg. She works with me in the convent.”

  “Ah, she’s just a wee bit of thing. What can she do?”

  “We’ve all gotta do jobs, Mam.”

  “I know, I know. God bless those Mercys. I know they’re not the most maternal women, but without em, many of ye wouldn’t have a roof over yer head or food in yer belly.”

  Our visit was short, and we raced back down the hill and into Saint Michael’s Square. Before entering the church, I asked Erin why she didn’t live with her mam.

  “No money,” said Erin. “Pa is in the asylum and my brothers took off ta America.”

  Mary was looking toward the door as we slipped inside and took a seat in the pew behind her.

  In September I was assigned to work in the convent kitchen helping Sister Rita. Mary was assigned to clean the sacristy behind the chapel, which happened to be right over the convent kitchen. She would call out my name, and I’d go to the window and look up to see her waving down at me. Sometimes when we walked back to the industrial school, I’d share the butter sandwich Sister Rita gave me each morning. When classes started, I began to hide the sandwich in the boiler room and eat it later in the day.

  Erin came into the kitchen daily to get breakfast for Father Doherty, which he ate in the parlor after saying morning mass. We’d chat a bit while Sister Rita loaded his tray.

  “Erin, yer so lucky ta be workin in the china press.”

  “I am. I can only hope I’ll be as lucky when Mother Bernard gives me my situation. I’ll die if she sends me ta Dublin or Galway! I�
�ve got ta stay close ta home ta check on my mam.”

  “I don’t know where I’d like ta go fer my situation, but I know I don’t want ta stay in Ballinasloe.”

  “Well, ya’ve got a few more years.”

  Sister Anthony, our Fifth Class teacher, told us about the starving children in Africa. She held up a plastic figurine of brown child wearing a red vest sitting on a box. We watched as she put a penny in the figure’s mechanical hand, which triggered it to rise and deposit the coin in its mouth.

  “For each penny you donate, I’ll give you a black strap.”

  Mary and I watched with envy as a few of the town’s children made their donation and then unraveled the long string of black licorice rolled into a pinwheel that they received for their good deed. Mary urged me to donate some of the money I’d gotten from Granny, but I said no.

  When the season changed and the cold weather arrived, we’d race over to the convent each morning and stop for a few minutes by the heater inside the rear convent door. It was unusual to see the kitchen door ajar.

  “Looks like Sister Rita burned somethin.”

  “It still smells good, whatever it is!”

  “She’s a good cook, sometimes she lets me taste things.”

  “Is she still givin ya butter sandwiches?”

  “Yes, but I eat em before I leave the kitchen. Someone found my hiding spot and has been takin em.”

  As I entered the kitchen, Sister Rita was about to step out, with a brown bag in her hand.

  “I’ll be back soon, Peg. I’ve got ta toss this burnt bit and then I’m goin ta talk ta Mother Bernard.”

  I cracked open the kitchen window and saw Sister Rita toss the bag into trash bin. As I filled my bucket with water, a commotion outside the window caught my attention. I looked out again, and saw Mary rifling through the trash bin and pulling out the brown bag. I watched her pop the charred bits of meat into her mouth.

  Later that day, I asked her about it.

  “How long have ya been takin food from the trash bins?”

  “Since I’m workin in the sacristy. Sometimes I’ll find a few half-eaten buns, and they’re good as new. They’re a lot better than porridge.”

  I couldn’t believe she hadn’t told me about this, and then it dawned on me.

  “Mary, do they taste better than a butter sandwich?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I t was a Saturday morning and I’d just finished cleaning the tables when Mother Bernard appeared at the kitchen door.

  “You’ve got a letter, Peg,” she said, handing me a white envelope.

  I tucked it in my waistband and ran back to the industrial school and into one of the toilet stalls for privacy. It was the first piece of mail I’d ever received.

  The front of the envelope read, Mary Margaret Joyce c/o Saint Thomas Industrial School, Society Street, Ballinasloe, Ireland, with a green postage stamp in the upper right corner. On the back flap was Mrs. Hanley’s name and address. The envelope had already been opened. I carefully removed the Christmas card and opened it. A shilling was taped above a short note.

  December 17, 1947

  Dear Peg,

  We are thinking of you during this Christmas Holiday and wishing you well. Hopefully, we will have a better winter than last year.

  The new year will be bringing us an addition to the family, as we are expecting another child. Ryan is growing like a weed and he doesn’t seem like a baby anymore. He’s become quite a hand full, with lots of energy and the gift of the gab, much like his father.

  Granny recently hurt her back. The doctor has given her tablets for pain, but she doesn’t always remember to take them. Please put her in your prayers.

  We are looking forward to seeing you again next summer.

  Love, Norah Hanley

  I rubbed the shilling between my fingers and reread the card several times before putting it back in the envelope. The news of a new baby was upsetting. I’d carried hope since the summer that Mr. and Mrs. Hanley might like to have a sister for Ryan, and that could be me. Another baby would take up more space in the house and more of Mrs. Hanley’s time and attention.

  My distress was obvious, and Mary asked me what was wrong. I handed her the card, which she read and then gave to Patsy. Patsy read the card and then asked me if Norah Hanley was my relation.

  “No, I just visit her in the summer. I don’t have any relations.”

  “Well, ya gotta have relations! Ya didn’t come from nowhere, at the very least ya’ve gotta have a mam! And look, she signed it love. That means somethin.”

  That night Patsy’s words replayed over and over in my mind. I guess I never wanted to think about it. It was easier to accept that I was alone, without family. The truth was, I wanted to have family. Even if my mam had died or was in a hospital or an asylum, I had to have other relations. Why wouldn’t they come for me? As I cried myself to sleep I quickly realized why I avoided thinking about it.

  I wasn’t aware Sister Rita was watching me as I scrubbed the tables in the nuns’ refectory.

  “Peg, is somethin at ya?”

  I put my rag down, sat in one of the chairs, and began to cry. She came over and sat down beside me.

  “Peg, tell me dear, what’s botherin ya?”

  I sat for a few minutes, debating whether or not to ask her. Finally, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Sister Rita, do ya know who my mam is?”

  She sighed and patted my head.

  “Ah Peg, I’m so sorry. Yer an illegitimate, ya’ve got no family.”

  “But I still have ta have a mam.”

  “Well yes, that’s true, but it’s not the same. Ya were born from an act of sin.”

  “Sin? Am I goin ta hell?”

  “Oh Peg, when yer born out of wedlock, ya’ve got no family. But don’t ya worry yerself, Peg, the Lord is very forgivin.”

  Mary, Patsy, and I huddled together in the yard, trying to generate some heat.

  “I asked Sister Rita about my mam. She says I’m an illegitimate.”

  Mary gasped. “What are ya, an egit? Ya don’t ask a nun a question like that!”

  Patsy nodded. “My mam used ta say all the girls in the industrial schools are orphans. I don’t think yer supposed ta say yer an illegitimate because people’ll be looking down on ya.”

  The desire to know my roots was building, even if I was an illegitimate. I had to have relations of some kind and began to wonder if I had a connection with the Clearys. I hoped I didn’t. The Clearys were not nice people.

  Surely Mrs. Cleary knew who my family was, and may have told Mrs. Hanley. I’d asked Mrs. Hanley once, but she said she didn’t know. Would she lie to me?

  Over the next few months I obsessed about my mother, the woman who named me Mary Margaret Joyce. I tried to recall my past, but my memories were vague. My encounters with people other than the Clearys were rare. I didn’t attend Infants Class in school or go to church, and the only visitors were a neighbor, Mr. Lally, and Mrs. Hanley. I recall Mrs. Hanley being very kind to me during her visits. She’d bring me little gifts of sweets or hair clips. As I muddled over my memories, I was unsure if they were accurate or fantasy; but I couldn’t help but feel Mrs. Hanley may have a connection to me. It was as if she’d been keeping tabs on me. Could I be her daughter? No, she has a family. Surely, she’d take me in if I was her daughter.

  In July, I sat on the train thinking of ways to bring up the subject about my mam and any relations I might have during my visit. Mary and Patsy advised me not to bring it up, especially since I was an illegitimate. Mary also warned me that if Sister Constance found out, I’d get a whippin.

  Mrs. Hanley was waiting for me at the station. Ryan stood beside the pram where his new baby sister, Rachel, slept soundly. Rachel was beautiful. She looked like a doll, and now the Hanleys had a daughter. I smiled and told Mrs. Hanley she was lovely, but inside I felt sad they had a little girl. I wanted to be their daughter.

  At the house, Ryan
clamored for my attention, and I took him into the yard so he wouldn’t wake the baby. During supper, Mrs. Hanley told me she appreciated that I looked after Ryan all afternoon. He was a handful, and I was exhausted. Thankfully Mr. Hanley paid him lots of attention after supper. I cleared the plates and scrubbed the pots, so Mrs. Hanley could tend to Rachel.

  Since Rachel slept in the pram, Ryan shared the bed with me. He even moved in his sleep, twisting and turning, but I was so tired that I fell asleep quickly anyway. In the morning, I eased out of bed, trying not to wake him. I offered to make the bread while Mrs. Hanley cooked the porridge. She glanced over at me while I kneaded the dough and said I was doing a very good job.

  Delia came over for a visit later in the day, and I was disappointed her girls weren’t with her. Mrs. Hanley invited me to join them for tea, but after I sat down, Ryan ran circles around the table. I drank and ate quickly and then took him out to the yard, so they could have a peaceful visit.

  That evening Mrs. Hanley told me her sister, Hannah, and her two sons were here in Ireland for a few weeks. They were staying with Granny, and would be in for a visit with her on Wednesday.

  I was feeding Rachel a bottle when Granny came into the house, and a modern-looking woman carrying two large shopping bags walked in behind her. As Mrs. Hanley embraced her sister, two boys, not much bigger than Ryan, barreled into the kitchen and almost knocked over the pram. Before Mrs. Hanley could greet them, they grabbed Ryan and ran out into the yard. Mrs. Hanley took Rachel from my arms for her sister to admire and then placed her back in the pram.