“And the girls hardly ever get out,” I said, “unless they’re thrown out on the street because they’re too old or too insane to work. Like poor oul’ Mad Biddy—you know your one who goes up and down Hill Street dressed in black and cackling like a goose?”
Grainne shivered. “I’d kill myself before I’d go into a place like that.”
We sat in silence for a while.
“So you heard all?” I said.
“Aye.”
“And what d’you think?”
“Patsy should have taken care of herself better. All the Yanks have condoms.”
I looked at Grainne with a new respect. For all Patsy’s loud mouth and confidence, this fourteen-year-old girl could take care of herself better than Patsy any day of the week.
“Aye. Sure I warned her that if something happened he’d never marry her. Men are all the same. I’d never let myself be caught in a pickle like that.”
“She’s not the only one,” said Grainne. “At school they’re always talking about this one or that one’s sister who’s up the pole. Ever since the soldiers came it seems as if half the girls in the town are in the family way.”
I almost laughed out loud at the face of her—she was like an oul’ woman. You could almost forget she was still just a child.
“I suppose we should be a wee bit sorry for them, just the same,” I said. “Poor things, they’re just looking for a way out of this place like the rest of us. Some of them will be lucky enough to get the boy to marry them. I’m sure Ollie would not see Kathleen stranded. But the Yanks…”
“Ursula Fearon at school says there was a Yank wanted to marry her sister, Brea, but the army brass found out she was pregnant and told the priest to refuse to marry them.”
“What?”
“It’s true. She says anytime a soldier wants to marry a girl the first thing they do is examine her to see if she’s in the family way. And even if she’s not, they look into her background to see if she’s from a decent family and not just using the soldier to get away from poverty. And most of the time they decide she won’t do.”
“Who looks into them?” I said, astonished.
“The likes of your friend Mary McAteer’s ma and her cronies. And the local magistrate, and the army brass, and the priests. They’re all in on it. It’s a rare girl gets accepted. Unless she’s from money the odds are against her.” Grainne paused for breath. “You’d think every girl in the North was a bloody whore.”
I was astounded not only about what Grainne was telling me, but the fact that she knew more about the way things were than even I did.
“So if a Yank wanted to marry Mary McAteer I suppose she’d pass with flying colors,” I said.
Grainne laughed aloud. “Aye. But who’d be after asking her?”
Chapter 14
Joel came back at the end of May, He’d been away again, he said, on assignment. I didn’t ask what he’d been doing—I didn’t much care—but I was delighted he was back. I invited him to go with me the next Sunday evening to the Flagstaff. Starting in early May and on through the summer months it was tradition for people from Queensbrook, Newry, and elsewhere to bicycle to the Flagstaff of a Sunday evening to hear music and dance. Some even walked, strolling with their children, carrying picnic baskets. It was an innocent ritual, a celebration of summer and music and life itself.
We drove down in Joel’s car and parked on the Lower Fathom Road near the river. Joel opened the boot and took out a leather case. I was stunned.
“Is that a fiddle?” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, I play it once in a while. Thought I might try it out here.”
I was delighted. “You’re a man full of surprises,” I said.
We walked on up the hill towards the summit. Everyone was in good form, shouting and talking and laughing. On the top of the hill there was a broad flat stone where the musicians set up and where people danced. Others had brought blankets and spread them out on the grass. Everywhere the whin bushes bloomed with glorious golden flowers. Boat horns sounded once in a while from the lough in the distance and evening church bells rang out. It was still light, and would be for a while. I looked around to see if Gavin was about. I was certain he would be there—I knew the Ashgrove was in port. I had decided to give up worrying about what would happen if he and Joel met up. And anyway, Gavin had his own fish to fry what with a new girlfriend and all the rest of it. Things were no longer the same between us and it was time for me to accept it.
I pulled Joel down to sit on my favorite stone bench and we opened a couple of bottles of beer we had brought. I stretched out my legs and looked around. The place was filling up. Children ran past us, laughing and screaming. Some of my neighbors from Queensbrook nodded in our direction. Suddenly I felt sorry for Ma sitting home in a bad mood—she would have loved being here. A few soldiers appeared, both Yanks and Welsh, and I prayed there’d be no repeat of the shenanigans at the Ceili House. But the atmosphere here was different, more relaxed and civilized.
A Belgian military band set up and played a few lively tunes. I had seen them before down at the Castle ballroom. They were brilliant musicians and very popular with the locals. While they were playing Joel got up and walked over to the edge of the grass to look down at the view. I watched him, imagining his pleasure.
The Belgian band finished their set and the Irish musicians climbed up on the stone and slapped the Belgians on the back. Eileen O’Neill, a famous fiddle player from South Armagh, was among them, and I knew we were in for a treat.
“She’s the best there is,” I whispered to Joel, who had returned to sit with me. “Just wait until you hear her.”
Eileen was a tall, imposing woman. She wore her hair in a long braid that fell down her back. Word was she had glorious red hair when she was young. Now it was flecked with gray, but she was still a handsome woman. As her music danced through the air, Joel let out a low whistle.
“Amazing,” he said. “Now I’m not sure I want to follow that.”
He stroked his fiddle case, which lay across his knees. “I’m a bit rusty,” he murmured to himself.
“I’m sure you’re fine,” I said. “Where did you learn to play?”
“What? Oh, my dad was very accomplished. Played with the Cleveland Orchestra when he was young. He gave it up when he had a family. Couldn’t live on what a violinist was paid. But he loved the instrument. He taught my brother and me to play when we were quite young.”
He stared off into the distance as he spoke. I patted him on the arm.
“You’ll be grand,” I whispered. “I’ll just go and ask them to give you a chance later.”
I got up and made my way towards the makeshift stage on the big stone and gave one of the musicians Joel’s name. As I turned I found myself looking at Gavin. Even though I was expecting to see him, it was still a shock. I was at a sudden loss for words. I nodded to him and kept walking.
When Gavin took the stage I nudged Joel. “That’s my friend, Gavin, I was telling you about,” I whispered.
Gavin did not play an instrument, but he had a fine tenor voice. The crowd grew silent in anticipation. I held my breath as he began to sing. His voice always made me tremble. He began with a song called “Isle of Innisfree,” the words of which had been written by his favorite poet, William Butler Yeats. You could have heard a pin drop. Even the children stopped playing and listened. When he was finished the crowd clapped loudly and called for more. He bowed and then whispered something to the musicians. I recognized the strains of the next song immediately. It was called “My Lovely Rose of Clare,” and Gavin had sung it to me often, because my middle name was Rose. During the first song he had been looking out towards the lough, but now he looked directly at me. I smiled back until I realized he was not looking at me at all. He was looking at someone behind me. I swung around and there sat the fair-haired girl I had seen with him at the Ceili House. She smiled at me.
“He’s singing for me,” she said. “My name is
Rosaleen. Isn’t he grand?”
I turned back to Joel without answering her.
Gavin finished singing and when the applause died down the bandleader introduced Joel.
“And now will you give a hand of applause to Joel Solomon here who’s going to give us a couple of tunes on the fiddle.”
There was polite applause and I nudged Joel to get up.
“Go on!” I said.
He and Gavin nodded at each other as Joel climbed up on the rock and Gavin stepped down. Gavin strode past me and sat down with Rosaleen. Joel nodded shyly towards the crowd. He took out his fiddle and tuned it for what felt like an eternity. The crowd was beginning to lose interest. I wished he would hurry up. I was suddenly nervous. God, I thought, I hope he can play.
At last he tucked the fiddle under his chin and the first few notes danced out into the evening air. He played a lively tune that sounded like gypsy music. As he gathered steam, people began to clap and cheer. Children jumped up and started dancing like wild things. I clapped along, aware of Gavin behind me. Joel played faster and faster and the children spun around until they were dizzy. Soon everyone on the hill was clapping or tapping to the music. It was infectious. The music reached a crescendo, Joel’s bow flying over the strings and his long fingers dancing on the neck of the fiddle. He played so fast and hard I thought the strings would break. Sweat covered his forehead and his eyes were closed. When he stopped the music seemed to carry on. It was a second or two before we realized it was over. People jumped to their feet and called for more. Joel bowed and gave them a shy smile.
I couldn’t resist a look at Gavin. His jaw was rigid as he stared at Joel.
Joel said nothing but picked up the fiddle again and this time played a slow air I had never heard before. It sounded like a lullaby you would sing for a child. The sweet, plaintive notes sent shivers through me. My God, he was amazing. There wasn’t a sound out of the crowd. They watched mesmerized, some hugging their children to them. When the music faded and stopped they stood and cheered even louder than before. Joel bowed deeply and stepped down off the stone without saying a word.
I jumped up and gave Joel a hug. “You were brilliant!” I cried.
Joel smiled and sat down. At that minute Eileen O’Neill came over, and Joel jumped back up. She was as tall as he was and she smiled as she shook his hand warmly.
“You’re a fine fiddle player, young man,” she said. “One of the best I’ve heard.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Joel.
“You know, anytime you want to play with us down at the Ceili House just come in. You’d be very welcome.”
Joel smiled. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said again. “It would be a great honor.”
She left and I stood up. It was now or never. I turned around.
“Gavin, this is Joel Solomon,” I said. “Joel, this is Gavin O’Rourke.”
Both men stood and shook hands stiffly. “I enjoyed your singing,” said Joel softly.
“You’re not bad yourself on the fiddle,” said Gavin.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Well, that was that over with. But I should have known it would not be that easy.
Joel looked around. “This is a lovely gathering,” he said, “everybody getting along. Not a hint of anger or evil. It’s the way it should be—and will be when we get rid of Hitler.”
I winced. I knew Joel had gone too far. Gavin’s face grew dark. He moved closer to Joel.
“Look, we’re not interested in your opinion here. And your man Hitler is no threat to us. Go and fight your bloody war somewhere else. We don’t want the likes of you here.” Gavin dropped the cigarette he’d been smoking and ground it angrily into the grass.
“C’mon, Rosaleen,” he said to the girl, and strode away.
I wanted to yell after him to come back and apologize but Joel put his hand on my arm.
“Come on, Sheila,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”
As we made our way through the crowd and down the hill the strains of bagpipes, slow and melancholy, followed us, but I was raging. How could Gavin have done this to me, to Joel? He had ruined a beautiful evening.
We drove in silence down to Warrenpoint. Dusk had fallen and I could only see the faint, somber outlines of buildings along the Sea Road. Blackout blinds had been drawn and the street lights were dimmed. To my right, the lough was a black sheet stretching across to Omeath. Not even a moon shone on the water’s surface. On the distant shore lights twinkled like fireflies in windows along the beach and up through the hills. It looked like a magical, fairy world.
Joel parked the car and we got out. There was no one about. It was late on a Sunday night. People were either in bed or still up on the Flagstaff. I gazed in that direction but could see nothing. Joel took my hand and we climbed over the sea wall. The tide was in and the water lapped over the small rocks not too far from where we sat. I lit a cigarette and offered one to him, but he refused.
“I’m sorry for what happened up on the Flagstaff,” I said after a few silent moments.
“No need to be, it wasn’t your fault.”
“But Gavin was ignorant to do that all the same,” I said, my anger returning. “He knew you were my friend. He could have kept his opinions to himself.”
“It’s a popular opinion in some parts,” said Joel. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Let’s forget about it.” He paused. “So what’s your talent, Miss McGee?” he said, obviously anxious to change the subject.
I shrugged. “None at all,” I said.
“Ah now, you must have some. Can you sing? Dance? Recite poetry? All the Irish seem to be able to do at least one of those things.”
“Well, I’m the exception then,” I said. “I used to do some Irish dancing, but I was nothing to write home about.”
“You must at least know some poetry.”
“Not a bit of it. Gavin’s the one for poetry; he could recite anything.”
I could have bit my tongue off for bringing up Gavin’s name. I scrambled to change the subject. “Well, I do know one wee poem my da taught me,” I said. “It’s about a mermaid. We call them merrows. That was his nickname for me.”
“Go on then, let’s hear it.”
“Och, no,” I whispered, suddenly shy.
“Please?”
I took a deep breath, and on that dark night in late spring I gazed out across the black water and began to recite aloud my father’s poem.
She sits upon a rock by night
and gently sheds her smooth, seal skin.
Merrow, maiden of the sea, singing
to the earth-bound man.
Wanting what he cannot possess
he swiftly steals her abandoned skin
and hides the precious contraband, cooing
awkward words of love.
She sits upon a beach by night
shivering for her warm, lost skin.
Merrow, prisoner of the earth, yearning
for the womb-black sea.
Possessing what he cannot own
he knows a loss as grave as she.
Man and Merrow, hand in hand, mourning
both their severed souls.
She sits upon a rock by night
cradled in her smooth, seal skin.
Merrow, creature of the sea, weeping
for the earth-bound man.
When I was finished I could not move for the emotion that filled me. I hadn’t thought of that poem for a long time. Now I realized how much it was meant for me. I was indeed a prisoner of the earth. With her refusal to love me Ma had stolen my soul, and when my da left he had taken my skin with him. Would anyone ever bring them back?
We sat in silence looking out towards the dark waves.
“I love the sea,” I murmured at last. “My da taught me to love it, just like yours taught you to love music. I miss him. D’you miss yours?”
I couldn’t see Joel’s face in the dark, but I felt him stiffen beside me.
“Yes, all the ti
me,” he whispered.
I put my hand on his arm. “What happened to him?”
“Killed himself.”
I bent over as if from a punch in the stomach. “God Almighty,” I said. “How?”
“Shot himself. Put a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
Joel’s voice was harsh. I could hear the anger in it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I said, and without thinking I made the sign of the cross.
I didn’t know what to say or do. I wished I could see his face. I heard a noise that at first I thought was the sea lapping on the rocks, but I realized that it was coming from Joel. He was crying.
“Ah Jesus, don’t,” I said, and I reached over to him. He grabbed me then and pinned me in a tight embrace. He kissed me on the lips and face and then buried his head in my neck and sobbed. The dampness of his tears soaked my skin. We rocked against each other for a long time.
At last he let go and moved away from me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know where that came from. Can I have that cigarette now?”
I lit one for him and another one for me. We sat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. What was there to say after that? I took a deep breath and waited for all the feelings to pass.
After the doings on the weekend, I could hardly think straight. I tried to put it all out of my mind—Gavin, Joel, the war, my feelings—the whole lot of it. But none of it would leave me alone. God spare me from men, I thought. When I arrived at the mill on Monday morning and saw Patsy’s long face, I decided I’d throw myself into her business so as to distract myself from my own.
“Any word?” I said.
She shook her head. “Not hide nor hair of him, the feckin’ bastard.”
I smiled. Patsy’s anger was a good thing, I thought. I wouldn’t have known what to do if she’d started whimpering.
“Have you told them at home?”
“God, no. I’ll wait until I’m showing before I do that. There’ll be ructions, I can tell you.” Patsy was beating the living daylights out of a hank of flax. “To think he had one over in New Jersey all this time, and not a word of it to me!”
The Linen Queen Page 15
