The Linen Queen

by Patricia Falvey

  It was midnight when they stood up to leave. Alphie had drunk more than his share of whiskey and was crooning away to the baby. He had a surprisingly sweet singing voice. I was standing at the sink washing the glasses and smiling at Alphie when Gavin tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Can we go outside?” he said.

  I dried my hands on the dishtowel and walked behind him towards the door, aware of Grainne’s eyes following us.

  “What’s the craic?” I said, imitating Gavin’s usual greeting.

  Gavin lit two cigarettes and handed me one. “Let’s walk a bit,” he said.

  We walked up to the top of Walker’s Row and around the corner.

  “We’re sailing tomorrow,” he began.

  “Sure I know that.”

  “This voyage is going to be dangerous,” he said.

  My heart clenched. “What d’you mean? Are you smuggling the guns?”

  “Shhh,” said Gavin. “I’ve been doing that all along. No, this is different.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  I was annoyed. “Then why bring it up?”

  Gavin took a long pull on his cigarette. In the distance we could hear Alphie laughing with Patsy. “It’s just that—well, you might hear some things in the future. Rumors and the like. Well, it’s going to be up to you what you want to believe.”

  Jesus, what in God’s name was he on about?

  “I want you to know I’m not a bad man, Sheila.”

  “Sure I know that.”

  “And I don’t hate Joel. In fact I respect him. And… I don’t hate you, either.”

  “I should hope not.”

  He ground out his cigarette with his shoe and moved closer to me. His body was trembling ever so slightly. Instinctively I put my hand on his arm.

  “What is it, Gavin?”

  “Och, Sheila.”

  Were there tears in his eyes?

  Suddenly he threw his arms around me and buried his head in my shoulder.

  “Don’t think the worst of me, Sheila,” he said, his voice muffed. “Whatever you hear, please try to understand.”

  He raised his head, and taking my face in his two hands pressed his lips against mine with a passion that left me light-headed. The wild thing inside I had known the first time we kissed roused itself again. But before it could take hold of me, Gavin pulled away, his breathing ragged.

  “So long, Sheila,” he said.

  I stood watching him walk down the street. He never looked back.

  Chapter 25

  On June 6, 1944, the singing stopped. At eight o’clock in the morning we streamed in through the mill gate, the conversation bright and noisy as always. We climbed the stairs to the spinning room and, as always, went to the corner to take off our shoes and put on our aprons. We started up our machines just like on any other day. But by ten o’clock something in the air around us changed—something so dense you could almost put out your hands and touch it. Miss Galway, the doffing mistress, and Billy Taylor, the mill manager, walked to the front of the room and stood at attention, their hands folded in front of them, their faces grave. We looked at one another as we waited for them to speak.

  “For God’s sake, who died?” Dora Rafferty yelled from the back of the room. “Tell us and put us all out of our misery.”

  A few chuckles circled through the workers, but nobody else spoke.

  Then Billy Taylor cleared his throat and banged a hammer on a table for attention. He hardly needed to do that. All eyes were already fixed on him.

  “For those of you who have not been tuned in to the wireless,” he began, “there is news coming out that the Allies have staged a ferocious attack on the Germans along the beaches of France.”

  A cheer went up throughout the room. Billy Taylor raised his hand for silence.

  “Before you celebrate, you should know that it’s been hard going. Word is coming in that hundreds, maybe thousands, of our boys have been killed or drowned.”

  “No! God save us!”

  The cheers turned to cries of surprise and protest.

  “They are still pushing forward, though. And word is they will take the Germans, despite the terrible loss of life.” Billy bowed his head. “God rest the souls of each and every one of them poor chaps.”

  He looked back up at the workers who stood stunned in front of him.

  Kathleen gripped my arm. “Och, Jesus, Sheila. What about Ollie? What about Joel?”

  I said nothing.

  The office door opened and Mr. Carlson strode out, along with Hannah McAteer, to join Miss Galway and Billy Taylor. As I watched I saw an ashen-faced Mary standing at the door. For once she is no different, I thought. She is as worried as the rest of us.

  “We can all be very proud here in Queensbrook,” Mr. Carlson said. “Through our efforts in making material for tents and uniforms and parachutes we have in our own small way provided support and comfort to our troops. Let’s say a prayer now for the safety of the brave chaps still fighting their way into France. And let’s say a prayer also for the repose of the souls of those poor men who won’t be coming back to us.”

  We bowed our heads and prayed, some of us aloud, others to ourselves. I stood frozen as if I were watching a pantomime. Maybe I was still asleep down in Walker’s Row. Maybe I was dreaming. I closed my eyes, willing myself back into bed, willing the hands of the clock to turn backwards. But when I opened them again, I still stood in the middle of the spinning floor surrounded by women, some weeping, some praying, all of them talking hysterically about the turn of events.

  As the day wore on, news bulletins came in one after the other. Rumors took over from facts. France had been taken back from the Germans. No, the Germans had routed the Allies and they had fled back to their ships. The entire Allied fleet had been sunk. Not at all; sure Hitler had already surrendered. On and on it went throughout the morning and afternoon. Hardly any work was done. Half-timer boys strutted around, chests out, as if they had fought the battle themselves and won victory. Older women who had become close to some of the young soldiers wept as if they had lost one of their own sons. Girls cried and prayed over the fate of some chap they had been seeing. Others cried and swore that now all the fun would be over and done with. None of the soldiers would be back and they’d be stuck in the same old rut as before.

  As I trailed out of the gate that evening, I couldn’t even bring myself to form Joel’s name in my mind. If I didn’t think about him, maybe he’d be spared. If I didn’t pray for his safety, maybe God would not be tempted to kill him. If I pretended I didn’t care, then maybe he’d be all right. I rode home on the tram, my head swimming in confusion. When I arrived at Walker’s Row, I found everybody huddled around the kitchen table. Patsy cried for Sylvie. Mrs. Hollywood cried for all those “poor boys.” Only Grainne was dry-eyed. She gave me a curious look.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she said. “I thought you’d be crying for the Joel feller.”

  I ignored her. If I cried I would be giving in to the possibility that Joel could be gone. And I would not do that. Instead I walked silently to the stove and poured a cup of tea. Only Mrs. Hollywood guessed what was happening.

  “Leave her alone, now,” she said to Grainne. “Can’t you see as how the poor girl’s in shock?”

  We crowded around the wireless that night. After a while the announcer’s words began to run together and my ears closed up as if they’d been stuffed with cotton. Quietly I rose and went up the stairs to bed. I crawled in and turned out the lamp. I had no expectation of sleep—no hope that dreams would come and blot out the horror that filled me. The best I could hope for was to be left alone for a while.

  All of us kept vigil waiting for news. Candles were lit, rosaries said, novenas made. I went into the cathedral at night when it was empty. I lit candles and prayed to the Virgin Mary for Joel’s safe return. I didn’t know if she would listen to a sinner like me, but she was a woman after all, and she had a woman’s h
eart, and she knew a woman’s love.

  I thought of all the other women like me here and abroad who waited for news of loved ones. We were the women who were not mothers and wives to whom official information would be delivered by telegram or by uniformed officer. We were the women hidden in the corners and crevices, behind doors and curtains, the women who must wait for scraps of information, for hearsay and rumor. And yet for us, the waiting was just as painful, if not more so. For we knew that often we had been the last to hold the fallen warriors in our arms and that those men had loved us keenly and passionately. And yet our sorrow must be hidden away from respectable society, unacknowledged and unvalued.

  Details of the D-Day battles began to filter in. The landing craft had run into seas that were rougher and tides that were higher than expected. Underwater obstacles had hampered the landing craft and made them sitting ducks for German gunners. People talked of beaches with names like Omaha, Utah, Juno, and Sword as if they’d known those names their whole lives. Normandy was now a place as familiar to us as our own backyards. In time it was clear this operation marked the turning point in the war that everyone had been hoping for. The cost of that hope in lives lost was likely to number in the thousands.

  I listened to all of these discussions with a strange detachment. I went to work each day, numb as the day before. It was as if everything moved around me in slow motion. I made one-word answers when spoken to, but I started no conversations on my own. I did not allow myself to think about anything but the task in front of me at that minute. Silence hung over Walker’s Row like a shroud as each of us grieved in our own private way. Kathleen came every evening and held hands with Patsy. Mrs. Hollywood lit pink candles in her parlor. Only Grainne showed no emotion at all.

  On the Monday after D-Day, Miss Galway announced that there would be no spinning. Instead we were to clean the machines and the passages that ran between them as well as the corridor outside and the stairs. Most of the girls groaned. We were used to “wipe-down” days once a month when you were expected to clean your spinning frame, emptying and rinsing the trough and wiping down the rollers and the creel and the bobbins. We all took pride in our machines and did our best to keep them clean. Cleaner frames meant cleaner yarn, as Miss Galway was fond of saying, and she inspected each of our work areas, sniffing like a fox hunting a rabbit. But today was to be a thorough cleaning of the whole place. The half-timers brought out buckets of water, black soap, and big brushes, and we were told to set to work.

  I welcomed the task. I worked ferociously, wiping and brushing and scrubbing until my fingers were numb. The harder I worked, the more I hoped to drive away the torment that roiled inside me. And for a short time I succeeded. I even found myself laughing when Miss Galway called out her usual command of “Clean your back passages well, girls.” This remark had always brought out giggles from the spinners.

  I volunteered to help scrub the stairs.

  “Work,” I whispered to myself, “work away the pain.”

  A cockroach ran over my foot. I ignored it, but a girl’s scream made me look up. Mary McAteer stood frozen on the stairs.

  “I hate those things,” she said.

  I shrugged. “You should be well used to them by now. They’ve been here longer than any of us.”

  She pressed herself against the wall. “It’s the smell of the soap that’s bringing them out. Can you stop? I have to get back up to the office.”

  I glared at her. “You’ll have to wait ’til I’ve finished.”

  She turned and went down to the foot of the stairs, where she waited for me. I was surprised she hadn’t ordered me to stop and let her pass. But then nothing seemed normal these days. I went on with my work, and eventually I reached the bottom of the stairs and stood up.

  “You can go on up now,” I said.

  “Thanks, Sheila,” she said, and began to climb. But she hesitated and turned around.

  “Have you heard any word on Joel?”

  I stared at her, looking for traces of her usual smugness. But I saw none. If anything, her eyes reflected sympathy. I must be dreaming, I told myself.

  “There’s a list of the dead and the missing up in the office,” she said quietly. “You know, the local lads, and the soldiers from Narrow Water. Come on up and I’ll show it to you.”

  The shock must have registered on my face.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Ma and my uncle are away out. There’s nobody there but me.”

  Stunned, I followed her back up the stairs and into the office. I was aware of my filthy apron and soiled, bare feet. I tried to tidy myself up a bit, but it was no use. I stood just inside the doorway. Mary went into Mr. Carlson’s office and returned with a large brown envelope. She pulled a pile of papers out of it and laid them on the desk. Her face had turned ashen.

  “I thought maybe we could look at it together,” she whispered. “I was afraid to do it by myself. It’s been there all morning and I’ve been dying to look and see if George’s name is on it—but God, Sheila, I wouldn’t be able to bear it if it is.”

  Her hands shook as she began to run her fingers down each page. There must have been a hundred names, every one of them somebody’s son or brother or lover.

  “It’s by alphabet,” she said. “George’s last name is Russell.”

  She flipped quickly through the sheets until she found the one she was looking for. She bit her lip as her finger crawled up and down the names on it. Then she took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Oh, thank God, George’s name isn’t here.” She glanced up at me and then back down at the paper. “Now, let’s see. What was Joel’s last name?”

  “Solomon,” I whispered.

  “Solomon. Solomon.”

  Her finger paused at a name on the list, and I knew.

  “It’s there, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry.” She looked up at me. “But he’s on the missing list, Sheila. He’s not been confirmed dead.”

  She came over to me and put her hand on my arm. I was too frozen to shake it off. “That means there’s still hope, Sheila.”

  She led me to a chair and sat me down. Then she poured a glass of water from a jug and handed it to me.

  “Well, Ma won’t be pleased,” she said suddenly. “I think she was hoping George was dead. She never wanted me marrying a soldier—even an officer. She had me tortured about it. My father was a soldier, you see, and he ran off to the war and got killed. She always said she didn’t want the same thing for me.” She paused and sighed. “I think the truth was she didn’t want me to be happy.”

  I realized Mary had said something important—something that would change the way I looked at her in the future. But I couldn’t recall her words. My whole being was filled with Joel. His face and voice swirled around me and his presence choked me from the inside out. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I began gasping.

  Miss Galway came bustling into the office.

  “And what do you think you’re doing here, miss? Get back to work.”

  “It’s all right, Miss Galway. She fainted on the stairs, and I brought her in here for water.”

  “That was kind of you, Mary, but we don’t want the likes of this girl getting above her station.”

  “You forget she’s the Linen Queen,” said Mary.

  I could stand it no longer. I had to find out what happened to Joel. Short of sending a letter to his mother in America, which was out of the question, I had no choice but to go to his base at Narrow Water Castle and see what they would tell me. What did “missing in action” mean? Had there been any further news? The thought of what I might find out sickened my stomach, but I had to know. Part of me wanted to believe that Mary McAteer had played a cruel joke on me. She had made it up to torture me. But the sane part of me knew that even Mary would never do a thing like that.

  It was a Saturday morning late in June when I cycled down the road along the river towards Warrenpoint. My heart thudded in my chest and my palms wer
e wet as I clutched the handlebars. I prayed over and over that the news would be good. I pedaled faster, anxious to get there. There was probably a new guard on duty and he would not be likely to let me through, so I got off my bicycle and laid it down at the side of the road beside the gate. I walked on down the road a few yards and climbed over the fence. Keeping low among the trees I made my way up to the edge of the estate buildings. I lingered for a while under the cover of a big oak tree and looked first at the main building where the library was housed, and then over to the side buildings where Joel had been billeted. There was no one about. No troops practiced formations in the courtyard. No jeeps sped over the loose gravel. A few doors banged open and shut in the wind. The place looked haunted. I shivered. How many of the young chaps that had laughed and marched here were dead? I could hardly stand the thought.

  Slowly I crept over to the main door and pushed it open. It creaked against my touch and I pulled my hand away quickly. I slid into the darkened hallway. The place smelled musty. No warm fire or clatter of dishes or smell of cooking greeted me as it had done in the past. Today there was only silence, save for the ticking of the huge clock in the hallway. I turned towards the library, half expecting to see Joel standing playing the fiddle. But the room was empty. The blinds were down and the only light was from the sun that shone dimly through the cracks where the blinds did not reach the sills. I crept over to an armchair and sat down. I fought back tears and took deep breaths to calm myself down. I knew it was useless to sit there on my own, but I felt rooted to the chair and the room and the memories.

  I tried to hold Joel’s image steady in my mind. I tried to picture his face, his smile, his sadness, his laughter. But it was like trying to hold on to the wind. Alarm filled me. What if his image began to slip away from me? What if in time it disappeared altogether? I concentrated harder. I saw him sitting with the children at the Magill Kinderfarm in Millisle. I saw him standing on the Flagstaff playing his fiddle. I imagined the feel of his lips on mine. I recalled our conversations over and over again, trying to keep him beside me, trying to keep him safe.