Above the Starry Frame

by Helen Townsend

  ‘What about her?’ William asked brusquely, for he could never feel quite natural with the celestials.

  ‘My wife,’ the man said. ‘She died too. Mrs Irwin was most good to her when we married.’ He paused, embarrassed. ‘My wife, well, it was hard after we married. She had not so many friends.’

  ‘I remember,’ said William, for he remembered the quarrel he and Bridget had had about the Scottie lass who married the celestial. He felt a pang for those days when he was courting Bridget.

  ‘And when my wife died, Mrs Irwin gave me a great many things for the two children, and had me take them up to the school, for she said education was most important. And it was there I met my second wife, who is the school teacher.’ He paused. ‘I hope you may marry again, Mr Irwin, for it is hard to be a man alone.’ Then William did what he had never done before, and invited the celestial into the parlour for a drink.

  And in the street, the organ grinder, who had the monkey which wore a waistcoat and was supposed to dance to the organ, but never did, stopped him one day, and spoke to him of Bridget with tears in his eyes, and told William what tune she had liked and then played it for him. There was also the man who had a tiny bookshop in Bridge Street, and Mrs Whatley who said Bridget was the prettiest woman she had ever dressed, and many more people.

  So although the grief lay in his belly like a stone, and while every day felt as if it was one day too many, he was connected by the remembrances of so many who had known Bridget. And he felt that he was perhaps more truly Billy Irwin than he was Mr William Irwin. It was this feeling that kept him in Ballarat, for he had it in his mind at first to sell up everything and go back to Ireland and live a life that demanded no more of him.

  ‘That’s Irish enough,’ said Danny Phelan, ‘to take your misery and pull others down with you. Your missus would have thought that the most damnedest idea in the world, all respect to her.’ William thought that idea had a touch of misery in it which Danny had right.

  Each night he slept with little Willy, who had become frightened of the dark, and Jane Norris slept with John Alfred. In the mornings, Willy would run in to Jane and land himself on her bed. William saw with great satisfaction how the baby began to smile and gurgle at his brother. Jane Norris was the perfect woman to care for his children, for she washed and dressed them each day, and kept them occupied. She even started little William Joseph on his letters and taught him prayers for the evening and many other small niceties which William himself had forgotten had to be taught to children.

  ‘I fear it will be a great wrench when some young man takes you off and marries you,’ he said to Jane. ‘It will be a sore loss for the children, for I don’t know how I would ever replace you.’

  ‘Ah Mr Irwin,’ she said, for she insisted on addressing him formally, ‘it will be some time before I’m married, for I have no leanings in that direction at all.’ Which was a great relief to William, for many nights he lay awake and wondered how he was to live his life and care for his children. Although Willy slept in the bed with him, he was conscious all through the night that Bridget was not there and would never be. He often wept at night, for his grief would not go away. He was told the scriptures would console him, but they did not. He did not care to think too deeply about what Bridget may have believed, but he was sure that her immortal soul was safe. But she was gone, and it was a black pit inside him, churning over and over and over.

  He put a sort of heavy energy into his work, so he fretted about his mining shares, and the rooms he let, and the horses he owned and stabled, and the meals Cook made, and the mistakes his brother Robert made, and the money he lost, and the cost of things. He kept books in which he recorded all his outgoings and income, so there was plenty to worry and fret over. He brought himself a barometer and a thermometer and tried to teach Willy about recording the weather. The child was not interested and he supposed him too young. He took Willy about with him on business, but he was aware that he could not work with him as he had worked with his father on the farm, for a hotel was not set up that way, except in the yard with the horses. He found a talking magpie, which he called Captain Thunderbolt after the bushranger, the magpie being something of a thief. The bird gave both the children great pleasure, and when Charity died he bought another bulldog. But these things, which would have once been such pleasure, felt like dour duty. Each night, he sat up late, going over his books or doing calculations on his shares. As a result, the business prospered, but he did not.

  That first Christmas without Bridget, the Christmas of 1865, he asked Danny Phelan to Christmas dinner, along with Robert and his family, and Joe Brown, who had managed to find police business in Ballarat a number of times since Bridget’s death. And, of course, Jane Norris was there too. The day after Christmas they had their traditional picnic at the lake. William could hardly bear it, so much did he feel Bridget’s absence.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ said Joe Brown. ‘I want to see how these gardens have come on.’ He took Willy by the hand and William put John Alfred on his shoulders.

  ‘It’s a heavy burden you’re carrying,’ said Joe. ‘And I don’t mean young Johnny.’

  ‘She was everything to me, Joe.’

  ‘She was a grand girl. The best indeed.’ They walked further in silence. ‘Jane Norris is doing a fine job with the young ones.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do when she leaves. I’d hate to see them with a servant. She takes every care with them.’

  ‘Why would she leave?’

  ‘She’s young. And a very pretty girl too.’

  ‘So you noticed?’

  ‘Well, Bridget always said so. I think that was partways why Bridget sent her away. She was most kind to her, but maybe . . .’

  ‘And Bridget got her back.’

  ‘She was very definite about that.’ He paused. ‘On the very last day. She was most distressed before that. You remember how distressed she was? How nothing could comfort her?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  William felt a lump in his throat, but he wanted to tell Joe Brown of her death, something he had not even been able to share with Robert. ‘She died peaceful. At the end she was peaceful. She wouldn’t see the minister, but she had Jane Norris there to look after the children that last day. Then she sent the maid away, and then, she was quiet, so quiet. Just her and me, as she lay dying.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it – that she was peaceful. She weren’t always the easiest woman to please. But the best.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Jane Norris is a good woman too. Most different, but a very good woman.’

  ‘Joe, she’s just a girl.’

  ‘A girl that thinks a great deal of you.’

  ‘Joe . . .’

  ‘It’s too soon, I agree. But she’s a fine girl, and a good girl. And I think Bridget knew what she was doing. I’d be bearing that in mind.’

  William swung little Johnny off his shoulders, and threw him up to make him laugh. He got some bread out of his pockets and gave it to Willy to run down and feed the black swans. He had never given much thought to Bridget’s choice of Jane Norris, but he thought that maybe, in time, it might come to something.

  * * *

  May 14, 1866

  O dear brother,

  My Mother, my Mother, no kind Mother have I now. I am worse this day than the day she died. It was my whole concern the time of her sickness – her eternal happiness. I knew she wouldn’t get over it. When I would read to her the joys of heaven and the goodness of Lord Jesus, it take all my sorrow away and every petition I asked of God he granted to me. I didn’t want to see her suffer in this world. I had every nourishment for her thanks be to God, and to you and your dear wife. I hope they meet in heaven above.

  She had some of your money with which I bought mourning sheet. Dear Brother, she loved you above the rest. You were good to her, but she was sorry about your dear childen. The only thing was for you not to neglect your children – that was her cry. She knew y
ou woud be marrying again. She would say the day she died – she asked was anyone at post? But the mail wasn’t in. The cock came in and crowed. I said ‘there is leters coming Mother.’

  Joseph is writing a note to put in this leter. Write every mail. Poor Father won’t be long here now, and what will I do for my parents?

  I remain your loving Sister to Death Eliza Irwin

  Dear Brother

  Thursday was the day of the funeral. We had a most respectable funeral with both Clergy and laity. I went to Mr Cluff of Cookstown and got one of the best coffens that he could make and Paddy Mulloys two horse hearse. Joseph Cander, James Walker & his wife Elizer, McKiver, Ellen and William was there when she died. I was holding hir head to the last.

  She was quite sensable to the last. She had quite resigned herself to the King of Heaven.

  But it was a hard case to part Elizey from Mother when she was a putting in the coffen. She has spoke verry little as yet, she is not able.

  I must Conclude for the present. Father, Elizer & John, & little James, Ellener & William joins with me in kind love to you and your children & Jane Norris & Robert and his wife.

  Your brother,

  Joseph Irwin

  * * *

  William could sense the terrible grief in the letters from Knockaleery, but he could not feel it.

  ‘Brother, you’ve been so long absent,’ said Robert. ‘This is another absence, greater I suppose, but not really, for very few of we Irish ever return home to our native land.’

  William supposed this was true, so he was glad when his mother came to him in dreams – when he was a small boy and had sat on her lap, when she showed him how to milk, how to hold the wool for spinning, and how to wrap the cheese when it was put in the bog for keeping, and many other things. And he remembered with pain that night they were sitting at the dimly lit table with the poor rush candles – which now seemed as if it was from another life – but oh! how clearly he remembered saying he would come back in six years. That same night, Mother had told them the story of the prodigal son. She could not read, but how much she remembered, and how proud she was of all her children reading and writing both.

  Sometimes when he woke in the morning and saw little William Joseph sleeping there with him, he shed some tears for his own dear mother, for a dear mother she was, but so far off in mind and memory that it seemed to him that he regretted the distance as much as her death.

  He made himself write to Father and Joseph and Eliza and John. He could not tell them the way he grieved for his mother, for it may have seemed a little cold to them. He wrote a more religious letter than he ever wrote before, for he wanted to acknowledge their grief, to say he knew how large a thing it was, like his Bridget’s death was to him, except he did not mention Bridget, for he could not bear to. And he sent money especially for a fine headstone, for while he cared little for such things himself, he knew it would count there.

  He would have liked to write of all the things he had never told them, of how Bridget was, of her lightness and humour, and how little Willy looked sideways just as she had. He would have liked to tell how he lived, so different from them, but he was not sure he had the words and, in any case, he had not told them before, so he felt it would seem to have an element of deception in it. The thing was not quite clear, but he understood Robert not writing better than he admitted.

  When Eliza received William’s letter, she cried, but since Mother died everything and everyone made her cry. She thought it was a very beautiful letter and she was pleased that he got such consolation from religion, and that he had sent enough money for a fine headstone.

  With Mother gone, she missed her brothers and her sisters more, for the grief seemed too thick in Knockaleery, and so much of it was piled on her. Every day, every moment, Mother was there but not there. She had sat so long before the fire in her armchair; she had sat at the old spinning wheel before that; milking in the cow byre; down at the stream washing; bringing food out to them during the harvest; singing hymns in church; picking the roses; talking to neighbours. She was everywhere, and Eliza missed her sore.

  All through the time of Mother’s illness, Eliza had felt constrained. Now she was free but she did not feel her freedom, for Mother was missing, a great hole in her life. And though she ran the house now, and was fully mistress of it, with no-one to tell her what way to do things or not, she felt no pleasure in it. She had taken a step forward in life, but she wanted nothing more than to go back, for each step in her life seemed filled with loss and sorrow, first with her brothers and sisters going, and now the death of dear Mother. And it was so all around her, for the young of the parish were forever leaving, and those that were left in Kildress moved closer to death. It was a bleak view, she knew that, for it took all her faith to keep her steady.

  She thought the grief would never lift, but after some months, perhaps two seasons, it began to lift, and she noticed that Father and John and young James missed not only Mother, but also her own self. She tried to lift their spirits, but the grief had been spread so thick that it could not be done. She thought maybe it was because they were here at Knockaleery and that they should go for a short time to some place else.

  It was a great trouble to leave the farm, even for a few days, but Eliza knew that they must go, that something must bring them back to life from death, which was everywhere at the farm. She knew grief and death would not be everywhere at Portstewart, and she thought she could bear her Aunt Margaret for a few days.

  She got Joseph’s young William in to do the milking and feed the cows, and Sam McGowan to mind the sheep and the little ponies, and to check on her Hercules, whom she would have liked to take, for she thought the dog was as much down in spirits as themselves. But Aunt Margaret could not abide creatures in her house, except a cat.

  When all that was done, she needed to persuade Father, for each day he was convinced he would die, and he felt that he should stay at Knockaleery to do so, it not being proper for him to die at Portstewart. But he finally agreed he would come, on account of the poor spirits of John and young James, and that he would leave dying until a later time.

  Young James was the one Eliza worried about most, for he was very black and seemed somewhat afraid of life, which was not like him. So she wondered if he was worrying about this life, which seemed to be shrinking, for he’d had losses too, his own mother dying, his father gone and never writing.

  At Portstewart, James was still black, and as they walked along the promenade, watching the sea crashing in, she made him tell her what it was that ailed him, which took considerable time to uncover.

  ‘Paddy Molloy said that Grandmother would not go to heaven at all,’ he told her. ‘She would not even go to hell, but just rot in the ground, as all Protestants do, not even worthy of God’s care.’

  Eliza felt a sense of relief that this was all it was, that he did not have her feeling of being left behind, this leeching of the world around them. And so she could answer him quite lightly.

  ‘Oh the wickedness of him! And tell me, had Paddy Molloy been drinking?’

  ‘A little, I think, as is usual with him, but nevertheless he was most convincing,’ said James. ‘I was scared, Aunt Eliza, very scared indeed, for it’s bad enough with Grandmother gone, and Grandfather going soon, for Grandfather said so himself. But Paddy Malloy, he told me the same thing might well happen to me. That I would die, and rot in the ground.’

  ‘Paddy Molloy is a Catholic,’ she said. ‘The Catholics have the Christian religion, but they make things up about Protestants. They have the priests, and some are set against the Protestants from wickedness and envy. Paddy Molloy’s a most ignorant Catholic and, in any case, it’s a generally ignorant religion. You don’t need to be taking information from him.’

  ‘But what if all the Protestants is wrong, and all the Catholics is right?’ he asked. ‘What if that’s true? What if Roman Catholic is the one true religion, as they say, and the rest of us is sinners and goes to hell?
Or to nowhere at all?’

  ‘It can’t be, for what we know comes from the Bible, and the Bible comes from heaven direct. Even the Catholics know that, so there’s no mistaking it at all. That’s why they don’t allow them to read the Bible, for they’d see the error of their ways. You can see that, can’t you?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If you read your Bible, and take your life from that, there’s no question at all.’

  ‘Will the Catholics go to hell then?’

  ‘Not all of them, but I think Paddy Molloy would certainly be pointing hisself in such a direction, what with making up stories to scare folks.’ She poked him in the ribs, and he laughed. Eliza did not wish to make too much of the question as her brother Joseph did, for he was convinced Robert had married a Catholic woman and was maybe a Catholic himself. To her, it did not matter so much, for it was, in any case, a Christian religion, and there were at times things about the Catholic religion which she envied. The Church of Ireland in the parish of Kildress made religion very plain and spare, and the Reverend Stewart made it even more so. She thought the candles and incense and beads of the Roman Catholics perhaps took away some of that sternness and made the religion a more comfortable thing, even though she did not hold with popery.

  Paddy Malloy was a dreadful old drunk and he could not be taken seriously, except by people like her brother Joseph, who liked to stir up trouble about Catholics.

  Joseph was much stirred up about the Fenians, who were Catholics and did not want Ireland to be governed by the English. The Fenians were outlawed by the priests, who said that none were to go about and stir up trouble against the government, but they did so anyway, and Joseph said the priests encouraged them in secret, which Eliza supposed might be true. Joseph was always looking for which of their Catholic neighbours might be Fenians. He himself thought the government should do more for the leaseholders, so he was most angry when the Fenians thought the same as himself.

  Eliza herself did not hold with the Fenians, but it seemed to her better to keep to her own business and not be forever worrying about their Catholic neighbours.