Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  Sophia was grateful to her again. It was so much easier to accept help for one’s children than it was for oneself. It made her present humiliation a little easier to bear.

  She was glad to turn the conversation to more practical issues, too. Constance MacBride had made her feel uncomfortable. And she had far too many other things to deal with at the moment.

  Hannah: Spring 1893

  WHY HAD MAMA summoned them from school so urgently? Her letter had left no room for delay. Sister Canice’s round face had been grave as she hurried Hannah and May into the carriage. ‘Now, girls, at once, please – no dawdling.’ She closed the door safely behind them.

  ‘God bless you both. Joseph will see you to the train. Remember, now, no talking to strangers. Stay close to Joseph until your mother comes for you.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  May spoke only after Sister Canice had waved them away, her cheerful gesture looking oddly normal, strangely out of place. May had been puzzled by the nun’s air of intense anxiety.

  ‘I don’t know – Mama seems to be in a hurry to get back to Dublin. Perhaps Grandfather is unwell, or something.’

  Hannah’s voice seemed unconcerned, almost as if it had shrugged its shoulders. May was somewhat reassured, but still a small germ of suspicion itched away at her, like hives. She didn’t reply, looking out the carriage window instead as they made steady progress down the Falls Road. As soon as they turned right on to Grosvenor Road, she sat suddenly bolt upright, her hands clutching at Hannah.

  ‘What is it?’ Hannah was startled by her sister’s terrified expression.

  ‘Can’t you hear it? The shouting? Really angry shouting?’

  Hannah shook her head once, then stopped and strained to listen. Their leisurely pace had not been interrupted, there had been no shout of warning from Joseph to indicate that anything was wrong, and Hannah could hear nothing above the rolling rumble of the carriage wheels. She was about to dismiss May’s imaginings when, suddenly, she heard it. The whole world seemed to burst open into riotous, human thunder. The road before them heaved into sudden life; swell after roaring swell of men’s bodies erupted blackly from behind every gateway, around every corner.

  May clutched at Hannah’s upper arm, digging her nails painfully into the soft flesh.

  ‘What?’ she cried. ‘What is it?’ Her eyes were wide and blank in a chalk-white face.

  ‘Ssshh – I don’t know,’ said Hannah, trying desperately to see out over May’s shoulder.

  She tried to keep her voice level, but some intuition was making the back of her neck prickle hotly. Instinctively, she crouched down low in the carriage, jerking May with her. Her sister’s body was limp with terror.

  ‘Don’t worry, Joseph will take care of us,’ Hannah whispered, wishing she felt as sure as she sounded. What could this be? Was it, finally, the trouble that Papa’s newspapers had been warning about? She knew that something political was afoot – Papa had recently taken to reading his papers more and more intently at weekends. She had heard him grumble more than once about something called Home Rulers. Don’t know when they’re well off, he’d growled. Independence indeed. Stuff and nonsense. Biting the hand that feeds, more like. She had paid little attention; it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her. Nobody spoke about such things in school, and besides, she had always thought that they were much too young to have anything like politics touch their small lives.

  But now, whatever it was that had been simmering away below the newspaper headlines, filling the streets of this city unknown to her, had suddenly erupted into daylight and now surrounded her on all sides. She tried to cover her ears and May’s – the solid crunch of pounding boots was a sound she felt she would never forget.

  ‘Keep low, May – don’t listen! Keep your hands pressed to your ears – you don’t need to listen!’

  What had started as a strange murmur, like the distant buzzing of giant flies, soon became distinguishable as voices, hoarse with rage, harsh with hatred. Hannah tried to block it all out, to extinguish the angry words that hurtled through the greying evening, spreading menace in their wake. At the same time, she pressed her sister’s body closer to her, crooning softly, trying to drown the ugliness that fractured the air all around them.

  The masses of running bodies seemed to press closer. From all sides, they surged towards some invisible centre, as though drawn by the irresistible power of a giant magnet. She and May were caught in some innocent place, the unknowing eye of the storm. Outside the carriage on all sides she heard the ugly shouts of the mob. Men were howling for papist blood, for the guts of fenian bastards. Hannah kept her head down and prayed. She knew that that was what she and her sisters were – papists, fenians. The nuns had said that they were ugly, ignorant terms, and to pay no heed to anyone that might use them. Turn the other cheek, they said, never acknowledge such disrespect. They were Catholics, Roman Catholics, members of the one true Church, and that was the beginning and the end of it.

  Hannah begged God silently that Old Joseph would not lose courage, that he could steel himself in the face of whistling, studded cudgels and the crack and bite of hate-flung paving-stones. Make us invisible, she prayed.

  ‘It won’t be long now, we’re nearly there,’ she whispered into May’s terrified ear. She had no idea where they were, how much of the journey to the station remained. The child was still trembling. Hannah put one arm around the thin shoulders and held her sister’s body as tightly as she could, trying to still her whimpering. She felt every bit as frightened as May, but her two years’ seniority made her feel responsible – Mama and Papa always trusted her.

  Leaning forward, she caught a glimpse through the carriage window of the street-fighting which they now seemed to be leaving behind. Perhaps that was just an illusion; perhaps the worst was still to come. A solid line of RIC men, batons drawn, now charged the crowd on Boyne Bridge, their silence and the grim set of their faces a stark contrast to the howling mouths and angry faces of the mob which opened up and swallowed them. Just then, the carriage swung sharply to the right down Great Victoria Street, and into its tremendous silence. Hannah imagined she could hear the crack of skulls on stone, the sickening thump of flesh and fist. Her stomach heaved as the carriage pulled up abruptly outside the station.

  Instantly, Old Joseph was at the carriage window. He wrenched open the door, muttering ‘Poor wee wains’ to himself, over and over.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Hannah felt almost faint with relief. Her legs trembled as she scrambled up from her position on the floor. Only then did May start to cry, the quietness of Old Joseph’s kindness unleashing all her pent-up terror.

  Joseph flipped up the step underneath the carriage and gave Hannah his hand. She was even more frightened to feel that his old, hard palm was sweaty and trembling visibly. His face was grim.

  ‘It’s the loyalists batin’ up on the Home Rulers, miss. The bill goes to a vote soon, and they’re not havin’ none of it.’

  ‘None of what?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about it, now, miss. It won’t concern you – there’s folk here as wants nothin’ to change. There’s others believes that Queen Victoria’s men have nowt to do wi’ us in this country.’

  He lifted May on to the pavement beside Hannah. His face was red and angry.

  ‘But why were they fighting and shouting like that?’

  ‘Sometimes ye have to fight t’be heard. Man needs to feel he has a say in the runnin’ of his own country. Then there’s them as don’t like it when you do.’

  He looked at her closely.

  ‘Stay away from the streets, miss. Things are goin’ to be ugly again in this unforkunate city.’

  May had started to cry again, loudly.

  ‘Where’s Mama? I want Mama.’

  Hannah shushed her as best she could, and half lifted, half pulled the frail, small body while Old Joseph struggled with their trunk.

  ‘She’s here, just inside,
waiting for us.’

  Hannah hoped she was right. She glanced at the big clock outside the station entrance. Twenty to eight. The Dublin train, Mama’s letter had said. At eight o’clock.

  ‘Quickly, May. We mustn’t miss the train.’

  Her eyes scanned the platform as she dragged her now wailing sister along behind her. The station was eerily empty. It took Hannah only a moment to locate her mother. Her feeling of relief was matched by a great wave of anger as her eyes locked on to the distinctive russet travelling coat, the plumed hat. She wanted to shriek at her mother, to beat her fists against her, to make her suffer for the terror they had just been through. But there was something in her mother’s stance that made Hannah pause as May ran down the platform, arms outstretched, her sobs now uncontrollable.

  The eyes which met Hannah’s above her younger sister’s head were dark, haunted, the face paler and much more haggard than she remembered. Her mother’s expression was one of mute appeal and Hannah knew, at once, that something bad had happened. Papa. Something must have happened to Papa. She said nothing. Old Joseph tipped his cap to Sophia. His breathing was laboured, his face beaded with sweat.

  ‘Them’s dangerous streets, tonight, ma’am. Your wee girls were very brave.’

  ‘What is it, Joseph? What’s going on?’

  Sophia’s question was bewildered, almost distracted.

  Hannah was surprised that her mother didn’t know. She must have observed something. She hadn’t been locked up all day, surely – she had had to cross the city to get to the station. Had something even more momentous closed her senses to what was going on around her, right in front of her eyes? Joseph manhandled the trunk on to the train, grunting and sweating with the unaccustomed effort.

  Now he turned to face Sophia, his old, creased face full of surprise.

  ‘It’s the loyalists, ma’am. They’ve took to the streets.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she said. ‘I didn’t know.’

  She bent down again to comfort May, who still clung to her mother. Her sobs had finally begun to ease. Hannah couldn’t shake the feeling that her mother had stooped in order to hide her face. She began to feel really alarmed. What other awfulness had happened to make her mother unaware of the violence and mayhem that now claimed the streets around them?

  ‘Thank you, Joseph.’

  Hannah’s mother pressed a coin into Old Joseph’s hand and he tipped his cap to her again.

  ‘The blessin’ o’ God on ye, ma’am,’ he said, nodding towards May and Hannah, to say that he included them, too.

  She smiled at him. Then she turned again to May, who was still clutching at her mother’s skirts as though she were drowning. She held her daughter close, whispering to her.

  ‘I’ve got you now, I’ve got you.’

  Then she turned to Hannah, her voice urgent.

  ‘Quickly, now, Hannah. We must board the train. Eleanor’s waiting for us.’

  Her face was set again, back to the severe contours that were familiar.

  Hannah knew that, for the moment, there was nothing more to be said. She welcomed her mother’s silence, the postponement of pain that it brought with it. She already knew that speech would make solid and real all the vague terrors of the angry, whispered nights that had filled her recent dreams. This way, she could pretend that nothing had changed.

  At least there was some comfort in that.

  The first hour of the train journey back to Dublin was a silent one. Hannah was very glad to be out of Belfast. She was still shaken by the carriage ride through the heaving streets. To be safely on the train was a relief, but this was no ordinary visit home. Mama’s face on the platform had told one part of the story; Papa’s absence seemed to confirm another. Hannah was now anxious to know the rest.

  She waited until Eleanor and May had fallen asleep. The youngest girl was already half-asleep when the train pulled out of the station, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere in the compartment. May had taken longer to settle, her memories of the riots still palpable. Shadows of the fear she had felt still flitted across her face, and her dark eyes looked huge, haunted. Hannah had comforted her as best she could, and now she was lying, sleeping at last, with her head cradled in Hannah’s lap. When she was sure that neither of her sisters could be listening, Hannah turned to her mother.

  Sophia had put her head back; her eyes were closed. Somehow, Hannah knew she was still awake. The eyes behind her eyelids were restless, jerky. Her face was white, bordering on an unhealthy yellowish colour, that dull, waxy sheen that reminded Hannah of the smell of church candles. The sharp cheekbones seemed more prominent than ever.

  ‘Mama?’ She kept her voice low.

  Sophia’s eyes snapped open at once.

  ‘What is it?’

  Her response was quick, anxious, her words full of jagged edges. It was as though she were arming herself to face disaster. Her eyes darted around the compartment, checking on each of her daughters in turn.

  ‘What’s happened, Mama? Where’s Papa and why are we running away to Dublin?’

  Sophia glanced anxiously at the two younger girls.

  ‘It’s all right, Mama. They’re asleep. Please tell me.’

  She saw her mother hesitate, as though trying to decide among many options. Hannah wanted the truth.

  ‘I’m old enough, Mama. I’m nearly thirteen. I know that something bad has happened to Papa.’

  Her tone was firm, almost like a grown-up. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Hannah was pleased with herself. She wanted Mama to treat her as an adult. Sophia stood and pulled down the blinds on each of the rainy windows. Hannah wondered why she was doing that. No one could see them here, hurtling through the darkened countryside at high speed. The drawn blinds did not make the atmosphere any cosier. Instead, the pale light cast pools of cold shadow on the sleeping faces. Hannah was startled to see that her mother looked like a dark, unhappy ghost.

  ‘Your father has been arrested, Hannah. The police came and took him away two days ago.’

  Hannah stared at her blankly. Of all the things she half thought, half suspected, half knew, this was not one of them. She found it peculiar to hear Mama talk of Papa as ‘your father’. It made him sound like a stranger, someone distant from them all. It had none of the friendliness, none of the warm cigar-smells of ‘Papa’.

  ‘What did he do?’

  Hannah was afraid of what her mother’s answer would be. What could Papa possibly have done that was so bad the police had arrested him?

  ‘He embezzled Post Office funds.’

  Sophia almost threw the words at Hannah, leaving them where they fell, shattering into pieces all around them. She made no effort to pick them up for her, to arrange them into a pattern which made sense, into some sort of order which would give her daughter comfort.

  ‘I don’t understand. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he took money – borrowed it, without permission.’

  ‘But if he borrowed it, then he means to pay it back. Why don’t they just let him pay it back?’

  ‘Because he hasn’t got it, Hannah. And if you haven’t got it, then borrowing like that is the same as stealing. That’s the law.’

  Awful thoughts were crowding into Hannah’s mind as she tried to grasp the enormous implications of what her mother was saying to her.

  ‘Will he go to prison?’

  Her voice was unsteady, tears were threatening.

  ‘We don’t know yet. We must wait and see.’

  ‘Why are we going to Dublin? Why don’t we stay and help him?’

  Hannah was beginning to grow indignant. Her mother’s abruptness unnerved her. She didn’t seem sorry for Papa at all, only angry. Hannah did not want to think of her Papa being locked into a prison cell, with no one to bring him comfort.

  ‘Because—’ Sophia’s eyes glittered, whether with tears or rage, Hannah could not decide. ‘Because we have nothing, and we cannot live on nothing.’

  Her voice w
as hard and bitter, her features becoming more and more exaggerated as she spoke. Hannah watched her mother’s face, watched as the mouth became a thin, tight line, shadowed mauve by grief. She remembered all the weekends when she had listened to her parents fight, wanting to spirit herself away somewhere else. Now she was frightened. She suddenly understood what her mother was saying – she meant no house, no school, no food. Hannah had heard about people like that already, too many of them, living on the side of the streets in Belfast. Was it really possible for a family like hers to become one of them, to slip through the cracks of what was normal, and fall headlong into a different sort of life?

  ‘What are we going to do, Mama?’

  ‘The only thing I can do – beg.’

  She stopped for a moment, and her voice became gentler. She had seen some of the fear in her eldest daughter’s eyes. Some of the anger seemed to dissipate, and her face became softer again. Hannah felt a wave of relief start somewhere at the top of her head, warming its way downwards, releasing the tightness in her chest. She sounded like Mama again, calmer, in control, with things thought out thoroughly for the sake of her children.

  ‘I’m going to ask Grandpa Delaney for help. He’ll look after us, I promise.’

  Hannah nodded miserably. Her Grandpa was a crusty old man, often gruff in his manner to children. ‘Old curmudgeon’, Papa had called him, and she remembered laughing at the unfamiliar word.

  May stirred, her head moving restlessly from side to side, as though shaking away a bad dream. Hannah looked down at her pale face, anxious even in sleep. Eleanor’s thumb had crept up towards her lips, but it looked as though she had fallen asleep again before she’d even had a chance to suck it. Hannah was filled with an enormous tenderness for both of them, even for her mother, whose sad, pinched face made her suddenly want to cry.

  At the same time, she was filled with rage against her father. How could he do this to them? The shame of it – stealing money when he must already have enough, leaving his family with nothing, and then – going to jail. She would be ashamed of him for the rest of her life. She would never forgive him. Never, never.