‘Will he go to prison?’
Hannah’s voice was unsteady. May could hear the tears behind her words, the tension suddenly stiffening the knees on which she rested.
‘We don’t know yet. We must wait and see.’
May heard nothing else. She wanted to cover her ears, to blank out her mother’s words. She wanted to turn back time, to move the big hands on the station clock back to when they’d arrived, to make Mama greet her with a smile and a hug, a proper hug this time. This was not real: this was some other family’s unhappiness which they had all stumbled into by accident. May wanted to sing out loud, to blot out the fear, to keep terror at bay as she had done when Sister Raphael locked her into the map cupboard.
But try as she did, she could not make anything change. Mama’s tone continued to be angry and bitter. Hannah filled the air around them with her bewilderment. May wanted to be back in school, safe in the warmth of her dormitory, surrounded by all the girls who had become her friends. And she wanted Papa. Nothing could be as bad as Mama said; nothing.
Mary and Cecilia: Spring 1893
MARY CUT THE bread into large hunks. She put sugar and milk into Cecilia’s mug, and filled it with a stream of strong, dark tea. She pushed it across the table to her sister.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Get that into ye.’
Cecilia drank it quickly. She stuffed the pieces of bread into her pocket. Mary was hurrying into her shawl.
‘We’d best be goin’, Cecilia – I don’t want to get fined again.’
The younger girl nodded. ‘Aye, I’m ready, but I don’t know how I’m goin’ to keep me eyes open the day.’
‘Saturday’s a short day – at least that’s a wee bit o’ comfort.’
‘It’s muck-up day – I hate it.’
Mary said nothing more. She could see that Cecilia was in no mood to be comforted. Both girls stepped outside; Mary pulled the front door behind them. There was now an unnatural silence on the morning streets. Debris was scattered everywhere. Tension hung suspended over the city like a lowering cloud. The air seemed to crackle with the memory of the previous night’s violence; paving-stones and stout sticks were strewn everywhere, as far as the eye could see.
Since dawn, there had been the sounds of hammering and banging all over Carrick Hill. Mary and Cecilia had made tea and joined their neighbours in the wasteland of the street below, sweeping glass and stones off the pavement into the gutter. Men in their working clothes nailed planks of wood across the gaping holes where windows had once been. Women picked up shards of ornaments, precious things which varied little from family to family: little china dolls, toby jugs, a china vase or two. There were exclamations of delight when, miraculously, a sad brown and white china dog and a miniature Virgin Mary emerged whole from the wreckage.
Myles had come over just after the dawn silence had descended on the streets. He was anxious to make sure that Mary and Cecilia were safe. Mary had never seen him angry before. Frightened, yes – they had all grown to know fear, to acknowledge it to the others without shame. They had become a tight community, pulled even more tightly together by terror. It was what kept them close, wiped out any differences of opinion, old hurts, family enmities. These were all forgotten in their need to share the fear equally: just so much for everyone, so that no one felt overwhelmed. Just so much, so that people knew where their safety lay, and looked out for others, knowing that others were looking out for them. But Myles was angry now. His broad hands clenched the air, his large frame seemed even larger. Mary realized that he was standing up to his full height; he had suddenly forgotten to stoop.
‘Bastards,’ he muttered, his face set and pale with rage.
‘Please be careful the day, Myles. Don’t draw them on yerself.’
Mary was anxious for him. Father MacVeigh’s words were enough to make her sharp-eyed, cautious about trouble, but she wasn’t sure they were a strong enough antidote to Myles’s anger.
He nodded and squeezed her shoulder, looking down at her tenderly.
‘Aye, and you too.’
Numbed with exhaustion, Mary had gone back into the house with Cecilia to get ready for work. She had made breakfast for both of them to eat on the run. Hurrying now, they made their way through the streets towards their tram.
Handbills fluttered everywhere, uselessly, in the breeze. Bottles rolled and chinked against the sides of the gutters, as though marking time. The whole atmosphere was one of electric expectation; even these inanimate objects seemed content to wait for a new occasion of havoc, secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t far off.
Mary and Cecilia joined the long stream of women headed for the mills of Bedford Street, York Street and the Crumlin Road. Nobody spoke of the night before. It was a silent march, a nervous procession that made its way towards the city trams. The girls’ usual morning banter was silenced. Many of the younger faces were pale, pinched with anxiety. Girls and women linked arms with each other, taking some comfort from the presence of neighbours, the company of friends. The disturbances of the night before, and all the old tales, vivid with tribal memory, meant that these women moved carefully, watching their backs, all senses on the alert. Trouble had its own distinctive smell.
‘Take care the day, Cecilia, keep your head down,’ said Mary quietly as they walked the last hundred yards to Amelia Street. ‘After last night, them girls’ll be only lookin’ for an excuse.’
The younger woman’s face was even whiter than earlier, the fine blue veins along her temples almost garish by contrast.
‘Aye, don’t worry. I’ll not say nothin’, just do me work.’
The sisters approached Watson, Valentine and Company, its dark exterior forbidding even at six o’clock on a bright, crisp April morning. The mill girls were streaming into their place of work, converging from the right and the left of Amelia Street. In the ground-floor spinning room, they immediately took up their stands between the giant frames, ready for the day.
The coughing began almost at once. The filmy covering of pouce, disturbed by the influx of so many people at once, insinuated itself into nostrils and throats, snaked its way deep into lungs, setting off the harsh symphony which signalled the start of every morning.
Cecilia and Mary joined the throng heading for the stairs, long used to the morning jostling and pushing. Today, the crowd seemed to be denser than usual. There was an air of suppressed excitement among the girls and Cecilia felt herself being almost washed along by the press of urgent, hurrying bodies. Mary squeezed her sister’s hand and had to let go suddenly as a group of three or four girls pushed against them, forcing their way between them. Cecilia said nothing as Mary was carried up the stairs before her on a wave of ascending bodies. They never spoke to each other once they’d entered the factory, meeting up again only when the day’s work was over.
Cecilia struggled now to stay upright, knowing that any sign of weakness would bring her grief. It was important to stand your ground, to keep both feet firmly under you. She kept a sharp eye out for the known troublemakers, the Sandy Row girls with hard faces and tough, unforgiving bodies. She was careful to make no eye contact as she searched the sea of heads for Alice McLaughlin and Marian Ward, two of her few allies in the upper spinning room. Not for the first time, she wished that she could be with Mary. She consoled herself that the three years would be over at the end of the year; she’d join the experienced spinners before her next birthday. It couldn’t come soon enough.
Her search for Alice and Marian distracted her for a moment and suddenly she stumbled on the stairway. She began to fight to stay standing and found herself being lifted by the elbows so that her feet no longer touched the ground. Instantly, she was terrified. Her heart began to beat faster, her palms to sweat. These were no helping hands. Almost immediately, the pinching began.
‘What do ye say we pitch this filthy wee taig down the staircase, sister?’
The words were whispered, low and vicious, just at her right ear.
C
ecilia looked around her wildly. Still neither of the girls she needed was anywhere near her, not even in sight. Her tormentors had chosen their moment well. She fought back the tears that sprang to her eyes as the tender flesh just above her elbows burned and flared with an almost unbearable pain. Nails were dug deep into her shoulders until she felt her skin must surely burst. She could not cry out. Any disturbance, any shouting or troublemaking, meant a fine, and she had already had enough of those.
‘Aye, good enough for her, fenian bitch. Away over the banisters.’
They had just reached the entrance to the upper weaving hall, where Miss McCutcheon, the most senior doffing mistress, stood at her table, watching over the arrival of the girls. Even if the woman had glanced in her direction, Cecilia knew that she would see only an anonymous face flanked by two seemingly affectionate friends, one with her arm around Cecilia’s waist now, the other resting her hand on her shoulder.
‘We’ll get ye,’ was the final whisper as the two parted from her, one to the right, one to the left. Cecilia trembled with relief, her whole body now soaked with sweat. She took up her station and looked around her, trying to project a careless attitude which she was very far from feeling. She wanted to cry, to rub her arms and shoulders, to do anything to take the pain away. But she never moved. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. She wouldn’t even recognize the two girls again if she saw them. They had come from behind, and disappeared before she could turn around. But their voices, she would never forget their voices.
Miss Morris was waiting for her. She looked at Cecilia closely. The girl looked unwell, flushed and bright-eyed, not at all like her usual self.
‘Are ye all right, Cecilia?’
Her voice was full of concern, her eyes kind. For a wild moment, Cecilia almost blurted out what had happened on the way up the stairs. Just in time, she stemmed the impulse, forced back the tide of words already forming behind her lips. Telling tales brought its own punishment, and today was going to be bad enough.
‘Aye,’ she said abruptly. She gestured towards four children hovering uncertainly near Miss Morris’s stand.
‘Are these ’uns for the wipin’ down?’
Cecilia looked at the unhappy faces of the four doffers who stood in front of her. What age were they? Ten, eleven, or younger? She tried not to feel too sorry for them: if she had been able to bear it, then so must they.
Miss Morris nodded.
‘Go with Cecilia, now, girls: she’ll tell ye what to do.’
For the next five hours, Cecilia supervised her charges as they emptied the water troughs under the spinning-frames and scrubbed them vigorously with wide brushes. Within an hour, their petticoats were soaked with brackish water and mucky residue. Their faces grew red, their small hands became raw and speckled with blood. Cecilia herself remembered how, within a very short time on muck-up day, her own body used to quiver with exertion, muscles strained and knotted by the demands of the unfamiliar. The young doffers did what they were told without question. Cecilia got down on her knees and showed them how to use their hands to drag out the black, silty mass of thread and dust that had accumulated in the bottom of each trough, her stomach revolting at the foul smell, eyes watering in her effort not to be sick. The children used their scrapers energetically, hacking away at the stubborn, dried dirt, freeing the shores of the gluey residue which had settled there since their last cleaning. Cecilia had to push them hard to stop them flagging: the longer the mucking-up took, the more work was lost as the machines lay idle.
‘Hurry up! There’s another frame off. How many for wipe-down?’
Voices were heard calling all over the spinning room as the half-timers were urged on to greater efforts. Finally, they carried buckets of water to each machine, which they dashed over the frames, washing them down and scrubbing the stone-clad passes beneath.
And then it was over, until the next time. No matter how well the half-timers adapted to the noise, the heat and the smell, Cecilia remembered all too clearly that the hatred for muck-up day was universal and abiding.
At twelve o’clock, the hooter sounded. Cecilia was grateful for the sudden silence, for the absence of the shouting and running and hurrying which had made her head split since early morning.
She deliberately played for time, wanting to leave only when Alice and Marian were well in sight. She’d have to be careful after this morning, watch her back. Such whispered threats as this morning’s were rarely idle ones.
She caught a glimpse of Alice’s fair hair and quickly pushed her way into the crowd, intent on their going down the stairs together, side by side. She couldn’t reach her in time, so she held on to the banisters instead, scanning the crowd below anxiously for Mary’s face. She saw her at once, and was overwhelmed with gratitude. Now she would be safe.
‘Keep walkin’, Cecilia. Don’t even look round. Them ’uns are spoilin’ for a fight. Hurry.’
Mary kept her eyes on the ground and walked rapidly down Amelia Street in the direction of home. Cecilia followed without a word. Just ahead, she spotted Alice and Marian, and then her heart seemed to stop. Blocking the exit from the street was a crowd of at least a hundred girls and women. She tugged wordlessly at Mary’s sleeve. She could hear her sister’s sharp intake of breath.
‘Don’t stop. They’ve t’other end closed off as well. Just keep goin’. Don’t get involved.’
Cecilia couldn’t help it. Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the crowd in front, following the progress of Alice’s bright head. She just knew something bad was going to happen to her. As she made to pass through the narrow passageway between the two sections of the crowd, someone reached out and pushed Alice, hard. She lost her footing on the uneven street and her arms flew out in front to break her fall. But there was no fall. From the other side of the massed bodies, two girls pushed Alice back and she stumbled again, this time back into the first group. Back and forwards they pushed her, back and forwards, laughter and taunts ringing out into the now crowded street.
‘Dirty wee taig! She’s gone and pissed herself!’
Then the beating started in earnest. Four women set upon Alice, pulling her hair out in clumps, beating her around the head and shoulders with their fists.
Cries of ‘We’ll have no Pope here!’, ‘Fenian whores!’ and ‘No Home Rule!’ filled the air as Mary and Cecilia looked on helplessly.
‘Jesus help us, Cecilia, we’re for it.’
For the first time, Cecilia saw fear glaze her sister’s eyes. That, more than the waiting crowd, made her afraid as never before. Mary had always minded her, looked out for her, knew all the short cuts away from trouble. Her very presence last night had made Cecilia feel safe, that nothing really bad could happen once she had Mary by her side. But not today.
Alice was screaming, her eyes and her voice beyond terror. Suddenly, Cecilia couldn’t stand it any longer. If they were trapped, then they were trapped, and she’d had enough. She was going to go down fighting.
She wrenched her arm away from her sister’s and ran all the way down the street towards the waiting mob. Outside herself she knew there was confusion, the ugliness of hurled insults, Mary’s terrified screams. Inside, a complete silence had descended; her mind was clear and unafraid. She couldn’t just stand there and watch Alice, her friend, being beaten senseless. Her anger grew white, focused. Alice was such a gentle girl, she didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this.
But Cecilia never reached her. Somebody’s foot shot out and tripped her just as she reached the outer ranks of the crowd. She fell heavily, gashing her forehead on the cobbles. Suddenly, she felt as though her scalp were being torn from her head, piece by piece, as her body seemed to move of its own accord through the forest of kicking feet. She was being dragged by the hair right into the centre of the crowd of women, which now closed round her on all sides. Rough hands turned her over on to her stomach, wrenching her arms behind her back.
‘Back to get more o’ what we gav’ ye this m
ornin’, taig?’
That voice. She’d remember it for ever.
‘C’mon, Agnes! Give her a hidin’!’
The crowd’s blood was up. Agnes Neill was encouraged from all sides. A fist crashed into the back of Cecilia’s neck and there was the sound of bone splintering. Her mouth filled with something liquid, warm and tasting of metal. There was nothing else in the whole world but pain. She closed her eyes, then, and welcomed the darkness.
Dr Torrens closed the door quietly behind him. Mary’s anxious eyes seemed to fill the narrow hallway, her face a greenish colour from the weak light of the single gas lamp.
‘Will she be all right?’
‘She’s badly shocked and bruised, and she’s lost some teeth.’
The doctor paused. He suspected erysipelas, but couldn’t be sure yet. He badly wanted to give this girl hope.
‘She has a slight shadow before her eyes, and that’s the one thing that worries me. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.’
Mary looked away from him.
‘You must report this, you know,’ he said gently. ‘The people who did this must be punished.’
She turned to him then, her face alight with anger.
‘There were two policemen there! They looked on while it was happening!’
Tears threatened to spill over as she remembered the complete, paralysing terror of her own helplessness.
‘They laughed when that mob tore the dresses off two girls from Dover Street!’
Mary tried to stop her voice from shaking. She could still see the two RIC men standing at the edge of the crowd, impassive. They mostly looked away, off into the distance, above the heads of the people.
‘Folded their arms, they did, and enjoyed the sport! Just like last night – just stood there, so they did. Don’t tell me nothin’ about reportin’!’
Dr Torrens put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Nevertheless, you must report it. I’ll write up Cecilia’s injuries. Let me help you.’
Another Kind of Life Page 9
