by Mary Wood
‘I’m not meaning to intrude on you, so I’m not, but you look like you could use a hand.’
Will looked up into a face not dissimilar to his own. It was crowned with hair just as dark, though tending to curl, whereas his fell straight from its centre parting. The eyes differed in colour, too. This man’s were as black as a nugget of coal. He had a kind tone to his Irish lilt, and he spoke again before Will could answer. ‘I was just after making my way over to the Miners’ Social Club. I heard they had a bare-knuckle fight contest on in a few days, and I’m wanting to put me name forward. I changed direction when I saw the fire, but it looks as though ’tis under control. Was it your place as burned?’
Will cleared his throat and stood up. ‘No, a neighbour’s. The man of the house lost his life. The tragedy of it was a trigger to the greater pain I have had in me today. Me da passed away this morning.’ As he said the words he wondered how it was that he could talk to this complete stranger, whom he was beginning to mark as a gypsy lad.
‘That’s fair sad, so it is. I lost me own pappy and me mammy when I was younger than yourself. They caught a fever. It took them and most of our clan. Well, I’m sorry ’tis as I cannot ease your pain. Grieving is a personal thing, so I’ll be on me way and maybe I’ll meet up with you again in better circumstances. Me name’s Seamus Finney. I’m a travelling man from Ireland.’
‘Will Hadler. And maybe we will meet again, as I have a friend – a fellow miner – who is a bare-knuckle man. He fights at fairs and in tournaments and I take an interest in his progress. But the one you have to watch out for is Bruiser Armitage, as folk round here have nicknamed him. He puts most of his opponents down in the first bout.’
‘Aye, I’ve heard tell of him on the circuit. Have you a hint you could be giving me on how to tackle him? If it’s not imposing of me at such a time?’
‘Naw, it’s good to talk on sommat else other than . . . well, you know.’ Will wiped his face with his sleeve, and then blew his nose on a piece of rag he used to wipe the sweat from his brow as he worked. This reminded him that he hadn’t yet washed and changed after coming in from the pit. He must look a sorry mess – even more so with the effect of the smoke from the fire, and the tears. They’d have streaked his face. He tried to put out of his mind how he must look, as he discussed Bruiser’s fight tactics. ‘Anyroad, he’s big – built like a brick shit-house – but he’s slow, in my opinion. I reckon if someone were to tackle him by way of taking him by surprise, they’d have an advantage, but once you’ve gone in, yer to be quick about getting out of his reach. Dance round him a bit and tire him. I’ve said as much to me mate, but he’s scared out of his wits of the man.’
‘It is grateful I am to you, Will. From what you tell me and what has come to me notice, it sounds like a good way of tackling the man.’
‘Glad to help, and thanks for stopping. You’ve reet taken me mind off things, and I feel as though I can cope now.’
Seamus offered him his hand. ‘It is glad I am to have met you, Will. I’ll be on me way now, and if you feel up to it I hope you will drop by the Social and give me your support.’
‘Aye, I might just do that.’ Will watched him walk back down the ginnel. A big muscle of a man, he had a swagger about him. A man to be reckoned with, he thought. Feeling strangely calm, Will hopped over the wall into the yard area where the communal well stood, hauled up a bucket of water and sluiced his vomit away. The action gave him back the last remnants of control, but with it came the feeling in his gut that he had a long way to go to lift the stigma some folk would put on his shoulders. And for it to have happened tonight, of all nights, when he could least deal with it. But even so, to walk away without so much as offering a protest . . . What had he been thinking of?
Seamus didn’t spend long thinking about Will and his troubles. He had enough of his own to worry over. He needed to earn some quick money and get back over the water to find out what was happening. Coming runner-up in his bout in Leeds had meant he’d picked up only a quarter of the purse, and his earnings from the landowners hadn’t covered his living these past few weeks. News should reach him soon of Michael O’Hara, the bastard that he was. If he double-crossed him again, he’d do for him as sure as God was in Heaven, so he would.
Not able to enter the north of Ireland for fear of capture, Seamus hated his lonely nomadic life. He missed the support of his family. At least he’d hooked up with them in the south of Ireland in the winter and had found out what was going on.
The thought of the last assignment he’d carried out for Michael and his followers shuddered through him. Michael had said, ‘It’s cut-and-dried, Seamus, so it is. You waylay him as he leaves the Green Emblem pub on Friday night. You tell him ’tis as we all know his leaning, and then you slit his throat and disappear into the night.’
Named as a traitor to the cause, the man he had to kill had given information to the English and the Protestants about the whereabouts of the Fenians’ hideouts and ammunition hoards.
Seamus hadn’t baulked at the task. But then, they’d said that unless he did this he’d find himself a corpse, to be sure. Now he knew the innermost secrets of the sect, they would see that he met his end as someone who couldn’t be trusted.
Michael had given him a description of the man. He’d lain in wait. The target had left the pub, but as he did so a powerful arm had grasped Seamus around the neck and a hand had covered his mouth. He’d acted fast: his blade had sunk into his assailant’s belly. Blood had squelched out as he withdrew it. By the time the crowd leaving the pub reacted to the terrible moan, Seamus had made himself scarce.
On returning to the farm, Michael had asked, ‘What happened? A terrible mistake has occurred. ’Tis as we got the wrong man. Did John Sullivan manage to stop you in time?’
The mood had changed on hearing what had happened. Michael surmised that John would not have been able to shout out for fear of discovery, so he must have thought the best action would be to jump Seamus and cover his mouth to silence him. The horror of it put the fear of God into Michael, as his error had cost the life of one of their own. A man well respected; a brave man. The wrath of the Fenians would come down for such a disaster. Michael’s life was in danger.
Seamus had learned that Michael and his men had denied any knowledge of why John had been in the alley near the pub. They had vowed to their leaders they’d find out who it was that had carried out John’s murder, and had later given his name, saying he was a gypsy thief and had been seen running away from the scene.
Michael’s only good deed was covering for Seamus while he escaped across the water. He’d promised that when it had all quietened down he would come over with enough money to help Seamus get to America.
On his visit to the south of Ireland last winter, his grandmother had told him that Michael had been over to England, and when he returned he’d told her to pass on the message that he was stashing money away in a bank in Liverpool and hoped he’d make his own escape before the next winter. He would meet Seamus in Liverpool. ‘He said to tell you to go into Mick’s Irish bar near the docks next November and ask for him. If he’s across there, then there will be a message for you as to what to do next.’ Grandmother Finney had warned, ‘He’s in deep, Seamus. His name is linked with a number of atrocities. I’d put a curse on him, so I would, if it didn’t mean as you would miss out. But mark me, son: once you have your money and have crossed to America, he’ll get what’s coming to him. He’ll die at the hand of travellers, and it won’t be a death he’d be choosing for himself. They’ll be able to smell his burning flesh for miles, but as his tongue will be cut out and his mouth stuffed with rags, he’ll not be able to make a sound.’
Well, it was near November now, and him with two or three days’ travelling ahead of him. But he couldn’t be doing it on an empty stomach; he had to get money to buy some meat.
As he came up to the field where his wagon stood, his horse snorted a welcome. ‘Good boy. Let me free you from that tre
e you’re tethered to, so you can enjoy the grazing in that pasture. I’m thinking ’tis as you’ve had your eye on that grass all day.’
Setting the fire, Seamus sliced onions and potatoes, threw in a handful of hedgerow herbs and sat back with his pipe. Everything around him glowed red as the last of the winter sun sank behind the hills. He made his decision. After his stew he’d check his traps, and if he’d nothing in them he’d not wait to take part in the fight, but take his chances and move on.
It was as he thought: the traps were empty of prey. But then, hadn’t a powerful disease hit the countryside in the months previous and wiped out most of the rabbit population? As he began to collect in his snares, he thought in desperation of taking his chance and breaking into a couple of the houses hereabouts. Nothing about them posed a problem as to getting into them, but he had built up a trust along his route and he thought better of it. If it was that the meet didn’t go ahead, he’d want to come back next year.
Thinking of the meet and of Michael brought Bridie into his mind. Sitting around the dying embers of his fire he remembered the last time he had seen her. The image of her swirling skirt, laughing, joyous face and beautiful hair stayed with him as he drifted off to sleep.
5
Bridie
Leeds, Yorkshire, 1875
A friendship forms
‘Bridie, Bridie . . .’
Bridie’s heavy eyelids resisted her attempts to open them. No words would form to respond to the voice.
Pictures swam in and out of her mind. She remembered that someone had wrapped a blanket around her and dragged her out of the cabin. The wind had stung her back to full consciousness, but she’d been unable to utter anything in her own defence against the condemning voices of the group gathered around her. They’d spoken what they thought they knew to be the truth. Blaming her . . .
‘Isn’t it what I thought was going on? Didn’t I say it wasn’t right, the way they acted together? And them being father and daughter!’ one had said. And a similar voice had answered, ‘Yes, Mrs Lynch, you did that. Well, her behaviour has got her more than she bargained for! But then, didn’t you know who he was? He was none other than O’Hara . . .’ Shock had registered in the voice of the first speaker: ‘Be Jesus, Mrs Flynn! Michael O’Hara! Well, a man of his nature would be taken by the Devil with a daughter giving him such attentions.’ ‘He’ll be taken by the Devil for more reasons than that. And she seems to have been spawned in the same vein . . .’
A strong-smelling cloth, like the ether the doctor had used on her when she’d broken her arm as a child, had sent the voices swirling above her and out of her reach, but not before she’d heard the words ‘correction convent . . .’
Part of her had become aware of being on a journey, lain on a rough board in a conveyance. Her body had swayed from side to side. Noises had come and gone – horses’ hooves and shouting – but always they had left her as she’d sunk back into the black hole she could not release herself from. Only those two words stayed with her, and now they screamed at her from inside the cobweb of her mind. They gave her a fear of where she was.
‘Bridie, Bridie. Don’t be thrashing about in such a way. Come on, open your eyes. No one is going to hurt you.’
A sharp odour stung her nostrils. Her eyes watered and the weight lifted from them. As she turned her head to avoid the smelling salts, the black cloth of a nun’s headdress wafted her cheek. It shadowed the face bending over her.
‘That’s better. Now, I am Sister Rose and this is Sister Benedict. How are you feeling?’
Bridie looked from one nun to the other. A filthy expression came to her mind, which contained a word she’d cringed at in her innocence. But she wasn’t innocent any longer. She was . . . No, she couldn’t give voice to those thoughts. She tried to speak, but found she still couldn’t. She couldn’t even blink her sore, staring eyes. Why, Pappy? Why?
‘Dear, dear, I am afraid the child is losing her mind. We’ll leave her a little longer.’ The nun turned as she straightened herself. ‘Elizabeth, you will remain with her, but you are forbidden to talk to her. However, you are to fetch me immediately if she does speak.’
‘Yes, Sister Rose.’
Bridie hadn’t registered the presence of another person. She looked over in the direction from which the Sister had spoken. A young woman sat on a chair in the corner of the room just beyond the door. She smiled. Bridie wanted to smile back, but the click of the door took her attention. The hushed voices of the departing nuns drifted over to her and found an open part of her mind to penetrate: ‘It’ll be a miracle if she comes through this. I will write to the aunt whose letters the girl had in her belongings; we can only hope she will take her in. Otherwise I have a feeling we’ll have another Gracie on our hands.’
‘Is it to be wondered at, Sister, with what her father did to her – and him being a murderer on the run at the time!’
‘Shush . . . you know most of these girls ask for it.’
Murderer . . . Pappy, wanted for murder! Well, they couldn’t have him . . . He . . . Her inner self couldn’t acknowledge the truth.
She looked around the room. Small and with whitewashed brick walls, it had no adornments other than a crucifix above the door and a picture of the Virgin Mary – head leaning to one side, a serene look on her face and with her eyes seeming to see inside of you – hanging on the wall to her left. Bridie felt no reverence for her or for her son. Instead she experienced a bitterness towards them, which confused her and increased her sense of loss.
Above her head a beam of light came through a small window. It wasn’t natural light, but from a gas mantle brighter than the one inside the room. She was in a room within a room! A prison? Her eyes shot over towards Elizabeth.
Though she didn’t look more than about twenty, Elizabeth had a worn-out, downtrodden air about her. Bridie likened it to Mrs Rafferty’s look. Mrs Rafferty was a neighbour back in Ireland who had to do everything her husband bade, or feel the might of his fist.
Elizabeth wore a kind of uniform: a plain grey day-frock with a navy-striped pinafore over the top. It was of the type you had to put your head through and tie at each side. With her dark hair pulled back, her elfin-like face shone in the lamplight. A mobcap sat on the back of her head. Her smile held kindness, and Bridie knew she would like Elizabeth. Some comfort seeped into her with this thought.
‘Don’t be scared,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘I know what yer going through. You’ll be reet.’
Reet . . . ? What did she mean? She supposed she meant all right, as that’s the sort of thing that was said in these situations. She knew Elizabeth meant well, but how could she know how it felt, to be going through what Bridie was feeling? How could anyone know?
Elizabeth stood up, peeped through the window on the door, placed her finger over her mouth and then, bending beneath the window, came towards her.
‘They say as your da raped you, before killing himself? I’m sorry for you, love. Me uncle was the one as raped me, only he isn’t paying for his sin. I am. I were caught with a babby. He denied it all, and I were sent in here by the priest.’
Bridie struggled to understand Elizabeth’s way of speaking. Was she saying her uncle had made her pregnant? She stared at Elizabeth and registered the pain in her face. She felt it curl around her own pain and intensify it, till she wanted to scream it out of her. But she couldn’t.
‘Me babby died in me before she were born. And I’m glad, cos they’d have taken her from me, had she lived, and this way she will always be mine. Now I have to stay here until me so-called sins are atoned. But then, it’s better than the workhouse. Anyroad, word is you aren’t having a babby, so you’re lucky in that, Bridie. And there’s something to be said for being here: at least you’re with girls as know.’
The heat in Bridie’s head cooled. Tears moistened her dry eye sockets. The words she wanted to speak formed. ‘Is it a girls’ correction convent I am in?’
‘Aye, it is. Though, like me,
you probably don’t need any correcting, but they’ll work you hard to make you mend your ways.’
‘I haven’t got any – ways . . . I . . .’
‘I know. I said, didn’t I? I know how things happen. But be prepared, love, as the blame will rest with you.’
The unjust and filthy allegations of the crowd on the boat came back to clothe her in shame. Her spirits sank even further, but she could see this young woman believed her and that gave her comfort. Her voice shook as she asked, ‘Is it Liverpool as this convent is in? ’Tis Liverpool the boat was headed to.’
‘Aye, but I don’t know exactly where. I’m from Leeds meself. Do you want to talk about what happened, love? It helps some.’
‘No, only . . . only – why? Why did Pappy . . . ? I . . . I fought . . . I didn’t let him.’
‘Eeh, I know, lass, and I know the feelings as you have at one who is meant to love and protect you doing such a thing. I understand you not wanting to talk much about it. I was one as couldn’t talk, not at first, not till after me babby died. Look, one of the Sisters is an Irish. Her name’s Sister Theresa. She’s the best here, and she’ll help you. In fact, most of the nuns are all right. Them two as have just been in are the worst. They mind the sick, but are more likely to make you sicker. Sister Rose can be cruel, and Sister Benedict just does as Sister Rose bids her to.’
‘Have you been in here long, Elizabeth?’
‘Call me Beth. And, aye, I’ve been here just on six years.’
‘Six years! Why is it they haven’t let you out?’
‘Me family don’t want me back. Me da says as I enticed his brother and made a sinner of him. But truth is, he can’t cope with me. You see, I’m second-hand goods, so to speak. And with that fact and the scandal as was caused, well, no man’d take me on. Besides, there’s still eleven young ’uns at home, and after four have already left to be married an’ all.’
