The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  As Virginia continued looking down at Tom O’Brien she wondered what Kate was thinking. Was she thinking about Father? Virginia was. Her eyes welled as she thought of his funeral. At least he had a decent burial. But how would she feel if he hadn’t? What if instead of a proper burial, he were taken, like Tom would be later today, and loaded on a wagon, then driven to the nearest medical school to be used in their anatomy classes? Oh, she just couldn’t imagine such a thing! Virginia had learned that widows who couldn’t afford the burial fee would donate the body of their loved ones to a medical school, allowing it to be handled and viewed by strangers. But since time began, hadn’t necessity forced one to bear the unbearable? And like other widows before her, Virginia knew that somehow Mary would bear it, too.

  Virginia suddenly felt the need to get away. She’d burst into tears if she didn’t. It was as if she was feeling the pain of Father’s death all over again. And it made her heart ache that much more for Mary O’Brien. Without a word, Virginia left Kate standing at the coffin, then maneuvered through the crowd, heading for the widow.

  “You seem to be bearing up well,” she said, giving Mary a hug and still feeling close to tears. “You are in my constant prayers. I pray God makes a way for you and your family, and supplies your every need.”

  “‘Tis a good prayer, Miss Virginia. One I believe God has already answered, for only yesterday afternoon didn’t I get a telegram from Pittsburg. I have people there, don’t you know. They haven’t much, but they do have a roof over their heads, and all with steady jobs at the steel mill. And they say there’s plenty of work to be had for the likes of me. Seems Pittsburg is in want of domestics and willin’ to hire the Irish. Well, haven’t I been cleanin’ my house for years? Hard work never frightened me. And I’m strong.” She held out her calloused hands. “I can still use a scrub brush with the best of ‘em.”

  Other women were coming up now, hoping to talk to Mary. One spoke to her in Gaelic, and before long the entire conversation was in a language Virginia didn’t understand. She left the group thinking she’d join her mother. Over the tops of heads and between milling bodies, she spotted her near the stove helping a handful of women prepare more tea for the guests. Maybe Kate, then. But when she saw her sister all the way in the corner by the barrels, and surrounded by mourners, she couldn’t bear the thought of having to wade through the sea of bodies that separated them.

  That’s when the back door looked inviting. She knew the air would be unpleasant because of the outhouses, but it seemed preferable to this crowded, stifling room full of tears and sad conversation. And it was certainly preferable to the street in front of the house where all the men had gathered.

  Virginia worked her way to the door, then opened it and stepped out onto a wide dirt path that flanked the backs of nearly two dozen shacks. Across the way was another dirt path running along the backs of two dozen other shacks. And in the weed-filled patch between the two, was a string of outhouses. Virginia saw a handful of children chasing some chickens, making them flap and squawk and raise dust. A cow, tied to a post by one of the shacks, mooed softly, while two pigs routed nearby in the dirt.

  Virginia brushed the dust off a good-sized flat rock that seemed to mark the entrance to Mary O’Brien’s little herb garden, and sat down. She wished she and Kate had been able to do something for the O’Briens. But there hadn’t been time. Two days after Mother received the note from Mary, Tom O’Brien died. Mother said it was his heart. She said she had seen it before with other miners whose asthma was far advanced. Their hearts just gave out. And Mother had told her that Tom had worked the mines for thirty years. Ten here, the other twenty in Wales and England. And he had started when he was no bigger than Sean Muldoon.

  If only there was something she and Kate could still do. But without money? It seemed as if nothing got done without money. Still . . . maybe she and Kate and Mother could plead with the Mattson Colliery to set up a Widow’s Row. Or maybe . . . .

  “‘Tis a lovely sight you make, sittin’ here with the wind in your hair,” a man’s deep voice said.

  Virginia looked up, startled, then frightened when she saw the hulking figure of Patrick O’Brien standing over her.

  “I come to use the facilities,” he said, pointing to the nearest outhouse with a grin, “but I see now a far better reason for bein’ here.”

  Before Virginia could rise, Patrick O’Brien sat down beside her. The rock wasn’t nearly big enough for the two and they were forced to sit so close not even a blade of grass could pass between them. It wouldn’t do. She had to leave. But how? She was in such an awkward position that the only way to get up was to use the strong shoulders of Patrick O’Brien to push against. And she wasn’t about to do that.

  “‘Tis a grand thing you and your family did in comin’ here these past three days. It’s meant a lot to Mary.”

  Virginia’s heart raced. It felt strange, improper even, to be sitting so close to a man. “Will you be moving to Pittsburg, too?” She hadn’t wanted to start a conversation but feared silence would be even more uncomfortable.

  “No, I’ll be stayin’. They are Mary’s people, not mine. Though she says I’d be welcome enough.”

  “Mary’s people? I thought she was your sister . . . O’Brien . . . of course, she’s your sister-in-law. And Tom is your brother. I never stopped to consider . . . I didn’t think that much about it.”

  “‘Tis plain you gave us no thought at all.”

  Virginia looked away. “I’m sorry about your brother. But I’m sure you’re worried about Mary now, and the little ones. It’s so hard for those left behind. It . . . seems wrong that the Mattson Colliery doesn’t have a Widow’s Row. Perhaps if my sister and mother and I went and spoke to the superintendent; perhaps if we laid out the economic sense of keeping widows here so their children can continue working at the breaker, and so these same widows can provide room and board for the many single, able-bodied miners that need a place to stay, well . . . maybe then they’d see the wisdom of it and surely . . . .” She stopped when she felt his hand cover hers.

  “You have the heart of a woman and the mind of a man. You’re a wonder, Jenny.” His wild black hair fell across his forehead, his lips smiling, his dark brooding eyes searching hers.

  Virginia couldn’t say why she didn’t pull her hand away. Maybe it was for fear of falling backward off the rock. Or maybe it was because his presence was so powerful, so overwhelming she dared not move. “Mr. O’Brien, you’re a bold, fresh man with the manners of a goat. Do you think it proper to call me by name? Do you think I’m one of your pub women? Besides, the name is Virginia!”

  He laughed a deep throaty laugh, then put his face so near hers they almost touched. “Pub woman? And what might that be? Nothing good, I’m thinkin’. Oh, you’re no pub woman, for sure. You’re no kind of woman I’ve ever known, and that’s a fact. But you are Jenny to me. My Jenny as sure as there’s a sky overhead, and as sure as the breaker will be crankin out coal dust tomorrow. I don’t mind tellin’ you that from the moment I laid eyes on you, I was smitten. And when you first opened your mouth I knew there’d never be another woman for me.”

  Virginia pushed backward to free her hand, and as she feared, she fell right into the herb garden. “Mr. O’Brien! You . . . .”

  “Oh, not Mr. O’Brien. I won’t have it.” The large burly man rose, then took her arm and in one easy motion pulled her to her feet. “Between us it must be Patrick.”

  Virginia’s cheeks burned. “You are taking liberties, sir, when all I wanted was to be kind and show you and your family Christian charity and . . . .”

  “I’m a brute to be sure.” Patrick led her gently by the arm out of the herb patch and onto the dirt path. “I’m a man used to speakin’ his mind. And not used to polite company, neither. And that’s a fact. And I’ll surely never be good enough for the likes of you, but I meant no disrespect. Even so, I’ll n
ot call you anything but Jenny.” He smiled and let go of her arm. “Tell me your heart, lass. Tell me what it ‘tis you want to do for Mary.” He directed her away from the outhouses, to a nearby path lined with stones.

  Virginia found herself following this strange man, as if pulled along by an invisible cord, though she no longer felt afraid. “Well, I’ve always wanted to start a newspaper, a paper that championed women’s rights, especially the right to vote. But now . . . I believe I’d rather write about coal country. And the issues facing women here.”

  She walked alongside him, feeling strangely excited and alive. “I’d like to write about the lack of housing for widows, the poor schools, the company store. How sometimes husbands drink away their pay, leaving the family with nothing. And why. And the people here . . . they are so brave and strong and hard working. Oh, there are so many things I could write about!” Her hands swept over the patch. “This place is full of tales needing to be told. And someday I will. Only now, I don’t have the money to start a paper.”

  “And tell me why you’d be needin’ to start a newspaper? When there are enough already? ‘Tis simpler to just write for one, I’d be thinkin’. Though I doubt it will help Mary none. But maybe others, down the road.” Patrick’s brogue was as strong as the arm that touched hers as they walked.

  “But who would hire a woman?”

  “My friend at the Anthracite Monitor. He’d be glad for a chance to publish a good solid piece from someone of your class.”

  “The union paper? Virginia eyed him. “Do you have ties to the WBA?”

  “Not a one, other than friendship.”

  Virginia shook her head. “I doubt your friend would want something from me. The name of Farrell doesn’t mean anything now. Not after . . . Father’s hanging.”

  “Ah, now there’s where you’re wrong, lass. ‘Tis a well respected name still. And there’s many who doubt that your father was guilty at all.”

  Virginia stopped and in spite of herself smiled into Patrick’s earnest face. “You mean that? You’re not just saying it? About not everyone thinking Father was guilty?”

  “I never say anything I don’t mean, Jenny. You best be knowin’ that about me.”

  “Well then, how do I contact this friend of yours?”

  “You don’t.”

  Virginia folded her arms across her chest. “Then tell me how in the world I’m supposed to give him my article!”

  “I see you have a bit of a temper. I’ve got one meself. I suppose we’ll be buttin’ heads like a pair of ibex before long.”

  Virginia laughed. “I’m sorry. What I mean is how do I get my work to him?”

  “It’s that simple, Jenny. You’ll be givin’ it to me. And if I like it and think it’s worth the publishin’ then I’ll be passin’ it along to my friend. At my say-so he’ll put it in his paper, sure enough.”

  “You . . . read?” Virginia said, as they resumed walking.

  “And write. My friend at the Monitor taught me years ago when we were in the old country. We’re still friends, even now. And sometimes he’ll bring me one of his papers hopin’ I’ll see the light and join the WBA.” He pulled her to a stop, his large hands cupping her upper arms. “I know you thought me illiterate, and I’ll not be holdin’ that against you. I’m a rough man, to be sure. But a man can be many things, Jenny, and each of them warrin’ against the other.” He let go of her. “Bring me somethin’ and if I like it I’ll be passin’ it along.”

  “You’d do that? You’d help me, a woman, write for a paper?”

  “If coal country can be changed by your pen, and the pen of others like you, then I’m not so much of a fool as to want to be stoppin’ it.” He smiled and offered her his arm, and as Virginia took it, she noticed they had walked a good distance. “But it will cost,” he added, “for there’s somethin’ I’ll be wantin’ from you.”

  “Oh?” Virginia said as they turned and headed back to the house. “And what is that?” she asked, not at all certain she wanted to know the answer.

  “You must swallow your pride, that pride which is as flamin’ as that red hair of yours, and call me Patrick. And don’t go lookin’ at me sideways, neither. ‘Tis only a name. I’m not askin’ for a kiss or to hold your hand. ‘Tis no indecent thing I’m wantin’, Jenny.”

  For a long time Virginia didn’t say a word. And the silence wasn’t the unpleasant thing she had imagined. It was, in fact, rather comfortable. But his request troubled her. He was a sly one, this hulking enigma of a man, for he knew full well this wasn’t about a name. What he was really asking was this: was she willing to consider him an equal?

  Finally, when she sighted his house, Virginia leaned closer, so that no one would hear. “You’ll have my article at week’s end, Patrick.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Virginia sat at the small desk in the upstairs library trying to finish her article for the Monitor. She yawned as she dipped her pen into a circular blown-glass inkwell. She was tired. She had been dressed and writing for hours, but still wasn’t finished.

  She breathed deeply, hoping to draw inspiration from the room with its large wooden bookcases that reached the ceiling and filled entire walls. The “treasure chest” she called it. And great pains had been taken to protect this treasure. Green pleated-silk covered the glazed doors of each bookcase, protecting the leather bound volumes from dust and sun.

  She was grateful Kate had been able to talk Mother out of converting the library into a bedchamber for boarders. Trust Kate to come up with a solution, though it had cost Virginia her bedroom. For in order to save the “treasure chest”, Kate had to convince Mother to turn their upstairs sitting room into a bedroom that both Virginia and Charlotte shared, thus freeing up their own rooms for renters. But how could she complain? The converted sitting room was still roomier than Kate’s linen closet, even with two people sharing it.

  Absently, she picked at the soft shalloon cloth protecting the desktop from nibs and ink, then adjusted the lighting of the tall-chimney oil lamp. She thought of Father, and how he had bought her this lamp, with its milk-glass base, to use while “writing.” It was one of his many attempts to reconcile himself to a forward thinking daughter he never understood. What would he think, now, of her writing for a union paper? She doubted he’d be pleased, though perhaps a small part of him would be proud, too. She sighed and glanced at the tall mahogany clock that told her time was slipping away. With a flurry of her pen, she completed the last paragraph.

  Would Patrick like it? She had tried framing a convincing argument for including a Widow’s Row in all collieries. For the past week, every free moment had been spent gathering information. What she found was both expected and surprising. She already knew that anxiety ran higher among women living in patches without a Widow’s Row. But what she hadn’t expected was the fatalism that permeated every patch. Miners lived in constant fear of weak rock support, the presence of explosive fire damp, carbon monoxide, flooding, and the ever present threat of a mining mishap that could leave them dead, or disabled and incapable of ever working again.

  She learned, that over time, this boulder of anxiety ground down to acceptance. Death was likely, and the miners powerless to prevent it. It was this preoccupation with death that accounted for some of the heavy drinking. Miners, believing it could be just around the corner, often looked for distractions. Others succumbed to superstition. Their work, after all, took them deep into the bowels of the earth—Satan’s territory. Often these miners wouldn’t move or start a new job on Friday; always ate in the same place; discouraged the presence of women at the mines, and so forth. And though Virginia didn’t believe in such superstitions, all her research, even of those seemingly foolish things, seemed to knit her heart to coal country and to the people who lived and worked and died here.

  Quickly, she reread her work, then made corrections, added new lines, deleted others. When she
was satisfied, she copied it onto a fresh sheet of paper, folded it, then secured it with red sealing wax stamped with her father’s signet ring. It was all in keeping with how she had told Patrick to expect her correspondences.

  She wondered again if Patrick would like her article, then laughed at her boldness in calling him by his first name. Neither Mother nor Kate nor Charlotte would approve. But already it seemed so natural, so comfortable. At least in her mind. She never thought of him as Mr. O’Brien anymore. But speaking his name, actually saying it aloud, that still stuck in her throat.

  She tucked the folded paper inside her small cloth purse. If Patrick didn’t like the article, he’d certainly tell her. One thing she had already learned about him, he had no trouble speaking his mind.

  She ran her hands over her hair as she glanced at the clock. She wanted to get to Main Street and back before anyone missed her. She’d have to hurry. Already the sun, streaming through the window, was warming the faded damask-covered cushions of the window seat. She extinguished the lamp, then flew down the stairs, grateful that the carpet, held in place by silver-plated stair rods, muffled her noise. Already the house was waking. Boarders could be heard milling about in their rooms. And from the large, back-hall window on the first floor, Virginia saw Colonel Smyth heading for their tidy little outhouse that sported both elaborate wood trim and a cupola.

  The clanking of pots in the kitchen told Virginia her mother was already busy preparing breakfast. There would be no time to waste. Without making a sound, Virginia darted through the door and out into a glorious morning.

  A warm, pleasant breeze fluttered the tendrils of her hair as well as the dogwoods that seemed, to Virginia, to wag like bushy tails among the thick crop of white and yellow pines. She hurried along the narrow path leading to Main Street. Through the trees, she spotted a few merchants unlocking their doors while others were busy pulling merchandise onto the wooden plank sidewalk. But for the most part, the sidewalk and street were empty. It made it easier to spot the little boy who stood on the corner.