Another Kind of Life (2 page)

He had half an hour before the next Mass, enough time to visit the McCurrys and bring some comfort to that distracted woman. Her husband’s death was slow and agonizing. Not for the first
time, the priest felt a surge of bitterness on behalf of his flock. Why any of them would want to cling to what this life had to offer them, once all hope had fled, was beyond him. The McCurrys
were in for a particularly tough time, he thought – no sons there to protect the three women that would be left behind. He doubted that Mrs McCurry would ever recover from her husband’s
death. He had seen it before, too many times. Husbands and wives seemed to hold on together to the tenuous threads of endurance and survival. Once one spouse was gone, the other seemed to
relinquish their grip, and the whole strained fabric of family life began to fray, unravelling piece by piece. He feared that Mrs McCurry would follow her husband sooner than she needed.

And where would that leave her daughters? Cecilia was just a wee girl, still at primary school. And Mary couldn’t be expected to hold everything together on her own. Only thirteen, she was
in her first year full-time at the mill. She should still be a child, he reflected, playing with rope and ball, if there was any justice. But the truth of it was, there was no justice, not in this
corner of Belfast, anyway. All three McCurrys would need someone to look out for them, someone to offer shelter and comfort when things went wrong. And things seemed set to go very wrong indeed,
sooner rather than later.

The uneasy peace of the city was already straining at the seams. Father MacVeigh could feel the changes, the steady hiss and crackle of tension, in the air all around him. The lull of the last
few years, the absence of street-fighting, of vitriol and violence, did not mean that it was all over. Far from it. He had enough experience to smell trouble, long before others did.

Father MacVeigh reached the McCurrys’ door and knocked gently, twice. Mary started into wakefulness, her neck stiff and jerky from sitting up in the lumpy armchair all
night. Her eyelashes felt sore and spiky, her whole face almost too tender to touch. She got to the door first, just as Cecilia came running down the stairs.

‘Good morning, Mary.’

The priest’s face was open, freckled, kindly. His sandy hair was receding, and he had developed the habit of smoothing it back from his forehead with the heel of one hand. Mary found the
gesture to be a peculiarly calming one: it seemed to tell her that everything was normal, under control. She welcomed the priest’s presence, felt a curious sense of relief, a conviction that
once he was here, all could still be well.

‘ ’Mornin’, Father.’

‘How is everything this morning?’

Mary shrugged. Cecilia cut in: ‘Da’s not awake yet, Father. Ma says he’s slippin’ away.’

Mary was horrified at her younger sister’s matter-of-factness. She was only ten, but still, death left no one around here ignorant of its merciless grasp. Cecilia must have seen neighbours
die before: surely she understood that Da was dying now, and once he was gone, they would never see him again? Mary felt her eyes fill with the hot, unmanageable tears which had woken her time
after time throughout the previous night. It was the strangest crying she had ever experienced. It wasn’t like when you got hurt, or when someone said cruel things to you. Instead, it got you
by the throat, forced you to weep helplessly, chokingly, before disappearing again, leaving you feeling no better. There was no relief to be had anywhere. Da had already lasted longer than the
doctor said; whether he lived or died, the strange weight inside her still felt the same.

‘I’ll go up and see him,’ said Father MacVeigh, patting Mary’s shoulder. His kindness brought on a fresh impulse to wail out loud; Mary bit down hard on the inside of her
lip instead. Cecilia turned, ready to go upstairs before the priest.

‘Come back, Cecilia. I want ye here.’

Grudgingly, Cecilia flattened herself against the wall to allow the priest’s large, bulky frame to pass her by.

‘Help me with the tea, there’s a good girl.’

Reluctantly, Cecilia followed her elder sister into the kitchen.

‘Da’s not goin’ to get better, is he, Mary?’

Cecilia’s voice was explosive, over-loud in the small space. Mary placed the blackened kettle carefully on to the gas ring, and turned around to face her sister.

‘No, love. He’ll not.’

Her sister’s body suddenly looked terrifyingly small and vulnerable to Mary. Cecilia stood just under the window, pale morning light seeping into the hollows of her white face.

‘What are we goin’ to do if he dies?’

Her chin began to tremble. Mary put both arms around her, drew her close. She held her so tightly that each of them was hardly able to breathe.

‘I’ll look after ye – always. Ye’re not to be worryin’, d’ye hear me?’

Cecilia nodded.

They stood silently in the dim kitchen, neither moving until the kettle boiled.

Father MacVeigh looked after all the arrangements for the funeral. For three days and nights, the house was full of neighbours, friends, family who had travelled to Belfast
from as far away as Tyrone and Donegal. Men took off their caps, drank whiskey and sang songs. Women talked incessantly, hugged Mary and Cecilia over and over, produced food from everywhere. Mary
was surprised that sometimes the surrounding sadness would lift abruptly, to change into something lighter, happier. Da’s brothers told stories about him as a child, people laughed at their
jokes, some recited poems and rhymes, others spoke softly of harder, older times. There were moments when Mary caught herself forgetting why everyone was there, crowding into the hall and the tiny
parlour until she and Cecilia had had to go outside to make room for others to breathe.

Everything was very flat and stale after Da’s body was taken away from the house. While his brothers were still remembering him in talk, while they could all look on his taut, yellowing
face, his gnarled hands crossed peacefully over his chest, it seemed that something of him still remained behind. Then he was gone, and life, it seemed, still went on.

Ma was determined that Cecilia stay on at school. It was the one subject that would shake her out of her torpor, the only topic that made the glaze go from her eyes. Mary nudged her with it
every time she wanted to bring her mother’s vacant look back to the kitchen table, her mind back again from wherever it had strayed. Mary agreed, over and over again: she didn’t want to
see her little sister at the mill, under the harsh eye of some bitter and withered doffing mistress, learning a trade that brought little but mill fever, consumption and toe-rot.

Any dream that Mary had that her brothers would come back was long gone. She couldn’t blame them; she’d have done the same herself in their shoes, given half the chance. Belfast was
no place for lads who refused to be happy being second best; who refused to lie down for their masters. They were all safer where they were.

She’d promised to look after Ma now, and Cecilia.

She’d spend the rest of her life trying, if that’s what it took.

H
ANNAH
HELD
HER
hand all the way. At first, May protested.

‘I’m not a baby any more. I’m eight. I can walk on my own.’

She tried to wriggle her hand away from Hannah’s, but her older sister held fast. She pulled May along behind her and increased her pace so that the younger girl had to run to keep up.

‘Mama said we were to hold hands. I’m in charge and Mama says I’m to look after you.’

In charge. The words reminded May of Ellie, now almost six and longing to be in the same class as one of her sisters. She hated being on her own in Senior Infants. She had never settled into
school, unlike Hannah and May. She chafed under its routine, the unaccustomed restriction of her movements. She still couldn’t understand why she was not allowed simply to leave her desk and
seek out her sisters whenever she needed. She had cried this morning when the time came to say goodbye to Hannah and May, cried so hard that Mama had had to take her away while Lily gave the older
girls their breakfast.

‘Be good, now, Eleanor,’ Mama had scolded, but gently enough. ‘Hannah and May are big girls and they have to go to their own classes.’

That had only made Eleanor’s sobs worse.

‘I’m a big girl, too, Mama! I go to school! I don’t want to be all on my lonely!’

Mama had promised Ellie that if she was good, May could take her to second class with her for one whole day, soon. May had heard the sobs subsiding as Mama made her way down the long hallway of
their new house, soothing Eleanor as she went, stroking the small, struggling body into quietness. Lily would bring her to school, immediately after the older girls had turned the corner, taking
her firmly by the hand. She didn’t cry too much when Lily said goodbye; but Mama would be upset for the whole day if she took her. She said it shattered her nerves.

May felt a sudden, unaccustomed pride that she would be the one looking after her baby sister, that
she
would be the one Mama trusted. Up until now, it had always been Hannah, Hannah,
Hannah: May never got even one chance to be in charge of her younger sister. Sister Paul had already said that Ellie would be welcome to spend the day in her classroom, to know where her sister was
in case she needed her.

May stopped resisting the pressure of Hannah’s hand; she’d better be good. She didn’t want Mama to change her mind, to decide that she, May, was badly behaved, unreliable, not
to be trusted after all. And Hannah
would
tell on her, she was sure of that. The school gates were only a few minutes’ walk away, anyway, so it was worth it. She loved Ellie, loved the
little girl’s bright smile and trusting eyes. She longed to show her off to Sister Paul.

The sun was bright, the air humid even at this early hour, and the stiff material of May’s new uniform was already scratching at her neck and irritating the soft skin above her knees.

‘This is your line, May. Don’t forget to eat your lunch, or Mama will be cross.’

The other girls were already queuing up, each with a school bag on her back, feet shuffling and scraping into a reluctant silence.

‘Be sure and wait for me at home-time,’ Hannah said, kissed her sister hurriedly and ran off to join the bigger girls in fourth class. As soon as May had taken her place, and darted
a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure that Brid Byrne was nowhere near her, Sister Paul appeared at the head of the iron staircase. Immediately, complete silence descended on the yard. She
hadn’t needed to ring the bell even once this morning.

May looked up at the old nun, wanting to catch her eye, to smile and be smiled at. But she was busy just now, papers in her hand, her little glasses perched on the end of her nose. This was a
different start from the normal. The girls sensed it and a low murmur began, rippling up and down each line, like the uneasy scrunching of boots on gravel.

‘Now, girls, quiet please.’

The murmur died away.

‘We have some changes today. Please listen carefully.’

Sister Paul settled her glasses more firmly on her nose, and turned over the first sheet.

‘Sister Mary Immaculate will be taking Junior Infants from today. Juniors, please follow Sister Mary to your classroom.’

There was absolute silence now. Everyone held their breath. One change meant everyone changed. May’s eyes were drawn towards the group of nuns just below the stairs. Sister Raphael, Sister
Annunciata and Sister Olivia were the only ones she recognized from last year. No one ever wanted Sister Raphael, the elderly, crabbed nun who used the strap far more than most, and certainly more
than Sister Paul, who had never used it at all, not even once in the two years she had been May’s teacher. Sister Raphael’s face was creased into a permanent expression of discontent;
her hands, too, frightened May and it was whispered among the girls that they were the hands of a witch.

She held her breath. Please, please, she thought. Let it be any of the others; don’t let it be Sister Raphael.

Waiting for the other classes to be assigned their teacher was agony. When it came to second class, May’s heart was beating so hard that she hardly heard what Sister Paul said.

‘Second class, please go with Sister Raphael to your classroom; I’ll visit you later on this morning.’

May’s legs began to tremble. It wasn’t fair. Now they would all have to be silent and terrified. Sister Raphael would have nothing less.

She watched as the sunlight glinted off the old nun’s glasses. Without a word, with only a sharp movement of her hooked hand, she led the snaking group of girls across the unwilling yard,
and in through the main door of the school building. One by one, they filed into the bright classroom, standing around the wall until they were assigned their desks. May hoped that she would not
have to sit beside Brid Byrne. She smelt bad, and Mama said she had nits.

‘Kathleen Mulhall, Margaret O’Connor.’

The tone was sharp; the crooked arthritic fingers indicated their double desk at the top of the third row. For a moment, May hesitated, startled by the unfamiliarity of her given name. No one
ever called her Margaret, not even Sister Paul, once she had learned that ‘May’ was her preference. ‘It suits you,’ she had said, smiling at May’s red-faced admission
that she never answered to ‘Margaret’. ‘That’s Our Lady’s month – a joyful month.’ May had sat down gratefully, then, pleased that she hadn’t got
into trouble for her outspokenness.

Now, she and Kathleen looked at each other and ventured a small smile. They slid along the polished wooden seat of their desk, almost colliding in the middle, each wanting to giggle, but knowing
that they’d better not. She didn’t feel so bad any more. Having a new friend always helped.

It was just after midday when Sister Raphael announced it was time for mental arithmetic. May felt the familiar sensation of panic: something stirred deep in her chest, just
behind the buttons of her uniform. It was like the flapping of a tiny, frightened bird. Her mind seemed to close over, becoming a shuttered window, no small chinks of light anywhere. Sister Paul
had understood that feeling, had told her, kindly, to take her time. Accuracy before speed, she’d always said, folding her hands in front of her as she waited for May’s halting reply.
She could see the nun’s gentle face now, her intelligent eyes as they regarded her pupil over the tops of her glasses. Her face had been calm, her steady gaze encouraging.