Another Kind of Life (21 page)

Hannah wanted to hold on to those earlier feelings, when possibility and optimism had fuelled her every moment, but Papa’s voice kept intruding.
You must make no plans. First and
foremost, you have duties to others
. Hannah wished the words away into meaninglessness, but they would not leave her.

She would stay in her room for the rest of her life – she hated everyone, hated what they were forcing her to be. She would run away, and then they would be sorry. She would find Miss de
Vere—

There was a knock on her door.

‘Hannah? Your father and I would like to see you. Downstairs in the drawing room, please, at once.’

Mama’s voice was brisk, matter of fact. There was no trace of appeal, no note of contrition.

Hannah did not reply.

She would not go to them. She would die rather than marry Charles MacBride.

They would never force her. Never, never.

I
DON’T REMEMBER
consciously setting out to draw Hannah from her room, but I must have had an instinctual understanding that the piano played a
large role in her refusal to be part of the family. I had never known our house so silent before, so bereft of music. I remember feeling cheated that, at a time when I could have had Hannah all to
myself, she refused to let me come to her. And so I set about drawing her to me – not a conscious choice, perhaps, but none the less deliberate for that.

It was a Thursday afternoon and Mama and Papa had gone out on their weekly visit to Grandfather Delaney. He would rarely come to our home, certainly not since Papa’s sad and humble return
from Belfast some two years earlier. And now he was ill, unable to leave his house. Whatever was happening, my father was no longer left behind when my mother made these weekly, dutiful visits. I
understood later that his presence was tolerated by my grandfather, but not sought after. Katie and Lily were on their afternoon off. Hannah and I were alone in the house, each of us deemed to be
responsible enough to look after ourselves for a few hours, and after each other, should the need arise.

We had been learning some of Moore’s melodies in school at that time – ‘The Meeting of the Waters’ was a particular favourite of my teacher’s – and I decided
to see if I could accompany myself on the piano. I have never been an accomplished musician – not even nearly as good as May, who in turn, was not nearly as proficient as Hannah. I left the
drawing-room door open on this occasion and began to strike the notes as loudly as I could. I sang carelessly, as though I had no thought for anything but my own entertainment.

It seemed to me that I played for some time without achieving the desired response. There was no sign of Hannah, no footstep that I could hear, no doors opening or closing. I was almost ready to
stop – my sister was obviously not about to dignify my poor performance with her presence – when I sensed, rather than saw, a flash of blue to my left: Hannah, come to see me at last. I
went to turn around and felt my long hair being pulled suddenly and furiously. I landed heavily on my back, my arms and legs waving in the air like a frantic spider. I don’t think I knew what
had happened, even when I saw Hannah standing there, her eyes black with fury. The piano stool had fallen over with a crash, and sheet music poured out of its seat, lying whitely on the floor like
spilt milk. I was too shocked to speak. I had never before seen Hannah in such a temper – cross, yes, even sharp and angry after the occasional exchange between herself and Mama, but never
this black, unforgiving rage.

I remember I cried, hugging myself, clasping my long arms close to my body for comfort. At one point, Hannah looked as though she was ready to soften towards me, but I wouldn’t let her. I
howled, deliberately averting my eyes from hers. I shut her out, just as she had shut me out. I was not going to give her the joy of comforting me. I even shook off her arm as I ran out of the
drawing room and upstairs to my bedroom, sobbing as I went. I cannot say that my tears weren’t real, but I do know that I pursued my advantage. I had made Hannah notice me, and simultaneously
feel bad about her neglect of her youngest sister. As I slammed my door, I was conscious of a small feeling of triumph. I am almost ashamed to tell you this: I fear it makes me appear shallow and
callous, but I have promised myself, and you, absolute truthfulness.

It was Hannah’s turn now to want my company: and I should wait as long as it took for her to come and get me.

H
ANNAH
LEANED
HER
head back against the warm glass of the window. She was tired of watching the hazy
countryside hurry past, framed by the streaked grime of some other day’s rain. She knew that her mother willed her not to, so she closed her eyes, shutting her out, obliterating that grey
gaze, those long fingers plucking at the pearls around her throat. It gave Hannah satisfaction to withdraw like this, to savour the silent power of her last defiance. She felt the sun against her
face, the bright midday light making pinkly crazed patterns on the insides of her eyelids. The train jolted occasionally, but mostly its rocking motion was soothing, childlike. Hannah thought how
nice it would be to sleep now, to shut everything out, once and for all.

Eleanor shifted slightly on the upholstered seat, edging closer to her sister.

‘I think we’re nearly there,’ she whispered, her breath warm against Hannah’s neck. The older girl nodded and reached for the small hand. She could feel it lying
uncertainly on the seat beside her, vulnerable, slightly sticky. She squeezed gently, filled with a rush of guilty love. She would never want Eleanor to feel closed off, abandoned. This silence was
not for her. The young girl relaxed at once, comforted by the strength of her sister’s warm grasp. May sat beside her mother, her gaze following the restless countryside, her face
impassive.

No one spoke again until the train signalled its noisy arrival at Great Victoria Street. It snaked its way along platform one, finally shrieking to a long, juddering halt. Its cry echoed
harshly, bouncing off the high metal roof, sending pigeons flapping whitely above the great billows of grey steam. Porters swarmed all over the platform, pulling at the peaks of their caps, sharp
eyes on the lookout for the sweetest bit of business, the unwary traveller. Her father stood up at once, sliding back the door of their first-class carriage. He adjusted his hat with the air of a
man accustomed to getting things done. Before he reached the bottom step, his left hand was already raised, half in summons, half in greeting. He moved rapidly along the platform, his gold-topped
cane swinging in elegant rhythm with his footsteps.

‘Come along, girls,’ their mother urged.

Her voice was tight, the edges of her words jagged. May was already standing, fixing her bonnet without a word. Their mother tugged at her gloves, glancing irritably in the direction of her
other two daughters. Neither moved. Hannah decided to count to ten before she even opened her eyes. Eleanor sat still, paralysed in equal measure by terror and delight at her sister’s
bravado, drawing strength from her tightly held hand.

‘Eleanor, do as I say – at once.’

Hannah gave her sister’s hand an extra little squeeze of encouragement and opened her eyes. She looked innocently at her mother.

‘Are we there yet, Mama?’

Eleanor stifled a giggle.

Her mother blinked rapidly. She pulled sharply on the drawstrings of her reticule, refusing to meet her eldest daughter’s eye.

‘Please don’t be childish, Hannah. Gather your things. Your father’s gone to get a porter.’

She swept angrily out of the carriage, ushering May down the steps in front of her. Hannah watched as the feathers of her mother’s hat brushed against the top frame of the narrow doorway.
They bobbed wildly for an instant, their careful arrangement distorted into sudden parody. A blue peacock’s eye drooped sadly, then swayed drunkenly back to its proper position again. That
moment, out of nowhere, Hannah was assaulted by a feeling of sudden, raw pity for the departing back. She could see, with a fleeting, startling clarity, all the secret years of disappointments,
measured by her mother’s small step, by the unyielding set of her shoulders.

Eleanor’s cheeks were pink with suppressed laughter, her eyes shining. But when she turned back to Hannah, her sister seemed to have gone away from her. She was suddenly somewhere else.
Her gaze was fixed on something in the distance, her expression had become blank again. Eleanor had seen so much of this in recent months that she now knew not to ask. She was too young,
she’d understand when she was older, she wasn’t to worry. She’d grown tired of her sister’s responses, all of them the same, all of them filled with nothing, empty of
reassurance. Quietly, she gathered up her book, her gloves, her ridiculous straw bonnet, and waited while Hannah smoothed her dress and pinned the crown of her travelling hat to the thick coil of
hair they had plaited together that morning.

Finally, Hannah turned away from the mirror and gestured towards her mother, now waving at them furiously from the platform.

‘Let’s go, Ellie, and get this over with.’

She led the younger girl towards the door, where a porter’s outstretched hand helped them both safely down the steps. Hannah kept her eyes lowered as they made their way up the platform
towards the exit. She felt the familiar lurch in her chest as she thought about this life which others had decided for her. Once level with their mother, both girls stopped and waited obediently
for her to take the lead.

‘Hannah, do look up.’

Hannah did as she was told, startled by the unexpected change in her mother’s tone. It was no longer sharp; there was no sense of that edgy, unspoken anxiety that her eldest daughter was
about to let the family down. Instead, the words had come almost as an appeal, with an undertow of resignation, a new sense of enduring the inevitable. Hannah was surprised: she had thought that
those feelings were hers and hers alone. She searched her mother’s face, but could find no clue there, no change in the familiar expression. Her chin was resolute, her grey eyes directed down
the platform as she searched for her husband.

He was by now well in front, having made his way through the knotty crowds, a porter respectfully by his side. He had stopped just before he reached the barrier, waiting for his wife and
daughters to catch him up. Hannah could see nervousness locked into every line of his body, in the way he pulled at his moustaches: first the left, then the right. She felt a hot surge of
indignation as she looked at him. She was glad that he was suffering. She wanted him never to forget the last time his family had stood on this platform; she felt cruel enough to hope that he could
still feel the shame of it all.

Beyond her father’s slightly stooped shoulders, Hannah could make out the familiar outline of Constance MacBride – broad, squat, vastly hatted, apparently unchanged after five years.
She
was the one who had changed, Hannah realized, with a sudden, surprised stab of revelation. From thirteen to eighteen is a long time: enough to change from child to woman, enough to know
the world a little more. From sixty-five to seventy is nothing, surely, just a very small proportion of a very old and unsurprising life. Beside Constance stood a tall, solid-looking figure, a man
dressed in a black frock coat, already tipping his stovepipe hat to Hannah, his eyes, even at this distance, searching out hers.

This was it, then. This was what she had fought about, dreaded, railed against for all these months. And now she was here. She walked towards him mechanically, no longer aware of Eleanor, of
May, of her mother, or her father in the crowding distance. She was aware only that this would now be her future, that the rest of her years would be spent shadowed by the northern grimness she
could once more feel all around her, as though she had never left. It was a city that she remembered without affection, a whole sea of memories upwashed by the harshness of the Belfast voices that
now joked and jostled with each other in the air above her.

For better or worse, she was home.

F
ATHER
M
AC
V
EIGH
HAD
written Mary a wonderful reference. He praised her honesty,
her capacity for hard work, her resourcefulness. He read it to her slowly before folding the creamy notepaper in half and sealing it in a matching envelope.

His eyes twinkled at her.

‘That good enough for you?’

Mary smiled.

‘I hardly recognize meself, Father,’ she confessed.

‘Father Maguire has already spoken to the lady of the house, a Mrs Long, and she’s expecting you tomorrow. She wants her housekeeper to interview you. Just a formality, I’m
sure, but put on your best bib and tucker, just in case.’

‘Is it a family, Father?’

He nodded.

‘Aye, three children; I think the oldest’s nine. They’re one of Father Maguire’s wealthiest families, made their fortune in aerated waters, I believe.’

Mary felt suddenly nervous. Now that she was effectively cutting her ties with Carrick Hill, she felt adrift, full of self-doubt. Since she and Myles had last spoken, he barely glanced in her
direction any more. It might be her imagination, but it felt as if some of the warmth of the neighbours towards her had begun to cool, too. And Mrs McNiff was never at her downstairs window any
more, where she used to perch for hours on end, her sharp eyes missing nothing of the comings and goings of the street.

What if this didn’t work out? What if nobody wanted her? She knew that there was no going back, and going forward felt much more frightening now that it was real.

‘I have other possibilities up my sleeve,’ said Father MacVeigh. ‘You aren’t to become despondent if this one doesn’t work out.’

He stood up, and opened the presbytery door for Mary.

‘The others are in Sydenham and in Malone Park. These new fancy houses seem to need an unending stream of servants. I think it’s a case of aping one’s neighbours.’