Another Kind of Life (6 page)

It took a while for me to notice that Lily was quiet, that she was not interjecting and questioning in her usual teasing manner. She was seated at the long table, with her pile of mending in
front of her. While her square, capable fingers worked busily, her face showed that her thoughts were not on the cuffs and collars that covered much of the table.

‘Lily? Are you not well?’

I remember I spoke shyly, tentatively – this was a side of Lily I had never seen before, and it both puzzled and frightened me. I was even more alarmed when her chin began to tremble, and
tears hovered dangerously on the brink of her eyelashes.

‘I’m fine, Miss Eleanor. Drink up your milk there, like a good girl.’

Two large tears splashed on to the shirtsleeve she was holding. I don’t know which emotion I felt more keenly: astonishment or fear.

‘Shall I get Mama for you?’

I was already standing up, poised for flight. Mama would know what to do to make the tears go away.

Lily reached out then and held on to my arm.

‘No, please, miss – it’s nothing for you to worry your head about. My sister is sick, that’s all, and I’m awful worried about her.’

I was shocked. A sister? Lily? I think I became a little indignant, perhaps even jealous. We were Lily’s family, were we not? She and Katie had been looking after us, and Mama and Papa,
ever since I could remember. It came as a novel idea to me that we were not the centre of everybody else’s universe.

‘Will she get better?’

Lily wiped her eyes again.

‘She will, please God. But she’s all alone in hospital, miss, and I’m afraid it might take a long time.’

I was afraid to ask what was wrong. Mama’s stern face in my imagination made it very clear that this was a question one did not ask, that such matters were delicate and private ones. But I
was becoming more and more curious. I needed to find out how it was possible to have a sister ill, in hospital, and have no one to go and visit her.

‘Where does she live?’

‘She’s in service, miss, like me. Except she’s in Dublin, in one of them big houses in Merrion Square.’

I only half remembered Dublin in those days. I knew that that was where we were from, that we would most likely return there some day. But there was nothing about it that I missed: everybody I
loved was with me in Belfast; there was nobody left behind whose company I hankered after.

‘Will you tell me her name?’

It was inconceivable to me that sisters would not always be together, that they would not at least live in the same city as one another. I felt suddenly anxious about some far distant day when
Hannah and May and I might too be scattered.

‘Her name is Jenny, miss, and she’s my twin.’

‘Do you miss her?’

I knew the answer already, of course I did. I knew how much I missed Hannah and May during the week. I think I just wanted to hear Lily say that she missed her sister terribly: I wanted to be
sure that for a servant-girl like Lily, having a sister meant the same thing as it did to me.

Her face suddenly crumpled and she cried without restraint. I felt guilty and sorry then: I had been cruel. I had got my answer, my curiosity had been satisfied, and now Lily was suffering.

I stood and put my arms across her shoulders, just as Mama had done many times to one or other of us. I felt awkward standing there, awkward and compassionate at the same time.

‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘She’ll get better, you’ll see.’

That afternoon was the first time in my young life that I had ever experienced true empathy. I am grateful to Lily; it is a quality which I have been fortunate enough to possess, and nurture,
all through my adult life.

Up to that moment, the concept of suffering for me meant only sore feet, or cold hands, or having to eat the vegetables I detested. Lily’s tears spoke of another kind of suffering –
one that was altogether foreign to me. It spoke of a wider world than the one I knew, of separations and loneliness which I had never even begun to imagine.

I think, too, that I was shocked: I regard that occasion as the first time when I became aware of personal conscience – the ability to discern justice and injustice, the rights and wrongs
of an unequal world which, up until that afternoon, seemed to have functioned perfectly well around me. It was the first time I can remember ever having questioned the arrangement of my own life,
and the lives of others.

S
T
M
ARY’S HAD
filled up more rapidly than any other Sunday Mary could remember. Those men who rarely attended Mass now
crowded into the porch, crushing their caps between their large hands as they waited, shuffling occasionally from foot to foot as the waiting became uncomfortable. It was a strangely ill-at-ease
group: the men looked out of place, unfamiliar with their surroundings. They had stood in a tight knot, and parted almost unwillingly to allow Mary and Cecilia through. The two young women blessed
themselves quickly at the holy water font and walked up the centre aisle of the church. As soon as they had moved away, the group closed over again. It was as though they each needed the comfort
and safety of numbers, even before any trouble began.

Inside, Mary and Cecilia had pushed their way into a packed bench midway down the church, and now sat stiffly together. Mary was squeezed tight against the wooden arm of the pew, almost unable
to breathe. The other women had moved up without a word, crowding more closely together, taking children on to their knees in order to make room for the two sisters. It was understood among them:
you didn’t even try to separate the McCurrys. Even the way people greeted them spoke of the sisters’ public indivisibility. Friends and neighbours would call out to them on the streets,
waving cheerfully, nodding and smiling to
Maryancelia
, making no individual distinctions. Although Mary was three years older than her sister, most people referred to them as, simply,
‘the twins’.

The men’s benches had filled up, too, packed tightly with the usual scrubbed faces in their Sunday clothes. Mary caught a brief glimpse of Myles McNiff, along with his brother, Peter. She
glanced away quickly, hoping that no one had seen her looking. But there were no covert glances being exchanged among the young people this Sunday: none of the whispering, or sly grinning and
nudging that went on before Mass began every other week.

Where the women sat the air was almost unnaturally still: the small children seemed to know somehow to be silent, and sat quietly on their mothers’ knees, no longer needing to be
shushed.

Father MacVeigh walked out on to the altar and everybody stood. Tension hovered over the men like the threat of an electric storm. Faces grim with expectation, they knelt, waited: their eyes
were fixed on the figure at the altar. It seemed as though they were looking for answers in the priest’s broad back.

Finally, the time came. There was a brief scuffling of boots, a ripple of coughing as everyone sat once more, watching as Father MacVeigh ascended the pulpit. This was why they had been
summoned; this was the part they had come for.

Father MacVeigh rested both hands on the pulpit and looked down at his congregation. His hands seemed larger than usual, strangely white against the bright red velvet surround. All shuffling
ceased at once, coughing died away. Hundreds of faces were raised, tense, attentive, waiting for him to speak.

‘My dear people,’ he began. ‘It is a great comfort to see so many of you here today. As your priest, and friend, and member of this parish for over twenty years, I have asked
you all to be with me this morning, to pray with me to God to give us strength to face one of the most difficult weeks we are ever likely to know as a community.’

He paused. All eyes continued to be fixed on his face. He hardly needed to raise his voice.

‘I know that some of you have felt the rumblings already, some of you have known disturbances in your place of work, and violence on the streets. All of that is nothing to what I fear is
going to happen next Friday and Saturday, when the results of Mr Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill become known in this divided city.’

The congregation shifted; a murmur arose, grew to an angry buzz, and stopped suddenly when Father MacVeigh raised his hand. When he spoke again, his voice was louder, more powerful; his whole
demeanour was suddenly commanding.

‘You have the right to feel angry, but more than that, you have the
duty
to protect your children, your families, your neighbours from the certain thugs of this city who will come
looking for trouble no matter what happens next Friday night.’

Nobody moved. His words were measured, emphatic. Cecilia looked at Mary, her eyes troubled. Mary took her hand and squeezed it.

‘Mr Gladstone is presenting his Home Rule Bill to the Government on Friday evening. The results will be known in the early hours of Saturday morning. I don’t have to tell you that
there are elements in this city that will want to punish our communities if that bill is passed. If it is not passed, those same elements will no doubt rampage in triumph through Catholic areas as
they have done on other occasions in the past. You already know what their behaviour will be like. And although it grieves me deeply to say so, we can expect no proper level of protection from the
police.’

His voice grew warmer.

‘I do not wish to see one act of provocation, one act of retaliation, or one act in response to villainy, from any one of you sitting here in front of me, nor from any of your friends and
family not present here today. I cannot emphasize this strongly enough: we are not responsible for what happens among government men in London. We have no control over anything: the bill’s
success or its failure; the behaviour of loyalist gangs; the attitude of the police on the ground.’

Older heads were nodding sagely now. Younger ones were held high, necks and backs speaking silently of defiance. Some of the men were seeking out other faces in the congregation. Their
expressions were satisfied, urgent in their attention to the priest’s words. It was as though they had not expected to hear this today; they looked vindicated, almost triumphant as the
rightness of their own thoughts was now echoed by this good priest, revered by all as a man of God.

‘The one thing we do have control over is our own
response
to the behaviour of others, our own sense of responsibility towards ourselves and our community.
We must be
blameless.
The priests of the Catholic parishes in Belfast have consulted with the Bishop of Down and Connor. Our committee will monitor the situation over the next few days very carefully, and
we will be making our report to the Home Secretary, Mr Morley. But we can have no control over ruffians.

‘I appeal to you, to your dignity, to your pride in your community, to your love for your families: do
not
make the doing of evil any easier for those who have hatred in their
hearts, for those who are bent on destruction. Stay home, I beg of you. Keep to your own firesides next Friday and Saturday nights. I will visit as many of you as I can during the next few days, I
will help in any way I can. But you must keep your doors and windows closed, keep them shut fast.’

His hands were now gripping the top of the pulpit, fingers bloodless with strain. Those close to him could see the beads of perspiration across his forehead.

‘Wives and mothers, I appeal to you to use your best influence with your families. Husbands and fathers, fulfil your God-given duty to protect your wives and children. I want no coffins
leaving this parish church because one man was unable to keep a check on his anger. Hold fast. Put your trust in Jesus Christ Our Lord. Let each one of us make sure that we do not let down
ourselves or any member of our community. Now let us pray together.’

The parishioners filed out of the church afterwards, unusually subdued. Groups of neighbours gathered all along Chapel Lane, despite the driving rain, and lingered, talking. The women had
anxious faces, men for the most part looked restless, edgy, on the verge of anger. Some of them stood apart from the larger groups, smoking, waving their cigarettes intently, stabbing the air now
and again for emphasis. Others seemed disappointed, almost resentful, as though they had expected something different from this morning. It had been the most powerful sermon anybody could remember
from their normally affable, kindly parish priest. Because he so rarely spoke strongly, his words had had a profound effect.

Mary and Cecilia hurried home together, keeping as close as possible to the shelter offered by the terraced houses, avoiding the worst of the rain. They didn’t speak until they were
inside.

‘Will we be all right, Mary?’

Mary looked up from where she was poking the fire, and smiled at her sister, who was unwinding herself from her wet shawl.

‘We will, surely. We’ll not come to any harm. Just you don’t worry, now.’

Briefly, Mary wondered what possible difference any Home Rule Bill could make to them, or any report to Mr Morley for that matter, whoever he might be. Would it keep them safe and put bread on
the table? Would it dampen the smouldering hatreds bred in the ranks of miserable two-up, two-downs all over the city? Or would it save the mill girls from dying in their hundreds every year from
consumption? She thought not. She was suddenly, bitterly glad that Ma was no longer alive. She would have hated her to see this again, to live in fear of what might become of her girls. Aloud, Mary
said to Cecilia: ‘We’ll sit tight, just as Father has bid us. Trouble won’t come to us if we don’t go looking for it. You heard what he said.’

Wanting to be reassured, Cecilia said: ‘Aye, I’m sure you’re right. Will I make the tea?’

Mary nodded.

‘Aye. Do that.’

She bent towards the fire again, hiding her face from her sister. She had indeed felt the rumblings, as Father MacVeigh had called them. Myles had said the atmosphere in the shipyards was
getting uglier. He and others from the engineering room had been taunted, marked out as taigs and fenians. Stones had been thrown by unseen hands. The outside wall of the workshop had,
mysteriously, been daubed with paint overnight: no one had seen anyone, heard anyone, knew anything. ‘No Pope Here’ stood out in garish orange letters, at least two feet high. Paint
dribbled downwards, extending the two ‘p’s of ‘Pope’ almost to the ground below. He had tried to keep his head down, Myles said, they all had. But it wasn’t easy. The
usual tacit acceptance by both sides of an uneasy peace, an unhappy truce in which nobody truly believed, had suddenly been suspended. Instead, it felt like open season. Demarcation lines had been
drawn; to be Catholic was to be the enemy.