spindles. I earned the respect of the other women for speaking up, but Joe Shields and Miss Galway were spitting mad over my interference. I was not about to suggest any more improvements to Mr. Sheridan.
6
O ne Sunday in late September, I took it into my head to go and see Frankie. He had been weighing on my mind since the night I had seen him at the Ceili House. I needed to know that he was all right. Something told me he was hurting desperately, and I could not bear to think of that. On the other hand, I didn’t know what kind of a welcome I would get, but I made up my mind that wasn’t going to stop me. I had survived worse than Frankie’s angry looks. P.J. wasn’t so keen, however.
“Sure I told you the lad was in fine fettle the last I saw him,” he said.
“Maybe. But I’ll go and see for myself.”
P.J. rubbed his cheek. “You may not get such a warm welcome.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
P.J. sighed. He knew I was not to be talked out of it, although I didn’t quite understand why he was trying to do so. We threw my old bicycle in the back of the cart and drove to mass. It was agreed that after mass P.J. would drive me as far as the village near the Fitzwilliam estate. He would wait in the local pub, and I would cycle the rest of the way up to the house. I wanted to visit Frankie alone.
It was a gorgeous late summer day as I rode out from the village. The last of the summer field roses bloomed wild along hedgerows, creamy clusters of meadowsweet and clumps of red clover painted the fields, the grass was a fresh, moist green, and everything seemed lush and ripe. Men passing me on the road touched their caps in greeting. Children laughed and waved. I waved back. But as I came in sight of the massive stone wall that surrounded the estate, my heart began pounding. I rode through the open gateway and dismounted, wheeling the bicycle beside me as I approached the big house. It looked as foreboding as ever, like a haunted house in a fairy tale. I felt soulless eyes watching me from the high arched windows. I looked down at the flower beds. No beautiful late summer blossoms grew there. Instead, dead brown twigs and weeds covered the ground. I dropped my bicycle and climbed the broken and cracked stone steps to the oak door. I squared my shoulders, lifted the heavy iron knocker, and let it fall. I waited. Eventually, I heard the squeal of locks being released and the grunt of the door as it opened.
“What do you want?”
My grandfather looked smaller than I remembered. He stooped forward and his clothes hung on his frame like a coat on a scarecrow. The change in him shocked me.
“I’m Eileen,” I began.
“I know fine well who you are,” he snarled. “What do you want? Your ma’s not here.”
I swallowed down a sudden anger. “I’m here to see my brother,” I said.
He looked me up and down, his rheumy eyes taking in every detail. I shivered. Then he opened his dry lips and let out a laugh that sounded more like a croak.
“Mr. Frank O’Neill, is it? I believe you’ll find that gentleman beyond in the stables where he belongs.”
Before I could answer, he stepped back and shut the door in my face.
“Oul’ bastard!” I swore out loud.
I backed down the steps, picked up my bicycle, and wheeled it along the path that ran around the house. I assumed the stables were somewhere behind the main house. So Frankie was out tending the horses? I winced, remembering how he disliked animals. God spare the horses, I thought. The path ended suddenly at the side of the house, but in the distance across a rough patch of grass, I saw a cluster of white buildings. As I walked toward them, wheeling my bicycle, I saw the stables. The buildings stood in a square around a wide, stone-flagged courtyard. A couple of horses peered over latched half-doors, and straw was scattered around the ground. As I approached, one of the half-doors opened and Frankie appeared, wearing overalls and carrying a bucket and
6
O ne Sunday in late September, I took it into my head to go and see Frankie. He had been weighing on my mind since the night I had seen him at the Ceili House. I needed to know that he was all right. Something told me he was hurting desperately, and I could not bear to think of that. On the other hand, I didn’t know what kind of a welcome I would get, but I made up my mind that wasn’t going to stop me. I had survived worse than Frankie’s angry looks. P.J. wasn’t so keen, however.
“Sure I told you the lad was in fine fettle the last I saw him,” he said.
“Maybe. But I’ll go and see for myself.”
P.J. rubbed his cheek. “You may not get such a warm welcome.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
P.J. sighed. He knew I was not to be talked out of it, although I didn’t quite understand why he was trying to do so. We threw my old bicycle in the back of the cart and drove to mass. It was agreed that after mass P.J. would drive me as far as the village near the Fitzwilliam estate. He would wait in the local pub, and I would cycle the rest of the way up to the house. I wanted to visit Frankie alone.
It was a gorgeous late summer day as I rode out from the village. The last of the summer field roses bloomed wild along hedgerows, creamy clusters of meadowsweet and clumps of red clover painted the fields, the grass was a fresh, moist green, and everything seemed lush and ripe. Men passing me on the road touched their caps in greeting. Children laughed and waved. I waved back. But as I came in sight of the massive stone wall that surrounded the estate, my heart began pounding. I rode through the open gateway and dismounted, wheeling the bicycle beside me as I approached the big house. It looked as foreboding as ever, like a haunted house in a fairy tale. I felt soulless eyes watching me from the high arched windows. I looked down at the flower beds. No beautiful late summer blossoms grew there. Instead, dead brown twigs and weeds covered the ground. I dropped my bicycle and climbed the broken and cracked stone steps to the oak door. I squared my shoulders, lifted the heavy iron knocker, and let it fall. I waited. Eventually, I heard the squeal of locks being released and the grunt of the door as it opened.
“What do you want?”
My grandfather looked smaller than I remembered. He stooped forward and his clothes hung on his frame like a coat on a scarecrow. The change in him shocked me.
“I’m Eileen,” I began.
“I know fine well who you are,” he snarled. “What do you want? Your ma’s not here.”
I swallowed down a sudden anger. “I’m here to see my brother,” I said.
He looked me up and down, his rheumy eyes taking in every detail. I shivered. Then he opened his dry lips and let out a laugh that sounded more like a croak.
“Mr. Frank O’Neill, is it? I believe you’ll find that gentleman beyond in the stables where he belongs.”
Before I could answer, he stepped back and shut the door in my face.
“Oul’ bastard!” I swore out loud.
I backed down the steps, picked up my bicycle, and wheeled it along the path that ran around the house. I assumed the stables were somewhere behind the main house. So Frankie was out tending the horses? I winced, remembering how he disliked animals. God spare the horses, I thought. The path ended suddenly at the side of the house, but in the distance across a rough patch of grass, I saw a cluster of white buildings. As I walked toward them, wheeling my bicycle, I saw the stables. The buildings stood in a square around a wide, stone-flagged courtyard. A couple of horses peered over latched half-doors, and straw was scattered around the ground. As I approached, one of the half-doors opened and Frankie appeared, wearing overalls and carrying a bucket and
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