Patricia Falvey by The Yellow House (v5) Page A

a shovel. He did not see me right away, and I stopped and watched him. He had grown, although he was still a good six inches shorter than myself. His skin was brown from the sun, and new muscles stood out on his bare arms. He walked with his head high and his back straight, defiant despite the load of dung I guessed he carried. He was still the old Frankie. My heart soared at the sight of him.
    “Frankie,” I called.
    He stopped when he saw me, and the look he gave me made my heart squeeze shut. His dark eyes, like those of a missionary priest, seared into me. He set down the bucket and shovel and sauntered toward me, coming to a standstill so close to me that I could smell the sweat and dung off him. His sneer reminded me of my grandfather’s.
    “Well, well,” he said. “The high and mighty Miss Eileen O’Neill, daughter of the great O’Neills, has come to see the bastard son.”
    His words cut through me. I was about to lash back at him when I remembered his poor, frightened face the day he rode off from the Yellow House with Ma.
    By this time, two stable hands had stopped their work to stare at us. They elbowed each other and giggled.
    I turned on them. “I’m his feckin’ sister,” I yelled.
    They giggled louder. I turned back to Frankie.
    “Can we go to your room up at the house? I’d like to talk in private.”
    He laughed—a low, mirthless sound. “You can come to my room if you like,” he said, “but you’ll have to watch out for the dung on your nice, shiny boots. My quarters are in there along with the horses.”
    I gasped. “What?” I said.
    “Aye. Quarters fit for a bastard like myself.”
    “Och, Frankie, will you stop calling yourself that.”
    “Frank to you, miss. The old Frankie’s long gone.”
    I fidgeted with my bag and brushed my skirt. I had dressed in the long black skirt and white blouse I wore to play in the band. I had polished my boots that morning and brushed my hair until it shone. I wanted to look nice for Frankie. But now I felt overdressed and embarrassed.
    “Can we walk a ways, then,” I whispered, “away from here?”
    He shrugged but began walking across the courtyard and out toward the open fields beyond. I followed him. When we came to a stone stile over a brook, he sat down, and I sat beside him.
    “I’m sorry, Frankie—er, Frank,” I said. “I didn’t know it was like this.”
    He said nothing. A sudden anger shot through me. “How could Ma have let him treat you like this?” I exploded.
    Frank waved his hand. “Sure I was her sin, don’t you remember? No punishment was too good for me.” His voice was sharp as acid.
    “But it wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You had nothing to do with it.”
    He shrugged. “I was here all the same. A reminder of the curse God had put on her.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out at the sky. “Anyway, she went astray in the head after that.”
    “I went to see her,” I said. “She didn’t even know me.” Tears pricked my eyes. I turned to Frank. “Why didn’t you come to Da’s funeral? I needed you there.”
    Frank snorted. “And why would I go to that oul’ eejit’s funeral?” he shouted. “He was nothing to me.”
    “He was your da in every other way,” I said.
    “Not in the way that counts.” Frank paused and laughed. “And since when did the proud Eileen O’Neill ever need anything or anyone?”
    “That’s not fair,” I said.
    We sat in silence. In the distance, horses’ hooves clattered in the stable yard, and dogs barked. The sun was high in the sky. Frank pulled his cap down over his eyes.
    I sat erect and cleared my throat. “I have a job now,” I said, “at the Queensbrook Mill. And another job playing with the Ulster Minstrels.”
    “Aye, I saw you once,” whispered Frank
    “It was you, then,” I cried out in delight. “Why didn’t you stay?”
    Frank shrugged.
    “And I’ve a good bit of money put away,” I went on. “The Yellow House didn’t burn to