Read Online Patricia Falvey by The Yellow House (v5) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: The Yellow House (v5)
Ads: Link
day he had ridden out of the sun carrying his lucky yellow paint. I watched him clutch his chest and fall backward from the open door into the hallway. I watched Cuchulainn run to him and stand whimpering over his limp body. I watched the look of horror spread across Billy Craig’s big face as blood pumped from Da’s chest. I watched it all as an observer watches a scene of horror from a distance, separate and apart, with no emotion and no involvement. I watched Billy bend, sobbing, over Da.
“I didn’t mean for this, Tom,” he cried, “only to frighten you a bit. I didn’t mean for this.” And then he shook Da like a rag doll.
Flames were everywhere now. I smelled scorched grass and bitter smoke. As if in a dream, I went upstairs and put on my coat over my nightdress. I didn’t bother with my boots. Then I took Paddy from his bed and dressed him quickly. I led him downstairs and stood at the open door beside Da’s body.
Paddy strained to get away. “Da,” he cried. “Da.”
Billy Craig shook me to my senses.
“Get out now, Eileen, and take the child. If they realize you’re here… Come on now.”
His big hands turned me around and shoved me into the kitchen.
“But Da,” I cried. “I have to stay with Da.” I pushed against Billy, but he would not move.
“I’ll see to your da. Out the back door, and stay low. I’ll distract them.” He looked at me, his big face twisted with grief. He turned and reached for Da’s fiddle from the shelf on the wall and the black-and-white photograph of the O’Neill family outside the Yellow House. Then, as an afterthought, he snatched Ma’s hat from its peg. He shoved everything at me. “Here, darlin’, take these. Go to P.J.’s house. Go on now, for God’s sake.”
The grass was wet under my bare feet as I stumbled away from the house in the direction of Slieve Gullion, one of my arms around Paddy and Da’s fiddle and the photograph under the other. Paddy clutched Ma’s hat. I got as far as Lizzie’s headstone before I fell down. I lay down behind the low stone wall that enclosed the graves and cradled a weeping Paddy under my coat.
“Ssh, love,” I whispered. “Ssh.”
He quieted, as if he knew the danger. I watched as flames engulfed my beloved Yellow House. Never had she looked as bright as she did now, flames swirling in every window like giant kaleidoscopes. Da always said she should be a beacon of light in the darkness. If he could have seen her tonight, I thought. Maybe his soul was watching her along with Great-Grandda Hugh and the merry ghosts.
Looking back now, odd as it sounds, I remember I felt a flood of relief that night as I watched the Yellow House burn. All my worst fears had come true. Even the bad spirits must be out of tricks now. They had done their worst. The waiting was over. I remember hearing the distant bells of the fire brigades as they rushed toward the burning house. I remember lying flat in the grass as heavy boots thudded past me, making their escape. I remember the pride I felt that my da, Tom O’Neill, had died a warrior, and as his soul entered mine in that moment, a new warrior was conceived inside me. The legacy of the O’Neills had been passed on. I held the fate of my family, and my beloved Yellow House, in my hands.
4
E arly on a May morning in 1913, I rode the tram from Newry up to Queensbrook to start work at the Queensbrook Spinning Mill. Paddy and I had moved in with the Mullens after we fled from the Yellow House. Now P.J. was taking me to start my first job. He sat with me, looking out the window and remarking on the lovely fields of flowers and how grand the mountains were. But I paid scant attention to him, lost as I was in my own thoughts. It had been a spring morning such as this when I rode with Ma to the Royal Bank of Newry and she had saved the Yellow House. How happy and proud I had been—the O’Neill family had overcome their troubles and would have a new beginning. Now I no longer
“I didn’t mean for this, Tom,” he cried, “only to frighten you a bit. I didn’t mean for this.” And then he shook Da like a rag doll.
Flames were everywhere now. I smelled scorched grass and bitter smoke. As if in a dream, I went upstairs and put on my coat over my nightdress. I didn’t bother with my boots. Then I took Paddy from his bed and dressed him quickly. I led him downstairs and stood at the open door beside Da’s body.
Paddy strained to get away. “Da,” he cried. “Da.”
Billy Craig shook me to my senses.
“Get out now, Eileen, and take the child. If they realize you’re here… Come on now.”
His big hands turned me around and shoved me into the kitchen.
“But Da,” I cried. “I have to stay with Da.” I pushed against Billy, but he would not move.
“I’ll see to your da. Out the back door, and stay low. I’ll distract them.” He looked at me, his big face twisted with grief. He turned and reached for Da’s fiddle from the shelf on the wall and the black-and-white photograph of the O’Neill family outside the Yellow House. Then, as an afterthought, he snatched Ma’s hat from its peg. He shoved everything at me. “Here, darlin’, take these. Go to P.J.’s house. Go on now, for God’s sake.”
The grass was wet under my bare feet as I stumbled away from the house in the direction of Slieve Gullion, one of my arms around Paddy and Da’s fiddle and the photograph under the other. Paddy clutched Ma’s hat. I got as far as Lizzie’s headstone before I fell down. I lay down behind the low stone wall that enclosed the graves and cradled a weeping Paddy under my coat.
“Ssh, love,” I whispered. “Ssh.”
He quieted, as if he knew the danger. I watched as flames engulfed my beloved Yellow House. Never had she looked as bright as she did now, flames swirling in every window like giant kaleidoscopes. Da always said she should be a beacon of light in the darkness. If he could have seen her tonight, I thought. Maybe his soul was watching her along with Great-Grandda Hugh and the merry ghosts.
Looking back now, odd as it sounds, I remember I felt a flood of relief that night as I watched the Yellow House burn. All my worst fears had come true. Even the bad spirits must be out of tricks now. They had done their worst. The waiting was over. I remember hearing the distant bells of the fire brigades as they rushed toward the burning house. I remember lying flat in the grass as heavy boots thudded past me, making their escape. I remember the pride I felt that my da, Tom O’Neill, had died a warrior, and as his soul entered mine in that moment, a new warrior was conceived inside me. The legacy of the O’Neills had been passed on. I held the fate of my family, and my beloved Yellow House, in my hands.
4
E arly on a May morning in 1913, I rode the tram from Newry up to Queensbrook to start work at the Queensbrook Spinning Mill. Paddy and I had moved in with the Mullens after we fled from the Yellow House. Now P.J. was taking me to start my first job. He sat with me, looking out the window and remarking on the lovely fields of flowers and how grand the mountains were. But I paid scant attention to him, lost as I was in my own thoughts. It had been a spring morning such as this when I rode with Ma to the Royal Bank of Newry and she had saved the Yellow House. How happy and proud I had been—the O’Neill family had overcome their troubles and would have a new beginning. Now I no longer
Similar Books
