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Authors: The Yellow House (v5)
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believed the blather about spring and new beginnings and hope. I straightened my back against the hard wooden seat of the tram and followed P.J.’s gaze.
The tram, an electric one installed by the mill owners to bring in workers from outlying towns, rattled up a hillside as we approached Queensbrook. When we reached the top, I looked down on a lovely valley ringed by the Camlough Mountains and saw in the distance my beloved Slieve Gullion. But as the tram descended, dozens of gray buildings rose like hideous granite beasts out of the early morning mist. The tallest were four stories high, with gabled roofs and rows of windows marching in formation along the front. Chimneys, like cathedral spires, clawed the sky, belching clouds of gray smoke. Surrounding the cluster of buildings was a river, sparkling and innocent as the morning itself.
“There’s a lovely wee village down there where the local workers live,” P.J. said, ignoring the look of horror on my face. “It’s a model village built by the mill owners. You’ll see it better when you get the chance to walk around. Protestants and Catholics live in it side by side nice as you like, and not a hint of trouble. There’s everything you’d be in need of there,” he continued, “shops, churches, schools.” He smiled, his red face crinkling up with merriment. “Ah, but there’s no pub,” he said, “and no police station or pawnshop, either. The Sheridans who own the mill are Quakers, and they don’t believe in the drink. And without the drink, they’re thinking there’s no need for the pawnshop or the police station. A queer lot, the Quakers. Good people in their own way, I suppose, but they just don’t understand the Irish.”
I shot a look at P.J. Sheridan? The name sounded an alarm somewhere down deep inside me.
“Wasn’t Sheridan the name of the boyo who lost the Yellow House to Great-Grandda Hugh in a game of cards?”
P.J. looked over at me. “Aye”—he nodded—“one and the same, an ancestor of the family that owns the mill.”
The sick feeling of the worried child washed over me again. “I always thought they would come to take it back,” I whispered.
P.J. patted me on the knee. “It wasn’t the Sheridans as took it, darlin’,” he said gently, “it was a crowd of Ulster blackguards.” He shook his thick red mane. “Them and that eejit Billy Craig.”
The men with the torches had all been caught. They were rogue members of the newly formed Ulster Volunteer Force, whose intent was to preserve Ulster for the Unionists and to fight with force any attempts to impose Home Rule. The band who attacked the Yellow House had been acting without orders. They were all jailed, except for Billy. His da, Mr. Craig at the bank, had managed to get him off. Some said Craig did it only to save himself from the embarrassment of having a son in jail and not because he had any love for Billy.
“They’re all one and the same,” I muttered, “Sheridans, Ulster Volunteers, Billy, they’re all feckin’ Protestants.”
We left the tram and walked through the main gate of one of the buildings and up to a hut where a guard sat.
“This is Eileen O’Neill. She’s to see Joe Shields,” P.J. said. “He’s arranged for her to start today.”
Joe Shields managed the spinning mill, and P.J. knew him because he sometimes played with the Music Men at a pub in Newry. “A Protestant fellow,” P.J. had said, “and brilliant on the accordion.”
P.J. put his hand on my arm. “I’ll be going, Eileen. You know how to find your way back on the tram now?”
I nodded. I was suddenly sorry to see him go. I wanted to call out after him not to leave me. But that would have been childish, and I was no longer a child. Instead, I grasped the tin lunch box P.J.’s wife had given me and followed the guard into the mill building and up the stairs.
The heat assaulted me even before we arrived at the top of the stairs. The guard led me into an enormous, noisy
The tram, an electric one installed by the mill owners to bring in workers from outlying towns, rattled up a hillside as we approached Queensbrook. When we reached the top, I looked down on a lovely valley ringed by the Camlough Mountains and saw in the distance my beloved Slieve Gullion. But as the tram descended, dozens of gray buildings rose like hideous granite beasts out of the early morning mist. The tallest were four stories high, with gabled roofs and rows of windows marching in formation along the front. Chimneys, like cathedral spires, clawed the sky, belching clouds of gray smoke. Surrounding the cluster of buildings was a river, sparkling and innocent as the morning itself.
“There’s a lovely wee village down there where the local workers live,” P.J. said, ignoring the look of horror on my face. “It’s a model village built by the mill owners. You’ll see it better when you get the chance to walk around. Protestants and Catholics live in it side by side nice as you like, and not a hint of trouble. There’s everything you’d be in need of there,” he continued, “shops, churches, schools.” He smiled, his red face crinkling up with merriment. “Ah, but there’s no pub,” he said, “and no police station or pawnshop, either. The Sheridans who own the mill are Quakers, and they don’t believe in the drink. And without the drink, they’re thinking there’s no need for the pawnshop or the police station. A queer lot, the Quakers. Good people in their own way, I suppose, but they just don’t understand the Irish.”
I shot a look at P.J. Sheridan? The name sounded an alarm somewhere down deep inside me.
“Wasn’t Sheridan the name of the boyo who lost the Yellow House to Great-Grandda Hugh in a game of cards?”
P.J. looked over at me. “Aye”—he nodded—“one and the same, an ancestor of the family that owns the mill.”
The sick feeling of the worried child washed over me again. “I always thought they would come to take it back,” I whispered.
P.J. patted me on the knee. “It wasn’t the Sheridans as took it, darlin’,” he said gently, “it was a crowd of Ulster blackguards.” He shook his thick red mane. “Them and that eejit Billy Craig.”
The men with the torches had all been caught. They were rogue members of the newly formed Ulster Volunteer Force, whose intent was to preserve Ulster for the Unionists and to fight with force any attempts to impose Home Rule. The band who attacked the Yellow House had been acting without orders. They were all jailed, except for Billy. His da, Mr. Craig at the bank, had managed to get him off. Some said Craig did it only to save himself from the embarrassment of having a son in jail and not because he had any love for Billy.
“They’re all one and the same,” I muttered, “Sheridans, Ulster Volunteers, Billy, they’re all feckin’ Protestants.”
We left the tram and walked through the main gate of one of the buildings and up to a hut where a guard sat.
“This is Eileen O’Neill. She’s to see Joe Shields,” P.J. said. “He’s arranged for her to start today.”
Joe Shields managed the spinning mill, and P.J. knew him because he sometimes played with the Music Men at a pub in Newry. “A Protestant fellow,” P.J. had said, “and brilliant on the accordion.”
P.J. put his hand on my arm. “I’ll be going, Eileen. You know how to find your way back on the tram now?”
I nodded. I was suddenly sorry to see him go. I wanted to call out after him not to leave me. But that would have been childish, and I was no longer a child. Instead, I grasped the tin lunch box P.J.’s wife had given me and followed the guard into the mill building and up the stairs.
The heat assaulted me even before we arrived at the top of the stairs. The guard led me into an enormous, noisy
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