Patricia Falvey Read Online Free PDF

the door without so much as a by-your-leave to anybody. I felt her determination burning through my arm where she gripped me. I looked up from the marble floors, past the high arched windows to the carved ceiling, and felt myself shrink. I moved closer to Ma. The customers were well dressed and smelled of perfume and tobacco. They all stood just as erect as Ma, as if they were in a pantomime. Many of them turned to stare at us and whisper as Ma swept straight up to the front of the big room. She stopped in front of a grim, thin-faced woman who sat on a stool high up behind the counter.
    “I need to speak to the manager,” said Ma, nice as you like.
    The woman stared at her. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
    “Mr. Craig. I am Mary O’Neill. Please tell him I wish to see him.” Ma’s tone was sharper than that of any priest giving out a big penance.
    The woman jumped off her stool as if she were on fire. “Wait here,” she snapped.
    Ma and I sat on two wooden chairs at the side of the counter. Customers stared at us openly now. One or two of the men doffed their hats, and Ma nodded back. It was clear to me that they knew who she was even all the way over there in Newry. My ma must be very important, I thought, and I sat up straighter.
    After a while, a short, thin man in a pin-striped suit and oiled hair came over. He extended a small white hand to Ma.
    “Ah, Mrs. O’Neill,” he said, “what a lovely surprise to see you. Why, I remember when you used to come here as a little girl with your father…”
    Ma put out her hand. She had put on gloves over her callused red hands. Poor Ma, she had not been reared for the rough work of farming. She shook his hand briefly and stood up. “Yes,” she said, cutting his blather short, “I am here on urgent business, Mr. Craig. May we speak in private?”
    Craig looked at a sudden loss. He was obviously not used to people interrupting him. I stared in awe at Ma.
    “This way,” he said as he turned on his heel.
    We followed him into a big, dusty office. Piles of paper covered the desk and tables and chairs. I wondered how he ever found anything. The walls were covered with black-and-white photographs: men in top hats wearing banners and shaking hands or cutting ribbons; well-dressed couples around a big dining table; drummers marching with lilies in their caps. Protestants, all of them. I clenched my fists as I stood behind Ma and hoped these people would not invade my dreams.
    Craig dusted off a chair for Ma and sat behind his desk, peering at us over the pile of papers. “I hear your husband is not well,” he said, and clucked his little tongue like a hen.
    Ma ignored him. “I understand my husband has taken out a mortgage on our house,” she said.
    Craig leaned back in his chair. “Yes, yes,” he said. “He was lucky to get it. We do not grant mortgages lightly these days, particularly to…”
    “To Catholics,” Ma put in sharply.
    “That has nothing to do with things,” Craig snapped back, “but it would not have been granted save for your father’s connection to the bank.”
    “I want it removed,” said Ma, without waiting for him to finish. “I am prepared to sell off more of our land to meet the obligation and give us some cash. I wish to keep a few acres to graze our cattle and raise the hens, but I am prepared to sell the rest. I am sure buyers can be found?”
    Craig sat straight up in his chair. He chuckled, shook his head, and as if talking to a child said, “But my dear Mrs. O’Neill, the remaining land will not bring enough money to pay the mortgage. You see, Mr. O’Neill…”
    Ma’s face turned red. “Mr. O’Neill sold that land to John Browne for next to nothing, and well you know it, Mr. Craig. I intend for you to sell the remaining land at a fair price. This is what I will take and nothing less.”
    Ma leaned over and lifted a gold-nibbed pen from Craig’s penholder, took a pad of paper, and wrote something on it. Then she shoved it