CHAPTER ONE
January 1, 1900
Rose awoke in the gray dawn of New Year’s Day to the sound of gunshots outside in the street. Her heartbeat quickened with fear at the sound, and she sat up in bed, trying to make sense of what was going on. Then she remembered: it was a custom in Philadelphia for revelers to “shoot in” the New Year by wearing costumes and walking around the city firing their guns. There were crowds of people outside on the street singing and shouting, punctuated by the occasional gunshot.
She relaxed. Everything was fine. She lay back, closed her eyes, and put her hand out to touch Peter’s body.
But he was not there.
Once again she sat up and struggled to waken, to get her mind working so she could digest this fact.
He had told her he was singing at a saloon last night and that he would be home late. “Don’t wait up for me, my girl,” he’d said. “Sure and it will be a late night, seeing as how it’s the turning of the New Year and the new century. The boyos will be wanting to celebrate, and I’ll have to sing a good deal of the Irish ditties to them. It’s late I’ll be getting in from all of that business.”
But he was not here.
He had always come home before, even if it was at three in the morning or later, and she would feel his big body sliding in to the spot next to her in bed, him smelling of beer and cigar smoke and the oysters or peppered eggs they served at all the saloons.
The smell was not there. It meant that he had not come home at all.
She could feel the panic like an icy claw closing around her neck. Her heart pounded, her breath came shallow.
He is gone, he has left you, her heart spoke, in its deep wordless language.
No, her mind said. Maybe he has simply gone back to the Lancasters’ to sleep. Maybe Mr. Lancaster needed him to drive him somewhere, or the family is going on an outing, or. . .
It is New Year’s Day, her heart said. He has the day off. He should be with you and the children, not his employer. He has left you. It was something you knew was coming, no matter how much you wanted to deny it.
Gone. Her body ached with grief, with the loss of its partner. He had been distant these last few years, it was true, but she still longed for the warmth of his body next to hers. It still made her feel secure to have him there. His body gave off heat like a furnace, and she treasured its warmth.
Now it was gone.
She wanted to lift her face to the sky and scream, to rage at the injustice of the world, to let all the shame and humiliation out in one long roar that came up from her depths. She felt like she had been shipwrecked and she was clutching onto a plank in the middle of a storm and she was choking on the raging, frothy sea, about to drown.
She pulled the sheets about her as if she could hide from the awful fate that had just presented itself to her. What will I do? I’m lost. I’m finished. I’m alone in this mad country, lost in this mass of humanity, and I will disappear without a trace.
Then she looked over at her three boys, crowded together in their bed. They were jumbled together as always, a mass of arms and legs and tousled hair. They were her anchor, her root. They were about to wake up, prodded into consciousness by the gunfire and shouts on the street three floors below.
I cannot fall apart in front of them. I must not.
Maybe he will come back. I will hold onto that, it will help me to stand up and carry on.
She ignored the voice that said: No, he will not come back. Not ever.
That voice was her mother.
This is from Book Two of Rose Of Skibbereen
January 1, 1900
Rose awoke in the gray dawn of New Year’s Day to the sound of gunshots outside in the street. Her heartbeat quickened with fear at the sound, and she sat up in bed, trying to make sense of what was going on. Then she remembered: it was a custom in Philadelphia for revelers to “shoot in” the New Year by wearing costumes and walking around the city firing their guns. There were crowds of people outside on the street singing and shouting, punctuated by the occasional gunshot.
She relaxed. Everything was fine. She lay back, closed her eyes, and put her hand out to touch Peter’s body.
But he was not there.
Once again she sat up and struggled to waken, to get her mind working so she could digest this fact.
He had told her he was singing at a saloon last night and that he would be home late. “Don’t wait up for me, my girl,” he’d said. “Sure and it will be a late night, seeing as how it’s the turning of the New Year and the new century. The boyos will be wanting to celebrate, and I’ll have to sing a good deal of the Irish ditties to them. It’s late I’ll be getting in from all of that business.”
But he was not here.
He had always come home before, even if it was at three in the morning or later, and she would feel his big body sliding in to the spot next to her in bed, him smelling of beer and cigar smoke and the oysters or peppered eggs they served at all the saloons.
The smell was not there. It meant that he had not come home at all.
She could feel the panic like an icy claw closing around her neck. Her heart pounded, her breath came shallow.
He is gone, he has left you, her heart spoke, in its deep wordless language.
No, her mind said. Maybe he has simply gone back to the Lancasters’ to sleep. Maybe Mr. Lancaster needed him to drive him somewhere, or the family is going on an outing, or. . .
It is New Year’s Day, her heart said. He has the day off. He should be with you and the children, not his employer. He has left you. It was something you knew was coming, no matter how much you wanted to deny it.
Gone. Her body ached with grief, with the loss of its partner. He had been distant these last few years, it was true, but she still longed for the warmth of his body next to hers. It still made her feel secure to have him there. His body gave off heat like a furnace, and she treasured its warmth.
Now it was gone.
She wanted to lift her face to the sky and scream, to rage at the injustice of the world, to let all the shame and humiliation out in one long roar that came up from her depths. She felt like she had been shipwrecked and she was clutching onto a plank in the middle of a storm and she was choking on the raging, frothy sea, about to drown.
She pulled the sheets about her as if she could hide from the awful fate that had just presented itself to her. What will I do? I’m lost. I’m finished. I’m alone in this mad country, lost in this mass of humanity, and I will disappear without a trace.
Then she looked over at her three boys, crowded together in their bed. They were jumbled together as always, a mass of arms and legs and tousled hair. They were her anchor, her root. They were about to wake up, prodded into consciousness by the gunfire and shouts on the street three floors below.
I cannot fall apart in front of them. I must not.
Maybe he will come back. I will hold onto that, it will help me to stand up and carry on.
She ignored the voice that said: No, he will not come back. Not ever.
That voice was her mother.
This is from Book Two of Rose Of Skibbereen
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