The Linen Queen
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Synopsis
Abandoned by her father and neglected by her self-centered, unstable mother, Sheila McGee cannot wait to escape the drudgery of her mill village life in Northern Ireland. Her classic Irish beauty helps her win the 1941 Linen Queen competition, and the prize money that goes with it finally gives her the opportunity she's been dreaming of. But Sheila does not count on the impact of the Belfast blitz which brings World War II to her doorstep. Now even her good looks are useless in the face of travel restrictions, and her earlier resolve is eroded by her ma's fear of being left alone.
When American troops set up base in her village, some see them as occupiers but Sheila sees them as saviors—one of them may be her ticket out. Despite objections from her childhood friend, Gavin O'Rourke, she sets her sights on an attractive Jewish-American army officer named Joel Solomon, but her plans are interrupted by the arrival of a street-wise young evacuee from Belfast.
Frustrated, Sheila fights to hold on to her dream but slowly her priorities change as the people of Northern Ireland put old divisions aside to fight the Germans. As the war moves steadily closer to those she has grown to love, Sheila confronts more abandonment and loss, and finds true strength, compassion, and a meaning for life outside of herself.
Release date: March 2, 2011
Publisher: Center Street
Print pages: 320
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The Linen Queen
Patricia Falvey
—Mary Pat Kelly, author of the bestselling Galway Bay
“THE LINEN QUEEN is an emotionally powerful book, and a joy to read. Falvey has a gift for creating realistic and very believable characters.”
—Frank West, book reviewer, Irish American News
“Within two days of receiving THE LINEN QUEEN, I finished reading it; thoroughly enjoying it as much as The Yellow House. Patricia Falvey writes a good story, it is an easy read, and she writes the type of book I especially enjoy reading. As I am reading, I visualize the story; an author that does that to me is GOOD! I think she has another success here with THE LINEN QUEEN. She is one of those authors whom I will always look forward to reading.”
—Diane Byrne, host of Echoes of Erin radio show, Pittsburgh
“Falvey does not disappoint with her second novel; she just reaffirms my conviction that she is by far one of the most gifted writers of our time.”
—PK Reeves, Aisle B Reviews
“Deftly rides the line between a fervently romantic love story and a heartfelt love letter to Northern Ireland.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Falvey well captures the frustrations of a small-town girl with big ambitions, making rueful comedy out of Sheila’s rivalries with her fellow millworkers. She also smoothly traces Sheila’s transformation from self-interested party girl to concerned citizen. A lively read for fans of historical fiction.”
—Booklist
“THE LINEN QUEEN takes the reader through an emotional ride as World War II transforms the lives of those in Northern Ireland.”
—Irish America Magazine
“THE LINEN QUEEN is a romance in the truest sense; it knows that love can’t conquer every ill, but if you make the right choices… Falvey’s young heroine discovers that happiness becomes a distinct possibility.”
—The Irish Voice
“Falvey’s characters balance each other nicely. While set in Ireland, the story’s location is not the main focus. The difficulties of life during wartime and balancing one’s desires and responsibilities are the main attraction.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews; 4 out of 4 stars
“I loved the book and look forward to the next from this great author. I think this book would be enjoyed by the fans of World War II—and Ireland—themed stories. I highly recommend both of Patricia Falvey’s novels.”
—Celtic Lady’s Blog Reviews
“Lush scenes, filled with all the emotions of a war that beckons with no horizon in sight, this novel creates its own Irish lilt through Sheila McGee. Lovingly written, and just as poignant as The Yellow House.”
—TheReviewBroads.com
“Falvey is an outstanding and evocative storyteller; would recommend this to anyone who loves historical fiction. I even believe she’s giving Maeve Binchy a run for her money for my favorite Irish author.”
—Read-all-over.net
“The Yellow House is that great rarity, a book about Ireland written by an American who knows what she’s talking about. Intelligently plotted, with engaging characters, the novel offers a fresh view of the highly dramatic Revolutionary Period in Ireland. The well-researched history illumines but never smothers the story line. Small details bring the era to life with stunning clarity. The writing is lucid and accessible, occasionally even lyrical. This is a very rewarding first novel and I look forward to reading more from Patricia Falvey.”
—Morgan Llywelyn, author of Lion of Ireland, Pride of Lions, Grania, The Last Prince of Ireland, and The Irish Century series
“The Yellow House is an eloquently written story of the emergence of hope and love in a time of struggle and confusion in Ireland. It avoids the ever-present pitfalls of drowning us in a history lesson while not ignoring the richness of that very history. With her debut novel, Patricia Falvey breathes life back into an Ireland that has nearly vanished from memory. For that, I am grateful.”
—Robert Hicks, New York Times bestselling author of The Widow of the South and A Separate Country
“You can often tell where a book’s plot and characters are going. But so many times I was astonished to find that what I expected on the next page was a complete surprise to me. Falvey held my attention with suspenseful events that constantly amazed me… The Yellow House is a powerful book, full of strongly drawn characters that exemplify vitality, humanity, and passion for life. They are so realistic, that early on I felt like I knew them.”
—Frank West, Irish American News
“Patricia Falvey draws on her North of Ireland roots to put a human face on the turning point in twentieth-century Irish history. A moving novel and singular achievement.”
—Mary Pat Kelly, author of Galway Bay
“This novel delivers the best of both worlds: secrets, intrigue, and surprising twists will keep readers flipping the pages, while Falvey’s insight and poetic writing tugs at the heartstrings of the most cynical audiences.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Yellow House was extremely interesting from an educational perspective. It brings to life the struggles of individuals and communities seeking freedom.”
—Cecie O’Bryon England, Washington Times
“If you like historical fiction, with great flourishes of families destroyed and remade, this is a classic.”
—The Review Broads
“Falvey tells a good story along the way. A host of interesting characters, surprising but plausible plot developments, and deftly incorporated details of the Irish struggle for independence add up to a debut novel sure to please fans of historical romance.”
—Kathy Piehl, Library Journal
“Falvey very successfully weaves together the politics, history, and landscape of Ireland in this period… Falvey brilliantly illustrates the cultural, political, and economic conflicts that result in erecting Ireland’s North/South dividing border. The well-researched history of the period emerges through the characters, their conflicts, and their choices. The story is absorbing and satisfying historical fiction.”
—Sacramento Book Review and San Francisco Book Review
“The early scenes of Eileen’s and James’s lawless exploits for the Catholic resistance make for thrilling reading… The book serves as a provocative reminder of the tangled strings of family, war, and familial war, and also… as a splendid example of old-fashioned, minimal-bodice-ripping romance.”
—Joy Tipping, Dallas Morning News
“The characters are full, rich, and real and the history of Ireland feels authentic. The author refrains from delineating clearly between the good guys and bad guys. She allows the reader to make their own decisions and I liked that. The Yellow House is a winner. I just can’t shake the memory of it and that’s a good thing.”
—Andrea Sisco, Minneapolis Insight Examiner
“[O]ne of the best historical fiction novels I have read in years… I simply could not pull myself away from this book. It took me back to classics such as Gaskell’s North and South and the heroine Eileen had so many of the qualities that I have always loved in dear Tess of Hardy’s Tess of the D’Ubervilles. When one book can bring me back to two of my favorite books of all time that are both absolute classics, I am in awe. This book kept me emotionally invested until the very end… Wonderfully written, magically created, it could only come from a true Irish lass and to be her debut novel… amazing. I loved it… every page.”
—Stiletto Storytime
“It is rare for a first-time novelist to tackle historical events in as refreshing a manner as Patricia Falvey does in The Yellow House… Falvey controls the story, weaving her characters through the First World War and the Troubles, allowing the characters to be the masters of their own fate rather than falling back on history to guide the plot… Readers will be inclined to gluttonously scarf down this novel in one sitting as I did. Take your time reading The Yellow House; you’ll be sad to see the last page.”
—Irish America magazine
“Religious intolerance, political strife, and personal drama combine well in this historical novel whose themes are still relevant today.”
—The Hartford Courant
“Set in the tumultuous years before and after World War I, The Yellow House is an impressive debut that will appeal to readers of Irish family sagas. Falvey skillfully takes major events and reduces them to a personal level, focusing on the effects of World War I and religious unrest in Ireland on one woman and the people around her… Falvey steers clear of the stock characters that often plague novels set in Ireland. The love triangle between Eileen, Owen, and James, combined with the historical context, provides plenty of tension and keeps the story moving quickly… it’s hard not to root for [Eileen] as she fights to reclaim her birthright.”
—Historical Novels Review
I would like to thank my agents, Denise Marcil and Anne Marie O’Farrell, for their support, enthusiasm, and encouragement throughout the writing of this book, for keeping me on track, and for cheering me on to the finish line. Thanks to my editor, Christina Boys at Center Street, for her faith in me, and for her patience and invaluable insights. The time and effort she put into the editing process were generous beyond my expectations. Thanks also to her assistant, Angela Valente. Thanks to Amy Ryan, Shanon Stowe, and to all the great staff at Hachette Book Group. Also thanks to David Hancock of Dallas for his insightful website design, and for his friendship.
I would also like to thank my friends everywhere for their ongoing support and enthusiasm for this new career of mine. Thank you for your gentle inquiries as to progress, your encouragement, and your words of support as I made my way through the sometimes perilous territory of a second novel. Thanks especially to the Good Eats Gang in Dallas for patiently listening while I talked nonstop to “real people” after I had spent many hours talking only to my fictional characters.
My special thanks to the Joel Silverman family of Akron, Ohio. They welcomed me into their midst with joy and love. They included me in their rituals and gave me insights into their culture that proved invaluable in writing this book. Thanks also to Bernard for introducing me to them, for his constant support, and as always for all the jokes that brought me laughter when I really needed it.
Thanks also to Pat O’Keefe of Newry, son of a sea captain, for his stories about the boats and sailors of Newry. Thanks to the many women in my family whose memories of the spinning mills were passed down to me, and to the women everywhere who have toiled in the mills.
And as always special thanks to my dearest sister, Connie, whose pride and love bring me amazing joy, and who, along with her sons, Noel, Colin, Shane, and Don, continues to keep the gift of my Irish heritage alive and well in me.
From Monday to Thursday we sang to break the monotony; on Friday we sang to celebrate. In the four years I had worked at the Queensbrook Spinning Mill in County Armagh in the North of Ireland the singers were mute on only three occasions—the day Bridie McCardle’s child was buried; the day Lizzie Grant caught her hair between the rollers of her spinning frame and was carried out on a stretcher; and the day after England declared war on Germany.
On this particular Friday in late March of 1941 we sang as usual to celebrate the upcoming two days of freedom from the mill. I stood barefoot, just as I had every weekday since I was a fourteen-year-old doffer, the water from the condensing steam swishing around my ankles, and forced a hank of flax through a trough of hot water to soften it. As I guided the flax down through the eye of the flyer and onto the yarn bobbin we finished up “My Lovely Rose of Clare” and paused for breath. My friend Patsy Mallon called out to a young lad who stood in the aisle near her frame.
“Would you ever come over here and piece me threads together, Danny? There’s a good lad.”
I looked up, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Patsy was a big, bold girl with a large bosom and a salty tongue. She scared the wits out of young part-timers like Danny who went to school in the mornings and worked in the mill in the afternoons. Patsy would lean over them, pressing her breasts against them as they worked to tie the threads or replace the empty bobbins on her machine. I shot a glance at my other friend, Kathleen Doyle, who worked two spinning frames at the stand next to mine. Kathleen’s face reddened as much as Danny’s had done and she bowed her head. Kathleen was the most innocent girl on the floor.
The late March day was drawing in. Soon darkness would sift through the grimy windows, which were set so high up on the walls you couldn’t see out of them. I looked over the enormous room with its dim light and orderly rows of wet spinning frames extending the length of it, separated by narrow aisles called passes. I felt small in here, dwarfed by the room’s size and timid in the face of the rows of bobbins that grinned like misshapen teeth and spat and hissed like devils. I sighed. At least it was Friday. I would have two days off before I had to return to this cave.
Just as the Friday afternoon singing resumed—a rough chorus of spinners and doffers murdering the gentle, plaintive notes of “The Croppy Boy”—the doffing mistress, Miss Galway, marched down the middle aisle between the rows of spinning frames and blew her whistle louder than a banshee’s scream. Miss Galway was an ancient woman—some said she’d been there as long as the mill itself—but she still had a fine set of lungs. Every time she blew her whistle to get the attention of the young part-timers we all winced. Today she blew it longer and louder than usual and we knew something was up. Without a word we all pulled the handles on the side of our frames and our machines shuddered and fell silent.
“Ladies, we have a visitor today. Mrs. McAteer wishes to make an announcement of some importance.”
We all turned towards the door as Mrs. Hannah McAteer entered on cue. She was a tall, grim woman with a long, narrow face and black hair flecked with gray. She was the widowed sister of Mr. Carlson who owned the mill, and the mother of Mary McAteer who worked in the mill office. Patsy said the craic was that Hannah, a Quaker, had married a Catholic farmer who’d been killed in the First World War and left her penniless. She and her daughter were at the mercy of her brother, Patsy said, and that was why she always looked as if she’d just smelled shite.
“Good afternoon,” Mrs. McAteer began, looking around as if she indeed smelled something bad. Well, who could blame her for that? The smell of oil and grease and sweat in the room would choke a horse.
“I have some very good news for you.”
We left our machines and edged closer to her.
“I assume you have all heard of the Linen Queen competition that takes place every year at a linen mill in Northern Ireland. Well, this year it is Queensbrook’s turn.”
She attempted a smile as a cheer went up from the spinners. She raised her hand for silence. “Now, this is a very important honor for us here in Queensbrook. Mr. Carlson has asked me to head the committee to choose those girls lucky enough to be asked to enter the competition. I shall take this responsibility very seriously in order that Queensbrook may stand the best chance of winning. Six girls from Queensbrook will be given the chance to enter. That’s four more than usually allowed, since we are the host mill. To be fair we will choose three from the weaving shed and three from the spinning mill.”
Kathleen and Patsy stood on either side of me, each one clutching my arm.
“Well, no harm to the weaving girls,” Patsy said, “but they all look like ghosts over there what with the heat and the noise and the dust. They’d be no competition at all. At least the spinners all have great complexions on account of the steam.”
“Can you believe this, Sheila?” whispered Kathleen.
I wanted to believe it. A strange flutter took hold of my heart. I had heard about the Linen Queen competition in which girls from mills all around the North competed for the title. Talk was that the winner was awarded prize money as well as a crown and sash. Winning the crown would be nice, I thought, but the money might be enough to buy a ticket to England. My throat went dry.
“Of course you must understand that the Linen Queen competition is not merely a beauty competition.”
Was Mrs. McAteer looking directly at me, or was I imagining things?
“A girl’s fitness to represent the mill—good attendance, solid work habits, a respectable family, and, above all, good character—will be considered above looks. And of course she must be between eighteen and twenty-one years of age.”
This time I was sure she glared at me when she spoke of character. True I had mocked her daughter, Mary, more than once and Mary had caught me at it. Well, Mary had deserved it. She’d called me names to my face and accused me of being loose with boys. How could I help it if the young eejits followed me out of the mill every day calling foolish oul’ blather after me? It was Patsy who asked for that kind of thing, not me. But I was sure Mary had told her ma all about it. I hadn’t cared until now. As if she read my thoughts, I turned to see Mary, a plump girl with black hair, standing in the doorway taking everything in.
“The competition will take place on Saturday night, April twelfth.”
Mary’s ma continued speaking to the hushed crowd. “The entrants will be announced one week from today, which will give the lucky girls a fortnight to prepare. Frocks will have to be festive, but modest. Those chosen will be given a list of rules. Good luck to all of you.”
A festive frock, I thought. How in the name of God would I ever afford such a thing? The earlier flutter in my heart turned heavy.
Mrs. McAteer swung around and walked towards the door. No one moved. Then as if she’d suddenly had an afterthought she stopped and turned. “Oh, and the prize money this year is two hundred pounds.”
A gasp went through the room.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that’s a fortune of money,” shouted Patsy. “I could move out on my own, and I could buy as much finery as I liked, and I wouldn’t have to give that tight-fisted bastard another penny.”
Patsy was talking about her da, who took all her money off her and had been beating the daylights out of her since she was a child.
“It would be like a miracle,” Kathleen whispered. “Think what my ma could do with the likes of that.”
Kathleen was the oldest of ten children. Her da was disabled and her ma had taken the consumption after years working in the weaving shed. The family depended on Kathleen’s wages.
I said nothing. Thoughts collided in my brain. If it was based on looks I knew I’d stand a fair chance. And I hadn’t missed a day’s work since I started at the mill. I’d even fought off the mill fever that most youngsters suffered from when they first started. I’d kept going in those first few weeks even though I was hardly fit to stand. My attitude could be better I knew, but it was hard to smile all the time when you hated the mill as much as I did. And I had turned eighteen since the previous competition had been held in Lisburn and so now I could qualify for the first time. As for character—well, I realized that was in Mrs. McAteer’s hands. Would she hold me back on account of the gossip that surrounded me?
A twinge of guilt crept over me when I thought of Patsy and Kathleen. We’d been friends since our schooldays and to tell the truth they were the only friends I had in the mill. They each deserved to win the prize. What if I was picked to enter and they weren’t? I pushed the thought aside.
As we left the mill that night, all the talk was about the competition. I’d never witnessed such excitement. Even the older women who would have no chance of being picked encouraged the young ones. They were all delighted for us. I couldn’t wait to talk to Ma.
I said good-bye to Patsy and Kathleen at the tram station. They both lived out in the country and came and went every day on the electric tram that the mill had laid on for workers from outlying towns. I lived in the mill village itself and had only a short walk to my house on Charlemont Square, one of two squares in the village with identical houses built around a green, all of them occupied by mill workers and their families. Well it wasn’t my house, exactly. It was the house where my ma and I lodged with my father’s sister, Kate, and her husband, Kevin. We had lived there since the time my da left on his boat when I was ten years old and never came back. Aunt Kate had taken us in, but she never let us forget her charity. Kevin was a big, burly customer with a bad temper. I stayed away from him as much as I could, particularly when he was on the drink.
My ma and I slept in the granny room at the back of the scullery in an old iron frame bed covered with four sacks. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for the fact that there was a perfectly good bedroom up the stairs that had been standing empty for years. It had belonged to Kate and Kevin’s only child, Donal, who had left home five years ago when he was seventeen and had not been seen since. I was at school when it happened, but according to the neighbors, when he left he had said he was never coming back. He’d fought with his parents for years and was always saying he couldn’t wait to get away from them. I completely understood his need to escape. But Kate refused to believe he was gone for good and so she kept his room like a shrine—his clothes clean and pressed and hanging in the wardrobe, his copy books laid out on the small desk, his bed made up every week with fresh linen sheets. It was comical and eerie at the same time.
I slowed my step as I neared the house. Doubt began to taint my earlier excitement. Could I dare to hope that I’d even be picked to enter, let alone win? Maybe Ma would be in one of her good moods and would encourage me the way the other women in the spinning mill had done—but I was no sooner in the door when I realized it was a foolish hope. Ma was in one of her desperate bad moods. I could tell by the fact that she still wore her stained work apron and hadn’t bothered to comb her hair. Ever since I was a child I never knew which Ma I was going to find when I walked into the house. There were days when she sang like a lark, all smiles and kisses. And there were days like this when she looked like an old woman with the life drained out of her.
“Don’t go getting any ideas in your head!” she began. “There’s girls all over the country better looking than you are, miss,” she said. “And we’ve no money for fancy frocks and all the rest of it.”
“Don’t start, Ma,” I said wearily. “I haven’t even been picked yet.”
“And you won’t be!”
Ma worked in the weaving shed as a cloth passer, where she checked the woven cloth for faults. It was a good job, but a hard one. Most of the weavers hated her because she was so critical. It didn’t seem to bother Ma. She was only forty years old, but sometimes she looked twice her age, as she did now. I felt a rush of sympathy for her. She’d had a hard time of it since my da had left. And it was no easy matter for her living in another woman’s house and having to slave at the mill like the rest of us. But I shook the feeling off as quickly as it came. None of this was my fault. Why should I have to suffer as well?
Ma sat in the armchair beside the fire.
“I know what you’re thinking, miss,” she went on, her voice ragged from coughing and cigarettes. “You’ll win this competition and then you’ll be too good for the rest of us. You’ll forget where you came from. And you’ll go off gallivanting and forget about your duty to me. And me not a well woman.”
Ma always added the last part to nail my guilt securely in place. I sighed.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Ma.”
I tried to push past her towards the scullery, but she reached over and grabbed my arm. “I don’t know where you got this notion that you’re better than the rest of us,” she said, “but you’re not. If it wasn’t for me you’d be out on the street.”
“If it wasn’t for you I’d have finished school by now, and I’d have a good job and we’d both be better off!”
Ma’s grip tightened on my arm. “We needed the money,” she said. “And you needed to find a husband to support us. How were you going to meet a chap locked away in that convent school?”
I sighed. There was no talking to her when she got like this. I waited for the rest of it.
“What about Gavin O’Rourke? He’s a fine chap and he makes a good living with that boat of his.”
“He’s a sailor,” I said. “I thought you’d no time for sailors after what Da did to us? Besides,” I finished, “it’s just not like that between us.”
Ma swore under her breath. “Love,” she said. “What good does it do you? You can make a marriage without it. I never loved your da.”
“And look how you ended up,” I said. “I’m tired. I’m going to lie down.”
I pulled my arm away from her and went into the granny room and lay down on the bed. All the earlier pleasure of possibility had drained out of me. Ma always managed to do this, I thought. Why did I even listen to her? I sighed. Well, when you lived together and slept together, it was impossible to escape. I closed my eyes and welcomed the darkness.
The next morning, Saturday, Ma refused to get up out of bed. When she was in one of her down moods she would lie there all day, refusing to open the curtains to let any light in. If I moved, she complained I was keeping her awake. After a while I could stand it no longer. I jumped out of the bed and drew back the curtains.
“You can’t stay there all day, Ma,” I said.
Ma turned over and hid her head under the four sacks.
“I’m not well,” she moaned. “Why don’t you go down to Mulcahy’s later and get the bread.”
“Och, Ma,” I said, “you know I hate being around that man.”
“It’s your imagination,” Ma said. “You think every man is after you. You’ve got a quare bob on yourself, my girl.”
Ma turned over to face me. “There’s money on the dresser—what few shillings we have left—and it’s our turn to buy the bread. So go on now and get in the queue early.”
It was twelve noon when I left the house. To tell the truth I was glad of an excuse to get out. The place smelled so musty I could hardly breathe. I took in a few gulps of fresh air the moment I closed the door behind me. I buttoned up my coat and walked back down the hill to wait for the tram into Newry, the main town in the area.
At four o’clock I was still stuck in the bread line outside Mulcahy’s bakery on Hill Street. Myself and the other women there had been queuing up for hours. Just before closing time on Saturdays the bakery sold off the leftover bread and scones for next to nothing. They would be stale by Monday, so better for Mulcahy to get a few pennies for them than throw them out. The women with money would never have been caught dead in such a queue—those well-dressed ladies with their baskets had come and gone by now—hurrying away for fear they would catch a disease from the rest of us. I was mortified to be seen there, but today it was better than being stuck in the Queensbrook house.
I stood now, shivering in the chill March air. The other women wore coats and mufflers and old boots, but I wasn’t going to be caught dead in a getup like that. Instead I wore my best coat, thin as it was, my bare legs freshly stained with tea, and high-heeled shoes. And, as usual, I had forgotten my gloves. I was freezing. I recognized many of the women from Queensbrook. The young ones chatted away, but the older ones looked dreary and defeated like my ma. We all carried empty canvas bags, hoping to fill them up with bread.
“What passes for bread these days is a disgrace,” said one.
“Aye, nothing but water in it. No good for the children.”
“And still they make you queue up and beg for it like dogs.”
The line moved slowly. Darkness fell, and the wind picked up. I wrapped my coat tighter around me. Just as I reached as far as Mulcahy’s the shutters came down on the windows and door. Mulcahy himself, an oul’ boy with a red face, came out to confront us.
“Sorry, ladies. We’re closed. You may go home now. And come back on Monday.”
Groans and curses erupted from the line. S. . .
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