That night I got to our room before Nellie did. I picked up the crumpled letter that was still in the corner of the room – (we didn’t have any servants to clean up after us!) I smoothed it out and read it again. It was a nice letter, and I was sure that if only Nellie would read it, she’d understand what I was trying to say to her.
When she came in a few minutes later, she saw the letter in my hand, and took a step away, almost as if this small sheet of paper frightened her.
‘Just read it, please,’ I said. ‘And then I’ll stop talking about it, I promise.’
But she didn’t take the letter from me. Instead she sat on her bed and started to cry. This was so unexpected, I didn’t have any idea what to do. Nellie always seemed so strong and so tough. What had I done to make her cry like this?
I went and sat beside her, and patted her shoulder. I couldn’t tell if she liked that, but she didn’t pull away. I leaned over to put the letter on her locker, and all of a sudden the truth came to me, and I wondered how I hadn’t seen it before.
‘Oh, Nellie,’ I whispered. ‘Can you read at all?’
She looked up at me for a second, and then she began to cry even more. She hadn’t answered my question, but I knew I was right. I kept on patting her shoulder, and saying ‘Shhh now, don’t cry,’ the way I did with Winnie when she was upset.
And then Nellie was angry. ‘Everything is so easy for you,’ she said pushing me away. ‘With your own mam and your own home, and your lovely school and all your friends. Do you think I had any of that in the workhou––?’
She stopped herself, but she knew it was too late. I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a surprise to me, that Isabelle had told me about all that ages ago, but I didn’t know if that would make things even worse.
‘I’m so sorry you were in the workhouse, Nellie,’ I said. ‘It must have been terrible, but it’s not your fault. You don’t have to be ashamed.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ she sniffed.
My childhood hadn’t been perfect, but compared to Nellie, I’d had a wonderful life. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have what I had,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry if there was no school in the workhouse.’
Now she stared at me with her huge blue eyes.
‘There was a school,’ she whispered. ‘But … but there were so many children … more than a hundred sometimes … and the Mistress was very cross … she had a big stick … and mostly I was too sick to go to school. When I was well, I couldn’t catch up … I didn’t understand … and she beat me … and …’
Remembering it all made her cry some more. This time I put my arms around her and held her tight.
‘Now you know the truth you will hate me,’ she said, when she pulled away from me. ‘Just like everyone else. No one ever wants to be friends with a workhouse girl.’
I wanted to cry. It was true that Nellie had no friends in Lissadell, but that wasn’t because she’d once been in a workhouse. It was because she scared everyone away with her bad temper and grumpy comments – but because she was so snappy, I couldn’t even tell her that.
‘I don’t hate you, Nellie,’ I said. ‘I want to be your friend. Listen to what I wrote and maybe you’ll understand.’
I picked up the letter and read it aloud. For a long time Nellie didn’t say anything.
‘Don’t you like it?’ I asked.
‘I like it,’ she said. ‘I like it very much – and I’m sorry for crumpling it up after you went to so much trouble … but I don’t deserve it.’
I was disappointed, but then I realised that was stupid of me. Poor Nellie had been sad for so long, I couldn’t expect her to be immediately happy, just because I gave her a letter and said a few nice things to her.
Still, I was glad when she took the letter from me and put it under her pillow again. Then she stood up and took off her apron.
‘Time to get ready for bed,’ she said. I knew she wanted to end the conversation, but for all I knew, Nellie would never talk like this to me again, and there was one more thing I had to know.
‘Your family,’ I said. ‘Are they …?’
‘My mam and dad had the fever, and they died. That’s why my sisters and me had to go to the workhouse.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘But your sisters …?
‘They split us up when we got to the workhouse – they always do. And I was only little and it was a long time ago, so … if my sisters fetched up here, I might not even recognise them any more. Sometimes I dream about them, but I never see their faces properly – all I can see is their long red hair, just like mine.’
I thought about my sisters and brothers. Seeing them once a week never seemed enough. What would I do if I didn’t see them for years and years? What would I do if it was so long, I couldn’t recognise those sweet faces any more?
‘I’m sorry, Nellie.’ It was all I could think of to say. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
When my brothers and sisters were sad, I was usually able to help them. I rubbed Winnie’s tummy when it was sore, and I hugged Anne when she fell and scraped her knees. If the boys were fighting with their friends, I could usually sort things out.
But how could I help Nellie? I couldn’t make her parents come back to life. I couldn’t march into the workhouse, and demand to see her sisters, and bring them back to Lissadell with me. I was only a poor housemaid, and there was nothing I could do.
During the night I woke to hear Nellie crying. I leaned out of bed, found her hand and held it tight. When morning came my fingers were stiff and sore, but I didn’t mind.