Invisible Dubliners

The Coin

She ran up the front steps and into the darkened house. Closing the heavy hall door behind her, she crept into the parlor. It was a room with which she was quite familiar, seeing as how she had to clean it every morning and beat the carpet and make sure there was a roaring fire in the grate and dust each and every one of the shepherdess figurines in the glass case. Mrs. Northcliffe always checked the bottoms to make sure she’d done it properly.

She lit a candle and tiptoed over to the window. The moon was visible overhead, a pale milky disc smudged with wispy black clouds as if someone had pressed their finger against it. Drawing back the scarlet curtain, she peered down at the sleepy confines of Baggot Street. Yes, there he was, right where she’d left him, the light from the streetlamp falling on his shoulders. He stood ramrod straight, like a soldier. Well, he could wait for a bit.

She sidled over to the tufted armchair, upholstered with blooming roses and lilies (terribly hard to clean, she had to soak the fabric in the washtub for hours) and sat down gingerly, crossing one leg over the other like a proper lady. No one was home. The family had gone to the opera. Faust. She’d heard them talking about it. Satan and the fountain of youth. It didn’t sound like a nice bit of entertainment but since she’d never been to the opera, she really couldn’t say.

She surveyed the room with a critical eye. A picture of King Edward hung above the mantel. It showed the king greeting people from countries the British ruled over: India, Egypt, some parts of Africa. She didn’t know where these countries were on a map, only that they were far away and it was hot. The picture unnerved her every time she was in this room. It always seemed as though King Edward were following her with his gaze. If she were mistress here, she’d toss it in the dust bin, along with all the knickknacks and the dark furniture and replace them with something lighter and more modern.

The harp in the corner was broken. Some of the strings wobbled and sagged, but she had to dust it anyway. Nasty old thing, a heavy gold instrument, even taller than she was. Lucy used to play. There were two daughters, Lucy and Colleen. Margaret thought they were horrid girls. Ordering her about like a scullery maid. Making her lace up their stays and scrub their undergarments. Speaking Latin when she was around because they knew she couldn’t understand. Illi stulto scorto odi. They repeated that phrase over and over and then they would burst out laughing. Stupid cows. She didn’t know what it meant but it was probably something bad.

They were always sending her to the shops, like she was an errand girl, as well as maid, cook, seamstress, boot polisher, and Lord knows what else. This morning, she’d been sent to the bakery for currant buns and scones. It was raining and she’d torn her old grey rain cloak on the iron stairway railing. Water leaked in through the collar, and by the time she got back to Baggot Street she was wet and bedraggled, like a little furry mouse the cat had toyed with and discarded.

Mr. Northcliffe was away on business. He had a clothing firm in the North. When Margaret first heard about it, she’d pictured lovely dresses, muslin with blue ribbons. She looked fetching in blue. It was her favorite color. Maybe they’d even give her one for a Christmas present. But it was nothing as glamorous as that. Mr. Northcliffe made vestments for the Church, mostly, and those always had to be exactly the same. It was just as well he was gone. He was a bit too free with his hands when he was around. One time, he’d cornered her in the pantry and … Well, she wouldn’t think about that …

She leaned back in...