Coming Home to the Four Streets

by Nadine Dorries

  ‘Eric, are you all right, love? The cat got your tongue?’ Stepping forward, she placed her hand on Eric’s arm and gently caressed his shoulder. ‘Eric, love, what’s wrong?’

  Eric looked into Cindy’s kind and welcoming eyes and his guard slipped somewhere deep down inside him. A tear silently trickled out and rolled down his cheek. Cindy took him by the elbow and, pushing one of the overhead dryers to the side, sat him down on the chair. She didn’t ask any further questions, she didn’t need to. Enough tears had been shed in Cindy’s salon for her to know what to do next.

  ‘Right, you sit there; I’ll go in the back and make us both a cuppa. I’ve got a nice bottle of the Irish for times like this and I’ll put us both a good splash in.’ She gently ran her hand up and down his forearm, gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘You just sit there and catch your breath,’ she said and left him for the few minutes she instinctively knew he needed alone.

  Five minutes later, when she returned, there were no tears to be seen, just a thoughtful Eric, gazing out of the window, watching women bustling past, heads bent low against the Mersey breeze that whipped through the parade like a wind tunnel.

  ‘Isn’t the morning awful? It’s going to pour down soon,’ said Cindy, placing the cup and saucer in his hand. ‘Mind you, best we have it all now, out of the way before the carnival. And no point in anyone getting their hair done today, it’s wrecked by the time they’ve walked home.’ She sat down next to him, balancing her own cup and saucer on her knee and watched as he took the first sip of his tea. ‘Don’t be signing any important papers after drinking that,’ she said, ‘I’ve put a double in yours.’

  Eric managed half a smile and allowed the burning liquid to run down his throat and settle into the pit of his stomach. The combination of tea, whiskey and sugar restored his equilibrium. Cindy didn’t ask him what was wrong: she knew, if he needed and wanted to tell her, he would do so, in his own time. They drank the tea together and, as he had run out of his five cigarettes, he accepted the offer of one of her Embassy filters. He settled back in the chair and looking at Cindy, raised a smile.

  ‘You feeling better now?’ she asked.

  ‘I am,’ he said, ‘I’m like a new man, whiskey in the tea and an Embassy filter instead of a roll-up, don’t be…’ He stopped. He was about to say, ‘Don’t be telling our Gladys,’ when he realised that he couldn’t care less if Cindy did. ‘Are you going anywhere nice tonight?’ he asked, keen to keep the focus away from himself. Cindy placed a pink lustre, cut-glass ashtray on the arm of the two chairs between them and laughed as she blew smoke into the air. ‘Eh, you, that’s my line, not yours.’ She nudged his arm and the tea slopped over his cup into the saucer.

  ‘You can drink that out of the saucer,’ she said.

  Lifting it to his lips with one hand, he said, ‘Waste not want not,’ and slurped the overspill.

  Cindy sat back in her chair. ‘I say that to every customer, you know, to get the conversation going, as if that was ever a problem around here. I reckon I know everyone’s life story.’ Eric raised his eyebrows over the rim of his cup. ‘Oh yes, I do. All the ins and outs, the trials and tribulations. The women who get the backhanders, the black eyes and the backstreet abortions. They sit in that chair there and tell me. I brush away as many tears as I do clumps of hair from the floor.’ She nodded towards the chair in front of the mirror and then, turning to Eric, said, ‘And do you know what? I will take every word of it to my grave.’

  It was Eric’s turn to smile. ‘Thanks for the tea, Cindy, but I’m all right. I think I’m just tired.’

  ‘Or you just need a laugh. As it happens, me and our Reg, we always go to the Anchor on a Wednesday night and many other nights; never see you in there though, Eric. Why don’t you come and join us tonight? I promise you’ll have a laugh.’ She deliberately didn’t mention Gladys. ‘Go on, why don’t you come down? We’d love to see you, so come and have a drink with me and Reg.’ She pushed the point because she could see, instead of Eric waving it away, the thought had landed on a perch in his mind.

  Cindy was an expert in communicating and said no more. She slipped her cigarettes into her front pocket as the bell jangled and the door opened.

  ‘Biddy, love, I haven’t seen you for ages, I thought you must have deserted me.’

  ‘I’m in need of a perm, Cindy, but I haven’t time for that right now so can you fit me in for a cut and can I book in a perm before the carnival? Oh, hello, Eric, do you come here to get your hair cut then?’

  Eric stood and laughed. ‘No, I do not. I’d come out smelling like a French tart’s boudoir, thank you very much. It’s the barber for me.’

  ‘Oi, cheeky bugger,’ said Cindy, laughing. ‘Come on, Biddy, sit down. I’ve got time.’ As she took the cup and saucer from Eric she said, ‘Don’t you be forgetting what I said, will you, now?’

  She gave Eric a knowing look and Eric replied quietly, ‘No, I’ll bear that in mind, Cindy, I will. I might just take you up on it,’ knowing that he would never in a million years have the nerve to tell Gladys he was off to the pub. The consequences would be too great. Gladys would purse her grey lips and her serpent tongue would do its worst.

  Cindy smiled and held his gaze for a moment. ‘You do that. Even if you just pop in for a quick pint with us, it would be lovely to see you, Eric.’ She turned to Biddy and said, ‘Come on then, give us your coat, Biddy. And shall we give it a quick set? I can blast the dryers on full? Don’t mind me if I faint from the heat, I always come back round.’

  Biddy began to giggle. ‘She’s a case, that one is, Eric. Get away with you Cindy. Only if you have time, and it’s no trouble.’

  ‘See you then, Eric,’ Cindy called out and he was back on his cart and halfway to the dairy before he realised that Cindy hadn’t paid and Gladys would want to know why he was short when she cashed up the takings.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It had taken seven long days for Harry to land back on safe shores, during which time Maura had been warned a number of times by the doctors at the hospital that he could lose one of his arms or even his life.

  ‘The poison has travelled high and fast, I’m sorry to say; he has septicaemia and he’s a very sick little boy,’ the doctor had said and the expression on his face held no sign of hope.

  Maura hardly slept but sat by her son’s bed for all the hours the hospital would allow her and fretted and wept for the hours they would not, her rosary beads never leaving her hand. On the eighth day, after twenty-four hours with no temperature, Harry ate food for the first time. Now he was almost ready to be released.

  ‘He was asking for you and little Paddy as soon as I came on duty today,’ Maura’s favourite young nurse said as Maura sat down beside her son’s bed. ‘I gather he was awake long before dawn which is why he’s sleeping now! I’ll fetch you a cuppa from the kitchen. Did you get a lift here?

  ‘I did,’ said Maura, her eyes never leaving her son as she gently pushed his fringe back from his face. ‘Liam brought me. Sister said I can stay until twelve today. Liam has gone to the market and he’ll take me back.’

  ‘Hello, who is this then?’ said the nurse as she flicked the brake on the linen trolley off and pushed it away from the bed. Her eyes were fixed on the sister’s table in the middle of the ward and the woman who had walked in through the ward doors. Visitors were forbidden during the morning, without express permission from sister and the woman appeared to be in deep conversation with the staff nurse on duty. ‘Ah, looks like they know each other,’ said the nurse and turned back to Maura. ‘Would you like a bit of toast? Did ye have time for a bite before you left home?’

  Maura’s stomach rumbled at the mere mention of food. ‘I did not. I was so busy making sure everything was set up for when the kids got up, I forgot about myself.’

  The nurse smiled. ‘I thought as much. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil than there is on your bones. I’ll be back in a jiffy with a bit of tea and toast for yourself.’r />
  As the nurse walked down the ward, Maura watched her go. She felt her heart fill with gratitude for the young woman who had cared for Harry with as much attentiveness and affection as she would have one of her own. The staff nurse called her over and Maura noticed that the visitor asked her a question before she walked down the ward towards Harry’s bed. As the woman came closer, Maura recognised her as someone she had occasionally seen at the Sacred Heart church on Sunday mornings when they went to mass with Liam and Maeve.

  ‘Hello, Maura,’ she said. ‘You don’t know me, but you know my son well enough back in Liverpool – he’s Dr Cole and I’m a good friend of Kathleen’s.’

  Maura’s face lit up just at the mention of home. Dr Cole had brought Harry safely through most of his late-night asthma attacks. His mammy was smartly dressed and carried a handbag looped over her arm. Her brown felt hat was held in place with a pearl-topped hatpin and her face resembled Kathleen’s with cheeks as soft and as puffy as fresh pats of dough and eyes as twinkly blue as only Irish eyes can be.

  ‘Does Dr Cole know Harry is here?’ asked Maura, confused but at the same time, delighted.

  ‘No, he doesn’t, but he did telephone me earlier and asked me to see how you are, so when Liam told me the news, I wondered should I pop by and see how you were for myself? I live in Galway now for half of the time, with the wayward younger daughter. She’s not married, you know, lives a shocking existence, goes out to pubs and dancing and all the rest of it and doesn’t care who knows it. The rest of the year I live in Ballynevin with the sensible daughter, the older one. The wayward one tells me that everyone who lives in Galway is wayward and I’m thinking, from what I’ve seen so far, she’s right.’ She smiled at Maura. ‘She does it to tease me. She’s a nurse here in the hospital.’

  Maura laughed, but felt anxious; she didn’t want sister to think she had invited someone and get herself into trouble, or have her visits curtailed. ‘Did the staff nurse—’

  Mrs Cole interrupted her. ‘Did she say I was allowed? Oh, aye, she did. Brendan did some of his training here and my daughter is one of the staff nurse’s friends so they all know the Coles here. Your lovely young nurse, now, I don’t know her, but she said she’s fetching us both a nice cuppa.’

  There was a second chair by the side of Maura. ‘Sit down, would you?’ Maura said, with as much breath as she had left. Her mind was working overtime. Dr Cole had phoned his mammy to ask how she was? It didn’t make any sense to her at all.

  ‘Have they told you when he will be home?’ Mrs Cole asked as she studied Harry’s face.

  ‘Aye, if his temperature stays down, today we can go back home soon.’

  Mrs Cole studied Maura whilst she spoke. ‘And where would that be then, home?’

  Maura made to answer, ‘The Talk of the Town,’ but the words stuck in her throat and she swallowed hard. Her son had been at death’s door and God had given him back to her. She would not thank him with a lie from her son’s sick bed. Mrs Cole appeared not to notice.

  ‘Isn’t that just the thing? Brendan is always trying to get me to move to Liverpool – and God knows, I would like to, it has that many shops I’d never be out of them, for I love the shops, so I do. It’s the reason why I love to spend half of my time here in Galway, but our Brendan, he’s there, in Liverpool, and well… It would be an obvious choice, wouldn’t it? So many things there to make me happy. Have you ever been in Blacklers?’

  Maura smiled. ‘I have, many a time. I couldn’t afford anything like, but I love to look.’

  Mrs Cole looked impressed and laughed out loud. ‘Nor would I afford anything after a week, I can tell you. Every time I go to visit Brendan, which isn’t very often like, because he just loves to come home for his holidays, I’m spent up within days – all on the kids, mind, and he gives me such a telling-off, so he does.’

  ‘They would all make you very welcome,’ said Maura, fully realising that Mrs Cole would hardly be likely to become a resident of the four streets, even if she did live in Liverpool.

  Mrs Cole patted Maura on the arm. ‘Well, isn’t that just a lovely thing to say? But, you see, the thing is I’ve spent the greater part of my life in Ballynevin. I know it, I have my daughter and my grandchildren there and so I could never leave, now could I? But, it’s not just that, not just the family; I know every single person I pass on the road every day, every building. And the seasons, well, nothing they bring holds any surprise for me and I like that. I know it’s how it’s meant to be and, you know, if people need me, if they need a bit of help, they know where to find me.’

  Maura knew that feeling too; it had been her life on the four streets…

  ‘And, my husband,’ Mrs Cole went on, ‘he’s buried in the Sacred Heart churchyard and so that’s that, isn’t it? The thought of leaving him there, well, it’s impossible. I never could go away and leave him, could I? It would be like deserting him. No, I’m tied to the place, so I am. Leaving him in death would be like leaving him in life, could you imagine? No, I would never be happy living anywhere else; I would fret and life, well, it’s too short to live somewhere you’re not happy, isn’t it?’ Maura thought of Kitty, and her heart folded in guilt as she realised how long it had been since she had taken flowers to the grave of her firstborn.

  ‘Oh, and see what’s my memory like! Brendan says would you drop a line to your old neighbour, Peggy; he thinks she could do with a word from yourself, to cheer her up like.’

  Maura was speechless, remembering her decision on the way to the hospital that dreadful night. Harry opened his eyes. ‘Mammy, can I have a drink of water?’ he asked.

  ‘Mammy, is Paddy coming?’

  Maura smiled and shook her head. ‘Have you been dreaming, little man? Paddy is back in Liverpool, with Auntie Peggy.’ Harry looked disappointed and Maura turned back to Mrs Cole.

  ‘Will you thank Dr Cole for asking about me?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I get the impression you will be doing that yourself before too long,’ said Mrs Cole and Maura knew she was right.

  *

  The children ran out of the school and down the cinder path to the sound of a brass bell being rung between the boys’ and the girls’ entrances. Angela was surprised to see Tommy standing by the gate.

  ‘Da, what are you doing here?’ She clutched her composition book in one hand and her hat in the other. Her long pigtails hung down her back and the pink ribbons, which had been neatly tied into perfect bows that morning, trailed limp and straight down over her shoulders. It struck Tommy in that instant that she had Kitty’s eyes. Kitty, his Kitty, harmed by a priest, at the hands of another man in authority. A frisson of anger ran down his spine.

  ‘Where is Mr Cleary, queen?’

  ‘He’s there, Da, ringing the bell.’

  Tommy looked up and saw a small, stocky, red-faced man, holding a brass bell by a wooden handle and ringing it for all it was worth. Tommy frowned, pulled his cap down tight onto his scalp and in a tone harsher and gruffer than was normal, said, ‘Get the kids, Angela. Don’t be asking me any questions and take them up to Liam’s van, he’s waiting. Get out of here.’

  Mr Cleary had spotted Tommy and the ringing of the bell lost its pace and ferocity. The news of Harry and how desperately ill he had been had soon reached the ears of everyone around. Tommy walked slowly and purposefully towards his target as his eyes met that of yet another man in a position of trust who had harmed one of his children and his gaze never left the defiant face of his son’s abuser.

  ‘Da…’ Angela’s voice trembled; she sensed danger and didn’t like it one bit. She was aware that, one by one, the children had stopped screaming and shouting and the cinder yard fell silent.

  ‘Who is that?’ a voice called out.

  ‘It’s Harry’s da,’ came the reply.

  ‘What are you wanting?’ Mr Cleary shouted.

  Tommy didn’t reply as a sea of children parted to let him through. His fingers closed over the large penknife in his pocke
t. He had taken a knife to a man before. A priest. A man who had defiled his daughter, and he had taken his life. And every day since he had repented in his own private prayer. He had never been really sorry. The community of the four streets had gathered around and protected him and his family. They had paid the worst price imaginable. The dark days. The worst days, the days they had run away from to a place where another man had harmed one of his children.

  The curiously intent children before him stumbled backwards, faces fearful as a murmur rippled through the yard. He extracted the knife from his pocket and, with one gesture, flicked it fully open and the blade glinted in the sunlight.

  ‘Da!’ Angela screamed as he drew level with Cleary.

  ‘What are you wanting?’ Cleary demanded, but Tommy could see he was trembling.

  ‘You hit my lad. You ripped the skin off his hands with a stick.’ Tommy’s voice was cold, his words, very matter of fact, betrayed none of the emotions coursing through his veins.

  Sweat was breaking out on Cleary’s forehead. His hand visibly shook and the bell rattled, but despite his fear he attempted to hold his ground. ‘Aye, and what of it? That’s what we do here. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Do you not read your Bible, man?’

  Tommy felt strangely calm. ‘Aye, we take it very seriously over in Liverpool, it’s an eye for an eye – and my lad, he nearly lost his life. Here’s how we take our revenge in Liverpool,’ he said as he pressed the knife against Cleary’s throat.

  The white stubbled flesh depressed as the Adam’s apple bobbed furiously up and down. Cleary backed away, almost stumbling until he hit the wall, but there was no escape. Tommy walked faster and pinned him against the wall and with his right foot, bore down hard on Cleary’s own. Cleary was no match for Tommy, a docker all of his life. His face was close to Cleary’s as he hissed, ‘Say your prayers, you evil little man.’

  Cleary began to cry and the bell left his hand, clanged on the ground and rolled to the side. Tommy had lost his senses; his breathing became laboured and his nostrils flared. One press, that was all it would take. He would avenge Harry – and Kitty, their Kitty, he would feel the belated joy of revenge for her too.