And they had both laughed as the midwife went about her business, making Peggy comfortable. A candle burnt on the windowsill, to let the street know little Paddy had arrived, one for a boy, two for a girl.
‘Maura,’ Peggy gasped, ‘Maura!’
Maura had sent for the midwife with every one of Peggy’s deliveries and Peggy had run to fetch the midwife for Maura. On occasion, the midwife busy elsewhere, they were the only two there, in that special hour when the smell of a newborn and new love filled the room, often in the early hours when all the cleaning up was done, the baby on the breast or lying in a blanket-lined drawer. Then, the fire lit and tea in hand, they talked of their hopes and dreams for the new life they had brought into the world…
Scamp scraped his paw at the outhouse door and whined and Peggy, dragged back into the moment, just at the point that her body could hold on no longer, reached down, and caught her baby in her hands and then fell backwards onto the wooden plank seat, wondering and amazed that her child was the longed-for daughter at last. She knew to wait; she had birthed seven children. The great contraction was to come when she would deliver the placenta and she knew it would come in its own time, just as her daughter had. She reached up for the grubby ribbon tied around the neck of her blouse, yanked it out and, using her teeth, ripped it in half to tie the umbilical cord. Then she took a wire curler out of her apron pocket and using that and her teeth, separated her daughter from the placenta.
Sighing loudly and spitting, Peggy pulled her uncomplaining bundle up onto her chest and wrapped her cardigan around her, holding her against her as she rocked. Her eyes were wild, her face flushed and she felt a huge sense of relief and panic, all at the same time.
‘The bailiffs are coming,’ she whispered into the side of her daughter’s face. ‘I prayed for you, I wanted you, I’ve asked and asked the Holy Mother to send you, but you’ve come too late; they will take you off me now, they won’t let me keep you. I can’t let that happen, I can’t.’
Her baby snuffled and Peggy, holding her away from her, looked down into her face She was struggling to breathe and so Peggy sucked the mucous from her nose and her airways and spat it onto the floor. Her daughter gasped, her first full breath, opened her eyes, and looked straight into Peggy’s own, which were bright with tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep you, you can’t stay here for there won’t be a here; we will be out on the street.’
*
Mary had almost reached her back gate. Her thoughts, initially troubled by the sight of Jimmy with another girl on his arm, had turned to relief in the blink of an eye. She had expected to feel devastated, but between Cindy’s proposition as they left the salon together and her own transformation, she felt as though she were standing at the crossroads of her life and for once the choice was hers to make.
Cindy had said, ‘You know, Mary, I often wonder what will happen to the salon if I get married and have a baby. Reg isn’t going to wait much longer for me because I’m a stroppy mare and he puts up with a lot!’ She’d grinned down at Mary. ‘Look, what I’m saying is, I could do with training up someone to take over from me and I like you, Mary; I think I could trust you, so, if you fancied a change from scrubbing floors and washing dishes…? I liked the way you chose your style; you have a boldness and you remind me of myself when I was younger. Alice was right, Mary, choose your own destiny. And honestly, it doesn’t have to be one of misery and nappy buckets, not until you are really ready for it, anyway.’
Mary’s mouth had opened and closed. Cindy had laughed. ‘You don’t have to answer me now. Off you go before I have your mam down here wanting to know where you are. I know you help a lot at home, everyone knows that, and I’ll tell you what: whoever does run this place for me, will get the flat upstairs because I’ll be moving into Reg’s house.’ Cindy grinned. ‘Oh Mary, if you could only see your face. Go home, think about it and come and see me when you’re ready, but honestly, I think me and you would make a great team. And remember, the only way to shape your own destiny is to control it. It’s your life, no one else’s.’
With a smile on her face and her eyes lit with excitement, Mary had left Cindy, full of anticipation for all that could lie before her. And then she’d passed Jimmy outside the betting shop. Seeing him kiss the girl full on the lips, in the same way he’d kissed her, had pierced her feelings like a pin in a bubble and she’d gasped; she had just told Cindy she loved him with all her heart, said she knew he was just scared of her mam and da, that was why he hadn’t come to see her. But that was no longer true. She’d turned and watched the group as they walked away, Jimmy with his arm around the girl, and at that moment it dawned on her that she’d been set free. She’d lived a year in madness, waiting and hoping and dreaming of Jimmy and yet, here he was, and she couldn’t believe that she had been so stupid, so willing to hitch herself to a cartload of strife. To think of walking in her mother’s footsteps and hope and pray that her firstborn would be a girl in order to lighten the load as the years progressed. Why would she wish her misery on another?
As she made her way back to Nelson Street, Mary had felt the thrill of a different life opening before her. Cindy’s salon. Cindy’s salon. She would be exchanging one bleach for another, boredom for company, and soapsuds for sophistication – but, most of all, chores for creativity. She saw Eric the milkman running across the road towards the Anchor and he did a double take and then raised his hand towards her in greeting.
‘Lovely hair, Mary! Did Cindy do that?’
‘She did, Eric,’ she shouted back and then she amazed even herself as she called out to him, ‘Do you like it?’
‘I do indeed. You look thoroughly modern, Mary, absolutely gorgeous,’ he called as he passed her.
‘Thank you, Eric,’ she responded as her heart swelled. Never in her entire life had anyone before called her gorgeous. ‘You have a good evening, Eric,’ she called and almost laughed out loud as she thought: who has Cindy turned you into? She almost floated home, until she reached the back gate of the Nolans’ and thought she heard someone call out. She stood and listened, called, ‘Peggy? It’s Mary, are you all right?’ but there was no reply and, deciding it must have been a cat, she walked on.
As she approached her own gate, her footsteps slowed as she recognised a figure waiting in the shadows; Jimmy. She frowned. It couldn’t be Jimmy – she had just seen him heading off towards the Anchor. As she drew closer she realised it was his twin, Callum. The way he carried himself, the manner in which he hung his head, was one of shyness and reticence, totally different to his brother who walked like he owned the four streets. She stood still, afraid to approach, knowing it was herself that Callum was waiting to see but she had no idea why. Callum sensed her hesitation and moving away from the wall, walked towards her.
‘Mary, I thought it wasn’t you for a moment; I thought the light was playing tricks, but it is you.’ He looked sheepish, glancing down at his boots.
‘Was it me you were wanting?’ she asked, her heart racing. ‘I’ve seen Jimmy; I mean, I just saw him down on the parade, with a girl.’
Callum grimaced. ‘Ah, I wanted to see you first, to warn you. That was Franny; she lives down the Dock Road. I didn’t want you to see for yourself and as soon as I knew they were going to the Anchor…’ His voice trailed away, and then he looked up at her. ‘I think he treated you badly and I wanted to warn you, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to see Jimmy at all.’
Callum was taken aback by Mary’s answer. He had not been able to get the look on her face when she had seen them on the bus platform out of his mind. It had not been him she was looking at, it had definitely been Jimmy.
‘I don’t want to see Jimmy.’ She said it again, just so that he was sure.
Callum looked up and straight into her eyes; her words had lit a flame in his heart.
‘Mary, your hair looks lovely.’
Mary blinked and smiled. Cindy had said that and Eric
and now Callum, the third person to see her, had said it too.
‘It’s so modern.’
She felt dizzy. It was as though, when her hair was swept away from the salon floor, so was the old Mary too. She made to speak but was stuck for words. No one ever told Mary that she looked lovely and it was all becoming too much too fast. She had been shown a new life, fallen out of love and told she looked lovely for the first time ever and all in the space of half an hour.
Callum could see she was confused and knowing it was now or never, he tried again. ‘Mary, would you give me a chance? I am not my brother… Would you let me take you to the picture house in town?’
Mary clasped her hands together. ‘The picture house? I-I’d love to,’ she said.
‘Saturday night?’ Callum asked. Mary nodded her head and it felt very much lighter and a bit odd to her. ‘Shall I ask Eugene if I can take you?’
Mary thought about that for longer than she would have done only hours previously. What would Eugene say? Well, there was a great deal she would have to tell Eugene herself over the coming weeks, she was sure of that. Jutting her chin and straightening her back she said, ‘No, I will do that.’
Callum raised his eyebrows; he wanted to do things properly. ‘Are you sure?’
She wasted no time in replying. ‘I am, I’ll speak to him first, before Mam.’
In that moment Mary made a decision: she wouldn’t ask Deirdre, she would tell her she was going to the picture house with Callum and that he was calling for her – and why not, hadn’t she said herself that at least he worked down on the docks? She would also tell her that she was going to work for Cindy. She wouldn’t mention the flat, or that Cindy was thinking of marrying and having a baby of her own, and she wouldn’t let Malcolm down, she would give him good notice. Cindy’s words came into her mind, ‘… the only way to shape your own destiny is to control it.’
Mary smiled at Callum; there was something about his self-effacing manner that appealed to her.
‘I’ll knock on for you then?’
Jimmy had never taken her anywhere. Had never knocked on for her or spoken to her with thoughtful care and consideration in the way Callum was now.
‘I’d like that, Callum, thank you.’
Not knowing what to say next, they stood and smiled at each other and Callum felt his heart race. He wanted to talk more, ask her more, but he hesitated. Steady does it, was the thought that entered his mind and he knew, instinctively, it was the right thing to do. Mary was not like the other girls on the four streets, she wasn’t cheeky and confident. He remembered her playing in the street, always the one looking after her younger brothers, not running off with the other girls to the wasteland. He had felt sorry for her then, had hated Jimmy for the way he treated her, but not now. Admiration, respect for her dignity and something he was still unsure of, was what he felt now.
‘Saturday, then.’
Mary nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak because she felt as though if she and Callum began a conversation, it would not end, but go on forever, and she knew that this was the beginning, that it would be Callum for always and, not having the words, she hoped that her smile, the pleasure in her face, told him all he needed to know.
*
Peggy had managed to get upstairs with the baby unremarked, and now she sat on the edge of the bed and wailed in despair; she had no idea what to do. She looked into the face of the daughter she had prayed for with every pregnancy, had hoped and longed for over the years, and the baby’s perfect little face looked back up at her.
‘Look at you, I’ve nothing for you but the street, for they’ll take you off me when we get turned out.’
The tears poured down her face as she held the baby to her cheek and drew in the smell of her. How could life change so fast? This time last year the arrival of this baby would have made her the centre of attention in the street, the first girl after seven boys. Presents would have arrived through the door, home-made matinee coats, a plate of biscuits, a cake, a trail of women with their own babies would have walked in and out of the kitchen, to talk to her as she lay on the settle that would have been dragged in from Maura’s. They would have brought shovels of coal to tip in the bucket, a posy of flowers from the greengrocer’s to put in a jam jar on the windowsill; the boys would have gone to Kathleen’s and Maura’s to be fed and washed and return home to sleep.
The house would have been scrubbed from top to bottom by an army of women and Mrs Keating would have brought her a delicious lunch in every day. Twice a day, someone would have called in for her nappy bucket, replacing it with a clean one, and whoever was washing would have collected Peggy’s too. In the afternoons, she would have lain there, her precious daughter on her chest, wallowing in the bliss, the peace, the cleanliness, the daily grind and responsibility of a family assumed by others, because on the four streets the arrival of a new baby was an occasion, a celebration.
She would have rejoiced in the silence, the lack of pressure to get up and carry out one of a never-ending list of chores. She would have listened to her mother’s ticking clock, inhaled the delicious stew someone would have put on the range. Because that was what having a baby in the four streets was like. The women had nothing, but together they could create their own luxury. Her daughter would have been passed from mother to mother to be admired, or nappy changed and their own babes would have been laid on the bed with Peggy whilst they too met the new arrival.
Oh, it was not supposed to be like this! No child on the four streets ever came into the world like this, into this hopelessness, alone in the outhouse, not into this despair.
‘I can’t do this to you, I can’t face it,’ Peggy sobbed, knowing there was only one way out from this, only one escape. She felt the edges of her mind blur and, laying the naked baby on the bed, rose and walked over to the press and removed a small drawer from the top. It contained very little: the boys’ christening gown and the odd undergarment that she owned. She took out the only fresh clothes she had for herself and changed and then wondered what was the point. She took an old nappy from the drawer and ripped it apart. Bending down, she placed it into the clean knickers between her legs, sobbing for the past and the future she could no longer have. She wrapped the other half around the baby and took out a grey and rough towel and wrapped it around her.
She picked up her baby, who lay uncomplaining, eyes wide, and smiled through her tears at the small folds of fat on her knees.
‘I should call you biscuit,’ she said. ‘It’s what you’ve been fed on, but someone else can do that now.’
Laying her daughter in the drawer she moved with extreme difficulty into the boys’ room and pushed the drawer under the bed next to the cardboard box that little Paddy kept there. The boys were beginning to get restless downstairs, moving about. They would hear her, they could find her, and by the time that happened she would be gone. It hurt to walk and she felt light-headed, but with absolute clarity she knew what she had to do. They would all be better off without her. She was not good enough to be their mother, could not face the shame of the bailiffs and everyone knowing what an awful failure of a woman she was in the four streets full of perfect, uncomplaining women, whose children never went without a meal. Women who, even in hard times and short work, did not have to pawn their children’s shoes and their mother’s clock.
At first, the boys didn’t notice her walk into the kitchen. She put her arms in her coat and, removing the money that was left from what the pawnbroker had given her, laid it down on the press. And then little Paddy saw her.
‘Mam? Where are you going now? You haven’t had your chips, I kept them there.’ He pointed to the draining board. Peggy drew on every ounce of reserve she had to carry her through the next sixty seconds. She had no idea what to answer and then it came to her.
‘I’m off to Shelagh’s to take the pram I borrowed back,’ she said. ‘Look after your brothers for me, Paddy, be a good boy, they need you.’ She stood and stared at her
children and a frown crossed little Paddy’s face; there was something about her tone, her manner, that sent a frisson of fear running across his scalp.
‘Mam?’ he said, but she turned her back on him, opened the back door and walked out of the house.
Chapter Nineteen
Shelagh was in the middle of the same end-of-day chores as every other woman in every kitchen on the street. The large enamel bowl in her sink was filled with hot soapy water as the scouse pan soaked on the wooden draining board next to it, ready for a scouring with wire wool and soap. In the scullery, one by one her children had washed their knees, hands and faces and now sat on the floor in front of the fire, listening to the radio. The kettle had been refilled for the third time in a row and was coming back up to the boil as the day’s washing, draped across a wooden clothes horse, stood open before the fire, absorbing the heat and drying the washing which had been brought in from the line; above her head the pulley was filled with lines of steaming terry towelling nappies.
Shelagh leant her back against the draining board and, slipping her hands into her front apron pocket, sighed, wondering would Seamus be back in time to help her with the big pan. She hated the wire wool she used to clean it, which dug into her red and cracked hands like shards of glass and made her cry out in pain. The only two comfortable chairs they owned were filled with children and even though the veins in her legs pulsated and throbbed she knew that there was no point in shooing them off and sitting down herself, because within seconds she would need to be back up again for one thing or another. A woman’s work was never done.
Little Paddy didn’t knock before he entered Shelagh’s kitchen; knocking was unheard of in the four streets. Earlier that morning, she had baked biscuits and there had been over thirty children in her backyard with hands open and little Paddy and Nellie had helped Shelagh to dish them out.
‘Can I have two please, Shelagh?’ Malachi had shouted out across the assembled heads. ‘If I can, I’ll let your Anthony be in charge of the ball all day.’
Coming Home to the Four Streets Page 20