‘I don’t know. She was by the time I was old enough to realise what was going on but maybe she wasn’t always. Our James had a row with my father last year and afterwards when my mother was crying he said she should stand up to him. He said, “People take you at your own valuation. If you behave like a doormat he’ll treat you like one.”’
‘I think that’s true,’ said Laura. ‘What did your mum say?’
‘Just cried,’ Mary said contemptuously. ‘And then she said he shouldn’t argue with my father because it only made him worse. James said being allowed to get away with it made him worse, but my mother started crying again. Said you can’t argue with a steamroller and James would go back to Cambridge and she’d have to bear the brunt of the row. Does your Gerry argue with your dad?’
‘Gerry?’ Laura said. ‘My dad wouldn’t argue with Gerry. Everything he does is perfect in my dad’s eyes. Mind you,’ she added honestly, ‘it’s very hard to argue with Gerry. He’s so easygoing.’
‘I thought all your family were easy to get on with – those I met,’ Mary said. ‘Everyone seemed happy.’
‘That’s because my dad was out. And my mum’s a very happy person, everyone says so. Not because of him though but because that’s her nature.’
‘But she stands up to him?’
‘Not exactly,’ Laura said. ‘She just gives in to keep the peace, I think. She’s far too soft with him and she puts up with his bad temper and his selfishness but not because she’s afraid.’ She paused, finding it hard to explain her parents’ relationship and instead she asked about Mary’s family. ‘I know James stands up to your father but what about Angela when she’s home from Oxford and your Luke?’
‘Angela hardly opens her mouth when she’s home,’ Mary said. ‘And our Luke might as well be in Lancaster all year. He always gets holiday jobs that keep him away from home.’
‘So your mum misses out on her children as well as having to put up with your dad,’ Laura said bluntly.
They were sitting in a small park eating their lunchtime sandwiches and Mary stood up and brushed crumbs from her skirt. ‘Don’t be trying to make me feel sorry for her, Laura Redmond. I reckon he couldn’t have been like this when she married him. She let him become a domineering bully and we’ve all had to suffer for it. Don’t worry. I don’t let it get me down. I keep out of his way as much as possible and as soon as I can support myself I’ll be off. Get my own place.’
‘That’s my plan too,’ Laura said eagerly. ‘As soon as I can I’ll get a place where I can take Mum – and Julie if she wants to come. Where she’ll never have to put up with his bullying again.’
Mary looked at her in surprise and seemed about to speak but then as she took in Laura’s shining eyes and happy smile she shrugged and stayed silent.
They set off for the college, passing a record shop which was belting out the Beatles record ‘She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah’. Four girls walking along together were singing in unison with it and Mary suddenly exclaimed, ‘What are we doing worrying about those things on a day like this? The sun’s shining, everyone’s happy. Come on, race you up the hill.’
They raced up, giggling and pushing each other, and arrived for their classes breathless but cheerful again. Laura was happy at the college and worked hard, determined to qualify for a well-paid position which would bring her dream of independence nearer.
Mary went to Laura’s house several times but said she felt embarrassed because she was unable to ask Laura to visit her home. Laura brushed this aside.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Our place is just handier for playing records, that’s all.’
Mary’s father was uninterested in music so they had never owned a gramophone but in Laura’s home there was a radiogram in the sitting room and also a record player in her bedroom, a Christmas present from her Uncle Mick.
Laura’s Aunt Maureen had worked abroad since soon after the end of the war, first in the chaos of Europe then in the Middle East, but her health had failed and she had returned to England. She was now staying with her sister Anne to be nursed back to health before she decided on her future. A situation like this brought out the best in John’s character and, watching him with Maureen, Mary wondered why Laura was so hostile to her father.
She said so when they had retired to Laura’s bedroom but Laura said indignantly, ‘Oh yes, he can be very nice with other people. It’s the way he treats my mother that I object to. And the way he treats me.’
Mary looked round the bedroom. Although small it was freshly decorated with wallpaper that matched the pretty curtains and the bedspread on the divan bed. There was a small wardrobe and dressing table and David, who liked working with wood, had built a long desk under the window to hold a typewriter and the record player.
‘I don’t think you’ve got much to complain about,’ she said. ‘All this and you can do what you like. Bring anyone home.’
‘You’re forgetting the fly in the ointment,’ Laura said. ‘My father. He might seem all right fussing over Aunt Maureen but you haven’t heard him laying down the law to Mum and me and snarling at us when something doesn’t suit him. Everything else is more important than Mum. He doesn’t care about her at all. Street angel, home devil, he is, like my grandma used to say.’
‘Didn’t she have any time for him either?’ asked Mary.
‘She thought the sun shone out of him,’ Laura said. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. That was just a phrase she used, not about him but about other people. He was her grandson, you see.’
‘I wouldn’t mind changing places with you,’ Mary said. ‘Your dad bought that typewriter for you, didn’t he?’
‘Only so I could increase my typing speeds,’ Laura said quickly but Mary shrugged and said she would wait a long time before her own father ever did anything like that.
Although Laura had refused to accept Mary’s opinion, in spite of herself doubts began to creep in, especially after she was present during a conversation between her mother and her aunt.
‘I’m so glad to see you settled so happily, love,’ Maureen said. ‘John’s a good man and your children are a credit to you both. John hasn’t changed – as enthusiastic as ever.’
‘Still tilting at windmills, Mick says,’ Anne laughed. ‘He’s very much involved with CND and organising demonstrations.’
‘And he’s right. I’m surprised to see how little people in this country care about the bomb, Anne. I met a woman who did relief work in Hiroshima after the atom bomb was dropped there and you wouldn’t believe the horrors she’d seen. We were all experienced workers, we thought we’d seen everything, but what she described! And even then she said there were worse things she couldn’t bring herself to talk about.’
‘I know,’ Anne said. ‘John’s got copies of pictures from there. Man’s inhumanity to man!’
Maureen’s pale cheeks were flushed and she said with unusual vehemence, ‘I admire John for the work he’s doing for CND, Anne, and I don’t think his brother should skit at him. Saying he tilts at windmills. It’s a good thing there are people like John in the world.’
‘It was only a joke. Mick’s very fond of John and he respects what he does. We all do. I help as much as possible with the paperwork and I go with him to demonstrations when I can.’
‘I’m glad, pet,’ Maureen said, smiling at her. ‘I remember just after the war when John spoke out against using the atom bomb, when we all accepted what we were told. That it was necessary to finish the war with Japan.’
‘Yes, and Peggy Burns fell out with him because their Michael was in a Jap prison camp. He fell out with a few people after that because he was so against the bomb but he was made up when CND started with famous people like Bertrand Russell and J. B. Priestley supporting it. And the crowds that turned up! It gave him hope.’
‘What does CND stand for?’ Laura asked.
It was Maureen who answered. ‘The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, love. I hope you take an interest in it too.’
‘I think my father does enough for all this family,’ Laura said sharply, thinking of the time that he spent at CND demonstrations and meetings which she felt should be spent with her mother. She realised that her mother and aunt were looking at her in surprise and added hastily, ‘I think Mum makes the sacrifices, being on her own while Dad’s at Aldermaston and all over the place.’
‘He doesn’t go to enjoy himself,’ Anne said. ‘And when am I ever on my own anyway?’
Maureen said nothing but looked thoughtfully at Laura, making her feel uncomfortable.
‘Auntie Maureen’s very serious, isn’t she?’ she said to her mother when they were alone. ‘Do you think she disapproves of us because we enjoy ourselves?’
‘Of course not,’ Anne said. ‘Maureen was always quiet and devout but she was never a killjoy. It’s just that she’s seen such awful misery in her work with Sue Ryder. We must seem frivolous to her, the men so excited about winning the Cup and us only thinking of things for our houses and clothes.’
‘So she does disapprove?’ Laura said.
‘No, love. She just says she feels bewildered. Values are so different.’
As the days passed, Laura felt that her mother was probably right, and that her aunt only rejoiced to see them happy. She was not so sure that her aunt approved of her personally. John was more forbearing than usual while Maureen was present and without realising it Laura took advantage of the situation to answer back to him. ‘You just don’t understand,’ she said impatiently when John complained that she had been late home the previous night. ‘We’re not living in the Middle Ages now.’
John kept his temper. ‘Good thing for you we’re not,’ he said, ‘or I’d have locked you up long ago.’
Maureen said nothing but she looked reproachfully at Laura who felt her face grow red.
‘I’ll be glad when she’s better,’ she told Mary. ‘She just looks at me but she makes me feel a heel.’
Laura was puzzled that Maureen seemed so much older than her mother. Her hair was grey and her face lined and one day when she was helping Maureen to wind wool she tried to ask her tactfully about it.
‘You’re not a bit like Mum, are you?’ she said. ‘Even though you’re sisters.’
‘We were very alike when we were young,’ Maureen said. ‘Like our mother. Like Julie and David are now. They both resemble my mother, almost like Spaniards, but that’s because my mother came from the west of Ireland. It’s a legacy from the sailors of the Spanish Armada who were washed up on that coast and married Irish girls.’
‘But you’re not alike now,’ Laura persisted. ‘Are you much older than Mum?’
Maureen smiled. ‘Yes. Eleven years. I’m fifty-five.’
‘Is that all?’ Laura exclaimed, then bent her head over the ball of wool. I’ve put my foot in it again, she groaned inwardly, just when I was trying to be tactful, but Maureen seemed to notice nothing.
‘Yes, your mum still looks very young,’ she said. ‘She’s had her worries and troubles but she’s always had your dad beside her looking after her. “Honour Thy Father” our Lord says and you should have no difficulty in honouring yours, Laura. He’s a good man, one of the best.’
Laura kept her head bent and said nothing and Maureen changed the subject by showing her the pattern she was about to make.
After that, Laura avoided being alone with her aunt and this was made easier because as she grew stronger Maureen spent more and more time either at church or at the Cenacle Convent in Wavertree.
‘If I can’t work for those poor people, I can pray for them,’ she said to Anne with a smile.
A few weeks later Maureen waited until she was alone with Anne and John to tell them that she had been told that she was in the first stage of a disease which would eventually cripple her. She had decided to enter a convent which was a few miles away in open country as a guest.
‘They take a few ladies, some elderly, some in my situation and some who just want a quiet, peaceful life, where they can take part in the religious observance of the Order. They have an infirmary where they can nurse their guests when the time comes.’
Anne burst into tears and flung her arms round Maureen and John put his arms round both of them.
‘Hush, love, hush,’ Maureen said. ‘It’s nothing to cry about. I’ll be very happy there. If I can’t work in the field at least I’ll know my prayers will be helping and I’ll have no need to worry about the future.’
‘But why can’t you stay here?’ Anne wept. ‘I’d nurse you and you could still go to church or the Cenacle.’
Maureen hugged her. ‘Your heart’s good, love, and I know you mean it but believe me this is the best way. I prayed for guidance. And I’m not entering an enclosed Order,’ she said, smiling and giving Anne a little shake. ‘I’ll be able to come and see the family whenever I want and you can come and see me. It’ll work out well, you’ll see.’
‘But this illness, Mo? What is it?’ Anne asked. ‘Is there no cure?’
‘Not yet, love. It’s what they call a degenerative illness. It might be very gradual and I could live a normal life for a long time yet or it might progress very rapidly. No one knows and, honestly, I’m prepared. Whatever it is will be God’s will and I hope I can accept it cheerfully. Now if you don’t mind, love, I’ll just go up to my room for a while.’
It was impossible for Anne to see this as Maureen did and she raged and cried while John tried to comfort her. ‘Maureen has the right to make her own decision, love, and she’s shown great courage, I think,’ he said quietly. ‘Try to accept it and don’t make it harder for her.’ And with a great effort Anne grew calm.
When Maureen came downstairs a little later she said immediately to John, ‘I’m sorry, John. I’ve been very thoughtless. I was intent on my own affairs. I forgot that your mum and dad are celebrating their golden wedding next month. Can we keep this between us three until after that? There isn’t a vacancy yet anyway because the nuns also take women for short periods for convalescence and they’re booked up until after Christmas.’
‘Thank God,’ Anne said in such heartfelt tones that John and Maureen both smiled at her and Maureen kissed her.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything at all yet but I thought I should tell you as soon as possible. Will it be hard to say nothing?’
‘No, of course not, Mo,’ John said. ‘It’ll give us time to get used to the idea before we involve the rest of the family. And don’t forget, if it doesn’t work out you can always come back here and know we’ll be delighted to have you.’
‘You’re a good fellow, John,’ Maureen said and Anne kissed him impulsively.
‘I second that,’ she said.
Chapter Ten
Mick and Gerda frequently travelled from York to spend a weekend with Cathy and Greg and Mick was full of plans for celebrating their golden wedding in October. He planned a large party in the Adelphi Hotel with as many of his parents’ old friends present as he could trace, as well as all the family, but Cathy demurred.
‘I wouldn’t like a big fuss, Mick,’ she said.
‘But wouldn’t you like to see all the friends of your youth, Mum? All the people you knew at the time of your marriage?’
Cathy looked at Greg and said sadly, ‘We’d love to, Mick, but there’s hardly anyone left now. So many were killed in the First World War – ours was a wartime wedding, remember – and others were scattered because of it. Norah in Morecambe is about the only one I’ve kept in touch with from those days.’
‘Makes you realise,’ Mick said. ‘The Second World War was bad – a lot of my friends in the RAF bought it, but the fourteen–eighteen war wiped out a whole generation. You were lucky to survive, Dad.’
‘I was and I was never even wounded,’ Greg said. ‘Yet so many were killed who were a loss to the world, never mind their families. People like Noel Chavasse, the Bishop of Liverpool’s son. He was awarded the VC twice, the second one posthumously, but he would have been
such a force for good in the world. A wonderful man.’
‘And the poets like Wilfred Owen,’ Mick said, but then he smiled and hugged his mother. ‘We don’t want to be talking about unhappy things. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a big party, Mum? What about the friends you’ve made since then, and neighbours, people like that? I know there aren’t many relations.’
‘No, thanks all the same, son,’ Cathy said.
‘That’s something I’ve often noticed, Mick,’ Greg said thoughtfully. ‘Families are either like the Fitzgeralds, a big family in themselves and with dozens of relations, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins, or like us. Neither your mum nor I have any relatives to speak of. There never seems to be a happy medium.’
‘That’s true,’ Cathy said. ‘My mother had a sister and two brothers, all dead, the boys when they were children, and my dad was an only child. I only had one sister, Mary, and as you know she’s dead. There’s only her husband Sam in America now.’
‘And I was an only child,’ Greg said quickly before America was mentioned again but all their thoughts had turned to Mick’s sister Kate in America who seemed to have vanished; their letters had been returned for over a year.
‘John and Sarah are lucky,’ Mick said, ‘marrying into the Fitzgerald family. Means they’re both honorary members of that enormous tribe.’
‘They’re lucky in more ways than one,’ Cathy said. ‘I think the world of Anne and of Joe.’
‘Yes, Joe and Sarah are perfect together,’ Mick agreed. ‘And Anne – she’s just what John needs. She’s the strong character there.’
Greg took his pipe from his mouth. ‘I’ve often thought that. If John had married someone like himself it would have been a battleground and with anyone weak it would have been a disaster. Anne understands him. The way he goes at things, he’s either up in the clouds or down in the depths and Anne can deal with him in both moods.’
‘You never had any patience with him,’ Cathy said angrily to Greg. ‘You make him sound like a monster.’
‘I know what Dad means, Mum,’ Mick said quickly. ‘Anne always seems easy and pleasant but she’s very well-balanced. You know what John’s like. She knows when to treat him gently and when to be firm with him. I think he’ll meet his Waterloo with young Laura though,’ he added laughing.
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