‘Are you in, Lizzie?’ A voice broke in on her prayers, and exclaiming, ‘Oh bust!’ she raised her head.
It was Mrs McBride. Not that she disliked Mrs McBride, but she talked a lot and everything had been so nice, just the three of them; and now their Michael would go into the other room to do his work and it was cold in there.
‘Come in, Mrs McBride.’ Her mother never called Mrs McBride Fanny, like the other women in the house.
‘Oh, these stairs, I don’t know how you stand them.’
‘Sit down. Get Mrs McBride a chair, Michael.’
Michael brought a chair forward and placed it near the fat old woman, then without a word he gathered up his papers from the table and went out of the room.
‘Thanks, lad,’ Fanny called after him. ‘He still working at his books?’ She looked up at Lizzie, and without waiting for any comment she went on, ‘What I came up about was Lady Golightly. I’ve just heard this minute that she was over here last night and that Mike put a flea in her ear. Oh, I wish I’d been in; I’d have had a reception committee on the ground floor for her, fit for the Mechanics Institute. What was she after, Lizzie?’
‘Oh’ – Lizzie measured the jam into the tarts – ‘Mary Ann and Sarah had been having a squabble.’
‘And what did Mike say to her?’ Fanny asked, leaning across the table, eagerness expressed in each wrinkle of her sagging cheeks.
Lizzie laughed tolerantly and shook her head. ‘I can’t remember.’
Fanny sat back and with a sidelong glance looked up at Lizzie. She scratched herself under the breasts, then rubbed the end of her nose before asking ‘Is it true what I’m hearing the day?’
With a touch of asperity Lizzie replied, ‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘Well, well.’ Fanny’s face was beaming. ‘He’ll be workin’ on a Sunday next.’
‘He is.’
‘Glory be to God! The things you live to see.’ This indeed had the power to startle Mrs McBride and she shook her head. Then pointing a grimy finger at Lizzie, she cried, ‘But you’ll stand by me when I say I’ve always upheld Mike. Now, haven’t I? Haven’t I said time and again he’s got one fault, and apart from that there’s not a better fellow living?’
Mary Ann raised her eyes from the comic. Oh, she liked Mrs McBride. Oh, she did.
‘And he’s got eyes for no-one but yourself – that’s another thing in his favour – drunk or sober.’
‘Sh!’ Lizzie’s voice came sharply.
‘Oh, she’s reading,’ said Fanny, waving Mary Ann’s presence away with her hand; and she went on, ‘And I’m telling you, in a way you’re lucky, for some of the flaming Janes round here would put up with his weakness just to have him around the house, for where will you see a better set-up man when he’s sober? Or drunk, for that matter? I’ve known him for longer than anybody – I should know.’
‘Sh! Sh!’
Fanny sighed in exasperation. ‘Why bother what they hear? You cannot keep them in glasshouses, they’ll go their own road, some up, some down. Oh’ – she leant back and began to laugh – ‘that reminds me. You’ll never guess who our Phil’s taken up with. Oh my, talk about reforming. What a week we’ve had! He’s started courting a lass from Binns’ – Binns’ mind.’ Her watery blue eyes narrowed. ‘Stick that in your gullet and try to swallow. From no potty little draper’s shop, but Binns’ in King Street, in Shields!’
‘Well, why shouldn’t he? Phil’s a nice lad.’
‘Aye, he’s nice enough; but we aren’t.’ Again she leaned back and laughed. ‘Oh, my God!’ – she slapped her thick thigh – ‘you should have heard him last night at our Peggy’s young Joe. “You shouldn’t say backside,” he said, “you should say bottom.” He had cornered him in the scullery. And there was me – I had to sit down on the fender or I’d have collapsed. Joe’s backside was no longer a backside but a bottom, and all because of a lass from Binns’.’
Lizzie, trying hard not to laugh, said, ‘I shouldn’t tease him – he wants to get on and he likely wants the girl – you should help him.’
‘Help him!’ Fanny’s voice rose in a crescendo. ‘Me help our Phil? Why Lizzie, nobody can help our Phil. It’s him that’s out to reform the world. You know he’s never been one of us, has Phil; you could never tell where you had him or what he was up to; not like our Jack. Now he’s as clear as daylight, is Jack.’ She sat back, quiet for a time, savouring the affinity between herself and her youngest son. Then suddenly leaning forward again, she said, ‘Did you hear about Lady Jane Collins and the rent man?’
‘Mary Ann!’ Lizzie turned sharply. ‘Go in and play with Michael.’
‘But he’s doing his homework, Ma.’
‘Here,’ Fanny beckoned Mary Ann to her, ‘go down to our house, there’s nobody in, and in the pantry behind the basin of dripping on the top shelf you’ll find a bar of taffy. Take half of it. Go on now.’
‘Can I?’ Mary Ann looked at her mother, and Lizzie nodded. Mary Ann knew why she was being allowed to go into Mrs McBride’s. Her ma was afraid she’d hear something, like the time Mrs McBride had talked of how she had first seen her da as a little baby in the workhouse nursery. Mary Ann didn’t want to recall this, although it didn’t hurt now like it used to, not since her ma had made it into a story. She did not immediately go down to Mrs McBride’s but sat on the top stair thinking of and loving and pitying her da for not having had a ma and a da and for having been brought up in a Cottage Home.
She had first heard about this when Mrs McBride had laughed at her da for talking stronger Irish when he was sick. Mrs McBride had stood in their kitchen and said, ‘Ah, Mike, it’s real funny to hear you, and you never having set foot in the country. You talk it better than either me or me Colin ever did. God have mercy on him wherever He’s put him.’
Mrs McBride had said a lot more, and her da had laughed, but it wasn’t his nice laugh and her ma had pushed her outside and she had sat just here and cried. She had cried at intervals for a long time after that and then her ma had told her the story. And it went like this. Once upon a time an angel laid a baby in a basket outside Harton Institution gates . . . No, no, she wouldn’t think about it. She shuffled her bottom along the bare stair board to the wall. She’d begin where her da was a grand-looking lad and worked on a farm, and her ma used to cycle past and watch him work the plough . . . No, for that was a sad part too, for her granny had found out and evacuated her ma miles and miles away. No; she’d begin where her ma was going along the platform on Hereford Station and she turned and looked towards the barrier, and there waving wildly was a man in R.A.F. uniform, and he was waving to her, and it was the boy with the red hair. She had walked back and through the barrier to his side, and when she stood near him he hadn’t the sense to open his mouth.
Mary Ann sighed. That was the nice part of the story. It wasn’t her ma, though, who told her how her granny had tried to stop them getting married, it was her da, one day when he was – sick. Nor did her ma tell her that when her da came out of the Air Force he went to work on a farm near Kibblesworth, but that he wouldn’t stay because he couldn’t get a place where they could all live together; and he had come into the town and had worked for a time in Lord’s yard before getting another job on a farm. But again he couldn’t get a cottage, so once more he had come back to where they were then living in a house that had its own backyard, and even a three foot wide piece of garden in front with an iron rail round it. Yet even in all this space he said he couldn’t breathe – there was no air in his lungs. It was in that house she first remembered seeing him sick. Her ma never spoke of these things, but her granny did.
Slowly now she went downstairs, past Miss Harper’s open door, down the next flight and to the hallway, and as there was no-one in she did not trouble to knock on the McBrides’ door but pushed it open and walked across the room that was cluttered with furniture, all very much the worse for wear. But before reaching the scullery door she stopped and her head went to one side as it was
wont to do when she was surprised or interested, and added to this her eyes now opened wide and her lips slowly parted, for her astonished gaze was resting on a couple locked tightly in each other’s arms. Although their faces were so close together as to be one, she knew the man to be Jack McBride and the girl, Joyce Scallen.
Now she was not unused to seeing courting couples. When she came from confession on a Thursday night and it was dark she often bumped into them at the corner of the back lane, and their bemused swaying only evoked the term ‘Sloppy doppies!’ from her. But this couple was different. This girl was Joyce Scallen and she was a Protestant. Worse than a Protestant – her da was in the Salvation Army, and everybody knew that Protestants, especially Salvationists, were destined for Hell. This had always made Mary Ann feel sorry, at least for Joyce, for she was so nice, and up to now she had steadfastly refused to believe that every one of the Protestants would go to Hell, for this would include her da. Yet somewhere in her was the knowledge that once the Holy Family had had time to answer her special prayer on that subject and her da . . . turned, then there would be no further anxiety about the destination of the Protestant tribe, singly or collectively. But eeh, for Joyce Scallen to be kissing Jack McBride – and in the McBrides’ scullery an’ all!
The joined figures parted and Joyce’s voice came pleadingly, ‘Oh Jack, let me go. You shouldn’t have pulled me in; there’ll be murder if I’m caught.’
‘It’s all right, she’s upstairs; she won’t be down for a while and you can hear her coming a mile off.’
‘But I must go; me ma’ll be in shortly and someone may come.’
‘Will you see me the night?’
‘I can’t get out – there’s a meeting.’
‘Then tomorrow?’
‘Oh – I don’t know.’
‘Look, we can’t go on like this. Anyway, everybody knows about us but your folks and mine, and they’re laughing, waiting for the balloon to go up.’
‘Yes, and when it goes up think of me da. And just imagine how your ma’ll go on.’
Yes, Mary Ann thought, Mr Scallen would create, but what would Mrs McBride do? Eeh! She couldn’t make her mind imagine the scene that would ensue when Mrs McBride got to know.
At this point her quick ears heard a familiar voice – it was Don McBride talking to his wife as they came up the steps of the house. In a matter of seconds they’d be in the room and Jack and Joyce would be caught. Wildly, she looked about her as if she herself were trapped; then she decided there was only one thing for it. Swiftly, she dived into the scullery and her sudden appearance brought a scream from Joyce. But standing with her back to the door, she did a wild pantomime that could not have been misunderstood by the dimmest. Joyce needed no other warning. Like lightning she darted out of the back door, down the yard and into her own door opposite, while Jack stood looking down at Mary Ann, who was now beginning to enjoy herself and feeling completely in command of any wits that were left to the short thickset young man.
‘Taffy,’ she whispered. ‘Bunk me up to the top shelf.’ The need for caution was gone but she wished to continue her part as long as possible.
As the voice of his brother came from the room Jack hoisted Mary Ann up to the shelf and hissed as he did so, ‘How long have you been here?’
On the ground once more and calmly breaking the bar of toffee in two Mary Ann said, ‘Oh a long time – I’ll go out this way.’
‘Did you see—?’
She nodded, looking straight up at him.
She had reached the door when he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought forth a handful of silver. He raked amongst it and taking out half a crown pushed it into her hand, saying, ‘You won’t let on to me ma?’
Mary Ann looked down at this gift from Heaven and murmured, ‘Thank you, oh thank you, Jack.’
She was half out of the door when she turned back and whispered, ‘But I wouldn’t have let on anyway, you know.’
Suddenly they smiled at each other and she darted away out of the yard, round the corner and up the front steps again, and not until she had reached the comparative privacy of her own landing did she open her closed fist to make sure her eyes had not deceived her. Half a crown! And just for doing that. She had only to help another seven courting couples and she’d have a pound! She looked up at the stained and peeling sloping ceiling of the staircase . . . Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, thank you very much for showing me the way . . . Now who would have believed they would have been as quick as that? She had only asked them a few minutes since. She shook her head at the tangible power of the Holy Family.
At half past five the table was set ready and Mary Ann, surveying it, thought that she had never seen a better. There was a knife and fork laid for her da, which meant he was going to have a dinner; then there was the bacon and egg pie, and besides that jam tarts and teacakes, and a big sly cake. She moved around the table examining it from all angles. Her mouth was watering and she was hungry, but she resisted the desire to ask for even a piece of bread because she wanted to eat a big tea; her da liked to see her eat well.
She looked at the clock. Only another five minutes and he’d be in. She looked at her mother. Lizzie was sitting by the fire patching, and occasionally she too would look up at the mantelpiece and glance at the clock. She hadn’t spoken for a long time now.
Mary Ann went and sat on the fender near Michael. For once he wasn’t writing, but just sitting gazing into the fire. The three of them were all tidied up as if it was an occasion. These last five minutes, she decided, were going to be the longest in the afternoon.
She nudged Michael and asked, ‘Can I have a look at your Eagle?’
‘I haven’t got it,’ he mumbled; ‘I swapped Ned Potter.’
‘Well, can I have a look at your swap then?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t get a comic.’
‘What did you get?’
‘Oh – nothing.’
‘You must have got something.’
He did not explain or argue further and Mary Ann’s attention was drawn away from him, for the clock made a sound like a hiccup as it always did when it passed the six. It was half past five. She looked towards the door, waiting and listening; her mother went on sewing, not lifting her head; and Michael continued to gaze into the fire.
The seconds ticked by, getting louder and slower in her ears, and just a small tremor of panic seized her when she found herself counting them. She had counted sixty eleven times when she rose from the fender. Their Michael was still staring into the fire and her ma was still sewing. She went and stood by the table, still counting. She counted sixty twice more, then she attempted to speak, but she got a frog in her throat and she croaked instead. It would have been funny at any other time, but not now.
When her throat was clear she asked, ‘Can I go down to the front door, Ma?’
‘No,’ said Lizzie.
She stood staring at her mother, whose face seemed the same colour as her hair. Then she looked at the clock. It said a quarter to six. Well, he could have lost the bus – there were hundreds and hundreds of workmen waiting near the Mercantile for the buses. The feeling of panic swelled. Not on a Saturday though.
Then her mother spoke the words that sent the panic swirling through her body. Lizzie had risen from her chair and was folding up the mending, and she said, ‘Come and get your tea.’
‘No, no, not yet – oh, not yet.’
‘There’s no use waiting.’ Her mother moved about the room as she spoke.
‘Just a few minutes more – oh, Ma!’
‘Now stop it!’ Lizzie’s voice was sharp as she turned on her, but it immediately softened as she said, ‘It’s no use.’
What was no use wasn’t explained, and they looked at each other until Mary Ann’s head sank, and, moving a step to the side, she slid onto her chair. Her mother then said, ‘Michael.’ But Michael’s answer was to screw himself farther round until his face was hidden completely from them.
Lizzie pas
sed a hand over her brow. She looked from the back of her son to the face of her daughter. If there were only Michael she knew what she would do – pack up this minute and go. And when he came rolling in at eleven o’clock, then perhaps he’d believe what she said. But there was her. She’d never get her away from the house no matter what ruse she used.
‘Start your tea.’
‘I don’t want any.’
‘Now do what you’re told. Michael . . . come along.’
The boy did not move, and she went to him and, taking his arm, led him to the table.
With her eyes Mary Ann watched her mother mash the tea but with her ears she was trying to separate the sounds of the house and leave a wide space for the sound for which she was waiting. The clock said six, then five past, then ten past, and she still had her first piece of teacake on her plate. Michael across from her was eating slowly and stubbornly, and suddenly she had a deep concern for him as she had for her da. She thought, Oh don’t let him cry, for if he cries he’ll be wild at himself; and the blame would be her da’s, and Michael would hate him more.
A Grand Man (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 5