‘Well, I wanted to get into the procession, Father.’
‘And you’re not in it?’
‘No, Father, and all of them have been picked.’
‘Yes . . . Ah well, you go on praying to the Holy Family and you can be assured they’ll make something nice happen to you.’
‘They will, Father?’
‘They will that. They never fail. Now for your penance say the first joyful Mystery of the Rosary, and make your act of contrition.’
‘O my God, I am very sorry I have sinned against Thee because Thou art so good, and by the help of Thy Holy Grace I will never sin again.’
‘Goodnight and God bless you.’
‘Goodnight, Father.’
Out of the confessional box, Mary Ann decided it would not be wise to stay in a now empty church to say her penance, for the priest, once out of the box and his sight back, would know it was her he had been talking to. And he’d remember about the drink and connect it with her da.
On the way home she wondered what nice thing the Holy Family would make happen to her; but this only played on the fringe of her thoughts, for deep in the permanency of her mind she knew there was only one thing that really mattered, one thing that would make her happy, and that was the happiness of her ma and da.
Friday was usually a nice day. It began by having your breakfast packed up and going off to Communion, then going straight to school and eating your breakfast in the hall, that’s if you hadn’t already eaten it on the road. Then there was Bible History, and one Friday in every four Father Owen or Father Beaney came and heard your Catechism. It was nice on the days Father Owen came, for he made you laugh. Then the class acted pages from history – today it was to be Flora MacDonald and Bonny Prince Charlie. And in the afternoon there was the poetry lesson. She liked poetry and could remember long bits of it. When she was in Miss Harrington’s class she used to get pennies for being the first to learn, but Miss Johnson didn’t give you anything . . . only the stick if you didn’t know it. But she never got the stick for not knowing her poetry. She knew long stretches of Hiawatha’s childhood. It was easy stuff to learn because the man who wrote it kept repeating everything so as to make it easy to remember like:
‘He was a marvellous storyteller,
He was a traveller and a talker,
He was a friend of old Nokomis,
Made a bow for Hiawatha;
From a branch of ash he made it,
From an oak-bough made the arrows,
Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers . . . ’
Oh, she knew yards and yards of it.
‘I have given you streams to fish in,
I have given you bear and bison,
I have given you roe and reindeer,
I have given you brant and beaver . . . ’
Sometimes at night she put herself to sleep saying it.
Yes, she usually liked Fridays, at school anyway, but today the misery from last night still lay heavily upon her. She had arrived home from Confession to find her ma out, and she hadn’t got back before her da came in, and they didn’t speak. And he’d gone out after he’d had his tea and got a little sick; and in the night she had woken up on the camp bed where she slept under the sloping roof by the side of the scullery door and there, lying on the mat in front of the dead fire, was her da, with just a blanket over him. She felt so sad at the sight of him lying there in the cold that she began to cry. She had got up and the noise she caused brought her ma out of the room, and she made her get back into bed. And now here she was in school, with her breakfast still uneaten, and feeling more than ever that she wanted to die.
This morning was Catechism test and all the partitions of the school had been pushed back and Father Owen was up now on the platform talking. She wasn’t paying much attention to him, for she was having her work cut out to keep her six inches of bottom space on the edge of the desk seat. All about her was a mass of heads and shoulders, except to the right of her where there was a little altar. It was St Anthony’s altar, and he was standing on a pedestal in his brown habit with no shoes on, and his feet looked cold, she thought, and there were bits of dirt in between his toes. In a detached way she decided that when she was moved up into this class after the summer holidays she’d scrape out all that dirt. She didn’t like dirt between her toes – her ma made her and Michael wash their feet every night before they went to bed. They were a rare family for washing, especially her da. The thought of her da brought back the thought of dying, and she looked once again at St Anthony. She had never laid much stock by him, yet she heard he was quite good at finding things for you if you lost them. She wondered, if she prayed to him now, how long he would take to bring about her wish. Anyway, it would pass the time away for there was nothing to see in front of her and nothing to hear but a mumbling of voices.
There had been quite a big stir at the beginning of proceedings because Betty Paul, who was to lead the procession dressed in a blue cloak and a crown like Our Lady, had gone and got the measles. Fancy anybody going and getting the measles when they were going to lead the May Procession and walk bang behind the statue of Our Lady hoisted on a platform and carried by four boys. She wouldn’t have done a silly thing like that. But what did it matter, she wanted to die.
She looked up into the face of St Anthony and with first a little placation just to soothe him and make up for her neglect of him, she began, ‘Dear St Anthony, I haven’t prayed to you because I’ve been so busy, but I know full well how clever you are, and you could perform any miracle you like if you wanted to. Dear St Anthony, I’m very miserable, and you being in Heaven will know why. And please, St Anthony, I want to die, oh, I want to die. I can’t bear to think about me da . . . ’
‘Mary Ann Shaughnessy – where is she?’
The priest’s voice was lost to her, but a thump between the shoulders was an effective way of recalling her to it. A number of voices hissed at her ‘Go on out.’ ‘Are you daft?’ ‘Don’t you hear Father Owen calling you?’ ‘What’s up with her?’ The voices brought her to her feet and she looked towards the platform, and there was Father Owen laughing and beckoning to her with his hand.
‘Come on, come on, Mary Ann,’ he called. ‘Were you asleep?’
As dazed as if she had been, she walked towards the platform wondering all the while what she had done to be called out. Surely it wasn’t because of last night – she was going to report to Miss Johnson when her class assembled again. Her teacher was at the bottom of the steps, but said nothing to her, only pushed her up them, and not too gently either, and still in a daze, Mary Ann found herself in front of Father Owen and with a whole sea of faces around her, for on the platform was the headmistress and a lot of the teachers, and not one of them was looking pleasant.
What had she done to be brought up here? Only if you stole anything or broke somebody’s windows were you yanked up on the platform and made an example of.
‘Well, there it is. One person’s bad luck is another’s good.’ Father Owen put his hand on Mary Ann’s head and slowly screwed her around to face the school. ‘As I’ve already said, nobody was more upset than myself when I knew that Betty had the measles and I had to find someone to take her place, so, as it is my privilege to pick from the school the leader of the procession, I have decided on Mary Ann Shaughnessy here. Granted Mary Ann is small’ – he looked down on her – ‘but I’ve a notion that the Holy Mother herself was a slight body, and the gown may have to be shortened, but that can easily be done. I have chosen her because there is no black mark against her in school, and since she made her first confession fifteen months ago there has not been one week but she has attended Confession and Communion. Now let us give her a great big clap.’
He led the clapping by banging his long bony hands together. Mary Ann gazed up at him, then at the obedient clapping hands in front of her, then to the side where the teachers were clapping in such a way that would not have disturbed a sleeping baby, and she asked herself whethe
r she was in bed having another of her dreams. But no, she wasn’t, for her eyes were on a level with the bottom button of Father Owen’s slack waistcoat and she could feel his fingers moving in her hair. She was just about to realise the wonderful enormity of the thing that was happening to her when out of the blue came the answer to her eager prayer of a moment ago. She felt it first starting in her legs as a shooting pain which screwed itself up through her chest and into her head. All the faces about her began to run into one. She made a great effort to steady herself and to keep her feet on the ground but it was no use, and when, without any warning, Father Owen’s long thin figure began to swell before her eyes she knew, in an illuminating flash, what was happening – her earnest prayer to the Saint was being answered and she was about to die. The inadvisability of dealing with two firms for the one product was brought home to her – competition could evoke disastrous results. The efficacy of St Anthony’s power was terrifying – he was as sharp as the Devil himself. She spun round to where his statue showed dimly in the distance, and there he stood laughing at her – she could hear him. She turned about to where the statue of Our Lady dominated the side wall above the platform and cried, ‘Put it right with him, will you? I don’t want to die now . . . well, not just yet.’
But neither the Virgin nor the complete Holy Family had anything, it would appear, on St Anthony for quick service, for he strode from his pedestal shouting, ‘It’s nice to be able to play God,’ and he picked her up in his arms and carried her off and rushed her straight through the air heavenwards.
The rush of the air made her gasp and his voice boomed in her ears as he shouted from the clouds down to the headmistress, ‘I consider her need the greatest.’
Suddenly he dropped her and she gasped and gasped for breath as she fell. Having landed with a thump, she opened her eyes; then after one startled glance about her she lay back in contentment as she realised she was in the sanctuary of the Teachers’ Room, lying on a couch, with the headmistress on one side of her and Father Owen on the other.
‘You’re feeling better? That’s it. Ah – that’s it. You’ve been to Communion and haven’t eaten your breakfast, I bet. Now, am I right?’
She made a slight movement with her head and he laughed and said, ‘I knew it.’
‘Father.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s true . . . about . . . ’
‘You going to lead the procession?’
She nodded again.
‘As true as life, but only if you drink a glass of hot milk and eat up a good breakfast.’
‘I’m not going to die?’
‘Die?’ His long body seemed to fold up with laughter. ‘I should say not. And you’re going to wear that lovely blue gown.’
She gazed up at him. He didn’t know it was her he had told last night to pray for something nice to happen, and she couldn’t tell him for it would give the show away. But lifting her hands, she caught hold of his fingers and pressed them to her cheek. ‘Oh, Father, Father,’ she said.
Chapter Five: Mr Flannagan, The Coronation, and Mike Shaughnessy
Nowhere in Jarrow was the Coronation looked forward to and prepared for more than in Burton Street. For weeks there had been Committee Meetings. That the Committee grew in numbers and became divided in policy was to be expected, but that the divided parties should break up within themselves into smaller factions was to be regretted. Some were for teas in the street with games afterwards for the bairns, some, remembering rain-soaked street parties from the past, were all for the Baptists’ Hall; but as Mrs McBride said, who’d want to get drunk in the Baptists’ Hall? This called down censure from most of the factions. Who wanted to get drunk at all? Those who wanted that kind of a party had better take themselves down to the Fifteen Streets and not join in the festivities of a respectable neighbourhood. There was a nodding of heads and the murmuring of the name of Shaughnessy. Then there were those who suggested that every adult in the street should subscribe five shillings, the accumulated wealth to be used for sending three of them, these to be determined by a draw, up to London to see the actual procession. Before protests could rain down on this proposal it was haughtily thrust aside by Mrs Flannagan saying that if the Flannagans wanted to go to London they were quite able to provide their own train fare, thank you, and they had already refused the offer to accompany her sister and husband from Hartlepool who were going to her sister’s husband’s cousin and he had an excellent view already for them, from the window of the office where he worked, slap on the Coronation route.
At this, a combined murmur like the wash of the tide on a pebble beach came from all quarters, and it could have been translated into ‘Oh ye-ah!’
Finally, after many meetings, a street party was decided upon, which as some of the Committee said, had been inevitable from the first. One stipulation was made: should it rain the bairns were to have their tea in the Baptists’ Hall and Mr Gallon engaged to do his Punch and Judy Show. Of course there was one snag here, as those people who were not tired of arguing pointed out, they couldn’t leave it until June 2nd to say if it was going to rain before engaging Mr Gallon – he’d have to be engaged wet or dry.
The day dawned and it does not need testifying that it was wet, but it took more than rain to damp the enthusiasm of the tenants of Burton Street and Mulhattans’ Hall in particular. The children were wild with excitement, and the adults got rid of much of their suppressed emotion in trying to quell the exuberance of their young.
But put two hundred and twenty-six people in a hall that would be crowded with half that number and you will find all emotions subsidiary to the feeling of self-preservation. So at least thought Mike Shaughnessy.
He was sober and dressed in his best and standing in the corner of the hall. It would have been impossible to sit down had there been anything to sit on. The only advantage he had was his view – his head topped every other man’s and woman’s in the room – and he looked down on the rows of trestle tables lined with children and the rows of their admiring parents watching them eating as if they were accomplishing the feat for the first time in their lives.
Mike was not unaware that he was a subject of interest; that he was sober on such a day as this was a source of wonder to his neighbours. From different quarters he had seen covert glances and heard whispered words. At least he was a man who wasn’t unknown. He smiled wryly to himself as his eyes roamed over the crowd, halting here and there to hold a gaze fixed on him in curiosity, and he wondered if anyone in this room would believe that ten years ago he hadn’t known the taste of beer or whisky. Yes, there was one . . . she knew.
His eyes went to Lizzie. It was easy for him to find her, for he hadn’t allowed her to move far from his sight all afternoon. She was like a queen among peasants, standing out far above them. My God, if ever there was a fool in this world he was one – to exchange her for a skinful of beer! He could only blame himself, not Quinton. He would lose her; then what would become of him? He’d be finished. Why did he do it? Why wasn’t he as big and tough inside as he was out? Why did the smell of oil and tar and rope and the singey smell of hot rivets fill his stomach with the craving? Yet it was no use blaming the work and the sweat; he recalled the periods when he had sweated on the land. He had burned then for a drink, but a draught of spring water or a canful of milk had swilled it away. He was weak and he knew it.
It seemed like the twisting that Fate was apt to indulge in that he couldn’t settle on a farm away from her and the youngsters, yet if she left him and he was adrift with nothing to hold him to this blasted town he would still be unable to return to the land. She mustn’t leave him . . . ever. His heart began to beat rapidly, pumping as if at the end of a run, and he felt his pulse beat, as it had often seemed to do of late, in his eyes. Just the thought of losing her filled him with the terror of loneliness, that loneliness that he had known as a child and then as a boy, the loneliness that made him shun crowds and people, the loneliness that for its easing required o
nly one heart to beat against. If she left him, the loneliness he had known before would be as nothing to what would come in the years ahead. But it needn’t happen. It was up to him; he had only to go steady. She didn’t mind him having a glass or two if he could stop at that. Yes, if he could. And then there was the other one tugging at the secret place in his heart. If anyone could keep a man straight it should be that child. His son, he knew, wouldn’t care if he was gone the morrer, but Mary Ann . . . He looked towards her and her eyes were waiting for him. She waved her hand and he waved back. The pride of him showed in her face, and he thought that she could be proud at any rate of her achievement in getting him here today. God knew she had worked hard enough at it, but he did not know for how much longer he could stand this crush and the warm, damp air of the room. The noise was a bedlam vying with that of the dry dock, and he was feeling it pressing down on him. If only he could make his way towards that door and stand in the street a moment and get himself a mouthful of air. Judiciously he began to edge his way forward. He even got past the entrance to the hall kitchen where plates and trays were being handed overhead from hand to hand, but just beyond this and within a few steps of the door his progress was halted and he found himself wedged in another corner to make room for the hasty exit of a child who had eaten well but not wisely. She was being pushed through the crowd with the fearsome admonition from her mother to ‘Hold it.’ The dire penalty of her refusing to comply with this order rose above the clamour. The situation amused Mike and he laughed, and so did the man at his side, and Mike turned his head towards him and said, ‘Poor little beggar, she’s between the devil and the deep sea.’ The man looked back at him for a moment without speaking, then he laughed again, but not such a hearty laugh this time and said, ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right.’
A Grand Man (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 7