by Rosie Harris
If they did that then she’d forget them, she resolved. She studied each of them in turn, memorising every detail she could because she knew she’d never set eyes on them again once the funeral was over. Never think of them ever again either, she thought defiantly.
She looked at Mick, taking in his greasy, thin brown hair, his dark, shifty eyes and loose-lipped mouth. At Paddy, fat and idle, over-long brown hair and small brown eyes like raisins in his podgy face. Finally, at Kathleen, who was fat and blowsy, exactly like her mother. She already had a double chin and a voice like a corncrake, especially when she was nagging her puny little husband Frank, or her two children Francis and Pansy.
Suddenly, having to go into a home didn’t seem so terrible after all. It was better than living with any of them, however bad it was. Father Patrick had said it would be with nuns, the Sisters of Mary, so they’d be full of compassion and be kind and understanding.
‘You’ll have to manage on your own for the next couple of days, until after the funeral,’ Kathleen told her. ‘Sandra and Mavis will take it in turns with me to come over and bring you some food and sort you out. If we pop in sometime during the evening and wash you and all that, you can see to yourself in the morning, can’t you? That Sandy says he will push you to school.’
‘How about me using the commode?’
Kathleen looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s difficult, but we thought that if we empty the pot for you when we come to see to you then you’ll manage all right. It’s only for a couple of days. If you put the lid thing down over it after you’ve used it then the smell shouldn’t bother you.’
‘Would you like to have something like that in your house?’
‘If one of us was ill and couldn’t get outside to the lav then we’d probably have to!’ Kathleen defended.
‘We use a bloody potty for young Mickey, don’t we,’ Mick told Winnie.
‘Mickey is two years old, I’ll be ten next birthday!’
‘Two, ten, twenty or forty, we all piss and shit,’ Mick told her coarsely. ‘What’s it matter where you do it?’
Winnie looked at him with disgust and loathing. If only her dad was here he wouldn’t let Mick O’Mara speak to her like that. He’d tell him to wash his mouth out and to treat her with respect or else he’d sort him out. Her dad hated anyone talking filthy so he probably wouldn’t even allow him into the house at all.
He wasn’t there, she reminded herself, and he might never be again. He’d been the only person in the world who’d ever taken her part, who loved her so much that he wanted only the very best for her, and he was probably gone for ever.
In two days it would be her mam’s funeral, and after that she’d be entirely on her own. Wherever she ended up it would be amongst strangers. A completely new life from what she’d known up to now.
However, the next two days were still part of her old life and she still had to get through them. She was going to be left there on her own all night in Carswell Court. None of the neighbours had spoken to her; she wasn’t sure that they even knew her mam was dead.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. She didn’t need them and their help any more than she needed Paddy and Mick O’Mara or Kathleen Flynn. Being on her own wasn’t the end of the world, it was the start of a new one for her. Two more days of her old way of living and then she could wipe the slate clean of all the O’Mara family.
She’d say nothing; she’d do everything they asked. Then she’d go with them to her mam’s funeral and once that was over it would be the end of it all. Then she’d be free of them.
Winnie found it wasn’t easy. When the women came round she had to endure their curiosity about her legs and being criticised about what she could and couldn’t do. She had to listen to them discussing it amongst themselves. They spoke as if she was a freak because she was incapable of walking. They seemed to think she was deaf as well as lame and they made no attempt to lower their voices when they talked about her.
On the day of the funeral their children were there as well and they were even worse. Francis and Pansy pretended they had funny legs and staggered all over the place until Kathleen screamed at them to stop, saying they were driving her bleeding mad.
Father Patrick conducted the funeral service and the interment. He said so many good things about her mam that Winnie wondered if he was talking about someone else. He knew full well that she’d practically drunk herself to death and yet he eulogised about her as if she was on her way to becoming a saint. She wondered if Father Patrick was as false in everything else he said. Some of her euphoria about the new life that lay ahead of her, when she was handed over to the Sisters of Mary, began to fade.
As they lowered her mam’s body into the cold, dark ground a shiver ran right through her. She felt so alone. If only her dad was here standing beside her, she thought longingly.
All her feelings centred on her own future. She could do nothing for her mam – she was dead; the soul gone from her body to dwell in Purgatory. Probably for ever if she believed what Father Patrick preached from the pulpit every Sunday about people who sinned.
Was it true, though; was anything he said true? People hung on his every word and believed implicitly in what he said. She had herself until today, but even though she knew one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, was it in order to sing false praises? Was it right for Father Patrick, who was God’s representative on earth, to say things that he knew to be completely untrue?
She felt uneasy. If Father Patrick could talk about a dead woman in such glowing tones, when he knew she was not a bit like he was describing, then had he told her the truth about how loving and caring the nuns would be?
All the O’Mara family were anxious to get back to their own homes so they didn’t hold a wake after the funeral. Apart from themselves, Father Patrick was the only other person there so it didn’t seem necessary.
They wheeled Winnie back to the dismal dump in Carswell Court. Then they stripped the room of the bits and pieces they’d decided to keep. They took everything that Grace had owned, even the chipped cups and plates.
Kathleen had brought some paste sandwiches, a piece of wet Nelly, and, as a special treat, a bottle of sarsaparilla for Winnie to have before she settled for the night. ‘You can drink the sarsaparilla straight from the bottle,’ Kathleen told her. ‘Father Patrick said someone will collect you first thing in the morning. Now don’t forget,’ she warned as she turned to leave, ‘don’t go letting that great gormless lad wheel you off to school.’
‘I’ve already said goodbye to Sandy and told him not to come round again,’ Winnie said dully. The mention of his name brought tears to her eyes. Sandy was the only person she would really miss. He’d been a tower of strength, collecting her each morning and pushing her to school, and bringing her home again. He’d done more for her than any of her relations. He’d been kinder than anyone she’d ever known, apart from her dad, that was, and she wished he was her brother.
‘Right, I’m off then,’ Kathleen announced. ‘I don’t know when we’ll see each other again, Winnie, possibly never. Take care of yourself, won’t you!’
Winnie remained po-faced until after Kathleen left the house. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how devastated she felt at being deserted by all the O’Mara family, but even before the door slammed shut Winnie found herself sobbing and there were scalding hot tears running down her cheeks.
Chapter Nine
WINNIE MALLOY KNEW that Friday 12th October 1917 would be engraved on her mind for the rest of her life. No matter what else might happen, that date would be with her for ever.
The previous night had been the most frightening she had ever experienced. She hadn’t slept a wink. The gas had gone out with an ominous and final plop around midnight, and since she had no money to put into the meter she’d had to stay there on her own in the dark all night long.
Kathleen hadn’t troubled to rake out the ashes and make up the fire before she’d left, so, quite ear
ly on in the evening, the final faint red glow had dulled and what little warmth that had been coming from it disappeared in a flurry of grey ash.
Too cold to sleep, Winnie shivered and shook as she cowered under the one blanket that covered her. Without her mother’s thick, matted black shawl the cold was bone-chilling. As the room grew colder so the unnerving noises increased. She could hear the scurry of cockroaches, the patter and scratching of mice as they nibbled at the greasy paper that had been wrapped around the paste sandwiches Kathleen had brought for her. There were also strange creaks and cracklings as the drop in temperature took its toll on the rest of the house.
Mick had taken the clock, so as the night lengthened she was afraid to close her eyes in case she didn’t wake up in time to get ready for when Sister Hortense arrived.
It was a dark, dismal morning. Winnie felt hungry and thirsty but there was nothing at all for her to eat. She wished she’d saved a sandwich from the night before. Then she remembered the mice that had been rooting for food and knew that even if she had saved one the mice would have eaten it by now. As soon as it was light enough to look for the sarsaparilla bottle she drained the dregs from the bottom of it. They tasted flat and rancid.
She wanted to start getting ready, but without any light, even from the fire, she couldn’t see where her hairbrush was.
It was mid-morning before Father Patrick and Sister Hortense arrived. Winnie was beginning to think that they had forgotten all about her and wondered what would happen to her if no one came at all. She’d strained her ears, hoping to hear noises from other parts of the house, but after the early morning exodus as everyone left for work there had been an unnerving silence. The entire building seemed to be empty. Tears began to roll down Winnie’s cheeks because no one had come to say goodbye to her, not even Sandy. She had been hoping that perhaps he would call in on his way to school and wish her well.
As the double rap sounded for the second time on the outside door she broke out in a cold sweat. She was afraid that by the time she’d levered herself out of her chair and managed to make her way along the hallway they might have turned around and gone away again, thinking there was no one there.
She should have thought about that before, she told herself. She should have been sitting on the bottom of the stairs so that she could have answered the door more speedily. In her struggle to get out of her chair and reach the door she leaned sideways trying to throw her legs over the side of the chair. Instead, she tipped it too far and suddenly found herself lying in an ungainly heap on the floor. Her anguished cry echoed through the house.
‘Dear me! What have we here?’
Winnie heard the front door opening and raised her tear-stained face to find herself looking up into the smooth, stern features of a middle-aged woman. Her hair was concealed beneath a starched white wimple but her grey eyes were sharp and critical.
‘Dear oh dear! What were you trying to do, Winnie Malloy?’
‘Answer the door! I heard you knocking.’ Winnie’s voice choked. ‘I was afraid you’d go away and leave me here.’
‘Is there no one else in the place with you, child?’ Father Patrick asked in surprise.
‘No, Father! They all went home after Mam’s funeral was over. I’ve been on my own all night. I’ve had nothing to eat or drink,’ she sobbed. ‘I want my dad to come home. I’m so miserable.’
‘There’s no need to start feeling sorry for yourself,’ Sister Hortense told her sharply. ‘There’s lots of children in the world far worse off than you are. Come along now, get up!’
Winnie shook her head. ‘I can’t get up,’ she wailed.
‘Nonsense! I’m sure you can if you try!’ Sister Hortense told her implacably.
‘The child is severely crippled, Sister,’ Father Patrick intervened. He bent down and took hold of Winnie’s arm to try and help her stand, but his efforts were ineffectual.
‘You’ll have to pick my chair up first, and then if you each take one of my arms you’ll be able to lift me back into it,’ Winnie snuffled.
Father Patrick righted the invalid chair and, rather ungraciously, Sister Hortense lent a hand to help Winnie back into it.
‘Are you ready to go then, child? Is there anything you wish to take with you?’ Father Patrick puffed.
‘Only my clothes, and they’re in that canvas bag by the grate,’ Winnie told him.
‘Then we’ll be off.’ He picked up the bag and dumped it on Winnie’s lap in readiness.
‘Do we have to take that contraption?’ Sister Hortense asked peevishly.
‘Unless one of us carries her, I’m afraid we do,’ Father Patrick stated. ‘Shall we go?’
Sister Hortense stood to one side pointedly and waited for him to take the handle. As he manoeuvred the ungainly substitute for a wheelchair towards the door, Winnie suddenly remembered her commode.
‘Oh dear, there is something else I need to take with me.’
‘Really! We must be on our way, we’ve spent enough time here as it is,’ Sister Hortense snapped.
‘I’ll need my commode,’ Winnie told her. ‘I can’t use a lavvy because of my legs,’ she mumbled, her face flaming with embarrassment at mentioning such matters in front of a priest. ‘It’s that chair thing over there in the corner.’
Sister Hortense strode across and seized it by one of its wooden arms. As she did so she tipped it forward and there was a sickening squelch as the chamber pot inside it, which hadn’t been emptied for two days, tipped over. The contents splashed the skirt of Sister Hortense’s long black habit and soaked her shiny black boots.
There was a horrified silence. Sister Hortense’s face mottled with anger and she seemed to be performing some form of intricate dance as she tried to rid herself of the urine and excrement that was soiling her legs and boots.
‘I think perhaps we should leave that device behind,’ Father Patrick decreed solemnly. Hastily he pushed Winnie’s invalid chair out into the hallway and through the front door, leaving Sister Hortense to follow them.
They walked back to the presbytery of St Francis’s church in uneasy silence. The sky was as grey and as stony as Sister Hortense’s face. There was a keen wind blowing off the Mersey and the gulls circled and shrieked overhead, warning of storms looming.
Winnie had only one thin blanket covering her and her teeth were chattering and her hands were blue with the cold, but no one seemed to notice.
When Mrs Reilly, Father Patrick’s housekeeper, opened the door to them, Sister Hortense pushed her way in ahead and demanded a large basin of hot water with disinfectant in it.
‘What has happened, have you had some sort of accident?’ Mrs Reilly’s nose wrinkled at the smell that filled the hallway.
‘Yes! A disgusting accident! Find me somewhere private so that I can cleanse my feet and legs,’ she said tersely. ‘And while I am doing that, take my shoes and stockings away and do what you can to clean them up.’
‘I’ll do my best with your shoes, but as for your stockings they’ll be needing a thorough washing, so they will …’ Mrs Reilly’s voice trailed away uncertainly.
‘Find me a pair of your own stockings then,’ Sister Hortense demanded imperiously.
‘Yes, Sister. That might be the best solution. I’ll put yours to soak,’ the woman promised.
‘Dispose of them!’ Sister Hortense shuddered. ‘I could never bring myself to wear them again.’
‘While Sister is cleaning herself up, perhaps you could heat up some soup,’ Father Patrick told Mrs Reilly. ‘We are all shrammed with the cold!’
Mrs Reilly looked down at Winnie. ‘I can see that, Father. Poor little love, her face is quite pinched and her hands are blue. Shall I wheel her through into the kitchen and put her by the fire to thaw out?’
‘What?’ He looked down at Winnie as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Yes, Mrs Reilly. You’d better do that, I suppose. You’d better give her a bowl of soup as well – that’s if there is enough to spare.’
> The warmth from the kitchen fire revived Winnie, and the delicious bowl of hot soup and freshly baked, crusty bread banished her hunger. An hour later, Winnie felt ready to face whatever happened next.
Mrs Reilly had listened to her and helped her to confront her fears. As soon as Winnie had finished her meal Mrs Reilly had also helped her to use the lavatory, washed her face and hands and brushed her shoulder-length black curls.
‘You’re a pretty little thing,’ she told Winnie as she twisted the curls into ringlets and arranged them so that they framed her face.
Winnie was grateful. She knew she looked completely different from the untidy waif she’d been when she arrived at the presbytery, but Mrs Reilly’s words gave her a lovely warm feeling inside. She wondered why everyone couldn’t be as nice and loving towards each other.
‘I wish I could stay here with you,’ she sighed. ‘You are the kindest lady I’ve ever met.’
‘I wish you could, chuck, but I’m afraid they don’t allow children here.’
‘I’d be really good. Sandy Coulson would wheel me to school and back again each day. You’d hardly notice I was around,’ Winnie persisted hopefully.
Mrs Reilly said nothing but hugged her close to her ample chest and kissed the top of her head, and Winnie saw that there were tears in her warm brown eyes. Then she kissed Winnie again when Father Patrick came into the kitchen to say that Sister Hortense was ready to leave.
Sister Hortense’s thin-lipped mouth tightened disapprovingly the moment she saw Winnie. Although mellowed by a good meal, and comfortable now that she was wearing Mrs Reilly’s best pair of black woollen stockings with her own shoes clean and shining once more, her opinion of Winnie had not softened.
The child’s pretty, winsome face and black curls offended Sister Hortense almost as much as did Winnie’s twisted, crippled legs encased in ugly irons. What was more, she disliked the wheelchair contraption and resented having to push it all the way from St Francis’s presbytery to the Holy Cross Orphanage in Crosshall Street.