Then other people started calling to the house, with Auntie Bridie and Granny’s friend Josie helping her to make tea. Many of the neighbours, both Christian and Jewish, left in food – and this time Dad made no protest.
Dad’s face was grim and he said little, but later that evening he came into the boys’ bedroom. Sean was asleep, but Ben lay awake, icy and shivering. Dad went downstairs and brought him up the stone hot-water bottle that Mam had used. ‘Heated on the glimmer,’ he whispered. Ben clutched it to him, relishing the comforting warmth, as Dad muttered, ‘It’s just ye lads and me now. We have to help Granny. We have to go on without your mam–’ His voice broke, and touching Ben’s shoulder he left the room.
As the dreaded funeral approached, Dad’s face grew more forbidding; the moment of warmth towards Ben had vanished. Granny, grief-stricken as she was, tried to comfort them all.
But Ben felt bitter and resentful. He couldn’t believe Mam had left them, that she’d gone on a journey alone, with no chance to say goodbye. Anger welled up inside him, followed by more anger with himself for blaming her.
Granny reminded him it wasn’t Mam’s fault; this dreadful disease had struck so many, young and old. Consumption has no pity for blue eyes and golden hair, Ben recalled. Where was that girl now, seen once in the sanatorium? Same as his mam, he supposed, and it filled him with despair.
***
On the morning of the funeral Ben and Sean went to Uncle Matt’s for their breakfast. No one spoke much. Sean shovelled in the generous fry Auntie Bridie dished up, but despite her pleas, Ben couldn’t get anything past the heavy lump of grief, pain, fear, anger – whatever it was – stuck in his throat. Uncle Matt put his arm around him and brought him up to the room full of birdsong. He drew the curtains together and began to cover the birdcages.
‘But it’s morning,’ Ben protested.
‘It’s a mark of respect,’ his uncle said, ‘for Marie.’ And gradually in the darkened room the birds fell silent.
Then Uncle Matt called Sean upstairs, sat them both down and handed them an envelope. ‘It’s for the two of you,’ he muttered. ‘She gave it to me on my last visit.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She hadn’t much strength to write.’
Together they read her words, in weak, wavery writing – saying how much she loved them both, how proud of them she was and would always be; that they were always to remember that Dad loved them too, even when he didn’t show it; and finally, they were not to think of her as gone; she would still be watching over them, always there when they needed her, only they couldn’t see her. Ben, fingering his conker for comfort, fought down the lump which threatened to turn to tears. Even tough, strong Sean was silent. But they felt consoled.
On the way downstairs Uncle Matt stopped and turned to Ben, just behind him. ‘Remember what she said, Ben,’ he whispered. ‘Whatever you do, try to make her proud.’
The rest of the day passed in a blur – Ben and Sean in their Sunday suits walking slowly with Dad and Uncle Matt behind the sombre carriage drawn by four black-plumed horses. Behind them came Granny and Auntie Bridie, supported by a flood of relations, neighbours and family friends.
In Martin Street all the blinds were drawn. As they passed Number 17, Ben saw that the door was open and Mrs Golden and the girls, along with other Jewish neighbours, had joined the crowd on the roadside. Hetty, carrying Solly in her arms, was frowning as usual, but she stared at Ben, her attention totally focused, and, Ben felt, full of sympathy. Ben’s heart lightened a little. At the top of the road Smiler, for once unsmiling, stood cap in hand with Billy, the Woolfsons and the rest of the football crowd, along with Carmel and Maureen and other girls from Martin Street, watching the funeral procession pass.
Ben kept his eyes averted from the coffin, almost hidden under bright wreaths and bunches of spring flowers. As Uncle Matt had said, better to think of her as she had been – slender, but not yet painfully thin, laughing in her butter-yellow dress with the white lace collar and big white buttons.
Afterwards the house was crowded again. People ate and drank, approaching the mourners to murmur above the babble of talk, ‘Sorry for your trouble’ … ‘She was a grand lady’… ‘So young.’ The priest put a hand on the boys’ shoulders, saying, ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away …’ A few people pressed sixpences into Ben’s hand, and Ben realised he could finally pay off his window debt, but it was small comfort.
Finally Ben escaped upstairs. Passing the door of Mam’s room, he felt compelled to go in. The gas fire was unlit, the neatly made bed empty, tiny dust motes floated in the air and her scent still lingered.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs he hastily ran into his own room – mercifully empty – closed the door, flung himself on his bed, and for the first time since Mam’s death cried in great gulping sobs until he thought his heart would break.
***
As the days passed Ben entered a long dark tunnel which seemed to have no ending. Soon after the funeral Dad had fallen into one of his bitter dark moods, and spent most evenings in the pub. They heard him returning late, shouting and crashing into the furniture, sometimes calling Mam’s name.
Sean was back at work and out playing football every evening. ‘Won’t bring Mam back to be sitting around, missing the game,’ he told Ben.
‘He’s right, Ben,’ said Granny softly. But when Uncle Matt called around, he often found Granny herself half-dozing in the súgán chair, her gnarled little hands, usually so busy with knitting or darning or her rosary beads, inert on her lap. When neighbours called or the boys were home, she brightened a little.
Ben himself had no energy or enthusiasm for anything – not even when Smiler challenged him to a game of marbles or conkers, or called to show him a new set of cigarette cards, Mysteries of the Microscope, he was collecting.
In school Ben did the minimum, and at home he decided to give up the job of Shabbos goy. What was the point in risking Dad’s anger to earn extra money now? His debt had been paid off and after that it was all going to be for Mam. His growing interest in the Goldens, his concern for the refugee, even the fascination with Hetty had faded away now, and life seemed empty and hopeless.
***
A couple of weeks later, on Ben’s return from school, Granny told him Mrs Golden had called to offer sympathy. She’d brought some matza crackers which she explained were customary at Passover, and she’d joked, ‘Don’t be sending them back, now!’
They’d had a cup of tea and a nice chat. Ben was pleased Granny was in better spirits. She’d even done some baking herself like she used to, and offered him a custard tart, one of his favourites. As he ate she told him, ‘That lady spoke very well of you, pet.’
Apparently Mrs Golden had said, hesitantly, that the family understood Ben’s grief, but when he was up to it, they hoped he might return to the job. ‘Zaida – my father-in-law – is happy to pay his wage, though it’s not much, I know. Having a fire on the Sabbath is such a help to us,’ Mrs Golden had said. ‘But also, we all miss him, even baby Solly and the puppy.’
That had made Granny smile, and Ben, hearing her words, felt a warmth, a tiny loosening of the knot of misery that accompanied him wherever he went. He wondered had Hetty missed him? He doubted it.
‘That lady’s right, like Sean is, pet. Life has to go on,’ Granny said. ‘I mind the time when my da passed on. I was thirteen, and we had to sell the farm and move to Dublin. There was no welfare then – not that there’s much now.’ As a young girl she’d had to work long hours in Judd’s Hide and Skin Yard – ‘you wouldn’t believe the stink!’ – and then in a brickworks in Dolphin’s Barn pushing heavy wheelbarrows full of bricks which had been fired in the kilns. ‘I’d be jaded,’ she said, ‘and then dashing home to help get the tea.’ Then she smiled and added, ‘But Sundays after Mass we still had fun with our pals.’
‘Was Josie one of your pals?’ asked Ben, glad to see her brighter.
‘She was indeed, and we used to bring a picnic of br
ead and a bit of cheese for all us young ones, and cross the humpbacked bridge over the canal. The other side was open country and we’d roam around, picking wild flowers, climbing gates, chasing geese, though Josie was afraid of them.’ She stopped with a wistful smile. ‘We were young, we had such energy …’ Then a shadow crossed her face and Ben knew she’d remembered. With a cross between a sigh and a groan, she hoisted herself out of the chair. ‘Time to peel the spuds.’
As they peeled the potatoes together, Ben recalled Zaida’s memories and the pictures on the Goldens’ wall. Maybe everyone’s grandparents deliberately stored layers of memories of their own distant, hard lives to re-tell as stories to their grandchildren?
***
The following Saturday, Ben slipped into Number 17, a little later than usual. The family had gone to the synagogue, but his money was on the mantelpiece and a slice of cake set out, as usual. Mossy, who’d been asleep on the armchair, jumped up, wagging his tail.
Starting work, Ben found the familiar routine helped him stop thinking about his mam. Maybe next week he’d see Hetty or Eddie, or hear more from Zaida. And what had happened to the refugee?
Then Mabel burst in. ‘Ben, you’re back!’ she exclaimed. Pausing, she added awkwardly, ‘Er … sorry about …’ He nodded briefly, making it clear he didn’t want to talk about it.
‘I had to come home early,’ she went on quickly, ‘I’ve a streaming cold. The others have gone to Zaida and Bobba for Kiddush.’ When he looked blank she explained, ‘You know, the Sabbath blessing, wine and bread and kichels.’
Though she wasn’t supposed to, she helped him clean the hearth. He offered her half the cake, which she didn’t refuse. As they munched, she asked, ‘Did you hear the war news?’ He shook his head. For him the war, like everything else, had receded into the background. ‘It said on the wireless that the Nazis invaded Russia!’
After a moment, he ventured, ‘Is that bad?’
‘Oh, you’d better ask Hetty,’ she said. ‘She knows all about the war.’ Mopping her runny nose with a handkerchief, she went on uncertainly, ‘Uncle Sam said it’ll keep the Nazis busy fighting, because the Russians don’t give up easily.’
‘So the Nazis mightn’t invade us or England?’
‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘Uncle Sam hopes the Americans might come into the war to save us all. But poor Zaida’s in a state. Hetty says that Lithuania, where he comes from, is in Russia, and he’s worried about his family if the Nazis get there.’
‘You mean the people in the photographs?’ asked Ben. She looked at him in surprise. ‘He told me about them,’ he mumbled, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, I’d better go.’
As he opened the door she said, sneezing, ‘Everyone’ll be glad you’re back.’
He reached his own door, lifted his hand to open the latch, when it was opened for him by – his dad.
18
Heart to Heart
Hetty was getting dressed, pulling on her black lisle stockings and garters. Then, glancing at the weather house she noticed that the painted girl, instead of lurking inside as usual, had come right out. Hetty threw open the window, and, sure enough, after a spell of spring gales and showers the weather had turned suddenly warm, the sky chalk blue without a single cloud. She could leave off her chillproof vest and put on her ankle socks instead of the hated stockings. And, there was a day’s holiday from school.
Mabel had finally left school and was training as a tailoress at Polikoff’s along with Carmel, who’d just turned fourteen and also left school. It was hard, working from half-eight till six, but they were getting used to it, and, Hetty heard enviously, they were paid five shillings a week. According to Mabel, everyone sang as they worked, and apparently there was lots of giggling and chat about boyfriends.
On that matter, Michael had disappeared, but Hetty was now hearing a lot about Cyril, the tennis player with whom Mabel had played an unsuccessful doubles match at Carlisle, and who, Hetty suspected, wasn’t much of an improvement on Michael.
So today Hetty revelled in having a day’s freedom. She wanted to return to Dalkey and have another go at tracking down Renata. ‘No one else is bothering,’ she complained to Eddie. But even he seemed to have gone off the hunt, muttering, ‘Da says they’re working on it.’
Instead she’d agreed to go for a walk with Gertie to Herbert Park to see the baby ducklings and cygnets; or maybe to the zoo in Phoenix Park to see the newborn lion cub, if Gertie could scrounge the money.
But then Ma called from downstairs: ‘Hetty! Good thing you’re home today, I’ve a mountain of sewing. When you’ve finished the chores you can take Solly out for a walk in the sunshine.’
Hetty felt like Cinderella. Why did she never have time to herself? And now, with Mabel at work, it was worse.
***
Later, though, out in the fresh air with the gentle caress of the sun on her face, her resentment faded. Sitting erect, Solly eagerly watched the bustling street life around them, as Hetty, with Mossy at her heels, pushed the heavy pram up Stamer Street and into Harrington Street. A noisy tram clanged past; delivery boys’ bikes, their baskets piled high with boxes and packages, wove in and out between lumbering carts. Solly shouted in excitement, pointing with his little fat finger as dogs ran barking in and out of the traffic.
A funeral carriage slowly passing by reminded her that she hadn’t spoken to Ben since his mother had died. Her ma had called in to sympathise and had been welcomed by Granny with tea and a chat.
Though Hetty half-wanted to speak to Ben, she also dreaded it. What could you say? For a moment she tried to imagine life without Ma, and couldn’t. Absorbed in her thoughts, she crossed the main road, avoiding a heavy brewer’s dray pulled by two trudging workhorses.
Then, spilling out of the Triangle – the sweet shop at Kelly’s Corner – a scuffling, larking crowd of Synge Street boys in black blazers and purple caps with gold crests appeared, engulfing Hetty, Mossy and the pram.
On the fringe of the crowd was Ben, his sandy hair flopping from under his cap, one cheek bulging with a gobstopper. He gazed at her in surprise, his brown eyes vulnerable, reminding her for a moment of the eyes of the puppies when she’d first seen them.
The puppies, the bombing, Ben’s expression as he listened to Zaida’s story, and the searing look she and Ben had exchanged – all this zoomed through her mind as Ben stood stock still, the crowd eddying around him and moving on, until he and Hetty were left standing opposite each other.
Forget the grievances, she told herself fiercely, and say something.
‘I … I’m sorry about your mother.’ She looked intently at him, and again he saw real sympathy in the deep blue gaze he knew so well.
He struggled to reply, but no words came.
Solly started to grizzle and Hetty, confused by a strange mix of feelings, her heart inexplicably thumping, wheeled the pram around, mumbling, ‘I’d better get back.’
But Ben had longed for an opportunity to talk to Hetty alone. It was now or never. Be brave, he urged himself. ‘Er, I’d like … um, could we … maybe, go to that place, you know, where we saved Mossy and Flossy?’
So he did remember! She gave a brief nod, and Ben seized the handle of the pram. Together, to Solly’s delight, they trundled it at top speed down Harrington Street and turned in the direction of the canal.
***
Ben stuffed his cap in his pocket, and spread out his well-worn school blazer, passed down from Sean and before that from Paddy, and they sat side by side on the grassy bank close to where the rescue had taken place. Solly, annoyed that his careering ride in the pram had come to an end, began to whimper and Hetty lifted him out to crawl around on the grass.
Ben reached out to pat the dog lying beside them, and said, ‘Remember that day?’ It was hard to picture that frozen expanse. Now, ducks and moorhens were sailing among the reeds, tipping in and out of the water to excavate for tasty morsels.
‘I thought you’d forgotten.’ Hetty pulled the ba
by into her lap. ‘I mean, you never even asked about the puppies!’
Forgotten? He said in a rush, ‘No, it was just …’ But how could he repeat Dad’s bitter words about the new neighbours? He muttered, ‘It was hard times, my mam was sick, and my dad’s a bit, you know …’ he stumbled on, ‘well, he was worried, and angry, and now … he’s found out I’m working for you, and he doesn’t …’ Unable to finish, his voice trailed off. He certainly couldn’t tell her about the row that had followed when Dad had found him out and ranted on until Granny’d intervened and told Dad to leave Ben alone – ‘the poor young fella, grieving for his mam.’ Dad had stopped shouting and stumbled upstairs to the bedroom he used to share with Mam. After that there had been a sort of unspoken truce, with Dad not mentioning the job and even making an effort to be kinder to him.
Hetty said nothing at first, but somehow Ben felt she understood. They watched a swan gliding elegantly away under the canal bridge, leaving a rippling V in the bright water.
Hetty felt an unaccustomed sympathy. Ignoring his reference to his father, though she had a good idea what he really meant, she said quietly, ‘If it hadn’t been for you, the puppies would have died.’
‘If it hadn’t been for you, no one would have even tried to save them,’ he replied, ‘and you kept the two alive afterwards.’ But the words ‘died’ and ‘alive’ tripped him up and brought him back to the present – the blackness, the emptiness, the fear …
Hetty said simply, ‘You must miss your ma.’
He nodded silently and swallowed hard. But comforted by her presence and those few sympathetic words, he managed to pull himself together. At last they were relaxed in each other’s presence. They both felt it.
Mossy raced down to the water, barking at the ducks scrambling hopefully up the bank, joyously chasing them back into the water amidst a chorus of resentful squawks. Solly laughed in delight.
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