by Martina Cole
‘Yes, Father, that’s true. But if you can help to sort out Mickey, the others will follow suit, I’m sure.’
‘Well, Sarah, we can only put our trust in the Lord.’ He looked up at the ceiling as if expecting to see him floating there. ‘As it says in the Bible, “God is no respecter of persons”, Romans 2-11. Michael Ryan may be a big man on earth but in heaven he’s just another of God’s children.’
Sarah smiled at him. There was nothing, she thought, like a chunk of the Bible when spouted by a true believer. She left a little while later, happier than she had been for a long time. Over the years her religion had been a great comfort to her. As she had suffered one setback after another - no money, another still birth, one or other of the boys in trouble with the police - she had turned more and more to the church. Benjamin was no good at all. If she relied on him for anything, it never happened. Whether it was her housekeeping or anything, he always let her down. Michael, God love him, had been a good son in many ways. He had looked after his younger brothers and sister, he had made sure that she always had enough money, but she had been hearing things of late that had frightened her. Anthony’s death had been the last straw. She knew that her eldest son was involved in all manner of criminal activities, that he was thought of as a kind of mobster. She shuddered. She was all for a bit of ducking and diving, that’s how everyone lived in her estimation, but from what she had gleaned recently about her sons, it was a completely different lifestyle they were after. She had seen the effect that Michael had on the people around and about. She herself was now treated like visiting royalty when she went anywhere.
She could, to an extent, understand Michael’s craving for recognition. She was shrewd enough to understand that the way he had been treated as a child would give him the added drive and determination to better himself. But she herself drew the line at prostitution. In her mind it was the ultimate degradation, and any man who could live off the proceeds of it was the lowest of the low. She fervently hoped that Father McCormack would be able to talk some sense into her son. The robbing was bad enough though the insurance companies could afford the losses and money had no soul. But the wilful destruction of young lives was a different kettle of fish altogether. She had been shocked to read in the News of the World about the drugs that were available now to youngsters. What on earth was the world coming to? Young girls selling their bodies for drugs.
In the war years and after, women had sold their bodies to feed their children. That fitted in with Sarah’s creed. You could do anything to feed the children, to keep the family fed or clothed. Even sell your body. But that had been for women with no man to protect them, so they had to do whatever they could and were respected for it. Sarah herself knew many women who had moonlighted down the Bayswater Road to supplement meagre war pensions or National Assistance. What Michael was doing was disgusting. He was putting them on the game, women and young girls who would otherwise never have dreamt of doing it. He was offering easy money, a far cry from the days when it was a means to an end.
She watched Maura and Carla skipping in front of her. Maura looked huge beside the tiny Carla. Dear Maura, she had taken the poor little thing under her wing. Sarah only hoped now that Janine and Roy sorted themselves out. That it wasn’t too late for her to take to her daughter. Oh, the worry of having children! A Jewish woman Sarah had been friends with, before the war, used to say to her, ‘When your children are young they tread on your feet. When they get older they tread on your heart!’ How right she had been! The poor woman had died when she had been bombed in the blitz. A direct hit. Sarah often thought of her. Too many good people had died in the war, had suffered in one way or another. She sighed. She was dead tired. Now she had to go home and start her own cooking and cleaning. Still, she consoled herself, Father McCormack was coming in the morning and hopefully everything would right itself.
Father McCormack sat opposite Michael and appraised him. There was no doubt about it, he was a fearsome-looking individual.
From his dark expertly cut hair to his hand-made shoes he was the epitome of the new young man. His single-breasted suit was made of mohair and he flicked a trace of ash off his trousers with a perfectly manicured hand. His closely shaven face was tense and his usually sensuous mouth set in a grim line. The priest had guessed that he was well aware of the object of this visit.
Sarah had made a pot of tea and left them together in the overcrowded room. It was as if, after years of having no furniture at all, Sarah had gone mad for it. The room was filled with tables, knick-knacks, chairs, and a large horse-hair three-piece suite. Religious paintings were all over the walls. The Sacred Heart, the Last Supper and the Crucifixion stared down at them. Our Lady of Lourdes looked at the doorway opposite her in a gesture of supplication. On the large sideboard that covered nearly the whole of one wall statues of the Virgin and Child, as well as the holy family, stood silently. One particularly macabre statue of Saint Sebastian, arrows poking out of every limb, was given centre stage. The priest found his eyes drawn towards it and made a conscious effort to stop staring at it. He picked up his cup of tea and turned his gaze back to Michael.
‘I expect you know why I’m here?’
Michael sniffed and uncrossed his legs. ‘Yeah.’ His voice was wary.
The priest nodded as if in understanding. ‘Well, Michael, if you know then it’s pointless me droning on now, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ This was said insolently. Michael’s fear of priests and nuns was long gone.
Father McCormack sat forward in his chair and replaced his cup on the table. His face hardened. He spoke in a low voice. ‘What I am here for today is something completely different. When your mother, good woman that she is, came to see me yesterday I was not shocked to hear what she had to say. I guessed that you were breaking the law in some way. I’m not a fool, you know. Anyway, that’s all neither here nor there . . . I want to speak to you as a man of the world.’
Michael looked at him. His blue eyes were sceptical.
‘What I’m after is a little donation.’
Michael sat up in the chair, stunned. ‘A what!’
The priest became agitated. ‘Whisht now, whisht. You’ll have your mother galloping in here else. As you know, I am rather sympathetic to my countrymen. There’s poor Paddies in London even now, God love them, who have been driven out of their homes by the Proddies. It’s every Irishman’s duty to help these poor unfortunates.’
‘Look, Father, just because my name’s Ryan don’t mean I’m Irish.’
The priest banged his fist on the little table, causing the cups to jump in their saucers.
‘Listen here, you, since nineteen-twenty the Catholics have been discriminated against in Ulster, Belfast, all the North. They can’t even get a council house out there! The bloody Protestants run the whole fecking sheebang! I collect money for the IRA so we can build up an army and fight the bastards at their own game. One day, my laddo, we’ll be ready for the eejits. We forced them out of the South and we’ll fight the buggers in the North. We want an Irish Free State that spans the whole of Ireland.’
The priest’s eyes were alight. Michael stared at him as if he was mad. He had heard stories of Ireland from the cradle, as most Catholic children had. He could still hear his granny singing ‘Kevin Barry’ on Saint Patrick’s Day, still remember the stories of the Easter Uprising and the Famine. How his ancestors had left the meat that Queen Victoria had sent over to them to rot in the streets rather than accept help from the English. But this was nineteen-sixty, for Christ’s sake. Who gave a toss what was happening out there?
Father McCormack drank his tea. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he spoke again.
‘I know an awful lot about you, Michael Ryan. There’s nothing I can’t find out if I want to. All I am asking is a little donation now and again. You’d be surprised at how many people give money to the cause. The Americans have regular collections in their bars and churches. Ireland is a poor country and needs
all the help it can get.’
Michael laughed.
‘Supposing I give you some money . . . now and again . . . what would you do in return?’
The priest took a handkerchief from the pocket of his black cassock and mopped his forehead.
‘I would tell your mother exactly what she wanted to hear. If it came from me she would believe it. I can be a very persuasive man.’
Michael ran his tongue over his lips, and shook his head.
‘What about the poor orphans and the starving blacks?’ His voice was sarcastic.
‘Sure, they would get a bit as well, God love them. Though I think most of the blacks are in Notting Hill.’
Michael burst out laughing.
‘All right then, Father. You’ve sold me. But I’m warning you now, you’ve got to keep my muvver sweet.’
Father McCormack smiled.
‘I will, Michael son.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Sure, it’s a terrible world we’re living in today. Money makes it so much easier. I remember this room when there was hardly a thing in it . . . except children, of course. Your mother always seemed to have plenty of those. Well, I must be off. It’s been grand chatting to you, Michael. I’ll expect you at the Presbytery in a few days with your donation.’ He held out his hand. ‘I won’t give you a blessing . . . I don’t think you need one!’
Michael shook his hand. ‘I have a feeling I’ve just been conned, Father. An Irish Catholic Northern Ireland? Donations to the IRA . . .?’ He smiled. ‘If it was anyone else I’d kick their arse out of the door.’
The priest’s face straightened and he looked meaningfully at Michael.
‘Don’t mock what you don’t fully understand. Your religion is the mightiest in the world. Remember this? Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea, quem timebo?’
Michael translated it for him, smiling as he did so. ‘The Lord is the source of my light and my safety, so whom shall I fear?’
‘Would you listen to that! You remembered your Latin.’
‘Yeah, I remember it all right. And I don’t fear anyone, not even God. You remember that.’
Father McCormack digested the veiled threat gracefully. ‘How could I forget? But I’ll tell you one thing before I go. One day the troubles in Northern Ireland will be known all over the world, and the British will have to listen to us. When that day comes you remember my words, Michael, because we won’t forget our friends, whoever they are.’
With that the priest picked up his hat and left the room.
Michael watched him leave. He felt like laughing out loud. The old boy had lost his marbles somewhere along the line. Still, if it kept his mother off his back, he didn’t care. He picked up the tray of tea things and took them to the kitchen where he glanced at the clock. If he got his head down for a couple of hours he would be nice and fresh for the evening. His new club was raking the money in. After the lean war years, people wanted a bit of fun. And he would make sure they got it!
Chapter Seven
1966
‘You look nice, Maws. Where you off to?’ Sarah’s voice was tight.
‘I’m going up Tiffany’s with me mates.’
‘Tiffany’s? Where’s that?’
Sarah’s voice had taken on the tone of an interrogation. Garry answered for Maura.
‘It’s in Ilford. The old Allie Pallie.’
‘What’s she going up there for? What’s wrong with the Hammersmith Palais?
Maura sighed and tossed back her hair. ‘There’s nothing wrong with round here, Mum. I’m just meeting some of the girls from work, that’s all.’ Her voice was beginning to rise and she tried in vain to control it.
Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and stared at Maura, her face wrinkled in concern. ‘Well, it’s a bloody long way to go if you ask me.’
‘Well, I’m not asking you, Mum. I’m nearly seventeen and I can do what I like.’
Sarah walked towards her daughter. Garry tried to pull her back, holding her arm gently.
‘Let me tell you something, Madam. You can’t do what you sodding well like . . .’
Her diatribe was cut off by Michael who stormed into the kitchen. The constant bickering between Maura and his mother was beginning to get on everyone’s nerves.
‘For Christ’s sake, Muvver, give it a rest. Let the girl go out if she wants to. Anyway . . .’ he put his arm around his mother’s shoulders ‘. . . Garry’s going up there tonight. He can give her a lift on the back of his scooter.’
‘I’m not getting on the back of his scooter with all my new gear on!’ Maura’s voice was horrified.
‘Just as well, ’cos I ain’t going up the Palais.’
‘Tiffany’s.’
‘Tiffany’s then. I’m going to the pictures with me mates.’
Maura smiled triumphantly. ‘Well, that’s settled then.’ She picked up her shoulder bag. ‘Gawd Blimey, it’s worse than living in Scotland Yard here. Where you bin? What you been doing? What did you talk about? Did he kiss you? I wouldn’t mind, but I can’t get a bloody boyfriend! As soon as they find out who I am they shy off.
‘ “You Mickey Ryan’s sister?” they say. “Yes,” says I, and watch them poodle off down the road. So stop worrying about me getting in the club, Muvver, I don’t get the bloody chance!’
She snatched her coat off the kitchen table and stormed out of the kitchen, shouting, ‘And if by any chance I do need an escort, it won’t be my bloody brother. Ta rah!’
She walked out of the front door and gave it a satisfying slam behind her. In the kitchen Michael and Sarah stared at one another, shocked. Garry went to the sink and washed his hands. In the back of his mind he was cheering Maura on.
‘Well, I never, Michael. Did you hear the way she carried on?’
He sighed heavily. ‘I think the whole of Notting Hill heard it.’
Garry wiped his hands on a tea towel and faced his brother. ‘She’s got a point though, ain’t she?’
Michael looked at him. It was like looking at a miniature version of himself.
‘What do you mean by that?’ His voice was cold.
Garry plucked up every bit of courage he had.
‘Well, the way that everyone’s at her. If I was her, it would drive me up the wall.’
‘If you was her you’d be getting the same treatment. She’s our sister, our responsibility. If we don’t look after her, who will? You want to put your brain in gear before you open your trap, Garry. Our Geoff was right about you. He said an original thought in your head would die of loneliness. After hearing the crap you just come out with, I’m inclined to agree with him.’
Garry’s face was scarlet with embarrassment.
‘Come on, you two, get a move on or you’ll be late.’ Sarah was worried. She knew that Michael was capable of attacking Garry for what he had said. In Michael’s mind it was tantamount to mutiny and he would not stand for anyone disagreeing with him.
He took a comb from the pocket of his suit and stood at the sink. Looking in the mirror that was perched precariously on the windowsill, he combed back the hair that hung over his eyes. Then, turning to Garry, he pointed the long steel comb at him.
‘In future, Bruv, keep your nose out of what don’t concern you.’
He kissed his mother lightly on the forehead and walked out of the room. Garry was fuming inside. Sensing this, Sarah went to him.
‘He don’t mean it, Gal. But he’s right about Maura, you know. You should all look out for your sister.’
Garry shrugged her arm off and picked up his crash helmet. ‘We’re not looking out for her, Mother. We’re trying to own her, and that’s a completely different thing.’
When he had gone Sarah carried on with her chores, but Garry’s words stayed with her all evening.
Maura breathed a sigh of relief as she slammed the front door. It was getting more claustrophobic in that house by the day. If it wasn’t for Margaret she would go mad. They were as close as two friends could be. They worked in the same office, t
hey ate their lunch together, they went down the Lane on Sundays and the Roman Road on Fridays. The only cloud on the horizon was a boy called Dennis Dawson. Margaret had been seeing him for nearly a year and Maura had the feeling that they were going to get married. Still, she consoled herself, she would always have Margaret as a friend.
Tonight the two girls were meeting Dennis and one of his mates up Tiffany’s. She had nearly had heart failure at the thought of Garry going up there. That was all she needed. The only reason they were going there was because they could be pretty sure that one or other of her brothers would not be up there and Maura would have a bit of privacy. How she hated the way her brothers protected her, and her mother was all for it. She was beginning to dislike her mother. The last few years Sarah had practically suffocated her only daughter. Maura wished that she could meet a nice bloke and get right out of it. If she married, at least she would have a life of her own, away from prying eyes. She daydreamed sometimes about finding a little flat but knew they were just that - daydreams. There was no way she would ever be allowed to go and live alone.
She saw Margaret waiting for her outside her house and she gave her a little wave. They made a funny pair. Maura was tall, nearly five ten, and big-boned. She was what her father jokingly called ‘a good eyeful’, with her large breasts and wide hips. Her long blonde hair was backcombed up into a beehive, kept firmly in place with sugar and water, making her look even taller - like an amazon. Her eyes, still a startling blue, were now heavily made up, with black liner and white eye shadow, the false eyelashes giving her a startled doe look. In her short shirtwaist dress and white winklepicker shoes she was the height of fashion.
Margaret on the other hand was still under five feet tall. Her orange-red hair was worn bouffant, and her orange lipstick made her look like a small circus clown. She was very flat-chested but had big legs and a large behind. When they were younger the boys in the streets whistled the Laurel and Hardy music as they passed. Nowadays they took no notice if people stared at them, they were used to it.