Daughter of Mine

by Anne Bennett

  Flo blamed her, but then hadn’t Lizzie expected that? When had the woman ever approved of anything she’d ever done?

  ‘What about the house?’

  Lizzie longed to retort. ‘What about the house? Hitler could deprive us of it at any time?’ But this time Flo had a point, because empty houses could soon be occupied by squatters and they would be the devil’s own to shift when she came back. So she controlled the anger that this woman’s malevolent stance and voice evoked in her and said, ‘Maybe Neil would take it on for a bit?’

  ‘Who’d see to him?’

  God, the woman hardly did a hand’s turn for the man now. And he was a man, well able, surely to God, to see to himself. ‘Well, doesn’t he get his breakfast and dinner out now?’ she said. ‘He could come to you for his evening meal if he wanted, but it would be someone in the house and he could take over the rent, like.’

  And while Flo was ruminating over Lizzie’s words and trying to find fault with them, she added, ‘Steve was all for me going over and checking that the children are all right.’

  Flo was silent and so Lizzie knew Steve had written in the same vein to her. When Flo did eventually speak, it was to say, ‘How long do you intend to stay?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Lizzie said evasively. ‘A few months.’

  ‘A few months!’ Flo shrieked.

  ‘Aye, maybe. I’ll have to see how things pan out.’

  ‘How things pan out,’ Flo repeated with scorn. ‘Things have panned out, my girl, and let me tell you, your place is here, waiting for your man, with or without your children. A couple of weeks is all the time you need.’

  Lizzie lifted her head, her eyes flashed fire, but still she controlled herself. ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘I am the judge of that.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, girl. See what our Steve thinks.’

  Lizzie knew what Steve would think, for he’d told her clearly enough, so Flo could go and drown herself, and she went on with the preparations for the journey. By Monday, 30th June she was ready, tickets bought, letters written, welcome assured. Violet uncharacteristically kissed Lizzie goodbye with tears in her own eyes. She was worried by the unfathomable sadness Lizzie seemed to carry around with her, which deepened as the day of departure drew near. She had a near-desolate look in her eyes and Violet was very anxious about the reception she would have when she told her parents the real reason that she was back home.

  If Lizzie could have allowed herself to talk of it she would have said Violet’s apprehensions were nothing compared to her own. But she couldn’t talk about it, not without breaking down and crying her eyes out and what earthly good would that be, for however she felt there was no alternative plan.

  By the time the train pulled in at Donegal Station, Lizzie felt sick with fear; but as she stepped onto the platform she saw her two children running towards her with cries of, ‘Mammy’. She put down her cases and crouched with her arms held wide and was nearly knocked on her back as Tom cannoned into her, while Niamh approached her more gently but just as eagerly. Lizzie hugged them both tight, realising afresh how she had missed them, and she felt a lump in her throat.

  Johnnie came after the children, and when they eventually let her go he too embraced her. ‘Ah, Lizzie, the weans aren’t the only ones to have missed you,’ he said. ‘Even Mammy, never one to show her feelings overmuch, is like a dog with two tails.’

  Lizzie didn’t answer, for every word Johnnie said was like a hammer blow. The more her mother looked forward to her coming home, the greater her disappointment would be when Lizzie told her what she’d come home to tell her.

  Johnnie didn’t notice Lizzie’s silence then, for the children were chattering away and he was busy stowing Lizzie’s luggage in the cart. But later, with the children drowsily quiet, for it was late for them, the silence stretched out between Johnnie and Lizzie and eventually Johnnie said, ‘Are you all right, Liz? I mean, are you just tired, or is there something wrong, for I never remember seeing you this quiet before?’

  How Lizzie longed to tell him, this brother of hers who she knew would never doubt a word she said and would help and support her in anything she wanted to do. He would listen and not interrupt as the horse clip-clopped along the quiet country road, and if she got upset in the telling he would rein the horse in and take Lizzie in his arms. But Lizzie’s children were in the cart and they must never know of that night, and really she knew her mother had to be the first to be told of it. So she said, ‘No, Johnnie, there’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired.’

  Johnnie looked at her strangely, but said nothing, and Lizzie forced a laugh. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you are a fine one to talk, for you have scarcely opened your mouth either. Don’t you go worrying your head about me, for I’ll be as right as rain after a good night’s sleep.’

  As the cart clattered across the cobbled yard of the farmhouse, the children were roused from their semislumber and Tom leapt from the cart before it had stopped, so careless in his excitement he almost fell under the wheels, earning him a reprimand from his uncle. But nothing could dim his excitement that day and he looked not the slightest bit abashed.

  ‘Come on now,’ Johnnie said to Niamh as he unloaded the luggage. ‘Catch up your mammy’s bag and go and ask your Granny has she the kettle on.’

  Niamh caught the bag Johnnie threw and ran across the cobbled yard, shouting, ‘Granny, Granny, Mammy’s here.’

  Johnnie grinned at Lizzie. ‘She’d have to be deaf not to know already,’ he said, and added, more gently, ‘Go in now and rest yourself,’ and Lizzie followed her daughter with Tom hanging on to her hand for grim death.

  She stood at the farmhouse door for a moment and drank in the familiarity of it all. Inside, right beside the door on a stool was the bucket of water from the well. Beside it was a scrubbed wooden table with chairs and stools tucked beneath it, and in front of the small lace-trimmed window was the settle, which could be opened up if a spare bed was needed, only the wooden seat was almost hidden by bright cushions. Before the hearth was set a small settee and a chair and a couple of creepie stools made of bog oak. Above the glowing peat was hung a simmering pot and the smell was making Lizzie’s mouth water. To one side of the fireplace was the press holding all the everyday delft, and to the other side was the bed for Lizzie’s parents, surrounded by curtains for privacy.

  Against the far wall was the sideboard and wooden bin where the oaten meal was stored, but pride of place beside the door that led to the first bedroom was the dresser. Polished to a high shine, it held the best delft—the willow-pattern dinner-set plates and dishes were displayed and cups hung on the hooks, and she remembered sitting as a child before the fire, the firelight and lamps catching the delft and making it sparkle.

  Her mother turned from the press, her arms full of dishes, her dancing granddaughter before her, and smiled at Lizzie as Johnnie came in after her with the case and caused her to step into the room. ‘Hallo, Mammy.’

  Catherine put the dishes on the table and put her arms about her child. ‘Welcome home, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I’ll rest easier in my bed, knowing you are here and safe, for a wee while at least.’ She held her daughter away from her for a moment. ‘You look well,’ she continued, ‘And I’m glad to see you have gained weight, for while it might be fashionable to be thin, you were too skinny for my liking. You look good now, you carry the weight well, so you do. Come on up to the table now and I’ll endeavour to keep you well-fed at least.’

  And then, turning to her son, she said, ‘Will you go out to the byre and see if your father is finished with the milking? I’ve kept the water hot for his wash, so.’

  Johnnie turned and went out, and Lizzie, too choked to speak, helped her mother lay the table. She knew she had to tell her things that would wipe the delight from her face, and she trembled, fearful of her reaction and guilty for bringing shame to her door.

  But she decided she’d say nothing yet awhile, for the urgency had gone now that she was here
. For a few days at least she would bask in her parents’ approval, be the feted daughter home at last, and later, before the fire, the children tucked into their bed, she talked and laughed with her parents and Johnnie as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Eventually she had to seek her bed, and she was moved when her father put his hands on her shoulders as she stood at the threshold to the bedroom and said, ‘It’s good to have you home, cutie dear.’ Tears stung Lizzie’s eyes as she kissed her father’s creased cheek, for she couldn’t have spoken without breaking down. She went into the room, undressed and got into bed beside the sleeping Niamh, curling against her, taking comfort from her warm little body, and tried to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For a week, Lizzie said nothing. She visited all her brothers and sisters and their families and she and Tressa spent time together. Lizzie wondered if she should tell her cousin. Once, she wouldn’t even have had to think about it, but that Tressa was gone, swallowed up in the demands and needs of her children, so that she seemed to have no time or energy for anything else.

  Anyway, Lizzie thought Tressa may not need to know anything and maybe it wouldn’t be wise, for if she was to tell her mother, Margaret could always let it slip in the shop as she served the customers. Tressa was always saying her mother liked nothing better than a good gossip. Lizzie knew she was right, for though she liked her Aunt Margaret, everyone knew she could never be trusted to keep anything quiet for long. No, Lizzie decided, it was better that Tressa too was kept in ignorance.

  Lizzie enjoyed her time with her children and the weather was kind to them. Once Niamh had come home from school, Lizzie would often take them down to the shore where the big Atlantic rollers cascaded onto the beach. It delighted the children, and they all leapt over the waves, squealing at the cold of the water slapping at their legs. They liked the feel of sand between their toes as they walked or they’d kneel to build big sandcastles or perhaps clamber over the rocks and search the rock pools for anything interesting, before settling down to the picnic tea Lizzie had made up for them. The children were so happy she was there, for neither of them had realised how much they had missed her, and Lizzie treasured every day.

  After Mass on Sunday, Father Brady spoke welcoming Lizzie and he talked kindly to the children and made them laugh. Lizzie had decided that morning at Mass that the time had come to tell her mother, for she could see changes in her body and she wanted to tell her before Catherine tumbled to it herself.

  Later that evening, she listened to the children’s prayers before bed and asked Niamh the questions in the catechism that she needed to know before she could take Communion. ‘It’s just a week now, Mammy, I can hardly wait,’ Niamh said.

  Lizzie remembered her own excitement. Niamh’s dress hung in the wardrobe, protected by the thin plastic sheets either side of it, and the white sandals and socks, brand-new, stood at the back, ready for the child to wear the following Sunday.

  ‘I’m glad you’re going to be here, Mammy,’ Niamh went on. ‘When I wrote and asked, Granny said you mightn’t be let, now you’re working an’ all.’

  ‘Oh, I told them,’ Lizzie assured her daughter. ‘I said my wee girl is taking her First Communion and I had to be there and was taking no nonsense, so don’t you worry your head.’

  Niamh giggled and said, ‘I love you, Mammy.’

  ‘And I you, pet,’ Lizzie said. ‘Lie down now and go to sleep or you’ll have bags beneath your eyes and be a sight by next Sunday.’ And she bent and kissed her small daughter, turned down the lamp and left the room.

  That evening, Lizzie waited till both her children were in bed, Johnnie out on business of his own and her father checking the stock, before attempting to speak to her mother. She knew her father would be quite a while. On fine nights like this he was in no hurry to come in; he’d sit on a wall for a while and have a smoke of his pipe, and since Lizzie had been home he’d tended to linger longer, giving the two women time to talk, Lizzie presumed.

  That evening she was glad of it. Catherine had made tea and Lizzie took it and they sat together before the fire. Lizzie’s heart thumped against her ribs and her mouth was so dry she took a gulp of tea, scalding though it was.

  She licked her lips, and, doubting things would ever be the same between them after this, she took a deep breath and said, ‘You know you noticed I’d put weight on, Mammy?’

  ‘Aye, and it suits you. I told you that too.’

  ‘Aye, Mammy, but d’you see, there’s a reason for it. I’m…I’m pregnant, Mammy.’

  ‘Ah, that’s it,’ Catherine said. ‘I knew there was something a sort of bloom about you, but I never thought. And God knows, I hardly think it very sensible, the way you’re placed with Steve away and you in the middle of war…but there, I suppose we must be grateful for what God sends. You didn’t tell me Steve had leave?’

  ‘He hasn’t had any leave.’

  She saw her mother’s eyes widen and then, as the realisation of her words sank in, she saw her mouth drop open in shock. Her hands, holding the cup, were shaking so badly that she was in danger of spilling the tea all over herself. Lizzie put her own cup on the hearth and took her mother’s cup from her and knelt on the rug before her and took hold of her hands. ‘Mammy, I have to tell you something now, something awful and terrible that happened to me, and I swear to God on my own children’s lives that every word passing my lips will be the truth.’

  She saw the hard mask fix on her mother’s face, the mask she’d learnt to dread as a child, and she felt her heart sink. She told her first of life in the blackout. She’d spoken of this before on her holidays home the previous summer, and the time she’d brought the children in the autumn, but in passing only. Now she endeavoured to get her mother to see the horror of it all.

  ‘It’s dense, Mammy, so that you can almost touch it. Sometimes there is a moon and twinkling stars, but these are often obscured by clouds and the smokeriddled air that many a time turns to swirling, stinking fog that is smelt rather than seen. That’s how it was that night. I had a torch, but the batteries had given out and it was the time also that Violet was ill, so I was on my own coming home, and a lonely, cold journey it was, for no trams were running because of the fog.

  ‘When I got down the entry and was nearly at the house, I was so relieved, and then suddenly there was a shape before me. I wasn’t alarmed, that sort of thing happens often in the blackout, and I apologised and made some comment.

  ‘There was no reply. Whoever it was had no time for pleasantries. He grabbed me, a hand around my mouth so that I could make no sound. I tried to struggle, though, and then I felt an agonising pain in my side and I fell to the ground. I remember no more. He must have dashed my head on the cobbles, the doctor said, though I have no recollection of it. Whoever it was and for reasons known only to himself, he had stabbed me in the stomach. The doctor said the coat saved my life.

  ‘The next thing I remember is waking up in Violet’s. She’d tripped over me in the yard and she’d found my knickers lying beside me and put them into her pocket.’

  ‘You have no idea who did this?’ Catherine said, scarcely able to believe it.

  ‘None,’ Lizzie said. ‘The police were called. They had to be, for the doctor insisted. He said they couldn’t have a madman like that loose in the blackout. After the attack, no women went out alone. A lot of women at the factory were collected by any men folk they had left at home and there were more police drafted into the area.’

  ‘But he was never found?’

  ‘No, and as far as I know he attacked no one else, though he could of course have been killed in one of the raids.’

  ‘But if he just attacked you, it must have been someone you knew.’

  ‘Mammy, I wouldn’t know. I could see nothing.’

  ‘You must have encouraged him.’

  ‘In that dark and black night? Encourage him to stab me?’

  ‘Not then,’ Catherine said, ‘but I’ve heard of the lax
morals in England. Women enjoying themselves with the men away.’

  ‘Mammy, I never go over the doorstep except to work or Mass or to Violet’s next door.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No more do I, Mammy, and the police too were baffled.’

  ‘And this man…You let him…?’

  ‘Let’s get this straight, Mammy,’ Lizzie said angrily. ‘I didn’t let anyone do anything. I wasn’t aware of any of it. I was unconscious and bleeding. I had no idea what he had done and have no recollection of it.’

  ‘Well, you know now all right!’ Catherine snapped. ‘How far on are you?’

  ‘Nearly five months.’

  ‘Oh Holy Mother of God,’ Catherine wailed. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this. Brought this shame to our door.’

  ‘I know, and I am sorry,’ Lizzie said. ‘Truly I am, but Mammy, it wasn’t of my making. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘What I see, girl, is a woman with a swollen belly and her husband overseas this long while. We won’t be able to hold our heads up. We’ll be dragged through the mud.’

  ‘What could I do about it, Mammy?’ Lizzie asked. ‘Just tell me that?’

  ‘You have no right to demand answers of me, and don’t you forget it,’ Catherine said, her worry turning to anger. ‘Why were you attacked and none other? I think there’s something here you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Mammy, I swear to you,’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘Please listen? I want nothing to do with this child, begat of violence. Do you know of a place I can go to have the child and afterwards leave it with the nuns?’

  ‘So you can forget all about it and go on with your life?’

  Lizzie sighed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what is the alternative, Mammy? And in your anger over the condition I’m in now, remember what I told you first. The man nearly killed me. He had a damned good try.’