‘No.’ Maureen sounded weary and rested one hand against the wall. Lucy could just about make out the shadow of a bruise on her cheek in the gloom and felt angry. ‘Where did you go?’ asked Maureen.
‘The kids’ matinee. I wish we could go to the police.’
‘Don’t even think about it!’ Her mother’s voice was alarmed. ‘Family’s family and you don’t go telling tales. Besides, he’d kill us!’
‘Do you really think…’ Lucy clutched her mother’s arm.
‘No, no! Take no notice of what I said.’ She leaned against Lucy. ‘Let’s get home before parts of me freeze and drop off.’ Slowly they went up the passage and into the house where Maureen reassured herself that Timmy was OK.
In one way Lucy was glad of her mother’s refusal to talk about Mick’s violent behaviour because that way it was easier to pretend it had never happened. A few days later her uncle came back looking pleased with himself and seemed more his old self.
‘You’ve been going on at me, sister, to get meself a job and haven’t I gone and done it.’
‘That’s marvellous news, Mick!’ Maureen uncurled herself from the sofa and flung her arms round him.
‘I’m back with a bookie. A different one this time.’
Her face fell. ‘What about that moneylender who was after you?’
Mick cut himself a slice of bread. ‘I had a bit of luck there. I was told someone set fire to his house and all his books were destroyed. He’s left the neighbourhood.’
Now fancy that! thought Lucy. Have I got a suspicious mind or haven’t I? She had not forgotten the smell of paraffin on his clothes, which still lingered upstairs too.
Christmas came and there was talk of a ceasefire in Ireland. Mick disappeared for a few days and when he reappeared didn’t come empty-handed but carried a basket containing butter and eggs, several bottles of Guinness, a whole leg of pork, and hats and gloves for Maureen and the children, which Dermot’s mother had knitted ’specially for them.
‘Things are looking up,’ said Maureen, setting the bright green tammy at a flattering angle on her auburn curls. ‘Now that suits me, wouldn’t you say, Mick?’ She flashed him a saucy smile.
‘Aye, you’re looking a picture.’ He swept her into his arms and danced her round the kitchen. After he’d left Maureen laughing and gasping for breath on the sofa, he dragged Lucy up and danced her round the room as well. She was bemused. Was this smiling, charming man one and the same as the one who’d hit her mother, flung herself to the ground and punched Timmy in the stomach?
They had the pork with sage and onion stuffing for Christmas dinner and Maureen and Mick were all smiles as they reminisced about their childhood.
On Boxing Day they went to Aunt Mac’s. There was music, dancing, singing and much talk of Ireland becoming a republic. The conversation became heated and there would have been a fight if Uncle Mac hadn’t threatened to knock a few heads together.
The church bells had not long welcomed in 1921 when Lucy arrived home to find Mick pacing the floor, a brooding expression on his face because apparently negotiations between the government in London and the leaders in Dublin and Belfast were not going smoothly. Six counties in the North wanted to remain part of Great Britain.
Lucy set about chopping wood. Mick flung down the newspaper, watching splinters go flying as she brought down the axe for the umpteenth time. ‘What the hell’s the girl doing?’
‘You know what’s she’s doing, Mick,’ said Maureen, glancing up from her sewing. ‘You’ve seen either Lucy or myself chopping firewood for months now. You’d know what she was about if you took any notice of what’s going on in this house, instead of being out with Callum and that Shaun, drinking and plotting.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that, sister!’ he roared, thrusting his face in hers.
Maureen shrank back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry, Mick, but I thought you’d have noticed.’
‘I have bloody noticed! I’ve noticed she’s making a mess of the floor.’
Lucy stared at him. ‘I’ve got it on some newspaper. We’ve no yard where I can do it.’
‘You shouldn’t be doing it here.’ He jerked the axe from her hand. She yelped as the handle burned her palms then watched as he brought down the axe with all his might, only for it to dig so deeply into the wood that he couldn’t wrench it out. He tried but the shaft broke off and the wood with the axe head stuck in it flew through the air, catching Timmy a blow on the side of the head. He screamed and clutched his ear.
‘Shut up, boy!’ Mick lunged at him. Timmy ducked and covered his head with his hands but the blow never landed because suddenly Mick was doubled up, clutching his groin.
Timmy lowered his arms. Maureen dropped her sewing and went to him. Blood was running down the side of his face. ‘See what you’ve done to him, you eejit!’
Mick swore. ‘What about me? It’s me wound.’
‘Tush! You and your bloody wound.’ She lifted up her son and licked the blood from his ear.
‘Uncle Mick nearly chopped me head off, Mam.’ He snuggled into her, darting his uncle a look of loathing.
‘I wish I bloody had!’ muttered Mick. ‘Has no one any sympathy for me? Here, Lucy, come and help me up to bed. I’ll have to lie down.’
She hesitated, not wanting to help him.
‘Come on, girl! This is your fault.’
How’s it my fault? she wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Reluctantly she went over to him and he laid his arm about her shoulders. His size and weight swamped her and as they climbed the stairs she felt as if her back would break. But the breath was whistling between his teeth and she presumed he really was in pain.
She helped him lower himself on to the bed and was about to turn away when he said, ‘Don’t go! A teensy-weensy flesh wound, that’s all Timmy’s got. I caught a bullet in my groin and the doctor lost count of the stitches I needed when they sewed me up. Yet not a sound passed my lips. What d’you think of that, Lucy girl?’
‘You’re brave,’ she said diplomatically, remembering his screams when the doctor had dug out the bullet.
‘Nothing brave about it, girl. Pride! That’s what it was.’ Uncle Mick shifted himself on the bed until his head rested against the pillow and thrust one foot at her. ‘Do the honours!’ She hesitated but he frowned and said, ‘What are you waiting for? I’m not going to bite you.’ But you could kick me, she thought. Nevertheless she began to unlace his boot.
‘I’ve got a scar as long as your arm,’ he boasted.
So what?
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Of course I believe you, Uncle Mick,’ she said, trying to hurry with the laces, only to end up tying one tighter.
‘Damn me if I don’t show you, girl!’
She looked up, startled. Already he was sitting up and had begun to unfasten his flies. His boot slipped through her fingers and fell with a thud to the floor. She felt trapped, certain her mother wouldn’t approve of him taking his trousers off in front of her. ‘I don’t have to see it, Uncle Mick. I do believe you!’ she said hastily.
‘It’s all right, Lucy, you won’t be seeing anything you oughtn’t to see.’ He bared a hip, holding his clothing carefully and moving it little by little until she could see the scar that ran from his hip bone into his groin.
It repulsed her, reminding her of a tapeworm her grandmother had shown her in a bucket once, having told Lucy she’d starved it out of her insides because it had been eating her food almost as soon as she’d swallowed it.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ He laughed. ‘Touch it!’
She shook her head and, turning, fled from the room, almost falling downstairs in her haste to reach her mother. She felt an overwhelming rush of affection and relief when she found Maureen sitting in a chair by the fire with Timmy on her knee. She went over to them, put her arm round her mother’s neck and pressed her hot cheek against hers. Maureen looked at her askance. ‘What’s this? He didn’t hit you?’
>
Lucy shook her head, too choked to speak.
‘It’s always there, waiting to erupt,’ said Maureen, a catch in her voice. ‘It’s our history. So much oppression and violence, so much passion and dreaming. It’s no wonder he’s the way he is, what with fighting for the British and then fighting against them. Then his wound and the frustration of no decent work or a fit house for us to live in.’ She eased Timmy off her knee. ‘I’d best go up and see him. You bundle the wood you’ve chopped, Lucy.’ She vanished upstairs.
Within moments the children heard raised voices. Lucy’s fingers shook as she fastened the wire round the wooden chips.
Her mother reappeared, eyes shiny with tears, but when she spoke her voice was normal. ‘Your Uncle Mick’s nothing but a baby!’ She picked up the axe and tugged it free of the wood and ran a finger along the blade. ‘See, Lucy, this is blunt. Ask the ironmonger to sharpen it and have a new shaft fixed. Mick said he’ll do all the chopping in future. It’s not fit work for a girl your age, he says. It’ll give you calluses and a man likes a girl to have soft hands.’ Lucy thought of the scene upstairs and it struck her there was only one reason why her uncle should care whether her hands were soft or not. A chill ran down her spine. She was determined never to be alone with him again.
Chapter Eight
Lucy watched her uncle wielding the axe and thought there was something strange going on. If Mick’s war wound was as painful as he’d made out a while ago, how was he able to chop wood? Not that she was going to complain about him taking over because she still sold the wood, though she would much rather make sweets, but that was out of the question at the moment.
Times were hard and Lucy’s conscience was bothering her. Maureen was behind with the rent, although she was managing to pay a little off the arrears each week. It was only the thought of her uncle benefiting from her money that kept Lucy silent about her savings. As it was they were dwindling because straight after school every day she swore Timmy to secrecy and took him to Maggie Block’s where they drank mugs of steaming cocoa and gobbled down eggs on toast or a few spare ribs or cooked hearts in gravy. She comforted herself with the thought that money wasn’t much good to you if you didn’t live to spend it.
There had been lots of deaths that winter. So many were suffering hardship as more men joined the ranks of the unemployed. There was widespread dissatisfaction over conditions and pay and the broken promises of the government about improved housing. The land fit for heroes which had been promised the homecoming troops had not materialised, and neither had Home Rule for Ireland.
Mick straightened, putting a hand to the small of his back. ‘You can pick this lot up and tie it into bundles.’
Lucy nodded, bending to gather the chips of wood together. She felt a hand on her bottom and shot up, scattering wood all over the place.
Her uncle grinned. ‘Sorry, Lucy girl, but I couldn’t resist it. You’ve got a lovely little bum.’ He picked up his coat and walked out of the kitchen.
With trembling fingers she crouched to pick up the wood, gauging how many chips she needed for a bundle and tying it with wire. Her stomach was quivering and she was furious with Mick for scaring the life out of her, just when she had begun to put behind her that episode in the bedroom.
By the time the cart was loaded she had calmed down and was even a little scornful of that small, scared girl inside her. She was fourteen now and had grown two inches. After all, didn’t her mother occasionally send her on the way with a pat on the bottom? Even so she hated her uncle doing it, not after wanting her to touch his scar.
He did not come home that evening, but the next day when Lucy and Timmy were hurrying back from Netherfield Road they took a short cut up a back entry and saw him with another man. He was handing over a parcel to Mick and what looked like money and a note. If it had not been for the parcel Lucy would have presumed he was a punter, but they didn’t hand over parcels. She was so busy glancing over her shoulder at them that she ran into someone. ‘Sorry!’ she gasped, rubbing her chest which was already feeling sore that day.
‘That’s OK,’ the man murmured and brushed past her, not sparing her a second glance.
Lucy stared after him. If it had not been for the voice she might not have recognised Rob Jones in that shabby suit and cloth cap. He had been unshaven, too, and altogether looked like he didn’t have two farthings to rub together. Could Constable Jones possibly be in disguise? Could he be after her uncle for breaking the law by taking bets? Or had the police got wind of his being involved in something far more dangerous? She thought of Mick’s gun and was worried. Should she warn the policeman or would he already be aware of such a possibility? And how would her mother feel if Mick were arrested and put in prison? Despite his occasional bouts of violence and cruelty he was her brother and, as she had said in the past, family was family. Lucy decided for the moment to keep quiet.
When she returned from the timber yard it was to find the fire was out. She checked the coal cupboard because there should have been enough there to make up a fire but it was bare. Where was her mother? Had she gone to queue up for some? Lucy chopped some wood and got a fire going to welcome her home when she arrived.
Maureen looked none too happy when she came in. ‘Holy Mother! What a lousy day it’s been!’ she said, dragging off her tammy. ‘Run upstairs, Lucy, and put a match to the fire in Mick’s room.’ The girl stared at her. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said her mother, looking gloomy. ‘I told him we couldn’t afford to have a second fire in the house but he …’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘You know what he’s like.’ She threw a box of matches at her daughter. ‘He’s got some friends coming and wants to be private.’
As soon as Lucy entered Mick’s room she could smell paraffin. She closed the door, not only to shut out the draught coming up the stairs but so her mother wouldn’t hear her rummaging around. Not that there were many places to look. She got down on her knees and peered under the bed and there was the parcel and a can of paraffin.
She would have liked to open the parcel and see what was in it but didn’t dare. Instead she went over to the fireplace and struck a match. It took another two for the paper to ignite but soon there was a nice blaze going and she went downstairs.
Half an hour later Mick arrived home with Shaun O’Neill and Callum. The latter looked unhappy as he glanced at Maureen but she ignored him. Lucy saw his mouth tighten as he followed the other two upstairs.
Two days later there was an explosion in St Domingo Grove and a house was destroyed. Lucy could not help noticing that it was the same number as Barney’s house on St Domingo Road. She thought of pointing that out to her mother but as it was believed that the explosion had been caused by a gas leak Lucy decided that it could be just a coincidence. Besides she wasn’t feeling well and her mother might get all upset and cause a scene.
It was the following morning that Lucy found blood on the sheet. Maureen sighed. ‘This is the first time you’ve bled?’
Lucy nodded, gazing down at the stain on the multi-darned sheet and then at the blood trickling down her leg. She knew this had happened to other girls who were younger than herself but had only a vague idea what it meant.
Her mother went over to the rickety chest of drawers and took out a handful of rags. ‘This is going to happen every month and it means you’re turning into a woman. So no teasing or flirting with the lads,’ she said firmly. ‘You keep your distance or it could lead you into mortal sin.’
Lucy nodded. Her belly ached and so did her chest but she smiled because here at last was a physical sign that she was growing up and was no longer a ‘little girl’. If only she could grow a few more inches!
‘Here, take these.’ Maureen thrust the rags into her hands, along with a couple of safety pins. ‘Fasten them inside your drawers. You’ll have to boil them up in a pan afterwards because you’ll have to use them again. My mother was right when she called it the curse.’
‘The curse?’
‘God’s curse on Eve for tempting Adam in the Garden of Eden. Although God only knows why Adam couldn’t have said no.’ She shrugged. ‘But there you are, we women always get the blame. I only wish I could tempt Mr Jones into marrying me, but at the moment I’m keeping him at a distance. I don’t want any harm coming to him.’
‘Mam! That explosion in St Domingo Grove…’ Lucy said earnestly. ‘You don’t think it was Uncle Mick or Callum?’
Maureen sat down on the edge of the bed, her face taut. ‘I did wonder but I hope to God we’re wrong. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do. You bind yourself and keep yourself pure. When you marry there’ll be times when you’ll look upon the curse as a friend. Now, strip off that sheet. It’ll have to be soaked and the sooner the better.’ Lucy did as she was told, uncomfortable but with a new awareness of her own femininity.
The three men met again some weeks later. Maureen had popped next door and they were upstairs. Timmy suggested hiding under the table from them in case they came down again. ‘I could be Jim Hawkins hiding in an apple barrel on the good ship Hispaniola, and you could be the mate.’
Lucy was quite happy to fall in with her brother’s plans. She had the curse again and didn’t want to go out.
They had been there half an hour when the men came downstairs. Immediately Lucy and Timmy fell silent.
‘They must have gone out,’ said Mick. ‘I thought I heard the door go.’
‘Never mind that. Are we decided?’ said Shaun. ‘I can trust you to see to this? So far you’ve made a mess of things by blowing up the wrong house. I thought we’d get that bobby. It makes me question whether you’re the right person to be helping Mick with this task, Callum. You’re not used to explosives.’
‘I didn’t want to do it,’ he muttered. ‘I just thank God, nobody was killed. I’m not cut out for this game.’
‘You’re in now. You can’t be getting out,’ said Shaun, a menacing note in his voice.
A bobby! thought Lucy, with a shiver. Could that be Rob Jones? She must tell her mother and see what she thought.
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