Mary Kate

by Nadine Dorries

  Sister Magdalena turned to the hall with astonishment etched on her face as the parents and children began to clap in appreciation.

  It was only later, as the Malone car was heading towards Tarabeg and the kitchen maids were clearing away the detritus from the afternoon tea, that a novice nun told Sister Magdalena that the flowers had been Mary Kate’s idea. The presentation had been arranged following a discreet telephone call to her village post office and all the girls had agreed that, despite Mary Kate’s insistence that one of the girls taking the veil should present them, Mary Kate had to be the one to do it.

  ‘Well, I never,’ Sister Magdalena spluttered. ‘After fifty years, I am taken by surprise.’

  ‘She will spend her life surprising people, that one,’ the young novice replied. ‘Don’t you think, Mother?’

  As Sister Magdalena buried her nose in the heady scent of the rich blooms, she wiped away a tear. Of all the girls she had ever taught, that one she would miss.

  4

  Liverpool

  ‘I’m finished at two – we could take a walk up into town and make a start on that list of yours,’ Captain Bob said to Bee at 6 a.m. as he tucked into his breakfast. It was the same breakfast he’d had every working day since they’d moved to Liverpool from Tarabeg. Porridge made with water, and a fat rasher, cut with the blade set to number three and sandwiched between a slice of white bread, all swallowed down with two large mugs of strong, sweet tea. Bee always sat with him and watched as he ate every morsel. It gave her as much pleasure to observe him eating in the mornings as their lovemaking did at night, and besides, given that she couldn’t work because she had no marriage lines, what else did she have to do?

  ‘I don’t know of a man in Liverpool who offers to go shopping without being forced into it. You are a one-off, Captain Bob.’ She smiled over the brim of her cup and her eyes met his, which were as blue and twinkly as the day they’d met.

  They were both aware that the words ‘with his wife’ had been missing from her comment. ‘A man in Liverpool who offers to go shopping with his wife’ is what she should have said, what she wanted to say.

  ‘Well, if my little Bee needs a new coat, who am I to argue?’ He tilted his head of curly white hair to smile at her.

  Bee sat up straight in her chair, pulled the breadboard and knife towards her, laid the flat of her hand on top of the loaf to check it had cooled enough to be cut, and lifted the knife. ‘It’s not so much that I want one,’ she said as she looked up at him, the knife mid air. ‘I’m quite happy with my old one, I can tell you – it’s just that, well, the fashions in Liverpool are changing so fast and every time I walk down to the river in my long coat I feel like an old Irishwoman. I don’t like to stand out so much. Have you seen how some of the girls are wearing their hems up above their knees now! I’m never going to be doing that, but nor am I going to be looking like a cast-off from before the war.’

  Bob took the slice of bread Bee held out to him, placed the bacon inside, folded it over and wiped the hot fat from the plate in front of him. He held his sandwich, ready to pounce on it, and realised he had no idea what to say in reply. This recent discontent of Bee’s was a new phenomenon and he was sure it had something to do with her son, Ciaran, having left home to join the merchant navy.

  Bee had made no attempt to discourage Ciaran, aware that if she tried too hard, he would sneak off like many local boys did. When a ship was in and taking on, young men would slip down to the docks in the middle of the night and sail on the first tide, without their mother’s blessing. Bee could not deny that the sea was in Ciaran’s blood: he was the son of a fisherman sent to an early watery grave off the coast of Mayo, and now he was influenced by the man who had taken his father’s place, sea-captain Bob. ‘How could he have chosen any other way?’ she had asked herself so many times.

  ‘Are you expecting a letter today?’ asked Captain Bob before he sank his teeth into the soft white bread.

  Bee received many letters and they were the highlight of her day, the bridges that took her back home. From Keeva in Tarabeg, from the exotic ports where Ciaran docked, from her dead husband’s parents out on the coast, and – her favourites – from her great-niece, Mary Kate.

  ‘Well, I haven’t heard a thing from Mary Kate for over two weeks. I think she’s forgotten about me altogether.’

  ‘Isn’t she finishing school any day now? She’s probably busy packing up and moving back home.’

  ‘Yes, but home to where, though?’ said Bee. ‘She’s never been keen on staying in the shop since Michael married Rosie.’

  Bob picked up his tea and blew the steam away. ‘If you’re asking me, my guess is she will go straight up to the farm, to Nola and Seamus. She has a fondness for Finn, but he sounds so close to Rosie, it must seem to Mary Kate as though they have two different mothers.’

  Bee glanced over to the window as the first pair of boots heading down to the Dockers’ Steps stomped past. ‘Well, there isn’t a lot I can do. Not one of them will let her live here with us, not given our situation. We can fool all of Liverpool, we’re good at that, but we can’t fool those left at home. They know the truth and they turned us down once. I can’t even ask.’

  Captain Bob put down his tea and sighed. He saw the sadness that flitted across her eyes. Mary Kate was the closest member of her own family Bee had left. This was the point at which he always became lost for words. He and Bee and Ciaran had fled Ireland, fled his wife and demanding daughters in Ballycroy, and sought the anonymity of Liverpool, a city that allowed them to live together. They were lovers in need of dark shadows in which to hide. He had never regretted leaving the wife who had never wanted him or cared for him. A wife who made him feel as though he was a stranger every time he walked into his own home. A wife who laughed at him, scolded him and taunted him with her frequent hints at how she occupied her time while he was away at sea, who spent more time in the bar, leaving the running of their home to his daughters. His daughters were equally vindictive, all except for Nell, who had been afflicted since birth and the only one he missed and made his heart ache with the guilt of it all.

  In the past, he and Bee had been happy to meet one or two nights a week in secret at her Tarabeg cottage, but everything changed the night her sister Angela was murdered by her husband. Bee changed. She needed him, whereas before she had only wanted him. Since arriving in Liverpool, they had masqueraded as man and wife, Bee wearing the wedding band she had never removed since the day her late husband Rory had slipped it onto her finger. Bob had travelled ahead and secured the house, using his own marriage lines as proof of respectable status. He paid a month’s rent in advance and returned to Tarabeg for Bee and Ciaran.

  Their home was on the dock streets, where the rent was cheaper, because Bob still sent an envelope of money to his wife and now grown children every Friday. Even so, because Captain Bob was a river pilot, they still had far more than any of the dockers’ families on their streets, some of whom were Irish immigrants like themselves and had a brood of children to feed.

  As Bee helped Bob into his thick black jacket with its oilskin covered shoulders and upper back, he bent and kissed her full on the lips, as he always did. ‘When we finish shopping, we’ll have a little drink in town, shall we?’

  Bee smiled up at him. ‘We shall, if that will make you happy.’

  Their eyes locked for a long moment. The one thing that would make them truly happy could never be theirs. They would never know married love. She could never call him ‘husband’, nor could he proudly call her ‘my wife’.

  ‘One day,’ he whispered and pulled her into him. She hadn’t needed to say anything: he saw the sadness in her eyes, was painfully aware that she would never be fully happy until she could hook her arm through his and know they were together in the eyes of God, sin-free and proud.

  ‘Aye, well, you can’t go promising something you can’t deliver,’ she said as she pulled away. ‘We may both be dead before she is and she will be t
he only one of us who gets a place in heaven.’

  Captain Bob had no answer to that; it was as true as the day was long. ‘We will have that drink after we buy you the nicest coat in Liverpool,’ he said to cheer her up as he patted her on the backside before slipping out of the back door.

  Moments later, while Bee was standing at the sink clearing away the dishes, her neighbour, Cat, walked in through the back door. Cat hadn’t knocked – no one ever did on the dock streets. They both knew it was no coincidence that she’d arrived within seconds of Captain Bob leaving; she would have been standing in her cold kitchen, waiting to hear the click of the back-door latch and the thump of the captain’s boots as he made his way down the entry.

  Cat was a widow and therefore a woman whom Bee understood, but without being able to let her know why. Having her as a neighbour had been a blessing. When she’d first arrived in Liverpool, Bee had had no idea how to work a gas cooker, having always cooked over an open fire, and was ignorant of city ways, which were so different from how things were done in villages on the west coast. Cat, a native Scouser, had been a willing helper, and from those initial acts of kindness had benefitted greatly from Bee’s generosity, and her burning guilt. Women with more inquisitive natures than Cat’s, women who asked too many questions – like Linda, her neighbour on the other side – were a curse.

  ‘He’s gone then, has he?’ said Cat as she closed the back door behind her. ‘Is there a ship out at the bar?’

  Bee hadn’t turned around from the sink and carried on washing the still warm plate Bob had eaten his bacon from. ‘He has and there is, Cat. Has Linda’s Jimmy gone down to the docks yet?’

  Cat sniffed and took a look around the kitchen. ‘I don’t think so. I feel sorry for Linda – he’s such a lazy bastard. At least my old man never missed a day’s work. If he had, he might still be here, God love him.’ Cat’s husband Ben had been killed outright by the hook of a crane swinging through the air and colliding with his skull. An all too frequent dockside fatality. ‘You haven’t emptied the tea leaves away, have you, Bee?’

  Bee sighed. ‘No, Cat, I haven’t, of course not. I saved a cup for you and there is hot water in that kettle if you want to pour some on.’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that. I’m parched, I am, and we ran out yesterday.’

  Bee and Captain Bob had always been a mystery to Cat. Bob was a captain, a pilot, which gave him status, and yet he lived on the dock streets. ‘I can smell a river rat a mile off,’ Linda had said to Cat. ‘I’ll find out what’s what in there.’ But she never had and it drove her to distraction. Cat took everyone at face value, laughed off Linda’s preoccupation with the lives of others, and had never for one moment suspected that the wedding band on Bee’s finger was not from Bob or that the two of them weren’t married. Linda, though, knew something wasn’t quite right and hadn’t stopped sniffing since the day they’d moved in next door.

  ‘How much did Captain Bob earn last week then?’ asked Cat as she poured the scalding water onto the tea leaves. ‘He was out every day, wasn’t he? Never had a day off, did he? What I want to know is what is it you two are doing with the money. And with your Ciaran earning now too. Rolling in it, you two are.’ She laughed, not aware that she was probing and making Bee uncomfortable.

  No question was out of bounds on the dock streets and Bee knew the details of every woman’s sex life. She ignored Cat, picked up a cloth and began to dry the dishes.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but you’ve not bought something new – ever,’ said Cat. ‘You’re wearing the same bloody coat you got off the boat in, and him on a captain’s wage! You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you never go down the pub and you’ve never once set foot in the Irish Centre with the rest of the Irish around here. Don’t you ever get sick of the sight of each other?’

  Bee placed the plate on the press and sighed. She was used to this. Cat’s twenty questions, raised every time she saw Bee, rarely altered. She was as nosey as the others, but she lacked Linda’s edge, and a successful inquisitor she was not.

  ‘Actually, Cat, Bob is taking me shopping for a new coat later today, as you mention it. I’m meeting him and we’re taking a walk up to Bold Street, to one of the outfitters there.’ She turned and smiled at the expression on Cat’s face. It was a delight to see her eyes widen, her mouth drop and her brow furrow.

  ‘Bold Street? Jesus. The only time I’ve ever been up there was when I was a kid, with me da, when he was selling chestnuts on a brazier in the winter. Used to have the spot on the bottom where it meets with Church Street. There was nothing I could afford in any of those shops then, and there wouldn’t be anything for me now either. Look at the state of you, living here and shopping up there. I wouldn’t even get taken on to work in one of the shops. I’m not la-di-da enough for them.’

  Bee instantly felt guilty and sorry for Cat. Cat had helped her more than she had hindered her over the years and now she felt mean. ‘I tell you what, Cat, I’m not baking today, but how about I bring you a slice of fruitcake back from Lyons,’ she said with a smile.

  Cat’s face lit up. Bee knew fruitcake was her favourite. ‘Would you? I can’t afford it, mind. I can’t give you any money for it. I don’t get me widow’s pension until Friday.’

  ‘I’ll buy it for you, Cat, as a present, but don’t go giving any to Linda. If you feel inclined to give her anything at all, why don’t you tell her to get Jimmy up a bit earlier and down to the front of the queue in the pen each morning. I heard Hattie’s Jack going past my window at six on the dot this morning, before Bob had even left. He would have been there before the foreman opened the pen gate. I bet he’s been taken on every day.’

  Cat’s face fell. ‘I can’t tell her that, Bee. The steaming lump is lying there now. Told Linda to bugger off when she tried to move him yesterday – he didn’t go in then, either. He was in the Anchor last night and he keeps saying his back is bad. I feel sorry for Lin, I do.’ Cat removed the stub of a cigarette from behind her ear. She didn’t tell Bee that she’d picked it up off the entry floor before she’d turned into Bee’s gate. The stub was still wet from the lips of Hattie’s Jack.

  Bee knew Cat had come round because her kitchen was the only place she would find a hot cup of tea that day; she loved her tea more than a rare slice of fruitcake. Bee was about to wipe the crumbs from her breadboard, but with a glance at Cat, she cut the loaf in half. ‘Here, this bread is going to go stale. I still haven’t got used to our Ciaran not being here and wanting half a loaf at night to mop up his gravy. Why don’t you take it in for your kids for breakfast? Make a nice bit of toast with dripping. Here.’ She placed an enamel pot of dripping on the board with the bread. ‘Wrap it in your apron, go on, before the kids leave for school.’

  Cat pushed the stub of the still unlit cigarette behind her ear. ‘You are an angel, Bee, you really are. If anyone says to me that the Irish are dirty, they get an earful from me, they do. I was blessed, I was, the day you was sent to live next door to me.’ She dropped the pot of dripping into her apron pocket, wrapped the rest of the loaf in her apron and was heading for the door in seconds. Cat was a gossip, but she was a mother first, and she wasn’t about to choose a natter in Bee’s kitchen over the chance to give her children some breakfast. ‘Can I take me tea with me?’ she said, looking longingly at the mug.

  Bee smiled and topped up the tea from the pot. ‘Here you go, Cat. Drop the dishes back later.’

  ‘Oh, Bee, you’ll go straight to heaven, you will,’ and Cat shuffled down the yard in her threadbare slippers, making sure she didn’t spill a drop.

  *

  It was as Bee was leaving for the Pier Head and closing the back gate behind her that she saw the post-office boy cycling down the entry. She was wondering why on earth she was buying a coat in July – she was so hot already. She missed her shawl, but none of the Irishwomen on the dock streets wore the outdoor uniform of home and she would never be seen in town without a coat, so boil she would.

 
There was something about the way the boy looked at her as he placed both his feet down on the stone flags to slow his bike. ‘Got one for you, Mrs Tooley,’ he shouted.

  Bee wished he’d kept his voice down, wary of the net curtains on either side of the entry twitching in response. ‘You’ll wear out your shoe leather like that,’ she said, holding out her hand for the envelope, concealing her irritation at his having announced her business to the street. ‘What is it?’ she asked, frowning. Her envelopes arrived handwritten, not like this, brown and typed.

  ‘It’s a telegram. Just came in. It’s for Captain Tooley,’ he replied as he handed it over. ‘Here, you have to sign for it.’ He pulled a book out of the basket on the front of his bike; hanging from its metal spine was a pencil on a string. With both legs astride his bike, he pushed up his cap, grinned and passed her the book. ‘I won’t get a biscuit for me troubles now that I’ve met you in the entry,’ he said.

  ‘You cheeky bugger,’ said Bee. ‘I’ll give you one next time you bring the post.’ Her voice tailed off as she turned the envelope over in her hands, looking for the postmark. There was none, just the word ‘Telegram’ typed along the top in a large, self-important typeface.

  The boy hovered, his bike tipping from side to side as his feet didn’t quite reach the ground.

  ‘Go on, off with you,’ said Bee. ‘Have you no other letters to be delivering?’

  His face fell and Bee knew why. He was waiting to find out what was in the telegram, but she would not give him the satisfaction. Looking crestfallen, he gripped the handlebars and, using his feet, shuffled the bike round in the narrow entry to head back in the direction he’d come from. ‘See you tomorrow, Mrs Tooley,’ he shouted. ‘I reckon you’re due a letter from your Ciaran any day now.’