by Annie Murray
Things had got worse since Micky died and that priest came. That’s how Joey remembered it. Before, there had been more times when she was peaceful, motherly to him. Those were the worst times. When she wanted to cuddle him and sing him songs like a baby which made him ache inside so that he had to push her away. He saw her as wearing a mask that would split open at any second to show her other face: crazy and frightening. At least when she was drunk and screaming like a witch he knew he was seeing the real thing: there could be nothing worse hidden underneath to leap out and hurt him.
Since that night she had been forever on at John for drink, begging and wheedling. Joey never understood why John bought it for her. It was almost as if he wanted to cause devilment. He bought cheap, harsh liquor, which was all he could afford, and night after night now she drank and sobbed and picked fights. Finally she would slump to the ground and sleep. But sometimes she just went out, slamming the door so that the house shook and returning long after Joey was asleep. She was never awake when he and John left in the morning. And she had money after those nights, which she gave to John for ‘another drop’ for the next night.
Hearing her again now, Joey got up, carrying his boots, and moved away into the shelter of the tunnel through the brambles, where there was no shouting and the light was green.
Christie stood with his head under the water pipe, washing the plaster dust from his face and hair. His trousers and boots were white with it. He stepped back and flung his head back, showering Joey with water.
‘Oh – sorry little fella – didn’t see you standing there!’
Christie tried to sound chirpy, but Joey could hear the flat exhaustion in his voice.
‘All right, are you?’ He pushed back his hair with his hands, trying to flatten it. Water dripped from his chin and rivulets ran down from his hair.
Joey nodded.
‘Cat still got that tongue?’ Christie’s rough fingers chucked his chin.
Joey nodded again. Couldn’t seem to find words.
‘There’s taters over the fire. Come on, now.’
Joey followed him. Things felt safer when Christie was there.
But not for long. Siobhan was swaying in the middle of the room, the bottle in her hand.
‘He won’t talk to me. He won’t dance with me.’ She looked down and after some time, managed to take a step forwards. ‘He’s . . .’ She had to take time to think. ‘He’s a bastard . . . A freak . . . He won’t listen to me. Won’t take any notice of me . . .’
‘Siobhan, for the love of God . . .’ Christie’s tone was despairing. He seemed past being able to summon anger with her. ‘Sit down and we’ll get some food into you . . .’ He pulled the bottle from her hand, despite her struggle. She was too drunk and weak to be able to fight back and Christie flung it against the far wall. It smashed and Siobhan started to cry.
‘You bastard, Christie, taking away my one bit of comfort in this world. I hate you . . . I do . . . you bastard priest of a brother!’ The word priest held all the contempt she could muster.
She gasped all this out between sobs as Christie seized her arm and pulled her over to the mattress. Joey could sense a new intensity in Christie’s mood. Joey stood stock still in the corner by the door. In his head he went back outside to the quiet green peace among the brambles and trees.
‘No!’ Siobhan shrieked and yanked away from him. ‘Don’t boss me! I hate you, Christie!’
‘Sit down, I’m telling ye!’
In search of shelter from the shouting, Joey sank down in the dark corner, arms round his knees, rocking back and forth, his back slamming against the wall. Not Christie . . . not Christie . . . Christie was the one who didn’t shout or drink, who was safe . . . He squeezed his eyes closed. Make it stop . . . make it stop . . .
Christie pushed his sister down roughly onto the the mattress.
‘Why d’you bring it to her?’ He turned on John, completely beyond control. ‘How many times have I told you? A thousand times I’ve told you not to bring it to her!’
John stared dumbly at the pan of potatoes over the fire. This time it was Christie who went and shook him violently by the shoulders. ‘What is it you’re wanting, John, eh? The ruination of us? Can you not see it’s like feeding poison to her – that she can’t help herself . . .’
‘She asks me for it,’ John said without looking up. ‘She wants it. So I give it to her.’
‘You don’t give me anything else, though, do you, you freak show?’ Siobhan’s harsh shriek rang across the room.
‘For the love of God!’ Christie was still shaking him. ‘Can’t you see what it’s doing to her?’
Peering through his fingers, Joey thought Christie was going to throttle John. ‘What is it – are you stupid? You’re an idiot, John . . .’
John got to his feet, hurling Christie away from him. He was taller than Christie and, roused to anger, he looked fearsome with his great curling beard. He stood with his legs apart, arms working. In his strange nasal voice, he yelled, ‘I’m not an idiot! I’m not . . . Don’t call me that!’
‘Yes, you fecking well are for giving strong liquor to my sister – just look at the condition of her!’
‘Don’t call me that! Don’t call me that!’ John was howling, over and over, springing up on the balls of his feet as he did so, like a crazed jack-in-the-box.
‘I’m going from here.’ Siobhan dragged herself to her feet and started to make for the door.
‘No, you’re not – come back here . . .’ Christie flung himself over to the door and stood backed up against it.
‘Are you going to stand there all night to stop me?’ she mocked. She could not stand without swaying.
‘You’ll not leave this room . . .’
It went quiet for a moment. John stopped shouting. Christie was panting and he and Siobhan stood close, their eyes blazing into each other’s.
‘There’s you, Father Christie,’ she goaded him. ‘Always the hero, weren’t you? Mammy’s favourite – the priest, the family saviour . . . Couldn’t save me though, could you, Christie boy? Couldn’t stop me spoiling myself.’
‘Shiv – for God’s sake . . .’ His anger was gone. He sounded close to weeping.
‘I’m going to hell anyway, Christie. It’s too late. My sin cries out to heaven for vengeance . . . and yours . . . you helped me and you know it . . .’
‘You didn’t leave me any choice.’ It was barely more than a whisper.
‘Move, brother. You’ll not be able to stop me.’ She seized the door handle and pulled on it impotently. ‘Are you going to stand there all night? Just get out of my way, Christie!’ It was a harsh shriek. ‘You can’t save me.’
He did not move immediately, but at last, caught in her burning gaze, released his weight from the door. In a moment, Siobhan was gone.
Christie came and sat by the hearth. He put his face in his hands. When he heard the sobs, Joey crept closer and sat beside him.
Joey sat up, hearing Christie move about, striking matches for the fire. Daylight forced into the room through crevices in the wood. No one was lying on Siobhan’s mattress. Joey rubbed his eyes, got up and put his boots on. He had an urgent need to relieve himself so he went out to the garden and pee’d in the bushes. He looked back at the dark bricks of the house. The hour was very early, the sky hazy, and the garden was quiet except for pigeons somewhere in the trees and one on the roof, cooing and puttering. Joey liked the sounds it made. He could see its plump shape perched on the ridge beside the chimney stack.
Inside, John was still asleep. He hadn’t taken his hat off to lie down but now it lay displaced by his head. Christie was blowing on smoking twigs.
‘Where’s . . .?’ Joey began to ask.
‘How the hell do I know?’ Christie snapped.
Joey slunk away and sat in the corner. Normally, when he spoke harshly, Christie would come to him after, in a kinder mood and make peace. But not today. He brewed tea in silence and woke John. He handed Joe
y a jar of tea and a lump of bread.
‘Where’s Siobhan?’ John said. He stared vacantly at the empty mattress.
‘Not back. I don’t know. There’s nothing I can do just now.’ Christie chewed in silence for a moment. ‘I expect she’s found a spot to sleep it off. She’ll be right by tonight.’ But his tone was desperate.
Joey spent the day with John shovelling coal for a firm at one of the wharves, and when they got back to the house, black from head to foot, Joey expected Siobhan to be there scolding him about coming home in a state when she had washed his clothes. In an odd way he was almost glad of the thought. It had seemed strange and empty without her there this morning. He noticed that John did not spend any of their earnings at the Outdoor this time, getting drink for her.
When they arrived home, the room was empty. John stood in the doorway as if he couldn’t take it in.
‘Where’s Siobhan?’ he kept saying. ‘She’s not here. Where’s she gone?’
Joey thought if John said it again he would explode. How did he know where Siobhan was? Silently he went into the garden and began looking for sticks for the fire to add to the assortment of bits they’d picked up on the way home. He tried not to think about Siobhan. He shut her out of his mind.
But Christie’s face, when he got back, cut through him. His gaze sweeping the room, his expression when he saw she was not there.
‘Not been back?’
Their silent looks gave the answer. Without another word, Christie left again.
It was hours before he came back and he was alone and so weary he could barely move. John handed him the pan of food and he sank down by the remains of the fire.
‘I’ve walked the streets for hours. I tried the pubs, the priest. Where would she go?’ His voice cracked and he put the pan down. ‘Oh God, where is she? Is she doing this just to anger me? I can’t think she’d do that. She can’t manage on her own. She’s like a child . . . She needs me with her . . .’ Once more he put his face in his hands.
Three days passed. A week. Each night they came home full of hope that she would be there, but each time the room was empty and there was no sign of her. Christie stopped looking for work and spent the days searching.
‘I’m not calling the Guard,’ he said. ‘We don’t want them coming here. If anyone can find her, I can.’
In the evenings he told them where he’d been, the streets, parks, pubs, churches. Then one day Christie did not come home either. They kept his food warm in the pan until late at night while they waited.
In the end, John said, ‘He ain’t coming, is he? We’ll eat the rest of this.’
Between them they shovelled down the potatoes and stringy bits of meat.
Thinking of Christie, Joey could barely swallow the food. But then he thought, he should’ve come back at the right time if he wanted it. Too bad.
Thirty-Seven
The summer weeks were flying past. They lived and breathed the party, the meetings, the debates at the factory gates and in the parks, flags and banners flapping over the scuffed summer grass. Every day in the offices they pored over the newspapers for news about the Spanish campaigns: the nationalists’ bloody push on Madrid, the waves of reprisals in the republican zone against the Catholic Church. Gwen watched Daniel as each fresh piece of news arrived. He showed no reaction, especially to his non-Catholic comrades, but she knew the situation hurt him deeply.
Gwen worried about him: the way he constantly drove himself. His face was thin, and sometimes he looked glazed from lack of sleep. She knew his mother was worried about him too. Gwen had grown very fond of Theresa Fernandez, and sometimes popped in to see her even if Daniel was not there. Theresa didn’t often talk about her feelings, but one afternoon when Gwen paid her a visit, she said, ‘See if you can slow our Daniel down a bit, will you, Gwen? He won’t listen to me, course, but he’s hardly been in his own bed these last few days. He’s starting to look like a ghost.’ Since the holidays had begun, she had dropped the formality of calling Gwen ‘Miss Purdy’, even in front of Lucy and the others.
Gwen avoided her eyes. Theresa was so upright in her morals, Gwen knew it would never occur to her that the main reason Daniel had been away from his own bed so much in the past week was that he had been in hers. Millie and Lance had gone away for a few days to Gwen’s great relief. They had started arguing more openly lately, as Millie got more heavy and uncomfortable and less tolerant about everything, especially her husband. Gwen and Daniel had been able to snatch a few hours together in the flat without anyone else about, before Daniel crept out in the small hours back to his own bed at home.
‘He’s so like his father,’ Theresa sighed over her teacup. She looked tired and strained herself. ‘On and on – driving themselves. They just can’t seem to stop. I’d thought coming to Birmingham would end all that, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I can see it coming out in Dominic too. Heaven help us when he gets older.’
‘Daniel says he wants to go back and see your brother and his wife,’ Gwen said hesitantly.
‘Our Anthony and Shân? Oh yes!’ Theresa’s eyes lit up. ‘You see if you can persuade him, Gwen! Get him to take a rest for a bit. Knowing our Daniel, though, he’ll go down there and be running up and down to Tredegar and along the valleys to every meeting he can get to! I don’t know . . .’ She looked forlorn. ‘I’m proud of him, God love him, I really am. I know he’s right and he’s trying to do the best for all our people. I just don’t want to lose him – have him go the way Arturo did.’ She looked up at Gwen as if a light had just dawned.
‘Tell you what – perhaps you could go with him? You could try and tie him down a bit!’
Gwen smiled at Theresa’s obliviousness to the fact that accompanying Daniel was exactly what she already had in mind.
‘Just for a couple of days,’ she pleaded with him. ‘You can spare a little while away – Esther and the others can take up the slack and you did promise your Auntie Shân . . .’
They were on their way back from a meeting in Small Heath Park, where voices had boomed through megaphones over the ragged crowd, while the ducks glided past on the pond behind. Daniel had not been speaking today: they had both been busy selling pamphlets and the Daily Worker. Gwen’s few remaining pamphlets were in the bag slung over her shoulder. The two of them caught a tram into town. It was a great relief to sit down; her feet felt sore from standing in the heat all afternoon.
‘There’s just so much to get done here,’ Daniel said, staring ahead of him. He was in one of his distant moods again, somewhere she felt she could not reach him, and he looked very tired.
Gently she touched his back. ‘Your mother really wants you to go. We could take all sorts of things over for them – books for Billy as well.’ As she spoke, Daniel gave a great exhausted yawn.
‘See!’ She kept a teasing tone in her voice. ‘You’re tired out all the time. You’ll be no good use to the revolution if you collapse in a heap, will you?’
He came to himself suddenly, was with her again, and took her hand. She was filled with happiness.
‘All right. Are you coming too?’ He asked so carelessly that she was hurt. She had taken for granted that they would go together. Didn’t they do almost everything together now?
‘D’you want me to?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Yes.’ He squeezed her hand and forced a smile to his exhausted face. ‘Course I do.’
The local train pulled into Tredegar late on the following Thursday afternoon, and they caught the branch line to Aberglyn. It was a warm, muggy afternoon, and they had both slept for much of the journey. But the air grew a little fresher as they toiled up the hill, along the narrow streets to Anthony and Shân Sullivan’s house, Gwen carrying the bag with their clothes in and Daniel his mother’s bundle. Smells of cooking came to them on the breeze.
They stopped for a moment, panting, and looking back down the street. Two barefoot, ragged children were tearing down the hill away from them, after a runaway hoop, a smal
l black and white dog barking excitedly at their heels. A couple of people had greeted Daniel on the way up. Everyone here, Gwen thought, looked so worn and weary. So ill fed. The children playing outside had pinched faces.
‘You did tell her I was coming with you, didn’t you?’ it occurred to Gwen to ask.
‘I sent a telegram. All I said was, “Coming Thursday p.m. Bringing friend.”’
‘Honestly! You could have put my name!’ She felt genuinely aggrieved. Fancy him sending a telegram about a ‘friend’ as if she were just anybody.
As they approached the houses higher up, they saw that Billy was sitting outside the front door. He soon spotted them and waved madly with both arms.
‘Mam!’ they heard him call into the house. ‘Our Daniel’s here!’
When Shân Sullivan stepped outside, Gwen was momentarily shocked by the sight of her. Her shawl had hidden the true extent of her emaciation the last time they met. Now she came to the door in an old pale pink frock with an apron over the top and Gwen saw the frightening thinness of her arms and neck, from which her faded hair was taken up into a loose bun at the back. But her tired face was full of pleasure at the sight of them.
‘Daniel!’ She came out through the gate towards them. ‘Oh and it’s you, Gwen fach!’ She sounded startled. ‘Oh, Daniel, you silly. Why didn’t you say it was young Gwen coming with you? I thought you were coming with another of those boys from the party.’ She kissed Gwen, a quick peck. Close up, Gwen realized she was probably no thinner than she had been the last time. Her wristbones were very prominent, her hands bony and raw from hard work.
‘Billy’s been waiting for you all afternoon! Come on, I’ll make us a cup of tea. Oh, it’s a treat to see you both!’