by Maureen Lee
‘Would you like something to eat, Maeve?’ Fion enquired.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, it’s time I made the kids’ tea. I’m starving meself, as it happens.’
‘I’ll come and help.’
The sisters went into the big shabby kitchen of Fion’s house in Stanley Road. A woman was already there, furiously mashing potatoes. Sausages sizzled on the stove. A small boy was squirting washing-up liquid on the floor.
‘Don’t do that, Tommy, luv,’ Fion said mildly. ‘It’ll make people slip over.’
The woman turned and slapped the child’s ear, hard. ‘I’m sorry, Fion. I didn’t realise what the little bugger was up to.’ Maeve gasped and the little boy started to howl.
Fion said, not quite so mildly, ‘Olga, don’t you dare let me see you hit Tommy again. You’re only here because someone did the same to you. This is a refuge, for children as well as their mothers.’
‘I don’t know how you stand it,’ Maeve said when a sullen Olga and a sobbing Tommy had gone.
‘I feel as if I’m doing a bit of good.’ Fion was wiping off the fat Olga had splashed all over the stove. She took a big packet of fish fingers out of the fridge.
‘Doesn’t your nice policeman mind?’
‘Jerry? Oh, he minds a lot. He wants us to get married. I said I’d marry him as soon as I found someone to take over the refuge.’
‘I couldn’t stand it meself. I’d feel as if me house wasn’t me own. And Martin . . .’ Maeve paused.
‘And Martin what?’
‘Martin couldn’t stand it either.’
‘Speaking of Martin, won’t he be home from work by now and wanting something to eat?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Is something wrong, Maeve?’ Fion regarded her small, neat sister searchingly. Maeve hadn’t been to work that day. She’d arrived at one o’clock and they’d sat talking about nothing in particular ever since. Fion had expected her to go home ages ago to make Martin’s tea, but Maeve had stuck to the chair and continued with the conversation that was rapidly running out of steam, mainly because she seemed unable to concentrate on one subject for more than a few minutes. She looked on edge, kept glancing at her watch, couldn’t keep still.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Maeve said in the sort of voice that indicated everything was nothing of the sort.
The telephone rang and Maeve said, ‘If that’s Martin, don’t tell him I’m here.’
‘Why ever not, sis?’
‘Just don’t, that’s all.’
Fion went to answer the phone and came back a few minutes later. ‘It wasn’t Martin, it was Mam. Martin’s just phoned to ask if you were there. She said he sounded worried. I didn’t say you were with me.’
Maeve didn’t answer. The phone rang again. When Fion returned she said, ‘That was Martin. He sounds even more worried. What’s up, sis?’
‘I’m pregnant!’ Maeve burst into tears. ‘I had a test this morning and it was confirmed.’
‘That’s marvellous, luv.’ Fion flung her arms round her sister. ‘I’m so happy for you.’
‘So am I.’ Maeve wept. ‘But Martin won’t be happy, he’ll be livid. Oh, Fion! He’ll be so cross. Can I come and live with you?’
‘Of course, but surely it won’t come to that? Martin will be thrilled to pieces. After all, how long is it you’ve been married? Going on thirteen years.’
Maeve shook her head wildly. ‘I told you, Martin will be livid. He doesn’t want children. He wants holidays and garages and new fridges, new cars.’
‘Then it’s about time he grew up and lived in the real world,’ Fion said crisply. ‘How did it happen? Did you forget to take your pill or something?’
‘No. I stopped taking the pill.’ Maeve sniffed and managed a tiny smile. ‘I haven’t taken it since Lulu’s wedding. I decided I wanted a baby more than I wanted Martin.’
‘Then why are you so worried about him finding out?’
‘Because I still love him.’ Maeve started to cry again. ‘Least, I think I do.’
The phone went. It was Mam. Martin had rung a second time and was about to contact the police. ‘I told him she’s only a couple of hours late, but he said she hasn’t been in work today. He’s climbing the walls, Fion, and I’m getting a bit worried meself. This isn’t a bit like our Maeve. I mean, where on earth can she be?’
‘Actually, Mam, she’s with me,’ Fion confessed and explained the circumstances.
Mam listened in silence, then said, ‘I’m pleased about the baby, but I never realised it was mainly Martin’s idea they didn’t have children. It’ll do him good to climb the walls for a while longer. He might have come to his senses by the time he discovers where she is.’
Fion replaced the receiver soberly. How peculiar fate was, so topsy-turvy! She recalled Maeve’s engagement party when she’d been stuck with Horace Flynn and everyone else seemed to be having a whale of a time. She’d felt so grateful that Neil Greene had condescended to talk to her. Yet, years later, when she’d met Neil in London he’d looked as miserable as sin and she’d wondered what she’d seen in him. Now Maeve was in a state because she was pregnant when by rights she should be on top of the world. And Orla! Gosh, she used to be so envious of Orla, who had married Micky Lavin and was everything Fion herself wanted to be. Now Orla was wandering the country like a lost soul selling crappy make-up, trying to pretend it was fantastically adventurous, when it was in fact a desperately pathetic life for a thirty-six-year-old woman to lead. Poor Orla. Poor Maeve. And poor Neil.
I never thought I’d feel sorry for a single one of them, Fion mused, let alone all three. She felt very lucky, totally fulfilled. There was hardly another thing she wanted that she could think of. Colin had been a wonderful husband and Jerry would make another.
She resolved that tonight she would suggest she and Jerry got married straight away, because it seemed silly to waste time living apart. Anyroad, there was something she wanted – more children. But she wasn’t prepared to move into his modern flat in Litherland. It would be too cramped. Besides, she loved this house that had been bequeathed to her by Horace Flynn. She’d been the only person who’d liked him, except when he pinched her bum. Another house would have to be found for the refuge. It would be her next project and she’d put everything she had into it. Fion mentally ticked off all the things she’d have to do: badger the council for an empty property, bring the local MP on board, start fund-raising, contact the press and get them on her side.
She returned to the kitchen. Maeve had made a cup of tea and started to fry the fish fingers.
‘These look nice,’ she said. ‘Me and Martin have never had fish fingers.’
‘They’re lovely with beans and tinned tomatoes. Jerry’s mad on them.’
‘We always have posh, three-course dinners. They take ages to cook.’
‘Well, that’ll stop once you’ve got a baby to look after.’ Fion grinned.
Maeve pulled a face. ‘Martin will do his nut.’
‘Stuff Martin. Any man who prefers three-course meals to babies wants his bumps feeling.’
‘Hmm. If I have one of these fish fingers, will it make you short?’
‘Have as many as you like. There’s another packet in the fridge.’
The evening wore on. There were more phone calls from a frantic Martin. The police had refused to take action. Mam phoned to say she was beginning to feel sorry for him and could Fion persuade Maeve to go home, put the poor chap out of his misery?
Fion agreed that mightn’t be a bad idea. ‘I think our Maeve might welcome it by now. She’s a bundle of nerves. It’s best to get the confrontation over and done with.’
At eight o’clock Jerry McKeown arrived – the rule ‘no men on the premises’ had been relaxed on his behalf. He offered to fetch Martin in a police car with the blue light flashing.
‘Can I go with you?’ Bonnie demanded eagerly.
‘Perhaps it would be best if Maeve went,’ said
Fion. ‘How about it, sis?’
Maeve considered this silently for a while. ‘Will Jerry wait outside the house until after I’ve told him? Just in case I have to come back here to live if he chucks me out.’
‘If there’s any such suggestion as chucking out, it’ll be Martin out on his ear, not you,’ Jerry said darkly.
Maeve Adams had never created a fuss during her entire neat and tidy life, had never given her mam and dad, or her husband, a moment’s worry. She would have been embarrassed to think she had. Maeve strongly disapproved of the way her sister, Orla, behaved – though she wouldn’t have dreamt of saying so – throwing herself all over the place and complaining loudly over just about everything in sight. She had thought it dead selfish of Fion to run away to London and give her family so much heartache. Even Cormac, whom everyone considered an eminently sensible person, had had a brainstorm and refused to finish university, then gone wild for several years.
Now, not only had Maeve missed a day’s work at the hospital without phoning in an excuse, but she had disappeared for several hours, causing her husband a great deal of grief. In Maeve’s eyes this behaviour was on a par with that of her sisters and brother.
She didn’t want to lose Martin, who would be angry when he discovered she’d stopped taking the pill without discussing it with him first. But she’d only not discussed it because she knew he wouldn’t agree. Martin’s priorities didn’t allow for children. They were still saving to have a garage built and only the other day he had complained that the car was getting old.
‘I’m getting old,’ Maeve said to herself as the police car – without its blue light flashing – made its way to Crosby through the evening traffic. Jerry thoughtfully remained silent. ‘In a few years’ time I’ll be too old to have babies. And I’m not prepared to go without children just so Martin can have the latest car and a garage to put it in.’
He could be as angry as he liked. Maeve folded her small hands protectively over her stomach. She would have the baby with him or without him, it was up to him to decide.
Jerry stopped outside the Adamses’ immaculate modern semi, though it looked entirely different from the house Maeve had left that morning. All the lights were on, including the coach lamp outside. The front door was wide open, the car was idling in the path, headlamps on, white smoke pumping from the exhaust. Martin was about to get in the car, leaving the house open and brightly lit for any passing burglars to help themselves. Normally as neat as his wife, his hair was on end, he was tieless and had forgotten to put a coat on, despite it being a bitingly cold November night.
He turned when the police car drew up and his face seemed to collapse with horror, which turned to relief when Maeve climbed out of the passenger seat.
‘Darling! Oh, my darling Maeve. I thought you were dead. I thought you’d had an accident. Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.’ He stroked her arms and neck, as if expecting to find broken bones. ‘Where have you been?’ He suddenly frowned when he noticed the driver of the car. ‘Is that Jerry? Why is he bringing you home? Maeve, what’s going on?’
Maeve decided not to beat about the bush. ‘I’m having a baby, Martin. If you want, I’ll go straight back to our Fion’s with Jerry once I’ve collected some clothes – that’s where I’ve been all day.’
‘You’ve been at Fion’s! Oh, Maeve,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’ His jaw dropped. ‘Did you just say you’re having a baby? How on earth did that happen?’
‘The same way it happens with everyone,’ Maeve said cheerfully. ‘I stopped taking the pill months ago and if you don’t like it, Martin, then you’ll just have to lump it. As I said, I’ll live with Fion.’
‘Can’t we discuss this indoors?’
‘There’s nothing to discuss.’ Maeve smiled sweetly. ‘I’m having a baby and that’s all there is to it. Once you accept that fact and promise not to complain about the age of the car, our lack of a garage, how much you fancy a colour telly and an even more expensive holiday next year than we had last, then I’ll stay. Otherwise, I’ll collect me clothes and be on me way.’
Martin’s relief had turned to cold annoyance. ‘I never dreamt you could be so deceitful, Maeve. Having a baby should be a mutual decision, not one the wife takes for herself. I’m very disappointed with you.’
‘Not half as disappointed as I am with you, Martin Adams. Mind out me way while I go and collect a few things. I’ll come back for the rest tomorrow while you’re at work.’
‘No!’ Martin grabbed her shoulder. Jerry McKeown got out of the police car and leant against it, folding his arms. He watched the couple intently. Martin gasped and let go of his wife when he realised Jerry was concerned he might hurt her. He said quietly, ‘The last thing on earth I want is for you to leave, Maeve. Come inside. We can talk there.’
‘I’ll come, but there’s nothing to talk about. I’m having a baby and the sooner you get used to the fact the better.’ Maeve marched up the path.
Jerry McKeown watched them go inside. They had forgotten all about him. He got out, switched off the engine of Martin’s car, locked the doors and put the keys through the letter box. He then drove back to Stanley Road and, for the umpteenth time, asked Fion to marry him and was delighted, though slightly taken aback, when she accepted straight away.
Orla was the first person Lulu and Gareth had had to dinner in their tiny London flat. Orla watched her daughter fondly as she set the little round table in the window. It reminded her of when she was little and she’d played house with Fion and Maeve. The young couple hadn’t enough dishes and the ones they had were cracked. None of the cutlery matched. The chairs were odd. The room smelt of oil paints and there was a half-finished painting on an easel in the corner – Gareth couldn’t afford a studio. So far, the painting consisted of several dead fish pegged, like washing, on a line.
‘What will you call it?’ she asked him.
‘I haven’t thought of a name yet.’
They sat down to a tasty chicken and mushroom casserole followed by trifle. Orla had brought a bottle of wine.
‘I’d’ve done something more ambitious, Mum, but the cooker’s useless.’
‘This is lovely, Lulu,’ Orla said sincerely. A candle stuck in an old wine bottle flickered in the draught. The window of the fourth-floor room overlooked a landscape of Camden roofs glistening icily in the moonlight. It was December and painfully cold. ‘I never realised roofs were so many different colours,’ she remarked.
‘I shall paint that scene before we leave,’ Gareth remarked. ‘If we leave.’
Orla looked from her daughter to her son-in-law. ‘Are you thinking of moving?’
Lulu wrinkled her nose. ‘We might, but not till after Christmas. Last week we met this chap who owns an art gallery in New York, only a titchy place, badly rundown. He thinks the Americans would go for Gareth’s paintings and has promised to show half a dozen on a regular basis – you wouldn’t believe the price he suggested asking, Mum.’
‘I don’t want to compromise my integrity,’ Gareth growled.
‘Painters only paint paintings in order to sell them, surely,’ Orla said. ‘The money you earn merely proves their worth. There’s no point otherwise, unless it’s just a hobby and you don’t mind giving them away.’
‘See,’ Lulu said triumphantly. ‘I knew Mum would be all for it. Gareth’s worried that if he earns money he’ll have sold out.’
‘I’m probably more scared no one will buy my work,’ Gareth confessed glumly.
Orla tried to convince him he was talking rubbish. At Lulu’s age – at any age – she would have gone to New York like a shot. She didn’t want her daughter to miss out on what sounded a wonderful opportunity.
After dinner, quite a few friends dropped in, bringing more wine: artists mainly, male and female, not all of them young. The lights were turned off, leaving the flickering candle and the brilliant silver moon to illuminate the shabby room, and they talked about a m
yriad things – art mainly, politics, the latest films, the latest shows . . .
God, how I would have loved this, Orla thought longingly. I’ve missed so much. I’ve missed everything.
It was midnight when she returned to the small hotel in Victoria. To her surprise, there were half a dozen men in the lounge and the tiny bar was still open. She bought a double whisky and the men suggested she join them. Orla thought of her small, cold room with its small, cold bed and agreed. Five of the men were reps like herself, much older. Their clothes were cheap, their laughter false, their voices much too loud. They exuded an air of faint desperation as if this wasn’t the life they had envisaged twenty or thirty years before. By now, they had expected an office with their name and title on the door, their own staff, respect.
The sixth man was very different. Better dressed than the others, quietly spoken, he exuded confidence rather than desperation. Orla gathered he was an engineer working for a French tool company, calling on firms by invitation to quote for new, highly expensive machinery. He said very little in a quiet voice with only the suggestion of an accent. The other men called him Louis. Orla was particularly intrigued because, unlike his friends, he completely ignored her. He was a small, slender man, dark-haired, thin-lipped, with a tight, unsmiling face. She hadn’t felt so immediately attracted to someone since she’d first met Micky. She kept looking at him in the hope of catching his eye, but he never once glanced in her direction.
An hour and two more whiskies later, she announced she was off to bed. The other men bade her a noisy goodnight, but Louis merely stared at his highly polished shoes and didn’t speak.
Chapter 17
‘This room is like a fridge,’ Vicky Weatherspoon muttered. ‘If I were a pint of milk, I’d keep for weeks.’ She glared at the ice on the metal-framed windows, wondering if it was inside or out, and rubbed her numb hands together, but they had lost all feeling.