by June Gadsby
‘And why would you want to know that, young fella?’
Billy slid his eyes up to the piercing ones of his companion and gave a small shake of his head. ‘No reason. Just being nosey. You know me.’
‘Aye, I do an’ all, Billy Flynn. I also know that you don’t ask questions just for the sake of it.’ Mr Robinson stopped in his tracks to get his puff back. ‘Out with it. What do you know about my granddaughter’s fiancé. He appears to be a fine, upstanding young man with very good prospects and an excellent background.’
‘Nothing!’ Billy’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline as he realized he’d got himself into a bit of a tricky situation. ‘Honest, Mr Robinson, I just...well, I don’t think she should marry him, that’s all.’
‘Well, I daresay that’s something for Laura to decide,’ Mr Robinson patted Billy’s head, and then did the same to the dog. ‘It’s not for the likes of us to judge, eh, Billy?’
‘No, Mr Robinson.’
‘So, what are you going to call this new pal of yours, eh?’ Mr Robinson was, five minutes later, dabbing on strong smelling iodine to the sores and weals the dog sported, thanks to the cruelty of an uncaring owner.
‘Dunno. I’ve never had a dog before. There was one once that bit us. It was called Rover. I couldn’t call this one Rover, not after a dog like that.’
‘There now,’ Mr Robinson got up from his knees, straightened his back with a slight groan and returned his first aid items to the white tin box with a red cross on its lid. ‘All patched up.’
‘That’s what I’ll call him!’ Billy cried out, then softened his voice as the dog cowered nervously, tail between its legs. ‘I’ll call him Patches. Is that all right, Mr Robinson? Is that a good name for a dog?’
‘Aye, son. It’s a grand name for a dog.’
Billy bent down and was pleased Patches allowed him to throw his arms around its furry neck, because he was suddenly overcome once more with emotion and he needed to hide his tears. He may be all tough and brittle on the outside, but Billy had a soft centre and right now he felt more like a little lost child than a ‘man’ of thirteen.
* * *
Bridget closed her ears to the scolding she was getting from Miss Simpson, and closed her eyes to the angrily wagging finger at the end of her nose. She didn’t even make a sound when the woman gave her a hefty slap, leaving red finger mark welts on her cheek that stung for a full ten minutes after. What did bother Bridget was not being able to spend time with Billy, who was like a brother to her, even more than a friend. And she loved him dearly.
Her disobedience earned Bridget a few hours in solitary detention. Most of the girls had learned how to avoid being dragged kicking and screaming up to the dusty attic of the orphanage. Bridget accepted it almost willingly, rather than be part of a simpering group of children who dared not breathe out of tune with the harsh supervisor’s rules.
She didn’t mind the mice and the spiders and the odd rat that scampered about among the rafters festooned with cobwebs hanging like soft gauzy curtains, wafting in the breeze through the gaps in the tiles above. She had even secreted some candles and some Vestas. The matches were contained in a tiny silver case that had dropped from some visiting dignitary’s watch chain.
Oh the fuss that was made when the illustrious gentleman stormed back into the building the next day, accusing Miss Simpson of harbouring common thieves under her leaking orphanage roof. It was only when another girl, a pathetic creature with a concave chest and a cough that produced blood among the green phlegm, was accused of the theft that Bridget stepped forward. Bridget’s strong sense of justice always came to the fore, making her popular with the victims, but very unpopular with Miss Simpson and the orphanage governors.
‘Leave her alone! Sally didn’t have anything to do with it!’ Bridget had screamed out, as Miss Simpson’s heavy hand descended on the bowed head before her. ‘It was me. I stole the bliddy Vesta case.’
Where is it, girl?’ Miss Simpson had spoken through gritted teeth, her face becoming more and more like one of the stone gargoyles that were to be found over the entrance of the church. ‘Hand it over.’
‘I can’t.’ Bridget stood her ground and braced herself for another beating. ‘I found it on the ground and threw it away. It wasn’t worth anything, that bit of tin - and it smelled horrible.’
The honourable gentleman, whose Vesta case it was, regarded her with one very arched and disbelieving eyebrow. Bridget’s face twisted slightly beneath the gaze, then she ignored him and kept a wary eye on the hand of Miss Simpson, who had enjoyed tormenting her from the day they had placed her in the orphanage’s care.
‘Honest, it did, Miss Simpson,’ she said with a rueful smile, then turned her emerald eyes back to the man. ‘I don’t know why you’re so bothered, mister, over an old thing like that, but I’m sorry if I did wrong.’
Out of the corner of her eye she could see Miss Simpson’s flat chest filling out and her lips pulling back, ready to breathe hell fire and damnation.
‘How did you come to be in this place, child?’ The man was looking at her closely through half-closed eyes, his gaze fixed on her face. Beside him, Miss Simpson deflated like a pricked balloon.
‘Somebody killed me ma,’ Bridge told him, then quickly added ‘...sir.’
His head jerked. He blinked just once then glanced at the supervisor, who gave him a look that could have meant anything. Then Miss Simpson tossed her head haughtily and pretended to be distracted by two of the other girls who were whispering behind their hands.
‘Come here, child...Bridget, is it?’ Bridget nodded and stepped forward, flinching in surprise when the man’s gloved fingers hooked beneath her chin and tilted her face up so that she could see the hairs growing inside his nostrils. ‘Your mother...could she have been called Colleen, by any chance?’
Bridget swallowed, which wasn’t easy with her head tipped back like that, so she pulled away from the tenacious fingers and glowered at their owner.
‘What if she was?’
He gave a loud, amused guffaw. ‘No need to answer my question. I can see that you are your mother’s daughter. Colleen was full of light and fire and she had those same sea-green eyes, only yours are brighter – and even more beautiful.’
‘Did you know me ma, then?’ Bridget’s forehead wrinkled, remembering how the supervisor had introduced him as Sir Reginald Burnleigh. She didn’t recall any of her mother’s friends being called that. Most of them were called Smith or Brown.’
‘You might say that I was a friend of hers, my dear, yes. A long time ago. Long before you were born, I daresay. How old are you, Bridget?’
‘I’m thirteen.’ It wasn’t quite true, there were a few more months to go yet, but it always felt better saying you were older than you really were.
‘Ah, I see.’
Bridget wasn’t sure what Sir Reginald saw, but he looked kind of relieved. Afterwards, when Miss Simpson called Bridget to her office, she did not get the telling off or the beating she was expecting. Far from it, in fact.
‘I don’t know what you’ve done to deserve it, Bridget Maguire, but Sir Reginald has asked me to set up a fund for you. A small sum of money for the rest of your life. I must say it’s highly irregular and we must not let any of the other children know or...’
Miss Simpson’s voice droned on, but Bridget switched herself off from the old dragon’s reflections. She couldn’t believe what she had just been told. She was to have some money, all her own, forever and ever! This Sir Reginald must have been a very good friend indeed of her mother’s, even though he was as old as Laura Caldwell’s granddad. Well I never! The words that she had so often heard her mother speak when astonished at anything, kept repeating in Bridget’s head. Well I never did!
‘Bridget, close your mouth, girl, and stop staring into space like that with your eyes out like chapel hat pegs!’ Miss Simpson’s voice finally got through the confused haze of her thoughts. ‘Are you listening to me? You are to rec
eive a weekly allowance of five shillings a week, effective immediately. This will be paid into an account for you and you will receive a lump sum on your fifteenth birthday, which is when you will terminate your stay here at the orphanage. It’s enough to live on, if you live frugally, but in order to earn the money, you must stay clean and honest.’
‘What does he mean by clean and honest, miss?’ Bridget demanded, ready to defend herself if this so-called gentleman dared to suggest that she was or ever could be otherwise.
‘He means, Bridget, that you will not choose the same occupation as your mother, who was a prostitute.’
‘Is that the same thing as a whore?’
Miss Simpson looked as if she might faint. ‘Yes, but you’re far too young to understand what that involves, Bridget, and I am not prepared to try and explain it to you.’
Bridget shrugged. At least she understood what frugal meant. Having five shillings coming in every week would be a bliddy luxury, she thought, then cast her eyes up to Heaven and apologized to her dead mother’s soul for swearing. From now on she would try to be better and speak more like a lady, because one day she would like to find this Sir Reginald and thank him properly and show him that she was worth every penny of the money he had invested in her.
That night Bridget tied her blankets together and escaped from the dormitory room she shared with a dozen other girls. She shimmied down the makeshift rope, dropped lightly to the ground and ran off in the direction of Dawson Street. If she told no one else about her famous legacy, she had to tell Billy. Maybe he would be so happy for her he would forget Laura Caldwell and his silly dreams about her, whatever they were. Billy never had to tell Bridget anything. She could see inside his mind as if it was all printed on his forehead. Sometimes, she thought she could see inside his heart too, but Billy himself didn’t seem to understand what was going on in there. She could hear her mother’s voice as clear as if Colleen was standing there beside her, sharing her thoughts.
‘Och, it’s a male thing, Bridget, me darlin’. They think they know all about love, bless their cotton socks. In reality, they wouldn’t recognize it if it hit them in the chops. Sure and the only romance they understand goes on in their pants...and I shouldn’t be talkin’ like this to me daughter, though I say it meself. Anyhow, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough.’
Chapter Eight
Billy stood for a while, watching the abortive attempts of his mother trying to get up from the floor. She had spent the night there, clutching the empty gin bottle to her chest. He had come down in the early hours and found her. She was too heavy for him to lift, so he simply covered her over with the quilt from her bed.
‘Aw, gawd, our Billy, don’t just stand there!’ she yelled at him. ‘Give us a hand, will ye.’
Her vibrant voice penetrated his thoughts, which were straying, as ever, in the direction of Laura Caldwell. News had filtered through to him, via Laura’s proud grandfather that Laura and her handsome fiancé were to be married in a month’s time.
It had been a long engagement and for a while Billy’s hopes had risen high, thinking the marriage wasn’t meant to be. He willed it to fail. They should have been married shortly after the bans had been called. The day he found Patches. However, something must have happened, because no wedding took place. The waiting had been excruciating for young Billy, forever hopeful Laura would change her mind and turn to him for solace. At sixteen he considered himself to be no longer a child. He’d been doing the work of a man for three years or more and although he could never be called tall or brawny, he was muscular and wiry, and as strong as the next man any day.
Having refused adamantly to go down the pit, Billy turned to the shipyard for employment. They took him on reluctantly in a time when men were being laid off. Most of Billy’s childhood friends could be found in the dole queue and it was understandable they were bitter towards him. Billy took it all in his stride. They wouldn’t have done his job anyway, brushing out the workplaces, running and fetching for management and general mucking out when required. He was never in any doubt that he had been taken on because of a strong word in his favour from Mr Robinson, who had friends and ex-colleagues in high places at Palmer’s.
In old Albert Robinson, he had found a mentor, and a good friend in Patches. The dog was his constant companion. Wherever Billy went, Patches was never far away, always keeping a watchful eye on his young master. Only once did one of Billy’s workmates try to bully him, using a bit of unnecessary physical violence. Patches was straight in with teeth bared and made a hole in the stupid fellow’s dungarees. And probably left a reminder of the attack in the man’s flabby buttocks too.
As it was Sunday, Billy was due to meet Mr Robinson in half an hour when the sun was almost up. While most folk in the vicinity went to church or stayed in bed on a Sunday morning, Albert Robinson and Billy, accompanied by the faithful Patches, escaped the hawk-sharp eyes of their womenfolk and went fishing.
‘Aw, howay, Mam!’ Billy’s tone had changed towards the mother he loved all his life. ‘Why do you have to drink so much?’
It was a question neither of them could answer. Maggie because she was too far steeped in alcohol all the time to know which end was up; and Billy because he was too young to know the workings of his mother’s mind. What he did know was that he wasn’t ever going to touch a drop of drink like that, having seen what it turned people into. The demon drink, the vicar would call it in breathing hell and damnation from the pulpit to his parishioners. Aye, it was a demon all right. A monster of a demon that had the power to ruin people’s lives. Well, his mother could rant and rave, but Billy had had enough. Let her rot in her alcohol soaked flesh. See if he cared!
‘Bottle’s empty, Billy!’ Maggie cried. ‘Go and get me another one from the off-licence, eh? You know I can’t get through the day without a drop passing me lips. Go on, laddie. Take pity on yer poor auld ma. If ye bang on the back door of the corner shop, Alec’ll let yer have something for us. Gan on, pet. ’
‘No, Mam! I’ve bought you your last bottle. You’ll have to face life without it from now on. I don’t care anymore. Your drinking has destroyed this family. It’s got to stop.’
‘I can’t stop!’ Maggie wailed. ‘It’d kill me, son, it’d kill me.’
‘Ye’re killing yersel’, Ma,’ he shouted back at her, feeling an uncomfortable lump rise in his throat. ‘Ye blame the drink, but it’s not that. It’s you that lifts the glass to your lips.’
As far as Billy was concerned, his mother might as well be dead, for she certainly wasn’t alive, even though she moved and breathed, but was most of the time staggering or comatose. He was her youngest child, yet he had never known her as a mother. For as long as he could remember, Maggie had leaned on him. He had been her prop, her provider, but now he felt awash with guilt at having been a part of her downfall. He should have been tougher with her, but he had been nothing but a bit bairn when it started.
Her behaviour had driven the rest of the family away. The boys drifted from the mines to the sea. Desmond had gone down with his ship in a storm. Jack married and emigrated to Australia, where he was doing his best to follow in his mother’s alcoholic footsteps as he wandered like a nomad from bush town to bush town. Tom just walked out one day and never come back. God alone knew where he was. And there was the baby that was born after Patrick Flynn committed murder and fled. The poor little thing had been all grotesque and mangled. It died the next day and that, at least, was a blessing.
Only Billy stayed on, though he could have walked away from the situation on many an occasion, but he always had the desperate hope things would improve. Now, he knew they never would. Maggie had the appearance of an old hag. Her skin was like yellowed parchment, all dried up and wrinkled and there were pouches under her eyes like sacks of coal. He had seen her naked, washed her down when she was covered in her own vomit, pee and shit. He had put her to bed, fed and clothed her; listened to her moanings and her complaints for as long as he co
uld remember.
He looked at her now and was sickened by what he saw. Sickened to the point of hatred. How dare she be so weak, so pathetic? How could she expect him to be her prop when she had never been there for him, except during a time when he was too young to remember or be aware she cared for him? Even though she had apparently watched the man she married attempt to suffocate him, or so the story went, she had taken Patrick back and seen him beat his children senseless, and her with them,
Billy gave a convulsive shudder at the thought of his father and the spectre of that detestable individual floated through his mind, the way he appeared through the darkness of the mud flats as he murdered Colleen Maguire. The police had searched for him, but he vanished without trace.
Maybe he was dead, as many people seemed to suggest. Billy hoped they were right, but retained the nagging dread in his mind Patrick would turn up again sometime, somewhere.
‘I’m going now, Mam,’ he said in a low voice that she probably did not hear, for she was grovelling about and mumbling to herself, hopping on one leg as she struggled into her pants. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
‘Go then!’ she screamed at him as he went through the door. ‘You’re no son of mine. I want nothing more to do wi’ ye, d’ye hear, Billy Flynn!’
‘Aye,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Just like me da, am I? Maybe ye should have let him smother me when I was born, like he tried to do.’
‘You’re no son of Patrick Flynn either, so don’t blame him.’ She was hanging onto the corner of the kitchen table, swaying perilously, her eyes covered in a pale film that gave her a blind look. ‘It was my fault ye was born. I couldn’t wait for Patrick to come home from the war, so I went with another man. Why d’ye think he hated ye so much, eh?’
Billy hesitated, pondering on her words, then continued on his way. So that was what it had all been about, he thought. Patrick had always been harder on the others, in a way, than he had been on Billy. Billy, he just ignored most of the time, eyeing him hatefully and suspiciously, as if he was cooking up something really bad for him and didn’t want to touch him until the plan gelled in his brain.