Hide Her Name

by Nadine Dorries

  Aideen rushed forward and took both of her hands.

  ‘Get the disgusting thing out of here,’ Sister Celia screamed at Aideen.

  They both knew, without asking her to explain, that the disgusting thing was Kitty.

  Sister Celia then shouted to one of the girls from across the room, who were now looking over the top of a sink, ‘And stop yer gawping, you filthy lot, and get this mess mopped up.’

  Sister Celia hated it more than anything else on earth when the girls went into labour in the laundry. She would avoid it at all costs. Sometimes she even pleaded with the nuns who worked on the other sections of the laundry, not to send her the girls who were far gone. She had had no choice with Kitty.

  God alone knew why they had accepted that girl. The Reverend Mother had been on pins since the day she had arrived and Besmina had escaped. Reverend Mother hated anyone knowing the Abbey’s business. Sister Celia had been stuck with the girl. And now her worst fear had been realized and, God knew, she hated it.

  The screams, the pain, the mess: they were the audible and visible manifestation of sin. Sister Celia became agitated. She was surrounded by sin, breaking free and setting itself loose in her laundry. It leaked, it oozed, it ran and it smelt. Sin escaped.

  And, God forbid, now sin was laughing at her, sat in a puddle on her laundry-room floor.

  29

  THE WOMEN STOOD just inside the school entrance, whilst the children ran and screamed in the playground, full of excitement at the arrival of snow. And on the night before Christmas Eve.

  Sister Evangelista would normally be irritated by the delay. Tonight was different. She even huddled up with the rest of the women, an unlikely member of the gang. The icy wind whistled in, bringing with it light dustings of snow lifted from the playground. Once in through the door, they dropped and immediately melted. Even in the short time that the women had waited and despite the appearance of muddy puddles on the highly polished, parquet floor, Sister Evangelista remained in a good mood.

  She was happy with how the evening had gone.

  Brigid and Mrs McGuire moved tentatively down the steps to the playground, and began rounding up the McGuire children and shook the snow off the pram apron. Brigid carried the baby in her arms.

  ‘Holy Mother, would ye look at this,’ she exclaimed, brushing the inch of snow from the pram canopy and lifting out the pillow to give that a shake, too.

  ‘It’ll not last long, it never does in Liverpool. Sean says it’s because of the Gulf Stream. I’ve only ever seen the river meself.’

  ‘It was still here in March last year, Brigid. I hope this isn’t it for another three months,’ said Mrs Mcguire.

  ‘Will I go to the chippy, Brigid?’ Mrs McGuire asked hopefully. She saw the frown on Brigid’s face. She knew Brigid had mashed potatoes and gravy waiting for supper.

  ‘Oh, go on, it’ll be a little snow treat for the children now. It’s not every day it snows and you know I like to treat them, when I’m here.’

  ‘I’d rather that the children looked to your heart, Mrs McGuire, not your hand,’ chided Brigid, but they both knew Mrs McGuire would win. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she said. ‘Take Patricia with ye. I will start getting the others changed and ready for bed. Don’t forget Sean, he might have something to celebrate tonight.’

  Mrs McGuire was feeling confident. If Sean won tonight, he would surely persuade Brigid to move to America and join their Mary and Eddie, wouldn’t that be just fantastic. With his own money and not dependent on others, he would be free to travel over first and then send for his family very shortly afterwards.

  Mrs McGuire had it all planned out. She would travel over with Brigid and the children, and they would all settle in Chicago together.

  Sean had always agreed with her but, over the past few weeks, she had found it impossible to engage him in conversations about America in the way she used to.

  She had put it down to the big fight he was having tonight.

  The big Liverpool Christmas fight, on the same night as the nativity play.

  Mrs McGuire knew her son. He was a secretive one, all right, always had been. Only she knew how desperate he was to reach Chicago. Liverpool was too restrictive. The tales of big wages he had heard about in Ireland before he arrived were out of all proportion to the reality.

  In Liverpool, if you arrived poor, you stayed poor. This was not the case in America, as their Mary and her husband had demonstrated. America was full of opportunity.

  Mrs McGuire linked arms with Patricia, so that she didn’t slip in the snow, and they strode off together towards Jonny Chan’s, smiling and happy.

  Jerry took hold of Nellie’s arm and Kathleen shuffled in beside Nellie, wheeling the pram. Nellie thought she would attempt to ice-skate, like she had seen on the black-and-white television last week, and within seconds was flat on her back on the pavement. Jerry and Kathleen roared with laugher and Joseph, with his face peeping out from his hand-knitted balaclava, clapped his hands in excitement.

  Kathleen smiled. ‘I’ve never, in my entire life, seen a baby laugh and smile as much as he does, Jer,’ she said.

  ‘It warms my heart every day, so it does, to see how great Alice is with the little fellow.’

  Jerry put his arm round his mammy’s shoulder and placed a kiss on the top of her head.

  ‘Get away with ye, Jerry, are ye going soft altogether?’

  Nellie laughed. They were all three full of Christmas cheer.

  Kathleen held onto the pram; Nellie held onto her nana; Jerry, on the outside, held Nellie’s hand.

  A warm glow wrapped around them.

  The deep companionship of the three. Virgin snow that sparkled like glitter on the pavement. The sound of the children’s breathless laughter. The crisp freshness of the air. The promise of a white Christmas Eve to wake up to. The beautiful, loving baby boy grinning at them from the warmth and comfort of his pram.

  They walked in companionable silence aware that they would remember this night for ever.

  When they reached Nelson Street, Maura and Tommy turned and waved goodnight to them.

  ‘Nana, it won’t be long until Kitty is home, will it?’ said Nellie.

  Kathleen squeezed Nellie’s hand and smiled at her. Trust Nellie to be always thinking of others, she thought.

  ‘Aye, I know, queen, and a blessing that will be, for sure.’

  As they reached their door, Malachi ran past, screeching at the top of his voice, as he chased Harry and Little Paddy, with a ball of snow in his hands, ready to shove down the back of both their necks.

  Older neighbours, who hadn’t been to the school, were peeping round their net curtains to see what all the noise was about. The news of snow was heralded by excited cries.

  ‘Da, Da, save me,’ Harry squealed as he ran past.

  Maura had stepped indoors. Tommy stood in the middle of the road, not daring to run, yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Malachi, get here now, or I’ll give ye a good hiding!’ Everyone who heard him knew that was a lie.

  Jerry reached out and caught Malachi by the collar, lifting him clean off the ground.

  Malachi’s legs pedalled furiously as his temper flapped at his heels.

  ‘Put me down,’ he screamed, ‘put me down.’

  ‘Come on, Malachi,’ said Jerry, laughing. ‘Come on, Harry. Yer safe, lad.’

  ‘Mam, put the kettle on, and tell Alice I’ll be two minutes, if she’s up. I’ll just help Tommy, the big soft lad, with these little scamps.’

  Kathleen and Nellie, both laughing out loud, turned into the entry.

  When Brigid stepped in through the back door, she was surprised to see that the main light had been switched on. She knew she had switched it off when they left and she wondered, was Sean home?

  Relief flooded through her as she realized that he must be.

  She had regretted letting Patricia accompany Mrs McGuire to the chippy and wished she had sent one of the younger ones instead. It was difficult, thoug
h. Mrs McGuire and Patricia had a special bond.

  Brigid was the youngest of fourteen and so the notion surprised her that Patricia, as the eldest, had a different place in the family from all the rest.

  Sure, wasn’t she the most organized of any of her siblings? Didn’t she run her house with absolute order and control?

  Her house was immaculate.

  Brigid had a great deal to be proud of. She still wished she had told Patricia to stay, though. Having to get five under the age of five ready for bed, never mind the others, was hard work and Patricia was a grand little help. Brigid was exhausted. However, she hadn’t told Sean yet she was pretty sure there was another McGuire baby on the way.

  This one made her more tired than she ever had been before and her face was flushed and burning, not signs of early pregnancy that she remembered from her previous babies. She could hear her heart beating in her eardrums and had fallen asleep during the nativity play. Never mind, she thought. If Sean has a win tonight, a pregnancy will hold off any talk of a move to America for a while.

  As soon as she took off her coat, she put the kettle on and reached for the nappies she had left to warm on a shelf next to the range.

  ‘Ooh, warm as toast,’ she said to one of her toddlers, pressing the warm nappy on her ice-cold and bright-red little cheek.

  Brigid shouted up the stairs to Sean. No response.

  That’s funny, she thought to herself.

  She filled a small enamel bowl with warm water, took down the towel and pyjamas, and began changing the toddlers and the baby.

  When she had finished, they jumped up and, one by one, piled onto the sofa in front of the TV. The older girls came down into the kitchen, all changed and ready, carrying their shoes with them.

  ‘Clothes all folded neatly on the press for the morning, girls?’

  Each one nodded.

  ‘Shoes by the back door now,’ she said. ‘Was Daddy upstairs, Emelda?’

  Emelda shook her head as she slipped onto the sofa with her siblings.

  Brigid sat at the table and looked at the row of red heads, watching Coronation Street on the television. They didn’t really understand it but they all knew that being up this late was a treat and not one of them was about to complain or misbehave. Besides, Nana and Patricia were gone to the chippy.

  ‘Isn’t this just the best night of the year?’ little Emelda said. ‘We’ve had the play, treats at the school, snow and the chippy too. This is the happiest night in me life, Mammy.’

  Brigid felt her heart fill with love. Making her children happy was a bonus. Keeping them clean and fed, and running an orderly home, was her job. None of Brigid’s children missed a day from school, ever, not unless they were truly poorly. Brigid was a good mother. She and Sean did things the right way.

  ‘Is it now, you gorgeous thing?’ Brigid’s face suffused with a warm and loving glow as she looked at her daughter’s toothless grin. ‘It’s mine, too.’

  At that moment, they all heard Mrs McGuire and Patricia walk up the path and the back door opened.

  ‘Mary and Joseph, would ye close that door,’ Brigid shouted, rubbing her arms to counter the cold blast.

  The kitchen filled with the smell of newsprint soaked in vinegar.

  ‘Here we are, all,’ said Mrs McGuire, ‘chips and a saveloy each.’

  Mrs McGuire loved pronouncing the word ‘saveloy’.

  ‘Pass the big plate down from the mantel, would ye, Brigid. It’s nice and warm and we can put it all in the middle of the table for them, what do ye think?’

  ‘Aye, that’s grand, thanks, Mrs McGuire. I think maybe Sean nipped back earlier, but he’s not here now,’ Brigid replied thoughtfully with a hint of concern in her voice.

  The children had dived off the sofa and were dutifully piling onto the chairs round the table. Grace fetched forks out of the drawer, and the plates from the neat and tidy row along the back of the press.

  Emelda had removed the muslin used to keep the flies away, taken the breadboard and knife from the press and placed it on the table. Now she began helping the smaller ones up onto the chairs. They were all chattering away excitedly, salivating at the smell of the chips. Chair legs scraped across the stone floor, cutlery and plates banged loudly on the table, and the kettle whistled impatiently on the range while Emelda set the table.

  Little Paddy’s dog, Scamp, scratched away persistently at the back door. He had followed Mrs McGuire all the way home from the chippy and was now letting Brigid know he was there. Brigid was begrudgingly kind to Scamp. She felt for him, having to live at Peggy and Paddy’s, and often threw him a bit of raw sausage.

  Brigid reached up for the big meat plate from the mantel-shelf above the range and immediately saw the envelope. She recognized the handwriting as Sean’s. He had never, in their ten years of marriage, written her a letter.

  A feeling of dread crept slowly into the room and her expression became one of fear, as she ripped open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of notepaper. It had been torn from Patricia’s school book and with it was a wad of ten-pound notes. Brigid’s first thought was one of irritation at his having taken paper from Patricia’s school book. Brigid kept her own pad of usable scrap paper, with a slip of string through the corner to hold it together, in the press drawer.

  On the television, Ena Sharples was giving out to Minnie Caldwell. Someone took the kettle off the range to silence its persistent whistle.

  Brigid couldn’t hear what they were saying. The noise from the television and the children’s chatter had merged into a low background buzz.

  She felt her blood drain into her boots within seconds, as happiness, laughter and hope for her future left.

  Mrs McGuire bent down to turn up the television and the closing theme music from Coronation Street began to fill the room.

  ‘Merciful Mary, it was that flaming queue, Patricia. We’ve missed it,’ she exclaimed in a bitterly disappointed voice.

  Brigid stared at the letter. The meaning of the words washed over her slowly in rhythmic waves, becoming stronger and more painful with each second. Her mind, shielding her soul, refused to absorb the truth at once, but held at bay the realization of all the things she had suspected – had known, really, but had suppressed and ignored in the midst of her busy life.

  No morning kiss. Distracted. No talk of America. No desire for sex. Already gone when she awoke. Never home when she went to bed.

  Her heart began to race and pound in her chest as the adrenaline swam out to shield her. Tears swarmed in her eyes, blurring the words, washing them away, saving her from the pain of reading them again, for now.

  Mrs McGuire turned from the television to look at Brigid and saw it happen.

  The moment when the words seeped through, hit Brigid’s heart and, shred by shred, tore it apart.

  Kathleen thought it was very unusual that there were no lights on in the house and that the fire had gone out.

  ‘Jesus,’ she cried, as they stepped into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t bank the fire up, because I thought Alice would be back to do it and the flamin’ thing has gone out, on the very coldest night of the year. Would ye believe that? Nellie, Alice must be feeling very poorly indeed. Let’s get a pot of tea mashed and then we can take her one up and see how she is. You see to Joseph, while I get the fire going.’

  ‘I’m going up to the cot, Nana, to fetch his pyjamas,’ said Nellie.

  Kathleen had dropped to her knees, raking the range fire and muttering to herself.

  ‘Aye, there’s enough life left in here,’ she said with relief, whipping an Echo out from underneath the seat cushion and screwing it up tightly. Within a minute, the kitchen glowed orange and the reflected flames danced up the walls. Kathleen carefully placed one piece of coke after another on top of the burning paper and then closed the range doors.

  The crêpe-paper garland decorations that Kathleen, Alice and Nellie had patiently glued together over a week of evenings, and then strung across the cei
ling, shuddered and crinkled above her as the heat rose from the fire, lending the festive decorations a life of their own.

  Kathleen leant back onto her haunches and wiped her hands down the front of her apron. ‘Thank the Lord for small mercies,’ she whispered, looking up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, and crossed herself.

  It wasn’t the statue Jerry and Bernadette had bought. That one had mysteriously broken some years back, when Nellie was just a toddler. Nellie had asked her only the other day where it had come from.

  ‘The first one was bought before Jerry and Bernadette were married. I remember, they bought it from a lady in the little shop in Crossmolina, when they were at home on their holidays. This is the second one, though, and I have no idea where that came from, or even how the first one broke.’

  All that seemed such a long time ago. As she stared at the holy figurine, Kathleen murmured, ‘Ah, Bernadette, ye loved Christmas like no one I have ever known before or since.’

  Kathleen crossed herself again. It must have been the emotion of Christmas, of having a moment here on her own, in front of the fire, in an empty kitchen, because as she waited to see if the coke had truly caught, something suddenly touched her. They hadn’t switched the lamp on yet and, apart from the fire, the room was dark. She thought about life and its ups and downs. How different her life would have been if their Bernadette had lived, if she had been here with them tonight at the school. The pain of her memory and the acuteness of her loss stabbed Kathleen straight in the chest. It always did.

  Kathleen took her handkerchief out of her apron pocket.

  ‘Ah, get away, ye daft old sod,’ she said, wiping her eyes and lifting up the poker, ready to open the range doors.

  She suddenly felt cold and yet she was kneeling in front of the range, with the flames already roaring up the chimney. She held her hands out to the door to feel if it was hot. Yes, of course it was, she could see that, couldn’t she?

  An icy shiver passed over her. She rubbed her arms and looked around, confused.

  ‘God in heaven,’ she said to herself, ‘have I a chill?’ And leaning back, she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, which felt normal.