by Anne Bennett
Her stomach contracted in fear for she knew he must be very drunk and this certainty was increased as she heard him stumbling up the stairs muttering, ‘No one makes a monkey of me. Going off like that. Everyone laughing – a laughing stock, that’s what I am. I’m going to teach her a lesson she’ll never forget.’
In the bedroom, Maeve trembled. She knew she was for it. She could almost see Brendan’s cronies standing at the bar of The Bell, taunting him and making jokes about his manhood in allowing Maeve to get away with what she’d done, goading him and ensuring his temper was fully inflamed by closing time. Yet they’d know she would bear the brunt of it. She couldn’t understand them. Grimly she remembered her first night home when he’d slapped her hard on both cheeks and reminded her she wouldn’t be pregnant for ever and now she was pregnant no longer. She glanced at the baby, mercifully asleep, and hoped that she’d stay that way, for she couldn’t guarantee even a baby’s safety with Brendan in such a mood. She’d have to do her level best to placate him and she hoped he wouldn’t start on about the money as well that night and find out what she’d done with it without his permission, for then he’d surely kill her.
Brendan slammed the bedroom door open with such force it crashed against the wall and rocked on its hinges, and he glared across the room at Maeve.
‘Ah, here she is, my lady wife,’ he mocked.
Maeve sat on the bed, but she’d moved away from the cradle, for she didn’t want Brendan’s anger directed there.
‘H-hello, Brendan,’ Maeve said, annoyed with herself for the stammer and wobble she couldn’t keep out of her voice, knowing Brendan would be aware of it and realise how scared she was.
‘“Hello, Brendan,” she says,’ Brendan mimicked. He spread his arms wide and swayed on his feet. ‘Hello, Brendan, to the man she’s made a monkey of for months.’
‘Ah, come to bed, Brendan,’ Maeve coaxed. She put out a hand towards him, but didn’t dare touch him. Instead she began to unfasten her cardigan, but her fingers trembled that much, she could only fumble at the buttons.
‘Come to bed?’ Brendan repeated, lurching in front of her so that she smelt the stale scent of the beer on his breath and the sour stink of his unwashed body. ‘I wouldn’t come to bed with you,’ he spat out. ‘You whore! You bloody sodding whore!’
She didn’t see the fist raised, but years later could remember the power of it slamming into her face, and she gave a strangled yelp at the smarting pain. Her nose and lips spurted blood, she tasted it in her mouth and she thought, maybe that’s it, maybe now he’ll be satisfied. She wiped the blood from her nose and mouth with the back of her hand. Then through her swollen lips she said, ‘Come away now, Brendan. Let’s go to bed.’
Brendan ignored her outstretched hand and said instead, ‘Where’s the bloody money? There was none on the mantelpiece downstairs.’
Oh God. Fear set her legs shaking.
‘Let’s . . . Let’s talk about it in the morning,’ Maeve urged. ‘I’m tired, so I am. Come on to bed.’
But it was no use. Maeve knew Brendan would be well aware she was hiding something from him. She’d seen the suspicion in his eyes and knew what was in store for her as he growled again, ‘What have you done with my bleeding money?’
Maeve licked her swollen lips. She knew this was it and when all was said and done, maybe it was as well to get it all over with. ‘Brendan,’ she said, ‘there isn’t much left.’ She watched his eyes narrow and glitter with malice and she gabbled on while total and absolute terror gripped her like a vice. ‘I had to buy coal – the house was like an icebox, so it was. Dear God, I was perished and the wean too. You have to keep them warm when they’re small. The coal men wouldn’t deliver without payment. Then there’s the rent. We owe three weeks with this week, and the rent man caught me tonight and I had to give this week’s money and something off the arrears.’ She looked into Brendan’s eyes and appealed to him. ‘I had no choice, Brendan. I had to give him something.’
‘You bloody sodding liar!’
His scream woke the baby and the resulting slap knocked Maeve to the floor. Mindful of Brendan’s views on crying children, Maeve began crawling across to the cradle.
‘Leave her!’ Brendan snapped.
‘Let me pacify her, Brendan?’ Maeve pleaded.
‘I said leave her,’ Brendan said, and he kicked out at Maeve, drawing the breath from her body and knocking her legs from under her till she lay spread-eagled on the floor.
Maeve was too frightened for the child to argue further, but when she saw Brendan unbuckle his belt, she began to plead again, ‘Please, Brendan, not that. Dear God! Please, I couldn’t help spending the money. I have three shillings left for you.’
It was as if she hadn’t spoken. Brendan slid his belt from his loops, hauling her to her feet as he did so and holding her with one hand by the upper arm, digging his nails into her flesh so that she was unable to pull away. As the baby’s cries filled the room Maeve saw, by the light of the candle, the smile playing around Brendan’s mouth as he lifted the belt and brought the buckle end down on Maeve’s back. She’d struggled in panic, shrieking and screaming as she twisted in a futile effort to free herself. She was aware of her clothes being ripped to shreds as the belt continued to lash at her. Her efforts to escape seemed to excite Brendan further and she heard his breath rasping in his throat. A lash to the back of the legs caused them to buckle beneath her and she slumped on to her knees. Brendan, taken unawares, lost his grip and Maeve scarcely felt Brendan’s nails tearing into her arm as she fell to the floor, because by that stage, she wasn’t aware of much.
But her survival instinct was such that as soon as she hit the floor, she started to crawl frantically, her intention to hide under the bed. She was no longer screaming, but making little whimpers of terror. The sweat was running down Brendan’s face, which was beetroot red – even his eyes shone demonic red in the flickering light of the candle – and he was gasping for breath as he dragged Maeve from under the bed by her arm and kicked viciously at her legs with his hobnail boots.
That’s when Maeve knew she’d had one chance and it had gone. She was aware of deep groans as Brendan kicked her again and again till she vomited with the pain of it all. She thought she was going to die, there in the cold back bedroom of her house, lying in a bloodstained heap in her own vomit. Her last thoughts before she lost consciousness were for the children she’d left behind in Ireland and the wee baby wailing in the cradle.
It was the baby’s continuous yells that eventually caused Elsie to investigate. She’d had words with Alf when she’d first heard Maeve’s screams and had wanted to go to her. Alf said she should keep out of it; he’d even gone so far as to say if he’d given her the odd punch in the gob herself she mightn’t be so keen to interfere in others’ lives. At that Elsie had bristled and said she’d like to see him try, and as their argument grew fierce they yelled at each other so loud and furiously that the thumps and thuds from next door were not heard above their own anger.
And by the time they settled to an offended stony silence, there was no sound of Maeve or Brendan, only Bridget wailing like a banshee.
‘See,’ Alf remarked smugly to his wife. ‘They’ve got over whatever it was and gone to sleep.’
‘What, with that babby bawling its head off?’ Elsie retorted. ‘Well, I’m going round to see what’s what, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.’ And ignoring Alf’s disapproving sniff she slid from her bed and, slipping an old coat on top of her nightgown and pushing shoes on her feet, she went next door.
The doors were seldom locked in the courts and Elsie didn’t bother to knock. Apart from the baby’s howls, the house was ominously still. There was no sound from the bedroom above, and that itself was strange. She expected to hear Maeve trying to pacify the baby, speaking to her or walking the floor with her because Maeve had told her that a crying baby irritated Brendan beyond anything else. That night of all nights, Elsie knew Maeve would be doing all
she could to appease him.
But there was no sound from him either. He wasn’t shouting or bawling at Maeve to shut the bloody brat up and yet Bridget’s screams were piercing. Elsie opened the door to the stairs and crept up quietly until she stood at the open bedroom door, where she stood transfixed with shock. Brendan was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands as the baby’s wails crescendoed. But Elsie took no notice, for she was horror-stricken by the motionless bloodstained figure that had once been Maeve Hogan lying on the floor. Elsie was convinced that what she had always feared had finally happened: Brendan had killed his wife.
‘What have you done?’ she said in an appalled whisper.
Brendan lifted his head to his hated neighbour and said, ‘Bugger off and mind your own business. But I’ll tell you one thing: she’ll never run off on me again.’
Elsie glared at him, but didn’t bother with a reply. She approached Maeve cautiously, though her senses recoiled from the sight, and took her limp wrist in her hand. Her relief was immense when she found a beating pulse and noticed Maeve’s chest moving slightly.
She made Maeve as comfortable as she could, laying a pillow from the bed behind her head, but she hesitated to move her much. Elsie scooped the sobbing baby from the cradle, shocking her so much, her yells ceased, and without another word to Brendan she fled the house. Alf wasn’t a hard man and once his wife stressed the seriousness of the situation, he got up, dressed and set off for Dr Fleming immediately.
Meanwhile, Elsie dressed herself hurriedly and tied the baby to her waist with a shawl. She sped through the night with the aid of a flickering torch until she stood outside the presbytery. The house was locked and in darkness, but undeterred, Elsie hammered on the door. She felt it had to be brought home to Father Trelawney what sort of a maniac Brendan Hogan was and she knew Maeve needed the priest’s presence for she was seriously hurt.
The old housekeeper, Florrie McCormack, complete with curlers in her hair, came to the door at Elsie’s frantic hammering, incensed that the priests she looked after should have their slumbers disturbed. Elsie demanded to see Father Trelawney in such a strident voice he was woken up and came to the top of the stairs. There was only the shielded torch to see by, but Elsie knew he was there.
‘Will you come with me to my neighbour’s house?’ she called, and Father Trelawney descended the stairs and stood before her.
‘Come on in,’ he said, drawing her inside so that he could shut the door and turn on the light. It flooded the hall and showed Elsie the tousled-haired priest, a woolly dressing gown over his pyjamas, fleecy slippers on his feet and his face crimson with annoyance.
Elsie looked at the man who was so decently and warmly clad and thought of the tattered rags Maeve wore and the icy bedroom she’d left her in.
‘Your neighbour, Maeve?’ Father Trelawney asked. ‘But I’ve already seen her this evening. She was all right when I left. What ails her?’
‘What ails her?’ Elsie screeched, almost bouncing on the floor. ‘I’ll tell you what ails her. She’s been beaten half to death, that’s what, and I’ll tell you why.’ She stabbed her stubby finger at the priest and cried, ‘That money you bring her, d’you think the bastard lets her keep it? You know what type of man he is. You’re not stupid. Well, tonight Maeve spent some of that money on what it was supposed to be used for, coal for the fire and rent money that she was owing because he takes every penny back off her that she hasn’t already spent. He never even leaves her enough for the rent. God, you should see the mess he’s made of her. Do you know what he said to me when I found her? “She’ll never run off again”, that’s what he said, the bastard!’
‘How bad is she?’
‘Bad enough,’ Elsie said flatly. ‘We’ve sent for the doctor. When I first saw her lying there, I thought he’d killed her.’ She put a hand on Bridget’s little head as if the baby understood her words and needed comfort.
‘Is she asking for me?’
‘No. But she probably would if she were able,’ Elsie said, ‘even if it were just to curse you from here to hell and back.’ She saw the priest recoil slightly and knew he had no stomach for what she’d told him and probably didn’t totally believe it was as bad as she said. ‘She was unconscious when I left her,’ Elsie said. ‘Now come on. Get ready, she needs your prayers tonight if anyone does.’
Florrie McCormack came out of the kitchen as Father Trelawney came down the stairs. ‘Are you away out, Father?’ she asked with a disapproving look at Elsie.
‘Yes. I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ the priest answered as he packed a bag with the oils and holy water needed to administer the last rites.
‘Wrap up well, for these nights are treacherous,’ Florrie said solicitously. ‘Shall I make you a hot drink before you go?’
‘We’ve no time to spare,’ Elsie said before the priest could speak, and she glanced up at Father Trelawney and said, ‘Hurry. I don’t like to leave Maeve alone for too long.’
The priest heard the steel in Elsie’s voice and saw the glint of smouldering anger in her eyes and didn’t argue with her. He grabbed the small black bag and they made the short journey to Maeve’s house in silence.
When they got there, there was no sign of Brendan, but Alf was downstairs and the doctor was attending to Maeve in the bedroom above. The doctor was gently bathing the weals and bruises on Maeve’s back and shoulders with warm water in a basin. He turned to Elsie and told her an ambulance had been sent for, and went on to say that any man who’d inflicted such punishment on his wife should be locked up.
‘You found her, I believe?’
‘Yes, Doctor,’ Elsie replied. ‘It was the screams of the baby alerted me.’
‘The baby, yes, of course.’
Bridget, worn out with her tears and the dash to the presbytery, had been rocked to sleep and the doctor barely glanced at her before saying to Elsie, ‘Could you put her down and give me a hand? We need to get as many of Mrs Hogan’s clothes off as possible.’
‘I’d be glad to,’ Elsie said, and she was glad to have something to do for her friend. She began unwrapping the baby as she asked tentatively, ‘Is she . . .? Will she . . .? Oh God!’
The doctor laid a hand on Elsie’s trembling arm and said, ‘She’s very ill. We’ll do our best.’
It had to do. In one way Elsie was grateful for the doctor’s frankness. She glanced over at Father Trelawney, who was still standing at the door as though the shock of what he was witnessing had paralysed him. As she placed the baby in the cradle, he seemed to come out of it somewhat.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You have Bridget, of course.’
Elsie stared at him. She had no time for him and the shock he might have suffered. ‘Why of course, Father,’ she said. ‘Did you think I’d picked up any old babby just to keep me company?’ And she added pityingly, ‘Did you think I’d leave the babby with Brendan after I saw what he did to her mother?’
She didn’t wait for the priest’s reply and, laying Bridget down, she went over to the doctor, who was kneeling beside Maeve.
She’d never seen anyone, neither man nor woman, as badly beaten. Maeve’s face had been beaten to pulp and the weals cut into her skin were crusted or dripping with blood on her shoulders and back and on the backs of her legs and even on her exposed breasts. Blackened bruising seemed to cover every part of her body. As well as this there was a large ugly-looking cut the length of her left leg and another from her head, both still bleeding.
Elsie hadn’t been aware she was crying as she looked at the body of her young friend until she felt the tears drip on to her hands. She knelt beside the doctor and began to gently pull the ragged clothes from Maeve. Sometimes they were stuck, stiff with blood, and even easing them away with warm water brought some of Maeve’s skin with it. The first time this happened, Elsie felt the bile rise in her throat, but she refused to be sick and bent to the task, knowing it had to be done.
And when it was done, and Maeve covered with a sheet,
Father Trelawney came forward and asked the doctor, ‘Is her life in danger?’
Elsie knew why he asked. If there was a chance Maeve might die, he would give her the last rites. The doctor looked the priest up and down, and with a face on him that showed he didn’t like what he saw overmuch, then said, ‘Do what you want. You and yours have brought this upon her anyway by making her come back to this man. I dare say you can do no further harm.’
Elsie wondered how he knew, but guessed he’d picked up gossip from the neighbours. Certainly, he seemed to hold Father Trelawney at least partially responsible for Maeve being beaten by her husband. Elsie remembered the last time the doctor had been brought to the house. It had been to attend to both Kevin, who’d been beaten by his father, and then Maeve, who as a result of that particular beating had given birth to a stillborn premature baby. Obviously Dr Fleming had not forgotten that.
Father Trelawney made no comment to the doctor. He blessed the room with holy water before going forward to kneel beside Maeve, his stole around his neck, and began to mutter prayers as he held one of Maeve’s unresponsive hands in his own. Elsie watched him dispassionately as he read from the Scriptures and anointed Maeve gently with the blessed oils and intoned a prayer for healing. When he had finished, he removed the stole gently, kissed it and turned to Elsie.
‘I won’t accompany Maeve to the hospital,’ he told her as Alf announced the ambulance was outside. ‘I was up all last night with a dying man.’
Elsie stared at him. ‘Well, you just go home to your bed, Father, and rest yourself,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Next time Maeve is beaten up, I’ll tell her to do it at a more convenient time for you. But I know one thing for sure, Maeve is not going to that hospital alone, and if you won’t go, then I must.’
The priest was shocked at Elsie’s reaction and she was surprised herself. She’d never spoken to a priest in such a way before, but then she’d seldom been as angry as she was that night. She lifted the baby from the cradle, wrapped her in the blankets and, without a further word to the priest, left the room.