Pack Up Your Troubles

by Anne Bennett

  No one would betray Maeve, Elsie thought. After all, the man was dead and hounding his battered wife wouldn’t help. Anyway, most people feared the police. Maeve Hogan was one of their own, and all things considered, had one hell of a life of it. Good luck to her if she’d clouted the fellow that had terrorised her for years.

  So thought the women of the court. The men, Brendan’s drinking partners, might have had more to say on the subject if they’d been home to hear the to-do in the house, but Brendan had been in such a rage he’d left the pub early. When they heard the news, the general consensus was that while there was no doubt Brendan had had a load on him that night, they’d all seen him worse and he’d never fallen then. It all went to show that when your number’s up that’s it, they remarked sagely, and none of them thought of anything more sinister happening to Brendan Hogan.

  Kevin, when he arrived, told them he was glad the old bugger was dead where he could harm no one any more, and he didn’t care who heard him say so. His mother’s face was battered, he noted, and it enraged him. ‘Pity he didn’t die before he started on you again,’ he said, and Maeve was glad of the clothes covering up the weal marks on the rest of her. The same weal marks made Elsie whistle when she saw them later, as she bathed Maeve’s back and put salve on.

  But though Kevin was worried about his mother, he was more concerned about Grace, who was jumpy and agitated. Elsie, who’d guessed at the events of that evening from seeing the gash on the side of the malicious bugger’s head that had been caused by no fender, told Kevin his sister was in shock.

  ‘It’s seeing her father lying dead like that. Bound to upset her.’

  Kevin knew that wasn’t it. He agreed it might have shocked her at the time, but, God, you’d think she’d be over it all now and be pleased the old bugger was dead and where he couldn’t petrify the life out of her any more, and he said so.

  ‘God, Grace, I’d thought you’d be getting ready to dance on his bloody grave like I am.’

  Grace turned troubled, sad eyes upon her brother and said, ‘Ah, but you can, Kevin. That’s one thing I can never do.’

  Maeve heard her daughter’s words and stepped between them. She wanted Grace to say nothing to anyone else about the events of that evening. She’d explain her own part in them as soon as she got her alone, and she felt Kevin’s eyes on her as she led Grace away.

  But Kevin’s attention was soon taken by Bridget and Jamie. They’d slept through the entire incident, but when they stirred in the morning Maeve wondered what to tell them.

  ‘Tell them the truth, Mammy,’ Kevin said. ‘That the man was so full of beer he fell and bashed his head in.’ He missed the panicky look that passed between his mother and sister, but Elsie didn’t. ‘Don’t think they’ll be upset, or anyway near it,’ Kevin went on. ‘They’ll more likely be overjoyed.’

  And they were. Bridget tried to hide her relief but Jamie didn’t. He couldn’t. He was ecstatic! It was the best news he’d heard in years and his smile nearly cut his face in two. ‘I’m glad,’ he declared just as Kevin had. ‘Now he can’t hurt nobody no more.’

  Maeve didn’t chide him. She remembered the way Brendan had thrown him against the wall on Christmas Day. To protect him and the others, as well as herself, she’d killed a man who’d terrorised them all. What other reaction could be expected? she asked herself, and instead of correcting Jamie she caught him up and sat him on her knee. Bridget threw herself on her mother too and even Mary Ann tried to climb up her legs. Maeve encircled her arms around her younger children while her eyes met those of her elder children and she knew not only was she well blessed but that what she’d done to Brendan had been worth it.

  After the initial relief that Brendan was dead, shock set in. The worry of it drove sleep from her mind each night, but she was also afraid to sleep. In her dreams, she relived the minute when she’d held the cushion over Brendan’s face and the memory of it terrified her.

  In the day Maeve was often unable to concentrate, often didn’t hear when someone spoke to her and was given to almost uncontrollable bouts of shivering. Elsie was all for calling the doctor, but Maeve would have none of it. ‘It’s reaction, nothing more, and not to be wondered at.’

  Grace’s white face with black smudges beneath her bleak, sorrow-filled eyes also haunted Maeve, and she knew she was suffering too, but Maeve was just about stumbling through the days herself. She just couldn’t bring herself to talk about that dreadful night, and yet she knew the burden of guilt lay heavy on Grace’s slender shoulders. Maeve felt as if she was walking a fine line between sanity and insanity. She could talk to no one about it, but in the dead of the night, when she paced the floor for hour after ceaseless hour, she honestly thought she was losing her mind.

  She was grateful for the support of the neighbours – mainly Elsie, of course, but others were always popping in to see how she was. Brendan’s mother, Lily, had been to see her as well, to lament the loss of a son and plan for a funeral he would be proud of. Then Kevin was never away from the place, Gwen Moss stepping in to take his place at the shop so that he could help his mother.

  There was so much to do and Maeve was totally unable to deal with most of it, and she was glad of Kevin and Elsie’s constant and unwavering support. Kevin wrote letters to the family in Ireland while Elsie contacted the priest and those at the Abbey in Erdington, where Brendan was to be buried, St Catherine’s having no graveyard of its own. There were the coffin and flowers to order, the cars to book and food to put on to refresh the mourners, and Maeve was terrified of the debt she was getting herself into just to put Brendan into the ground and cover him up.

  No one from Maeve’s family was coming over from Donegal for the funeral, as springtime was not a good time to leave a farm, and it was also a desperate journey for just a couple of days. Instead, Liam and Kate came over on the ferry from Dublin to Holyhead in North Wales and down by train to Birmingham to represent the family. Maeve’s mother sent her love and support and forty pounds to cover the funeral costs, knowing how expensive it would be, and Maeve had cried with relief.

  Elsie liked Liam, the smart businessman in the black suit, and the no-nonsense sister Kate in the black woollen dress and matching coat. ‘If you’d had that pair at your back these past years you wouldn’t have suffered as you did,’ Elsie said, when they’d all departed with her ineffectual Uncle Michael, at whose house they were staying until after the funeral. ‘That brother of yours would have settled Brendan’s hash and no mistake.’

  Maeve agreed he probably would have. ‘Let’s not go on about it now though,’ she said. ‘The man’s dead. Leave it so.’

  ‘Oh, now he’s a bloody saint, is he, now he’s snuffed it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Maeve retorted. ‘I’m not a hypocrite altogether. Lily has him in the house above now, the coffin in the front room with candles all around him and people saying the rosary all the night through for the repose of his soul like they do in Ireland. I couldn’t go along with that.’ She looked at her friend and went on, ‘To tell you the truth, Elsie, if all these prayers have managed to get Brendan into heaven and I should meet him at the pearly gates, then I would turn round and take my chance with Old Nick himself and rather do it. I couldn’t stick Brendan Hogan throughout all eternity.’

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you crack your face in years,’ Elsie said, seeing the ghost of a smile playing around Maeve’s mouth, ‘and you’ve no need to worry yourself. According to the priest, we’re all a load of sinners anyway. There’ll be enough of us in hell to have a party, I’m thinking.’

  Maeve laughed with her friend, because she expected her to, but the word ‘sinner’ tugged at her.

  She knew she was destined for hell, because she was a murderer and God couldn’t help her, for she wasn’t a mite sorry.

  TWENTY

  The funeral was over, the coffin had been lowered to the ground, the prayers intoned, the clods of earth thrown on top, then neighbours, friends and those
others after a good feed filed into Maeve’s house where they demolished in one half-hour the table of food that it had taken two days to prepare. Maeve provided tea for those that wanted it and Syd Moss sent a couple of bottles of lemonade for the children. The Hogan family produced the whisky and beer and Elsie brought a bottle of sweet sherry for any ladies that might like a drop.

  Maeve hadn’t tasted sherry since V-E Day and was surprised at how pleasant she found it. ‘You’re turning me into a lush,’ she complained as Elsie poured her a second glass.

  ‘Hardly,’ Elsie replied. ‘Just a little sustenance that might help you cope with the brave fellow’s family.’

  Maeve hoped a couple of drinks would do the trick because Brendan’s parents and brothers were hard to take, while the women of the family seemed afraid of their own shadows and far too cowed to have a conversation with. As the drink flowed freely, Maeve had to listen to what a fine fellow her late husband was, endorsed by her uncle, who was as drunk as she’d ever seen him.

  ‘I could tell them another thing he’s good at,’ Elsie whispered in Maeve’s ear. ‘Kicking the shit out of people.’

  Oh God, Maeve thought, I want to laugh. What’s the matter with me? It must be the sherry; I’m not used to it.

  ‘Steady, sis,’ Liam said in her ear. He’d been shocked by the sight of his sister and his niece when he’d arrived in Birmingham. They’d seemed incredibly thin and frail, and their stark red-rimmed eyes with the blue smudges beneath them looked huge in their white faces.

  They were jumpy and nervous too, and both he and Kate had been worried about them. But then, they agreed it must have been an awful shock to see the man lying there dead.

  They hoped they would feel better after the funeral. Liam particularly felt sorry for his sister having to deal with the awful members of her late husband’s family. He could see the incredible strain she was under and he said quietly, ‘It’s nearly over. Hang on.’

  Oh, how glad Maeve was to have Liam and Kate beside her. She wished they could stay longer, but they had to go back to their busy lives. But when they were saying goodbye to her the following day, Liam pressed two ten-pound notes into Maeve’s hand. ‘From Kate and me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you’ll manage now. You’ll have to look into it, but this money I’m sure won’t come amiss either. Mammy is writing to you. She’ll help you all she can, but I don’t really have to tell you that.’

  ‘Oh, Liam’ – tears stood out in Maeve’s eyes – ‘it’s too much.’

  ‘Not at all. You have a lot to do with it,’ Liam said. ‘Now have it to please us both.’

  And she had it, not only to please her brother and sister, but to take the haunted resigned look from Kevin’s face. She’d seen it at the funeral in a moment he thought himself unobserved. She knew what he was thinking. His dream of ever going back to Ireland lay in tatters around him. He was now the man of the family and would have to support them all.

  It couldn’t be right. With all these reforms they were planning, surely there was something put aside for widows? She’d see about it, she decided, and she tucked the money away without telling another soul of it, and reached up and gave Liam and Kate a hug and kiss that told them of her gratitude more than words could have done.

  The day after the funeral, after saying goodbye to her aunt and uncle, Grace didn’t go back to school. Instead, without telling anyone, she’d gone to St Chad’s Cathedral in the city centre to confession. She couldn’t face telling Father Trelawney what she had done, yet she had to admit it to a priest somewhere.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is a week since my last confession,’ Grace began bravely – the words she’d known since she was seven years old. Then there was silence.

  Father Casey of St Chad’s shifted in his seat. ‘Go on, my child?’

  ‘Father . . . Father, I’ve got just the one big sin.’

  ‘A sin is a sin in the eyes of God, my child.’

  ‘No, no. Please listen, Father. This is murder. I murdered someone.’

  Grace suddenly realised she hadn’t lowered her voice and any of the people waiting for confession might have heard her, and her limbs began trembling.

  The priest was repeating, ‘Murder, my child?’ and Grace could tell he didn’t believe his own ears. ‘Did you say murder?’

  It was important to Grace that the priest should believe her. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said, but though her tone was definite, she’d lowered her voice.

  ‘Do you know what you are saying?’

  ‘It gets worse, Father,’ Grace said, impatient to get it over with once she’d started. ‘The person I murdered is, w-was, my father and . . . and another thing: I’ve prayed and prayed, but I can’t be sorry I did it.’

  Father Casey sat up in his chair. ‘Have the police been involved in this? I presume you have told the police? Really this shouldn’t be dealt with in confession.’

  The child, and from her voice the priest knew her to be a child, said in a voice so quiet he strained to hear, ‘I’d hardly tell you this face to face, Father, that’s why I came to confession. He was an awful man, my father, and the whole family were frightened to death of him, and my mother most of all.’

  ‘Dear, dear.’

  ‘He’d cut my mother’s back to ribbons with his belt,’ Grace went on. ‘I really believe he would have killed her if I hadn’t gone down and hit him with the poker.’

  ‘Could you not get him to stop?’

  Grace sighed. ‘Don’t you think I tried? I yelled and shouted and pulled at his arms, but it was no good.’

  ‘So you hit out to stop him?’

  ‘No, Father.’ There was a small silence. Grace could say that and she’d get absolution and everything would be all right. Except she would have lied to a priest and in a confessional box too. But if she told the truth, the priest could do nothing for her. She knew that and yet she said, ‘I’d like you to believe that, but it’s not true. I knew if I just stopped him, it would be my turn next – if not then, certainly later. I hit him to kill him, Father. Then I knew then everyone would be free of the fear we carried around in us all the time.’

  ‘And you’re not sorry?’

  ‘No, Father, and I don’t think I ever will be.’

  ‘Then you know I can’t give you absolution?’

  ‘Yes, Father, I thought you might not,’ Grace said. ‘But if God’s everywhere like we’re told,’ she went on, ‘He’ll know how it’s been for my mother over the years. She sent us to Ireland more to protect us from our father than the war.’ She stopped for a minute and went on, ‘Anyway, if God is all-seeing and -knowing, maybe even if I can’t be forgiven for killing my father, He’ll think it partly justified.’

  ‘I don’t think so, child. Murder is never justified.’

  ‘Would you say that if Hitler had been murdered?’ Grace burst out. ‘Especially if it had saved millions of other lives? I bet everyone would have clapped their hands off if Hitler had been done away with. Well, my father was a madman like him. He gave us all hell, Father. Why should his life matter more than my mother and my family?’

  And Father Casey couldn’t answer. Those stock phrases that he had off pat did not seem to have any relevance here.

  ‘Pray for me, Father,’ the child said, and the priest prayed that God should have mercy on her soul, and when he’d finished, Grace left the confessional box feeling that at least she’d put her side of it to God.

  At St Chad’s, before Benediction that same evening, there was half an hour given over to prayer, contemplation or confession, if someone was in urgent need of it. Father Casey sat in a pew, his Office unopened on his knee. He was still puzzling over the child’s visit that morning, and turning it over in his mind, when a woman he’d never seen before approached him and asked him to hear her confession. She was a poor woman, he could tell by her threadbare, shapeless coat and bare legs, her feet thrust into old worn-out shoes, with a shawl thrown over her head for propriety’s sake.
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br />   He wasn’t to know that Maeve had already walked the streets for hours trying to come to terms with what she had done. Eventually, she faced the fact that her husband was dead through her hand and nothing on God’s earth could change that. The point was, could she live with herself after it or not?

  At the time she’d felt it to be justified and she knew if she was to go under now, her children would have nobody to turn to. Suddenly she knew she had to confess this to someone. Give it to God and let Him deal with it. But she’d not tell Father Trelawney. Good God, no! She’d go to St Chad’s.

  The old priest was totally unprepared for what Maeve told him from the other side of the grille. ‘You killed your husband?’ he repeated incredulously.

  For a moment or two Father Casey thought killing family members might be a form of sickness sweeping the parish. In all his years as a priest, no one had ever confessed to murder in the confessional box and now he’d heard two in one day. It was likely surely that the poor unfortunate was one and the same. But that being so, to kill a man once was usually enough. To kill him twice was carrying things too far. He told himself not to be flippant over a murder and brought his mind back to the woman on the other side of the screen.

  ‘Can you explain what happened? How this terrible thing came about?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I . . . He was beating me.’

  ‘Was this usual? I mean, did he do it often?’

  ‘He was always cruel, Father. A punch or kick was normal for him and happened often. But this time I knew he meant business, because I’d been drawing the family allowance and not told him anything about it.’

  ‘Had you a reason for this secrecy?’

  ‘Oh yes, Father. Bre— My husband kept me desperately short of money. If I’d told him about the family allowance he’d have kept that off the amount he gave me. That night somehow he found out. But my daughter was wakened in her bed and came downstairs and tried to make him stop. When he wouldn’t, she hit him with the poker.’