Trio

by Staincliffe, Cath

  It was horrible seeing her but she had to do it. She had never seen Peter and what he might have looked like had haunted her as a child. She had imagined his skeleton showing through or a scary look on his face. She had to view Lilian now to make it real and so she’d not plague herself with fancy notions of how she looked. They went into the room. Lilian was laid out on a trolley, a sheet up to her shoulders. She looked false. As though someone had made a poor copy of her. Her face was slumped, her mouth pulled down, she looked sulky or grumpy. Nothing like her usual expression. Her eyes were closed, no hint remained of their cat-like quality, the beautiful green colour. No glasses on now. Her hands looked more real – the familiar way her nails were bitten down. The wedding ring and engagement ring still there. Grief broke over her and with it came a whirl of bitterness, a flood of rage and fear.

  How dare you, she thought, how dare you leave me. She wanted to shake her, wake her up, force her to put those arms about her, give her solace. Come back. A sequence of nevers flowed through her, surging like waves against the shore: never smile at me, never ring me up, never say my name, never share a menu, never.

  How dare you go and die. She put her hand over the cold one and let tears burn and drip down her face. When she got tired she pulled the chair up and sat right next to the bed, lay her head against her mother’s shoulder.

  They had shared a bed after Dad had died. For months she had the comfort of her mother’s soft warm body to save her from loneliness and fears. When had Lilian cried? Not in front of Pamela.

  She could smell her mother’s hairspray mixed in with the hospital smells and a trace of the floral perfume she liked, Lily of the Valley. Time passed. She let her mind float, bobbing from one memory to another. Time passed. She grew cold and nauseous. She felt filthy from the journey. There were things to do, an avalanche of things, but she didn’t know how to leave.

  It was dark outside when there was a knock on the door. Her aunt and uncle. The spell was broken. When it came to it, it was easier to walk out with them, off to be consumed by the practicalities of death. Leaving her mother lying there alone.

  Megan Marjorie

  Nina

  Megan

  He roared his head off when Father baptised him. Megan grinned. ‘Sign of good luck,’ she whispered to Brendan. Francine, in Brendan’s arms, looked solemnly on, an anxious eighteen-month-old. He gave her a little tickle in the ribs and she wriggled and smiled.

  ‘Aidan Stephen Conroy,’ the priest said. They’d argued for hours over the middle name though they both liked Aidan. They’d had it in mind for Francine but then she turned out to be a girl. Brendan quite liked the idea of calling him Aidan Brendan but Megan pointed out that would be ABC in initials. Well, Brendan had retorted, it’ll be ASC if you call him Stephen. That’s OK, she’d replied with a logic that escaped him.

  They went through to the church hall for the christening party. They’d done the buffet themselves with plenty of help from Maggie Driscoll and Kate Conroy. Proud grandparents. And the band were happy to play for a free slate at the bar. Michael, one of Megan’s brothers, was doing the disco. She hoped he’d stay upright long enough to see them through to the end.

  Megan told Brendan to get her a rum and Coke and settled down with Aidan and Francine at the centre table. From this vantage point she could see the whole of the room: the sweep of tables and chairs arranged around the wooden dance floor, the bar to her right, the stage at the left and ahead the entrance. Anyone coming in and she could see them. Aidan began to fuss again and she rooted in her bag for his bottle and the little jar of baby food.

  She moved the highchair round and got him strapped in. His eager face was alight, burbling with anticipation.

  Brendan set the drinks down and took Francine off. Two of Megan’s sisters plus kids and both sets of grandparents sat down with her. She put Aidan in his seat, tied his bib on and started feeding him. The band struck up with a jig and like a flash the older crowd were up, twisting and whirling and giving it all they’d got. Showing the youngsters how it was done. Megan leaned over and took the ciggie her mammy had abandoned in her haste.

  She looked over at her father, Anthony, whirling Mammy about. His face was the colour of beetroot these days but his hair was still black. He’d a belly like he was about to pop. Mammy looks old, Megan thought, the skin on her arms hung loose, her lips were thinner, eyes hooded as her face had succumbed to gravity. Maggie still sported ginger hair but it came from a bottle and in-between treatments it faded to the colour of pale rust.

  Aidan had finished and was squirming in his chair. She lifted him up and sniffed at his bum, well-padded beneath the christening gown. ‘Jesus, Aidan,’ she complained, ‘been saving that one up, haven’t yer?’

  When she returned from changing him she handed him over to Brendan, who was chatting with Billy from work. The disco was starting up and she took to the floor, which filled up to the strains of Herman’s Hermits, ‘Something tells Me I’m Into Something Good’, a Manchester band and they’d got to number one. It had them all joining in, not that they needed much encouragement. She went up and got him to put on Candy’s new one, ‘Walk My Way’ and ‘Doo Wah Diddy Diddy’ after that. She danced until she was out of breath. Francine toddled over and danced beside her when they all got into a line for ‘The Locomotion’.

  There was another drink waiting for her, she took a gulp and lit up. Billy stood up to leave them. ‘’S all we can do,’ he said, ‘wait and see.’

  Brendan sighed.

  ‘What’s that then?’ She sat in the seat Billy had left.

  ‘There’s talk of a takeover and there’s more talk about modernisation.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘Bad, probably. Either could mean lay-offs.’

  She saw his mouth tighten. Knew he was worried.

  He recognised her concern. ‘There’s been rumours before,’ he shrugged. ‘Prospects might be better, now Labour’s in. Harold Wilson, more in touch with the likes of us than the rest of ’em.’ He bent forward, kissed her.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘The most beautiful woman in the world.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. And you the biggest liar?’

  Chubby Chekker came on, ‘Let’s Dance’.

  ‘Shall we?’ Brendan cocked his elbow at her.

  She ground out her cigarette, took another gulp of her drink. He was right. Could be owt or nowt. No point in fretting. Life was hard enough anyway with kids to feed and clothe and nothing getting any cheaper. But today was for Aidan and for them. This was a party and whatever troubles lay ahead they could still have a bloody good knees-up.

  Brendan passed Aidan over to Granny Kate and the pair of them went over and into the circle that the dancers formed for them. Brendan winked at her, caught her hand and they launched into the jive that they’d first learnt as teenagers.

  Marjorie

  ‘Sit down!’ Marjorie Underwood screeched at Nina.

  ‘No!’ The four-year-old glared back defiantly, then leant forward and shoved her plate of food into the centre of the table. It knocked over a glass of Ribena, which bled across the cloth.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done! You stupid child!’ She lashed out with her hand. Nina ducked but her mother still managed to clip her across the head. ‘Get upstairs.’ Her voice was tight with anger. ‘Now.’

  Stephen stared dismally at his plate.

  Marjorie pulled the edge of the tablecloth up to stem the flow of juice. Time and again the child pushed her to breaking point. Of course there was nothing wrong with a smack to instill discipline when the child was deliberately naughty like this but Nina’s behaviour never seemed to improve. And when Marjorie smacked her she was often helpless with rage herself. The child made her see red, literally, a flood of orange in her eyes, a mist of bloody fury. Red hair. Red rag to a bull.

  And at the end of these awful scenes she always had the sense that she had lost, that the girl had bested her in some obscure way. She
would not cry and say sorry and have a cuddle. No matter how harsh the words that Marjorie used or how hard the slap, the girl would blink and swallow and look at her in defiance, vivid blue eyes bright and hard, her small mouth tightly pursed. Where did we go wrong? she thought for the umpteenth time. They had treated the two children exactly the same but Stephen had been so happy, so easy and biddable. Unlike Nina . Everything was a battle. Even as a tiny baby she had cried with a ferocity that had frightened Marjorie and had refused to be mollified. Her small face contorted with rage and her legs kicking as Marjorie paced the room almost demented with fatigue.

  That evening when Robert came in she told him about the confrontation at tea-time. He loosened his tie and put his slippers on.

  ‘She’s definitely living up to the redheads’ reputation. Vile temper.’ He turned to find Marjorie in tears.

  ‘I can’t go on like this,’ she gasped. ‘I feel awful. There are times when I just want her gone.’

  A shocked silence followed. She hid her face, appalled at what she had said.

  ‘Marjorie . . .’

  ‘I don’t really mean it. It’s just all too much sometimes. Like the day’s one long battle with her. And I’m so tired. I can’t sleep with worrying about it.’ She ran her hands back through her silky blonde hair.

  He came and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘She’ll be starting school in the autumn,’ he pointed out. ‘She’ll have to buck her ideas up then. And it’ll be a break for you. Do you want me to have a word with her?’

  ‘She’s asleep now. I do love her, Robert.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  But I don’t think I like her very much. The thought drenched her with guilt. She took a deep breath, wiped her face and went to dish up their tea.

  Nina

  It was sunny in the room even though most of the walls were covered in wood and all shiny. There were lines of sun coming in the windows and dust fairies floating in them, millions of them. They were practising for their first confession. You had to close your eyes and think very hard of all the things you’d done that were sins. And you even had to say bad things that you thought about, even if you hadn’t done them and just thought of them. Nina had lots but she couldn’t remember every single one. Then there was a list in the prayer book that you had to look at.

  If God was so strong and powerful then why couldn’t he make everyone be good all the time and then there wouldn’t be any sins? No wars or robbers or lies or anything.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Father Leary began, ‘because thou art so good . . .’

  They all joined in. You had to know it off by heart. And once you’d done confession then you could make your First Holy Communion. Nina had her dress already. There were tiny pearl buttons and lace round the sleeves. The lace was dead itchy. She wasn’t allowed to try it on any more in case it got dirty. She had white gloves too and a headband, a tiara like something a Princess would wear but no diamonds, just white. And white shoes and socks.

  Father Leary was nice. He smiled a lot. Not like Daddy, who only smiled at Stephen and mainly had a shut look on his face like you couldn’t come in. When he got cross his mouth made a mean line. But he didn’t smack her. Mummy did the smacking. She usually smacked her legs.

  Father Leary had a nice laugh too. It made you want to laugh.

  It was hard to be good all the time. The priest said the confession was to say you’re sorry to God and that you had to try hard to be good after your confession. Yesterday she’d ambushed Stephen. She’d got the metal colander for her head and the sink plunger for her death ray and she’d waited behind the door on the landing and when she heard him coming upstairs she jumped out. ‘Exterminate! Exterminate! I am a Dalek, I will exterminate you!’ He’d jumped and screamed and she had laughed so much it hurt. He was bigger than her after all. He scowled at her and went off and she thought he might tell tales but Mummy didn’t come. It couldn’t be a sin that, being a Dalek, but maybe it was a bit mean. And teasing him about his books. He was always reading. Not fun stuff, like she got Bunty and there was good stories and pictures and always a free gift, like last week there was a hair slide on the front and it came through the door with the paper and it was great. But Stephen picked Look and Learn, which was more like school-y. And he read books without pictures in. She hated that sort. The pictures were always the best bit. But even when Nina was nice to Stephen and did kind things she would still think bad thoughts, they came into her head without her wanting them to, sneaked in so quick she didn’t see how you could stop them.

  She knew she would have to go to confession a lot. If she died in-between she’d be sent to purgatory and be tortured until they decided she could go to heaven. She didn’t know what they used to torture you but it hurt a lot. In Hell they had fire but maybe purgatory was different – bamboo shoots under your nails or that one where they put a rat on your tummy and then a cage over it and when the rat got hungry it ate a tunnel through you to escape.

  ‘Nina.’

  Startled, she looked up.

  ‘Make your act of contrition.’

  ‘Yes, Father. Oh, my God, because thou art so good . . .’

  Megan

  ‘All right, Megan?’ Joe was on earlies, one in three weeks. She knew them all now, the regular drivers, but Joe was the most talkative.

  ‘So-so,’ she replied and put her fare on the metal dish. He rang her off a ticket and shoved the bus back into gear.

  He waited till she was sat on the first seat before moving off.

  ‘They’ve forecast snow,’ he called over his shoulder. The bus was practically empty, sometimes she wondered if they ran it just for her. Now and then you’d get a student with a hulking great backpack off to India or Amsterdam on the Magic Bus from town but no one in their right mind would be on a bus at five in the morning if they could be tucked up warm in bed. Megan had no choice.

  ‘My mammy’d say it was too cold to snow,’ Megan called back. She lit up. They were bringing in rules about smoking, you had to go upstairs, but Joe didn’t mind and there was no one else to bother. He’d a fag in his mouth like a permanent fixture, even got a little yellow-brown stain there above his lip.

  ‘Never quite got it myself,’ she continued. ‘I mean, it snows at the North Pole, doesn’t it, and up Everest an’ all? Can’t get much colder than that.’

  ‘It’s not the same in town, is it, the snow? All mucky by the end of the day.’

  ‘That salt they chuck everywhere, the gritters and that, you should see what that does to the carpets. Burns ’em. It’s corrosive, that’s what it is. Ruins ’em if you let it build up.’

  Joe swung the bus on to Rochdale Road leading down into town. ‘Your Brendan had any luck?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Anything that comes up there’s half of Harpurhey after it. And they take the youngsters. Pay ’em less.’

  ‘Bloody crime,’ Joe put in. ‘When I started out you could always find something.’

  ‘Like the buses?’

  He laughed. ‘Aye. Well they had conductors too in them days. Or the railways, markets, factories. Everywhere’s hit now. Rolls Royce gone bust, did you see that? Dockers and engineers on strike, even the post office.’

  She knew only too well. After she’d been off having Chris they’d cut back at her old place. When she went to see about going back to work they couldn’t give her anything. Not even part-time. Orders were down and overheads were up. People blamed cheap imports and they were tightening their belts.

  ‘Something might turn up,’ he said. ‘You live in hope.’

  ‘Aye, you live in hope and you die in despair.’

  ‘Keep doing the pools, lass.’

  She watched the streets rattle past. Houses in darkness, streetlights still casting everything in an orange wash. It was perishing. They hadn’t had the heating on all winter. Just using the gas fire in the lounge. They were living on beans and toast. She still tried to keep the kids looking nice but it was hard. Aidan only
had to look at a pair of shoes and they started dropping to bits and Francine growing so fast they couldn’t keep up. She’d even got them some stuff from the Oxfam shop in town. That was a real no-no. You were meant to give your kids the best, only the best, all new. Never cast-offs or if you absolutely had to then only in the family. She pretended they’d come from Woollies, they all had ladybird labels in and you couldn’t tell they’d been worn.

  Brendan had taken her to task for it, thinking she’d been spending what they hadn’t got, so she’d had to tell him the whole lot had only cost a couple of bob. She’d seen the fleeting look of shame cross his features and fought against the same feelings in herself.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Brendan,’ she said gently, ‘it’s just another way of keeping our heads above water.’

  With no joy at the factory she now had four cleaning jobs and still they were spending more than they brought home. If she earned any more they’d dock his social. Two of the jobs were cash-in-hand as it was. Some fool somewhere had decided how much a family of five needed to live on. They must have forgotten to add a nought on the end because the amount barely fed them never mind all the rest – cleaning stuff, soap, plasters, tampons, school things, repairs, birthday cards.

  Brendan had helped out on the Driscoll’s stall for a couple of months but they all knew it didn’t add up. People were holding on to their money and takings were rock bottom. Now and again he’d get a day or two labouring, on the motorway. Digging and lifting. He’d come back shattered, the sun or the wind peeled his nose and his shoulders and he’d have cuts on his hands and arms and sometimes was half-deaf from the drills but he’d have a note or two in his pocket. Enough for a bit of shopping or towards the gas or the electric. It didn't happen often. Too many after the same chance and besides it was wise not to push it, too many snoopers eager to catch them out and stop all their benefits.

  Her stop next. She finished her cigarette and trod on the tab. Her day stretched ahead like an endurance test. Two and a half hours at the office block in town; five floors they covered, just the three of them. And that included everything from emptying paper bins and hoovering to cleaning toilets and polishing the big entrance hall with the industrial machines.