The Old House on the Corner

by Maureen Lee

  It was a good half-hour before he turned and noticed her. ‘Sorry, luv. I’m being rude, aren’t I? What’s your name? I know Rita told us, but I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Marie Brennan,’ she said coldly. ‘And yes, you are rude, sitting with your back to me all this time.’

  He looked taken aback, probably expecting her to fawn all over him, as Marguerite had been doing ever since he came in, or thrust her breasts in his face – they were bigger than Marguerite’s by a mile. ‘I said I was sorry,’ he stammered.

  She shrugged carelessly. ‘OK, apology accepted – what’s your name? I’ve forgotten too.’

  ‘Mickey Harrison.’ His eyes held a gleam of interest. Marie could tell that she intrigued him. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Marie?’

  She wasn’t sure what to answer. If she said yes, he might run a mile and, although she never went short of dates, she’d never had a proper boyfriend, but didn’t want Mickey to know that. She shrugged again and said,

  ‘A sort of boyfriend. He’s in England, at university,’ she added, inspired. ‘He keeps on at me to get married, but I’m not sure if I want to.’ The others were busy talking and didn’t hear the brazen lie.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but Marguerite did no more than put her hand on his face, turn it towards her, and say in a silky, soft voice that Marie had never heard her use before, ‘When was it you said you were coming back to Donegal again, Mickey?’

  ‘The weekend after next,’ he replied. ‘Enda’s invited me to their Brigid’s wedding.’

  Marie had also been invited to the wedding. She resolved to turn up looking like a million dollars – Mickey Harrison would notice her then – but this turned out to be easier said than done.

  ‘You can borrow me black frock,’ Theresa said generously. It was Sunday, and they were lying on the bed, waiting for Mam to shout it was time for Mass.

  ‘You don’t wear black at weddings.’

  ‘Then what about your blue one?’

  ‘It’s too much like a dance frock. I want to impress him with my elegance and sophistication. I’d wear me grey one with the bolero if I hadn’t already worn it a thousand times before,’ Marie sniffed gloomily.

  ‘Your grey one’s smart enough, but it’s a bit miserable.’

  ‘I know. Whenever I wear it, I feel as if I want to take the veil. The rest of me frocks are too summery and I don’t want to wear a blouse and skirt.’ What she needed was a really smart suit.

  ‘This Mickey feller must’ve taken your fancy, Marie, if you’re so dead set on impressing him,’ Theresa remarked.

  ‘Oh, he did,’ Marie said simply. ‘He’s gorgeous, dropdown-dead gorgeous. I can’t get him out of me mind, but Marguerite Kelly’s already got her eye on him and she’ll turn up to the wedding dressed like a film star and I won’t stand a chance. I haven’t even got a decent coat to wear. I don’t suppose you could lend me some money?’ she said coaxingly. ‘I could buy something new.’

  ‘You already owe me seven pounds,’ Theresa pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t mind that back, by the way. I can’t afford to lend any more. Any minute now and I’ll be saving up for me bottom drawer. Why don’t you ask our Clodagh if you can borrow her fur coat? It’s not exactly new, I know.’

  ‘It’s not exactly fur, either. It looks like a mouldy old rug. Didn’t she get it from a jumble sale?’

  ‘There’s a jumble sale at the Holy Spirit hall next Saturday – you might find something suitable there.’

  Marie hit her sister with a pillow, just as Mam called to ask if they were ready, and Marie went to Mass with a heavy heart. It was three days since she’d met Mickey and he had haunted her ever since. She had no money – she was in debt to Mam and Sheila as well as Theresa, and next Friday’s wages wouldn’t be enough to pay everyone back, let alone buy a frock that would make her look like a hundred dollars, let alone a million.

  In the end, she wore Theresa’s black frock that had long tight sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a flared skirt. Mam said there was no harm in wearing black to a wedding – hadn’t Auntie Agnes worn a black boucle´ costume to Caitlin’s last year? Mam let her borrow her long amber necklace and earrings set that Dad had given her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and said she didn’t need to pay back the money she owed until next week, so Marie bought a pair of black suede shoes with four-inch heels and gloves to match. Clodagh had her fur coat cleaned and it came up a lovely creamy colour and didn’t look so bad at all and Caitlin lent her a hat that was merely a pompom with a bit of net attached and wouldn’t hide her lovely hair.

  On the morning of the wedding, Marie got up early to have a bath – essential if you wanted to soak in the water for more than half a minute when ten people shared the bathroom. She smeared an apricot face pack on her very ordinary face, half hoping it would work a miracle of some sorts, but when she peeled it off, her face looked no different, apart from the gooey bits still sticking to her chin. She washed her long, red wavy hair, dried it with extra care, and took half an hour doing her face, dabbing every single freckle between her eyes and on her nose with an extra layer of Golden Surrender moisturising make-up base. After she’d decked herself out in the borrowed clothes and jewellery, she went downstairs to show the finished result to Mam and Dad.

  ‘Why, don’t you look a picture?’ Mam exclaimed. For a fifty-year-old woman who’d born twelve children she looked remarkably youthful. ‘Your hair’s come up a treat, Marie.’

  ‘Come along, me darlin’ girl,’ Dad said, kissing her cheek, ‘I’ll give you a lift. That sky’s rather threatening, as if it might snow again.’ Marie wanted to cry because she loved him and her mammy so much, as well as her eight sisters and three brothers.

  As the ancient van bumped over the frozen ruts in the path that led from the Brennan’s tied farm cottage to the road ahead, she was glad about the lift. Walking, and she’d have ended up with a broken ankle or a broken heel, one or the other.

  When Dad drew up outside the church, Marguerite Kelly was just climbing out of her father’s flash red car. She wore black, thigh-length boots, a short red leather coat and a red leather cap to match, and gave Marie a little wave.

  ‘Your mate’s forgotten to put on a skirt,’ Dad remarked.

  ‘I don’t think so, Dad. That’s the latest fashion.’

  ‘I thought mini-skirts went out years ago.’

  ‘They did, but now they’re back in again.’ Marie sighed. She might have known it would be Marguerite who’d turn up looking like a million dollars, not her.

  ‘Have a nice time, luv. Don’t forget, give us a ring when you want to come home and I’ll come and fetch you. It doesn’t matter how late it is.’

  ‘Ta, Dad.’

  The church was crowded for the Nuptial Mass and she couldn’t see hide nor hair of Mickey Harrison any way she looked. The first sight she had of him was outside the church when the photographs were being taken. Her heart turned a somersault: he looked handsomer than ever in a light grey suit with a pale blue tie, but her heart came back to land with a painful thump when she saw that Marguerite was already hanging on to his arm.

  How had she managed that? Marie seethed. She must have Radar or something. She seethed even more when they transferred to the Holy Spirit hall for the reception and she saw Marguerite and Mickey sitting together at a table on the far side of the room. Her own name card was beside Ursula’s – Rita, a bridesmaid, was on the top table.

  ‘I thought Marguerite was sitting with us,’ Ursula remarked. ‘She must have moved the cards around. That’s probably why I’ve got some ould auntie on me other side. The poor thing’s as deaf as a post and can’t hear a word I say. She’s complaining she should’ve been put next to her sister.’

  It was not until much later, after Brigid and Edward had left for the honeymoon in London, the tables had been cleared, the band had arrived, and the dancing began, that Marie came face to face with Mickey Harrison. It seemed almost inevitable that Marguerite would be clinging t
o his arm – they’d been inseparable all day.

  ‘You look nice, Marie,’ he said, his eyes smiling right into hers, not that it could possibly mean anything when he’d already been captured by a girl who could knock spots off Marie when it came to looks.

  ‘Isn’t that your Theresa’s dress you’re wearing?’ Marguerite said in a penetrating voice.

  Instead of wanting to sink through the floor, Marie said proudly, ‘Yes, she loaned it me, and our Clodagh loaned me the fur coat she got from a jumble sale, and Mam this necklace and earrings, and me hat belongs to our Caitlin. The only things that I can call me own are me shoes.’

  Mickey burst out laughing. ‘Nice, generous family you’ve got, Marie.’

  Marie was about to tell him how wonderful they were, when Marguerite shrieked, ‘Oh, listen! They’re playing “Children of the Revolution”, me favourite. Come on, Mickey, let’s dance,’ and Mickey was dragged away, leaving Marie to wonder since when had Marguerite liked anything by T. Rex, a group that normally she claimed to loathe? Tommy Costello, who’d splashed Coca-Cola over Theresa’s frock a fortnight ago, asked Marie up. She didn’t like him, but went willingly because she didn’t want to be seen sitting the dance out.

  ‘Mickey Harrison’s not the only man in the world,’ she told herself, although had to concede he was the only one that mattered.

  At ten o’clock, she decided to go home. Ursula had already gone and Tommy was as drunk as a lord and making a nuisance of himself. There was no sign of Mickey – he was probably outside with Marguerite, necking against the Presbytery wall. She’d ring Dad from the pay phone in the porch and ask him to come and fetch her, but when she tried to use it, the coin box was jammed and she couldn’t get the money in. She cursed, loudly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked an achingly familiar voice and Marie turned and saw Mickey Harrison standing behind her.

  ‘You look funny on your own,’ she said caustically. ‘I thought Marguerite had become a permanent attachment.’

  ‘So did I.’ He made a face. ‘Who are you phoning?’

  ‘Me daddy, to come and collect me, but it’s broken. It doesn’t matter. I’ll walk.’

  ‘It’s snowing a bit outside.’

  ‘A bit of snow won’t stop me.’

  He smiled and the laughter lines around his dark eyes deepened. ‘You’re pretty tough, aren’t you, Marie Brennan?’

  ‘Am I?’ She hadn’t thought of herself as tough before.

  ‘Yes, as tough as ould boots, as me dear grannie would have said.’

  ‘You say the nicest things,’ she snapped. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever been compared to a pair of ould boots. It’s not exactly flattering.’

  ‘It was meant to be. Come on,’ he grasped her arm, ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’

  ‘You’ve got a car?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t intending to give you a lift on me back.’

  His car was an old Anglia, in only slightly better condition than her father’s van. The engine groaned in complaint when he switched it on and gave an anguished sigh when it was turned off outside the Brennans’ cottage. They’d hardly spoken to each other in the time between.

  ‘Thank you for the lift,’ Marie said. ‘Are you going back to the wedding now? Marguerite will be wondering where you are.’

  ‘Then Marguerite can go on wondering. I managed to escape once, I’m not going back to be captured again.’ He folded his arms, grinning. ‘I was hoping you’d ask me in for a cup of tea.’

  ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea, Mickey?’

  He jumped out of the car with alacrity. ‘I would indeed, Marie. By the way, what’s happened to your freckles?’

  Marie was rooting in her bag for her key. ‘They’re covered with make-up.’

  Mickey put a finger under her chin and tipped her face towards his. ‘I prefer you with them,’ he said softly, kissing her cheek.

  Marie didn’t like Belfast from the start. There was too much hatred there, too much prejudice. She didn’t like Catholics having to stick to their own shops, their own roads, while the Protestants stuck to theirs. She had nothing against Protestants. Hadn’t she gone dancing loads of times in Donegal with June Cummings, a Methodist, whose mam belonged to the same women’s circle as her own? Didn’t they worship the same God, after all?

  But Mickey was a Northern Irishman with a good job at Harland & Wolff. Marie had known that if she married him it meant living in Belfast and she hadn’t hesitated. She’d have married Mickey had he lived in the North Pole or at the foot of a volcano.

  So, Belfast it had to be. The first house they rented was a mean little terrace, full of dry rot and old-fashioned furniture that she polished to death in the hope of making it look better. It did, but not all that much. On the first night there, half a dozen British soldiers came racing down the street, rifles at the ready, disappearing inside a house only a few doors away. Marie, a born worrier, was terrified Mickey would get shot merely for being a Catholic.

  She got a job working full-time in a dry cleaners. With two wages coming in, they were soon able to afford to move to a better house in a Catholic area. The place was unfurnished and she was glad they could buy their own stuff, even if it was mostly second-hand.

  Despite everything, she was happy, madly in love with Mickey and he with her. Enda Kelly had got married not long after them to a girl called Peggy, who quickly became a friend. Weekends, they went out in a foursome to places like Ballycastle for the day, for a meal in town, or just to the local pub for a sing-song – Marie was always worried a bomb would go off and kept a lookout for suspicious packages. They acquired loads of friends and were often invited to parties and threw a party themselves every few months. Best of all were the times she and Mickey went to Donegal and slept in the room in the loft, empty now, as there were only four Brennan girls left and they occupied the bedroom with the bunks and the double bed and the poster of Mick Jagger on the ceiling, where Marie had spent so many happy hours, wishing and dreaming that one day she would meet a man like Mickey Harrison and marry him.

  They’d been married for two years when Marie discovered she was pregnant. Mickey was thrilled to pieces. ‘It’ll be a boy and he’ll have red hair, a million freckles, and sea-green eyes,’ he predicted. ‘Let’s give him a good old Irish name, Patrick, but no one on earth will be allowed to call him Paddy.’

  ‘What will happen if he’s a girl?’

  ‘As long as she looks like you, me darling Marie, I won’t care.’

  Marie didn’t care either. All she wished was that her child could be born in Donegal with all her family around her. Mickey’s parents were dead and he was the youngest of five, the others scattered far and wide all over the world: two brothers in Australia, one in the United States, and his only sister, Patsy, of whom he was desperately fond, living in London and working in a posh hotel in Mayfair. Marie had only met her the once at their wedding.

  Still, she had plenty of friends, not as good as family, but almost. It was a nice surprise when Peggy Kelly announced she was also expecting and they could go to the clinic together, although her baby wasn’t due until three weeks after Marie’s.

  Patrick Russell Harrison was born without too much bother on 14 July 1983. As Mickey had predicted, he had red hair and freckles and was the image of Marie.

  ‘He’s a corker,’ his father said admiringly when he nursed his son for the first time. ‘Just like his mam, except for the blue eyes.’

  ‘They’ll turn green eventually,’ Marie assured him.

  ‘Well, if that’s not a miracle, then what is?’ Mickey marvelled.

  Marie considered it a miracle that he’d fallen in love with her when he could have had the gorgeous Marguerite or any number of equally beautiful girls – girls who continued to make eyes at him, even though they knew he was a married man. But Mickey was the most faithful of husbands and Marie the happiest of wives.

  Three years later, Marie gave birth to a second son, Dan
iel Gabriel, after ten hours of agonizing labour followed by a forceps delivery.

  ‘That’s it,’ Mickey announced, mopping his brow when the whole painful business was over and Daniel lay screaming in his cot, his red hair on fire, his face screwed up into one big freckle. ‘I can’t go through that again. It hurt too much.’

  Marie surprised herself by laughing – it was only hours since she’d thought she’d never laugh again. ‘It hurt me far more than it did you,’ she protested.

  ‘I know, luv.’ He tenderly stroked her brow. ‘Seriously though, do we want a dozen kids like your mam, you spending half your life with your belly blown up like a balloon? Won’t two be enough? It’s a nice, neat number. They can both have their own room and we won’t be stretched for cash.’

  ‘Two will do us fine, Mickey.’ She didn’t say she wouldn’t have minded another ten like Mam, but only if they could appear by magic. No way was she prepared to spend ninety months of the rest of her life in a state of pregnancy.

  Mickey had always avoided anything political like the plague. Of course, if someone came round to the house collecting for a cause, he contributed, sometimes more than he could afford. Same at work. It was dangerous not to. It wasn’t that you were expected to be for the cause, but it didn’t do to be against it. It was easy to make deadly enemies on your own side.

  Marie hated it when the boys started school and came home full of prejudices. She said nothing, not wanting them to stand out from their classmates by voicing contrary opinions they’d learned at home. Mickey said she was being over-cautious, but, since coming to Belfast, Marie had only felt safe inside their own four walls or with friends who were as indifferent to politics as she was herself. Only then could she talk freely.

  The final decade of the twentieth century was only a few months old when her darling daddy died and the whole family went to Donegal for the funeral. It was the saddest occasion she’d ever known. Colette and Gerry were the only Brennans still at home and Gerry was courting and Colette was going steady, even though she was hardly fifteen. Pretty soon, Mam would be left in the cottage on her own.