Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘Nat, this is Mary. She helps me do the cooking and look after the men. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  Mary squirmed with pleasure and wrung her large hands whilst offering a greeting to Nat. Discerning in seconds that this bovine personality was nothing like Mrs Maguire, Nat immediately dismissed her as of no importance to himself and asked, ‘What shall I do with me bag… ma’am?’

  Mrs Anderson shared a fond laugh with Mary. ‘Oh doesn’t the boy talk so funny! Leave it there, Nat, till after you’ve eaten. It smells like Mary’s got something good cooking for us.’ Her eyes took in his grubbiness and she threw a towel at him. ‘But first you’d better get yourself to the pump. I must confess you don’t smell too good.’

  Nat followed her pointing finger to a deep sink and, with Mary operating the pump, splashed water over his face and upper body.

  Involved though she was in dishing out the meal, Mrs Anderson could not help but notice the scars of self-mutilation on his forearms. ‘Why who’s been doing that to you?’ She put down the ladle and made as if to come and examine him.

  He drew away, unable to admit that the wounds had been inflicted by himself, out of misery and boredom and an attempt to be rid of the badness inside him. ‘It was just an accident.’ Mrs Anderson did not appear to be convinced, but returned to her task. After drying himself he folded the towel as he had been taught at Industrial School and waited, feeling very strange.

  The woman finished dishing out plates of stew and looked up. ‘Well, come on son, sit yourself down!’ She bustled to the door to call her husband but at that point he came in. ‘Oh, John, you almost frightened kittens out o’ me! Come on now, everyone eat.’

  Nat was agog at the size of the meal and even though he was famished was unable to finish it. ‘Sorry, I’m not used to getting as much as that – it was lovely though.’ He directed his compliment at Mary.

  ‘It surely was,’ beamed Mrs Anderson. ‘Don’t you worry, it won’t get wasted.’ She scraped the remains onto her husband’s plate.

  ‘They musta fed you boys like sparrows!’ opined Anderson, shovelling away at his meal in obvious enjoyment. ‘Gonna do a man’s work, gotta eat a man’s rations. Few days here and we’ll build some muscle on that skinny frame o’ his, won’t we, Lucy?’

  Nat remained at the table while his guardians finished their meal, trying to keep his eyes open. Mrs Anderson noticed his drooping lids and, laughing, laid down her fork. ‘You’d better show the boy his bed afore he drops asleep right there, John.’

  Nat rose from his chair and went to pick up his luggage. ‘S’all right, sir, I can find my own way. Is it that place over there?’

  ‘Over where?’ Anderson had risen too, mopping his moustache on a napkin.

  ‘That… whatsit.’ Nat’s tired brain fought to remember what Anderson had called the other building.

  ‘The bunkhouse? Why no, you’ll be sleeping here.’ The man frowned, stroking his moustache back to order, then noted the look of relief on Nat’s face. ‘Why, you didn’t think you were just a hired hand, did you? Hell, if we’d wanted another cowpoke we wouldn’t have sent all the way to England!’ He and the women all laughed, then Anderson looked a little sad and glanced at his wife before the next hesitant offering. ‘I don’t know if you noticed all those little graves out there on the way in? No, well, it’s too dark I suppose. Well, anyway, they were our children. None of ’em got beyond six months old.’ Mrs Anderson had moved away to busy herself with the cooking pots, though the expression on her face told that she was still within earshot. ‘After the fourth, well, we just couldn’t seem to have any more and truth to tell we didn’t want to go through it again. We’d kinda resigned ourselves to being without a family, till we heard of Mr Carrington’s plan to bring you boys out here. All these years and we’d never even thought about adoption.’ He looked into Nat’s eyes. ‘Guess what I’m trying to say is we don’t want you as any hired hand, Nat. We want to give you a chance in a wonderful country, we want you for our son.’ And Nat was amazed to see the man’s eyes glistening.

  Mrs Anderson came back then to deliver a spontaneous hug – not to Nat but to her husband who turned aside to blow into his handkerchief whilst she addressed Nat, turning her wedding ring as she spoke. ‘We want you to regard this as your home, Nat. We understand that you’ve only just met us and everything here is strange to you, but we’ll do our best to make you feel welcome, and I hope one day that you could feel like we really are your folks. Maybe if you start by calling us Aunt Lucy and Uncle John?’

  Nat felt as though he were caught up in a dream, but delivered a mechanical nod and smiled as best he could. Mrs Anderson stopped turning her ring and, reaching out, clasped him to her, whispering, ‘Welcome home, Nat.’

  Anderson cleared his throat and picked up Nat’s case. ‘Come on, son, time you were in bed! Let him go, Lucy, he’ll still be there in the morning.’

  Laughing – Nat had discovered that Mrs Anderson laughed a lot – she allowed her husband to show Nat up a ladder to the attic. ‘Oh here! Take this lamp with you.’ She passed one of the kerosene lamps to the boy. ‘Hope you like your quilt, by the way!’

  ‘He’d better,’ grunted Anderson, shoving the case before him. ‘After I had to put up with a houseful o’ yacking women for it to be made.’

  Mrs Anderson delayed Nat’s bedtime further, grabbing his arm. ‘When we heard you were coming I was so excited I wanted everything to be just right, and the spare quilt I have is so old, so I called a quilting bee and – oh, you don’t know what that is! Well, I guess they call it that cause everyone buzzes around like a swarm of bees, helping each other with some task that’s too much for them to do on their own and—’

  ‘Lucy, let the boy go to bed.’ Anderson, sounding tired himself, continued up the ladder.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Nat! Good night now!’ A delighted Mrs Anderson clasped her hands and grinned at the Irish maid.

  Holding the lamp before him, Nat dragged himself up after Anderson into the loft wherein lay his room – his very own room! That his bed was only a straw mattress did not matter in the least. It was his and his alone.

  ‘For heaven’s sake say you like the quilt,’ instructed Anderson.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ inserted Nat.

  Anderson chuckled and repeated the flat vowels: ‘Luvely! Sorry, Nat, I wasn’t making fun, I just like the sound o’ your voice. Guess we must both sound odd to each other, eh?’ He took a look around as if seeing the place for the first time himself, nodding in appraisal. ‘I’ll convey your thanks to your Aunt Lucy.’ Then he pointed at the mattress with the abrupt command, ‘You’ll be shaking your own tick out in the morning, now. Just ’cause we said you’re one o’ the family doesn’t mean Aunt Lucy’s gonna run around after you. Well, good night, Nat. See you at breakfast. Wait till I get down the ladder before you turn that lamp out, now.’ Rung by rung, he disappeared from the loft, closing the hatch door after him.

  ‘Good night!’ Nat remained there for a moment, still dazed by the Andersons’ plans to adopt him. Flattering though it might be, he did not reciprocate their desire – though he was not about to throw all this away by telling them that. He turned down the lamp, plunging the loft into darkness save for the glow from the kitchen. Fatigue momentarily overturned by excitement, he threw open his window to be greeted by the throbbing whirr of crickets and gazed up at the twinkling constellations; he would have gazed forever had he not been once more overwhelmed by tiredness. Shutting out the chill of the night, he collapsed on his mattress, inhaling the sweet smell of his new life before he fell asleep.

  12

  Bright did not know where to turn, but instinct steered her feet towards the church. Father Cavanagh was sympathetic to a degree. ‘Ah dear, I thought they’d take it badly, but sure you’ve only yourself to blame for your sinful ways. Come along with me. I’ll hand you to the care of the Sisters, though what they’ll say I don’t know. You’re a wicked girl, Bright Magui
re.’

  Throughout the duration of her pregnancy Bright was incessantly reminded of how wicked she was. The nuns were not maliciously cruel. On the contrary they gave her new clothes to accommodate her bulge and fed her and took care of her. They just would not let her forget her sin and the wretched boy who had deserted her. ‘But don’t you worry, my dear,’ they soothed, ‘we’ve found a good Catholic family who’s willing to overlook the slur and take the child off your hands. Now aren’t you fortunate?’

  And Bright understood what the priest had meant when he had said she would spend the rest of her life making penance. The last two months dragged into eternity. The baby spun continually inside her, thrusting its heels under her ribs and performing acrobatics if she dared to roll onto her back. She urged the birth to happen, knowing that when it did her child would be taken from her. She would never see it again, as she would never see its father. Each time she thought about Nat the tears welled. How could he do this to her?

  After nights of turmoil, Bright decided she could not let it happen. This was her child, hers and Nat’s. He might have left her but that didn’t stop her loving him and loving his baby. If they took the child she would be left with nothing. Yet how will you work with a baby in tow, she posed the question. Where will you live? Not here. They won’t let you keep the baby. And you mustn’t tell them your decision, for they’ll try and talk you out of it: ‘Everything has been arranged, my dear, you can’t possibly back out now. Think of the welfare of the child.’ She was thinking of it. Its fate consumed her every waking moment. If she chose to keep it she would brand herself a fallen woman and her child a bastard. Oh, but she just could not part with it.

  A week or so before the anticipated delivery, details of the adoption became clearer. The baby would stay with her for a month to give it the best nourishment. Bright decided that it must be during this period she should make her escape, for it could not possibly be earlier. She was too bulky and where else could she give birth? But then she reflected that labour would weaken her, wear down her resistance, and how would she walk out of here carrying her newborn? They wouldn’t let her out alone with it. Now. It had to be now, while she had the courage.

  There was nothing to pack and no money. Bright waited until the nuns were at afternoon prayer and she herself was meant to be taking a nap. It was easy. She just walked out through the gates. No one stopped her. But the hard part started now. Placing a hand over her abdomen to calm the squirming child, she lumbered off down the street. There was only one place she could go – home. Her father would still be at work.

  Mrs Maguire almost fainted when she looked from the scullery window and saw her daughter. With an anguished face she dragged her inside. ‘Bright! Oh, Bright, what’re ye doing? He’ll kill ye if he finds ye here. Oh baby!’ The distraught woman pulled Bright into an embrace, weeping and scolding.

  Bright wept too. ‘I couldn’t stay there, Mammy. The sisters want to take the baby.’

  ‘Oh but Bright, you’re not intending to keep it?’

  ‘Why not, tis mine! And Nat’s.’

  Mrs Maguire clicked her tongue. ‘All the more reason I would’ve thought ye’d want to be rid of it.’

  ‘No, Mam. Even though he left me I still love him. I’ll always love him. And I know he loves me. I just know it. Don’t blame him. He’s just frightened cause he’s too young to be a daddy… oh, Mam, I’m frightened too!’ Bright fell against her mother’s shoulder, sobbing her heart out.

  ‘Oh, Bright Maguire.’ Her mother stroked her head with frantic hand. ‘You always see the good in folks. He doesn’t deserve your love.’

  ‘Help me, Mammy! Let me have the baby here.’

  ‘I can’t, I can’t! Your daddy would kill me, and you too. You saw his temper when you told him about it.’

  ‘But that was months ago. Surely he’s calmed down?’

  ‘Aye, he’s calmed down.’ Mrs Maguire’s eyes looked distant. ‘But it’s as if he’s dead. He’s said some terrible things, Bright. He worshipped you. You know you were always his favourite. He’ll never talk to you again, darlin’. He won’t even see you. And take it from me, if he says it…’ She closed her eyes to shut out the pain. ‘Please God, no one saw ye come in here, for my life won’t be worth a candle if he finds out. I’m sorry Bright, I can’t help ye darlin’.’

  Bright’s eyes were desperate. ‘But… where will I go?’ She clutched the child in her belly.

  Whilst Mrs Maguire agonized, the front door sounded. She almost screamed and in a panic began to bundle Bright into the yard. ‘Go!’

  ‘But it might not be Dada.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter! Your brothers’ll tell him. They won’t have your name mentioned either.’ Bright had been almost as precious to her siblings as to their father. None of them would lift a finger to aid her.

  ‘But you have to help me! I’ve no one except you.’ Bright started to cry again as she was ejected.

  ‘All right, all right, but go now! Don’t wait in the street. Go down to Castle Mills! I’ll meet ye there when I can get away!’ The door was slammed.

  Heavy with pain and the child within, Bright lumbered through the maze of passageways that led onto Piccadilly, then on towards Castle Mills where she leaned on the stone bridge looking down into the lock. There was a film of oil on the water, amongst which floated bits of paper and rope. Bright stared into the scum. There came all at once an overpowering feeling to throw herself in. Go, urged the voice, it’s so easy. She stepped back in alarm. The feeling came again. She hurried away towards town, walking round for a while before returning to see if her mother was there.

  She wasn’t. Afraid to stand near the water, Bright kept coming and going. Her back had started to ache from the weight it had to support. She found a bench and lowered herself onto it. The discomfort began to subside. She wondered what time it was and how long she had been wandering round. On this midsummer’s eve it was hard to tell. The backache started to nag again. She shifted her body and, after a time, the ache went away. She decided to walk back to Castle Mills.

  It was here on the bridge that her waters broke. She thought she was wetting herself, felt acutely embarrassed that passers-by might see the trickle that ran from the hem of her skirt and down the slope. As tightly as she tried to squeeze the muscles between her legs the trickle wouldn’t stop. Her clothes were saturated. Oh where are you, Mammy? The backache was causing more discomfort. If her mother didn’t come soon she would have to risk her father’s anger by going home, for it was impossible for her to sleep on the street and she refused to go back to the nuns.

  To her great relief, she saw a flustered Mrs Maguire hurrying under Fishergate Postern, and went to meet her, the wet skirts clinging to her limbs. ‘Oh Mam, where’ve ye been? Twas awful. I just wet meself!’ She blushed and covered her cheek.

  Mrs Maguire groaned in despair. ‘Oh, Bright… come on I’ve made arrangements for you – and not before time.’ She crossed herself and steered Bright back under the postern.

  Bright dug her heels in. ‘Not with the Sisters?’

  Mrs Maguire showed uncharacteristic irritation. ‘No, no! Though I think you’re ungrateful to throw their goodness away like ye have.’

  ‘They’re not taking my baby!’

  ‘I’ve said not! For pity’s sake, Bright, will ye come on. I have to get back, I’ve only dared slip out while your father’s at the pub. I’m supposed to be in the bath.’ Bright demanded to know where she was being taken. ‘There’s a woman the other end of Walmgate’ll take y’in, but only for a few weeks while ye get right. Then I’m afraid ye’ll have to fend for yourself.’

  Bright started to flag. ‘Will ye slow down? I’ve got a stitch.’

  ‘That’s not a stitch, Bright, it’s the baby on its way.’

  Bright lurched in fear. ‘Will ye stay with me?’

  ‘I can’t, darlin’!’

  ‘Oh, Mammy, please!’

  ‘No! I have to get back or he’ll kill me.’


  Face contorted, Bright showed impatience at this melodrama.

  That’s just daft! I don’t know why you’re so scared of Dada. It’s me he’s angry with. He blows his top but I’ve never seen him hit you.’

  ‘Ah, my innocent child,’ Mrs Maguire shook her head. ‘There’s more ways o’ hurting… never mind, ye’ve got enough to concern ye.’ And who would tell a daughter what happened in the privacy of a marital bed, when a man took out all his frustrations on his woman, twisted and bit her most sensitive flesh so that she had to cram her mouth with the sheet in order not to yell and frighten her children – and just because somebody had upset him at work or she hadn’t done his meal on time. ‘Ye probably won’t have the baby till the morning. After your daddy’s gone to work I’ll run down and see ye.’

  A fearful Bright was handed over to the woman in Walmgate who treated her kindly but was not her mother. In the following hour the pain grew so bad that Bright wanted to scream. If only she had known that in the next ten hours, on the longest day of the year, it would become so bad that she wanted to die.

  * * *

  Mrs Maguire arrived at eight-thirty in the morning, one hour too late to help her grandchild into the world. When she entered the sun-filled bedroom Bright was dozing, the child lying at the foot of the bed, wrapped like a mummy, a puffy-eyed, slightly oriental looking creature with the tiniest of noses. After shedding tears for the beauty of the tableau, Mrs Maguire sat quietly for a while with her daughter until someone kicked a bottle in the road, waking Bright. Confused for the moment she rubbed her hand over a belly that remained distended, looking at her mother without recognition. ‘Aye, it looks as if there’s still one in there,’ quipped Mrs Maguire, then noting her daughter’s alarm added quickly, ‘sure, tis only joking I am! What d’ye think this is?’ She scooped her hands under the bundle and laid it nearer to Bright, who smiled now.

  Her eyes were tired but filled with love for the child. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’