by Sandy Taylor
Sixty-One
I explored every inch of that little town. One of my many cousins turned up at Aunty Mary’s door with a pushchair, so I was able to push Rita up the steep streets, past the little cottages and the children sailing paper boats along the gutters that flowed down the hill. It reminded me of pushing Brenda along in the squeaky old pushchair.
I trod the unfamiliar places and I walked for miles along the wood road towards the old bridge that spanned the Blackwater River. Then out of the town and along the strand. I sat on the rocks beside the lighthouse. I let Rita play in the sand and I looked across the sea and thought of home. Here in Ireland you could almost forget that there were bombs dropping and that people were dying. There was no war here, no bombed buildings, no air-raid sirens, only peace. I wished that Mum and Brenda could have come here as well but I had to accept that Mum wouldn’t leave the house and Brenda wanted to stay with Molly.
‘We’ll all be together again when this awful war is over,’ Mum had said.
I hoped with all my heart that this would be true and that my family would stay safe until I returned.
Aunty Mary was poor, all my Irish family were poor. Not like we were poor in England, but dirt poor. There was no water in the little cottage in Tallow Street, which meant that there was no toilet. We fetched the water from a pump and the end of the road and we did our business in a bucket behind a curtain. To begin with I was too shy to use the bucket and I ended up with a terrible tummy ache, but like everything else in this new life of mine, I got used to it. I realised that things didn’t matter, only the people mattered, and these people were wonderful.
‘We have very little, Maureen,’ said Aunty Mary one day. ‘But what we have is yours, yours and the baby’s. We manage and when we can’t, our neighbours and our families help us. That’s the way it is in this town, we all help each other.’
The envelope that Peter had given me contained five pounds. Five pounds was a fortune and I knew what I was going to do with it. I gave it to my Aunty Mary, who cried all week and wouldn’t stop. My Aunty Agnes who lived across the passageway said, ‘Leave her be, Maureen. The woman’s in shock, she’s never seen that amount of money in all her born days. You should have given it to her in bits, then the shock wouldn’t have been so great.’
‘I feel terrible, Aunty Agnes,’ I said.
‘Sure, don’t you be worrying about that. Once she realises that she’s a woman of wealth she’ll soon get over it. Take her down to the church and she can have a word with Himself.’
‘Who’s Himself?’ I said.
‘The Lord.’
And so I took my weeping aunty down to the church. Somehow people had heard about her windfall and took no notice of her tears as we walked through the town.
The church was huge. It towered over the humble cottages that nestled in the shadow of its tower. I had a bad feeling about it. Why was the church so rich when its congregation were so terribly poor? I didn’t say anything though, because I had a feeling it wouldn’t go down well.
We dipped our fingers in the holy water font that was just inside the door, then we walked down the centre aisle and knelt in front of the altar. Aunty Mary was still crying her eyes out, I wondered if she would ever stop. Her wailing brought the priest out of the vestry.
‘Ah, Mary,’ he said, walking across. ‘I heard about your bit of good luck. Have you come to give a donation to the Lord?’
Before I could stop myself I said, ‘No, she hasn’t, Father. She’s come to thank Him.’
‘What you must remember, Mary,’ he said, completely ignoring me, ‘is that the money came from God.’
‘No, it didn’t,’ I said. ‘It came from Mrs Bentley.’
‘And wasn’t it the Lord Himself that gave it to her?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t believe in God.’
‘It makes me very sad to hear that. I will pray for her.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ said Aunty Mary.
‘Bloody cheek!’ I said after he’d walked away.
Suddenly I noticed Aunty had stopped crying and she was actually giggling.
‘God forgive me, Maureen, but his face was a picture,’ she said.
‘He didn’t look happy,’ I said.
‘He’s bound to read my name out at Mass on Sunday.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If someone upsets Father Paul, he reads their name out at Mass. He had a bad stomach and he swore it was the bit of beef he’d got from the butcher. He demanded that people not buy their meat there. The poor butcher nearly went out of business.’
‘That’s awful. Why do people listen to him?’
‘Because he’s God’s voice on earth. He is the vessel through which Our Blessed Lord speaks.’
I was dying to tell Aunty Mary what I thought of that but I had to respect that this was her town and her religion, so I said nothing but I bloody thought plenty. We put our pennies in the box and lit our candles. Aunty Mary prayed for all the souls in Purgatory and I lit my candles for my family and Jack and Nelson and two doors down’s dead dog. I thought he’d be pleased that I’d remembered him even though I was in another country.
* * *
One morning I wrapped Rita up in her blanket and I carried her up the hill behind the town, to the place that Daddy loved so much. I sat on top of the hill with Rita in my arms and looked down over the river. I could almost imagine Daddy as a little boy standing here, thinking himself the King of the Castle.
I kissed the top of Rita’s head and breathed in her baby smell. ‘This is where your granddad used to come,’ I said. ‘This was his favourite place. He would have loved you, Rita, and you would have loved him, but I know that he is looking down on us and I know that he will be so proud.’
I looked down at the beautiful river flowing beneath me. ‘I’m here, Daddy,’ I said. ‘I’m here.’
Sixty-Two
I wrote to Nelson every week. I never knew how many of my letters got through to him but still I wrote. I wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone, that there were people who cared about him, who worried about him. I had a few letters back; he said he was OK but I think he was just telling me that so I wouldn’t worry. In one of the letters was a photo. A blurry picture of Nelson and a group of soldiers, they were smiling into the camera as if they were on holiday but if you looked closer you could see that behind the smiles they looked tired and Nelson looked thinner. I kept that photo under my pillow.
I found myself questioning my feelings for Nelson. When I thought about him I felt confused, I always had. It was all mixed up with feeling sorry for him, for wanting to care for him, for wanting his world to be a better world. Sometimes when I thought about that old brown jumper I felt like crying. And then there was another feeling that would catch me unawares, like when Nelson told me about the pretty nurses looking after him in the nursing home. The boy who walked in the shadow of Jack was now my husband. I cared about what was happening to him. I suppose it was a kind of love, maybe just not the right kind.
As well as writing to Nelson, I wrote to Mum and Brenda and Monica. I also wrote to Mrs Bentley, thanking her for the money and letting her know the huge difference it was going to make to my family. I related the episode with the priest; I thought she would find it funny.
One morning when I came downstairs there was a letter from Brenda propped up on the mantelpiece. I sat down beside the fire and started to read:
Dear Maureen,
Molly and me are going to join the Land Army. We both hate the thought of working in a munitions factory and that’s where we will end up if we don’t volunteer now. We are going to Somerset in the West Country and we will be working on a dairy farm. It feels like a kind of adventure and we can’t wait.
Some bad news. Aunty Marge and Uncle John have been bombed out of their flat. Luckily it happened during the day when they were working on the stall, so neither of them were hurt. They are moving into See Saw Lane until they
can find somewhere else. One good thing about it is that Mum won’t be on her own. With both of us gone that was worrying me.
I hope you are well and happy, we miss you and Rita so much.
Love from your Sister Brenda xxx
Brenda and Molly remained as close as they had when they were children and I was glad that they were going to be working together. I knew Brenda was frightened of the bombs and the air raids and now, at least, she would be in the country with her best friend.
* * *
One evening, Aunty Mary and I were sitting in front of the fire in the only downstairs room of the cottage. Rita was asleep upstairs.
Aunty Mary got up and went across to an old dresser that stood in the corner, under a picture of Saint Anthony. ‘I thought you would like to see this,’ she said, handing me a photograph. It was yellow with age and it had a crease across the middle of it as if it had been folded at one time. It showed a family, all of them unsmiling, staring into the camera. She pointed to a woman in the centre of the photo.
‘That was your grandmother, Maureen. Your daddy’s mother.’
‘And the children?’ I said.
‘That was the rest of us.’
She pointed to each child. ‘That’s Connor, the eldest, and next to him is Breda, then Kathleen, Thomas and Teddy. That’s me and your Aunty Agnes standing behind Mammy and that’s the baby Billy on Mammy’s lap. Kathleen died when she was nine and Billy when he was three.’ Then she pointed to a boy who was leaning against his mother’s knee. ‘And that’s Pat,’ she said. ‘Your daddy.’
I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. ‘That’s my daddy?’
Aunty Mary nodded. ‘He was his Mammy’s favourite, we all loved him.’
I gently traced his face with my finger, trying to see the man I had loved in the serious little boy staring out at me. I looked up at my aunty. ‘That’s really my daddy?’
‘Isn’t he handsome?’
‘He’s lovely,’ I said. ‘But why do you all look so solemn?’
‘It was like that back in the day. Having your picture taken was a rare occurrence and had to be taken seriously. It’s the only picture that was ever taken of us and I treasure it.’
‘Where did you all live?’
She looked around the room. ‘Here,’ she said.
‘You all lived here? All of you?’
‘We did.’
‘But there’s only two rooms upstairs.’
‘It was all we knew. It was home. Things were even harder in those days. I don’t know how my mother managed but she did.’
‘There’s no man in the picture.’
‘My father would have been at sea. Your grandfather was in the Irish Navy.’
‘I wish I’d known them,’ I said.
‘You would have loved your grandmother.’
‘And not my grandfather?’
‘He was a desperate drinker, Maureen, so were all his brothers. Mammy used to have to go down to the quay and wait for his boat coming in, so that she could beg him for some money before he drank it all away in the pub. She wasn’t the only woman waiting on the quayside. That’s the way it was. The women had hard lives back then.’
‘I can’t imagine how it must have been for her, with so many mouths to feed and so little money.’
‘Your daddy helped as much as he could. Even from a young age he was out running errands to put a few pennies on the table. It broke his heart when she died, he was only eleven.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘She pricked her finger on a rose thorn. There was no money for a doctor, she died of blood poisoning. We were left with a drunkard for a father. One by one, they all left. Connor and Breda to America, Thomas ended up in Canada and Teddy in Scotland. Agnes and I stayed and we looked after Daddy until he died.’
‘And my daddy?’
‘He joined the army and fought in the war.’
‘It was the war that made him ill,’ I said.
‘He was always a sensitive child. The war was no place for him but he couldn’t stay at home, Daddy picked on him something terrible.’
I looked down at the photo. ‘It’s the only picture I have ever seen of him as a boy.’
I went to hand it back to her but she shook her head. ‘You keep it, Maureen,’ she said, smiling.
‘I can’t, it’s precious to you. I can’t take it.’
‘I’ve had the pleasure of it for years. Now take it, it’s yours.’
I stood up and put my arms around her. ‘Thank you so much,’ I said.
I could hear Rita stirring upstairs. ‘I’ll go up now,’ I said. ‘Goodnight, Aunty Mary.’
‘God bless,’ she said.
I changed Rita and put her to my breast. She stared up at me as she fed. People told me that her eyes would change colour as she got older but they hadn’t. They were still as blue as Jack’s. As I held my baby in my arms I looked towards the little window. The sky was black and it twinkled with a million stars. I liked to think that maybe Daddy and Jack were amongst them, looking down on us. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
I lay Rita back down in her basket; she was already asleep. Then I put the photo of Daddy under my pillow along with Nelson’s. I liked to think of them both together.
‘Take care of him, Daddy,’ I said.
Sixty-Three
Rita was getting bigger. She was walking now, hanging onto chair legs as she staggered round this little room that had become her world. She was beginning to babble away in her own little language. I wondered if, when she did talk, she would have an Irish accent.
I loved everything about Ireland and this little town; I felt as if I could stay here forever and be happy. I missed my mum and I missed Brenda but this beautiful place was beginning to feel as much like home as Brighton. I wished that I could gather up everyone I loved and bring them here to this lovely place, where they would be safe.
It’s funny how quickly you get used to things. I got used to the bombs dropping and the daily air raids at home but, just as quickly, I got used to the gentle pace of life here in Ireland.
* * *
Every morning Aunty Mary would get up at the crack of dawn and walk out to the strand, where she cleaned for the nuns at the convent. I did all I could to help her. I pushed Rita down the wood road in her pushchair and gathered sticks for the fire. I carried water from the pump to the cottage. I cleaned the rooms and I washed the clothes. I wished I could have done more but I didn’t know what else I could do. The answer came in the form of my handsome cousin Sean, who worked in the bakery across the lane.
‘Do you think that you could sell bread?’ he said one afternoon.
‘Bread?’
‘Yes, bread. Mrs Flanagan has sold bread and cakes in the shop since she was old enough to reach the counter, but her son has come home from America and he’s bringing her back to live with him, so we need someone and I thought you might be interested.’
‘That would be perfect, Sean. It would mean that I could help Aunty Mary out.’
‘That’s what I thought. Will you come over and meet the boss then?’
‘When?’
‘Now if you like.’
‘OK.’
I asked Aunty Mary if she’d keep an eye on Rita, then I ran upstairs and brushed my hair.
* * *
The baker’s name was Mr Hurley. Everything about him was big; he towered above me but smiled as I opened the door. I was immediately hit by warmth and the smell of fresh bread and sweet cakes, which made my mouth water.
‘Ah, so you’re the little English girl, are you?’ asked the baker.
I nodded.
‘Sean has told me all about you and your little girl and how you’re staying with your Aunty Mary.’
‘That’s why I’d like a job,’ I said. ‘I’d like to pay my way.’
‘I heard about the fortune you gave her. That was good of you, child.’
‘She’s given me and my baby a home, Mr Hurley, I just w
ant to pay her back.’
‘Your aunt’s a good, kind, God-fearing woman and she was a beauty in her day. I would have married her myself but she chose to look after that eejit of a father of hers. If there’s any justice in this world he’ll be burning in the everlasting fires of Hell as we speak.’
I grinned.
‘Have you had a job before?’
‘I worked in a bookshop, so I’m used to selling to the public.’
‘What hours can you do?’
‘I’ll have to ask Aunty Mary if she’ll look after Rita and, if she can, then it would be afternoons when she finishes work. Would that be alright?’
‘That would work out fine because Mrs Hurley works in the mornings.’
And so I worked in the bakery and not only did I get paid for it, I was able to take home the bread and cakes that hadn’t sold during the day. Being there day after day I was getting to know the people of the town and, as it turned out, I was actually related to most of them.
‘That’s what it’s like here,’ said Sean. ‘I used to have trouble finding a girl to walk out with who wasn’t me cousin.’
‘And did you find someone, Sean?’
‘I did. Her name’s Orla, she’s from Waterford. She has a cousin in town and I met her at a dance at the town hall when she was here for a visit.’
‘I’m glad you have someone special.’
‘Oh, she’s special alright and she’s beautiful. Do you believe in love at first sight, Maureen?’
I thought of the first time I saw Jack, playing with the tin soldiers. ‘Oh yes, Sean, I believe in love at first sight.’
‘Well, that’s how it was when I clapped eyes on Orla. I had to make my move fast because all the lads were after her but she chose me, thank God.’