Across a Summer Sea

by Lyn Andrews

  ‘Would you put the kettle on, please? She’s had a shock, she could do with a cup of strong sweet tea,’ he asked of Maggie and Nellie and Queenie. He wanted them all out of the room. It was too crowded. Then he bent and examined Frank, took his pulse and listened to his heart.

  ‘Mrs McGann, I don’t think there is anything I can do. He needs to go to hospital, they have the equipment and the experience and the staff.’

  ‘No! Oh, please, no!’ she cried.

  ‘I can’t just leave him. It’s my duty. I took an oath to save life and apart from that I could be struck off and prosecuted myself and that would help no one! I’m sorry.’

  ‘If he goes and they . . . save him, what will happen?’

  ‘It is a crime, Mrs McGann, but I doubt they’ll send him to prison, not in his condition. That would kill him. I’d inform them of that fact and my colleagues would back me up. I have to call an ambulance.’

  Slowly she nodded. He was right and she took some comfort from his words. He was a good man.

  He ushered her into the kitchen where the other women looked anxiously from Mary to himself. He left them and went to find the nearest Emergency Police telephone, a very new invention.

  ‘Where’s he gone? What’s he doing?’ Nellie asked.

  ‘He’s gone for an ambulance. He had to. It’s his duty.’

  ‘Blast ’im an’ ’is bloody duty!’ Queenie said. ‘They’ll ’ave Frank in Walton Jail.’

  ‘Iffen he survives,’ Maggie muttered, glaring at Queenie.

  ‘He said he won’t let them send Frank to prison,’ Mary said flatly, taking the tea from Nellie and sitting down.

  ‘An’ what notice does ’e think they’ll take of ’im?’ Queenie demanded.

  ‘For God’s sake, Queenie, will you shut up!’ Nellie yelled, losing her patience.

  ‘I believe him. He said other doctors would agree with him and speak up too,’ Mary said.

  ‘You see!’ Maggie said triumphantly. Queenie was never much help in situations like this. Always looking on the black side when things were black enough already. But in her opinion it would be a blessing in disguise if Frank McGann succeeded in his attempt, although she wouldn’t say so.

  ‘Mary, you’d better get your things together, you’ll have to go with him,’ Nellie advised. ‘Maggie and me will see to the kids when they get home.’

  ‘But drink yer tea first, luv,’ a subdued Queenie added.

  She was ready and waiting when the ambulance with its bell clanging loudly came down the street and Frank was quickly heaved onto a stretcher and carried out. She was a little alarmed by the presence of a policeman who took down a few details as they were driven to the hospital, then she was told to wait in a large, tiled room that smelled of Jeyes Fluid and ether, which made her feel slightly sick.

  After a little while the parish priest arrived. Before he went to Frank he came to see Mary.

  ‘Nellie Jones came for me. Mary, what possessed him?’

  ‘Oh, Father Heggarty, I don’t know! I just wish I’d been there. That I’d stayed in the house this morning or that I’d not dawdled on my way back. They’re trying to save him.’

  ‘I know, child. You sit here and pray to Our Lady that they succeed and that he can ask forgiveness for his sin and obtain absolution. I’d better go through now. The sister has told me which ward he’s on.’

  It seemed like hours. She did try to pray but she couldn’t concentrate and she was thankful when Maggie poked her head apprehensively around the door.

  ‘Any news?’ She crept over to her.

  ‘No. Nothing. I’ve been trying to pray but, Maggie, I just don’t seem to be able to. Oh, it’s my fault! I should have taken more notice of him. He said often enough he wished he were dead. I should have stayed in with him more often. I shouldn’t have gone and had a cup of tea with Nellie!’

  ‘Mary, luv, how were you to know? How were you to know he’d actually do it? You couldn’t have watched him every minute of the day and night. It’s not your fault, luv! You’ve done everything you possibly could for him. You had to go out. You had to work.’

  But Mary wouldn’t be consoled and Maggie fell into a silent reverie.

  Half an hour later a doctor, accompanied by the priest, walked towards them; with a strangled cry at the expressions on their faces, Mary knew he was dead.

  ‘Mrs McGann, we tried very hard but there was nothing we could do.’

  Mary nodded slowly. Well, at least now he’d had his wish.

  ‘There are some formalities . . . you do understand?’

  ‘Yes. I know. He committed a crime,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘Mary, I’m so sorry and I’m even more sorry that I won’t be able to give you the comfort of a Requiem Mass. Nor can he be buried in consecrated ground.’

  She looked at the priest with horror. Every word he said was true and she would have to bear the terrible shame of it. Even in death he had humiliated and hurt her. Every detail would be talked about, and she would be held responsible by the women of the parish who in the main didn’t know all the circumstances. Not the things that really mattered.

  ‘Mary, luv, come on home. It’s times like this that you need your friends,’ Maggie urged, her heart heavy for Mary’s suffering.

  ‘Oh, Maggie, will I have any friends now?’

  Maggie looked at the priest but he said nothing. She took Mary by the arm to lead her out. ‘Of course you will!’ she insisted. ‘We know it wasn’t your fault even if some won’t say so!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  MARY TRIED TO EXPLAIN to the children as best she could. She knew she had to be truthful because there wouldn’t be the customary burial, which was something they’d all witnessed on a not too infrequent basis. In this slum neighbourhood disease took a terrible toll and death was no respecter of age.

  ‘You know your da wasn’t a happy man. He hated having to live the way he did. Well, it became too much for him to stand any longer and so instead of God deciding when he was going to die, he decided for himself. He didn’t feel any pain. He just took all his medicine at once this morning and went to sleep and . . . died.’ She looked at the white, tense faces of Katie and Tommy and the uncomprehending expression on Lizzie’s features but soldiered on.

  ‘But I’m afraid that it’s not going to be so easy for us.’

  ‘Why, Mam?’ Tommy asked. He’d almost grown used to the bitter, moody stranger he’d shared a bedroom with but he had no feelings of love for him. His pity had been for his mam, something that had grown over the last three years as he’d realised how hard she worked, how much she had to put up with and how unhappy she was.

  ‘Because what he did was a sin and, in the eyes of the law, a crime. There won’t be the usual funeral. No Mass, no burial in the graveyard. Just us and a couple of the neighbours in a bit of land at the back of the graveyard wall.’

  ‘Do we have to go, Mam?’ Katie asked. There was a note of shame in her mam’s voice that she had been quick to notice.

  ‘Yes, luv, you do. It’s the least we can do. Try to give him a bit of respect. It was one of the things he missed so much after the accident and now . . . well, no matter what he did or what people will say, we have to go.’

  ‘What will we do now, Mam?’ Tommy asked, his eyes becoming brighter as a long-buried hope began to surface.

  ‘Do?’ She was confused.

  ‘Can we go back to Ballycowan?’

  She was taken aback. She honestly hadn’t considered that. She’d not thought further ahead than the next couple of hours.

  ‘Mr O’Neill will have another housekeeper by now. He won’t need Mam,’ Katie said, but there was disappointment in her voice.

  Her words sent a knife-like pain through Mary’s heart. He won’t need you! He won’t want you! The words seemed to hammer into her brain. He might even have forgotten about her; that was a thought that had haunted her and one she had tried so hard to banish from her mind and her heart.


  ‘We could try? We could write and ask?’ Tommy wasn’t going to give up any chance he had of returning to that life.

  Mary looked at the eager expression on her son’s face.

  ‘I might, Tommy. Oh, I’m not promising anything. I’ll have to think about it. Now, you’d better get on with your chores.’

  Tommy nodded: he had papers to sell and they needed the money. At least she had said she’d think about it.

  Mary tried. She made three attempts before discarding them. It had been three years and a great deal could change in that time. Look at how much she had changed. She needed no reminder of how she looked now. Hard work and grinding poverty had brought her to this state. Let him remember her the way she had looked the last time he’d seen her, if he remembered her at all. Life should be easier now that Frank had . . . gone. She pushed the thought away, filled with guilt. It was a terrible thing to think and if she was capable of that thought, did she really deserve happiness? She pushed the half-finished letter away from her. He would have forgotten her by now; there might even be someone else in his life. She dropped her head into her hands. The events of this week had been too much. Deep racking sobs began to shake her.

  Frank McGann’s burial was an almost hole-in-the-corner affair. There were no prayers except those Mary herself said. Just an Our Father, a Hail Mary and a prayer that God would somehow understand and forgive Frank. Only the immediate neighbours and Bert and Hetty Price attended, but Hetty was so distressed at Mary’s plight that she asked them all back to the pub for something to eat and a drink, to ‘stiffen them up’.

  No one, not even the usually tactless Queenie, had asked Mary if she had any plans for the future and she was grateful for it. She really didn’t know what she was going to do.

  The days became much warmer. Summer had truly arrived, she thought as she wedged open the back door to try to get some movement of air into the house. She had tried to make some plans but she found it hard to concentrate. She had to admit that things were simpler without Frank, but how was she going to make a better life for them all? She needed to get some kind of job that paid better than cleaning, but what?

  After the burial she had scrubbed the house and rearranged what little furniture she had. Got rid of the bed Frank had slept in. She couldn’t sell it, although Mr Dalgleish had urged her to try. No one wanted a bed like that in their home. She had tried to eradicate Frank’s presence and to an extent she had succeeded, but she would never get rid of the feelings she experienced whenever she went into the front room. The children simply refused to go in there.

  During the last few weeks, after she had given the children their tea and before she had gone to work, she had taken to wandering down to the waterfront where the late afternoon breeze coming in from the estuary seemed to clear her head. She had to try to look to the future, for the children’s sake. They couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.

  The waterfront was busy as usual and she watched the ferry plying its way across the flat grey water, wishing she had the money to take a trip across to Birkenhead and back. It would be cool on the open upper deck. Her gaze moved unseeingly across the people who were going about their business and then she gave a cry and her hand went to her throat. It was him! It was Richard O’Neill! Her eyes were riveted on his tall figure. He hadn’t changed at all. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and it was all she could do to stop herself from crying out his name and beginning to run towards him. Her hand went automatically to her untidy, damp hair and then she looked down at her dress. It was old, faded, creased and grubby. Oh, God! What would he think if he saw her looking like this? Would he even recognise her? In that minute she knew she could never, never let him see her again. Despair made her feel dizzy and she clutched at a gas streetlight to steady herself. It’s over! she told herself, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. What if he did see her and recognise her? She shrank back, afraid he would catch sight of her, but her gaze never left him. He was talking earnestly to someone, a man. And a man she vaguely recognised. Then it came to her. It was Peter Casey, of all people. What were they both doing here? Why were they in Liverpool?

  She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Eventually the two men parted company and, despite herself, she began to follow Richard as he walked away towards the three magnificent new buildings on the waterfront: the Cunard Building, the offices of the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board and the recently completed and greatly admired Royal Liver Building with its two tall towers on each of which was perched a statue of the mythical Liver Bird, one looking out over the river, the other facing over the city.

  Making sure she kept far enough behind him so that if he turned he wouldn’t see her, she followed him into the city, wondering where he was going. A wild, mad thought came hurtling into her mind. Had he come to look for her? She banished it. Why should he? And he had no idea even where to start searching for her. But still she followed until she realised that he was heading for Rodney Street. It was in a quiet and very affluent part of the city and many doctors and specialists had their offices there. Was he ill? The thought made her feel faint again. There couldn’t be anything wrong with him, there couldn’t! He had been so fit and healthy and he was only a young man. She stopped on a corner as she watched him go up the steps and ring the bell of one of the imposing houses. The door was opened and he disappeared inside.

  She waited a few seconds and then she walked slowly towards the house and stopped outside. There was a highly polished brass plaque on the wall. She moved closer in order to read it. There were three names on it, all doctors, but what kind of doctors were they? There must be something wrong with him, and something bad if he had come all this way to see a doctor. They had important doctors in Dublin too, surely. She hung around in an agony of indecision. She should go home: what if he came out and saw her? But she wanted to see him again, if only from a distance. Passers-by looked at her askance and at last she realised that this wasn’t the type of neighbourhood where she could linger for long. Soon, someone was bound to come and move her on, thinking she was a beggar or worse. She had to go back. She had to go to work. ‘Back to scrubbing floors, which is all you’re fit for, Mary McGann,’ she told herself, casting a last, longing glance up the quiet street.

  Richard stepped out of the doorway and looked down the street. It hadn’t been a successful visit. In fact it had been yet another waste of time. He could have saved himself the time, effort, money and emotional upheaval. The sun was slipping below the rooftops and as he stepped forward he caught a glimpse of red-gold hair as a young woman disappeared around the corner. His heart leaped. Mary! He was certain it was Mary! He took two paces forward before he realised he had called her name aloud and that a dour, middle-aged woman was looking at him very oddly. He tipped his hat respectfully to her and began to walk away. What kind of a fool was he to think that in a city of this size he would find her with such ease? He’d tried hard enough in Dublin and Liverpool was twice as big and twice as crowded. He’d seen a glimpse of a woman with auburn hair. How many of them were there in a place like this?

  When he turned the corner there were more people on the street; his gaze scanned them all, hopefully. There was no sign of her. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and walked on towards St Luke’s Church. He hadn’t come looking for her, he had told himself it was pointless. Well, he might as well make his way towards the Landing Stage for the ferry, stopping for something to eat and a drink on the way. He felt dispirited and depressed, despite the pleasantness of the summer evening.

  He had reached the top of Lord Street and was debating whether to try one of the steak houses in Castle Street when at the top, just in front of the Town Hall, he once again caught a glimpse of auburn hair. Surely . . . surely it just might be? He hurried his steps, frantically thinking what he could say if it was indeed her. The traffic was heavy and when he reached the corner of Dale Street he thought he’d lost her but his gaze seemed drawn to a shadow that disappeared into t
he doorway of an office building. Now what? Should he follow? If it was her, why was she going into offices and at this time, when all the office staff were leaving? He must have been mistaken. Should he wait? What if he hung around here and it wasn’t her? Oh, what else did he have to do?

  After half an hour his optimism was fading. There were few people on the street and a strolling constable had eyed him curiously. He had wanted to see her so much that he had become obsessive. He might even have mistaken it all. It might just have been a shadow. Wearily he went into a pub. He needed a drink.

  He had tried to read the evening paper but hadn’t been able to concentrate. There were too many worries pressing on his mind. Too many questions unanswered; too many problems that seemed to have no solutions. The landlord had provided a scratch meal and at last he looked at his pocket watch and decided he would have to make his way to the ferry. The whole journey had been pointless.

  He paid the landlord but hesitated before leaving.

  ‘Something wrong?’ the man asked.

  ‘Those offices over there?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do . . . do people go there late on?’

  ‘Only the cleaners. The women go in when the clerks ’ave gone ’ome.’

  ‘The cleaners,’ he repeated slowly.

  ‘You lookin’ fer someone?’

  He nodded slowly. If she needed work would she . . . ? Was that it? ‘What time do they finish?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Usually about ten.’

  Richard looked again at his watch. It was nearly a quarter to ten, but the ferry sailed at half past. Could he wait? Could he risk missing the ferry? If it wasn’t her, then what? ‘Thanks!’ he muttered, making his way to the door. He had to try. He had to see if it was her. Quickly he crossed the road, walked to the building and stood in the shadows beneath the arched stone doorway. He’d wait. If it wasn’t her then . . . then he’d try and make a dash for the ferry.