‘You’re nearly right.’
Mary Ann gave no congratulatory exclamation at this, and Mrs Polinski sighed and, pulling a bundle of sewing towards her, said somewhat dispiritedly, ‘I’m making myself a frock. Do you like the colour?’ She held the dress up.
Politely Mary Ann looked at the dress, and politely she said, ‘Yes, it’s nice.’ But in her head she was saying, quite distinctly, ‘I don’t like it. Why does she have everything red?’
‘Your mother’s going to miss you.’
‘Yes,’ Mary Ann nodded. ‘So’s me da.’
‘Your da.’ The hands became still on the material, and Mrs Polinski looked at Mary Ann, a smile on her lips now. ‘You like your da, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’ Again Mrs Polinski sighed; and her hands began to move once more. ‘Who’d blame you; he’s a fine man is your father – your da.’ She laughed softly now, as if to herself.
As Mary Ann stared at the girl aimlessly fumbling with the material, she had a strong and urgent desire to get up from the couch and run away, to fly away. This was odd, for anyone who spoke highly of her da commanded her whole attention. Yet this feeling urged her not to listen to Mrs Polinski, but to dash off and not to her da, but to her mother. And she knew what she’d say to her mother . . . she’d say, ‘I don’t like Mrs Polinski, I don’t.’ And if her mother asked why, she’d say, ‘’Cos she wants to go back to school.’ But she knew that wasn’t really why she didn’t like her. Then, why didn’t she? She shook her head. Swiftly she rose now, saying, ‘Eeh! I’ve got to go, I forgot something. Thanks for the sweets.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Polinski pulled herself out of her reverie. ‘Oh, all right . . . Well, goodbye, Mary Ann. Be a good girl, and remember what I told you.’
There was no interest in her tone at all now, and its lack was expressed finally, when she added, ‘You can let yourself out. Bye-bye.’
‘Bye-bye.’
Once outside, Mary Ann began to run, not caring very much where she was bound for; and her thoughts ran with her, jumping when she jumped. Mrs Polinski was awful. The thought was high in her head. Look at her house, all red and dirty. She skipped over the grass verge. She didn’t like her, she didn’t. On and on she ran, her thoughts swirling around Mrs Polinski until, when in sight of the main road, she was brought to a sudden stop by a stitch in her side.
She stood groaning. ‘Oh! . . . Oh! By gum . . . Ooh! Crikey Moses!’ It was the worst of many stitches she had experienced, it brought her over double. ‘Oh! Lordy! Lordy!’
‘Are you hurt?’
She glanced up sideways at the young man bending above her.
‘Oh! I’ve got a stitch. Oh, it’s awful!’
‘Rub it.’ His face was serious and a little twisted, as if he, too, was feeling the stitch, and she did as he bid her, and rubbed her side vigorously.
Phew! As she straightened up she was actually sweating, and the young man’s voice was sympathetic as he said, ‘Yes, I know what that is. It can be awful.’
Mary Ann looked at him. ‘It’s gone now.’
‘Good.’
She continued to stare at the stranger as she rubbed her side. Who was he? He looked nice, and he talked swanky. Like Mr Lord, only different. He was looking now across the field, to where stood the skeleton of the new barn.
‘That barn,’ he said. ‘Whose is it?’
‘Me da’s.’
When his eyes quickly came to hers, she added quickly and in a somewhat offended tone, ‘Well, he’s manager, it’s the same thing.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Lord’s farm.’
She blinked twice, before saying, ‘That’s it.’
He was turning his gaze to the field again, when he hesitated and looked down at her once more, and there was the faintest trace of a smile on his sombre countenance, and it told Mary Ann that he understood things without a lot of explaining, and she thought again, He’s nice.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Mary Ann Shaughnessy; and me da’s Mike Shaughnessy. He’s a grand farmer, me da.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he is.’
‘He knows everything.’ She stressed this point, smiling broadly up at him.
‘Does he? I’m glad of that.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tony. Tony Brown.’
She didn’t think much of Brown as a name, but he was nice, and not old – well, not very. She did not ask, ‘How old are you?’ because her mother had said she hadn’t to ask people that. But she tried to gain her information by putting her question on a more friendly basis: ‘I’m eight, goin’ on for nine. Are you very old?’
‘Yes, pretty old.’
The admission was sad, and she said, comfortingly, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Are you going to our farm?’
He nodded. ‘I suppose I’m going to see your father.’
‘Oh, are you?’ Her smile spread into a great welcoming beam. ‘Oh, I’ll take you.’
‘Thanks.’
Tomorrow was again forgotten. Hopping and jumping over the puddles and on and off the grass verge, she led the way back to the farm, chattering to her new, sober-looking acquaintance all the while. But when, within a short distance of the yard, she found he wasn’t following her, she stopped and turned to see him standing staring towards the farmhouse, whereupon she offered proudly: ‘That’s our house.’
He looked at her, then asked slowly, ‘Doesn’t . . . doesn’t Mr Lord live here?’
‘No, not yet. His house isn’t ready, but it soon will be. Look, there it is, on the hill . . . look!’
He followed her finger, and then said briefly, ‘Show me where I’ll find your father.’
‘Come on then; he’ll be here somewhere.’
She went dashing off ahead now, crying loudly, ‘Da! Da! . . . Oh, Mr Polinski!’ She pulled up as a short, dark man, in his late thirties, came from behind a rick, carrying a cart shaft on his shoulder. ‘Where’s me da? Do you know?’
‘In office—’ he nodded towards the old dairy that the late manager had converted into an office – ‘wit old man.’
Mr Polinski’s ‘old man’ meant Mr Lord. She hadn’t known he was here again. He must have come by when she was in Mrs Polinski’s house. She turned round now and waited for the young man to come up.
‘He’s in his office,’ she said. ‘And Mr Lord’s there an’ all, so I can’t go in.’
She saw the young man stop in his stride, and then he did a funny thing. He turned completely round towards the entrance to the farmyard, as if he was going back that way, and she said hastily, pointing, ‘The office is over there . . . that door.’
Slowly he turned again, and then, without saying ‘Ta’ or ‘Thanks’, he went across the yard, and she stood watching him, standing with her fingernail between her teeth, in sudden troubled perplexity. She knew she hadn’t seen him before, and yet she felt she had. Perhaps she had seen him in Jarrow somewhere, or perhaps in church. And this feeling of recognition seemed to be connected with his walk, with his back?
Out of a million backs she could have picked her da’s or her ma’s, and somehow she knew she could have picked this young man’s, too. It was funny. She bit on her finger as if trying to tear off the nail.
Before the young man reached the office the door opened and Mr Lord came out, followed by Mike, and they both looked enquiringly at the young man, who had now come to a stop a few yards away from them.
Mary Ann now moved cautiously forward, and as she came up to them her da was saying, ‘Oh, yes, of course; you’re Brown, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young man was looking directly at her father, and Mary Ann’s chest swelled with pride . . . he had called her da, ‘Sir.’
‘It’s the young fellow from the Agricultural College, sir.’ Mike had turned to Mr Lord, and when Mr Lord did not answer, he added, ‘Remember? I told you he had written.’
Mr Lord’s eyes, narrowed behind his beetling brows, were fixed
on the visitor. And now the young man was returning his stare, hard, almost seemed to Mary Ann with dislike, like she looked at Sarah Flannagan.
‘Why do you particularly want to get experience here? It’s only a small farm.’ Mr Lord’s mouth was at its grimmest.
‘I don’t.’ The words were shot out, and Mr Brown bit his lip as if regretting them; then added, with slightly lowered head, ‘I mean, I don’t mind, I would rather start on a small farm.’
Mary Ann looked from one to the other, and she saw that the dislike was in Mr Lord’s eyes now, and she thought, Aw! He won’t take him on; not when he looks like that he won’t. Aw! And she felt a great sense of disappointment.
She saw her da give a hitch to his trousers, and his chin go up as he turned to Mr Lord and said, ‘We’ll have to have an extra hand, anyway, sir. What about a trial, we can’t go far wrong in that?’ He spoke as if the young man wasn’t present. And Mr Lord, moving his head restlessly, replied in much the same way, ‘I suppose it’s up to you. But I’m warning you, we’re carrying no deadweight – Agricultural College or not, the milk comes out the same way; and they cannot alter the seasons.’
Mr Lord now walked away, but he had not gone far when he turned and called Mike to him. And when Mike, with a glance at the young fellow, went towards him, he said, ‘You’ve got a free hand as you know, but I’m not sure whether it would be wise to take him on; he looks all head and no hands, and you don’t want that kind. It’s labour you want.’
For Mike’s part, he had instinctively taken to the young fellow, but he was wise enough not to make this too evident. Moreover, he did not despise men with headpieces on a farm, for he was finding his self-imposed study at night more tiring than the work of the day. And so, hitching at his belt again, he sighed and said, ‘You’re right there, sir, only too true. But what do you say if I give him a trial – that is, if it’s all the same to you?’
Mr Lord looked past Mike’s head to the young man again, and his eyes stayed on him for a moment before he said, ‘Well, don’t start complaining to me about him, that’s all.’ And on this he walked away.
Mike stood for a moment watching his master before turning and going back to the boy, and immediately he saw that the young fellow’s back was up, and his sympathy went out to him, for he knew only too well how the old man could draw out a temper. The antagonism between the two had been the swiftest thing he had ever seen, except perhaps his own feelings for Ratcliffe, his late boss.
‘Well, now’ – he confronted the boy – ‘we’ll have to talk, I suppose; but first of all, what about a cup of tea? Come on over to the house.’
‘Da.’ All this time Mary Ann had stood in the background, keeping her tongue quiet, but now she realised that her father had clearly forgotten about her granny, for he was walking away towards the house, talking as he went. ‘Where are you living?’ he was asking the young man.
‘At present, in Newcastle. I have a room there.’
‘Da.’
‘Yes? Come on.’ Mike held out his hand, but went on, ‘You’re not from these parts then?’
‘No, sir.’ The young man did not seem of a communicative nature, and Mike said, ‘Well, you’ll have to come nearer than Newcastle. Newcastle’s a long way when the dawn rises early. Yes, we’ll have to see about that.’
‘Da!’ She tugged at his hand. He must be daft, she told herself, if he was going to take a stranger into their house, and her granny there, for she would soon give him a picture of their life, and especially her da’s, which would be awful to say the very least. ‘Da!’ she tugged again and whispered urgently, ‘Da! Me granny.’
‘Oh!’ Mike stopped abruptly and looked down on her, and his colour rising just the slightest he said, ‘Yes, your granny.’ But as he turned to his companion with a laughing apology on his lips, the need for it was taken away, for there, going along the road past the farm entrance were Lizzie and her mother, and Lizzie, looking in his direction, called, ‘Mary Ann!’
‘Oh, bust!’
‘Go on.’ Her da was speaking under his breath, and reluctantly, with slow measured steps, she went towards the gate.
‘Your granny’s just going . . . are you coming to the bus with us?’
The true and natural retort would have been ‘No!’ but something in Lizzie’s tone and the way she held out her hand asked for obedience and so, taking her mother’s hand, she walked reluctantly back along the road, trying to shut her ears to her grandmother’s vicious chatter.
‘Nothing ever stays put – get that into your head – we’re here today and gone tomorrow, and that applies to worldly goods. And jobs an’ all, a lot can happen in a six months’ trial, so you don’t bank your hopes on a golden future. You won’t take to it kindly when you find yourself on the dung heap again.’
Mary Ann felt her mother’s fingers suddenly stiffen, and her voice came harsh when she demanded, ‘Who told you he was on a six months’ trial?’
‘Ah, I have me little birds.’
Mary Ann saw them, hordes of them, fighting, screeching little birds, and she willed them to swoop down on her granny and peck her eyes out. She even saw her granny being borne to the ground by them, and with deep satisfaction she gazed down on her, pecked to death by her little birds.
Oh, her granny! She wished she was dead, she did. Eeh! Well, she did.
‘Well, you can tell your little birds that the six months’ trial is only a figure of speech, he’s set for life.’
‘Huh!’ It was a small laugh that spoke volumes. ‘I’m glad you think so. But you were always one to fool yourself. You mark my words, if it isn’t one thing it will be another.’
‘You hope it will be like that.’ Lizzie’s voice was very low and came tightly from between her teeth.
‘I’ve no need to hope. If I didn’t know the man it’d be different. The first time you let him off the lead it’ll be hi-ho for the pubs and “Get the cans on John Michael”.’
Mary Ann’s fingers were hurting, so tightly crushed were they in her mother’s hand. There was silence now, but as they neared the main road the sound of the approaching bus came to them, and Mrs McMullen exclaimed in exasperation, ‘It’s early, there’s another five minutes yet.’
Lizzie said nothing, not even when the bus stopped and she assisted her mother onto it.
From the platform, Mrs McMullen turned, and now in a pathetic tone, that immediately caught the sympathy of the listeners in the bus, she said, ‘That’s it, go and leave me in a huff. When are you coming down to see me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well!’
The bus moved off, and Lizzie turned quickly away from the sight of her mother’s pained countenance. But once in the shelter of the lane she stopped, and stood biting hard on her lip.
When Mary Ann edged close to her she put her arms about her and pressed her head into her waist for a moment, then easing her away again, she stooped and kissed her and looking deep into her eyes she spoke, not of her mother, or of what she had said, but to Mary Ann’s surprise, she used the same words as Mr Lord had done. ‘There won’t be much time to talk tomorrow, Mary Ann,’ she said. ‘Now promise me you’ll be a good girl at this school, and you’ll learn and make us proud of you.’
The weight of the world was on her again, and more heavily now.
‘Promise . . . so much depends on you, Mary Ann.’
Mary Ann stared up at her mother, and the look of anxiety she saw deep in Lizzie’s eyes forced her to smile wistfully and promise, ‘All right, Ma, I will.’
Lizzie kissed her again, and Mary Ann clung to her in an effort to stop the tears from spurting, and when, blinking rapidly, she looked up at her mother, Lizzie laughed and said, ‘That bus saved you, it was your turn next. You would have learned of all the things you aren’t going to be in that school.’
Mary Ann gave a sniffling, cackling laugh, and Lizzie, catching hold of her hand again, cried, ‘Come on; let’s go home.’
So together,
like two girls released from a tyrant, they sped down the road, laughing and shouting to each other as they leapt over the puddles.
It was over an extra wide puddle that it happened. Lizzie, with a lift of her arm, was assisting Mary Ann in a flying leap when she fell. Having been pulled down beside her mother, Mary Ann lay laughing into her hands for a moment. This was mainly to save herself from crying, for the stones had grazed both her legs and the palms of her hands. But she was brought quickly out of her simulated laughter by the sound of a groan from her mother. Lizzie was sitting on the road holding on to her ankle with both hands; her lips were apart, and her teeth were tightly pressed together.
‘What’s the matter, Ma? Oh, Ma!’
‘I – I’ve hurt my ankle. Help me up.’
Mary Ann, with all her small strength, helped her mother onto her good foot; then watched the colour drain from her face. Terrified, she helped her to hop to the grass verge, and when Lizzie dropped down onto it and gasped, ‘Go – go and get your da,’ she replied in a daze, ‘Me da?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!’ After one last look at her mother Mary Ann bounded away, calling, ‘Da! Da!’
She had reached the farmyard when she pulled herself up, and turning, made for the house. Her da would be in the house with the new man. But Mike wasn’t in the house. Dashing back into the yard again she ran full tilt into Len, and to her garbled question of, ‘Where’s me da?’ he said, ‘In the new barn. But mind, the old boy’s there. What’s up with you?’
She was gone before he had finished, and when, still yelling, she rounded the outbuildings and came to the front of the new barn, she was confronted by three pairs of eyes and Mr Lord’s voice.
‘Stop that noise this moment!’
For once, she took no notice whatever of him, or his orders, but flew to Mike, crying, ‘Oh, Da! Da!’ The necessity to breathe checked her words, and Mike put in sharply, ‘Behave yourself!’
‘It’s me ma . . . she’s hurt herself . . . she’s lying on the road and she’s white!’
The Devil and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 6