Mary Ann’s eyes, as they stared at Mrs Wilson, lighted up as if she was seeing her mother, and she turned from the counter and flung herself at the old woman. ‘Oh! Hallo, Mrs Wilson. Oh, hallo!’
Mrs Wilson, holding both of Mary Ann’s hands, said feelingly, ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you, hinny, we’re going back the night.’
‘Home?’
‘Yes, my dear. Mr Wilson can’t stand it no longer here.’ She laughed. ‘He’s lived too long in the North.’
‘The night?’ There was hungry longing in Mary Ann’s voice and eyes.
‘Yes, the night. Oh, I’m glad I saw you, hinny. I’ll tell him – he often talks of you. Did you get wrong the other day?’
‘No – well, yes, a little. Oh!’ Mary Ann gripped the hands in hers. ‘Oh! I wish I was comin’ with you, and Mr Wilson.’
‘The holidays will soon be here, hinny, and I promise you we’ll come and see you when you come home.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson. Look,’ she reached up eagerly and whispered, ‘will you go and see me da and ma when you get back, afore I come home?’
‘Yes, we will, hinny, I promise you. And now I’ll have to be going, I just slipped in to get a few sweets for the train. We’re gettin’ the four o’clock, we just live near here. Oh, Mr Wilson will be glad I’ve seen you. Goodbye, hinny, and God bless you.’ Mrs Wilson stooped and gently patted Mary Ann’s face.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Wilson.’
Then she was gone.
‘Come on, the woman’s got your sweets.’ One of the girls pushed Mary Ann, and she turned towards the counter, and took the bag and handed over her money. And when she got into the street she looked quickly up and down, but Mrs Wilson had gone, and with her all comfort, all hope. Never before had she felt so alone in the world. She wanted just to stand and cry, but she was hustled into line and the march back to the convent started.
It was unfortunate that within five minutes of her entry into the convent two things should happen to breathe life into the thought that at the moment was but a germ in her mind. The first was a letter from her mother, very short, telling her nothing, only as usual to be a good girl, to do her lessons, and that the holidays would soon come. But at the bottom Mary Ann noticed something that hadn’t been on her previous letters – the cheap paper was raised in a blob where a drop of water had hit it.
Mary Ann recognised that blob. When she first came to the convent it had dotted her own letters – that blob was a dried tear. Her mother had been crying, and a longing to see her that would brook no cautionary advice such as ‘Eeh! But you know you can’t, not till the holidays’ assailed her. And then, as she folded the letter and went to move out of the recreation room, there was Beatrice standing in her way, laughter filling her eyes.
There was no retaliation left in Mary Ann at this moment with which to meet her enemy; she had not the power even to thrust out her chin. She knew that she could not fight Beatrice – she was not on her own ground, this was Beatrice’s ground.
She could not realise that in a year or two this would be her own ground, too, and she could meet Beatrice as an equal; she only knew that Beatrice was the one who had written that bit of poetry and stuck it in her book, Beatrice was the one who had caused her all this trouble, and there was no way of showing her up.
Like a small, fascinated rabbit, and very unlike herself, she watched Beatrice go out. Then she shivered, as if from a chilling wind, and waited, so as to give her enemy sufficient time to get well ahead before she followed her, but not to the playing fields to join up with the rest of her form. There was a milling of girls in the corridor as the lessons changed, and she mixed with them; then made her way to the cloakroom. There she took up her gaberdine hat and mackintosh, stood for a moment swallowing hard, then, with the hat in her hand and the coat over her arm, she walked out of the cloakroom, across the great hall, down the steps and, unbelievingly, down the drive and out of the convent gate without a soul stopping to question her. Perhaps she had the appearance of a child who had come in from a walk and been sent quickly on some errand down to the lodge.
Only at the main gate did she pause, and that was when she had to make her way round a lorry that was unloading sand on the side of the drive. She did not see the caretaker. If she had, some lie would have leapt to her lips that would have convinced him of her right to be there. And when once outside she did not pause in fright, nor start to run, but walked, with her heart pumping so hard that it made a knocking sound in her head, towards the main road where the buses ran.
She had still threepence left out of her sixpence and two pounds in her locket. She kept one hand over the locket as she waited for the bus, and when it came and she was firmly seated in it, she asked the conductor with a stammer that sounded natural, ‘How much is it to the station?’ And when he said, ‘Threepence half,’ she tendered the coppers with a feeling that God had started to direct the proceedings, for if the conductor had asked for more she would have had to get off and she didn’t know where the station was.
As she alighted from the bus a clock confronted her and it said ten to four. She felt sick now and terrified, but it did not enter her head that she should return to the convent. She walked into the booking office, her eyes searching for the familiar faces of the Wilsons. And now the feeling that this whole business was out of her hands was confirmed, for there, among the numerous people standing in the hall, was Mr Wilson, and he was alone. He was counting his change and looking at his tickets. When she pulled at his coat he looked at her as startled as if she had been an apparition.
‘God in Heaven! hinny, where have you sprung from? Have you come to say us goodbye?’
‘Mr Wilson,’ the tears were now in her eyes and she choked on his name; then started again, ‘Mr Wilson, I wanta go home!’
Mr Wilson straightened his back and pressed his head backwards as he said, ‘But, hinny, you canna do that!’
‘I want to, Mr Wilson. Take me – oh please!’
‘Take you, hinny – home? Look, what’s up with you? Is anything the matter? Have they been goin’ for you?’
Now she nodded dumbly, and then added, ‘It’s not only that, it’s me ma – there’s something wrong at home.’
‘What makes you think that, hinny?’
‘I know by the letters me brother’s sent – that’s our Michael – he’s always goin’ on about me da and another . . . ’
When she stopped Mr Wilson said angrily, ‘I knew from the beginning they should never have sent you this far. I’ve said all along to the missis. All this way for a bairn like you, I’ve said. You’re North Country, you belong there like meself. This is no place for God nor man. I’ve found that out.’ He bent nearer to her as he delivered this last statement. ‘I’ll be glad to see the Tyne again, hinny. Aye, by God, between you and me I will! But about taking you home.’ He straightened. ‘Aye, that’s another kettle of fish.’
‘Oh, Mr Wilson, please.’ She lifted her face up. ‘Please. I’ve got the money, it’s in me locket where you put it.’
‘’Tisn’t the money, hinny, it’s what’s going to happen. And Mrs Wilson, she’d never stand for it. No, hinny, it’s out of the question.’
Mary Ann’s whole face crumpled, and then she whimpered, ‘I can’t go back now, I’ll get wrong and be put in the punishment room.’
It was the two last words that did it.
‘Punishment room!’
They altered Mr Wilson’s whole expression, for before his eyes he saw a cell, a convent cell, with high, grated windows, cold stone floor, and dry bread and water for sustenance.
His face was hard and flushed as he said, ‘Have you been in the punishment room, hinny, here?’
‘Yes, yesterday. They said I wrote some bad poetry, and I didn’t. And—’
The sound of a train passing through the station cut off her words, and Mr Wilson looked round him, his thoughts written plainly on his face. He knew that if Mrs Wilson caught sight of the child the game would b
e up, there would be no chance of getting her on the train, and now he was determined to get her on the train.
Mr Wilson saw himself bringing his battle into the open – he was fighting a convent, all convents, because a convent had taken one of his grandchildren from him. ‘Look, hinny,’ he said in a strangely controlled voice, ‘stand aside, I’ll get your ticket; we’ll settle up later. Do as I tell you now,’ he said quickly, ‘the missis is in the main hall. When you come through the barrier after me make yerself scarce, for it’ll be all up if she sees you.’ He nodded at her. ‘Keep out of the way – you understand?’
Mary Ann nodded quickly back at him, and stood to one side, her eyes riveted on the old man. Mr Wilson had now taken on the form of God – everything was in his hands and she trusted him implicitly. Father Owen’s warning of the Devil and his many disguises was forgotten. Had she thought of it she would not have made it applicable to Mr Wilson. Anyway, if Mr Wilson had sprouted horns at this moment he would have had her vote of confidence. When, having bought the ticket, he turned from the booking office and did not look at her, but walked to Mrs Wilson and pushed her ahead through the barrier, her heart began to race at an even faster pace. Close on his heels she followed him. But when the tickets were punched and they were through she kept her head down, and when she saw his legs going one way she turned and walked in the opposite direction, until in the distance she saw the very end of the platform. The emptiness this indicated brought yet another kind of fear to her; and so she stopped and glanced cautiously over her shoulder along the platform. But from where she stood there was no sign of the Wilsons, and in panic she scampered back between the groups of people. And just as she caught sight of them standing at the far end there came the train.
The panic in her head yelled, ‘Eeh! Eeh! Ee . . . eh!’ and the sound was much louder than the noise of the train. As the doors were flung open, Mr Wilson marshalled his wife into a carriage, then furtively turned and thumbed Mary Ann towards another compartment. This action seemed to bring her out of her state of petrification, and she dashed towards the open door, scrambled up the high step and threw herself onto a seat opposite two women, and there she endeavoured to compose herself to wait for Mr Wilson.
She had no book, nothing to look at, so she looked at her hands, and the women from time to time looked at her and smiled. But she didn’t smile back; instead she turned and fixed her gaze on the window, in case they should ask questions.
Ten minutes later, when the train stopped and Mr Wilson had not yet been along to her, she had a sudden desire to scream and jump out. But she put her fingers into her mouth and pressed her face closer to the window. The train moved again and she began to feel sick. And just when the sickness was about to get the better of her and she knew she would soon do something on the floor Mr Wilson appeared in the corridor.
The old man’s eyes moved swiftly between her and the two women, and then he smiled and said, airily, ‘Oh, there you are! Come on, hinny.’ Under the staring eyes of the women he held out his hand, and Mary Ann, grabbing it eagerly, left the compartment.
In the corridor, Mr Wilson’s smile vanished and he bent above her, saying, ‘Now, look. The missis is up in the air – she’s not for having it, she wants to send you back. It’s up to you, come on.’
Mrs Wilson looked a different person altogether from the one Mary Ann had seen only a short while ago in the sweetshop. Her face was white and strained and she didn’t look at Mary Ann in a nice way, and on first sight she didn’t even speak, her lips were pressed tight together. Then she sprang them apart, and began to talk as Mary Ann had never heard her talk. Much quicker than Mr Wilson she talked . . . on and on.
‘Look . . . you’re a naughty girl . . . you shouldn’t have gone and done it. You know you’re a naughty girl, don’t you?’ Mary Ann just stared. ‘What d’you think’s goin’ to happen? We’ll get into trouble, it’s like kidnapping. Just think of the state they’re in at the convent. They’ll get the police, and then it’ll be on the wireless and then you’ll be found. You’ve got to go back . . . d’ye hear? As for you’ – Mrs Wilson now turned on her husband – ‘it’s you who started all this, you and your talk about convents. You won’t give credit that Teresa is the best off of all our grandbairns. Oh, no! It’s because she’s in a convent. And then you’re the one to talk about bigotry – you started all this – you! But now I’m goin’ to finish it – she’s goin’ back.’
Mary Ann looked at Mr Wilson. He wasn’t the Mr Wilson that she knew either, it was as if Mr Wilson had become Mrs Wilson, and Mrs Wilson had become Mr Wilson. He sat with his head bowed, his back stooped, and his hands dangling between his knees, and to her astonishment he didn’t open his mouth. And she realised, as he had said, that it was now up to her. But what could she do against this force? Nothing.
Her heart was so heavy its weight was unbearable. She began to cry, silently, the tears in great blobs rolling down her cheeks. Mrs Wilson watched her with her lips falling again into a hard line, and she seemed to draw them right into her mouth before emitting almost in a shout, ‘You’re a bad lass! That’s what you are, a bad lass. Why did you do it?’
‘Me da . . . me – me ma. She – she must have been crying – it was on her letter – there’s something up at home, it’s Mrs Polinski, she’s after me da. Oh! Mrs Wilson, I want to see me – me ma.’ In desperation she flung herself against the old woman’s knee, and, throwing her arms around her waist, gave vent to a paroxysm of sobbing.
Mrs Wilson hesitated only a second before gathering her up and saying, ‘There, there! All right, but something must be done.’ Then turning her eyes in the direction of her husband she spoke one word. ‘You!’ she said.
The exclamation spoke of surrender, but Mr Wilson’s head did not lift but drooped lower. His hands came together in a tight clasp and he let out a long-drawn sigh.
Chapter Seven
With a rhythmic beat Lizzie hit the rough stone wall of the scullery with her clenched fist, while the mutterings from her lips sounded unintelligible even to herself; then turning with a swift movement she went and stood over the sink and retched. She retched as if she wanted to throw up her heart. Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Even her pores seemed to ooze the name; every blood vessel in her body was beating out the name: Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Since six o’clock this evening she had started. Was it the miss of her that had brought it about? In the mirror she could not believe she was not looking at a very old woman . . . Her child was lost, her child had been taken away by a man. And on the thought she cried, ‘Oh my God . . . Oh my God!’
All her life she had known worry, nothing but worry, worry; but during these last few months she had thought she was being repaid for all her tribulations, especially those of her married life. Hadn’t Mike landed this grand job? After setbacks and trials he was now settled, and the child was away at a grand school receiving a first-class education. And then the other trouble had started. Was it the miss of her that had brought it about? When had Mike first begun to notice Mrs Polinski? She retched again and exclaimed, ‘Damn Mrs Polinski! Damn everyone – everything! Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Mary Ann!’ Where was she at this moment? Would nothing ever be heard of her again? It had happened to other bairns. Oh my God! would she never hear anything? She raised her head and looked round the lighted scullery. Nearly midnight. Where was Mike? Where was Michael? Would they never come and tell her?
She stumbled into the kitchen trying to shut down on the terrifying thoughts racing into her mind. But there was no power in her strong enough to keep them at bay, and she stopped dead to look at the picture presenting itself before her eyes . . . Dead by now. Raped . . . raped!
‘No! No! No!’ She cried this denial aloud, then clapped her hands to her mouth. She would go mad, stark, staring, raving mad. And it was all her own fault. Why had she let her go? The child hadn’t wanted to go. She had pushed her, pushed her to save Mike, pushed her to satisfy an old man’s whim. She could have been educated at a
school near here, just as well as all those miles away. It was as Mike had said, the old fellow had wanted to separate her from them. Damn him! Damn money and farms. Damn youth! Young girls, empty-headed with big breasts, flaunting them under a man’s nose. Mike had laughed at her and said she was crazy. ‘I’m old enough to be her father!’ he had said. ‘What! Me take notice of that empty-headed piece when you are around? Don’t be so damn silly, Liz! Be your age.’
She had been her age and looked at Mrs Polinski, a young, sex-starved girl. Mike was missing Mary Ann. He wanted her laughter, her young hand in his, and so he talked to Mrs Polinski. He just talked to Mrs Polinski, that was all, but how she hated Mrs Polinski. And then he had said, ‘You’re jealous, Liz!’ He enjoyed her being jealous. ‘Now you know what I felt like over Quinton. Now you know what it feels like, that feeling that somebody’s stepped into your shoes. But you’re mad, Liz, you’re quite mad.’ She could hear his voice interrupting her thoughts that cried, Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Mary Ann! He had held her close in his arms one night and said, ‘We’re missing her, that’s what’s the matter with us, that’s what’s the matter with all of us. The house isn’t the same, nothing’s the same. There’s only one person happy out of all this, and that’s the old boy. Damn and blast him – him and his money, him and his power.’ Oh my God! She gazed about her wildly. What was she thinking? With a wave of her arm she swept everything from her mind but her child, and again she was crying aloud: ‘Please, please, Jesus, save my bairn. Oh, Holy Mother of God, do this for me. It doesn’t matter if he loses his job, it doesn’t matter if we go back to Mulhattans’ Hall, nothing matters, security or nothing, only bring my child safely back to me. Don’t let her come to any harm. Do you hear?’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling: ‘Don’t let her come to any harm!’ She was shouting now. Then dropping into a chair, she buried her face in her hands and tore at her thick hair. She was going mad, stark, staring mad – she couldn’t bear it.
The Devil and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 14