Always I'Ll Remember

by Bradshaw, Rita

  ‘If you mean because I want to take an evening course at the technical college, I don’t see why that should worry her,’ Abby answered with more courage than she felt. ‘And my da is happy for me to go.’

  Too late she realised it was the wrong thing to say. Any mention of her father was like a red rag to a bull as far as the priest was concerned. Abby watched him stiffen and his voice was no longer soft when he said, ‘You know as well as I do that your father is not of the Faith but walking the road to eternal damnation. It grieves me deeply to say it but your poor mother has had to battle alone to raise you in truth and holiness.’

  Abby stared at Father Finlay, colour hot in her cheeks. ‘My da might not be a Catholic but he’s a good man, a fine man,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘He’s better than some of the men who go to Mass on a Sunday and then get drunk and behave exactly how they want the rest of the week. My da’s not like that.’

  She heard the intake of breath from her mother and knew she had gone way too far, but she didn’t regret what she had said. The thought must have been there for some time but only now had it emerged from the recesses of her mind. It was true and Father Finlay must know that.

  ‘Temptation will always present itself to mortal man. That is why our souls need to be cleansed by the blood of Christ,’ he said coldly.

  It wasn’t temptation, not for men like Shane Mullen three doors down who drank most of his wage every Friday night and then came home and knocked three bells out of his wife and bairns. It was a way of life. And Father Finlay would give him absolution come Sunday, even with his wife sitting there black and blue. Mrs Mullen had lost two babies because of the beatings when she was expecting, it was a known fact round the streets. Abby’s chin rose a fraction higher. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t see it like that. I know there are lots of good Catholics but—’

  ‘It is not for you to judge others.’ The priest’s eyes were gimlet hard now, black orbs with a piercing quality which was unnerving. ‘I will be hearing confession until eight tonight, Abigail, and in view of our conversation I shall expect you to be there.’

  He knew she was supposed to be going for her first lesson tonight. Abby’s mind was racing. And her mam had planned this. Oh why couldn’t they have gone to St Peter’s and had Father McGuigan as their priest? Everyone loved Father McGuigan. Her stomach turned over. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I have to be at the college for half past six.’

  ‘You are putting the things of the flesh before the things of God?’

  ‘I don’t see it that way, Father,’ she said again.

  The priest rose to his feet and his voice was deep when he said, ‘“For the Lord sayeth, rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry”.’ He held her with his eyes for one more moment before turning to Nora who had also risen. ‘May God bless and uphold you in your trial, Mrs Vickers.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Her mother didn’t seem overjoyed at the priest’s benediction. Abby replaced the chair in its rightful place as her mother saw Father Finlay out, then walked through to the kitchen where Clara was sitting with her little arms wrapped round her middle, tears still rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t have a chance to speak to her sister before her mother’s voice said, ‘Well, madam! I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, answering the Father back like that. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.’

  Abby turned and looked steadily at her mother. ‘He shouldn’t have spoken about Da like that.’

  ‘Your da!’ Nora gave a short, bitter laugh. Wouldn’t she love to shout the truth at this hoity-toity little madam who thought herself the cat’s whiskers. To tell her that her precious da had no claim to her at all, that there wasn’t a drop of his blood running through her veins, that he was a useless lump of nowt who couldn’t father a kitten. She took hold of her temper, turning her venom on her youngest daughter who was watching her with wide, unblinking eyes. ‘Come here,’ she said grimly.

  Clara’s face was white with terror and although she knew she would get an even worse hiding if she didn’t obey her mother at once, she found herself glued to her seat. The sin she had committed, the awful huge enormity of it was paralysing. Her mam’s suite - a crumb wasn’t allowed to fall on it or a speck of dust touch its surface, and she had . . . She couldn’t bear to think what she’d done, and in front of Father Finlay too. But when he had said to her mam that all children were born wicked and that the devil had to be purged from them, and then swung round to fix his eyes on her, she hadn’t known what was happening until she’d felt the warmth trickle between her legs.

  It was obvious to Abby that the small girl was frozen with fright, so when their mother repeated herself with a certain formidable satisfaction that indicated she was fully aware of Clara’s state of mind, she said, ‘Clara didn’t mean to do it, you know that, but she’s scared to death of Father Finlay. I don’t know why you always make her sit in with you when he visits.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with you so keep out of it.’

  ‘I’ll see to the chair if that’s what’s worrying you. It will clean up as good as new.’

  ‘I said keep out of it.’

  It was the little whimper Clara made, which could have come from an animal, that made up Abby’s mind. She was nearer to her sister than her mother was, and she reached out and lifted the stiff little body into her arms. Cradling the cold flesh against the warmth of hers, she said, ‘You’re not braying her for something she couldn’t help, Mam. Anyway, she’s been punished enough already. Look at her.’

  For a second it was as though Nora couldn’t believe her ears. Clara put her arms round her sister’s neck, burrowing into her, her face pushed deep into Abby’s shoulder. The child’s trembling made Abby’s temper rise. Clara was a skinny little thing, she didn’t even have the meat on her bones she’d had when she was little to protect her a fraction from her mother’s fury. The mood her mam was in she’d do the bairn a serious injury.

  A quiver passed over Nora’s face and her hands tightened into fists. ‘What did you say to me?’

  ‘I said you’re not beating her. Sitting in here and waiting for you has been punishment enough.’

  ‘You’re telling me how to deal with your sister now? I think not, madam. And you’re not too big to get the same as her, I’m telling you. Give her over.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The two women faced each other and Clara found herself swallowing hard to stop the sickness rising out of her stomach.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Mam, while I’m at it. You lay a finger on me and you’ll get as good back, I’m warning you.’

  ‘You’re warning me?’

  ‘Aye, I am! And you can get Father Finlay here or the Pope himself but it’ll be the same. I’ve had enough, Mam. You’re not hitting me again.’

  Her mother’s face contorted with fury. Abby held her ground and clasped Clara tighter to her, but she knew she couldn’t carry this through, her mam would see it was all bluff. What would she do if her mam lashed out at her? Would she really hit her back? She couldn’t, she couldn’t hit her mam. And then as mother and daughter continued to glare at each other, they heard the front door open followed by Wilbert’s voice calling, ‘I just saw Father Finlay at the corner and he was in a right tear about something or other. Face like thunder, he’d got. I pity the poor devil who gets the end of his tongue the night.’

  What would have happened between herself and her mam if Wilbert hadn’t come home when he did? Abby’s stomach was still churning as she hurried along South Johnson Street towards Green Terrace where the technical college was situated; she had visited the privy three times before she left the house.

  Her brother had taken in the situation at a glance when he’d entered the kitchen, and in his mild way he had managed to coax their mam to sit down whilst he’d made her a cup of tea. Always the peacemaker, he’d excelled himself this time, Abby thought wryly.

&nbs
p; While Wilbert sat with their mother, she washed Clara down in the scullery before putting her to bed. Worn out with all her crying, the child was asleep within a minute or two, which gave Abby the time to clean the chair in the front room, wash her sister’s clothes and put them through the mangle before hanging them on the line which ran the length of the yard. It was the day she was supposed to scour the privy so she saw to that chore as well and one or two others before quickly washing her hands and face and smoothing her hair with her damp hands. She didn’t have time to eat - her stomach felt too upset anyway - and she said goodbye to her mother and Wilbert as they sat eating their evening meal. Wilbert answered her but her mother ignored her.

  It was only a short walk to the college. As Abby turned the corner into Green Terrace, the imposing building of the technical college was in front of her, its domed tower seeming to reach the sky. Abruptly she halted. What was she doing? She ran a clammy hand over her face, the rumbling of her stomach reminding her she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. She would never keep up with the other girls, she knew she wouldn’t. And she’d never find her way round this building, it was so huge.

  ‘Hello there.’ The tap on her shoulder almost made her jump out of her skin, and she swung round to see a big girl with a pretty face smiling at her. ‘I saw you when we had to enrol, didn’t I? You down for the shorthand and typing course?’

  ‘Aye, yes I am.’ Abby swallowed hard. ‘It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?’ she said, nodding at the building.

  ‘What, this place?’ The other girl grinned at her. ‘Me da calls it the Whisky Palace ’cos it was built by the council with money they got from Customs and Excise. Me da don’t hold nowt in awe, or no one for that matter. Me mam says if King George himself were to knock on our door, me da’d just invite him in to look at his pigeons and bend his ear on the government making such a mess of the country the last fifteen odd years. Me da’s a big union man,’ she added by way of explanation.

  ‘Does he work in the shipyards?’

  The other girl shook her head, causing her short, glossy brown hair to swing with the movement. ‘No, he’s a miner, like his da afore him and his da afore him. Well,’ she inclined her head towards the building, her voice suddenly brisk, ‘we’d better go in and see what’s what. We won’t get nowhere standing out here like lemons.’

  Abby nodded, her nervousness changing to anticipation as her new friend linked arms with her.

  ‘Me name’s Winnie, by the way, Winnie Todd. What’s yours?’

  ‘Abby Vickers.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Winnie grinned at her. ‘We’ll pair up, shall we, if they ask us to? Though likely it’s not like school,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘Least, I hope not. I hated school. Our headmaster was the spitting image of this German bloke, Adolf Hitler, who’s causing all the trouble, an’ he was a nasty bit of work an’ all. And our teacher,’ she raised her eyes heavenwards, ‘by, she could pack a wallop with the cane. You’d feel it for weeks when she let fly. I’ve never known anyone wield a bit of wood like Miss Ramsbottom.’

  ‘Ramsbottom?’ Abby giggled as they mounted the steps to the front door of the college. ‘That wasn’t really her name, was it?’

  ‘Straight up. She looked like one an’ all. Mind, she’d been walking out with old Adolf for years an’ years so that’d be enough to give anyone the hump. Well, here we go then. Time to shake a leg and knock ’em dead, as the actress said to the bishop.’

  The corners of Abby’s mouth lifted as she pushed open the door and the pair of them stepped into the building. She was going to enjoy Monday and Thursday evenings. With or without the shorthand and typing lessons.

  Chapter Three

  Twelve months! She could hardly believe a full twelve months had passed since that first night when she had stood in fear and trepidation outside the college. And now here she was feeling pretty much the same at the thought of the forthcoming interview. With a mental shake of her head at her nervousness Abby tweaked her smart Sunday frock further over her knees and breathed out deeply, catching the eye of one of the other girls sitting in the small waiting room as she did so. She returned the weak smile the girl gave but didn’t instigate a conversation, it didn’t seem the time or the place somehow.

  When the door opened and the woman who had previously called out two other applicants - with a twenty-minute break between them - said her name in a somewhat bored tone, the butterflies in Abby’s stomach did an Irish jig. This was it then, her first ever interview. Mrs Travis, their teacher at the college, had gone through the procedure time and time again until they were all well versed in how to deal with the possible pitfalls, but suddenly that didn’t seem as encouraging as it had been.

  Abby didn’t glance at the other two girls in the room as she left, concentrating on the woman in front of her who, once they were in the corridor outside, said in a more friendly tone, ‘You’ll have a shorthand and typing test first and then Mr Wynford, the Accounts Manager, will see you. All right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She was being whisked through doors and along corridors so fast it was making her head spin. She’d never find her way out of here. Price and Osborne, Engineers, had looked pretty impressive from the outside but it was even bigger inside. Winnie had said she was daft to even apply for the post of secretary to the Accounts Manager when they had seen it advertised in the Echo. Most girls fresh out of college were happy to find work as a shorthand typist. Price and Osborne were situated at the end of Alfred Street, only a short walk away from home, but this wasn’t what had made Abby decide to try for the job, or even the fact that a secretary’s wage would be much more than a shorthand typist’s. The reason was her mother’s dismissive sneering attitude about her future prospects all the time she had been attending the course at the college. Abby wanted something better than the lowest rung of the ladder, just to show her. She hadn’t felt able to discuss this with her friend or anyone else for that matter, so she’d just said to Winnie that the interview would be good experience, if nothing else. Winnie had given her a look that said better than words she thought Abby was mad.

  Abby had taken to shorthand like a duck to water, much to Winnie’s envy, for she wouldn’t have completed the course but for Abby’s help. Abby had galloped ahead of the other students, eager to master each stage in Mr Pitman’s book. She found it fascinating, like another language, which in a way it was, she supposed. The typing hadn’t held her interest in the same way but her speeds were good nevertheless, and she found great satisfaction in translating the squiggles and dots in her notebook into neatly set out letters and documents.

  The woman who had collected her from the waiting room conducted the shorthand and typing test in a small office with just one chair, one desk and several filing cabinets in it. The test proved to be remarkably easy and when Abby had finished, the woman held out her hand for the letter she’d dictated, making no comment except to say, ‘If you’ll just wait here a moment I’ll see if Mr Wynford is free.’

  She was back within a minute or so, and took Abby further down the corridor and into a large main office which was fairly buzzing with activity. At the far end of the room was a door with a brass nameplate which read, ‘Miss Boyce, Mr Wynford’s secretary’. Once again Abby had to wait while her guide disappeared inside.

  This was all so different to anything she’d experienced before. Everyone was busy doing something or other and no one took any notice of her at all. Winnie had started work in a typing pool at Pallion shipbuilding yard a few days ago and there was another vacancy there; perhaps she should have gone for that rather than trying for this just to prove something to her mother. Abby was beginning to feel awkward standing about like a spare part when at last the door opened and she was beckoned into the secretary’s office and then through to the one beyond. This room was spacious, with wall to wall carpeting which made it seem bigger still and very luxurious to Abby, though the furniture was plain and functional.

  A man was sit
ting at the far end of the room at a large, polished desk. Daylight from the window behind him streamed over his shoulders. He stood up at Abby’s approach, bent forward and held out his hand. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Vickers,’ he said evenly. He did not smile. ‘Please be seated.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Abby sat down, staring into steely blue eyes and willing herself not to glance away. Mr Wynford was middle-aged, possessed of a military bearing and as neat as a new pin.

  The unnerving gaze held for a moment more, and then he glanced down at the papers in front of him. ‘Mrs Travis has given you a glowing testimonial both to your character and qualifications, but the fact remains you are still only seventeen years of age, Miss Vickers, with no practical experience. My present secretary,’ he waved his hand towards the door, by which Abby assumed he meant the woman who had conducted the test and shown her in, ‘had already worked for two other employers when she came here eighteen months ago.’

  There was nothing she could say to this and so she merely continued to look at him.