The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘What’s me da going to do?’

  Fanny looked down onto the still bowed head, and after a moment she said, ‘I don’t know, hinny. But do as I do, don’t worry. Leave it to God, and He’ll see you’re all all right, as He has done me.’ She looked round her room; it was full of the remnants of furniture battered and torn by children’s hands and feet. No-one could have been persuaded to take the lot as a gift, yet their possession and the memories they stored were, to Fanny, gifts from God; and in these gifts she was happy.

  ‘Let’s have a sup of tea,’ she said. ‘Eh? It’ll get your old spunk up. Come on, wash up me cups and don’t worry no more about your da. He’s like the cats, he’ll fall on his feet.’

  ‘Why,’ asked Miss Thompson, ‘weren’t you at school this morning?’

  ‘I was sick.’

  ‘You weren’t sick.’

  Mary Ann stared back at her teacher. Sarah had got her oar in.

  ‘You’ll get your mother to write me a note and bring it to me in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Thompson.’

  Mary Ann had expected much worse treatment than this, for Miss Thompson was a hard nut. The light sentence made her buoyant; and at playtime she boldly went up to Sarah and said, ‘So, clever stick, you thought you’d get me wrong with Miss Thompson. Well, you didn’t. She said it was all right. And she asked after me ma. You’re so sharp you’ll cut yersel’ one of these days.’

  Mary Ann had completely recovered.

  Sarah’s retort was stifled by the appearance of the teacher, but her look said, ‘You wait’, and Mary Ann, correctly interpreting the look, was not surprised when school was over to see a reception committee waiting for her outside the gate.

  Accompanied by Cissy and Agnes, she was met by Sarah and four of her friends. They too had forgotten that only last week they had said, ‘Poor Mary Ann’s da.’ Now Mary Ann Shaughnessy was once again a cheeky thing and a big liar, added to which she was getting swanky. They allowed the three of them to pass, then in a concerted chant they sang.

  ‘Pigsty Annie,

  Snout in trough,

  Tongue too long she’ll bite it off.’

  But this was not strong enough to turn Mary Ann about. What was more, she was remembering her mother’s caution against fighting, a caution she had completely overlooked earlier in the day. So, with an exaggerated wobble of her small hips, she marched down the street flanked by her two aides. Not even when the chant became decidedly vulgar, dealing liberally with the anatomy of a cow, and comparing the same with Mary Ann’s face, did she turn.

  This aloofness was much too much for Sarah, and drove her to resort to the lethal weapon of Mike. After running to get closer to the tormentor of her dreams and flesh, Sarah yelled to her own cronies, ‘Do you know something? Me da’s a grand man. He gets bottled up every Saturday night and dances in the street; and he’s had the sack umpteen times and he’s going to get the push again.’

  Before she finished Sarah had gained her objective; Mary Ann had turned. But, against all procedure, she did not retaliate with her tongue – the cruelty of Sarah’s words stilled her own but aroused such a protective passion in her for the maimed hero of her world that had Sarah been as large as an elephant she would still have attacked her.

  In the melee that followed, when she found herself pinned against the lamp-post with her feet alone free, she used them, and for every blow she received across the face and head she gave Sarah one lower down, until her legs too were caught and held by one of the enemy.

  ‘Now we’ll see,’ cried Sarah, hopping on one leg and glaring into Mary Ann’s flaming face. ‘I’ve got you now, and I’ll give you something you won’t forget . . . you and your da! The big, dirty, drunken lump . . . Manager indeed! There, take that! A gentleman with gaiters! And that and . . . ’

  ‘Stop it at once!’

  The children all turned their eyes towards the kerb from where the harsh command had come.

  ‘Get away, you hooligans!’

  As they saw the old man make to get out of the car, Sarah and her army got away, leaving a stunned Mary Ann and two equally stunned followers.

  Mr Lord, on the pavement now and waving his arm towards the car, cried, ‘Get inside!’ However much he may have been concerned for her it certainly did not show in his voice, or yet in his expression.

  Mary Ann staggered into the car, but once on the seat she turned and looked at her dishevelled supporters, and in a small voice, she asked, ‘Can they come an’ all? Will you drop them?’

  ‘No!’

  With a feeling of having deserted her wounded comrades Mary Ann was driven away, and not until the car had left Jarrow did Mr Lord speak, and then only in the nature of a growl.

  ‘You are a hooligan,’ he said.

  Mary Ann did not attempt to defend herself. She was too concerned at the moment with the condition of her face, which seemed to be growing larger with every second. Her whole head pained and throbbed, and only strong control and the knowledge that Mr Lord had no use for bubblyjocks stopped her from crying. But even the desire to cry was forgotten when Mr Lord, pulling the car into the side of the road, stopped it, and turning to her said, ‘I want to talk to you.’

  She lifted her swelling eyes up to him. There was something wrong here, for that was what she always said.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what you asked me to do this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to do it.’

  Her eyes like pop-alleys devoured his face; then, ‘You are?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes; but on my conditions.’

  She did not ask what these conditions were but waited without a blink of an eyelid for him to go on.

  His brows beetling, his whole expression forbidding, he continued, ‘I’m going now to offer your father the post that you asked for him, but he’s not to know that you suggested it, or that you offered to go away to school. Is that clear?’

  Slowly she nodded.

  ‘Is it quite clear?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What have you to do?’

  ‘I . . . I haven’t to let on to me da that I got him the job.’

  ‘Not ever,’ he said.

  ‘Not ever,’ she repeated.

  ‘And you haven’t to mention going away to school . . . But you are going away to school,’ he added with emphasis. ‘Don’t forget that, mind.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘But you are not to mention a word of it yet. In a few days time you can suddenly make up your mind that you want to go . . . you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you quite sure now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll suddenly say, “I want to go to that school ’cos I want to learn French and things.” And I’ll say it’s – it’s because I want to be like or better’n Lena Ratcliffe and show Sarah Flannagan a thing or two. That would do, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so; something like that.’

  Mr Lord mopped his brow and leaned back in his seat. All this business was very tiring; it had been a tiring day altogether. If anyone had told him first thing this morning that by this evening he would have come to the decision of offering Mike Shaughnessy the management of his farm he would, to say the very least, have termed that person mad. And here he was, not only proposing to offer Shaughnessy the job, but manoeuvring it so that he would be more likely to accept it, for he knew the man sufficiently by now to understand that were he to offer him the post because the child had asked it he would be just as likely to refuse it – he knew he had been given his present job solely for the child’s sake, and in a man of his calibre, it had rankled. And now, should the stubborn, pig-headed redhead, through any pretext whatever, dare to turn down the offer he himself was mad enough to make, the refusal would take the form of a personal defeat, and at his age he felt he would not be able to stand such a defeat.

  He was becoming
vulnerable; he needed people; this child, the warmth of her; he needed the occupation that her future moulding would take. But it wasn’t only his need that had brought about the present crazy state of affairs, it was the events following on each other from early this morning; those two fellows who had come after the post, one a nincompoop, the other knew too damn much . . . he was a walking farm encyclopaedia who would be out to renew every item on the farm starting from the chickens and the byres to the combiner and the bull; and then later the incident on the farm . . . the men coming and asking him to keep Shaughnessy on and they’d level out the work. He had put a flea in their ears and asked who said he was going to dismiss Shaughnessy at all, and they had gone off looking a bit silly, and leaving him feeling equally silly, for he had placed himself in a difficult position . . . What was he to do with the man? And all the time in the back of his mind he knew. And he knew it would give him a kick to do it. He also knew that Shaughnessy would be his for life after such an offer. It had always been his policy in the yards to give a difficult man a little responsibility. It had nearly always worked, and it would work again this time; that is, should Shaughnessy think the proposal came solely from him.

  He looked down again on the gaping child.

  ‘Do you understand that if your father thought I was giving him this job because you asked me, he would refuse it?’

  After a moment she said, ‘Yes . . . yes, I do.’

  ‘And you’ll never mention a word that you came to me about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you ever did it would make him unhappy and he would leave. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes; I do understand.’

  He looked into her wide eyes. Yes, she understood all right. There was little concerning the man and his reactions that she did not understand. Abruptly he turned to the wheel and started the car, and as they moved off Mary Ann moved up until she was close-pressed against his side. And there she remained until they reached the crossroads, where he said, ‘Don’t go in looking so pleased with yourself. You’re a bad girl, don’t forget. And I found you fighting.’ He cast a sidelong glance at her, which was joined by a knowing gleam from her eye. She straightened up, shuffled on her bottom along the seat, and endeavoured by adopting a pained expression to subdue the bubbling excitement within her.

  So they came to the back of the cottage and stopped opposite the kitchen window . . .

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Mike over his shoulder to Lizzie, ‘and he’s got her with him . . . I suppose this is it. He knows he can’t keep dodging me forever.’ He turned from the window, characteristically bracing his shoulders back. Lizzie said quietly, ‘Be careful, Mike.’

  The request irritated him. He wanted to go for the old fellow, to say, ‘Look here, tell me out what you mean to do, I want no more of this cat and mouse business.’ But there were so many things to curb his tongue . . . a roof over their heads; the look on Liz’s face; the lad going back into that quiet, secretive way of his. He did not bring Mary Ann into his worrying, for he knew whatever his fate she would remain the same, loving him, believing in him, his alone . . . no matter what the old boy tried to do.

  It was towards her he looked when the door opened, and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘What you been up to?’ he demanded.

  But before Mary Ann could answer, Mr Lord, using his most truculent manner, said, ‘Fighting . . . in the gutter . . . like a hooligan.’

  Mike and Lizzie stared at Mary Ann, and she stared back at them before lowering her head.

  ‘You should do something.’ Mr Lord was addressing Lizzie. ‘Never seen anything like it . . . fighting tooth and claw . . . like animals.’

  ‘I’ve warned you,’ said Mike quietly, ‘haven’t I? Get up to bed.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Lizzie; ‘look at her face. How did it get like this?’ she asked Mary Ann as she bent over her and took off her coat.

  ‘Sarah Flannagan, with her hand,’ muttered Mary Ann.

  ‘I’m going to put a stop to this once and for all,’ said Mike. ‘Get up those stairs.’

  He was making a demonstration for the old man’s benefit, Lizzie knew.

  ‘I’ll have to wash her,’ she said softly. ‘Won’t you sit down, sir?’ She pulled a chair forward.

  ‘No, no,’ said Mr Lord. ‘I only want a word with your husband.’

  Lizzie, casting a swift pleading glance at Mike, took Mary Ann’s arm and propelled her into the scullery, and after closing the door behind them she asked, ‘Where did all this happen?’

  ‘Near the school, Dee Street end.’

  Lizzie turned in the collar of Mary Ann’s dress.

  ‘It’s got to stop, as your da says.’

  Mary Ann could not assent to this, for the wet flannel was over her mouth.

  ‘Did he say anything to you about your da?’

  Mary Ann closed her eyes before the flannel reached them. She had to, so that she wouldn’t see the anxiety in her mother’s face, for with a word she could send it flying away. This event, she decided, was not going to be at all like the time her da got the job on the farm. Her da and ma had then acclaimed her, and she knew she was clever. But now, when she had to make on she knew nothing about it, all the fun would be gone. Well, nearly all; there still remained the fact that her da would be all right . . .

  Mary Ann, washed and dried, sat on the cracket, and Lizzie made a great to-do with the few dirty dishes, clattering them unnecessarily to deaden the sound of the voices from the kitchen, for the fear of what she would hear was heavy on her.

  Mary Ann was not even bothering to listen, for quite suddenly she was feeling dizzy and a bit sick; but when the door was pulled open and her da stood there, she got to her feet. But Mike did not look at her, he looked at Lizzie, saying, ‘Come in here a minute.’

  Lizzie, drying her hands, went into the kitchen. She looked in open surprise at her husband’s face, it was as if he had been reborn. The Mike she had left a few minutes earlier had been a dull, sullen man; here was a man with a light in his eye, such a light as she had not seen for many a long day. And his whole body had broadened again.

  ‘Liz’ – he spoke to her, but he looked towards Mr Lord – ‘Mr Lord’s going to give me the chance . . . ’ He stopped and ran his hand over his mouth. Then he turned to her: ‘He’s going to let me run the farm as a trial for the next six months.’

  Lizzie, bereft of words, her mouth slowly dropping into a gape, stared at Mr Lord. Then she whispered, ‘Oh sir! Oh sir!’

  ‘It isn’t all it sounds,’ the old man growled. ‘It won’t be easy, I promise you . . . in no way. There’s the men. They might be willing to help you keep your job, but it’ll be a different kettle of fish when you’re giving them orders.’

  ‘I’ll do me best with them, and I’ll work . . . I’ll work, sir.’

  Lizzie had never before heard that tone in Mike’s voice.

  ‘And I’ll get books and things. I can do it if I like, I know I can. There’s one thing I can promise you on my oath . . . you won’t regret it. I’ll work as never before . . . ’

  ‘And keep sober?’

  It was a direct shot, and Mike looked back into the old man’s eyes for a long moment before saying, ‘I’ll do me best there an’ all.’

  Into the embarrassing silence that fell on the three of them came a revolting sound from the scullery. Mary Ann was in the process of being actually sick, and once more came into the picture.

  Chapter Eleven: The Last Word

  The whole school was stunned, weighed under the magnificence that was surrounding her. At least this was the impression that Mary Ann got, for had not her ma been to see the headmistress and told her she was going to leave and was going away to a posh school? And at dinner time her ma had met her outside the gates for everybody to see, and they had gone together to Mrs McBride’s. And her ma had taken a point end of brisket along, for Mrs McBride liked to make broth with brisket. And she’d also given her a dozen oranges. An
d Mrs McBride had pretended fine that it was all news to her what her ma was saying.

  Eeh! It was a good job, Mary Ann considered, that she had remembered telling Mrs McBride about going to Mr Lord’s and gone to her and told her not to let on. For the first thing Mrs McBride would have done on meeting her ma or da would have been to joke about the nerve of her asking for the job.

  After having looked funnily surprised for a long while Mrs McBride had laughed and laughed, then hugged her. And she herself had felt a little appeased, for it was nice to have credit from someone.

  The past four days had been odd, queer days. Their happiness had been outside her, not inside, not the kind of happiness she felt when her da thought her wonderful. Her da was happy, and her ma was happy, so was their Michael; they were going to move into the farmhouse. This last should have filled her with pure joy; but it didn’t, for she wouldn’t be living in the farmhouse, only now and again. At night-times she thought about it all, and to the time when she would be going away, away from her da for weeks on end, with only swanky people to speak to, very likely all the same as Lena Ratcliffe. She knew she would die when she got to that school; but she would have to go. Everything must be paid for, that’s what Father Owen said.

  Poor Father Owen; he was in bed with his cold. She’d braved Miss Honeysett and called at the house every day, but old Bumble Bee wouldn’t let her inside the door. But as soon as school was over for the day she was going again, and if he was up she would ask to see him, for she had so much to tell him; not least her latest decision with regard to her future state, for she had decided quite finally that when she was finished with this school she was going on the pictures. This, she had concluded, would be quite easy for her to accomplish, for although with every breath she drew she acted, she had not consciously done so up to the last four days; and more so the day before yesterday when her da had spoken to her before she went to school, saying, ‘Mind, I’m telling you, any more fighting in the street and you’re for it.’