‘And don’t forget to thank Mrs Rooney and her son too when you go home,’ Greg said. ‘I don’t know what would have happened without their help.’
John was received coolly at the Fitzgerald house where several of the family had gathered but they were relieved to hear that Anne was improving.
‘What about the baby?’ Eileen asked brusquely.
He hesitated. ‘It’s very small,’ he said. ‘But the sister said it’s hopeful that it’s lived for over twenty-four hours and smaller babies had survived.’
‘How big is she?’ someone asked and when John said, ‘Three and a half pounds,’ Aunt Carrie said immediately, ‘Then there must have been something wrong all along. The child should have been bigger even at seven months. No wonder Anne was bad all the time, poor girl.’
John felt that she looked at him reproachfully and was glad to escape from the house. At the hospital he was told that Anne was still sleeping so he went home.
He was glad to see that the Rooney house was in darkness and went into his own house and wearily up to bed. He had a fresh shock when he walked into the bedroom. He had been warned about the mattress but the reality hit him like a blow.
The bloodstained mattress was still on the bed and the room reeked although the window was open. John stood looking at it, his thoughts in chaos, then went into the third bedroom and fell fully dressed on to the bed. He fell asleep instantly, worn out by the events of the day.
The following morning he saw Mrs Rooney before he left for the hospital and thanked her, and she gave him a graphic account of all that had happened when Maureen called her. Barty was at work and managed afterwards to evade John so skilfully that he was unable to thank him. John felt sure that it was done deliberately and wondered if it was Barty’s way of showing disapproval.
The first time that John saw Anne awake he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry I was away when all this happened,’ but she was only concerned about the baby.
‘They won’t let me see her,’ she said. ‘They won’t let me up and they say she’s in an oxygen tent as a precaution. Have you seen her?’
‘Yes, she’s in an oxygen tent, but only because she’s premature.’
‘Who is she like?’ Anne asked eagerly. A phrase of his grandmother’s flashed into John’s mind: ‘Like a fourpenny rabbit.’ But aloud he said, ‘It’s hard to tell yet.’
‘I wish they’d let me see her,’ Anne fretted. ‘Another woman from this ward goes in a wheelchair to see her baby in the prem ward.’ She fell asleep again.
Anne was in a large ward with beds close together, and although she was awake when John visited her every day after that, there was no privacy to discuss the subject of his absence when Julie was bom. It lay between them like an unexploded bomb.
Anne was in hospital for a month and the baby remained in hospital when she was allowed home. Laura had remained with Helen but Gerry was back attending school and sleeping with his father in the third bedroom. The mattress had been replaced and the main bedroom made ready for Anne’s return.
She had been longing to see the children and Helen brought Laura home soon after Anne returned. Gerry had been shy and withdrawn at first with his mother, but Laura clung to her as though she had never been away.
Laura slept with Anne as she refused to be parted from her and Gerry continued to share his father’s bed. It was meant to be a temporary arrangement but it was never discussed and they drifted on like this.
The matter of John’s absence at the birth was never discussed either. Both were unwilling to broach the subject and as time went on it was overlaid with other matters but not forgotten.
Anne had visited the hospital every day to see Julie, accompanied by John at the weekends. The baby continued to gain weight and at the end of November she reached five pounds and was discharged from hospital.
Greg drove them to collect her while Cathy waited at home with Laura and Gerry. They were delighted with the baby and Greg said quietly, ‘I can’t believe the change in her. I never thought she’d make it, when I saw her first, and neither did the doctor.’
‘I felt the same,’ Cathy said, ‘when the sister asked me for her name for conditional baptism, but thank God, she’s fine now.’
‘Why did the sister ask you?’ John said to his mother.
‘Because you weren’t there and Anne was too ill to ask,’ Greg said sharply. For a moment the words seemed to hang in the air, as Anne and John looked at each other, but Cathy said brightly, ‘Her name suits her, doesn’t it?’ and the moment passed.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Maureen and Anne had grown even closer after Julie’s birth and Maureen came frequently to see her and the children. She was particularly fond of Julie, who was becoming more and more like their mother.
‘I know you and Joe and I take after Mum,’ Maureen said, ‘but there’s something more with Julie. Her expression sometimes or the way she turns her head. I don’t know what it is but she reminds me so much of Mum.’
‘I think she’ll be like her in character too,’ Anne said. ‘She’s so good and even when she cries it’s a sort of ladylike little cry. Not a roar like Gerry or even a loud cry like Laura.’
They were both smiling and Maureen said impulsively, ‘You look better, love.’
‘I feel fine,’ she declared. ‘Except that my hair is still coming out.’
‘Yes, but it’s growing again quite strongly.’
‘I know. I’m thinking of going in Bridie’s perm club,’ said Anne.
Bridie ran several clubs, for a hairdresser, a photographer and a crockery shop. Members contributed a shilling a week for twenty weeks and drew lots to determine in which order they received their share.
Anne’s hair grew quickly and at the end of December she had a permanent wave. ‘A perm will do you good,’ Bridie told her. ‘Make you feel better to have a change and you won’t miss the shilling a week for it.’
It was true, Anne thought, that she felt quite different with her straight hair now in rather fuzzy curls. John’s only comment had been ‘Very nice’ but Barty had told her that she looked smart and fashionable.
Anne had also joined Bridie’s photography club and in early January a photographer came to the house. He arranged Anne and John sitting on the settee, with Julie on Anne’s knee, and Laura on John’s, Gerry standing beside his father.
‘Smile, please,’ the man said. He produced a Mickey Mouse voice to amuse the children and all the family were smiling when the photograph was taken. It was framed and placed on the sideboard and sometimes when Anne looked at the smiling faces she thought what a false picture it gave of their family.
She and John seemed to be drifting further and further apart. They spoke only about household matters, or necessary words about the children, and the sleeping arrangements persisted. Anne talked to Barty more than to John and sometimes thought he took more interest in the children than her husband did.
Julie was now over six pounds in weight but still seemed tiny and fragile. John seemed afraid to touch her yet Barty nursed her quite confidently.
John always switched the wireless on when he came in from work so there was no need to talk while they ate their meal, although Gerry and Laura usually chattered. After the meal Anne washed the dishes and John dried them but they had little to say to each other.
Afterwards he usually sat with Gerry while the child told him details about his day which he had already told his mother and John helped Gerry with reading and writing and simple sums.
Julie needed frequent bottles and Anne was kept busy looking after her and preparing the younger children for bed. Laura still clung to her and Anne thought sometimes that they were like two separate families in the same room.
John was still interested in the Peace Movement and now he was also involved with his trade union at the factory. When the children were in bed he went out on several evenings a week to meetings but he was always home early.
On the surface all was well.
Anne seemed happy, proud of her children and enjoying visiting or being visited by her family. And on one level she was happy. On a deeper level she felt only misery and loss, a feeling that her life had taken a wrong turning and that it was empty and without meaning. Nothing in her happy life so far had prepared her for the bitter feelings of desolation which swept over her. She struggled to crush them and to turn a bright face to the world. She tried to convince herself, as well as other people, that she had the happy family life she had always wanted and with most people she succeeded. Only John sometimes looked at her doubtfully and Mick seemed to see below the bright surface.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked her once and she said brightly, ‘Yes, of course.’
He patted his shoulder. ‘Anytime you want a shoulder to cry on, here it is.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Anne said with the same forced cheerfulness. ‘Gerda’s a lovely girl isn’t she?’
Mick smiled at the obvious change of subject but agreed. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you do too.’
Anne had been nervous about meeting Gerda when she heard that she was a qualified accountant, but Mick and Gerda had visited Liverpool several times during the year and Anne found her a pleasant and friendly girl.
The dark gloomy days of January 1951 ended but February was as bad. An influenza epidemic swept Liverpool and the Fitzgerald family were saddened by the death of their old friend Mrs Bennet. Worse was to come.
Chris Murray was sent home from the shop on Saturday morning and his landlady sent a message to Maureen who went to the house immediately.
‘He shouldn’t never have gone in,’ the landlady said. ‘But you know what he is. Worried because it was their busy day.’
‘It’s only a cold,’ Chris protested when Maureen went to his room. ‘But don’t come too near me, love, in case you catch it.’
‘Doesn’t seem like no cold to me. More like ’flu,’ the landlady, Mrs Stopes, said to Maureen. ‘I’m sending for the doctor anyway.’ Maureen agreed. It was several hours before the doctor arrived and by that time Chris was delirious.
He was admitted to hospital on Saturday evening and early on Tuesday morning he died. Maureen had been allowed to stay with him and in a brief moment of lucidity he said sorrowfully, ‘I’ve been selfish, Mo. You made my life worth living – made me happy – but it wasn’t fair to you.’
‘Oh, Chris, I wish we’d gone off together, not worried about anybody. I love you so much,’ Maureen said, cradling his face in her hands and kissing him.
‘Wouldn’t have worked,’ he murmured. His voice was fading but he gripped her hand. ‘I love you, Mo,’ he said. She pressed her face against his and heard his faint whisper, ‘Better this way,’ before he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Those last three words were to trouble and puzzle Maureen for many years. Did Chris mean it was better that he died, or better that he had lived faithful to his marriage vows though at such cost to himself and Maureen? She would never know.
She was still holding Chris’s hand when the night nurses came to the bed. They seemed cheerful and uncaring to Maureen as they told her, ‘He’s gone, love. You’ll have to go now while we see to him. See the almoner.’ She realised later that the girls could only cope in this way with the many deaths they saw.
Tony was waiting outside the ward when she went out. ‘Come on, love, I’ll take you home,’ he said, putting his arm around her. ‘They said see the almoner,’ Maureen said in a dazed voice but Tony gently steered her to the lift. ‘Don’t worry about that, pet,’ he said. ‘I’ll see Mrs Stopes and attend to all that. It’s half-past three in the morning now.’
When they returned home her father and Helen were waiting for them and Pat took his daughter in his arms. ‘There, there, queen,’ he said, as though she was still a child. ‘There, there,’ as Maureen’s tears came.
Helen had a bright fire burning and quickly made tea. Pat had sat down in his chair, still holding Maureen, so that she sat on his knee with his arms around her to drink the hot, sweet tea which Helen gave her.
‘You’ve had a shock, love. This will help,’ Helen said gently.
Never before had Maureen felt the strength and comfort of her family as deeply. All the family rallied round her and Tony and Joe took charge of the arrangements. Pat Fitzgerald offered to meet all expenses.
Tony telephoned the flat in Llandudno to inform Chris’s wife of his death and the ex-matron answered.
‘What a nuisance,’ was her reaction to the news and Tony was thankful that Maureen had not heard her. He introduced himself as a friend of Chris’s and offered to arrange the funeral if Beryl wished, adding that the expenses would be taken care of.
‘That would be kind,’ the ex-matron said graciously. ‘It would all be too much for Beryl. Yes, go ahead with the arrangements.’
‘You’re sure Mrs Murray will agree?’ Tony said but the woman assured him that she could speak for Beryl. The funeral was arranged for Friday and Tony notified Beryl but a reply came that her health would not permit her to attend.
Maureen was relieved. Now, she felt, only those who had loved Chris would attend him to his last resting place. At the Requiem Mass Maureen’s father knelt on one side of her and Tony on the other. It was a working day but he, Joe and Stephen had arranged for time off. Eileen and Anne were there and Sarah, Helen and Margaret. Bridie and Theresa knelt with Aunt Carrie and Uncle Fred.
The only sign of Beryl was an ornate wreath of artificial flowers with a card signed ‘Beryl and Agatha’. There were many other wreaths, from all the Fitzgeralds and their relations, from the Redmonds and Mrs Stopes and from Chris’s workmates, some of whom were in the church. Maureen’s simple tribute said only: ‘All my love. M’.
She was comforted by the number of people who had come to pay their last respects to Chris and by the fact that they acknowledged her loss. The priest came to her to offer condolences, followed by men who worked with Chris and who told her how much they had liked him and how sorry they were for her loss.
At the graveside the undertaker came to her first with soil to be cast on the coffin and later Uncle Fred said, ‘Quite right too. You were more his wife than that one in Llandudno.’ Aunt Carrie hustled him away, looking at Maureen apologetically, but she found comfort in his words.
It was only weeks later that she felt the reality of Chris’s death and the magnitude of her loss. Never again to hear his quiet voice or to exchange their own private jokes or even to sit together, not speaking but knowing they were totally in accord.
It was to Anne that she turned at this time. She spent hours with her, nursing the baby and talking, mostly on trivial matters. If John had not already left for a meeting when Maureen arrived, he went soon afterwards and the two girls could sit quietly together while the children slept.
Anne wondered sometimes if it was her own unhappiness which drew Maureen to her. Whether the dark current which flowed beneath her surface cheerfulness answered her sister’s own despair.
One night Maureen suddenly looked down at the baby she was nursing and burst out, ‘Oh, Anne, she’s so like Mum. Oh, God, I miss her so much.’ They both cried for a while and then Maureen went on, ‘Poor Dad. He’s so good. He tries to help and I know I worry him. He brings me little treats and I just cry like a fool.’
‘He’s better going for a drink with Fred and you coming here,’ Anne said.
On another occasion she knew as soon as Maureen arrived that her misery was overwhelming her. She was earlier than usual and John was still in the bedroom with Gerry, but he went out shortly afterwards and Anne put her arms round Maureen. ‘Do you feel bad, Mo?’ she asked quietly.
Maureen burst into tears. ‘What’s it all about, Anne? What’s it all for? Why were we such fools, Chris and I?’
‘What do you mean?’ Anne said in bewilderment. ‘You made Chris happy.’
‘Did I?’ Maureen said bitterly. ‘Why did we live like that because of a farce of a marriage? Because
of my stupid scruples, that’s why, and what did it matter? We could have been really happy, living our lives together. We only have one life and now his is over and I wish mine was too.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t even think it,’ Anne cried. ‘You did what was right. You can still feel close to Chris, still pray for his soul.’ But Maureen only cried more bitterly.
‘How do we know?’ she said. ‘What if it’s all a swizz – if when we die that’s all there is? Nothing. And we’ve denied ourselves all our lives for nothing, for a dream, an idea, a falsehood.’
Anne held her sister close, her mind racing. How could this happen to Maureen of all people? But she was speaking again. ‘There’s nothing, Anne. Nothing to live for, nothing after death. I just want to be finished with the whole stupid business.’
Anne felt frantic. Thoughts tumbled about in her mind, phrases from half remembered religious lessons. Occidas – was that it? The ultimate sin, the sin of despair? Was this what Maureen was experiencing now? She whose faith had meant everything to her. If she lost that, she truly lost her reason for living, thought Anne.
She pushed her sister into an armchair and snatched a handkerchief from the sideboard drawer. ‘Dry your eyes, Mo,’ she said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ She dashed next door and when Barty opened the door she could see Mrs Rooney asleep in an armchair.
‘My sister’s upset. I have to take her to church. Will you mind the kids?’ she said breathlessly. And Barty said, ‘Sure. I’ll leave a note for Ma.’
Anne went back to Maureen, taking their coats from the hall cupboard on the way. ‘Come on, Mo. We’re going out,’ she said firmly. Barty had followed her and he held Maureen’s coat for her, then Anne handed her her scarf to tie over her hair.
She slipped her own coat and scarf on and said to Barty, ‘There’s a bottle ready if Julie wakes. We won’t be long.’
Maureen seemed bemused and walked docilely beside Anne as she gripped her arm and walked quickly towards the church.
A Nest of Singing Birds Page 49