At the door Maureen hesitated but Anne whispered, ‘Please, Mo,’ and drew her inside and into a bench near the back. Benediction was nearly over and the smell of incense hung in the air. As they knelt down the priest’s voice rose: ‘For those who have gone before us in the sign of faith and sleep in the peace of Christ, have mercy on them, O Lord, and on us thy poor pilgrims here below. Strengthen us in faith and love, and bring us to our everlasting home.’
Anne glanced anxiously at her sister. Maureen’s face was hidden in her hands, but when the blessing was given Anne was relieved to see that she made the sign of the cross. They sat down and remained there after the congregation had gone and the church was in darkness except for the sanctuary lamp, both silent and immobile, until finally Maureen stirred and whispered, ‘Shall we go?’
They walked along, arm in arm, without speaking until they had almost reached the house, then Maureen sighed. ‘Thanks, Anne,’ she said simply. ‘I don’t know what happened to me, but I’m all right now.’
‘“The dark night of the soul”,’ Anne said. ‘I know it well.’
Maureen’s head jerked round and Anne said hastily, ‘Only dramatising, Mo. I mean, I just feel miserable at times and wonder what I’m doing here, but I’m always quite sure I’ll get to heaven eventually. Meet up with Mum and Patrick and now Chris and Mrs Bennet.’
They went into the house and Barty reported that none of the children had wakened. Anne was alarmed to see how white Maureen looked in the light and how she almost collapsed into a chair.
‘You’ll have to stay,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring Fred’s and tell Dad it’s foggy up here.’ Maureen seemed too tired to protest and Anne swiftly filled a hot water bottle and put it in Laura’s bed, then lifted the sleeping child into it.
‘Would you like a drink or would you rather go right up?’ she asked Maureen. Her sister slowly rose to her feet and said she would go right to bed.
Anne went up with her to lend her a nightdress and tuck her into the double bed, still warm from the child’s body. She heard John come in and as she walked down the stairs could see through the open door of the living room as though it was a stage set.
Barty had been sitting in John’s chair and was rising to his feet, his finger marking the place in his book, while John stood inside the door, glaring at him. Anne went quickly into the room.
‘Thanks, Barty,’ she said. ‘Sorry to call on you so unexpectedly.’
He smiled at her. ‘Anytime,’ he said. ‘I can read just as well in here as at home. Goodnight. Goodnight, John.’
‘Goodnight,’ he muttered, still looking vexed.
‘Maureen was upset,’ Anne said when he had gone. ‘I took her to church and asked Barty to mind the kids. I’ve put her to bed. She’s not fit to go home and I’m going to ring Dad now.’
‘I could have looked after the children,’ John said and Anne said, ‘Yes. But you weren’t here, were you?’
‘I could have been. I only went out to be out of the way. I’ve been nursing half a pint in the Dog and Duck all night. You should have said about church.’
‘I didn’t know when you went out. I thought it was a meeting as usual anyway.’
‘I don’t have a meeting every night,’ he said angrily. ‘You don’t need him as a babysitter. For your information I’ve spent quite a few nights in the Dog and Duck recently, to be out of the way.’
Anne walked into the hall. ‘I’m going to ring Fred’s,’ she said, over her shoulder. She spoke to her father and reassured him that Maureen was quite well but the weather was too bad for her to go home. John had been into the kitchen. He came past her as she stood at the telephone. ‘I’m going up. Goodnight,’ he said curtly.
Anne put the receiver down and went into the living room, collapsing into a chair as Maureen had done. She felt completely drained and her thoughts wandered vaguely through the events of the evening. John’s angry words drifted across her mind without really registering with her.
She thought of her sister’s anguish at her loss of faith, all the deeper because it had meant so much to her, and of her own fervent prayers that Maureen’s faith would be restored and with it her reason for living.
Gradually Anne’s strength was returning and she dragged herself to her feet and went into the kitchen. A rinsed mug stood on the draining board and it reminded her that Barty had been there earlier. Dear Barty, I can always depend on him, she thought.
She collected Julie’s bottle and other items she might need if the child woke and went wearily to bed. Maureen still slept and Anne fell asleep quickly but wakened some hours later and lay thinking again about the evening, but less about Maureen and more of herself and John.
Was it true, as he said, that he had only gone out to leave her alone with Maureen? That was the longest conversation they had for ages, she thought. Perhaps she should have taken the opportunity to have things out with him, but she had been too weary. Probably, anyway, he would only have rushed away, saying he had nothing more to say.
Anne thought of the time in the quiet church when she had prayed not only for Maureen but for herself. Only her children gave her a reason for living. My marriage is as good as over, she thought bitterly. John and I are like strangers living in the same house. He has no interest in me or the girls, only his stupid meetings where he can be the big fellow telling everyone what to do.
It hasn’t all happened since Julie’s birth, either. Things have never been right between us, she thought, dredging up every grievance from the time when John had insisted on secrecy about their meetings before they were married up to his behaviour a few hours earlier.
She deliberately ignored all the good times, all John’s care for her and the fun they had had together setting up their home, the joy their children had brought, and most of all she refused the memory of the nights when they had lain in each other’s arms making love.
Instead she thought of Barty and how he cared for her. The way that more and more he made his feelings clear to her, looking deeply into her eyes and holding her hand as they sat together. He loves the children too, she thought. All the children, not just Gerry.
She fell asleep, smiling as she thought of him, until she was wakened by Laura climbing into the bed. She was surprised and almost disappointed to find that John had left for work as she was in the mood to confront him with her grievances while they were uppermost in her mind. Maureen still slept beside her.
When she woke she telephoned her office then went home, after thanking Anne for helping her over a bad patch. That night Laura returned to her mother’s bed. John maintained an offended silence and so did Anne.
Stephen and Margaret had bought a house in the south end of the city, near to his present job, but were unable to take possession immediately. Their own house was sold so they returned to live in Magdalen Street where they could be with Pat while Maureen went to a convent in Wales to spend a week on retreat.
Shortly after Chris’s funeral Des and Dom had written from Canada to condole with Maureen and to ask her to tell their parents that they intended to return. Des added a postscript asking if he still had a job with his father.
‘Why couldn’t they write straight to Fred?’ Pat said and Anne explained that giving Maureen the task of telling the good news was the twins’ way of cheering her up.
‘Pair of headcases,’ Pat said but Anne thought the twins had shown imagination and kindness. Terry had arranged for flowers to be delivered to Maureen a few days after the funeral with the message, ‘Sorry to hear about Chris. Chin up, Sis. Thinking of you, love, Terry.’ The flowers and the message had meant a lot to Maureen but Terry said nothing about coming home.
Fred had been uncertain about his Easter party but Maureen urged him to go ahead with it. ‘I’m all right, Uncle Fred,’ she said. ‘And the children look forward to it.’ Fred thankfully agreed.
As usual the party was a success and Anne enjoyed it, though she was secretly hurt that once again John was absent on his own
affairs. All the children who were old enough performed a party piece. Theresa’s son James played the flute and Monica accompanied him on the piano. Theresa’s twin girls recited nursery rhymes and Laura sang ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star’.
‘I thought that was your song, lad,’ Uncle Fred said to Gerry and he replied sturdily, ‘It used to be but I’m too old for it now so I gave it to Laura.’ The adults smiled and Gerry sang next. He sang ‘Eileen Aroon’ and several verses of ‘The Mountains of Mourne’, then at the special request of his grandfather, ‘The Lark in the Clear Air’.
Gerry’s voice was strong and sweet and he was heartily applauded and praised. ‘Do you know “The Spanish Lady”?’, one of the guests asked but Anne said quickly, ‘I think David should recite now. He knows ‘Jack and Jill’, don’t you, love?’
She was afraid that her father would be upset by the words of ‘The Spanish Lady’ but Fred said, ‘Yes, then Gerry can sing again. I think we’ve got another John McCormack here, Pat, and he remembers all the words even at his age.’
Joe sat his young son on his father’s knee. ‘Say “Jack and Jill” for Grandad, David,’ he said and the child recited it, then turned and buried his face in his grandfather’s shoulder. ‘He’s shy like you and Sarah, Joe,’ Uncle Fred said. ‘Gerry’s like his dad, fond of the limelight.’
Several people spoke at once and no one mentioned Fred’s comment but for Anne it was another item in the case she was mentally building against John. It’s not just me, she thought, other people think he’s a big-head too. Later she felt a bittersweet pleasure when she heard Gerry telling John about his triumph and saw the regret in John’s face that he had missed it.
She and John scarcely ever went out together now, with or without the children. Even for Mass it seemed more convenient for Anne to take Gerry and Laura to nine o’clock service, leaving the baby with John, and for him to go alone later then on to a meeting.
Anne was not able to visit John’s family as often now. While Gerry was at school she was not free to go out for the day and when he was on holiday she was unable to manage the three children and a pushchair on the tram.
On Sundays Greg sometimes drove his wife and her mother to see Anne and John and the children and Anne felt that the company of the children helped John’s mother who was worried and distressed about Kate in America. Kate had again left her husband and was staying with Mary and Sam and Mary had hinted in her letter that other men were interested in Kate.
Anne never discussed this or anything else with John but she felt that she should try to see Cathy more often. ‘I think we should all go to your mother’s on Sunday,’ she said abruptly to John.
He said only, ‘All right. What time?’
On the tramcar Anne held Julie on her knee and Laura sat on John’s knee with Gerry firmly anchored beside him on the long seat. Anne still worried about the baby and had wrapped her in so many layers of blankets and shawls that only her face peeped out from them.
‘Are her nails growing?’ John asked. Anne resented the question which she thought showed how rarely he examined the baby in her cot and said briefly, ‘Yes.’
Laura leaned forward. ‘Mrs Rooney said it was bad luck to cut Julie’s nails,’ she announced. ‘Mummy said it was sup – sup – what, Mummy?’
‘Superstition,’ Anne said. ‘And so it is.’ John began to explain the word to Laura and Anne turned her head and looked out of the window, ignoring him.
Cathy and Greg and Sally were delighted to see them. The children were hugged and kissed and Laura gave her grandmother and great-grandmother the sweets she had brought for them. Gerry presented them with a card and a paper basket he had made in school and then produced a marble for Greg.
‘You shouldn’t be left out, Grandad.’
‘Bless him,’ Cathy said fondly, giving him a hug. ‘You’re a good lad.’ The baby was unwrapped and exclaimed over and Greg carried Laura out on his shoulders to see his garden.
Everyone was happy until suddenly a disagreement began between John and his father. There had never been a union in the timber merchant’s where John had worked in the office, and where his father was still a partner with Stan Johnson.
John argued that the workmen should belong to a union and Greg said, ‘Nonsense. They couldn’t have better conditions if they belonged to half a dozen unions. Stan’s an excellent employer.’
‘Yes, but what if Stan dies?’ John said and his father snapped, ‘Then I’d take over. I think you can trust me to be fair.’
‘Have you seen Stan’s will?’ John said. ‘What if someone else comes in who has the whip hand and doesn’t play fair, as you call it? Anyway, good conditions should be the men’s right and they should have a union to fight for them, not have to depend on someone’s benevolence. You’re living in the past.’
Anne had never seen her father-in-law so angry. His face was red and congested and a pulse beat in his temple. He seemed almost too angry to speak but he snarled at John, ‘Don’t you lecture me? You chose to leave a good respectable berth to work with the rabble you’re with now so leave us alone. Live the way they live, fighting and brawling with you leading the pack.’
John’s face was as red and he turned on his heel and dashed into the hall. Anne put down her cup. ‘Just going to the bathroom,’ she said to Cathy and followed him.
He had taken his hat from a hook and Anne said cuttingly, ‘Going walkabout? Can’t you stand your ground like a man?’ She had passed him and started up the stairs but she leaned over the banister. ‘You had your say, then as usual, as soon as someone tries to answer you, you run away. Think about someone else for a change. Your mum has enough on her plate.’ John was staring at her open-mouthed and she said with contempt, ‘And shut your mouth,’ then continued up the stairs.
He stood for a moment then replaced his hat and went back into the living room. Anne found that she was trembling but she stayed in the bathroom until she felt calmer then went downstairs.
All was peaceful. Photographs were being passed round of the party in York, Gerda’s home city, to celebrate her engagement to Mick at Easter. The quarrel was not mentioned and later Greg drove the family home. Gerry had fallen asleep and he carried him indoors and helped Anne and John to put the children to bed.
Before Greg left he kissed Anne warmly and she said, ‘You’re very good, coming out to drive us home and using all your petrol.’
‘No problem now that rationing’s finished,’ he said, smiling at her and clapping John on the shoulder. Anne knew that Greg knew what she really meant, that she was sorry for John’s outburst and appreciated the fact that he had overlooked it.
Do we ever say what we really mean? she wondered. She knew that the quarrel between John and his father had less to do with the unions than with John’s contempt for the job he had been glad to take after the war and Greg’s resentment of his ingratitude. Neither would ever have admitted or indeed recognised the true reason for their anger with each other.
And my tirade in the hall too, Anne thought ruefully. I talked about John not letting his father answer but really I was talking about the way he refused to let me answer him. I said my piece then though, she thought with satisfaction, but almost immediately depression settled on her again.
What does it matter? she thought. What does anything matter? The brief euphoria of her visit drained away, leaving her even more miserable than before.
Chapter Forty
The factory was now very busy and John was working extremely long hours. He took every opportunity of working overtime and the money in the cigar box increased rapidly. Anne’s depressed moods when she spent scarcely anything were balanced by ‘up’ moods when she spent recklessly on clothes and household goods.
Everyone seemed to be looking forward to the summer of 1951 when the Festival of Britain was to take place and many events were planned for Liverpool.
Anne went to only one event with John. River pageants followed by firework displays had been org
anised for three evenings and a family party was arranged for one of them. Maureen had already been to one with friends and she offered to look after Julie and Sarah’s baby, Rosaleen.
Anne and John, Sarah and Joe, Helen and Tony, Stephen and Margaret and Eileen and Martin, accompanied by their children, made a happy and noisy group. In such a large gathering no one noticed that Anne and John kept apart from each other.
As the group shifted about Anne found herself beside Eileen. ‘Hello, Eil,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you lately. How are things?’
‘Fine,’ Eileen said. ‘You look better. You had us worried last year.’
‘I know,’ said Anne. ‘But Julie was worth it all. She’s smashing. So good and growing more and more like Mum.’
Impulsively she took her sister’s arm. ‘What about you? Are you happy, Eil?’
Eileen smiled. ‘Yes, we are,’ she said. ‘Of course I know ours wasn’t a love match, not like mine with Whitey or you with John. Nothing romantic about it. But Martin and I suit each other and we’re very happy in our own way.’
John and I – a love match! Anne thought. A familiar cloud of depression settled on her but she pushed it away and said warmly, ‘I think yours is a love match. Martin must have loved you to persevere when you kept handing him the frosty mitt.’
Eileen laughed aloud and hugged Anne. ‘You’re a scream,’ she said. ‘I must tell Martin that one. The frosty mitt!’ She laughed again but looked thoughtfully at her husband.
Anne watched John. The warm summer night was not really dark but the fireworks lit up his face even more clearly and it seemed grim and unsmiling. He looks as miserable as I feel, Anne thought in surprise, but then he bent and lifted Laura up in his arms and his face was hidden.
Laura caught sight of Anne and shouted, ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ so Anne had to go to them. She took Laura from John and he lifted Gerry up to see the brilliant display. They both spoke to the children but neither of them spoke to the other and Anne stood among the happy crowd engulfed in misery.
A Nest of Singing Birds Page 50