‘But, Dad,’ groaned Michael, ‘all the kids’ll be there from the other schools, all them right hard kids from round Mathias Street and Wade Street. Dad, they’ll really—’
Before Michael could say what exactly it was that the hard kids would do, Nora had grabbed hold of him and Timmy by the backs of their shirts and was whisking them roughly towards number ten.
‘I’ll skin that Stephen,’ Nora muttered darkly as she hoisted them backwards. ‘And I’ll skin you as well, if I have to listen to any more of this nonsense, Michael.’ She shoved first him and then Timmy into the passageway. ‘Sure, haven’t I told yer both enough times already, the parade’ll be good practice for the wedding.’
With her grandsons safely, if ignominiously, out of the way, Nora turned her attention to Molly, who was standing watching her parents with a look in her eyes that made her seem more like a bewildered child than a feisty young woman who wouldn’t take any nonsense from anyone.
‘And you, Molly,’ Nora said firmly, doing her best to keep some sort of control of the situation, ‘you get in here with me. I need a hand with me jobs. And I’m sure,’ she continued, flashing a meaningful look at Pat, ‘that yer mum and dad have got plenty they need to do indoors as well.’
Shoulders slumped just like her father’s, Molly went without protest into her nanna’s, her skirt dripping around her, while her mum followed her dad into next door to finish their row in private.
Katie was almost in tears as she stood facing Pat in the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry, Pat, I never meant nothing, it’s just ’cos I’ve got meself all upset that you ain’t coming, that’s all. Why don’t yer change yer mind, eh? Just for me. It ain’t too late.’
‘Why should yer want me there? I’m useless, ain’t I?’
‘No,’ Katie snapped, her blood rising to her cheeks, ‘yer just flaming stubborn.’
‘Me? That’s a laugh.’
‘I suppose yer can at least manage to come to Mass with us this morning.’
‘No. No, I don’t think I can. I’m gonna sort out what I wanna talk to the blokes about later on.’
‘You liar! You just made that up, didn’t yer? Just to get me going.’ Katie circled him as he stood there by the table, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘You think yer so clever. Well, it’s you what’ll rot in hell for yer lies, Pat Mehan.’ She stopped moving and stood there in front of him, chin in the air. ‘It’s meant to be Sunday,’ she said, playing her final card. ‘Father Hopkins won’t like it, you not going to church. Especially today of all days.’
‘Well, that’s hard luck. He ain’t got no family to feed, I have. Even if yer do reckon I’m useless at it.’
With that, Pat shoved her out of the way and threw open the back door. He looked over his shoulder and said stonily, ‘Now, if I have yer permission, I’m going out to the lav for a bit of peace.’
Katie sat down and stared at the table. Why had she wound him up like that? Why couldn’t she just keep her big mouth shut?
She rubbed her hands over her face. It was all her mum’s fault. She was the one she’d learnt it from – opening her gob first and thinking after. She laughed mirthlessly.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said to herself.
The Sunday dinner was a very restrained affair, with the boiled bacon and pease pudding being eaten in almost total silence. Stephen had made one or two attempts to cheer things up a bit, by joshing the two youngest a couple of times, but with the threat of the Procession and the hated white satin shirts and stiffly pressed shorts hanging over them, even he couldn’t raise a smile from Michael and Timmy.
As for Pat, Danny, Molly and Sean, they never said a word between them; Nora chatted a bit in a general sort of a way, and Katie complained a bit, mainly about elbows on the table and the rudeness of people who stretched across without saying excuse me to others, but there was nothing that could in any way pass for the usual mealtime banter around the Mehans’ kitchen table. There wasn’t even a row.
As soon as the knives and forks had been set down on the empty plates, Katie stood up. ‘Me, Molly and Mum’re gonna get the boys and ourselves ready and the shrine set up,’ she said, addressing Pat without looking directly at him. ‘So, if you can manage it, and you don’t think yer mates from work’ll laugh at yer if they turn up early, I’d appreciate it if yer could clear the table for me. Yer never know,’ she added, glaring at Sean, Danny and Stephen in turn, ‘yer might even get a bit of help from someone.’ She pointed at Michael. ‘You sit there while I go up and fetch yer outfits from me wardrobe. Then we’ll go next door into Nanna’s.’
With that, Katie marched out of the kitchen. She had just reached the bottom of the stairs when she paused, her hand hovering over the banisters. ‘And, Michael, don’t you dare go out that back yard and try and have it away over that wall,’ she called back along the passage.
Despite Michael and Timmy’s reluctance and their increasingly wild pleas for mercy, they, their mum, nanna and sister were, at Katie’s insistence, amongst the first to arrive at Saint Mary and Saint Joseph’s in Canton Street. But the crowds soon began to gather, and soon the churchyard and the pavement outside were packed with people eager to set off on the Solemn Procession in honour of Our Lady that was due to begin at four o’clock.
But even with all the milling about, there was still no hiding place for Michael and Timmy; Katie was keeping an eagle eye on the pair of them. It was because she was concentrating on not letting the boys out of her sight that she didn’t notice Frank Barber come up behind her.
‘Afternoon, Katie,’ he said.
Katie turned round and smiled at him. ‘Hello, Frank. Yer made me jump.’
He returned her smile and said quietly, ‘I was wondering if we could join yer. It used to be, yer know, someone else who used to do all this. Theresa’s mum. I just used to wait at home with the shrine.’ He paused, embarrassed. ‘Tell yer the truth, I’m a bit out o’ me depth.’
‘Course yer can stand with us. Yer more than welcome, Frank.’ Katie smiled down at Theresa who was wearing the white dress and little muslin veil of a first communicant. ‘It’s good to see a man spending time with his child. Tell yer what, I’ll see if Father Hopkins’ll let us march together and all, how’d that be?’
Nora shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’m hearing this,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Won’t that girl ever learn?’
Frank nodded his thanks, as Katie, her surveillance of her boys apparently no longer important, went off to speak to the priest. She was back in less than five minutes, her face wreathed in smiles of victory, with the priest by her side.
‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘Father Hopkins here was keeping it a secret until the last minute but he’s been planning a special treat for the boys.’ Katie couldn’t stop herself beaming with pride, even though she knew it was a sin. ‘As a reward for all their hard work in the nativity play,’ she said slowly, savouring every words, ‘Father Hopkins is giving our Timmy and our Michael the honour of carrying the two ends of the big flower wreath what spells “Jesus”. Right at the very front of the Procession they’ll be, just behind the Cross Bearer. And he said that we can walk along behind them, didn’t yer, Father?’
Timmy and Michael were not pleased by this revelation, in fact, they were totally scandalised by the idea. Carrying flowers! It was the final humiliation. Michael was desperate; those kids from Upper North Street would never let him forget this. They’d beat him to a pulp.
‘But Father Hopkins,’ he said, his brain whirling with the effort of trying to come up with a plan of escape, ‘don’t yer think . . .’ As he frantically searched about him for a scapegoat, his eyes lit on Frank Barber’s daughter. ‘Don’t yer think it’d be really nice if Theresa carried the wreath?’ Then, with an inspired afterthought, he added the whispered clincher, ‘What with her not having a mum or nothing.’
Father Hopkins clapped his hands together in delight and said, ‘What a wonderful child you have there, Katie.’ The p
riest patted Michael on the head. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, young Michael. I’ll let you and Timmy share carrying it with her. She can stand between the pair of you. Now how would that be?’
Michael was fit to collapse with the shame of it. Flowers, and with a girl in a white frock and veil. He would have to think of something, or he might as well go and chuck himself straight into the Cut and get it over with there and then.
Katie was obviously unaware of her son’s real intention. Her face glowing with pleasure and her eyes sparkling with tears of motherly adoration, she bent forward and kissed the top of his plastered down red curls. ‘And just think, Michael,’ she cooed. ‘Me, yer nanna, Molly and Frank’ll all be walking along right behind yer. We’ll be able to watch yer every step of the way.’
Nora was as horrified by all this as her grandson, but for reasons of her own. She could only wonder at her daughter’s apparent death wish; she was actually going to parade around the streets alongside Frank Barber. Whatever was she thinking of?
‘Won’t that be cosy?’ she mumbled to Katie through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t wait to see what Pat’ll have to say when he comes out to see the blessing.’
‘You really think he’s gonna be there?’ Katie hissed back disbelievingly, so that Frank couldn’t hear her. ‘Anyway, even Pat couldn’t be stupid enough to see anything wrong with me walking alongside a neighbour in the Procession.’
The whole experience turned out to be even more awful than Michael had feared; if only it had rained as it had yesterday, but no such luck, the sun shone, the skies were clear, and every inch of every pavement of the route was lined with people, all eager to watch his humiliation.
And what a route it was. There was nothing discreet about the Annual Solemn Out-Door Procession. It had obviously been designed, Michael was convinced, to show him off in all his disgrace to the maximum number of people in the district.
They set off from the church in Canton Street, went through Pekin Street, then out on to the East India Dock Road. Via a long circuitous route to visit the shrines of the church congregation in every possible street, the Procession returned eventually to the church for the Solemn Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament.
Michael would have fainted if he thought he could have got away with it but, every step of the way, he could feel his nanna’s, mum’s and sister’s eyes boring into his back. Not only was every street packed, but they were all decked with bunting in the blue and white of Our Lady and the yellow and white of the Papal flag flapping in the gentle summer breeze – all in mockery of Michael Mehan, the rotten flowers, his stupid white shirt and his plastered down hair. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could have been hidden away somewhere near the back, but no, he had to be right up there behind the Cross Bearer. It was mortifying.
The admiring crowds obviously didn’t agree with Michael. They bowed their heads and crossed themselves, murmuring appreciatively, as the parade passed by, which it took quite a time to do, because coming up behind him, his brother and Theresa, weren’t only his mum, sister, nanna and Frank Barber, but a whole long succession of groups and individuals all taking part in the spectacular event.
There were men from the East End Catholic clubs, groups and guilds, carrying flower-decked statues of their patron saints high above their shoulders so that everyone could see and revere them. From the bases of the statues, ribbons and garlands stretched out to rows of accompanying children: tiny, smiling maids of honour in pretty pastel dresses, and not-so-happy-looking boys in neatly pressed shorts, white shirts and coloured sashes – who held the ends in little hands scrubbed clean by mothers determined not to be shown up by grubby knuckles. Then there were the acolytes, the servers, the choristers, and, of course, the clergy, all in their starched and laundered best. And there were the clusters of nervous young first communicants: the girls in pure white dresses and miniature bridal veils and the boys in their much-hated scaled-down sailor suits or the even more loathed white satin shorts and tops, carrying sheaves of green wheat and bunches of grapes to symbolise the Eucharist. The older pupils from the Catholic schools in the area marched along the edges of the Procession, their job being to keep the littler ones in some sort of order and to hold out collecting boxes to the crowds.
There wasn’t even the chance that anyone might sleep through the whole thing rather than witnessing Michael’s disgrace, not unless they were stone deaf, because every shaming step he took along the way was accompanied by brass bands playing dignified, but very loud religious music, their gleaming instruments shining in the hot afternoon sun, signalling their arrival, as they made their way through the dusty grime of the London streets.
Despite what Michael felt about the experience, he, like everyone else who was taking part, looked his very best. For the honour of taking part in the Procession, money was found from somewhere, even if it meant pawning the very sheets from the bed or the square of ragged mat from the front room floor.
By the time the Procession reached the top of Plumley Street, Michael was in such a daze of disgrace and red-faced humiliation that he had gone beyond trying to hatch a plan of escape. He didn’t even take the opportunity to try to run indoors when the priest stopped to bless the shrine that stood between numbers ten and twelve that Nora, Katie and Molly had fixed up between them after they had finished their cleaning.
The three of them had carefully arranged the delicate lace table cloth, the sole item of dowry that Nora had brought with her from Ireland, on the gate-legged table, which usually stood under the window in Katie’s front room, and had topped it off with a wooden crucifix, a plaster statue of Our Lady and the aspidistra in the elaborately painted china art pot that Pat had brought for Katie in Club Row at Christmas time. But there was no sign of Pat himself standing by the shrine, only Stephen and Danny.
‘Dad’ll be in the kitchen with his workmates,’ Molly whispered to her mum.
Katie nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said, doing her best to hide the disappointment and anger that was making her mouth dry.
As they waited for the other shrines in Plumley Street to be blessed, Katie watched without really seeing as the priest crossed the road and stopped outside number eleven where Nutty Lil was standing proudly by a table with a framed print of the Sacred Heart that Frank had set up for her before he and Theresa had left for the church. Then he moved on to number nine, where Liz and Peg Watts were standing by their more elaborate efforts which involved vases of bright summer flowers that Peg had bought specially from Chrisp Street the night before. At number eight, Aggie and Joe Palmer had backed the truck into the gateway of their yard and had covered its flat back with a big white sheet, on which they had set a pair of brilliantly polished brass candlesticks, complete with burning candles, and a gold-framed picture of the Virgin Mary. Even the Miltons had done their best with a rickety table topped with a cloth and a vase of flowers given to Ellen Milton by Edie from the corner shop who, still being in mourning for her Bert, hadn’t felt much like having a shrine of her own.
Not being Catholic, Phoebe and Sooky hadn’t decorated outside the fronts of their houses, but like Mags and Harold from the pub, and even Irene, Arthur Lane’s lairy young wife, they were outside anyway watching the proceedings. But where Mags and Harold and Irene Lane were admiring the efforts of their neighbours, Phoebe and Sooky had another purpose altogether.
As they sat by their street doorsteps on their chairs, slippers on and stockings rolled down to their knees, they were having a good eyeful of what their neighbours had on display. Their intention wasn’t to praise their efforts, but to criticise them, and also to make sure that they didn’t miss anything that would prove the basis of a good bit of gossip. And when they saw Katie and Frank Barber in the Procession, standing together bold as brass behind the three children carrying the wreath, while the priest walked up and down waving his holy water, they couldn’t have hoped for more. That was really something into which they could sink their mouldy, tobacco-stained teeth.
It was unfortunate for Phoebe Tucker that Stephen had been following Father Hopkins and his attendants, watching him as he made his way round the shrines, and was just passing her and Sooky, when she was mouthing off about his daughter.
‘Oi!’ he spat into Phoebe’s ear, making her almost fall off her chair.
‘You talking to me, Stephen Brady?’
‘Yes I am, yer wicked-mouthed old cow.’ Stephen ducked down, making sure that he was hidden from Nora and Katie behind the crowd, and that he kept his voice low. He didn’t want anyone else in the Procession to hear what he had to say as they stood waiting patiently at the end of the turning for the priest to do his rounds. ‘I just caught you nice,’ he breathed. ‘And, not that it’s nothing to do with either of yers, but if yer don’t mind, me daughter’s husband is in the back kitchen discussing business. Important business. Trying to work out ways to save decent men’s jobs. Now, d’yer want me to fetch him out here so’s he can hear what yer saying about his wife, yer spiteful old hens?’
Banking on the fact that she would be safe from Stephen actually clouting her, what with the crowds of people in the turning, Phoebe remained bold. Taking her cigarette from her mouth and taking her time to dot her ash daintily into her apron pocket, Phoebe looked up at him and said with a disbelieving raise of her eyebrows, ‘Too busy with his work to be out here to see the Procession, is he? And him a good Catholic and all. I am surprised.’
Just Around the Corner Page 29