He let go, taking the passbook with him – the scowl back riding his face. He pressed hard up against her in his rush to move past, leaving her drop-jawed and wavery-kneed. All possibility of talk dried on her lips. How could her mutinous body betray her when she didn’t care a jot for the beast?
The next second, the back screen door banged open and Joe and Liam met in the scullery doorway. There was no dancing this time.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Joe demanded.
‘Out.’
‘Not drinking again. Or without your tea. You’ll not insult your aunt or Mrs O’Donnell another night. Or have them put your meal in the meat safe. You eat with the rest of us or don’t bother eating in this house at all.’
Prickles ran up Mary’s neck at the dare ripening in Joe’s eyes. Oh, please, just let him go out.
Neither father nor son yielded to let the other pass. Liam began to bounce on the balls of his feet as if itching to take Joe up. Their stance a mirror of the pair she’d so often seen laughing and facing up like old bull–young bull around the Merrilees’ one room in the Pailis. She, Mrs Merrilees, Da and even Maw, laughing along at their antics. Now – sparks flinting in both men’s eyes – anyone would think they hated one another. Joe was too harsh. To give Liam his due, his tea was always eaten by the morning – unless he was putting it out to the neighbourhood cats.
At the sight of his fists starting to bunch at his sides, she took a step forwards.
Joe’s eyes squinted tighter – daring …
‘Quiet down, you beggars!’
Maw’s sudden roar sent Joe reeling, as if she might’ve been talking to him instead of the children.
Only Mary witnessed the pain fleck Joe’s eyes when his son pushed past him and out the doorway.
‘Take Hughie for your mother awhile, lass,’ whispered Rosslyn, conspiratorial as a mind reader. ‘That’s the most help you can be.’
Mary nodded, taking the babe and jigging him on her hip. The child reached out his fist to yank hard on her hair, but it didn’t hurt more than the coldness in Liam’s eyes when he’d fetched up the passbook, knowing he didn’t trust her anymore. The why of it. Or if he ever would again?
A FRIEND IN NEED
LATE JUNE 1914
With the loss of Liam’s friendship, and the months passing, memories of the Pailis and all Mary’s plans and dreams seemed a distant world away. Goings on in Sarajevo, where a young Bosnian, hardly more than a boy, fired the shots that ended the life of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his duchess scarcely registered. Mary’s days at the boarding house demanding all her concentration, just trying to get things right.
She worked all the harder for Miss Beatrice, even though she wanted to save her best for Miss Celia. Nothing she did was ever done well enough, but she’d learned fast to keep out of the older woman’s reach.
She dressed more presentably too since the Misses Trafford thought fit to provide her with a uniform – to be worn strictly at work, of course – and she thanked God, the angels and faeries, it a sign her job was safe – for now. Even if she did have to get to work earlier and leave later while she changed, and had itched and scratched through three whole weeks until the stiffness washed out of the calico. At least Miss Beatrice had stopped screwing up her nose at her appearance like she was smelling something a street dog rolled in.
Yet was Mary the one walking around with her underarms stinking and blouses steaming, even fresh on?
No! Nor was she the one making rude comments and sniffing every time a person got a word wrong.
‘Say “my” not “me” book, Mary. It’s a lavatory, not a privy, girl. Say “is not”, not “ain’t”; “house” not “hoose”.’ And so on and so forth.
Until Mary wondered if there was any blinking thing she could say right. Why would she want to talk toffy like she had three gumdrops stuck in her cheek anyway? Miss Beatrice could yap genteel all day long and the bitchy thing would still think her own pooh didn’t pong. Being the one to empty the chamber pots, Mary could vouchsafe it did.
Jabbing pins into her bun one morning while Maw shouted her late for work, she sighed for Mrs Merrilees’ sweet kisses soothing her upsets, along with her cheering hugs. Even for Liam’s rough shoves, pushing her out the door to play, or play up. All of them gone from her days now – all as good as forever. And where she laid her head at night made not one jot of difference.
In the fortnight gone, George Merrilees had honoured his threat and taken his family north. Maw settled into the cottage, vowing they’d lever her out the door with a crowbar, and if Seamus O’Donnell conjured any fool ideas such as building a house, he knew what he could do with the crowbar – right over the top of his mule head.
Once upon a time Mary had thought moving into the cottage might bring a chance to set things right between her and Liam. But the two might’ve been strangers for the distance between them, even living under the same roof. Any tears for a bond snapped over oceans she cried alone. She wasn’t the only one to feel it; her tongue burned to give the sour brew a good helping after him going out the door last night, ignoring his sister Jane’s ‘good night’. Her own glare echoed the younger girl’s frustrated grimace. She wouldn’t be surprised if Jane too had been thinking back to the boy who’d trudged three miles through the snow drifts to Motherwell one Christmas Eve to fetch the softest feathery shawl for his maw’s present. The finest gift any had seen in Store Place.
And that reminded her of a certain other boy and what day it was. She peered into the mirror and gave her teeth a quick rub over with her fingers, checking they’d scrubbed up clean. Just in case …
The Wednesday gone, after weeks of Miss Celia wheedling on her behalf, Miss Beatrice had at last condescended to let her run to the Co-operative store and put in the weekly grocery order. Much the same as the co-operative back in the Pailis, the store was only a single shopfront, except the Wonthaggi Co-operative was owned by the Miners’ Union, same as the hospital, the Workmen’s Club and the bakery. And woe to your backside if Da caught you making your purchases any place else, especially when one day soon he’d be getting a dividend along with the rest of the Co-operative members. Mary cared more about the chance to see a certain young lad assisting, who’d bustled Mrs Talbot out the door last week, without the woman’s packages, in his haste to be the one to serve Mary next. He’d slipped her a shard of peanut brittle when no-one was nosing past.
If she wasn’t mistaken, Harold Briggs was a bit sweet on her. And here it was, Wednesday again.
She couldn’t believe her ill-luck then stepping into the boarding-house scullery to Miss Beatrice bleating, ‘No, Celia. The girl is not going. Last week the flour weight was short and the raisins small enough to be currants.’
Mary held her breath while she flicked on the electricity to the new-fangled toaster and kept holding it while sweet Miss Celia argued her back into going to the Co-operative on the condition everything was delivered perfect to the ounce.
Later that morning, Miss Celia sent her out the back door with a list and stern warning to be back before the dinner hour.
Mary fairly skipped her way to Watt Street, before stopping on the threshold of the Co-operative to smooth her hair and calm her breathing. She pushed open the door to the clang of the overhead bell.
‘Good day, Miss O’Donnell. What will it be today?’ Harold Briggs bounced up to her, arms folded over his puffed-up chest like he was trying to impress her or something.
If she were honest, she’d have to admit Harold’s chest wasn’t the only puffed up bit about him, but she’d never be so rude as to say he might be putting his hand in the sweetie jar for more than just her delight. And she wasn’t about to go comparing his mousy brown hair stretched thin over his ample forehead with any others she knew. Instead she handed over the list. ‘Miss Beatrice told me to say Mr Goodwell should make up her order. She’s wanting someone with seniority to ensure everything’s exactly to measure.’ She tried not to watch
Harold’s chest deflate, damning her thoughtlessness in repeating word-for-word Miss Beatrice’s earlier rant. It was only her fear that the woman would refuse to let her go for the messages again if she found the order in any way wrong. And Miss Beatrice would certainly try.
It was too bad of her though, when Harold was fairly tripping over his tongue to talk to her. She turned her brightest smile on him then, trying to win back his favour. ‘You know what a tartar that woman can be.’
To her relief, her words brought the grin back to the boy’s pimply face and he held up his hand, bidding her wait, while he ducked around the back of flour bins to where Mr Goodwell was measuring a pound into a paper bag and had a quick word with him before handing over the list.
‘Tell Miss Trafford her order’ll be in the afternoon delivery,’ Mr Goodwell called over to Mary. ‘And look out for extra raisins too.’
Harold winked and nodded to the sweetie jars. He shuffled back behind the counter while Mary turned her eyes to the shelves of paraffin and phenyl bottles and over to the tins of biscuits and tea, anywhere not to look at him or make him nervous. He was hard-pressed to hide a wink with seven or more assistants milling around in their crisp, white coats and aprons, but soon he trotted back and brushed close past her, slipping something inside her pocket.
She grinned when he nearly tripped over his feet in his rush to open the door for her and she made her way around the corner into a laneway, still grinning, to check her booty – no less than three liquorice allsorts. If she peeled each one apart layer by layer, she had nine sweeties, enough to keep her going all day if she sucked them slowly. And she had a boy fancying up to her. Yes, a pimply-faced gossoon of a boy. But a boy nevertheless.
Hmph! She didn’t see Liam Merrilees bringing her any sweeties or a treat, even in his right senses. What would she want with the old chunk of coal he’d likely bring her anyways? She wasn’t bothered if she never saw another bit of shale again or Liam Merrilees either.
Amongst all the banging coming from the new building works in the main street, Mary became aware of an odd clang echoing behind a rear fence on the lane of the new Powlett Hostel, accompanied by some loud and vigorous sobbing. She edged forwards to a gap in the corner of the yard where the night man called and stuck her head around the gateway. The banging started up again across the scrubby block where a girl not much older than herself was battering the side of a large metal teapot on the gulley trap, more like she wanted to pulverise rather than empty it.
Mary decided a hasty exit was in order and turned to go.
‘What do you think you’re doing there spying on people, missie?’ called the girl.
Mary pulled up short and spun around indignantly. ‘I weren’t spying. Only wondering why you were crying, but don’t worry, I’ll be minding me own business now.’
‘Come over here,’ said the girl, slamming the lid down on the teapot with such force as to make Mary flee again, before demanding. ‘Where’d you come from then?’
Mary gulped, stepping a few paces into the yard. ‘Down the street a bit – from Trafford’s Boarding House. I’d better be getting back there too; they’ll be waiting on me.’
‘No, you dopey Dora. Where’d you come from before down the street? With that accent?’
Mary breathed hard and debated running. Just because the one person she knew best in the world had taken to insulting her lately, it didn’t mean the rest could too. It were only the thought that she wasn’t over flush with friends, or girls her own age to talk to that made her swallow down her annoyance and say, ‘Bothwellhaugh’.
‘Never heard of Bothwhatever. Where is it?’ The girl showed no sign of tears now but stood up, hands spread on her hips like a schoolteacher demanding Mary’s homework.
Mary hesitated, thinking it was a strange country where anyone could bail you up wanting to know your business. As if she would ask a stranger a question so bold, but then it was a sort of novelty someone taking an interest in her for a change. ‘Scotland. You know, in the United Kingdom, on the planet Earth, somewhere in space. You recognise those places, don’t you?’
‘Didn’t no-one teach you not to cheek your elders? What’s your name, girl?’
The other lass couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Mary herself, yet here she was acting like Miss Bossy Britches trying to lord it over her. Well she needn’t think she’d be getting away with it. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Touchy, ain’t you? I’m Winifred Peat. Winnie to my friends.’
Mary bit back the retort she’d be surprised if the girl got any friends with that attitude, but, in absence of any of her own, she kept it to herself. ‘I’m Mary O’Donnell. Are you gonna tell me why you were crying just now?’
‘Oh that.’ Winnie huffed. ‘I’m getting married.’
‘Congratulations to you.’ Mary’s face broke into a smile, pleased for any girl at such news. ‘And here you’re so overcome with the joy, it brings you to tears. When’s your happy day then?’
The girl glared back as if Mary dared utter the stupidest thing in the world. Then her face crumpled again and she gave the teapot another ferocious whack on the drain. ‘December, on the ninth. And don’t talk to me ’bout no happy day unless you’re going to marry a man seventeen years older than you, with hog’s breath and the temper of a bear with a bee up his behind.’
‘Why are you gonna marry him then?’ Mary shifted her feet in confusion.
Then Winnie shot her a damning look like the girl thought her a penny short of a pound.
‘God, girl, I’m nineteen. Besides, me father wants me out of the house. He’s practically inching me bed closer to the door by the day. And no boy’s even looked at me, exceptin’ for trying to put his tongue down me throat in the back of the picture theatre. I’m not pretty like you. Look at me lank hair and not a curl to bless meself. I’m not clever or worldly. I’m just, Winnie. Besides,’ her voiced dropped, ‘the man asked me. I got scared thinking no-one else might.’
Mary opened her mouth to argue.
But Winnie plonked her hands on her hips, shrugging. ‘It’s better than not being married and working here the rest of me days – carting slops and picking up after a dozen dirty men. I think waiting on one’s got to be easier any day, even if he’s a bigger pig than any on his farm.’
Mary glanced up at the clouds, scarcely knowing where to look. The conversation was getting complicated and she couldn’t for the life of her tell if the girl was happy about getting married or not. But then the distant shriek of the long midday whistle blowing down at the mine interrupted and she didn’t have any more time to hang about. She was beyond late to help dishing up the lunch plates. Miss Beatrice would be steaming by now. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’
Just then the door at the rear of the hostel swung open and a beanpole of a man stepped out wearing only a grubby vest under his braces. ‘Have you gone to bloody China to fetch the tea, woman? I’ve got to get off the road before dark. Can’t you move your arse any faster?’ Then he stomped back inside grumbling an unrepeatable name.
The girl gestured rudely behind his back. ‘That’s him. Me future husband. Mr Frank Sloy. Ain’t he a fine specimen? Fat wonder I’m crying, but I guess he’s better than some others around here. Hey, I know. Do you want to come to me wedding? It’ll be at the new Catholic Church and there’ll be scones and tea at the Workmen’s after. Frank’s a member.’
Mary started to shake her head, trying to keep the shock from her face. No way did she want to be anywhere near a rude devil like Frank Sloy, especially not in a house of God. But then the girl began cringing in a way she hadn’t even when the fellow abused her. Mary hummed and haahed, but could think of no argument to offer. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said, backing towards the gap in the fence. ‘I’ll try and swap me day off or get away early from the boarding house, if I can.’
That seemed to satisfy Winnie, and Mary hurried away with a wave before anything worse could happen.
She ran all
the way back to Trafford’s, knowing there’d be no pacifying Miss Beatrice for her lateness. But it wasn’t anything compared to her horror of going to Winnie Peat’s wedding after meeting her groom.
Poor Winnie. She did seem a bit of a one, but no-one deserved to marry a man the likes of Frank Sloy.
DECLARATION OF WAR
AUGUST 1914
All thoughts of Winnie and weddings disappeared when the kerfuffle in the newspaper, which Mary barely recalled reading about, over the assassination of the Archduke suddenly erupted in calls to teach the Serbian assassins a lesson and the world powers discussing who’d promised alliance to whom in the event of war.
Da insisted it all, ‘A lot of argy-bargy big wigs pushing and shoving to make a point.’ As far as he was concerned what went on in some pissy little European country was none of their business. Political talk in the O’Donnell house should be centred firmly on the Home Rule bill mooted for Ireland and nowt else. The debate of decades was heating up again with talk that several counties in Northern Ireland, including his beloved Antrim, would be retained under British rule when the rest of the country became the free state and was signed off to Home Rule.
The very idea of war seemed impossible, until one week later, the little nobody country called up its allies in support. Suddenly, war was the only subject of discussion, especially among the groups huddled outside the Co-operative store, the second Saturday in August.
The second time Mary met Winifred Peat, who was trying on the most frightful hat.
‘Oh, Winnie, isn’t it awful?’
‘I don’t think it’s all that bad.’ Winnie flung the offending bonnet onto the countertop, screwing up her nose, before picking up a navy boater from the next hook and plonking it on her head.
‘No. I didn’t mean your hat. I meant about the war,’ Mary nodded, hoping not to get off on the wrong foot with her new pal so soon.
‘Oh that.’ Winnie wrenched off the hat, glowering at herself in the looking glass and biting the red into her lips. ‘Why don’t they ever get in something a girl might want to wear? Something elegant.’
No Small Shame Page 7