It was clear the way Winnie crammed on a neighbouring green, straw Panama, war was the least thing on her mind.
‘Why are you looking at me like I’ve got a cabbage growing out of me head?’ she sniffed. ‘Course, the war is dreadful. But it don’t change anything for me. My fiancé ain’t rushing me to the altar like some talking silly.’ She tossed aside another hat, leaving Mary unsure if the girl really did want Frank Sloy to rush her to the altar or was grateful he did not.
‘Is your fiance going to enlist then?’
‘Lordy, no. He’s thirty-six. Besides, he’s got his precious pigs and cows to tend, so the armed forces don’t want him. I mean, who would really?’ Winnie burst out laughing, leaving Mary unsure if she was joking.
Instead she hid her thoughts in the excuse. ‘I’d best get on and fetch the messages. Maw’ll roast me if I don’t get the potatoes home in time to bake.’ Her face reddened as much for the shame of having to lug a grubby sack of them all the way home, as the overeager grin on Harold Briggs’ face nodding past on her left.
She dropped her eyes and busied her hands unpicking the knot from the ribbon on Winnie’s cast-off bonnet.
Minutes later, goodbyes said and Winnie gone, she lucked out in one of the older assistants taking her order and getting herself out the door without Harold spotting her carting something so grubby as potatoes. Even though it meant no treat for her today.
She darted out to the shop porch, nearly bumping into the back of a fellow leaning up against the brickwork of a neighbouring shop and whispering in the ear of a young lassie. The simpering girl hanging on his every word, her tinkling laughter hinting each of them jewels to her ears.
Recognising the familiar stance and shoulders, Mary stopped stock still.
A glance further along the crowded street showed the little debating societies from earlier were still there. But it weren’t talk of war the blighter in front of her muttering while he moved aside a loose tendril of the girl’s hair from her ear. The oaf pushed his hat back on wheat-coloured curls, overdue for cutting, while the bold imp in front of him fluttered her lashes, smirking, as if he might be some screen star gracing her ears with his balderdash.
The girl had poppy eyes too. Ready to pop right out her head if she bats them much harder.
‘Miss … Miss O’Donnell. Wait. I’m glad I caught you. May I have a word?’
Mary closed her eyes, biting on her lips. Not now, Harold. Please. But she turned, shifting the sack to one hand behind her back. When Liam stepped up beside her, she began to pray the ground would open up and swallow her.
‘I think you forgot something, Miss O’Donnell.’ Harold beamed.
Mary shook her head, but the boy took up her free hand and pressed two pieces of rock candy into her palm.
Before she could thank him, he gushed, ‘Have you heard they’re planning a patriotic picnic, Miss O’Donnell? To raise money for the troops.’
Mary chewed on her lips, nodding. Of course, she’d read all about the picnic in the Sentinel. She was already planning on going, only with her mother and her sisters – more’s the pity.
‘Might I escort you? To the picnic, I mean.’ Harold nodded, his ruddy face glowing redder.
The heat of Liam’s arm moving up beside her nearly burned through her coat sleeve, but suddenly she was glad the dafty was right there. It wouldn’t hurt him to hear someone showing an interest in her at least.
‘Why, thank you, Harold.’ She nudged the offending arm aside. ‘I’d be delighted to go to the picnic with you. But I’d better meet you there. I’m not sure what time I can get away from the boarding house yet.’ She bit her lip at Harold’s crestfallen face, and crossed her fingers behind her back at her lie, but Maw would never let her out of the house with a boy. Not until she was seventeen and only then on Maw’s nod. As Liam Merrilees very well knew.
‘I’ve got to get these messages home to my mother now. Goodbye, Harold,’ she added quickly, when Liam cleared his throat. By that superior smirk, she could guess what he was about to say too.
And she ran. At least as far as the corner, smarting that Liam could upset her so easily still. She could wring her own neck, as much as his, for going stupid over the dafty when a perfectly nice boy had been standing right there, asking her out, no less. Damn you, Liam Merrilees.
The brat had only been waiting on her to say she’d not be going to any picnic with Harold Briggs or any other boy for that matter – if her mother had any say. Which of course Maw certainly would.
At least she’d not given him the pleasure of mocking her in front of Harold.
And she jolly-well would meet Harold at the picnic. Maw or no Maw. Liam or no Liam. It was time she started standing up for herself. And to Liam Merrilees too.
THE PICNIC
SEPTEMBER 1914
‘Mary, who’s that girl over there waving at you? Do you know her?’
Mary, walking arm-in-arm with Jane across the picnic area, held up a hand to shade her eyes and squinted at a figure wearing a shocking purple frock, jigging about next to the makeshift bandstand. Though she’d had no chance to cross paths with Winnie Peat again of late, she recognised her beckoning her over. She was about to wave in reply when Frank Sloy stepped up behind the girl, taking away her attention.
‘Oh, that’s my new friend, Winnie,’ said Mary, walking on and changing the subject. ‘How about you, Janie. Have you made some new pals at school?’
Jane nodded, shy as ever since her maw died. ‘Yes, and they’ll be here today. But … it’s not the same as home, is it? A lot of things have changed.’
‘No. It’s not the …’ Mary started to say before a familiar, tall figure larking about under the trees with a group of other fellows caught her eye. She frowned at a metallic glint when he raised his arm, suspecting the flash coming off a flask. ‘Yes, a lot of things have changed.’ She flushed at her distraction, knowing how very much Jane still missed her maw. ‘But we’ve got to go on, don’t we?’ She squeezed the younger girl’s arm. ‘And there’s lots of new and exciting things ahead for all of us in Australia,’ she babbled on, unsure who she was trying to convince more, considering the reason they were there at all.
Jane nodded back, her eyes lit in a rare smile on spotting her friends. ‘Oh, Mary, is it all right if I go over to Mildred and the girls? They’re just by the candy floss stand.’
Mary hugged the younger girl and gave her a shove. ‘Go on, darling. I’ll be fine. Better than fine,’ she muttered, ‘if a certain boy turns up.’
Her heart pitched watching Jane run across the grass of the railway reserve, short strawberry plaits and skinny legs flying. Dear Jane. So grown up for one so young. So much pain in her short life, having been wrenched away from her home and her pals. Her maw dying. Then having to help raise her wee brother.
It was heartening to see her take up with her mates.
Mary wandered on, stopping at some of the side shows and to watch the little ones on the merry-go-round. The manes and tails on the horses streamed in the breeze, the contraption’s tinny music competing with the brass band warming up in the rotunda. On a perfect day like this she couldn’t help but smile at the reds and yellows of the balloons and the parade of spring dresses in delightful peach, and soft blues and greens, throwing off the drab of winter, even if it was in aid of the war.
She refused to let thoughts of what the war might mean to them in Wonthaggi or the forecast rain dampen her mood, though a glance at the darkening westward sky suggested it might come to that later. Instead she used it as another excuse to look about, ever so innocent-like, wondering if anyone was looking out for her too. She jumped when a hand grabbed her by the wrist and spun her around.
‘Mary O’Donnell, it is you. I’m so glad to see you.’
Winnie Peat stood in front of her, panting and out of breath, grinning shamelessly, and gladdening Mary’s heart that someone was pleased to see her at least.
Before she could enquire how Winnie was, t
he girl dragged on her arm, telling her all about the fun and games to come and that
Mary simply must be her partner in every one since Frank Sloy was too old for games.
‘Except the one kind,’ Winnie said, dropping her eyes and giggling wildly.
‘I don’t know, Winnie. I promised …’ Mary trailed off, scarce knowing where to look at such a confession.
‘Who? A boy? Sly fox! Who is it then?’ Winnie grabbed up Mary’s hands and held them so tight, Mary knew the girl would not let her go without an answer.
She glanced about – checking if anyone was near enough to overhear – but Maw and her sisters were sitting on a rug, in the middle of the grass, setting out the hamper and sipping lemonades. Coming around behind them, Harold Briggs shambled towards her.
Mary smiled, her cheeks warming. ‘That’s him, in the brown tie, coming over.’
Winnie spun around. ‘No! Not Bilious Briggs, that pimple-faced heifer. His nose is stuck so high in the air, he can’t even smell his own stink. No, Mary! You’re going to race with me.’
Mary glanced from one to the other, torn, but she didn’t have long to worry, when it turned out Frank Sloy had other ideas for the moment. A loud whistle summoned Winnie back to him. Like a dog, frowned Mary. Yet Winnie ran in answer, all gangly legs and laughing, as if it the most natural thing in the world.
Mary was saved from her musing by a voice in her ear.
‘Would you care to promenade with me, Miss O’Donnell?’
Mary puzzled for a moment, until she glanced up and saw Harold’s offered arm. ‘Oh, you mean go for a walk.’ She blushed scarlet at showing herself so unworldly and took his elbow, before glancing across at Maw – fortunately looking the other way at the wood chop.
No doubt, her mother wouldn’t be diverted long, but if she were to take her arm back now, she’d offend Harold. Besides – she glanced about the picnic grounds – all ages of couples were ‘promenading’. There weren’t no harm in it.
On their second turn of the reserve, Harold slowed his steps and led her into the shadows under the trees.
Winnie was right. He was quite, um … solid. Mary tried not to grin at his moon cheeks turned ruddy with the exercise, his fine, flyaway hair hanging askew across his forehead.
‘I’ve got a present for you, Miss O’Donnell,’ Harold blustered. ‘I mean Mary, if I may?’ Glancing about, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. Clean and pressed, Mary was relieved to see. From within he drew out three chocolates covered in sugared sprinkles.
‘Oh, thank you, Harold. That’s very kind of you.’
Harold nodded, taking up her hand and ardently placing the chocolates in her palm. ‘You can eat them all. I can get more. I mean, I can always buy more.’
Mary smiled and popped what she was sure were illicit sprinkles from the Co-operative store into her mouth. Then she realised that Harold had not given back her hand. His pudgy fingers gripped hers with sweaty fervour.
The union brasses starting up in the bandstand interrupted and Mary eased her hand away so that they could join those gathered in the centre of the grass ready for the games to begin.
Harold begged off with a sudden limp.
Mary ignored Winnie Peat coming up behind him, bloating out her cheeks and mocking Harold’s girth. Nothing was going to ruin this day. Not the dark clouds brewing or Maw’s stern look meeting hers the one time she caught her eye. She was on an outing. With real, actual friends.
‘Come on, Mary. The egg and spoon race is my favourite.’ Winnie dragged her to the starting line, pulling two rusty spoons from her pocket and accepting an egg each from the linesman.
For the next hour, Mary laughed so hard, she never even cared that she won no handkerchiefs or certificates. She laughed till tears ran down her cheeks when she and Winnie fell over the finish line in the three-legged race, skirts up about their knees and clutching each other, hysterical.
At a miffed frown from Harold, she chose not to play Blind Man’s Buff but stood with him instead. Except Winnie pushed her forwards at a call for volunteers.
‘Your turn, is it, love?’ asked the adjudicator.
Before Mary could argue, ‘No,’ he was tying a blindfold over her eyes, spinning her around three times.
She chewed on her lips, stepping forwards, tentatively waving her arms about her. In three steps she became thoroughly confused, the crowd shouting, ‘Go to your left. You’re getting warm. No, go right. Ooh, you’re getting hot now.’
Didn’t she know it? The more they shouted, the worse her lather. It’s only a game, ninny. Yes, with the world and his wife watching, heating her humiliation more. Until, in the blackness behind the blindfold, she grew that dizzy and anxious, she could hardly hold upright. She stumbled. Her hand flung out, gripped onto – a waistcoat. She was about to rip off the blindfold when the master of ceremonies bellowed. ‘You’ve got to guess who it is you’ve caught, miss, before you take off your cover.’
‘But I don’t know anyone here,’ she called back.
The crowd laughed louder, cheering her on, chanting, ‘Find out. Find out.’
It would be too surly of her not to try, but she began to doubt she would ever take off the blindfold again. Never again in her life.
She staggered forwards and two hands belonging to the waistcoat reached out to steady her. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
What else could she do then, but guess? One guess.
She patted the waistcoat, but then was about to pull her hands back, too self-conscious to continue, when her fingers found the fellow’s fob chain. The scalloped edge of a medallion so familiar, she gasped. It could be anyone of them come away from Scotland.
Only the barest murmured ‘Hmm!’ the giveaway it were Liam.
Well, she could play along. Why not? Show Harold Briggs how clever she was. And anyone else watching too.
She put her hands up to the familiar face, scraping on the stubble. She almost pulled back at the sharp smell of grog breathing over her face. But, as if she had no say, her fingers roamed the warm bristled cheeks up to the soft waves of hair, meeting a strong neck, the edge of a bunnet. Surprised he was letting her, more surprised she kept on.
A low chuckle saw her drop her hands, before a firm grasp took up both her elbows, putting her hands back to the face. Rolled them over a firm chin and moist lips.
Their movement under her fingers, soft as the gentlest kiss, sent a jolt through her belly. The grip of those hands the only thing holding her upright. And for a moment she became deaf to the crowd on the far side of the blindfold.
She came over hot again and yanked out of the beggar’s grip. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know who it is.’ She wrenched off the blindfold to a collective sigh from the crowd and found herself staring into the cheek of a smile that had always known her too well. His impish grin telling her Liam knew too that she’d known who he was all along.
Respite came in the shape of Harold, bumbling up to them and eyeing Liam up and down. While the Scots brat smirked back at him, winking at her bemused.
As if Harold Briggs were any of his business.
Mary sucked down the retort that Liam could take himself and his damn smirk right back to where he came from and linked her arm through Harold’s – Maw watching or not – and steered him in the opposite direction.
Liam’s laughter behind them forced her to chomp hard on her tongue.
‘Who does that ruffian think he is, manhandling you like that?’ Harold blustered. ‘I’ve a good mind to challenge the oaf. They shouldn’t let that low sort attend family days like these.’ Harold sneered over his shoulder.
His eyes widened in shock when, the next second, Mary rounded on him, yanking her arm out of his crook. ‘What do you mean, low sort?’
‘I only meant that dirty fellow shouldn’t have touched you,’ Harold argued.
‘He’s not dirty.’
‘Didn’t you see his hands stained with coal dust? He’s one of them immigrant miners.�
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‘My da’s a miner. From Scotland. And a steel worker from Ireland before. What’s wrong with that, pray tell?’
‘Nothing.’ Harold tried to take her arm again, but she stood firm and apart. ‘I’m sure your father is a fine fellow. I’d like to meet him one day.’
And he’d like to meet you too. To boot your uppity backside into the middle of next week. The words did not reach her lips, but her anger spat clear in her eyes.
‘But I gave you the sweeties,’ Harold begged.
‘So? What’s that s’posed to mean? I owe you then?’
Harold was saved by the heavens opening up and the throng running their separate ways – out of the rain. Mary ran to Maw and her sisters to grab up the baskets and rugs.
Owe him! Owe him, my eye!
OH, HAPPY DAY
DECEMBER 1914
The afternoon of Winnie’s wedding, Mary ran all the way to the church, later than an autumn swallow after Miss Beatrice insisted on no more than three small things be done before she could escape out the door.
‘I don’t know why you pander to the girl’s whims,’ Miss Beatrice berated her sister. ‘Going to a wedding in the middle of a working day. You’re too soft, Celia. She’s taking advantage of your good nature.’
‘Hush, Sister. She’ll be back to make up the time and help prepare the dinner. She’s such a sweet thing really.’
Mary listened, grateful that Miss Celia had forgiven her the late notice and chosen not to share with her sister her surprise at finding Winnie Peat on her doorstep the Friday gone. The bride come to be sure Mary was to stand up as maid at her wedding, adding the promise, ‘I’ll bring you a posy to go with your dress.’
Winnie would not be dissuaded by Mary’s excuse that the Traffords could not spare her, barking it was too late to back out now. She worked up such a paddy that Miss Celia had come to the door.
Of course, Winnie wasn’t to know of Mary’s worry of weeks, torn between her wish to be a good friend and her reluctance to watch Winnie marry Frank Sloy. Nor did she know that Mary had simply held her tongue and not asked her employers. She never expected Winnie to turn up and ask them for herself.
No Small Shame Page 8