To Mary’s horror, Miss Celia agreed, though she refused Winnie’s kind invitation to attend too, despite Winnie’s promise ‘it’s going to be a bonzer wedding’.
Now, Mary flung herself down Graham Street and up McBride Avenue, watching out for ditches and tugging her hat back onto her head every time it tried to jump off, deciding that being kind and obliging not always such a good thing.
Only one farm cart stood outside St Joseph’s. No buggies or ladies in fine dresses. No ladies at all, Mary discovered when she peeked into the quiet church. Sloy stood up near the altar, talking to Father O’Sullivan, wearing what looked like his grandfather’s scaffy old suit, a young man beside him, wringing his bunnet in his hands. Over in a pew to the left, a pallid-faced older gentleman in spectacles Mary suspected was Winnie’s father sat patting down his moustache with his fingers. Not another soul sat in the whole church.
A statue of the blessed Virgin hung from one wall wearing a frown on her face. Like she didn’t approve of the arrangements either.
‘Winnie, are you in there?’ Mary tapped on the vestry door.
‘Yes,’ squealed Winnie, flinging it open. ‘What do you think, Mary O’Donnell? Ain’t I the most lovely bride?’ Winnie spun around showing off her gown and veil, her eyes beaming her beautiful.
Mary nodded. Not for all the bluebells in Scotland would she tell Winifred Peat her dress was yellowed with age and decorated with tiny beads of mildew, nor that her veil had holes tatted in the back where the silverfish had feasted. ‘You look bonny, Winnie. Your groom is a lucky fellow.’
Winnie thrust a bunch of wilting daisies held too long in a sweaty palm into Mary’s own. ‘Thanks. It was me mum’s dress. Still looks good as new, doesn’t it? At least it’s a little part of her here. She died when I was born so she hasn’t got to come to things in my life. But me father came, so I guess that’s something. Ah, listen to me prattle. It’s me wedding day. I’m so excited, I could burst out of this dress.’
Judging by the frayed threads on the seams, Mary thought, that could well happen any minute. She bustled the eager bride out to join her father, now in the vestibule, while she trailed behind them into the church.
There was no music and no new guests had arrived, but Winnie seemed not to notice. She nodded and giggled her way down the aisle towards her skinny malink of a groom.
Much as Mary tried to push out the rude thought, it being a sacred and special occasion, there it was, the Malinky poem running through her head before she could order it out.
Skinny Malinky lang legs, umbrella feet
Went to the pictures and couldnae find a seat
When the picture started
Skinny Malinky farted
When the picture ended
Skinny Malinky fented.
Sloy peered back over his shoulder and ran his eyes over his bride once before turning back to the priest, but Winnie was too busy waving to the young lad standing up for Sloy beside him to notice. Her father too kept his eyes only on the priest and so when Mary reached the altar, in sympathy, she gave Winnie the brightest smile she could find in her heart and squeezed her arm. ‘Good luck.’
Halfway back down the aisle as husband and wife, Sloy shrugged out of his new wife’s embrace, showing that the sacrament of marriage hadn’t sweetened the sour brew a bit. ‘Show some bloody decorum, woman. You’re married now.’
Winnie giggled, dropping her eyes as if he’d complimented her.
Mary shook her head thinking she must have misheard, because from where she stood it sounded like the creeping Jesus was mocking his new wife. She glanced sideways at the young man she was partnering out of the church and, noticing his eyebrows raised too, realised she’d heard right. Her stomach knotted wondering if Winifred Peat had any idea what she’d got herself into.
Back in the Workmen’s Club lounge, the bride held court, fawning over Sloy while sipping on a shandy and growing gigglier by the minute. Her new husband seemed more interested in throwing down as many glasses of ale as he could, in the shortest possible time, probably because Winnie’s father was paying for the wedding breakfast, as Winnie proudly boasted.
Mary sipped a tepid cup of tea and, in the absence of any entertainment or conversation, picked apart her scone, crumb by crumb. It took all her concentration to avoid the way Sloy was beginning to show an interest of the intimate kind in his bride, running his hand over her backside, whispering none too quiet remarks in her ear, how he hoped it wasn’t that time ’cause there’d be things he’d be doing to her when he got her alone.
Charming, thought Mary, but then it was a strange wedding in every way. Not like the bonny affairs back in the Pailis, noisy with music and singing and everyone bringing food and whatever gift they could spare the newly married couple. What the Pailis guests lacked in the giving of fancy presents, they made up for in the sing-a-long to send the couple into all the happy years ahead. How many hours had she filled thinking about her own wedding – planning the flowers and imagining, cheeks blushing, what it would be like to be married. At this moment, she’d like to give a good shove to the boy standing up beside her in those musings.
But then, she shouldn’t even be thinking about weddings in the same sentence with Liam Merrilees. The eejit had made clear he had better things in mind for himself and she not good enough to live in his imaginary house or mother his grubby weans. As if she cared.
Only she must, mustn’t she? Why else did her heart squeeze to hear his boots clomp down the backstairs of the cottage, stamping out the cold on his way to day shift? Why could she not throw his Sunday shirts into the boiler with the rest of the wash instead of holding them up to her face and breathing him in when her mother wasn’t looking?
Most of the time she couldn’t stand the traitorous wretch. But up close, like the humiliating day at the picnic, her fool body came over like some lovesick cow chasing a fistful of clover. For what? So the dafty could smirk and wink like he were playing some fool game with her.
Ssh! It’s nowt but your loneliness talking. She’d no chance to meet a soul outside Trafford’s or the Mass. Maw refused to let her go to the Saturday supper dances, insisting sixteen, as she’d turned last week, too young. Why else would Harold Briggs be going around with that new fancy Nance from the drapery, Miss Twigg? He never even passed her a sweetie with the messages anymore, though she noticed Miss Twigg’s cheeks bulged fat on passing her after Sunday Mass. Breaking fast on a toffee. What did that say about the girl?
A sudden chiming in the foyer reminded her of her duty to Winnie. She glanced through the glass in the lounge doors at the grandfather clock. What would be the polite amount of time for a bride’s maid to leave a wedding breakfast? She guessed twenty minutes too soon.
With Winnie lost in the fog of marital bliss, tobacco smoke rising from the cigars being puffed upon by Sloy and Mr Peat, all Mary could do was wander across the room to where the photographer was setting up his kit and explaining to the best man the finer aspects of portrait photography. When she stared back at Winnie, for one stupid second, she pictured herself in a similar white dress. Her life going down a path clear and straight in front of her, instead of sliding down a mullock heap growing bigger by the day and unable to push Liam Merrilees out of her mind. ‘Hush your fool thoughts, mental girl.’
‘Do you answer yourself too?’
‘Sometimes,’ Mary answered. She only pulled out of her musing when the young man beside her began to laugh.
‘No, I mean, not really. Not often,’ she added, thoroughly flustered.
The best man held up his hands in mock surrender like he could take no more of her madness. ‘I’m Nathaniel Carr. I work for Sloy. I mean, the groom, Mister Sloy.’
The fellow holding out his hand decided her; it was past time she stopped thinking about white dresses or a certain daft beggar who couldn’t see beyond his nose and started paying attention to someone who did want to talk to her. Like Nathaniel Carr.
‘Ain’t you smokin
g one of them smelly things too then?’ she asked.
Nathaniel shook his head, ‘Nah, they’re my wedding gift to Sloy. I shouldn’t tell you but they’re not the best you can buy, only good enough for him.’ He smiled, a dimple coming into his cheek before he winked.
Mary breathed easier, since she’d been wondering what type of man was Nathaniel Carr to work for one such as Sloy.
A man in need of a better-paying job, judging from his well-worn suit. His face was tanned brown, under hair the colour of treacle. His eyes the faded blue of an autumn sky. He had the shoulders of a worker, unlike the taffy stretch of Sloy, and she couldn’t imagine thinking of Skinny Malinky in the same sentence with Nathaniel Carr, or Nate, as he told her to call him when she shook his nutbrown hand. The shaking seemed to go on an age until she felt a tug on her sleeve.
‘Mary, come and help me get changed. I’m going away in me honeymoon suit.’ Winnie giggled and tugged her away towards the stairs. ‘You know what goes on after you’re married on your wedding night, don’t you?’
Mary blushed to her toenails to be asked such a question in the hearing of a man. It was plain Winnie was the poorer for her mother’s absence.
Of course, she knew what went on between a man and a woman. Hadn’t she seen the cats and dogs in the village and slept in the very same room every night of her life with a man and woman married? She could dig all the way to China under the bedclothes and not escape what went on across the room. No matter that her parents might wait until all should be asleep and whisper quiet as the rats in the walls, a body still knew what other bodies got up to.
THE CONCESSION
DECEMBER 1914
With Winnie moved out to Sloy Farm, Mary wrote her regularly, honouring a promise made to a tearful Mrs Frank Sloy in the emotion of Winnie going off on her honeymoon. Mary had no news to tell beyond the disruptions at the mine. Many of the younger men were leaving to enlist, while the management held meetings, insisting every man was needed to get out the coal to keep the trains and troops moving. Joe and Liam were at loggerheads over it nightly, though she suspected Liam was more about leaving for any job away from the mine rather than going to war.
In an odd way she looked out for the post as much as Winnie wrote she did, stuck out on the farm. But for Winnie’s occasional letters, life went on in the O’Donnell house much the same, war or no war, including the frosty silences between Maw and Da on the subject of building a house. Papers had been signed to purchase a block of land in Da’s name in North Wonthaggi and Da was calling for a celebration.
That night, for the first time in a fortnight, Liam sat down at the tea table with them all. Joe took the head at one end and Da the other, the Merrilees offspring seated down one side and the O’Donnell family opposite.
No-one said a word to mark any difference from any other night, excepting Joe said the Grace without word of a prompt.
The minute he finished, Jane bounded out of her chair and flung her skinny arms around her brother’s neck, before Joe ordered, ‘Eat your tea, lass. It’s not the bloody King come to dinner, only your brother.’
Listening to Joe, a short time later, tell the story of Nipper the pit pony biting Da on the arse, and laughing until tears ran down his cheeks, Mary guessed Joe was as grateful as herself for Liam’s presence and good mood. For a second, she could almost imagine Mrs Merrilees just ducked out and the lot of them back in the Pailis for the familiar laughter and banter around the table.
But the moment the last mouthful was eaten, the true reason for Liam joining them came out, along with a folded bit of paper out of his waistcoat.
‘Da, I got something for you to sign.’
‘What would that be, then?’ Joe said, barely glancing up from packing tobacco into his pipe.
‘Me enlistment papers.’
Silence fell around the table, as if every tongue in the room cut out.
Joe put his pipe in his mouth, unlit, placed his hands firmly on the table-top before staring down his son.
Mary held her breath, glancing from one to another. Please Joe, don’t let him go, she prayed. Then, seeing Liam’s knuckles turn white as the paper in his hand, the desperation begging in his eyes, she called herself every selfish name she knew. All Liam ever wanted was to get out of the mine. But how could going to war be the only way he could make it happen?
Nobody moved as the silence stretched on. Mary could sense every one of them wanting to flee. The flight rush keen in the air.
‘You heard Broome at the meeting. Every man is needed here.’
‘I ain’t asking you, Da. This is me chance. Blokes are leaving in droves and the AIF is calling for more.’
‘Not coal miners.’ Joe slammed his fist on the table-top, jumping every heart, while wee Hughie began to squawk in Jane’s lap.
‘Getting out the coal is counted crucial. Every man expected to do his bit. You ain’t disgracing me or your maw’s memory by abandoning your responsibilities.’
Liam stood up, scrunching the paper in his hand. ‘This ain’t about Maw. Or any bloody disgrace. It’s a job, Da. Not for King and country, but the feckin’ bosses. I ain’t eating Broome’s bullshit to keep me here. This is me chance to get out.’
‘Well, I ain’t signing your damn paper. Nineteen or ninety, you’re needed here. End of story. You had your bloody adventure coming to this country. Now stop your whining and get on.’
Mary cringed as Liam’s chair scraped backwards, all the way to the wall. She barely dared breathe, terrified what would come out of his mouth next, knowing Joe waited on it too. Liam was about to go out the door and she could say or do nothing to right things or help him. But going to war wasn’t really what he wanted, only for Joe to hear him. Understand him. Just once. She went to stand up too, but Maw grabbed her tight by her skirts. Liam was gone before either she or Joe could open their mouths to speak.
Later, on her way along the tangled path from the privy, seeing the red glow of a cigarette, Mary blew out her candle. When her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she spied a dim figure seated solitary on a tree stump.
Liam!
She considered slipping out of sight rather than risk his mood of earlier. But she had to know was he all right. Ask the question even: did he really want to go to war?
Her feet stayed on their course. Until her boot jagged on a rock poking up through the dirt, pitching her forward. A hand reached out of the dark to steady her, but did not connect.
‘Thank you.’
‘Didn’t do nothin’.’
‘You were gonna … ’
‘Gonna means nothing without an action to follow through. Remember that, lass.’
Mary nodded, listening more to Liam’s tone. Surprised to hear no hint of sarcasm or his usual biting wit. ‘I remember a lot of things.’
‘More’s the pity.’
She would not bite back or enquire his meaning. It was enough to talk to him, have him answer. The fact of talking ordinary to anyone at all made her gulp her relief.
‘You okay, lass?’
‘Yes.’ Pride kept her from bleating the truth, yet she was desperate to ask him the same. She could barely make out his features in the gloom, except for the brief moments when he sucked on his fag. When he blew out the smoke, the accompanying beer fumes sent her giddy.
Glancing back towards the house, she spied Maw through the kitchen window carrying the kettle to the hob. Though Maw turned their way, she would be unable to see anything beyond the glass, not even the stars, the heavens shrouded in clouds. All the usual landmarks along the straggly path blotted out in the darkness.
Turning her back on the house, she and Liam could be the only people alive in the world. A whiff of his hair oil tickled her nose. She trembled when the dark shape of his hand reached out and wound a length of her hair around his fingers – so gentle.
‘Your hair …’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. It’s nowt but the grog talking.’
Mary bit hard on her lip to stop herself from begging, ‘Oh, let it talk. Please, please talk to me.’ But she dared not jinx the moment, cause him to take away the warmth of his fingers brushing her neck. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she shouldn’t be thinking … wishing … What?
Silently, she cursed when the hand fell away.
‘Do you remember Neddy?’ Her stupid question outed.
A scoffing grunt and kick in the dirt stilled the crickets chirruping in the bushes. Her chest tightened thinking the connection so easily lost.
‘As if I’d be forgetting me favourite pit pony.’
‘What else do you remember – ’bout the Pailis?’
She watched him drag one last hard puff on his fag before crushing the butt beneath his boot heel. He leaned down, the chink of one bottle against another a sign he’d been drinking a while. He guzzled straight from the bottle neck before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I’ll tell you what I remember. I remember promising meself things’d be different here. But they ain’t different, are they?’
He ignored her answering nod. ‘I remember back in the Pailis you wanted to do the teacher training, didn’t you?’ He paused, as if catching her out. ‘You remember that too, don’t ya? Dreams we called them. Away from the rows, we thought anything possible. In Australia, everything would be possible. Pah! Maybe this war’ll fix things.’
‘How can a war fix anything, Liam?’
‘A lot of the men are itching to go. See the world.’
‘You know your da won’t sign. Your job here is counted necessary.’ When a scowl came over his face, she bit her lips – hating herself for parroting Joe. But her mind went momentarily stupid at the thought of Liam going to war.
‘Nah, I’m not enlisting. I can’t without Da’s nod. But I ain’t giving up me dreams. There’ll be jobs opening up in the town with so many blokes going. Might be my chance yet.’
No Small Shame Page 9