Never had she seen so close to a tender look pass between the two. Her heart swelled for the normality of it. If only this was the way of it always, not but a sliver in time.
Maybe the Liam she’d once known still existed somewhere inside of him. It seemed possible, his face missing its usual guarded countenance. Only his pushes prodded a little firm.
‘Gently, Liam. He’s not used to it.’
‘Do him good, lass. Sometimes I come here with the wean – she likes it fast, soothes her right to sleep in my arms. Even scared off the pain in my head the odd day.’ He smiled as if he’d told her a secret.
Swinging like a child, with a child. Who would have guessed? Mary nuzzled her face into the softness of Julia’s cheeks and lost herself in the rhythm of the swing. Up and down, up and down.
On a downward sweep, Conor turned his head, eyes afire. ‘Faster, Da. Make it go higher.’ His carefree laughter pinched off the caution tripping on her tongue.
The wet sheen glistening in Liam’s eyes wiped it away completely.
On the next pass, Liam’s hand reached out, as if to stroke the back of the child’s head. To Mary’s mind, longing burned bright in his eyes. He could so easily ruffle the boy’s curls, but … Liam held back his hand – ’til the swing and the moment passed.
Go on, Liam, love him please.
As if sensing her accusation, Liam glanced her way. In an instant, the softness in his face firmed, making her want to yell, not to take her every blessed look for the worst possible meaning.
Except Conor’s wail broke in. ‘Faster, Da.’
The sudden shriek of the mine whistle drowned out Liam’s reply and reminded her, painfully, it would never again signal shift end for Da.
‘It’s late. Your maw’s tired,’ Liam spoke gruffly.
Mary shook her head, frantically trying to think of some way to restore the moment.
Except Liam reached out, bringing the swing to an abrupt stop and pitching Conor off the spar into the dust. He had the good grace to grab the laddie’s arm and set him upright. But at the boy’s shriek of indignation, he landed a clip under his ear in less time than it took Mary to open her mouth to protest.
If she weren’t numb with grief and dumb with shock to see the gulf between father and son so close to being bridged, even for a moment, she’d have begged Liam to stay awhile longer for the child’s sake. She vowed then they’d return to the swing tree when everything was not hovering in Limbo, the way things always did waiting on a funeral.
GUARDIAN ANGEL
MAY 1919
Apart from the blessed sweetness of her children, only one other saving grace lit the days following Da’s funeral. Tom Robbins. Though Mary would admit it to no-one, least of all her saviour.
She was grateful Tom stayed on after the Requiem, taking a job at one of the pubs, claiming it got him away from miserable Melbourne and the teeming influenza germs – said he’d be mad to travel back in a stifling train and risk that contaminating incubator again.
Mary didn’t believe his argument. Closer to the truth, he was wanting to escape the city having given up his flat and moved in with Pearl when she and Liam came away to Wonthaggi so as to help Pearl make ends meet. Pearl’s letters since had brought news of Charles’ return. No doubt Tom didn’t want to get in the way of the newly reunited lovebirds.
Mary was happy for Pearl and knew from the delirious tone of her letters the reunion meant Pearl had head and heart only for her beloved Charles – for now.
At the sound of footsteps outside the flat door – more than the one set – she picked up her teacup and swirled the cold dregs, giving the cup all her attention.
She stayed seated without raising her eyes to meet the pair staggering in through the door. But it wasn’t Joe dragging in her husband. And it wasn’t the one red-faced who should be looking embarrassed. Tom Robbins kept his eyes cast down studying his feet, making excuses but failing to shush Liam’s drunken laughter and smutty mouth. Only her mortified silence forced Tom’s eyes to meet hers.
He glowered at the bruise dusting her cheek.
‘Where’d you get that mark? Was it from him?’ Tom shrugged off Liam’s arm and shoved the drunken sod onto the scrubbed wood chair.
Mary reached out and grasped Liam’s coat hem in time to stop him sliding off the seat onto his arse, glaring at Tom instead. ‘Don’t you start. I tripped over the wash basket is all and that’s the truth of it.’ She dropped her eyes from his dubious gaze.
Sighing, she stood up. Even if she told the truth, it would come out sounding evil.
Bad enough that she had to know the making of the mark. It wasn’t going to help for Tom to know unless he could somehow magic Liam’s nightmares into one of his storybooks and bless it with a happy ending.
The second Tom went off home, Liam found an energy she envied to sober up and start in.
‘Go to bed, Liam. There’s nothing to argue over or to eat. You might’ve drowned, heaving your heart up in that horse trough if Tom Robbins hadn’t come along and fetched you home. You’re an ungrateful louse. I’ll say that for you.’
She held her breath in the ensuing silence. Risking a sideways glance, she recognised trouble coming when sure enough, Liam started to nod.
‘That’s it, ain’t it? Robbins fancies you. That’s why he’s hanging around here. And you fancy him back. A bleeding Prod. What’s been going on between the pair of you then? Why’s he still here?’
Liam fronted up to her then, blocking her path, waiting on an answer.
Mary tried to sidestep, clear the teacups off the table. ‘You don’t care what shite you go on with, do you, Liam? Me and Tom? For pity’s sake. It’s you he’s walking out with or should I say dragging home with – not me.’ She placed the kettle on the hob as much to distract her traitorous thoughts, as to cook the water to rinse the tea things.
But Liam grabbed up the kettle, waving it in the air above her head like he wasn’t about to be put off. ‘I saw the man’s hands all over you at your da’s wake. Cosying up to each other like lost lovers. Is that why you were so tardy-arsed coming to meet me off the ship? Was I the wasp in your honey-pot plans?’
‘You’re talking nonsense, Liam. Tom Robbins and me are friends, nothing more. He was hugging our son hello at the wake, not me. Could I help it if I was holding the laddie at the time, you paranoid ass?’ She turned away to hide the heat in her face at the memory of Tom’s gentle fingers squeezing her own in sympathy at the cemetery. The reassuring familiarity had brought tears to her eyes. Of course, it had been an emotional day in all regards. Including Conor’s excitement at seeing Tom again. Excitement he never showed with his da. If truth be known, Liam was more jealous of the bond between Conor and Tom, likely using her as his excuse to rant and rave.
‘You might think you’re only friends, Mary, but I don’t think your friend sees you quite the same way. Tell Robbins not to come round here. He ain’t welcome.’
‘Hah!’ Mary spun back around, laughing in panic and contempt. ‘No, Liam. You’ll not bring more unhappiness to this house by denying me my friends. Tom Robbins can call whenever he’s a mind to and you might act more grateful the next time he lugs you home.’
THE TREAT
MAY 1919
Liam found his own way home the next few nights – alone.
Mary didn’t care. Only that she didn’t see Tom.
So when Tom did appear, competing to pass Harold Briggs in the aisle of the Co-operative store the following Thursday, she had to subdue the unnaturally large smile on her face, less it be misunderstood.
She and Harold maintained an unspoken agreement these days to never share words; she was always served by another assistant. In a wicked way, it pleased her that he still had his uppity nose in the air and his hand in the sweetie jar – going by his apron ties straining to meet around his middle.
Huffing and puffing and red-faced, he tried to squeeze past Tom, shooting him dagger looks, as if he expected Tom, the c
ustomer, to get out of his way.
Mary laughed while Harold nodded his way past until a sudden dawning realisation came over his face. Spying her and the children, Tom hauled them outside. He and Mary laughing fit to burst while Harold glared them all out the door.
‘Come and have tea with me?’
‘No, Tom. We’ve got to get on our way.’ Her answer shot out her mouth, unconsidered, and just as quick she wished it back, seeing both Tom and Conor’s disappointment. It was only that Liam would be along directly, heading for Taberner’s, no doubt. The last thing she needed was another quarrel over Tom.
‘Oh, you’ve got time for a scone and a sip of tea. Look at this young man here, his tongue hanging out for a lemonade. You can’t be so wretched as to say no to him, if not to an old friend?’
‘Can we, Maw? Please?’ Conor pleaded, tugging on her skirts.
Mary smiled down at him, nodding. ‘How can I say no now? To either of you.’ Besides, didn’t she have the right to spend time with a friend? Hadn’t she insisted on it to Liam, yet here she was running away as if a cup of tea and a chat somehow adulterous?
Course not! It’s only a pot of tea between friends. Get a grip, ninny.
Hah! Who are you fooling? Do you think the Almighty can’t hear your heart yammering, or see your knees going weak at the thought?
God, was Liam right? Was she lying to herself again? Well, she’d just have to play it careful, not give Tom, or Liam, any wrong ideas. Or herself. Foolish girl!
She let Tom take over the baby carriage and wheel it into the nearest teahouse. Let herself be seated and play the lady, ordering scones and jam and cream.
How odd to make small talk, waiting on the tea, as if she and Tom were strangers now, after them being such good mates.
Until he stared at her in earnest. ‘How are you, Mary? Really?’
‘Fine, thank you.’ She held his gaze and her head high. ‘Going on well, as you can see. Look how much the laddie’s grown. And then there’s this one.’ She blew a kiss to her daughter in the perambulator, changing the subject.
Tom nodded at the babe, but his doubt showed in his sceptical squint.
‘Why are you still here, Tom?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’ Tom shook his head, staring back at her hard. ‘To make sure you’re all right. How can I leave knowing you’re not. Are you?’
He reached for her hand, but Mary pulled away, busied herself instead settling her son to the plate of scones placed on the table by the waiter. Ensuring the teapot out of his reach. Focusing her every thought on her children and the feast set out before them, the silver service and snowy white cloth.
How could she have thought for a second to deny her son – him ogling the plate of strawberry jam and the cream piled high in a crystal bowl like it some magical confection?
She fixed her gaze on the laddie in fear she might well look up and tell Tom exactly how she was. The real reason her hands shook in passing him the sugar bowl. But she could allow nothing to ruin Conor’s treat; saliva washed her own tongue at the luxury. Especially when she spied her son’s eyes big as saucers, finger thick with cream halfway to his gob.
His grin turned to a worried grimace when he caught her frown of censure. His wee finger halted mid-air, the dollop of cream threatening to fall.
Quickly she pushed up the corners of her mouth into a smile with her fingers, then dipped one deep into the cream dish, scooping up a generous glob. Under her son’s incredulous gaze, she licked at the sweetness, sucking off every last delicious skerrick. She winked at him then, pulling her finger out of her mouth with a loud and deliberate pop. Grinning, she bid him eat.
Whooping the unfettered delight of a three-year-old, the laddie stuck his finger into the bowl again while across the table she and Tom traded smiles.
She refused to be drawn by the reproachful sniffs of the matrons at the next table, except to remark over-loudly, ‘That’s how cream is supposed to be eaten, son, when you use your best tea-party manners.’
She was saved their response, spying Jane, waving madly through the teahouse window, pointing first to herself and then inside.
Mary nodded, waving her in to join them.
Once introductions were made and Jane seated, laughter rang around the table at her discovery of the newfound cream-eating etiquette and she joined their little rebellion.
‘Would your wife and the young lady care for a fresh pot of tea, sir?’
Mary grinned, ridiculously pleased at the waiter’s error, but to her shock Tom was not laughing. Anguish pained his face as if the fellow had poured hot tea into his lap.
‘Oh, they’re not married. They’re just friends, aren’t you, Mr Robbins?’ Jane giggled, poking her tongue out at Conor, missing the awkwardness of the moment and Tom’s grimace across the table.
Mary stood up. ‘We’ve got to go now. These two will be getting cranky for their tea. Come on, Jane. Walk me part of the way. Thank you for the outing, Tom. It was good to see you.’
She walked out of the teahouse without looking back. The memory a bitter-sweet taste in her mouth when she recognised Liam on the corner.
THE LESSON
MAY 1919
The next afternoon she cursed having missed the lesson on holding her tongue.
She never could, never had, and now look …
She might’ve known Liam would punish her for defying him. But what right had he? Obey might be written in her marriage vows, but why didn’t a man have to obey his wife? Liam was not her bleeding Lord and Master.
So he’d seen her coming out of the teahouse. His sister was with them, for God’s sake.
How long had he kept her out of her bed last night, ranting on what did a man have to do to get her to do what he asked for a change?
She pulled aside the sheer curtain in the front hallway for the tenth time, gazing out into the gathering dusk. Jings! Where were they? Julia would be wringing wet by now, crochety and hungry. What was Liam thinking to keep a nine-month-old out in the night air?
Earlier, when he hadn’t brought the child back for a nap by three, she was grateful to find the infant bottle had gone out along with them. Now its absence told her Liam was staying out on purpose. Julia would be fretting for her egg and custard tea and hopefully giving her da grief in a way that’d bring his feet marching home before it got much darker. Mary flung the curtain aside one more time, so roughly it near tore off the rail, and marched back to their rooms.
‘Come on, Conor, we’ll go and see Granda Joe. He might know where your da’s gone off to with your sister.’ She didn’t hold out much hope Joe would know any such thing, but waiting hour after hour was getting on her nerves. Even Conor scraping his wooden truck over the rough floorboards set her teeth on edge, her tongue ready to spit at him in anger.
She tied his muffler under his chin and tucked his pullover warm into his waistband, before bundling him towards the door. She stuffed a jam crust into his fist and cast an angry glare at the potatoes and pumpkin peeled and soaking in the pot on the stove. ‘We’ll get you a proper dinner when we find your da. Even better, let’s see what Nanna Catherine is cooking for Granda Joe. Maybe she’ll have some nice mutton chops or a lovely thick soup. I’m sure she’ll have some to spare for a bonny boy like you.’
She flung open the flat door to find Tom, fist raised ready to knock, waving an envelope in his other hand.
‘Oh Tom, I can’t stop now. I’m on my way to Joe’s.’
She didn’t repay his quizzical glance at his pocket watch with an explanation.
When none forthcoming, Tom swung Conor into his arms and manoeuvred him through the air, flying him to the bottom of the front porch steps. ‘Well, let me walk with you at least. I’ve got good news and you’re the one I want to share it with.’ He handed her a folded sheet out of the envelope and held out his hand to take Conor’s.
Mary took the page, curiosity winning out over worry, and walked the path to the street by memory while
she read. Dusk blurring the words. She pulled up with a delighted gasp. ‘Oh, Tom. That’s grand. Your stories to be published in a book, along with your drawings. Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.’ The thrill of it made her gush and for the briefest second she wondered why the world couldn’t be full of such good news and happiness, and husbands who came home when they were supposed to.
She handed back the letter. ‘I’m so glad your hopes and your dreams are coming true, Tom. Truly, I am.’
‘I want the same for you, Mary. You don’t deserve … this.’ Tom waved his hands around the scrubby paddocks beyond the few buildings on Watt Street.
‘Oh, Tom. Life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what is. Plain and simple.’ She laughed, Conor staring up at her curiously.
‘No, Mary.’ Tom reached out a hand and held her still. ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to say, no. Enough. Else you start to die inside.’
Mary stared back at his earnestness, shaking her head. How could she tell him, some days she thought part of her dead already. But then she’d only to look at her son and wee daughter to know that wasn’t true. She could bear anything for them.
A sudden short blast of the mine whistle shrieked the lateness of the hour. She took up Conor’s other hand and began to march him apace, forcing the little boy to run to keep up, tripping on muddy ruts in the path. ‘I see you’ve to go to Melbourne to meet with your publishers soon.’ Mary changed the subject.
Tom nodded, but she could sense his concern at the edge she couldn’t keep out of her voice. She bit her lip hard rather than spoil his moment with talk of another drama involving her husband. Nothing should ruin Tom’s triumph. He’d waited long enough to taste it.
She was pleased, he was a happier man in all regards since the war over. Few fellows still wore the uniform. Now Tom could be an everyday man, living and working and dreaming; the years of accusation and guilt behind him.
‘Go and celebrate with your workmates at the pub before closing.’ Her encouragement fell on deaf ears. Tom still dogged her footsteps when they trod the path to Joe’s front door.
No Small Shame Page 29