Love and Mary Ann

by Catherine Cookson

  mary ann shaughnessy is a big liar and her da’s a drunken

  no-good and everybody knows it.

  So to Sarah’s greeting she answered not at all, but, turning her stiff, indignant glance on her brother, she said, ‘Our Michael!’ and in those two words was conveyed all the recrimination that his disloyalty warranted.

  Michael, his face one large blush now, demanded, ‘What’s up with you?’

  What could Mary Ann answer to this but, ‘I’ll tell me ma.’

  ‘Go on, tell her. Go on, nobody’s stopping you.’

  Mary Ann, floundering now in a situation of which she hadn’t had time to get the measure, turned her eyes upwards again towards Sarah and with something like the flavour from the old battlefield she demanded, ‘What you doing here, anyway? This is our place.’

  ‘Oh, be your age.’ This scathing and cool remark brought Mary Ann’s chin rearing upwards, but before she could say anything Sarah in a changed tone added, ‘We are not kids in Burton Street any more; why can’t you forget about them days?’

  It was as if an adult was chastising her. It was most unsettling and it would have deflated her entirely had she not grasped at one flaw in the seemingly superior poise of her old enemy. Sarah Flannagan had said ‘them’ instead of ‘those’; she didn’t speak properly. Slowly now and with Sister Catherine’s tuition well to the fore, she looked directly up into Sarah’s face and ejaculated—‘said’ could never describe her next words—‘I-am-bee-ing-my-age, and-no-matter-how-old-I-grow-I-shall-never-forget-what-you-have-said-about…my father.’

  It was as surprising to herself as to her listeners to hear her refer to Mike as ‘my father’. ‘Me da’ was synonymous with her feelings and claim to Mike as a parent; ‘my father’ was a word used by other children for other men.

  Sarah, without raising her voice, said, ‘All right, I’m not denying it.’

  ‘Well then!’

  ‘Well then, what about it?’

  ‘You were always a liar.’

  On this statement a change came over Sarah’s face and she looked more recognisable to Mary Ann. In another minute they would have been back on their old footing had not Sarah’s desire for peace, instigated, it must be confessed, by her acquaintance with Michael and her hopes for its continuance, made her turn what could have been a damning remark merely into an offensive one by saying, ‘Well, you could do your share. And, anyway, what I said was true, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It wasn’t!’ The denial was definite.

  ‘Oh, come off it, Mary Ann; you can’t hoodwink yourself any more. And what is it, anyway, getting drunk?’

  ‘He didn’t. He never got drunk.’

  ‘Shut up and don’t be so stupid.’ Michael’s indignant tone brought Mary Ann round to him, and Michael, towering over her now, his voice nearly as deep as Mike’s, said, ‘Sarah’s right. Be your age. You know he drank like a fish, and would now if it wasn’t for—’

  ‘Shut up, you! I’ll slap your face, our Michael, if you don’t shut up.’

  Michael shut up, and he boiled with rage as he shut up. It wasn’t the knowledge that she had a sore neck and shoulders that kept his hands off her, but he didn’t want to make a spectacle of himself in front of Sarah. And now Sarah, from her superior height, poured warm oil on the troubled waters, for she said quickly, ‘What does it matter about your da drinking; mine drinks like three dry Scotsmen. He has from that Coronation night when he went out with your da…Oh yes’—she laughed down on Mary Ann now—‘if you’re holding things against people, I should hold that against you, for it was from that night he started drinking, and heavily. But there’—her head wagged—‘I don’t hold drinking against me da, because he’s able to hold his own against me mother now more than he ever did afore and that’s a good thing. Me mother’s not half the tartar she was.’

  Mary Ann’s face was undergoing alterations, she was staring up at this Sarah Flannagan, at this new Sarah Flannagan, who was saying she didn’t mind her da drinking, and was saying that she knew her mother was a tartar. Then Sarah brought Mary Ann’s mouth into an even bigger gape when she said, ‘I’m getting away from home as soon as I can. When I leave school at the end of the summer Burton Street won’t see me. I’m coming out here to work in the stables for my uncle—I love horses.’ She turned her eyes now onto the pony’s neck and stroked its mane for a moment before looking down, not onto Mary Ann now, but onto Michael, and saying without any preamble, ‘I’ve had flu. I’m off school for a week and me uncle lets me exercise the horses if they haven’t been out during the day. You can come over any night and help if you like.’ Then without waiting for Michael’s answer she said, ‘So long now.’ Flicking her gaze next to Mary Ann, she said, ‘So long, Mary Ann.’ With a tap of her heels into the pony’s flanks she was off, leaving two strangely disturbed people behind her.

  Well, to talk to their Michael like that, to ask him to come and see her like that, pretending that it was to take the horses out. Well! Mary Ann had to find something to dislike this new Sarah Flannagan for. She couldn’t, not all in one go, turn the enemy of her life into a friend. Friend! That would be the day. Tolerable acquaintance would be more fitting the mark. And their Michael to talk to her…to even want to talk to Sarah Flannagan. And he did—she could tell by his face that he wanted to talk to her. She turned and looked now at her brother, but her brother was looking at the heels of the pony and its rider who was disappearing round the bend of the road, and from his expression Mary Ann knew to her shocked amazement that their Michael was ‘gone on Sarah Flannagan’. Wait until her ma heard that.

  It would seem that Michael had heard her thoughts, for he turned on her violently now, saying, ‘Go on, what’s stopping you now; get home and spill the beans. And let me tell you something.’ He stooped from his height and dug his finger into her narrow chest. ‘If you were as sensible as Sarah Flannagan you would do; and, what’s more, there wouldn’t be half the trouble going on—see?’

  She had come to meet their Michael off the bus—it had been a nice thought in its origin—and now she had met him, and all she wanted to do was to lash out and kick his shins. But, as last night, she realised she was growing older. And now as she watched Michael’s indignant back moving swiftly away from her she realised, too, that lashing out and kicking shins as a form of retaliation was also gone. Gone with the years of ‘Pig’s belly, Wobble jelly’, with ‘Swanky Shaughnessy, There she goes’, with,

  ‘Boxy, boxy,

  Push it down your socksy;

  Umper, umper, push it up your jumper.’

  The world was changing, her world was changing, she didn’t feel like herself any more. Slowly, and keeping a good distance behind Michael, she made her way home.

  What impression Michael’s news had on their mother Mary Ann did not know because she hadn’t been present when he told her. That he had told her she was positively sure because it was confirmed as soon as her da entered the kitchen, for turning to his father, Michael said, ‘Da, I’ve been talking to Sarah Flannagan at the end of the road; is there anything wrong in that?’

  Mike looked at his son for a moment, then repeated, ‘Sarah Flannagan? Here? What’s she after?’

  ‘She was exercising one of the ponies—her uncle’s ponies.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Mike flicked his eyes in Mary Ann’s direction. She was waiting for his glance but could make nothing of it. And then Michael said, ‘And she’s asked me to go along there and help if I want to.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  Michael’s eyelids flickered before he said. ‘Well, yes, yes I do.’

  ‘Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, is there? That is if you get your homework done.’

  Mike and his son looked at each other for a space, and then Mike, with a wry smile to his lips, said, ‘Enjoy yourself. And it’s a good way to start—with horses.’

  With horses! Her da had said nothing about Sarah Flannagan, nothing that he should say. And her mother had said noth
ing. People were funny. Everything was very funny at the present time, and it wasn’t funny ha-ha either.

  Chapter Seven: Diplomacy

  Almost invariably Mike’s mail consisted of bills in thin brown envelopes or of catalogues. The latter he would peruse during breakfast, commenting on their nature to Lizzie with such remarks as: ‘They are on about immunising the calves against husk. Better be safe than sorry, I suppose’, or ‘I think I’ll try these Conder people for seeds for the barley’. But never had Mary Ann known him to read a letter then put it in his pocket, which was what he had just done. The envelope had been typed, she had noticed this as she watched him slit it open, and some change in his expression as he looked at the letter caused her to keep her eyes on him. And when he had finished it she watched him slowly fold it up and place it in his back trouser pocket, for he hadn’t a coat on. Her mother, too, had noticed this, and under ordinary circumstances would have said, ‘What’s that about?’ But Mary Ann knew that although her mother spoke to her da in front of them she was still…not kind with him, and this prevented her from asking about the letter.

  Then at the end of breakfast Mike said something that chilled Mary Ann’s heart, and her mother’s too, for she saw her mother’s face turn a greyish colour when her da said, ‘I’ll have to be slipping out this mornin’. I’ll go and see to Len and Jonesy and then I’ll be off.’ With this, he pulled on his working coat and left the kitchen.

  Mary Ann looked at their Michael, but Michael was looking at their mother, and Lizzie was looking out of the kitchen window watching her husband stride down the path towards the gate.

  This was Saturday. Her da had taken his day off yesterday as usual. What had he to go out for…into Newcastle for? She felt that Newcastle was his destination. Was he going to see…? She would not even say the name to herself, but she saw the face of Mrs Quinton smiling under her smart white hat and, as always when anxiety hit her, it registered in her stomach and for a moment she felt sick. And her mother felt sick, too. She could tell by her face that she felt sick.

  But Lizzie’s expression now was nothing compared to the look on her face when, half an hour later, Mike came downstairs dressed in his best suit. He glanced in the mirror and pulled his tie straight before saying, ‘I’ll be off now.’

  Her face was half turned from him and her voice was low as she asked, ‘Will you be long?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose so.’ He bent his head and kissed her cheek and she never moved.

  Mary Ann had not asked, ‘Can I go with you, Da?’ It was Saturday morning and she had nothing to do, but she hadn’t asked a question that she knew would be useless. And when he went out without bidding her a goodbye she felt as if her world had come to an end. The feeling she was experiencing was even worse than at those times in the past when he had gone out to get full. In a way she knew how to cope with drink, experience had taught her so much, but a woman was different. Mrs Quinton had said she loved her husband. Then why was she going after her da? Perhaps she wasn’t, perhaps the letter wasn’t from her. The feeling in Mary Ann’s breast held out no hope that she was mistaken. She sat in the kitchen, her face the picture of misery, until some time later Lizzie, turning on her sharply, said, ‘Don’t sit there looking like that, get yourself out to play.’

  ‘I don’t want to play, Ma. And, anyway, there’s nobody to play with.’

  ‘Well, go and do something. Do your homework or anything, but don’t sit there looking like that.’

  When Mary Ann got to her feet and stood hesitating whether to go outside or upstairs Lizzie said suddenly, ‘You can get your things on and go to Mrs McBride’s and take her some eggs and things.’

  Another time she would have jumped for joy at being allowed to go to Mrs McBride’s, particularly as her mother had been doing her best to keep her away from Mulhattans’ Hall and the district. But this morning it brought her no joy. Silently she went upstairs and put on her coat, brushed her hair and was about to tie it back with a ribbon when she remembered the ponytail hanging down Sarah Flannagan’s back. So she left it swinging loose. Then returning to the kitchen, she took the basket from the table and her bus fare from her mother, and without any other word but a dull, ‘Bye-bye, Ma’, she left the house.

  Coming dolefully to the main road, Mary Ann discovered she had missed the bus she usually took into Jarrow, so she caught the next one. The route was a little longer but would get her there just the same.

  She had been travelling in the bus about fifteen minutes and was passing an open space where a factory was under construction when her interest was quickened by seeing in large letters the name that was actually filling her mind at the moment. It was heading a hoarding which said simply: robert quinton—builder and contractor. The hoarding drew her eyes like a magnet and she twisted around in her seat to catch a last glimpse of it.

  When she alighted at the next stop she did not remember having made the decision, the advisability of which she questioned by saying to herself, ‘It’s Saturday, there’ll be nobody about.’ The glimpse she had had of the place had shown her no-one at work. But as she walked back up the road towards the main entrance she said to herself, ‘There’ll be a watchman or someone and he’ll tell me when he’ll be there.’ The last ‘he’ referred to Mr Robert Quinton, Builder and Contractor. Had she been asked she would have been unable to tell you when the thought of going to see Bob had entered her mind. Now that it was in and firmly fixed, see him she must.

  The enclosure was a mass of bricks, girders and machinery surrounding the skeleton of a large factory, with a row of prefab buildings to the side of it. There was no sign of a watchman. In fact, there was no sign of a living soul about the place. A notice which had the single word ‘Office’ and an arrow on it led her around a pile of rubble, under the arm of a gigantic grab, and behind a cement mixer, and there she saw the building. It was the last of the line of prefab structures. It had one window and this was almost taken up by a man’s back—likely the watchman’s.

  Making hastily for the door and not looking where she was placing her feet, she tripped and almost fell. She just saved the basket from scattering its contents, but sent an empty tin drum, which she had grabbed in an effort to save herself, clattering amongst a heap of iron. When she was upright once again and facing the window the back had disappeared, and before she reached the office door it was opened. And there stood Bob Quinton himself.

  ‘Well, well, Mary Ann. What…what are you doing here?’

  She saw that Mr Quinton was surprised to see her, and also that he was slightly uneasy.

  ‘I wanted to see you and I was looking for the watchman to ask him…I didn’t think you’d be here when they’re not working.’

  ‘Oh, I’m usually around when there’s no work to do.’ He laughed as if he had made a great joke, then stopped abruptly. Looking down on her, he said, ‘It’s a long time since we met, Mary Ann—you haven’t changed much.’

  This was a way of telling her that she hadn’t grown. She said, ‘I’ll be thirteen on the first of June.’

  ‘Will you indeed? Time does fly, doesn’t it?’ He moved from one foot to the other, and rubbed his hands together. His actions spoke of his unease, and this somehow strengthened Mary Ann’s courage and she said quietly but quite firmly, ‘I would like to talk to you, Mr Quinton.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes…yes, please.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now his unease mounted to almost agitation and he said, ‘Well now, well now, I’m—I’m rather full up with work, clerical work, you know.’

  ‘I won’t keep you, if I could come in just for a minute?’

  There were two reasons why she wanted to enter the office: first, to be able to put the basket down somewhere safely, preferably on a level floor; second, her legs were beginning to shake and she wanted to sit down.

  But her request seemed to throw Mr Quinton into a dither, and if Mary Ann hadn’t known she had left her mother safely at home, she would have thought Mr Q
uinton had her in his office, and so did not want to let her go in. But when after a minute or so and a big intake of breath Mr Quinton stood aside and, without speaking, allowed her to enter the office, she found it quite empty.

  Thankfully she placed the basket on the floor, and without waiting for a formal invitation she sat down. Then, without any preamble as was her way when dealing with important things, she came straight to the point, saying, ‘I was at Beatrice Willoughby’s party a week past Saturday and I met your—I met Mrs Quinton.’

  Mr Quinton, knowing something of Mary Ann’s past history, remained quiet, but seemingly even more agitated, for his eyes ranged round the room, and at one time Mary Ann was surprised to see him biting on the side of his forefinger. He had turned his gaze completely away from her when she said, ‘We were playing hide-and-seek. I was in the brush cupboard in the kitchen and I heard Mrs…Mrs Quinton and Mrs Willoughby talking. They were talking about you and…and me ma, Mr Quinton.’

  Bob’s head jerked round towards her even while his body was turned from her. And, looking at him standing in this strained position, she went on, ‘And I felt sick and had to come out of the cupboard. And Mrs Quinton held my head, and after we got talking and she told me something.’

  Bob was facing Mary Ann now and he had his eyes closed, and he said, weakly, even pleadingly, ‘Mary Ann.’ Her name spoken in such a tone was a plea for her to stop, but she didn’t stop, she hadn’t reached the important point of her mission yet, she was coming to it. Ignoring the plea, she went on with quiet resolution. ‘She said she liked you…she liked you very much, the same way as me ma likes me da.’

  Bob Quinton now put his hand out backwards and, grabbing at a seat, swung it round. Then, dropping onto it, he faced Mary Ann. But all he said was, ‘Oh, Mary Ann’, in a tone one would say, ‘My dear, my dear’. And encouraged, she went on more quickly now, and, sensing an advantage, she let her imagination have full play by adding, ‘Mrs Quinton was crying’—this at least was true—‘and she said that she was silly and jealous and she couldn’t help going on and on about a thing and it got on your nerves. But that she still liked you—and she would always like you, forever.’