A Grand Man (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  Ah . . . there, it was over. Father Owen had not disappeared through the vestry door before she was on her feet.

  ‘Sit down and wait until the class is out.’ A hand on her shoulder and the hissed command from Miss Johnson brought her bottom abruptly into contact with the hard seat.

  Oh, Miss Johnson! She had eyes like a gimlet. Oh dear! Bust! Now as like as not she’d keep her back till the very last.

  Which was exactly what Miss Johnson did. Row after row of children swarmed methodically into the aisle. With noisy caution they kicked against the wooden kneelers, gasped audibly as they genuflected towards the altar, and invariably scraped their feet on the heating grids.

  Mary Ann kept her eyes riveted on Miss Johnson’s back, but Miss Johnson seemed to have entirely forgotten Mary Ann’s presence. She was standing six rows away and apparently in another world.

  Oh the beast . . . oh she was awful. Mary Ann wriggled on her seat as if she were already on that gridiron so often prophesied by her granny. Everybody would be gone home. Perhaps even Mr Lord would think she’d gone, and he’d go away. There was no fear strong enough to keep her in her seat; she rose to her feet and, moving quietly into the aisle, genuflected and bowed her head to the altar, only to lift it to Miss Johnson’s legs which she surmised had been whipped in front of her by lightning, or the devil.

  ‘I thought I told you to wait until the church emptied?’

  You don’t argue with a teacher or Mary Ann would have said, ‘You said wait until the class had gone, which is quite a different thing from waiting until the church was empty.’

  Perhaps the swish of Father Owen’s gown had some influence on Miss Johnson’s censure, for she murmured softly, ‘Go on now; but come to me in the morning.’

  Without a word Mary Ann turned away, and it was only with the greatest restraint that she stopped herself from running up the aisle – or was it the fact that she was ’twixt the devil and the deep sea, with Miss Johnson behind her and Father Owen in front?

  Father Owen paused before going out into the porch and patted the heads of self-conscious philanthropists as she or he made a great show of putting a penny into the poor box or lighting a candle to their favourite saint. Mary Ann did neither, but she was going past him, actually without looking at him and on the verge of a run now, when his hand descended on her head.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing, Father.’

  ‘You were kept in.’

  ‘Yes, Father, ’cause I wanted to get out quick.’

  A twinkle in his eye softened the harshness of his words. ‘Out quick? Away from God as quickly as you can?’

  ‘No, Father. But you see, it’s a special morning.’

  Oh dear, dear. Wouldn’t he take his hand off her head? She glanced with evident longing towards the door. ‘What’s extra special about it?’

  ‘Mr Lord – he’s come to take me for a ride . . . I was going to come and tell you last night but I was sick and vomited all over the place.’

  ‘Mr Lord?’ The pressure on her head became heavier and her hat was hurting her ears. The priest bent nearer to her. ‘What were you saying about Mr Lord?’

  ‘He’s given me da a job and a fine cottage. I prayed to the Holy Family and they told me to go and have a talk with him, just like you said yourself, Father. Oh Father, can I go now?’

  He took his hand from her head but said, ‘Wait a minute. When did you talk to him?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, Father. I got up early and crawled through the barbed wire and knocked on his door.’

  Father Owen straightened up. He could not step back for he was already against the wall, but he drew his chin in and half closed his eyes as if to focus her better, then he began to chuckle.

  Mary Ann could not go without his word, but she moved from one foot to the other just to show him the extent of her need to hurry. But he only continued to chuckle. ‘Where is he going to meet you?’

  ‘Outside, Father, just outside—’ she pointed to the door and moved a step towards it, trying to draw him with her.

  ‘Did you ask him to meet you outside here?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He continued to stare at her, but he remained where he was. He knew exactly why she had requested the car to be brought to the church just after Mass but he could not for the life of him imagine what form her persuasion had taken to make Peter Lord agree to bringing it. His head wagged. ‘Well, well.’ And he had given Mike the job. Again ‘Well, well.’ And all through this little mite’s tongue . . . Nothing she would do or say would ever surprise him.

  But here Father Owen was wrong.

  ‘Will you come and see, Father, or else he’ll be away?’

  ‘No. No, Mary Ann . . . you run along.’

  This was her hour. He knew his presence out on the street would only deflect some of the children’s attention from her and he guessed he’d be the last person Peter Lord would wish to see this morning. No, he’d stay where he was.

  ‘I’ll come and tell you all about it the morrer. Goodbye, Father.’

  She was gone; and after waiting a few seconds Father Owen’s good intentions were also gone. Cautiously he went into the porch and towards the main doorway.

  The crowd that awaited Mary Ann was somewhat disappointing. There weren’t more than twenty-five altogether . . . It was that beastly Miss Johnson’s fault. They had all gone home; and the car wasn’t right opposite the church door either, but some way along the street.

  However, the number of the crowd did not matter so much, it was the quality of it that counted. And the quality to her was of the best, for it consisted of most of her class and, pleasure upon pleasure, Sarah Flannagan.

  The car was facing her and as she ran towards it holding on to her hat with one hand she waved to the grim face behind the wheel with the other, and it was no imagination on her part that the face relaxed into a smile and a hand was raised in response to her salute.

  ‘Get by!’ Mary Ann directed this command to Sarah Flannagan who was standing on the pavement well to the side of the car door. In fact, all the children had kept a respectful distance from the car. Sarah was no more in Mary Ann’s way than were two or three of the other children, and she did not, as some of the others did, shuffle a few steps to the side, but she stood her ground. ‘Get by yersel,’ she said.

  Mary Ann got by. She walked round her enemy with her lips and her nose pursed and eye to eye with her, for Sarah slowly pivoted in the same direction.

  As Mary Ann reached the car door it opened, but she gave no word of greeting to Mr Lord, only smiled warmly at him before ducking beneath his outstretched arm to sit herself with dignity on the edge of the seat. The door banged and there was a soft purr, then from the open window she faced the little crowd of children, now gathered closer about the car; but her eyes rested only on one, and to Sarah she addressed herself.

  ‘Now you see who’s a liar, Sarah Flannagan. You wouldn’t believe about our house and the cars and the horses, would you? Well, we’re going into our new house the morrer, and there’s four horses, and me da’s got a right fine job, better than your da will ever have, ’cause he’s a drunken no-good and’ – her voice rose to a shrill pipe and all her dignity vanished – ‘if you dare to call me a liar again you won’t half catch it, because this . . . ’ she cried finally, sticking her head out of the window now and jerking her thumb over her shoulder, ‘is me Granda!’

  There was a shocked silence in Heaven, while down in the church porch Father Owen bent his head and covered his face with one hand.

  ‘There you go – I tell you it did happen. Ooh, you’ll believe nothing – it’s like Sarah Flannagan you are!’

  The End

 

 

 
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