Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  This was Magsy’s other job and she took it very seriously. From the age of three, Beth had been reading and writing. Now nine, she played her part at school, never appearing too knowledgeable, though her private studies had now taken her far beyond her own mother’s abilities. The child opened a book, grinned broadly. ‘You got it, Mam.’

  ‘Yes, I did indeed. I must take it back, though, because it’s a valuable book.’

  Beth opened the cover carefully, peeled back a layer of tissue. ‘This is the nervous system,’ she explained to Magsy, ‘all the blue lines are the major nerves in our bodies. We have hundreds of miles of these. They allow us to feel heat, cold, pain and physical pleasure. We use them to distinguish textures, too. Otherwise, if blindfolded, we would not know the difference between a brick and a block of wood. Each sense adds to the others – sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste are all complementary to each other. The human body is amazing,’ Beth concluded.

  Magsy swallowed, wondered how on earth this child’s emotional self was going to keep pace with her intellect. A stranger coming in would wonder what was going on. A nine-year-old lecturing an adult on the subject of physical pleasures? ‘Like when we stroke a cat – that kind of pleasure?’ asked Magsy.

  Beth, already lost among diagrams, simply nodded. She had reached the part that explained physical movement, which also depended on nerves.

  This was how it had become. Magsy still sat in on the studies, but roles had been reversed slowly, steadily, until she was now the student. But this system had its compensations, because, in explaining the intricacies of anatomy to her mother, Beth compounded her own learning by translating it and passing it on. She was going to be a doctor. ‘If we lose our sight,’ Beth explained, ‘other senses become more acute to make up for the loss.’

  Magsy nodded – she had heard about that.

  ‘But the loss of nerves can be dangerous. We need to feel pain, Mammy. Pain is the first warning that something is wrong. It is a message to the brain asking for help.’

  ‘Miss Hulme can see for miles,’ commented Magsy, ‘or so they say. It seems the deafness has made the eyes work harder.’

  ‘Smelly Nellie,’ murmured Beth.

  There, thought a relieved Magsy, that was the child speaking. Inside the miniature adult, there remained a junior school girl who played cowboys and Indians, skipping rope, hopscotch and marbles. There was a huge collection of the latter in a jar on the sideboard. When it came to marbles, Beth O’Gara was legendary. Many boys in the area came begging for swaps, since Beth’s collection of ballbearings in a variety of sizes was massive. A ‘bolly’ was worth at least three glass ‘ollies’ in the local barter system.

  Magsy’s eyes swept the room, taking in piles of books, a photograph of her dead husband, some ironing, a few bits of utility furniture. Every last penny after food and rent went into the improvement of Elizabeth O’Gara. Magsy was determined that her daughter would not become a mill-girl or a cleaner. Beth would have a proper job, one that carried respect and a decent salary. Oh yes, Beth would never wear an apron at work. A thought struck – surgeons wore aprons, but their aprons were not badges of slavery.

  ‘Mammy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘Which man?’

  Beth closed her book. ‘You’re blushing, Mammy.’

  Magsy laughed. ‘Ah, that’ll be the heat from the fire.’

  Beth was unconvinced – the fire was scarcely up and running. ‘Don’t try to wriggle off the hook – I saw you coming down the street with him.’

  ‘Ah, that man.’ Magsy turned away and put the blower to the flames. The blower, a square of metal with a handle at its centre, served to encourage flame to pull its way up the chimney, thereby enlivening the weakest of fires.

  ‘I’ve seen him before,’ continued Beth.

  ‘Oh, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Magsy carried on tending the grate. She had no idea why, but she did feel embarrassed, as if she had been caught doing something wrong. And she hadn’t done wrong at all. ‘We were walking in the same direction, Beth.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you were.’

  The mother, feeling the child’s eyes boring into her back, removed the blower, took up the poker and lifted kindling to allow in more oxygen. The trouble with having an intelligent daughter was that said daughter was always a couple of paces ahead, sometimes in the wrong direction. ‘You have an imagination,’ said Magsy, ‘but don’t let it run wild.’

  ‘Paul Horrocks.’ There was a giggle contained in Beth’s words. ‘Lives round the back with his mother. She is ill in bed and he has to do everything for her. According to Mrs Higgins, the poor man will never get married while his mother’s alive.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, Mammy.’

  When Magsy turned round, Beth’s nose had reburied itself in neurology. Beth always knew a great deal about the neighbours, as she spent time with Sal Higgins, who made everyone’s business her business. Not that there was any malice in Sal . . .

  ‘Do you like him, Mammy?’

  ‘Read your book.’

  ‘But do you?’ The chin was raised. ‘I won’t mind. If you get married again, I’ll be happy for you.’

  ‘Holy St Joseph,’ cried Magsy, ‘can I not walk along a few paces without the banns being announced to all and sundry? You are a desperate torment to me, Beth O’Gara.’

  ‘We couldn’t breathe or eat without nerves,’ came the reply.

  Well, thought Magsy, thank the same holy St Joseph for that. The good thing about a genius was that she was easily drawn back into her chosen subject of study. Marry again, indeed. What would she be wanting with a new husband when no-one could hold a candle to Billy O’Gara? Such dignity, he had owned. Magsy had called him William, because that name had suited him. She carried the kettle through to the scullery, poured its contents into the enamel washing-up bowl.

  The voice of genius floated through the doorway. ‘He’s had a lot of women after him, Mammy.’

  Magsy scrubbed bacon fat from a plate.

  ‘He is very handsome.’

  Knives and forks clattered.

  ‘Are you going to see him again, Mammy?’

  A flustered Magsy appeared in the doorway between scullery and kitchen, a knife in her hand. ‘Have you any idea about what I’d like to do with this?’

  Beth grinned. ‘You’d have to sharpen it first – that wouldn’t make a dent in my epidermis. You’d be better with a scalpel.’

  The special moment happened then, an event they shared on an almost daily basis. They laughed. The precious gift of shared humour was the most valued expression of their love. It had seen them through days with insufficient bread, no gas for light or cooking, little fuel for their fire. Always, always, they would be close.

  ‘We’ll get there, Mammy,’ said Beth when the noise faded to a giggle.

  ‘That we will, my love. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, we shall get you there.’

  ‘Not just me, Mammy. This is for us, for both of us.’

  Magsy smiled, though her eyes pricked. Beth would move forward, would meet her William – please God – and travel on along her own road. ‘Just remember,’ she whispered now, ‘that you are my daughter. It isn’t pride, Beth, but I know there is something in me and that I have passed it on to you. Yet whatever you do, it must be for yourself.’

  ‘You gave me strength, Mammy. You gave me reading and writing, you gave me happiness and fun.’

  ‘Even when there was nothing to eat?’

  Beth closed her eyes against the sweetest pain. ‘Especially then, Mammy, especially then.’

  There was trouble in the street, a disquiet that passed itself along Nellie Hulme’s spine until the hair on her scalp rose and tried to walk away. She didn’t know what this sixth sense was or where it came from, but it was very much a part of her essence. It might have been best described as a tingling sensation, as if some ki
nd of electric current switched itself on in her stomach, feelers spreading until her backbone was on red alert.

  She had seen it all from behind the tattered remnants of her adoptive mother’s curtains, had watched Ernest Barnes hobbling across the street to the Higgins house. What a fall he had taken, too. Mother had explained to Nellie about Catholics and Orange Lodgers, but why hadn’t all that ended? The war had altered things, surely?

  Restless on that Sunday, she watched Magsy O’Gara waving young Beth off to Mass. An insomniac, Nellie saw most of what went on in the early mornings. Five o’clock, Magsy O’Gara had set out for work on the Sabbath. She had done about four hours, and was now sending her daughter off to church, to the eleven o’clock Mass, a long service with no communion. So Beth might have eaten, at least. In Nellie’s opinion, the custom of denying food before communion was nothing less than barbaric, but at least she didn’t hate Christians who chose to worship the Roman way.

  Magsy had walked down with a young man from Fox Street, a personable character with good looks and a nice smile. Dressed in working clothes, he, too, had been called upon for Sunday work. Something to do with building, Nellie guessed, from the cut of his clothes. She smiled. Was this the beginning of a courtship? Oh, she hoped so. When she wasn’t working, Nellie had a penchant for lurid love stories. Their bitter-sweetness reminded her of all she had missed, yet the same quality reassured her that life and love would go on for ever.

  Nellie was still restless. A strange urge had come over her, a need that was just an almost impossible dream. Nellie wanted a clean house. No matter what she did, no matter how well she protected her materials, they stank – even though they went straight from the laundry to the customer, there was still a whiff of Nellie about them.

  Her sense of smell was well developed and she wished that it would deteriorate. She had been quite happy with her haphazard life, but she had suddenly started to notice how filthy her house really was. The job of clearing it was too much for her, too much for ten men. Yet who could she get to help her? And there was no point in starting with personal cleanliness, as she would quickly revert to her original condition if she went to the slipper baths only to return to this unprepossessing place.

  Nellie picked up a tin, its lid sealed against dirt. She would do this, she really would, because she wanted to, wanted to give something to the people across the street. Ernest Barnes might be in hospital, but Nellie’s sympathies lay with the large family opposite, the happy band whose father had been at the receiving end of Ernest’s stick.

  She opened the door, looked left and right. It was such a short distance, yet a lifetime away. Nellie had never crossed the street. She had walked up it, down it, but never across it. Her parents had kept themselves very much to themselves, and Nellie had followed suit. But she stepped down onto the pavement and waddled over to the Higgins house.

  Sal opened the door. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  Nellie knew with a blinding certainty that she was not being judged, that this woman took folk as she found them. ‘Toffees,’ she mouthed, ‘kiddies.’

  Sal’s face spread into a huge smile.

  ‘Clean.’ Nellie shook the tin, showed that it was closed.

  ‘Come in?’ asked Sal.

  Nellie shook her head. Why should her filth infect a household that was already troubled?

  Sal took the sweets. ‘Thank you.’ Her mouth moved all over the place as she sought to make contact with this deaf woman. ‘Very good of you.’

  Nellie turned and walked back to her hovel. She had done an important thing today. She had made contact with a nice woman and she had given sweets to children. It was a giant step. Now, she needed cardboard boxes, sacks, tea-chests – whatever. An inch at a time, she would get this place right.

  It took over half an hour to find the top of the dresser, but Nellie experienced a feeling of pure triumph when she discovered its surface. Slowly, very slowly, she would get to the bottom of things.

  As she gazed at her blurred face in the dusty mirror, she suddenly realized the full extent of her intentions. The reason behind her recent activity had little to do with living conditions. Her heart bounced around in her chest like a kiddy’s toy. She faced her reflection, faced the days to come. The decision was disturbingly sudden. Because Nellie Hulme was going to find out who she was and where she had come from.

  Ensconced once more in her favourite chair, exhausted by her effort to clear that minute section of her cluttered home, she slept. The dream came again, a tall man, an elegant lady. This time, Nellie was inside a house, but the room was vague. It felt like a large room and it contained a great deal of furniture. There was a portrait over the fireplace, but the figure depicted was unclear. The lady sat near the window; she was sewing very quickly. The tall man was near the fireplace – he was seated and reading.

  Plates clattered. Nellie left the room and found herself in a kitchen. A large lady was banging something on the table, probably dough for bread. Nellie could hear each crash as the woman pounded the mix. A dog barked. Outside, birds twittered in the trees, their conversation loud and quarrelsome.

  Nellie ran through the doorway into that green world. The fields went on for ever, rising in gentle slopes towards a far horizon. She was so small that she could not look into the horse trough, even when she stood on tiptoe. A ladybird crawled up her arm, unfolded its wings and flew away. In her dream, the beating of the insect’s wings was as loud as the flapping of a hen. Yes, there were hens, and there was a cockerel who made a terrible noise. Cows lowed. In a nearby field, they began to congregate, lining up like a row of people in a shop. They were going to be milked.

  She woke, sweat pouring down her forehead, stinging her eyes. Those two people were her parents, of that she felt sure. They had given her away to the Hulmes because she had turned out sub-standard, deaf, non-speaking. Somewhere in this terrible house, there was a clue – perhaps the whole answer.

  Every month, the money came, the amount increasing to keep pace, just about, with the cost of living. It sat now in a bank account, as Nellie had no need of it. In 1949, her income from lace-making had been over four hundred pounds, enough to buy the house in her dream. Why, if she could face the humiliation, she could easily afford a few cleaners to come in and mend this place. No. She had to do it herself. Whilst having no concept of what she was looking for, she knew that she would recognize whatever it was when she found it. Someone else might throw it away with all the other wreckage. After all, it was probably just another very old piece of paper.

  Yes, the money was there, but money was not the issue; what Nellie wanted was to trace her own history, her background. To do that, she needed to be clean and respectable. The Hulmes, gentle, kind people, had been good to her. They had taught her to read, to count, to draw, paint and sew. They had loved her, had protected her from a world that was often cruel to a child who was different. But those two good people had told her nothing beyond the fact that they had chosen her to be their daughter.

  Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to revisit the dream, to remember the sounds contained within it, but, as ever, she failed. Yes, it was time to find out the whole truth.

  Five

  Why did the little things get her down? Lily Hardcastle put the iron on the hearth and sank into a chair. In the end, it was the tiny details of life that corroded the surface, burning away till flesh and bone got wearied.

  For a start, there was him and his nose. He’d never warned her before the wedding, hadn’t bothered to tell her that he spent most of his time at home with a finger stuck up one of his nostrils. Sam Hardcastle was probably the world champion nose-picker, such a perfectionist that his wife was surprised that he had stopped short of removing brain tissue.

  Lily shook her head and heaved a great sigh. Her husband ought to have cups and certificates all over the house, his name in the papers, a letter from the king. And Sam had become so absorbed in his hobby that his features seemed to rearrange themselves throughou
t these regular excavations, gob wide open, face like a fit, as Lily’s mother had been heard to opine. At work, he mined coal; in his house he carried on mining, wiping each retrieved item on the cushion that supported him. Lily was tired of washing his ‘crusties’ off the cover. At least the deposits were mostly on just one side of the chair, as his second picking finger had been blown off in the war. Sam always used his little finger, just occasionally inserting a longer digit when that extra quarter-inch was required.

  Danny, her eldest, had started to drink, although his attitude remained apologetic and he always tipped up money for his keep, bless him. He ate with his mouth wide open, did Danny. It was like sitting across from a miniature version of a cement mixer, contents rolled this way and that, a great deal of noise accompanying the process. She’d told him over the years that these performances rendered her sick in the stomach, and the lad had tried, but he couldn’t seem to eat like a normal person.

  Aaron. Oh God, Aaron. Where had she gone wrong at all? Aaron had feet. He hadn’t always had them, but they had burgeoned in recent months as he strode towards manhood. She had bought a special bowl for Aaron’s feet, and many pairs of socks, too. He was supposed to clean his feet straight away when he returned from school, though he seldom did. Whatever came out of Aaron’s socks should be taken to a laboratory for analysis and given to the War Office to be used as an offensive weapon next time Germany kicked off. It would be like Napoleon’s retreat from Russia, the enemy drifting away into oblivion, many never to be seen again.

  History was interesting, thought Lily, who had started to pick up factual books from the library. Yes, and Aaron’s feet produced something very close to mustard gas, of that Lily was certain. She never had to wonder where Aaron was – she just followed her nose.

  Roy was still a kiddy, but Lily knew what was coming. Both the older boys had been blessed with teenage spots, though they had managed to stop short of manufacturing craters all over their faces. Roy had fiddled with his chicken pox until his skin had started to bear a strong resemblance to the surface of the moon. And there was something about redheads that made such blemishes more visible, probably because their epidermis was finer than the skin of most other folk. The red hair had come from Sam’s side of the family, so Lily took no blame for that.