Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘They’re only six weeks, Mam,’ came the plaintive reply.

  ‘Seven,’ she snapped. ‘I should know, I’ve had to live with the little buggers. Now, get rid, or they go to Vernon Street.’ Vernon Street was where dogs went when nobody wanted them.

  Roy sighed dramatically. There were only four pups, all male, all healthy enough, but he did not know where to begin when it came to disposing of them. Beth O’Gara had been right – she was always right, that one – Skinny’s babies were nothing like greyhounds. They had big feet for a start, dinner plates as Mam called them. Their heads were out of proportion with their bodies, while their tails were like bits of string, straggly and fraying at the ends. Nobody would like them. Like any decent father, Roy adored the offspring, but he tried to view them objectively and had to conclude, however reluctantly, that these were not things of beauty.

  ‘I want them gone by Christmas,’ she continued, ‘they’ve already ate three socks and the peg rug.’

  Roy looked at the evidence, holes in the rug Mam had pegged from old clothes. ‘We needed a new rug any road,’ he mumbled.

  ‘And I need a week in Blackpool, but I won’t get one,’ replied his mother.

  He sighed again, waited for the lecture to continue.

  ‘Anyway,’ added Lily, ‘Mags says Beth can have one.’

  Roy grinned broadly. That was nearly the same as keeping a puppy, because he would see Beth most days. Skinny was staying, but she had to have an operation to stop more pups being born. Mam had an operation jar on the mantelpiece where she saved for the vet’s bill. Mam wasn’t as hard-hearted as she pretended to be.

  ‘Can we keep one?’ he begged.

  Lily rounded on him, a large knife clutched in her right hand. ‘Now, listen here, you,’ she chided. ‘I’ve kept me promise and she’s had her pups. They’re weaning, Roy. They want meat and biscuits – I can’t hardly afford to keep Skinny, never mind the others. Now, get out of this house and start fettling. There must be some crazy so-and-so out there who wants a pup for Christmas.’

  He picked up the least ugly of Skinny’s brood, placed it under his coat and dragged his way out of the house. Argument would be futile, because Mam was right – the Hardcastles could not afford to feed more than one dog. He tried not to look at the trusting little face that peeped out from his jacket, blinked back tears as a tongue licked his throat. This was the fattest pup, its markings lopsided, a black patch surrounding one eye, another ink-blot right in the middle of its mostly white back.

  He sat on the step and wondered where to start. The O’Garas were having one, so that left three. Who could manage to look after Spot properly? Who would care enough for the little creature? And he wouldn’t cry, no, he definitely would not cry.

  A hand touched his shoulder and a familiar smell assaulted his nose. It was Nellie-Next-Door. ‘Hello,’ mouthed Roy.

  She bent forward and stroked the little dog’s head. The boy was near to tears and Nellie knew why. ‘Me,’ she said, though no sound emerged from her mouth. ‘Me.’ It was a sudden decision, but she stood by it. There was enough money to keep a houseful of little dogs – and a bit of company would be nice.

  Roy’s brain went into top gear. She wasn’t fit to have one of his puppies, wasn’t clean, even if she had started sorting her way through the wreckage. It stank, did Smelly’s house. And she ate daft stuff, would give daft stuff to Spot. He clung to the little dog, his mind scuttering about all over the place, thoughts colliding, worry making him stupid.

  ‘Me,’ she repeated.

  Well, there was another way of looking at this, Roy told himself. Number 1 might not be the poshest house, but it was next door. Spot and Tinker – the pup he had assigned to Beth O’Gara – would be right on his doorstep. He would be able to keep an eye on them both. And anyway, there was such kindness in Nellie’s eyes that she would surely do her best for Spot.

  Nellie handed him a pound.

  Startled, he shrank back. A whole quid? For a mongrel?

  The large woman nodded vigorously and pushed the money into Roy’s pocket.

  He gulped, then drew the shivering pup out into the cold December air. ‘Spot,’ he said.

  ‘Spot,’ she repeated silently.

  For the first time in his young life, Roy Hardcastle actually thought about Nellie Hulme. Being deaf must have been horrible. She couldn’t listen to the wireless, never heard anybody knocking at her door, had to lip-read at the pictures. She had no husband, no children, no company. She lived every day the same, sewing or whatever in that upstairs room, walking to the chip shop, visiting the cinema or the library. He had never worked out why she went to the cinema, because she couldn’t hear anything. Yet he did know the answer, yes, of course he did. There were other people at the pictures. At the pictures, she felt normal. Nobody liked her because she smelled funny, but she paid her money to watch the film and became the same as everybody else. He handed over the puppy and tried to smile.

  Nellie held the creature, felt its warmth, was pleased that it did not turn away from her. Humans objected to her; this little fellow would love her no matter what. Her own affection was born in that moment, in the instant when the tongue licked her chin. She had a dog; she had a companion.

  In the past three months, Nellie Hulme had made considerable progress inside her hovel. Piles of newspapers, old clothes and broken furniture had been removed by Charlie Entwistle, the rag man from the end house. The narrow hall was all but cleared, while Nellie’s living room now boasted an area of ground clear enough for linoleum to be visible.

  She placed Spot in a box, knew that he was whimpering, saw the little mouth opening and closing as he fretted for his mother and his three brothers. Poor little mite – he was probably hungry. After removing the pastry from a pie, Nellie cut up the meat and fed the dog crumb-sized morsels of beef.

  Spot’s eyes widened. This was all suddenly very promising – good food, a box to himself, a nice hot fire burning in the grate. He yawned when his stomach was full, accepted his lot with the equanimity born into dogs of mixed breed. He had a good home – what more could a puppy want?

  Nellie stroked her pet until he slept, smiled when he ‘ran’ in his dream, wondered how newborn animals could possibly manage to dream. It was bred into them, she decided; it was race-memory, was handed down through the ages, passed from dog to dog right back to the Stone Age and before. Like the first wolf brave enough to approach humanity, this puppy had come in from the cold to warm himself at a caveman’s fire.

  If this little mite knew exactly what he was, then she, too, had the right to know. Like Spot, she experienced dreams; unlike Spot, she had no idea of her own identity. A room, a garden, a man, a woman. Birdsong that eluded her during hours of wakefulness, a man’s voice, a woman’s laugh – Father, Mother? And the other thing, the nightmare whose edges had begun to touch her troubled soul when dawn approached, a nameless fear that made her sweat.

  So far, she had found nothing here, no birth certificates, no adoption papers, no clue. Yet this tiny creature with its white and black coat seemed to embody hope. More important than that, Nellie would have company this Christmas.

  Magsy O’Gara opened her front door. She knew who it was before actually seeing the handsome square-jawed face, startling blue eyes, the shock of near-black hair that seemed to scream for a comb. Oh, he was screaming, all right, was becoming a nuisance, so persistent, almost desperate.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She folded her arms and leaned on the door jamb. ‘Hello. Again.’ She spaced the two words carefully, deliberately.

  ‘I just wondered . . .’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘You do a lot of wondering,’ replied Mags.

  Paul Horrocks bowed his head. He felt like a child who had been sent to the head teacher’s office for some small playground misdeed. ‘Well, it’s Christmas soon,’ he advised the doorstep.

  ‘I had noticed.’

  He raised his eyes and forced himself to l
ook at her. She was the most beautiful woman on God’s earth. ‘I thought you might like to join me and Mam,’ he said. ‘Being as you and young Beth will be on your own.’

  ‘We shall have each other, Mr Horrocks.’

  ‘Paul.’ It was like dragging blood from a stone, he decided. Magsy had the voice and face of an angel, yet she was as stubborn as the average mule. ‘But you’ve no family,’ he added.

  ‘Beth is my family and I am hers.’

  ‘You’re Irish,’ he told her, ‘and I am from Irish stock – my mam comes from Mayo.’

  ‘Does she now?’ Why should I make this easy? Magsy asked herself. ‘And how is that pertinent?’ she asked.

  Pertinent. Here she came again with the big words. ‘Irish usually have big families and they get together at Christmas.’ His words tailed away, as if they died beneath her steady gaze.

  ‘Then Beth and I are atypical,’ she replied.

  This was hopeless. He wished with all his strength that he could drag himself away from this impossible female, that he might set his sights elsewhere, but she was like a drug on which he had come to depend. ‘I’m a good cook.’ This last statement stumbled from his lips like a challenge.

  ‘So am I.’

  Hope blossomed – perhaps she would invite him to come to her house? He waited, but she offered no more words.

  Magsy, who had decided some weeks ago that enough was enough, stepped onto the pavement, causing Paul to back away while she closed the door in her wake. ‘This has to stop,’ she informed him, the tone gentle. ‘I have no wish to offend you, but your attentions are not welcome, Mr Horrocks.’

  ‘Why?’ he blurted before he could check himself.

  She smiled. ‘Why is the sky blue? Why is the rain wet? I have no answers to those questions either. They are just facts of life, you see. And another fact is that you are beginning to annoy me.’

  He drew a hand through his hair. ‘It’s such a waste,’ he managed after an uncomfortable silence. ‘You shouldn’t be alone.’

  ‘I have a daughter.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Magsy nodded slowly as if considering her next words. ‘Mr Horrocks.’ Her tone wore an air of deliberately applied patience. ‘I had an excellent husband. He died. William is irreplaceable.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing, Mr Horrocks. You have no claim on me. I have given you no encouragement and have made you no promises. This is my life; this is the way I have chosen to live. Now, it is cold and I want to get back to my ironing.’ She turned, opened the door and walked back into her house.

  Angry and confused, Paul Horrocks walked away. Like all beautiful women, Magsy O’Gara knew her power, was well aware that he had fallen under her spell.

  Magsy closed her eyes and pressed her back against the wall. Would he never give up? And what was it about herself that attracted men in droves? Didn’t God understand that she would never remarry, that no-one could ever replace her wonderful William?

  ‘Was it Paul Horrocks again?’ asked Beth when her mother entered the kitchen.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would do no harm,’ Beth began, ‘for you to—’

  ‘No,’ snapped Magsy. ‘Do not interfere, Beth.’

  Across Prudence Street, in the house known as number 5, Ernest Barnes watched the young man trudging homeward at the pace of a reluctant schoolboy. ‘Not good enough,’ Ernest whispered. ‘She needs a man, not a boy.’

  After uttering these words, he staggered to a mirror and stared at his own reflection. He was a very old man. And she was a very young Catholic. And his hair needed a trim . . .

  Seven

  The trouble with having a bright child was that bright children understood a little too much and a little too little. In spite of her great capacity for learning, Beth remained immature, emotionally unable to cope with adult life and all its complexities. Engrossed in the Korean War, she had begun to concern herself about America’s relatively new but terrifying arsenal.

  Magsy shook out a tablecloth and sprinkled it with water in preparation for ironing. ‘It won’t happen,’ she said for what seemed like the tenth time.

  ‘How do you know?’ was the next question.

  ‘Because Mr Attlee was reassured by President Truman that—’

  ‘Mother!’ cried Beth. ‘Mr Chamberlain had a piece of paper promising that there would be no war.’

  Magsy began to iron the best cloth. Christmas loomed and she still was not ready. ‘Beth,’ she sighed, ‘there will be no atom bombs dropped on Korea. Truman is not a liar – Hitler was, I’m afraid.’ Why couldn’t Beth just look forward to getting her puppy? Why all this fretting? Magsy, who knew the answer to her own unspoken question, pursed her lips and carried on ironing. No matter what she said, her daughter would continue to speculate about radiation sickness and the unfairness of mankind.

  Beth, who had taken to having nightmares about war, was not convinced. She had been reading about Hiroshima, about people who were still dying slowly, about newborn babies who were malformed. ‘There’s no cure,’ she said sadly.

  Ah, well. Magsy pressed Irish linen, worried about her chicken, worried about being forced to work for part of Christmas Day, worried about Beth worrying about atom bombs. Would the chicken stretch to feed Ernest Barnes? Should a good Catholic mention to a priest that she would be cleaning on the holiest of feast days? Probably not. She folded the cloth and stood the iron back on its plate in the hearth. People who worked in hospitals were exempt – as were priests, of course.

  ‘You still miss Daddy.’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Right. Now where was this conversation going?

  ‘Paul likes you.’

  Ah, destination achieved in one move. ‘Beth, I do not want to talk about Mr—’

  ‘Paul. He said we should call him Paul.’

  Magsy leaned against the table and stared at the photograph of William. He took centre stage on the mantelpiece, halfway between Beth as a baby and a framed certificate from the king.

  Beth followed her mother’s gaze. ‘May his sacrifice help to bring the peace and freedom for which he died,’ she read aloud. ‘So, if the Americans drop atom bombs on Korea, my dad’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.’

  ‘Beth?’

  ‘Yes, Mam?’

  ‘Would you ever shut up?’

  ‘Yes, Mam.’

  Magsy grinned. ‘There’s a good girl. Now, put the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of tea. No Paul, no atom bombs, just a drop of milk, thank you.’

  Ernest wiped the brooch on a bit of chamois, polishing the silver filigree until it shone like new. Neglected in a drawer for several years, the metal had blackened, had been as dark as the pearl it surrounded. This was Mam’s black pearl. It had been passed down from Grandma, was old and possibly valuable.

  He paused, placing the jewellery on the table. Was it right? Should he be giving this precious item to a Catholic woman? Better than leaving it for Dot, that traitorous so-called wife, or to the Higgins floozy, who had taken her and Frank away. No, this would look right bonny pinned to the breast of Magsy O’Gara. She wasn’t the usual run of Catholic, was a hard worker, had confided in him about her ambition to become an auxiliary nurse at the infirmary.

  ‘I’m going daft in me old age,’ he advised his reflection in a small shaving mirror. God, he wished he were twenty years younger. But he didn’t look too bad, considering. The barber had been to cut his hair, and he was getting about a bit better, was even managing the odd step without the aid of sticks.

  He packed the brooch into a little box, then wrapped the box in red tissue. Closing his eyes, he called to mind her face, that perfect oval surrounded by hair so clean, so blonde, those blue eyes, lips that were naturally pink . . . oh God, he was like a stupid kid. His heart, banging like the big bass drum at an Orange parade, missed a beat, settled again.

  Using the wraparound fireguard for support, he heaved himself up and practised walking with
out sticks. Slowly, painfully, he passed the rocking chair, reached the understairs coal store, turned, went back to his seat at the table.

  He was almost ready. Soon, he would venture outside, would get up to the road, would catch a trolley into town. At Moor Lane bus station, he would find the Hesford terminus . . . At this point, his thoughts became confused. Why did he need to get to Hesford? To show her. Yes, that was the reason. To show them both that he no longer needed them, that wife and son were surplus to requirements.

  All was well. Ernest Barnes would walk again, would hold his head high. And Magsy O’Gara was wonderful . . .

  Well, at least all the puppies were spoken for.

  Lily stood in her back yard, listened as Nellie breathed her way to the lavatory, the large woman’s steps interrupted every time she came to a pile of rubbish. Rubbish? There was enough for a tip, enough for landfill where the houses had come down during bombings. Charlie Entwistle had sent several rag carts over recent weeks, but the heaving and clattering had continued to disturb Lily’s short rests. She would sit there with the Bolton paper, cigarette lit, cup balanced on the fireguard, then Nellie would kick off again, chucking all kinds of debris into her back yard.

  Tinker, the puppy intended for Beth O’Gara, began to chew Lily’s shoelace. She lifted him gently with her foot, the movement absent-minded. They had made a right mess between them, this lot. And Skinny, their doting mother, had lost interest now that they were weaned, leaving them to get up to all kinds of mischief. Next door, Spot barked. Well, the other three were promised and would be gone in a few days.

  ‘Come on,’ she bade the dogs. ‘Inside before you start another war.’ They had a habit of answering Spot-next-door, and Lily had had enough yapping for one day.

  Inside, she finished icing her Christmas cake, flattening the white coating with a palette knife. She would stick a ribbon round it later, would balance a plastic snowman and a Father Christmas on the surface. It was the same every year, same figures, same ribbon, same routine.