Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  When her hair was dripping wet, she let out a huge sigh and dropped her corpulence into a ladder-back chair. Right. She had clean clothes, new towels, a loofah, a sponge and some lavender soap. For Christmas, she would furnish her living room, would get Charlie-at-the-end to remove all this stinking upholstery. Tonight, Nellie Hulme would walk up Derby Street to the public baths. Like any other customer, she could present herself as ready for a good soak, because now she smelt of lavender and talcum powder. It was time for Miss Helen Hulme to reclaim her membership of the human race.

  Spot grinned at her. Plainly of the opinion that all this activity had been a great source of amusement, he licked his owner’s fragrant hand. It was an interesting life – and there was a stew in the oven . . .

  Paul Horrocks was not happy.

  He had visited Magsy O’Gara, had waited on street corners for her, had bought flowers, chocolates and even a silk scarf. She wasn’t interested. She wasn’t interested in anyone, because she was still in love with a man who had been dead for years. How could he compete with a ghost, with the idea, the memory of a person who, according to his widow, should be canonized?

  A handsome face looked back at him from the overmantel mirror. He was not a proud man, was not self-obsessed, but he recognized his own good points. He was square-jawed, with bright blue eyes and a shock of dark, wavy hair. His height was six feet and some inches; he was broad without being fat, firm without being over-muscled. What the hell did she want? Had he been unemployed, a drinker, a breaker of the law, then he might have understood her hesitancy, her reluctance to step out with him.

  Lois watched her son. He was up to something, was spending far too much time grooming himself, forever looking in mirrors, shaving, combing his hair, staring into space while eating, missing what she said, ignoring her.

  Lois Horrocks was not a woman to be ignored. Used to being the centre of her only son’s universe, she felt abandoned, as if he had already left her to her fate. A sufferer from several illnesses, Lois had been housebound for some years, had finally finished up under the stairs in the kitchen, head at the taller end, feet tucked underneath the lower steps. Here she ate, slept and waited, bed pushed out of the way of general traffic, parlour saved for the visitors who seldom came, the patient warm, safe and at the hub of matters. She waited for company, waited for Paul to return from work, waited for her neighbour to warm up food, to help her onto the commode, to wash and clean her poor, pain-racked body.

  ‘All right, Mam?’ Paul turned from the mirror.

  ‘Oh, I see. Remembered I’m still here, have you?’

  How could he forget? Ever since the abdication of his father, Paul had been in charge here. Dad had died deliberately – of that Paul Horrocks felt sure. After helping his already crippled wife upstairs, Tommy Horrocks, still fully clothed, had stretched out beside her on the bed, had given up his spirit, eyes wide open, a slight smile stretching lips that had expressed displeasure for some considerable time. Oh, Dad – why couldn’t he have hung about until his son had managed to escape?

  ‘Of course I remember you’re still here.’ How could anyone fail to notice? She was so fat that she seemed to ooze out of her nightdress, great rolls of flesh overhanging the high collar, at least four chins cascading down onto tea-rose flannelette, pork sausage fingers clawing at a woven quilt, facial features clustered together in a sea of white lard. Mam was as ugly as sin. ‘I’ve not forgot,’ he replied tersely.

  ‘I might as well be dead for all the notice you take of me. You’re forever preening, carrying on like a bloody parrot.’

  He attempted no answer.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Paul raised a shoulder. ‘I reckon a cat would go for the full parrot, not just its tongue.’

  She shook her head, causing her bloated cheeks to quiver. ‘Clever, eh?’ Sarcasm trimmed her tone. ‘Who is she? Who’s at the back of all this film star stuff?’

  ‘What film star stuff?’

  She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Carrying on in front of mirrors all the while, titty-fal-lalling about as if you’re going on the flaming stage. There’s got to be a woman at the back of all this.’

  He stared at her. ‘Mam, I’m thirty-two.’

  ‘And I’m fifty-five. What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

  ‘Time I was wed,’ he said.

  This was a moment Lois had dreaded for a long time. He was a good-looking lad, more handsome than his father had ever been, certainly better looking than anyone on Lois’s side of the family. So far, she had been lucky, as Paul had never stuck to one woman, had enjoyed a series of short liaisons with females who had not impressed him sufficiently for marriage. But this was a different kettle of kippers altogether. The lad was smartening up, was clearly out to leave a mark. ‘Who is she?’ repeated Lois.

  ‘Nobody.’

  She sniffed. ‘Well, that’s a lot of bother for a nobody. I’ve never known anybody go to so much bother for nobody. She must be something special, this nobody of yours.’

  Paul sank into a chair. ‘It’s all right, she’s not interested in me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not good enough for her.’

  Immediately, Lois’s hackles rose. ‘Not good enough?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nowt.’

  ‘Nowt? It must be summat if she won’t take you on. Who is she?’ The idea of someone having the audacity to reject her son was not a comfortable one. She needed to hang on to him, was terrified of losing him, yet she could not bear to think of him being judged sub-standard. ‘Who is she?’ she asked again.

  Paul’s shoulders drooped. He ran a hand through tousled curls, shook his head slowly. What did it matter anyway? ‘Magsy O’Gara,’ he answered eventually. ‘She lives in Prudence Street, has a daughter called Beth.’

  Lois rooted around in her mind. ‘But she’s a Catholic. I remember Bertha next door telling me about her. Didn’t her husband get killed in the war? And she has a daughter, one who’s supposed to be clever.’

  ‘Aye, that’s her.’

  Lois pondered. ‘She’s a Catholic,’ she repeated eventually.

  ‘Makes no difference to me,’ replied Paul.

  ‘Well, it should. You don’t want to be getting yourself tied up with a Holy Mary. Remember I used to be one till I met your dad and turned Methodist. They’re all rosary beads and Latin, no sense to them at all.’

  Paul raised a shoulder.

  ‘It’s her what’s not good enough for you,’ pronounced Lois. ‘Catholics are no good to nobody.’

  He lit a Woodbine.

  ‘You know that bothers me chest.’ To demonstrate her displeasure, she coughed and placed a hand at her throat.

  Paul took another drag, then docked the cigarette, placing the remainder of it behind his ear.

  ‘She works at the infirmary,’ stated Lois. ‘Cleaning up.’

  ‘I know. But they’re going to let her do orderly work, like an assistant nurse.’

  ‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ replied Lois. ‘So she’ll go from dirty floors to dirty backsides – I wouldn’t call that promotion.’

  He stood up and walked out of the room. No matter what, he was stuck with his mother. Even if Magsy O’Gara had decided to care for him, he would have been unable to commit himself. Who would want to live with this? Which woman in her right mind would volunteer to dedicate a lifetime to the care of Lois Horrocks?

  ‘And I can’t leave her,’ he advised the back gate. ‘I am bloody trapped as fast as a rabbit in a gin, tied down and bled dry.’ He resented his situation, was suddenly angrier than ever. There had been one or two girls who had interested him, but no-one like this, no Magsy O’Gara. She tormented him in dreams and in reality, was the first and last item on his life’s agenda, was fast becoming his goal. ‘I love her,’ he breathed quietly, ‘and God knows I wish I didn’t.’

  It was the way she held herself, the way she walked, spoke, smiled,
laughed. It wasn’t just a craving, a sexual need that wanted assuaging. No. It was her, the full package, ups, downs, in sickness, in health, until death . . . He could not bear the thought of her dying. As for Mam – Mam would probably outlive everyone, would creak on and on like an oil-starved gate.

  He wasn’t wishing his mam dead – of course he wasn’t. It just seemed unfair that he should be crippled by his mother’s rheumatism, by her inflamed veins, by her thick, sluggish blood. Yes, she was not the only one held down. All his mates were settled and married, many with children and homes of their own. And here stood Paul Horrocks, shirtsleeves rolled under a starlit December sky, his core frozen by ice, by Mam, by the indifference of Magsy O’Gara.

  It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked to fall for an Irish Catholic with a child in tow, didn’t need this kind of bother in his life. There were three or four women who wanted him, but he couldn’t have cared less. He had to make life fair. On Christmas Eve, Magsy would doubtless be busy with the child, the one person in whom she had invested all her faith, hope and love.

  What had he to lose? Nothing – less than nothing, really. It was time to tackle Magsy yet again.

  Eight

  Paul Horrocks nipped his Woodbine, then stuck the remaining inch behind his right ear. No, that would not do. Remembering his destination, he took the cigarette end and pushed it into his pocket. Magsy did not like smoking.

  It was Christmas Eve. The black, star-sprinkled sky promised a cold night with no blanket of cloud to protect a naked earth. He shivered, wished that he had dared to wear his old army greatcoat, regretted that vanity had got the better of him. She had to listen to him, had to give in. There was nothing wrong with him, nothing to which she might reasonably object. Except, of course, for the fact that he was not William O’Gara.

  Just before reaching number 2 Prudence Street, he panicked and hurriedly relit his Woodbine. He was in love and scared to death. Was love meant to be like this? Was he supposed to be afraid, to act like a teenager, to want to run away from and towards her all at the same time? Whatever, he was almost broken in two – one half of his mind urging him on, the other side telling him to run for the hills, over the hills and into Yorkshire if necessary.

  Then there was Mam; oh yes, there was always Mam.

  The cigarette died on the ground, crushed beneath his foot. Determined not to be a coward, he advanced on her door and rattled the knocker. But his sails deflated when she opened it almost before he had finished announcing his presence.

  ‘Yes?’

  God, she was the most beautiful thing on the planet. He pulled at a collar that was suddenly tight. ‘Er . . .’ he achieved finally.

  Magsy folded her arms. She had much to do before midnight Mass and this fellow was becoming a plague. ‘What?’ she asked.

  Paul dug deep in his pockets. ‘I . . . er . . . I bought these at that Catholic repository shop,’ he managed. ‘I’m not a Catholic myself . . .’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But . . . well . . . they were nice and I thought you might take them up to church tonight.’ He paused for breath. ‘They’re rosary beads – pearl ones – a set for you and one for Beth.’

  ‘They have to be blessed first,’ she heard herself saying. Oh, why could she not be civil? ‘It’s . . . it’s just a Catholic thing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I shall get them blessed as soon as possible. And thank you so much for thinking of us, Mr Horrocks, but—’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Mr Horrocks,’ she continued, a determined smile painted on her face. ‘You should not be spending your hard-earned money on me and my daughter. I know you have a sick mother to care for and a house to keep, so—’

  ‘I like you,’ he blurted.

  Magsy took a step back into her tiny hallway. ‘Please don’t,’ she said quietly.

  He turned his face away, offering her just his profile as he continued. ‘I didn’t ask to feel like this about you. I don’t even want to feel like this. I’d rather have a bad cold or a dose of flu, to be honest. This is one bloody illness I could do without, thanks very much.’

  Magsy bowed her head. She knew what this confession had cost, as few men in these parts opened up their hearts so freely. ‘I am very sorry,’ she told him. ‘But I do not have the same feelings for you, Mr Horrocks.’

  He swung to face her once more. ‘Can you not give me a chance? Can you not just walk out with me a few times, see how we get on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’ His voice raised itself. ‘Am I not good enough? Am I ugly, too poor, or is it just because I’m not a Catholic?’

  Magsy shook her head. ‘None of those reasons applies,’ she answered. ‘I simply do not intend to become involved with anyone, so this is not meant to be personal.’

  Visibly uncomfortable now, Paul Horrocks stepped away from her. ‘I have tried to get over this,’ he told her. ‘God knows how I have tried. But it’s . . . it’s got the better of me. And I know I shouldn’t be telling you this . . . it gives you a sort of power over me . . . but you’re the first and last thing on my mind every day.’ He swallowed. ‘And I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to do about it.’

  She could feel his suffering, could see it in the slope of his shoulders, in hands that would not lie still. ‘I did not wish this illness on you . . . Paul. I haven’t encouraged you – not consciously, at least. But I am a one-man woman, you see.’

  He bit his lower lip so hard that he tasted blood. ‘He’s dead. I am sorry about that, but it’s the truth. And believe me, if I could stop caring about you, I would.’ Desperate now, he glanced skyward, as if seeking divine intervention. ‘I have never, ever loved a woman before, Magsy.’

  She did not know where to look, what to say, how to extricate herself from this uncomfortable scenario. Beth was out, was across at the Hardcastles’. As from tonight, the puppy known as Tinker would be claiming a place inside number 2 Prudence Street. ‘You had better come inside.’ She turned sideways to allow him into the house, her head filling immediately with fear. Whatever was she thinking of? No, no, he would not attack her, surely?

  In the living room, she sat at the table and waited for him to place himself opposite. ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I don’t know why you have fixed on me, Paul. There are many lovely girls in Bolton, so surely you should be looking further afield?’

  He stared at her. Gaslight flickered on her hair, making her almost ethereal, angelic. Her hands, delicate and long-fingered, were folded on the white linen tablecloth. She had poise, self-possession, intelligence. A perfect nose led his attention down to full lips, but he could not look at her eyes. They were blue, bright blue, with flawless whites and long lashes. No, he was unable to meet her gaze.

  ‘Would you answer me?’ she asked.

  ‘You know the answer,’ he replied rather tersely. ‘This is not something we choose, is it? What do you want me to do? Line ’em all up along Churchgate like they did at the old cattle market? Prod ’em with a stick till I find the best beef cow?’

  A smile flickered on her lips, but she managed to contain it.

  Paul saw the temptation, squashed his own urge to grin. If he could make her laugh, he was halfway there. ‘All I want is a chance,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said after a long pause. Perhaps, if he got to know her, he would love her less. ‘Now, I must ask you to leave, as Beth will be home very soon and she . . . she interferes.’

  He stood up. So, Beth was an interfering sort, was she? And from the way her mother had spoken, Paul guessed that Beth was likely to be on his side. That was another possibility, then. Yes, he would work on the child and on Magsy’s humour.

  ‘I hope you have a lovely Christmas,’ Magsy said.

  Lovely? With Mam parked in the corner, a small chicken between two, no chance of a decent night out, Christmas Family Favourites and the Billy Cotton Band Show on the Light Programme? And, at the end of it all, a cold bed and a lonely hea
rt. ‘Thanks,’ he managed, ‘and the same to you and Beth.’

  When he had left, Magsy let out a great sigh of relief before placing herself in front of the overmantel mirror. She touched her hair, smiled, tilted her head this way and that. Whatever was the matter with her? Why should she care how she looked? He wasn’t even a Catholic and he most certainly was not William.

  William. He was not coming back, was he? There was no more William and there could never be another like him. So, what was a person supposed to do? Settle for less, make do with whatever was available? A second adult with an income would make life easier in one sense, but did she want more children?

  Tut-tutting at herself, she turned from her reflection and picked up the small parcel left behind by Paul Horrocks. Rosary beads. In buying those, in choosing rosaries, he had paid his respects to her religion. He was a good man, a kind man, and . . . And she had to go across to number 3. Ernest Barnes would be waiting for her, hair combed flat, stick leaning on the fireguard, lust in his eyes. ‘This is Christmas Eve,’ she reminded herself, ‘so go and do the decent thing, Magsy O’Gara.’

  She picked up a bag filled with small delicacies and made her way to the door.

  In the street, Paul Horrocks stood under a lamp post. He was talking to another man, was whiling away the minutes before going to face his crippled mother. Yes, he was yet another human who lived with human miseries. Sighing, Magsy went to do her Christian duty. Sometimes, being a Catholic was not easy.

  His heart missed a beat when the door opened. She was here. Every fibre of Ernest Barnes’s being was suddenly alert, and he hated himself. How many times had he berated his sons for talking to Holy Romans? He was an Orange Lodger, a man whose hatred for Catholicism was a legend in his own lifetime. And yet . . . and yet here he was, doddery, old, a couple of hundred in the bank, head over heels with a pretty face.