Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  She came in and placed a bag on his table. ‘Just a few mince pies and a very tiny Christmas cake, Mr Barnes. Oh, and I sliced you a bit of my ham for a sandwich.’

  He fixed her with his eyes, wished her gone, wished her in his arms.

  Magsy, pretending not to notice, chattered on about the puppy, about tomorrow’s dinner, about the weather. The effect she had on men was annoying, to say the least of it. Here she stood, just minutes away from the previous encounter, another male gazing intently at her face, her body . . . She did not wish herself ugly, yet she did not like this, either.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. There’s a parcel yonder – behind you – on the dresser. Open it.’

  With hands that suddenly trembled, Magsy opened the package. Inside, she found the brooch and a book for Beth. The book was too childish for her daughter, but Magsy thanked him. ‘I cannot accept the brooch,’ she stammered uneasily.

  ‘It was my mother’s and I want you to have it. Dot never liked it any road. Come to think, she never liked my mam, either.’

  Magsy placed the brooch on the table. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t want any thanks and I don’t need presents, Mr Barnes. Without wishing to appear ungrateful, I must decline to accept.’

  She was bright, especially for a Catholic. Her English, softened by the brogue, was perfect. Ernest concluded that Magsy was not just a pretty face and a wonderful body – she was also extremely well read. ‘I want you to have it.’

  ‘And I refuse to take it,’ she insisted.

  The challenge was there. This was a strong-minded woman, one who would stand by her principles no matter what the temptation. Her beauty was startling, and she was aware of it. They were all like this, the pretty ones, in charge, wielding a power that left men shaking in their shoes.

  ‘I shall leave the brooch here, Mr Barnes.’

  Fuelled by temper, Ernest rose to his feet. After many hours of practice, he could now manage a few steps unsupported. When he reached the other side of the table, he stopped just inches away from his visitor. ‘I could give you a good life,’ he said.

  Magsy shivered and leaned back against the dresser. Shocked to the core, she saw his hands reaching out to touch her.

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ he continued, ‘and the kiddy – I’ll look after her and all.’ Gently, he touched her waist, a thumb straying upward in search of softer flesh.

  She was unable to speak. His eyes, narrowed by desire, contained a coldness that she had never seen before, not at such close quarters, at least. His reputation was dreadful, though his bigoted anti-Catholic activities had lessened now that age precluded him from indulging his hobby.

  ‘I just want to look after you,’ he continued.

  Magsy swallowed a lump of fear, then opened her mouth and screamed.

  Startled, Ernest stumbled backwards against the table. He righted himself clumsily, then hit her hard across the face. ‘Stop this hysterical carry-on,’ he ordered.

  She stopped. Her cheek stung from the blow, but she was no longer afraid, because she could hear signs proclaiming that help was at hand. After a perfunctory knock, the front door flew open and Paul Horrocks marched into the house. His long legs covered the area between front door and kitchen in three or four strides. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he yelled before dragging Ernest away from Magsy. He threw the man into a fireside chair, then stood over him. ‘If you ever, ever touch her again,’ he jerked a thumb in Magsy’s direction, ‘I swear to God I’ll separate you from your breath, you bad bugger.’

  Magsy, her legs suddenly deprived of substance, sank into a straight-backed chair. She shook so violently that she bit her tongue and began to weep noiselessly into her hands.

  Paul continued to glare at Ernest. ‘She’s too good for keeping company with you. Get your own flaming dinners.’

  Magsy did not know what to do. She could not go home like this, because Beth would be there any moment with Tinker, her puppy. Also, Magsy’s legs were continuing to refuse to co-operate with her brain; she could not stand up, yet she could not continue to sit here in this room, in this house, with this dreadful old man. Deliberately, in an effort to stem the urge to vomit, she dropped her hands, opened her mouth and inhaled deeply. She must stop crying and must not be sick.

  Paul continued to stand over Ernest Barnes. ‘We all know how you treated your wife.’

  ‘Shut your gob,’ yelled the seated man. ‘It’s nowt to do with you.’

  Paul shook his head as if in despair. ‘Nowt to do with me? Nowt to do with me that you plagued Catholics round here, that you spoiled walking days, that you threw stones at church windows?’ He leaned forward until his face almost touched the old man’s. ‘Listen, you. Any more trouble and I’ll put you in the morgue, never mind the infirmary. I’m glad your Frank got out of here.’

  ‘Frank?’ spat Ernest Barnes. ‘Frank?’ He laughed, though there was no merriment in the sound. ‘He’s nowt a pound, our Frank, not worth a bloody second thought.’

  ‘He’s worth ten of you,’ answered Paul.

  ‘Is he now?’

  ‘Aye, he is – and so’s your wife. I hear they’ve got a lovely shop up Hesford way, a good living and a nice place for Dot’s grandchildren to grow up in. As for you, you’re a bitter, twisted old wreck – and I don’t mean just your body. You’ll never see your grandkiddies, because Frank’ll have enough sense to keep them away from you.’

  Maggie let out a shuddering breath. ‘Leave him, Paul,’ she advised quietly. ‘Don’t get yourself into trouble because of that desperate creature.’

  Paul straightened. ‘Did he . . . did he touch you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Why would I touch a bloody Mick?’ roared Ernest.

  ‘Because you think you can,’ came the reply. ‘Because you think women are there for your amusement and your comfort. Am I right? Aren’t they there to wash and iron and cook and for your other bodily needs? Well, let me put you straight, because I’m one who has to do all that for himself and for a sick mother. I could have found a slave, I suppose, but no, I—’

  ‘You work for a Mick,’ spat Ernest.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I work for Pat Murphy, and a fairer man I’ve yet to meet, so smoke that in your pipe.’

  Ernest stared into the startling blue eyes of this cocksure young man. Aye, he thought he knew everything, did Paul bloody Horrocks. ‘I’d sooner starve than work for an Irishman,’ he said now.

  ‘Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought,’ answered Paul, ‘because a sensible soul would choose work over starvation any day of the week.’ He turned to Magsy. ‘Come on, let’s be having you out of here. This isn’t a healthy place for a young woman, so you’d best stop away in future.’

  She dragged herself up, using the table for support until Paul came and led her out of the house.

  Ernest Barnes leaned back in his chair, eyes closed tightly against the memory of his own stupidity. Why had he done that? Why had he tried to make a play for a woman young enough to be his daughter, an Irish immigrant, too? He had been mad, deranged, ready for the funny farm.

  But Magsy O’Gara’s face was still there, imprinted on the inner surface of his eyelids, burnt into the flesh like an indelible tattoo. He hated her, missed her, needed her. Tomorrow, she would not come. His heart was a lead weight in his chest, hopeless, no bubble of joy rising unbidden in expectation of tomorrow. He did not want tomorrow. And whose fault was this? Whose?

  Bloody Dot, that was who. Bloody Dot with her martyred air and those sly looks she thought he had never noticed. But he had noticed, oh yes. They had been corner-of-the-eye jobs, small flickers under those age-shrivelled lids, quick darts expressing pure poison. She had hated him, had hated his mother, had brought all this on by tormenting him. Wife? She had never been a bloody wife, would never have made a wife in a thousand years.

  He fumbled down the side of his chair, retrieved pen and paper,
scribbled a note. Then, in accordance with a pre-arrangement with Lily Hardcastle, he tapped the poker against the wall three times. Three times meant Roy. Young Roy would take this note to Charlie-at-the-end. Charlie Entwistle had offered several times to take Ernest out, so a ride up to Hesford was a distinct possibility. Aye, it was time to get a few things straight.

  Nellie Hulme’s parlour sparkled. In fact, it was so clean that it looked surprised, firelight dancing excitedly on newly polished surfaces, the mirror winking, gaslight glowing warmly from wall-mounted mantles. There was a new three-piece suite in green, a carpet square, a dark red rug in front of the hearth. And then there was the picture.

  It was a photograph in sepia, one she had overlooked. How grateful she had been to Charlie Entwistle when he had returned it to her after finding it while removing one of her many mounds of rubbish. It had been secreted between the leaves of an old magazine, and Charlie had brought it back to her.

  She stirred the embers with a shiny new brass poker, smiled at Spot who lay curled in a padded wicker basket, then she closed her eyes and slept, the photograph resting on her belly, hands folded over the pleasant scene.

  They were there in the dream, the two people in the photo. A tall man and a shorter, pretty woman, a garden behind them, birds flying, birds . . . singing. But, after a nap lasting just seconds, Nellie opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. There was another factor, a black edge to the dream, a feeling that she was moving away from trees and grass towards . . . whatever, it was menacing.

  She had to concentrate on something else, something ordinary, had to kill the panic in her chest. Yes, the walls needed decorating. She intended to get the whole house papered and painted in the spring, but she had to be content for now with stained walls and a cracked ceiling. So much had been achieved, including new clothes and a brand new self, a person who washed each day and went to the slipper baths every Thursday, a towel rolled in a basket containing sweet-smelling soap and a tin of Johnson’s Baby Powder.

  What was the threat in that dream? What dire event would shatter the pleasant interlude in a lovely garden? Whatever it was, it crept a little closer every time she slept. And, if she could ‘hear’ while asleep, why was she unable to catch sound in her conscious mind? Was it sound? The thing that happened while she dozed, that extra dimension, was that noise, was it really birdsong?

  She studied the photograph for what seemed like the hundredth time. Such a pretty young woman, such a handsome man. Yes, she had ‘heard’ them too, him laughing, her singing. Singing. How could a deaf person know how song sounded? Yet she did know, but only when she was asleep.

  How many times had she woken with a start, only to find that she could recreate none of the qualities of sound? Yet in spite of having no recall, no ability to reshape in her head what she had found in sleep, she owned this certainty that she had experienced sound. Perhaps she was going mad. Perhaps a lifetime of silence was finally driving her to the edge of sanity.

  She laughed at Spot. He had risen from his cot, had found his over-long and stringy tail, was chasing it round in an eternal circle. Yes, that was it. Like Spot, she was turning, turning, following a dream that came and went. It was probably a figment of her imagination. Yet no, here sat the evidence, two people printed on thick paper, the pair who haunted her every night.

  The dog stopped his whirling, stood still as stone, then ran excitedly towards his mistress, the barking reaching her only by means of what she could see – that opening and closing mouth, the tension in his ribcage as he attracted her attention. Nellie knew that this little chap understood her deafness, because he had trained himself in just a few days to warn her of the comings and goings of mankind. As ever, he leapt up and touched her knee, waiting for the titbit that was always his reward.

  Nellie walked to the window, saw a distraught Magsy O’Gara weeping on the shoulder of a fine-looking young man. What had upset this usually calm woman? Ah well, perhaps she would remarry. He looked a fine enough chap, well-defined features, a smart jacket that looked rather thin for December. Yes, it was time for Mrs O’Gara to start again.

  It was none of Nellie Hulme’s business, so she closed her new curtains and went to put the kettle on. A bit of toast and marmalade would go down a treat, then it would be time for Spot’s walk.

  Lily had put Beth O’Gara in the front room. Confused almost to the point of madness, Lily was running around like a screw-necked chicken, flapping, panicking, unable to settle. They were all ill. Roy had gone down first, then Sam, then Aaron, then Danny. And Ernest Barnes was knocking on the wall, was sending the signal for Roy, and Beth was waiting for the one remaining pup, and there had been a scream from next door, then, to top it all, the beef tea was bubbling too fast.

  Lily deposited Tinker in Beth’s lap. ‘Now,’ she said, her mind racing, ‘go next door and see what that bad owld bu— what Mr Barnes wants. And don’t come back, love, because there’s summat nasty in this house, like germs or a fever, so get gone. Tell Mr Barnes as our Roy is took badly, so he won’t be coming in to see him. Then get yourself home, shut that door and stay in. Do you understand me, love?’

  Beth nodded. There was an hysterical edge to Mrs Hardcastle’s tone, a rise in pitch that spoke volumes about the woman’s state of mind. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked the child.

  ‘You can get gone and be safe. Oh, don’t go to church and tell your mam not to go and all. I know it’s Christmas, but I think this is that there influenza or some such fancy illness. All right? Go next door, see what he wants, then get home.’

  Beth dragged the little dog on his new red lead. Tinker did not like the lead, so he progressed down the hall on his rear, eyes wide with surprise when he was picked up and dumped on the pavement.

  ‘Right,’ said Beth, ‘let’s get this straight before we start. You are the dog and I am the boss. The boss is the one at this end of the lead, and the dog is the one at the other end. I walk, you walk. You can do as you are told, or you can go through life with a sore bum. Do you understand?’

  Tinker scratched his ear and yawned.

  Beth watched her mother as she disappeared into number 2, Paul Horrocks behind her. Now, that was a good thing. Another good thing was that Beth was standing in for Roy, who was ill, so Mam and Mr Horrocks would have a few minutes together.

  The dog adopted the line of least resistance and followed his new mistress into number 5.

  Ernest Barnes looked up and glared at Magsy O’Gara’s daughter, the supposed genius child of a soldier and an Irish immigrant. ‘What’s that bloody thing doing in here?’ He waved his stick at the dog.

  ‘He’s mine,’ came the succinct reply.

  ‘I never asked whose it was, I just want to know what it’s doing in my house.’

  Beth sighed. ‘He is with me,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Roy? I knocked for Roy.’

  ‘Ill in bed,’ answered Beth.

  ‘Well, what about the others?’ He didn’t want this child in here, couldn’t bear to think what she might say if she found out he had upset her mother.

  ‘They’re all ill except Mrs Hardcastle,’ explained the child.

  Ernest handed her the note. ‘Push this through Charlie Entwistle’s letter box,’ he demanded, ‘and don’t bring that dog in here again.’

  Beth took the note, taking care not to come into contact with Ernest’s hand. She didn’t like him, didn’t want her flesh to touch his. She glared at him levelly. ‘Did my mother scream before?’ she asked.

  He raised a shoulder. ‘I never heard no scream.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Hardcastle thought she did,’ replied the child, ‘and so did Skinny, because she started barking.’

  ‘Likely some kiddies laking,’ said Ernest.

  Beth, who understood the old Lancashire term for play, placed the note in her pocket. ‘It didn’t sound like laking to me, Mr Barnes.’

  She was the same as her flaming mother, he concluded. So bloody sure of herself, so confident.
‘Get gone,’ he blurted, ‘and shove that note through Charlie’s door.’

  Beth picked up her puppy and left the house. It would be a long, long time before she set foot in number 5 again. She went next door to the end house and posted Ernest Barnes’s message through the letter box. Mr Entwistle’s house was in darkness, as usual. Even on Christmas Eve, the man would be down at his yard, separating wool from cotton, iron from lead, would be counting his money, retrieving anything of value. His house was reputed to be filled with antiquities thrown out in error by the people of Bolton.

  She glanced up the street towards her own house, wondered whether Mam would start to be nice to Mr Horrocks. The giddiness hit her then, a sudden wave through her head, a feeling that seemed to match the movement of the tide coming in at Blackpool beach. It passed in a second, so she decided to walk her dog round the block. He had to be trained, and she might as well start now.

  It took two ambulances to shift Lily’s family. Sam and Roy went in the first, Aaron and Danny in the second. The clanging of bells disturbed the whole street – even Ernest Barnes stood at his door and watched while the Hardcastles got carted off.

  Advised to stay away from the hospital, Lily re-entered her house and sat in silence while the shock melted from her bones. They were going into an isolation unit. Nobody knew what the disease was, but the ambulance men had worn masks while carrying Lily’s menfolk out of their home. The doctor might have said something about trying penicillin, but Lily wasn’t sure.

  So this was what happened to women who wanted their freedom. She had wished this upon them, had made it come about by her resentment. Such dreadful symptoms, too, vomiting, coughing, fever, delirium. And now she had what she wanted. No Sam to pick his nose, no Aaron to stink the house out with his feet, no Danny to churn his open-mouthed way through Christmas dinner.

  Then there was Roy, poor little Roy who had gone down first with this filthy illness. He was right out of it now, was burning up and talking a load of nonsense, eyes glazed and fixed, lips cracked, wet hair plastered to his head like a dark red cap.