Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  A doll’s house. She dropped the pair of idle bobbins, left them swinging from the cushion in her lap. Yes, a doll’s house in a corner, dark, not clear. Bruin? Where had that come from? A bear, dark brown, one eye loose? It was coming, it was coming and she was not ready for it. Yes, she was, because she had to be.

  But there was no more and she could not force it.

  She went downstairs, Spot leading the way with his tail on double time, head down as he concentrated on his balance. There was just one cupboard untouched, the one filled with Mam’s knitting and sewing patterns, the final bastion of Nellie’s history in this little house. Mam had been a good woman, had knitted and sewn all Nellie’s clothes, had taught her to read, write and count, had given her the ability to read lips, to crochet, to knit.

  She put the dog in the yard, set the kettle to boil, opened Mam’s cupboard to the right of the kitchen chimney breast. It was packed to the top with all kinds of stuff. Mam’s final piece of knitting was still there, musty and faded now, a green cardigan she had been making for herself. Sad, Nellie closed the doors. Why hadn’t her parents told her who she really was? And why was it suddenly so important? What was she going to do with a house that had balustrades, stables, a fountain?

  For today, she had had enough remembering. Time to cook, time to walk the dog, time to stop worrying. Until next time.

  Sal recovered remarkably well after the death of her adopted son, taking each step carefully, minding her health, eating fruit and vegetables, always aware of the child she carried inside her belly. But her mind was taken off her own condition when she noticed the state of Ernest Barnes. With a bandaged head and legs stiffer than ever, he was walking like a man near death. She watched him as he bent to pick up his bottle of milk, saw agony in the shape of his body – he must have taken a fall.

  Poor Lily Hardcastle had given up on Ernest. She did her cleaning job, then went to the hospital twice a day, once for the afternoon visiting session, again in the evening. Her family remained in poor shape, the youngest lad with some sort of brain fever, one with pleurisy, another with pneumonia, her husband suffering from an unsuspected heart condition that had shown up with the flu.

  So Ernest Barnes had been left to his own devices, his sole visitors the delivery boy from the grocery, then Charlie Entwistle. The latter was such a slave to his business that he was available infrequently, so Sal decided to take the bull by the horns. It was the neighbourly thing to do. Magsy next door had been involved in some argument with Ernest at Christmas, and now Sal remained the last possibility.

  She lifted a small pan of home-made soup and walked across the street. It was time to bury the hatchet, because this man was alone and ill. Without bothering to disturb him by knocking, she pushed the front door open. ‘Mr Barnes?’ When no answer came, she made her way along the dark and narrow hall until she reached the kitchen.

  He was sitting by the fire, a bandage slipping down over one eye, the other eye almost glowing as it lit upon the visitor. ‘What do you want?’ he snapped.

  Sal Higgins placed her soup on the table.

  ‘I asked you what do you want.’

  ‘I brought you some soup. And I could sort out your bandage.’

  He grunted, pushed himself further back in his seat so that he would look taller, more substantial. ‘I want nothing off you,’ he told her, ‘nothing from you and your sort.’ Charlie did the bandage. Charlie was no expert when it came to first aid, but he was, at least, an Englishman.

  ‘My sort?’

  ‘Catholics.’ The word was spat, as if it had tasted bad while being manufactured. ‘Especially bloody Micks.’

  She leaned against the dresser. ‘Isn’t it time all this foolishness came to an end?’ she asked. ‘We buried our boy just days ago. The Prince William was full of Catholics – my husband chose that pub on purpose, just to make the point.’

  The one eye continued to glare at her. ‘What point?’

  ‘That we are all the same.’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘The same? Are we hell as like the same. Ask the bloody Black and Tans about Dublin and the bother they had with your lot. Ask all them who’ve been victims of the IRA. They’ll tell you we’re not the same. There’s half of you can’t even bloody read and write when you get here – you should stop over there with all the other stupid bastards.’

  Sal tutted under her breath. ‘Saints preserve us – we are in a bad mood today, aren’t we?’

  He wanted to hit her. Had his strength not been removed by his own so-called wife, he would have chased this Irish sloven from his house. She needed a damned good wash for a start – and her hair hadn’t seen a comb today. ‘Oh, get back over the street and carry on breeding – that’s all you’re good for, bloody brood mare.’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I pity you,’ she told him, ‘because you are a blind fool. My husband saved your life—’

  ‘Well, he needn’t have bothered.’

  Sal smiled grimly. ‘At least we agree on one point, Mr Barnes, because your life is not worth John’s trouble. You are a nasty, mean and spiteful man. We know that you scarred both your boys and that your wife is safe now only because of your son and my daughter.’

  ‘Aye, well, I sorted her out,’ he replied.

  ‘Dot is beyond your reach,’ insisted Sal.

  ‘I’m not talking about Dot,’ he shouted. ‘I’m talking about that flaming girl of yours – she’s the one I sorted out. Giving me cheek, telling me I wasn’t allowed in my own son’s shop – I marked her card for her. And her face. So put that in your pipe, missus. And get out of my house – now!’

  Sal blinked a few times. ‘So you have been to Hesford?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And you struck my daughter?’

  ‘I did.’

  She played with the idea of tipping the soup over his head, decided against it. This was good food and her girls would enjoy it. Instead, she simply stared at him, her eyes never leaving his face during what felt like an eternity. It was a childish game, but she was determined to stare him out.

  In the end, he lost the fight, because his one good eye became tired.

  ‘So who did that to you?’ she asked.

  ‘Never you mind,’ he answered darkly.

  Sal picked up her pan. ‘One day, you are going to wake up dead, Mr Barnes. So many people hate you that you will be killed sooner or later. Do not for one moment imagine that you will be missed. In fact, the funeral will be attended just by yourself and whoever digs the hole.’ She was trembling now, because behaviour such as this was not in her nature.

  ‘Oh, bugger off,’ he said quietly.

  Sal looked up at the ceiling, then back at him. ‘I never noticed until today just how ugly you are. Yes, to be sure, you have a most unfortunate appearance. Well, this is New Year, a time for a fresh start, for goodwill and kind wishes. So, I wish you all the worst, Mr Barnes. You have hit a child of mine and God will repay you. Before this year is out, you will be dead.’

  He shivered. Was this another Irish gyppo, the sort that sold pegs door to door, tell your fortune for a shilling? But the cold clung to his spine, even as he shouted, ‘Rubbish,’ at her disappearing back.

  The front door slammed.

  He tried to stand up, but the pain in his back was too intense. He should see a doctor, though how could he own up, how could he admit that he had been reduced to this by a woman the size of two penn’orth of chips? Oh, yes, he could see it now – the flaming doctor doubled up laughing because Dot had given him a hiding.

  Yes, he had been hard on his lads, because he hadn’t wanted them growing up like a pair of nancy boys, two big girls softened by a mam who knew nowt about what it took to make a real man. Well, a bloody good thrashing never did anybody any harm, did it?

  He thought about that, realized that the belting he had received from Dot had done harm. But that was different – she had taken advantage while he had been on the floor. She hadn’t knocked him down, not re
ally . . . Yes, she had . . .

  How long would it take him to recover? And would Charlie Entwistle run him up to Hesford again? And if Charlie wouldn’t take him, who would? God, his back was sore.

  He managed to stand, then staggered about, toasted some stale bread at the fire, spread it with butter and cheap plum jam. Dot would have the best jam, of course, a nice jar of strawberry or Golliberry, all thick and dripping off the edge of the slice. Tinned peaches, plums, apples fresh from the orchard, boiled ham, back bacon, spuds straight out of the ground. He hoped she would choke on it, that they would all choke.

  When his pint mug was drained of tea, he settled back to sleep, arranging cushions to support his aching spine. Now, he could dream. And his dreams were of revenge.

  Magsy poured a second cup for Sal. ‘You shouldn’t have gone. He tried to grab me on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘And you should have told me. I knew you’d had a row, didn’t realize he had made a play for you. And why didn’t you tell me about what he did to Rachel?’

  Magsy sighed and lowered herself into the chair opposite her visitor’s. She was pleased about Sal’s pregnancy, though she wondered whether another girl might make matters worse, since it was clear that the good woman expected a replacement for Thomas, a healthy boy, one who would thrive. ‘Rachel said you had been through enough with – well – enough just lately. She made me promise. And she will not be left with a scar, I’m sure about that – though God knows Ernest Barnes would have marked her if he could.’

  ‘I should hope she won’t have a scar, indeed.’ Sal polished off a slice of Magsy’s delicious apple pie. With that alacrity of mind for which she was famous, she launched into a different subject. ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  Magsy raised a shoulder. ‘I don’t know. I went back after an hour – just as she had ordered – but Miss Moore muttered something about holidays and not being able to contact people – I am to go again soon with Beth. She insists on meeting Beth.’ Magsy’s feelings went from soaring hope to deepest gloom whenever she considered the size of the decision she was required to make. It was like being on a ride at the fair – up, down, round the bend. If only she could turn off her own mechanism for a day or two.

  ‘Understandable. She would want to make sure that your daughter’s no tearaway, so. But Magsy, how do you feel in yourself about the whole thing?’

  How did she feel? Oh, God, she wanted so badly to live in that pretty village, even in that hut of a place that was called a summer house. Yes, she was filled with ideas of gingham curtains, summer evenings, lamplit winters, bread baked in the fireside oven, walks, Beth running free in that clear air, Tinker frolicking by her side—

  ‘Magsy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She glanced down at Tinker, the little dog who continued to pine for his young mistress. ‘There’s the question of schools and church and the bus service to Bolton.’

  ‘And the question of your daughter’s health. Rachel goes to church – just a little place, but a church all the same. Priorities, Magsy. Getting Beth well has to be top of the list. And Rachel says the money’s good and all found, nothing to pay out. Think of the books you could buy for young Beth.’

  Magsy made no reply. Miss Katherine Moore was up to something, had been making telephone calls during that hour when Magsy had toured the house and the garden. What, though? And was she going to be a good employer? How would Beth feel about a move? Would she do as well in a village school and was there a Catholic school and . . . she gulped. Did Catholic matter? She had heard that question before, probably inside her own head.

  ‘So, you’re to go for Beth tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’ll be glad to see the back of her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sal rose to her feet, chair scraping loudly as she pushed it backwards. ‘Sure, I might as well try to have a conversation with the fire-back. You complain about your daughter being vague, but I can see where she got it.’

  ‘Sorry, Sal.’

  Sal reached out and touched her friend’s shoulder. ‘Away with you, for I shall miss you something desperate, yet I want you to go. It’s for the best – ah, you’ll be grand.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘You both will, and—’

  The front door slammed inward, its handle making sharp contact with the wall. The two women froze, waiting for God alone knew what, yet no further movement was detected.

  ‘Who’s there?’ shouted Magsy.

  ‘Only me,’ came the quiet reply.

  ‘Come in,’ called Magsy.

  A bedraggled Lily Hardcastle walked into the kitchen, hair all over the place, coat unfastened, face bloated with weeping.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ murmured Sal.

  ‘I didn’t know where to go,’ said Lily. ‘The house is so empty.’

  Magsy guided the new arrival to the best rocker in front of the fire. The woman’s hands were like blocks of ice, the coldest Magsy had ever encountered. She rubbed life into fingers so white that they were taking on a tinge of blue. ‘Where on earth are your gloves, Lily?’

  ‘Eh?’ The eyes focused on Magsy.

  ‘Your gloves? And your scarf?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lily inhaled a few times. ‘See, I would keep on dreaming – butterflies and birds – things I wanted for me. And I carried on about nose-picking and smelly feet – as if I’m perfect, like. God didn’t hear me, but the devil did.’

  Glances passed between Sal and Magsy, the former remaining with Lily, the latter picking up the teapot to pour a cup for this very distraught and chilly woman. But Lily was too far gone to hold the cup, dashing it away when Magsy guided it to her lips. ‘It’s my fault.’

  Magsy stood up. She and Sal could only watch while their neighbour rocked back and forth, repeating the words that proclaimed belief in her own guilt. For several minutes this behaviour continued, that dry, hoarse voice making the statement, ‘It’s my fault.’

  Magsy turned to Sal. ‘Someone died, I think,’ she mouthed.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  The younger woman thought about doctors, about Lily’s sister who lived just streets away, rejected those ideas. For the rest of her life, Magsy would wonder how she had known the answer; she even played with the concept of a minor miracle. Whatever the reason, whatever its source, none of that mattered in this vital moment. ‘Get Nellie,’ she said.

  ‘Nellie?’

  Magsy nodded. ‘She understands . . . things.’

  Sal pondered for a few seconds, then went across the street to disturb Spot, that little dog who had become the ears of Miss Nellie Hulme. For the life of her, Sal would wonder at Magsy’s decision to nominate Nellie as the one who would put things right.

  Magsy waited at the table, her eyes riveted to Lily. Tinker tried bouncing up and down, licking Lily’s hands, but the mantra continued, that same statement repeated over and over.

  Nellie arrived, her loud breathing audible long before she entered the room. Sal, who had a meal to prepare, went next door, leaving behind the message that she would return if summoned by a knock on the wall.

  Magsy wrote on a piece of paper, We think someone has died, but we cannot get sense out of Lily.

  Nellie read the words, then took the nearest dining chair and parked herself next to Lily. She sat for several moments, eyes straining to get the drift of her neighbour’s words.

  Magsy scribbled It’s all my fault, passed it to Nellie.

  The deaf woman placed a hand on Lily’s shoulder, made eye contact with the grieving woman, her other hand coming up to cup Lily’s chin. Chanting and rocking stopped.

  Magsy stepped out of the picture, stood near the sideboard and waited, aware, after a few seconds, that she had been holding her breath. Why? Both these women were deaf now, one clinically, the other shutting out all sound in a world that had suddenly become unacceptable.

  It all came out then, every syllable enunciated clearly. Sam had suffered a heart attack, had
died in the night. So here she sat, poor Lily Hardcastle, three sons sick and her husband dead. Magsy took a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and mopped her streaming eyes. So this was it. This was what happened to people who lived in dirty towns where the air was filled with smoke and grime. How lucky she had been, because Beth had survived.

  People were still going down with this new plague; the isolation unit was filled to capacity and there was talk of closing the hospital to all except urgent cases. Those awaiting surgery would wait longer, their wards taken up by the victims of Asian flu. Doctors, nurses and cleaners were ill, the service was stretched almost to its limits . . .

  Lily continued to talk, her voice cleared now by the need to communicate with the deaf. Yes, Nellie had been the answer. And Beth’s future lay in the countryside. Sal had been right – survival first, education lower down the list. The decision had made itself.

  Dot was clearing out the yard in preparation for a good swill with hot water and Lanry. The thing about a food shop was that cleanliness was vital, so the yard got bleached every other day. It was cold, so cold that she shivered as she opened the back gate. And there he was, that funny little man with his stubbly chin, daft bowler hat, scruffy bow tie at his throat, an over-large overcoat hanging from his shoulders. No, she would not laugh. He had twinkly eyes and a lovely smile – and he was well respected hereabouts.

  ‘Mrs Barnes.’ He removed his hat as if it had been the feathered variety favoured by cavaliers.

  ‘Hello, Mr Smythe. Cold enough for you?’

  ‘I don’t mind the cold,’ he replied, ‘so allow me to clean that yard for you. All I ask is a meal.’

  She rewarded him with a smile. The cleaning of the yard was the worst job, one she had volunteered for. She was grateful to Frank and Rachel, and this was her way of showing that gratitude. ‘Fair enough,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Will sausage and mash do you? And I’ve a bit of apple crumble left over from last night.’

  ‘Nectar.’ He took the rubbish from her hand and stacked it in the alley.

  Dot wrapped her thick cardigan tightly around her slight frame. This was an easterly wind – how did the man survive in this weather? ‘Did you have shelter last night, Mr Smythe?’