Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Terrible,’ said Peter.

  Ernest found himself warming to this intruder. ‘Never a second glance, mind you, the day she walked out of here. Picked up all her clothes – and I bought her only the best – and buggered off, just left me here to rot. See, there’s no reasoning with women, specially them what mix with Catholics.’

  Peter sipped his tea and tut-tutted whenever Ernest left a pause.

  ‘I even went up to plead with her, but would she listen? Would she bloody hell as like.’

  ‘Most unreasonable,’ commented Peter.

  ‘I wouldn’t care, but she were kept like a queen here, only the best for Dot. She had as much housekeeping as she wanted, good grub, decent clothes, a jug of Guinness from the outdoor every Saturday night. I even paid for her to go to the pictures. I couldn’t go, oh no. I had to stop here with me leg.’

  Peter made more noises of sympathy.

  Warmed by sweet tea and his subject matter, Ernest was emboldened. ‘I followed her.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Like I said, I pleaded with her, got nowhere. So next news, I gave her down the banks a right telling off. I can tell you that for no money. Frightened her halfway to death, I did.’

  ‘No more than the woman deserved, I am sure.’ Peter stood up and lifted his hat from the dresser. ‘I shall go now,’ he said, ‘and thank you for the tea.’

  Disappointed, Ernest sank into his chair. ‘Well, you know where I am now. Name’s Barnes. Call any time you’re passing.’

  Peter smiled. ‘I shall, Mr Barnes. I most certainly shall. By the way, I am Peter Smythe. Good day to you.’ Then he left as suddenly as he had arrived.

  Ernest grinned. He had met a new friend and he intended to make good use of him.

  Sixteen

  June was always a beautiful month, but the June of 1951 was spectacular. Flags and paths baked in the ever-present sun, gardens demanded water, grazing animals slowed, sheep all but screaming to be shorn, cows ambling homeward like sleepwalkers, their only motivation a need to empty swollen udders.

  Magsy was reasonably content in her work. The old woman was demanding, arrogant, occasionally unkind, but she did experience a great deal of pain, so Magsy left room for that. Now that the rhythm of the day was established, the job was manageable and the living conditions were good.

  The house was finally organized in general terms. There was a bathroom downstairs and Miss Moore was settled in one of the front living rooms. Everything was clean, each room had been decorated and the old lady was cared for at last. Occasionally, Magsy missed the bustle of town, the markets, the chattering among staff at the infirmary.

  But there were benefits, of course. Beth was receiving an excellent if somewhat unconventional education, they were well fed, decently housed, the countryside was available at all times. With Tinker, they walked the moors, explored woods, visited other villages. The summer house was comfortable, if rather small, and Miss Moore had furnished it well.

  At three o’clock on a Monday afternoon, Magsy took her siesta in the rear garden of Knowehead. Above her head, the canopy of an old apple tree gave her shade, while birds hopped and hovered, their twitterings softened by the day’s heat. She was happy. Never one to shun work, she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the improvement of Miss Katherine Moore and was pleased with the results. The woman was even wearing dresses and shoes, was walking a little, had begun to put in some effort.

  A small sound disturbed Magsy’s musings. She opened her eyes to find the lady of the house sitting beside her on a rustic bench, an item cobbled together out of rough planks. ‘Miss Moore,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘No fuss,’ snapped the new arrival. ‘Stay where you are and say nothing. It took me over fifteen minutes to get here, but I am here and I need to rest for a while.’

  Flabbergasted, Magsy obeyed the order. If Miss Moore had decided to walk, then she must be left to get on with it.

  ‘You may have to carry me back inside,’ said Katherine after thirty seconds of silence. ‘This lawn is beautifully kept. Does that funny little man do the garden now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Peter Smythe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Katherine closed her eyes and allowed the sun’s natural heat to warm her bones. How long was it since she had managed to come into her garden? Oh, how wonderful the sun felt, how wonderful it was to be alive. Her bones ached, but she still had her mind, still had Magsy and Beth, so many things to be grateful for.

  Magsy waited. There had to be a reason for this change in behaviour, this supreme and painful effort. What was going on in that over-active head?

  ‘Is the summer house adequate for you?’ asked Katherine eventually.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Would you not be better with a bedroom each?’

  Yes, something was going on here.

  ‘I understand that the Smythe man has an arrangement whereby he sleeps in an abandoned caravan. That can hardly be satisfactory.’

  Wheels turned in Magsy’s head. ‘He is a gentleman of the road, Miss Moore.’

  ‘I know that.’ There was an impatient edge to the voice. ‘I also know that he used the summer house before you and your daughter came along. I have never been completely immobile, so I did notice what was going on in my own garden. So, whatever his attitude to life, the summer house must be sufficiently bohemian for him to live in. I shall put him there.’

  Put him there? Katherine Moore plainly treated life like the games of chess she played with Beth, pieces to be moved, a king, a queen, but mostly pawns. She had probably been working up to this for a while.

  ‘Four empty rooms upstairs here,’ the old woman continued, ‘sufficient space for you each to have a bedroom, two further rooms and a bathroom. We could make the bigger room into a drawing room, the smaller into a kitchen. You would be far more comfortable up there.’

  Magsy processed the information. Yes, she and Beth would be comfortable in the house; they would also be available. Ever since the incident at her second interview, Magsy had tried to keep Beth away from her employer. They played chess on Fridays, but, for the most part, Beth lived and worked in the summer house. The bedroom was small, especially with two beds and Beth’s bookcase and desk, but they managed.

  ‘So the decision is made?’ Magsy turned to look at Katherine.

  ‘Beth tells me that you store your clothes in the porch, as there is no space in the bedroom.’

  ‘That is not a problem. After the slums of Bolton, the summer house is a palace.’

  Katherine knew that she must tread carefully. ‘Because I now live downstairs, your accommodation would be completely separate from mine. Your hours would be the same, but, should I fall, there would be someone in the house to help me.’

  Magsy sighed. In Katherine’s head, the documentation was signed, notarized, passed by parliament, sealed, now delivered. ‘I shall speak to Beth,’ she said.

  ‘Speak to a ten-year-old? She will go where she is put.’

  Magsy bridled. ‘As you have taken care to mention yourself, Miss Moore, Beth is no ordinary child. And remember, you had reservations about Tinker, even though he was to live with us in the summer house. There would be a large dog in Knowehead – have you considered that?’

  ‘I have.’ Katherine loved Tinker. A mess of a dog, he seemed to understand her needs, her pain. He never jumped at her, was always apologetic about entering her room, yet he came whenever he could, visited each time doors were left ajar. ‘The dog is no trouble,’ was all she chose to concede. ‘So, that is my decision. I leave you to make yours.’ She rose painfully.

  ‘Shall I help you?’

  ‘No.’ The agony was dreadful, but Katherine fought to conceal it. Determined to get the O’Garas into her house, she had to make the best of herself. Racked with severe pain, she made her slow way towards the french windows, surprised when Magsy appeared by her side. ‘I can manage,’ she snapped.

  ‘That is a load
of old blarney,’ replied Magsy. ‘You are transparent in more ways than one, Miss Moore, thin as a garden rake and determined to have your own way at all costs. Now stand still and do as you are told for once.’

  Katherine stood. This robust Irishwoman had a way of carrying her that minimized the pain, so she gave herself up into the care of another stubborn and determined person. ‘You and I are the immovable force and the irresistible object.’

  ‘We are locked horns,’ replied Magsy as she swept up the ridiculously lightweight Katherine. ‘This will always be a fight, you know. We are both controllers.’

  With the walk completed, Magsy placed Katherine on her chaise. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Later, thank you.’

  Magsy left her employer and walked back into the garden. Ah well, it was going to happen. There was sense in the suggestion, and Magsy would minimize the contact between Beth and Miss Moore. She grinned to herself. There were three of them, three determined souls. Beth would make her own decisions. She would hurt no-one, would disturb no-one. But, at the age of ten, Beth had her own very decided way of dealing with life.

  Whatever, the destiny of the O’Garas was inextricably linked with the woman indoors. Time for a little snooze before Beth got home. Beth would be for the move. And there was little that Magsy could do, because it would be two against one.

  She settled into her deckchair, a smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. Understanding Katherine Moore was not difficult. With no family and few visitors, she was making the best of her allotted time. It would all work out, Magsy felt sure. And there was still Paul. Yes, thank God, there was still Paul.

  He stepped back from the bed, a hand to his throat, guilt almost choking him. He hadn’t meant to kill her, no . . . no! But she wasn’t breathing. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ he sobbed, ‘honest, Mam, I loved you.’ He wouldn’t have stayed otherwise, would he? But how many times had he challenged God, fists balled, head bent in that back yard, why, oh, why was he fastened to her?

  ‘Mam,’ he whispered. ‘Mam?’

  She was as still as a broken millstone, had been a millstone, his albatross, his burden. Her lips were turning blue, while her grip on the woven quilt had slackened. It had been quick, at least, he told himself. But he remained beyond comfort. No matter what sort of person a mother was, she was still the source of life; the source of his life was now extinct.

  The room was hot and oppressive. He staggered to the table and dropped into one of the four chairs. Doctor? Ambulance? Minister? Undertaker? All of the above? What was he supposed to do now? Oh, he was competent when it came to anyone else’s difficulties, but this was beyond him. A ciggy might help. With hands that seemed to belong to someone else, someone with a nervous disease, he managed to light a cigarette. He had killed his own mother.

  How many times had she screamed at him, ‘You are killing me’? How often had she begged him to use a knife, which would have been quicker? She had seemed bent on continuing for ever, a bane, a chore, a nuisance, but she was gone now.

  He flicked ash in the general direction of the fire. A tidy man, he would never have thought of tossing cigarette ash about the room, but he was not himself today; today, he was a man who had killed his own female parent.

  He remembered how her colour had changed just before the fit had taken over, how white she had become, how sweaty. The whole room had seemed to shake. And it was his fault, because he had forced her to swallow those pills. ‘For God’s sake, Mam,’ he had yelled, ‘stop messing about and get them down you.’ Those painkillers had killed more than pain . . .

  Honour thy father and thy mother, the bible said. That law had kicked in with Moses and it still applied. ‘Stop it,’ he said aloud, ‘stop it. You stayed with her, you did your best.’ Well, it was time to face the music. With arms almost as heavy as his heart, he dragged on a jacket and prepared to fetch the doctor. The nightmare had to be tackled. Mam was dead and gone. And, in the strictly legal sense, Lois Horrocks had died a natural death.

  Danny was a good lad. He had gone back to the pit in Westhoughton, but for less money, as he was now a surface worker. His chest, though improved, was judged insufficiently sound for face work, so he counted, graded and supervised the collection of every piece that came up from the depths.

  But, more important than that, he had taken over where Roy was concerned, had told the lad about Sam. Lily’s gratitude knew no bounds. She was determined to be an excellent housewife and mother now that her boys were out of hospital. She would value them, care for them, would do her best to make sure that they had decent lives. In pursuit of that objective, she worked hard with Nellie, her lace skills improving no end, her knitted garments sent for sale on the outdoor market.

  For the past few months, Lily’s lads had led a very different and somewhat unusual life, because they now had two mothers. Nellie might have been deaf, but she was tender, appreciative of help. She was no longer smelly, and her house was clean, newly decorated right through.

  The whole Hardcastle/Hulme family made its way to the High Street Baths every Thursday, separating only when divided by gender, female to the left, male to the right. Afterwards, they always met outside the slipper baths, then Nellie treated them all to ice cream sodas at Drinnan’s Parlour.

  Roy’s recovery was slow, as they had been warned to expect. Nellie was amazing with him. In spite of her affliction, she read with him, mouthing the longer words, breaking into syllables any that proved too difficult for the lad. She painted with him, made models, played soldiers, walked with him and the dogs.

  So the Hardcastles had two homes now. They slept in number 3, ate in number 1 and number 3, dashing from one place to the other depending on menus. After a while, Lily found that she actually enjoyed widowhood, took pleasure from being the only adult in her household. She was the boss, yet not the boss, because Danny became a father figure, while Nellie was closer to her than any of her real sisters.

  Nellie was content for the most part, though nights were still filled with dreams of that other place, that garden, the stables and horse trough, the fountain whose trickling she heard only when she slept. The red was still there, was still waiting to claim her, but she continued to back away from it, waking each time the big, bold colour tinted the edge of her subconscious. So . . . loud? . . . it was, so frightening, dominating, terrifying.

  She had done nothing about the house in the photograph. The same element that feared the red made her hang back, as if the truth might prove too much to bear. Apart from that, she was happier than she had been in her whole life. She had three adopted nephews, a wonderful adopted sister, and more reasons than most to want to continue in this vale of tears.

  It was Monday afternoon. Lily had gone off to the market with some crocheted babywear for the stall, Danny was at work, Aaron and Roy at school. She mused about her plans for Aaron. The influenza had left him rather weak, so she had set out to find work that would suit the lad. Her deaf friend on the market was ready to retire; Nellie’s idea was that Aaron would take over the stall. Nellie had a contact at the Society for the Deaf, many of whose members were skilled in craftwork. Aaron could sell their products, would be out in the fresh air, which situation would serve his health better than would a position down a mine or in a factory.

  Pleased with herself, she put the final touches to a massive tablecloth, folded it, placed it in the bag for the Chinese laundry. Although her house was now clean and tidy, she still preferred her pieces to be washed before delivery, as many of them took weeks to perfect and they were all handled for hours on end during preparation.

  She left the lace room to find that Spot was carrying on something daft outside the door. ‘Silly boy,’ she mouthed.

  But the dog refused to be quietened, which fact indicated that he was trying to tell her something.

  She descended the stairs, walked to the front door, opened it.

  Across the street, Sal Higgins staggered, her form doubled over, her mouth opene
d in a perfect O.

  Nellie shut Spot in the house and hurried across. It was plain that Sal was suffering and was having difficulty standing up. Nellie dragged her into the deserted house and forced her onto the bed beneath the front window. The woman was in labour. Although Nellie had never dealt with a birth, instinct came to her rescue, told her that there was no time to fetch a doctor or a nurse. She removed Sal’s undergarments and saw that the infant’s head was already crowning.

  Sal screamed so loudly that Magsy’s replacement at number 2 put in an appearance. She assessed the situation, announced her intention to fetch the midwife from Fox Street, then left the scene.

  Nellie took a deep breath. She had to be calm, had to deliver this child safely, must not panic. She grabbed Sal’s hand. ‘Baby coming,’ she mouthed. ‘Very good.’

  The baby came. Nellie held him, made sure that the cord was not twisted around the little neck, framed the words that told Sal that she had a fine, big son. The umbilicus was rather beyond Nellie’s comprehension, so she placed the infant in a towel and watched . . . and watched . . . and hurt . . .

  The red came. It was not profuse, but it was red, a steady stream that edged its way out onto Sal’s mattress. And this time, Nellie was swept into it, had no choice in the matter. The room darkened, changed, became another time, a different place. This was the big house, the one in Mam’s cupboard, photograph curled with age, grey, grainy, unclear.

  She was small, so small that she could scarcely reach the handle on the door. But she persevered, finally managing to push open that large, heavy wooden barrier. And there it was. Red, everywhere red. The man was shouting, but she could not move. ‘Go,’ cried Daddy. ‘You have a sister, now go.’

  But she remained riveted to the spot.

  A terrible scream came from the red, then another noise, high-pitched and breathy. A new baby, a new life, a sister. The baby screamed and the red screamed and the red stopped screaming. He scooped up the new baby and placed it on a table in a blanket. There was a woman there, a servant or a nurse, but she was unclear, not known to Nellie.