The nuns had bathed her mother in attention and she had revelled in it. Lily slowly turned her face sideways and gave her a long look. Her expression was vacant. She tried to feel pity, something, anything, but there was nothing. Her heart was full of pain for Joe and worry for Katie, but for her mother, nothing.
She turned from her mother to Katie, who was enveloped in Sister Therese’s habit while they waited for the hearse to arrive at the end of the drive. They had both slept at the convent every night since little Joe had died and in a strange way it hurt Lily to see Katie now looking so well because she was living proof that Lily, in her struggle to hold her family together, had been selfish and wrong. Joe was dead and that was her fault. If she had allowed Sister Therese to take them both into the St Chad’s home, he might still be alive. She had never been able to get over the humiliation that her siblings were not orphans and so should not be taken in. She had been determined that while she was there to love and care for them, they should remain at home. She had been so wrong. She had struggled for too long. Her heart felt like lead in her chest. Guilt, sorrow, recriminations, they were all waiting to add their weight, but not today. Today there was room only for pain and grief and Joe.
Her mother sobbed again. Lily ignored her. She had nothing to give. If Lily was at fault, this woman, who spent twice as much time in a public house as she did in her own home, was even more to blame. It had taken her mother almost twelve hours to sober up before she could fully take in the facts, and her reaction had been to head straight back to the pub, to share her news with her wastrel friends and to be bought drinks of pity. Lily knew that after the sorrow and the pain would come hatred and anger towards the woman sitting next to her. Tomorrow, that would come.
‘Here it comes now, here’s the hearse. I can hear the horses’ hooves. Look after your mother now, Lily. You go at the head, I will walk with Katie.’
Lily eased herself up from the bench and pulled her mother up with her.
‘Is he here, Lily?’ she asked in a pathetic, pleading voice that Lily had never before heard.
Lily nodded. An unexpected wave of pity washed over her for the wretched woman at her side. She took a deep breath as she squeezed her hand reassuringly.
She forced her legs to move towards the door. She could hear the rolling of the cart and the fluster of the horses as they stopped outside. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She looked down at the mosaic-tiled floor and for a moment studied it as she composed herself and calmed her breathing. She had wanted to open the door, to see him, but now that the moment had arrived, the panic that was threatening to swamp her almost won. Lifting her head, the black-painted door with the two arched stained-glass windows stood before her and through the intricate patterns she could see movement on the drive.
‘Wait a minute, Lily.’ Sister Therese stepped forward and pulled the black mantilla veil down over her face. Lily had no idea where the clothes she was wearing had come from; she was sure Sister Therese had told her, but like everything else over the past few days, it had gone.
Her mother bent her head, weighed down by shame or fear of the sight that was to greet them as Lily opened the door. There were footsteps on the gravel drive. Someone was walking towards them. Lily thought of Joe, outside, waiting for her, and it was all she needed to give her the courage to make the next move. She put her hand on the large brass handle, turned it and in a second swung open the door.
Father Brennan stopped in his tracks in the middle of the drive. He was a priest, but he was a man and uncomfortable in the presence of a woman’s tears. He looked over Lily’s head towards Sister Therese. A question passed between their eyes. ‘Are they ready, can we leave?’ Then he turned his back on Lily, ready to lead the funeral procession.
Lily’s eyes were now fixed beyond him, on the tiny coffin. It lay on the back of the flat, open hearse and her heart collapsed at the sight of it.
‘He has no flowers,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no flowers,’ she said as she half turned towards Sister Therese, expecting her to magic flowers in the wave of a hand. Of course he wouldn’t have flowers. Where would the money come from to buy flowers good enough for an angel? For the sweetest, most loving of all little boys.
She had never seen a hearse that wasn’t adorned with flowers and she almost screamed out. She wanted Joe to have the best, to be dressed in the most beautiful flowers, to be taken through the streets like the finest of them all, but there were no flowers because there was no money. She wondered who had paid for the hearse. No one had mentioned money to her, or at least not that she could remember. She turned to her mother, wanting to wound her. ‘There are no flowers. He may as well be on the rag-and-bone man’s cart.’
A gentle shuffling came from behind, one Lily had become used to. The sound of robes rustling and soft shoes gliding along tiled floors.
‘Look at the nuns, Lily,’ whispered Katie.
Lily dragged her eyes away from Joe’s coffin and, turning, saw the nuns lining up behind them, in two rows, heads bent. Without anyone saying a word, they began to chant in prayer. It was haunting. As the sound reached Lily’s ears, she was touched by something that had come among them, carried on the wings of the prayers. Lily could feel it; it was heavy and sad and joyous all at the same time. It was the Holy Ghost and it was all around her. She felt as though she could reach out and touch it, take it in her hand and hold it. It had come for Joe, to carry him to the church, to the place where he would rest in peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.
Unlike her mother, Lily didn’t cry. Still she held her tears. Father Brennan gestured to Sister Therese to walk down the path and, giving Lily the slightest push, she nudged her onwards. Lily’s legs worked and one foot did move in front of the other. It wasn’t until she reached the gate, to within touching distance of Joe, that she began to tremble and shake. Her beloved Joe, the little boy she had worried about since the moment he was born, was only feet away from her and all that prevented her from touching him was the wooden casket. But still she did not cry.
She felt Sister Therese reach out and hold on to her coat. Sister was telling her to wait. She remembered that now. She had to stop at the end of the path and wait for the crack of the whip and the horses to move, and she did. Her eyes were fixed on the smallest coffin as Joe began to roll away from her, and as he did, the scream almost escaped. The sudden lurch of the hearse was Joe leaving her and her instinct was to reach out and hold on to it, knowing that if she lifted the lid of the coffin, she could lift him out and hold him in her arms one last time, just one last time. But he was rolling further away and this time it was her mother who squeezed her hand. Turning sharply to look at her, her mother whispered, ‘Hold on, Lily,’ and the only other sound was of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles and the turning of the wheels and the chanting of the nuns. Another faint push in her back and she began to walk once again.
It was as they turned the corner and Clare Cottages came into sight that she saw them. Her neighbours, good and bad, young and old, were standing there, along with their hundred and more children, all of them silent, every last one of them. Mrs McGuffy blessed herself, stepped forward to the slowly moving hearse and laid alongside the coffin a wreath of green and white blossom and rose stems. As she stepped back, another woman held a child up, a friend of Joe’s, and he laid down a bunch of daisies. Lily’s eyes blurred with tears and all she could see was the outline of men, women and children covering Joe’s coffin with armfuls of blossom, wildflowers and variegated leaves. She knew that the blossom had come from the park and the cut flowers were fallen strays scooped off the dockside while the ships were being unloaded.
The women blessed themselves and bent their heads as the hearse passed them, and the men raised their caps in respect to the little boy who had not long ago turned four. Their children looked sad and Lily could hear their tears; children who had played with Joe on his beloved bike, until his mother had finally sold it. His source of pride, pleasure and dignity exchanged fo
r a night in the pub. ‘Bye, bye, Joe,’ she heard one little boy cry, and then another, ‘Bye, bye, Joe.’ The air became filled with the low moan of women crying as the tiny coffin passed.
‘We don’t deserve this,’ said Lily’s mother. Her crying had stopped, her eyes now dry as she stood in wonder at the actions of her neighbours.
‘He deserved it. It’s for him, not us. He was better than us.’ Lily almost spat at her as she spoke, her anger quickly bubbling to the surface before she took control and it disappeared once again.
The hearse had stopped to allow the women to arrange the flowers. When they’d finished, the sound of the whip cut through the air and the horses continued on their way to the church.
As they moved on, Lily heard footsteps. Turning her head, she saw through the black grid of her veil the residents of Clare Cottages, the children she couldn’t bear to hear playing, the women she thought despised her, and even the men, who had today not turned up for work, falling in behind the nuns to walk the hundred yards to the church. They were with Joe, escorting him on his final journey. But it wasn’t until the hearse stopped at the church that Lily’s tears began to fall. Waiting at the gates were Lockie and the McConaghys and Mrs McConaghy’s brother-in-law and the men from the plant and Amy, who also looked tearful. Without a word, Lockie stepped forward and, nodding to Mr McConaghy, they lifted the coffin into their arms and carried Joe down the path to the church. Mrs McConaghy held the largest wreath that Lily had ever seen, tied up with yards of blue satin ribbon.
As Lily turned to look at the crowd of people behind her, she said to her mother, ‘All this, it’s for Joe. All these people, they’re here for him. Imagine if he could see this.’
‘He can, Lily,’ said Katie. ‘He’s here. He can see it. Lockie is carrying him. Did you not see him? He was on Lockie’s shoulders. I saw him, he waved to me.’
And that was the moment when Lily broke because she knew that Joe truly was being carried, on a wave of affection. People had turned out to mourn him; he was covered in flowers. Joe was loved.
*
After the service, as the mourners dispersed, Sister Therese gently steered Lily out of the church. ‘Mr and Mrs McConaghy have put on a spread for everyone at the Irish Centre,’ she said. ‘I’ll take Katie and your mother with me. I think there’s someone who wants to have a word with you.’
Lily thought it must be Lockie and lifted her head to scan the graveyard. But it was Joe’s doctor from St Angelus, Dr Mackintosh. He raised his hand and it struck her that he was nervous as he walked towards her. His head was bent and it was obvious from the paleness of his skin and the redness of his eyes that he had shed his own tears too. Her heart reached out to him, across the gravestones.
33
Amy felt faint. She pressed the flat of her hand against the wall to steady herself while she waited for Lockie at the bottom of the steps to the processing plant. Auntie had allowed her to leave a few minutes earlier than usual, but not without a raised eyebrow and a grumble.
‘I cannot even recall an occasion when Lily asked to leave early,’ she said. ‘Have you finished today’s order sheets, Amy?’
‘Of course I have,’ Amy replied as she pushed the pin though her hat, making a mental note to get on to it tomorrow. She had done the same thing the day before and unfinished work was piling high in the drawer, away from prying eyes. It will all get done once Lily comes back, Amy thought to herself, although now even she was beginning to worry that, just maybe, it might not.
‘Do you think Lily will be back soon?’ she asked her auntie. She was desperate for Lily to return. Amy was nowhere near as competent as Lily and Mrs McConaghy was plainly unimpressed. Her special status as niece and heir was wearing thin now that she was the only person helping.
‘How will you manage, Amy,’ Mrs McConaghy had asked when Amy had taken herself off for a walk at lunch time, ‘when all this is yours?’
Amy had looked around her. I’ll sell it, was what she thought, but not what she said.
Mrs McConaghy didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Lily never took a lunch break,’ she said. ‘She ate as she worked, although, God knows, she barely ate. I gave her lunch every day. She thought I didn’t know, but she used to slip most of it into that basket of hers as soon as my back was turned.’
‘She must come back to work soon,’ said Amy. ‘She can’t manage without the money. I’d give her another week and then she’ll just turn up.’
‘Let’s hope so, Amy, because I am very concerned that you are just not cut out for this work. I blame your mother, of course. She has never been a worker herself, but still...’ She could barely suppress the disappointment in her voice.
When Amy asked to leave early, Mrs McConaghy knew it was to meet Lockie and so she allowed it. She trusted Lockie above all the other traders. ‘No one asked him to carry that coffin, nor your uncle; they just did it. That’s the measure of them,’ she’d said to Amy a hundred times since Joe’s funeral.
Standing on the steps, Amy sensed Lockie was near. Turning, she saw him in the distance as he walked up from the docks, the moving cranes his backdrop, the silver strip of the Mersey glinting in the sunshine. She shielded her eyes with her hand to see him better. He was bent forward against the incline of the rise, his cap pulled forward, hands thrust deeply into his pockets. No matter how hard she tried, she could not make her heart flip at the sight of this man. He was too good, too pure, too willing to accommodate her every tantrum.
She put her hand in the air and waved, expecting him to wave back as he usually did. There was no response. He must have other things on his mind, she thought. His own business was growing faster than he could accommodate it and he had told Amy he was thinking of taking on two lads to help, and another horse and cart. ‘There’s talk of motorized wagons to do the horses’ job, but no one around here could afford one of those,’ he said. He was always thinking, thinking: how could he stay ahead of the game?
‘Hello, how are you? How’s your day been?’ she asked with enthusiasm.
Time was moving on. She had taken to wearing looser clothes; underneath them, she was showing. She wore her scarf long and over her dress and more than one person had passed comment and made the connection between her size and the amount of cakes her auntie bought. Very soon people would become suspicious and start talking. If she didn’t persuade Lockie to marry her, there would be no way out. She might as well kill herself there and then. Her life would become a purgatory, one she could not bear. She would be sent to a mother and baby home as soon as the words ‘I’m pregnant’ left her mouth. She would be banished from society, her home, her life. The baby would be given up for adoption and she would be sent to Ireland, to an old-fashioned, judgemental relative and she would live out her days incarcerated, expected to help out on one of her uncle’s farms. Her parents would never forgive her. Her mammy and daddy would near die with the shame. Her aunt and uncle would disown and disinherit her.
She had no one to turn to for help. Doreen’s father had slammed the door in her face when she’d called round to see her weeks ago. Lily had not returned to work since Joe had died and was apparently living in St Chad’s with her sister.
Her heart began to beat faster as panic set in yet again, just as it had every day for weeks now, each time her skirt failed to fasten and her hand wandered down over the firm bump in her belly. Lockie had to be her salvation. He was her only way out, but it had to be quick. She had to tie him down and there was no more time. It had to be tonight.
‘I’m just the same as I was when you saw me this morning in the office,’ Lockie replied.
Amy was about to mention that he’d been as miserable as hell that morning and had barely spoken a word. She’d hoped he would be in a better frame of mind by the evening. ‘You weren’t too happy then, Lockie. Has the day not got any better? What’s wrong?’
Lockie didn’t answer her, just looked down towards the river.
‘What shall we do?’ he asked. ‘Sh
all we get a bite at the café and then go for a drink?’ His mind was working overtime and he was struggling to put on a good face. Lily’s words had been running round and round in his mind since the night in the hospital.
Lily is jealous, he reasoned. Wants me for herself. She’s trying to turn me away from Amy. She can’t believe anyone else would want me. He had said those words over and over to himself and yet the more he said them, the less they rang true. He had been unable to let her words go: ‘She needs someone to get hitched to and, Lockie, you are proving mighty easy.’
If Joe hadn’t died so suddenly, he would have gone to St Chad’s and demanded that she explain herself and stop badmouthing Amy. But he had lost his temper instead, on the worst night of Lily’s life, and the shame of it haunted him. Still the thought plagued him: did Lily want me for herself? Could that be the case, the reason why she’s telling such awful lies? Is she that desperate? Was she hoping I would be the one to give her a hand up out of her miserable life at Clare Cottages? Did Lily want me to save her?
‘That’ll be great,’ Amy answered. She suppressed a shiver. She hated the café. She loved the Grand, but when she’d suggested to Lockie that they walk up town to the Grand for a drink, Lockie had almost laughed out loud. ‘The Grand? That place is for nobs. You won’t catch me going in there.’
And so they made their way to the café on the side of the docks, where the men with no wives and the shop-girls on their way out for the night called in for a burnt, fat-blackened double egg and chips.
The Children of Lovely Lane Page 40
