The Mother's Of Lovely Lane

by Nadine Dorries

  ‘Are you away to Mass?’ Biddy knew the daily pattern of Noleen’s life as well as she knew her own. There were no secrets on the dockside streets off Lovely Lane and the question was purely academic. Noleen would never miss Mass, nor even be away from St Chad’s for longer than twelve hours at a time because, despite how difficult her lot was, she still gave thanks to God each and every single day for her good fortune. And that included the love of a good man who had been returned home, albeit not in one piece.

  ‘Sure, I only have to look around me to see a house where no husband or father has returned at all. Why would I be complaining now?’ was her set reply every time a neighbour said to her, ‘You are a good woman, Noleen, you have a lot to be putting up with.’

  Noleen had no time for misplaced sympathy. ‘’Tis not me who deserves your pity,’ she told Father Brennan every time he tried to comfort her. ‘Oh, no, not at all. From our own street we can see the bombsites filled with the rubble covering the places where our friends died with their children in their arms. What can be worse than that? I won’t be wanting no sympathy from no one, thank you very much.’

  Her own children climbed and played on those same graves of ashes and dust, day after day. The walls and stairs of houses identical to their own had been razed to the ground and whole families Noleen and Biddy had once known wiped from the face of the earth in a scorching, siren-filled second. It was this which made her feel gratitude in her darkest hours. The streets closest to Liverpool’s docks had suffered during the Blitz and they were the survivors, the keepers of memories. She would not allow bitter tears to fall down her cheeks. Noleen was one of the lucky ones and she would never forget it, never stop saying thank you. She would forever count her blessings, one of which was a husband with nothing more than a missing leg.

  ‘Bless and praise your loving grace, merciful Holy Father, there for us in our hour of need and always,’ was Noleen’s final prayer twice a day at Mass and then once again as she closed her eyes before sleep claimed her. Noleen never forgot.

  In truth there was another reason why Noleen preferred to work nights. She would never confess it to anyone, but she hated going to bed. As she clambered off her stiff knees, slipped under the old army blankets and tried to sleep, a desperate feeling of dread would trickle down her spine like iced water against her burning skin. Sometimes it was the cold sweat of fear for what might have been. It covered her entire body, making her nightdress stick, her heart thump and her breathing quicken. The horror they had all witnessed on their very own streets and down on the docks came back to her. The noise of the sirens and the shouts filled her head and the blood rushed and pounded in her ears. When the morning klaxon rang for the dockers, it sounded far too much like an air-raid siren; it made her skin prickle.

  Recently, though, the fear had taken another shape. It had form. It was ghost-like and present with her in the room. Dark, black and silent. It crept in and slowly pressed down upon her when her mind was between wakefulness and sleep. She sensed it slither in and move towards her, and within seconds the beads of fear and perspiration would break out on her top lip and fan across her body. Her heart raced and banged against the sides of her bony chest, like a bird trapped in a cage. She felt as though she would suffocate with the pressure, lose the ability to inhale her own breath, as it slowly built and tightened.

  She knew she was being warned about something and whatever it was, it was too horrific, too awful, to acknowledge. She had no way of knowing, was this her personal anxiety robbing her of a normal life or ghosts warning her of the future?

  To try and ward off the worst of these bedtime terrors, she had taken to sleeping during the day on the settle in front of the fire, with Paddy in the chair opposite, watching over her. It was not the thing to talk about the war, about the losses or the hardship. All that had passed was meant to have been forgotten, and for Paddy, beset by his own demons, remembering was the last thing he wanted to do. When Noleen’s terrors came, he would be alerted by her anxiety, which made her thrash around on the settle. He would slip his arm around her and whisper into the back of her hair, ‘There, there, don’t be worrying now. We are all here, safe and sound. Nothing is going to happen to any one of us. No more wars or bombs, and I’m not going anywhere. No use to anyone. No more disasters. We are all safe and sound. Shhh. Doesn’t the man on the radio say so often enough? Hasn’t Churchill said so? Shhh.’

  As he stroked her arm and soothed away her fears, Noleen would whisper her prayer. It was all she had in her armoury. And then slowly, like a receding tide, her nameless, shapeless terror would ebb and fade from the room, leaving her like a limp, wet rag until a fitful sleep finally came.

  Paddy had taken it upon himself to reassure her about all that was before them. But how could she tell him that she was being warned and she didn’t know by whom or how. That her fear was not so much a product of the past but a foreboding about the future? If she told him, he would think she was losing her mind.

  Paddy was not going away, ever. There would be no wars, there was no danger, how could there be? Didn’t Paddy give her chapter and verse every day regarding everything the great and good were saying on the news? Didn’t he read the newspapers from cover to cover and repeat to her the relevant bits every morning when she arrived home, smelling of Lysol and mops? The bits that backed up his own opinions and prophecies for a future of peace and harmony.

  Sometimes, as she removed her coat while he repeated to her every word from the morning news bulletin, she wanted to scream at him, ‘Shut up. Shut up. It doesn’t help. It’s not another war I’m worried about.’ Instead, she would restrict herself to the occasional comment, just to reassure him that he wasn’t talking to himself. ‘Is that what they are saying now? Well, didn’t Chamberlain come back flashing a letter saying peace in our time? We believed him, didn’t we, and he was wrong. Why does this man know any more?’ It was always men. But unlike some of the other women living in the shadow of the war on some of the poorest streets in Liverpool, Noleen never complained. She bore her lot with stoicism and efficiency established within a framework of strict routine and order. A routine that compelled her to attend Mass at St Chad’s twice a day as Biddy, standing across Arthur Street from her on this dark morning, well knew.

  ‘Have you ever known me to miss Mass, Biddy?’ Noleen retorted. ‘I was on my knees when I was in labour with our Finn. He almost popped out in the confessional. I am away to the early Mass, as always. Will I be saying a prayer for yourself, Biddy? Being the sinner that you are and as you hardly ever seem to get there yourself?’ Noleen smiled a rare mischievous smile.

  ‘That you could,’ said Biddy. ‘You could ask him to save me from having to risk my life every morning standing with one foot on the bus and one foot off, hanging from the pole like a fecking eejit, while lazyitis Elsie swigs the last of her tea stood at the sink and I keep the bus waiting for her. She thinks I don’t know! Look at her, here she comes. Watch! Would you look at that. She doesn’t even have her bag in her hand. I’m telling you, before she gets to my door, she will remember and run back. Watch her, see.’

  Noleen, amused, waited and watched. Sure enough, Elsie stopped dead in her tracks, put her hand over her mouth, turned on her heel and ran back towards the entry shouting, ‘Wait for me! Hold the bus, Biddy,’ as she went.

  Noleen began to laugh. ‘You are a right pair, you two are. I’d say she’s even more distracted now that she’s a grandmother. She can’t stop talking about that baby. And you the godmother too. No excuse not to be at the baptism on Sunday, Biddy.’

  ‘I wish to God there was, Noleen. Father Brennan has never forgiven me since the day I told him I wished my husband had never come back from the war. It should have been him had the one leg, not your Paddy. That way, the bastard could never have run off with the Belleek tea set and me purse.’

  Despite herself, Noleen chuckled. Biddy’s irreverence, to be frowned on in any other woman who lived on the dockside streets, was toler
ated with humour.

  ‘Father forgives everyone, Biddy. He has to. You know that. Don’t take against him. You may need him to pray for you in the hour of your salvation.’

  ‘Oh for the love of God, I was only kidding, Noleen. You have gone mighty serious these past few months. Why don’t you come down the bingo with us on your night off this week? You’re in need of a good night out, I would say. Paddy won’t mind. You might even win enough to treat the kids. Go on. Try. Last month I won enough to take a trip back home to Ireland.’

  ‘I can’t, Biddy. It’s bad enough leaving Paddy on the nights I have to go to work. He goes mad with his own company, he does. The pain is bad for him sometimes, especially if he tries to put too much weight on his stump. The prosthesis near kills him. Hard as iron, it is.’

  Biddy had often noticed Paddy’s false leg, abandoned, leaning up against the kitchen wall in Noleen’s house. It looked anything but comfortable, a heavy contraption of leather-clad wood and cold, sharp metal.

  ‘If I come and speak to Paddy meself, would that be of any help, Noleen? We have a great way between us, me and Paddy.’

  Biddy was the only woman who had never said to Noleen, ‘At least he came back,’ and for that Noleen was grateful. Others had made that sort of comment on an almost daily basis, for no reason other than as a release for their own anger and pain of loss. Without any need for words, Biddy had always given Noleen the unmistakable impression she understood exactly what Noleen had to cope with.

  She could see the strain of managing a job, a family and a husband in constant pain crouching in Noleen’s eyes. In the past ten years Noleen had aged twenty. Her once almost jet-black hair was shot through with silvery white. Her skin was pale and lacklustre with a radiance similar to that of dirty bread dough and only the clear sparkling blue of her Irish eyes betrayed the fact that she was still not yet forty, a relatively young woman.

  Noleen shook her head. ‘It’s not just leaving Paddy that’s the problem, although that is hard enough. ’Tis the money. I just about make ends meet, you know that, Biddy. I don’t have to tell you. Heavens above, you’ve helped us out often enough before Dessie took our Bryan on as a porter’s lad. Half a crown on a few hours out at the bingo is just out of the question. I wouldn’t sleep with the guilt.’

  Biddy frowned. ‘Aye, and you get little enough sleep as it is and that’s a fact. And I bet Matron was on at you even worse than usual last night, wasn’t she? With the big opening of the new theatres coming up so soon now. Seems no time at all since those theatres were just a set of plans. Did Matron and Sister Pokey have you mopping them again? There’ll be nothing left of that nice new floor by the time everyone’s finished cleaning it. Obsessed, they are. Matron inspects it every day. I asked Elsie, is she losing her mind or what?’

  ‘No, not me. I was on the main corridor, but we all went up to take a look. Very posh it is. Sister Pokey was already there when I left this morning. She’s ever so excited. Betty Hutch says that if Dr Davenport hadn’t nearly died in the old theatre, after his accident, the new theatres would never have been built. She says his death and his miraculous coming back again was a wonder of God’s making.’

  ‘Does she now?’ Biddy sniffed and looked towards the bus stop. ‘Well, there might be some truth in that. ’Tis a fact that he died on the table a few times, they say. A young doctor like that.’

  Noleen knew that there was nothing went on in St Angelus that Biddy didn’t hear about, but Biddy was an old hand at gathering power as well as information. She neither confirmed nor denied.

  ‘Anyway, you get yourself to Mass and then to bed, woman. You look wiped out.’ They both looked towards St Chad’s as the bells altered their tone to a single peal, tugging at Noleen’s conscience and pulling her to Mass.

  ‘Have you thought of asking Dessie if there might be any easier work coming up at the hospital? Something with a bit more money?’ asked Biddy. She failed to mention that she had already voiced her concerns to Dessie and that he had promised to pop in. Biddy knew all too well how pride was Noleen’s only fault, so when Dessie did call to visit, Noleen would have no idea it was Biddy who sent him.

  ‘I can’t. Dessie was good enough to take Bryan on, bless him. I don’t want him thinking I’m ungrateful. He calls in to visit Paddy regularly as it is when I’m at work. Our Bryan is loving working up at St Angelus. Dessie owes my family nothing. I cannot be asking him for no more favours, Biddy, and don’t you be asking on my behalf either. Bryan may be man of the house when it comes to earning, but Paddy and me, we still have our pride, you know. Are you listening to me, Biddy?’

  Biddy appeared distracted. She was looking back down the street for Elsie. ‘Wouldn’t dream of asking him if you didn’t want me to, Noleen,’ she said. She dismissed the conversation with a sniff and a wrinkled nose as she craned her neck to catch sight of Elsie. ‘Here she is. Here’s the granny. Wonder what her excuse will be this morning?’

  ‘Does she need one with her new grandson? Poor Martha and Jake must never get a look in.’

  ‘It’s me who never gets the look in,’ said Biddy, affronted. ‘I’ve knitted for him, I even delivered him, and all I get is a quick hold when he’s crying and then it’s back to Granny Elsie once the wind’s up and the smile is back on his face.’

  ‘Well, if it’s a child you’re wanting to be looking after, there’s plenty in our house. You can borrow our Mary for a start,’ said Noleen. She lifted her hand to wave goodbye and headed towards St Chad’s as the nuns began to leave the convent and file in through the church gate.

  *

  Elsie marched on past Biddy with her handbag swinging to and fro, her eyes never leaving the bus stop. ‘You gab so much, Biddy, we could have missed that bus.’ She raised her bag to wave down the bus. ‘Thank goodness I’m here.’

  ‘You won’t be for much longer if you don’t shut up,’ said Biddy as she shuffled behind her and they took their seats.

  ‘What did Noleen have to say? Any news?’ asked Elsie as she took her cigarettes out of her bag and offered one to Biddy. The air was already a thick blue haze of cigarette smoke and the bus was filled with the sound of striking matches and chesty coughs and the smell of damp wool.

  ‘Nothing other than she was on her way to Mass.’

  ‘Never off her knees, that one. They’ll be worn out and good for nothing by the time she reaches forty, and what has she got to show for it, eh? She prays the most and has the least. Mind, I suppose she has more than most to deal with. Not many would put up with that nark, Paddy, the way she does.’ Elsie snapped the lid of her lighter shut and let it slip back into her handbag as she pulled hard on her cigarette. ‘Imagine, I nearly forgot me bag, me cigs, me purse and everything. I’m going doolally since our baby arrived.’

  ‘Going? You went a long time before that. Listen, you can say what you like about Paddy, but I’m worried about Noleen Delaney, Elsie. That woman has a hard life. They barely have two ha’pennies to rub together in that house and yet she still manages to keep going with a smile. It’s all down to Noleen and the lad Bryan and he’s only young. There’s four more below him needing to be fed.’

  Elsie regarded Biddy through narrowed squinting eyes as her cigarette smoke stung and they began to water. ‘She called in to our Martha’s last night after Mass to see the baby and she crossed his palm with a sixpence. Our Martha tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t have none of it. She’s a good woman. She deserves better luck than she has and that’s a fact.’

  Biddy wiped the steam from the side window to clear a view as the bus moved away. Both women watched as Noleen made her way under the arch of St Chad’s, her refuge. The only half hour of the day when she allowed hope to make an appearance in her life.

  ‘There but for the grace of God go all of us,’ whispered Biddy. Turning back to Elsie, she lifted her cigarette in the air. ‘Oi, you’ve only lit your own, you daft bat.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Biddy.’ Elsie undid the clasp on her handbag
and delved inside to retrieve her lighter.

  ‘There is one mystery in this world I will never understand,’ said Biddy, ‘and that is, how the hell does Matron put up with you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, Biddy. That’s awful.’ Elsie looked downcast.

  Biddy felt mean. Elsie lived in her own world of mild confusion and chaos, but for all that, she was a hard worker and Biddy knew well the reason why Matron put up with her. It was because Elsie looked after her with devotion and unswerving loyalty. Without question, Elsie made Matron’s life a whole lot easier.

  ‘Don’t say what? What do you mean? You’re too thick-skinned to take offence at anything. What’s up with you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Biddy. With the new operating theatres opening and all the talk of a new hospital and everything, I feel like things are about to change, don’t you? I don’t like change. I don’t. Nothing changed in the war. The bombs kept dropping and we kept working, you know, doing the same thing every day. A pair of old boots like you and me, there won’t be a place for us, will there, if it all changes. And it’s all such hard work, keeping up. I’m not sure Matron is going to stick around much longer now that her mother is dead. Dr Gaskell, he must be seventy if he’s a day. I reckon he’s only hanging on for Matron so that they leave together.’

  Biddy fished around in her coat pocket and took out the exact change for the conductor, who had almost reached their seat. ‘Don’t be such an eejit, woman. They will only leave St Angelus in a box, the pair of them. They are St Angelus, those two. They won’t be going anywhere and as long as they are there, we are too.’