A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  This I would not pretend to accept. It was bad enough having him pat me on the head all the time and listening to his stupid questions, but this was going too far.

  ‘No. He is not my stepfather,’ I said quietly. ‘My Daddy was my father and I don’t want a stepfather.’

  Father Cavanagh tutted his dismay, then shaking a finger at me he said, ‘You know your Commandments, do you not?’

  ‘Yes Father.’

  ‘And is not the fourth “honour thy father and thy mother”?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Then surely you must honour Mr Higson, for he is looking after you as a father would, caring for you, is he not? It will be a mortal sin for you not to honour your stepfather, Annie.’

  My stomach turned over. Whatever I did, wherever I went, there were adults tying me in knots, confusing me to the point of madness. And the worst offenders were these priests and nuns with their laws about this and that, telling me what I must think, what I must believe, how I must act – even who I must be.

  But I kept cool, nodding my assent. My lips had formed no lie, but that nod, with its mute falsehood, laid yet another stain on my immortal soul which was by now, I felt sure, so pitted with black holes that it might have been used to drain cabbage.

  I took my place next to Josie Cullen who was eight and nearly as tall as I was. We did not sit together by choice, but simply because we were both on the same page of the sum book and sum books were always one between two. Yet in spite of the fact that our proximity to each other had been forced upon us, we were fast becoming friends.

  Josie and I were termed tomboys because neither of us wore ribbons or hairslides, nor did we play sedately like the other girls. We were frequently dispatched to the washroom after playtimes, for we seemed to attract dirt, gathering it about our persons like a pair of magnets collecting filings. The boys liked us, respected us almost, as we were not averse to a bout of rough and tumble and while Josie was conker champion of St Stephen’s, I excelled at marbles, cleaning out the boys’ stock of glass alleys and bolly-bearings with a frequency that alarmed them and won their admiration.

  Josie nudged me. ‘Take no notice of ’im. ’E’s a soft old sod.’

  I gaped at Josie. She had already made her First Confession and Communion. She would have to tell Father Cavanagh in the confessional that she had called him a soft old sod. I voiced my concern in a whisper.

  ‘Don’t be so daft,’ she hissed back. ‘For a kick-off, I can always disguise me voice. Or I can go down to St Patrick’s and tell some other soft sod as I’ve called this soft sod a soft sod.’

  This was terrible. Now I had two immortal souls to worry about – mine and Josie’s! ‘You can’t call a priest a soft s . . . a name like that, Josie. It’s a sin. You’ll go to hell!’

  ‘Oh shut up, Annie. You’re beginning to sound like a bloody soft sod yourself . . .’

  Although I was worried by all this, I felt elated somehow. I suddenly knew that it wasn’t just me, that I wasn’t the only one who entertained bad thoughts about people, important people too, like priests. But I would never have dared to voice my contempt as Josie just had. Whenever I got bad thoughts, whenever my temper rose, I became overwhelmed by guilt, weighed down by the knowledge that I was heading for certain damnation. But if Josie felt any guilt, she never showed it.

  She chewed now on the end of her pencil. ‘What’s eight eights?’ she asked.

  ‘Sixty-four.’

  ‘How do you do that, Annie?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Sixty-four just like that, without having to go back to one eight is eight.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know.’

  ‘Well I don’t.’

  ‘See? I told you you were a soft sod.’ Furtively, she passed a sticky square of chocolate across the desk and I pushed it into my mouth before Miss O’Gara could spot it.

  ‘Want another?’

  ‘No. Save it for playtime. Where did you get it, anyway?’

  ‘Paper shop.’ She copied down another sum. ‘I nicked it. It’s dead easy at Warburton’s. Anyroad, there’s never any toffee coupons at our ’ouse.’

  I almost choked. I was eating stolen chocolate. Thou shalt not steal, that was number seven on the list of Commandments. Josie’s soul must be as black as hell itself. Mine too, since I was sharing her spoils. Or would the stains be brown? Chocolate was brown . . .

  ‘Annie Byrne. Have you finished those sums?’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Then get on with your work and stop daydreaming.’

  I got on with my work.

  Eddie Higson blamed me for a lot of things. Firstly there was the atmosphere in the house, which was not good as I spoke to him seldom, going for days on end without even looking in his direction. Then there was the fact that I would not, even when I did deign to speak to him, call him Dad. When I spoke of him, he always got his full title and this angered him greatly whenever it happened within his hearing. He blamed me for shouting too much, singing too much, being too quiet. He blamed me for the cost of living and most of all for being alive, for being another man’s child.

  As time went by and it began to appear that my mother would have no more babies, he apportioned this problem to me also, saying loudly and often that I had ‘ruined’ my mother by being born such a huge great lump. Of this I took little notice, because I was impressed by none of Higson’s opinions and was determined to minimize his influence on my life.

  But I was afraid of his quick, blind rages, tense in his presence and I took to absenting myself from the house for hours at a stretch, taking refuge in Josie Cullen’s chaotic but happy household.

  The Cullens lived in a corporation house in Ince Avenue at the back of the library. There were so many Cullens that they were forced to eat in relays, the littlest ones often being sent to sit on the stairs with a bowl on their knees and one spoon between two or three.

  Mrs Cullen put me in mind of Mrs Hyatt from Ensign Street, being of similar build and nature. Although her house was already filled to bursting, she always found space, time and a wedge of bread and dripping for me. ‘There y’ are, lass. Get outside o’ that, it’ll stick to yer ribs. Now, our Josie, get that wash in to soak. And where’s our Allan? ALLAN!’ she would scream through the ever-open door, ‘Get thisen in ’ere while I mend yer pants.’

  Mrs Cullen would then turn to survey her rumbustious troop. ‘Right now, Ellen, get down that corner shop and ask fer five o’ spuds on tick. Be nice. Smile at the woman for God’s sake. Martin, get that knitting needle off our Tony, ’e’ll ’ave ’is bloody eye out like a lolly on a stick in a minute. An’ get that bloody cat out o’ the cupboard, Cathy. Yes, I know she’s lookin’ where to ’ave ’er kittens – find ’er a box in the front room an’ a couple of old Evening Newses. Now. ’Oo’s took the bloody lid off me bloody kettle? Annie love, go an’ ’ave a look round t’ back garden will yer? An’ while yer about it, see if you can catch sight o’ me fryin’ pan. Only they’ve been playin’ ’ouse again, so you’ll likely find a cup or two while yer at it . . .’

  I loved every minute I spent in that smelly, untidy house. There was nowhere to sit, scarcely an inch of room to even stand in, but at the centre of it all was Mrs Cullen, her great belly heaving with laughter as often as not, calmly dealing with each crisis as it arose, spreading her love and generosity equally amongst all-comers.

  When I would go home, always reluctantly, I could not help comparing my mother with Mrs Cullen. Long hours in the mill were taking their toll and it was plain that my mother was not a happy woman, for her face, once rounded and well-fleshed, was becoming sunken and seemed to be acquiring new and deeper lines with each passing day. Even her Titian hair was losing its vibrance, while her shoulders became rounder, as if they were carrying a great invisible weight.

  Higson, on the other hand, appeared to be thriving on good food and fresh air and had regained most, if not all the strength he had lo
st while in the prison camp. But however many windows he cleaned, however many spools my mother doffed, however many frames she tended, there was never enough money in the house.

  Furthermore, now that men had returned from the war and had recovered from wounds of body and mind, they were reclaiming their jobs and my mother was forced to agree, with reluctance, that she would eventually take an evening shift at the mill. This bitter pill was sweetened by the offer of promotion to supervisor in charge of two rooms and as this meant an increase in rate, her money would not be noticeably reduced.

  The elevation in her status should have cheered her and improved the atmosphere at home, at least between her and him, but still the long silences continued. I knew that my mother was very unhappy and I understood enough to realize that Eddie Higson was responsible for her state of mind. This was one thing for which I could not blame myself, because I was being as good as I knew how to be, was keeping out of ‘his’ way as frequently as possible, spending my time at the Cullens’ or in my attic room.

  But for many months now, I had not heard my mother laugh, had seldom seen her smile. The marriage had been a mistake. Even at my tender age, I could sense this. Yet I derived no satisfaction from having been proved right.

  7

  Communion

  Father Cavanagh persuaded them both to attend my First Communion and they looked so embarrassed and out of place, never having been inside St Stephen’s before, that I rather wished the priest had kept his nose out of our business. I wore a long dress of creamy-white satin, a veil with a stiff crown of artificial flowers and new white shoes. In my hands I carried a nosegay of mimosa and gypsy grass, together with a white missal and a rosary that my father had had blessed by Pope Pius XII himself.

  The priest placed the bread on my extended tongue while an altar boy held a solid gold plate under my chin in case of crumbs. Should the body of Jesus Christ crumble, then it must crumble only onto precious metal.

  I blessed myself, trying to feel solemn and dignified and waited for the wafer to melt, for I had been forbidden to chew. It stuck to the roof of my dry mouth and I hoped that Jesus wouldn’t mind too much when I edged it away with my tongue, for this thin consecrated biscuit now embodied Christ, who had died for me.

  I felt empty of grace and of breakfast, as we were forbidden to eat or drink before Communion. We new communicants, eight boys and seven girls, went obediently back to our families while Father Cavanagh droned his solemn way through the rest of the Mass.

  Then it was over. Now I would have to be very, very good, for every misdemeanour I committed would have to be relayed through the black grille of the confessional and right into Father Cavanagh’s ever-inquisitive ear. If sins were left untold and if the Blessed Sacrament was allowed, therefore, to descend into a stomach full of sin, then this would be a sacrilege, for which crime there would be no absolution.

  Yet I felt nothing at this, my first communion with Jesus Christ. What I had expected to feel, what I should feel, I didn’t know, but I was sure that I should not feel so . . . so ordinary, that Jesus should be filling me with grace and happiness, that I should be inviting Him, welcoming Him into my heart and soul. And when I returned to my pew and saw Eddie Higson sitting next to my mother, my loathing for him hit me with renewed force and I fell to my knees to make yet another act of contrition. ‘Lord I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word and my soul shall be healed. O my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins . . .’

  After the Mass, there was a party in one of the classrooms and we were given a breakfast of sorts, sandwiches, biscuits and orange juice. My mother and Higson stood awkwardly to one side, while the rest of the parents, obviously regular churchgoers, grouped themselves about the room, exclaiming over what a lovely Mass it had been and didn’t their Mary look sweet in the white frock and wasn’t Jimmy quite the little man in his new suit.

  Father Cavanagh, when he entered the room, made a bee-line for my mother. As consecrated shepherd of this particular flock, it was his bounden duty to round up the stray sheep first. The priest beckoned me to follow, which I did with reluctance as the food was disappearing fast and I hadn’t had much.

  ‘Well now,’ he was saying. “Tis lovely to see the pair of you here, so it is. And you’ll be after setting a good example for little Annie here now, won’t you?’

  My mother nodded while Eddie Higson stifled a yawn – he was not used to being out of bed so early on a Sunday.

  ‘And will you be attending the Mass in the future then Mr . . . er . . . Higson?’

  ‘Depends on the weather. I sometimes do a few houses on a Sunday if the week’s been bad.’

  ‘You work on a Sunday? On God’s holy day? Mercy in heaven, isn’t that a sin now?’

  Higson shrugged. ‘Well, you work on a Sunday, don’t you? I reckon Sunday’s about your busiest day. And if we all did what you’re suggesting, they’d have to shut all the hospitals for a start, wouldn’t they? So do we just leave people to die being as it’s Sunday?’

  ‘Ah well now, that’s a different matter altogether, for hospital work is essential and as for my work, well . . .’

  Eddie Higson interrupted loudly. ‘So’s window cleaning if it pays my bills.’

  The two men glared at one another for a few seconds, then Father Cavanagh turned to my mother.

  ‘Will yourself be bringing Annie to the Mass then, Mrs . . . er . . . Higson?’

  ‘I’ll try, Father.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you do that. And isn’t it time you made your Easter Duties? I have not seen you at Communion, Mrs Higson.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Father.’

  ‘Aye, you do that now, and God bless you.’

  The priest moved on to speak to the other parents and Eddie Higson grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the classroom. My mother followed at a slower pace crying, ‘But she’s not had her party, Eddie . . .’

  ‘Bugger her party. We’re getting out of here.’

  Then, at the far end of the corridor, I spotted two familiar figures making their way towards us. With a great cry of joy, I wrenched my arm free and began to run, coronet and veil slipping unheeded to the floor.

  ‘Aw, we missed it, luv.’ Mrs Hyatt enfolded me in her large heavy arms then Tom pulled me away from her, lifting me up, swinging me into the air just as my father had used to do.

  ‘You’ve not gone to America, then,’ I said happily.

  ‘Not yet, Annie.’

  ‘But you’re still going?’

  ‘Aye, he’s still going,’ said Mrs Hyatt before moving on to greet my mother.

  ‘Are you alright, Annie?’ Tom whispered.

  ‘Yes, I’m alright.’

  ‘Is he . . . good to you?’

  I looked over my shoulder at Eddie Higson who was standing a little way apart from my mother and Mrs Hyatt. ‘I don’t take any notice of him,’ I said. ‘I just keep out of his road.’

  ‘He doesn’t hit you or anything?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not much. When are you going anyway?’

  ‘Next week.’

  This news dropped like a stone into my stomach and I had to swallow deeply before I could say, ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Tom.’

  ‘Tell you what, Annie. You wait for me and I’ll come back and marry you when I’ve made me fortune. How does that sound?’

  ‘Daft,’ I said, but I knew I was blushing.

  My mother and Mrs Hyatt joined us now.

  ‘Will you come and have a cup of tea with us then, Florrie – and Tom, of course. And I’ve a scone or two and a bit of window pie left – come on back with us.’

  ‘Aye, we will that,’ answered Mrs Hyatt. ‘And I’m sorry we missed your Communion, Annie, but it’s a fair stretch from Ensign Street up here – more ways than one, eh, Nancy?’

  The walk back down Long Moor Lane was uncomfortable, for neither Tom nor Mrs Hyatt spoke to Eddie Higson after the initial greeting. My mother and he walked in front while I
skipped along behind, one hand in Mrs Hyatt’s, the other in Tom’s.

  They were, of course, very impressed with the house – or at least, Mrs Hyatt was. Tom had little to say on the subject, but his mother oohed and ahed over every detail, especially when it came to the bathroom and the walk-in wardrobe.

  Eddie Higson, after drinking just one cup of tea, went out to collect money from his customers. In truth, I felt, he went to get away from Mrs Hyatt who, apart from casting the odd furtive glance in his direction, had ignored him almost completely.

  When there remained just the four of us, Mrs Hyatt, more relaxed now, said to my mother, ‘By, tha looks a bit weary, lass.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s tiring at the mill. I’m starting evening shift soon, so it should be a bit easier.’

  Mrs Hyatt stirred her second cup of tea slowly. ‘And who’ll be looking after ’er while yer out?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, Eddie’ll see to her.’

  ‘Will ’e now?’

  I felt Tom’s leg brush past mine as he kicked his mother’s shoe under the table. My mother, bristling slightly, spoke up. ‘He’s quite capable of seeing to the child, Florrie. Fact is, Annie can very near take care of herself.’

  ‘Aye, ’appen she might ’ave to an’ all from what I’ve ’eard.’

  In the silence that followed, you might have heard a feather, let alone a pin drop. My mother rose with exaggerated quietness, taking with her the teapot as a signal that the Hyatts were no longer welcome, then she said softly, ‘That, Florrie Hyatt, was all talk and you know it. And if you’ve come all the way from Ensign Street to cause bloody trouble, you can just damn well get back where you belong.’

  Tom, leaning an elbow on the table, put a hand to his forehead. ‘Cut it out, Ma. I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again – no good can come of this.’

  But Mrs Hyatt, her colour heightening, jumped up from the table as fast as her bulk would allow. ‘Leopards doesn’t change their spots, Nancy Byrne – ooh, I’m forgettin’ meself, aren’t I? Nancy ’Igson, I mean. What can’t speak can’t lie an’ them as is dead don’t get up and talk for theirselves, do they?’ Her face was darkening to a purplish hue.