A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  Nancy held up her hand. ‘I’ll say this for you – you’re a decent sort, Bob Higson and I appreciate your offer. But no, I owe the man one debt and that’s to get him safely buried, thanks all the same.’

  He left bowed and round-shouldered, Nancy closing the door securely in his wake.

  ‘Right. That’s that then, Mary. Pour us both a drop of brandy. Thank God I took a couple of days off – you’d have had his brother to deal with and you on the flaming night shift.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Daft, isn’t it? I get three days’ compassionate leave because I’ve lost a husband I didn’t want anyway. Never mind. Cheers – here’s to us and our Annie.’

  As they raised their glasses, the subject of the toast burst in like a whirlwind, books and papers scattering about her person as she entered the room. ‘I’ve finished!’ she cried, tossing a handful of notes into the air.

  ‘Then you shall have a brandy too,’ said Nancy. ‘After all, you’re eighteen – time you got introduced to the booze.’

  ‘Oh give over, Mam,’ laughed Annie, lapsing into her old mode of speech. ‘I’ve been pinching the odd drop since I was about fourteen – it would be no novelty.’

  Nancy clipped her playfully round the ear. ‘Sit down, Annie.’

  ‘What is it, Mother?’ Annie placed herself in the fireside rocker.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Mary came and squatted on her haunches in front of Annie, this new grown-up little sister whom she had learned to love. ‘Yes, he’s gone, Annie.’

  ‘Eddie Higson?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary gripped Annie’s hands. ‘He died two days ago, only we never told you on account of that big exam today.’

  Annie’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Nay,’ said Nancy. ‘You’re not weeping for him, are you?’

  ‘No.’ She sniffed hard. ‘I’m crying for what he was and what he did. We don’t know – perhaps he couldn’t help it. He might have been born bad and now he’s died all on his own.’

  ‘Honest! She’d see good in Jack the Ripper, she would!’

  ‘Please, Nancy,’ whispered Mary. ‘He was looked after, Annie. Don’t go upsetting everybody, especially yourself. And I’m not waltzing off on nights leaving you in tears.’

  Nancy and Mary went to the table and carried on setting places for the meal. Annie sat very still, staring into the grate as she spoke in a voice that was barely audible. ‘I read that any man’s death is diminishing to the rest of us. It’s forever. Death’s forever. The only thing we can be really sure of is that we’ll die. That’s why people write poetry, try to tell us to look at things now while there’s still time. I don’t like the thought of people dying, no matter what they’ve done. But I feel so awful, because I’m glad he’s gone. Does that mean I’m a bad person too?’

  ‘It means you’re bloody human, Annie,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Did he die peacefully, Mother?’

  Nancy would never tell her daughter the truth, that he had gone out raving and bathed in his own final haemorrhage. ‘Yes, he went quiet enough.’

  ‘Good.’ Annie rose, deliberately pulling herself together. ‘I’ll just go and change into some human clothes.’

  ‘Hang on!’ called Mary from the sideboard. ‘Two letters for you – one’s from America, I think.’

  Annie took the envelopes and sped to her room, opening Tom’s first. His letters and parcels had arrived frequently over the years, providing great pleasure for Annie and her friends with whom she’d often shared Life-Savers, coloured bubble-gums, bright American comic papers and lots of other carefully chosen mementos. Sometimes, he even sent clothing and items of jewellery, things that were not available in England, so that Nancy and Annie often wore things that attracted attention and comment. Always, always, Tom sent his love.

  She smiled, noticing yet again how American her Tom had become.

  1517 Forest View

  Philadelphia, Pa.

  U.S.A.

  June 1st 1958

  Hi Annie,

  How are you doing? I’ve got a good job now in the steelworks, promoted to supervisor just last month. This means I’m in charge of the two P’s – paint and people. I don’t know which is worse! I wish you would get out here and see this beautiful country. Philly itself is really busy, but there’s some cute places around and you would surely love Pennsylvania.

  I am busy most days. Everything needs repainting the minute you’ve done it. We paint everything that don’t move and a few things that do! Paint sure spreads easy!

  I’ve saved nearly enough to visit back home and the guys upstairs are letting me save vacations too so I’ll have six weeks in England once I’ve enough dough. I guess England will seem small. This one state is enormous compared to Lancashire.

  I’ve travelled a bit, went to Niagara a few weeks ago – boy, you should see that water, it kind of makes you want to cry. All that natural power is frightening.

  Also I’ve been to Fort Ligonier, Pennsylvania-Dutch territory. You would love them forests, Annie. This place is full of trees – I guess that’s how it came by its name. I’m sending you some souvenirs, Penn-Dutch aprons, tea-towels and the like so you can get the flavor. America has everybody’s history rolled into one heap, that’s why it’s so interesting.

  Well, I’m 32 and still not married. Did you wait for me or are you about to marry some college professor?

  I’ll be seeing you. Best regards to your Ma and hooray for her getting to be foreman.

  Lots of love,

  Tom.

  Annie placed the letter with the others in a drawer of the tallboy. She held on to the second envelope for some time, turning it over slowly in her hand. It bore a London mark and the address was handwritten. She had applied to no colleges in the south and anyway, with her new career decision, she did not expect to hear anything for a while, her late change of mind having made the applications tardy. Slowly, she opened the letter.

  113, Sandfield Road,

  London EC4

  14th June 58

  My Dear Annie,

  Yes, I’m in London – for the time being. I’ve gone freelance and already have two assignments lined up. My interest in photography paid off, because I now do the journalism and the pictures, so I don’t have to cart a photographer around with me. I’m calling myself a photojournalist, which sounds a bit posher than tea-boy! I leave for Africa in a day or two, raring to set off on safari.

  It seems stupid now, the way we quarrelled. I hope you are happy and that your career will be a success. I write to my mother occasionally, I think she’s glad of the pound or two I manage to send at last. She tells me you still visit and keep them smiling like you always did.

  Don’t you dare forget me, Annie Byrne. You can’t write, because I don’t know where I’ll be, but I’ll send postcards and photos from wherever I happen to get to. Look after yourself, kid. I’m coming back one day to see you. I expect you have a boyfriend (or several?) but I’m sure we can get together for old times’ sake.

  Hope your Mam is well – I hear that your stepdad is not in good health and I’m sorry, though you never did like him, did you?

  Will write again and hope to see you sometime soon.

  My love to you,

  Martin. X

  Annie stared for a long time at the single sheet. This was the first time he’d contacted her. Did he want that old flame – never more than a flicker – rekindled? What had she felt for this boy so long ago? Not love. Love was surely something bigger, greater than the childish feeling they had shared. But there had been tenderness, affection, care – and she missed those now.

  She walked to the window and found herself smiling as she watched Dr Pritchard struggling to start Genevieve. That car must be as old as the hills. He stood on the pavement, his mouth moving as he spoke to this beloved object, coaxing, stroking the bonnet as if the thing could hear and feel him. She shook her head. Such a marvellous doctor, such a wonderful, lovable and sweet man.

  Sighin
g, she turned away. Tomorrow would be another big day, another hurdle to leap, her final interview with Mother St Vincent. And these letters had unsettled her, had reminded her that there was a great big world out there ready for the taking. But first, she had to get past this tiny but commanding woman who was fighting her every inch of the way. And Annie was going to fight back. After all, life could be short – Eddie Higson’s span had covered a mere forty-three years. Again, she wept briefly, praying that she would not waste the rest of her own years hating a dead man.

  Then she heard Genevieve leaping to life and she grinned through her tears. ‘Hatred is a waste of energy,’ she heard David Pritchard saying. He was right, of course. Human, lovable, but right.

  They sat in their usual places, the small nun to the left and the tall girl to the right of the window, a tea-tray occupying the table between them. Mother St Vincent, elbows resting on chair arms, fingers tapping together in front of her Cross and Passion badge, stared hard at Annie. Annie played with the fringed end of her prefect’s sash, a long red strap that went over one shoulder, tied just below the waist on the opposite side, then dangled down towards the hem of her tunic.

  ‘Annie Byrne! Will you for once listen and pay attention? I have always hoped – no, that’s the beginning of an untruth – I have always known that you are Oxford material. Many is the day I have said to myself, “There goes a girl of high academic calibre.”’

  Annie’s mouth twitched. She would miss this woman, really she would. Only Mother St Vincent could put a capital ‘I’ in the middle of ‘calibre’ and get away with it in a dignified fashion.

  The nun coughed as if irritated by Annie’s faint smile. ‘And you arrive here now, at the eleventh hour, to tell me that you have the vocation?’

  ‘That depends what you mean, Mother. I’m going to hang on to my legs, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Legs? Legs? What have legs to do with it at all, at all? You see? You have me so dismayed I’m sounding as if I just now stepped off the boat with my apron full of potatoes! We are talking about your future, girl. And sit up straight would you, or you’ll be getting a curvature!’

  Annie straightened her spine, wondering at the power of this frail creature who now rose from her chair, the great wooden rosary with its metal crucifix clanking and clattering as she paced the small area. After muttering and mumbling to herself for a short time, the nun stopped and faced Annie. ‘So there you sit, with the world as your oyster, telling me that you’re away to get a diploma. Not a degree, mind. A teaching diploma.’ She spat this last word as if it were acid. ‘And when I give you my opinion, you begin a conversation about legs.’ She turned away impatiently and Annie, catching a glimpse of a highly-polished black shoe, found herself assessing the size of Mother’s feet. Smaller than a ten-year-old’s, they were. Probably a size two – even a one . . . ‘I used to think nuns didn’t have legs,’ she heard herself stating absently.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud. I had the idea, when I was a child, that there were two kinds of teachers, those with and those without.’

  ‘Legs?’

  Annie nodded, not daring to meet Mother’s eyes.

  ‘And how did you imagine that the Sisters moved about?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I thought they floated on a cloud, or had wheels . . .’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘That was a foolish concept, was it not?’

  Annie sighed. ‘And a sobering one. If you’d known some of them, you would not have expected them to have simple human parts.’

  ‘I know all of them, Anne. And I can assure you that they are in no way different from the rest of you.’

  ‘I know, I know – I’m sorry . . .’

  Mother returned to her seat, pushing away the small table so that cups and saucers rattled, the sound seeming to reflect her impatience and displeasure. She smoothed the heavy black skirt. ‘I do not know what to say to you, Madam Byrne. But then I have seldom known what to say, for haven’t you always been the difficult one, giving me desperate trouble half the time, then affection and respect for the rest of it? Your teachers here have all convinced themselves that you would be doing the medicine. That’s a fine analytical brain you’ve been blessed with, a mind that could get you into the business of helping the sick, of healing bodies . . .’

  ‘I see, Mother.’ Annie’s eyes flashed, showing an odd mixture of amusement and anger. ‘You’d rather I dealt with bodies and left the minds alone? I’ve been accused in the past of being a – what was it now? – ah yes, a disruptive influence. Are you afraid that I might cause children to think for themselves, that I won’t let them be a herd of sheep guided and forced along against a will they’re not allowed to have? Was it St Francis who said “Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man”?’

  Mother bristled visibly and Annie studied the three perfectly placed round-headed pins which kept a waist-length black square fastened to the miniature head.

  ‘I am not telling you not to teach! Don’t be trying to twist the words before they’re ever out of my mouth! Get a good Honours, teach a subject . . .’

  ‘No. I don’t want to work with older children, those who’ve already had their indoctrination one way or another.’

  ‘You are impertinent, child!’

  ‘I am eighteen years old, Mother!’

  ‘And I’d surely put you over my knee this very minute, only I’d need a crane to lift the size you are!’

  Both women were now perched on the edge of the chairs, each breathing heavily and staring hard at the other. Annie leaned back slowly and deliberately, stretching out her long legs and crossing her ankles. ‘We must agree to differ, I’m afraid. I’m going to Manchester. In two years I’ll be supporting my mother. I shall be attending college, learning the principles and practice of education with Scripture and Comparative Religion as part of the course.’

  ‘Defiant to the last! You’ll need a dispensation from the Bishop to attend a non-Catholic college.’

  ‘No. I am not a confirmed Catholic.’

  ‘And if I refuse you a reference?’

  Annie shrugged her shoulders lightly. ‘Then I’ll have to write and explain such bigotry to the college principal. And you and I would not part the best of friends.’

  The ensuing silence was short, because next door in the practice room, someone began to play the piano very badly, like a mouse running up and down the keys. From time to time, the music teacher bawled loudly at the poor sufferer at the keyboard. Unable to contain herself, Annie began to giggle while Mother’s shoulders shook with ill-contained mirth. ‘Sure, that’s nothing,’ the nun finally managed. ‘You should hear Katie Maher at the violin. I always do school inspection during her lessons, for I cannot bear the agony of hearing a cat being strangulated.’

  ‘Haven’t you . . . oh what a din . . . haven’t you any earplugs?’

  ‘Indeed I have not. Do as I do, endure it and offer up your suffering for the souls in Purgatory . . .’

  ‘Except for Katie Maher. You don’t offer up Katie Maher . . .’

  ‘Anne, there is a limit to every mortal’s endurance. Katie Maher’s fiddle is my personal limit.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, Mother . . .’ Annie cried, reaching for a handkerchief, her face suddenly sober. ‘I shouldn’t be laughing.’

  ‘Why not? Laughter never did harm.’

  ‘Well, it’s just that my . . . stepfather died a few days ago. Laughing seems wrong.’ She paused and glanced at Mother St Vincent. ‘You see, Mother, I hated him. He was cruel and hurtful – once, he kicked my mother so hard that she lost her baby. I have been . . . filled with hatred for years and years.’

  Mother St Vincent stared hard at Annie. ‘I thought I detected a note of hysteria. And yes, yes, this explains a great deal about you.’ She fingered the edge of her stiff white collar as she pondered, repeating slowly. ‘This explains a great deal, Anne Byrne. So. Perhaps you’re relieved that he’s gone?’

/>   ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘No doubt God will forgive you for that. But I’m disappointed that you never told me these troubles. I might have helped.’

  ‘Some things are too bad to talk about.’

  The nun sighed deeply. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s not all of us can do the dirty washing in the street now, is it?’ She paused and studied Annie for several seconds. ‘Alright then. You can have your reference. I wish though . . . still, no matter. Perhaps you’ll come back to the Faith in your own time. I’ll . . . I’ll miss you, child.’

  ‘And I’ll miss you too.’

  ‘Like you’d miss the toothache? Go on with you. Write to me sometimes, Anne Byrne.’

  ‘I shall. Goodbye, Mother.’ Annie rose to leave.

  ‘God go with you.’

  Annie left school by the front door that afternoon, marching out through the teachers’ entrance in a last silly act of defiance. She took the horrible brown hat and flung it into a bush as she walked towards the bus stop. By the time she reached home, her brown and yellow tie was adorning a lamp post in the town centre, while the ribbon with which she had been forced, for seven years, to tie back her hair, was fastened to a used ticket box on the bus. It was over. Over and just beginning.

  Simon had scraped by sufficiently to gain a place at the art college in Manchester where he intended to qualify as an illustrator. Annie received one distinction and two credits, thereby ensuring her entrance to teachers’ training college in September.

  They sat now in Simon’s recreation room, talking about their respective futures, though Annie was doing most of the talking. Simon seemed distant, often making inappropriate responses to Annie’s questions.