A Whisper to the Living
Page 34
I heard myself chuckling grimly. ‘You can jump off that wagon, Mam. I’m hardly a Catholic and you’ve not seen the inside of a church for years.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she shouted. ‘A Catholic is always a Catholic!’
‘And that’s what you call a sensible argument? If you can’t think of anything better . . .’
‘Ah, but I can, I bloody can that! His first wife poisoned herself, didn’t she? Took a load of pills and a gallon of sherry by all accounts . . .’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Never mind but! Never mind all the flaming buts, Annie! Something drove her to that. Do you want to end up the same road as her? Well . . . do you?’
I sat bolt upright in the bed. ‘That is unfair, Mother!’
‘Aye, lass. I warned you it wouldn’t be fair boxing, didn’t I? A man whose wife does herself in has a few questions to answer. Maybe I can answer for him, eh? He’s out on his blinking rounds all the time or sitting in that surgery of his. Them two never had more than half a marriage. Poor woman didn’t have a husband!’
‘Poor woman? Oh Mother, what a hypocrite you are! You’d no time for her when she was alive, we were always cracking jokes about her . . .’
‘That’s as may be. Only the joke’s over now, specially for her! How do you know what he’s like to live with, eh?’
‘I don’t. But I know him, he’s a good man.’
‘A good doctor, I’ll grant that. But how can you be sure he won’t push you into doing what she did?’
‘That, Mother, is mean, spiteful, despicable . . .’ I groped for words then leapt angrily from the bed, grabbing my folded clothes from the top of the tallboy.
‘Aye, but you’ve no answer to it, have you?’ she screamed.
‘I don’t owe you or anybody any answers! How dare you – you of all people? Did you know what Eddie Higson would be like to live with? And even if we leave your mistakes out of this, Mother – and I’m quite sure that we should leave them out – who are you to judge David, to undermine him? And isn’t it time you credited me with a bit of intelligence? Do you think I’d go off and marry a dangerous man? Can’t you get it into your head that I, Annie Byrne, have seen danger at close quarters and can now recognize its stench from a mile away? Are you implying that I’m so bloody stupid?’
She stood up and glared hard at me. ‘Right then, Annie. On your head be it.’
‘Mother . . .’ But she was already out of the room.
I ran to the top of the stairs and called after her. ‘Mam, you are hopeless! You talk about liberation and freedom of choice, about it being time for a woman’s world – then you say I can’t choose. I am just about sick and fed up with you! You’re like a book that’s been written back to bloody front!’
She turned at the foot of the attic stairs. ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, lady. I’m not having you losing your temper just because I stick to my guns in my own house! Anyroad, I’m off to our Jessie’s for a week or two, give you time to come to your senses.’
I heard myself gasp. ‘You . . . you won’t be at my wedding then?’
She stuck out her chin. ‘Bolton Wanderers could be at home. Happen I might call in at the match instead.’
I sank on to the top step. ‘But . . . you’ve always hated football.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You are so stubborn!’ I jumped up and threw my handful of clothes at her head and she sidestepped quickly to avoid these flying items.
‘I’m not as stubborn as you are, lass,’ she said quietly.
Then she was gone. She took her packed suitcase to work and did not return home that night. When she had been gone for a week, we had a meeting, Mary, Simon, David and I, all sitting round the table with the green and white check cloth.
Simon scratched his ear thoughtfully. ‘I suppose we have to look at it from her point of view.’
‘Fire away,’ I said. ‘If you can work out her point of view, you deserve a medal.’
‘Well,’ Simon went on slowly. ‘Say I came home with a forty-year-old woman – I know it’s not likely, but say I did – what would you think, Dad?’
David gazed steadily at his son. ‘I can’t answer that. It would depend who she was.’
Mary sighed loudly. ‘There’s nothing to be gained from this, Simon. We’ve tried just about everything now. I went up to Jessie’s and tried to make Nancy listen . . .’
‘You were lucky,’ I snapped. ‘At least she opened the door. When David and I went . . . oh, I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’
‘Perhaps you should go alone, Anne,’ said David.
‘I will not! That’s exactly what she wants me to do!’
‘Then you’re just as bad as she is!’
I shook my head slowly. ‘You don’t understand, any of you. She’s made up her mind and so have I. Talking won’t do any good. I think we’ll just have to go ahead without her.’
David looked quickly at Simon and Mary. ‘Would you two mind? I’d like to talk with Anne for a little while.’
After they had gone, he reached for my hand. ‘Look, I don’t want you to regret this. In years to come, you may well blame me – or worse still, blame yourself for this rift. I’m lucky, I suppose. If Simon had been opposed, I would have had a similar problem. Are you sure you want to go on without her?’
‘Absolutely. She’ll come to terms with things after the wedding.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she’s my mother and we’re very alike. She won’t punish me for long, David. You don’t know her – it’s hard to explain. But we’ll have to get married without either her blessing or her presence. She’ll come back, believe me . . .’
Mary came. And Bertha and Tom, though the latter was due to fly back to the States the same evening. We had chosen a tiny chapel on the northern edge of the town, so many centuries old that I had to stoop to get through doorways, bending my head to match the height of those who had built it of huge stones and solid dark oak.
Tom was to give me away and I felt that this was appropriate because he’d helped me to survive twenty long years earlier – I owed my life to him.
We stood at the altar while the vicar intoned the service, David holding my hand throughout. When it came to the words ‘Who gives this woman?’ and Tom stepped forward to do the honours, there was a sudden pushing and shoving aside and there she stood, resplendent but breathless in a pale green suit with white trimmings.
‘Hang on a bit,’ she said to the disconcerted vicar. ‘Only I want a word.’
David hid a smile behind his hand, but I was used to this. Hadn’t she always been there in the right place though not necessarily at the right time? Only my mother would dare to cause such a commotion during a marriage ceremony. She pulled me into her strong little arms then reached across to pat David on the shoulder. ‘I had to make sure she was sure. If she’d taken any notice of me, I’d have known you were wrong for her. You have to test her at times. You’ll find that out once you’re wed,’ she said, paying no heed at all to the small congregation who gasped at this interruption.
Then she turned her attention to the poor clergyman. ‘No disrespect to Tom,’ she announced, ‘but this here is my only daughter. I gave her life and she owns herself, always has and always will. So nobody gives this woman. My daughter gives herself.’
The vicar, a man of about six feet in height, stared open-mouthed at this tiny intruder.
She looked him up and down. ‘It’s alright,’ she said. ‘I’ve finished now. You can carry on when you’re ready.’
She stood by my side throughout the rest of the service, her little head held high and proud while I married David Pritchard. After the service, she pursued us into the registry then out into a bright August sun.
‘I’m a daft old bat,’ she said, her hat askew after hugging me and David. ‘But I’ll never be any different, will I?’
‘No Nancy,’ answered my husband. ‘You’re incurable, thank Go
d.’
She took me aside. ‘Nay lass. I couldn’t let you get married without me here, could I? There’s no show without Punch.’
‘Or Judy, Mother.’
She smiled broadly. ‘That’s right. Let’s never forget Judy.’
THE END
Author’s Note
A very special thank you to those men and women who, in spite of some distress, managed to share their experiences with me. The help they gave was invaluable. In all these new friends, I found an unquenchable thirst for living, an unusual tenderness of heart and actual proof that meaningful life can and does continue after damage.
None of us can condone my Annie’s way of coping, but, taking into account the era in which this author placed her, we should at least understand her great dilemma. Even in these more enlightened times, situations like hers do exist, cries for help are not always heard.
My prayer is that all our Annies will find the courage to speak out, the strength to persevere and, eventually, the ability to forgive a society which often fails to notice. If this novel helps to save just one child, then it will have done its job.
Ruth Hamilton
About the Author
Ruth Hamilton was born in Bolton and has spent most of her life in Lancashire. Her novels, A Whisper to the Living, With Love From Ma Maguire, Nest of Sorrows, Billy London’s Girls, Spinning Jenny, The September Starlings, A Crooked Mile, Paradise Lane, The Bells of Scotland Road, The Dream Sellers, The Corner House, Miss Honoria West and Mulligan’s Yard, are all published by Corgi Books and she is a national bestseller. She has written a six-part television series and over forty children’s programmes for independent television. Ruth Hamilton now lives in Liverpool with her family.
For more information on Ruth Hamilton and her books, see her website at:
www.Ruth-Hamilton.co.uk
www.booksattransworld.co.uk
Also by Ruth Hamilton
WITH LOVE FROM MA MAGUIRE
NEST OF SORROWS
BILLY LONDON’S GIRLS
SPINNING JENNY
THE SEPTEMBER STARLINGS
A CROOKED MILE
PARADISE LANE
THE BELLS OF SCOTLAND ROAD
THE DREAM SELLERS
THE CORNER HOUSE
MISS HONORIA WEST
MULLIGAN’S YARD
and published by Corgi Books
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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A WHISPER TO THE LIVING
A CORGI BOOK: 9780552133845
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446465677
First published in Great Britain
Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 1989
Ruth Hamilton has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act to be identified as the author of this work.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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