Voices of the Morning

by June Gadsby

  Bridget did as she was told, knowing that it was no good talking to Billy when he was in this over-excited mood. There was nobody who could get quite as worked up as Billy Flynn when something tickled his fancy.

  * * *

  ‘Billy? Billy, lad, is that you?’

  He knew the minute he heard his mother’s slurred voice she’d been on the bottle again. He had no idea where she got the stuff, but had an uneasy feeling about it. If she got hauled in for stealing they would be in dire straits. The authorities would split up the family. They couldn’t rely on Maureen to take charge. Anyway, his sister had let drop she was engaged and planning to get married as soon as possible. So she wouldn’t be at home at the weekends after that.

  Billy was the youngest in the family, and still only ten. His birth had never been registered, but he was one of the breadwinners and proud to be so. He only managed a pitiful few shillings a week to match what Maureen reluctantly chucked into the kitty. It was never enough. Desmond, unable to find work, emigrated to Australia. He had taken one look at the place and its people and caught the next boat back to England, broken in spirit and ill with the shame of his cowardice. The two other boys were working down the pit and dutifully handed over their wages every Friday to their mother. Neither of them had any inclination to travel.

  It was Billy who furtively supported the family, buying food before his mother got her hands on his earnings and squandered them on drink. And when the pickings were too small, he swallowed his pride and begged for food for them. He’d even stooped so low as to pinch the odd item. A loaf of bread here, a few potatoes and a cabbage there. When you were starving, pride was something you couldn’t afford.

  It was easy going up to the allotments at night to pull up a strategic number of vegetables. He always worked twice as hard for the gardeners the next day, to make up for it. He suspected the old men knew all about his capers, but they just puffed on their clay pipes, patted his head and told him he was a good lad, as if they approved of his thieving ways. And they were honest men, every last one of them. Poor, but honest. Like his mam had been before she took to the drink.

  Maggie never questioned him, never asked where he got the food. She probably realized that without it they would starve, though she ate hardly anything herself and looked like a walking skeleton with her clothes hanging loosely over her bones.

  ‘Billy?’

  ‘Aye, it’s me, Mam,’ he called out, quickly shoving his new boots under the horsehair sofa that was sprouting body hair as thick and as fast as his granddad did before he passed away.

  There was a clatter from the back bedroom, where Maggie had taken up more or less permanent residence these days. Billy heard the roll of a bottle, the clink of glass upon glass, and a muttered curse, followed by a heavy thud and a grunt. She had obviously fallen to the floor and, even for Maggie Flynn, it was a bit early in the day to be reeling drunk.

  ‘Did ye bring us a bottle, hinny?’ she said in that special, whining voice she kept for pleading. ‘I’ve got such a thirst on me. Can ye bring it in, darlin’? I can’t seem to get me legs to work this mornin’. I think I must be comin’ down wi’ sommat.’

  ‘I’ve just got coal for the fire, Mam,’ Billy was quick to say. ‘And a few sticks to light it with. It’ll keep ye warm.’

  ‘Oh, no, Billy. Don’t say you haven’t brung us a bottle. I need it, pet, I really do.’

  The whining was getting higher and thinner and her voice cracked as if she’d swallowed a ton of gravel.

  Billy’s brow concertinaed as he tried to think of something. The last time she was in this state was in the summer when she threw off all her clothes and sang and danced in the street in the middle of the day, telling people she’d caught Midsummer madness, inviting them to come and give her a kiss to see if it was contagious. Of course, nobody took her invitation seriously and Billy had been obliged to throw a blanket over her and drag her back inside. It was the first time he’d seen his mother’s naked body, or the naked body of any woman, if it came to that. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  But then, Maggie Flynn was old and sick. She had to be in her forties and he wasn’t so young that he didn’t guess her body would be totally different to that of, say, Laura Caldwell. Laura was slim and pretty and he wouldn’t mind betting there wasn’t a wrinkle anywhere. She certainly didn’t have empty flaps where her bosoms were. They stood out all proud and perky like chapel hat pegs beneath her gauzy blouses.

  His mother’s voice sallied forth again and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing, though he couldn’t imagine there was any liquor left to find in the house.

  ‘There might be some beer left in the scullery,’ he told her, going through to the back of the house to look, knowing fine well that all he would find was a mounting pile of empty bottles.

  It was while he was rummaging about among the full bins and empty bottles under the sink that he heard the latch on the front door snap into place. He couldn’t remember leaving it open, so it was probably Maureen. The other lads would still be in bed, where they would stay, dead to the world, until he came back later with food for the supper, which they would scoff down before rushing off to do their shift.

  He retraced his steps, treading as quietly as he could in case there was an intruder. The room was empty. Or so he thought. There was a creak as something heavy got on a weak floorboard, then inch by frightening inch, a head appeared, then a face, deeply tanned and just as deeply lined. The shoulders followed, wide and well padded. Man and boy stared curiously at one another as the stranger unfolded and stretched up to his full height, which was considerable. Next to Billy, he was a veritable giant.

  There was no recognition on either side and Billy wondered if it might not be one of his Aunty Colleen’s Mr Smiths, having entered the wrong house by mistake. But none of those Smith men had keys and this man had let himself in as if the place belonged to him.

  ‘And who might you be, laddie?’ The man’s voice was gruff and the smile he gave was suspicious rather than friendly.

  ‘I’m Billy Flynn, mister, and what are you doing with my new boots?’

  The man did indeed have Billy’s new boots in one big hand. He gave them a cursory glance and threw them on the table between them.

  ‘Your boots, are they, midget? Well, I figure they would fit me better, though they might just cramp me toes a wee bit. I’ll put up wi’ that, though. What did ye say yer name was, laddie?’

  ‘Billy Flynn. Who are you?’ Billy could hear movement behind him and a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that his mother was standing in the open doorway, clinging to the frame and looking at the man with glassy eyes and saliva dribbling from her open mouth.

  Maggie screamed and fell to her knees. Billy didn’t move and the man stared at him some more, but with deeper intensity as if he couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

  ‘Billy Flynn, ye say?’ Billy nodded, his gaze travelling from the stranger to the boots and back again. ‘Well I never did. Who’d ha’ thought that that scrawny little creature would survive.’

  Billy jerked his head in an uncontrolled movement. ‘Who are you, mister? And them are my boots. Me Aunty Colleen gave me them this morning.’

  ‘Yer Aunty Colleen, is it? That wouldn’t be that bitch of a whore Colleen Maguire with the red hair, would it?’ Billy didn’t respond; he had a weird feeling inside. His instincts were telling him this man was trouble and Billy’s instincts were never wrong.

  ‘Aye, she’s got red hair...pretty like.’

  ‘Well, me lad, it just so happens that I’m Patrick Flynn...your da, in case you’re wondering. I’ve been to sea and me boat docked in the Tyne yesterday. I’ve come home and it looks like it’s none too soon, judgin’ by the state of yer ma.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Will ye have another cup of tea, Patrick?’ Maggie’s hand shook as she poured the steamy brown liquid into the best enamel mug in the house and stood back while he picked it up and survey
ed it with a mean eye.

  The boys were lined up against the wall, sitting on a long, rickety form. It had once been a pew in the little chapel on the hill, which had been allowed to fall into ruin because no one worshipped there anymore. This had more to do with the sinking ground beneath the ecclesiastical premises, due to over-mining, rather than a lack of faith in the community.

  ‘So, I seem to have me a fine family,’ Patrick said, breaking the uneasy silence at last. ‘You’ll have to tell me who you all are. It’s been a long time. Speak up, now. You, lad. You with the glasses and the pasty face. Can’t hear you, boy. What did you say you were called?’

  ‘He’s called Desmond,’ Billy spoke up at last, seeing that his eldest brother was having great trouble finding his voice.

  ‘Can’t he speak for himself then?’

  ‘He’s bad with his nerves, Patrick,’ Maggie said in a hoarse whisper. She steadied herself quickly against the old Welsh dresser, making the pitiable collection of crockery rattle tonelessly. ‘It makes him stutter.’

  Billy watched his mother in awe. He had never seen her sober up so quickly. This man who claimed to be their father seemed to have miraculous powers over her. And judging by the look on Jack’s face, Maggie wasn’t the only one to succumb to them. Jack was usually garrulous to a fault, but he hadn’t uttered a word since being ordered to come downstairs, tousle-headed and half-dressed. He just sat there, mute and shivering although there was a good fire licking at the sooty chimney.

  ‘A boy with nerves! I ask you. Can I have spawned that one? You must have gone with someone else on that occasion, Maggie, me darlin’.’

  ‘No! Oh, no, Patrick. Never. I would never do a thing like that.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you? That’s not what I’ve heard. No sooner had me boat docked and I was hearing the name of Maggie Flynn. Fellas not fit to wipe their backsides on me shoes sayin’ how cheap she was for them as can’t afford the real thing. Would that not be you they’re talkin’ about, eh, hinny?’

  For answer, Maggie shook her head vigorously and Patrick, whether satisfied or not, decided to ignore her and continue interrogating his four sons.

  ‘You. The one with the squint and a runny nose. Which one of my offspring are you?’

  ‘Thomas, mister....er...Da....I’m called Thomas.’ Thomas rubbed his lazy eye as if trying to wake it up, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand and then on his trousers.

  ‘He can’t remember you, Patrick. It’s been ten years.’

  ‘Aye, it has an’ all. And I feel every one o’ them years weighing heavily in me loins. It’s a long time for a man to be without his wife.’

  Maggie tried to speak, but only succeeded in some unintelligible mumbling into the cupped hand she held in front of her quivering mouth.

  ‘You.’ Patrick pointed at the third boy in the line, whose head came out of his jumper like the head of a turtle and his eyes popped out on stalks. ‘You must be...let’s see....yes. You must be Jack. You’ve all grown, except this pathetic little tadpole.’ He swiftly passed over Jack and fixed his eyes on Billy. Billy returned his cold blue stare, unwavering and apparently unafraid, though if truth be told, he was having to clutch his hands under the table to stop them from shaking.

  ‘That’s our Billy!’ Maggie said nervously.

  ‘Aye, so he said. Who’d ha’ believed it. By rights you should be dead, son. If I’d had me way the day you was born...’

  ‘Patrick!’ Maggie interrupted quickly before he could go on and frighten her youngest child even more with his wild ramblings. ‘Billy, go and ask Colleen if she has a few biscuits to spare, there’s a good lad.’

  Billy didn’t rush away. He took his time, all the while keeping one eye on the big Irishman who smelt of fish and brine and engine oil all mixed up with acrid sweat.

  Colleen refused to believe him at first when Billy told her that his father was back. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to believe him. She made no pretence of the fact that there had never been any love lost between Patrick Flynn and herself.

  ‘He must be mad,’ she said, tapping her forehead and picking up a variety of biscuit tins and shaking them. ‘What does he want to come back here for after all this time?’

  ‘He says he’s finished with the sea,’ Billy told her. ‘He says he’s come back home to stay. Me mam’s scared, and so are the others.’

  ‘But not you, eh, big man?’ Colleen gave a short laugh, shaking out her long red hair from her shoulders and running scarlet painted fingernails through the tight curls. ‘You, Billy, are the one person he didn’t expect to find here. If I was you, darlin’, I’d stay well clear of him. We beat him once. I don’t think he’d let us get away with it again. Patrick Flynn doesn’t forgive or forget. Whatever reason it was that brought him back here, he’ll be out for revenge and he’ll take it at the first opportunity, believe me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Billy,’ Bridget told him, giving him a sisterly hug that made him squirm with embarrassment. ‘You can stay here with us if you want, can’t he, Mam?’

  ‘Aye, pet. Billy’s always welcome here.’

  Billy’s brows lowered as he let her words sink in. He scratched his head, making a mental note to steal a bar of that special soap that killed nits, because he was infested again. Laura wouldn’t let him near her if she thought he had nits. She’d caught a flea from him in the summer and her mother nearly had a thousand fits. Laura was thereafter forbidden to leave the house, except to go to school, for three months.

  ‘Why should I stay away from him, Aunty Colleen?’ he asked as she placed in his hands a tin with half a dozen dry biscuits in it. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘What’s he done?’ Colleen straightened her shoulders and shook out her rusty tresses again. ‘What hasn’t he done would be a better question, Billy. I suspect he’s done a lot more than either you or I know about too.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing, Aunty Colleen.’ Billy scratched again at his head and his stomach growled at the thought of the biscuits in the tin he held. ‘Mam’s never mentioned anybody called Patrick Flynn. Is he really me da?’

  Colleen’s thin, plucked eyebrows shot up and he heard her draw in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

  ‘Aye, lad. Well, he was married to yer ma when you was born, and he left her the same day. Your Maureen would remember him, and Desmond. The others would be too little at the time.’

  Billy heard a raised voice penetrating the dividing wall between his mother’s house and Colleen’s. His eyes rolled like glossy marbles and he licked his lips, for they had become surprisingly dry.

  ‘I’d better get back there,’ he said and started to hurry out.

  ‘Billy!’ Colleen caught up with him, placed her hands on his thin shoulders and bent down so that her face was on a level with his.

  ‘Aye, Aunty Colleen?’

  ‘You listen to me, Billy Flynn. If he lays a finger on you, tries to hurt you in any way...well, you come round here, even if I’m busy, or if I’m out. There’s a spare key always kept under the doormat for emergencies. Promise me, now.’

  ‘Why? What would he want to hurt us for, Aunty Colleen?’

  She stared at him for a long moment then she cleared her throat, straightened her back and patted him on the head.

  ‘Never you mind, son,’ she said. ‘But you have to promise me, eh? Just let yourself in and lock the door behind you. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Aunty Colleen.’ Billy gave a tight, grimacing smile. ‘Ta. And thanks for the biscuits.’

  Colleen nodded, smiling back. He had no sooner crossed over the doorstep than she shut and bolted the door. She lay back against it, her heart pounding, her mouth cold with fear. Who’d have thought that Patrick Flynn would come back after all this time? And why had she been such a fool as to move into the house next door to his family? She would have been better off staying in the hovel she’d been in. Though, when she came to think about it, she wouldn’t have been any safer there. Wherever s
he was, she knew that Patrick Flynn, if he had a mind to, would seek her out and...

  The thought of what that man could do to her, if he thought about it, turned her blood to ice. Not just for her own safety was she afraid, but for the safety of her daughter, Bridget. That sweet, darling girl was the light of Colleen’s life, and everything that was meaningful and precious. If Patrick ever laid a finger on the child she would swing for him. She really would.

  Swallowing dryly, Colleen went to the scullery, feeling her fear attacking the pit of her stomach and her legs. When she reached into a drawer her fingers trembled so much that she could barely grip the knife she drew out and held up before her face. The light from the small square, opaque kitchen window glinted on the old, worn blade. It was her old mam’s gully, passed down through three generations, but it was lethal enough to put paid to that murdering swine.

  Looking about her, she located her bag and slipped the knife inside, placing it so that it was easily accessible. There wasn’t a violent bone in Colleen’s body, but she knew she would be able to kill to defend herself and her daughter. She was amazed that murdering bastard Patrick had survived this long, for there were plenty who would like to see him dead.

  * * *

  Laura Caldwell trailed her feet as the family walked home from church the Sunday after Billy told her his father had mysteriously turned up. He came to see her yesterday, on the pretext of delivering a message to his sister, but Maureen Flynn had taken the afternoon off. She was walking out with the baker’s lad and sporting a tiny diamond chip engagement ring she was so proud of showing it was becoming an embarrassment.

  Billy was nowhere to be seen. Normally, he would be hanging around the church grounds and would pop up as if he was there just by chance. It both amused and vexed Laura. She did not exactly appreciate the attentions of this ten-year-old ragamuffin, but ever since the day he was born, she had felt a strange affinity with him. A responsibility that had arisen on that memorable occasion of his birth.