by June Ahern
Mary’s golden speckled-brown eyes, usually bright with mirth, now brimmed over with tears.
“What you greetin’ about?” Jimmy asked her irritated with her crying.
“Them boys throwed stones at us,” Mary said, rubbing her freckled arm with a red mark on it.
“They hurt her. I’m going to tell Granny,” said Annie, angrily. Her usually light, blue-gray eyes were as dark and steely as a Scottish winter sky.
Granda B bent down to Mary. “Oh, lassie!” he sighed. “Never you mind them bad boys, pet. Granda’ll take you to Granny. She’ll give you a wee sweetie,” he said as he brushed back his favorite granddaughter’s wavy blonde hair. Mary sniffed, but managed a big smile for her grandfather and the idea of a sugar treat.
“Mah girls can’t even walk to school without one of those proddies causing trouble. Annie, tell Granda what happened the other day,” Jimmy said.
Annie scowled. “A big boy asked, ‘Where you goin’?’ I said to school at St. Michael’s. He says, ‘I hate papists.’ An’ he hit me in the face. I didn’t cry, though. I kicked him and ran away.” She didn’t know what papist exactly meant other than it was a bad word to call a Catholic and to her, that was cause enough to fight.
“Go on, hen, show Granda what happened to you,” Jimmy said. She moved her hair aside and tilted her head upward to show Granda B a bruised cheekbone.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Granda B said. “Right you are, lassie, no to cry ‘cause of them. You’re a brave one, Annie, you are.”
Annie nodded solemnly. She knew that crying was not encouraged in her Scottish household, whereas bravely defending yourself had a place of honor.
She continued her ranting against the boys downstairs. “And they said we was stupid papist cows. Them boys are ugly bad proddies. Right, Daddy?”
Before her father could answer, a male voice yelled loudly from downstairs. “Billy! Hurry up, man!”
“Hold yer bloody horses!” came the loud response from the flat upstairs. Billy, in his early twenties, skidded down onto the MacDonalds’ landing. He stopped short when he saw Jimmy and Granda B standing, glaring at him. Billy had known both men for most of his life, but in that moment, he eyed them as though he had happened upon the enemy camp. His bowler hat and orange sash across his chest was the uniform of his Protestant team. The young man quickly ducked his head so as not to look at the two, although he did manage to mumble a greeting. Granda B acknowledged the greeting with a cock of his head.
Billy continued thumping down the stairs, staying close to the stone wall to put as much space as possible between him and the two men. He had gone only a few steps past the landing when Granda B said loud enough for his comment to echo, “That wee bauchle is lucky I’m no longer a young man. He’d be eating that orange sash.” Granda tickled Mary’s plump belly. She laughed and hugged her grandfather tightly.
Jimmy guffawed at Granda name-calling of Billy who indeed fit the description of a bauchle: short and heavy with a disheveled appearance and awkward gait.
The door opposite the MacDonalds’ opened. Mrs. MacSwan, a short, round woman in her mid-sixties, came out arranging an orange sash on her shoulder. Satisfied with her uniform, she looked up to see her neighbors staring at her. Her warm, light-brown eyes and ruddy face gave her a merry look.
“Oh! Hullo there, gentlemen and young ladies,” she sang out in a cheery voice.
The men nodded slightly to her.
“Hullo, Mrs. MacSwan” Annie said, smiling broadly. She liked her kindly neighbor and the homemade treats she baked.
The spry elderly lady didn’t miss a step on her mission to join the growing noise of the parade. “Cheery-bye! Off I go,” she called out behind her. Mrs. MacSwan was off to the Orange March.
With the day’s purpose in mind, both men shook their heads at the irony of the woman’s friendliness.
The MacDonalds’ front door was cracked open wide enough for the delicious smell of baking steak pie to waft through to the landing. The enticing scent––a reminder that good times were still available to the family––drew the four back into the flat.
Granny B was cooking the big Sunday dinner, a family tradition to which everyone looked forward. Cathy sat in the overstuffed chair with three-year-old June on her lap. Mother and daughter looked alike. Both were petite with small, straight noses and large eyes. The most noticeable difference was Cathy’s light blonde hair, which paled in comparison to June’s bright red ringlets.
Maggie, who was strawberry blonde with green eyes, sat on the floor next to the chair listening to the story. Helen lay in her parent’s alcove bed in the big kitchen, sleeping soundly after a night of difficult breathing. “She has a cold,” the MacDonalds agreed.
In a soft, lyrical voice, Cathy was telling her daughters a favorite story. It was the same one her mother had told her when she was a little girl. “Green Lady, Green Lady, come down for your tea. Your tea is all ready and waiting for thee.”
Granda B interrupted the story when he came into the kitchen, holding Mary. He put her down and she quickly ran over to her mother. “What’s wrong, hen?” Cathy asked, cupping her daughter’s tear-stained face in her hands.
As Cathy comforted Mary, June slid off her mother’s lap and walked over to Helen. She stood on her toes to get a better view of her sister lying on the top cover, apparently asleep. No matter how she struggled to climb up into the bed to be with Helen, she slid back down again. Everyone else in the room was focused on Jimmy’s story about how Annie bravely stood up to a proddy.
At the end of the story, Granda B kept his promise. “Granny, give Mary a wee sweetie to help her feel better.”
As she reached up to the cupboard, Granny’s hand froze in midair at the startling sound of June’s wail, “Mammy, Mammy! Ell-ell!” which was how June pronounced Helen’s name.
June’s yelling was unnerving Jimmy. Gruffly, he told her to be quiet. “Will you no wheest June! Get away from there.”
“I’ll see to it,” Granny said handing a package of biscuits to Annie. Granny tried to shoo June away to no avail. Smoothing back Helen’s dark-brown hair, Granny B’s eyebrows furrowed when she saw her granddaughter flushed with fever. Helen’s health was a constant worry to Granny B. She worried about of how puny her four-year-old granddaughter was in comparison to her other rosy-faced grandchildren. Even June, a year younger than Helen, was already a bit taller than her ailing sister.
She tilted her gray head and put her ear close to Helen’s mouth. “Mother of God!” she cried out. “I think the wean’s no breathing!”
Cathy quickly joined her mother. Leaning close to Helen’s face, she heard only a very slight breath. “Oh Mammy, shouldn’t we get her to the hospital?”
“For God’s sakes girl, you can’t think of going out there now,” Granda B said as he sat down at the kitchen table.
The sound outside grew to a loud drumming. Suddenly, the crashing sound of breaking glass interrupted them. “Shit,” Jimmy said as he ran out of the room and toward the noise.
His three older girls stood near a broken window. A brick lay near it. Annie picked it up and was ready to throw it back outside. The Irish Twins jumped up and down cheering her on.
Maggie and Mary shouted shrilly, “Throw it back at them!”
The noisy drumming and loud singing was now right outside the window. Adrenalin rushed through Jimmy, his heart beating wildly from the growing tension. He didn’t want things to get out of his control. Quickly, he grabbed Annie by the back of her blouse to keep her from throwing the brick.
“Get back to the kitchen!” he yelled.
He led the girls toward the kitchen and away from the broken window.
“Jimmy, Helen’s needing a doctor. Now!” Granny B said forcefully.
The group jumped, startled at her loud pronouncement.
“Are you daft, woman? Did you no hear that crash in there? There’s nothing but trouble out there for us,” Granda B said, opposing her command.
Helen started to gasp loudly. Jimmy looked over at his wife cradling their sick daughter. With troubled eyes she begged softly, “Please.”
“Aye, alright.” Turning to his father-in-law, he announced firmly, “The women are right about this, Dad. We have no choice.”
Silence spread across the room as the seriousness of Helen’s condition sank in. June’s shrieking cries broke the silence as Helen’s body thrust back and became rigid. The indecision was broken.
Granda B picked up his cap and jacket. “Right you are then. Give me the wean. Jimmy, you stay put.”
“No, Dad. I’ll take her myself. The rest of you just wait.” Jimmy said.
“I’m going too. She needs her mother.” Cathy began to wrap the sick girl in a large woolen shawl.
“You’ll need me to help, Jimmy. We’ll go to the corner shop and phone for a taxi. Granny’ll stay with the girls,” Granda B said.
June started to wail and her grandmother picked her up in hopes of stopping the disturbing noise. “It’s no that bad, henny. See. Helen’s nicely now.”
The wailing girl couldn’t be comforted. Stretching out her hands to her sick sister, she screamed like a banshee, “Ell-ell!”
The high afternoon sun directed its brilliance onto Jimmy’s face as he emerged from the dimness of the building. He put one arm up to his eyes to deflect the sun while the other arm tightened around the blanketed girl. He paused, uncertain of the best way to get around the crowd. Cathy, frantic to keep moving, bumped right into him. Granda B, bringing up the rear, moved the family forward with purpose.
The marching band passing by brought forth loud singing of a tune well known to the Protestants on the street, which was meant to offend the Catholics. The anxious trio knew they were in a dangerous situation and worried about being stopped. But it wasn’t easy to move past the exit of the building: It was blocked by a group of young men watching the parade, cheering and yelling as it passed by.
Jimmy tried to push his way through the group by throwing out his arm in a sweeping motion. “Come now. Out the way,” he yelled.
A young, dark-haired man, who appeared to be drunk, took quick offense at being pushed aside. “Hey, Mac, where’d yer think yer going?”
Jimmy answered him in an uncharacteristically quiet manner, “Look man, we’ve a sick wean here. Will you no get out of our way?”
The troublemaker grinned foolishly for a second, then drew his lips into a sneer. A fighter himself, Jimmy knew what could follow a look like that. In a preemptive first strike, Jimmy shoved the hooligan, sending him stumbling backwards. The group of young men, in anticipation of the escalating brawl, tightened the circle around Jimmy’s family.
Granda B stepped out from behind Cathy to tower above them all. He addressed the dark-haired young man, “Come on now, Andy.” And to the others he simply said, “All of you move aside. Let the woman come through.” The group parted.
Jimmy stood silently, awed by how his father-in-law seemed to know so many people in Glasgow. Still apprehensive, Jimmy handed Helen to Cathy in order to free both hands in case of further trouble. A broad-shouldered young man pushed Jimmy from behind. The shove felt more like a punch and forced him to stumble forward into the group of Protestants.
An older man put a hand up to the tall bully, stopping his next move. “Easy now, lad.”
But the young Protestant did not back off. His beet-red Scottish face showed his eagerness for a confrontation––a good fight for the cause. He raised his fists and spat out from his snarled lips, “Bloody papists pigs.”
A small, round ball of a woman holding an orange banner on a wooden stick slapped the aggressor’s arm. Her strong hit was precise and stinging “for such a wee lady,” according to revelers at the pub later that day.
“Glenn Brown! Don’t you dare hurt that wean,” the round woman said. “Hands down, now!” She turned to Cathy, “Come along, Mrs. MacDonald.”
Everyone stopped, as if frozen in time. The young man’s fists dropped as he stepped back and carried out Mrs. MacSwan’s instructions. Her many years as a schoolteacher had perfected her ability to stare down the hooligans.
The group stopped bothering Jimmy’s family and turned away to watch the parade. The three scurried quickly down the street, sticking close to the safety of the buildings and away from the crowd.
The sign hanging lopsided on the door of the corner store stopped them in their tracks. It said in bold capital letters, “CLOSED FOR ORANGE WALK.”
“That can’t be. It bloody well can’t be,” Jimmy mumbled.
At first he knocked loudly on the door and then began to pound frantically on it. His voice got louder. “Open up! It’s Jimmy MacDonald. We need your phone. It’s an emergency. Open up!”
Cupping his eyes to peer into the darkened shop, he could see a telephone but could hear no sounds inside. No one would open up for him.
“Son, it’s no use. Let’s get going,” Granda B said taking hold of his son-in-law’s arm.
“Where, Daddy?” Cathy anxiously looked up at her father.
He helplessly looked out at the sea of raucous people passing by, waving colorful orange banners held high.
Suddenly Helen’s limp body jerked backward and then slowly went limp. Cathy pushed the shawl aside and looked down at her daughter’s ashen face. Helen’s eyes were wide open in a vacant stare.
“No. No. Please, Mother of God. Not my wee lassie,” she sobbed, shaking her head in denial. “Helen!” she screamed over and over, desperately calling her daughter back into her world.
Jimmy stepped forward to catch his still daughter as his wife collapsed to the pavement. She refused to give Helen up. The drumming had grown faint as the parade moved farther down the road.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
FAMILY SORROW
THE WEATHER SHIFTED to damp gray in the days following Helen’s death. The fog rose off the River Clyde and lay like a wet blanket over the MacDonalds’ building. Inside the flat, Cathy and her mother sat in the cold parlor, waiting to leave for the Funeral Mass.
The grieving young mother’s face was stark white against her high-collared black dress. She didn’t want to go to the funeral.
Granny B had combed back her daughter’s hair, securing it from falling across her eyes, and put a chain with a golden cross around her neck to show that they were a proud Catholic clan. She spoke gently to Cathy as they prepared to leave. “You know, hen, I have also suffered the great loss of children,” her mother said. “It’s the worst thing a parent ever has to face. But you must be brave for your living children. They are what counts now.”
Cathy eyed her and silently wished she could return to bed and not have to be so brave.
The wide stone steps of the church were dotted with family, friends, and neighbors chatting in hushed voices. The talking ceased when the motorcar arrived with the grieving family. Somberly, Jimmy walked in front with the older girls close around him. He had decided that June was too young to go. Mrs. MacSwan offered to care for the youngster and Cathy agreed, knowing June would be too distraught at seeing her sister in a coffin. The little girl’s repeated questions, “Where’s Helen?” and “When is she coming back?” had hardly stopped since that fateful day. Only Annie’s cuddling could console her.
Granda B held firmly onto Cathy’s arm as they walked down the aisle of St. Michael’s Church toward the small wooden coffin in front of the altar. Granny B had to talk her husband into walking with his daughter. At first he said he was too ill to go to the funeral. His stomach had been paining him terribly all morning. She knew what was paining him the most: He was reliving the deaths of Francis and Stevie, their eldest son, who died serving in World War II.
The packed church soon became hot and stuffy. Cathy sat crammed between her father and husband. She didn’t hear what the priest was saying. To her it seemed as though his voice droned on about God’s will and how Helen was now happily in Heaven with the angels. Her arm
s ached to hold her daughter one more time; she knew that time would never come again in her life.
Later, back at the MacDonalds’ flat, the low hum of people paying their respects filled the sorrowful home. Mourners wandered around with drinks and cigarettes in hand. Long stretches of smoke hovered close to the ceiling, making the gloomy day seem even darker.
Cathy sat motionless in the parlor with her hands folded in her lap. Over the past few days, her petite frame seemed to have shrunk in size, as though drawing away from the confusion surrounding her. She stared into the small fireplace, which gave off little heat. Her lips moved but no words were spoken aloud.
After a few hours Peter, one of Cathy’s three remaining brothers, began to gently usher the guests out of the door.
Granny B put her arm around her daughter’s trembling shoulders. “Hen, come on in the kitchen. It’s warmer there.”
When they entered, they were met with Peter’s loud voice talking to the other men in the family.
Granny B took charge of the noisy kitchen and told her son to lower his voice and for Janet, Peter’s wife, to take the children out to play. Flicking her cigarette ash into the sink, Janet hesitated. “Mum, I’m so very tired,” she said pouting with her bright red lips. “Been up all night with Wee Gordy’s coughing and aft’r what happened to Helen. Ye know?”
Granny B caught a glimpse of Wee Gordy, her grandson, running past the kitchen, chasing Mary and Maggie. He was the picture of health with is round green eyes and apple red cheeks. “Och, away with you, silly woman. Can you no think of anyone but yourself?”
Patsy, another daughter-in-law, quickly stepped in to soothe the brewing argument and offered a solution, “Don’t worry. Ned and me will take the bairns outside.” She took charge of the situation by herding the MacDonald girls out of the kitchen and calling out to their many cousins from around the flat. Granny B was glad her shy son, Ned, had found such a responsible wife.
Bernie, Granny and Granda B’s eldest living son, hung back, hoping not to be asked to help with his children. He had brought his five bairns to the funeral by himself because his wife was about to deliver, yet another child. Granny didn’t miss her absence as the two women didn’t get along and were prone to quarreling.
