by Anne Bennett
The children were wild to visit the Broadway and see Dumbo, the cartoon film the American Walt Disney had made some time before. Only Grace expressed disquiet.
‘What about Daddy?’
‘What about him?’ Maeve asked. ‘God alone knows when we’ll see him.’
‘Why don’t you come with us?’ Grace urged. ‘He may come home and you’d be on your own.’
‘What if he does?’ Maeve said. ‘It won’t be the first time. Go on, Grace. I will go to no pictures. I want a chance to put my feet up for five minutes.’ Grace allowed herself to be persuaded. She did want to see the film. All the girls were talking about it and her mother didn’t seem worried. She knew what had gone on at the shop and why because her mother had told her, but neither Jamie nor Bridget knew anything. Maybe being in a prison cell all night would have frightened her father into behaving himself. She’d love something to frighten him for a change.
As soon as Maeve glimpsed Brendan weaving across the yard that afternoon, she felt her insides quail and she hurried through the scullery and lit the gas under the pan of water she had ready to reheat Brendan’s dinner. She knew from one glance at Brendan’s glowering face that, far from cooling him off, the night in the cells had given him time to brood on the injustices he imagined he’d had heaped upon him. She also noted that whenever the police had released him, it had given him enough time to get bottled. Anger and alcohol spelt trouble for Maeve and she knew that however she handled the next few minutes, she was in for a good hiding and was pretty certain that this time even her pregnancy would not save her.
She glanced at him as he came in and saw the darkening under one eye and the grazed cheeks and thick lip, and knew that Kevin had indeed hit his father as the doctor had told her. The fact cheered her, despite her knowing she’d probably pay dearly for it.
He made no reply but a grunt to her greeting, and watched her laying a place for him at the table without a word. But when she encouraged him to sit and eat his dinner, he leapt up like an enraged animal, picked up the plate and hurled it across the room. Maeve watched the meat, potato and cabbage soaked in gravy slide down the wall in glutinous globules to mix with the pieces of plate smashed to smithereens on the floor, and felt such anger towards Brendan that she almost shook with it.
‘You can keep your sodding dinner,’ Brendan bawled at her. ‘You knew what the little bastard was doing all the time. Together you made a fool of me and I’ll not stand that.’
All night that fact had coursed through his mind as he’d paced his prison cell, and after his release this anger was now fuelled by beer. When he lurched into the house that day he was determined to beat the living daylights out of Maeve. Since Kevin’s return, she’d become difficult, even defiant at times. Well, she’d know who was master by the time he’d finished.
Maeve couldn’t deny she knew what Kevin was doing, and even if she’d claimed not to know it would have made no difference. She could almost feel Brendan’s rage – the violence emanating from him – and as he made a grab for her, she twisted out of his grasp. Elsie was right, she knew. She should have got out. One day she knew Brendan would be so angry with her he’d beat her to death. Well, whatever he did to her that day, she’d leave her mark on him. She was fed up of being a punch-ball, as she’d told Elsie, but it was more than that. From what the doctor had told her, he’d almost done for Syd Moss and might have finished the job more thoroughly if it hadn’t been for Kevin. She couldn’t stand up to him like Kevin but, by God, he wouldn’t have it all his own way either.
She fought like a cornered tiger, beating at him with her fists and biting at the hands trying to bind her, scratching his bruised face and trying to protect her stomach. Her retaliation seemed to give Brendan some malicious pleasure and her efforts were in any case futile. Her cumbersome, heavy body didn’t help, but she felt a measure of satisfaction that, even as he punched her to the floor, his face and arms bore the evidence of her nails and teeth.
She lay long after Brendan had stumbled up the stairs to bed. She was too weary and sore to move and too bloody fed up with it all. Eventually, with a sigh she got to her feet and staggered into the scullery to put the kettle on, hoping at least to have a chance to bathe her face before the children saw it.
However, the water hadn’t even come to the boil before Elsie was in the door with Mary Ann in the pushchair. She nodded at Maeve’s face and said resignedly, ‘He’s back then?’
‘Aye. And he’s left his calling card.’
Grace, who came in later, laughing with the others over something in the film, was struck dumb by the sight of her mother’s swollen, battered face. Elsie had helped her bathe it by then, but in all truth there was little they could do and Grace was annoyed for allowing herself to be persuaded to watch the antics of a flying elephant instead of being home to support her mother. She knew what manner of man her father was, she well remembered from before their flight to Ireland and he’d shown his true colours since they’d been back. Did she honestly think a man like that would have taken a beating from Kevin and not make someone pay for it? No she didn’t, she wasn’t a fool, but she’d gone out and left her mother unprotected.
Whatever Brendan had done had seemed to knock the stuffing out of Maeve, Elsie noticed, but Maeve dismissed their concerns and said she was just tired and she’d be as right as rain with a cup of tea inside her. Elsie was far from convinced, but Alf said he wanted his own fireside and a bite to eat and Elsie had no option but to go home.
‘I’ll pop in later,’ she said as she passed Maeve, pressing her hand.
‘Don’t bother yourself,’ Maeve said. ‘I’ll make an early night of it. Once the wee ones are in bed, I’ll likely follow them. Brendan will sleep on till morning, if I’m any judge, so at least I’ll be free of his attentions tonight.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’
It was later, in the dark night, that Maeve, trying to find a position that eased her battered body, realised she hadn’t felt the baby move since the beating she’d endured hours before. The worry nagged at her tired mind and took all thought of sleep from her. Next morning she felt like a piece of chewed string as she dragged her aching body from the bed and made her way downstairs to get Brendan’s breakfast.
She wished it wasn’t Monday and the washing to do. She could have done without it, but she knew wishing was a waste of time, and began collecting the clothes together as Brendan ate his breakfast in a surly silence that Maeve had no intention of breaking.
Just minutes after Brendan slammed the door behind him, Grace was downstairs to help her mother. She saw the laboured way she moved around the room and said, ‘I’ll start on the washing, Mammy, if you like, and you can see to the weans.’
Maeve could have kissed her, for every movement she made was painful and every step agony, and the pains around her stomach gripped her like a tight band.
Grace carried the bucket of slack down to the coal house and then she filled the copper up, bucket by bucket, from the tap by the door. She lit the fire beneath it, sprinkled in soap powder and left it to boil up while she fetched the clothes.
‘Why didn’t Kevin just agree to work in the foundry?’ Grace had asked the previous evening. ‘I don’t see I’ll have much choice when it’s my turn.’
‘It’s not the job alone,’ Maeve had explained. ‘You see, pet, Brendan would have every penny off Kevin if they worked in the same place. His wages would benefit us not a jot.’
‘What about mine when I go to work next year?’ Grace had asked.
‘Who knows?’
‘I’ll not give anything to him, Mammy. My wages will be for you.’
She knew her mother had been surprised and she was still scared of her father, but she wouldn’t give in to him, not on this question of her wages. He expected them to do everything he said and when he said it, but she and Kevin had been raised by firm but loving grandparents who’d given them self-respect and taught them to sta
nd up for what they thought was right.
She poured the bubbling water into the maiding tub and began pounding the clothes with the wooden dolly to loosen the dirt. It had been as black as night when she’d crept down to the brew house, but now as the grey morning chased the dark away, the yard came to life. Men’s boots clattered on the cobbles as they made their way to work and the sleepy-eyed children stumbled down to the lavatory. Elsie was glad to see Grace doing the washing as she passed, for she didn’t think Maeve would be up to it that day at least.
‘I’ll pop in and see your mother when I get Alf off,’ she called to Grace.
Grace nodded, but didn’t speak. She hadn’t breath to. As she’d come across the yard to the brew house early that morning, the intense cold had seeped into her bones and caught at the back of her throat, for the day was raw. But now the sweat ran down Grace’s face as she bent over the steamy water. She had good strong arms from the work she’d done to help her grandparents, particularly making the butter in the dairy, which meant pounding the cream in the creamery barrel in a similar way to that of maiding clothes.
The action though did nothing to soothe her emotions. She imagined she was bashing the dolly in her father’s face. She wished she were as big and strong as Kevin and able to knock him down as her mother told her he’d done, and then, she thought, I’d stamp on his bloody face. Let him see how he’d like it for a change.
The maiding over, she drew a hand across her clammy face for although the door stood sagging open on broken hinges and the icy wind gusted through broken windows, the brew house was damply warm. Moisture ran down the walls and hung in the air that was tinged with the smell of soap powder.
She had the whites soaking in a bucket of Becket’s blue when her mother appeared in the doorway. ‘Get yourself away,’ she said. ‘There’s porridge on the stove for you.’
Underneath the bruising, Grace saw the white pallor of her mother. Her eyes were almost totally closed up and had smudges of black beneath them. Her unpinned hair lay in rat-tails around her face and she had her old coat wrapped around her, while her feet were pushed into an old pair of boots that would normally have been three sizes too big. Grace thought she looked awful – worse than awful, ill.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m grand. Go on now, or you’ll be late and getting the strap.’
Grace knew her mother was right. There was no excuse acceptable for lateness at school. All latecomers had the strap. And yet she was loath to leave her.
‘You could write a note,’ she said. ‘I could stay home today.’
‘Will you go, Grace?’ Pain that she was unable to cry out against caused Maeve to speak harshly. And then she felt ashamed, especially in view of what the child had accomplished that morning. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but Grace shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter, Mammy,’ she said, left the washhouse and crossed the yard.
Maeve leant against the mangle and groaned as another intense pain gripped her stomach.
‘D’you think it’s the babby?’ Elsie said much later when Maeve could no longer disguise the fact she was in pain.
‘No. It’s not due for another month,’ Maeve said. ‘Besides, it’s not that type of pain.’
‘Well, summat’s gripping your innards, bab,’ she said. ‘I think we should fetch the doctor.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ Maeve said as she sat at the table cutting up vegetables for a stew she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat. She’d eaten nothing all day, knowing she’d be sick if she tried. She’d existed on cups of weak tea, but she didn’t tell Elsie that either. ‘It’ll just be another bill to pay, won’t it?’ she said. ‘I’ll be as right as rain when it’s all over. And for God’s sake say nothing to Grace. It’s hardly worth worrying her to death.’
‘I ain’t bloody stupid altogether,’ Elsie said testily.
‘I’m sorry, Elsie,’ Maeve said. ‘I know you’re not.’
Mollified, Elsie, who’d finished the washing for Maeve and was now ironing it, laid the flat iron down and said, ‘I’m just away to make Alf some dinner. I’ll come in later.’
‘No, Elsie, you’ve done enough,’ Maeve said. ‘I’ll be fine. Anyway, Grace will be in soon and she’ll give me a hand.’ She glanced over at the children, who’d been so good all day, almost as if they’d been aware she wasn’t well, though Elsie had been with her most of the time. Now Jamie lay on his stomach before the fire, playing with the toy cars Kevin had brought him for his birthday and Mary Ann played with cotton reels Elsie had saved for her and strung together with a piece of string.
Maeve felt sorry for both of the little ones, especially Jamie. She’d told him Kevin was going to live elsewhere to make it easier for him to get to work in the shop each day, but she knew she hadn’t fooled him. He’d wept bitterly and Mary Ann had cried in sympathy, and Maeve had felt like joining in with the pair of them.
Jamie glanced up at his mother’s bruised face and wished they could all go somewhere else, away from their father, so she didn’t keep getting her face bashed in all the time. He’d noticed it straight away the evening before, when they came back from the pictures, but he hadn’t bothered saying anything.
He lifted his head as the door opened and Bridget and Grace stepped into the house, bringing with them the cold settling in for the night. It had turned their faces bright pink and set their fingers and toes tingling with it. But even as Grace removed her coat and moved closer to the fire, she watched her mother. Maeve, being aware of it, tried not to make a fuss, even when she had a pain she wanted to double over with. Really, she thought, maybe I should get Lizzie Wainwright to take a look. It would do no harm and put my mind at rest, if nothing else. If she was no better after dinner, she would ask Grace to pop along to see the midwife.
Grace was worried when Maeve vomited back the small amount of dinner she’d eaten, but Maeve told her not to fuss. ‘I had a big meal with Elsie before you came in,’ she said. ‘It’s no wonder that my stomach objected to another load being deposited in it. I’m too full of baby to eat like that,’ she said with an attempt at a smile. But the baby was ominously still. There was so little room now, any movement it made was apparent, even under the tent-like smocks she wore, and sometimes it made her feel sick. But that night she would have welcomed any amount of gymnastics.
It was with the washing-up done and the children being prepared for bed that Maeve suddenly had a pain that made her say to Grace, ‘I have to go to the lavatory and quickly.’
She pulled her coat from the hook behind the door as she spoke. ‘See to them, will you?’
‘Aye. Of course, go on,’ Grace said, and Maeve left without another word passing between her and Brendan, though he sat just feet from her, gazing into the fire with a cup of tea in his hand.
The cold took Maeve’s breath away when she stepped out into the yard. She was glad of the pool of light from the gas lamp that showed up the icy patches lying on and between the cobbles that scrunched as she walked on them.
She knew, once she passed behind the brew house to where the lavatories were, that the light would be much dimmer and she’d have to go carefully, for she didn’t own a torch. She also knew that with everyone in the court using the brew house that day, there were bound to be pools of water around it.
She clutched her coat around her as she hurried just as fast as she dared, for the cramps in her stomach suggested urgency, until she was in the darkest part of the yard. Suddenly her foot shot from under her on a patch of ice and she twisted awkwardly, gasping with pain that shot through her back as well as her stomach. Suddenly there was a feeling between her legs as if someone had pulled a plug and water gushed from her.
‘Oh bloody hell!’ Maeve cried out. ‘It isn’t cramps, it’s the baby. It’ll be Lizzie Wainwright for me tonight, and the doctor too if she advises it,’ and she felt comforted because everyone said the baby stopped moving just before birth.
Maeve turned quickly, forgetting in
her need to get indoors to be careful, and she skidded on one of the large frozen pools from the brew house. She felt herself falling, but could do nothing to stop herself and fell heavily to the floor, cracking her head on the cobblestones, and felt darkness overwhelming her. The water that had spilt from her body soaked the coat she had wrapped around herself and began to freeze.
Back in the house, Grace was too busy to miss or worry about her mother. She’d filled the children’s hot-water bottles and put them in the bed and had refilled the kettle for the wash Maeve insisted they have before bed, and for their drink of cocoa from the tin Kevin had bought them. She was thinking of the comfort the hot-water bottle was and how it took the chill from the icy sheets. In Ireland, as the winter took its icy grip on the cottage, her grandma used to have a stone bottle which she would stand up in the bed and fix it in the position with the bedclothes, so you crept into a cocoon of warmth.
The rubber hot-water bottles were nearly as good, but where Kevin had got the three he’d brought home the week before was anyone’s guess. He’d said he’d been down the Bull Ring, but everyone knew anything made of rubber could not be had for love nor money. Even Maeve had not asked him where they’d come from; Grace guessed her mammy would rather not know. She needed them too much to have a conscience about it.
‘Where’s your bloody mother?’ Brendan suddenly snarled, startling Grace so much she nearly tipped the kettle she was pouring into the basin all over herself.
‘She’s out at the lavvy,’ Grace said.
‘All this bloody time?’
‘She has an upset stomach,’ Grace said tersely. ‘She’s been bad all day.’
‘Always something bloody upset in that woman,’ Brendan said, lifting his jacket down. ‘Well, I’m away out.’
