by Anne Bennett
Maeve herself was annoyed that she thought so much about Richard. She told herself she needed a change – it was the sameness of every day that was getting to her and putting too much importance on things, blowing them up out of all proportion. Her restlessness had been noticed and commented on by Elsie, but Maeve had brushed her concerns to one side and told her that she was fine.
Then one Friday evening towards the end of May, Maeve was alone in the house. Grace had gone dancing, the children were in bed and Kevin was never round on Fridays, because the shop stayed open till late. Elsie had been in, but had gone back home. Maeve had never made a habit of calling into Elsie’s of an evening when Alf would be at home, but since his retirement she’d done it less and less, though she admitted to herself that she would have welcomed company that night.
She could always busy herself through the day, but when the jobs were done and the children in bed or about their own pursuits the time hung heavy on Maeve’s hands. She enjoyed Matthew’s company and wished she had the nerve to ask him to stay on, but she had her name to think of, if not for herself, then for the children. But all too soon it was the children’s bedtime and not long after that, time for Matthew to return to his comfortless room and then the evening stretched endlessly ahead.
She took up the paper Matthew had left that evening and skimmed through the headlines. Until the outbreak of war Maeve had never bothered herself about world affairs, but then it began to matter to know what was going on and where the places were that had cost so many young lives. She used to like discussing things with Matthew, for he was a well-read and intelligent man and could explain things to her in a way that she understood.
Once, in common with many, Maeve had had a naïve and idealistic view of what would happen after the war. After all, they’d not only fought a world war, but won it too and now that it was over, the men would come home and everything would go back to normal. But, of course, it couldn’t be like that with the turmoil the whole world was in.
Europe, in particular, was in total disarray, and full of dispossessed and homeless people, unable or unwilling to return to the places they’d originally come from. Matthew had told her that it would take some time for everywhere to settle down again.
She was startled from her reverie by a knock at the door. Most people didn’t knock so Maeve opened the door cautiously. ‘Mr . . . Mr Prendagast,’ she stammered. Recovering herself, she went on, ‘I’m afraid Grace isn’t in.’
‘I know. She told me she was going out tonight. I came to see you.’
Even his voice lent a weakness to Maeve’s limbs, but she felt something else too, the ache of loneliness gaping wide inside him, recognising it so clearly because she felt it too. She couldn’t ask him in – it would be worse than allowing Matthew to stay on – and yet she opened the door wide and he walked into the room.
They didn’t touch in any way – Maeve knew she’d be lost if they did. She tried not to meet his eyes and they sat together and talked and drank the tea Maeve made. They talked of the shop and how it was progressing and of Grace, whom Richard was quick to praise. He asked after Kevin and the Mosses and herself, though not the younger children, Maeve noticed in surprise.
When Richard eventually got to his feet and thanked Maeve for the lovely evening, she had to fight the urge to put her arms round his neck and kiss the sadness from his eyes and beg him to stay longer. She told herself sternly not to be so silly. He’d come to see her and now he was going and that was that.
When he’d reached the door, he turned and said simply, ‘Thank you, Maeve. Can I come again?’
Maeve knew what she should have said, an emphatic ‘No’, but instead she found herself saying, ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
And she did like it over the next weeks when Richard came, usually twice a week, and always when Grace was out. Maeve didn’t tell anyone of Richard’s visits and he never brought the car, but of course there were few secrets in the courtyards.
The women complained to Elsie about it. ‘They’re both free agents,’ she said. ‘What’s the harm?’
‘She’ll get her name up, that’s what. It’s hardly decent with children asleep above her head.’
‘Aye. You must see it, Elsie. Christ, some evenings one man had scarcely left the place till another enters it.’
‘Tell her, Elsie. You’re her friend. It’s for her own good we’re saying.’
‘She knows him well,’ Elsie protested. ‘There’s no funny business going on. He’s Grace’s employer for heaven’s sake.’
‘And what d’you think his sort take up with the likes of us except for funny business?’ one asked. ‘Don’t talk daft. You weren’t born yesterday.’
But Elsie said nothing to Maeve. She couldn’t bear to take the light away from her eyes or the spring from her step that hadn’t been there this long while.
Richard and Maeve had relaxed enough after his first few visits to discuss the world situation and in particular the new National Health Service due to start up very soon. Sometimes they would laugh over some absurdity, or Richard would recount a tale, or tell Maeve a joke, and she’d think, I’ll tell Matthew about that. But she never did.
She knew this wonderful happiness that seemed to bubble away inside her wouldn’t last. He’d make new and more suitable friends and then no longer need her and she must face that. He wasn’t looking for permanency and neither was she. As long as no one knew about it she told herself she could cope.
Amy Overley knew something was up with her son. She didn’t know where Richard went and would never quiz him, but she knew he was seeing a woman. Amy had no idea who the woman was, but she was making him very happy and she asked Grace if he’d confided in her. He hadn’t and it wasn’t a question Grace could ask him, but she told her mother that night that Amy thought Richard was in love. She had no idea how many times a week Richard met his woman, but Amy seemed to think it was some big romance and so she told Maeve he was meeting this new love of his almost every night of the week.
She’d expected her mother to be pleased and was surprised when the blood suddenly drained from her mother’s face and the hand dishing out the potatoes shook so much that she missed the plate entirely and deposited them on the tablecloth. ‘Mammy,’ cried Grace alarmed at her mother’s pallor. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ Maeve said, rising to her feet. ‘I’ve a bit of an upset stomach that’s all. Dish up the dinner, will you, Grace. I’m away to the lavvy.’
She knew she had to be by herself. Grace’s words had upset her so much, she staggered like a drunk down the yard and then sat on the toilet seat gripping her trembling hands tight between her knees. What the bloody hell had I expected? she asked herself angrily. He comes to see me twice a week, no more, and all he gets is chat. Did I expect him to live like a bloody monk the rest of the time? The man is attractive and has no ties and is at liberty to see who he likes. He’s made no promise or commitment to me and I hope he never does. It would spoil things between us, because I’m not free to accept any sort of proposal.
She covered her face with her hands and gave a moan of sadness. Tears trickled through her fingers, and over the back of her hands, but she made no effort to wipe them away. She thanked God everyone else would be at their tea and not witnessing the fact that Maeve Hogan was breaking her heart in the lavvy and God alone knew what it was all about.
Eventually, when she became calmer, she wiped her wet eyes, cheeks and hands with her apron, and faced facts. Richard had never touched her, or muttered endearments, or shown in any way that she was more to him than a friend, serving a need at that moment. She had no need to feel betrayed or let down, nor any right either. God, she felt a fool, and she vowed not only would she not question Richard, but also she wouldn’t behave any differently to him.
She tried, she really tried, but Richard sensed the slight distance she put between them the first few times he visited after that. He worried about it, wondering if he was making life difficult
for Maeve by visiting her so openly. He’d tried to be discreet but with the close proximity of the houses, he knew many would be aware he called and he also knew no one would believe how innocently they spent their evenings together.
He wanted to broach the subject with Maeve but he could never bring himself to, afraid she would say it would be better if he didn’t come round so often. So he said nothing and tried not to think of the future.
The long-awaited National Health Service came into operation at midnight on 5 July 1948, giving everyone free access to proper regulated healthcare. Maeve knew what security that represented for the poor, who now could call out, or visit the doctor with their families, without having to hide from the rent man the following week. Richard couldn’t really appreciate that level of poverty when Maeve tried to explain it. It seemed to emphasise the difference between them.
In one way she was pleased when the schools closed for the summer holidays two weeks later. She told Richard it would be difficult to see him then as the children’s bedtimes were much more relaxed and children played out in the summer evening till much later than normal. Maeve thought she was releasing him to visit his new lady more often, but Richard was devastated by Maeve’s decision. He knew she was right, though, for he couldn’t have borne to knock her door under the scrutiny of playing children and the women standing in the doorways looking him up and down. And then in Maeve’s house to come face to face with her own children. That would be a form of torture to him.
At first, Maeve was too busy to miss Richard much, for with the children going to bed later, Matthew could legitimately stay later too and this Maeve urged him to do. He began taking the children, any who wanted to go, to Calthorpe Park on nice evenings and often to the Lickey Hills at the weekends. Sometimes Maeve went with them and other times she’d wait at home preparing meals for their return. Matthew himself seemed happier and more settled and less intent on pleasing Angela all the time. Maeve thought the situation could only improve after Christmas, when Angela would begin school, and was glad she’d said nothing about it to Matthew. The times she allowed herself to think of the relationship she’d enjoyed with Richard, she thought the friendship had run its course and died a natural death as she’d always expected it to do eventually, while the women of the court presumed Elsie had made the woman see sense at last.
But as the days passed, full though they were with the children at home, a form of desolate lethargy seemed to seep into Maeve, until it was filling her days and it was an effort to rouse herself to do anything, or take an interest in anything either. She faced the fact that she ached to see Richard again and also faced the fact that she couldn’t.
Richard had moved on, as she knew he would one day, and she must do the same. He had a new woman in his life and she must try to fill the aching void in her own and not wallow in misery. And she tried to snap out of it and pull herself together for the children’s sake and Matthew’s. They all knew something was wrong, but whenever they asked her she said she was fine. She was far from it and at times the sadness almost overwhelmed her and she had the urge to curl in a corner and howl out her distress. But, of course, she could do no such thing and soldiered on, yet as the holidays drew to a close she felt as if a large block of lead had been attached to her heart and she knew there was damn all she, or anyone else, could do about it.
TWENTY-THREE
The children had returned to school and the September nights were drawing in when Grace came home from the pictures one night and told Maeve Chris Cleary, the brother of her friend Bernadette, had asked her for a date. She’d told him she’d have to check with her mother before she gave him an answer and did she have any objection?
Grace was only fifteen, but sensible, and she also knew right from wrong and Maeve had only to look at her shining face to know she more than liked the lad. Added to that he was a decent, steady boy, apprenticed to a toolmaker from a family Maeve knew well, and she gave her blessing.
She wasn’t prone to self-pity normally but was shaken by a bout of it one evening just a few days later. She’d waited up for Grace, who’d gone dancing with Chris, and when the pair burst through the door just after eleven, their faces were flushed with the sheer exhilaration of youth. Maeve was suddenly struck with a pang of nostalgia and even jealousy towards her own daughter.
She wondered how her life might have gone if she’d married a different man from Brendan. She felt she had nothing to look forward to. One by one, her children would all leave her and she, who’d struggled to bring up her family, would be left without one belonging to her.
She would never resort to what some women did in such circumstances. Frightened of a lonely old age, they feigned frailty to hang on to one of their children, usually the youngest. The child would grow middle-aged and then old, tied to his or her mother by a sense of duty, till all chances of a life of their own passed them by. Never would she do that to a child of hers, and yet growing older and lonelier was not a prospect she looked forward to with any pleasure.
She sat in the chair before the fire she’d decided to light, for the evenings could become chill, and she stared at the orange flames licking round the sticks and tried to count her blessings. But it did no good and she still felt miserable and sorry for herself.
When the knock came at the door, she stiffened. She knew who it was, although he hadn’t called for months, because he was the only one who ever knocked, but such was her mood she didn’t want to see Richard Prendagast, didn’t want to see anyone. She’d not answer the door. But, she told herself, he’d know she was in. He’d know she was not the type of woman to go out and leave her children in bed. What if he opened the door himself? He could – it wasn’t locked – and then he would see her sitting there. Well, he wouldn’t, she decided. It was her house and she’d decide who she’d have in it. She’d tell Mr Prendagast he wasn’t welcome.
She leapt to her feet and swung open the door, but before she was able to say anything, Richard, seeing the sadness evident in Maeve’s face, had taken a step forward into the room.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked gently.
Maeve shook her head. The sympathy in Richard’s voice had caused her eyes to smart. She had to keep control of herself and tell the man to go. ‘It’s just . . . it’s just . . .’
The tears came then in torrents as Maeve cried out her fear of loneliness and Richard couldn’t bear it. Despite his resolve, he swept her into his arms and began kissing the tears from her eyes and cheeks. It was what Maeve had longed for and for a long time, and she held Richard tight as if she never intended to let him go. Still clasped together they moved towards the fire.
Their lips met and the passion of that kiss surprised them both. Maeve felt as if she was drowning in it. Never, ever, not even in the early days with Brendan, had a kiss made her feel like this. Richard’s tongue gently teased her partly open lips, and she seemed to melt against him while desire filled her being.
Richard’s hands snaked up Maeve’s back under her blouse to unhook her brassiere. In the recess of Maeve’s mind, she knew she should stop this madness. She was behaving like a wanton, and with her children above her asleep in the attic.
Richard had her blouse unbuttoned and Maeve wriggled free of it and her brassiere, which she dropped on to the floor. Her breasts lay in the palms of his hands. He lowered his mouth to them and he and Maeve sank down to the rug on the floor. She felt her nipples rise into peaks and she gasped and moaned with pleasure such as she’d never ever felt before.
She felt his hardness against her and knew what Richard wanted and knew she would let him have it, because she wanted it too. In her courtship with Brendan she’d often wanted the culmination of their lovemaking, but when it actually happened after marriage, it had never lived up to the promise of what she’d expected and needed. It had always been over in minutes and she’d been left uneasy and frustrated, not understanding why she felt that way.
At first, she’d responded eagerly to Brendan’s
embraces. There had been no one she could ask about such a thing, but she had wondered if it was something that needed practice.
Once Brendan had known of her pregnancy, he’d given up any attempt to make it enjoyable for her. He seemed to neither know nor care how she felt, but would just take her as and when he wanted until any desire within her had shut down totally. But this man, Richard Prendagast, had opened it up for her again.
But unlike Brendan, Richard seemed in no hurry. He was kissing her neck, throat and lips, muttering endearments while he unfastened her skirt, which she wriggled out of; the stockings and suspender belt she swiftly pulled off. Despite her years of marriage, no man had ever seen Maeve Hogan naked, nor had any man trailed down her belly with his lips as Richard was doing, causing her to give little whimpers of pleasure.
She could hardly bear the excitement which was mounting in her, and as Richard slipped his hand between her legs, she gasped aloud and then, amazed at her own daring, undid Richard’s trousers. He shook his underpants off and gazed at the woman he’d loved for months.
‘Oh God, Maeve, you’re beautiful!’
What Richard was doing to Maeve was taking the breath from her body and she gasped out, ‘Go on, please go on.’
But Richard stilled her voice with his lips and as his tongue probed her mouth and her excitement mounted to fever pitch, she felt him, at last, enter her. She heard herself giving little shouts and yelps as waves and waves of sheer rapturous pleasure swept over her again and again.
Richard gave one sudden exultant cry and it was over. As they lay entwined in blissful contentment, Maeve realised that she was almost thirty-seven years old, and she’d been loved, truly loved for the very first time in her life. The experience had been wonderful – glorious – and she’d shown plainly how she’d felt. Oh God, how she’d enjoyed it. She felt bad about that, for she knew that few women truly enjoyed sex, judging from the remarks they made about it, and she wondered what Richard had felt about her total abandonment.
