by Anne Bennett
Elsie, who looked after Maeve most during the day, was worried about her because she didn’t seem to be getting any better, didn’t seem to want to get better either. Even Dr Fleming was concerned. He’d heard on the grapevine what had happened between her and Matthew, and thought Maeve’s lethargy and uninterest stemmed from being let down like that – and small wonder when the woman had been through so much already. He told Elsie he’d been surprised to hear what Matthew had done; he’d always thought the man to be upright and decent, but Elsie didn’t comment.
Gwen Moss came to see Maeve as soon as she heard she was ill and was shocked by Maeve’s appearance, her eyes, which seemed to stand out in her pale face, and her general listlessness. She brought tasty morsels to tempt Maeve’s appetite and little bunches of flowers to brighten the room. ‘Don’t worry about a thing now,’ she said. ‘You just get well.’
‘And why wouldn’t I?’ Maeve said wearily, but with a ghost of a smile. ‘Aren’t I being ruined altogether?’
‘And about time,’ Gwen said emphatically. ‘I was sorry to hear about your disappointment,’ she went on, and blushed at the memory of the conversation she’d had with Syd just a little while before.
‘I’m sorry for Maeve,’ he’d said. ‘And I’d not have you think otherwise, but her loss could be our gain.’ Gwen had been bemused and he’d gone on, ‘Wasn’t it her man who was against her working?’
‘Oh, Syd . . .’
‘Don’t “Oh, Syd” me like that,’ Syd had burst out. ‘I am as sorry for Maeve as you are, but now she’s been jilted, as it were, she’ll have to have some form of employment and she likes it here. Put it to her, Gwen. I bet she’ll jump at it.’
But Gwen didn’t put it to her, knowing Maeve was far from well and certainly not up to deciding such things. The week in bed stretched to a fortnight and even after that she was so lacking in energy she was content just to sit in the chair and watch others bustling around after her children and taking care of her home. She knew that soon she’d have to decide how she was going to provide for them all but she pushed her worries aside, for they wearied her.
Father Trelawney came to see Maeve as soon as Bridget told him she was in bed ill and Maeve knew, just by looking at his face, that the priest was aware of her broken love affair.
‘I’m sorry to see you like this, Maeve,’ he said, and as usual Maeve was irritated by his manner.
‘Like what, Father?’ she asked. ‘Jilted, do you mean, or sick?’
Father Trelawney hid his annoyance. It was hard to continue to feel sorry for her, but he tried. ‘Both, of course,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to see you so ill. I know the children have been very concerned. As for the business with Matthew Bradshaw . . . Well, let’s say I was shocked to hear what your sister had done.’
‘Why?’ Maeve demanded. ‘Because she’s run off with my man, or because he’s the wrong religion?’
‘Now, now, Maeve, stop this,’ the priest said. ‘I will say only that I was surprised by her actions.’
‘You didn’t think it served me right for daring to intend to marry a Protestant?’
Father Trelawney had had thoughts so similar to those Maeve expressed that he reddened. He knew also that Maeve was making fun of him. He had been shocked to the core to know that Nuala Brannigan, whom he’d seen as a sensible, demure sort of girl, had taken up with the very same and totally unsuitable man her sister had been enamoured with.
‘Elsie says people have little control over their feelings,’ Maeve went on. ‘Isn’t that right, Elsie?’ she asked the older woman, who’d come into the bedroom with a cup of tea for the priest. Elsie pressed her lips together to prevent herself smiling at Father Trelawney’s obvious discomfort.
‘I didn’t say that exactly,’ Elsie said.
‘You did,’ Maeve retorted. ‘You said there was no knowing where feelings might light. We could all be in danger of it. Even you, Father – you could be next.’
‘Maeve,’ the priest admonished but quietly, because it was obvious Maeve was far from well, ‘I understand you’re upset and ill so I’ll make allowances.’
‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself to make any allowances at all,’ Maeve said. ‘Put me down as a hopeless case.’
Afterwards Elsie gently took her to task over it.
‘Oh, Elsie, he deserves it. He’s a patronising hypocrite and so very easy to tease,’ Maeve said.
Another Maeve described as a patronising hypocrite was her Uncle Michael, who also came to visit the invalid. He’d not been near her for months, not since he’d first got wind of her involvement with Matthew. He’d tackled her about it after Mass one day and been told to ‘go to hell’. His subsequent absence and silence on the subject had signified his disapproval.
But now Maeve had been betrayed and therefore she was welcomed back into the fold of the family, and Nuala was now the black sheep.
‘I wrote and told Annie all about it,’ Michael said pompously when he came that bitter winter’s day when Maeve was eventually allowed out of bed, but just to sit in a chair near the fire.
Maeve had also written to her mother, telling her of the latest developments. Her parents had known, of course, about Matthew, and knew he was a non-Catholic long before she’d told them of his marriage proposal, and yet they’d never criticised. They’d both just expressed their pleasure that Maeve had found someone good for her, and said it was time she had some happiness in her life.
Maeve knew her uncle, in his letter to Annie and Thomas, would have stressed the fact of Matthew’s religion and given his own opinion of Nuala into the bargain, worrying them all in Ireland who could do nothing about it.
‘I wish you hadn’t written, Uncle,’ she said. ‘It can’t have achieved anything and you’ll probably have worried the life out of Kevin. He’ll be wondering how I’m going to manage now.’
‘They have a right to know.’
‘Maybe, but it was my right to tell them, not yours.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes I did, and in my own way.’
‘Well,’ Michael said, ‘I’m glad you at least saw sense and got rid of the man.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that.’
‘I heard you sent them both packing.’
‘Not quite,’ Maeve said. She didn’t elaborate; it still hurt too much to discuss it.
She still missed both Nuala and Matthew very much. Just two days after she’d been taken ill a letter had arrived from Nuala. Grace discussed with Elsie whether she should give it to Maeve or not, but neither thought her strong enough to deal with it.
Even when she’d been given the letter, Maeve wasn’t sure she wanted to even read the damned thing. Bitterness rose in her whenever she thought of the way that Matthew and Nuala had behaved.
True, she hadn’t been in love with Matthew, but she had cared for him deeply, had valued his support and friendship over the years and had cared for his daughter when he’d not known which way to turn. Surely he owed her something?
As for her sister, Nuala had known from her first night in Birmingham how things were between herself and Matthew. If she’d felt herself attracted to him, why hadn’t she fought it? Why had she gone out for walks with him and agreed to spend their Saturdays together? Why had she taken a job at the same factory and taken advantage of Maeve’s preoccupation with the shop to steal Matthew away? Her betrayal still hurt like hell.
Nuala’s letter expressed regret and said she was bitterly ashamed of her part in the whole thing, and Matthew, she said, was distraught. Maeve felt no sympathy for Matthew’s shame, nor for any distress her sister was feeling, and she thrust the letter angrily into the fire.
But none of this did she say to her uncle, who seemed to sit in judgement on them all.
‘I can’t understand the man just dumping his child on you either,’ Michael said, breaking the silence in the room.
‘He didn’t “dump her” on me, as you put it,’ Maeve said. ‘It was the child’s own dec
ision to stay.’
‘But surely—’
‘Uncle Michael, I’m the only mother Angela has ever known,’ Maeve said. ‘How could I turn my back on her and how could Matthew take her to the little bare room he rents and who would care for her while he goes to work?’
‘That’s hardly your concern.’
‘Legally, perhaps not,’ Maeve said. ‘But she’s part of our family now and she didn’t want to leave us all.’
Her uncle’s only response was a ‘Hmph’ and Maeve remembered Angela creeping up to her bedroom one day, just a few days after she’d been taken ill. She’d looked at Maeve closely and slipped her little hand into hers and said anxiously, ‘Are you going to die, Mammy?’
Maeve had heard the desperation in the voice and said as reassuringly as she could, ‘No, Angela, I’m just a little sick. The doctor will make me well, don’t worry.’
She’d heard the small sigh of relief, and then Angela had said, ‘My daddy isn’t going to marry you now, is he?’
‘No, pet, he isn’t.’
‘Will he marry Nuala?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maeve had said and added for the child’s sake, ‘You like Nuala, don’t you?’
Angela had loved Nuala once and enjoyed their days together, but she loved Maeve more. Angela couldn’t understand why her father had hurt her so much and she hated him and Nuala because of it.
‘I used to like her,’ she’d told Maeve, ‘but not any more.’
‘Ah, Angela, don’t say that. Your daddy and Nuala both love you. And if they marry she will be your stepmother,’ Maeve had said.
Angela had shaken her head. ‘You’re my mother,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t want either of them. I don’t even want to see them.’
Maeve hoped Angela would eventually get over her antagonism for she sensed her hurt. But no way could she abandon Matthew’s daughter and she said so to her uncle.
‘Well, I said at the time you were silly to take her on,’ Michael said. ‘Everyone was talking about it. I felt you had enough on your plate already and your Aunt Agnes agreed with me.’
‘Aunt Agnes!’ Maeve cried. ‘God, I’m surprised she remembers who I am!’
‘Really, Maeve!’
‘Come on, Uncle Michael,’ Maeve cried. ‘If she’d been a different sort of woman I might have confided in her about the dreadful state of my marriage, which you chose to believe was a bloody bed of roses. But let’s leave that aside. Even after Brendan died, did she ever visit to see if we were managing? Did she ever offer a hand with the weans at all?’
‘You were hand-in-glove with the woman next door,’ Michael complained. ‘Brendan was always going on about it.’
‘Aye,’ Maeve cried. ‘And it was a good job I was. God knows, I’d be in a poor state if I’d had only the pair of you to rely on.’
She knew she’d upset him and when she recounted it to Elsie – leaving out the reference to her – she’d laughed as Elsie replied, ‘If you’re well enough to argue, girl, you must be improving.’
‘Aye, all we need now is Brendan’s family here to gloat over my scuppered wedding plans.’
But none of the Hogans came. Instead it was Gwen Moss who bustled in a few days after her uncle’s visit, glad to see the unhealthy glow had faded from Maeve’s cheeks.
‘How are you, Maeve?’
‘Oh, Elsie thinks I’m on the mend,’ Maeve said. ‘Some day soon I’ll have to think about a job.’
‘Don’t rush yourself,’ Gwen said.
‘Ah, Gwen, sure the weans only have me now.’
‘I know that,’ Gwen said. ‘Have you anything in mind?’ and then went on without waiting for a reply, ‘You wouldn’t consider the shop again?’
Maeve’s eyes widened. ‘Haven’t you got someone else in my place?’
Gwen shook her head. ‘Never seemed to get round to it,’ she said with a grin.
‘Oh, Gwen . . .’ Maeve was overcome. She’d love to work back in the shop, but worried about loading so much work on the shoulders of Grace and Bridget. In particular Bridget, who would have the care of the children all day Saturday without the support of Nuala or Matthew. What if something was to happen to the little ones? A factory job where she had her weekends free might be better.
Gwen saw her face working and, being a mother herself, guessed at some of the thoughts crowding her head.
Eventually Maeve said, ‘Thanks, Gwen, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but it’s the hours, you see. I hate to heap it all on Bridget.’
‘And what if you lived on the premises?’ Gwen said, thinking of the plans she’d made with Syd while he’d decorated the flat next door to look like a little palace and she’d searched the shops for things to give a homely touch that she knew Maeve would like.
‘On the premises?’
‘In the other flat,’ Gwen said triumphantly.
‘Oh, Gwen, I couldn’t afford it.’
‘It would be part of your wages, a perk of the job,’ Gwen said.
‘Oh no. You were thinking of letting that flat for a goodly sum.’
‘God, girl, do you think we need the money?’ Gwen cried. ‘We let the place for nothing all through the war and then for peanuts to the last lot we had up there, and when we finally got rid of them they owed us about three months in rent arrears.’ She took Maeve’s hand and said, ‘It would really please Syd and myself if you’d consider it, Maeve. It would be nice to have decent people living next door to us, and the shop’s not been the same without you. This way you can see to the children too, and free this house for some other family.’
Oh, it was tempting. No garden, perhaps, but a yard to play in and a place with a proper kitchen and bathroom and an inside lavatory. The long attic room would do for the girls and the other bedroom beside hers for Jamie. Grace would be near her place of work, and though the children would be further from school, that would do them no harm. As for her – well, she’d be doing a job she enjoyed and getting a wage for it.
She smiled at Gwen and squeezed the hand holding hers. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll take it, and thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Despite being tremendously grateful to Gwen, Maeve was a bit nervous of moving so close to the draper’s shop above which Richard Prendagast still lived with his mother. While she’d been engaged to Matthew, she’d felt she was safe from him; now she felt vulnerable again. However, she wasn’t going to pass up the chance of a decent place for the family to live in, together with doing a job she enjoyed. After all, the man was nothing to her, and especially after what had happened. She supposed he’d be just as embarrassed and as unwilling to meet as she was.
Elsie helped her friend pack up her things, knowing she’d miss her desperately. But still she was happy for the whole family and not at all resentful. It wasn’t as if Maeve would be a million miles away.
On 23 February Maeve moved into the flat. She stood and surveyed it with a sigh of satisfaction. For the first few days she almost had to pinch herself to believe it was true when she woke up in her comfortable bedroom and made breakfast for her children in a bright and functional kitchen.
The Mosses had worked hard to make the flat a welcoming place and it was hardly recognisable from the dingy bare rooms Maeve had cleaned just weeks before. It had all been freshly painted and the living room and bedrooms wallpapered, beautiful curtains hung at the windows and there was now lino on the floor. And Maeve, in her turn, cleaned and polished the place with loving care, worked like a Trojan in the shop, was always punctual and never minded working overtime, and Syd declared he’d never had such an assistant.
Maeve wrote to her parents and Kevin, and told them all about the move to the flat and her job, to stop them worrying about her and particularly to put Kevin’s mind at rest. She soon realised that she’d worried unduly about her close proximity to Richard, for she never saw him. Syd remarked that he used to come in now and again for razor blades, cigarettes or newspaper
s, but from the minute Maeve moved in, he never showed his face. Now Grace took him down a paper and sometimes cigarettes when she left in the mornings, and razor blades and matches, sweets and other sundry items for her son were added to Amy’s shopping list.
For the first time, Grace began to wonder if Richard’s reluctance to enter Moss’s had anything to do with her mother working there, and if so, she couldn’t understand it. She thought they’d got over that time when Maeve had snapped the head off Richard at their old house and for no good reason that she could see. But then Richard had changed since the early autumn, for though he was not so bad-tempered and generally grouchy any more, he seldom laughed or smiled and never told the bad jokes he had seemed to have a stock of.
Grace, of course, would not have known it but Richard was aching with loneliness and almost despair. He wished he could overcome his aversion to children and knock boldly at Maeve’s door, sweep her into his arms, tell her of his undying love and ask her to marry him. He bitterly regretted not doing just that that day in September when she’d given herself to him totally.
But always when he contemplated confronting Maeve this way the image of the two little girls gazing at him solemnly would rise up before his eyes – alive and well, as his daughter, Nina, would never be – and he couldn’t do it. However, in recognising that fact, he felt cast adrift. His life seemed to have little purpose and yet he knew his mother loved and needed him and for her sake he tried to hide his heartache, though not very successfully.
He worked tirelessly, both in the shop and out of it, searching for new lines, visiting fashion houses and negotiating with clothing manufacturers because he was now the main buyer, a role he’d taken over from Amy at her suggestion. It gave him little satisfaction, except to see that he had pleased his mother. He was only glad that hard work and long hours might enable him to fall into an exhausted sleep at night, but despite his tiredness, he still spent far too many nights restlessly pacing the floor of his bedroom.
When Grace had told him that Maeve had become engaged and, she said, to a man they had all known and liked for years whom, due to her reticence about personal matters, she’d never mentioned before, Richard had felt a pain so sharp and deep grip his stomach that it had made him catch his breath. Desire for Maeve had not diminished, and he’d felt raw base jealousy flood over him that he knew he had no right to feel.
