Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  His mouth fell open. ‘What the hell’s got into you at all?’

  Rachel studied the handsome man she had married. He was nearly six feet tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, strong-limbed and muscular. Yet at this moment, he looked gormless, like a big soft lad with his jaw hanging loose in that silly way. She spoke quietly, her teeth gritted together as if avoiding the bad taste created by her words. ‘Since I had that child, you’ve treated me like a dog. No, worse than a dog! A dog gets thrown the odd bone, eh? But not me, oh no. I’m nowt a pound, me. Just because I can’t have any more kiddies, just because I’m wrong inside. And my little baby can’t be blamed for that!’

  ‘I never said anybody was to blame, did I?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. You’ve said nowt, because you’re not man enough to speak your mind. But I could cut through your resentment with a blunt butter knife.’

  ‘Not a man!’ he screamed. ‘It’s you that’s not all there. It’s you has the bits missing. I can father a son . . .’

  ‘Prove it! Go on, get out and prove it! Look at Jimmy Pickavance down Canon Street – nine girls he had. Nine! And a finer fellow you couldn’t meet. But you . . . oh aye . . . it has to be my fault. How do you know you’d have had a boy, eh? Can you show it me in writing? Cos it’s the men what gives a child its sex, our doctor told me that. A woman’s eggs are neuter – they can be anything. You made the girls, not me!’

  ‘And I’ve no chance for a son now, have I? Not since that one ruined you!’ There, it was out. He stood panting, as if he had just accomplished a five-mile run, yet there was a kind of terror in his eyes, for he knew now that he had annoyed his wife beyond endurance. Only once had he seen her angry before, and that had been over a man too. Bessie Hargreaves’ chap had, while in his cups, threatened to beat his wife to within the last inch, and Rachel had saved her. Aye, she’d taken a shovel to him, and the whole street had come out to watch the man run like the devil all the way up to View Street.

  Rachel straightened her short spine. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she announced softly. ‘More than enough. I shall take the pair of them back to my dad’s house. At least at my dad’s house, they’ll both get treated as human. How do you think our Katherine feels, eh? What must she think when she stands by and watches you playing with her sister?’

  ‘You’ll take our Judith nowhere!’ His bright blue eyes were shaded by fear and temper. ‘That lass is definitely mine.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘She looks nowt like me. She could be any bugger’s!’ He knew he had gone too far, yet still he stood his uncertain ground. ‘Thin and ugly, she is. Not a sign of Murray in her. She looks like nothing else on this earth.’

  ‘What?’ Her voice rose to a scream now. ‘Are you accusing me of . . . of . . . ? Right. That’s it, Peter Murray. You can keep your few bob a week, cos I’m off to my own folk. That child is the spitten image of my mother! Not that I should have to explain things like that. A proper man would know his own child, no matter what it looked like!’

  ‘You’ll not go! Except over my dead body!’

  ‘Oh aye? And who’s to keep me here? Will you stop off your work and watch me every minute? Will you lie awake all night to make sure I don’t sneak out? Remember, my dad’s is only a stride from here, I can be there in half a minute!’ Even then, at the eleventh hour, she could probably have negotiated had he shown the slightest sign of remorse or shame. But he simply turned on his heel and left the house by the back door, collecting Judith on his way through the yard.

  Rachel watched him disappearing through the gate, then she opened the door and brought in her younger daughter. ‘Come on. I’ll read to you.’

  ‘Daddy gone.’ The child’s pale face was creased with sadness.

  ‘That’s right. Daddy gone. Get me your story book.’

  ‘Judy gone too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kaffrin still here.’

  Rachel bowed her head. ‘Yes. Katherine with Mammy and a nice story book.’ She could not meet those sad green eyes; she could not force herself to look squarely into the face of a three-year-old. ‘I’ll read you that one about Little Red Riding Hood.’

  ‘Big bad wolf.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Katherine fetched the book and reached up to be lifted to her mother’s knee. Rachel clung to the infant, her own body shaking with dry and silent sobs. ‘Don’t cry,’ whispered the little one. ‘Daddy come home. Daddy always come home.’

  Little Katherine knew her place all right. She knew it, but did not truly accept it. When Peter came home with a dress for Judith, or a pair of ribbons with which to adorn the older girl’s pretty hair, Katherine would stand to one side and watch while these gifts were passed over from father to daughter. Although she had achieved an adequate level of verbal expression, the younger child never said anything. She simply watched and envied her sister.

  Rachel, ever vigilant, would scrimp and save to furnish Katherine with similar presents, but these always arrived later, always from Mam, never from Dad.

  Katherine decided to do something about it. She was not loved, so she must make herself lovable. There were differences between herself and Judith, differences that must be remedied. Late one afternoon, she balanced herself precariously on a dining chair and studied her reflection in the fireplace mirror. The main thing, she concluded, was her hair. Judith’s hair was black; her own was a strange colour that people called red, though it looked nothing like the red in her crayon tin.

  It was a Saturday. Judith was out with Dad, while Mam had just nipped next door to help Mrs Foley turn mattresses. Katherine had been advised to sit and draw till Mam came back. She reached down and picked up a black crayon, peeling back the paper cover so that she would have enough wax to work with. Furiously, she rubbed the crayon against her hair. Nothing happened. She rubbed harder, but still her hair shone red-gold, bright and horrible as ever.

  With a deep sigh of sadness, Katherine clambered down to terra firma. Something black. She had to get something black so that she would look like Judith. Quickly, she ran through the kitchen and up the stairs, throwing open the tallboy that contained Judith’s folded clothes. After a moment’s deliberation, she chose a pretty pale blue dress with smocking on the bodice, all gathers and silky roses and pink threads. When she had donned the frock, it came down to her ankles, so she hitched it up unceremoniously before changing clogs for ankle-strap shoes.

  But she still needed something black! Tripping and stumbling, she flew down the stairs, her face glowing as an idea took root in her three-year-old brain. There was plenty of black! Out in the back street, there was loads of black! And it had been a hot day, so it would be squidgy and soft like thick paint.

  Slowly and silently, Katherine let herself out of the house, crept down the yard, opened the tall back gate and squatted down at the edge of the shallow pavement. Tar oozed out of cracks between cobblestones and kerb, and she scooped up the precious bounty, plastering it thickly on to her hated hair. She smiled to herself. Now she would look like Judith, now Dad would love her and buy her ribbons and frocks.

  Picking up her voluminous skirt, Katherine skipped along to the end of the block. Dad and Judith would be home soon. It was nearly tea time. She knew it was tea time because the pie in the oven had smelt ready, while her stomach felt empty and hollow. Hopping happily from foot to foot, the child waited for her father and her sister.

  A few passers-by stopped and stared. One old lady clad in long black skirt and shawl tutted loudly, ‘It’ll take more than a pound of butter to get that stuff off thy head, lass,’ but Katherine wasn’t bothered. She looked like Judith. Looking like Judith was the only important thing.

  They came round the corner of Derby Street, father and daughter hand in hand as usual. Throwing caution to the winds, Katherine launched herself towards Dad. ‘Look!’ she screamed. ‘Black hair like Judy! Dress like Judy!’

  He stopped dead in his tracks. The vision before him was a
lmost unholy, like something from an unclean world. A white face stared out from between greasy locks that looked strangely green, while the dress, covered in fingerprints, was a tar-stained ruin.

  ‘Like Judy!’ repeated the child, but Peter was too shocked and angry to hear the words.

  ‘Get home!’ he spat sharply.

  Katherine, feeling very puzzled, stood her ground. She had black hair; he had to love her.

  With a howl of despair, Peter Murray abandoned Judith and picked up his younger daughter, gripping a handful of the spoiled dress and holding the child at arm’s length.

  She struggled. ‘Put me down! Daddy put me down!’ But he marched up the back street till he reached the gate of number 39. With tremendous force, he hurled the little girl into the yard just as Rachel opened the door.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ began Rachel, her voice failing as she noticed the state of the child who lay in a crumpled heap at her feet.

  ‘Look at her!’ Peter forced his words through clenched teeth. ‘She’s ruined that frock – two quid it cost me. And her hair! What’s she done to her bloody hair?’

  Rachel shivered as a sudden shaft of comprehension entered her consciousness. ‘She’s tried to dye it,’ she whispered. ‘She’s trying to look like her sister.’

  ‘What?’ he yelled. ‘That? That try to look like our Judith? No bloody chance.’ With the toe of his shoe, he turned Katherine over. ‘She doesn’t even look human,’ he sneered.

  Rachel crouched down. ‘Her knees are bleeding,’ she said quietly. ‘And her elbow. You threw her, didn’t you? You threw her into the yard. You might have crippled the poor little thing.’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘She’s not right in the head,’ he muttered. ‘Putting tar in her hair and stealing Judith’s frock. She’s bloody mental.’

  ‘She’s three years old,’ sobbed Rachel. ‘You’re a bully, Peter Murray. A great big stupid bully!’

  Judith stepped between her father and her little sister. ‘Don’t hit Katie,’ she said in a firm clear tone. ‘Katie can have the frock. She’s only little. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  Peter paused, glanced at the three distressed females, then stamped into the house.

  By nightfall, Katherine’s head had been practically shaved. So firmly had the tar stuck that there was no saving her hair. Rachel tucked her younger daughter into bed. The poor little soul would have to wear a bonnet, would have to go about looking like somebody with a bad case of nits. All for the love of Peter, all to gain his approval – or even his attention. ‘Good night, love,’ she murmured.

  ‘No hair,’ said a tiny voice. ‘No hair like Judy’s, no hair like Kaffrin’s. No hair at all.’

  ‘It’ll grow,’ said Rachel weakly. But would Peter grow, would he ever grow up?

  As she straightened from the bed, a vivid picture entered her mind, the memory of his face distorted by hatred for this child. If Rachel and Judith had not been there, he might have kicked this little baby to death. It was time to teach him a lesson.

  Rachel left Maybank Street with her two children at the end of June. It was a rainy day; she felt as if the sky were doing the crying for her, because there were no tears left in herself. Since the Saturday of the tar incident, Peter had spoken scarcely a word to anyone, and the atmosphere in the house had become yet more leaden than before. Even Judith had had very short shrift from her dad during these past weeks, so neither child was upset on being told that they would stay with Grandad for a while.

  Grandad was universally loved. He had a happy face with lots of white hair on it, tickly hair that made children squeal during hugs and kisses. Grandad had a nice big house too, the sort of house where hide-and-seek was played, where there was a proper bath with taps, and a Hoover that sucked dirt off the floor. There was a wash house at the end of the yard, while the view from the front street was awesome, all the way to town with the big clock stuck high in the sky right opposite Grandad’s front door.

  They were received with arms not exactly wide open, because Joseph O’Leary had the usual Catholic respect for marriage, yet he understood his daughter’s dilemma well enough to offer shelter for the immediate future. ‘This will show him his stupidity,’ he announced. ‘You can all sleep in the front bedroom. Theresa and Joe still need their privacy. God knows they waited long enough for it in a house so crowded. And with the two of them working, Rachel, you will take over the cooking for the while. It won’t last. Believe me, the man will not carry on long without the three of you.’

  Peter carried on without them just until he got home from work on that first day. On discovering an empty house and a cold grate, he set off immediately for 33 View Street, throwing the interior glazed door so wide on his arrival that this item almost parted company with its hinges. ‘Where are they?’ he demanded of his father-in-law. ‘She’s got no right . . .’

  ‘Hasn’t she?’ The older man lit his pipe and sat back in the horsehair rocker. ‘The girl has taken enough of your nonsense. If you can be father to one child, yet no father to another, then she must keep both away from you.’

  Peter Murray groped for words to say, but his temper was too high for any sense to come out of his mouth. ‘She belongs down yonder,’ he snapped at last. ‘She’s my bloody wife!’

  ‘Do not curse in my house! Rachel may be wed to you, but she is still a free spirit. The Lord gave us intelligence, did He not? And my daughter’s intelligence tells her that you are doing no good for Katherine. In fact, you are also harming Judith, for a favoured child is always spoiled. Now get yourself home until you come to your senses!’

  ‘I want to see her!’

  ‘Then you will be disappointed, because she is away at her sister’s house.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That I will not tell you. And don’t be waiting in the street for her, because my son and my son-in-law will escort her home. I suggest you go and pray for some guidance, Peter. Unless you can treat my daughter and her children right, they will be staying here with me.’

  ‘You . . . you high-handed old bugger, you! I was never good enough for her, was I? Nobody’s ever been good enough for your precious lot! Well, I treated her right. She didn’t have to get wed, not like most of your other girls. I kept her clean right to the finish, I did . . .’

  ‘Then later you dirtied her because of her illness. I don’t need my daughter to tell me, Peter. I know you are no longer a husband to her. She cannot give you a son, so you leave her cold and alone in the night. You have two fine daughters, clever girls the both of them. Why can you not take pleasure from what you have? Why must you grieve over what cannot be?’

  The visitor inclined his head slightly, the wind suddenly taken from his sails. ‘I don’t know. There’s no rhyme nor reason without a son. I had plans for a son. I thought if I saved up, I’d happen get him off to college, give him a real start, like a career. With girls, there’s nowt to aim for.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, they just get wed, don’t they?’

  Joseph nodded slowly. ‘They get wed, they have sons. Your grandchildren will perhaps fill this gap for you.’

  ‘No! They will not be Murrays!’

  ‘Ah. I see. So there’s the crux, is it? Family name? What did your family do to deserve such glories?’

  ‘Well . . . I . . .’

  ‘Well exactly. You are in danger of losing everything, Peter Murray. No matter what my children have done, I have always stood by them. Girls, boys, it mattered not to me. Because they are people, people with souls. Where is your soul, man? Is it buried just because your wife cannot bear you a son?’ He struggled to feet made uncertain by wounds received in combat during the Great War. ‘Go from my house now. Do not return until you are a man.’

  ‘I am a man! It’s your daughter who’s only half woman! She’s the one who . . . who . . .’

  ‘Who failed you? By getting sick?’

  They stared at one another in silence for several seconds, then
Peter Murray stormed out of the house slamming every door behind him.

  Joseph O’Leary sat down again and stared into the fire. ‘God help you, Rachel,’ he said quietly. ‘For I will not always be here to protect you.’

  The years that followed were the happiest in young Katherine’s life. Grandad was the most awful torment – Rachel herself described him on occasion as ‘mortallious troublesome’ – because he certainly knew how to excite her younger daughter to the point of desperation. Katherine would come downstairs on Sunday mornings, cheeks glowing from the bath, hat and coat clutched in her hands ready to be donned for church, hair tied back with a clean ribbon, shoes shining like black glass. And Grandad would approach her with the white rosary and the specially bought pearl-backed little girl’s Missal. ‘Oh dear me!’ The white head would shake sadly. ‘Here’s you all done up for church on God’s good day, and clogs still on your feet. However could you think of going to Holy Mass in clogs?’

  ‘Grandad! These are my best ankle-straps.’ She was beginning to learn that he was neither blind nor daft. ‘You know these are my ankle-straps. I never go to church in clogs.’

  ‘Ah, well. They look like clogs to me. Shouldn’t you go and check with your mammy?’

  ‘No. Mam’s getting herself and our Judith ready. And you know she gets mad with you for toe-menting me. She says you’ve not to toe-ment me.’

  ‘Oh.’ A large hand would scratch his head thoughtfully. ‘If I were your mammy, I would not allow you to mass in the clogs . . .’ And so it went on.

  Weekdays were the same. ‘Katherine, why are you wearing the good shoes and this a school day? If your mammy finds you ready for school with the ankle-straps all shining for Sunday, won’t you get a scalping?’

  Katherine learned how to cope with him. It took time, but by her fourth birthday, she had him well in hand.

  ‘Will you sing for me, Katie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Go on, child, sing for your poor old Grandaddy.’

  ‘Can I sing on the stairs so you can’t stare at me?’