Rachel perched on the edge of her father’s bed, her mind going back to the day when they’d first moved here, little Joe in his father’s arms, the rest of them taking care of each other. The sheer luxury of the house after Isabel Street had been breathtaking. And when Dad had got a bit more money, he had bought a secondhand crystal set and they had all fought over who got a listen to it.
She remembered bath nights, first come first served, last in dirtiest out. And kneeling over a paper while he fine-tooth-combed her hair with the dry comb for ‘walkers’, then with the wet steel comb for eggs. He had been a good dad, the best dad possible. Women had set their caps at him, for he had been a fine-looking man, but as far as Rachel knew, Joseph O’Leary had remained celibate since the death of his beloved wife. Aye, that was a dad. That was a real man.
He stirred in his sleep. ‘Rachel?’
‘I’m here, Dad.’
‘Look after the little one. And Judith too. Say goodbye to them all for me.’
‘I will. Hang on, Father Gorman’s coming.’
She left priest and dying man together so that the last confession might be made in privacy and with dignity, then, as she came towards the stairs, she saw a dark shape huddled against the banister. ‘Katherine?’
‘Has he gone, Mam?’
‘No. He’s getting extreme unction.’
‘They should all be here.’
‘Yes.’ Yes, after all he’d done for them, his sons and daughters should have been with him at the end. But they had their own lives to lead, children to mind, husbands away at war. So it was left, as always, to Rachel because she was geographically closest.
‘Can I be with him, Mam?’
‘At the end?’
‘Yes. If it was me, he’d stay at my bed, wouldn’t he?’
‘He would.’
‘Judith’s not bothered. She slept through the whole war, didn’t she? Why does Judith never worry, Mam?’
Rachel sighed heavily. ‘We’re all made different, lass. And thank God for it too. It wouldn’t do for every one of us to be worrying and mithering like you do. Judith would likely sleep through an earthquake. You’re the worrier, Lord help you. Aye, it’s all gone in one bucket, hasn’t it?’
‘Can I be with him?’
‘Aye, when the Father comes out, you go and sing them nice songs for your Grandad.’
So Joseph O’Leary slipped into the afterlife with a smile on his face, because his granddaughter was standing with her back to the window, a hand reaching down to clutch his, that clear voice achieving without effort the final notes of ‘Danny Boy’. And as she promised him, in song, that she would be here in sunshine and in shadow, he breathed his last. Although Katherine knew he had gone, she carried on to the end, telling him with sweet purity that she had ‘loved him so’.
Rachel came in and found her daughter lying across the foot of Joseph’s bed, as if preparing to sleep where she had slumbered so many times during her infancy. ‘Come on, lass,’ whispered Rachel. ‘You can’t do nothing for him now.’
‘I can be here.’ There was a stubborn note in her voice. ‘I can be here till they come to do whatever they do.’ She rubbed her eyes fiercely as Rachel drew a sheet over her dead father’s face. ‘He was a nice man, my grandad.’
‘Yes, he was. Now get to bed.’
Katherine rose to her feet and stared down at the still shape of her grandfather. ‘I’m staying to pray for him,’ she said. ‘Judith can sleep enough for both of us.’
‘Judith’s got sense.’
Katherine looked her mother straight in the eye. ‘I know that. I do know that. You don’t have to keep telling me about Judith’s sense. Grandad says I’m not like Judith, and that I don’t have to be like her, or like anyone else. I am me. He told me that.’ She waved a hand towards the bed. ‘And he’s always right. He was right about my dad, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose he was.’
Rachel Murray looked into the dark tunnel of the life that lay before her, a life she could do little to alter. Not liking what she saw in the blackness, she busied herself about the room, tidying and hanging up her father’s clothes. But the pictures would not leave her mind. The love she had used to have for her husband was dead, as dead as the man in the bed. Peter Murray had killed that love just as surely as if he’d taken a knife or a gun to some living creature. All because of Katie. And now there would be no Dad here to take the edge off things, no grand old man to keep the peace between herself and Peter.
Rachel turned then and saw her daughter sobbing alone in a corner. That was the trouble, thought the mother as she held out her arms. No-one ever noticed Katherine weeping in a corner. Not until it was too late.
Judith was just about sick to death of their Katherine. For a start, she was a show-off. Everybody at Mount St Joseph’s said that Katherine Murray was a show-off right from the first day and Judith, as a second-year, had to bear the brunt of all the jibes. ‘Who’s got a little sister who doesn’t know her place?’ they all asked when Katherine took first prize for art. And she didn’t just take the prize for her own year, oh, no, Miss Clever Clogs had to walk off with the Missal for the whole lower school, beating everybody up to and including third years.
Then there was Katherine’s fixation with Michael Wray, which was becoming a terrible pain both at home and at school. The whole assembly seemed to know about Katherine’s assignations in Queens Park. Notes were passed around classes, ‘Katherine Murray = Michael Wray’, with love hearts drawn all over them in pink and purple. The fact that Michael Wray was a third-year at Thornleigh didn’t help either. Many sixteen-year-olds at the Mount didn’t have boyfriends, so for an eleven-year-old upstart sister to flaunt one in the park every weekend was a source of desperate shame.
Judith decided to tackle Mam about it. ‘She’s round the duck pond with him every Saturday.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Rachel pushed a lock of hair from her face. ‘Pass me the Brasso, will you? She’s not doing anything wrong, is she?’
‘She’s showing me up.’
‘It’s just her way, love. She likes Michael, that’s all. It’s only like you and Joan Atherton. How would you feel if somebody tried to separate you from Joan?’
‘It’s not the same! Everybody’s laughing at me, saying my little sister’s fast. How do you think I feel? She breezes in and takes all the art prizes, never does a stroke of work and comes in the top three of the class. She makes me sick. I wish she’d never passed!’
Rachel glanced briefly at Judith. This was not like her at all. She usually didn’t notice what went on around her. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Yes. But will she listen? Does she ever listen?’
‘Just don’t tell your dad about it.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ Judith knew that the situation between Katherine and Peter was on a knife edge these days. For some reason beyond Judith’s comprehension, Dad had got it into his head that their Katherine was ‘unusually gifted’. This meant that he put a lot of pressure on the child, and even in anger, Judith would not set him on her little sister. He was already annoyed about the homework, to rile him over Michael Wray would have been well beyond a joke.
Peter put his head round the front door. ‘Right!’ He stepped inside, hands rubbing together in glee. ‘We’re off! I got made up to foreman, Rachel. An extra two quid a week and all the paint we can use. Sam Pilkington’s found us a house too, up Hawthorne Road. It’ll be handy for the girls’ school, and there’s nowt to keep us here now, is there?’
Rachel looked at him askance. Leave May bank Street? Leave all her friends and neighbours? ‘Oh, I see. When are we moving?’
He frowned. ‘Nay, there’s no need to go overboard with enthusiasm. What would you want to be stopping here for? You know it upsets you seeing somebody else living in your dad’s house.’
‘I’m just used to it here.’ Rachel finished polishing her brass plaque. ‘And so are the girls.’
He looked at Judit
h. ‘Do you mind moving?’
‘No. Not if it’s nearer school.’
‘And Katherine? Where is she?’
Judith studied her shoes. ‘Out.’
‘Out?’ His face darkened. ‘What the hell’s she doing out at seven o’clock on a Monday night? Ah, I see. You all thought I was away for the evening, didn’t you? Well? Where is she?’
‘Borrowing a book,’ said Judith hastily. ‘I think.’
‘Rachel?’
‘I don’t know. I just turned me back for a minute, then looked round again, and there she was, gone.’
He hobbled over to a fireside chair. As always, as if to demonstrate outwardly the size of his emotional wound, his foot played him up just to keep pace with the hurt he now felt at his younger daughter’s ‘betrayal’. Hadn’t they given up a lot to get these two educated? Wasn’t he a fine man placing such store in girls, wasn’t he making the best of things? And him a war hero too.
Rachel noted the saintly expression on his face and sighed inwardly.
When Katherine returned at a quarter to eight, Judith was in the kitchen working at her geography books. There was no escape for Katherine. The living room was just a stride off the pavement, and she found herself face to face with her father as soon as she entered the house.
‘Well?’ he asked, his tone trimmed with sarcasm.
‘Oh.’ She stopped mid-step. ‘I didn’t think you’d be here.’
‘I am here, though. Where’ve you been?’
‘Sketching in the park.’
‘Sketching in the dark, more like. And where’s your pad?’
‘My friend has it.’
‘I see.’ He shifted his bad leg into a better position on the ever-ready footstool. ‘And what’s your friend’s name?’
‘Michael.’
He shot out of the chair. ‘Eh? You’ve been out with a lad? You’re nobbut eleven. What the hell are you doing messing about with lads? Do you think your mam slaves in that bloody mill so’s you can start courting now and get wed at sixteen? Our Judith never goes with lads.’
Rachel spat on her rag and took her temper out on the brass rose bowl. ‘Leave me out of it,’ she muttered. ‘I work because I want to.’
Katherine bit her lower lip and put her head on one side. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she said eventually. ‘He’s my friend . . .’
‘And how old is he?’
‘Thirteen. He saved me from the bullies after you’d gone back to the war.’
‘Thirteen? Thir-bloody-teen?’ he yelled. ‘He’s old enough to . . . to do things! You’ll stop away from him, lady!’
‘I won’t.’ A defiant chin was raised. ‘He won’t hurt me. Michael would never hurt me. He’s a Thornleigh boy . . .’
‘Bugger Thornleigh! He’s too old for you. And you should be with girls, girls your own age!’
‘He looks after me.’
Peter stared aghast at his daughter. ‘Don’t we look after you? Me and your mam?’
She hung her head slightly. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But Michael’s interested in art, we both draw pictures. He wants to be an artist and so do I. We’ve got . . . things in common.’
‘Aye, but have you got homework in. common? Monday’s maths and English, isn’t it?’
She nodded just once.
‘Then bring your work here and show it me.’
Katherine scurried through to the kitchen and dug around in her satchel. ‘Did you tell on me? Did you?’ she whispered to Judith.
‘No. But I will if it carries on. My whole class is laughing at me because my ugly little sister can get a boy and I can’t.’
‘I’m not ugly! I’m not!’ hissed the smaller girl.
‘Huh. Look in the mirror, will you?’
Katherine stared at the twelve-year-old beauty before her, all luscious dark curls, violet eyes and skin like cream. She knew what she herself looked like; she didn’t have to go poking about in front of a mirror. Thin red hair, freckles, greenish-yellowish eyes, no flesh on her face. Life was grossly unfair. ‘Sometimes, I don’t like you, Judith Murray.’
‘Ditto.’
Katherine placed her work on her father’s knee. ‘Oh, I see.’ It was obvious that his sails had deflated. ‘When did you do it?’
‘Tea time.’
‘Is it right? Have you got all the answers?’
‘Yes.’
He thrust the books back at her. ‘Then why didn’t you stop in and study like your sister does? If you studied, you could go to university and get a degree. You don’t need boys.’
Katherine tilted her chin. ‘You needed them though, didn’t you?’
Rachel’s hand slowed in its polishing of a candlestick. ‘Shut up,’ she growled.
‘Well, it’s true! He never bothered with me till he saw me tied to a lamp-post! He never cared till he found out I was as brave as any lad!’ Her temper teetered on the edge now, and Rachel grabbed her daughter’s arm tightly, but still the girl continued. ‘I used to listen when you were arguing. All about me not being a boy and Mam not having any more children. I thought things were all right between us now, but they’re not, are they? Oh, no, you’re going to pick on me all the while. Miss Goody Two-Shoes in there can’t do any wrong, can she? Well, I’m not having you telling me what to do all the while. And I shan’t go to university, I shan’t. So there!’ She stamped her foot against the rug. ‘Just because you never went, you force me. It’s all right for Judith, she’s like a big soft dog, she does as she’s told. But I remember things. I’ll always remember things!’
Peter Murray struggled to his feet and dealt to Katherine’s cheek a blow that sent both mother and daughter reeling, so fierce had Rachel’s restraining hold become. But she didn’t hold on for long, because the girl ripped herself away, picked up the large brass plaque and clouted her father full in the face with it. ‘Don’t you hit me,’ she snarled as the man put a hand to his nose. ‘Don’t you ever, ever again hit me. You’re always hitting me when Mam’s out. Never Judith. Always me!’
With this, she ran from the house, leaving her sobbing mother lying on the floor and her white-faced sister standing in the kitchen doorway.
Rachel picked herself up and stood shaking in the centre of the room, her hand straying along the table’s edge as if seeking support. ‘You’ve done it now, Peter,’ she said, her voice quivering with tears. ‘She’ll fetch somebody, you mark my words. I’ve known ever since I had her that she’d take nowt lying down. Judith, get up to your room. Go on. Don’t stand there as if you’re practising to be a tailor’s dummy!’
Judith turned and fled from the unpalatable scene.
‘The little bitch!’ With the back of his hand, he wiped a drop of blood from his upper lip. ‘Just wait till she gets in.’
Rachel composed herself, straining to listen as Judith’s footsteps reached the upper storey. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You’ve been hitting her again. While I’m out, you hit her. You’re always going on at her, aren’t you?’
‘She gets what she deserves,’ he snarled. ‘I only thump her for clarting about when she should be studying.’
Rachel sighed heavily. ‘I’ve had enough, Peter,’ she said finally. ‘I know you’re drinking again. I know you can’t control yourself when you’re drinking.’ He turned his face towards the fire as she went on in a whisper, ‘I know what you’re like. Nobody knows better than me what you’re like. Thank God the two girls don’t know the half of it. But I’m your wife, I’ve had to put up with your temper. Oh aye, and I’ve the marks to prove it too!’
‘That’s nowt to do with this,’ he mumbled shamefacedly.
‘No,’ her voice was ominously low. ‘Happen it isn’t. But if you hit my daughter half as hard as you hit me . . .’
‘That’s private,’ he snapped, turning to face her, though he could not quite meet her eyes. ‘And I don’t mean it. I don’t want it to happen. It’s just when I’m . . . when I’m . . .’
‘When you’re drunk.’ She
paused fractionally. ‘It can’t go on, lad. I shall have to go and stop at our Annie’s. And you can just forget about Hawthorne Road. Even if we did keep this family together, you’d never manage that rent, not with the amount you drink and put on horses.’
‘But I—’
‘When she gets in, I get out. And Katherine and Judith too. Our Annie’ll take us in. I’m not stopping here for you to use my daughter as a target.’
‘Oh aye?’ His voice arrived muffled. ‘And what about their education? Who’ll pay for that once you’ve hopped it? I’d like to see you putting the pair of them through The Mount on a doffer’s wage, especially after you’ve paid your Annie. She’s a grabber, is that one. There’s more Irish navvies kipping at her house than there is in all Liverpool.’
‘Then the girls will have to leave the school.’
He was suddenly sobbing, head in hands, back shaking violently. ‘Oh God,’ he moaned, ‘I don’t know what gets into me. It’s something about her. Like she’s defying me.’
Rachel sniffed. ‘No excuse to hit a little girl. No excuse at all.’
‘Please?’ He was pleading now, tears coursing freely down his cheeks. ‘Give me a chance, Rachel. Just give me a chance . . .’
She hesitated. ‘Right,’ she said at last, her tone firm and determined. ‘We’ll stop together on one condition, Peter Murray. Leave our Katherine to me. If you can’t deal with her without hitting her, just leave her to me.’
‘What? And let her get away with what she’s done?’
‘You hit her first. And you can’t expect a wiry lass like her to put up with being clobbered. She might be thin, but she’s strong. Remember how she dealt with the lads? She got them in more trouble than enough when they kept going for her. She’ll have you, Peter. She’ll get the police or the cruelty – just you wait and see.’
But Katherine didn’t bring anyone to the house. She simply stalked in, head held high, her eyes bravely meeting her father’s as he sat huddled over the fire nursing his sore nose. And he knew when he looked at her that she had won. Whatever he did to her, she could and would do worse. His defeat did not come with the battered nose, oh, no, the battle had been lost as soon as he raised his hand to her.
Nest of Sorrows Page 5
