The Love of a Lifetime

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “Oh!” exclaimed Kate Ann, her plump face scarlet and tears starting in her eyes. “Bad boy!” and lifting her hand, she fetched our Billy such a good smack across his face that a spurt of blood shot out of his nose. I was startled. She seemed just a gentle little thing but she was really angry, so angry indeed that she had remembered some English words.

  Well, if I thought she was angry it was nothing to what our Billy was like. His eyes narrowed and that old still look came over his face but I could see that he was shaking with rage. He threw the pups down into the box and put up a cautious hand to his nose. Normally, nobody ever dared lay a finger on Billy. He was the boss at school and in the village and I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a fight. The other boys were too scared of him, but this girl seemed fearless. I wanted to tell her to run, but couldn’t speak because it had all happened so quickly. It was when he saw the blood on his fingers that he launched himself at her, belting out an enormous blow, which landed at the side of her head. They rolled about in the straw, smacking and hitting, he pulling her hair and at one point, I saw her sink her teeth into his arm. I was frightened then, I knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d really hurt her, but I didn’t know what to do. I hated fighting and it was in desperation that I intervened and tried to pull them apart but they easily shook me off and I don’t know what might have happened if Mother hadn’t come into the barn.

  “William!” she shouted, white with anger. She grabbed hold of his collar and although he was as tall as her, she hauled him to his feet. The fight stopped then. Kate Ann wriggled away and stood beside me, panting, while Mother, still holding on to Billy’s shirt, gave him the fiercest slap across the head that I have ever seen. He gasped in pain and for a moment I thought he would start on her because his temper was so roused and he even lifted a curled fist in her direction. I held my breath. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

  “Don’t you dare, William Wilde,” Mother said, her voice cold and steely. It was probably only seconds, but it seemed an age while I waited, terrified to see what he would do. He gave in.

  “We were only playing,” he said pretending to laugh and shaking away from Mother’s hold. “Nothing to make a fuss about. She isn’t hurt.”

  I turned my head to look at Kate Ann. It was true, she didn’t seem hurt and maybe I have been exaggerating the ferocity of the fight, but Mother wasn’t satisfied. “I’m ashamed of you,” she said, looking at Billy as though he was a piece of dirt, “get out of my sight.”

  When he walked out of the barn, I went with him. I thought that Mother would want to stay with Kate Ann and try to make things right with her and I couldn’t let my brother go off on his own. It wouldn’t have been loyal.

  “She’s just a stupid girl,” he said scornfully but surreptitiously rubbing his ear, where Mother’s slap had left it red and swollen.

  “You shouldn’t have hit her, really,” I said, “she was only taking care of her puppies.” I said this cautiously for I was scared of him and knew that if he was still angry, he would turn on me.

  He stopped in his tracks and stared at me. For a long moment I thought that this was it and I was going to get a beating and steeled myself for the pain that was to come. I’ve never had much courage and don’t you think it’s harder coming from someone you know? But I was lucky that afternoon. Father and Mr Pugh were within earshot and even our Billy had enough sense not show Father up in public.

  “I’ll get you, later,” he hissed and left it at that. I silently breathed a sigh of relief because I knew that he wouldn’t. He would have forgotten about it by the evening, so it was with a light heart that I trailed along beside him back to where Father and Mr Pugh were standing by the bull’s pen. We arrived just in time to witness the spit and slapping handshake that settled the deal. Father had bought the bull.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Mrs Pugh made a high tea of boiled ham and pickled onions followed by Welsh cakes and gallons of tea. Kate Ann said nothing but I noticed that she had a dark bruise on her chin and scratches on her neck. Her teeth had gone through the skin on our Billy’s arm and raised livid wheels. I saw Father look at it while we ate our tea but he didn’t mention it. I wonder if Mother had found opportunity to tell him about the fight. Maybe not, because our journey home passed quietly with little conversation through the warm evening light, Peter trotting smartly through the hazy lanes until we arrived home and went straight to bed.

  The bull came by train the following week and Father and Billy went to the station in the village to walk it home. It was a handsome animal but fiery and probably the most dangerous bull we ever had. Albert Baker found that out one Saturday afternoon when he and Marian came for their tea.

  “That bloody Welsh bull’s got out and is running in the Home field,” yelled Herbert Lowe, running into the parlour in his stockinged feet, all excited and nervous. “I need the boss because I’m not tackling that bugger on my own.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mother, putting down the silver tea-pot, “Mr Wilde is in town at the public meeting, only the boys are here.” Father had gone to listen to Mr Lloyd George who was speaking that afternoon at the Town Hall. Mother said she would have liked to go; she was interested in politics, but Marian persuaded her against him. She said there’d been rumours about Lloyd George and women and she for one would never take notice of him again. “That’s silly,” said Mother, but it gave her pause for thought and she stayed at home and had a little tea party instead.

  “Our Dick and I will come,” said Billy to Herbert, eager as anything and jumped up to go into the scullery to get his boots. I got up too, but reluctantly. I was terrified of that bull. Mother looked concerned. “I don’t know,” she said, “he’s far too boisterous for the boys.” Boisterous wasn’t a word I’d have used. Wickedly lethal was more like it. But someone would have to go otherwise that bull would run riot through the field and find his way into the cow pasture.

  Mother stood up. “Albert can go with you,” she said, “I’ll feel happier with that.” That was a facer for Albert. He’d been sitting, quietly, his tea-cup on the little wine table and a plate of seed cake on his knee. He was a right towny and despite having been married to Marian now for six years, he had no interest in farming. He was interested in the money it brought in though, and when Father died and some talk that Mother might sell up, he made sure that he and Marian were in on every discussion. He was quite disappointed when she decided to carry on. But this Saturday he was keeping quiet. Even Marian was hesitant. “Albert doesn’t know about bulls,” she said, trying to get him off, “he’d be no help.”

  “He could hold the gate open,” said Mother firmly. “But if he won’t, I’ll do it.”

  Well, after her saying that, Albert had to go, shod in a pair of Father’s gum boots, which squeaked and rattled as he walked along, for he had quite dainty feet, much smaller than Father’s.

  The Welsh bull was at the top of the Home field sniffing the air and deciding the best way to get among the cows on the other side of the fence. He had broken out of the side of his pen and straight into the field beside it. I suppose we were lucky that he hadn’t been able to get into the yard and then out into the road. Then we would have been in trouble. Herbert had already put a piece of corrugated iron over the break so that if we could get him in, he would be secure. The plan was that Billy and Herbert would approach with sticks and drive him down to the gate. Albert and I would stand ready to get him into the yard and then the four of us would drive him into the bull pen.

  “Bloody Nora!” said Albert in alarm, looking across the field and the bull cocked his head back at him and fixed his little red eyes on Albert’s boater. My brother-in-law never went anywhere without a hat. Winter it was a bowler, summer a boater.

  “Come on,” shouted Billy to Herbert and they walked cautiously along the hedge until they were at the top of the field behind the bull. Billy had armed himself with a piece of iron and Herbert had a pitchfork.

&nb
sp; “Now!” said Billy and they converged on the bull and fetched it great blows on its back so that first it started to trot and then began to gallop down the field. Fair play, he was a good looking animal in full flight, a heavy red and white body on small feet and private parts that swung like great pendulums as he ran. Albert and I pulled the gate back and waited for him to get into the yard. I was scared, but I knew what I had to do and hung onto the gate, making sure that it was between me and the bastard bull. It was Albert’s own fault what happened next. He let go of the gate and backed into the yard, going for the big hay barn, I think, but the bull was quicker and tore into the yard like an express train, head down and bellowing for all he was worth.

  Albert was lucky. The Welsh bull missed his body altogether but caught the back of his Sunday best jacket in his horns and lifting his head, tossed Albert high into the air where he performed a perfect summersault. Father’s boots stayed behind in the yard. “Aagh!” cried Albert as he flew across the yard and landed head first in the muck heap beside the trough. His boater spun away in the opposite direction, but the wind caught it and would you believe, it landed at a crazy angle on the bull’s horn and the straw was pierced right through. Even though the bull was snorting and pawing at the ground, ready for round two, we were all, except Albert, doubled up with laughter and Mother and Marian, watching from the kitchen door, were clutching each other and screaming in mirth too.

  Billy got to his senses first and bravely approached the fiery beast. “Give over, you bugger,” he shouted, bringing the iron bar down on the bull’s nose and Herbert, taking his lead from Billy, used the back end of the pitchfork to push the beast towards the pen. The laughter seemed to have abated my fear and still chuckling, I grabbed a big stick and joined in with the prodding and pushing, until we had the bull back in his pen.

  “Well done, boys,” said Mother when we had the iron gate shut and the animal made safe, “and thank you, Herbert. I’ll make sure Mr Wilde knows how brave you’ve all been.” Marian had gone over to Albert and was helping him out of the muck heap. I could see that she was still dying to laugh but didn’t like to hurt his feelings. That didn’t stop Billy though. He chortled and giggled, pinching his nose between his fingers.

  “You’d have been all right if you’d stayed behind the gate, like our Dick,” he said scornfully when Albert trailed back towards the house, dripping with cow-shit and smelling like a midden. “I’d have thought you’d have more sense.”

  “That’s enough, William,” said Mother, and folded her lips severely so as not to laugh out loud. “Come into the scullery, Albert dear, and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

  Oh, what memories. Those days are so clear in my mind.

  “Why are you smiling, Mr Richard?” Thomas has taken to calling me that and I don’t mind. I think he heard the Rector call me by my first name when he came to call last week.

  “I was thinking of something,” I said. “Something funny.” We left it at that and stopped to look at the waterfall. It was still wonderful.

  Chapter 7

  It is four o’clock in the morning and I am sitting at my desk. I can’t sleep. Too many thoughts, too many memories, which I must get down before… well, before it is too late.

  I have no pain, not really, merely a constant sickness that prevents me from eating much, despite the tempting little snacks that Sharon prepares for me. She gets cross when I don’t finish my dinner, but I have persuaded her to put less on my plate and she has now got the hang of it and only gives me titbits. I like those.

  Elizabeth has been in my mind a lot. She would be an old, old lady now, if she’d lived and perhaps I wouldn’t find her as beautiful as I once did. I like young people these days. I like their fresh skin and clear eyes and hopefulness. The few middle-aged and elderly I meet, like those busybodies who come from the church, with heavy cakes and dried flowers in little baskets, are unbearable. Fortunately, now, I don’t even need to answer the door to them. Sharon tells them I’m asleep and not to bother me and then I see from my window that she puts the dried flowers into the dustbin and picks me a few narcissus or primroses. She knows how much I love fresh living flowers. I think Thomas eats the cakes though. A little gannet, that boy.

  I remember the day Elizabeth first came to the house. I can see her now, walking up the drive, striding along with that floppy blue hat constraining her flying curls and swinging the little cardboard suitcase which contained all her possessions. A striking girl, confident and cheerful, which was strange, considering her background and upbringing. We watched her, Mother and I, from the front bedroom, where we were putting Father’s clothes into a big box.

  “They must go,” Mother had said, dry eyed and determined. “He has no use for them now and there’s plenty in the village who might be glad of a warm jacket to see them through the rest of the winter.” She meant the likes of the Kirbys and the Raffertys who lived in the slum cottages by the abattoir. They were helplessly poor, especially the Raffertys since their father was killed in the war. Jimmy Rafferty had been in school with me. I liked him; he was clever but had to give up his lessons early to look for work, which was unfair because he could have easily got into the grammar school like I did. But you had to pay in those days, and then there was the uniform as well. That cost.

  The Kirbys weren’t such a deserving cause. They were what Mother called feckless. Him in the Golden Lion every night and her not much better with her little mugs of gin. ‘Medicinal,’ she used to say, if you met her outside the pub where she would sit, rocking the latest baby in a cast-off pram. She had loads of children, but I don’t remember any of them at school. I think now that some of them might have been taken away from her by the authorities. I do know that I once saw her, later on, wearing one of Father’s working coats, begging for hand-outs by the station. So the clothes did come to some use, but I hope the Raffertys had their share.

  Father died in the January of nineteen seventeen. He’d been ill for months, bed-ridden since the November previous and quite unable to speak or even know who we were, after Christmas week. I’d had my twelfth birthday just before the holiday and he’d been able to whisper a greeting to me, although he got my name wrong and called me Philip. Mother said not to mind, it was good that he had given me his best wishes, but after that, he never said anything sensible again.

  Dr Guthrie was hopeless. He had no real idea of what ailed Father so Mother paid for a specialist to come down from Rodney Street in Liverpool. They arrived together one afternoon in a smart black car, driven by a chauffeur. We’d seen cars, of course, many times in the town and Father had been planning to buy one with the extra money he was making out of the vegetables, but he’d been taken ill before having the chance. Still, this car, a Wolseley, if I remember rightly, was impressive and Billy and I stood by it for half an hour, admiring every nut and bolt and asking the chauffeur about the buttons and dials on the dashboard. He was a nice bloke and let us sit in the front and touch everything until Marian came out and asked him to come into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a bite of lunch.

  I kept my eye on the front bedroom windows, watching the shadows of people passing back and forth as the doctors examined Father. After a while, all movement stopped and I knew that the examination was over. I went inside then and sat on the bottom step of the staircase waiting for them to come down. It seemed to me that this was an important day in my life and so it turned out. The muttered conversation on the landing was hushed and when Mother led the doctors down the stairs I got up and went to sit quietly on the old settle which stood against the wall between the dining room and parlour. Billy had gone into the yard and Marian was still in the kitchen, but I knew that someone other than Mother should be there to hear the verdict. She didn’t say anything, but I recognised the strained look in her eyes as she beckoned me over to stand by her side while she waited for the specialist to speak.

  “You must prepare yourself for the worst, my dear,” he said, not dressing up the bad news. “Fa
rmer Wilde has a growth in the brain. There is no cure. He will not recover. The medicine I have prescribed will only make his passing more comfortable.” He paused and reached out a kindly hand to touch hers. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

  Mother had reserves of strength which never failed to impress anyone who ever knew her and it didn’t let her down now. No weeping and wailing for her or even a wobble in her voice when she spoke. She merely took a deep breath and said, “Thank you, Doctor, thank you for your honesty and if you’ll excuse me being so forward,” she looked into his eyes in the way that she had, that look that impelled truth and straightforwardness, “now I need to know how long he has left. How long will he live?”

  “A few days, a week or so, maybe.” He shrugged and nervously twisted his silk hat round and round in his hands. I was impressed with his hands; they were the cleanest I’d ever seen. “I doubt he’ll see the month out. I am very sorry.”

  Mother remained upright and brave, merely nodding her head at the dreadful news. “Thank you, Doctor. Will you take a cup of tea before you leave?”

  He shook his head. It was plain to see that he wanted to be out of the house as quickly as possible and he folded her hand into a warm handshake. “No, thank you, Mrs Wilde. I have other patients to see.”

  He walked towards his car and I trailed after him. The chauffer held the door open for him, giving the smallest bow. That courtesy wasn’t offered to Dr Guthrie who had to get his own self in on the other side. The specialist bestowed a friendly smile on Billy who had wandered back from the yard and patted me on the head. Mother watched him from the front door.

  “Chin up, little lady,” he called before getting into the back seat of his car, “you have two fine boys here to carry on.”