The Wasted Years

by Mary Larkin

  ‘A couple of pairs of silk stockings. With seams!’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Really,’ Annie said smugly. ‘And they really are pure silk. Save them ’til Joe comes home and give him a treat.’ Her head tilted back and her brows rose. ‘What’s this they say about an ill wind?’ she jested. Then, observing the worried look on Rosaleen’s face and guessing the reason for it, she bawled, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rosaleen … I didn’t do anything wrong to get them. You can take them with a clear conscience, so you can!’

  Rosaleen grimaced, guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, Annie. Thanks very much.’

  Appeased, Annie grinned at her. ‘You’re welcome. And there’s more where they came from, so keep your fingers crossed that I see that particular sailor again.’ She backed away from the door. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Don’t wait so long next time,’ Rosaleen warned her.

  Grinning wickedly, Annie retorted, ‘Now I’ll not know whether you want to see me or are hoping for more stockings.’

  ‘Oh, you! See you soon!’ And with a flap of her hand, Rosaleen waved her on her way.

  Sean did manage to get three days’ leave but this time Rosaleen only saw him in passing; a hello and goodbye, as it were. When he returned to sea, Annie counted the days, jubilant when her period was late, inconsolable when it arrived.

  Christmas came and went practically unnoticed except for the religious ceremonies, more profound and beautiful than ever because of the war. The priests said that was how it should be, and they were right of course. Still, it would have been nice to have been able to splash out a bit, but rationing and shortage of clothes and sweet coupons put paid to that.

  Early in 1941 the sirens were going off more regularly; still false alarms as the planes continued to blitz England and returned to base without approaching Ireland at all, but nevertheless disrupting lives and causing worry.

  When Billy, accompanied by May, visited her and urged her to seek refuge out in the country, Rosaleen was tempted. The bombings on the west coast of England were too close for peace of mind and she felt guilty leaving Laura with Amy and going off to work every afternoon. Felt that she should be taking Laura to apparent safety, especially now Joe’s money was getting through.

  So when Billy pleaded, ‘Think of Laura, Rosaleen,’ she was tempted, although she had to laugh at his reasoning.

  Realising the trend of her thoughts, Billy reddened, and giving a shamed laugh, confessed: ‘I suppose you’re thinking I’m only worried about Laura because May won’t go away without you? And in a way you’re right. I am worried about May and Ian … but I really do believe that you should take Laura away too.’

  She smiled kindly at him. ‘I know how you feel, Billy.’ She turned to May. ‘But suppose we’re sent to different parts of the country?’

  ‘That’s what I said to him.’ May sniffed and tossed her head defiantly. She had no intention of going anywhere without Rosaleen, danger or no danger. ‘I said you can’t pick and choose. I told him you’ve to go wherever they send you.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll have a word with me da. He might be able to fix something up for us. He’ll certainly be glad of the chance. He’s at me every week to take Laura away.’ She looked at Billy. ‘So will you leave it in my hands? I’ll see what can be done and I’ll get in touch with you.’

  Happy to have set things in motion, Billy agreed to leave it in her hands, warning her not to delay too long.

  Glad that Rosaleen was at last consenting to be evacuated, Tommy Magee did all in his power to find them accommodation together. It was during lent, three weeks before Easter, that he at last succeeded. When he called in to tell Rosaleen of his success, she was far from pleased.

  ‘It’s too near Easter, Da!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can we wait ’til after it?’

  ‘No, ye can’t wait. Look, I’ve knocked me arse out of joint getting you and May on the same farm, so you’d better not let me down.’

  ‘A farm?’ Rosaleen interrupted him, her face alarmed. ‘A farm? We don’t want a farm. I thought we’d be in some wee town or village.’

  At these words Tommy blew his top.

  ‘Now you look here, madam, you’re goin’, like it or not. You’re goin’. You’re not goin’ to make a fool out of me. There’s no bloody vacancies left in wee towns or villages. Do ye think that they were just waitin’ for you to make up your mind to go? Eh? Do ye?’

  His anger startled Rosaleen; in all her life she had only seen him give vent to it on a couple of occasions, and with just cause. Now she found herself meekly agreeing to get in touch with May.

  After that, once Billy heard, there was no turning back and Saturday found them in Great Victoria Street Station, waiting for the train that was to take them to Dungannon, in County Tyrone.

  Rosaleen hugged her father tightly, glad that her mother and Annie had consented to say their goodbyes at home; this was heartbreaking.

  ‘You’ll come for me if I hate it, won’t you, Da?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course I will love … ye know I will. But now give yourself a chance to get used to it, won’t ye?’

  She nodded and pushed him away. ‘Go on … go on home before I change me mind,’ she cried, thinking that perhaps it was not such a good idea leaving Belfast.

  With a brief glance inside the coach at the closely entwined figures of Billy and May, her father rolled his eyes and pursed his lips.

  ‘I’ll wait outside for Billy. Goodbye, love.’

  One more hug and kiss for his beloved grandchild, who was taking everything in, wide-eyed, and he left the platform.

  Rosaleen chatted and played with Laura and hovered in front of the door to the carriage, preventing other people from entering, giving May and Billy a few precious extra minutes alone. She tried to keep her eyes away from them but did not succeed, envying them their closeness. How wonderful, after two years of marriage still to desire each other with such intensity. May did not know how lucky she was.

  When at last the train roared into life, and its great frame shuddered and puffed, Billy pushed May away from him, patted his young son on the head, and hugging Rosaleen, whispered, ‘Look after her for me.’ He rushed from the train, cheeks wet with tears.

  Hanging from the carriage, May watched him out of sight and then wiped the tears from her own cheeks before lifting Ian from the seat. Hugging the child tight, she sat down on the seat facing Rosaleen, at the window. Glad that they had a compartment to themselves and could talk freely, she said wryly, ‘I’m sure you think I’m a fool, Rosaleen. You’d think I was going to war instead of safety.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘It’s just not being able to finish what we started that frustrates me.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Oh yes, Rosaleen knew exactly what she meant. She knew all about the frustration of starting what couldn’t be finished. Now she just nodded her head in agreement. How she envied May; to be loved like that must be heaven.

  Observing the sad droop of her mouth, May reached across and squeezed her hand sympathetically.

  ‘It must be awful for you … Joe away fighting. You must miss him something awful, and here’s me, rambling on about Billy.’

  Embarrassed, Rosaleen nodded her head again. She did miss Joe; read and re-read his letters, longed for the comfort of his presence about the house, but she did not miss him in the way that May meant.

  At Dungannon they were met at the station by a tall, thin, young man in a small, open-backed lorry. Into the back of this, the surly owner loaded their cases, prams and gas masks. Then, barely glancing at them, he hoisted Rosaleen and Laura, followed by May and Ian, up into the cabin. The nearest he came to an apology for the tight squeeze was a muttered, ‘It won’t be for long. Just fifteen minutes,’ as he swung up in beside Rosaleen.

  The journey was conducted in silence, and after thirty minutes Rosaleen was just about to ask sarcastically if time stretched longer in the country when the lorry turned off the road a
nd bounced and trundled up a rutted track and around the back of a low, sprawling, one-storeyed building. The big, sturdy, oak door was pulled open immediately and a small, plump woman bustled out. Reaching up with great difficulty, she wrenched open the door of the lorry and assisted May to the ground, at the same time introducing herself.

  ‘Hello, hello … I’m Mrs Magill, Maggie … call me Maggie. An’ you must be …?’ Her eyes noted the young child in May’s arms and she finished, ‘Mrs Mercer. I’m pleased to meet ye. You too, missus,’ she shouted up at Rosaleen, and turning to the young man, exclaimed testily, ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Vince. Help her down.’

  Reaching up, the man lifted Rosaleen bodily from the cabin and set her on her feet. When he lifted Laura down and placed her in her mother’s arms, Rosaleen thanked him.

  He shot her a swift glance. Only then did Vince Magill realise that Rosaleen was attractive, very attractive indeed.

  Head back, he looked down the length of his long thin nose and examined her face. Noted the bright pale gold hair escaping from the headsquare that covered it, and interest kindled in his eyes, bringing a blush to her cheeks. Then he startled her by smiling, something she had not thought him capable of, and the smile changed his face completely. It exposed even white teeth against the dark, rugged tan of his skin, and made her aware of bright blue, mocking eyes. It was with relief that she turned at his mother’s direction and followed her as she led the way into the house and through a big, spotlessly clean kitchen. Rosaleen was pleased to note this: the big wooden table was scrubbed white, and the long range that ran the length of one wall was well black-leaded, no mean feat, as Rosaleen well knew. It took her hours to keep her own small kitchenette grate in apple-pie order. A quick glance around also showed copperware gleaming on the wall above the range, a well-scrubbed redstone floor, a big brown jawbox in the corner, and brasses on the wide stone hearth, shining in the firelight.

  After showing May into a room, Mrs Magill led the way to the front of the house, and stopping outside a door, explained, ‘I’ve put you in the parlour, Mrs Smith. I only had one spare room but when we heard you an’ your friend wanted t’be t’gether, I offered t’put a bed in the parlour. I think you’ll find it comfortable.’ With these words, she opened the door and ushered Rosaleen in. ‘Vince, that’s me son, will bring in the pram and yer gas masks, and then he’ll fetch ye some hot water, so that ye can refresh yerself and the chile b’fore tea. I’ve made the tea early ’cause I’m sure you’re hungry. The laverty’s at the bottom of the yard, so it is.’

  Rosaleen stood and took stock before she answered her. It was an attractive room, with a deep bay window that looked out over open countryside. The bed was double, with a bright, clean, patchwork quilt. She noted that there was no sign of a cot.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs …’

  ‘Don’t be formal … please call me Maggie. An’ I know that you’re Mrs Smith.’

  Rosaleen acknowledged the introduction with an inclination of her head.

  ‘I think I shall be comfortable here, thank you.’

  When the door closed on her, Rosaleen pulled back the bedclothes and felt the mattress. It was dry; no sign of dampness, and the bedclothes were freshly laundered. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad staying here after all. Maybe it would be just like a holiday.

  ‘I trust it meets with your approval?’

  Rosaleen swung around, embarrassed colour staining her cheeks. She had not heard Vince enter the room.

  ‘And I trust that in future you knock on the door before you enter my room,’ she retorted angrily.

  ‘I did knock … but you were too preoccupied to hear me.’

  He accompanied the words with a derisive smile, and wheeled the pram into the corner. Rosaleen longed to call him a liar, but bit on her tongue. She did not want to antagonise anyone, not when she was going to have to live here. He swung the gas masks in her direction and with a deft movement she caught them.

  ‘Ye might be interested to know that we were worried about you too,’ he informed her. ‘We’ve been hearing all kind of reports about very dirty refugees. Ye know, lousy heads an’ all.’ His eyes took stock of the soft shining cloud of hair, now released from its headsquare, and her clean, tidy appearance. ‘But you look clean enough.’

  Before Rosaleen could think of a suitable reply to his accusations – which she knew to be true, from reports she had read in the Irish News – he added, ‘I’ll fetch ye some hot water now, but this is no hotel. In future you’ll fetch your own. And tea will be ready in fifteen minutes.’

  Another derisive glance was thrown her way, and then, lifting a big jug from a basin on the dresser, he left the room. While she waited for him to return with the water, Rosaleen decided to find the toilet. Laura was starting to squirm, any minute now she would be whimpering. ‘Wee wee, Mammy,’ and as she usually left it to the last moment to inform Rosaleen, it would be as well to find out just where it was.

  Taking Laura by the hand, she made her way out to the back of the farm, bumping into May, in like mind.

  ‘Well … what’s your room like?’ she asked.

  ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. Will you be all right in the parlour?’

  ‘It seems comfortable, but there’s no lock on the door.’ Rosaleen eyed May anxiously. ‘Perhaps it’ll be all right here. Eh? What do you think?’ she asked, seeking reassurance.

  ‘I hope so.’ May snorted. ‘Huh … I’ve often heard tell of the arsehole of nowhere, and now I know where it is.’ She smiled wryly at Rosaleen’s outraged expression. ‘I’m sorry to be so crude, but you have to admit I’m right. How on earth will we pass the time?’

  ‘At least the children will be safe,’ Rosaleen said consolingly, but as they approached the toilet, her nose wrinkled in distaste. For one horrible moment, she thought it was a dry toilet. Her eyes met May’s in distress.

  ‘It’s all right. That’s the piggery you smell, so it is. On a farm like this one, they’re bound to be civilised enough to have toilets that flush,’ May assured her, and a relieved Rosaleen was glad to discover that she was right.

  The toilet was clean, with whitewashed walls and a well-scrubbed wooden seat, and on the wall, hanging from a nail, were neatly cut squares of newspaper threaded on a piece of thick string. This brought a smile to her lips; not so long ago, that had been a fixture on her parents’ toilet. Back when money was scarce, before she and Annie had started work and added to the family budget. This was something she could tolerate. The smile broadened as she imagined Laura’s reaction when she had to use the newspaper squares; she was a fussy young madam.

  Tea was an uncomfortable meal. Rosaleen was dismayed to find that what she had assumed was butter was instead margarine; she had lavished it on the scones and home-made bread before her discovery. She thought she would choke trying to force it down her throat. She sensed May’s amusement at her predicament and smiled grimly at her. May smiled demurely back. Margarine was all right when you were used to it, and May never ate anything else. Halfway through the meal another big, surly man entered the room. Built like a bull, he had a thatch of bright red hair and bushy eyebrows that curled upwards, giving him a demonic look. Rosaleen was not surprised when Laura, without removing her eyes from the man, left her chair and stretched her arms up to her mother to be lifted, aware that if she had met him herself in the dark, she also would be frightened. When Mrs Magill introduced him as her husband, Rosaleen and May greeted him politely, but he just acknowledged them with a grunt and Rosaleen felt her temper rise. How were they going to manage to live with these surly people? You would think that they were taking in refugees out of the goodness of their hearts, instead of receiving a tidy sum from the ministry for their trouble. Well, she would see that she and Laura got their money’s worth, Rosaleen vowed. Tomorrow she would ask for butter; she had never eaten magarine in her life before and she did not intend to start now. She was also very much aware that Vince watched her covertly and this dismayed her.
Life would be bad enough here without any other complications and she determined to keep him at arms’ length.

  After tea they decided to go for a walk while there was still daylight. Both children had slept fitfully during the day and on the journey down, and were now wide awake. So deciding the country air would help them to sleep, they set off down the lane, pushing their prams in the direction of Dungannon. A lane that Mrs Magill assured them would cut their journey in half. They walked quickly, hoping to make it to town and back before dusk; they wanted to get their bearings and see what treats the future had in store for them. An hour later they arrived on the outskirts of Dungannon and pushed the prams with arms that ached up a long narrow street, arriving at last in the heart of the town. Bigger than they had anticipated, Dungannon was prosperous-looking and they stood in the great market square and looked around them with interest. It was now late afternoon and most of the shops were closing but Rosaleen noted that the Belfast Bank and Post Office were up in the right-hand corner, beside the Police Barracks. She pointed these out to May, knowing that they would be needing to draw money during their stay in Dungannon.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Looks all right… bigger than I thought it would be. Pity all the shops are closing, but we can come back in on Monday and browse around.’

  Failing light and rising winds decided them to return to the farm but the size of the town had raised their spirits and they were in a happier frame of mind as they retraced their steps.

  Mrs Magill met them in the hall. ‘You’re welcome to sit in the kitchen with me and Vince t’night, if ye feel like it. We listen to the radio.’

  Before May could open her mouth, Rosaleen answered for them both.

  ‘Thank you very much, but we’ve very tired … and Mrs Magill? Since there is no cot for Laura, I wonder if I could have a rubber sheet? She rarely wets the bed, but her routine has been upset today and I’d prefer to be safe than sorry.’

  Immediately, Mrs Magill was all apologies. ‘Oh, that was a mistake, so it was. Not on our part, mind ye. Vince has already put a cot up in the parlour, Mrs Smith. We just didn’t realise that your child was so young. We were told a four-year-old would be comin’. Obviously there has been some mix up. An’, remember, you’re welcome in the kitchen any night. There’s not much to do about here, once the light goes … except tomorrow night. Every Sunday night there’s a dance in the town. I’m sure Vince would be glad to give you a lift in, he goes every week.’