Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Nat could never understand why Mr Maguire insisted on calling him this; he himself couldn’t see anything amusing in it, though the rest of the family always sniggered. Squashed between two large bodies, he shook his head.

  Mr Maguire laughed then clapped his hands at his wife. ‘Come on then, woman! Get those victuals in. The wee midge hasn’t had any blood to drink today, he’s been saving up for this feast. Michael, light the lamp so’s we can see what we’re eating.’

  Whilst the eldest son put a taper to the paraffin lamp, Mrs Maguire and her daughters brought in plates of food, only Bright being excused. She made a sound of appreciation as the food was laid out.

  ‘Ooh, lovely! I’m absolutely ravished.’

  The adults tittered and her father gave her a cuddle. Nat examined each face. Never had he seen one jot of resentment at this favouritism. Indeed, all were equally besotted with the youngest child.

  Here at the head of the table he experienced an unaccustomed rush of importance and, all previous slights forgiven, he indulged ravenously of Mrs Maguire’s excellent fayre whilst the others looked on amused.

  Bright’s mother remained standing to provide for the others. ‘Nat, dear, would it be easier if ye rested your chin on the edge of the table and I were to scoop the whole lot into your mouth?’ There was laughter.

  Nat blushed and kept his gaze lowered.

  ‘Ah, tis all right, pet, tis only teasing I am!’ Mrs Maguire patted him. ‘But there’s enough for all, it isn’t a race and you’ll get pains in your stomach if you bolt your food like that.’

  ‘Doesn’t your mother feed ye?’ asked Mr Maguire, popping a sliver of ham into Bright’s mouth.

  Nat was offended. ‘Yes! This is just good, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’ Mrs Maguire gave the signal for him to continue, which he did with no lessened enthusiasm. Only when everyone else was catered for did the hostess herself sit down.

  Over the meal there was plenty of laughter and conversation, though Nat was not much of a participant. His ability to sit there quite contentedly without talking at all drove the garrulous Bright mad. She sneaked a look at her friend and wondered why he was so unappreciative; he had barely cracked a laugh, was hard-pressed even to answer a question, and seemed far too busy stuffing his face. She herself blessed her luck in having this family, with Mr Maguire such a liberal father. She had been in other households where there was no talking at mealtimes, no laughter when father was around. Oh, her own dad had a quick temper it was true, and there were times when even Bright knew to keep out of his way, but these outbursts soon died. She snuggled against his chest enjoying the closeness and wished Nat would show some gratitude. This she whispered to her mother when she helped to transport the pots to the scullery. ‘After all the trouble we’ve been to! Ye’d think he’d be a bit more lively.’

  Mrs Maguire gave a sad smile and explained, ‘Nat has never learned to have fun, Bright. I suppose we must take a lot of getting used to for a boy with no family. Besides, ye don’t have to shout and bawl like that lot o’ jackdaws in there to show you’re enjoying yourself. Nat is more your quiet man, I think.’

  Bright laughed in acknowledgement of the understatement. ‘But he hasn’t said thank you – he never says thank you.’

  Her mother clattered the pots into a stack. ‘Do we give our friends hospitality just to hear them shower us with gratitude?’

  Bright was taken aback – if ever she herself forgot to say thank you to anyone she was quickly reminded by one of her parents. ‘No but…’

  ‘We invite them here because we like them,’ continued Mrs Maguire. ‘Or are ye saying ye don’t like Nat any more because he doesn’t talk the legs off the chairs like you do yourself?’

  Bright was rather annoyed that her mother could not understand what she was trying to say – Nat was her friend after all, not her mother’s. ‘Course I do!’

  ‘Tell me now, what was it that ye first liked about him?’

  Bright responded immediately. ‘His bonny face.’

  Mrs Maguire finished stacking the pots and looked down her nose at the child. ‘So, ye just wanted a friend with a pretty face, did ye?’

  ‘No! I mean…’ Rendered uncharacteristically tongue-tied, Bright could not explain what she meant. She did like Nat’s face, not just because it was bonny, but also because of the way it looked at her, because of what was in his eyes, that air of loneliness that made her feel that she was his only friend, whilst she herself being popular had dozens. Despite the fact that his callow words often wounded her to the core, it was this quality which made her value his company more than that of any other acquaintance, drew her back even in the knowledge that she would be hurt again. But for a little girl of nine this was impossible to articulate. ‘I just like him. He’s not like a proper lad.’

  ‘Quiet, ye mean?’ Mrs Maguire gave a cryptic nod. ‘Doesn’t go round shouting and banging his chest – an’ that’s the very thing you’re standing here complaining about!’ She patted her daughter kindly. ‘Let Nat enjoy himself the way he wants to, darlin’ – tis his birthday party after all.’

  A little wiser, Bright smiled back at her mother and went to collect more pots.

  ‘Ye should’ve brought your mother with yese,’ Mr Maguire was telling Nat, though it was not a genuine sentiment. He would have been horrified had such a woman turned up on his doorstep. The very fact that she had no husband labelled her unfit for decent folks to mix with.

  ‘She’s at work.’ Nat, feeling replete, leaned back in his chair as Bright cleared away.

  ‘The poor wee rascal,’ said Mr Maguire in a private aside to Gabriel on his right. ‘Doesn’t deserve a slut like that for a mother. Come on now, G-nat, let’s have you singing! What? Ye don’t sing? Well, who’s going to start us off?’

  Gabriel, nineteen, launched into a song about an Irish martyr, the others joining in after the first line, their mournful combination almost lifting the ceiling off the hovel. Countless verses followed, then more songs and games. Alcohol was brought out for the adults, increasing the volume of their voices. With the last glimmer of daylight gone the paper blinds were drawn against the cold. The Maguires sang on, a sea of jolly faces in the glow of the fire.

  Towards the end of the evening, when all were exhausted and flopped in their chairs, another voice took over. Granny Maguire suddenly withdrew her pipe and wailed a Gaelic lament that had Mr and Mrs Maguire crying and singing with her. When she had finished she stuck her pipe back between her black teeth and Nat never heard another peep out of her. Before saying goodnight to Nat, Mr Maguire presented him with a surprise gift: a tin whistle. Nat accepted it without thanks. Never having been the recipient of gifts he was untutored in voicing appreciation.

  Bright, used to being the centre of attention within her family, was a little jealous of her friend tonight, especially as he did not even offer gratitude for the whistle – and she knew he did like it from the splendid noise he was creating as she accompanied him to the main street.

  ‘I’ll have to go back now.’ She paused, shivering, outside The Three Cups and wrapped her shawl about her little body. The stars glimmered; there was a keen frost.

  Nat’s fingers, tacky from buns, continued to dance over the body of the whistle, producing the most horrendous shrieks. A passing drunk called, ‘Is it a cat you’re murtherin? Hold your din else ye’ll be playing it out o’ your arse!’

  Giving a few last notes of defiance, Nat lowered the whistle and said, matter-of-factly to Bright, ‘I’m going to marry you when I grow up.’

  ‘You’re not, then!’ Bright showed great offence and with a twirl of her shoulders made for home, feeling secretly very flattered.

  ‘I am, then,’ muttered Nat under his breath, adding a louder, ‘Tara!’ to which he received her response before scampering off for home.

  Tonight, the darkness of Stonebow Lane was not quite so frightening as he tooted and shrieked on his whistle. He
was soon climbing the stairs, eager to show his mother the gift they had given him. The parlour was empty when he entered. Ah yes – disappointment ruined the party mood – she’d be at her work. Spirits doused, he flopped at the table and propped up his chin in his hands.

  Then a small noise from behind the curtain alerted him. His mother was in after all. Grinning, he put the whistle to his lips. To dubious musical accompaniment he burst through the curtain – and saw Kendrew lying next to his mother, his greasy repugnant head on Nat’s side of the pillow.

  ‘You don’t come barging in like that!’ Maria sat upright, a sheet clutched to her naked bosom, face pink with anger.

  The whistle had fallen silent, poised in mid-air. Nat wanted to protest that it was his room too, but he could only gape at Kendrew’s hairy torso. Deep in drink, the man was slow to come round, grunting and arching his back.

  ‘Out!’ ordered Maria. ‘And take that noisy bloody pipe with you!’

  Shocked and embarrassed into a daze, Nat backed away and let the curtain fall on them. Heart thumping, he felt the whistle in his hand and looked down at it. He was still in this pose when his mother appeared in a dressing gown. Sorry for the shock she must have inflicted, she wore an expression of remorse but did not know how to articulate this and instead offered a lame explanation. ‘I thought I’d have a night off for a change. Sep took me out for a drink. Good party was it?’

  Nat didn’t answer, just kept twisting the whistle through his hands. His mother looked down at it and, pulling her dressing gown over her sparrow-like breast against the cold asked, ‘Who bought you that, then, your friend?’

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘Very nice, too.’ Maria feigned cheerfulness. Tightening her sash, she busied herself at the mirror, primping her hair. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a friend, Nat. We all need someone to be our pal, don’t we?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Of course you do. Everybody does.’

  Nat remained stubborn. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Argumentative!’ With great difficulty, Maria contained her temper and made one last effort. ‘Here, look, I’ve made you this jelly for your birthday.’ She lifted the plate down from an otherwise empty shelf. ‘Come and have a bit before you go to bed.’

  ‘Don’t want none.’

  Maria uttered a sound of exasperation. ‘This is all ’cause of Sep being here, isn’t it?’

  Nat grumbled into his chest. ‘Don’t like him.’

  ‘Well you’ll just have to get used to him!’ His angry mother slammed the quivering jelly back onto the shelf. ‘Because I like him, an’ from now on he’ll be living here.’

  Nat was startled into looking at her. ‘I don’t want to sleep with him!’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to!’ Maria threw a blanket at the hard sofa. ‘That’s your bed, selfish!’

  3

  By the autumn of that same year, 1890, Nat’s truancy had become chronic. The reasons were manifold: his hatred of school; the increased intimacy of his mother’s relationship with Kendrew; the way Sep had adopted the role of father and kept trying to force him into going to school – which made Nat want to do the exact opposite. Who needed school with a teacher such as Bright? That’s what Mr Maguire said. Where others had failed, this ten-year-old child had succeeded in teaching him to read quite fluently. He was now able to tackle the same books that Bright was given at school. His writing was not so good – Bright said this was because he insisted on using the wrong hand – but his arithmetical progress, though not remarkable, would at least enable him to get by in life without being shortchanged.

  Another contribution towards his truancy was that the sofa had now become his permanent bed. It wasn’t just the discomfort of the lumpy horsehair that kept him awake during the nights and thus made him oversleep in the mornings, but the even more uncomfortable thought that his mother was cuddling up to that hated man, warming him with her body through the cold nights as had once been Nat’s privilege. The sense of rejection was overwhelming.

  To aggravate this, Nat was no longer at liberty to follow his fancy. Kendrew did go out occasionally, but most evenings he’d sit by the hearth with a bottle of beer and a newspaper and Nat was forced to sit with him whilst Maria was out plying her trade. ‘You’re too fond of going where you please,’ the man informed him. ‘Your mother and me never know where you are.’

  ‘Why should you care?’ This was very daring for Nat, who normally confined his opposition to sullen looks.

  ‘I don’t care!’ retorted Sep. ‘But I’m damned if I’m being held responsible if you go out and get yourself murdered while under my supervision. You can sit there and lump it.’

  Encouraged by the lack of physical punishment from the man, Nat pressed his case. ‘Bright’s expecting me to call round.’

  Kendrew flicked his newspaper. ‘Have you seen what it’s like out there?’ Fog swirled through the narrow, dingy streets. ‘Anyway, don’t you see enough of her at school?’

  ‘She doesn’t go to my school.’

  ‘No, neither do you very often. Well you can see her after school, then. You are not going out and there’s an end to it.’ Nat mumbled something in reply. Sep cocked his ear. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You’re not my father.’

  ‘I will be if I marry your mother.’

  ‘You won’t ’cause I already have a father, he’s a prince,’ boasted Nat.

  Instead of making Kendrew angry it caused loud laughter. ‘A prince, eh? I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘He’d let me go out if he was here,’ persisted Nat.

  ‘Well, I won’t, and until this prince appears I’m the boss!’

  So Nat was compelled to sit there until it was time to get the blanket out of the cupboard and make up his bed. This act was always performed with the gravity of some funeral rite.

  ‘I don’t know why you kick up such a fuss about sleeping on t’sofa,’ an exasperated Kendrew told the child after another grumpy performance at bedtime. ‘You’re far too big to be sleeping with your mother anyway.’

  Nat wanted to retort that if he were judged to be too big then how come Kendrew was allowed to sleep beside Maria? But he contented himself with one of those sad, reproachful looks at which he had become adept. He had found this the most effective way of dealing with the problem.

  Being a man who liked to talk, Sep was most frustrated by these tactics. He vacated the sofa in order to let Nat have his bed and reseated himself on a wooden chair to take a final puff on his cigar before retiring. The child’s long face and the way he dragged his feet proved too testing this eve. As Nat slouched past, Kendrew put his foot out and tripped him. Nat fell heavily, but cushioned by the blanket in his arms did not hurt himself.

  ‘You want to try pickin’ your feet up,’ advised Sep. Tossing the cigar butt at the fire, he flung aside the curtain and undressed for bed. Anger kept him awake for a time. He had not yet resorted to violence with the boy but if Nat maintained this stupid resentment he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. It was only out of fondness for Maria that he kept his hands off the wilful little pup. ‘The Lord knows,’ he had complained to her, ‘any other boy in his position would be glad to have a father.’

  He was still half awake when Maria slipped into bed beside him, making him jump with her cold feet. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’ She huddled under the blankets. ‘It’s bloody freezin’ out there.’

  Sep allowed her to thaw herself on him. ‘You’ll be pleased to learn they’ve got the bloke who murdered that lass. It was in tonight’s paper.’ At her sound of pleasure he added, ‘Mindst, there was nearly manslaughter committed here while you were out.’

  Maria groaned. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘Nowt,’ mumbled Sep, eyes still closed. ‘That’s just the point. It wouldn’t make any difference if I had murdered him, it’s like talking to a corpse at the best of times. He’ll never like me.’

  Though Maria had begun to sha
re his irritation at her son’s behaviour, she defended Nat from habit. ‘Yes he will. Just give him a chance. He’s bound to be jealous after having me all to himself for nine years.’

  Sep put his warm arm around her and she melted into his embrace. Sometimes, after a particularly degrading night’s work, Maria felt dead inside. It was lovely to come home to a kiss and a cuddle with Sep. He was a very demonstrative man. She herself had always found it hard to express affection, not having been shown any as a child. Until Sep came along she had rarely hugged Nat or told him she loved him – though the feeling was there inside her. Now Sep had helped to release that emotion and Nat was getting the benefit too. One would think this would make him happy, but he made it quite plain that he wasn’t. However, these were early days; stubborn as Nat could be he must eventually yield to Sep’s charm.

  Maria’s hope was in vain. In October she found herself in court again, explaining her repeated failure in sending Nat to school. Waiting alone in the corridor, the boy was terrified that his mother was to be sent to prison – the magistrate had seemed very harsh in his grilling of Nat. He was vastly relieved when she emerged from the courtroom without handcuffs, accompanied only by Sep.

  ‘I swear I’ll never do it again!’ He ran to her and grabbed two bunches of her skirt. ‘I’ll go to school every day.’

  His mother opened her mouth, but Kendrew spoke first. ‘You won’t have to – not to that one anyway. They’re sending you to Industrial School for two years to teach you a lesson.’

  ‘You didn’t have to tell him like that!’ An indignant Maria rounded on him, then turned back to watch the fear envelop her child’s face. She immediately bent to comfort Nat. ‘It’s not as long as it sounds, love.’ She rubbed his head reassuringly. ‘And they might let you out earlier if you’re very good.’