Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  * * *

  The weekend came and Bright had yet to reveal her condition to her parents. Each time she had come anywhere near to telling them the words had lodged in her throat. Maybe, she told herself, maybe if I made my confession before God it would help. With this in mind she went to church on Saturday and eventually broke her silence in the privacy of the confessional.

  After she had spoken there was a shocked interlude. The priest knew exactly to whom he was speaking, knew that the girl was little more than a child herself. ‘Have you told your parents yet?’

  Bright wrung her hands and whispered, ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Then you must go home and tell them immediately. Unless… unless your reason for sharing this with me is that I should inform them? In which case I have to refuse. This is your sin. It should come from your own lips.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Bright waited in torment.

  The priest could hear the sound of her breathing. ‘Is it that you’re waiting for penance?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘My child, I’m thinking you’ve penance enough ahead of you, but if it makes you feel better, go and say three Hail Marys and throw yourself on the mercy of Our Lady.’ He muttered absolution and Bright left the confessional.

  She used the Hail Marys to prepare herself for the confrontation at home, squeezing every bead so hard that when she had finished the imprints remained on her fingertips. When she left the church the sun was shining. With every step she committed herself. ‘I will tell them today… I will.’

  But when she got home cowardice once again bound her tongue. As usual on a Saturday night her father and brothers had bathed and were now out enjoying themselves at the pub whilst the females wallowed. The bath in front of the fire was screened by a clothes horse draped in linen, just in case of unexpected visitors. Bright was never more glad of this privacy than now as she quickly rinsed and towelled her fruitful body and clothed it again before any of her family witnessed her shameful condition. But how much longer could she hide it?

  In the end it was blurted out between two mundane sentences. Her mother was washing up the Sunday pots and Bright was drying. She screwed the teatowel into a cup, turning it round in her hands. ‘I like these cups, they’re a nice shape.’ She put it on the table and in the same breath said, ‘I’ll be needing some cups myself shortly when me and Nat get married. Have ye washed this pan here?’

  Mrs Maguire stopped washing and leaned heavily on the stone sink, head bent. ‘So… tis true, then?’

  Bright’s lips parted. ‘You know?’

  Mrs Maguire’s head drooped even lower. She didn’t look at all well. ‘For weeks I’ve feared the worst but daren’t confront it – oh, Bright, how could ye do this to us? How am I ever going to tell your daddy?’

  ‘What’s herself been up to?’ called Mr Maguire quite jovially from the parlour.

  ‘Oh, God, I thought he was asleep!’ Bright’s mother clamped a hand over her mouth and stared at her daughter, who grasped her own hands to her bosom.

  When no one answered him, Mr Maguire stretched, patted the chair arms and decided to go for a walk. He came into the scullery to get washed. ‘Don’t all answer at once. What’s herself been up to, I asked.’ He was quite jolly, until he saw the nervousness in his wife’s eyes. Then he turned his confusion on Bright.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby, Dada.’ How easily it emerged now.

  For a moment Maguire laughed, then he saw that this was no joke and the smile on his lips vanished. With a roar he picked up a stack of plates and hurled them at the wall where they shattered to smithereens. Astonished, the rest of the family crowded into the doorway. Bright and Mrs Maguire jumped out of the way, but Maguire grabbed his wife. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Dada! Please don’t hurt Mam.’ Bright wrestled with him. ‘I’ve only just told her. Nat hasn’t known that long and…’

  ‘Nat!’ roared Maguire. ‘Why the scheming, cunning little shite!’ That he rarely swore made this curse all the more potent to the listeners. ‘I take him in and he takes advantage!’

  Bright tried to calm him. ‘Tis all right, we’re going to get married!’

  ‘You’re bloody right you are! I’ll make sure he goes down that aisle if it’s on bloody crutches.’ Maguire bullocked his way through the audience and down the passage.

  ‘Where’re ye going, Tommy?’ His wife ran after him.

  ‘To kick the shite out o’ my future son-in-law!’ The door slammed.

  * * *

  Maguire’s re-entry a good hour later was just as violent, his face purple with fury. He said not one word but hauled on a drawer and started to toss clothes around. Mrs Maguire begged, ‘What’re ye doing, Tommy?’ He didn’t answer. When she repeated it he lashed out at her. She tumbled over, clutching her face. Bright ran to her. Martin advanced on his father.

  ‘Keep out of it!’ warned Maguire, so fiercely that his son backed off. Mary and Eilleen cowered behind their brothers as Maguire started to hurl clothes at Bright. ‘There! Now, get out!’

  She beseeched him with her hands. ‘Daddy, what’s…’

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ he bellowed at her like he had never done before in her whole life. ‘You tell me you’re having a bastard and ask what’s wrong!’

  Tears pricked Bright’s eyes. ‘But didn’t Nat tell you we’d be married?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything cause he wasn’t bloody there!’

  Bright’s lips parted in shock.

  ‘He’s gone!’ Mr Maguire’s tanned face was a picture of nastiness. ‘To Canada, they tell me. Hah! He knows where he’s best, that one.’

  Bright gasped. ‘But… he wouldn’t have gone on purpose! They must’ve sent him. He wouldn’t leave me!’

  ‘I asked them – they said he didn’t have to go if he didn’t want to so I think you know where you stand, milady! But went or sent tis all the same, and now you can be on your way too!’ Maguire stuffed what he thought to be her belongings into her arms.

  ‘These aren’t my clothes!’ She threw them down and began to pluck at his sleeve, entreating him, ‘Dada, where will I go?’

  ‘To Canada – to Hell for all I care, you dirty little…’ He raised his fist.

  ‘Tommy!’ Mrs Maguire risked taking the violence that seemed about to be inflicted on her daughter. ‘There’s no call to throw her out, there must be something we can do – I could pretend the child’s mine!’

  ‘Don’t be such a bloody eejit, woman!’ Spittle flew from Maguire’s lips. ‘They all know you’ve just aborted – and how are ye going to explain the fact that she’s walking about with a belly out to here?’

  ‘She doesn’t show! We could send her away to have it. Nobody knows I’ve lost the baby, they didn’t even know I was having another.’

  ‘They’ll know! The fussy old faggots around here know everything! They’ll know it’s a bastard – and I’m having no bastards in my house. Out!’ He spun Bright around by the shoulders and shoved her at the door.

  Unable to protest through shock, Bright found herself outside, with garments scattered round her and the door banged in her face. She stood there for a moment before crumpling in tears and sheer terror. Abandoning her sisters’ clothes, she walked, sobbing, from the house, whilst neighbours twittered and scowled in reproof. Having witnessed the noisy exile they had no need to ask what was wrong. And now, as those whom she had called her friends turned away from her in the street, Bright knew for the first time how Nat had felt when his mother had left him – completely alone.

  11

  Throughout the long and exacting sea voyage he had tried to focus on the adventure that lay ahead, but the inner voice kept reminding him: this is just what someone did to your mother. Each time the voice accused, Nat would remonstrate with himself; there were all sorts of differences, why, he could list a dozen reasons to justify his actions. No one could accuse him of desertion, he would have done Bright
no favours by marrying her in his present status, and it wasn’t as if she had no one to look after her. Better by far to take this temporary leave until he had something to offer her. If what he had been told about Canada were true there would be all sorts of opportunities open to a young man who was willing to work hard, and whose name was not a preconceived synonym for trouble. If he did not take this chance he would never amount to anything. I’m sorry, Bright, I’m so sorry. But I’ll come back, I swear it. In a few years he would be more able to look after a wife and child. Now, with thousands of miles of sea between him and his problem, he could look upon it more objectively, quite liked the idea of having another human being who was part of himself…

  ‘Land ahoy!’ The youthful cry pierced his introspection. Along with his fellow travellers he rushed excitedly on deck, everyone draping themselves over the rail as the Gulf of St Lawrence yawned before them, waiting for the ship to berth – only to be informed that this would not take place for a long while yet. Some groaned and returned to the warm inside. Nat and a few others remained hunched over the rail as, with agonizing slowness, the vessel nosed its way through the chilly waters of the great river and continued inch by inch through the province of Quebec. Nat was utterly exhausted after the gruelling sea voyage. Why had it taken so much out of him? Was he not accustomed to a similar dormitory at Industrial School? Yes, but at least at home the bed had remained still and there had been proper bedding; the shipping line had granted neither sheets nor dishes, the meals being served in metal pannikins. They might well have been transporting animals. And oh, the crippling boredom of all those days with nothing to look at but sea! He had lost track of what month it was, let alone what week or even what day.

  After a time the river gradually narrowed, but by now only Nat and a few other stalwarts remained to brave the cold, hands tucked up under armpits for warmth. On the two shores between which they travelled they were able to see farm land running down to the water’s edge, and occasionally a church spire towering amongst a group of small houses denoting a village, where metal roofs reflected a watery sunshine – picturesque, but not quite what Nat had expected. He glanced at the expressions of his fellow travellers, who appeared to be victims of the same anti-climax. Feeling hungry, Nat left the ship’s rail and went below deck where he dwelled for a time until some fool shouted, ‘We’re here! We’re here!’ And again he emerged, only to have his anticipation doused once more as the ship continued to glide past the towering fortifications of Quebec City.

  The river narrowed even further, though it was still very wide in comparison to waterways at home. Despondency and cold forced Nat to retreat again below deck, where he remained until at long last a mountain loomed out of the grey afternoon and official word informed the travellers that the craft was now on the final leg of its journey. Once again the deck teemed with excited youths as the contours of the St Lawrence eventually guided them into Montreal. But where were the wide open spaces that Carrington had promised? Where was the blue sky, the golden wheatfields waving in the sun? This inland port was not a view to lift the heart after nurturing the spirit of adventure for days on end. The scenes being enacted on the quay were no different from those they had witnessed back in Liverpool: a man playing a fiddle, his upturned hat laid before him to receive the coins of the charitable, horses and carts, small barefooted urchins rolling an empty barrel, porters lugging trunks up and down gangplanks, scavenging dogs, women of dubious character parading for business, ragged loafers with clay pipes, and a Union Jack fluttering from the roof of a high building.

  The immigrants exchanged glances, shivering in the chilly air and trying to hide the disappointment on their faces. One tried to convey optimism. ‘Well, at least we’ll be getting off this stinking old rustbucket.’ There were murmurs of agreement. Nat said nothing.

  After more painful delay the ship berthed. Nat tottered unsteadily down the gangplank to the quayside where he and his fellow travellers were herded together and checked to see that none had been inadvertently lost overboard. Mr Carrington, the man who had instigated the scheme, had travelled with them, but the officers of the Industrial School were left far behind him in their narrow little world. However, this seemed of no comfort to the youths who remained in a tight bunch, watching the activity around them with suspicious eyes, for now they had discovered that there was a difference after all. ‘They’re all talking foreign!’ hissed Nat to his neighbour. ‘He never mentioned that. How are we gonna understand ’em?’

  Registration dealt with, Carrington looked up from his clipboard and, sensing their disillusionment and confusion, patted the nearest shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, boys. It gets better, much better. You step this way after me and you’ll see some really fine old buildings.’

  ‘If I’d wanted to see old buildings I could’ve stayed at home,’ grumbled Nat, who had never appreciated architecture. To him there was no difference between these tall stone-faced edifices, some with verandas, and those of York. Of more import to the exhausted voyager was what their interiors had to offer. All Nat craved at this moment was to achieve sleep in a proper bed rather than a ship’s bunk, and he hoped that the next stage would be an introduction to his new guardians so that he could enact his wish. Instead he and the others were taken for a meal. Apparently there was to be another journey in order to reach their final destination – the district of Alberta, a south-westerly section of the North West Territories. Carrington informed them that the train did not leave Montreal until eight in the evening.

  Contrary to the man’s promise things did not get better. It grew darker and colder and despite Nat’s attempts to learn otherwise almost every voice he heard spoke a foreign language – even the train that had just pulled into the station looked and sounded like nothing he had heard in England. In the spray of light that shone from its headlamp he could make out a large shovel-like contraption on the front of the engine. It had an oddly turned funnel too; and when it released steam, the effect was more of a wail than a whistle.

  Eventually they were loaded on board the Canadian Pacific Express that was to take them on the final stage of their journey. Nat voiced his heartfelt desire to Carrington, who had taken the seat beside him. ‘I can’t wait to sleep in a bed that doesn’t go up and down.’

  Carrington laughed and settled back. ‘Me too, but it’ll be a good while yet. We’ve another two thousand miles ahead.’

  There rose a united groan of amazement. ‘But that’ll mean we have to sleep on the train!’ exclaimed Nat.

  Carrington gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. The seats can be made up into beds. In fact we could do that right now and let you boys get your heads down.’

  With the aid of a railway official he went into action. Facing pairs of seats were drawn together to form beds, then from the roof above the tops of the windows more bunks were let down.

  ‘Will we be there when we wake up?’ yawned one optimist.

  ‘Fraid not.’ Carrington looked sympathetic and opened a book. ‘We got another five days on board.’

  Five days! Aching and depressed with exhaustion, Nat collapsed onto one of the lower bunks and not long after the transcontinental express had rumbled out of Montreal he was fast asleep.

  Spirits were a little higher at breakfast the next morning, for they awoke to blue sky and sunshine. Now the train was travelling through open countryside the boys could see that Carrington had not lied and their expectations had not been in vain. Even if pockets of ice still dotted the landscape and the trees bore only the merest hint of green, the country was indeed as breathtaking as he had described with its thickly wooded hills, beautiful lakes and gushing streams. There was not as yet, however, any sign of the vast prairie that was to be their home – but then Carrington had warned them it was a long way off.

  Nat turned his attention to his breakfast, pondering over all the exciting things that lay ahead. Yet amidst all these notions lapped the odd disturbing memory of Bright. He tried to
convince himself that she would be all right, that she had a good family, which was more than he ever had. It was not as if she would be thrown out onto the street; they all adored her. Anyway, it was no good dwelling on it, he had to make a new life for himself here. Then, when he had saved lots of money he could go back and make an honest woman of her. Bright would be fine, he concluded, it’s yourself you should be worrying about. What sort of people will you be going to? Will you be able to understand them? Even if they spoke English like Carrington it was not a version that was easy for a Yorkshireman to come to grips with. Without noticing it, he had nearly finished his breakfast. Mopping up the remaining bacon fat with a last morsel of bread he settled back, chewing, to gaze from the window.

  By late morning the vista began to pall and his weariness and boredom returned, alleviated only by a meal break and desultory conversation with the other boys. The express must be travelling at over twenty miles per hour, but seemed incapable of escaping this wilderness of pine trees. How would he ever withstand another four days of this?

  During the rest of the afternoon, whilst Carrington read a novel beside him, Nat catnapped, waking once to partake of another meal. He must have fallen asleep again for he awoke to see his own reflection in the darkened carriage window. Grinding his knuckles into his eyes, he stretched and yawned. The train was crawling. There were lights ahead. How long had he been asleep? What time was it? What day was it? He looked at Carrington who was asleep, his wide-brimmed hat over his face. Nat nudged him, then when the man awoke with a grunt pretended that it had not been him.

  Face creased and puffy, Carrington laid aside his hat, ran his tongue around his dry mouth and pulled his watch from his waistcoat, yawning. There came an abrupt jolt, waking the boys who came round with startled expressions. ‘It’s okay, boys! We’re just stopping to pick up some more folks.’