Her eyes darted up at him. Why hadn’t he put her off at their door? She’d only have to walk back. Then the sight of Mike, coming out of the cow byres at that moment gave her the reason. Yet again she couldn’t fully explain it, she only knew that he wanted her da to see her all messed up. Oh, he was mean, he was!
Mike came swiftly towards the car, his eyes darting from one to the other, and he greeted Mr Lord before he could alight. ‘Morning, sir. Anything wrong?’
It was evident that Mike was surprised to see his master.
‘No; nothing particularly.’ Mr Lord eased himself out of the car. ‘When I phoned you to say I wouldn’t be over until tomorrow morning, with this meeting coming up, I didn’t know I was going to run into . . . this.’ He inclined his head slowly back into the car; then added, ‘Come on, get out.’ His voice certainly held no tone of endearment now, conveying only that Mary Ann and all her works were a source of annoyance to him.
Legs first, and with a good display of knickers, she slid from the seat and presented herself to her da, whereupon the wind was drawn in so thinly through Mike’s teeth as to make a whistling sound, which spoke of exasperation and caused her heart to sink. He was mad at her; and it was her last day. Oh, it was mean of Mr Lord, it was!
‘Sarah Flannagan again.’ There was no sign of the laughter in Mike’s voice that had accompanied the name earlier in the morning. ‘And your new things!’
From her eye level she was looking at the arm where it finished at the end of the sleeve. She wanted to grab it and cry, ‘Oh, Da! It was because she was saying nasty things . . . bad things about you that I hit her.’ But Mike’s voice forbade any explanation whatever as he said, ‘Go home, and see what your mother has to say.’
Without looking at either of them she walked away to the sound of Mike’s voice saying gruffly, ‘I’m sorry she put you out, sir.’
The world was all wrong: nothing was right, or ever would be again. Didn’t they know it was her last day?
Dismally she took the path to the back door. The only consolation for her now was that things couldn’t get worse, anyway not today, for whatever her ma said or did wouldn’t be as bad as the way her da had looked at her.
But that there were differing degrees of trouble and that a large portion of the very worst kind awaited her was to be proved within the next minute, for she had hardly entered the scullery before the voice of her granny hit her ear and brought to her face a wide-eyed look of incredulity. Not her granny! Not the day, oh, no! She had never been near since they had come to live in the farmhouse, so she couldn’t be here today. No, it couldn’t be her granny!
But it was her granny. Only too true it was, and the sound of her told Mary Ann to escape, and quickly, for if her granny saw her like this she would never hear the last of it.
Lifting her feet most cautiously now, she was about to turn and flee when the kitchen door, from being ajar, was pulled wide open, so that her granny’s voice came to her, saying, ‘Stone floors like these are a death trap. You’ll be crippled with rheumatism afore you’re here a—’ The voice trailed off and Mrs McMullen’s eyes became fixed on Mary Ann’s body caught in the stance of flight. ‘Well! So it’s you. What are you up to?’
Mary Ann slumped; then closed her eyes as a gasp came from both her granny and her mother, who, too, was now standing in the doorway.
‘Oh, Mary Ann!’
If her mother had gone for her it wouldn’t have been so bad, but to sound sad like that, and in front of her granny.
Mrs McMullen’s round, black eyes were moving over her granddaughter with righteous satisfaction. ‘Well, you look a mess I must say. But it doesn’t surprise me.’
Mary Ann moved to her mother. ‘How did it happen?’
‘I fell, Ma.’
‘I fell, Ma!’ As they stood looking at each other, Mrs McMullen gave a ‘Huh!’ of a laugh. ‘You fell all right; and, of course, you weren’t fighting and acting the hooligan.’
Lizzie’s face became tight, as she turned her back on her mother. But her voice held no reprimand as she said to Mary Ann, ‘Get your things off and I’ll see to them.’
Mary Ann got her things off, watched silently by Mrs McMullen, and when she turned to the sink to wash, her granny went into the kitchen, but she sent her voice back into the scullery, saying, ‘If you expect any silk purses to be made out of sows’ ears, then I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment. Money down the drain. The man must be in his dotage.’
That there wasn’t a hair’s difference between her granny and Sarah Flannagan, Mary Ann had always been sure, and now it was confirmed. Silk purses . . . that’s what Sarah Flannagan had said.
She saw her mother’s hands gripping her coat, and she knew it was because of her granny. She turned from the sink and tiptoed to her, and with a most pained countenance whispered, ‘Oh, Ma!’
‘Shush!’ Lizzie’s finger was on her lips, and when she wagged it warningly Mary Ann, with a hopeless sigh, went back to the sink again.
It was awful . . . awful. How long would her granny stop? Hours and hours . . . This was her day; everything should have been lovely; everybody should have been lovely to her, and what had happened? Something had got into it . . . The Devil. She stopped rolling the soap between her hands. But why should he pick on her, and all at once? . . .
Mike’s surprise equalled Mary Ann’s when he came in and saw his mother-in-law already seated at the dinner table. There were no greetings exchanged between these two; enemies they had been from the beginning and enemies they would remain until the end.
A swift look that held pleading passed from Lizzie to Mike, for Mike’s entry had not caused even a pause in Mrs McMullen’s discourse. He might have been a figment of Lizzie’s and Mary Ann’s imagination, so little impression did his presence apparently make on her.
That her granny’s cheap thrusts were now prodding her da, Mary Ann was well aware, and when Lizzie said to her, ‘Come and sit up,’ she thought. And if she says any more, I’ll say to her, ‘Shut up, you!’ I will . . . I don’t care.
‘Chicken? Things are looking up!’ Mrs McMullen’s fuzzy head was bent over her plate. ‘Ah, well, you can afford them when you get them for nothing, I suppose.’
‘We didn’t get it for nothing; me ma bought it ’cos it’s a special dinner the day, for—’
‘Mary Ann!’ Both Mike and Lizzie spoke together, and Mary Ann slowly drew her eyes away from her grandmother. And Mrs McMullen, with her high, tight, neat bosom swelling, exclaimed, ‘You should’ve been a dog, you’ve got the bark of one!’
‘That’s enough.’ Mike’s voice was deep and quiet; it rolled over Mary Ann’s head like a distant thunder. He was standing behind her chair and his hand slid to her shoulder. What was in his eyes she could not see, but whatever it was it quelled the retort on her granny’s lips, and at the same time narrowed her eyes and tightened her face. Yet it did not effectively still her tongue, for she continued to talk, addressing herself solely to her daughter, yet all the while aiming her darts at both her son-in-law and granddaughter.
‘Will I help you?’ she called to Lizzie in the scullery. And when Lizzie’s reply of, ‘No, thank you, I can manage,’ came back to her, she called again, ‘These floors will be the death of you . . . cold stone. Wait till the winter comes. And the distance you’ve got to walk! Frying pan into the fire, if you ask me. You were nearly killed by worry afore, now you’ll be just as effectively polished off in this place . . . Like a barracks.’
‘Start, will you?’ Lizzie came hurrying into the kitchen. ‘Say your grace, Mary Ann. Don’t wait for me, anyone, just start. Gravy, Mother?’
‘When do you think you’ll get all these rooms furnished?’
‘Oh, gradually. Gravy, Mike?’ Lizzie was seated now, a fixed smile on her face.
Silently Mike took the tureen, and Mary Ann said painfully, ‘You’ve given me sprouts, Ma, and you know I don’t like them.’
‘Oh, have I? Well just leave th
em on the side of your plate.’
‘Huh! I never did.’
There was no need to enquire as to what Mrs McMullen never did, they all knew it was connected with sprouts and eating them whether you liked them or not. And from the look that the old lady bestowed on her grandchild, it was evident that it would have given her the greatest pleasure to ram the sprouts singly down Mary Ann’s gullet.
‘It’s either all or nothing . . . eight rooms!’ Mrs McMullen had returned to the matter of furnishings. ‘You’ll be ready for your old-age pension by the time you get them fixed.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Lizzie’s voice was even. ‘I’m going to the sales . . . At sales you can often pick up bargains.’
Mrs McMullen’s hands paused while conveying a piece of the breast of chicken to her mouth. ‘Bargains! Don’t be silly; those auctioneer fellows are crooks and fakers. Just read what they are up to in the papers. Faking pictures and furniture.’
‘Well, as I won’t be wanting that kind of thing, it won’t trouble me.’ Lizzie still wore her smile. ‘Do you want some more stuffing, Mary Ann? And you can pick your bone up in your fingers.’
Mary Ann picked up the chicken bone and proceeded to strip it. It was nice and sweet. She loved chicken wing, especially where the skin stuck to the bone at the end. She was dissecting the last piece of anatomy when she gave an unintentional suck, loud enough to bring all eyes on her and, of course, her granny’s voice.
‘Well, it’s to be hoped they show you how to eat, if nothing else!’
Mike’s eyes, like flashes of fire, darted to the old woman. But Mrs McMullen’s eyes were lowered to her plate and she continued her discourse regarding the furnishing of the rooms. ‘Well, even if you get them furnished, what’ll they be for, she’s going?’ This was accompanied by a bland nod towards Mary Ann. ‘And once she gets a taste of a fancy school, you needn’t think this place’ll hold her after a few years. And if I know Michael he’ll be off as soon as he can, and there you’ll be left, eight rooms for two of you. That’s if you’re here, of course.’
As she spoke the last words Mike’s chair scraped loudly on the stone floor, and almost at the same time, Lizzie, the armour of her smile now gone, jumped to her feet, saying, hurriedly, ‘I’ll bring the pudding in. Mike . . . Mike!’ She had to repeat his name to draw his eyes from her mother’s bent head. ‘Mike, come and give me a hand . . . Mike!’
Slowly Mike turned from the table and went into the scullery, and Lizzie, close behind him, shut the door and, going to him, took him by the arm.
‘Oh, Mike, why do you let her get at you? You know she’s doing it on purpose. Why don’t you laugh at her?’
‘Laugh at her!’ Mike’s teeth ground each other, setting Lizzie’s on edge, and his voice rumbled in his throat, ‘Strangle her, more like!’
‘Mike! Don’t say that. Can’t you see? She’s mad because we’re set and comfortable.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me she was here?’
‘I couldn’t; she had just got in when Mary Ann came in, all mud and—’
‘I know. He brought her back.’
‘Mr Lord?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh, no!’ Lizzie’s fingers went to her mouth. ‘And in her new things an’ all!’
‘Don’t worry, he got a great deal of satisfaction out of it. I don’t know whether he takes me for a complete fool or not where she’s concerned, but he got a kick out of showing me just what he was taking her away from.’
‘Oh, Mike! Don’t look at it like that, he’s not taking her away.’
‘Isn’t he?’ Mike reached for his coat, and as Lizzie moved to help his maimed arm into it, he thrust her aside almost roughly; then turning swiftly to her again, he grabbed her hand into his and, gripping it, he said, urgently, ‘Liz, I want to talk to you. I’ve been thinking all morning . . . and then that old—’ His eyes flicked towards the kitchen door. ‘Liz, if we let her go we’ve lost her. I’ve never agreed with your mother in me life, but she’s right there. This fancy place is bound to change her . . . it can’t but help it. I’m frightened, Liz, frightened inside.’
His hand was almost cracking her knuckles, and Lizzie was now filled with a feeling akin to terror. ‘Mike . . . she’s got to go.’
‘Got to?’
‘I mean she’s – she wants to. She’ll – she’ll break her heart if she doesn’t go.’
‘You really think so?’ Mike’s gaze was penetrating into her, and Lizzie willed her eyes not to fall before it. Then he ended rapidly, ‘Anyway, how does she know what she wants? She’s only a bairn.’
‘She’s old for her years, you know she is, and it’s a chance in a lifetime. You said yourself many a time you wished you’d had the chance of education.’
His grip on her hand slackened and his head drooped. ‘It’s sending her so damned far away that’s getting me.’
Lizzie looked at him with love and pity in her eyes, but she continued to press Mr Lord’s case. ‘He thought with his sister being Mother Superior she’d likely be better looked after there.’
Her voice trailed off, and Mike turned away and picked up his cap. ‘I wonder. I wonder a lot of things. Sometimes I think . . . Oh!’ he pulled the cap firmly onto his head and made for the door; but there he turned back quickly, and, coming to her again, he pulled her to him, and with his one arm about her, he kissed her roughly, ‘I’m sorry about the dinner, Liz, but you know how it is.’
After holding him close for a moment, she let him go and, moving to the window, she watched him walk down the path and into the lane. And, as ever, pride of him rose in her, but it did not swamp the fear, and as she braced herself to go into the kitchen again the fear came flooding over her. But it was not of her mother – the feeling her mother aroused was simply acute irritation – no, the fear was of her daughter, and she prayed for tomorrow to come and be gone, and Mary Ann with it.
Chapter Three
It was four o’clock and never had an afternoon seemed so long and empty to Mary Ann. After changing her clothes, right through, her mother had sent her out in her old things; and, glad to escape, she had immediately sought out her da. But to her surprise and inner hurt, Mike had said he was up to the eyes in work and that she must keep out of the way. He was a bit mad, she could see – that was her granny. Oh, she hated her granny, she did. But this was her last day; surely he hadn’t forgotten that. Tomorrow she wouldn’t be here, even if he had heaps of time to spare.
In the cowshed, Mr Jones, too, had no use for her presence. He didn’t even have to say so, he just looked. Len was up the long field mending a fence. Mr Polinski only was available. But conversation was difficult at any time with him, and today doubly so, as he was working under a machine in the open barn. Not even the dogs were to be seen.
Completely at a loose end, she decided to go and say a lengthy goodbye to Mrs Jones. But after three knocks on the cottage door she realised that even this doubtful pleasure was to be denied her. She was in the act of turning away when the back door of ‘their house’ – she still thought of the next cottage as ‘their house’ – was pulled open, and Mrs Polinski stood there. She wasn’t laughing now as she did when speaking to her da, her face was straight, and Mary Ann’s discerning eyes told her that Mrs Polinski had been crying, for in spite of her being all done up, her eyes were red and swollen.
When she saw Mary Ann the young woman’s expression changed, and, smiling now, she said, ‘Hallo there.’
‘Hallo,’ said Mary Ann, politely. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye to Mrs Jones, but I think she’s out.’
‘Yes, she is. But aren’t you going to say goodbye to me?’
The young woman paused, waiting for Mary Ann to say, ‘Yes.’ And when she did so Mrs Polinski stepped aside, saying, ‘Come in and see if I’ve got any sweets left. Come on.’
Mary Ann went in, and was immediately arrested by the change in the cottage. She had known the kitchen as a colourful place, all bright and shiny, but now it loo
ked awful. There was a red carpet on the floor. Whoever heard of a carpet in the kitchen! No wonder it was mucky. And a red suite, all greasy at the back where the heads had been. And dust . . . the mantelpiece was thick with it. Even the ashes hadn’t been taken out for days . . . anybody could see that.
‘Look, have a chocolate. You’re lucky, for they’re nearly finished.’
Mary Ann stared down at the box offered to her. You only had boxes of chocolates at Christmas. ‘Oh, ta . . . thank you.’ She took one, a silver-papered one.
‘Take two.’
‘Oh, can I? Ta.’
‘You’re going in the morning then?’
‘Yes.’ The wonderful taste of the chocolate was taking even the sting out of this admission.
‘You’re lucky.’
Mary Ann paused in her chewing, but remained mute to this.
‘You don’t know how lucky . . . with a man like Mr Lord at your back.’ Mrs Polinski shook her head slowly, as if at the wonder of it.
Again Mary Ann found nothing to say; so she ate the second chocolate.
‘Do you know it’s only four and half years ago since I left school?’
Mary Ann stopped munching. ‘Only four and a half?’
‘Yes, and oh, how I wish I was back.’ Mrs Polinski sat down heavily; then leant towards Mary Ann. ‘Make school last as long as possible.’
Her voice sounded hard, and Mary Ann said, ‘I don’t want to; I don’t like school.’
‘No, not now you don’t, no-one ever does, but one day you’ll look back and long for school again. How old do you think I am?’ She pressed herself back against the couch, giving Mary Ann room for scrutiny.
Mary Ann looked at the round, smooth face, the blonde hair that wasn’t like her ma’s, and she thought, I don’t know; but she’s married so she must be old. ‘Twenty,’ she said.
The Devil and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 5
