The Devil and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  Strange as it seemed to Mary Ann, she never even ot ticked off about the chapel incident, but it had its repercussions, one nice . . . lovely, and one horrible . . . beastly.

  The first occurred the following morning. When bumping into Mother Mary Divine in a temporarily deserted corridor, the nun had bent over her and touched her cheek softly and whispered, ‘Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi . . . bless you. Indeed, bless you,’ and then had glided away. And Mary Ann had stopped for a moment to gaze after her, speechless but filled with a . . . lovely feeling . . . a holy feeling, and this feeling persisted right through the morning in spite of Mother St Bede going at her again for the way she spoke. You never knew how you had Mother St Bede. One minute she was praising you for your poetry, and the next she was going at you just ’cos you said ‘cassel’ instead of ‘carsal’; and then the blooming word was spelt castle – it wasn’t fair. But the unfairness was not strong enough to force its way beyond her holy feeling. What completely shattered her celestial affinity, however, and brought her to mundane earth with a bump was when she ran into a group of four girls in a carefully prepared circle round by the side of the gym-house and all wearing mournfully long faces, behind which laughter was bubbling to escape. With eyes raised to heaven and with hands joined as if in prayer, they were groaning quietly, one after the other, in voices fitting their expressions:

  ‘Agnes Dei qui tollis peccata mundi,

  Spare Mary Ann Shaughnessy, O Lord.’

  ‘Agnes Dei qui tollis peccata mundi,

  Spare her da, O Lord.’

  ‘Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi – and their Michael.’

  Now it was Beatrice’s voice, groaning with emotion and strangled laughter:

  ‘Agnes Dei qui tollis peccata mundi,

  And her ma . . . and the farm and Mr Lord – and – and the whole of Jarrow.’

  The last word was drowned in a concerted splutter, and their heads fell together. Then their arms flung round each other, their laughter burst high, crackling, almost hysterical.

  Mary Ann stood as if glued to the spot, the whole of her body twitching, but especially her face. Her eyebrows jerked, her eyes blinked, her compressed lips rotated in a circle, and then she burst out, ‘You – you rotten cheeky beasts! I’ll tell me—’ She shut down on the word in time. But Beatrice supplied it for her. Stopping in her laughter, she cried, ‘Me da! You’ll tell me da, won’t you?’

  Mary Ann stared up at her. The words on Beatrice’s tongue sounded strange to her – she would not give them the stigma of ‘common’ and she told herself that wasn’t how she said them at all.

  ‘I hate you!’

  ‘Do you? Thank you very much, it is reciprocated.’ Beatrice was beginning to enjoy herself. She had at last got this foreign being on the raw.

  ‘Mary Ann, there ees a letter for you.’

  Lola had come hurrying round the corner and she delivered her message while looking at the group facing Mary Ann. Now she pushed her hand out to Mary Ann and continued: ‘Go on, Mother St Francis is waiting, go on.’ It was an order and for Mary Ann it carried more authority than if it had come from a prefect, for Lola had said it. And so she turned, still raging with her anger, and went away, leaving someone much more capable of dealing with Beatrice than she was.

  The letter was from Michael – she recognised that by the writing on the envelope – and the relief it brought soothed away her anger and humiliation, and hugging it to her, she went into the recreation room – empty on this blazing hot noon – to read it.

  Swiftly she opened it, and when she saw three whole pages with writing on both sides, she said ‘Coo!’ and wriggled with excited anticipation further onto the window sill. But after reading the first paragraph her body became still and her expression fixed. What was the matter with their Michael? What was the matter with their da and ma? What did Michael mean? What’s he getting at? she thought.

  She was up to page five before light began to dawn on her, and by the time she had reached page six she was thinking: Mrs Polinski! and her old fears were back, swamping her in great waves. They were the fears that had filled her when her da thought her ma was going off with Mr Quinton, and although Michael hadn’t put the thing in actual writing, she was seeing it happening again, but with her da this time, and Mrs Polinski.

  Michael ended his letter again by saying, ‘I wish you were here.’

  As with the last trouble between her ma and da, Michael, in spite of his four extra years, was in no way fitted to deal with it – he could only be hurt by it. Mary Ann knew this, as she also knew that something was up, there was trouble . . . That’s why he hadn’t written last week. And now, although this letter, from his point of view, was actually giving nothing away, he had told her everything as plainly as if he had stood before her and said it – that her mother was unhappy – that her da and her had had a row, and all over Mrs Polinski, who, he said, was causing trouble on the farm an’ all, for her da, as well as Mr Lord, had gone for Tony for wasting time, and it wasn’t his fault. Mrs Polinski, when she couldn’t talk to their da, would talk to Tony, and Mr Lord didn’t like Tony at all.

  Back was the weight of the family on her shoulders. It brought a pinched look to her face and a wildness to her eyes. Folding the letter up, she went slowly out of the room and up the stairs and put it in the bottom drawer of the chest by her bed, forgetting that the dormitory was out of bounds except for ten minutes following prayers. Sister Catherine, finding her there and adding another black mark to her list, did not throw her into the depths of despair, for black marks had suddenly lost their potency. What did black marks matter anyway – there was something wrong at home, something drastically wrong. What could she do? If she wrote to their Michael and asked him, Mother St Francis would have to see the letter, and then she’d want to see the letter she had received.

  When she reached the hall again she was waylaid by Marian.

  ‘What’s the matter? I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Marian accepted this without comment; then after staring hard at her friend for a moment, she said, ‘Come on out and play and tell me about that hickaty-pickaty.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to.’ Mary Ann shrugged her off.

  Marian’s face fell, and Mary Ann, seeing the suggestion of tears, tossed her head impatiently and went out and into the larger of the playing fields. And in a corner, with only a small portion of her mind applied to it, she began to instruct Marian further into the mysteries of North Country games.

  Pointing first at herself and then at Marian, she began to chant half-heartedly:

  ‘Hickaty-pickaty, I-sill lickaty,

  Bumberrara jig;

  Every man that has no hair

  Generally wears a wig.

  One–two–three–

  Out goes she!’

  Of course, as previously arranged, it meant that out went Marian, leaving Mary Ann the first to have a go with the ball. This she did in a most desultory fashion; and she was on the point of giving up altogether when she saw Lola. Although there were many girls playing she knew that Lola was running towards her. So sure was she of this that she stopped her play and went to meet her. Lola was out of breath from her running and could not for the moment speak. She stood over Mary Ann, gazing at her, her eyes wide. And Mary Ann, drawn out of her apathy, muttered, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You leetle fool.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Why do you write such things?’

  ‘Me?’ Mary Ann’s mouth fell open. ‘What have I writed – written?’

  ‘What have you wrote? You know that. But do you know that Beatrice found eet and gave eet to Sister Catherine?’

  ‘Give what? She couldn’t – I tore it up.’ Mary Ann’s now clear conscience was pointing to her particular effort of last night.

  ‘You might have thought you tore eet up, but eet is now in the hands of Sister Catherine, and she wants you. Go on – go on.’ She pushed Mary Ann away
with an angry gesture.

  Mary Ann, no fear in her, for the same conscience told her she had done nothing, went towards the main door, up the steps, across the hall and to the office.

  She had no need to knock on the door for it was open, and inside she saw standing round the table, and all looking at a piece of paper, Sister Catherine, Mother St Bede and Sister Alvis.

  Her presence made known by the diligent wiping of her feet, although perfectly dry, Mary Ann was not bidden to enter in the usual way; instead, Mother St Bede, pointing a long finger at the floor, indicated what she should do, and Mary Ann, in spite of her clear conscience and feeling that here an’ all something was up, walked slowly into the room.

  The three nuns looked at her, but it was Sister Catherine who spoke first. ‘You are a wicked child,’ she said, ‘and you will go to Hell. There is no doubt about that.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Sister Alvis’s thick voice interrupted her, and promised something of a reprieve from so final a destination as she said, ‘Let us go into this . . . Mary Ann, you’ve been writing poetry lately?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Funny poetry?’ These words of Sister Alvis’s brought the heads of Sister Catherine and Mother St Bede quickly upwards. But Sister Alvis went on, ‘When did you write your last funny poem?’

  ‘Last night, Sister.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Mary Ann’s eyes darted from one to the other. It was no use telling lies. Although all those pieces were now floating down some main sewer she felt that the three dark-robed figures would know all about them. ‘I tore it up.’

  ‘Not all of it – definitely.’ Sister Catherine’s hand swept to the table, and taking up the piece of paper she thrust it before Mary Ann’s eyes, so close that Mary Ann could see nothing but squiggles. ‘You recognise this piece of paper?’

  Mary Ann’s nose jerked up above the paper as she said, ‘No, Sister.’

  ‘You don’t remember putting this in the back of your prep book?’ It was now Mother St Bede speaking.

  ‘I never put any paper in the back of me homework book, Mother.’

  ‘I never put a paper – a – singular! Oh, what’s the use!’ Mother St Bede’s head drooped with her exasperation.

  ‘You don’t remember putting a paper in the back of your book? You don’t remember, I suppose, writing these words? Look at them. Read them.’

  Mary Ann’s eyes now went to the paper and she read:

  ‘You must not kiss, you must not wink,

  You must not smoke and you must not drink,

  You must not gamble and you must not swear,

  Or wear high heels or curl your hair.

  Should you not follow this advice,

  You’ll be taken to Hell by Sister Alvise.’

  Signed by Catty Kath

  and Old Ma Bede.

  Mary Ann’s lower jaw now hanging, her nose straining upwards and her eyes bulging, she again looked from one to the other. But she found she was unable to speak. They thought she had written this. Eeh! She had never written things like that . . . ever. Eeh! What made them think it was her?

  ‘Well?’

  Mary Ann swallowed. ‘It’s not mine, Sister. I never did it.’

  Mother St Bede snatched the piece of paper from Mary Ann’s hand and looked at it. ‘You say this is not yours? I couldn’t mistake your writing, child, if I could overlook the context which points to your naughtiness. Your usual way of thinking . . . your – your—’

  The latter part of Mother St Bede’s words were unintelligible to Mary Ann, she only knew she was being blamed for writing this poetry when she had never done it, and so she defended herself and strongly, although her lips were trembling. ‘’Tisn’t my writing, I never done it, I didn’t. I don’t know nothing about it, so there.’

  Grammar, delivery, attitude were passed over by Mother St Bede, or did these things stun her, for with joined hands she turned away.

  And now Sister Catherine took over. ‘You’ll be punished for this, severely punished. Reverend Mother will be told about this. You forget where we are – we don’t allow this kind of thing . . . ’

  ‘Ssh! Ssh!’ Sister Alvis interrupted her and looked down on Mary Ann. ‘Now, my child, if you tell the truth you won’t get into trouble. Why did you write this? It was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it? Have you written any more like this?’

  Mary Ann looked up at the Sister, so like Mrs McBride in her manner, and her voice shook as she said, ‘I didn’t write it, Sister, honest. I don’t know nothing about it. Somebody’s done it for spite, not me.’

  ‘Huh!’ Sister Catherine was coming again to the fore, and her attack was just stopped by the sound of the bell, so that all she said was, ‘Get away! Get away to your class this minute.’

  Mary Ann got away. She went along the corridor and into the hall; and once round the corner she stood with her four fingers in her mouth, biting at one after the other. But it was Sister Catherine she was biting, and it was to her that she silently spoke. ‘You! I didn’t, I didn’t do it. Somebody’s done it, it wasn’t my writing! You’re always at me. I hate you, I do! You’re mean, you are. You! . . . I don’t like you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ It was Marian again, excited and eager to know what the trouble was. ‘What did they want you for? I saw Sister Catherine. Oh, she looked wild.’

  Mary Ann, tears now welling into her eyes, stammered, ‘They said I’d – I’d written some bad poetry, and I never did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sister Catherine and Mother St Bede and Sister Alvis. That Sister Catherine – she thinks she’s Mrs God!’

  As this blasphemy was uttered the earth seemed to open, but not far enough to swallow Mary Ann, for there, not a few feet away at the entrance to the corridor, stood the three nuns in question.

  Her eyes darting from one to the other of her contemporaries as if in confirmation of her opinion of this child, Sister Catherine, with foreboding quietness, said, ‘Go to the dormitory this minute, and don’t move until I come.’

  Trembling as if with ague, Mary Ann squeezed past the three pairs of eyes and like someone drunk went up the broad, picture-laden stairs towards the dormitory.

  Twenty-four hours had lapsed since Mary Ann had committed the heinous crime, not of writing cheeky poetry, but of insulting Sister Catherine. Each individual in the dormitory, with the exception of Lola, had given her own version of the affair as she had heard it – the different versions ranging from simply swearing at Sister Catherine to hitting, biting and, lastly, spitting in her face. But Mary Ann heard none of these versions, for she was being ostracised. Marian, after her many accounts of the incident, had not the nerve to be seen openly talking to her; only the steadfast Lola still spoke to the culprit.

  Mary Ann had spent all yesterday afternoon in the punishment room – a form of solitary confinement; no books, no paper or pencil, not even an underground comic to look at – and last evening, two full hours on her knees in the chapel, during which time the Holy Family had been less than useless; and this morning she had appeared before the Reverend Mother.

  Had the Reverend Mother put her thoughts on this matter into words, it is probable that the whole of Mary Ann’s life would have been changed, for the Reverend Mother did not believe that this child had written the words on the paper presented to her although the writing seemed to prove that she had. No, the Reverend Mother believed Mary Ann when she persisted in her denial of any knowledge of the paper but admitted frankly to having written cheeky poetry the previous night; and when with bowed head the child had repeated what she could remember of the rhyme, even to the mention of blisters on unmentionable anatomy, the wise woman realised that this child was confessing to something decidedly more vulgar than the words which were written on the paper. So she believed the child, but she didn’t tell her so – that would never have done – she only dismissed her, with a caution to write nothing that she wouldn’t want the whole world to see.

&
nbsp; Following this, the Reverend Mother went on to tell Sister Catherine her real opinion of this matter, which, from the many things reported to her, she linked with Beatrice. Her final word was that the child was to be punished no more, and if she misbehaved in future she was to be brought straight to her.

  It was with some surprise then that Mary Ann received the order to get ready for the afternoon walk. Once again she found herself out in the sunshine, in the crocodile, walking with Marian. But now she was paying Marian back in her own coin, for she would have nothing to say to her – in her own words ‘she wasn’t kind to her’.

  The same two nuns were in charge of the walk, Sister Agnes Mary and Sister Alvis. Sister Alvis appeared to Mary Ann slightly aloof, and whenever Mary Ann’s eyes caught hers she was made to feel her past sins by a gentle, hurt look on the Sister’s face. But not so Sister Agnes Mary – it would appear she had found favour in the eyes of Sister Agnes Mary. Forgotten was the beach episode. It could have been that this particular Sister had never lathered her behind, and when the hearty Sister took hold of her hand her love and gratitude rushed out to her.

  On these walks each child was allowed sixpence to spend, and today when they touched on the town they were told off in threes to go into a sweetshop and spend their money. Mary Ann was one of the last three, and she was standing at the counter after giving her order for three-pennyworth of ‘Dolly Mixture’ when a voice from behind her said, ‘Why, hallo, Mary Ann.’