The Devil and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  As Mrs McMullen’s strident voice was heard from the hall, Fanny hissed across to Mary Ann, ‘Don’t look like that, that’s not you. Give her as good as she sends. Go on, up with that chin of yours.’

  With an effort Mary Ann lifted up her head, and as soon as her granny entered the room she made herself look straight into her face. The look seemed to hold Mrs McMullen, and she stopped and stared back at her grandchild. Then, with her eyes slowly drawing to slits, she gave a pregnant exclamation.

  ‘Ah!’ she said. Then looking towards Mrs McBride, she added, ‘Huh!’ and Fanny, her face and voice amiable, replied, ‘Aye, huh! We’re all out the day, eh. Like Flannagan’s Fleas.’

  Mrs McMullen, wearing a steady dignity, moved to the big chair near the fire. ‘You must speak for yourself, Mrs McBride, I am visiting my daughter.’

  Now it was Fanny’s turn to say ‘Huh!’

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea, Mother?’ Lizzie stood near the tray, and Mrs McMullen with raised eyebrows, said, ‘Well, I should think that goes without saying after this journey.’

  ‘Was your journey really necessary?’ Fanny, trying to imitate a refined twang, muttered this under her breath, and it brought into Mary Ann’s worried being a little gurgle of laughter. Oh, Mrs McBride was funny. Oh, she was glad she was here. Her granny wouldn’t start on her surely, not in front of Mrs McBride . . . she’d hold her tongue for a while.

  But Mary Ann had misjudged her granny’s power of self control, for no sooner had she received a cup of tea from Lizzie’s slightly shaking hand than she turned her eyes on her granddaughter and again gave her pregnant exclamation, then added, ‘So you’re back!’

  Mary Ann said nothing, she only looked at her granny, and her granny began to stir her tea while she peered down into the cup. Then without raising her eyes she said, ‘I suppose now that you’ve had the whole country on the alert for you you’re feeling fine. Trust you to draw attention to yourself.’

  Mary Ann’s eyes slid to her mother and Mrs McBride and then back to her granny. She had found no help in the sight of her ma’s shoulders stooped over the tray, nor from Mrs McBride’s face which seemed to be expressionless – she had no-one to rely on but herself. But the forced proximity to her granny was restoring her fighting feeling. Her granny’s words were now stinging her all over, like hailstones.

  ‘I suppose, as usual, you were greeted with open arms and patted on the head, and told what a clever girl you were, eh?’

  There was a clatter of cups as Lizzie moved the tray, and there was a wriggle of Mrs McBride’s hips as Mrs McMullen went on, ‘And I suppose the big fellow said “Well done”? Like father like daughter!’

  ‘Mother, I’m having none of this. It’s finished, it’s all over. If you want to stay, please forget it.’

  Mrs McMullen reared her head so high that it looked as if her hat was going to topple off the top of her abundant hair as she said, ‘Am I getting the door again?’

  ‘There’s no need to talk about the door, Mother. Only leave her be, she’s been through enough.’

  ‘Huh! Huh!’ Mrs McMullen sipped her tea then exclaimed bitterly, ‘You were always soft with her – like clarts.’

  There came a deep sigh from Fanny and she exclaimed quietly, ‘Well, in this case, it isn’t like mother like daughter, is it? Eh?’

  Mrs McMullen turned her haughty gaze on Fanny, and replied icily, ‘I didn’t think I was addressing you, Mrs McBride.’

  ‘No,’ said Fanny, ‘neither did I. But tell me’ – she leaned towards Mrs McMullen – ‘tell me, what do you think of this fine job your son-in-law’s landed? Isn’t this one great, big, grand farm?’

  ‘I am not in the habit of discussing my family’s business with outsiders.’ Mrs McMullen put down her cup and folded her hands.

  ‘No. Only when you want to kick them in the backside, Mike in particular, with old Ma Flannagan.’ Fanny’s voice was hard.

  ‘Look,’ said Lizzie, her eyes darting between her mother and Mrs McBride, ‘I want no more of this, one way or the other.’

  There was silence in the kitchen for a moment, during which Mrs McMullen stood up and deliberately took off her coat and hat. Then sitting down again and unable to restrain her tongue or curiosity, she asked of Lizzie, ‘Well, and what’s going to happen to her now? You can’t tell me that the old boy will have any more interest in her after this. She’s made him the laughing stock of the country.’ There was another tense pause, and Mrs McMullen slowly turned around to meet Mary Ann’s eyes. ‘Jarrow school, I suppose again, and serve you right. I hope you have a nice time when you meet Sarah Flannagan and the rest of them. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when you go back there!’

  ‘I’m not going back!’ The words seemed squeezed out of Mary Ann’s throat.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs McMullen’s head bounced slowly. ‘And where are you going, pray?’

  ‘I’m going to another school – a better one.’ Mary Ann’s nose was twitching, a sure sign of her inner agitation. ‘Bigger – nicer.’

  The wishful thinking was only all too plain to her granny, and she laughed as she said, ‘You’ve got some hopes. If I heard aright, the old boy’s washed his hands of you, and not you alone by all accounts. No, not you alone!’

  Mary Ann knew instinctively who the ‘not you alone’ meant. That meant her da. She was saying that Mr Lord had washed his hands of her da. Her granny was a liar. Her granny was bad, wicked – the Devil. Yes, that’s who her granny was, the Devil dressed up! She wished she would have a fit and die in it.

  And her granny’s next words caused Mary Ann to make an effort to bring her wishful thinking into operation. For just as Mrs McMullen was placing her empty cup on the table she made a statement. ‘It’s the case of the sow’s ear all over again,’ she said.

  No-one was more startled than Mrs McMullen as a sample of concentrated fury flung itself at her, and before her flabby hand could prevent it happening, her cheek was scratched in several places.

  What followed was a good five minutes of sheer pandemonium, during which Mrs McMullen poured her vitriolic venom into the air of the kitchen and Lizzie held the struggling and screaming child, while Mrs McBride, yelling her loudest at Mrs McMullen, and that was saying something, told her what she had thought of her, not only for the last year or so either, but from the time they had been girls together in the neighbourhood of Jarrow.

  When at last Lizzie managed to quieten Mary Ann’s screams, she picked her up in her arms and made for the stairs, and just as she reached them Mike came hurrying into the kitchen. He stood for a second on the threshold, taking in the whole situation, then growled, ‘What’s going on here? You can hear you all over the farm!’ His eyes moved swiftly from Mary Ann in her mother’s arms to his mother-in-law’s bleeding face, and he spoke directly to her, cutting off her own tirade just as she was about to flood him with it. ‘We always get what we ask for. For my part I can say it’s a pity it wasn’t the other side an’ all.’ Then moving across the room, he addressed Fanny briefly by saying, ‘Hallo, there, Fan.’

  ‘Hallo, Mike,’ said Fanny, just as briefly.

  Then when he reached the door he gathered up Mary Ann from Lizzie’s arms and went up the stairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Father Owen was very weary. He sat in the confessional box, his hand shading his eyes and only half listening, it must be confessed, to Jimmy Hathaway’s confession. Jimmy had made the same confession for as many years as Father Owen cared to remember. It began, ‘Drunk, three times last week, Father . . . very sorry.’ Only the number of times he had erred ever varied. It could be as many as six or as few as one, but whatever the number his reactions to his lapse were always the same, and his way of confessing it never varied. ‘Knocked her about a bit, Father.’

  It was as well, Father Owen sometimes thought, that Peggy Hathaway could not become any dafter. Jimmy Hathaway was beyond hope, and, years before, the priest had given up any idea of earthly redemption for him, but
this had not stopped him from trying to save his soul. But tonight he dismissed him without even the usual advice, with only a curt, ‘One Our Father and ten Hail Marys,’ wondering as he did so, if they ever would be said.

  Father Owen sighed as he heard Jimmy stumbling out of the box, and when next a thin whine came to him he repeated his sigh. It was a bad night, all the hopeless cases of the parish seemed to have got together at once. This penitent, he knew, was Mrs Leggatt. Although he did not know what would be forthcoming in Mrs Leggatt’s confession, he knew her well enough to expect nothing but a tirade of petty spite and pilfering, and his mind said, ‘Oh dear, dear!’ Altogether, it had been a trying day.

  Father Beaney had been at his most pompous, his most patronising, his most overbearing. Of course he knew that his superior’s attitude had been invoked by the young curate. The newcomer had tested his own nerves, for what was more off putting to a man in his sixties than a warm-blooded enthusiast out to outdo even God Himself . . . ? out to reform all human nature in his own way . . . which was the best way, of course, being the latest way. Oh, yes, between Father Beaney and God’s latest lieutenant, he’d been sorely tried this day. And not only today, but all the week. And this had brought about his own lapse. Only in extreme emergencies did he allow himself a double dose of his ‘cough mixture’ before retiring. His weak will had tempted him to tell himself that the events of the week could be constituted an emergency. His patron saint, Miss Honeysett, his housekeeper, and the good God, together allowed him one glass, but at times he was apt to ignore all three and take a second helping of his comforter . . . his conscience didn’t trouble him so much at night, for the flesh was warmed and weak then. But in the morning it was a different kettle of fish, for then it loomed at the side of his bed, looking at him, nodding its head and saying, ‘The LINO penance for you, me boy – the LINO penance for you.’ To an outsider the lino penance might seem so light as to be no penance at all, but when one of the things you have been unable to stand during the whole course of your life is your bare feet on cold linoleum, what more harsh treatment could a conscience extract from you but bid you get out of a warm bed and put your feet onto slabs of ice and to keep them there while you dressed – and the blood in your veins already like water? Oh, it had been a trying day. What was that? He pricked his ears up as Mrs Leggatt’s voice whimpered, ‘And it wasn’t gold at all, Father, so I didn’t feel so bad about it. Six shillings I got on it; that was all.’

  ‘Have you taken it back?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘And you come here expecting absolution?’

  There was no answer from Mrs Leggatt.

  ‘Now away with you, and go and get that brooch out of pawn, and when you have returned it to its owner you can come back and we’ll discuss the matter further. Away you go now.’

  Father Owen sounded angry. He was angry. Would they never learn?

  He heard Mrs Leggatt’s heavy breathing and noticed, not without some satisfaction, that she tripped heavily on leaving the box. God had His ways.

  His hand was again covering his eyes when the door opened and the usual shuffle to the kneeler was made, and he became slightly impatient when no voice started on the act of confession. He said, somewhat sharply, ‘Yes? Go on.’

  ‘Pray, Father, give me thy blessing, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession . . . but not here.’

  Some feeling, not incomparable with the warmth of a good glass of whisky on a cold night shot through Father Owen. It was Mary Ann. Well, he had been expecting her – it would be good to see the child again. Oh, my, yes, but he must not let her see this, he must give her a sound ticking off. She had really gone beyond all bounds this time. Stirred up the whole country for a few hours, and what was more had thrown over the chance of a lifetime. Wilful, wilful. And that chance, if he knew anything, would not be repeated. Old Lord was not a man to give second chances, even to bewitchers like Mary Ann. He checked the eagerness in his voice and said flatly, ‘Go on.’

  Mary Ann’s voice came to him clear and soft through the grill. ‘I’ve never missed Mass, Father, or Communion, and I’ve said me morning and night prayers every day, but I’ve been bad, Father.’ There was a pause. ‘I run away from school.’ There came another pause which he did not break, and her voice when she went on was much more definite. ‘There was a girl there. She was really the Devil, like you said, so it wasn’t my fault.’

  There was a gulp from the box and the priest muttered, ‘We won’t go into whose fault it was. Get on with your confession.’

  The voice had a little tremor in it now as it came to him, saying, ‘I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to do it, but I was worried. Me ma was worried. It was all over me da.’

  Oh, that da! That child and her da! What had the man done now that had caused her to run away from school and throw up the chance of a lifetime? ‘What was the matter with your da?’

  ‘Nothing, Father. Only there was a girl on our farm and our Michael told me about her. She was always running after me da, and me ma was worried, and I got a letter and she had been crying, and I wanted to come home.’

  Dear God! Drink, and now women. Would he never do anything right, that man? And having landed a job out of the blue like he had. And to jeopardise it by women now!

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes, my child?’

  ‘Do you know it’s me, Father? Mary Ann Shaughnessy?’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s you, Mary Ann.’

  Mary Ann sighed. The priest undoubtedly was blind but he wasn’t deaf. She said again, ‘I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to do it. I’m very sorry.’

  The sincerity in her voice made Father Owen say, ‘Yes, I believe you are, child. But you committed a grave wrong, and now what’s going to happen to you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father.’

  ‘Mr Lord won’t give you a second chance.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  It was only a whisper, and Father Owen said, ‘No. At least I think we’re agreed about that . . . Well, it’ll be back to school for you.’

  There was a long silence, and into the silence Father Owen read Mary Ann’s reluctance to return to her old school. No matter what had made her run away some part of her had undoubtedly liked the taste of the convent, and now there’d be no more convents for her. Ah, it was a pity, a great pity. He’d had high hopes of her. Well, that was that. Perhaps God didn’t want it that way. His ways were strange, and he himself mustn’t be too harsh on her. No, no, he couldn’t be too harsh with the child. Who could be harsh with someone that loved so much . . . she loved that great, big, red-headed lump of trouble with a heart that was as big as her body, if not bigger.

  When he heard a slight snuffle his voice dropped to a tender tone, and he said, ‘Well, now, my child, don’t worry any more. The thing is done, we can only look forward. Trust in God and pray. In the meantime, say a decade of the Rosary each night for a week . . . On your knees mind, not in bed!’

  ‘Yes, Father . . . Father?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve done something else bad, Father.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘I hit me granny yesterday.’

  ‘You what?’

  After a heavy silence, Mary Ann repeated, in a voice that was scarcely audible, ‘I hit me granny, Father.’

  ‘Oh, that was very wicked of you, very wicked – an old woman. How could you, Mary Ann? That’s the worst yet. I trust you’re heartily sorry.’

  He waited, but no words of remorse came through the grid, and he repeated, ‘Did you hear what I said? I trust you are heartily sorry. Are you?’

  After an extended pause the priest received the truth.

  ‘No, Father.’

  This answer seemed to floor Father Owen and he made fluttering noises, and then demanded sternly but softly, ‘Did I hear aright? You’re not sorry you struck your granny?’

  ‘I’ve tried to be, Father. I prayed to Our Lady
last night that I would be, but I woke up this morning and I wasn’t ’cos she said I’d always be a sow’s ear. You remember, Father, you said you’d been made out of one, an’ all, didn’t you?’

  Father Owen did not confirm this kinship, and in the heavy silence Mary Ann proceeded. ‘But it was what she had said about me da that made me do it. She said—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear what she said. Say your act of contrition.’

  ‘O my God, I am very sorry that I have sinned against thee, because Thou art so good, and by the help of Thy Holy Grace I will never sin again. Amen . . . Goodnight, Father.’

  ‘Goodnight, my child, and – and God bless you. I’ll be seeing you.’ The voice held no reprimand now, and Mary Ann said, ‘Yes, Father. Goodnight, Father.’

  The priest sighed heavily. God help her, for only He could now. No earthly persuasion that he could see would make old Lord fork out any more money on her behalf, and if he knew anything of the old man, Mike Shaughnessy would likely suffer because his plans for the child had gone awry. He must trip over there some day soon and see how things were shaping . . . And she had hit old Mrs McMullen! He rubbed his hand over his face. The day wasn’t so far gone when he’d had the strong desire to do the selfsame thing. But now he must pray for her – pray for them all.

  As Mary Ann said her penance at the side altar and gazed with moist eyes up at the Holy Family, she experienced the first semblance of peace since her arrival home. She did not go over the business of the journey with them – they knew all about it – nor did she mention her attack on her granny – like Father Owen, she remembered, they did not always see eye to eye with her over her granny, but she did cover the gamut of her errors over the past few days by saying, softly and contritely, ‘I’m sorry.’ This they accepted and looked at her kindly, but no word on the incense-laden air came to her, and she knew they would have little to say until she had proved her contrition. They were, she knew, biding their time – but they weren’t vexed, and the sight of their beloved faces was a salve on her heart and had a steadying effect on the shivering anticipation that was filling every pore of her body, the anticipation of even a more serious nature than her being bundled back to Jarrow school, the anticipation of her da leaving the farm.