The Loom

by Sandra van Arend

  *********

  The walk from Glebe Street to St. Hubert’s Church wasn’t far. A gentle breeze ruffled Leah’s dress as she and Johnny Braithwaite, her hand through his arm (he was going to give her away) led the small entourage. Following behind was her mother, and Kathryn, her maid of honour. As they turned the corner onto St. Hubert’s Road they were surprised to see a throng of people congregated at the bottom near the church.

  ‘Look at all the people,’ Leah said. ‘I wonder what they’re all doing here.’

  Johnny laughed. ‘What do you think, Leah, they’ve come to see you?’

  ‘What on earth for,’ Leah said in surprise.

  ‘Well, you have got a bit of a name in this town. People are nosey and you should know that by now.’

  ‘You mean they’re waiting to see the scarlet woman in white?’ She laughed a little, but was suddenly uneasy. This was the last thing she wanted: people staring. She knew they shouldn’t have had the wedding in Harwood. She’d wanted to have it in Accrington, but Paddy’s parents and her mother had been so against it that she’d hastily changed it to St. Hubert’s.

  Another bone of contention had been deciding on the church! All her family had been Protestants, none-practicing her mother always said with a laugh because they never went to church. Her mother didn’t believe in all that bending your knees and singing hallelujahs.

  ‘I live right, I do the right thing as best I can,’ she would say, ‘And I don’t need to go to any church.’

  Leah felt pretty much the same way and religion had never been an issue until it came to the wedding.

  Mara and Shamus were shocked that Leah would even contemplate not being married in a Catholic Church. Leah knew how much their religion meant to them, so had fallen in with the plan of Catholic St. Hubert’s. Unfortunately, she had not realized she would have to embrace Catholicism. By then it was too late to renege and she had to endure hours of instruction by the very unlikable Father O’Donnell. She’d drawn the line, she told Paddy later, when the priest began to discuss extremely intimate subjects.

  ‘What’s he know about all that, anyway,’ she fumed at Paddy. ‘He’s supposed to be celibate so how can he tell you what to do? Anyway, you can tell him that I’ve had enough of it all and if he doesn’t want to marry us we’ll find someone who will.’

  ‘He’s only doing his job, Leah love,’ Paddy said, trying to placate.

  ‘He can do it with someone else then,’ she said shortly. Did Paddy realize just how close she’d come then to cancelling the whole thing?

  To Paddy’s relief, Father O’Donnell agreed that the wedding should go ahead as scheduled, Leah promising that any children they had could be brought up Catholic, but she vowed never to set foot in a Catholic Church again.

  When she saw the people waiting outside the church, which she now viewed almost with distaste, she broke out into a sweat and her insides fluttered like a bird’s wing. What am I doing, she thought in panic?

  ‘Don’t worry, love, it’ll soon be over.’ Emma was worried. Leah was now a sickly white. ‘There’s nowt they can do.’

  ‘No, only throw rotten eggs.’ Leah gave a nervous laugh. They walked on in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Are you all right, Leah?’ Kathryn said. ‘I’m sure they won’t throw anything at you on your wedding day.’

  ‘I was only joking,’ Leah said. ‘I never said but you look lovely in that colour, Kathryn.’

  She had made Kathryn’s outfit of peach coloured silk and even her mother looked elegant in her new grey suit, which Leah still couldn’t get used to because her mother always wore a long dark dress with a pinny on top. She couldn’t ever remember seeing her mother without her pinny!

  Johnny had decided on tie and tails. Leah thought the outfit a bit too much and although they’d all ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’ when they saw him in all his regalia, she would have preferred just a dark suit. Thank goodness he hadn’t insisted on a top hat. She would have had to do her Burlington Bertie routine.

  The crowd in front of the church became silent as they approached. A few called out their good wishes. Thankfully nothing nasty was thrown. You just never knew with people and after what had happened in the last few years she wouldn’t have been surprised at anything. She could hear the faint strains of organ music drifting through the door. Was this a dream? The church, the bridal party, the baby, (the baby had come into it from nowhere, or so it seemed). She’d wake up any minute now and find herself snug and secure in her little room at the hall and perhaps Miss Fenton coming in to tell her that it was time to get up…and Stephen would still be alive!

  The sudden longing for things to be as they were was so painful she felt as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel. She blinked rapidly, gripping Johnny’s arm. He patted her hand and glanced concernedly at her pale face. The sadness seeped from her. She should be glowing with happiness on this day, he thought, suddenly angry. It was a shame that things had gone the way they had and he didn’t think Paddy O’Shea half good enough for her, but he’d kept quiet about that, because he knew how Emma felt about Paddy. A godsend, she’d said to him, a godsend!

  The congregation shuffled and talked quietly until the organist struck the first chord. A hush fell. Heads craned towards the door as the wedding march began.

  Paddy stood straight and still at the altar. This is it, he thought and he turned to watch as Leah made her way on Johnny’s arm towards him. He swallowed hard, saw her through a blur of tear-filled eyes as she approached and put out her hand to him.

  Leah was vaguely aware of the people on either side as she walked slowly up the aisle. She thought, for one fleeting instant, that Mrs. Townsend was standing right at the back in a blue suit. She hung tightly onto Johnny’s arm until she reached the altar. She was frightened. She was marrying a man she didn’t love. A kind man, a man she’d known almost all her life, but she didn’t love him. Not the way she’d loved Stephen. But the altar was suddenly there before her and Paddy was standing looking at her as though his heart would break.

  When she saw that look she was all ready to blubber. She didn’t because she was stopped in her tracks by a whiff of alcohol. She blinked and turned to Paddy, puzzled. He gave a brief sideways jerk with his head at Father O’Donnell. She stared at the priest in surprise. He’s drunk, she thought. After all his sanctimonious sermons he was drunk performing the wedding ceremony! What a cheek!

  She had known he drank. Everyone did, but most just laughed at his ‘little drop’. He needed something to make life bearable, didn’t he? This little drop was more like a bucketful from the smell. Paddy winked quickly at her as if to say, don’t let it bother you. Well, she was bothered, all hot and bothered. Father O’Donnell was as drunk as a mop and she was so mad she’d like to mop the floor with him. He could hardly hold the prayer book his hands were shaking so much.

  She should have expected something like this though, with her luck. She glared at the priest as he began mumbling intonations. He fumbled clumsily and the book dropped on the floor. Paddy bent and picked it up and then a second later the priest almost dropped it again and a loose page floated lazily to the ground. All eyes were fastened on this piece of paper, watching as it finally landed on the Paddy’s foot.

  This is ridiculous, Leah thought. She was flushed now, not pale as she had been, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as Father O’Donnell droned on, quite oblivious that he was making a mockery of her wedding.

  Leah gasped as he wielded the receptacle with holy water as though heaving a sledgehammer, drenching her. This can’t be happening, she thought! Then suddenly she wanted to laugh. Her sense of humour never could be contained no matter what the situation and she had to place her hand over her mouth and pretend she was coughing (making it worse because she remembered her mother did this when she tried to cover up that she’d passed wind).

  A sound came from her between a screech and a gurgle. Paddy began to shake next to her. She daren’t look at him. He g
ripped her hand tightly. She felt better all of a sudden. If she couldn’t start their married life with love then laughter was the next best thing. She squeezed Paddy’s hand and listened as the priest finally mumbled… ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’

  PART SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The ice-cream man made the ice-cream wafer: Wall’s ice-cream, the wafer first then packing the ice-cream in, another wafer and, like magic, there it was, mouthwatering, delectable, something which Christine O’Shea would remember, as one of her pleasantest memories.

  She paid the man three pence and then licked carefully between the wafers. A slight squeeze for more ice-cream, savouring as the cold sweetness slid like silk down her throat.

  ‘Give me a lick then, Christine!’

  Christine stopped in mid-air. Clara Pearson seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Christine hesitated. ‘No, I can’t, Clara. Me…I mean my Mam said I ‘aven’t …I haven’t to give any one a lick, it’s dirty and I could catch all sorts of germs.’

  ‘It is not dirty; I do it all the time! You’re mean you are Christine O’Shea and if you don’t I won’t play with you.’

  The ice-cream was beginning to drip. Christine looked at Clara dubiously. Her mother had told her never on any account, let other people have a bite, or in this case a lick, of what she was eating because if she did she’d get hundreds of other people’s germs. Clara stood with her hands on her hips, scowling. Christine liked playing with Clara and Christine’s friends, Anne and Gloria had gone to visit relatives. Suddenly resolving the dilemma Christine thrust the melting ice-cream at Clara.

  ‘You can have it all, Clara, I don’t want it and you can give your Tony a bit as well.’ She indicated the scruffy little boy standing next to Clara, who was watching the drama in silence, except for his loud breathing (his adenoids, Mrs. Jones from next door said). Tony loved ice-cream!

  Christine looked with distaste at Tony, Clara’s young brother. He’s scruffy, she thought. They’re all scruffy, the Pearsons and if her Mam knew she was playing with them she’d be really mad. Clara licked the dripping ice-ream. When she’d finished and the ice-cream no longer dripped, she held it out to Tony.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘but only one lick, our Tony.’ She bent down so that her face was close to her brother, whose snotty nose was running like a tap. He wore short dirty pants and his well-scuffed clogs were turned slightly in as he was extremely pigeon-toed.

  ‘You’re a little bugger, aren’t you our Tony?’ Clara said again. ‘Go on then, have a lick but don’t gobble the lot or I’ll give you a good hiding.’

  Christine watched as Clara made a face at ‘our Tony’ teasing him with the ice-cream, pulling it away when Tony tried to take it. Clara looked worse than her brother: knees grimed with dirt as though they hadn’t been washed for weeks; huge holes in her cardigan, and part of the hem of her pleated skirt had come undone and trailed almost to the ground. Christine looked down on her own immaculately pleated tartan skirt, neat jumper, white socks and polished shoes. If she got dirty her Mam would be mad!

  Tony’s hand suddenly moved like lightning. He grabbed the ice-cream and was off down the street with it like the wind. Clara gave an outraged yell. ‘Come on,’ she called to Christine. ‘Let’s get him.’

  Christine watched the rapidly retreating figures. Should she? She began to run after them and the three sped down Queen Street, dodging people and then onto Princes Road where Clara lived. When Christine arrived at the house, Clara had already dealt with her brother, judging from a loud wailing, and she was finishing off the now grubby looking and not at all appetizing wafer.

  Mrs. Pearson stood at the table (which took up a large area of the untidy room) kneading a big mound of dough with a decidedly heavy hand. Flour clung to her arms up to her elbows and there was a generous amount on her face, as well as the floor. When she saw Christine peering through the doorway she called out in her usual friendly way.

  ‘Come in, lass, come in, that is if you can find room.’ She gave one of the many children in the room a push as he tried to grab some of the dough on the table. ‘Get out of it, our Jimmy,’ she said, cuffing him again. ‘Go on you lot, go and play outside for a bit.’

  Christine looked around the none too clean back room, which was used as a kitchen cum living area and was still filled with children in spite of the fact that some had gone outside to play. Clara had told Christine that she had six brothers and three sisters and Christine had been awed into silence as she digested this. She had made a quick calculation and discovered that with Mr. & Mrs. Pearson and Clara that made twelve in the family. Twelve people in this one small house (a two up, two down terrace), which was identical to her Grandma’s house in Glebe Street only this one was a lot dirtier!

  Christine gazed in wonder at Mrs. Pearson, who was short and round like a roly poly pudding. She was so different from her Mam! Mrs. Pearson continued to knead the dough, her youngest child, two years old and just as grubby as the rest of the family, still clung to her mother’s leg. She peeped shyly at Christine with big round eyes as she sucked noisily on her thumb.

  ‘Now come on, our Mary, leave go of me leg,’ Mrs. Pearson said, trying to shake her off. ‘It’s only Christine. You know Christine. Now don’t be a big baby. Here our Nellie, get hold of Mary or she’s going to look like a flour bag’s hit her.’

  Christine edged slowly into the kitchen. Her Mam would have a fit if she could see where she was. But in spite of the crowded dirty house the Pearsons always seemed happy, especially Mrs. Pearson who laughed in her booming laugh at nothing most of the time. And Mrs. Pearson was always home when Christine visited. She hardly saw her Mam during the week because she was usually at the shop and often wouldn’t get home until after six. Not that she thought Mrs. Pearson was a patch on her mother. Oh, no never! She thought her Mam was lovely! She made beautiful clothes and she always looked beautiful as well, but still, it would have been nice to get home from school and see her mother standing at the table, her arms in flour and good smell coming from the oven.

  And of course their house was a lot cleaner than this and she looked uneasily around her, remembering suddenly that her mother had told her only yesterday that a lot of people in Princes Road had nits. She looked around fearfully again, as though expecting an army of ‘nits and donkeys’ to come marching in the door, or out from under the carpet. She studied the children worriedly and was relieved to see that none of them seemed to be itching, which was evidently a sign that you had them.

  She edged slowly towards the chair indicated by Mrs. Pearson, stepping over discarded saucepan lids, pieces of cardboard, a large spoon, an old dish and various other odds and ends. An old and extremely dirty rag doll with no face and only one arm lay on the chair and Christine picked it up gingerly before sitting down.

  Mrs. Pearson smiled at Christine. Half her front teeth were missing. Christine was shocked. She could never imagine her Mam with no teeth! It looked really horrible. She only just managed to repress a shudder.

  ‘Just throw that thing on the floor,’ Mrs. Pearson said, indicating the doll. ‘That’ll not make much difference. Ee, it’s always like a pig-sty in here, there’re all that untidy.’

  Christine smiled timidly and watched Mrs. Pearson thump and roll until a large, almost round thin piece of pastry took shape. She put it on a large pie dish and then ladelled wimberries into it. Christine’s mouth watered. Wimberry pie! She loved wimberry pie! Mrs. Pearson deftly rolled another piece of pastry and placed it on top of the wimberries, pressed the edges together, lifted the plate on one hand and cut off the overhanging bits, her movements like lightning as the plate seemed to whiz around on her hand like a top.

  ‘Well, that’s done,’ Mrs. Pearson exclaimed in satisfaction as she put the pie in the oven. Now all I’ve got to do is the apple pie, then I’ve finished.’

  Apple pie as well, Christine thought longingly. Clara was so lucky to have a mother who could cook. They had nice f
ood at home, but it was often bought at the Palatine and although she liked it, it wasn’t like homemade, not like her Grandma made, anyway.

  Then she felt guilty. Her mother didn’t have the time for a lot of cooking, but still, and she looked again at the apple pie Mrs. Pearson was now making, it would have been nice to go home to homemade wimberry!

  Thinking about home made her look quickly at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was making a loud ticking noise so it must be working, although one of the small legs had come off and it was leaning as though it would topple over any minute. It was half past four, she thought proudly, for not many in her class could tell the time properly and some of them were seven and she had only just turned six!

  She sidled off the chair. ‘I’ll have to go now, Mrs. Pearson. Me and Stephen have to pick Julia up at the nursery before five o’clock.’

  Mrs. Pearson wiped her hands on a ragged bit of cloth. ‘Aye, all right then, love; would you like a piece of parkin to eat going home?’

  Christine thought again of all the germs and nits and reluctantly declined. ‘No thank you, Mrs. Pearson.’ She looked over to where Clara was sitting on the settee. ‘I’m going now, Clara, ta-ra.’

  ‘Aye, ta-ra, thanks for the ice-cream.’

  Christine walked up Queen Street, looking in all the shop windows, the haberdashery shop, the butchers, Smithson’s cake shop, which didn’t have much in it at the moment. She saw Stephen further up. She called and waved and he looked up from a conversation he was having with some boys. He lifted his hand slightly. Christine hurried on, smiling. Ee, she loved their Stephen! Oh, she’d forgotten, she was not to say ‘their Stephen’ or even ‘our Stephen’ or ‘ee’ because her mother said it was too ‘colloqy’ or something or other. But it was hard not to when everyone else said it and she’d even heard her mother say it once or twice, and then quickly correct herself. She was also having difficulty putting all the ‘h’s’ in the right place and saying my Mam instead of me Mam.