Amidst the warm smell of fried bacon they sat down: Mike and Elizabeth on one side of the table, Michael and Mary Ann on the other.
Michael ate hurriedly, his eyelids blinking as his thoughts darted to and fro in his mind.
‘Don’t gollop your food,’ Lizzie cautioned him, and Mary Ann, crunching a crisp piece of bacon rind, added slyly, ‘He’s hurrying to get to the bus stop to meet Lena Ratcliffe.’
‘I’m not! I’m not!’ His face scarlet, and almost choking on his food, Michael glared at Mary Ann.
‘Yes, you are; you both talk swanky.’ She now proceeded to pull her nose down and lengthen her upper lip until it completely covered her lower one, whilst she mimicked, ‘My form mistress . . . my form master.’
‘You—’ Michael was on his feet.
‘Sit down. Sit down.’ Mike’s voice was gentle to his son. But to his beloved daughter his voice took on a sternness: ‘And you get on with your breakfast if you don’t want your backside skelped.’
Mary Ann took this threat for what it was worth. Her head wagged, and she continued her breakfast in hurt silence. And in the quiet that followed, her thoughts returned to the troublesome problem that must be straightened out before she went to school. She must make quite sure that a heifer was a bull, for as soon as she should set her foot in the school yard this morning Sarah Flannagan would start again trying to be clever and making on she knew everything.
This time she appealed to her mother, saying, ‘Ma, isn’t a heifer a baby bull?’
Lizzie almost looked startled. ‘A baby . . . ?’ She did not finish but glanced towards Mike. But Mike was very intent on his breakfast.
‘A baby bull?’ Michael’s voice now was full of scorn. ‘You’re daft!’
‘It is! It is!’ Mary Ann attacked him.
‘Now stop that shouting,’ Lizzie cautioned her, ‘and go and wash your hands.’
‘But, Ma, isn’t it? I must tell Sarah Flannagan.’
Mary Ann’s face looked full of misery.
‘But why do you want to tell Sarah that?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Because she talks potty,’ said Mary Ann. ‘She says it isn’t a bull, she says it’s nothing. She says her ma says it becomes a cow when it gets married.’
There was a great spluttering and choking. Mike had been in the act of drinking his last mouthful of tea; now most of it sprayed across the table. Rising swiftly, he went into the scullery.
Mary Ann watched the scullery door until he reappeared. He was red in the face. ‘I’m afraid Sarah’s got one on you this time,’ he said.
‘But, Da—’
‘Now, now, it’s no use arguing that point. Sarah’s right.’
‘Aw, but—’
‘Look. Get your hands washed this minute!’
And Lizzie enforced this command by pushing Mary Ann from the table towards the scullery. Then her glance met Mike’s, and her silent laughter joined his.
‘Trust Nellie Flannagan,’ said Mike, under his breath, ‘to bring the sanctity of marriage to a cow.’
Lizzie walked with Mary Ann to the gate. Her daughter was looking anything but pleased – the fact that Sarah had scored over her had the power to darken her sky, and, incidentally, to put her in a fighting mood. If Mary Ann’s retaliation could be directed solely against Sarah this morning, Lizzie would not have felt the slightest qualm. But before Mary Ann would meet Sarah she would meet Lena, and the farm manager’s daughter had in an odd way assumed the embodiment of a threat to the family’s newfound security. She wanted at this moment to bend down and grasp hold of Mary Ann’s hand and beg of her, ‘Be nice to Lena, will you? And don’t brag about Mr Lord.’
As if Mary Ann had heard the echo of Mr Lord’s name, she looked up at her mother and said, ‘If the Lord – I mean Mr Lord – comes afore the bus he’ll take us into Jarrow, and if he does can I spend me bus fare, Ma?’
‘No,’ said Lizzie, buttoning up the collar of Mary Ann’s mackintosh. ‘You’ve done that twice this week already. It’s to go into your money box. Don’t forget Christmas isn’t so far off. And Mary Ann—’ Lizzie paused and adjusted the round school hat.
‘Yes, Ma?’
‘Don’t be cheeky to Lena, will you?’
The stark injustice of this remark widened Mary Ann’s brown eyes and brought her mouth to a button.
‘I’m not, Ma. She’s cheeky to me, and always swanking. She’s—’
‘All right! All right! Only I’m telling you. And pay heed. Go on now.’ Lizzie kissed the pained face, then with a push sent Mary Ann on her way down the lane. She watched her until she reached the bend, and when the child turned and gave a desultory wave she waved back, then went thoughtfully into the cottage.
The bus stop was at the crossroads and was indicated by a heap of gravel lying by the side of the road at the foot of a signpost, one arm of which pointed to Gateshead and the other to Shields. At the far side of the gravel stood Lena Ratcliffe, a thickset yet tall girl of eleven. Her hair was brown and fluffy, and her face could have been pretty had it not shown so much petulance. Michael was standing somewhat self-consciously in front of the heap and Mary Ann on the near side. Each was constrained. Mary Ann, not because of the presence of the other two, but because once again she had been put in the wrong . . . Her ma saying, ‘Don’t be cheeky to Lena!’ She had never been half as cheeky to Lena as she had wanted to be. If she’d done all the things she’d wanted to do to Lena her ma might have room to talk. She often wanted to butt her in the stomach, or knock her into the big pig trough.
But the thought of Lena vanished as a large black car turned the bend and moved swiftly towards them. Simultaneously the two girls stepped onto the road. Mary Ann said nothing, only her eyes widened and her face took on a look of happy expectancy, not unmixed with self-satisfied propriety.
As the car drew to a halt, Lena, with studied dignity, went to the window and said, ‘Good morning, Mr Lord. May I sit in the front?’
Mr Lord did not return the greeting. His brows were beetling over the top of his eyes, shadowing the deep blue to black, his white moustache was bristling on his pursed upper lip, and his whole attitude expressed barely controlled rage.
‘Get in the back.’
With a sound like. ‘Huh!’ Lena opened the door and climbed into the back seat.
Michael, who was standing behind Mary Ann, said respectfully and a little apprehensively, ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Morning. Get in.’
Michael got in and sat beside Lena.
With the air of a duchess taking her rightful place, Mary Ann now opened the front door of the car and wriggled herself onto the seat.
‘Hallo!’ She grinned at the old man – the Lord, as she always thought of him.
He cast a swift sidelong glance at her. A light gleamed in the shadows of his eyes for a moment; his moustache moved, and he muttered something that could have been ‘Hallo!’
As the car bounded forward, Lena placed her head between Mary Ann and Mr Lord, and in her politest tone, which was saying a great deal, she said, ‘It’s very kind of you to take us into Jarrow, Mr Lord. Mammy says we do appreciate it.’
Mr Lord’s shoulder jerked, and Mary Ann, making an imperceptible movement nearer to him, forced Lena to remove her head. She glanced up at him, wondering if he appreciated the move she had made. But he was intent on his driving; and just as her father’s silence often warned her when to keep her tongue quiet, her quick perception bade her to do so now.
Lena, in her condescending, prim way, was talking to Michael, and for quite some distance the one-sided conversation centred on school. There she goes again, thought Mary Ann, always swanking . . . and he wants to be quiet. He’ll go for her. I hope he does.
Her own silence gave her a definite feeling of superiority, which would have continued for the remainder of the journey had not Lena changed her topic to one which annoyed her more than did the described glories of the high school. Lena was once again mesmerising Michael with
the splendour of the big house she had lived in before coming north. It was a lovely house, she was saying, big and white, with japonica all round.
Mary Ann’s self-denial was weighed and found wanting. Mr Lord’s unspoken demand for quiet could not stand up to the desire to do a bit of swanking on her own account, so she screwed herself round, bringing her chin to the top of the seat.
‘Us used to live in a big house an’ all,’ she said. She ignored the flushed face of her brother and his look which was plainly saying, ‘Shut up, you fool.’
Mulhattans’ Hall and the garrets at the top in which they had lived were still painfully clear in Michael’s mind, and try as he might he could not wholly remove the dread of returning there.
Staring coldly back at Mary Ann, and with cutting correctness and ignoring the subject matter of the conversation, Lena said, ‘You shouldn’t say “Us used to”; you should say “We used to”.’
Now it was Mary Ann’s turn to colour. But if she was aware of her facial betrayal she ignored it, and replied with a well-feigned airiness, even adding emphasis, ‘It was us – me da and ma, and me and our Michael.’
‘Be quiet, and don’t be so soft!’
Michael’s censorious tone brought her battling to her knees. She might have to be civil to Lena Ratcliffe, but their Michael was a different kettle of fish.
‘You! Who d’you think—?’
‘Sit down this minute!’
The thunder of Mr Lord’s voice shut off her own as if with a switch. Slowly she slipped into a sitting position again, and into the purring silence came Lena’s polite tones, this time addressed directly to Mr Lord. ‘It is “We used to”, isn’t it, Mr Lord?’ And to Mary Ann’s utter astonishment, amazement, indignation and mystification, Mr Lord answered quietly but also with emphasis, ‘Yes, it is . . . “We used to”.’
After staring at Mr Lord’s stiff profile for almost a quarter of a mile Mary Ann looked ahead again. He had said that! He had taken Lena Ratcliffe’s part, even though he didn’t like her. Without any proof but that of her intuition, she knew this. Mr Lord was hers. He might be the owner of a shipyard and run the farm as a hobby; he might be the man whom people were afraid of; but he had given her da a job when she had gone to him and asked him even though he had refused this to Father Owen and had once sacked her da from his yard.
It was when her ma had been going to leave her da, after their Michael had tried to gas himself, that she had got up in the dark and gone right out into the country and squeezed under the barbed wire round Mr Lord’s great house and knocked on his door. And the old servant had wanted to throw her out and had told the Lord she was loopy because she had said that the Holy Family had sent her to tell him what a grand man her da was with cows and things. Mr Lord had taken a bit of convincing, but he had given her da the job after she had made him laugh.
She liked to make him laugh – he had nobody to make him laugh, stuck in that big house all on his own. And what was more, he always believed everything she said; not like Sarah Flannagan and Lena Ratcliffe and their Michael, and even her ma and da at times. Even these last two, in varying degrees, doubted her word; but never Mr Lord. She had even told Sarah Flannagan in front of him that he was her granda, and he had believed her. He was hers.
The car came to a stop and Michael got out, saying in an awkward fashion, ‘Thank you, sir.’
Mr Lord nodded abruptly and drove on. The car stopped again, but Lena did nothing so common as get out. She alighted, definitely pleased with herself, and said, ‘Thank you so much, Mr Lord. And goodbye.’
Again Mr Lord nodded and drove on. And yet again he stopped. This time he leant across Mary Ann and opened the door.
Without glancing at him, she slid off the seat and onto the pavement, then turned a pained, blank countenance towards him.
‘Ta.’
‘Don’t say “Ta”, say “Thank you”.’
Mary Ann’s eyes popped.
Mr Lord’s brows, like miniature sweeping brushes, moved up and down as he glared at the small elfin figure on the pavement. ‘Don’t you know when to use “us” and “we”? What do they teach you at school?’
Closing her mouth and trying to still its trembling, she muttered, ‘Sums and things.’
‘Don’t they teach you grammar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then don’t say “us” when it should be “we”.’
They stared at each other, the very small girl and the tall, bristling old man. Then, swinging round, Mary Ann darted like a rabbit up the street towards the school gate. And if she heard him call her name she took no heed . . . she was hurt and bewildered, she wanted to go to the lavatory and cry and cry. But this solace was denied her, for waiting for her, together with a number of cronies, was Sarah Flannagan, and the change in sex of a heifer had to be faced and somehow got over.
It had been an awful day. Sarah Flannagan had crowed about the heifer during the two playtimes, even going as far as to produce a book which said that a heifer was a young cow. And Miss Thompson had been awful, too; she was always awful; she was even worse than Miss Johnson, and had never been impressed by the grandness of her da or his new job, or the cottage, or even Mr Lord. And if knowing Mr Lord didn’t make people sit up and take notice of you, nothing would.
Mary Ann closed her desk and marched out with the others to the cloakroom. There, her best friend, Cissy Bailey, told her that she would be unable to set her to the bus stop as she had to go straight home and mind the baby ’cos her ma was going into Shields. And when her next best friend, Agnes Wilkins, said she couldn’t come either because she had to go home and have her shoes mended, the world for Mary Ann became dull, almost dead. She’d have to walk the length of three long streets without an admiring audience – all her grandiose thoughts would be wasted!
She turned from them in a huff and marched away, determined never to speak to either of them again . . . and after her sharing her taffy with them an’ all!
The need for Cissy’s and Agnes’ support became more apparent as she passed through the school gateway, for there, waiting for her, was Sarah with three of her friends. Against all rules, they remained silent as she passed them with her chin cocked in the air. And even when she had gone some distance they didn’t shout after her, which was most unusual. Her curiosity forced her to look round. Although they weren’t calling they were following her, and Sarah’s dark, vicious face had a leer on it that Mary Ann knew portended no good. Nevertheless, she could not resist the opportunity of showing that lot, and Sarah in particular, that she wasn’t afraid of them. And she did so by sticking out her tongue and wagging it violently.
This indeed was the signal for retaliation, and it came in the form of a chant, Sarah’s voice being louder than the others’:
‘Swanky Shaughnessy – there she goes:
Two boss eyes and turned-in toes;
She cannot even wipe her nose.
Swanky Shaughnessy – there she goes!’
Mary Ann’s gait became dignified. The serpent of pride slithered round inside her – it was nice to be called swanky. But it was usual, of course, to deny it strongly, saying, ‘I’m not! I’m not!’ And this would be accompanied by a bobbing of the head. But on this occasion she did not retort; she was alone against four, and she was wise enough to know how far she could go. It would have been different had Cissy or Agnes been with her; then she could have revelled in the battle of tongues.
Suddenly the swanky feeling disappeared, swept away by Sarah’s voice alone chanting:
‘Pig’s belly,
Wobble jelly;
Pig’s fat,
Dirty cat;
Pig’s skin,
Double chin;
Pig’s cheek,
Shiny beak;
Pig’s lug,
Ugly mug—
And that’s Mary Ann Shaughnessy!’
Oh . . . h! Her lips were pursed, and her face was wearing its tightest buttoned-up look. Just wait, she’d let her
have it. Wait till the bus was just going so she couldn’t get at her, and she’d yell, ‘Pig’s snout, you great big lout!’
She turned into the street where the bus stop was, and Sarah and her cronies were for the moment wiped from her mind, for there, standing near the lamp-post, was Lena Ratcliffe. She was staring at the back of Mitchell’s factory wall. Lena never caught the bus at this stop, she caught it near the cemetery. What was she doing here? Perhaps she had to go a message. Mary Ann was overcome with an uneasiness quite inexplicable to herself. But she knew she did not want Lena Ratcliffe to meet Sarah Flannagan, so, forming her own rearguard action, she turned on the advancing girls.
‘Go on. Stop following me.’
‘Huh! Listen to her,’ said Sarah. ‘Who d’you think you are? Is it your street now?’
‘I’ll tell me da on you, mind.’
‘Ho! ho! ho! Sarah bellowed derisively. ‘I’ll tell me da! Did you hear her? I’ll tell me da! Her da!’
Boiling inwardly, Mary Ann was forced to move on, until she came up to Lena. Lena was still staring at the wall on which there was some large writing in red and white chalk. But becoming aware of Mary Ann, she turned and looked down on her, and her expression was puzzling, for it was triumphant and very like Sarah Flannagan’s when she had scored a victory.
Lena said nothing, no word of greeting, but slowly she looked at the wall again. Mary Ann’s eyes were drawn to it, and with sagging jaw she read: ‘mary ann shaughnessy is a big liar and her da’s a drunken no-good and everybody knows it.’
The new life seemed to drain from Mary Ann’s body as she stood gazing at the large chalked words, and the old life crept back, making her shiver – the old life she knew before they went to the farm to live, the life that was full of sickness and fear.
The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 2
