It was not because Sarah had written that she was a big liar, and it was not the first time that Sarah had called her da a drunken no-good, but it was because Lena had read it. Her mother’s voice came to her with that strange quality it had held this morning when she said, ‘Don’t be cheeky to Lena.’ It was as if her ma was afraid. Of what, Mary Ann could not exactly explain, yet it was to do with Lena, or her mother, or her father – and her own da.
A hot sick feeling of anxiety filled her. If anything should happen to her da . . . If he should lose his job, and all through Sarah Flannagan . . . suddenly the anxiety and fear fled before a wave of fury which seemed to animate every inch of her. She turned to where Sarah was standing in the gutter grinning, and she leapt at her, tearing at her hair with her hands and using her feet against the taller girl’s shins. For a moment, Sarah was taken off her guard. But it was only for a moment. She struck out and slapped Mary Ann such a ringing blow across the ear that Mary Ann’s anger was knocked completely out of her, together with her wind. Her feet left the ground, and she found herself lying where Sarah had been standing.
Sarah was now on the pavement, being comforted by her friends. There was a deep scratch down the length of her cheek, and her face was dark with both pain and anger. She glared down at Mary Ann and cried, ‘I’ll get you wrong for this, so I will. Wait till I tell me ma. And your da isn’t any good . . . he is a drunk, a great big drunk! And me ma says she gives him six months in that job afore he’s thrown out; and you’ll all be glad to come crawling back to Mulhattans’ Hall!’
On this enlightening tirade, Sarah flung round, and together with her cronies marched off. From a sitting position Mary Ann watched them. No one of them seemed to be walking straight; nothing was straight, the houses, the pavement . . . or Lena . . . And Lena had heard.
The fury was gone, and her mind was once again full of the dark foreboding. It did not lessen as she pulled herself to her feet and looked towards the disdainful girl coldly surveying her. With a definite look of pleading in her eyes, and in an almost humble voice, Mary Ann said, ‘You don’t believe her, do you, Lena – what she said about me da – what’s on the wall? Cos me da doesn’t drink, he never even goes into a bar. You’ve never seen him go into the village bar, have you?’
She waited for an answer. But Lena’s only reply was to lift her chin and to shrug her shoulders.
The bus came round the corner. Mary Ann watched Lena move to the edge of the kerb and stick her arm straight out. She looked down at her own hands, all mud, and at her coat and stockings, thick with dirt. If she went home like this her ma would get out of her what had happened, and she’d be upset.
The bus stopped, and Lena got on, but Mary Ann stood where she was. It wasn’t even any satisfaction to her to witness Lena’s surprised expression through the window as the bus moved off without her.
For quite some time Mary Ann stood, her fingers trying to still her trembling lips. Then she thought of Mrs McBride. She would go to her . . . Mrs McBride would clean her up.
‘Did you wallop her?’ asked Mrs McBride.
‘I scratched her face.’
‘Well, I hope it was a good long scratch.’
Fanny McBride held up Mary Ann’s coat, saying, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon be as good as new. Go and wash your hands and knees, then have a sup of tea, an’ you’ll feel your old self again.’
‘Me da won’t lose his job ’cos Lena knows, will he?’
Mrs McBride let out a disdainful laugh which shook her fat and made the myriad wrinkles on her face quiver. ‘Lose his job? I should say not! And after Mr Lord taking such a fancy to you.’
‘Sarah said we’d have to come back here and live.’
‘Not on your life. That ’un’s like her mother, her venom would poison a rattlesnake. Anyway’ – Fanny turned on Mary Ann – ‘where’s that old spunk of yours? Surely if you could manage Sarah Flannagan and Mr Lord, you’re a match enough for this Lena, or whoever she is.’
‘But her da’s me da’s boss, and he doesn’t like him very much.’
‘Who? Your da or his boss?’
‘Mr Ratcliffe doesn’t like me da.’
‘Who said so?’
‘Well, he’s always giving him the worst jobs, and Mr Jones says he wouldn’t stand for it.’
‘What does your da say?’
‘Nothing. He just gets on with his work.’
‘And a good job, too. Does Mr Lord say anything?’
‘No. But he’s not nice to me da, or pleasant, or anything.’
‘If I know old Lord, is he ever pleasant? Is he pleasant to the others?’
‘No. He’s grumpy all the time except to me. And he was grumpy with me this morning ’cos I said “us” instead of “we”.’
‘Oh my God!’ Fanny put her hand to her head. ‘The people who go in for fine words! You stick to your guns and don’t let them make a lady out of you, or you’ll turn into another Mrs Flannagan and choke yourself.’
‘I don’t want to be like her,’ said Mary Ann with emphasis. ‘I won’t let them make a lady out of me.’
‘That’s the ticket. Now go and get washed.’
Mary Ann did as she was told, then had her sup of tea and an inch-thick slice of bread and dripping whilst Fanny cleaned her coat. And when she was ready to go again she stood at the door and smiled up at the old woman. ‘Me da always talks about you, Mrs McBride.’
‘Does he now? Well, I hope he says something good.’
‘Yes, he does. He says to me ma that he misses your patter.’
Fanny let out a laugh. ‘Does he so? Well I miss him an’ all, tell him. I miss you all more than you know. But go now, else you’ll miss that bus again, and it’ll be black dark. And tell your ma I’ll be over to see her. Goodbye now.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs McBride . . . and ta . . . thanks for me coat and the tea.’ Mary Ann ran down the steps. She felt better now; she always felt better after talking with Mrs McBride, because Mrs McBride liked her da and she liked people who liked her da.
But once in the street she did not hurry, because she wasn’t going to catch the quarter-to-five bus. She was late now and she would likely get wrong in any case, so she would catch the quarter past five, for there were two things she must do – she must pay a visit to the Holy Family and chalk out the writing on the wall. The thought of the Holy Family caused her conscience to move restlessly. She had neglected them for weeks, because there had been nothing to ask them to do, because everything had been nice, but now there would be plenty for them to get on with if things were to remain nice.
With somewhat of the air of a culprit she entered the church and made her way to the side altar. But for a half-moon of candles burning below the altar and the sanctuary lamp, the church was in darkness. But it was not a darkness that could frighten Mary Ann.
She knelt, looking up at the three figures. They looked warm, drawn together in the candlelight; only the Virgin’s face was in shadow under her blue hood. After gazing at them for some time, she felt their expressions changing, and her eyes slid down to her joined hands. They looked a bit vexed ’cos she hadn’t been here for months; they looked like her granny used to look when she went down to Shields to visit her. ‘You only come when you’re dragged or when you want something,’ her granny would say. But in this present case she had a defence, for she prayed to them in her night prayers, and she looked across the church at them when she was at Mass. But still, it wasn’t the same as paying a visit.
She raised her eyes and began, ‘I’m sorry, Jesus, Mary and Joseph; I know I should have come afore, after all you did for us . . . getting me da the job and us the cottage, and putting our Michael to the Grammar School, and making me ma happy. But I’ve been so full up with things. And it gets dark at nights and I’ve got to catch the half-past-four bus else me ma worries.’
This thought stopped her colloquy . . . Eeh! Her ma would be worrying now. Well, it was no use, it was done. She had missed the quarter-to-five
. . . She returned to her prayers.
‘I’ve come to tell you, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what Sarah Flannagan did. She wrote something on the wall about me da. And Lena Ratcliffe saw it, and if she tells her ma and da they might . . . ’ She stopped again, unable to find words to formulate the vague uneasiness that filled her should the knowledge that her da had drunk heavily ever reach the ears of the farm manager and his wife. She did not reason to herself that Mr Lord had engaged her father, and that only he could sack him, for she could feel that there were ways and means of bringing about the desired result other than by direct assault . . . subtle, frightening ways.
She began again, ‘Well, they might think me da was a bad man, and you know he’s not, you know he’s the finest da in the world. And he hasn’t been . . . sick, even a little bit since we went to the farm. But if Lena tells her ma about him . . . ’ She paused and glanced down. ‘I don’t like Lena Ratcliffe. Me ma says I’ve got to be nice to her, but she’s like me granny and Sarah Flannagan, and I can’t. And she’s swanky and thinks she’s somebody ’cos her da’s the farm boss. And she’s jealous of the Lord liking me. Yes, she is.’ Her thoughts were loud in her head and the three members of the Holy Family brought their frowns to bear on her.
Eeh! What had she said?
Their censure weighed her down, and her head drooped again and she muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’ But somehow this did not seem adequate, for they still looked ratty, so she added the confessional formula, ‘I’m very sorry I have sinned against Thee and by the help of Thy Holy Grace I’ll never sin again.’ But even this did not soften them; so, self-consciously blessing herself, she stood up, genuflected, then walked up the church and into the blackness.
At the font she blessed herself with the holy water, and stood for a moment thinking: ‘And just because I said that . . . Well, she is jealous – I don’t care.’ It was on this bold and wicked note she went to open the swing door that led into the porch, but as she touched it, it swung in on her, and for the second time that evening she found herself sitting on her bottom. It was as if the Holy Family with one accord had knocked her there.
‘In the name of goodness, child, have I hurt you?’ Father Owen picked her up and peered at her. ‘Why, it’s Mary Ann. Are you hurt?’
‘No, Father.’
She didn’t sound quite sure.
‘What you doing here so late? You should have been home by now.’
‘I’ve been to Mrs McBride’s, and I missed the bus, Father, so I thought I’d pay a visit to the Holy Family.’ She hesitated to add what they had done to her through the instrument of himself.
‘A very good thought an’ all. And now are you all right?’ He led her out to the church door, and there, in the light from a street lamp, he looked at her. ‘You’re a bit white. Did I hurt you now?’
‘No, Father . . . no.’
‘That’s all right then.’
He still continued to stare at her, his hand placed firmly on the top of her hat. ‘Is anything wrong, Mary Ann?’
‘No, Father.’
He paused awhile. ‘Is your da all right?’
‘Oh yes . . . yes, Father.’
‘He hasn’t . . . ?’
‘No, no, no.’ She brought the denial out rapidly. She couldn’t bear that the priest should even say the word, even if he should say sick instead of drunk. ‘Me da’s fine, and so’s me ma and our Michael.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that . . . Now, you’re sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Then off you go. Goodnight, my child.’
‘Goodnight, Father.’
Mary Ann turned away, but before re-entering the church the priest gazed after her for a moment, and he scratched the sparse grey hair above his ear. He knew Mary Ann, none better, and there was something wrong with her, or else he was a Dutchman . . .
Mary Ann glanced into Harry Siddon’s, the watchmaker. His big clock said five minutes past five. In the light from his window she groped in her school bag and found a piece of chalk. Then she started to run; she’d just have time to scratch the words out before the bus came.
As she turned into Frank Street she saw with relief that there was no one waiting by the stop, so nobody would make any remark when she began to chalk the wall.
The down bus had stopped on the opposite side of the road, and as it moved on a man came hurrying from behind it. He stepped onto the pavement just as she reached the wall.
‘Mary Ann!’
So great was the start she gave that the chalk sprang from her hand.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘To . . . to Mrs McBride’s, Da.’
‘Why couldn’t you tell your mother you were going?’
‘I didn’t know I was going, Da.’
She could see he was flaming mad, the kind he got when he was worried; he seemed twice as tall and twice as broad. She didn’t really mind him being mad at her, she’d rather him be mad at her than at her ma or their Michael, but she was worried nevertheless.
‘Lena said you were fighting. Who were you fighting with?’
‘Sarah Flannagan.’
‘Sarah Flannagan!’ he repeated. ‘If you don’t stop it I’ll take the hide off you. D’you hear?’
She made no answer.
‘You’re like a hooligan.’
They were staring at each other, the father and the daughter, and as a mighty ship can be turned by the slightest touch on the wheel, she turned him to face the road. She did it by holding his eye and moving towards the kerb. Whatever happened he mustn’t see what was on the wall. He could be as mad as a hatter with her now but the morrow they’d be all right again . . . But if he saw what was on the wall . . .
He stood now looking across the road and talking at her. He had his hands in his pockets so that he would not be softened by her touch. She stood a little away from him, her head down, pretending that she was sulking . . . And then she remembered her chalk. It was the only piece she had and she’d dropped it. All the subtlety of her past manoeuvre was lost in turning to retrieve the chalk.
Mike turned and watched her looking on the pavement. He saw her pick up a piece of chalk, and as if it were activated by a malevolent power and wanted to point out to him its purpose, it caused Mary Ann to raise her eyes to the wall. Mike’s gaze followed hers, and before she could swing round again to the kerb he had read what was there.
After one glance at his face Mary Ann stared at the road again.
‘Give me that chalk.’
Silently she handed him the chalk but she did not look at him as he scrubbed out the words. When the scraping stopped he came to the kerb again and handed her all that was left, a tiny stump. Then he took her hand and held it tightly in his.
When Sarah Flannagan had knocked her into the gutter she hadn’t cried; when the priest had knocked her onto her bottom and she’d thought her hip bones were coming through her shoulders she hadn’t cried; but now the tears came into her throat and the pain of them choked her and dragged from her a groan. Mike’s hands came about her and she was lifted into his arms, and as the bus came she turned her head into his coat so that the people should not see.
Chapter Two: Going Up in the World
‘Come on, man, and have a pint. What’s a Saturda’ afternoon for?’ Mr Jones adjusted his cap and buttoned up his coat. ‘What’re you going to do with yersel’?’
Mike gave a short laugh. ‘I can find plenty to do with meself. I’ve got that back garden to dig.’
‘Oh, to hell, man. Come on, the back garden’ll be there when you’re not. Look, there’s no use in working night and day. What’s life for? I’m like yersel’, I mean to get on, but I’m not goin’ to work me guts out. I’ll go up in the world without doing that, ye’ll see. Are you comin’?’
‘Da, can I weed?’
Mike turned and looked at Mary Ann standing in the doorway. ‘Yes, get on with it,’ he said, somewhat shortly.
But Mary Ann did n
ot go and get on with it; she stared at Mr Jones. She had come to a definite decision about Mr Jones: she didn’t like him. He was always egging her da on to do something or other, and she was terrified that repetition would wear Mike down and that one Saturday he would go with Mr Jones to the village bar.
The four men on the farm had alternate Saturday afternoons off, and every other Saturday, when Mike and he were off together, Mr Jones would repeat his invitation. He liked Mike. He considered him a man’s man, but he couldn’t understand why he was sticking so hard to the water wagon. He guessed that it was his wife who was at the bottom of it. She was a bit high-hat, at least his missis thought so. But then Clara thought everyone high-hat who was different from herself. She had to remember, as he was continually pointing out to her, that they were lucky to have the Shaughnessys as neighbours, for they didn’t grumble about having their rightful half of the yard.
The yard behind the cottages had once been part of a second stable yard, and no dividing fence separated the cottages. The two back doors and the kitchen and bedroom windows all faced the yard. Except for a rain barrel, a lean-to and a stack of logs the Shaughnessys’ side was clear, but on the Jones’ side was a conglomeration of old motorbikes because Mr Jones was mechanical-minded.
‘Mary Ann!’ Lizzie called from the kitchen; and Mary Ann, going hurriedly into the room, said, ‘I’m going to weed, Ma.’
‘Stay in here a minute.’
‘But Ma.’
‘Sit down, I say, and leave your da alone.’
‘But Ma, Mr Jones . . . ’ Mary Ann sat down without finishing.
‘You needn’t worry about Mr Jones,’ said Lizzie.
Screwing uneasily on her chair, Mary Ann watched her mother hanging the cups of the new half set of china she had bought that morning on the hooks of the dresser. She watched her stand back and survey the result. But all the time her irritation was rising, and when there came the clatter of Mike’s boots on the stones of the yard, she jumped up, asking eagerly, ‘Can I go now, Ma?’
The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 3
