The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Yes – yes, very.’

  ‘Me ma made it all herself . . . she knew he’ – nodding her head as though towards Ben in the kitchen – ‘could never manage one. She sent something for him an’ all. I’ve got it here in me pocket; it’s three hankies. They were one and elevenpence ha’penny each.’

  Mr Lord turned from contemplating the cake. ‘Your mother is very kind – very thoughtful. It’s a long time since I had a home-made Christmas cake; or Ben . . . any hankies.’

  ‘You’ll like it. And she didn’t put all marge in either, like ours; she put half butter in yours.’

  Slowly Mr Lord smiled, and putting his hand on her head he wobbled it gently back and forth, and moving towards a chair he guided her to it.

  Standing beside his knee she gazed down on his blue-veined hand lying along the arm of the chair and wondered how she would begin to make her request. She took her finger and gently traced a knotted vein to where it disappeared under his cuff, but this meditation gave her no clue.

  ‘What are you going to get for Christmas?’

  Quickly now she looked up at him – here was the opening. ‘I’m gonna get a school bag and a box of paints, but’ – she added, her face taking on a melancholy look – ‘that’s not what I want.’

  ‘It isn’t? What do you want?’ He bent over her, his eyes narrowed with inquiry.

  ‘Well, you see, it’s a different thing to what you get in your stocking.’

  His head came down to hers and he whispered mysteriously, ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Ah, that’s telling.’

  Mary Ann stared at him. He couldn’t know, but he was in a fine temper, and that augured only good. ‘You can’t know,’ she said, ‘’cos I didn’t know meself till last night.’

  ‘Oh!’ There seemed a trace of disappointment in the old man’s face. ‘Well, come on, tell me what it is.’

  Mary Ann wriggled a little. She hitched up her knickers, which, no matter how tight the elastic might be, would slip down. She put her head first on one side then on the other, then, keeping her eyes lowered and tracing her finger round his hand again, she said, ‘You know the house you’re going to get built? Well, I know the man who’s going to build it.’

  Puzzled, Mr Lord’s brows drew together.

  ‘It’s Mr Quinton, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but what of it? What’s that got to do with your Christmas box?’

  ‘That’s it – that’s me Christmas box. I don’t want him to build it.’

  Utter perplexity showed in Mr Lord’s face. His turkey neck fell into deeper folds as he drew his chin in; his lips attempted to meet his nose and his eyes became pinpoints of pale-blue light; but he said nothing – he just waited. And Mary Ann went on, eagerly now, ‘That’d be me Christmas box, if you did that . . . if you got someone else to build your house. I wouldn’t want nothing else and I’d do anything for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you want me to change my builder?’

  This was the difficult part. Mary Ann moved uneasily. ‘Well, you see, me ma knows Mr Quinton, and me da . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, me da . . . ’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Me da doesn’t like Mr Quinton to be near me ma, and me granny’s always wanting Mr Quinton to be near her, and—’

  Mr Lord rose, pushing her gently to one side; human triangles always irritated him. The part he himself had played in one had long since ceased to pain him, and people who became so involved were fools. He had been a fool once.

  He blew into his moustache and said sharply, ‘You must not talk about your parents’ affairs.’

  ‘But I can’t help it, it’s me granny . . . Will you get somebody else?’

  ‘No.’

  The syllable was final, but Mary Ann refused to recognise it. ‘But there’s lots of men who build houses.’

  ‘There might be, but I want Mr Quinton. Now we’ll say no more about it. You must not concern yourself about such things, child.’ He turned to her again and addressed her gently now. ‘Thank your mother for the cake, and come tomorrow and tell me what you get in your stocking.’ The last could have been an appeal, but it did not touch Mary Ann.

  ‘I don’t want nothing in me stocking.’

  Mr Lord sighed. He had been acquainted with this morsel of humanity for only four months but he recognised only too well the signs of battle.

  Mary Ann’s mouth was now a button. ‘I don’t want nothing off you.’ Her chin jerked at him.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Nothing . . . and I don’t care about you buying Lena Ratcliffe ballet shoes.’

  Mr Lord’s eyebrows jerked and his face showed surprise at this piece of news. He had certainly given Lena a pound, but ballet shoes . . .

  ‘She’d never be able to dance in them, anyway, she’s too big . . . like a Corporation horse.’

  Mr Lord turned quickly away, saying, ‘Well, she can but try.’

  ‘She’d look daft in a ballet dress – she’s a pig-face.’

  ‘Now, now.’

  ‘She is. And she’s a rotten, swanky, stuck-up . . . ’

  ‘Now that’s enough, quite enough. And stop shouting.’

  ‘I’m not shouting.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not, I never hope to hear you do so.’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And I’ll go to church and ask the Holy Family. They’ll stop him building the house for you, you’ll see.’

  She marched to the door, but no voice bade her come back; not even when she opened the door and halted there did Mr Lord bid her stay.

  In the dim vastness of the hall, she stood pulling at the ends of her woollen gloves with her teeth. Her temper was seeping rapidly away.

  Ben, coming from a dark corridor carrying a broom, stopped in his tracks at the sight of her. She turned and, seeing him, remembered the packet in her pocket.

  Ben’s face was a study as he watched her approach, and whatever his reactions were when she handed him the Christmas-paper wrapped packet, saying flatly, ‘Me ma sent you these and she says a Happy Christmas,’ he did not allow them to show. But he took the gift from her hand and stood staring at her. She stared back at him. Then, as if he were a confederate, friend and joint guardian with her of the master of the house, she nodded to him and whispered, ‘He’s in a bad temper, he won’t do nothing.’

  There was no word about her own temper, yet her conscience was working at a great rate and she was already thinking, Eeh! I shouldn’t have been so cheeky, and after him being so nice and kind and all. I won’t half get it if me ma knows.

  Ben watched her walk towards the drawing-room door again, open it quietly and go in, and he looked down on the first wrapped Christmas gift he’d had in years. Slowly he turned and went back into the kitchen again.

  In the drawing room once more, Mary Ann leaned her back against the door and looked towards the forbidding figure standing before the tall window looking out into the wet, unkempt garden.

  She coughed; she coughed again. Then, putting her hands behind her, she gently rattled the door handle. But Mr Lord either did not hear or did not want to hear. Reluctantly leaving the door, she walked slowly up the big room, and skirting the massive table and chairs she came to his side. Once more she coughed, quite loud this time, but its effect was lost and it did not even make him look at her. So, tentatively, with one finger she poked at his coat pocket, and concentrated her gaze on her hand as she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’

  There was quite a long pause before he turned and looked down on her. A slight tremor passed over his face but his voice showed no amusement when he said, ‘I should hope so.’

  He turned and went to the fire, and she followed him saying, ‘Are you vexed?’

  ‘No.’

&
nbsp; There seemed nothing more to say for a long while. Then, moving nearer to him, she asked, ‘Will you be going into Jarrow this mornin’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you take me in with you?’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘To church – to pay a visit to the Holy Family . . . ’ Her voice trailed off as Mr Lord groped for a chair and sat down – he always had to sit down when he laughed, for that unusual emotion seemed to shake his entire frame.

  Mary Ann, pleased and happy at the unhoped-for turn of events, stood at his knee and joined in his laughter. He was in a good mood and, who knew, he might get another builder . . . he might. She took his hand, and as his laughter rose, her voice vied with his for supremacy. She had only to keep him laughing and everything would be all right.

  Chapter Five: A Child Is Born

  When Mary Ann had a project in hand which centred round the happiness of her parents, time itself was ignored. It was only something into which she could cram her efforts. That she was answerable to her parents for what she did with her time was periodically forgotten; it had to be if she wished to achieve anything. Didn’t it stand to reason that when every part of her mind, wit and energy was being used on their behalf they should understand? And yet she did not really expect anyone to understand, for people were . . . funny, all except her da and Father Owen, and sometimes Mr Lord.

  But with him it was just sometimes, for look at him today and what he had done, or not done. Still laughing, he had left her at the church door, but had damped her spirits with his parting shot: ‘This is one time the old firm is not going to help you; you can take my word for that, Mary Ann,’ he had said. She knew by the ‘old firm’ that he meant the Holy Family, and she was downcast by his prophecy. And what was more, he seemed to be right, for she had been unable to get near Jesus, Mary or Joseph at all, not even in her mind.

  Inside the church, she had been astonished to see that the group of the Holy Family had been moved, and that in its place stood the Crib. There was some solace, however, in remembering the Star last night and what the Infant had said, but she couldn’t get a word in to talk to Him, for there were so many people inside the altar rails messing about with things. There was Miss Honeysett, the priest’s housekeeper, and two nuns, and John Findlay and Walter Hewitt, who were altar boys. You couldn’t kneel and have a talk with them about, so after saying one desultory ‘Our Father’ and three equally desultory ‘Hail Marys’ she went out into the dull, bleak day again, and decided that if she went to see Mrs McBride she might get a bit dinner. By that time they should have finished messing about with the Crib and she would come back.

  Mrs McBride was delighted to see Mary Ann. Not only did she give her a bit of dinner but kept her for nearly two hours listening to her crack, and when, just on the point of her departure, Mrs McBride’s daughter-in-law and five children swarmed in, Mary Ann was detained yet again and drawn without any hesitation into going out to play Tommy-noddy.

  This particular section of Mrs McBride’s grandchildren consisted of four boys and a girl, all under twelve, and all admirers of Mary Ann. What better company in which to meet Sarah Flannagan? And they were no sooner on the street than Sarah made her appearance. She advanced on Mary Ann with slow and deadly intent, exclaiming, ‘What you doing here? Get yersel’ away, this is our street.’

  Mary Ann’s courage being greatly reinforced by the McBride squadron, she not only attacked the solitary Sarah with her tongue, but also joined in the fray of pelting her. This game, however, was abruptly brought to a stop by the furious figure of Mrs Flannagan descending on the gang, as if airborne, and scattering them. Unfortunately, Mary Ann’s courage far outstrode her wisdom, and standing to make one last sally at Sarah, she was caught by the scruff of the neck and shaken like a rat by the indignant and enraged lady who, apparently, had heard nothing as yet of ‘Peace on Earth to men of goodwill’. If she had she was taking this occasion to prove the utter lack of goodwill towards her and hers by this imp of the devil, for that is what she called Mary Ann. She spoke in so loud a voice that Mrs McBride was brought to her window, and from there seemingly catapulted into the street and to Mary Ann’s defence.

  Mrs McBride was ready to do war with Lady Golightly, as she had nicknamed Mrs Flannagan, at any season of the year. Very often she didn’t wait for an excuse, but were there one to hand it helped to intensify the heat of the battle.

  Mary Ann now found herself wrenched from Mrs Flannagan’s hands and almost flung into the middle of the road. As she saw Mrs McBride going for Mrs Flannagan and Mrs Flannagan looking down her thin nose with utter scorn at the vibrating, wobbling flesh of Fanny, Mary Ann hastily made her retreat and didn’t stop running until she had reached Ormond Street, where she tidied her hair, composed herself, and thought, ‘Eeh! It’s getting dark, I’d better hurry to church, then get the bus home.’

  She expected to find the church, at this darkening hour, empty and quietly awaiting her presence and prayers, but instead, to use her own words, it was crushed full. This exaggerated impression was caused by a number of mothers with small children kneeling at various distances from the Crib, waiting to get a better view, and at the other side of the church a number of rows of seats holding scattered penitents waiting to go into Confession in preparation for the Midnight Mass Communion. She stood hesitating near the holy-water font, and definite annoyance filled her – there was a laxity of arrangement somewhere. Here she had, she told herself, been waiting all day to see the Infant Jesus and she was further away from Him than ever. It was no good waiting her turn to get near the Crib, for she’d never be able to talk to Him properly with all these people about, and she’d likely have wilful distractions at prayers, and that’d be a sin, and she’d have to tell it in Confession, and it wouldn’t be her fault.

  The thought of Confession turned her eyes towards Father Owen’s box. That was an idea. Father Owen was next to the Holy Family as the recipient of her troubles. She could talk to him to her heart’s content in the confessional box, that is, if she went in last, and she could tell him about everything, even about her da and Mr Quinton, and her confidence would be as safe as houses. For Mary Ann firmly believed what her imagination and innate desire to shield her father from all censure bid her believe; namely, that God struck a priest blind the minute he entered the confessional box, so that he, not knowing who was talking, would naturally not be able to split on the penitent should he ever be assailed by the desire to do so.

  She now went and knelt at the very end of the row, and slowly she moved upwards as, one after the other, the men and women left the pew. But bewilderment filled her when she realised that, as she had been moving up, others had been moving in, and only the fact, although somewhat belated, that she had to get home deterred her from again going to the end of the seat in the hope of being the last. Finally, when it was her turn to go into the box, she realised she had not made any of the usual preparations. But still, she told herself, it didn’t really matter, for she hadn’t committed any sins, not big ’uns, anyway.

  In the dark confessional, with her chin barely reaching the elbow rests, she looked at the dim outline of Father Owen’s face which was reflected behind the grid by the light of one candle, and she began her confession. ‘Pray, Father, give me thy blessing for I have sinned. It is five days since my last confession.’

  There was no word from the priest, so she went on: ‘I haven’t said me Grace after meals, and I punched me brother and called after Lena Ratcliffe . . . and . . . and . . . I’ve wanted to push me granny into the ditch and wished she was dead . . . ’

  ‘That’s very wicked.’

  Mary Ann stared at the grid. He didn’t know her granny; he couldn’t know her granny or he wouldn’t have said that.

  ‘Why do you wish your granny dead?’

  ‘It’s because she doesn’t like me da, Father, and she’s trying to take me ma away from him, like she did afore.’

  The priest’s head turned s
harply, and with his sightless eyes he peered down at Mary Ann. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.

  Mary Ann told him why she thought so. Without once mentioning a name she gave him exact details about the building of the house by Mr Quinton. In fact, she also informed herself, as she talked, of what would happen. It became like a picture unfolding in her mind. She could see Mr Quinton in their kitchen, and her da coming in and looking mad . . .

  She became so lost in her story that the priest checked her with ‘All right, all right.’ She stopped and waited, and listened to Father Owen coughing in little short, sharp coughs. Then he said, ‘Now you must not worry yourself any more about this matter. Take no heed of it. Why, don’t you know what day it is? It’s Christmas Eve. Have you been to the Crib?’

  ‘I can’t get near it, Father, there’s a crush there.’

  ‘Well, go and have another try. Then get off home and to bed, else Santa Claus will be here before you know where you are. What are you going to get in your stocking?’

  Somewhat sadly, Mary Ann said, ‘A school bag and a box of paints.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘Not very much, Father. I wanted a bike, a two-wheeler, but me ma says it would be years afore I get that, and anyway I’m too little.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll grow, and by the time you’re ready to reach a bike you’ll get one, you’ll see. But, anyway, you go and have a talk with the Infant about it, and you can be assured if it’s for your good you’ll get it. Always remember that . . . your tiniest prayer is answered if it’s for your good. Now for your penance say three “Hail Marys”. Say your act of contrition.’

  Mary Ann said the act of contrition and left the box, and, wonder of wonders, the church was nearly empty. Apart from the few people waiting to go into confession, there was no-one about, and not a soul at the crib.