The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  Reverently, on tiptoe, she now approached the stable, and it was a real stable, with a donkey and a goat and piles of straw, and there amid the straw sat Our Lady, and there stood Joseph, and there, with hardly a stitch on him, was the Baby. Mary Ann gazed and gazed at Him. In spite of His nakedness He looked warm and snug. She continued to gaze, held spellbound by the wonder of Him. He was lying so quiet; everything in the stable looked quiet. They were all waiting for twelve o’clock, waiting for Him to be born. She found she couldn’t pray, or ask anything of Him. He was so little, not at all like He was when seated in His Mother’s arms on the altar of the Holy Family.

  A lump came into her throat and she sniffed. If she could only touch Him, just a little touch, just put her finger on Him. A quick glance to either side told her she was alone. Trembling, even to her kneecaps, she rose, and skirting the short altar rail she crept up the altar steps. Another three steps and she had passed the imitation rocks and was right behind the donkey. Another quick glance about her to ensure that she was alone, and she knelt down. Now she was looking through the donkey’s legs, and there was the Baby, startlingly close but still far away. Four wriggles under the donkey’s belly and she was at the side of the Crib.

  Heaven and Earth trembled; she was in the stable. There was Our Lady and St Joseph and the goat, and up above her was the donkey, and before her, in His cradle of straw, was the Baby. Her body shook as her hand went towards Him. When it hovered over His open palm she put out one finger and with a touch like thistledown she rested it on the moulded plaster. The contact was not hard, cold, and lifeless; the warmth from His soft flesh flowed through her little body and made her life His. Like that she stayed for a number of Eternities; then, crawling backwards, she went out the way she had come.

  She didn’t remember leaving the altar, but as she walked up the aisle she knew she had . . . a holy feeling. She could even hear angelic voices singing ‘Venite adoremus’. She felt good, in fact, saintly. It may have been the lights from the many candle sconces that danced around her, or it may have been the halo of light that circled round her own saintly head, but she knew she was walking in light and felt . . . holy.

  History has told us that saints have always been sorely tried, and mostly by their relatives; that they have had to call from time to time on God to fortify their patience when dealing with the ignorance and thickheadedness of members of their families, especially brothers.

  Mary Ann, floating in a holy mist out of the church door, was dragged with startling force to earth. ‘Where do you think you’ve been?’ Michael, gripping hold of her arm, took on the appearance of the devil himself; but still in her holy state, Mary Ann was proof even against the tempter, and remembering that a gentle word turneth away wrath, she replied in an unnaturally soft voice, ‘To the Crib.’

  ‘I’ve been in church twice for you in the last hour.’

  ‘I was at Confession.’ Still the angelic voice.

  ‘Well, don’t you think that’ll get you off; you’re in for it this time.’

  ‘Aw – you!’ Like a feather wafted away by a gale of wind, the holy feeling vanished, and she pulled herself from Michael’s hands as he said, ‘You had to come straight back home . . . me ma’s nearly mad with worry, and on Christmas Eve an’ all, and everybody’s looking for you.’

  ‘They’re not!’ She turned on him with scorn. ‘Don’t tell lies.’

  ‘They are. It’s close on six o’clock. Me da’s out, and Mr Lord an’ all. Me da’s gone to Mrs McBride’s again, and Mr Lord’s taken me ma down to me granny’s.’

  ‘Me granny’s!’ Mary Ann’s scorn reached the heavens. ‘I wouldn’t be at me granny’s, would I?’

  Michael didn’t argue this point, but gripping her firmly by the hand, said, ‘Come on. We’re all to meet at Ellison Street.’

  ‘Leave go.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘If you don’t I’ll kick your shins, mind.’

  ‘You do if you dare.’

  ‘There then, take that!’

  ‘Oooh, you!’ Wincing in pain, Michael released her hand, and she sped away towards Ellison Street with him in hot pursuit.

  The light had gone, and with it the holy feeling. She was once more on earth, being buffeted by the ungratefulness of her family. And this was made only too apparent when her da, who was, if the truth be told, really the source of all her troubles, brought her running to a stop by a mighty hand on her shoulder and a mightier voice in her ear demanding the same stupid question, ‘Where do you think you’ve been?’

  ‘To church, Da.’

  It seemed for a moment that Mike might explode, he looked so angry, and he almost spluttered as he said, ‘You’ll do this once too often, mind.’

  Standing under the lamp they regarded each other, and Michael regarded them. Then Mary Ann, her head drooping, turned away and looked at the lamp-post, and the three of them stood silent, waiting.

  The damp cold was piercing; the only glow of warmth came from the coloured lights in the bar on the opposite side of the street. The bar was decorated gaily, ivy and holly intertwining the bottles on the high shelves, and from it, too, came the sound of laughter and merry talk. Mary Ann’s glance slowly raised to Mike. He was staring straight across the street, and in his eyes was that look she knew but could not name. Rapidly now she began to pray for the car to come, and when, in almost immediate answer to her prayer, it drew up close to the kerb in front of them, she forgot she was the culprit and smiled her relief at the occupants. But her smiling was brief, for not only did her mother go for her, but also Mr Lord as well.

  ‘If it wasn’t Christmas Eve,’ Lizzie said in a low voice, ‘I’d give you the best hiding you ever had in your life.’

  ‘I endorse that, I do firmly.’ Mr Lord stared down on her, and she was almost startled at his ferocity. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘Never again will I give you a ride. Why didn’t you tell me you had to return home? Frightening people.’

  She got into the car and sat crouched in the corner, hurt and solitary, listening to their voices all joined together against her. Her da spoke little, but when he did he agreed with Mr Lord. That was the only solace of the journey.

  The misery of last night was past, and the weight that had been placed upon her shoulders, of spoiling everybody’s fun, had slid away in sleep.

  Jesus was born now – that was her first awakening thought. The next was . . . me stocking! She was out of bed and around the curtain that divided her portion of the room from Michael’s before she was fully awake, and shaking him by the arm, she hissed, ‘Come on, are you coming downstairs?’

  Michael, awake at once, muttered, ‘Yes, all right; but be quiet.’ For him, too, last night was past.

  Cautiously, and holding on to each other, they went down the narrow steep stairs to the kitchen. Michael groped for the light, and when it flooded the room they made no dive towards their stockings hanging from the brass rod above the fireplace. Their eyes were glued in hypnotic stares at the table. Even when they moved towards it, they did so slowly. Michael’s mouth was agape and Mary Ann’s whole expression had taken on the semblance of her . . . holy look.

  Two shining cycles were propped against the table, one large and one small, and the labels attached said briefly, ‘From Mr Lord’.

  One hand on the seat and one hand holding the label, Mary Ann was still in a state of stupor when Michael was proclaiming his grateful astonishment with gasps and grunts. The label might say from Mr Lord, but it could only have been at the instigation of the Holy Family that this miracle had been performed, and because of the star last night and her touching the baby . . .

  Michael, in the midst of his joy, glanced at her. Then straightening himself, he exclaimed in astonishment, ‘What you crying for now? Oh! You’re barmy!’

  Chapter Six: A Matter Of Education

  Mike pushed his unfinished dinner away from him, and Lizzie, putting down her own knife and fork, asked anxiously, ‘What is it? Something’s wron
g . . . you’ve been like this for days now.’

  Without answering, but passing his hand tightly over his mouth, Mike rose from the table and took his pipe from the mantelpiece. And Lizzie said again, ‘Tell me what it is.’

  Staring down at the pipe, he said, ‘I’m worried, that’s all.’

  ‘Is it Ratcliffe?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Nothing . . . Blast them bikes!’ He gnawed at his lower lip and thrust his pipe into his pocket.

  ‘But you couldn’t help that, Mike.’

  ‘I know, but had I known the old boy wasn’t getting Lena one an’ all, I wouldn’t have accepted them two, seeing how things stood between Ratcliffe an’ me. How was I to know he wasn’t giving her the same, or something of like value? It’s his fault, he shouldn’t make flesh of one and fish of the other. It’s a wonder he bought Michael one . . . I suppose he couldn’t get out of that, being in the same house.’

  ‘Oh, Mike, don’t talk like that, he’s been so good. We should be grateful.’

  ‘Well, I’m not grateful.’ Mike spoke quietly and without rancour. ‘He does it to buy her, and you know it. And Ratcliffe’s taking it out of me because his wife’s taking it out of him.’

  ‘But in what way is he doing it; can’t you speak about it?’

  Mike gave a jerk of his head. He could not tell Lizzie the number of small humiliations he had suffered lately; the dirtiest jobs pushed his way, the placing of a young lad, the latest addition to the farm staff, over him. But the most telling incident had happened yesterday. Coming out of the cattle market after the sale, he had encountered Ratcliffe standing by the best end of the Three Horseshoes. Ratcliffe had looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Coming in for one?’ There had been no invitation in the words, only a challenge. Ratcliffe wasn’t the kind of boss who drank with his men, but he would have taken him in then and let him drink till he was blind. Mike had been aware, in that instant, that Ratcliffe knew all there was to know about him, and he could date the source of his knowledge from the night Lena had come home and said Mary Ann was fighting with a girl at the bus stop – the writing on the wall had not escaped Lena.

  The Ratcliffes were not local people, and Jarrow being six miles from the farm, it was unlikely that his reputation for the bottle would have spread this far. One thing Mike was sure of, Ratcliffe was only waiting his chance to give him the push. And so he would eventually pin something on him, insolence, negligence . . . or drink.

  He picked up his cap, saying, ‘Well, I’ll be off.’ Then he turned and smiled at her, and she came to him.

  ‘Don’t worry; only keep your temper. Promise you will.’

  He patted her cheek and laughed. ‘I promise I won’t hit him.’

  He went out, and she stood at the window watching him cross the yard. Why were things made so difficult for him? He was trying so hard, God knew he was. Not a drop had passed his lips even at Christmas. It was over six months now since he had tasted liquor of any kind. If only he could be given a fair chance and allowed to work peaceably, that was all he asked. But there were so many conflicts raging in and around him. There was Ratcliffe taking it out of him, and Mr Lord vying with him for Mary Ann – Lizzie admitted to herself what she wouldn’t for worlds have admitted to Mike, that Mr Lord was angling for the child’s affection. And she was afraid of the old man’s power, the power of his money . . . and his loneliness. Of the two, it was his loneliness that would be the most telling. It even affected herself. She knew Mr Lord’s history, as did everyone in and around Jarrow. Except for going daily to the shipyard, he had lived like a hermit for years. Some of the older folk remembered the big splash his wedding had made, when at past forty he married a girl less than half his age, and spent so much on her whims that he nearly went broke. And then she had left him. Now in his old age, Mary Ann had brought him back to life and he saw in her what might have been had he been given a child to rule and mould, and in whose affection he could warm his thinning blood.

  But that a child of his would not have resembled Mary Ann in the least, Mr Lord did not consider, for he thought he saw in Mary Ann’s tenacity of purpose and courage a reflection of himself. This, coupled with her being so endearing, made her almost irresistible to him.

  Sensing all this, Lizzie saw a bitter struggle ahead. But its end she would not even try to see.

  Mike had long since passed from her sight, and she was about to turn from the window when two moving figures on the hill opposite caught her attention. She knew them both. One was the man who had been filling her mind for the past few minutes and the other was a man who had filled her early life, the unformed years of her teens. Even when the image of the red-headed farm boy had occupied her nightly dreams, her waking thoughts, guided by her mother, had seen in Bob Quinton not only a husband but a man who was going to rise. Bob had risen, beyond even his own dreams, and he hadn’t married . . . She turned from the window.

  It was many months now since she had seen him. The last time was the night he had kindly given her a lift home from the bus stop, only to be seen by Mike. The repercussion of the events of that evening had resulted in Michael almost killing himself. She turned her mind from it now and from the man himself, and busied herself with clearing the table and washing-up.

  She was sitting by the fire, hurriedly finishing off a pair of socks for Michael before the light of the short afternoon should fade, when there came a knock on the back door, and on opening it she was faced by the two men.

  She did not look at the tall, pleasant-faced, fair man or give him any greeting. It was to Mr Lord she looked and spoke: ‘Won’t you come in?’ she said.

  ‘Thank you; we will for a moment. This is my builder . . . I understand you know each other?’

  ‘Hallo, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Hallo, Bob. Will you take a seat? It’s very cold out.’ There was restraint in her voice.

  ‘Yes, it’s nippy. No, I won’t sit down. You’re looking very well, Elizabeth, farm life agrees with you. How are the children?’

  ‘Oh, excellent.’

  The exchange of pleasantries was all very stilted and correct.

  As Mr Lord’s glance moved quickly from one to the other, he thought, Fool of a woman . . . women are all fools. They would have made a fine pair, if there is such a thing . . . and she would have had an easy mind.

  ‘May I get you a cup of tea?’ asked Lizzie. But both men answered together, ‘No, no.’

  As she stood in an uneasy calm by the side of the table, Bob looked at her with the penetrating look she knew so well. During times of heartache in the past she had thought of this look, but now it embarrassed her. She pulled a chair forward. ‘Do sit down,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks all the same, Elizabeth, but I’m due in Newcastle in fifteen minutes. I just wanted to come in and say hallo.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, I must make a move, but I’ll be seeing you again, that’s sure.’

  The ‘that’s sure’ disturbed her, although she knew it meant nothing. It was as natural for him to be nice and pleasant as it was for Mike to be hot-headed, but Mike would read a personal meaning into every gesture Bob was likely to make in her presence.

  ‘Goodbye, sir,’ he said to Mr Lord. ‘Goodbye, Elizabeth; remember me to the children.’

  He had not mentioned Mike. Well, it was to be understood. She went to the door with him, and there he did not repeat his farewells but smiled at her quietly before leaving. The smile was disturbing, and she returned to the kitchen thinking: Pray God Mike and he never come in together.

  ‘I want to discuss something with you, Mrs Shaughnessy.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lord.’ Lizzie seated herself on the opposite side of the hearth and looked at the old man. Even with the kindly note in his voice he appeared forbidding, and she marvelled once again how Mary Ann had ever got round him.

  ‘I am going to come to the point, Mrs Shaughnessy. I don’t believe in a lot of palaver.’

  Lizzie
waited.

  ‘It’s about the child.’

  A queer little pain touched her just below her ribs; it tightened the muscles and caused her to take a deep breath.

  ‘Her education.’

  Still Lizzie waited.

  ‘I want to have her educated – properly educated; sent away to a good school right away from all this.’ He waved his hand about the room, yet his meaning excluded it but encompassed the whole of the Tyne.

  ‘No.’ Lizzie stood up.

  ‘Why do you say no without even considering the matter?’

  ‘Her father – he wouldn’t hear of that . . . not for her to go away.’

  ‘If it’s for the child’s good . . . ?’

  ‘He would miss her so.’

  ‘He won’t be the only one. Don’t think I haven’t given the matter thought.’ He paused and turned his eyes from her and looked into the fire. ‘I’m fond of the child.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Lizzie was breathing heavily. ‘Then why want to send her away, there are plenty of fine schools about here?’

  ‘There may be, but not for her. Don’t you see, woman, if she were near, the pull of you and him, and even me, would interfere with any form of higher education.’

  For a moment Lizzie’s shoulders went back as she faced the autocratic figure. ‘I don’t want Mary Ann changed, not fundamentally.’

  ‘Don’t you want her to have the chances you have dreamed of?’ He turned further round in his chair. ‘You are an intelligent woman, Mrs Shaughnessy. With the right sort of education you could have gone far. Think of Mary Ann at your age. What will she be if left where she is now?’

  ‘It’s quite a good school.’

  ‘For some it might be . . . not for Mary Ann. She hardly knows anything. She hasn’t the faintest knowledge of English, her grammar makes me squirm. She uses “us” instead of “we”. Everything is “me this”, “me that”, and “us has got”. It’s criminal in a child of her intelligence.’