‘Look, get on your coat and get off to the bus and away home, and it’s ten to one you’ll find him there, solid and sober . . . Well, it’s to be hoped to God you will, anyway,’ added Fanny.
After buttoning Mary Ann up to the eyes against the biting, snow-filled wind, Fanny pushed a packet of bullets into her pocket and sixpence into her hand, and setting her to the top of the steps, called a cheery farewell to her. Mary Ann’s farewell was equally cheery, but as soon as she was out of the old woman’s sight her cheeriness vanished.
Cold as she was, both inside and out, and filled with longing to get home to see if her da was back, she made her way to the church. Her misery seemed to draw her there. There was no Crib today, no glowing lights, in fact the Holy Family looked perished to the bone themselves, for there wasn’t even one candle lit to keep them warm. And there was no heat from the hot-water pipes – they weren’t on, as hers and hundreds of other sets of chattering teeth had confirmed only yesterday morning, for there had been a burst.
Before kneeling down, she lit one candle, with tuppence left from her pocket money; then slowly withdrawing the newly acquired sixpence, she gazed at it. The silver piece represented a comic, two ounces of shelled monkey-nuts and a single stick of spearmint. She could make these entertaining purchases on her way home, and the night after she was bathed all over she could sit on the fender close to the fire and read her comic while she chewed her nuts. And in bed, so that her ma wouldn’t see, she could chew the spearmint and make bubbles with it – she was a dandy hand at making bubbles with gum. But would she do all this if her da was . . . sick? The answer came with the tinkle of the sixpence as it fell into the tin box.
She had not consciously decided to devote this enormous sum to the benefit of the Holy Family. But it was done now, so she took up three more candles. She had never lit four candles at one go in her life before, but this was an emergency, and she hoped that the Holy Family would appreciate that fact. They did so immediately, for they all looked warmer. Saint Joseph smiled quietly at her and his smile thanked her.
Kneeling down before them, she began, ‘Please, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I can’t stay a minute because I’ve got to catch the bus. I only come into Jarrow to look for me da, but I was so cold I went into Mrs McBride’s to get a warm. I didn’t find me da. Please, oh please, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you can stop doing anything for me, you can make me bad and have the ’flu or let me fall down or let me teacher go for me or even Sarah Flannagan get one on me, but please don’t let me da start to get . . . sick again. Oh, please!’
The candles, in a draught of air, flickered wildly, the statues moved and the Virgin hitched the Infant further up into her arms before bending forward and saying, ‘Go home; everything will be all right.’
The candle flames steady once more, Mary Ann blessed herself, then rose and went out. She felt sort of empty and quiet inside. It was a relieved sort of feeling, but it did not cause her to feel boisterous, she did not want to run, skip or jump. She walked decorously to the bus stop, boarded the bus, sat quietly in the corner seat, and so came home.
And it was as the Holy Family had said – there he was, solid and sober, sitting before the fire. He had on his good suit and he looked nice, but not happy.
As she entered the door a signal passed between Mary Ann and Lizzie, and the signal said, ‘Say nothing; don’t tell him where you’ve been.’ But as her da looked at her, Mary Ann knew that he knew where she had been – it was in his eyes like a deep hurt.
It was nearly a fortnight later when Mary Ann learned where her da had been that Saturday afternoon: he had been after another farm job. This had distressed her, for she told herself, I like it here, and our nice house; and I wouldn’t see Mr Lord again. Though this last should not have troubled her, for he was still nasty, and never spoke to her. She had followed him one Saturday morning when he had gone up the hill to see his house. It was slowly rising from its foundations, and she had stood quite near him and offered her opinion. ‘It’s nice,’ she had said, ‘and you’re gonna have a lot of windows, aren’t you?’ But he had only grunted; and after a while she had walked away because she wanted to cry. But she had stopped herself by saying, ‘He’s a bad-tempered, nasty old beast.’ And when he had come down the hill to his car she had kept close, but not too close, and, just to let him see she didn’t care, she had skipped with her ropes to ‘Boxy, boxy, stick it down your socksy’. But he had suddenly yelled at her, ‘Stop that!’ and she had stopped and stared at him, and he had got into his car and banged the door and gone off.
Mr Lord had just this minute gone from the cowshed. She was keeping out of his way, staying up in the loft until he was well passed. He was talking now to Mr Ratcliffe about Clara. Clara was going to have a baby, and when Mary Ann heard Mr Lord mention her da’s name she nearly fell out of the loft, straining to hear what he had to say. Only the tail end of it came to her: ‘If there should be any trouble, let Shaughnessy deal with her.’
There was no response from Mr Ratcliffe that Mary Ann could hear, and preening with pride she nodded in the direction of the departing men. That was one in the eye for Mr Ratcliffe. Mr Lord wanted her da to see to Clara because he was a right fine man with cows, and Clara had been bad and had had the doctor.
She came down from the loft and went into the cowshed. Her da wasn’t there. There was no-one there except Clara and Mr Jones. Clara looked very large, very soft and very warm. Mr Jones looked very small, very hard, and his expression was anything but warm as he stared at her. Mr Jones and Mary Ann were not on speaking terms. Mr Jones’s memory was long and his sense of humour only really active when he himself was the cause of its rising.
She came out of the cowshed and went to the pigsties. Her da wasn’t there, either, only Joe and their Michael. Michael looked happy. He was whistling, and she said to him, ‘Have you seen me da?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he’s just gone up to mend the fence in the long field. And you know what’ – his voice fell, and he leaned nearer to her over the sty wall – ‘he’s going to let me keep one of Daisy’s puppies.’
‘Oh goody – if it’s a girl I’ll call it Pat.’
‘You’ll call it nothing of the kind, it’s gonna be mine.’
The usual relations were resumed, and Mary Ann cried, ‘Aw – you! It won’t be all your dog – I’ll ask me da.’
Michael’s voice followed her as she sped out of the yard and up the lane.
The long field lay some way beyond the cottages, and it was a chance glance when speeding past them that brought her to a dead stop. The cottage door which led into the scullery was open, and standing outside round the corner under the lean-to was her da. Mary Ann herself was so versed in the art of listening that she recognised immediately that that was what her da was doing. After a long moment during which she presented to herself many reasons for her da’s eavesdropping but would not allow herself to think of the true one, she moved towards him, walking softly, and she was within a few feet of him before he became aware of her presence. And when he did he ordered her away, but silently. With a quick movement of the head and hand he bid her be gone, and he looked as if he were about to enforce this when the low, pleasantly deep voice of Bob Quinton came from just beyond the door. It stiffened Mike’s half-turned body, and Mary Ann’s eyes, riveted on his profile, actually saw the colour drain from it and leave it looking like dirty snow as Mr Quinton’s voice came to them, saying, ‘You know, Elizabeth, there was only you. All those years there was only you.’ She wanted to dash to the door and bang it, or yell and shout so that her da wouldn’t hear any more, but as if anticipating this move, Mike’s hand pressed back on her.
The sound of Bob’s voice still came to them, but his words now were not audible. Then there followed a silence that filled Mary Ann’s mind with wild pictures, and she saw the silence stretch her da’s body until she thought his head would shoot up through the corrugated roof. She knew that in another second he would fling himself into th
e house and hit Mr Quinton. It was then her ma’s voice came, whispering softly, and instead of adding impetus to Mike’s taut limbs it seemed as if Lizzie’s hushed words drew the very sinews out of them. ‘It makes me happy, Bob, to hear you say that,’ she was saying. ‘I’ve waited a long time for you to tell me that . . . I’ve prayed for it.’
That’s what her ma had said. The words themselves held no particular meaning – it was the nice way her ma had said them that gave Mary Ann the feeling that her own slight body was shrinking. The earth shuddered under her feet, the trees swayed, and the heavens became tilted. She closed her eyes against a rocking world, and when she opened them her da had moved.
Mary Ann had witnessed all kinds of emotions on Mike’s face, from such gentleness that made her cry to tearing rage that terrified her. She had seen him look lost and pitiful, but never had she seen him look as he was doing now, like a blind man. And like a blind man he put his hand out and touched the post of the lean-to and stood for the moment looking away up the hill to the house Mr Quinton was building. Then he lifted his shoulders, pressing them back until his back, turned towards Mary Ann, was straight as a die, and like that he walked towards the long field.
Mary Ann went across the yard to the lavatory, and through the air holes in the door she watched Mr Quinton take his leave and her ma smile at him with her nice smile. When the yard was empty once more she still continued to strain up and look through the holes as though she were fixed there. Then, as if she had been suddenly cut down, she dropped onto the seat and, pressing her hands tightly between her knees, she rocked herself, muttering, ‘Eeh, no! Eeh, no!’ One part of her mind refused to believe what the other half was telling her – her ma was bad.
She came out from the lavatory and, without glancing towards the cottage, she went up the road to the long field. Mike was mending the fence and from a distance he looked as he did on any other day. She did not go near him. She knew she could not bear to see his hurt at close quarters, but she watched him from the side of the gate until he finished the job, and when he went back to the farmyard she went slowly into the house. She felt drawn there – to look at her ma and see how changed she was.
But Lizzie wasn’t changed, except that she looked happier. She was actually humming to herself. After one searching glance, Mary Ann turned towards the fire, and Lizzie, who was ironing on the table, said, ‘I’m nearly finished. Put the dinner plates on top of the oven and then you can set the table.’ She didn’t look towards her daughter, but seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts.
Mary Ann did as she was bidden. She did it quickly, because she wanted to get out again; she didn’t want to be in when her da came in.
Fifteen minutes later she was standing behind the stone pillar that had once supported a gate to the farmyard. She wanted to see her da come out without him seeing her. She saw him pass into the road, but he didn’t turn up towards the lane which led to the back door of the cottages, or keep on the main road which led to the front door, but he jumped the fence bordering the field opposite the gate.
Her mouth agape, she watched him striding along the outskirts of the field. She wanted to shout after him, but she couldn’t, there was no voice left in her. All expression for the moment was weighed down with the awful knowledge that her da was making for the bus and Jarrow . . . and the Ben Lomond, or some other bar, and with him he was taking all his week’s wages. The men usually got paid on a Friday night, but Mr Ratcliffe had been away all day yesterday at a cattle sale and he would have paid the men this morning. She put a hand across her mouth to stop the moaning sound that was escaping, then, running like the wind, she went home. Gone now was the thought that her ma was bad. Bursting into the kitchen, she gasped, ‘Me da! He’s got on the bus.’
Lizzie looked at her dumbfounded. ‘Your da?’ she said. ‘What bus?’
‘For Jarrow.’
‘Jarrow?’ Lizzie repeated stupidly. She stared at Mary Ann, and Mary Ann stared back at her. She was now feeling bewildered at the expression of her mother, who looked absolutely stunned. ‘But why?’ she muttered.
Mary Ann turned her head away, then her body, and stared at the table leg; only to be swung furiously about. ‘What is it?’ Lizzie demanded.
May Ann looked hard at her mother for a moment before saying, ‘He heard – when you were with Mr Quinton – in the scullery.’
‘My God!’
Lizzie stood back from her daughter. Her fingers went to her lips, and for the moment Mary Ann thought she was going to burst into tears. But she didn’t. Instead, going to her purse, she grabbed a shilling out of it and, thrusting it into Mary Ann’s hand, cried, ‘Look. Go on after him, tell him to come home. Tell him’ – she passed her hand over her face and drew in a long breath – ‘tell him Mr Quinton is going to be married.’
‘Married, Ma? Oh!’ Relief gushed into Mary Ann’s body, and so activated her limbs that she was out of the door and halfway across the yard before she pulled up, swung on her heel and retraced her steps.
‘It’s nearly another half-hour afore the next bus, Ma.’
Lizzie seemed to become smaller. She sat down heavily on a chair, and Mary Ann stood gazing pitifully at her, until, rousing herself, she said, ‘I’d better go myself.’
‘No, no, Ma’ – Mary Ann pressed her back – ‘he’ll come for me . . . and quiet. I’ll bring him. Look; I’ll run to Morpeth Lane, the Shields bus that goes down Robin Hood way passes there. That’ll take me.’
‘Go on then,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And run.’
Mary Ann ran, and as she neared the corner of Morpeth Lane she screamed and yelled and waved her arms as she saw the bus speeding away from her. Then, as if by a miracle, it stopped some way down the road, and she stumbled onto it almost in a state of collapse.
A woman, lifting her onto the seat, said, ‘You shouldn’t run like that, hinny, there’s other buses.’
Mary Arm said nothing, only pressed her hand to her side to ease the stitch.
When she left the bus she ran again, along streets, up back lanes, down alleyways, across main roads, until she came to the Ben Lomond; and there she stopped and waited, for she could not see inside the bar and she dared not open the door.
But when a man came out, she asked him, ‘Is me da there? He’s Mr Shaughnessy . . . Mike Shaughnessy. Will you tell him to come out a minute, please?’ And the man, pushing open the door, called, ‘Anybody by the name of Shaughnessy here? Mike Shaughnessy?’
It was the barman’s voice which answered, ‘Mike Shaughnessy? No, he’s not here. Haven’t seen Mike for weeks. Who wants him?’
‘His bairn.’
‘Oh well, tell her he’s not here.’
‘He’s not in there, hinny,’ said the man.
‘Ta,’ said Mary Ann, and walked away.
He might be in the Long Bar . . . Running again, she came to Staple Road and the Long Bar, and here she followed the same procedure, and with the same result. She stood on the edge of the pavement blinking down at the muddy gutter. It was nearly one o’clock. She would go to Rafferty’s, and if he wasn’t there she would go home, and like that other Saturday she would find him sitting in the kitchen, but happy now because Mr Quinton was going to be married.
At Rafferty’s, her meeting with two men coming out of the bar took all thought of speeding home from her. Yes, they said, Mike Shaughnessy had been in, but he had gone not ten minutes ago.
‘Where?’ she asked.
That they couldn’t say, but she could try the Long Bar.
She went back to the Long Bar; she went back to the Ben Lomond. He had been to neither. So she now started a round of the other bars, foreign places, because she had never before stood outside them. She paraded High Street from the Wellington to the Duke of York, and then to the Telegraph. Outside the small bar stood a number of people. They were in groups, and the groups informed Mary Ann that in one way her search was ended, for it was closing time. She did not ask if anyone had seen her da, but stood again
st a house window sill and rested for a moment. She was very tired, her legs ached and she felt sick.
There was no thought in her mind now of going home. Her da had been in the bar; and from one he would have gone to another, on and on till closing time, and even then he wouldn’t go straight home – her da liked a bit of jollification when he was full. She moved from the wall. It would be easier finding him now anyway. She just had to walk until she heard somebody singing out loud, and she would find him, and likely see him dancing an’ all.
The sickness deepened as she made her way towards Burton Street. Why Burton Street she didn’t question, but Mulhattans’ Hall was in Burton Street and Mrs McBride was there; he could laugh with Mrs McBride. And Mrs Flannagan was there; he would laugh at Mrs Flannagan and very likely, in spite of his good humour, say rude things to her. If she didn’t find him before she got there she would find him in Burton Street.
Five streets away from Mulhattans’ Hall she heard him – no-one could sing Acushla like her da, drunk or sober.
A group of boys came scampering out of a back lane, one crying to the others, ‘Come on. Here’s a drunk in Burton Street, he’ll make yer split yer sides. Remember? He used to live there – big Mike Shaughnessy.’
She stood against the wall to let them pass; there was no movement from her to defend her right to the pavement now. As she entered Burton Street she saw the boys come to a halt outside a ring of children that surrounded the dancing figure. The street was out, but the grown-ups were keeping to the pavement and their doors and windows.
She did not hurry now – the damage was done. Sorrow, deep and leaden, born of love and humiliation, dragged at her feet. It was the ageless sorrow of a child, old, elemental, welling from depths buried in past eternities, not understood, beyond reason, outbidding its cause, but felt, and felt to be unbearable. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, make him stop. All the people looking at him, and Mrs Flannagan at her window. Oh blessed, blessed Lord, do something.
The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 10
