‘My friend, he is the friend of all friends,’ Mike was singing now. His head was back and his arms stretched wide and the people listened.
Mary Ann, moving past a group of chuckling women, heard one exclaim, ‘He can sing, can Mike. Ah, it’s good to have him back, say what you like. What’s done this, I wonder? His lady wife left him? I wouldn’t be a bit surprised at that an’ all.’
A sharp nudge stilled the woman’s tongue, and the eyes were turned on Mary Ann. She took no heed but went to the circle in the middle of the road, and slowly pushed herself through the crowd. She was almost within touching distance of Mike when a voice, crying above his, swept over her head and those in the road and turned all eyes towards the Flannagans’ upper window. Sarah was leaning out, and what she had called was ‘Me da’s a grand man!’ She was looking triumphantly down on Mary Ann, and behind her, standing back in the shadow, was her mother, with unadulterated satisfaction covering her thin face.
Mike had not seen Mary Ann. He was looking up now to the window, and with an exaggerated Irish twang he cried, ‘Oh there you are, me darlin’ Mrs Flannagan – the light of me life.’
Reeling towards the pavement, with the circle giving way to him, he flung up his arms to her, crying, ‘Come on down, me darlin’, and let me hear the clatter of your refeened twang, for it’s that desire alone that has brought me back to me old haunts. And where’s me friend Harry? Have you got him tied under the bed?’
The bedroom window closed with a bang, and Mike shouted, stuttering and stammering, ‘Ah, don’t break me heart. Ah Nellie, come on down, come on woman, and tell me how to get all the heifers on the farm married and made into respectable cows.’
A howl went up from the street, and Mike, appealing to all at large, cried, ‘Did you know that? It’s the God’s own truth as I stand here. Mrs Flannagan is going to get a bill passed to make every heifer into a decent woman. It’ll be a Bull of a Bill, that.’
Mary Ann’s trembling lips were shaping the word ‘Da’ when she was pushed roughly aside by the enraged figure of Mrs McBride. Mrs McBride was in her shopping clothes, a black shiny coat and a large black felt hat, lightened here and there with dust and a greenish hue. Grabbing Mike by the arm, she pulled him round, shouting, ‘Shut that big mouth of yours and come inside this minute!’
‘Here, here! Who’re you pulling?’ Mike’s voice became truculent. Then he laughed down on her, ‘Aw, Fan! Fat old Fan.’ And he attempted to put his arms about her and waltz her around, but Fanny was more than a match for him. She’d had a great deal of training in handling drunks, and before he knew what was happening it was he who was being waltzed round, and in the direction of Mulhattans’ Hall. A jerk of her head brought her eldest son from the pavement where he had been enjoying the fun, and Don McBride said pleasantly, ‘Come on, away in, Mike, and let’s have a crack.’
‘Take your hands off me!’
Don took his hands off and retreated, laughing sheepishly, out of harm’s way.
‘Da! Da! Come on.’
Mike’s countenance lightened once more, and he exclaimed. ‘Why, it’s me Mary Ann.’ His tone was scoffing as he swayed above her. ‘Put me in hell an’ me Mary Ann would be there . . . But you didn’t catch up with me, did you?’
He almost fell on her, and she steadied him and took his hand, and guiding him with the forcible assistance of Mrs McBride from behind she got him up the steep steps and into the house.
Mike was laughing now. Like one child who had got the better of another, he preened himself at Mary Ann.
‘I did you, didn’t I? Oh, aye, you thought I’d go to the Long Bar or the Ben Lomond, didn’t you? I know! Your da knows all you think! So I beat you . . . I did a round. But I didn’t start where you thought I would. And you know why?’
‘No, Da. Lie back, and I’ll get you some tea. Can I, Mrs McBride?’
‘Aye, hinny. And I’ll give him more than tea,’ exclaimed Fanny, busying herself with a number of tins she had taken down from the top shelf of the cupboard.
‘Shut up, you old hag, I’m talking to me girl. And you know why, me darlin’?’
‘No, Da. Lie back.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you . . . ’Cos I knew if I looked into those eyes of yours I’d be done. I couldn’t go and get . . . sick, if I looked into those eyes . . . could I now, not real sick? A pint or two, but not real sick. And I’m real sick now, aren’t I?’
‘Da. Listen.’ With her hands on his face Mary Ann tried to rivet his attention.
‘Aye, I’m listenin’.’ Mike’s head rolled on his shoulders. ‘I listened to Ratcliffe. I listened to Jonesy. Ratcliffe said to young Len, “You see to Clara,” he said. And Jonesy said he heard the old boy say Shaughnessy had to see to Clara . . . Shaughnessy may be no good, he won’t give his daughter away, but he knows cows . . . He can handle cows, can’t he, me darlin’?’
‘Yes, Da . . . And listen. Listen.’
‘I’m listenin’. Ratcliffe knows as much about a farm as me Aunt Fanny . . . That’s not you, Fan. Never you, Fan . . . aw, never you!’ The laughter rumbled thick and deep in his throat and he became launched on a list of Fanny’s good points, while Mrs McBride, pulling Mary Ann to one side, whispered, ‘What’s happened at all? Has he had a row with the boss?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what in the name of God is it? He’s back where he was.’
The sickness deepened in Mary Ann’s breast. As she told her story she glanced at Mike, sprawled now like a giant in the chair. He was rambling again about the farm: Ratcliffe, Len, Jonesy and the cows, but he let slip not the slightest hint about the real reason for his present state. He made no mention of either Lizzie or Bob. That which was eating him up was temporarily buried. His faith in the bottle had not been broken. Once full of liquor, he would be merry . . . the trials of life would be dulled, even forgotten – if no-one raked them up.
Her eyes cast down, Mary Ann finished the dreaded sentence: ‘And he thought me ma was goin’ off.’
‘The blasted fool!’ muttered Fanny. ‘And Mr Quinton goin’ to be married. Well, you tell him. Git it into his thick skull whilst I mix him a concoction that’ll skite the drink out of him quicker’n the corporation sewer cleaner.’
Mary Ann stood between Mike’s legs, her hands on his lapels, and trying to shake his great relaxed body, she said, ‘Da . . . listen. Will you listen!’
‘Aren’t I listenin’?’
‘No. Stop a minute . . . It’s about me ma.’
Mike stopped. The good humour faded from his face, his brows drew down and his lips pushed at each other, and with his forearm he went to thrust Mary Ann away, but she hung on to his coat.
‘When you listened, Da, it was all wrong what you heard – I want to tell you – listen.’
Mike’s eyes became narrow slits of fiery light. In another minute she would not be able to hold him – he would fling her aside and his rage would break. There could be no gentle leading up to the enlightening point. Quickly the words came tumbling out, ‘Mr Quinton’s goin’ to be married . . . to a girl. He was tellin’ me ma.’
Mike’s rage did not vanish, but it was checked. And Mary Ann, bringing her imagination to her aid to help penetrate his befuddled state, added hastily, ‘She’s nice, lovely, an’ they’re gonna be married in a big church and have it in the papers. Me ma says she is glad, and . . . and,’ she added finally, ‘she wants you home. Me ma wants you home, Da.’
Mike blinked at her, then looked away to the wall above the cluttered mantelpiece as if he expected to find there, written large, words that would further bear out this news . . . this disturbing news that was going to make him look a fool, for that’s what he would be, his reeling brain told him, if this were true. And he was no fool. No, by God, he was not! With a great show of effort, he was making to rise from the chair when Fanny checked him.
‘Here! Get this down you.’
‘What’s it, eh? Poison?’
‘Aye . . . get it down
you.’
‘Fan,’ he took the cup from her, ‘do you know . . . what . . . the child’s tellin’ me?’
‘I know well enough. Drink up!’
‘Now listen . . . listen. I’m no fool, I’ve been duped afore. Once bitten.’
‘Drink!’ The order would have done credit to a sergeant major.
Mike drank, throwing the contents of the cup against the back of his throat at one go, and in the next instant the cup was flung across the room and he was out of the chair, coughing and gasping. And between the gasps he spluttered, ‘In . . . in the name of God . . . !’
‘Ah, it won’t kill you.’
‘M . . . m . . . m . . . my God . . . Fan!’
‘Ah, be quiet, will you!’
Coughing as though his lungs were burning, he leant over the high back of the armchair, his mouth wide open.
‘Come on . . . get your head under the tap and you’ll be nearly yourself again. And stop making such a to-do. That was me old man’s tonic. It’s a corpse reviver, if ever there was one. The quick an’ the dead, he called it. You had to be quick if you didn’t want to be dead. Come on, now, under the tap.’
Half leading, half pushing him, she got him into the scullery, and, pointing to the sink, said, ‘Get your head down.’
Shaken into temporary docility by her command, Mike obeyed Fanny and put his head under the tap.
Standing now close to the sink, her eyes unblinking, Mary Ann watched his every movement with patient concern, and when finally he lifted his dripping head and almost fell on his face, she steadied him, stiffening her tiny weight to check his fall. Then she led him into the kitchen once again and to his chair. Standing on a stool, she helped him to dry his head. When this was completed Fanny surveyed him. ‘You’re a blasted fool!’ she said.
‘Shut up!’
‘I’ll not shut up. Have you any money left?’
‘Why?’
‘If you have, I’d sport a taxi.’
‘Taxi be damned!’ Mike got to his feet. ‘I’ll be all right.’
He stood swaying a little; but he no longer reeled. As yet he was not sober enough to feel shamefaced, but he was sober enough not to want to walk the street again.
Fanny, sensing this, said, ‘Go on out the back way with you then . . . And look, put this dry muffler round your neck.’
Mary Ann said no word of thanks. She only looked at the old woman who was looking at Mike as he slowly tucked the muffler into his braces. And when Fanny turned and nodded encouragingly to her, Mary Ann, incapable of using her voice in any way because of the lump that was blocking her windpipe, followed the shambling figure of her father into the backyard. Without having to turn, Mary Ann knew that Mrs McBride was following their progress up the lane, and she knew that her head would be shaking. For some reason this increased the size of the lump still further.
She led Mike through all the side ways she knew towards the bus stop, and they met no-one who took any notice of them until they turned the corner of Delius Street, and there on the opposite side of the road and coming towards them, was Father Owen. His long length bent against the wind, he was holding on to his hat, and at the sight of him, Mary Ann’s heart gave a painful leap. Father Owen was the last person in the world she wished to meet at this moment. Father Owen thought her da a grand man; he didn’t know he drank; hadn’t he sworn when he was standing beneath the cross that he knew her da never touched a drop? Even if her da only looked . . . a little sick now, Father Owen mustn’t see him.
Being unable to work it out, but feeling that for the priest’s own peace of mind he must not find himself to have been mistaken, she suddenly pulled at Mike’s arm and, turning him about, guided him round the corner and steered him up Delius Street’s back lane. Had she kept straight on it is possible that Father Owen would have passed without noticing them, but the scurry she made and Mike’s protesting arm flung wide attracted the priest’s attention. Father Owen had no need to question who they were, Mike could never hope to disguise himself, and Mary Ann . . . well, back view or front view there was only one Mary Ann.
His face took on a sadness and he slowed his pace to allow her sufficient time to make the desired getaway with her burden – her cross, he thought, her beloved cross. He, too, shook his head.
Breathing now more easily, Mary Ann neared the bus stop. Soon they would be home and her da would be in bed, and nobody would have seen him. The crowds in Burton Street did not matter now, they belonged to a past world that had no connection with the farm.
The bus came, and Mike, pushing her before him, hoisted himself on board, and since the only empty seats were at the far end of the bus they made their way towards these and sat down, right opposite Lena and Mrs Ratcliffe!
After staring for a moment at the wife of his boss, Mike ran his tongue over his lips, and, ironically, he laughed to himself. His mind was clear enough to make him realise that there was no hope of disguising his condition, so with exaggerated bravado he doffed his cap and exclaimed loudly, ‘Good day to you, Mrs Ratcliffe.’
Mary Ann prayed swiftly that the Ratcliffes might be struck blind and, incidentally, deaf; that some act of God might waft them out of the bus and drop them in the road somewhere; and at last, in desperation, she prayed that the bus might collide with something and that they would all be killed.
God did not apparently hear any of her prayers, or if He did, He chose to ignore them. And after a journey during which her agony was, she knew, only a foretaste of that which was to come, they reached the crossroads. After alighting, by some strange manoeuvre the Ratcliffes managed to walk down the lane behind them. And to Mary Ann’s bewilderment, her da’s swaying became worse. Then came the final humiliation: he raised his voice in song.
‘Listen to me.’ Stooping quietly and swiftly, Lizzie dragged Michael up from the fender where he sat slumped. Her handling of him was rough and her whispering fierce. ‘It was a mistake, I tell you; it won’t happen again.’
She stared at him, forcing him to believe her, but his eyes dropped from hers and his head sank, and he muttered, ‘It will, it’s Mulhattans’ Hall all over again.’
‘It isn’t . . . He didn’t mean to do it . . . It was my fault.’
Michael looked quickly up at her. And Lizzie, drawing in her breath, said haltingly, ‘It was something that . . . that happened.’
It was impossible to explain to this son of hers exactly what had happened. Mary Ann could witness the intricacies, the pitfalls, and the tightrope walkings of marriage, and even handle them, but not Michael. His father’s weakness found only two reactions in him, depression and anger – and now the anger was to the fore.
Pulling himself from her hands, he cried, ‘He’s spoilt everything, as he always does. The whole place knows . . . Singing in the lane! And bringing the Joneses out. And Mrs Ratcliffe there.’
‘Stop shouting, our Michael, you’ll wake him.’ Mary Ann, who had been standing aside watching her mother fighting to keep Michael’s respect for the man who was now snoring upstairs, pushed at her brother with doubled fists and hissed, ‘Shut up! It’s like me ma says, he won’t do it again.’
‘Aw, you!’ Michael rounded on her fiercely. ‘You’d always stick up for him, you like to see him drunk.’
‘Oh . . . h!’ The injustice of this remark left her for the moment verbally dry, but the ‘Oh . . . h!’ expressed her hurt, and Michael, more quiet now, said again, ‘Well, you always stick up for him.’
‘Be quiet!’ said Lizzie tersely. ‘Here’s Len coming across the yard.’ She stood watching the farmhand approach, and when he neared the window she went and opened the back door.
Looking somewhat sheepish, the young fellow said, ‘Is Mike in, Mrs Shaughnessy?’
Lizzie did not immediately answer him – the whole farm community knew Mike was in – but then she said flatly, ‘Yes, he’s in.’
‘It’s . . . it’s the boss. He wants him in the byres. He says he wants him to see to Clara.’
/> Lizzie’s eyes became cold. ‘It’s his half-day.’
‘I know, Mrs Shaughnessy.’ The young man’s tone was genuinely apologetic. ‘It isn’t me. I was quite willing to see to her, but them’s his orders.’
Lizzie’s expression did not alter. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell him.’
She closed the door and walked into the kitchen, where both Michael’s and Mary Ann’s eyes asked her the same question. She did not answer them.
Mary Ann stood listening to her mother ascending the stairs, and putting her thumb into the side of her mouth, she started systematically to bite hard round the nail. Her da had only been upstairs for half an hour, and she’d had a job getting him up, for he would sing and laugh, and he hadn’t spoken to her ma, nor her ma to him – their talking would come later, she knew, when he was sober. And now she was going to waken him, and he’d still he . . . a bit sick. Not even in the most secret places of her mind did she imprint the word drunk. She heard him snort loudly, then shout something. Then there was silence. Presently her mother came downstairs, and a few minutes later Mike followed, and to Mary Ann’s deepening distress she saw he was in a bad mood, like he used to be after he had sobered up in the mornings. Only now he wasn’t sober, not really sober. His face was heavy with sleep and his eyes angry. He passed his hands through his matted hair, then said to Mary Ann, ‘Fetch me boots.’
Quickly Mary Ann brought the boots. He took them from her, but looked at Lizzie where she was standing with her back to him staring into the fire. His voice deep in his throat and still fuddled, he said, ‘You see the plan of campaign, don’t you? Ratcliffe’s got a line at last. With me very own hands I’ve given him a line. I’m to look after a sick cow, a valuable sick cow, and I’m in no condition to see to even a mountain goat. He’s hoping, is Ratcliffe.’
The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories) Page 11
