All the Days of Our Lives

by Annie Murray

  ‘Made trouble for you?’

  Again he shrugged, uncomfortable. ‘It was a possibility . . . So you leave it, year after year . . .’ He did not meet her eyes.

  ‘What’re their names?’

  ‘My, er, wife’s name is Anne. Our son Thomas is twenty-one now and apprenticed. And our girl is nineteen: her name is Josie. She’s soon to marry. That was part of it, I suppose – seeing her now, wondering about you . . .’

  Katie digested this, her emotions a swarm of jealousy, anger and curiosity. So she had a half-brother and sister!

  ‘Will you tell them about me?’ she asked, jutting her chin at him.

  ‘I might,’ he said cautiously. ‘Only if you’d be wanting me to.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’ She looked sharply at him. ‘There’s nothing very regular in our family, is there? I was brought up by your brother – and you never even knew.’

  Michael O’Neill had been utterly shocked to find out that his brother Patrick had played such a major role in Katie’s life. But it was because of Patrick that he had found her. Michael admitted that he and Anne had moved back to Birmingham a few months ago, when he was offered a good job at Wilmot Breeden in Tyseley. They were living off Shaftmoor Lane.

  ‘I went to Mass – I don’t go regularly, you know. Not communion, of course – I just slip in the back once in a while, and I went that very first Sunday we were here in Birmingham. And who is the Mass being offered up for, but one Patrick O’Neill? Well, granted, we’re not the only O’Neills in the world, and I assumed Patrick must be still with the Fathers in Uganda. It set me thinking about him, though. He was never quite right, you know, my brother. We weren’t close – he was a good few years older than me, but he was a good man, a gentle soul, you’d say. They thought the missions would sort him out. He was packed off there – it seemed the thing to do. But because of the name, I had a little word with the priest, expecting to be told that Patrick O’Neill had been some old local fellow. But the Father was quite expansive – he’d known Patrick for a short time before he died, said he was a good man and an asset to the parish.

  ‘So then I asked who had requested the Mass for him. “Oh,” says he, “that’ll have been his niece, little Katie. She’s not living in this parish any more, but I gather she was here as a child. She likes to have a Mass said for him in the parish where he passed away. So far as I know, she’s over in St Francis’s parish now, in Handsworth.” Well, it all came as a shock to me. You – him.’ Michael seemed to run out of words, shaking his head. Again Katie found herself watching his hands, the sprinkling of dark hairs on his fingers. The sight made her ache. Patrick’s had been thinner, the skin papery and dry.

  ‘He was good to me,’ she said, tears filling her eyes again. ‘As far as he could manage.’

  Michael looked searchingly at her. ‘Was he . . . all right? In himself?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mom tried to hide it – to hide him. He was, well, up and down in himself. I didn’t understand when I was small. Well, I’m not sure I do now, but I can see it differently. It was very bad sometimes, poor man – he used to disappear. He was a bit like a dog, you know? Going off to lick his wounds, then coming back when he could manage. But he was always kind. He was a tormented soul – no one should have to live like he did. There must be an answer to it. I suppose you wouldn’t know . . .’ Somehow this was news she didn’t want to give harshly, and she spoke in a soft voice. ‘That he took his own life?’

  ‘Dear God. Oh dear God!’ She could see he was truly shocked and grieved. ‘Now you say it, the way that priest talked about him . . . He didn’t mention it, but there was a shadow in the way he spoke of him. Patrick was a sweet lad as a youngster – too sweet for this world.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘He drove Mom to distraction, but she needed him – and he needed someone, and somewhere to be.’

  ‘In that case, I’m glad. He did something for me that I would never have guessed, God rest him.’

  They sat talking for well over two hours. As they passed through the big department store out into the cold street, Katie had a prickly feeling that Vera was there, somewhere, watching. And she said so to Michael O’Neill.

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ was all he said.

  Outside there was a light drizzle and for a moment they were both at a loss. Then both went to speak at once.

  ‘You first,’ she said.

  He seemed wary now, his eyed veiled. ‘I’ve told you – I can’t offer you anything much . . .’

  Her anger flared. Was he implying that she was after something, might be on the make? ‘Why would you think I need anything from you after all this time?’

  ‘I just mean . . . Look, I don’t know. It’s a difficult thing, to disturb a family after all this time.’

  ‘Your wife, Anne – she knows I exist?’

  He looked down at the wet pavement. ‘No.’

  Bitterness filled her. ‘I see. So you were only truthful up to a point?’

  He looked up. ‘You’ve grown into a tough woman, Katie.’

  She felt her mouth twist. ‘It’s what life has taught me. Mother’s milk.’

  He seemed to soften. ‘I’d like us to see each other. I’d like everyone to meet each other, for it to be good, but we can’t be sure of that. They might take it very badly.’

  Despite her anger, Katie could see that this was costing him something. After all, he could have stayed away forever. And she realized that she didn’t want her own life disturbed too abruptly, either.

  ‘Let’s meet again like this, shall we?’ he said. ‘Take it slowly?’

  And she agreed. That would be a start. They arranged to meet in three weeks’ time.

  He looked down at her, with an open gaze now. ‘I’m sorry, Katie – for all of it.’

  Something in her relaxed a fraction. She had needed to hear his apology.

  ‘So am I,’ she said.

  She longed to go back and pour it all out to Marek – all that they had said, and how she felt. It was the first time she had ever felt that way, that she could say everything she needed to say without fear.

  When she got back to Sybil’s house, Sybil was in the kitchen and Michael with her, standing on a stool, making pastry. He was wrapped in a large apron liberally dusted with flour.

  ‘You look busy,’ she said, kissing his warm cheek.

  ‘We’re making tarts,’ he said.

  ‘All right?’ Sybil asked her cautiously, and Katie nodded. They would talk later.

  ‘Is Marek in?’

  ‘No – they’ve both gone out for a while. I believe they’re looking for a room for Piotr. It’s a shame we don’t have more space here, but short of putting him in the storeroom, we can’t really manage. But the sister will be arriving soon – around Christmas, I gather.’

  Katie wasn’t completely sure how she felt about Agnieska’s arrival. She was pleased for Marek, of course, but also a little jealous of his company. She told herself not to be so selfish.

  ‘He left you something, I believe,’ Sybil said with a twinkle. ‘Go up and see.’

  Puzzled but excited, Katie went upstairs. Outside her room she found a jam jar of Sybil’s and, in it, a bunch of pink carnations. He must have gone out and bought them!

  Picking them up with a cry of pleasure, she took them into her room and put them on the chest of drawers. Then she sank onto the bed and sat looking at them, full of wonder. No one had ever given her flowers before.

  They had no chance to be alone until later that evening. After Michael was asleep and they had all had their meal, she let Marek into her room. They both sank onto the squeaky bed, laughing quietly. She had the little side-light on that stood by her armchair.

  ‘See – the flowers look lovely,’ she whispered, and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, thank you!’

  ‘It is a pleasure.’

  ‘Where’s Piotr?’

  ‘Ah – he is out with lady. Her name is Polly – I think. Or Brolly
. . .’

  ‘That’s an umbrella,’ Katie giggled. ‘Maybe Molly?’

  ‘Ah yes, umbrella. Yes – I think it is Polly.’

  They were close, side by side and he reached over and took her hand. She stroked his long-fingered, strong hand in both of hers, then looked up into his eyes. The expression in his, and the intense way he looked at her, made her lurch inside.

  ‘So you tell me – about your meeting with your father. It was OK?’

  ‘Yes, it was all right.’

  He put his arm round her and she snuggled closer to him, marvelling that this was possible, at how lovely he was.

  ‘All right? Is that all you English can say? All right – all right?’

  ‘Well,’ she protested, ‘I don’t know where to start. It was so strange.’

  ‘Come here . . .’ Marek lay back and urged her to lie beside him, in his arms. It was not the first time they had lain kissing and touching. Both knew they longed for more, but it was just not possible or right, in the circumstances.

  She settled beside him and he rested his big, warm hand reassuringly on her head. And she began to talk.

  Fifty-Three

  ‘It’s a shame it’s not a nicer day,’ Katie said. ‘A bit of sun would have made everything look more cheerful.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Marek said, and for a second he took her hand. He needed to touch her often, to be physically close to her. He wanted to do everything with her – shopping and errands, taking Michael swimming, which they now sometimes did together.

  Every so often the sun did break through for a few seconds, but it was a blustery December morning of racing clouds. Katie had hung her umbrella over her arm just in case. She and Marek, with Michael sitting between them, had ridden across town and climbed down from the bus in Nechells into this buffeting wind. She had expected Michael to complain, but he was too excited at having an outing to pay any attention to the weather. It was a very unusual Saturday morning for him, especially as Marek had promised that on the way back they’d stop off for a treat – a bite to eat in town.

  Katie had watched with tender amusement as Marek spoke to her small son. Sometimes she found Marek remote, mysterious, locked into quiet moods that she could not read. But today he himself was almost childishly excited, out on a treat, sweet and affectionate to her and indulgent with her son, bending his tall frame down to listen when Michael spoke to him. She could see how much this meant to him: being a family, and having found someone to love. It tugged at her heart, thinking about all he must have lost.

  ‘This is Nechells?’ Marek asked, pronouncing it carefully.

  ‘This is it.’ She watched his face for a reaction. After Sybil’s house, among the large villas of Handsworth, the place looked cramped and mean. Here, bomb-damaged streets of tightly packed houses mingled with factories small and large. There was little space for trees or gardens, and many of the houses were grimy and in very poor repair. She could see that Marek was surprised.

  ‘You were poor?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Yes – we were. My mother was left on her own. My uncle tried his best but . . . well, I told you.’

  ‘And your mother – she still lives here?’

  ‘No. Remember, we moved to Sparkhill. I don’t know if she’s moved again by now, though. Come on, I’ll show you our old house.’

  As they walked around she pointed out to Michael the power station in the distance. He gazed at the huge cooling towers and, as they went along Rupert Street, at the gas works, the rusty gasometers of which they caught glimpses. Marek seemed fascinated.

  ‘Such a big city,’ he said. ‘Where I come from – is small town. Quiet. Many farmers and activities like making bricks, or tools for the fields. You like here?’

  ‘Yes. It was OK. I’d never known anything else. My mother didn’t like it – she thought she was too good for it. But I remember some nice people.’

  She led Marek along Kenilworth Street, feeling conscious suddenly that they might be being watched. Would anyone have recognized her? No, of course not. And if they did, why should she feel she had anything to hide now? The street let them pass, oblivious to their presence.

  Katie exclaimed over all the details of the street that she remembered: the raw gaps where bombs had fallen, the timber yard and, further along, the cycle finishing works. She stopped, aware with the prickling feeling that she was standing by Em’s old house.

  ‘That was where my friend lived . . .’

  She pointed, seeing the old green door, which looked much the same, and felt a deep pang for all the times she had run to knock on it for Em to come out and play.

  ‘See that entry there?’ She pointed to the alley going along into a yard. ‘Another girl from my school lived up there – Molly Fox she was called.’ Katie shook her head. Looking back now, she could see how hard she and everyone else had been on Molly – except for Em, who had been kind. Poor Molly, she’d never done anything wrong, she’d just been unlucky in her family. Now she was able to give Molly credit. She had always tried, heartbreakingly hard it seemed now, to join in, to make friends, however much they all teased and rejected her. ‘You know, her brother was hanged . . .’ She had to explain to Marek. ‘Put to death by the law – he murdered a woman.’

  ‘Oh!’ Marek said. ‘Well, that’s not good!’

  ‘No – he was vile, even when he was six years old. Poor old Molly, I heard she joined up in the war.’

  They walked on towards the old house. So many things remained unchanged. Except, of course, for the gaping hole in the row of houses where that funny old couple lived. Katie struggled to remember them, their names. That was it: Jenny and Stanley Button. Kindly souls – and how she had been encouraged to look down on them by her mother! Vera, who had been scraping a living just as Jenny Button did with her bakery, yet thought she was so superior. Katie felt full of indignation. Life had certainly taught her a thing or two about who was worthwhile in this world!

  ‘Oh, and look – that used to be the pawnshop.’ She explained what that was. ‘It’s closed, by the look of things. And our little sweet shop! There were two old ladies used to run it: twins. Funny old ducks. I wonder if they’re still there? They can’t be – they used to look as old as the hills when I was young!’

  They walked slowly past, peering in.

  ‘Oh!’ Katie stifled a cry. ‘I saw her – one of them! Heavens above, I’d’ve thought they’d’ve been long gone. They can’t have been as old as I thought. Yes – the Misses Price: Lucy and Madeleine. It was ever so hard to tell them apart, they used to dress the same and everything. Well, fancy that. And this’ – she turned round – ‘is where we used to live.’

  They looked up at the narrow house, two storeys and an attic on top. It was in poor repair and the windows were dark and uncurtained. It did not look inviting.

  ‘Uncle Patrick lived there, where that window is, and up there my mother did her sewing in the attic . . .’ She could imagine walking into the house, going up the dark stairs, every tread of them still familiar, Vera, back ramrod straight, sitting at her sewing table. She moved closer to Marek and took his arm, squeezing it. He looked down at her.

  ‘So – your childhood home.’

  ‘Thank God it’s now, not then,’ she said passionately. She wanted to get away from it, the memories of the house were oppressive. ‘Come on, we’ll go and have a mooch round. I’ll show you the baths and a few other things, and then we can go back into town.’

  It was tiring walking. Katie kept having to hold her hat on, and Michael was beginning to whine in the cold.

  ‘This is mostly where we went to the shops,’ she said, along Great Lister Street. ‘OK, Mikey – we’ll be getting back on the bus soon. This is where your mom used to do her shopping when she was little.’

  A figure caught her eye suddenly, standing by the greengrocer’s shop. Katie squinted, blinking her eyes, which were watering in the wind that was bellying up the awnings of the shops. She didn’t think
she knew the woman, who was talking to someone out of sight under the awning, but she seemed familiar: a quite tall, rather splendid figure with a head of thick, metal-grey hair pinned up in a thick pile on her head. Curious, she walked closer, racking her brains to think who it was. She had dark eyebrows and a strong, handsome face. That was it! That lady who lived next to Em, such a kind, energetic person – Mrs Wiggins!

  As they moved up close, she saw the woman eye her, though without recognition. She realized that she and Marek made a striking couple walking along the street: she with her dark, pretty looks, and he tall, with his unusual chiselled face and blue eyes. On impulse, Katie said quietly to the woman, ‘Excuse me – sorry to bother you. Are you Mrs Wiggins, by any chance?’

  The woman looked curiously at her. ‘Well, I’m not, as it happens, she said; but I used to be. I’m Mrs Alberello now – have been for years. Do I know you, bab?’

  ‘I used to live in this road,’ Katie said. ‘Years ago—’

  ‘Katie?’ a voice said.

  Ducking her head under the awning, Katie saw the person to whom Dot Alberello had been talking. Standing by a pile of parsnips in her working overall, looking much the same as ever.

  ‘Em?’

  ‘Who’s this then?’ Dot said. ‘Your face does look a bit familiar.’

  Katie explained where she had lived, that they had moved away. ‘Em and I were pals at school,’ she said.

  Em smiled. ‘Yes,’ she agreed softly. ‘Best friends.’

  ‘How are you, Em?’ Katie asked. She saw forgiveness and welcome in Em’s smile and felt flooded with happiness.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks. Living with my in-laws, which is a mixed blessing – I was just telling Dot.’

  Dot gave a comical, ‘Oh well, can’t be helped’ sort of grimace. ‘I’ll be off, Em, she said. ‘I’m popping in to see your mother. Take care of yerself, bab – don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! See you soon.’ She nodded at Marek, with a curious air, and departed with her shopping.