It was a surprise to her then, pegging out the wash, to hear the crunch of carriage wheels out on the road.
She recognised the neat white pony of Father O’Sullivan coming down the drive ahead of his jinker and peered over her shoulder at the shack door. Sloy might have acted the good Catholic, marrying in the Church, but she couldn’t imagine Father O’Sullivan making a call on one so errant in his religion that he didn’t even attend his own child’s baptism. From the priest’s knowing nod on the day, it was clear the good Father had no expectations of Frank Sloy, though he’d commended the mother on giving her son the gift of eternal life. Mary’s stomach pitched ill thinking perhaps the priest had come to enquire why hadn’t she got her own tardy arse to church to wet her babe’s head. He’d not likely appreciate she’d done it herself already.
She re-propped the pole under the wash-line and undid the strings of her apron. She licked her fingers and smoothed her flyaway bangs behind her ears. When the jinker drew closer, she recognised the familiar angle of a shadowed figure sitting beside the priest. Her breath held taut in her throat until the wheels rolled to a stop.
‘Joe,’ she gasped, breaking into a run with no heed to decorum or the priest sitting beside her father-in-law, so thrilled was she to have him arrive.
‘Joe, welcome. I’m that pleased to see …’
But the Joe climbing down from the jinker, stiff like all his joints afire, stilled Mary’s tongue. When he tried to take her hands, shaking his head, eyes welling, she backed away. ‘What are you doing here, Joe?’
‘I’m sorry to tell you, lass.’
She glanced frantically from Joe to the priest. ‘No, no, there’s nothing to tell. Come inside. Come and meet your grandson.’
Joe took hold of her shoulders, bowing his head like he could not meet her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, lass. For you and the wean. Liam, he, he’s … dead.’
The days following blurred in and out and all Mary recalled later was the coming and going of small mouths, sucking and demanding at her breasts, while her heart screamed a never-ending chorus of, ‘No’. In the darkened room, she woke and slept not knowing if it were day or night and not caring. Only the soft wisp of a familiar curl stirred her at all, but she’d neither the strength nor desire to get out of bed.
Winnie was dear and brought the babies to her, as well as light meals to keep up her strength and ensure she kept her milk. Other times, Winnie took over all care of the babies and asked nothing of her, but at feed time. So tender was she for their well-being that when Mary planted a soft kiss on Conor’s rosy cheek, Winnie snatched him away. ‘It’s not sanitary kissing him like that. You don’t want him to sicken, do you?’
Is that it? I’ve been ill?
Awake, she could do that, deceive herself. Yet sleep brought chilling dreams of Liam lying dead in a ditch, gnawed on by animals and rotting in the weather until not a trace of him recognisable. All that was left, his blond curls, his fob watch and medallion; his parting gift from the Pailis engraved with good wishes and his name. According to the constable, Liam had never made it beyond Dalyston. The police couldn’t tell if he’d been beaten, or fallen ill, or run over by a carriage in the dark. If it wasn’t for a few cows wandering into another farmer’s field, his body might have turned completely to bones before he was found.
All Mary could think of was how, while she’d been cursing him, calling him useless and deserter, he’d been lying there – dead. Dead with no-one to mourn him or a priest to bless his soul and send him on to heaven.
Then there was the memory of Joe going away, disappointed when she’d refused to leave with him and the priest. Her unable to abandon Bertie, knowing just how it felt to be forsaken and the wean in need of sustenance and any love he could grasp for now.
Poor, poor Joe. The image of him shrunken in the jinker seat, a pale shadow of himself, tears drenching his face … Mary turned her head away to the pillow but the welcome wetness of tears refused to come for her. Not for the wife who’d given a man up as a coward. What a thing to call her own husband. She was grateful Liam would never have to know all the things she’d ranted. Only now she could never tell him anything. Or show him his son. She was hard-pressed to look Conor in the eyes when she fed him, eyes the same shape as his father’s gazing back at her. His same slender fingers plucking at her breast.
It made feeding Conor painful in a way she never found with Bertie. Winnie seemed to understand though, and, where she might leave Bertie with her awhile, she sped Conor away lest the memories hurt her more.
A MOTHER’S TOUCH
JANUARY 1916
‘Get out of bed, girl.’
The shutter above Mary’s bed wrenched open – sunlight streaming in where for days none had been allowed.
Withered flower heads reminded her of a hazy morning when a persistent knocking outside refused to be ignored. Half-asleep, she’d fancied it might be Liam come to tell her it was all a mistake. She’d pushed ajar the shutter to find Nate holding up a bunch of yellow buttercups.
By the time she mustered a nod of recognition, he’d plonked them in a can on the sill and gone on his way. Now they too had died.
Whether it had been a day or a week ago, she couldn’t tell.
‘Maw, what are you doing here? Leave me be. I’m fine.’
‘Yes, fine in your nightgown in the middle of the day.’ Her mother flicked the collar of the offending garment. ‘And been in it some time too, I see. Get up, girl. You can mourn on your own two feet while going about life the same.’
Maw pulled back the rag of a blanket and swung Mary’s legs over the side of the mattress. ‘A bath is waiting for you in the kitchen, as well as your son. If that hussy will let another body hold him.’
‘Winnie’s okay, Maw. She’s been a good friend to me these past weeks, especially …’
Maw tsked. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure.’ Meanwhile she bustled Mary into the kitchen and tugged her nightgown off over her head. ‘Look at you, a bag of bones. It’s a wonder you can feed any babe, let alone two. What’s wrong with his mother anyhow? She don’t look sickly to me.’
Mary shrugged her shoulders, unable to take up any battle on Winnie’s behalf. She couldn’t guess why Maw had come since she’d shown no interest in Conor in the three weeks since his birth. She could guess Joe must have gone home with a few tales bursting from his lips.
Sloy had by no measure made the priest or the newly-bereaved father welcome. In fact, he’d wanted to pack the pair off without a sip of tea to wet their throats or loosen the words on how Liam came to be found and where.
In the gloom of the kitchen, she raised a small smile for the sweet face of her son lying in Winnie’s arms, gurgling at the fool voices the girl was cooing to him, but it was disconcerting to hear Bertie grizzling nearby in his crib. She peeked around, giving the laddie a wink as she lowered herself into the steaming water.
‘That wean needs his napkin changed. And from the smell of it has for some time.’ Maw stood arms folded, glaring pointedly at Winnie.
Mary closed her eyes and didn’t dare watch Winnie’s reaction. The bath water lapped against her and, with a touch of guilt, she wondered if she smelled as bad as Bertie herself. She’d barely had a sponge bath since Joe’s visit. It hadn’t seemed to matter, like there’d never be anyone to care if she did or didn’t smell again.
Maw must have been there since sun-up to heat so much water. No doubt she’d kicked up a ruckus to make Sloy both spare it and set the tub inside the kitchen by the fire. Not that the day was cold. Still she was shivering – had been doing so since the news.
The dark veins throbbing in her breasts told her why Bertie was fretting. ‘I’ll be with you soon, laddie. Just give me a moment more to enjoy me swim.’
‘Don’t worry about that one. He’s about to enjoy a feast of his own.’ Maw poured a little more water out of the kettle into the tub and then carefully topped up a saucepan bubbling on the stove – infant bottles rattling inside.
&n
bsp; Mary watched while her mother poured the boiled milk from another pan into a bottle she’d set on the table. What are you doing, Maw?’
‘You have to boil milk, girl, before you give it to a wean.’ Maw’s words hung frigid in the air.
Winnie stopped her song with a pout. ‘Mary’s happy to feed Bertie. Poor little runt and me not able to do anything with no bosoms to speak of and him with a useless leg.’
Maw snorted, ‘His leg, or the lack, won’t stop him drinking from a bottle.’
‘It’s fine, Maw. I’ll be out in a minute,’ soothed Mary, hoping to head off the storm brewing.
‘You can’t go on looking after two weans. Nothing wrong with that one a napkin change won’t fix.’ Maw glared again at Winnie and stepped forwards, reaching out her arms for Conor. Mary held her breath as the pair stared each other down.
‘I’ll take me grandson awhile, if you don’t mind? Your own son will be growing tatties in his napkin if you don’t get rid of some of that manure he’s got piling up in there.’
Winnie shook with rage as Maw lifted Conor out of her arms. A head taller than the older woman she might be, but the ferocious warning in Maw’s eyes enough to make her relinquish the babe without a word and pick up her own son with reluctant hands.
Mary could tell Winnie had no clue how to take a mother’s bark, especially one going to the crux without an ounce of tact on the way.
‘You might give him a wash too while you’re at it, after Mary’s out of the tub. His wee arse is blinking red with sores, did you know?’
After her bath it came clear to Mary, Maw’s was no quick visit but a mission of single purpose.
‘Go and pack up your things, daughter. Time to get you and the wean back to Ivor Street where you belong. The funeral’s at ten tomorrow.’
Mary reeled, as flabbergasted by Maw suddenly wanting her home as what shock had let her forget. Of course, there’d be a funeral. Only, she’d thought the autopsy would take longer. Give her more time.
She was saved any answer when Winnie began to bluster.
‘Mary can’t leave. Bertie needs her to feed him. Else he won’t settle.’
‘Your wean settling ain’t nothing to do with Mary feeding him. He’s a pernickety babe, is all. He’ll grow out of it.’ Maw pushed Mary towards the lean-to. ‘Hurry now. Robbie Clarke will be along soon to fetch us.’ Then she marched back across the room to snatch up Bertie grizzling in his crib and plonk him in his mother’s arms. ‘I suggest you feed your own son. My daughter has a husband to bury and her own wean to take care of. At least you have a husband, don’t you?’
Mary winced at the malicious glint in Maw’s eye and knew it no consolation Maw offered. Her own indignation hiked on Winnie’s behalf.
‘Maw, I can’t leave until I’m sure Bertie’ll take to the bottle again. Or act so ungracious after Winnie taking care of me and my son.’ Unvoiced was her indignation that she’d not leave at the snap of her mother’s fingers, or by the same hand that slammed the door on her barely three months ago.
‘What that child needs is his mother. You’re neither his maw, nor his wet nurse. You’re not helping the pair of them get on. Are you?’
Mary couldn’t argue the very same logic she’d been worrying over for weeks, even if she’d had the strength. But she was shocked by the black look of fury Winnie turned on her.
In the lean-to, she dragged her valise onto the mattress and, packing the tiny vests and precious baby layette, gave herself a good ticking off. Try and have some understanding, mean baggage. Winnie must be hurting to see Conor go. She loves him like a second son. But Maw was right – the sooner she went, the better for Bertie’s sake. Now that his wee cheeks were plumping out and a morsel of fat padding his frame, he looked much bonnier – less a skun rabbit. Of course his mother would love him soon.
On that thought, Winnie burst through the door, Bertie wailing in her arms. ‘I’ve got an idea, Mary. The perfect solution to all our problems.’
Mary tensed. She hoped this was not going to be another attempt by Winnie to get her to stay longer. Even Winnie must have seen Maw was not one to take ‘no’ for an answer. Besides, tomorrow …
‘You need to get on with your life now, Mary.’ Winnie grabbed up one of her hands. ‘Frank and me can look after Conor. You can start a new life where no-one needs to know you ever had a child. We’ll take real good care of him and give him Frank’s name. We’ll raise him as our own.’
Mary’s stunned silence broke only when an almighty flash of lightning split the sky beyond the shutter as if God himself more disgusted than she with the suggestion.
She withdrew her hand from Winnie’s and wiped it off on her skirt, the chill of the wind blowing into her voice. ‘Thank you for your generous offer, Winnie, which I’m sure was made with the best of intentions. You’ll have your hands full with your own son to raise. Conor and me will be just fine.’
As if Winnie did not hear her, the girl laughed, half-hysterical, trying to thrust Bertie into her arms. ‘There’s plenty of them foundling homes just waiting to take cripples like Bertie. He’ll be better looked after with them than he would be here. They’ll get him some of them crutches or a wheeling chair. He’ll be happier with his own kind.’
The very suggestion grated in Mary’s ears. All of a sudden she knew it not the first time Winnie had uttered it. Where was such crazy talk coming from? From the child’s own mother!
She had to stifle the urge not to take up Winnie’s hysterical laughter. Instead she steeled her nerve to hold her feet and the rough edge of her tongue. ‘Have you gone gilhooley mad, Winnie? Of course, your son is staying with you. Conor is coming with me. I’ll try to forget you ever suggested anything other.’
‘Are you ready, daughter? Robbie Clarke is at the gate.’ Maw interrupted from the door.
It was only her mother’s prodding that got Mary and her son out the front door. Mindless as to whether she had all the articles of the baby layette, or even her own belongings, she could only clutch her son tightly, barely able to utter a word of goodbye, such was her shock at Winnie’s betrayal. She ached to give Bertie a kiss, a last bit of loving, but was not prepared to hand over her own son for the same.
Climbing onto Robbie Clarke’s cart, she lamented not saying goodbye to Nate Carr, but was more thankful to have missed Frank Sloy.
Winnie’s refusal to talk to her again made the departure easier. The girl’s only acknowledgement was standing on the porch, watching them go, while her own son screamed inside. No hand raised in a wave.
Mary wouldn’t have seen it anyway, too busy holding Conor safe against the sway of the cart. Too busy thinking of tomorrow.
LOUD THE WINDS HOWL …
FEBRUARY 1916
‘Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.’
Mary stroked the forehead of the babe drowsing in her arms while she sang, pausing to wipe tears from her cheeks. The perfection of the wee creature she held so close her only solace, remembering another laddie never coming back to her now. She couldn’t help but smile for the promise of their child. Their son.
She sighed at a ruckus starting up beyond the bedroom door. If not for the babe in her arms, her sisters squawking over a missing ribbon out in the hallway and Maw shouting Da in to his tea, she might never have gone away. But … a glance back to her son, his tiny, slender fingers grasping hers, showing just how far he had yet to grow, a tremor ran through her for the enormity of some changes since she’d left Ivor Street – near a child herself.
The past week was a blur in her mind. Liam’s funeral a haze of dark wood and black crepe. She still couldn’t believe him gone. Or that it were Liam the priest blessing, even as the coffin went underground. Throughout the wake, she’d drifted in Limbo, as if the sad nods and solicitude meant for some other widow, not her.
Her comfort now – he
r son. Each snuffle of the tiny rosebud mouth, the rise and fall of his faint eyebrows in sleep, the delicious pinkness of his skin and wispy curls of pale hair.
It was all she could do since she got back to Ivor Street not to hold him all day long, unwilling to set him down, except Maw had had something to say about that folly, as she’d called it. Maw had plenty to say too about Winnie’s shortcomings, but mostly Mary tried not to think about the sudden turn in events at the farm at all. She worried for Bertie. Poor wee lamb. Then, gazing down at her son, she chastised herself. ‘You’ll have your work cut out making a start for one wee treasure.’ She could fret over Bertie no more.
‘Sweet babe,’ she whispered in Conor’s ear, ‘forgive me not naming you for your da.’ She grimaced recalling how in her hurt and anger and ignorance after the birth, she couldn’t accord the father such honour. She’d fretted more thinking about Joe at the time. Had he minded dreadfully?
The day after the funeral she’d gone to introduce his grandson to him properly.
The agony on Joe’s face at their arrival, his refusal to meet her eyes, cut as a knife to her heart. He would not even touch the baby. Wouldn’t even look at him. Joe blamed her. Like everyone else.
Blame me, I understand. But a wee boy? Your grandson. Part of your own son. Oh, Joe! That hurt and damnation had been too much to bear and she’d picked up her purse and left quick as not deemed rude.
But Jane had come running after her, begging, ‘Mary, wait. Please don’t go away from us too. It’s nowt to do with you. Da can’t forgive himself, is all. He blames himself for Liam going away. And for his dying too.’
‘No, Jane.’ Mary hated the condescension come into her voice, same as she despised it in her elders when they thought they knew better. But how could she help it? Joe might’ve welcomed her to his door, but he made it more than clear he blamed her. Why would he not after what she and Liam had done? What she had done?
No Small Shame Page 16
