No Small Shame

by Christine Bell

  She leaped out of the chair and ran into the bedroom, had Julia in the perambulator and bouncing along the hallway to the landlady’s door with barely time to think what she was doing.

  ‘Please watch the babe for a bit, Mrs Garter. I’ve got … an urgent errand to run. Bless you. I’ll find some way to repay your kindness.’

  She ran out the front door without waiting on an answer, leaving the woman gaping after her. She ran, her legs like jelly, hardly holding her upright. Terror scalded in her temples. She turned right, out the front gate, before spinning around in a panic, and scurrying left, colliding with Fred Bourke, from upstairs, swaying down the street with his huge beer belly.

  ‘Have you seen my husband, Mr Bourke? You know, Liam Merrilees?’

  ‘No, but it’s after five. I dare say you’ll find him at Taberner’s.’

  She scowled at the man’s cheek and ran on. Why did everyone in this bloody country act like it their God-given right to comment on another person’s comings and goings? She never asked the man where he thought Liam might be at this time of day. Only if he’d seen him. Hot tears burned in her eyes, because it wasn’t Fred Bourke she was mad at, but her damn self. Racing around the countryside, letting her imagination run riot. All for a father scaring their children silly. Was it his intention to scare her this time?

  Where are you, Liam? What are you thinking?

  Every urge in her wanted to turn her feet towards Taberner’s. To find Liam there, rocking the pub chair on its back legs, swilling down pence they could ill afford. Instead she stumbled the other way. Heading towards Hagelthorn Street and Joe’s, but then, sighting the new houses going up in front of Ketter’s field, she stopped, fear hiking the stitch in her side.

  She recalled the last time she’d stood in the field, glimpsing the boy she remembered in Liam’s eyes. It might’ve been only the dazzle behind the leaves of the swing tree, but on that day, it seemed the sun and the light reflected the warm emerald of his youth in those deep pools. Especially when he’d gazed down at Conor and his hand reached out towards his son. Her memory burned on the second he’d pulled it back. She’d known Liam still visited the swing tree on occasions; she found its leaves perished in his pocket. Collected like a wee boy collects shells on the seashore.

  She stumbled on the uneven ground, snatching at a handful of paddock grass and cringing when it ripped through her fingers, cutting into the palm of her hand. She sucked on the pinpricks of blood breaking through the flesh and raised her eyes to scan the distant outline of the swing tree.

  The sun blazed behind it, blinding her, dazzling through the leaves until her eyes adjusted, the rope looped over the branch hanging taut – a limp bundle suspended at the bottom.

  She staggered forwards with a scream.

  WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS

  JULY 1919

  Her mind faltered, drunken with fear. Unable to think beyond recalling the tan twill of the trouser legs over the back of the scrubbed wood chair that morning, the black stain on one knee causing her to curse. The same mark now boring into her eyes, growing surer the nearer she came. No, Liam Merrilees. Don’t you do this. Don’t you dare do this. Her eyes fixed ahead, not blinking. Ignoring the jar to her ankle, on finding a rock. Don’t you take him, Lord. Her lips bruising together as she reached the near side of the tree.

  Feet hovering inches off the ground. Oh God, Liam, you could’ve just stretched out your toes.

  With sudden hope this might yet be some nasty trick, she looked up.

  The pale face tilted sideways – resting so peaceful. The only giveaway, the tip of the tongue poking swollen between the lips.

  ‘No, Liam. No.’ A fresh scream raged out her mouth.

  She grabbed onto the legs lolling in front of her and hefted them up, twisting them to swing the rope free. Oh God, was she making it worse? Useless girl. Frantic, she let go and ran to the tree. Searched for a foothold to shimmy up its trunk.

  Finding no such grip, she ran back to fling her arms about the legs, hoisting them up again. Praying some small amount of air might reach Liam’s lungs. If only she could hold him up until someone came.

  Her gaze darted desperate to the road, along the boundary of the paddock. One hundred yards away, timber frames of the first new estate houses stood abandoned. She sobbed to think, half an hour earlier they’d have swarmed with men nailing and hammering the trusses. All of them gone off home.

  Not a soul stepped out from the rear of the shops and offices backing onto the paddock. The only hint the town not deserted, an automobile horn tooting over on Graham Street. The only sign of life a crow shrugging in a dust bath by a clump of blackberry bushes.

  The crush of Liam’s weight grew heavy against her chest. Jostling him higher, his hand brushed her face. She started in relief at the movement. Then she stared at the still, tiny blond hairs on the back of his hand. The veins swollen, near to bursting, yet she willed the fingers to reach out, to cup her cheek.

  Her hand crept up his shirtfront, held still against his chest.

  The truth in its stillness strangled the breath in her throat. Her arms fell loose, causing his body to swing. She flung her hands back to steady Liam’s legs as if it might hurt him less. Then, letting go, she sank onto her knees on the rocky ground, sobbing, ‘I can’t help you, Liam. I never could help you.’ She clamped her arms about her chest, dragging at her sleeves and rocking backwards and forwards, not knowing if the groans rasping in her ears were her own or from the tree branches moving in the wind.

  ‘God, why won’t you never hear me? Why? Why?’

  The words repeated – over and over – refusing to be quieted. If she kept on saying them, she wouldn’t start to scream. For Liam. For Joe and dear Jane. For herself. Oh God, the children. Her eyes darted heavenward, searching for Da, flittered across the fields searching for Maw. Anyone, ’cept a priest.

  She started and a rock cut into her knee beneath her skirts. She refused to let the yelp escape, but pressed her hands to the earth instead. Her fingers closed over a familiar shape. Came up holding a cigarette butt – she knew it a Havelock before even smelling it. So fresh, a wail jammed in her throat.

  It couldn’t be real. Couldn’t. But the shoes dangling in front of her weren’t lying. Oh God! Liam! She couldn’t help but look up. See again the blue lips and saliva dribbling out the corner of his mouth.

  She snatched away her blurry gaze. Shaking fingers reached out in front of her to press a shoelace swinging loose and she fought the urge to retie it. The dusty shoes belied the polish beneath the flecks of dirt. The socks above mismatched, but the darn on the right ankle faultless. She clasped the twill material of the trouser legs, scrunching it in her hands and crushing her face into it – casting her mind away from the weight within. Why would you not seek help, Liam?

  ‘Oh, God, why?’

  The sun blazed on the horizon, splintering the world in front of her. Blinding her.

  She could be dead herself. She was that calm. Too calm. Calm as when your second choice is to run screaming down the street, telling the world of your horror and denying your husband a Catholic burial.

  ‘Mary, lass, can you hear me? It’s Robbie Clarke. Let me help you.’

  Fingers closed about her shoulders. Words cut through the haze. She glanced up, shading her eyes against the dazzle of the setting sun. Her knees shuddered and threw her off balance. Her whole body began to shake, her teeth threatening to splinter from their frenzied chattering. She could not even turn away in time to hide the hot stream of vomit flooding out of her mouth.

  When she was done, Robbie used the neckerchief untied from around his own throat to wipe the sweat dripping off her forehead and her mouth clean.

  Strong hands hauled her to her feet, manoeuvred her sideways, shifting her gaze away from Liam’s body.

  ‘We’ll bring him along directly.’ Robbie’s da’s voice rang familiar on the tree branch overhead. His partner, Royce Lee, stood off to the side holding up the weight o
f her husband.

  She couldn’t think anymore with the uneven earth demanding her attention and herself giving Robbie support, as much as he to her. Her arm looped through his, trying not to hinder his crutches. Her leaving, a betrayal. When they reached the paddock edge, Des and the man, Lee, came alongside. Their arms linked under Liam’s, supporting him like he might have been falling-down drunk. Only if one looked down, his dusty shoes didn’t quite touch the ground.

  The men nodded to her, pressing on, yet giving her enough time to recognise Des’s own neckerchief tied around Liam’s neck.

  She tucked her arm tighter through Robbie’s, bidding him follow. Her feet found strengthened purchase with every step and she walked straight ahead following the leaders.

  Robbie’s eyes flitted vigilant as a mother bird watching her all the way to the road. The same darting glances Joe gave her some nights when he brought his son home, watching to see if she’d be standing beside her bags rather than her husband.

  Poor Joe. How would he bear it? Mightn’t it be easier to farewell a wean with all the promise and none of the disappointment? How would Joe go on – again?

  At the corner they turned right instead of left. Des stopped to summon a young laddie. Flipping him a half-penny, he sent him scurrying towards Hagelthorn Street.

  ‘He’ll fetch Liam’s da,’ said Robbie. They continued on with Des and Royce Lee ahead, waving off the neighbours in the dusk with shakes of their head. Enough to send those interested back to their stoops shaking their own. Silently she blessed Des Clarke for his prudence, praying that no-one would suspect more than a terrible accident befallen the laddie from the flats.

  No-one would doubt his wife upset – or come near. The grieving widow needed no show. Just to step, one foot in front of the other. Closing her eyes on the night coming and the grief waiting.

  THE LAYING OUT

  JULY 1919

  Who would believe the hours past? Mary pressed the door to Joe’s good front room closed, but she might’ve guessed it her mother preventing it from shutting.

  ‘Maw.’

  The insistence in Maw’s answering glare held her hand and her tongue and she closed the pair of them inside, against her better judgement. She raised her hand to Maw’s unspoken question. ‘No. I’ll do for him. I’m his wife.’

  Her mother set down a basin of warm water. The rest of the items for the laying out waited on a tray on the sideboard. A suit of clothes and undergarments draped over the chair. The shoes now polished to a high shine.

  Mary turned and drew in a jagged breath – Liam lying naked under a towel on Joe’s good room table. Surrounded by the trappings of Catherine’s social rise, in niceties not previously known to the Merrilees. Never to the O’Donnells. Woven rugs graced the floor and a gilt-framed portrait of the family hung over the fireplace. Navy velvet draperies clad the window frame, rendering it a room much above Mary’s memory – the one time she and Liam had lain together in the next room.

  Maw, mistaking the cause of her indrawn breath, hissed on its heels. ‘What was the man thinking, committing a mortal sin against God and his wife?’

  Mary clamped her tongue between her teeth. A mild hysteria rising in her breast. She was not going three rounds with Maw now, or opening her mouth and have Maw think her giving in to the grief a second time. She comforted herself instead, the painting, the velvet drapes, and the crystal decanter on the chiffonier reflected a world Liam had dreamed of all his life. Not in a miner’s cottage, in a State-owned town, but more fitting than their dingy rooms on Watt Street.

  The face by her hand might be sleeping, so smooth the brow and peaceful. Only its pallidness gave away the truth. She sucked in a sharp breath, but could not breathe it out on seeing the fringed waves of blond eyelashes – never to open again.

  What colour are your eyes, Liam, on such a day?

  She supposed she should be grateful to Des Clarke and the fates that saw them closed, needless of the pennies waiting on the tray. She crossed herself, smothering a laugh. You’ve got me, haven’t you, Lord? I can’t never get away from thanking you for small mercies. Even with the larger ones going begging. What a riddle – religion. The alternative too awful.

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter, girl. What will people say? And what of the priest? Lord knows what gossip is about already. There’ll be talk. And questions.’

  ‘Not now, Maw. I swear …’

  Maw sniffed on the opposite side of the table, but held her tongue. Lord knows by what higher power. Whatever authority bound Mary in gratitude.

  Was it her fault? Her and her cold disdain? Her refusal to hear any apology or even talk with Liam. I never even told him I was leaving.

  Who are you lying to now? He knew. Course he knew.

  At a cough from Maw, she stepped forwards and ran her fingers through the waves of wheat-blond hair. Breathing through the thought, it still soft and alive. When does hair die? Does it die? Is it alive? Stop it.

  Her fingers stilled on the rolled material of Des’ neckerchief, still tied around Liam’s neck, then busied working the knot until it fell loose. The band of the rope’s mark paled to parchment on skin already growing waxen.

  Her gasp brought Maw around beside her, passing a cloth moistened in the basin on the sideboard.

  ‘While the water’s warm.’

  Mary nodded, grateful, and took the flannel. She wiped it gently over her husband’s face. Soft over his eyes and tender around his lips. Trailing the cloth over his neck with measured pressure. Forgive me, my lovely laddie. You were for the longest time.

  She placed the cloth back in the basin and swirled it around before rolling it over the bar of scented soap Maw handed her, knowing it Catherine’s favourite.

  She squeezed the flannel and, raising her husband’s arms, rolled it over the soft hairs in the curves, before Maw raised up one shoulder for her to wash his back and buttocks. The skin cold and firming under her touch.

  Then she dried over the chest, trailing her fingers through the fine, downy hairs. The emptiness of the body finally penetrating her mind. She turned from it, only Maw pressed the washcloth back into her hands.

  She heard Jane come into the house and Conor’s shrieks of delight at the arrival of his sister. The two wean’s footsteps running on the boards down the hallway. How she longed to go to them, hold them, but she turned her face back to her husband, drawn by a tenderness not felt since their shared moment in the very next room, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  A night of tender words and touch. A closeness never repeated. She prayed the memory enough to carry herself beyond this day and those coming. When she’d have no answers for her children, only a story to weave. A story she’d once believed real. Real as washing down the limbs of her dead husband. The fresh soaped cloth following the knotted cords of his disfigured calf, offering up signs of war and of damage she could and couldn’t see. Scars and agonies she could never dream. The pain in a man’s head finding no rest, allowing in no joy.

  No chance to claim back the life he’d dreamed – anything less never going to be enough. You never could wait on time changing things, could you, Liam? Or perhaps … you knew how short you were of time. Or that for you time never could change anything? Never would.

  ‘Oh, God!’ The sadness of it snagged in her throat. She nodded, grateful to Maw for the pressure squeezing her forearm and bringing her back to task. Handing her the clothes – one by one.

  She drew her next breath deep, as if she’d been taking no air. Surprised she went on breathing at all with no thought to do so. She laid her hand over the still chest beside her. Over the place where Liam’s heart should beat and wondered how long since it had shrivelled to silence. She shuddered and took the singlet from Maw’s hands, easing it over his head while Maw helped her put through the arms and tuck the waist decent into his trousers. At each button of the shirt she lingered, knowing the job near done.

  She took the rosary beads from Maw’s offered hand and looped
them through Liam’s fingers, before crossing his arms over his chest. Praying she’d set them right as Maw pressed a cushion beneath each elbow.

  Barely aware of a light tapping on the outside of the door, she recognised Jane’s whisper behind it. Then Maw stood back at her side, passing over a creamy gentleman’s scarf.

  Mary nodded, taking the filmy material in her hand and raising up Liam’s head, laying its folds gently around his neck to cover the tell-tale line his collar did not hide.

  Done, she wanted to open Liam’s eyes to see himself. For her to see the emerald sparkle of the boy running delirious in Neddy’s field. Running towards his dreams forever. Only …

  Julia’s cough crackled from the hallway.

  At the click of the door, she realised Maw had gone out of the room, found her own head laid heavy on Liam’s chest, sobs coming thick and not knowing how she got there. Only glad to be. Crying to honour all the years of friendship in the Pailis, if not a love taken into marriage. The lovely laddie, if not the man. And the father of her children.

  PURGATORY

  JULY 1919

  ‘Mary, I’m that pleased to see you,’ gushed Winnie Sloy. ‘Well, I was very sorry, really, to read the notice in the paper. Only I can’t help being glad for the chance to see you again. Only not … I mean … Oh, dear …’

  ‘I understand, Winnie. I do.’ Mary patted the girl’s arm, surprised she could utter the words with no emotion or upset at Winnie Sloy come to the wake and the Requiem. She added a small smile of reassurance for Winnie couldn’t look more ill, or puffier of face. In front, she bloated out pregnant.

  ‘Twins, I’ll wager,’ Maw hissed spiteful in passing.

  Mary coughed loudly to cover any further sarcasm coming from her mother, though not a soul would guess Winnie at a wake to watch her stuff cake in her gob, gossiping and begging on any bit of news. As friendly to Mary as if the pair of them took tea every week.