Jo was pouring the tea.
Alicia, who had now perfected pulling herself up, grabbed hold of the back of one of the kitchen chairs, lifting the front legs from the floor. Mattie scooped her up before she toppled it on herself.
‘You shouldn’t be lifting in your condition,’ said Ida, glancing at the pronounced roundness of her eldest daughter’s stomach.
‘I’m fine,’ Mattie replied, settling her daughter on her hip.
The back door opened again, and Jerimiah stepped out from behind the curtain. Although his face was pinched with the cold, his eyes were bright and with a sparkle in them she hadn’t seen for many weeks. His gaze flickered around the room then locked on her.
His expression changed somehow and a warm feeling spread through her. Feeling suddenly at peace, Ida smiled, and Jerimiah smiled back.
Although he always felt the burdens of the day grow a little lighter when he walked into the comforting warmth of the family’s kitchen, tonight Jerimiah felt it doubly so.
There was a meaty smell of his supper being kept warm in the oven and, as always, there was a cup of tea either just about to be made or brewing. But most importantly, and something until recently he had to admit he’d not realised was so precious to him, there was Ida.
They continued to look across at each other for a heartbeat then, conscious of Jo and Mattie regarding their parents strangely, he widened his gaze to include his two daughters.
‘Evening, me dears,’ he said, unwinding his scarf and taking off his donkey jacket. ‘I can see you’ve all been busy this afternoon.’
‘We have,’ said Jo. ‘But Mum should take most of the credit as she’s been putting stuff by and baking for weeks. Me and Mattie have only helped get it all out.’
‘I know,’ said Jerimiah, gazing at his wife again. ‘Where would we be without her?’
Jo and Mattie exchanged a glance and Ida waved his words away with the tea towel.
‘Go away with yer old blarney, Jerimiah Brogan.’ She shrugged off his compliment but not quickly enough to stop a blush colouring her cheeks. ‘I suppose you’re after a cuppa, as always.’
‘I’m gasping for one, so I am,’ he replied.
She held his gaze for a second or two longer then turned and took down his large mug from the row of hooks over the dresser.
‘Any news on Gran?’ asked Mattie.
The pall of sadness hovering over him, despite his conversation with Tommy, pressed down again and Jerimiah shook his head.
‘Not yet,’ he said.
Mattie put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sure she’ll be found fit and well soon.’
Jerimiah forced a smile. ‘I know.’
He doubted it but there was no point telling the children that before Christmas. Alicia clapped her hands and Jerimiah switched his mind to happier things.
‘Hello, me darling child,’ he said, taking her from her mother.
He kissed her, feeling her baby-smooth cheek under his lips. She responded by giving him a damp kiss in return.
‘Is Father Christmas going to bring you something nice?’ he asked her as he held her in one arm.
‘The Board of Trade Allocation of Raw Materials and the LCC Price Regulation Committee permitting,’ said Mattie.
Jo caught his eye. ‘Did Tommy catch you, Dad?’
‘Yes, he did, and pleased I was to see him,’ Jerimiah replied.
He and Jo exchanged a knowing look. She picked up her and her sister’s cups.
‘Let’s go through to the parlour, Mattie,’ she said.
Jerimiah handed Alicia back and both girls left the room.
‘Well, you’re certainly full of Christmas spirit,’ said Ida, placing his mug on the table. ‘I suppose that’s Tommy plying you with Guinness at the Catholic Club to get you to change your mind about him and Jo getting married.’
‘Well, you see, now that’s where you’re wrong,’ he said, picking up his drink, ‘because Tommy dropped by the yard and . . .’
As he told her about his conversation with Tommy and the dozen or so visits he’d done on his way home, Ida’s eyes grew wider and wider.
‘So, you see,’ he concluded, ‘Brogan and Sons are back in business.’
‘Oh, Jerry, I’m so glad you’re up and running again,’ said Ida, when he’d finished. ‘So I suppose you’ll be off to the Catholic Club to celebrate after your supper.’
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be nice if we all went to Midnight Mass together as a family.’
Crossing the space between them, Jerimiah took her small hands in his large work-worn ones.
‘And I hope and pray it’s us, Ida, me and you, who are up and running, because without you nothing makes any sense,’ he said, fighting the urge to take her into his arms. ‘What do you say, Ida? Is it still me and you against the world?’
She glanced down at his large work-roughened hands holding hers for a moment then her eyes returned to his face.
‘Jerry, I—’
‘Mum, Dad,’ shouted Billy as he burst through the parlour door into the kitchen.
‘Come and listen, there’s a bloke on the wireless talking about the army in North Africa where our Charlie is.’
*
‘I hope everyone’s ready,’ said Ida, bringing her coat into the back parlour and laying it across the back of the sofa. ‘Because if we don’t leave in ten minutes, all the pews will be taken and we’ll end up standing at the side.’
‘Almost,’ said Jo, trying to comb Billy’s hair into place despite his best efforts to stop her. ‘I’ve just got to get my coat on and Mattie’s gone to the bog.’
‘Are the babies wrapped up warm enough?’ Ida asked, glancing at the two prams parked next to each other in front of the glowing embers of the fire.
‘Alicia is and Patrick is too now Mattie’s put another blanket on him,’ Jo replied. ‘And once we get in the church, they’ll be warm enough. What time is Stella collecting him tomorrow?’
‘Goodness only knows,’ said Ida, ‘but I told her to come before one or not at all as we’ll be sitting down to dinner then and won’t be opening the door.’
The kitchen door opened and Mattie came in. ‘Sorry, Mum, but I had to go.’
‘Course, luv,’ said Ida. ‘Is your dad still out there?’
‘Just filling up the girls’ feeding trough and covering them with an extra blanket to keep the frost at bay,’ Mattie replied.
‘Well, while he’s doing that I’ll just pop up to check on Ellen,’ said Ida. ‘Billy, stand still so your sister can comb your hair!’
Leaving the family to get themselves ready to go to the Christmas Eve midnight service, Ida made her way upstairs to the bedroom at the front of the house. She’d lit a small fire earlier to keep out the night chill so the room was warm and dimly lit by the bedside lamp.
Ellen, who was as colourless as the sheet beneath her, lay with her arms out of the covers, her eyes closed. Michael was lying propped up against the headboard beside his mother. He was wearing his school trousers and a thick Aran sweater. An old copy of the Hotspur lay open on his lap.
He looked up as Ida came in.
‘Is your mum all right, Michael?’ she whispered.
Ellen looked up.
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you,’ said Ida.
‘You didn’t,’ whispered Ellen. ‘I wasn’t asleep.’
‘Well, we’re just getting ready to go to church and I wondered if Michael would like to come to Midnight Mass with the rest of the family,’ said Ida.
The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘Can I, Mum?’
‘Of course you can,’ said Ellen. ‘As long as you behave properly.’
‘I promise,’ said Michael.
‘Go and get your coat on, then,’ croaked Ellen. ‘And you can tell me all about it in the morning.’
Giving her a peck on the cheek, he bounced off the bed and dashed out of the room.
A sad smile lifted the corners of Ellen’s pale l
ips as her son’s footsteps thumped down the stairs. ‘He already thinks of himself as part of your family.’
‘But he will always be your son, even when—’ Breaking from Ellen’s sunken gaze, Ida cast her eyes around the room. ‘Right, you’ve had your medicine, you’ve got a fresh set of sheets and nightdress . . .’ Her gaze flickered over the crocheted blanket discreetly covering the commode. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do before we leave for church?’
‘Just one thing,’ Ellen replied, her sunken eyes holding Ida’s. ‘Give me your forgiveness.’
Long buried emotions of love rose up in Ida’s mind as did memories of walking arm in arm on sunny days and girlish secrets shared.
She looked down at the dying woman. ‘You were my friend, Ellen, my best friend, dearer to me than my own sister and yet you . . .’
A ghost of a smile flitted across Ellen’s face. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘And I’m sorry for how I’ve hurt you but I couldn’t help myself. I had a chance to love him, just once, and, God forgive me, I took it. You don’t understand how much I loved him and still do. I loved him from the first moment I saw him as a girl of six or seven. Even then, when I barely understood what love between a man and a woman was, I dreamed I’d be his bride. I dreamed of the children, too, three boys and three girls, all tall and dark with his lovely grey eyes. Those lovely grey eyes that looked at you, Ida, then saw no other woman.’ Tears shimmered in Ellen’s dark-shadowed eyes. ‘I had to smile as you married the man I loved. Had his children.’ A solitary tear ran down her right cheek. ‘What I did was wrong, I know that, but I can’t regret it because it gave me Michael. His son. I understand if you can’t forgive me, because if Jerimiah were mine, I couldn’t forgive any woman who dared to touch him either, but please, please, forgive him. Forgive Jerim—’
Ellen grabbed her chest as a paroxysm of coughing gripped her. Ida paused for a couple of heartbeats and hurried to her.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, putting her hand beneath her friend’s head and lifting it. ‘Just take a couple of deep breaths.’
Taking the invalid cup beside her, she offered Ellen a sip of water.
She swallowed a few mouthfuls and the spasm subsided. Ida went to place the china vessel back on the wooden surface, but Ellen’s skeletal hand caught her wrist in a vice-like grip.
‘He loves you,’ she gasped, fixing Ida with a piercing gaze. ‘He always has. So I beg you, Ida, don’t let your hatred of me destroy that.’
Guiding Billy and Michael forward, Ida prodded them into line and they knelt down on the padded carpet at the altar rail. Adjusting the sleeping Patrick on her shoulder, Ida got on her knees and stole a glance along the line of those waiting for the host.
Next to her was Billy so she could poke him if he didn’t behave. The other side of him was Michael, with his hands out already. Both of them were in their new clothes and with their hair brilliantined into a neat order. Next in line was Cathy, in her thick brown woollen coat and tangerine-coloured felt hat, with Peter, wearing a new coat at least two sizes too big, standing in front of her, watching with wonder the candlelight as it played on the rich gold fabric of the altar cloth and church silverware. Jo, in a smart new winter suit with a fur collar and pillbox hat, knelt next to her sister with Mattie, in her red coat and holding Alicia, on the other side. Beside her was Jerimiah.
He, like the rest of the family, had his best togs on, which in his case was his best suit, paisley waistcoat and freshly laundered red Kingsman neckerchief tied at its usual jaunty angle at his throat.
Father Mahon’s white and gold chasuble swept across her vision and Ida turned to face the front as he started distributing the host to the family, starting with Jerimiah.
Shifting the sleeping baby’s weight, Ida closed her eyes and waited while he stopped in front of each Brogan family member in turn.
She opened her mouth when the priest got to her and she felt the wafer rest on her tongue then dissolve. She heard the heavy fabric of Father Mahon’s vestments rustle as he laid his hand on Patrick to bless him.
Waiting until the priest had passed, Ida crossed herself then looked at Jerimiah to find him looking at her with a bleak expression on his face. She knew why: because Queenie wasn’t kneeling at the communion rail with them. Ida’s heart ached for his pain.
With his lips pulled tightly together, Jerimiah stood up. The rest of the family did the same but as Mattie tried to rise, Alicia started fussing. In one fluid movement, Jerimiah scooped his granddaughter effortlessly into his arms. The toddler put her arms around his neck and snuggled into him, her head resting against his jaw.
Leading the family back down the aisle, Jerimiah waited until Mattie had taken her seat then he handed Alicia back, but not before Ida caught tears shimmering in his eyes.
He looked across at her. Ida held his gaze for a second then Jerimiah turned and marched towards the front door. Laying Patrick back in his pram, Ida followed.
She found him standing on the pathway by one of the old family memorials about three or four yards away from the church porch, watching the thick Thames fog swirl around the stone post, their wrought-iron gates long gone to help the war effort.
In the dim light seeping beneath the church shutters Ida studied her husband for a moment then stepped forward and slipped her arm through his.
‘I shouldn’t have shouted at her,’ he said, still staring ahead into the murky atmosphere.
‘You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,’ said Ida. ‘You’d been up for hours; you were dead on your feet.’
‘I know but she’s my mother,’ he persisted. ‘Sometimes, I grant you, she would try the patience of St Peter himself, but I shouldn’t have hollered at her like that in front of everyone.’
‘I bet she gave you as good as she got, though,’ said Ida softly.
A wry smile lifted the corners of her husband’s mouth. ‘She always did but then she’d never have survived being married to me da if she hadn’t. Raised me practically single-handed she did, with him away with the drink and out of work more often than he was in it. Did you know when I was a baby she scrubbed the abattoir’s aprons to buy me extra food?’
Ida did, of course, and of the many sacrifices Queenie had made to raise her only son.
Clearing his throat, Jerimiah blinking a couple of times then stared into the impenetrable atmosphere.
Tucking herself into him a little closer Ida squeezed his arm. He patted her hand but didn’t look at her. They stood in silence for a moment or two then he spoke again.
‘I can’t believe she’s gone—’ He broke off, covering his eyes with his hand.
Reaching up, Ida put her arms around him. Jerimiah lowered his head on to her shoulder and he clung to her, his massive shoulders shaking with emotion.
The opening bars of the last hymn began, but as the organist piped out his jolly notes a less harmonious noise – a rolling squeak – could be heard.
Jerimiah raised his head from Ida’s shoulder and looked around. The puzzling noise, like a rusty hinge, grew closer and as she and Jerimiah peered into the London fog an eerie shape started to take form. Ida’s jaw dropped in disbelief as the ghost of Queenie emerged from the swirling pea-souper, but as she drew closer it became clear this wasn’t her mother-in-law’s spirit but the old woman herself.
It was no wonder Queenie looked like an apparition because in addition to her fur coat she had what appeared to be a horse blanket secured with a broad belt around her and Charlie’s old school balaclava under her floppy felt hat.
She was also pushing the battered pram Ida thought had been thrown out years ago, on which sat something covered with a flowery bedspread.
‘Ma?’ said Jerimiah. ‘Is it you?’
‘Of course it’s me,’ the old woman snapped back. ‘Who do you think it is, Maeve the Mystical?’
‘But we thought you were dead,’ Jerimiah continued.
‘Dead! Now why in God’s name would you think I’d be dead?�
�� she asked.
Jerimiah frowned. ‘Perhaps because no one’s seen hide nor hair of you for days.’
Queenie waved away her son’s words. ‘Sure, son, if I were dead wouldn’t I come back and tell you I was?’
‘Well honestly, Queenie,’ said Ida, suppressing a smile, ‘when you walked out of the fog I thought you had.’
‘Well, I’m not dead, that’s for sure,’ said the old woman. ‘And I tried to telephone Mattie twice to tell you where I was but the sweet telephone girl on the other end couldn’t get through.’
‘And where exactly were you?’ asked Jerimiah as people started filing out of the church behind them.
‘Gran!’ shouted Mattie, hurrying across with her pram. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, hugging the old woman.
Leaping the graves of the long dead, Billy and Michael tore over.
‘Thank goodness you’re back, Gran,’ shouted Billy. ‘Cos Prince Albert’s been missing you.’
‘So have we,’ added Michael, earning himself the tenderest look from his grandmother.
Jerimiah’s frown deepened. ‘As I was saying—’
‘Look, Cathy; it’s Gran,’ shouted Jo as she and Cathy, with Peter in his pushchair, joined the little family group.
‘Gran, you’re alive,’ laughed Cathy, as she and Jo sandwiched the old woman between them.
‘Look, Dad,’ Jo said, her eyes shining with joy in the dim light. ‘Gran’s alive.’
‘I think we’ve established that,’ said Jerimiah, his voice rising a notch or two. ‘But what I’m still trying to get to the bottom of is where in the name of all that is holy your dear old Gran has been these past five days.’
‘Chasing Red Colin,’ Queenie replied. ‘I’d have been there and back by Friday night if it hadn’t been for those eejit coppers.’
‘There and back from where?’ asked Jerimiah.
‘Hackney Flats, where he was camped,’ she replied. ‘I tell you I’ve had a rare time of it because by the time I got there on Friday he’d moved his vardo to Wanstead. Some kindly soul offered me a berth so after trying to telephone Mattie I got me head down for the night. I cadged a ride to Woodford Wells on Saturday only to find he’d shifted that morning to Harlow. As no one wanted to disrespect the Sabbath I enjoyed their hospitality until Monday.’ Her wrinkled face lifted on a fond smile. ‘Right grand company they were, too, with a fiddler who knew the old tunes. It took me right back, I can tell you . . .’ She caught sight of her son’s face. ‘Anyway, on Monday one of the young fellas was going north and he offered to drop me in Roydon and finally, with me legs aching and feet murdering the rest of me, I caught up with Red Colin on Monday afternoon. I tried to telephone Mattie again but still couldn’t get through so as Paddy Leary, who was on the site with his cousin’s family, said he was after coming back to see his sister I asked him to tell you where I was.’
A Ration Book Childhood Page 32
