Run to Him (2 page)

‘The best,’ Fionnuala said, making Fred blush yet again.

They exchanged smiles as her da slipped through the door and up the stairs, struggling to carry the satsumas and her ma’s tea.

Fionnuala looked up at the statue of Our Lady on the press, blessed herself and whispered, ‘I bottled it again, didn’t I?’

*

Fionnuala ran down Waterloo Street towards the bus stop and, as always, she glanced down Nelson Street towards the house of Annie O’Prey, then up at the windows, where she knew the secret that burnt in her heart lay sleeping. Within those soot-blackened, terraced walls, lay Annie’s son, Callum, home from prison these last few months. Like the good boy he now was, he would escort his mother to mass this morning and stand dutifully by her side, whilst she lit a penny candle for her late husband and for her best friend and neighbour, who had recently met the bloodiest of ends during a moment of privacy, sitting on the lavvy in her own outhouse. This was the reason Fred would not allow his daughter to walk home from the bus stop alone. If a woman could be murdered whilst sat on her lavvy, it could happen to anyone, anywhere.

If Fionnuala had fallen for any other boy on the Four Streets, telling her parents would not have presented such a problem, but Callum was bad news. In and out of prison, the O’Prey boys had a reputation for being prolific local thieves and, at the same time, local heroes. But Fionnuala was well aware that with Callum, it was all bravado. He loved to help people; well, really, what he actually loved was being needed and appreciated. Fionnuala knew he basked in the praise and gratitude heaped upon him, in a way unique to those with Irish blood in their veins, and never was this more obvious than when he managed to do something for one of the families he had grown up with and known since birth.

All it took was a request, dropped into his ear down the Anchor, and off Callum went, without a second thought. That, really, was Callum’s problem: he never considered the consequence of his actions beyond his need to feel valued and important. It was all that mattered to him. There was no doubt of the worth of the O’Prey boys to the community, but every mother on the streets was glad they were Annie’s boys, and not their own. Fionnuala’s own mother, Maggie, had even made excuses for Callum, until the day he stole a car and knocked out the girls from Nelson Street.

‘As God is true, if I was Annie O’Prey, I would be in an early grave, so I would, with the worry of that Callum,’ she had said.

‘Sure, he means no harm,’ her da had interjected.

‘Aye, I know that, soft lad.’

Fionnuala’s mother had a tongue as sharp as any knife in the drawer and took no prisoners, but what she lacked in maternal affection she made up for in domestic efficiency, and Fred was more than happy to be the ‘soft lad’ in the house, when it came to his children, often winking at his daughters behind Maggie’s back. With relief, they would grin back. They took no offence at their mother’s brusqueness, but when she snapped at Fred, it was as though her words pierced their own hearts and the pain lingered, until Fred slipped them a sign that he was unwounded.

Now, Maggie said, ‘He’s helped us out often enough, but the lad really needs to settle down. The police have them panda cars all over the place, it’s more dangerous now altogether. He’s been in jail twice already and if he’s not careful, he will end up serving years like his brother and what use can either of those lads be to their mother from behind bars? Sure, Annie’s not getting any younger now.’

‘Well, we have no worries there, queen,’ Fred said, as his chest puffed out with pride. ‘Our Fionnuala’s off to train to be a nurse and God willing, the others will follow. You can’t get better than that.’

‘Aye, isn’t that the truth. God forbid we should ever have a child turn out like one of the O’Prey lads. What, in the name of God, did Annie do wrong? She took those boys to mass with her every week and never missed a beat, once their da died.’

‘That accident was a bit of bad luck.’ Fred became morose whenever the name of a man who had died in a dock accident was mentioned. ‘Two seconds later and that rope would never have hit him.’

Maggie had been standing at the sink and at the memory of the accident which had claimed the life of Benjamin O’Prey, took her hands out of the washing up water and blessed herself with dripping dishwater. ‘God rest his soul,’ she said, and quickly added, ‘Well, let’s hope none of our girls ever take up with one of the O’Preys. I want better than a jailbird for all of them. I’m not sure what would be worse, one of them in the family way, or marrying an O’Prey.’

‘Holy Mary mother of God, no! Are ye serious, woman? There is only our Fionnuala anywhere near their age and she has standards, does our Fionnuala. She would never look twice at an O’Prey boy, the cut of him, are ye mad? She’s better sense than that.’

And for months, it had been those words which Fionnuala replayed, every night in the moments before sleep.

She’s better sense than that.

*

Fionnuala and Callum had turned their childhood friendship around an entirely unexpected corner, on the night before she began her nurse training. There had been a bit of a do in the Anchor, to send Fionnuala off in style.

The residents of the Four Streets seized any excuse for a party. Each one, man, woman and child, worked long, hard hours to keep body and soul together and they liked to play as hard as they worked. Saturday night was spent in the Irish Centre, the Grafton or the Anchor pub on the Dock Road.

Bill, the landlord of the Anchor, had laid on plates of sandwiches and pork pies, along with the free first drink of the night. Bill and Fred had both grown up in Liverpool during the war. They had survived the Blitz on the same street and both knew many who hadn’t. From the same town in Co Clare, neither had returned home to Ireland, the country of their ancestors and yet, they were still connected across the water, to families and friends who knew both men well. There was no question of Fionnuala’s leaving party being held anywhere other than in the Anchor.

The residents of the Four Streets, young and old, made their way to the pub straight from evening mass. Hairnets and curlers bobbed up and down in the smoke-filled room. The bar stood four deep and the church was entirely empty, before the priest had had time to remove his vestments. The prospect of a free pint and a butty had created a minor, if dignified, stampede, straight out of the back of the church.

It wasn’t just Fionnuala’s family who were proud of her. Everyone in the pub patted her on the back and scooped her into their arms with congratulatory hugs, delighted that of one of their own had brought respectability to the community. And God knows, after a double murder on the streets, they needed it. If Fionnuala could become a nurse, born as she was into a family that shared the poverty and faced the same struggles as they all had, then any one of their children could do it, too. With God’s blessing and strict attendance at mass, twice a day, of course.

‘Well done, Fionnuala. God, ’tis such a relief to know there is medical help on our own streets, with my hip being so bad now.’

Nana Kathleen, from Nelson Street, had both of Fionnuala’s hands clasped in her own and Fionnuala felt the familiar sensation of a bank note being slipped into her palm.

‘Didn’t I tell yer mammy, when I read her tea leaves, I could see someone in the family putting on a uniform? Did I not?’

‘Sure, Nana Kathleen, she hasn’t stopped talking about it since I got the news from the Director of Nursing at the hospital. Her first words, when I handed her the letter, were, “
Holy Mary Mother of God, Kathleen told me this was happening and I thought it was our Cathy’s lad joining the army
.” I think the fact that she had it completely wrong sent her into more of a tizzy than the news that I had a place in the nursing school. That and the fact she had to run straight to the pub and ask Bill if she could use the phone, to ring Aunty Cathy in Clare and tell her that her lad Pat most probably wasn’t running away to join the army, after all.’

Nana Kathleen laughed as she walked away to join her son and Mrs Keating pressed half a crown into her hand, as Fionnuala went in search of Mary, the only one of her sisters allowed anywhere near the pub. Her da would have Mary glued to his side, while his eyes, narrowed and as sharp and dangerous as a Stanley knife, would be on the lookout for any young lad who dared to speak to her.

As Fionnuala shuffled through the crowd, Mrs Green, a widow for as long as anyone could remember, slipped a shilling into her coat pocket. Fionnuala was overcome with gratitude. Her pockets felt heavy and weighed down with silver coins. Not for the first time, she thought how much she loved being Irish and, familiar as it all was to her, she understood that the generosity of her neighbours, poor though they might be, was unique and unlike that to be found anywhere else.

Now, suddenly, as she was squeezing her way past some of the younger men, she heard Bill, the landlord, begin to shout. ‘Quiet please, QUIET! Fred has asked Tommy Doherty to make a little speech for our Fionnuala, here. QUIET! Fionnuala, where are you?’

Everyone in the room turned to look, as Bill thumped the base of a pewter pot on the bar, and slowly silence fell. Fionnuala felt the blood slowly creep upwards and flush her face. She was unused to being the centre of attention. As the eldest of eight, she was often the one looking after others. Maggie’s regimental domestic routine guaranteed that Fionnuala always had her share of housework and younger sisters to look after. Even Fionnuala knew it had been a miracle that she had passed the entry exam for nursing, so disturbed and fragmented had her studies been by the demands of family life. Now, Fionnuala stood, in shock, as Tommy Doherty began speaking.

‘I remember the day you were born, Fionnuala.’

‘So do I,’ her ma’s voice shouted out, from somewhere in the crowd. Everyone began to laugh.

‘I don’t.’ Fred’s voice.

‘No Fred, you wouldn’t. You were in here, until four o’clock in the morning with the rest of us, wetting the baby’s head and unable to manage your way the entire thirty yards along to your own back door. You somehow found yourself in the wrong house that night. ’Twas a right shock for Mrs Green the next morning, when she found you asleep in her outhouse,’ said Tommy.

‘Aye, ’tis true,’ said Mrs Green, who was five foot nothing and weighed around sixteen stone. She grinned at the thought of a fading memory, a night she hadn’t talked about for a very long time. As everyone turned to look at her, she took a sip of her Guinness, squinted as she primly adjusted her horn-rimmed spectacles and continued, ‘I only had me pink baby doll nightie on. Felt ashamed I did.’

Fred put his hand over his face, shame-faced in his turn.

Fionnuala looked around her as everyone rocked with laughter. She had to be up at six the next morning and report into the school of nursing at eight thirty. Her stomach did a somersault with nerves at the very thought. As the laughter died, Tommy presented Fionnuala with a gift she had never, in a million years, expected. The neighbours had clubbed together and bought her a suitcase and an engraved fob watch, along with a silver hairbrush set. The words
Nurse Fionnuala Kennedy
shone out at her from the back of the engraved Timex. She was holding in her hand the thing she could not afford to have bought and had dared not asked her parents for as she knew how tight money was, even though it had been on the list of essentials sent to her by the hospital. The worry of arriving at the nursing school unequipped had eaten away at her happiness for weeks and now, here she was, with the one thing she needed more than anything, the polished glass glimmering in her hand. She thought for the first time she may cry, but there was more. Fionnuala gasped when she saw the hairbrushes. They were so heavy and beautiful. She had never touched or seen anything like them in her life, and neither had anyone else. Not even Deirdre, who had organized the collection and had been in charge of buying the gifts for Fionnuala, and who now looked in astonishment at the silver hairbrushes.

Tommy continued. ‘It was Aunty Maura here who bought you a nurse’s outfit on St John’s market when you were just three, and so we feel partly to blame.’

At that exact moment, just as all eyes were on Tommy, Callum O’Prey slipped a glass into Fionnuala’s hand.

‘It’s a gin and orange squash,’ he whispered. ‘You look like you need it.’

Fionnuala mouthed a thank you, lifted the glass up to her nose to inhale the intoxicating perfume and turned back to face Uncle Tommy. When she looked back round, Callum was nowhere to be seen.

‘And so, we send ye on yer way, Fionnuala, with our blessing. Every family on these streets is behind ye, and sure aren’t we the ones who are delighted that we can bring all our medical problems to ye, and if ye don’t mind, can we start with my—’

‘Shush now, will ye.’ Everyone burst out laughing again, as Maura put her hand over Tommy’s mouth.

Tommy roared, as he raised his pint of Guinness and called for everyone to join him. ‘To our Fionnuala from the streets, and to her proud ma and da.’

As everyone raised a glass, Fionnuala gazed around the room and felt as happy as she ever had in her life. And she knew this also had something to do with the warm feeling which had washed over her when Callum O’Prey had slipped the glass of gin and orange into her hand.

‘Boo,’ Callum said as, once again, he appeared from seemingly nowhere behind her.

‘God, you scared me, I never heard you.’

‘Ah, one of the tricks of the trade,’ said Callum, tapping the side of his nose.

‘And what trade would that be, Callum O’Prey?’ asked Fionnuala, tartly.

‘The trade that made sure ye had a nice set of brushes to commemorate setting away on yer nurse training.’

Fionnuala’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I can’t take them, then,’ she said indignantly.

‘Oh, for the love of Jesus,’ said Callum. ‘I should have kept me big gob shut. Fionnuala, don’t go getting all pious on me, now. Ye can’t give them back, so ye can’t, not without sending me back to Walton jail anyway, and you also can’t let everyone know what I just told you about the brushes. The bizzies would run me off the street. They will all be thinking Deirdre got them and Deirdre will be thinking someone slipped them in, which they did.’ Callum grinned. ‘Ye know how it works. Jesus, isn’t it me who keeps the street in tea leaves?’