Authors: Lyn Andrews

Tags: #Sagas, #General, #Fiction

Across a Summer Sea (31 page)

BOOK: Across a Summer Sea

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‘Don’t cry, Nora. It’s all over now, let’s forget it. You’ve grown up a bit and learned a hard lesson.’

‘I ’ave indeed. I . . . I’m courting properly now.’

‘Really?’ Mary had asked but without much interest.

Nora had brightened up. ‘A lad I met at work. Billy ’Ardcastle, ’e lives in Sylvester Street and me mam likes ’im.’

‘I’m glad, Nora. Now, I’ll have to get on with my work.’

Thankful that the dreaded interview was over, Nora had flashed her a smile and nearly run from the room.

Mary had stared after her. What did it all matter now, she’d thought miserably? What would have been the point of screaming at the girl? She had enough to worry about: the behaviour of the children and the hospital visiting for a start, and she didn’t know which she was more concerned and depressed about.

She had known there would be trouble over that damned catapult and it had come in a variety of forms. Tommy seemed to have lost all the sense of responsibility he’d acquired over the last months, and reverted to his former wild ways. The last escapade - using the local constable’s helmet as a target, a heinous crime - had resulted in a visit by the police. When she’d tackled him, he’d been defiant and as usual had blamed the whole idea on Georgie Price. At her wits’ end, she’d dragged him forcibly to Bert and Hetty Price.

‘Hetty, I know you meant well but those damned catapults have got to go! I’ve had the police on the doorstep threatening the reformatory and I’m inclined to let them take him there! He’s blaming Georgie but I think it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

Bert was fuming. ‘I bloody told you, Hetty! I said it was the stupidest thing you’d ever done!’

‘Oh, that’s right, blame me! You never take an interest in the lad, you’re too busy with the Brewery and your flaming betting! More interested in the horses than your own son. Well, that’s the end of me having Winkie Owens forever hanging around the back door waiting to be “running” with your flaming bets!’

‘Talk like that, Hetty, will have
me
carted off in front of the bloody Stipendiary Magistrate and then where will you be?’ Bert had roared, furious at both his wife’s blatant indiscretion and her outright censure.

‘Oh, stop it both of you! What are we going to do about these two? Meladdo here is out and out insolent,’ Mary had cried, losing patience.

‘Give me the bloody catapult and, Hetty, go and get both our Georgie and his catapult.’ Bert had held out his hand to Tommy.

Sullenly the lad passed it over.

‘Now you listen to me, Tommy McGann, your da is in a bad way and your mam has enough on her plate. If there’s any more of this behaviour I’ll take my belt off to both you and our Georgie! Do you hear me? You’re getting off light this time, but it’s only for your mam’s sake. Put a foot wrong again and by God you’ll regret it!’

‘I didn’t want to come back here! It’s all
her
fault! I hate it here!’ Tommy had cried unrepentantly.

‘Well, you’re here and there’s nothing to be done about it, so bloody well behave!’ Bert had roared. That had shut Tommy up, but her son’s behaviour had both shaken and upset Mary.

When she thought of Katie, she sighed. The child seemed to have withdrawn into herself. She was unhappy but she wasn’t defiant, just silently reproachful. Mary often caught her looking at her with an expression of mute misery on her face. Oh, she knew how Katie felt. Her own existence was utterly miserable too, and that’s all it was - an existence.

But it was Lizzie who worried her most. The child had gone backwards. Mary tried hard to keep communicating with Lizzie in the way Richard had taught her to but she had very little time to spare and the child was uncooperative. None of the neighbours or the other children in the street understood Lizzie’s strange way of ‘speaking’ and some of the kids even mocked and jeered at her. That broke Mary’s heart and at the same time filled her with fury at their cruelty, but apart from soundly boxing their ears whenever she caught them tormenting Lizzie, there was very little she could do. The effect on Lizzie had been devastating. She had stopped making an effort at anything. She refused to go to school. There had been too many mornings when Katie had dragged her from the house and then brought her back and in the end Mary had given in and let her stay at home. It hadn’t helped much. Lizzie refused to do even the simplest things, like dressing herself or fastening up her boots.

‘Ah, leave her, Mary, she’ll sort herself out. It’s even harder for her, she doesn’t understand
anything
,’ Nellie had advised, but it all added to Mary’s constant worries.

And then there was Frank. Dutifully she went to the hospital every night and every night it was the same. He would refuse to speak to her, and then when he did it was with such bitterness, such vicious words that it was very hard to take and she frequently left in tears and cried herself to sleep.

Those early days were almost impossible to get through, but the nights were far, far worse. In the long hours of darkness even though she was exhausted sleep eluded her and there were times when she was so close to despair, so close to forgetting the vows she’d made that she was ready to pack up and return to Ireland and to Richard. But when dawn came she always pulled herself together and faced whatever the day brought.

Four weeks later the day came when she was informed that Frank would be discharged at the end of the week. Alfie Phelps, Bert Price and Fred Jones moved the bed she’d bought into the downstairs front room that Maggie had used. Maggie would now share one of the upstairs bedrooms with Lizzie while she and Katie would have the other. She’d also bought a narrow pallet bed for Tommy and this was to be made up in the room where his father would spend most of his days. If Mary was needed in the night, Tommy would go up for her. It was not an arrangement that met with her son’s approval and there had been another argument, but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in the same room as Frank, she told Maggie vehemently. She would do anything that needed to be done, except that.

‘He hates me, Maggie! He really does and I won’t humiliate myself by lying in the same room as him.’

Maggie had nodded her agreement. She, more than anyone, realised just how Mary was suffering. She watched her day in and day out.

Mary had bought a pile of sheets and towels from Uncle’s and had taken Frank’s good suit, his boots and his overcoat to the pawnbroker’s.

‘He’ll have no use for them now, Maggie,’ she’d explained after Maggie had queried what she was doing.

They were bringing him back in an ambulance and she’d given the house a clean, made some thick pea and ham soup and had made up the bed. She looked around the room with some satisfaction. Fred Jones had whitewashed the walls and she’d made it as neat as possible. The cotton lace curtain at the window was pristine and there was a pair of blue draw curtains that Hetty had given her, along with some new oilcloth for the floor and a clean rag rug to the right of the bed. On the small chest beside the bed was a small jug and a glass for water. There were pillows so he could be propped up if he felt like it and a clean if rather faded patchwork quilt covered the sheets. She’d bought a picture for the wall and a couple of second-hand books. She
was
trying to make him comfortable.

The children had all been instructed to be clean and tidy and to wait in the kitchen to welcome him.

‘What are we supposed to say to him, Mam?’ Katie asked fearfully.

‘Tell him you’re glad to see him,’ Mary replied with false cheerfulness, her heart sinking at the sight of their faces and the apprehensive look Katie shot at her brother.

‘I don’t think Lizzie understands, Mam,’ Katie added hesitantly.

Mary sighed. ‘I think she
does
. I want no tantrums,’ she said firmly, thinking of Lizzie’s recent displays of temper, which had included the child throwing the nearest thing to her hand either on the floor or against the wall. She had been reduced to slapping her, but it had had little effect on Lizzie.

‘The ambulance has just turned into the street, Mary, luv!’ Maggie cried from the front step where she’d been keeping watch.

Mary patted her hair to make sure it was tidy and smoothed down her clean apron. Whatever else he might say, he could not accuse her of not having the place decent for him.

‘Here he is, missus, safely home. Where do you want him?’ one of the ambulance men asked cheerfully as Frank was carried in on a stretcher.

‘In here please. The front room.’

‘It’s the parlour for you, no less, mate!’ the man joked.

Frank made no comment.

‘Wait. Please, could you wait a minute? The children would like to see him. It’s been such a long time since they have,’ Mary asked and Maggie ushered them out from the kitchen.

They squeezed into the narrow lobby beside the stretcher.

‘Hello, Da,’ Tommy said, rather ungraciously.

Katie bravely bent to kiss her father’s cheek but he turned his head away from her.

‘Don’t worry, luv. It’s all a bit much for him. Tiring, like. Bring them in when we’ve got him settled,’ the other man said quietly, seeing the look of pain in Mary’s face and the hurt mirrored in Katie’s.

Maggie shepherded them back into the kitchen.

Mary fussed around as they lifted him from the stretcher and into the bed.

‘Isn’t this great? Very nice and cosy and you’ve everything here you need. I bet it’s good to be home at last.’

Mary smiled. They were trying so hard to raise Frank’s spirits but she caught the pitying glances that passed between them as he said nothing and closed his eyes.

‘Let him sleep for a bit, luv.’

‘I will. Thank you, you’ve been very kind. We’ll be . . . fine now.’

‘All part of the service, luv. Well, we’ll be off now. Good luck to you, you’re going to need it.’

‘I know,’ she answered sadly.

They had their meal and twice Mary went in to check that he was all right. Both times he was asleep, or at least he gave the appearance of being so.

‘I wouldn’t bother sending the kids in, Mary. Not tonight,’ Maggie advised as they washed the dishes. ‘Give them a chance to get used to it.’

‘Tommy will have to go in later to sleep.’

‘Aye, he will, but Frank might be in a better mood by then.’

Mary nodded. He might - but would Tommy?

Later on some of the men and their wives came in to see him.

‘I’ve brought him a couple of bottles of stout. It’s supposed to be a good tonic,’ Bert Price said, deliberately forgetting that he’d barred Frank McGann from his pub on many occasions.

‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of a tonic like that!’ Alfie Phelps joked.

‘
You
wouldn’t mind anythin’ that comes out of a bottle! Tonic or not!’ Queenie said scathingly to her husband.

‘And I thank God I’m not in such a state to need that kind of a tonic,’ Fred Jones added. ‘Right, go in and tell him he’s got visitors and see he’s decent, Mary!’ he added.

Frank opened his eyes as she came into the room. She
had
made an effort, he grudgingly admitted. He had far more comforts than he’d previously had but the knowledge didn’t make him any happier. He was still going to be totally dependent on her and it was a bitter thought.

‘Frank, you’re awake. Fred and Alfie and Bert have come to see you. Shall I prop you up on the pillows?’

‘What the hell do they want?’

‘Frank, they
care
about you! It’s very good of them,’ she answered, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Regardless of his agreement or not she heaved him up in the bed and arranged the pillows. ‘There, that’s better. I’m sure you’ll feel better for a bit of company and Bert’s brought you a couple of bottles of stout.’

‘Has he now? He’s changed his tune. The last time I saw him he showed me the door!’

Mary said nothing. She was determined that there would be no angry words between them tonight.

‘Well, it’s great ter see yer home, Frank!’ Alfie Phelps said jovially, although he was shocked by Frank’s appearance.

‘I’ve brought you a couple of bottles of stout, mate, it’s supposed to be a good tonic,’ Bert Price said, placing the bottles on the chest.

‘Thanks.’ Frank’s tone was barely civil.

‘So, how are you feeling now?’ Fred asked.

‘How do you think I’m bloody well feeling? How would you feel if you were me?’

The men exchanged glances.

‘Jesus! Frank, there’s no need to bite me head off!’

BOOK: Across a Summer Sea

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