Nest of Sorrows (2 page)

‘He’ll come round at the finish.’ Joseph tapped his pipe against the chimney breast. ‘There’s no man on earth could turn his back on the little mite she is. Would you ever look at her now, Annie?’ he asked his eldest daughter. ‘Like a fairy queen, she is. Rachel, where is your man just now?’

Rachel shrugged listlessly. ‘Drinking, roaming the streets with his mates, who’s to know what he’s up to? He wanted a lad. It’s not his fault it wasn’t a lad . . .’

‘And you can’t have no more?’ Theresa’s eyes were round with questions. As yet unwed, she knew little of the workings of the female body.

‘No more.’ Rachel’s voice was expressionless. ‘And that’s what’s upsetting him.’ She looked down at her sleeping daughter. ‘So unlike Judith, she is. Judith was a mass of black curls and big blue eyes. But this one, well, I don’t know who she looks like.’ Judith gurgled and stumbled about on the peg rug in front of a roaring fire, but still Rachel’s eyes remained fastened to the younger child. ‘It’s as if they ripped the heart out of me and placed it in my arms. It’s funny, the way I love her. As if she’s the last piece of me, I suppose.’

‘You must not prefer her over Judith.’ The old man’s tone was stern. ‘Ten I had, and never a pick or a choose did I make between them. Every one had his or her own needs. Back in Ireland, I was taught by me own mammy never to show a preference once my children were born.’

Rachel sighed loudly. ‘I’ve no preference. I’m just lucky to be alive, and so is Katherine.’

‘Aye.’ John’s serious face glowed in the firelight, making him look even more earnest and concerned than ever. ‘But what are you going to do about Peter? He can’t carry on this road. There’s been rumours of him messing about drunk all over town.’

‘Wetting the baby’s head, I don’t doubt.’ Vera sounded angry. ‘Wetting it all by himself, or with his daft friends. He should be here, Rachel. You should have made him come. Lad or no lad, he should have come to the church like everybody else. And where’s his family? His mam and their Harold and their Bert? I bet he never even invited them. Just because our Katherine’s a girl!’ On this, they physically closed ranks, standing in a semi-circle around Rachel and her two children.

Agnes was the first to speak. ‘If he gets awkward, Rachel, over money and such, you’ll have to tell me dad and we’ll all muck in with a shilling a week. This little lass is too frail for anything but the best. So you just tell us if Peter keeps you short of owt.’

Jim almost growled, ‘He’ll not turn awkward, Agnes. Me and our John and our Joe will stop him turning awkward.’

‘No fighting!’ cried Rachel. ‘And there’s three of them, don’t forget. Their Harry and Bert are both handy when it comes to punching. Anyway, Peter’ll get over it. Just you wait and see.’

But Peter didn’t get over it. As the months and years went by, he held his deep hurt to himself, nursing it like some unmendable wound that had been deliberately inflicted by life, by ill-luck and by his own wife. It was almost as if she had conspired with factors elemental to deprive him of that which he had most deserved, and he took it out on her by sulking. Time and again, she attempted to shake him out of it. Whenever there were a few coppers to spare, she bought herself a new blouse or a cheap skirt, tried to make herself presentable and clean when he came home from work. But he would have none of her.

Judith was fortunate; she remained acceptable in her father’s eyes. But poor Katherine was ignored from birth, because he could not find it in his heart to forgive the one who had killed his unborn sons. Also, while the child was not exactly ugly, she was puny and pale in comparison to her more robust sister. It was not unusual, therefore, for him to take the four-year-old Judith out for a romp in Queens Park, though he never offered to take Katherine.

At last, after three years of stretched patience, Rachel snapped. To be around when Rachel Murray snapped was not a good idea. She had an Irish temper that had been carefully cultivated and handed down through generations of Dubliners, and while her level of control was usually good, a breaking point was inevitable.

She faced him across the table on a fine Sunday in June 1937. Judith was all done up in her royal-blue bonnet and coat, while little Katherine, who had begun to take things in, stood to one side as if she knew her place already. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ began Rachel, her dark grey eyes flashing ominously.

‘I’m taking her down to look at the crown green bowling.’

‘Oh aye?’ A foot tapped sharply against the flagged kitchen floor. ‘And what about this one?’ She waved a hand towards the younger child.

‘Eh?’ His mouth fell open as if she had asked a totally pointless question. ‘What about her?’

‘Why can’t she go an’ all? Come to that, why can’t we all go?’

‘She’s nobbut three! She’ll only get in everybody’s road.’

‘You took Judith when she was only three.’

‘Aye, well.’ He drew a hand across his upper lip. ‘Judith’s got sense – haven’t you? She likes a bit of bowling, does my lass. And you don’t enjoy it, Rachel, so don’t carry on as if you’re missing summat.’

‘Missing summat? Missing summat?’ Her voice rose in pitch as she bundled both children into the safety of the back yard. ‘I’m missing a husband, that’s what! And yon lass is missing a dad, a dad she has a right to.’

His mouth fell open. ‘What the hell’s got into you at all?’

Rachel studied the handsome man she had married. He was nearly six feet tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, strong-limbed and muscular. Yet at this moment, he looked gormless, like a big soft lad with his jaw hanging loose in that silly way. She spoke quietly, her teeth gritted together as if avoiding the bad taste created by her words. ‘Since I had that child, you’ve treated me like a dog. No, worse than a dog! A dog gets thrown the odd bone, eh? But not me, oh no. I’m nowt a pound, me. Just because I can’t have any more kiddies, just because I’m wrong inside. And my little baby can’t be blamed for that!’

‘I never said anybody was to blame, did I?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. You’ve said nowt, because you’re not man enough to speak your mind. But I could cut through your resentment with a blunt butter knife.’

‘Not a man!’ he screamed. ‘It’s you that’s not all there. It’s you has the bits missing. I can father a son . . .’

‘Prove it! Go on, get out and prove it! Look at Jimmy Pickavance down Canon Street – nine girls he had. Nine! And a finer fellow you couldn’t meet. But you . . . oh aye . . . it has to be my fault. How do you know you’d have had a boy, eh? Can you show it me in writing? Cos it’s the men what gives a child its sex, our doctor told me that. A woman’s eggs are neuter – they can be anything. You made the girls, not me!’

‘And I’ve no chance for a son now, have I? Not since that one ruined you!’ There, it was out. He stood panting, as if he had just accomplished a five-mile run, yet there was a kind of terror in his eyes, for he knew now that he had annoyed his wife beyond endurance. Only once had he seen her angry before, and that had been over a man too. Bessie Hargreaves’ chap had, while in his cups, threatened to beat his wife to within the last inch, and Rachel had saved her. Aye, she’d taken a shovel to him, and the whole street had come out to watch the man run like the devil all the way up to View Street.

Rachel straightened her short spine. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she announced softly. ‘More than enough. I shall take the pair of them back to my dad’s house. At least at my dad’s house, they’ll both get treated as human. How do you think our Katherine feels, eh? What must she think when she stands by and watches you playing with her sister?’

‘You’ll take our Judith nowhere!’ His bright blue eyes were shaded by fear and temper. ‘That lass is definitely mine.’

‘And the other one?’

‘She looks nowt like me. She could be any bugger’s!’ He knew he had gone too far, yet still he stood his uncertain ground. ‘Thin and ugly, she is. Not a sign of Murray in her. She looks like nothing else on this earth.’

‘What?’ Her voice rose to a scream now. ‘Are you accusing me of . . . of . . . ? Right. That’s it, Peter Murray. You can keep your few bob a week, cos I’m off to my own folk. That child is the spitten image of my mother! Not that I should have to explain things like that. A proper man would know his own child, no matter what it looked like!’

‘You’ll not go! Except over my dead body!’

‘Oh aye? And who’s to keep me here? Will you stop off your work and watch me every minute? Will you lie awake all night to make sure I don’t sneak out? Remember, my dad’s is only a stride from here, I can be there in half a minute!’ Even then, at the eleventh hour, she could probably have negotiated had he shown the slightest sign of remorse or shame. But he simply turned on his heel and left the house by the back door, collecting Judith on his way through the yard.

Rachel watched him disappearing through the gate, then she opened the door and brought in her younger daughter. ‘Come on. I’ll read to you.’

‘Daddy gone.’ The child’s pale face was creased with sadness.

‘That’s right. Daddy gone. Get me your story book.’

‘Judy gone too.’

‘Yes.’

‘Kaffrin still here.’

Rachel bowed her head. ‘Yes. Katherine with Mammy and a nice story book.’ She could not meet those sad green eyes; she could not force herself to look squarely into the face of a three-year-old. ‘I’ll read you that one about Little Red Riding Hood.’

‘Big bad wolf.’

‘Yes.’

Katherine fetched the book and reached up to be lifted to her mother’s knee. Rachel clung to the infant, her own body shaking with dry and silent sobs. ‘Don’t cry,’ whispered the little one. ‘Daddy come home. Daddy always come home.’

Little Katherine knew her place all right. She knew it, but did not truly accept it. When Peter came home with a dress for Judith, or a pair of ribbons with which to adorn the older girl’s pretty hair, Katherine would stand to one side and watch while these gifts were passed over from father to daughter. Although she had achieved an adequate level of verbal expression, the younger child never said anything. She simply watched and envied her sister.

Rachel, ever vigilant, would scrimp and save to furnish Katherine with similar presents, but these always arrived later, always from Mam, never from Dad.

Katherine decided to do something about it. She was not loved, so she must make herself lovable. There were differences between herself and Judith, differences that must be remedied. Late one afternoon, she balanced herself precariously on a dining chair and studied her reflection in the fireplace mirror. The main thing, she concluded, was her hair. Judith’s hair was black; her own was a strange colour that people called red, though it looked nothing like the red in her crayon tin.

It was a Saturday. Judith was out with Dad, while Mam had just nipped next door to help Mrs Foley turn mattresses. Katherine had been advised to sit and draw till Mam came back. She reached down and picked up a black crayon, peeling back the paper cover so that she would have enough wax to work with. Furiously, she rubbed the crayon against her hair. Nothing happened. She rubbed harder, but still her hair shone red-gold, bright and horrible as ever.

With a deep sigh of sadness, Katherine clambered down to terra firma. Something black. She had to get something black so that she would look like Judith. Quickly, she ran through the kitchen and up the stairs, throwing open the tallboy that contained Judith’s folded clothes. After a moment’s deliberation, she chose a pretty pale blue dress with smocking on the bodice, all gathers and silky roses and pink threads. When she had donned the frock, it came down to her ankles, so she hitched it up unceremoniously before changing clogs for ankle-strap shoes.

But she still needed something black! Tripping and stumbling, she flew down the stairs, her face glowing as an idea took root in her three-year-old brain. There was plenty of black! Out in the back street, there was loads of black! And it had been a hot day, so it would be squidgy and soft like thick paint.

Slowly and silently, Katherine let herself out of the house, crept down the yard, opened the tall back gate and squatted down at the edge of the shallow pavement. Tar oozed out of cracks between cobblestones and kerb, and she scooped up the precious bounty, plastering it thickly on to her hated hair. She smiled to herself. Now she would look like Judith, now Dad would love her and buy her ribbons and frocks.

Picking up her voluminous skirt, Katherine skipped along to the end of the block. Dad and Judith would be home soon. It was nearly tea time. She knew it was tea time because the pie in the oven had smelt ready, while her stomach felt empty and hollow. Hopping happily from foot to foot, the child waited for her father and her sister.

A few passers-by stopped and stared. One old lady clad in long black skirt and shawl tutted loudly, ‘It’ll take more than a pound of butter to get that stuff off thy head, lass,’ but Katherine wasn’t bothered. She looked like Judith. Looking like Judith was the only important thing.

They came round the corner of Derby Street, father and daughter hand in hand as usual. Throwing caution to the winds, Katherine launched herself towards Dad. ‘Look!’ she screamed. ‘Black hair like Judy! Dress like Judy!’

He stopped dead in his tracks. The vision before him was almost unholy, like something from an unclean world. A white face stared out from between greasy locks that looked strangely green, while the dress, covered in fingerprints, was a tar-stained ruin.

‘Like Judy!’ repeated the child, but Peter was too shocked and angry to hear the words.

‘Get home!’ he spat sharply.

Katherine, feeling very puzzled, stood her ground. She had black hair; he had to love her.

With a howl of despair, Peter Murray abandoned Judith and picked up his younger daughter, gripping a handful of the spoiled dress and holding the child at arm’s length.

She struggled. ‘Put me down! Daddy put me down!’ But he marched up the back street till he reached the gate of number 39. With tremendous force, he hurled the little girl into the yard just as Rachel opened the door.

‘What the . . . ?’ began Rachel, her voice failing as she noticed the state of the child who lay in a crumpled heap at her feet.