Saturday's Child (7 page)

She came out of the hospital and breathed deeply. The smell of pine disinfectant, floor wax and human waste was cleared from her nostrils in seconds. She hated her job, but was glad to have
work. In Magsy O’Gara’s life, there was one aim – her daughter must not be a workhorse. Oh no, Beth would live to see better and easier days. To this end, Magsy O’Gara
worked ceaselessly. If there was overtime to be had, she took it, and the powers were so impressed that she was under consideration for an orderly job. Orderlies, still dogsbodies, helped the
nurses, cleaned patients instead of floors, and the pay was another sixpence an hour.

It was a fair stride from the infirmary to Prudence Street, but Magsy would walk home. Only in the filthiest weather did she allow herself the luxury of a bus ride through town and up Derby
Street. She covered her head with a scarf, pulled up the collar of her coat and trudged towards the fire station. The weather was not particularly cold, yet she armed herself, covered as much skin
as she could. Because Magsy had an enormous problem.

The problem was men. Men coveted her. Everywhere she went, she discovered a follower, a would-be suitor who wanted to ply her with drink, take her for a walk, take her home to meet his mother.
At the age of thirty-one, Magsy still managed to look like a teenager. She had accepted this with equanimity for a while, but, after having been chased by a group of marauding youths, she had
decided to cover herself up and keep her head down. William was dead; she wanted no other man in her life.

Well, it looked as if Ernest Barnes was in a fix. Scarcely able to walk unaided, he had finally been abandoned by that poor, thin little wife. He must have been in a bad temper to force himself
to walk across to the Higgins house – his hatred for that particular family was hardly a secret in these parts.

After calling in at St Patrick’s for early Mass and Holy Communion, Magsy soldiered on, striding past the open market towards Derby Street. His anger might have helped him to move, she
supposed. And there again, he had probably wanted a word or two with John Higgins. A Barnes marrying a Higgins? Never! God, there promised to be some fair and not-so-fair fighting within the
foreseeable future.

‘Hello, love – sorry to bother you – don’t I know you?’

She shook her head.

The man stepped out in front of her. ‘Course I do, we live near one another.’ He swallowed audibly, then took the plunge. ‘I could take you to the pictures later on.’

‘No,’ she insisted.

He grinned, displaying a set of teeth almost too white to be true. ‘I’m a stranger in a way,’ he said, ‘only I’m not, because I live nearly back-to-back with you,
just a few yards away. We’re neighbours. I’m Paul Horrocks.’

Magsy eyed him. Yes, she had seen him about. ‘And I’m late,’ she told him.

‘No, you’re Margaret O’Gara.’

She fought a threatening smile – she didn’t want to encourage him. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Horrocks, I have to fetch my daughter from my neighbour’s house, then I
must get her off to church.’

‘Then I’ll walk with you. Some funny characters about, you know. Never know who you’ll bump into.’

Squashing the obvious reply, she stepped around him. He caught up immediately. ‘I work for a builder,’ he said. ‘Bit of overtime this morning – the extra always comes in
handy.’

Magsy tried to ignore him, but this was a man who refused to be sidelined. There he was, striding along, jaunty as a young pup, carrying on about bricklaying, plumblines and how to mix
mortar.

‘I’m tired, Mr Horrocks,’ she said during a brief pause in the monologue.

‘Oh, are you?’

She wasn’t going to enter into details about double shifts, about saving up so that Beth might have extra books for proper schooling. It wasn’t his business – wasn’t
anyone’s except her own. ‘Yes, I am exhausted, Mr Horrocks.’

‘You can call me Paul.’

She inhaled sharply. Why should she have to put up with this sort of thing all the while? A person should be able to go about her business without being a target. ‘I am tired,’ she
repeated, ‘tired of this . . . this type of behaviour.’ She stopped, faced him. ‘Leave me alone,’ she said distinctly. ‘I do not want to go for a drink, nor do I wish
to visit the cinema. I have worked hard all morning and I need to get home to my daughter.’

He frowned. ‘And what do you do in your spare time?’

Magsy raised a shoulder. ‘I eat, sleep, look after my child.’

‘And for fun?’

‘I educate her.’ She stepped away and carried on in the direction of home. All the time, she knew that he was still there, that he was following her, that he would persist until she
reached her door. She squashed a disobedient bubble of excitement that rose in her throat, a feeling that caused her breathing to quicken slightly. He was just another of ‘those’ men,
after all.

Paul Horrocks was not a man who gave up easily. He had fixed his eye on this young widow some months ago; it had taken every ounce of his will to finally speak to her. He had done that all
wrong, too, sounding like a callow youth, did she fancy a night at the pictures. Beauty such as hers was not easy to approach, since it seemed so out of reach to the ordinary man. He had made a
right pig’s ear of it, a total mess. It was hard, too, talking to somebody who looked like she should be in the films instead of in the audience.

And there she was, a yard in front of him, all muffled up against intruders, her mind on the little girl, her eyes fixed resolutely on the path to home and the way towards her future. She, too,
was possessed of determination. He caught up with her again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I never meant to upset you.’

‘Forget it,’ she advised. ‘I have.’

‘Don’t say that,’ he said, ‘please don’t.’

Magsy was shocked, not by what he had said, but because she had heard something in the words, a vulnerability, almost a fear. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, you know.’

He tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong, like a cross between a witch’s cackle and the neighing of a sick horse. ‘I know,’ he managed, his voice higher than normal,
‘it can’t be easy for you.’

‘It isn’t.’

‘I mean . . . I mean you didn’t ask to be born looking like a film star.’

It was Magsy’s turn to laugh. ‘Hardly a film star, although I do get more than my fair share of attention. But I am so sorry if I have offended you.’

He perked up. ‘Then you will come out with me?’

They turned into Prudence Street. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but no.’

Magsy retrieved Beth from a tangle of Higginses who were playing cowboys and Indians, though all the cowboys were girls and poor Thomas was the sole Indian, his face caked in gravy browning, a
few paper feathers in the blond curls. In the middle of total chaos, Sal sat on one of the beds knitting at a rate of knots. Magsy surveyed the scene before dragging a reluctant Beth out of the
Higgins house and into their own.

The silence was a blessing. While Beth drank a cup of milk and chewed on a shive of bread and jam, while she found her rosary and missal, Magsy took off her work clothes and put them in soak.
She sent her daughter to church, dressed herself in skirt, blouse and apron, made a fire, brewed tea and threw together a meal of eggs and bacon. When Beth had returned and the food had
disappeared, when crockery and cutlery sat and waited for another kettleful of water, the pair got to work.

This was Magsy’s other job and she took it very seriously. From the age of three, Beth had been reading and writing. Now nine, she played her part at school, never appearing too
knowledgeable, though her private studies had now taken her far beyond her own mother’s abilities. The child opened a book, grinned broadly. ‘You got it, Mam.’

‘Yes, I did indeed. I must take it back, though, because it’s a valuable book.’

Beth opened the cover carefully, peeled back a layer of tissue. ‘This is the nervous system,’ she explained to Magsy, ‘all the blue lines are the major nerves in our bodies. We
have hundreds of miles of these. They allow us to feel heat, cold, pain and physical pleasure. We use them to distinguish textures, too. Otherwise, if blindfolded, we would not know the difference
between a brick and a block of wood. Each sense adds to the others – sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste are all complementary to each other. The human body is amazing,’ Beth
concluded.

Magsy swallowed, wondered how on earth this child’s emotional self was going to keep pace with her intellect. A stranger coming in would wonder what was going on. A nine-year-old lecturing
an adult on the subject of physical pleasures? ‘Like when we stroke a cat – that kind of pleasure?’ asked Magsy.

Beth, already lost among diagrams, simply nodded. She had reached the part that explained physical movement, which also depended on nerves.

This was how it had become. Magsy still sat in on the studies, but roles had been reversed slowly, steadily, until she was now the student. But this system had its compensations, because, in
explaining the intricacies of anatomy to her mother, Beth compounded her own learning by translating it and passing it on. She was going to be a doctor. ‘If we lose our sight,’ Beth
explained, ‘other senses become more acute to make up for the loss.’

Magsy nodded – she had heard about that.

‘But the loss of nerves can be dangerous. We need to feel pain, Mammy. Pain is the first warning that something is wrong. It is a message to the brain asking for help.’

‘Miss Hulme can see for miles,’ commented Magsy, ‘or so they say. It seems the deafness has made the eyes work harder.’

‘Smelly Nellie,’ murmured Beth.

There, thought a relieved Magsy, that was the child speaking. Inside the miniature adult, there remained a junior school girl who played cowboys and Indians, skipping rope, hopscotch and
marbles. There was a huge collection of the latter in a jar on the sideboard. When it came to marbles, Beth O’Gara was legendary. Many boys in the area came begging for swaps, since
Beth’s collection of ballbearings in a variety of sizes was massive. A ‘bolly’ was worth at least three glass ‘ollies’ in the local barter system.

Magsy’s eyes swept the room, taking in piles of books, a photograph of her dead husband, some ironing, a few bits of utility furniture. Every last penny after food and rent went into the
improvement of Elizabeth O’Gara. Magsy was determined that her daughter would not become a mill-girl or a cleaner. Beth would have a proper job, one that carried respect and a decent salary.
Oh yes, Beth would never wear an apron at work. A thought struck – surgeons wore aprons, but their aprons were not badges of slavery.

‘Mammy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Who was that man?’

‘Which man?’

Beth closed her book. ‘You’re blushing, Mammy.’

Magsy laughed. ‘Ah, that’ll be the heat from the fire.’

Beth was unconvinced – the fire was scarcely up and running. ‘Don’t try to wriggle off the hook – I saw you coming down the street with him.’

‘Ah, that man.’ Magsy turned away and put the blower to the flames. The blower, a square of metal with a handle at its centre, served to encourage flame to pull its way up the
chimney, thereby enlivening the weakest of fires.

‘I’ve seen him before,’ continued Beth.

‘Oh, have you?’

‘Yes.’

Magsy carried on tending the grate. She had no idea why, but she did feel embarrassed, as if she had been caught doing something wrong. And she hadn’t done wrong at all. ‘We were
walking in the same direction, Beth.’

‘Yes. Yes, you were.’

The mother, feeling the child’s eyes boring into her back, removed the blower, took up the poker and lifted kindling to allow in more oxygen. The trouble with having an intelligent
daughter was that said daughter was always a couple of paces ahead, sometimes in the wrong direction. ‘You have an imagination,’ said Magsy, ‘but don’t let it run
wild.’

‘Paul Horrocks.’ There was a giggle contained in Beth’s words. ‘Lives round the back with his mother. She is ill in bed and he has to do everything for her. According to
Mrs Higgins, the poor man will never get married while his mother’s alive.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, Mammy.’

When Magsy turned round, Beth’s nose had reburied itself in neurology. Beth always knew a great deal about the neighbours, as she spent time with Sal Higgins, who made everyone’s
business her business. Not that there was any malice in Sal . . .

‘Do you like him, Mammy?’

‘Read your book.’

‘But do you?’ The chin was raised. ‘I won’t mind. If you get married again, I’ll be happy for you.’

‘Holy St Joseph,’ cried Magsy, ‘can I not walk along a few paces without the banns being announced to all and sundry? You are a desperate torment to me, Beth
O’Gara.’

‘We couldn’t breathe or eat without nerves,’ came the reply.

Well, thought Magsy, thank the same holy St Joseph for that. The good thing about a genius was that she was easily drawn back into her chosen subject of study. Marry again, indeed. What would
she be wanting with a new husband when no-one could hold a candle to Billy O’Gara? Such dignity, he had owned. Magsy had called him William, because that name had suited him. She carried the
kettle through to the scullery, poured its contents into the enamel washing-up bowl.

The voice of genius floated through the doorway. ‘He’s had a lot of women after him, Mammy.’

Magsy scrubbed bacon fat from a plate.

‘He is very handsome.’

Knives and forks clattered.

‘Are you going to see him again, Mammy?’

A flustered Magsy appeared in the doorway between scullery and kitchen, a knife in her hand. ‘Have you any idea about what I’d like to do with this?’

Beth grinned. ‘You’d have to sharpen it first – that wouldn’t make a dent in my epidermis. You’d be better with a scalpel.’

The special moment happened then, an event they shared on an almost daily basis. They laughed. The precious gift of shared humour was the most valued expression of their love. It had seen them
through days with insufficient bread, no gas for light or cooking, little fuel for their fire. Always, always, they would be close.