Читать книгу Pack Up Your Troubles - Anne Bennett - Страница 13

EIGHT

Brendan and Father Trelawney were waiting to meet Maeve at New Street station on the evening she returned home in the middle of June 1939. The journey had been horrendous and she’d been as sick as ever on the ferry, but as she’d been sick with misery and despair since she’d left, it hardly mattered. The vision of her solemn parents and tearful children haunted her throughout the journey back to Birmingham.

Father Trelawney treated her as if she was a valued guest and not an errant wife returning because she had to, and Brendan barely acknowledged her. Yet she was glad of the priest’s presence, knowing while he was there Brendan could do little to her, and when he suggested going home with them both to talk things over, she accepted it, though never could she remember ‘talking things over’ with Brendan.

Everything looked dirtier and drabber than Maeve remembered as she came out of New Street station flanked by the two men and got into an uncomfortable tram for the short ride home. Latimer Street was full of children playing out in the summer evening, and many women stood at their doorways opening on to the street, talking to their neighbours. As they became aware of Maeve, all conversation ceased and most of the women’s eyes were sympathetic, but Maeve kept her head down and acknowledged none of them.

They turned down the entry into the court, where Maeve was surprised to see Elsie’s door shut and the windows closed. She’d written Elsie a letter telling her that she was being forced to return but, knowing how she’d feel about it, had only posted the letter the previous day. But it should have arrived that morning, and Maeve was surprised her friend wasn’t there to greet her and hoped it wasn’t because she was cross with her for coming back. Maeve felt her spirits sink. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been looking forward to seeing Elsie again.

Father Trelawney saw her glance at Elsie’s house and said, ‘Mrs Phillips is away at her sister’s in Handsworth. She was taken bad and Mrs Phillips went over a couple of days ago.’

Maeve said nothing, but she saw the hard cruel smile on Brendan’s face and was afraid. She knew it was the thought of Elsie next door that had saved her many a time. Brendan couldn’t stand Elsie and told her so often, but she didn’t give a damn and was one of the few people who seemed unafraid of him. When Brendan started on her Maeve knew those around would tut and say something should be done, but no one would interfere, and she shivered in sudden apprehension.

The step into the house was nearly black and the house itself smelt musty and was covered in a film of dust. Maeve remembered Elsie telling her that Brendan had been living at his mother’s – not that he’d have done anything to clean the house even if he had been living in it; he wouldn’t have had a clue where to start. Maeve longed to boil up some water and attack the place and knew she would as soon as she was alone, but for now Father Trelawney was there and wanting to ‘talk things over’ and she knew she’d have to humour the man.

She wondered if there was a bite to eat in the house, but before she was able to ask, Father Trelawney said, ‘Brendan has got in a few basics, Maeve, and I suggest you put the kettle on, and Brendan and I will go out and treat the three of us to pie and chips.’

Maeve stared at him. Never had she tasted a pie from the chip shop. She’d seen them and smelt them, but never tasted one. Once she’d been in Elsie’s house when her husband came in and Elsie had brought him chips and a steak-and-kidney pie from the chippy. The crust of the pie had been golden brown and when Alf cut into it, the sight of the chunks of meat in the thick appetising-looking gravy had made her feel faint. She’d had nothing to eat that day, her stomach had grumbled with emptiness, and she’d known there was little in her house to make a meal of. She’d had to make an excuse to Elsie and leave before she was tempted to grab the pie from Alf’s plate and shove it in her own mouth.

‘That would be grand, Father,’ she said, her mouth watering at the thought of it. She was grateful, for everything looked better if you had a full stomach. And she was glad too that Father Trelawney was taking Brendan with him. She’d be on her own with him long enough, God alone knew, and she was terrified, bloody terrified, but she pushed such fears to the back of her mind, filled the kettle and laid the table for the meal.

Neither the incongruousness of the situation nor the presence of the priest and her brooding husband could take her enjoyment away from the delicious pie and crispy chips, which she forced herself to eat slowly. She hadn’t known she was so hungry before she began, and the food and tea revived her. She was quite happy to let Father Trelawney carry the conversation.

It was with the meal over, the plates stacked for washing up and a second cup of tea before them that the priest began to talk about their ‘marriage difficulties’.

Maeve had almost smiled at such a polite term. She knew this was her one chance with the presence of the priest to stay Brendan’s hand, to improve even slightly the life she’d fled from and to put her side of the story. As she’d implied to Father O’Brien, Brendan was a violent man and this she could never change. She had to look at what she could do something about. Most of her problems related to money, because with the children out of the way, she could probably put up with Brendan’s uncertain temper as long as she got enough to feed herself and the child she was carrying. ‘Some of my “difficulties” as you call them, Father – really the main ones – are related to money, or the lack of it,’ she said suddenly.

‘Here we go,’ Brendan said. ‘Always bloody complaining.’

‘Now, Brendan, let her have her say.’

Encouraged by this, Maeve said, ‘Whatever Brendan earns, I’m never given enough of it to feed the family.’

‘Is it my fault if she’s a bad manager?’ Brendan said, appealing to the priest.

‘A bad manager?’ Maeve exclaimed, and turning to Father Trelawney said, ‘Father, I don’t know exactly how much Brendan earns, but I know it’s more than adequate for our needs. I know because of the amount he tips down his neck each evening, but he throws a pittance on the table on a Friday if I’m lucky, and I have a lot to pay out of it. It’s never enough.’

‘She’s always bloody moaning on, Father,’ Brendan put in.

‘Let her finish,’ Father Trelawney said. ‘Go on, Maeve.’

‘Father,’ Maeve began, glad for once he appeared to be on her side, ‘our rent for this place is six and six. I then have to pay one and sixpence a week for the clothing club and ten shillings for other things besides food: soap, soap powder and soda, money for the gas meters, candles and coal for the winter. I should pay sixpence a week for the doctor but I never have it, but those are the basic things before the food I have to buy.’

Father Trelawney had been writing the figures down as Maeve spoke and he looked up at Brendan and said, ‘How much do you give Maeve each week?’

Maeve knew it was never a set amount she was given a week, only what she could manage to wheedle out of him, but she sat silent and waited for him to speak. He blustered at first and said, ‘Well, Father, it’s not so easy to say. Not just like that, you understand. I mean it’s up to what I have to pay up and what I’m due.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He means the gambling debts he runs up, Father,’ Maeve said. ‘And of course the little amount he wins back. Whether we all eat or not will often depend on how well the horses run.’

‘You bitch!’ Brendan cried, leaping to his feet, his fists balled by his side. He stabbed his finger in the air towards Maeve and appealed to the priest. ‘You see how she is, Father. She’s a sodding troublemaker – beg your pardon, Father.’

Father Trelawney spoke sternly: ‘Sit down, Brendan.’ And he waited till Brendan was seated before he went on, ‘From my reckoning the very least Maeve can manage on is three pounds ten shillings. Are you giving her that sort of money?’

Maeve gave a snort of disbelief. Sometimes she was hard-pressed to prise a pound note out of her husband. Brendan turned hate-filled eyes upon her and said, ‘A man has to have a drink, Father. You know in the job I have if you didn’t drink you’d die, and what harm is a wee bet?’

‘Jesus, Brendan, will you listen to yourself?’ Maeve cried, encouraged by the priest’s presence to speak at last. ‘You can drink the pubs dry for all I care if you’ll tip up your money before you go and spend what you have left. I don’t give a tuppenny damn what you do with the rest if you just give me enough to warm and light the house and feed everyone.’

‘Feed everyone!’ Brendan mocked. ‘You’ve no weans now. You’ve left them at your mother’s to spite me.’

‘There’s a war coming, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Maeve said. ‘Our children are safer where they are. But I am pregnant again now and this one I want to give birth to and rear decently.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Work it out,’ Maeve snapped. ‘I miscarried two after Grace in the early months and then lost a baby at six months.’

‘Are you saying that was my fault?’

Maeve saw Brendan’s eyes glittering and knew she was on dangerous ground but was too angry to care. ‘Yes, I bloody well am. The first two were lost because I hadn’t the food in my body to feed them nor any resistance against the clouts and punches you seem to think are part of married life. But the last one,’ she added, ‘was lost because of a kick from a hobnail boot in my stomach.’

She stood up and faced Brendan, her face crimson with temper and yelled across the table, ‘You killed my unborn babies, Brendan Hogan, and near killed wee Kevin and me too. I returned to you only because I was forced. If anything happens to this child, I will hold Father Trelawney and Father O’Brien responsible for making me come back to you, and I’ve told Father O’Brien this.’

‘Maeve—’ Father Trelawney began.

‘Maeve bloody nothing, Father,’ Maeve snapped. ‘You don’t know how it is, neither of you priests does. I have to protect my children the only way I can.’

Brendan didn’t speak. But the glare he directed at her and the way he licked his lips slowly made her insides somersault in alarm. She closed her eyes, shutting out his face. Oh sweet Jesus, she cried silently, protect me for pity’s sake.

When she opened her eyes, Father Trelawney was regarding her gently. ‘Maeve, to lose a baby must be appalling and very sad for you, but you must believe your miscarriages were accidents – tragic accidents, but just that. To apportion blame will not help you.’

‘Apportion blame!’ Maeve repeated. ‘Father, I—’

But the priest cut her off. ‘Let’s return to the present and what can be done to help you both work towards a good marriage.’

Maeve stared at him, too angry to speak. Father Trelawney apparently was not going to talk about her miscarriages, nor agree that Brendan had had any hand in them at all. And as for the term ‘good marriage’, she’d stopped believing in that fantasy many years before. She didn’t expect happiness; just to be free of fear for the safety of her unborn baby, and have enough money to feed the family was all she desired now.

‘As I said before, I think Maeve should have three pounds and ten shillings a week,’ Father Trelawney said. ‘That will still leave you with a fair amount.’

Brendan gaped at him. ‘Three pounds bloody ten?’

Maeve looked at the priest in surprise. It wasn’t a fortune, but more than she’d ever got before, though she knew it wouldn’t happen. Brendan would agree to it, maybe, while the priest was there, but Father Trelawney wouldn’t be there on a Friday evening when Maeve risked a thumping to get some money off him before he left the house again to drink and gamble the night away. Often the amount he’d throw at her in the end was barely enough to clear the tick she’d run up in Mountford’s.

But Father Trelawney surprised her. ‘And I’d like you to bring it to the presbytery on Friday after work,’ he went on. ‘I’ll bring it up to Maeve myself later that evening.’

Maeve felt the breath leave her body in a large sigh of relief. Not to have to fight for money would be like heaven. Even when she’d managed to get some money out of Brendan, she’d often gone to bed light-headed and aching with hunger herself, for the little food she’d managed to buy she’d given to the children. To think all that might be over was magic indeed; to think she might carry her baby to term and as well nourished as any other in that area was a relief.

Maeve saw by Brendan’s glare that he was not pleased by what the priest said, but she knew he felt too awed by the clergy to go against him. ‘Do you agree, Brendan?’ the priest asked.

‘There’s no need for all this, Father.’

‘Well, we’ll see. But for now, do you agree?’

Brendan made an impatient movement with his head. ‘Aye, aye. I suppose so. You’ve forced it on me.’

‘And you, Maeve. Are you agreeable?’

‘Aye, Father. It would be a blessing, so it would.’

‘And why wouldn’t it?’ Brendan cut in sarcastically. ‘She takes off when the notion takes her and returns without a bone of shame in her body and makes demands. And you, Father, you encourage her and with not a word about how she’s behaved.’

‘That’s in the past, Brendan,’ the priest said. ‘The thing now is to look forward.’ He got to his feet and nodded to the pair of them. ‘I’m sure we can work something out.’ And to Maeve he added, ‘I’ll be around with the money on Friday evening, Maeve.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And, Brendan?’

‘I’ll be there, Father,’ Brendan growled. ‘Leave it so.’

The priest said not another word and Maeve only waited until the door shut after him before beginning to tidy up the table, ignoring Brendan, who still sat there brooding.

‘So,’ he said at last, ‘you conniving bitch, you have it all your own way.’

Maeve ignored him and he roared. ‘D’you hear what I say?’

Her insides jumped with fright, but she answered him steadily, ‘Yes, I hear you. I’m not deaf.’

Brendan shot up from his chair and, reaching his wife’s side in a second, twisted one of her arms up her back until she cried out with the pain of it. ‘Not deaf?’ he said. ‘Bloody insolent. I’ll show you who’s master here.’

He thrust Maeve from him as he spoke and she saw him fumbling with the loops on his belt. She cried, ‘You touch me with that and I’ll be off to St Catherine’s in the morning and bring the priest up to you.’

The punch hit her between the eyes and knocked her off her feet and she stumbled against the hearth and lay against the mantelpiece, trying to pull herself together.

‘Bring the priest,’ Brendan sneered. ‘There’s not one man around these doors will blame me for the hiding I’m going to give you. You made a bloody mug of me, working in the corner shop to get the money to leave. I was told after you left me – in fact the whole bloody place knew about it but me. All laughing at me, they were, and you most of all. Well, you won’t have reason to laugh when I’m finished with you.’

Maeve was more scared than ever. She wasn’t surprised that Brendan had found out about her job once she was away from the place. She’d been surprised it had been kept from him for so long. But as he saw it, she, and indeed all the rest of the women, by keeping quiet about it had been laughing up their sleeves at him and he never could bear being laughed at. She also knew that however good her reasons were for leaving Brendan, every man would agree that a wife couldn’t be allowed to walk out whenever she chose, and any that did should be taught a lesson they’d never forget to discourage others feeling the same way. She knew even if she were to scream blue murder those women would pretend they heard nothing.

There was no Elsie to save her this time, and Maeve saw with horror the glittering fire in Brendan’s eyes. Violence brought out a frenzied excitement in him and she watched as he slid his belt through the last loop of his trousers and raised it in the air.

Maeve let out a yelp as the belt cut into her shoulder, and then with a sudden leap she was the other side of the table. The room, as she viewed it through her puffy eyes, refused to stay still, and Brendan appeared to sway in front of her as she spat out, ‘Leave me be. If I lose this baby, I will be along to Father Trelawney so fast my feet won’t touch the floor. I’ve told him I’ll hold him responsible – him and Father O’Brien – and I’ll show them what you’ve done to me.’