Читать книгу Child on the Doorstep - Anne Bennett - Страница 10

They didn’t see Daniel for a few weeks after this and Angela wondered if he would bother coming again.

‘After all, he is nothing to us,’ she said to Maggie, who had popped in one evening just after she had helped Mary to bed.

‘Um, I suppose,’ Maggie said. ‘Where’s Connie?’

‘At Sarah Maguire’s,’ Angela said. ‘They’re as thick as thieves, the pair of them. They remind me a bit of me and you. Now the summer holidays have begun, I don’t have to be so strict about bedtime, and anyway it’s a fine light evening and Connie is only at the end of the street.’

‘Oh, it will do her good,’ Maggie said. ‘Young people should be together. So, you think you’ve seen the last of Daniel then?’

‘We could have,’ Angela said. ‘I mean, he’s a nice young man, I’m not being nasty about him at all. It’s just that he only made contact with us to learn more about his real father.’

‘Your mother will miss him.’

‘Aye, if she remembers him at all,’ Angela said, a little sadly. ‘Sometimes she looks at me a bit strangely. Funny thing is, though, she always knows Connie, though she does sometimes call her Angela. The thing is, it’s not just her mind, she is almost bedbound now and you know she was always such an active person. Time hangs heavy on her and I suppose gives her too much time to think. Norah Doherty pops along to see her fairly often. She is a similar age but far more aware than Mammy.’

‘That’s life though, isn’t it?’ Maggie said. ‘No one really knows how life is going to be for us as we age.’

Angela sighed. ‘Aye, that’s true enough.’

‘You’ll miss her when she’s gone.’

‘I know,’ Angela said. ‘But the fact is, I miss her now. The real Mary is hidden away somewhere and sometimes it barely surfaces. I used to talk to her about anything and everything and, though I love Connie, there are things I cannot discuss with a child – for that’s all she is.’

Maggie nodded, for she could see that. ‘You can load it on me if you like. I have broad shoulders.’

Angela smiled. ‘I value your friendship, Maggie, and not just as a sounding board.’

‘I know,’ Maggie said. ‘My mammy will pop in and see Mary if I ask her to. She thought a lot of her.’

‘I know,’ Angela said. ‘But, as I said, the schools have broken up for the summer now, so Connie will be here most of the time if I ask her to and she is always very good with Mammy. She gets her talking about the old days, even before my time, when her and my real mother were girls growing up together and where they met their husbands and all. She’s really interested in that sort of thing, and Mammy loves talking about her memories. It’s strange that sometimes she is very vague and by dinnertime has trouble remembering what she had for breakfast, and yet you get her talking about the olden days and she has no trouble remembering everything.’

Maggie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of that before in older people. Odd, isn’t it?’

‘Oh I’ll say,’ Angela said. ‘But Connie encourages her anyway and doesn’t seem to mind if she repeats herself and she never corrects her. Course, Connie loves her to bits and will be devastated when she is no longer with us.’

Maggie didn’t say anything more. She had seen herself how frail Mary had become over the last months.

And Angela went on, ‘At the moment Mammy is often quite silent or sleeping much of the time. I almost look forward to pulling pints at the pub. At least there is a bit of conversation there, even if it is pretty male-dominated.’

‘Yeah, but what sort of conversation?’ Maggie said. ‘Men seem interested in only two things, football and sex.’

Angela laughed. ‘We manage, though I am not a whit interested in football and put a veto on sex from the beginning. You would be surprised though how many men, hearing I was a widow, asked me if I was ever lonely at all. I know of course what that is a euphemism for and they got short shrift from me. I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but most of these are married men. I know their wives and even if I was looking for another husband, and I’m not, I would not consider a married man.’

‘Nor me,’ Maggie said.

‘Well, Michael might have something to say if you did.’

‘Oh yes,’ Maggie said and then added with a grin, ‘And then Michael’s response would be nothing to the reaction of Father Brannigan if he got the merest hint of impropriety. God, he’d burst a gasket.’

‘He would that,’ Angela said and the two women laughed at the vision conjured up.

Despite the hilarity though, Angela had been shocked at first by the men who wanted to keep her company, stop her from feeling ‘lonely’. Unbeknown to her, initially Paddy Larkin had watched carefully, ready to step in if ever the matter got out of hand. But he soon saw that Angela was able to refuse any liaison without causing offence, but in a firm enough voice that very few asked a second time, and so was able to relax slightly. The men appreciated the fact that Angela was a pleasant little body, always had a smile on her pretty face, with a good sense of humour so that she liked a joke as well as the next person. The fact that she wasn’t sharing her favours with all and sundry marked her as a woman of principles, and the majority acknowledged that and treated her with respect so she was able to enjoy her job.

There was one particular man who seemed more keen on Angela than the others. His name was Eddie McIntyre, an Irishman who had spent time in America and who was now in Birmingham on business. He had become a regular in the pub and always made a beeline for her. He was full of confidence and funny stories. He made Angela laugh and forget about the cares of the day, but although she knew he was a bit sweet on her, she was careful not to give him any encouragement and refused his tips. She had no intention of getting a reputation, for once sullied it could never truly be wrung clean, she knew.

She did wonder though how long she would be able to work the long hours at night and leave her mother. Connie was good but only a child yet and Angela wasn’t totally sure she realised just how sick Mary was.

However, Connie did; she was no fool. She thought Mary might like it if Daniel came to see them again, for her granny had enjoyed talking to him, but Daniel seemed to have gone back to his suffocating life in Sutton Coldfield. She was sorry about that in a way, and yet she had to admit he might find himself completely alone if he rejected the only parents he knew, because he seemed totally friendless. Connie couldn’t understand it because he seemed nice enough and lovely with her granny.

But if Daniel wasn’t going to come then he wasn’t, and meanwhile she knew her granny was lonely. So, one morning, when her mother was out cleaning, she helped her granny on to the settee and manhandled her chair to the window where she could see out and watch the world go by.

‘That will be better for you, Granny,’ she said. ‘Now the summer’s here you won’t need the warmth of the fire so much.’

It worked a treat, for as Mary waved at neighbours going past many would pop in and have a word. Some days she couldn’t cope with much more than that, and on her vaguer days, if she wasn’t always absolutely sure who everyone was, no one seemed to mind.

‘God, this growing old is a bugger,’ Norah said one morning, meeting Angela coming home from her cleaning job at the pub.

‘But the alternative is worse,’ Angela answered.

‘That’s true,’ Norah agreed. ‘And God knows we might all be the same some day.’

Angela knew that was all too true and she also knew ‘the alternative’ couldn’t be put off for ever. She wondered how much Connie was aware of. But Connie knew her grandmother’s life was ebbing away and knew also that her death would leave a big hole in her life because Mary had been a constant in her life since the day she’d been born.

There had been a time when Connie was younger when her mother had gone away. She had gone to Ireland and, though her grandmother loved talking about things past, she was always very vague about that time. Mary said Angela had had to go to Ireland and help a family out after the mother died, and yet she had previously told her that her mother had no relatives to take her in and so that was why she stayed with the McCluskys. And whoever the family had been that had called on her mother’s help, her grandmother said she couldn’t recall their name. Connie had missed her mother a great deal and been very glad her grandmother was there, a solid loving presence who soon would be no more.

The summer slipped by far too quickly. Angela could scarcely believe it was September and the schools were open again. Mary’s chair was once more moved closer to the fire because those autumn days were windy ones and it was hard to keep the house draught-free. Despite the heat from the fire, Mary seemed constantly cold for, as the wind gusted down the road, it seeped through the ill-fitting windows and snaked under the door and along the floor, attacking the backs of Mary’s legs like a cold flannel.

Angela, seeing how cold Mary was, brought down an extra cardigan and a blanket to wrap around her, knowing it was bound to get much colder still. She was glad she had the money to lay in enough coal and buy good food and plenty of it to help them all, and Mary in particular, cope with the drop in temperature. She had worried about leaving her mother on her own while she worked once Connie returned to school, but she needn’t have worried for Mary was seldom alone as one of the neighbours would invariably pop in to see her. And at the weekend, when Angela worked the bar at the Swan in the evenings, Connie could stay up later because she hadn’t school in the morning. Mary didn’t keep late hours anyway and so the girl could easily help her grandmother to bed.

Angela knew how lucky she was. The house and area she lived in was not great but she was blessed with good, kind neighbours who cared for one another and a daughter and mother in a million. If Barry had returned from the war hale and hearty life would have been just perfect, but, as she reflected, few people achieve perfection in this life. She was content, only now she had met Stan’s son, Daniel, she found herself wishing Stan had survived too. How proud he would have been of that young man, who, if he’d had the chance to know him, would have realised what a great father he would have been.

But there was nothing she could do about that, and besides, Daniel hadn’t been near them since the early summer when they had put him straight about any misconceptions he’d had and told him the truth about his father. In the end he had returned home and taken a job in the bank Roger had secured for him that he definitely didn’t want. Daniel was taking the line of least resistance for the sake of a quiet life, and yet she couldn’t blame him. Betty and Roger had brought him up and made sure he had a good education, and he owed them something for that. But he couldn’t spend the rest of his life being grateful for the good start they had given him, and she hoped he’d realise that eventually.

Soon, Angela had more to worry about than Daniel, for the winter had taken hold of the city by mid-November. The grey days were bone-chillingly cold and the houses so draughty and damp that it was hard to keep them adequately heated. Mary, not usually a complainer, seemed constantly cold and one day, coming in from work, Angela saw her mother’s cheeks were glowing red. Though she still said she was cold, her skin was burning up.

‘You have a fever,’ Angela said. Her voice was calm and controlled but inside she was panicking. ‘Bed is the best place for you. You must have my bed for now and I will take your place in the attic with Connie.’

‘No need for such fuss.’

‘I’m not fussing, Mammy, but being sensible,’ Angela insisted. ‘Now I’ll just warm it up for you and bring down your things from the attic.’

Mary might have argued further but she was overtaken by a spasm of coughing and Angela crossed to the fire. It was almost out, even though Connie had filled a scuttle with coal before she had left for school. Usually Mary kept a good fire going but at that moment Angela was glad that she hadn’t. She removed two firebricks with the tongs and wrapped them in a cloth she had ready, running up and slipping them between the sheets on her bed.

As she went up to the attic for Mary’s things, Angela remembered for a moment the devastating Spanish flu that had rampaged through the whole world as the Great War came to an end. That epidemic had been indiscriminate and there was no cure – it depended on the individual’s capacity to fight it – and at its height it affected a fifth of the world’s population. It had raged on for two years and while some people died within days, when their lungs filled with fluid and they suffocated to death, others lingered on but still died just the same. By the time it had abated it had claimed fifty million lives, even more than the Great War, which had claimed sixteen million. Families were wiped out, many of the men who had survived a war of such magnitude lost their lives to the influenza and everyone had been fearful.

Many people had avoided crowds, shunning picture palaces and theatres, but children had had to go to school and Angela had sent Connie fearfully, knowing she wouldn’t want to live if she were to lose her daughter. But she had come through unscathed and so had Angela and Mary. Angela was determined Connie wasn’t going to catch anything from Mary now, and so she decided to adopt the strategies people had used before to try and combat the spread of the flu in 1918.

With her mother tucked up nice and warm in bed, Angela hung a sheet she’d soaked in disinfectant across the doorway. She vowed to wash her hands with carbolic soap and warm water whenever she dealt with Mary and would scald any plate, bowl, cup or cutlery she used.

A little later, after popping up to see Mary, who was lying in a fretful sleep, she went down to the presbytery and asked the priest to call. Then she went to see Paddy Larkin at the pub to tell him of her mother’s collapse. Paddy was upset at the news for he thought a lot of Mary and so did Breda, and she told Angela not to worry about anything.

‘If Maggie can take on all the cleaning, I’ll give Paddy a hand in the pub at the weekend,’ she said. ‘Your place is with Mary now.’

Angela knew it was. Connie was home from school when the priest came, distressed to see her grandmother so ill. She watched her fighting for every breath and her anxious eyes met her mother’s. They both thought that at any moment Mary would give up the struggle to breathe and slip away. The priest thought the same as he administered the Last Rites, though he didn’t speak of it.

There was little Angela could do to ease Mary’s symptoms, though a warmed flannel sprinkled with camphorated oil eased the pain in her chest a little. Mary didn’t want Angela to call the doctor, for she claimed it was just a cold. Angela knew it was more serious than that and, when Mary refused to eat because it hurt so much to swallow, she said she was calling the doctor and that was the end of it.

The doctor confirmed that Mary had a severe chest infection and a quinsy in her throat. He fully approved of the precautions Angela was taking, for he said Mary’s flu was very infectious. He prescribed a poultice for her to make up and lay on Mary’s throat, as hot as she could stand, and he made up a bottle to help the cough that was further irritating her throat.

He could do little else. He knew the old lady was very ill and, with her heart weakened by the attack she had when she received the telegram telling her of the death of her son, he didn’t think she had much of a chance of recovering from this. He didn’t share this with Angela. He knew she was no fool and would know how seriously ill Mary was without having it spelt out for her.

Angela did know, and as the days unfolded she couldn’t believe how Mary was hanging on. December wasn’t very old when she fought off the debilitating fever, and the hacking cough that had once seemed to shake every bone in her body eased a little, as did her sore throat, so that she was able to swallow the broths Angela soon made ready for her. As the worst effects of the chest infection left her, strangely her mind seemed more lucid than it had been for many months and one day she said to Angela, ‘You should be at work.’

‘Work will keep,’ Angela said. ‘They’re coping without me just now.’

‘Maybe they will find they can cope without you permanently.’

Angela smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have no fears on that score. They knew my place was with you when you were so ill. I am delighted to see you so much better. Sometimes I wished I could have breathed for you.’

Mary gave a wry smile. ‘If I had thought of that, I might have wished you could too,’ she said and then she added, ‘Christmas is always a bad time for you, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Connie has noticed.’

‘I can’t help that,’ Angela said.

‘I told her it’s because you still miss her daddy and you feel it more at Christmas,’ Mary said.

‘Well, you didn’t tell a lie anyway,’ Angela said. ‘I do miss Barry. Every day I miss him, but I go on because I must, but what I did nine years ago, God, it eats away at me, Mammy. God may forgive me, but I will never forgive myself. I condemned my own child to misery and deprivation and it doesn’t help that at the time there was no alternative and there still isn’t. I sacrificed my own child, my baby, so that others wouldn’t be hurt, and all I could give her was the locket that they probably won’t let her keep. They might have even stolen it from her.’

Angela wasn’t aware of when she began to cry. Mary hadn’t the strength to put her arms around Angela as she wanted to and so she contented herself with patting her hand. And eventually Angela went on, ‘I’ve never confessed, you know, Mammy. It was the worst thing I have ever done in my life and I could not bring myself to tell any priest. I asked God to punish me and He took Barry from me. When I saw you collapsed on the floor with the telegram in your hand I thought He had taken you too. Oh God, that would have been a heavy price to pay.’

‘Oh my darling girl,’ Mary said, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘I don’t know if God does things like that, but you really need to get absolution for your own sake.’

‘Mammy, I can’t,’ Angela protested. ‘Can you imagine what would happen if I did that? I know Father Brannigan can’t tell anyone what I say in confession, but that won’t stop him berating me, for he knows my voice. He will know the identity of the person the other side of that grille telling him of the dreadful, heinous thing I did and why, and that would be hard to bear. And what if someone overheard what I said in the confessional box, or heard him telling me off later and put two and two together? No, Mammy, I am not going down that road.’

‘How about St Chad’s? No one knows you there.’

Angela thought of the kindly looking priest that she knew people called Father John at St Chad’s, the same man who had unknowingly protected her that dreadful Christmas Eve nine years before.

‘I couldn’t,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ Mary demanded. ‘That night, I know you took shelter there, but did he see you go into the church?’

Angela shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I mean, he didn’t seem to be in the main body of the church when I went in. I only saw him when the men from the house came looking for me. They admitted to him they hadn’t seen me go in either, but they were checking everywhere because it was as if I had disappeared into thin air. Anyway, he sent them packing and if he had seen me come in in the agitated state I was in, I’m sure he would have spoken to me. I mean, the church wasn’t empty as I told you, but it wasn’t full like it is for Mass. There were only a handful of people there and, thinking about it, he probably knew most of them.’

‘So why won’t you go there? You said he looked kindly.’

‘I have heard he’s kind,’ Angela said. ‘But I might make him feel a bit of a fool, because I’d say he’d work out who I was, because I’ll have to tell him everything if I want him to give me absolution. How could I tell a man, any man, never mind a priest, about that attack?’

‘Angela, you cannot blame yourself,’ Mary said. ‘None of it was your fault.’

‘D’you know, Mammy,’ Angela said rather sadly. ‘In the general scheme of things it hardly seems to matter whose fault it was.’

‘God knows, and that’s the truth,’ Mary said.

‘You know, when Barry died, I thought about enquiring after the child, or even bringing her here where she belongs to be brought up by her mother.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘Well it isn’t done, is it?’ Angela said. ‘I mean, if you want a child or a baby, you go to an orphanage, but no one adopts a foundling from the workhouse. I’ve something to tell you, Mary. A few years ago, the pain and the anguish of not knowing what happened to my little girl was so immense, I couldn’t bear it. I was so wracked with the thought that she had died or was being cruelly treated, I was tearing my hair out with the worry of it all.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Mary. She could see that Angela had a burden to unload and waited patiently for the woman she considered her daughter to speak.

‘It was so bad that I went to the workhouse and asked about a young child who had been left there some years before. I pretended that I was making enquiries for a friend.’

‘What did they tell you?’ asked Mary, who couldn’t believe that Angela had taken such a step. Though she realised that such a loving person as her daughter would leave no stone unturned once her heart was decided on such a course of action.

Angela’s face took on a distressed aspect as she told Mary what had occurred.

‘A hard-faced woman opened the door and wouldn’t let me over the threshold. I tried to explain about the child and the locket but she refused to listen to me. Just said that once the children had come into the workhouse any family left had handed over control and they belonged to the workhouse now. Oh Mary, it was awful, she told me to forget about the child, it was no concern of my friend’s now, and then slammed the door in my face. I felt sick, knowing that my child could be behind those walls. I’ll never know what happened to her now – if she is safe, if she lived or died or if a friendly hand ever held hers when she was sad or lonely.’

Angela was in tears again now and Mary reached out to comfort her. ‘She is in God’s hands, Angela, and we must pray that He is her comfort as He must be ours.’

‘Perhaps it is just as well as it would have opened a can of worms, wouldn’t it? Eventually they would have tumbled to it that I was the child’s mother and then everyone would know and the child’s life could be blighted even further by the taint of sin. And how would Connie cope then, knowing the truth of it all?’

Mary didn’t answer. She was now in tears too, knowing Connie would never be able to cope with such a distressing revelation. ‘There is nothing to be done about it then.’

Angela nodded. ‘That’s the way of it. And my heart will break with each passing year as we approach Christmas. The pain never diminishes, because as the child grows she will know what she is and how alone she is in the world. She will likely experience no kind word or deed in the whole of her life and I should suffer for putting her through that.’

Mary’s heart hurt also for she knew there were no words to say to ease Angela’s conscience. A priest might but if she wouldn’t go to see one then that avenue was closed too. She could no longer look on Angela’s sorrowful eyes and her own were stinging with tiredness as she gave a sigh and lay back on the bed. Angela watched Mary’s eyes flutter shut and she tucked her in and tiptoed from the room.