Читать книгу The Brightest Day, The Darkest Night - Brendan Graham - Страница 9

They huddled about her, calling out her name, their own names. Begging for her recognition.

‘Mother! Mother! It’s us … Mary and Louisa,’ Mary said, stroking her mother’s head. ‘You’ll be all right now. We’ll take you back with us.’

‘Mary? Louisa? It’s …’ Ellen began.

‘Her mind is altered,’ a voice rang out, interrupting. ‘Too much prayin’ and Blind Mary’s juniper juice,’ the voice continued.

‘We are her daughters,’ Mary said, turning to face the hard voice of Biddy Earley.

‘Daughters – ha!’ the woman laughed. ‘Well blow me down with a Bishop’s fart,’ she said, arms akimbo, calloused elbows visible under her rolled-up sleeves. ‘Oh, she was a close one, was our Ellie. Daughters? An’ us fooled into thinking she had neither chick nor child.’

‘What happened to her?’ Louisa asked.

‘The needle blindness … couldn’t do the stitchin’ no more. But she’s not as bad as she makes out … can see when she wants to!’ the woman answered disparagingly. ‘Fogarty, the landlord’s man, tumbled her out. Just like back home, ’ceptin’ now it’s your honest-to-God, Irish landlords here in America, ’stead of the relics of auld English decency. ’Twould put a longing on a person for the bad old days!’

Ellen, struggling to take it all in, again made to say something.

‘Sshh now, Mother,’ Louisa comforted. ‘Talk is for later. We have to get you inside,’ she said, looking at Biddy Earley.

Reluctantly, Biddy agreed, cautioning that the ‘widow-woman brought all the troubles on herself.’

Mary and Louisa, shepherding Ellen, followed Biddy down into the dank basement where the woman lived.

‘I’ve no clothes for her, mind – ’ceptin’ what’s on me own back,’ she called to them over her shoulder.

Mary would stay with Ellen, Louisa would make the journey back to the convent to get clothes. The Sisters, providential in every respect, always kept some plain homespun, diligently darned against a rainy day – or a novice leaving.

Mary then removed her own undergarment – long white pantaloons tied with a plain-ribboned bow at the ankle. These she pulled onto her mother. Similarly, and aware of the other woman’s stare, she removed as modestly as she could, the petticoat from under her habit, fastening it around Ellen. Biddy, for all her talk about ‘no clothes’, produced a shawl, even if it was threadbare.

‘Throw that over her a while,’ she ordered Mary.

Ellen again started to say something, prompting the woman to come to her and shake her vigorously.

‘Just look at you – full of gibberish … same as ever!’ she said roughly. ‘This is your own flesh and blood come for you, widow-woman! Will you whisht that jabberin’!’

To Mary’s amazement, Biddy Earley then drew back her hand and slapped Ellen full across the face.

‘You wasn’t so backward when you was accusatin’ me o’ stealin’ your book,’ she levelled at Ellen.

‘What book?’ Mary asked, shocked by the woman’s action and holding her mother protectively.

‘Some English filth she kept recitatin’ to herself. Ask Blind Mary – stuck sittin’ on that stoop of hers – about it. That and her niggerology! When, if Lincoln will have his way, the blacks’ll be swarmin’ all over us … and them savages no respecters o’ the likes of you neither, Sister!’ Biddy Earley added for good measure.

Mary didn’t know what to make of it all. All of her endless prayers answered and the joy, the unparalleled joy, of finding her mother alive after all these years. But yet, so dishevelled, and living in such a place.

Biddy Earley, settling a streelish curl beneath her headscarf, continued in similar vein. ‘Then looking down on the likes o’ me for going on me back to the sailors. Sure it’s no sin if it’s keeping body and soul together, is it, Sister?’ she asked boldly, uncaring of the reply. ‘No sin if you don’t enjoy it?’ she added, with a rasp of a laugh.

‘Why don’t you come with us?’ Mary asked the woman, thinking of Sister Lazarus’s words. But Biddy Earley, however hardened, was no candidate for ‘melting’ by nuns.

‘I ain’t no sinner, Sister – I don’t need no forgivin’,’ she retorted, unyieldingly. ‘Now sit quiet till t’other one comes back and then clear off out o’ here, the three o’ yis!’

Mary sat silently, offering thanks for the all-seeing hand that led herself and Louisa to this place. With her fingers, she stroked her mother’s hair, recalling the hundred brushstrokes of childhood each Sunday before Mass. As much as the dimness would allow, she studied her mother, hair all tangled and matted, its once rich lustre dulled. The fine face with that mild hauteur of bearing, now pin-tucked with want and neglect. How could her mother so terribly have fallen?

The woman’s term for Ellen – ‘widow-woman’ – what did it mean? And Ellen using her old, first-marriage name of O’Malley, as Mary had also learned from Biddy.

And Lavelle? What of Lavelle – Ellen’s husband now? Had he never found her … that time he had left the note at the convent … gone looking for her in California? The questions came tumbling one after the other through Mary’s mind.

She wished Louisa would hurry. It was all too much.

Then Ellen slept, face turned to Mary’s bosom, like a child. But it was not the secure sleep of childhood. It was fitful, erratic, full of demons. She awoke, frightened, clutching fretfully at Mary’s veil. Then, bolt upright, peered into the near dark.

‘Mary! Mary! Is that you Mary, a stor?’ Ellen said, falling into the old language.

Then, at the comforting answer, fell to weeping.