THE FIFTEEN STREETS

BY

CATHERINE COOKSON

Life in the Fifteen Streets was tough, vital, and a continual struggle for survival. Some families gave up the struggle and descended into a dismal state of constant poverty. Others, like the O'Briens--and especially John O'Brien--fought grimly for a world they were only rarely allowed to glimpse . . .
John O'Brien had his 'glimpse' on the day he met Mary Llewellyn -- Mary with her slim body and soft brown hair and beautiful clothes. Mary who lived well and worked because she wanted to, not because she had to. .
And when John O'Brien fell in love with Mary Llewellyn, he knew there was a gulf between them that nothing could bridge -- the gulf of the Fifteen Streets.
THE FIFTEEN STREETS

Everyone who lived in the Fifteen Streets
knew what it was to be poor, to be hungry,
to be out-of-work. Life was sordid - sometimes
dreary, sometimes cruel, and for the
women it was harder than for the men.
Mary Ellen O'Brien had five children and
she knew, right from the beginning, that
for John and Katie, the two most dear to
her, the future was going to be especially
brutal. For John and Katie were different.
They were bright, and quick, and loving.
And they wanted things that could not be
found in the Fifteen Streets...


Also by Catherine Cookson


KATIE MULHOLLAND
KATE HANNIGAN
THE ROUND TOWER
FENWICK HOUSES


and published by Corgi Books.

Catherine Cookson


The Fifteen
Streets


TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS LTD

A National General Company

THE FIFTEEN STREETS A CORGI BOOK 552 08419 0


Originally published in Great Britain
by Macdonald & Co. (Publishers), Ltd.


PRINTING HISTORY

Macdonald edition published 1952
Corgi edition published 1970


Copyright © 1952 Catherine Cookson


Condition of sale--This book is sold subject to the
condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


This book is set in 10-11 Plantin


Corgi Books are published by Transworld

Publishers Ltd.,

Bashley Road, London, N.W.10.

Made and printed in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham

CONTENTS


1.	The Brothers
2.	A Day of Bonny Lasses
3.	St. Patrick's Day
4.	The Conflict
5.	The Comic
6.	The Visit
7.	Christmas Eve
8.	New Year's Eve
9.	Nancy

10.	Mary Llewellyn
11.	Ask and Ye Shall Receive
12.	The Aftermath
13.	Renunciation
14.	Whither Thou Goest

Page

7

29

47

59

76

86

101

124

141

155
165
181
198
208

AUTHOR'S NOTE


The characters in this book are entirely fictitious and have
no relation to any living person.

Although the setting is Tyneside and several place names
have been used, 'The Fifteen Streets' are imaginary.
Owing to difficulty in comprehension by the uninitiated, I
have not adhered to the Tyneside dialect.

CHAPTER ONE


THE BROTHERS


'Hannah, drop that an' come an' see. The O'Briens are at it
again ... blue murder! Come on. Come upstairs, you can see
better from our top window.'

Wiping the soap suds from her arms. Hannah Kelly hastily
lifted the lid of the wash-house boiler, scooped off the grey
scum with an enamel mug, dabbed the contents of the boiler
with a stick, then ran out of the wash-house and across the
back-yard, thinking as she did so, 'Eeh, I haven't got time for
this.... And our Joe warned me.'

She caught up with her neighbour as she was opening the
stair door.

'Who is it this time? The old man?'

'Yes.'

'Who's he at? Dominic?'

'Aye.'

'Are they drunk?'

'Are they ever owt else!'

They scurried across the kitchen to the front room, and automatically
took up their stations, one at each side of the window,
bodies close to the wall, heads held slightly to the side against
the mesh of the Nottingham lace curtains, their arms wound
tightly in their aprons.

'My God, what a mess, Bella!'

'He must have thrown them two pictures out since I came
down for you.'

'Eeh, God Almighty! It's a shame. Just as Mary Ellen was
getting things pulled together again.'

'Look' - there was glee in Bella's voice - 'there they are at

something came hurtling through the window into the street,
'which one missed that, I wonder?'
'Eeh! he's thrown the pot through the window. Oh, Bella,
that'll bring the pollis. God Almighty, it's awful! It's enough
to bring on the bairn ... she's at the worst time, on eight
months.'
'Best thing that could happen. Who wants a bairn at forty
five, I ask you? She should have been more cute. Anyway, she
wouldn't listen to me. I told her I could get her a bottle of white
mixture from our Harry's Emma, who scrubs the wards up at
the grubber; the nurses would have given it to her. It would
have skited everything out of her.'
'Well, you know she wouldn't do that, she's a Catholic,
Bella.'
'Catholic, be damned! They tell 'em to have bairns, but do
they bloody well keep them? I'd like to see any priest tell me I
must have bairns. Do you know what I'd say?'
Hannah chuckled. 'I've a pretty good idea. ... Look, there
she is, there's Mary Ellen. She looks like death.'
They both became silent and watched the woman below
picking up the two picture frames from the road. The loose
glass splintered about her feet as she shook the frames, and as
she shooed some children away from the broken chamber,
Hannah remarked, regretfully, 'Pity about that. It was a boody
one, too.'
Unblinkingly they watched the woman edge her way indoors,
with neither a glance upwards nor to the right or left, although
as they knew, she was fully aware of the watchers. Only the
children were on the street, staring silently until the door closed,
when they drew nearer, and some daring spirits, braving the
glass, hitched themselves up on to the high window sill to get
their faces level with the hole. But as they did so the blind was
dropped, and Hannah exclaimed, clicking her tongue. 'She
shouldn't have done that - dropping the blind right down before
dark - it's the sign of a death. It'll be the bairn, likely.'
'Damn good job too. Better if it was her old man though,
in case he lands her with another.'
that wouldn't have happened if John had been in; he'd have
put a stop to that. ... Funny, isn't it, Bella, that the old man
doesn't go for John.'
'Not funny a bit. He's afraid of him, if the truth was known.
Old O'Brien and Dominic are both alike, full of wind and
water. That's why they fight. ... By God! I wish I was in
Mary Ellen's place for five minutes. I'd lay those two sods out
with the poker! She's soft, that's what she is, soft as clarts. ...
Are you going to stay for a cup of tea?' she added. 'I'll put the
kettle on, it won't be a minute.'
'No, lass, I'm not half through, and it's getting on for dark.'
Bella glanced sideways at Hannah. 'Should you come across
Alary Ellen - you see her more than I do - and she tells you
what it was all about, knock up.'
'Aye, I will. But there's small chance. She's close, is Mary
Ellen. You know that.'
'I know she doesn't like me. Thinks I can't mind me own
business.'
And she's right there, thought Hannah.
'And anyway, I'm not the same colour as them,' went on
Bella nodding her long horse-face. The St. Patrick's Day's
colour's blue. Wait until next Thursday week when Dominic's
wearing his shamrock. There'll be skull and hair flying then.
The fifteen streets won't hold him... . My God, remember last
St. Patrick's Day? That was a do, eh?' She laughed at the
memory.
'Eeh, Bella, I must be off.' Hannah unwrapped her mottled
arms, and banged out the creases in her coarse apron.
'Well don't forget to knock up if you hear owt.'
'I won't.'
Hannah went down the stairs, walking sideways in case she
slipped, as the stairs were too narrow for her feet encased in an
old pair of men's boots. By the time she reached the bottom
she had also reached a decision: she wouldn't tell Bella Bradley
what she heard, if she heard owt at all. Too nosey was Bella,
by half. She'd rather keep in with Mary Ellen, narrow as she
was. At least, she minded her own business. And her Joe
warned her only last night against Bella Bradley. He said he'd
bash her face in if he found her upstairs again - he was nettled
after hearing what she said about their Nancy not being all
there. He knew Nancy wasn't all there; but it maddened him
to hear any one say it. More so now that Nancy was growing
up. ... Hannah sighed. What would become of Nancy? She
didn't know. And anyway, there was no time to think now, the
washing had to be finished.
Across the road, in number 10 Fadden Street, Mary Ellen
O'Brien worked in the semi-darkness behind the drawn blind.
She adjusted the block of wood under the chest of drawers the
leg had been kicked off during the last row - and screwed
in the knob of the top drawer. She picked up the grey blanket
and patchwork quilt from the floor and spread them again over
the lumpy bare mattress on the iron bed. She pushed the wicker
table back into the centre of the room, and stood leaning on its
weak support, breathing heavily. Her eyes, dry with the pricking
dryness of sand, looked round the walls. They were quite
bare. .., Well, they would remain so. The only two pictures
in the house were now gone. Never again would she try to build
up. She had told herself, if they went this time it would be the
last.
She looked towards the closed door, which led into the kitchen.
She knew that beyond, on either side of the fireplace,
they'd be sitting, spent. Their rage and passion flown, they
would be like the two halves of one body, accepting each other
now that the conflict was over for a time.
She lifted her apron and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
If only they weren't so big ... like giants. She hadn't dared
go between them this time because of the bairn.... She put her
hand on the raised globe of her stomach and felt a movement.
It brought no sense of feeling to her other than that of apprehension.
Why, oh why was she to have this all over again?
Hadn't she been through enough in her time? During the
twenty-six years of her married life she had given birth to
eleven bairns, and only five were alive, for which she thanked
God. What she would have done with thirteen in these three
rooms only the Almighty knew.

10

A pain through her breast made her gasp, and she covered
it with her hand, lifting up its weight. Last year this time
they'd been flat ... flat for all time she'd thought, for it was
ten years since Katie was born. Practically every year since
she was married she'd been dropped, but from Katie there'd
been nothing. The pain shot through her again, and she remembered
such a pain from the past. It was before John was
born. She was as strong as a horse then, as small as she was, and
she enjoyed the feeling of the pain, anticipating the tugging of
the young mouth on the nipples ... if it lived. It did live,
and it was John ... John, who had never given her any trouble.
Oh, if they were all like John, and, at the other end of the scale,
Katie. Funny that these two should be alike and the others so
different from them. Dominic was different from the day he
was born, the year after John. She had always been slightly
afraid of Dominic, even when he was a child. It wasn't that
he alone suffered from the O'Brien rages, for they all did, except
Katie. It was rather that there was something fiendish about
Dominic. It showed in everything he did, in his teasing, in his
laughter, and especially in his good-looking face. Like John
and Mick, he took after his da for his looks. But although they
all took after their da Dominic and Mick were better looking
than John. When she looked at her eldest son she had the feeling
that the features which made the other two good looking
made him ugly, and in some strange way this pleased her. To
her mind it separated him entirely from them. It was his nose
that made the difference, she supposed, with that funny little
nob on the side of the nostril. He got that when he climbed
the dock wall to get some coal that bad winter. He slipped and
his nose was cut on the broken glass set in the top of the wall.
The cut did not join properly and gave his face a quaint look
from the side. But it wasn't only his nose; John's eyes were
different from the others. They were large and brown too, but a
different brown ... dark and kind. That was it, they were kind,
like Katie's.

She sighed and rubbed her hand gently round and round
her breast. Then, hearing a shout coming through the kitchen
from the back-yard, she moved her head impatiently - she

ii

never thought of Molly unless the girl made herself felt by sight
or sound. Molly was ... well, she couldn't place Molly. She
was of a too apparent mixture of them all, and so had no individuality
of her own. She was swayed, first one way and then
the other; even her rages could be deflected by a stronger will.
No, Molly would be no heartache, for she aroused no feeling.

Mary Ellen straightened her shoulders and refastened the
top button of her blouse over her straining breasts before walking
towards the kitchen door. It was no use standing here
thinking; thinking got you nowhere. It was close on five o'clock,
and John would be in at half past. She'd have to get on with
the tea. ... Thank God they fought in here and not in the kitchen.
They might have knocked the pan of broth off the hob,
and there was nearly fourpennorth of vegetables in besides a
twopenny scrag end. ... Well, if you searched hard enough
there was always something to be thankful for.

As she expected, her husband and son were sitting one each
side of the fireplace, their brows puckered over half-closed
eyes. Shane's grey hair was standing up straight in tufts; there
was blood on the hair near his temple, and his high cheek bones
were showing blue under the tightened skin. At the first glance
she saw that his rage wasn't entirely spent, for the muscle was
moving in his cheek as he clenched and unclenched his teeth,
and his limbs, as always, were jerking with the nerve tick. His
knees, in their reddened moleskin trousers, were wide apart, and
his feet were crossed below his hands, which were gripping the
seat of the wooden armchair. His body looked as if it was still
ready to spring. ... No, his rage wasn't spent yet, because he
was sober. He'd had only two shifts in this week and had tipped
the money up. But Dominic had a full week. For three weeks
now he'd worked full weeks. Not that it made much difference
to her - she was lucky if she got ten shillings out of him. She
often had to meet him at the dock gates to get even that... or
send Katie. But Dominic's rage was spent because he was drunk
and happy.

She took Dominic by the shoulder and shook him. 'Here!
Get yourself to bed.'

He lifted his head and smiled crookedly at her, cracking the


12


dried blood on his mouth as he did so. He looked at her out of
one merry, brown eye, the other being hidden behind a curling
lock of light brown, youthful hair.

'All right, old girl.'

He rose obediently to his feet, and some detached part of
her marvelled for the countless time at his docility towards her
when he was in drink. Why was it she could manage him when
he was drunk? She even found herself liking him in this state.
She had no fear of him in drink, when he spoke civilly to her,
often with a touch of affection. But it was strange that even in
drink she could have any affection for him now, for she remembered
the look in his eyes during these past weeks when
they lit on her stomach ... ridicule, scorn, and something else
... a something for which she could find no word. She pushed
him before her into the bedroom, her head coming just to the
bottom of his shoulder blades. She always wondered, when
dose to them, how she gave birth to such great men.

Dominic sat down with a plop on the side of his bed and
began to laugh. 'If he wasn't my old man I'd have knocked
him stiff. But I'll break his bloody neck the next time he interferes
with me. I didn't ask to be set on the ore boat - they
want the young 'uns down the holds.'

He fell back on the bed and lifted up his legs, and Mary
Ellen immediately swung them down again. She took off his
boots and loosened his belt, then unbuttoned his trousers and
tugged them off his legs, leaving these looking particularly
ludicrous in their tight long pants. Never in all the many times
she had pulled trousers off them had she yet been able to conquer
the feeling of revulsion. Husband or son, it was the same.

She heaved him up by the shirt front and dragged off his
coat. Then she let him fall back on to the bed. She threw the
quilt over him and put his coat on top of it, and lifting his
trousers quietly from the floor, she put them across her arm and
. went out, through the kitchen, past her husband, who now sat
hunched up over the fire, and into the front room, where she
turned out the contents of the trousers pockets on to the table.

There was a half-sovereign, two two-shilling pieces, and four
Pennies. The half-sovereign he would have to stump up for his
13

board, so she put that back into the pocket again, together
with a two-shilling piece. The other two-shilling piece and the
coppers went into a little cloth bag that dangled from a pin
fastened to the inside of her skirt. It already held tenpence. She
had taken to this device of the bag when Shane came back from
the Boer War, because he lifted every penny he could get his
fingers on for drink.

She went back to the bedroom and quietly placed the
trousers over the bed rail, and as she returned to the kitchen
the window was darkened by a distorted bulk, and a gentle tap
tap came on the door.

Mary Ellen sighed. As inevitably as the calm which followed
the storm would come this tap-tap on the door after any disturbance
in the house. She often thanked God for an upstairs
neighbour such as Peggy Flaherty. Many a one, placed as she
was above the noise and fighting that was almost part of the
weekly routine, would have done more than object, she would
have brought the pollis; and after a number of such visits they
would have been in court and likely turned out of the house.
Peggy was a bit queer; still, as God knew, there were worse
states than being queer. But today, Mary Ellen felt tired, and
even Peggy's well-meant sympathy was an irritant. She opened
the door, and would have smiled, if she could, at the quaint
tact of this fat, dirty woman.

'I was after warming meself up with a mouthful of stew,
Mary Ellen, an' I said to meself, "I'll take a drop below, it'll
stick to Mary Ellen's ribs." ' She proffered the basin, full of a
lead-coloured liquid, with darker pieces of matter floating
about on its surface. 'Are you all right, lass?' She peered at
Mary Ellen through her short-sighted eyes, looking for a black
eye or other evidence of the fight.

'Yes, I'm all right, Peggy. And thanks for the soup.'

'Oh, that's all right, Mary Ellen. ... You'll drink it, now,
won't you?'

'Yes, yes,' Mary Ellen hastily assured her, wondering
whether Peggy was suspicious of the fate of her proffered
balms. She would have to be very hungry, she thought, before
she ate anything made by Peggy's hands in that menagerie up

14


stairs. Before he died, Charlie Flaherty earned his living in many ways. At one time, he worked for himself as a tally man, and when payment was not forthcoming, took the equivalent
in kind; so two of the three rooms upstairs were stacked from floor to ceiling with an odd assortment of things, not one of which Peggy would part with, ranging from a stuffed baby crocodile to a collection of books, out of which Peggy was wont to say 'she got the extinsive iducation' she possessed. She spread
more false knowledge round the fifteen streets than it was possible
to imagine. Many of the inhabitants would have sworn that Henry VIII was Queen Elizabeth's husband, and that England once belonged to the Irish before William the Conqueror
came over and took it from them. For the sum of a penny she would write a letter; for a little more, give advice on how to deal with a summons, or a case of defamation of
character, or assault. Often this advice, if faithfully carried out, would have got the worried seeker a sojourn in jail. It was
strange, that although she was said to be odd and barmy, her advice was still sought. Perhaps it was because it was known that on these pennies she mainly relied for her existence. There
was an unspoken feeling in these streets, which, if translated, would have implied ... you save someone the workhouse and
you'll never land there yourself.

'God and His Holy Mother preserve us this day, the trials we have! Is there anything more I can do for you, Mary Ellen?'
went on Peggy.

'No, I'm all right, Peggy, thanks.' Mary Ellen looked at the basin in her hands, hoping to convey a hint that she would like to go in and make a start on the soup.

But Peggy did not notice this move; or if she did, she refused
to take the hint; for she had something weighty to say.
Leaning forward, she whispered, 'Did I ever tell you, Mary
Ellen, Mr. Flaherty's cure for all this?' She nodded towards the closed scullery door.

Mary Ellen, suppressing another sigh, said, 'No, Peggy.'
_ Iducation! No man would fight, he said, once he had iducation.
And he knew what he was talking about, for he got about among the gentry, you know, Mary Ellen. It was his theory


15


that once a man got iducation he wouldn't raise a hand to his
wife. He might, being a human being, get a bit irritated and
say, "Retire to your room before I kick your backside!" or
some such thing, but to lift his hand ... no!'

'There may be something in it.' Mary Ellen again looked at
the basin. 'Sure you haven't left yourself short, Peggy?'

'Not at all. Not at all. Away you go now inside, and don't
talk anymore; and get that down you, it'll put a lining on your
stomach. And remember, if you want any advice you know
where to come.'

She shuffled away, and Mary Ellen closed the door. ...
Don't talk anymore, and, Retire to your room before I kick
your backside! If there was a laugh left in her she would have
laughed; but she would remember them, and some night by the
fire she would tell them to John, and they would laugh together.


John came in at half-past five. He hung his cap and coat,
together with his black neckerchief on the back of the kitchen
door, then sat down on a box in the tiny square of scullery and
loosened the yorks that bound his trousers below the knee. Before
washing his hands in the tin dish that was standing on
another box he looked into the lighted kitchen and smiled towards
the three children sitting at the table. Only Katie returned
his smile, her round, blue eyes sending him a greeting.

Mick called, 'Got anything, John? Any bananas or anything?'
And
he answered, 'Not tonight; we're still on the grain boat.'

When John came to the table, his mother set a plate of broth
before him, out of which a series of bare ribs stuck up, like the
skeleton of a hulk. The smell was appetizing, and the eyes of
the three children focused on the plate.

Mary Ellen exclaimed harshly, 'Get on with your bread and
dripping!' and almost simultaneously each bit into his own
inch-thick slice of bread.

She placed another plate on the table and said to her husband,
'Your tea's out.'

Shane turned from the fire and stared at the plate, and from
there to his son and the other three. His body started to jerk,

16

first his head, then his arms, and lastly his right leg. His words too, when they came, were spasmodic and heavy with bitterness:
'Served last now, am I? It's a difference when you're not bringing it in. You've got to work or you don't eat... not till
everybody else is finished.'
John put his spoon down and stared at his father: 'I'll wait until you're done.'
His mother signalled wildly to him from behind her husband,
and pointed to the bedroom. John read her signal, but
continued to stare at his father, until Shane's eyes dropped away and he growled, 'It's them young 'uns - I was never set down before me father.'
His head jerked to one side as if he were straining at a
bit, and Mary Ellen said quietly, 'Don't be a fool! Get your
tea.'
'You want to start, you do!' Shane sprang up from his chair, kicking it to one side as he did so. 'It only needs you to start.
Belittling me before the bairns! That's a new tack.' He towered like a swaying mountain of rage over the short unwieldy figure of his wife.
Mary Ellen took no notice, but went on cutting bread on the corner of the oil cloth which covered the table, and the children
continued to eat, their eyes fixed on their plates. Only John kept his eyes on his father, and Shane lifted his bloodshot gaze from the top of his wife's head to meet John's again. He stared
at his son for a moment, his compressed lips moving in and
out. Then he swung round, grabbed his cap from the back of the door and went to go out: but as he reached the back door
he paused and cast his infuriated glance back into the kitchen
again: 'The next bloody thing'll be: There's the door. Get out!'
He kicked savagely at the box holding the dish of water. There was a clatter and a splash; the door opened and banged, and only the clink of his heel plates becoming fainter down the yard broke the silence in the kitchen.
When they could be heard no more, Mary Ellen moved. She went into the scullery and, bending down with difficulty, began
to sop up the water from the hollowed stones.

17

Dimly, with a mixture of pity and understanding, her
thoughts followed her husband ... Dominic getting drunk on
his earnings.. .John coming in from work. Both of them on full
time, and him with only two shifts in. He was getting on
and he couldn't work like he used to, and the gaffer picked the
young and strong 'uns. His strength was failing - she'd noticed
that. Drink and hard work and wet clothes that were often
frozen to his skin were at last taking their toll. He seemed to
retain his strength for one thing alone ... if only that would
slacken with the rest. It must sometime. Then God, let it be
soon.

'I'll help you, ma.' Katie was on her knees by the side of her
mother.

'No! Get up out of that. That's the only clean pinny you've
got!'

'Well I haven't got to go to school the morrer.'

'Doesn't matter. Get up out of that.'

'Here!' - John stood above her - 'let's have it.' He held out
his hand for the cloth.

'Oh get out of me road, the both of you!' Her voice pushed
them back into the kitchen, and she went on bending and wringing
out the cloth. Who did they think did all the other work,
the washing, the cooking, the scouring, the humping of the coal,
bucket by bucket from the back lane into the coal house because
now she couldn't throw the shovelfuls through the hatch?

She partly soothed her irritation by saying to herself: 'You
know John's always telling you to leave the coal until he comes
in. Yes, but how can I' - her irritation refused to be soothed 'with
people waiting to get their washing out!' She flung the
cloth into the bucket. Oh, she felt so tired. If only she could see
a way out of all this ... if only the bairn was born! Yes, that
was the main stumbling block. Once that was over everything
would be all right; she would cope, as always.

She went into the kitchen again and said to Mick, 'Go and
empty the bucket and wash it out, and bring some clean water.
... See you wash it out, mind!'

Mick's mouth dropped, and he muttered, 'Aw! Why can't
she do it?'

18

He dug Molly in the side, and she cried, 'Look at him, ma!
Stop it, our Mick!'
John took the rib of bones from his mouth: 'Your mother
spoke to you.'
The ear's bad' - Mick placed his hand over the side of his
head - 'it's been running all day.'
'You going out to play the night?' John asked.
'Yes.' Mick scowled at the table.
'Then empty the bucket.'
John went on picking his bone, and Mick clattered from the
table, while Molly sniggered into her pinny.
'You'll laugh the other side of your face in a minute, my
girl,' said Mary Ellen. 'Get those dishes washed.'
'Then can I go out to play ?'
'Who you going out to play with in the dark, you're not going
to run the streets?'
'We're going in Annie Kelly's wash-house; her ma's had the
pot on, and it's warm. Annie has some bits of candle, and we're
going to put them in bottles and play houses and dress up.'
'Play houses and dress up,' Mary Ellen muttered to herself.
Aloud, she said, 'And burn yourselves to death! ... Well,
and only half an hour, mind. And you can take Katie with you.'
'I don't want to go, ma; I've got to do some homework.'
'What!' the mother and John lifted their heads and stared
at Katie.
'You got your sums wrong ?' asked John, in surprise.
'No.' Katie shook her head and tried to repress a smile, but
her eyes grew rounder and her dimples deeper as she looked
at their straight faces.
'Then why have you to do homework?' John asked; 'you
never have before.'
'I've got to learn something. Miss Llewellyn asked me to ...'
'She's Miss Llewellyn's pet, everybody says she is hated Miss Llewellyn. I was glad when I was moved up.' Molly wet the tip of her finger on her tongue, and in this way
she secured a _ number of crumbs from the table. When she had put them in her mouth, she swung round on Katie, saying,
You didn't tell me ma Miss Llewellyn gave you a penny the

19

day for learning your poetry first, did you? Nelly Crane told
me... so!'

The smile vanished from Katie's face, and Mary Ellen
looked down on her daughter in surprise, the daughter who
was the only one of the family to take after her. She could see
this child, as she herself once was, plump and bonnie and openhanded.
It was unusual for Katie to keep anything.

'Did she give you a penny ?' she asked.

Katie neither moved nor spoke, but her eyes, as they looked
back into her mother's, became glazed, and she cried out
within herself, 'Oh, our Molly! Our Molly!' Now it was all
spoilt - the wonderful, wonderful thing she was going to do
was spoilt. The Easter egg ... the real Easter egg in a real
box, tied up with a real silk ribbon, was lying in fragments
about her! And the picture of herself handing it to Miss
Llewellyn was lying with it.

That penny had brought her secret hoard to fivepence. For
three weeks she had kept John's Saturday penny and the two
halfpennies her mother had given her. Today's surprise penny
had meant such a lot, for she had only another month or so
during which to get the remainder of the shilling.

Her mother became blotted out by a mist; then she felt
John's big hands drawing her to him and pressing her against
his knees.

When he bent and whispered in her ear, 'Are you saving
up to buy a present?' she experienced the feeling she had felt
before that John was in some way connected with God and the
priests, because he knew everything.

She nodded her head against the bottom of his waistcoat,
and he whispered again, 'Your teacher?'

At this she gasped and pressed her face tightly against him.
John exchanged a glance with his mother, and a smile flickered
for an instant across her face.

'I think you must be the cleverest lass in the school,' John
went on.

Katie brought her head up swiftly and stared at him. 'Why,
that's what Miss Llewellyn says! She says ... she says I'm
advanced and I must work at nights and ... and read a lot.'


20


'There you are. There you are. Miss Llewellyn knows. She
knows when she's on a good tiling. What have you got to learn the night?'
'Oh, I already know some of it, the end bit,' she laughed.
'Listen. A man named Shakespeare did it.' She stood back from his knee, threw her long black plaits over her shoulder,
joined her hands behind her back, and said:

'There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my role,
And my integrity to heaven is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.'

John stared down on her face, which was illuminated by the feel of the strange words on her tongue, and Mary Ellen stared
at the back of her dark head. Then their eyes met, reflecting
the glow of her words, which were unintelligible to both of them.... But Katie had said them ... their Katie ... the only
one of them who had ever wanted to learn. With a swoop, John lifted her up and held her on his upstretched hands. Her head was within a few inches of the ceiling, and he laughed up at her: 'Will I push you through to Mrs. Flaherty?'
'Eeh! No, John. Eeh, our John, let me down.'
She wriggled on his hands, anxious to get away from the ceiling and the proximity of Mrs. Flaherty and her weird
house.
As he lowered her to the floor John laughed, 'You'll soon
be cleverer than Mrs. Flaherty, and then everybody will be coining here and saying, "Please, Katie O'Brien, will you write me a letter?" and you'll say, "Yes, if you give me sixpence." '
'Oh, our John, I wouldn't! I wouldn't ask for sixpence.'
He bent down to her and whispered hoarsely, 'Oh yes you
would, if it would get your teacher a present.'
She slapped his knee playfully, then turned her face away
to hide the tell-tale glow.

21

Molly banged the mugs into the cupboard; she banged the
door as she went out; then her voice came through the keyhole:

'Miss
Llewellyn has a swellin',
An' I'm not tellin'
Where Miss Llewellyn
Has a swellin'.'


John turned quickly away from Katie's outraged face, rubbing
his hand across his mouth. But he could not rub the
laughter from his eyes, and Katie turned on him, her voice
full of hurt surprise: 'Oh, our John, you're laughing! Our
Molly's awful.... Miss Llewellyn hasn't got a ... She's
lovely, she's beautiful. She wears a lovely white blouse with a
frill at her neck, and her hair's brown and shines all over the
place. And Mr. Culbert's after her. Cathleen Pearson says he
wants to marry her.' Katie's voice broke: 'She's beautiful ...
she's beautiful.'

John sat down by the fire and pulled her on to his knee,
cradling her in his arms and soothing her: 'Of course she's
beautiful, of course she is. And who's Mr. Culbert when he's
out?'

'He's... he's a teacher at St. Jude's.'

'Is he? Is he? Well, he can be the Prime Minister for all
I care. But you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to this
Mr. Culbert, and I'm going to say, "You going to marry Miss
Llewellyn and take her away from teaching our Katie? You are
... like panhacklety!!"'

'Oh, our John, you're awful!'

Laughing, she scrambled up and stood on his knees and
flung her arms about his neck, endeavouring to strangle him
with her small strength.

'Here! hold on.'

'Eeeh!' - she drew her face back from his - 'you haven't
got to say that.'

'What, hold on?'

'Yes. Miss Llewellyn says you've got to say, "Wait a
moment," or, "Stop a moment." '


22


'Do you hear that, ma?' He winked at his mother, who
was now sitting at the other side of the hearth mending a
pair of moleskin trousers.
She gave a flicker of a smile and went on adjusting a patch.
What was it about these two bairns of hers that brought her
such strange joy? To see them playing together like they were
now seemed to make up for all the heart scolds of life. She
still thought of John as her bairn, although he was twenty-two
and six foot one. He would always be her bairn, her first bairn.
There were some who said you loved all you gave birth to.
Fools! You couldn't love even two alike. Even those two opposite,
she loved one more than the other, but she couldn't tell
which.
Her mind returned to concrete things, and she said without
looking up, 'The front window's out.'
John did not reply, but after a moment put Katie on the
floor and, taking a box of matches from his pocket, went to
the front room.
Katie was about to follow him, when Mary Ellen said, 'Get
on with your homework, hinny.'
It was some time before John returned, and still he said
nothing. He sat down on his chair again and took off his boots
and put his stockinged feet on the fender, and sat staring at
the kettle singing on the side of the hob. Presently he took a
loose Woodbine from his pocket and lit it.... Would it never
end? Would life go on like this for her until she died?
He cast a glance at her bent head. The hair was grey, yet
coarse and strong, springing from the centre parting and
refusing to be drawn flat into the knob behind; but the face
beneath was deeply marked with lines. They ran in puckered
furrows across her forehead and bit deep from her nose to the
corners of her mouth. The mouth in repose, as it was now,
looked despondent, without hope. Could you wonder at it!
And there was this other thing to happen. And her so little,
not much bigger than a bairn herself.
He shifted suddenly in his chair. What could he do? He
was helpless. If only he had a decent job, if only he hadn't been pushed into the docks. Well, where else could he have
23

gone? If a lad wanted to make money at fourteen he had to
give up all idea of being apprenticed to a trade. It was the
same in all the places: Palmer's shipyard, the steel works, the
chemical works. Now he'd be a dock labourer for the rest of
his life; and he would never earn enough money to make any
noticeable difference to her life. Did his father ever feel like
this, feel this sense of frustration and helplessness? That's
why he drank as he did. And Dominic? Ugh - he made an
involuntary gesture with his hand as if wiping his brother
away - that swiller!

He lifted his feet up to the side of the pan hob and sank
deeper into his chair. Drink was a funny thing once it got you.
He was drunk only once, and could still remember isolated
parts of the feeling. It happened the first week he was on
capstan work. He had been promoted from hatching at twoandsix
a shift and now felt a man. After being paid off, he
was walking out of the dock gates with the men when one of
them, nodding towards the line of public houses filling the
street opposite, said, 'Comin' over?'

He felt flattered, and went with them into The Grapes. He
remembered the feeling of his stomach swelling and the continual
belching of wind, and his mouth becoming fixed open
in a wide grin. It was this grin that was partly the reason why
he did not touch the drink again, for he brought the picture
of himself over into his sober consciousness, and in it he saw
the face of his father when in drink, as he had seen it since he
was a child, with the large full-lipped mouth stretched wide,
conveying not the impression of geniality but of imbecility. And
his cure was completed by knowing, on waking up in bed undressed,
that his mother had done for him what she did for his
father. It was some time before he could entirely rid himself
of the feeling of shame and humiliation when he thought of
himself being undressed by her.

There were times when he wanted a drink badly - like today,
when his throat felt clogged tight with dust - unloading
grain was a dry job. He had gone across to the horse trough
outside the gates and filled the iron cup four times. Some of his
mates called, 'Cheap that, John.' 'Aye, and no headache the


24


morrow,' he replied. They no longer asked him to join them.

A crescendo of snores came from the bedroom, and he
shifted his position again. There was something he wanted
more than a drink, and that was a mattress. Could he put it
to her now? He looked towards his mother. She'd had enough
for one day, he told himself, without anything more to worry
about. But when a series of spluttering coughs terminated the
snores, he said, 'There's a pitch boat due in shortly; if I get
set on her, it'll mean extra. Could you ... get me a mattress
with it?'

'A mattress!' Mary Ellen stopped sewing and looked at
him. 'A mattress?'

He turned his head to the fire again. 'I want you to put
Mick in the bed; I'll sleep in the cupboard.'

'Oh lad' - she joined her hands together over the patch 'you
can't sleep on the floor. And anyway, the cupboard isn't
big enough, it barely holds Mick.'

'I can leave the door open.'

The sadness seemed to sink from her eyes into her body,
shrinking it still further. She turned her gaze to the fire, and
her hands lay idle. ... There was no way of getting another
bed into the room, even if they could get one. And for John
to lie in the cupboard! She shook her head, not knowing she
did so.

The cupboard in the bedroom ran under Mrs. Flaherty's
front stairs; its total length was five feet, and he wanted to
sleep in that! If the door was open, it was cold and draughty,
even in the summer; if it was closed, it was naturally airless.
She often worried about Mick having to lie there ... but John!
And his feet would extend over any mattress - they did
through the bed rails, both his and Dominic's. But that wasn't
the floor.

She looked at him and saw by the way his face was set that
he meant to do it, and if she didn't get him the mattress he'd
he in the cupboard in any case, on Mick's bag of straw. She
sighed, and her hands began to work again.

There was no sound in the kitchen except the sound of
Katie's pencil and Dominic's muffled snores, until Molly


25


rushed in the back door, crying, 'Ma! do you know what?'

'Make less noise!' Mary Ellen said.

'But ma, there's somebody moving in next door the
morrer.'

'Wash yourself and get ready for bed. ... Who told you
that?' Mary Ellen asked.

'Mrs. Bradley told Annie Kelly's ma, and Annie Kelly told
me.'

'Then if Mrs. Bradley said so, it must be right.' Mary
Ellen rose, pulled the table to one side to get at the wooden
couch beyond, and began to make up the girls' beds, one at
each end.

'Get your things off, hinny,' she said over her shoulder to
Katie.

The two girls undressed in the scullery, all except their
boots and stockings. These they took off, sitting on crackets
before the fire, chatting to each other now quite friendly. Katie
sat next to John, her bare feet on the fender sticking out from
under her patched, flannelette nightie.

John's fingers moved slowly through her hair. And when
the bedroom door opened and Dominic lurched into the kitchen
he didn't lift his eyes from the paper he was reading.

Dominic stood near the table, blinking in the gaslight. He
yawned, running both his hands over his head; then pulled his
belt tighter before coming to the fire. He shivered and sat
down in the seat vacated by Mary Ellen, growling to Molly
as he did so, 'Move your carcass!' He ran his tongue round his
dry lips, shook his head in an endeavour to throw off the
muzziness, and stretched out his hands to the fire.

'Any grub?' he asked, without turning his head.

'There's broth,' his mother answered from her bent position
over the couch.

Katie looked past Molly to her brother's face. It looked
huge and frightening, with the dark stubble around his chin
and up the sides of his cheeks, and the darker marks of the
dried blood standing out around his mouth. When he hawked
in his throat and spat at the bars, she drew her feet sharply
beneath her nightie, nearly falling off the cracket as she did

26


1


so. John's hand, still on her head, steadied her, but he did not
take his eyes from the paper.

Dominic saw her frightened glance, and a twisted grin spread
slowly over his face. He leaned back in his chair, and after a
while Katie's toes came from beneath her nightie again. Her
feet were cold, for the steel fender was well below the bottom
red bar of the fire. She lifted one foot up above those of Molly,
to wriggle her toes in front of the lower bar. There was a hiss,
a splatter, and Dominic's yellow saliva was running over her
foot.

As she hid her face from the sight and pressed her mouth to
stop herself from being sick, she felt John springing away
from her. His chair was kicked back, and she flung herself to
the floor by the bottom of the fender, lying along its length,
pressing close to its brass bars to keep clear of the pounding
feet. Molly had sprung to the couch, where she now sat
huddled. And before Mary Ellen could reach them John's
fist swung out and Dominic reeled backwards and crashed into
the cupboard door.

Mary Ellen flung herself on John, crying, 'Lad! lad!' She
beat his chest with her fists in an endeavour to push him back:
'John lad! John lad! For God's sake!'

John did not look at her, but gathered her flaying hands in
one of his, and tried to push her aside. But she kept in front
of him by pressing her body against his, calling beseechingly
up to him, 'Lad! Lad! John, lad!'

His face was bereft of colour; his lips were drawn back
from his teeth, and his eyes were like black marble. Through
her body she could feel the waves of anger running through
his; her breast was pressed against his stomach, which shook
with the elemental forces demanding release.

'Holy Mary, Mother of God, Mother of God!' she cried.
'No more the day, lad!' She took no heed of her other son,
standing with his fists at the ready behind her; Dominic, she
knew, wouldn't fight John unless he had to, for in John he
had more than his match. No, it was John she must stop.
'John, lad - John! I can't stand any more this day. Oh, Jesus,
Mary and Joseph, you know I can't stand no more the day.'


27


She felt a great intake of breath coming into his lungs and
the rumbling thunder of the words as they were released from
his throat: 'I warned you what would happen if you did that
again!'

Relief swept through her; he had spoken; she could manage
him if he spoke.

He spoke again, and his words now brought a faintness
over her; the child in her womb seemed to stop breathing.
The words fell into her inner consciousness, to be remembered
as would those spoken by a prophet have been, for, like Katie,
she felt that John was near the priests and God, for what he
said was mostly true. And he said now to his brother, 'One
of these days I'll kill you.'

There was no threat in the words, only a quiet certainty.


23


CHAPTER TWO


A DAY OF BONNY LASSES


Poverty is comparative. There were those who did not live
in the fifteen streets who considered the people living there to
be of one stratum, the lowest stratum; but the people inside
this stratum knew that there were three different levels, the
upper, the middle, and the lower. All lived in 'houses' either
upstairs or down; but in the lower end each house had only two
small rooms, and upstairs or down the conditions were the
same - the plaster on the walls was alive with bugs. These
might only appear at night, to drop on the huddled sleepers,
but that strange odour, which was peculiarly their own, wafted
through the houses all the time, stamping them as buggy. No
one went to live in the lower end unless he was forced. To the
middle and upper fifteen streets the bottom end was only one
step removed from the workhouse, for its inhabitants were
usually those whose furniture had been distrained or who had
been ejected from their former houses for non-payment of rent.

There were three nightmares in the lives of the occupants
of the middle and upper fifteen streets. And these were linked
together: they were the bums, the lower end, and the workhouse.
In
the middle houses there were four rooms ... boxes,
generally, but boxes that were divided, giving privacy of a
sort to one or two extra beings. The upper end had only three
rooms to each house, and these were either up or down. Here,
water was not carried from the central tap in the back lane but
from a tap at the bottom of each yard. This stamped the area
as selective, automatically making it the best end.

But even into this stratum of the fifteen streets no one had

29

ever been known to arrive with their furniture in a van. A flat
lorry, yes, or a coal cart; at worst, a hand barrow, after dark.
These were the three general modes of removal. But a van! a
proper one, bearing the words 'Raglan, Furniture Removers,
Jarrow-on-Tyne', never.
The street was out to watch with as much interest as if it
were a wedding, or a funeral, or, what was more common, a
fight. The three O'Brien children had a grandstand view:
they stood in a row beneath their front window sill, and behind
them, in the room, were the elders, Mary Ellen, Shane,
Dominic and John. The sons stood one at each side of their
mother and father. They were standing together as a family
for once, joined by the common interest, watching in silent
wonder as each piece of furniture was carried into the house
next door. They had not seen furniture like this before. There
was the big, bright, round table, with the thick single leg and
bunchy feet like claws; there was the suite of patterned plush,
with ball fringe all round the bottom of the couch and chairs;
there was the big clock, nearly six feet high; and there was the
bed, a wooden one painted white, with pictures on the panels;
there were two other beds, but these were of brass. Yet these
were outstanding too, for they were neither chipped nor
battered. That was not all. There were carpets, two of them,
besides a load of rugs one man could hardly shoulder. And the
road was strewn with all kinds of things that rent Mary Ellen
through with envy; a feeling she thought she was past this
many a year. But then, she had never seen owt like this before
in the fifteen streets ... or anywhere else: the mahogany plant
stand, with its looped chains, the large china flower pots, the
clothes basket full of coloured china, and the little mangle,
which looked like a toy but which she knew wasn't. Who were
these folks who could own such things, yet had come to live
here? It didn't make sense somehow.
She glanced up at John to see what effect all this was having
on him, and her eyes left him quickly and travelled down his
gaze to the street again. He was looking at a lass who had just
come out of the house. May Ellen wasn't sure if she was a
child, a lass, or a woman.

30

John, staring at the girl over the brown paper that covered
the hole in the window, was being puzzled in much the same
way; the girl on the pavement was as shapeless in form as Katie, showing no evidence of either hips or bust. Judged on her figure, she could be a child; and her face too had something of the immaturity of the child in it. Yet it was old. No, not old - he rejected the word - wise, that was it ... and bonnie too. Yes, she was bonnie, that pale skin against the dark hair. The hair was unusual in that it hung loose about her head.
Cut short, boyish fashion, it was like a dark halo. He was curious to see more of her, and, as she turned to speak to the old man with the white hair, who was directing the unloading,
he unconsciously bent forward.
Whatever she said brought a smile from the long, serious face of the man, and she smiled in return: and John knew them to be related; it was as if the same light shone from them.
It illuminated their faces, and seemed to convey a ray of light even to himself, for he found his face relaxing into a smile as he watched them. He wondered who they could be. Was the man her da, or her grandda? And the little lad running to and fro was evidently one of them, for he had the same pale skin and dark hair.
As John considered the fine furniture and their fine clothes, his smile faded. The old man was wearing a suit and a collar and tie, as though got up for a do, and the girl, a blue woollen dress with a little woollen coat of the same colour. It looked neat and trim and was as unlike anything the lasses of the
fifteen streets wore as John could possibly imagine.
The two removal men were struggling to get a chest of
drawers through the front door. It was the biggest chest John had seen in his life; it was taller than himself. He could see only one of the men, who was bearing the weight of the bottom end and was stepping backwards and forwards under the other's directions. John knew what had happened. The front door did not lead directly into the front room, but into a tiny square of passage. The other man had got his end stuck in this passage.
The old man's assistance was to no avail; and John watched

31

the girl glance about her at the dark, huddled figures blocking
the doorways. Then her eyes came to the window and met his.
For a second they looked at each other, and he noted the surprise
and curiosity in her glance, and realized in a flash that
to her he must appear as if he was standing on something to
look over the brown paper. Humorously he thought: I'd better
show her it's me all the way. I'll give them a hand with those
drawers ... and damn the tongues! He turned, to find Dominic,
who was nearer the front door, looking at him with eyes
full of mirthless laughter. Dominic slowly hitched up his
trousers, buttoned his coat, then went out into the street.
With a feeling of frustration mixed with anger, John watched
Dominic speak to the girl, and saw her look sharply from
Dominic's face to the window as if to reassure herself there
were two of them. Then she smiled on Dominic, and he bent
his broad back under the chest, taking the weight off the men,
and in a few minutes they all moved into the house.
John and Mary Ellen turned from the window and went to
the kitchen. Nothing had escaped Mary Ellen; she had followed
the desire of her son and felt Dominic interpret John's
thought and use it against him. She said, 'Come and finish
your dinner, lad, it'll be kissened up to cork.'
Taking three plates out of the oven, she called to her husband.
Shane, looking mystified and his head jerking, came to
the table. 'Must be bloody millionaires,' he said. 'Know who
they are?'
'No,' she answered. 'I know nowt about them.'
The meal was eaten in silence. Once or twice Mary Ellen
glanced at John, but his face was closed, telling her nothing.
She got up to clear the table, and muttered impatiently when
a face was pressed against the window and a voice called, 'Can
I come in, Mrs. O'Brien?'
Mary Ellen's brows knit together, but she answered pleasantly,
'Oh, it's you, Nancy. Yes, come in.'
A girl of sixteen sidled into the room. Her face was flat,
almost concave, and her nose and eyes seemed to be lost in its
centre, as though a force were sucking them in. The expression
was serious and earnest, like that of a child struggling to be

32

impressive. She began with quaint ceremony, 'Hallo, Mrs.
O'Brien.'
And Mary Ellen answered kindly, 'Hallo, Nancy.'
'Hallo, John.'
John turned from the table and said, 'Hallo, there, Nancy.'
'Hallo, Mr. O'Brien.'
Shane growled something, keeping his eyes directed towards
his plate. And Mary Ellen, thanking God that the rest of the
family weren't in to lengthen Nancy's usual formal greeting,
said, 'Sit yourself down, Nancy.'
Nancy sat down, and John said to her, 'Still like your place,
Nancy?'
'Yes, John,' she answered; 'I've nearly been there a month
now.' It was a curious defect of her speech that her mouth
never closed; her lips refused to meet, so her voice sounded
nasal, like that of someone with a hare lip.
John answered tolerantly, 'Yes, you have, Nancy,' knowing
that the time she had scrubbed and cleaned in the Fitzsimmons's
outdoor beershop was nearer to four years than four
weeks - time had no place in Nancy's mind. Her body gave
the impression of uncontrolled strength; her long arms hung
out from the short sleeves of her coat, a brown, faded thing,
and her boots looked too small for her big feet.
John said kindly, 'You look very nice the day, Nancy.'
She smiled at him, stretching her face; then, preening herself
and dusting down the front of her coat with her red hands,
she said, 'This is a new coat. Me ma bought it. And these
boots too. And I've got a silk dress, with a sash. And I'm going
to get a hat with a feather in.'
Shane's chair scraped back and he went to the front room.
Mary Ellen looked after him for a moment - he never could
stand the senseless prattle of Nancy. She went into the scullery
to wash the dishes, glad that John was in to cope with Nancy
should she start laughing.... Oh, Nancy's laughter! Mary
Ellen shuddered. She thought she was afraid of nothing on
earth as she was of Nancy Kelly's laughter - it put the fear of
God in her. But John could manage her - he always had; he
made her think she was like other lasses. She could sense

33

John's pity for Nancy; it was like her own, but without the strain of fear that ran through hers.

She heard Dominic coming up the backyard, whistling. He
was pleased with himself for outwitting John, she supposed.
She hoped to God he did nothing more to aggravate John's
feelings; the sick premonition of last night was still partly with
her. She was more afraid of John's rages than of either Shane's
or Dominic's, for his were stronger, being made more fierce
through sober justification.

Dominic came in and surprised her by closing the scullery
door and so shutting them off from the kitchen. He stood near
her as she bent over the dish, and said softly, 'Any chance of
you lending me the money to get me clothes out?'

She looked up at him, her hands still in the water. 'I've only
got the rent. You put your suit in, you'll have to get it out.'

'I'll give it to you back next week.'

'I haven't got it; I only have a few coppers left for the gas
over the weekend.'

Dominic's suit had been in pawn for more than a month,
and he had made no effort to get it out, even on his full shifts,
Without it he was tied to the house and spent his Sundays in
bed, for by some unwritten law no one went out of doors on a
Sunday dressed in their working clothes. Even if a man possessed
a shilling to 'get a set in', he never showed his face inside
a public house unless he was 'tidy'.

Strangely enough, Mary Ellen realized it wasn't tomorrow
Dominic was thinking of, but tonight, and that new lass next
door; although how he'd had the nerve to ask such as her out,
she didn't know. ... But then she did. Dominic had the nerve
for anything if he wanted it badly enough. She said cuttingly,
'Why don't you ask one of your cronies for it?'

He cast her a sidelong glance, in which she saw the sharp,
questioning look - he wondered how much she knew. She
knew more than he thought she did, to her sorrow. There was
a certain woman of the docks, Lady Pansy, so-called because
of her style in her heyday when she entertained nothing less
than a chief engineer. But times had changed, and with them
Lady Pansy's figure and face. Although she couldn't claim


34


big money now she still liked her men young and strong, and
Mary Ellen knew that all the money from Dominic's full shifts
was not spent on drink - the thought made her sick - and the
woman was as old as she was, if not older!
If Mary Ellen's refusal dampened Dominic's spirits, he hid
it successfully, for in the kitchen he was extra hearty, forestalling
Nancy's greeting by giving an imitation of herself.
'Hal-lo, Nancy!'
'Hallo, Dominic' Nancy wriggled on her chair.
Dominic went and stood over her: 'What's this I'm hearing
about you, Nancy? They tell me you're courtin'.'
'Eeh! who told you that?' The girl wriggled in agitation.
'Eeh! I'm not... am I, John?'
John said nothing, but left the table and took a seat by the
fire. He knew where Dominic's teasing would lead.
'Well, that's what I heard,' Dominic went on; 'I thought
you were goin' to wait for me. Nice one, you are.' He pulled
his belt tighter in feigned annoyance.
'Eeh, Dominic! I haven't got a lad, I haven't. I don't let
them come near me. If they touch me, I yells I do.' Her face
gathered itself into a troubled pucker.
John thrust the poker between the bars and raked savagely
- he knew that Dominic's tactics were more to madden him
than to tease Nancy.
Dominic laughed, and went on, with mock seriousness,
'Let's get this settled. When are me and you goin' out for a
walk, eh?'
Mary Ellen came hurriedly into the kitchen: 'I think you'd
better be going home now, Nancy, your ma will be wondering
where you are.'
As Nancy stood up, Dominic said softly, 'I'll get another
lass, mind.'
And Mary Ellen cried, 'That's enough of that! Get away home now, Nancy.' She turned to the girl and led her, trembling, to the door; but before they reached it, it opened, and Hannah Kelly herself stood there.
'Oh, this is where you are' - she looked unsmilingly at her daughter - 'I guessed as much. Go on, get yourself over home.'

35

Nancy slid by her mother, and Hannah came in and closed
the door. Her manner was conspiratorial. 'Well, what d'yer
think, eh? D'ye know who ye've got next door, Mary Ellen?'
Mary Ellen shook her head.
'My God! Ye'd never believe. They call this the Irish
quarter, but what with the Jews and the ranters .. . and now
this! Well, my God, I ask ye!'
'What are they?' asked Mary Ellen bluntly.
'Spooks!' Hannah's head came forward, impressing the
word.
'What!'
'Spooks. He's called The Spook in Jarrow and Howden
and round there. Remember a bit back when the Irish navvies
burnt a hut down and the pollis had to get the man away?
Well, that was him. He was givin' a service or somethin',
Mary Ellen turned and looked from one to the other of her
sons, who were now both listening to Hannah Kelly with interest.
'Dorrie
Clark knew who he was the minute she set eyes on
him, and she was tellin' Bella Bradley that when she was delivering
once in Jarrow, he came in and wanted to lay his hands
on the woman. That's what she said .. . lay his hands on her!
Did ye ever hear owt like it? To ease her labour, he said,
because she'd been in it four days.'
Mary Ellen looked distinctly shocked. 'Did she let him?'
'Did she hell! Ye know old Dorrie. She said she kicked
his arse out of the door. And she would an' all, full of gin or
not. But my God, there'll be the divil's figarties around these
doors before long! Mark my words; ye'll see.'
Mary Ellen was evidently disturbed. She looked from one
to the other; then she addressed John, 'What d'you make of
it?'
John turned away, and went to the bedroom, saying, 'I don't
know; they looked all right to me.'
Hannah laughed and called after John, 'Mind yerself, John
lad, that she don't lay hands on you. They say the lass is as bad
as the old man.' Then turning to Dominic, she said, 'And you
there, ye've soon got yer leg in.'

36

Ignoring her jibe, Dominic asked: 'D'you know what the
old man works at?'

'Now that's another funny thing' - Hannah pointed her
finger at him - 'he's the Mr. Bracken that has the boot shop in
Jarrow.'

The three of them looked from one to the other, and the
same question was running through their minds: 'Why did a
man who owned a boot shop come to live in the fifteen streets?'

In the bedroom, John pulled the wooden box from beneath
the bed and took out his suit. It was too creased to wear, so
he knew it hadn't been in the pawn; had it been in his mother
would have pressed it ready for him. Taking a dirty raincoat
from the back of the door, he stood pondering a moment
whether he should change his black neckerchief for a white
muffler, but decided against doing so. He would keep it for
tonight, when he would be going to the Shields to have a look
round the market and perhaps go to the second-house somewhere.
Now, he was just going for a walk.

He did not bother to change his working boots, but went
into the kitchen and finding his mother alone, asked, 'Will
you put an iron over my suit?'

'Yes, lad,' she replied. 'Are you off for a walk?'

He nodded. 'Where's Katie?'

'Here she is, coming up the yard,' said Mary Ellen.

'Want to come?' he asked her.

'Oh yes, John. Yes! Yes!' In her excitement, Katie hopped
from one foot to the other.

'Not with hands and face like that,' he said. 'What have you
been up to?'

'Playing shops. ... I won't be a tick; wait for me.'

Mary Ellen was already pouring the water into the dish;
and after a few minutes Katie, her face shining and a round
draw hat lying straight on the top of her head, was walking
down the yard with John.

He took her hand, and they went along the cobbled back
lane to the main road.

'Where shall we go?' he asked her.

'Oh, the country, John. Up the country!'


37


'Simonside?'

'Yes. Oh yes, Simonside!'

The day was cold and clear, with the wind blowing straight
in from the sea. The sky was high above the housetops and
above the towering cranes, which reared up inside the stone
wall edging the road opposite the fifteen streets.

John looked up at the white tufted clouds moving swiftly
across the sky, and said, 'Look up there. They look like a fleet
of white brakes off for a day's outing, don't they? I bet they're
off to the country, too - Morpeth or some place.'

Katie chuckled. This was one of the many reasons why she
loved going walks with John - he made up stories about
everything. She glanced up at him, her eyes twinkling: 'I bet
when they come back they'll be singing, like the people do
on the brake trips:


"Aa'm back to canny auld Jarrer,
A hip, a hip hooray." '


She giggled, and John tilted her hat over her eyes, saying
'Saucy piece!'

They walked by the side of the wall for some way, until they
came to the chemical works and the tram sheds. Then, further
on, as they passed a narrow cut, bordered on one side by the end
of the chemical works and on the other by the railings which
fence in part of the Jarrow slacks, John asked her, 'Do you want
to go down the slipway?'

Katie shook her head quickly and shuddered.

'What are you frightened of?'

'It's that black mud - it's deep, and if you fell in you'd never
get out.'

'But the tide's up now, and there might be a little boat
moored there.... All right, all right,' he laughed when Katie
shuddered again; 'but you never used to be afraid of the slipway.'
She
didn't say that Mick had dragged her down there and
pretended he was going to push her in. He had held her over
the stone coping, and she had gazed, petrified, at the silvery
black, slimy mud sloping away from just below her face to


38


the narrow stream of water at the bottom, running slowly beneath
its shot-coloured oily surface. She didn't dare tell her
mother in case John got to know, for then he would have gone
for Mick.

They came to the Jarrow slacks at the point where they
were open to the road. The water was lapping just below the
bank, a few feet from the edge of the pavement. The large,
square stretch of water was covered with timbers, roped together
in batches, right up to the gut.

There was a permanent way, starting below the pavement
and reaching to the gut, running through the middle of them.
It consisted of logs, a foot wide, lashed end to end and to each
side of posts driven in at intervals over the stretch. In parts,
the logs were black and rotten and looked as safe for foothold
as a loose rock on the edge of a precipice. But children were
playing on them with happy unconcern, jumping from them to
the roped timbers. Some children were far away over the
timbers, laying flat along the edges, trying to rake in pieces
of wood that were floating by. And the sight of them brought
back the past vividly to John. How many times had he perilously stood on the end timbers, near the edge of the gut, and
waited for the tide to come in, bringing with it its drift wood.
Often, for weeks on end, this wood was their only source of
warmth, but often again, they had to do without the warmth
whilst he hawked the sack of wood around, trying to sell it for
twopence. He seldom succeeded; coke was the best sell. If he
followed the coke carts from Jarrow right into Shields he
could pick up as much as two bucketfuls each trip. Pieces
would roll off the cart as it jogged along, especially when it
crossed the tram lines. He'd get twopence for the coke, and if
he could follow the cart three times, that meant sixpence.
But he rarely completed the third journey, for his legs became
so tired. He remembered the melancholy feeling that would
settle on him as he followed the carts. It seemed to be worse
when the sun was shining. . .. That was an odd thing he hadn't
entirely grown out of - he didn't like the sunshine. For years
this feeling vaguely puzzled him. Then one day the reason
was made known to him. The sunshine, he discovered, showed


39


up his surroundings. It brought a queer kind of pain to him.
On a dull day, the docks, the coal dust, the houses, the rattling
trams, and the people all seemed to merge into one background;
but when the sun shone, there they all were, standing out in
relief, dirty, stark, tired; and in some odd way it hurt him....
The feeling was coming on him now, and he tried to ignore it,
for it always made him start thinking; and when he thought, he
got mad at things. As his mother said, thinking got you nowhere.
Katie
plunged him further into the trough by exclaiming,
'You know, when I grow up, John, I'm going to be a teacher.'
He squeezed her hand and said, 'I bet you will too ... headmistress!'
A
teacher! Would Katie's dreams ever be fulfilled? He
couldn't see it happening. She would go into a place at fourteen
like the other lasses, and the bright eagerness would die.
Her dreams, like his own when a lad, would be lost in the fight
for food.... It was funny, but that was all life amounted to
... working life out to keep it in - working for food and
warmth; and when the futility of this was made evident,
blotting it out with drink. What did it all mean, anyway? What
was living for?
When in this state of mind he always asked this question.
The priests had one answer; but that had long ago ceased to
satisfy him. Now he was asking himself another question:
Had he to stay round these quarters until he died? He
wasn't happy around here, yet when he moved out of this
quarter, as he was doing now, up into Simonside, the lonely
feeling became intensified and he felt lost, and some part of
him wanted to get back again into the fifteen streets, into the
docks, anywhere but near these grand houses that stood back
from the Simonside bank, with their drives and large gardens.
He couldn't understand why his sense of loneliness should be
greater away from the life that was irking him.
He was being daft, he told himself - just daft. He should
get himself a lass. That's what he needed. He was twenty-two
and he'd never had a lass. He had never kissed a lass, not
even in a bit of fun. Katie was the only one he kissed. He knew

40
there were one or two in the fifteen streets who would come at
his nod, but he hadn't nodded. His Singings and tossings in
bed at night had equalled Dominic's, and many a time he
promised himself to ask Jenny Carey or Lily McDonald to
go out on a Saturday night; but with the light of day he forgot
about them.
Lately, Dominic hadn't tossed so much. And once or twice
John had been tempted to seek his cure; but then again, the
temptation vanished with the light.
'Look, John,' said Katie; 'there's Father Bailey.'
The priest was coming down the drive of one of the big
houses, and he waved to them, calling, 'Hallo, there.'
John stopped and said, 'Hallo, Father.'
He wouldn't have stopped had it been Father O'Malley;
but then, Father O'Malley wouldn't have called 'Hallo, there.'
At best, he would have inclined his head slightly. Not even
if he knew you hadn't been to mass would he speak to you on the street; he would wait till he had you indoors, then
raise the roof on you. But Father Bailey was different. Even
when he was chastising you for not going to mass he was nice
about it.
'Are you going for a walk, the pair of you?' The priest
smiled, first up at John then down on Katie; and not waiting
for an answer, went on, 'It's just the day for it. You know, John'
- he took a step backwards - 'I believe you get taller.'
'It's the clothes, Father; they've shrunk.'
'Well, there may be something in that, but I've always
had the idea I came up to your shoulder. It must have been
just an idea.'
He turned to Katie. 'And now, Katie O'Brien, what honours
have you been gathering on your head this week? Do you know
we have a clever girl here, John? Every week I hear something
about Katie O'Brien. She's the top of her class for this,
that, and the other. It'll be teaching the teachers she'll be in
the end.'
'Oh, Father!' Katie O'Brien lowered her head and blinked
at her boots.
The priest patted her straw hat. 'I'm just on my way up

41

to the fifteen streets; I'll look in on your mother. How is she,
John?'
'Oh, just middling, Father.'
'And your da, and Dominic?' There was a question in the
priest's eyes.
They held John's, and he replied gruffly, 'Things don't
change.'
'Oh, you're wrong there, John; every minute of the day
they're changing.'
'Yes? Well I haven't noticed it.'
Father Bailey patted Katie's hat again, but still addressing
John said, 'We never do. But look ahead, John. ... Shall I be
seeing you at mass tomorrow?'
'I don't think so, Father.'
'Oh! This'll never do. Not at all, at all! I'll have to come
and have a crack with you soon. But I must be off now. Enjoy
your walk, both of you. Good-bye. Goodbye.'
'Good-bye, Father.' 'Good-bye, Father,' they said, and
continued their way up the Simonside bank, past the little
school and into what was termed the country, a few fields with
hedged lanes between. If you didn't turn round and look back
you could imagine there were no docks, no pits, no drab grey
streets; and if you could stretch your imagination you could
visualize these fields with their straight rows of tender green
going on for ever.
'Shall we walk to the Robin Hood?' Katie asked.
'It'll be too far for you,' said John.
'No, it won't. I could walk miles and miles.'
She skipped on ahead of him, leaving him with his thoughts
- thoughts of the priest; of this lonely feeling; and of the lass
next door. His mind dwelt on the lass: Would he like to take
her out? Good God! he'd never have the nerve to ask the
likes of her, even if she were free - she was different somehow.
. . . Then why was she living next door? . . . There was no
answer to this. And Dominic, he wouldn't be backward in
asking her. But no! surely he wouldn't have the cheek, the
state he was in with drink, and that woman. Yet why did he
go out and give them a hand ? It wasn't with any idea of helping,

42


but to speak to the lass. ... Anyway, why was he thinking
about all these things that didn't matter a damn! Hadn't he
other things to think about? His mother in her trouble; and
the house with hardly a whole stick standing.
But the sun and the wind were changing his mood - he didn't
want to think, he only wanted to wander here in this quiet road.
He took off his cap and let the wind play through his hair.
He ran his hand through it, and felt the freedom of being uncovered
out of doors. It was such a relief to walk with his cap
off, and no one would see him here so it didn't matter, for it
was another unwritten law that a woman did not go out without
a hat or a shawl covering her head, nor a man a cap.
Katie came running back to him, exclaiming, 'Oh, John,
your hair looks just like Miss Llewellyn's with the sun shining
on it! It's all brown and shiny.'
'What!' he exclaimed. 'Miss-- Don't be silly.' He ruffled
it more.
'It is though.'
'Go on with you!' He took her hand and pulled her to his
side, and they walked on until they came within sight of the
Robin Hood, then turned towards Simonside again. Katie
sang hymns, school songs, and rhymes, one following on the
other without pause, while John walked along in strange contentment,
listening to her.
They were nearing the top of the bank, where it dipped to
the docks, when her singing ended abruptly and he felt her
hand tugging on his. He looked down on her upturned face.
It was alight with pleased surprise - her eyes were wide,
sending him a mute message. Wondering, he followed her gaze,
and saw a woman coming towards them, a young woman. She
was taller than average, and wore a brown cloth coat with a
full skirt. It was nipped in at the waist and gave emphasis to
her bust. She carried her head high, and her hat, which was
green and had a brown feather curling round its brim, appeared
like a crown set on the top of her head.
As she came nearer, John became aware of her hair. It fell
over her ears in soft folds, and when he noticed the colour,
he connected it with Katie's excitement and thrust his cap on

43

his head. Good God! Miss Llewellyn - and she not much
more than a lass. And he'd thought she was getting on ...
well, in her thirties. She was looking directly at Katie and
smiling.

He looked beyond her, but to his horror she stopped as she
came abreast of them and said, 'Hallo, Katie.'

'Hallo, Miss Llewellyn.'

John felt Katie's fingers opening and shutting within his
palm.

'You are a long way from home.'

'Yes, Miss Llewellyn.' Katie was breathless.

John gave a sidelong glance at the bent head - he could
dare this because she wasn't looking at him. He had never before
been so close to such a face. Katie said she was lovely.
Katie wasn't far wrong. The skin of her cheeks was a soft,
creamy pink, the nose was short, and in striking contrast the
mouth was wide and laughing.

When she turned her eyes on him, he switched his away;
and he fumbled in the pocket of his coat for his red handkerchief
as she said, 'You're John, aren't you?'

He felt his eyes forced back to her, to look her full in the
face, and for no reason he could understand he began to tremble
inside - almost, he felt, like the jerking of his father's limbs,
only invisible. He was painfully conscious of the cap on his
tousled hair, of his dirty raincoat, of his neckerchief, and of his
big boots, with their leather laces showing numerous knots.
His Adam's apple moved swiftly, and he swallowed, but no
words came.

And she went on, 'I've heard such a lot about you.'

Her voice, too, was like none he had heard before. Like her
face, there was laughter playing around it. Was she laughing
at him ? Very likely.

He knew she was, and though he felt it was kindly laughter
the hot colour flooded his face when she said, 'I don't suppose
you know, but you are a combination of Prince Charming and
God to a certain young lady.'

He thought quickly, as he found himself doing at times,
and spoke before he could stop himself: 'Neither of them


44


would be flattered. And if the last one hears of it there's not
much chance of me getting up there.'
Her laugh rang out, joyous and infectious, and to his utter
surprise he found himself laughing with her.
Katie stood looking up from one to the other. She did not
join in with their laughter, her happiness was too profound Miss
Llewellyn laughing with their John!
When he thought of it later, he was surprised at her next
remark - and her a Catholic and a teacher too - for she said,
'I don't suppose that will worry you very much. I should take
the heaven you're sure of.' Her words seemed to confuse her
slightly and the tinge of pink grew deeper in her cheeks.
He made no answer, thinking that if this life was her idea
of heaven he'd bet on the one up there. The wind swirled
about them, and she turned her back to it, leaning slightly back
and holding her hat on with both hands. Then she terminated
the meeting by saying, 'Well, I'll see you on Monday morning,
. Katie,' and to John, 'I'm glad I've met you in the flesh, for now
when I listen to your sayings being recorded I'll be able to
place them. Good-bye. Good-bye, Katie.'
'Good-bye, Miss Llewellyn.'
'Good-bye.' John did not turn immediately away, but
watched her bending against the wind, the coat pressed against
her legs. And he saw that she wore shoes and that her ankles
were thin. He turned away, and Katie, walking close by his
side, sighed. They looked at each other and smiled secretly,
then walked on in silence, until John asked, 'You don't tell her
all I say, do you?'
'No. Oh, no!' Katie lied firmly. And in the next breath
she exclaimed, 'Isn't she lovely!'
He stopped and looked towards the docks, and Katie went
on, 'And isn't it a lovely day!'
'Grand.' The word seemed to answer both her questions.
Far away in the distance he could see the masts of the ships,
disembodied things, seemingly borne on air. He looked up at
the sun, and for the first time in his life felt glad to be out and
under it. He thought of the lass next door and of the lovely
lass just gone, and he said, more to himself than to Katie, 'Yes,

45


it's a lovely day; a day of clean wind and far mast-heads, and
bonnie lasses.'

Katie stared up at him. 'Oh, their John was wonderful, the
things he said! A day of clean wind and far mast-heads, and
bonnie lassies! It was like ... well, not like the poetry she learnt
at school ... and yet it was. Oh, and Miss Llewellyn had seen
him! She had seen how wonderful he was.'


Mary Llewellyn, walking briskly away in the opposite
direction, was smiling no longer. Her face was thoughtful, and
her eyes sad. So that was John. Poor soul! Poor soul!

1



46


CHAPTER THREE


ST. PATRICK'S DAY


Mick led the Catholics, not because he was the eldest but
because he was the biggest. At the top corner of Fadden and
Blacket Streets he marshalled his gang, twenty-five in all, and
saw that they were supplied with weapons. He made sure that
the innocent-looking paper balls dangling from lengths of
rope or string each had a good-sized stone in its centre. About
twenty yards away, at the corner of Whitley Street, the Protestants
were gathering, and their leaders were doing much the
same as Mick. This was to be the climax to the day's badgering
and cornering of individuals and isolated groups, of swinging
the paper balls round the heads of victims, whether
Catholic or Protestant, and asking the terrifying question,
'Are you blue or green ?' Pity help the individual who had the
courage to defend his colour to the opposite clan, for he
was often hit until he was sick or rescued by some indignant
passerby.

Mick's gang were protesting loudly that it wasn't fair, for
the ranters had three separate gangs - the churchies, the
chapelies, and the odds, the latter group consisting of Jews,
Salvationists, and a Quaker.

Mick exclaimed loudly that three lots were nowt, for they'd
bash all their bleeding heads in. Adroitly he spread out his men
in the form of an arrow, placing the bigger boys at the head.

He took a long time over this, for he was enjoying his
momentary power and the admiration of the younger children
swarming on the top of the stackyard wall that hemmed in
the ends of the fifteen streets.

Someone began to sing the hymn:


47


'Oh glorious St. Patrick, dear Saint of our Isle,'
and all the children on the wall took it up:

'On us, thy dear children, bestow a sweet smile;
And now thou art high in the mansions above,
Oh glorious St. Patrick look down in thy love.'

The ending was the signal for the advance, both sides
moving slowly towards each other. Then, with a rush, there
was a swirling of balls, and there were screams and cries of
'Long live Ireland!' 'Up the shamrock!' in which were mingled
'England for ever!' and 'God save the King!'
Hard blows were struck by the arrow heads. But they had
learned no lesson from last year; so their balls became entwined,
and many combatants had to stop and free them, and
whilst doing so a number of them laughed, especially if their
enemy happened to be a pal on the other three hundred and
sixty-four days of the year. And so the fight became spasmodic,
lacking the ferocity of the earlier battles; it became a melee
of half-hearted punches and pushes. And the jeering from the
mixed supporters on the wall became derisive.
Mick realized there was something lacking. He fell back
with his side and engaged in a battle of vituperation!

'Protestant, Protestant, you dirty lot,
Yer backside's blue and yer nose all snot!'

to which the Protestants replied:

'Catholic, Catholic, ring the bell,
When you die you'll go to hell.'

It was all very half-hearted - the excitement seemed to have
died in the completion of the preparations.
Mick felt a definite sense of disappointment and feared the
flatness of the fight might be put down to his leadership, and
that Big Geordie Flannagan might be picked to take his place.
He looked round for some sign that would be the means of
leading him to fresh applause. And like manna from heaven
he found it. Standing solitary at the top end of his own back
lane was the boy from next door ... the spook's lad.

48

The boy was looking from one group to the other with
evident curiosity. His face looked all eyes, and Mick was quick
to detect a gleam of fear in them. With the true instinct of a
leader, he first of all planned to cut off the enemy's retreat.
So he called three of his best men to him, and in a few words
told them what he intended doing, and dispatched them down
Fadden Street with orders to come up the back lane. A few
more whispered words to other members of his gang, and they
stopped yelling and stood looking towards the boy.

As soon as Mick saw the three outriders coming up the back
lane he called out loudly, 'Look! There's the spook!'

After a moment's hesitation the word was taken up, 'The
spook! The spook!' Those on the other side stopped their
abuse and they too turned towards the boy, whose face had
blanched. He did not turn and try to escape down the back
lane, for he knew, from the laughs behind him, that that escape
was cut off. Instead he tried to think of what his grandfather
had told him to do when confronted with hostile thought, but
terror swamped any thinking.

Fascinated, he watched the two opposing sides converging
on each other and the children swarming down from the wall.
They began to form a solid mass before him, and he listened
to shouts that weren't new to his ears:

'His da's a spook!'

The ma says he's a divil.'

The ma says if you bless yersel' when you pass him he can't
do you any harm.'

The da says the priest put a curse on him an' he was kicked
out of Jarrer, an' he'll wither away.'

'Mr. Roberts, our minister, says they're evil and we mustn't
have any truck with 'em.'

On and on it went, not loudly or angrily, but steadily and
defiantly, and in some faint way the boy detected fear of himself
in their voices. Yet he knew what that fear would make
them do. It wasn't the first time he had been in a similar situation,
but he found that repetition did not make him more
brave.

Mick too was aware of the fear. The crowd of them would


49


do nothing, he thought, just call the spook names and perhaps
throw a stone or two, until some woman came out from her
backyard and scattered the lot of them. He wanted a chase, some
life in the proceedings.
Again he gave instructions to others of his gang, who sped
away to block the ends of the streets, all but the last one. Then
he yelled out to the crowd, proclaiming himself leader and a
man of fair play, 'Give him a chance.... Let him away! Give
him a start!'
Molly, who was standing near him, whispered, 'Were you
goner chase him?'
'The gut,' he whispered back without looking at her, for
his eyes were now fixed on those of the boy.
The boy was shivering in stark terror; he knew what this
chance meant; it meant running, running, running until his
whole body sobbed and his trousers became wet. And he knew
that long after the fear would have passed the feeling of his
wet trousers would remain. But it was either running or being
stoned here.
A gap appeared in the crowd and Mick's voice yelled,
'Come on, spooky! We'll give you a start.' He was leading
them all now, the Catholics, the Protestants, the Chapelies and
the others. He kept yelling, 'Let him through! . . . Come on,
spook. We'll give you ten for a start when you're through.'
There was a whirling in Mick's blood when he saw the boy
begin to move, and a stream of saliva trickled from the corner
of his mouth. The boy, his face the colour of dirty dough and
his eyes stretching the skin, came abreast of Mick. He
would never reach the gut, Mick thought - he was too small.
They would drag him there.
Suddenly he threw his arms out wide, a signal that no one
must move and shouted, 'One!'
At the sound the boy became galvanized. He shot away, and
Mick, when he noted the speed with which the boy ran,
quickened his counting, almost choking with suppressed glee
when he saw the boy's maddened terror on realizing the exits
of the streets and back lanes were blocked.
'Ten!' was a scream in Mick's throat. He was off, ahead of

50

the milling, screeching children. They stumbled into each
other, kicking and pushing to get a clear road. Some left the
main chase and ran down the streets, knowing that this would
be the quickest way and that they would pick up the chase
again on the main road, the word had been passed, 'To the
gut! To the gut!'
Among those who diverted was Molly. She sped down her
own street, her hair and legs flying. And she almost cried with
vexation when she saw her mother step from their front door.
'Here!' Mary Ellen caught at Molly's arm, almost unbalancing
herself. 'Have you gone mad? What's all the screeching
for?'
'Aw! ma, let go.'
'Get inside!' said Mary Ellen.
'Aw! ma, I'm goin' with our Mick.'
'With Mick? What's he doin'?'
'He's . . . he's .. . They're chasin' the lad next door to the
gut.'
Mary Ellen brought her hand across her daughter's ear with
a crack. 'Get yersel inside - I'll gut you! A big lass like you
running mad with a lot of lads!' She pushed Molly before her
through the front room, calling, 'John!'
John came out of the bedroom asking, 'What is it?'
'It's our Mick .. . he's chasing the lad next door to the gut.
There's dozens of them running mad!'
'Are you sure it's Mick?'
'Ask her.' Mary Ellen pointed to the snivelling Molly.
When John looked at Molly she hung her head, and Mary
Ellen said, 'Go and see what he's up to, lad; for if the pollis
catches him at anything down there they won't give him
another chance, after catching him loosening the timbers that
time.'
'Why are they chasing the lad next door, are they playing
at something?' John asked Molly.
'No,' Molly muttered into her chest. 'It's because he's a
spook.'
John hastily put on his coat and left the house; and as he
went out into the back lane he bumped into the girl from next

51


door. She was running, and gasped, 'I'm sorry.' She smiled
faintly at him and ran on again.

He did not speak, but hurried after her. He guessed where
she was going ... someone must have told her. Children were
straggled along the road; most of them, frightened by the
thought of the gut, especially as it was getting dark, had given
up the chase.

One bold spirit addressed John: 'Your Mick's goin' to push
the spook into the gut, Mr. O'Brien.'

John knew that between Mick and Dominic there was only
the difference in years; the cruelty was already fully matured
in Mick, and he was quite capable of doing what this boy said.
He set off at a run and caught up with the girl before she
reached the short cut leading to the gut. Shortening his step
to suit hers, he said, 'Are you looking for your brother?'

She nodded, but did not speak; and John again had the impression
of age. There was a similarity, he noticed, between
her expression and that which was more often than not on his
mother's face.... This wasn't the first time she'd gone to her
brother's aid - by God, he'd break that young rat's neck!

'You go back, and I'll see to them,' he said to her. But she
shook her head.

As they turned down the cut, the shouting came to them,
and John sprang away from the girl and ran on ahead.

With the intuition of the young, his coming was noted and
the boys crowding round the disused boathouse on the edge
of the gut gave the cry, 'Look out! Scatter!'

The size of John looming out of the gathering dusk and the
fear of being caught and held responsible gave aid to their legs.
They made for the opening near the boathouse, and like dots
of vapour they disappeared across the disused ground adjoining
the slacks.

John pulled up at the slipway. There was no sign of the
boy. Likely, he had taken refuge on the wall round the corner.
The wall supporting the slipway turned sharply at right angles,
bordering the gut for a considerable distance, and ended
abruptly where the gut was deepest, for the swirling tides
had by slow degrees loosened its large granite stones, and


52

1

many of these now made only a row of pin-points in the mud.
The wall was just above ground level and was eighteen inches
wide on the top, but from its back edge arose a six-foot fence
of stout sleepers.

John walked sideways along the wall, pressing his back
against the sleepers, and as he turned the corner he saw the boy
and Mick.

The boy was standing up against the last sleeper of the fence,
Mick was lying flat along the wall; and there was no sound
from either of them, except the whack of the stick as Mick hit
at the boy's legs, trying to dislodge him into the black, oozing
mud. So lost was Mick in the relish of the moment that he did
not hear John's approach. The first he knew was the sound
of harsh breathing over him; then he was whipped to his feet
and for one sickening second he was hanging in mid-air over
the mud. John brought him to his feet and shook him until his
head rolled on his shoulders.

'Get home and stay there! If you're not in when I get back
it'll mean twice as much when I find you.'

Mick clutched at the sleepers to steady himself, and
growled, 'You hit me and I'll tell me da.' Then he retreated
hastily along the wall, and John went on to the boy.

In the dim light the white face shone at him, and he said
soothingly, 'It's all right, sonny, it's all right.'

The boy did not answer, and John said, 'Come on, give me
your hand.'

But the boy still did not move; he seemed petrified into
dumbness, and his fingers held on to the sleeper as if glued to
it. The wall ended directly below this sleeper, and the rising
tide was already creeping towards its fallen stones.

As John unbent the boy's fingers he saw that they were
bleeding, and he wished for the moment he would have Mick
under his hands. When he picked him up the boy lay stiff
across his arms like something frozen hard. The girl was standing
at the corner, her face as white as her brother's, and she
clutched at them both, saying, 'Is he all right? Oh, David, are
you all right?'

'Steady!' John said. 'Let's get off here.' And she went


53


before them along the wall to where it met the ground.

As John put the boy down she drew David into her arms,
crying, 'Oh, my dear, what have they done?'

The boy shuddered, and his body fell against hers, and she
soothed him, saying, 'There! There! . . . We'll go home Grandfather
will soon be in and everything will be all right.'

But when she took his hand to walk him up the bank his
legs gave way beneath him, and he fell forward. John picked
him up again, saying, 'You'd better get him to bed.'

As he strode up the road with the girl trotting by his side
and holding on to her brother's ankle, he thanked God that
most of the people were indoors having their tea and that the
corners of the streets were deserted by their usual batches of
men, for he felt self-conscious in doing this rescue act.

The door was open and the house lighted just as she had
left it; and as John passed through the front room and into
the kitchen he had the impression that his home next.door
was a hundred miles away. He became conscious of his big,
dirty boots on the carpet, and when he laid the boy in a chair,
drawn up to the fire, the comfort of it was conveyed to him
by his hands sinking beneath the boy into the upholstery.

The girl ran into the bedroom, and returned with something
in a glass. David drank it, then asked, in a thin, small
voice, 'How long will Grandfather be?'

'Not long, darling.'

The girl was kneeling by the chair, and John, looking down
on her, repeated to himself, 'Not long, darling.' Never before
had he heard the word spoken, except in derision. How
strange these people were.

He was turning to go, saying, 'I hope he'll be all right. My
brother will be dealt with,' when the girl sprang to her feet.

'What are you going to do to your brother?' she asked.
'Thrash him?'

'What else?'

'Oh please!' her words tumbled over one another - 'Please,
don't do that! It won't do a bit of good . .. not the slightest,
just the opposite.'

John frowned down on her in perplexity: 'What do you


54


expect me to do? Let him off? He might have killed the lad
there--' He nodded towards the chair.

Her eyes, set deep in her white face, looked black and
enormous, and she began to plead with him as if her life
depended on it: 'But he didn't! You must talk to him, point
out where he was wrong. . .. Will you? ... Please. But
don't thrash him; you'll only thrash it into him.'

'Thrash what into him?' John's brows drew closer together.

'The fears, the inhibitions ... all the things that drove him
to do what he did.'

John stared at her. What was she getting at? Was this part
of the spook religion? She was strange, not in sayings alone,
but in her looks; her curveless body, like a lad's, was as attractive
as any bulging bust and wobbling hips.

He turned away from her and went towards the kitchen door,
but she hastily blocked his exit: 'Please! ... Oh!' - she closed
her eyes and moved her head from side to side - 'if only
Grandfather was in he'd explain so much better than me. ...
But you mustn't thrash him.'

Looking down into her strained face, John saw that for the
moment, the thought of Mick being thrashed had entirely
eliminated the worry for her brother - she was like no one he
had met before ... she was really in earnest that Mick should
be let off. But he knew Mick, and she didn't, so he said, 'Do
you think he would understand a talking to? No. The only
thing Mick and his like understand is the thick end of the belt
across their ...' Somehow he couldn't say 'arses' in front of
her, so he ended lamely, 'You see. you don't know them.'

'Oh, but I do,' she said, smiling faintly, trying to override
his last remark; 'I've known dozens of Micks. Look--' She
put out her hands and caught hold of the lapels of his coat.
The gesture was almost childish in its naturalness, and he
looked down at her hands, then at her face close beneath his
own; and an odd sensation passed over him. ... Hannah Kelly
said, 'Mind she doesn't lay hands on you, lad.' But this wasn't
the kind of laying on she was referring to. If a lass of the
fifteen streets laid hold of him, there would be a particular
meaning to it; they would lark about a lot before she did this


55


though, and afterwards his arms would go round her. He had
seen the process enacted at the corner ends and in dark places
in the back lanes. Often, when a lad, he watched the climax
with an envy that dissolved into loneliness. And now here
was this lass with her hands on him, and the sensation he was
experiencing was almost one of reverence, similar to that
which he at one time felt for the Virgin. . . . But he didn't
want to feel reverence for her, or any other lass. She was fetching
and he wanted . .. He lifted his hand and covered one of
hers - it wasn't much bigger than Katie's, but it was different.
His blood began to warm with the feel of her, and he smiled
slowly. Her soft, curving mouth was just below his, and as he
watched it move, it fascinated him. He wasn't fully aware of
the words it was forming until she stepped away from him,
taking her hand from his and saying, 'If you had to treat a dirty
wound, you wouldn't rub more dirt into it, would you?'

Still on about Mick. ... He came to himself, and said
thickly, 'I'm sorry; I'll have to deal with him as I think fit.'
A feeling of bewilderment and frustration, mixed with annoyance
was filling him; and he passed her, saying gruffly, 'He'll
have to take what's coming to him.'

It was with relief he entered his own kitchen. Here were
people and things he could understand . . . and manage. Going
straight to the wall by the side of the fireplace he unhooked
the razor strop.

'Is the lad all right?' Mary Ellen asked.

'Just,' John answered briefly. 'Come on' - he motioned with
his head to Mick.

'I'm not comin'. I'll tell me da!'

'Go canny, lad,' Mary Ellen said to John.

Go canny. Here was another one. 'Go canny!' he rapped
out at her with unusual irritation. 'Do you know he nearly
killed the lad! As it is he's practically sent him out of his
mind. It's as well for you you got hold of Molly when you
did, or you'd have something more than a thrashing on your
plate the night. Go canny!' He flung round from her and
pointed to the door.

Mick began to snivel and cried, 'Ma! Ma, don't let him!'


56


Mary Ellen turned from Mick to the fire, and John seized
him by the collar and pulled him to the door, there to meet
Dominic coming in.
Dominic looked from one to the other before eyeing John
through narrowed lids: 'What you at? Playin' boss of the
house again?'
'You mind your own damn business. If you'd had a little
more of it there might have been an improvement in you!'
Mary Ellen hastily broke in, addressing herself to Dominic,
'He's nearly killed the little lad next door.'
After a moment, during which he glanced from one to the
other, Dominic stepped aside, and John pushed Mick before
him down the yard and into the washhouse.
Mary Ellen found herself staring at Dominic; she couldn't
quite take it in; he was sober, solid and sober; and it St.
Patrick's Day! And added to this surprise was another; for
when he took his cap off she saw that he'd had a haircut ...
a proper one; his thick, brown, curling hair was neatly trimmed
yup the sides, making him, even with the dust of the ore on
him, look more attractive. He hadn't come in to tea and she
imagined him to be in the bars; but he must have been having a
haircut!
She went to the oven to take out his tea, a plate of finnan
haddock, but he said, 'I don't want that yet.'
With further amazement she saw him wash himself quickly,
take off his yorks and change his coat. He was banging the
dust from his trousers as he hurried past her to the front room.
'Where you off to?' she asked.
Dominic paused a moment, and the expression she hated, a
mixture of scorn, cocksuredness and craft, came over his face.
His eyes flicked over her, and her throat contracted with dislike
of him. He said heavily, 'Where d'yer think?'
She stood still, listening to him going out of the front door,
and between Mick's howls out in the backyard, she heard the
knocker of the next door banging. Her fingers moved nervously
back and forth across her lips. ... How would it work out?
Candidly she wouldn't care if Dominic left home tomorrow
and she never set eyes on him again, but there was no such

57

luck as that happening; he was here and he was going after
that lass. It would have been bad enough had she been a
Protestant - that was something you could lay your finger on
- but what these people next door were was something beyond
her ken, something dark and mysterious, something not far
removed from the devil; for whoever heard anyone connected
with God daring to say they could cure people! Even the
priests wouldn't dare. And then another strong point proving
their ungodliness was all their fine things. God didn't shower
gifts on those He loved - He pointed out the road of poverty
to them. Father O'Malley could be hard, but he was right in
some things; if you got your reward here, then you could make
sure it wasn't from God.

From last Saturday, when they moved in, she had made up
her mind to have no truck with them. At odd times she had
stopped working and found herself listening to the girl singing.
The first time she had heard her she was shocked; she felt it
was indecent somehow, almost as bad as if she had seen her
walking naked, for it wasn't like a woman singing to a bairn,
nor yet over her poss-tub, but was high and clear and without
restraint. And the morning she heard the singing before breakfast
she was bewildered; for even if you had something to sing
about you wouldn't do it before breakfast, unless you were
prepared to cry your eyes out before supper. . .. No, she
wanted no truck with them. Yet here was John saving the
lad and braying their Mick, and Dominic in next door pouring
sympathy over the lass in his best manner. And he had a best
manner, Mary Ellen knew; but she also knew it was an impossibility
for him to keep it up. Well - she again fastened the
errant button of her blouse and momentarily lifted the weight
of her body - that was as far as things were going, if she could
help it ... not one of them would darken this door!

She crossed herself swiftly and murmured, 'May the Lord
bless us and preserve us from all evil, and bring us to life
everlasting. Amen.'


58


CHAPTER FOUR

THE CONFLICT

Mary Ellen's temper was fraying thin. The weather was
bad enough with the rain pelting down and the wind howling
as if it was December, but to have them all in the house
except Mick and Molly, who were at school, was too much.
Neither John nor Dominic had been set on this morning; a mail
boat had come in with a cargo of fruit, but the gaffer had
given the work to the men who had not been set on the recent
boats. It was bad enough that they were off work, but to have
them all stuck round her like this was too much of a good thing.
And what was more, she was feeling a little sick with the heat
of the oven and the smell of the dirty working clothes put to dry
all round the kitchen.... If only this other business were over.
She was tired of it all - her body was so bairn-weary. She was
feeling now that things were getting beyond her.
Even Katie could draw no kind word from her, and she
pushed her to one side to get to the oven, saying, 'Get out of
me way, bairn.'
Katie was home from school because her boots leaked; and
her eyes were streaming, not only as the result of a cold but
with crying. She hated to be off school, more so now than
ever, for Miss Llewellyn had said that if she worked hard she
could sit for an examination, which might be the first step on
the road to her becoming a teacher. She had tried to tell her
mother, but Mary Ellen snapped at her, and even John did
not seem interested.
She looked towards him now. He was sitting in the corner
on the far side of the fireplace mending her boots. He had put
odd pieces of leather on the soles and was now cutting up an

59

old boot to get enough leather to sew across the slits. She returned
to her book, the only one she possessed, a Grimm's
Fairy Tale, and she knew each word by heart.

The front-door knocker was suddenly banged, and without
waiting she went to answer it. It had been knocked twice
already this afternoon, once by a tally man and once by a man
begging. The beggar wasn't pleased when she brought him a
slice of bread. He bent it up and put it in his pocket, and her
mouth watered, for it was new bread from a flat cake just out of
the oven; it was a long time till tea-time, and she had got out of
the habit of asking for bread between meals for she remembered
times when they all had bread at tea-time except her
mother, and she was frightened that this would happen
again.

It was Mrs. Bradley at the door, and she asked, 'Is yer ma
in?'

Katie said, 'Yes.'

'Then tell her we're gathering for poor Mrs. Patton's
wreath.. . . Here, take her the paper.'

Katie took the paper and went into the scullery to her
mother. 'It's Mrs. Bradley - she's gathering for flowers, ma.'

Mary Ellen's lips set in a tight line as she read down one
side of the list and half-way down the other . . shillings, sixpences
.. . only two or three threepences. She gave a sigh, and
lifting up her skirt took fourpence from the little bag and
handed it to Katie, together with the list.

As Katie passed John he asked, 'What's that for?'

But before she could reply, Mary Ellen called, 'Go on, you,
Katie,' and Katie went on to the front door. Mary Ellen knew
that John didn't hold with gathering for wreaths, but what
could she do ... and that Bella Bradley collecting!

John knew what he would have done ... the gathering for
wreaths had always irked him. They would collect as much
as two pounds and spend the whole lot on flowers, when the
widow, if it was a man who had died, was more often than
not destitute, and within a week the bairns would be crying
for bread. They knew this only too well, the women who took
it on themselves to gather, yet they still bought flowers to show

60

respect for the dead. He snorted and banged the hammer on
the last, sending a pain through his knee. It made him mad!
He knew that, even if there was no insurance money, besides
collecting for the flowers they would collect for cabs, to make
the dead look decent. They didn't collect for the hearse. No,
that could be ticked, to be paid off at so much a week. But
the undertakers weren't so ready to tick cabs. And if it was
for one of the Irish, the relatives would pawn, beg, borrow or
steal, but they would have a bit of a wake. It was all crazy! And
yet he understood from his mother that the funerals were nothing
like they used to be, for in her young days, she told him,
she longed for the Irish to die so she could go to the wake with
her mother and have a good feed.

What had she put on the list, he wondered. Whatever it
was, by this time next week they would be glad of it; for if
they were not set on there wouldn't be a penny in the house.

Many things were beginning to make him wild. And on a
day like this, tied to the house, he had nothing else to do but
think. Lately he had been feeling the desire for someone to
talk to, someone who could answer questions. Once or twice
he tried to talk to Father Bailey, and endeavoured to have the
material in his mind formed into concrete questions; but when
he was with the priest he found it was no use - he knew what
he wanted to say but couldn't get it out.

His mother was always saying thinking got you nowhere;
you must have faith and rely on that. Faith! He looked at
her now, pounding a great piece of dough, the second batch of
bread she had baked today. What had faith done for her?
She could hardly get her arms into the bowl for the roundness
of her stomach. He took his eyes from her. Where would
they put the bairn when it came ? He'd have to try and rig up
something out of boxes - the clothes basket that had served
them all as a cradle was done long since. He pulled his legs up
hastily as Dominic made to pass him on his way to the bedroom.

Mary Ellen called after Dominic, 'Don't lie on that bed
with those boots on, mind!' but the only answer she received
was the banging of the door.

61

1

John settled himself back against the wall: he always felt
easier when Dominic was out of the room. He had finished
one boot and was preparing the thread by rubbing it with
tallow for patching the other when he heard his mother give
a startled mutter. She was looking out through the kitchen
window, and she exclaimed, 'I don't want them in here!'

As she rubbed the dough off her hands, there came a knock
on the kitchen door. Katie was about to open it, but Mary
Ellen said, 'Hold on. I'll see to it.' When she opened the door,
there stood the old man and the girl.

'Good afternoon, Mrs. O'Brien.' It was the old man who
spoke, and his voice was as kindly as his smile; but Mary Ellen
would not allow it to make any impression on her. She didn't
reply, but stared at them fixedly, the door held firmly in
her hand, while he went on, 'I thought we would just come
round and get acquainted. And also ask you to thank your son
for helping my boy last night.'

Mary Ellen's eyes darted to the girl. She was wearing a
waterproof coat with a hood attached, and from under it she
smiled at Mary Ellen, like a child who was asking to be liked.
They were barmy, Mary Ellen thought. Their Mick had
nearly done for the lad, and here they were, coming to thank
John! They weren't all there, either of them - they couldn't be.
She wanted no truck with them. She was aware that the old
man was becoming drenched, but that was his look-out; they
weren't crossing the doorstep.

She was saying abruptly, 'That's all right. It was our Mick's
fault, anyway,' when she felt her hand taken from the door,
and John stood there, saying, 'Won't you come in?' It wasn't
often she got angry with John, but now it took her all her time
not to turn on him.

The old man said, 'Thank you. Thank you. Are you by
any chance the Mr. O'Brien I owe so much to?'

Pushing two chairs forward John said, 'Take a seat.' He
did not look at the girl, but went on, 'It's us should be doing
the thanking. Not many people would be taking it like this.'
Then he turned to Shane: 'This is my father.'

Shane reluctantly took the proffered hand and muttered

62

something, and his head, which had been still, began to jerk.

The old man, seeming not to notice the lack of cordiality,
said, 'My name's Peter Bracken. And this is my granddaughter,
Christine.'

Shane nodded, and after a short silence that was broken
only by the scraping of chairs, he turned to Mary Ellen, now
vigorously pounding the dough, and said, 'I'm off to see if
there's anything in.' He pulled his steaming coat off the rod
that ran under the mantelshelf, and with a final nod towards
Mr. Bracken, he went out.

Mary Ellen watched his huge figure slumping down the
yard. Off to see if there's anything in at this time of the day!
It was just to get out of the way; he hated to talk to strangers
at any time. There was a faint wreath of steam still hovering
about the shoulders of his coat as he disappeared into the back
lane. It brought a tightness to her breast, and she murmured
to herself, 'Shane, Shane,' as she was wont to do years ago
when her pity was mixed with love. And the feeling made
her more resentful towards the pair sitting behind her. Now
he'd be wet to the skin, and his twitching would go on all
night.

She knew she was being very bad mannered standing with
her back to them, but she couldn't help it; yet she found herself
listening to the girl talking to Katie. They were talking
about the book, Katie's voice sounding broad in comparison
with the girl's, which was quiet and even and without dialect.
And then she found herself listening to John. He was talking
more than she had heard him do so before. He was talking
to the old fellow about the docks and the kind of boats that
came in and what they brought .. . iron ore from Bilbao,
black fine ore from Benisaf, the heavy ore from Sweden that
made the steel, esparto grass for paper, prop boats from
Russia, with the cargo stacked from one end of the boat to the
other to make the tonnage. As if the old fellow would want to
know all that! She had never heard him talk so much about
the docks before. He went on to speak of the unloading as if
he had been down the holds all his life, instead of just two
years. What had come over him? Perhaps he was doing it


63


because she was offhand with them. Well, he knew she wanted
no truck with them; and they were a thick-skinned pair to
sit there knowing, as they must know, that they weren't wanted.

'I suppose you are always kept busy, Mrs. O'Brien?'

She started, and was forced to half turn her body and look
at the old man, and to answer him civilly: 'Yes, most of the
time I'm at it.'

'You must find it very hard looking after such a big family.
And I mean big,' he laughed.

'Well, you've got to take what God sends.' Immediately she
felt she had said the wrong thing, giving him an opening to
start his ranting, but to her surprise he didn't take it.

He stood up, saying, 'Well, we mustn't delay you - I just
felt I would like to make your acquaintance, Mrs. O'Brien.'

Mary Ellen turned from the dish, again forced to respond,
this time with a smile. It was funny, but they seemed all
right. Was this spook business just an idle rumour? People
were in the habit of making a lot out of nowt.

She returned the girl's smile too, but when she saw John,
silent now, looking at the lass, the smile froze on her face. She
didn't want any of that kind of truck, not for John she didn't.
... Dominic could do what he liked.

There was another knock on the front door, and this time
she had to tell Katie, who was hanging on to the girl's hand, to
go and open it.

Christine spoke directly to Mary Ellen for the first time,
'Will you let Katie come in to tea, Mrs. O'Brien? It's rather
a special occasion, it's Grandfather's birthday.'

She cast a smile, full of light, on the old man, and he said,
'Sh!'

She answered, 'No, I won't. Do you know how old he is?'
She was speaking to John now, looking up into his face.

John's eyes twinkled, and he answered seriously, 'Twenty
six.'

They all laughed, except Mary Ellen.

'You're just sixty years out!' said the girl.

'You're not eighty-six!' Amazement brought the words out of Mary Ellen.


64


'Yes, that's what I am, Mrs. O'Brien.'
Mary Ellen stared at the straight, lean body of Peter
Bracken, at his unlined face and deep-set eyes, shining like
black coals. The only sign of real age was the white hair, and
he was eighty-six. Fear of him overcame her again. You didn't
reach eighty-six and be like that, not naturally you didn't.
Shane was fifty-seven, and he was old. She had known men
live to eighty, but they ended their days in bed, or on sticks.
No, her instinct had been right at first ... there was something
funny about them, something beyond her understanding;
and she wanted no truck with them.
She was brought from her fear by the sound of footsteps
accompanying Katie's through the front room. Who on earth
could Katie have let in now!
The small, black-clad figure standing in the open doorway
soon informed her. She gasped at the sight of Father O'Malley.
His presence always meant a rating for something or other.
Today it would be Katie off school and Mick being kept from
Mass last Sunday. Oh, she'd had enough for one day! And
there were these two still standing there, not smiling now but
staring at the priest as if they were struck.
'Good afternoon, Father. Will you take a seat? It's dreadful
weather; you must be wet.' Mary Ellen was doing her duty.
At the same time, she noticed the half-inch thick soles on the
priest's stout boots, and chided herself for thinking: It'll take
some water to get through them.
John spoke next: 'Good afternoon, Father.'
'Good afternoon,' said Father O'Malley, in his thin, tight
voice; but he looked neither at Mary Ellen nor at John, for
his eyes were fixed on those of Peter Bracken.
Noting this, John said, 'Mr. Bracken's a new neighbour of
ours, Father.'
The priest did not answer, and Peter Bracken said, quietly,
'Father O'Malley and I already know one another.'
'What is this man doing in your house?'
Mary Ellen knew the priest was addressing her, although
he did not look at her. She shivered and said hesitantly 'Well
Father ...'
65

'Order him to leave at once! And forbid him the door in
future.'

Mary Ellen twisted the corner of her apron and turned towards
Mr. Bracken and the girl. But before she could get the
words out, John broke in sharply, 'Hold your hand a minute!
Me da's not in, and next to him I'm head of this house, such
as it is, and I'm telling no one to get out, Father.'

The priest swung round on him, his eyes almost lost behind
their narrowed lids and the double lenses of his glasses: 'So
you are head of the house, are you? And you will take the
responsibility on your soul for associating with this man ?'

'I know nothing against the man.' John's face was as set
as the priest's.

'You don't?' Father O'Malley raised his eyebrows. 'Then
you're about the only one in these parts who doesn't. I will
enlighten you. This man is an enemy of the Catholic
Church. . ..'

'That is not true! I'm an enemy of no church. ...'

Father O'Malley cut short Peter Bracken's protest, and went
on: 'Why, I ask you, is a man of his standing living in a
quarter like this? Because he makes it his business to live
among Catholics so he can turn them against the Church.'

'I live wherever there is fear and poverty, and try to erase
it.' The old man's face was no longer placid; it was alight with
a force and energy that gave the impression he was towering
above them all.

'Do you know what this man has dared to say? Only that he
has a power equal to that of Christ!' Father O'Malley's eyes
bored into Mary Ellen's and then into John's. 'In fact, he says
he is a Christ!'

John, his eyes wide and questioning now, looked to Mr.
Bracken for denial. But none came.

'You know you are twisting my words!' cried the old man.
'What I maintain is we all have the power to be Christs. If we
are made in God's image and likeness, then it stands to reason
we are part of Him; our spirit is pure God material. The
only difference between my spirit and God's is the size of it the
quality is exactly the same. That is what I preach. And the

66

more I become aware of my spirit, the more I get in touch with
it, the more God-like things I can do. ... And I have done
God-like things--' Mr. Bracken pointed at the priest: 'You
know I have! And it is this very proof that upsets your slavish
doctrine.'

'Silence!' Father O'Malley's voice was like deep and
terrible thunder.

Mary Ellen clutched at the neck of her blouse, and Katie
hid her face in the folds of her mother's skirt; the bedroom
door opened and Dominic came into the kitchen, but no one
took any notice of him.

The priest's voice dropped low in his throat. He addressed
himself to John, 'Are you asking for any more proof than that?'

Before John could answer, the girl spoke, 'My grandfather
will give him proof - he will show him his own power, and free
him from you and your like. It is not God's will, as you preach,
that he or anyone else should live in poverty and ignorance
all his days. If they were made aware of their own power they
would throw all this off.' She flung her arms wide and took
a step towards the priest. 'You would stop them from thinking
- for once they think, they question. And they mustn't question,
must they? They must accept! It wouldn't do for them
to realize there's no purgatory or heaven or hell but what they
make themselves!'

Before John's eyes there rose the picture of Miss Llewellyn
leaning back against the wind, saying, 'Take the heaven you
are sure of.' Then his mind was brought back to this slip of a
girl facing up to a man like Father O'Malley; not only facing
up to him, but attacking him. What she was saying was quite
mad, but she had courage.

The thought saddened him; it might be the courage of
fanaticism, and she looked too sweet and girlish to be imbued
with fanaticism.

The old man drew her back to his side, saying, 'Be serene,
Christine. Remember, anger poisons.'

Father O'Malley's voice cast a deadly chill over the room
as he said, 'The day is not far hence when you will rot in hell
for your blasphemy!'


67


'The day is not far hence,' took up Peter Bracken, 'when
your sect, if it does not throw off its dogmatism and learn
toleration, will be fighting for its life; for there are seeds in
the wombs of women, at this moment, that in thirty, forty
or fifty years' time will shake the foundations of your preaching.
The minds of people are moving. They are searching
for the truth - they are reading. And what are they reading
first? - the very books that are forbidden by your Church, for
the first question the groping mind asks is: Why have these
books been forbidden?'

Father O'Malley looked as if he was about to choke - black
anger swamped his face. After a silence, tensed to breaking
point, he addressed Mary Ellen, 'I leave you and your conscience
to judge. And remember, I am warning you . .. disaster
and damnation follow this man. If you wish to save your
immortal soul and those of your family, throw him out as
you would a snake!' His eyes burned into Mary Ellen's for a
second, and then he was gone. And the banging of the front
door shook the house.

It occurred to John that Father O'Malley had ignored him
because he stood up to him; it was noticeable that the priest
concentrated on his mother because she was afraid. He looked
towards her. She was leaning on the table with one hand; the
other was held under her breast tight against her heart. And
she was shivering.

Dominic spoke for the first time: 'Don't take any notice
of him; he thinks he's still in Ireland.' His words weren't
spoken to his mother, but to the girl. But she did not return
his glance, or answer him, for she was staring at Mary Ellen.

Into this tense atmosphere came Mick. He entered the kitchen,
his head on one side and his hand over his ear. 'Ma, me
ear's runnin' and it's ach . . .' He stopped short at the sight
of Mr. Bracken and glanced quickly from him to John.

No one moved for a second until Peter Bracken exclaimed
in an exalted voice, 'Mrs. O'Brien, I will show you! Your boy
has earache, probably an abscess. I will cure it. Through the
great healing power of God I will cure it.'

He made a step towards Mick, and in a moment the kitchen

68

became quickened into life. Mary Ellen flung herself between
them, intending to grab Mick to her, but Mick, thinking of
last night and taking Peter's cure to mean much the same thing
as when his mother boxed his ears, saying, 'I'll cure you!'
sprang away from them both. Mary Ellen made a wild grab
at the air, overbalanced and twisted herself to clutch at John's
hands that were outstretched to her but missed them and fell
on her side on to the mat.

Mary Ellen knew, almost as she fell, what had happened.
The blinding pain, like a red-hot steel wire, starting in her
womb and forcing itself up through her body and out of her
head, blotted out even itself in its transit. When next she felt
it she was lying on the bed - the pain was filling all her pores
and forcing out sweat. She opened her eyes and looked up
into John's face. She wanted to say to him, 'Don't worry,
lad. Don't worry,' for his face was like death, but she could utter
no word.

The hot wire was boring again, identifying itself from the
other pains by an intensity that no previous labour had brought
to her. It left no room even for fear when she realized that
that Bracken man was near her; nor did she feel any element of
surprise when she heard him saying, 'I'll go in and work at
her head through the wall. Take her hand and don't let go.'

Mary Ellen felt her hand being taken between two soft
palms, and she did as she was bidden when his voice came
directly to her, as if through a thick fog, saying, 'Hold on to
Christine, Mrs. O'Brien, and the pain will go.'

As the pain forced her knees up and her head down into her
chest, Mary Ellen gripped the girl's hand. And when she next
regained consciousness she knew she was not on the bed but
above it, lying on a sort of soft platform, and the girl was still
by her side, while Hannah Kelly and Nurse Snell were working
on somebody lying on the bed. And then the doctor came,
not the shilling doctor, but Doctor Davidson from Jarrow, and
she wondered vaguely who would pay him. He reached up and
took her hand and tried to unloosen it from the girl's, but as he
did so Mary Ellen felt herself dropping down into that
contorted mass below her, and she clung on like grim death to

69

the soft hand. She heard him say, 'You're Peter Bracken's
grand-daughter, aren't you?' There followed a silence. Then
his voice came again, 'Well, there are stranger things in
heaven and earth than this world dreams of; and I won't
despise your help, because I'm going to need it.'

She lay for years on the platform with queer sensations
passing through her body, and the next voice she heard was
that of Shane, muttering, 'Mary Ellen, lass, Mary Ellen.'

She knew he was crying, and she wondered at it. She thought
of the time when he loved her and she loved him - it was all
so long ago. What had happened since? Nothing. He still
loved her, but she loved Katie and John. But they didn't love
Shane - he had no one but her. What would happen to him
when she died she didn't know - and it didn't seem to matter.

It was odd, but rather nice, lying here thinking untroubled
thoughts. She hadn't to get up and see about the baking or
washing or meals, or, what was more important, money. She
had an ache somewhere, but she couldn't lay her finger on it.
And she was conscious of smiling when the doctor reached up
and, lifting her eyelid, exclaimed, 'Odd, very odd.'

The next voice that came to her was Father Bailey's. It
was nice to have Father Bailey near; he brought a feeling of
comfort. And as he made the sign of the cross and touched her
lips, she felt a great happiness. She saw him standing at the
foot of the platform and smiling, not at her, but at Mr.
Bracken, who, she felt, was standing just behind her head.
Father Bailey was saying, 'God's ways are many and
mysterious. He has made these ways and only He can judge
them.' She heaved a great sigh and fell into a kind of sleep,
thinking, 'Yes. we are all one.' It was the answer Christine
Bracken had given to Father Bailey.


The gas in the kitchen was turned low. It flickered up and
down and spurted out of a little hole in the bottom of the
mantle. In the dim light John knelt before the fire, taking out
the ashes. He raked them slowly and quietly, and was glad of
their warmth on his hands, for in spite of a good fire, he felt
cold. It was the chill before the dawn, he thought. Was it only


70


twelve hours since all this started? It seemed many lifetimes
to him. And what it must be like for Christine, sitting in that
one position by the bed, he could not imagine. He thought of
her now as Christine - the night had joined them in a relationship
that seemed to him to be stronger than any blood tie; he
had wrapped a blanket about her and taken off her shoes, and
put on her slippers. He had been next door for them, and had
to find them himself, for the old man was sitting facing the wall
and appeared to be asleep. He had taken her cup after cup of
tea, and when, stiff with cramp, she could not hold the cup, he
held it for her. Once she leant against him and he supported
her with his arm. And an hour ago, he had tried to withdraw
her hand gently from his mother's, but the result was the same
as when others had attempted to do this - Mary Ellen's fingers
became like a vice around those of Christine. His mother had
been on the point of death, he knew, her life reduced to a mere
flicker, yet whenever her hand was touched it held all the
strength of vital life in its grip on Christine's. The doctor had
said it was touch and go: 'I've done all I can,' he said. 'I'll be
back first thing in the morning.' And looking hard at John, he
asked, 'Do you believe in spiritual healing?'
John answered simply, 'I'm a Catholic'
'So am I,' said the doctor. 'And I'm dead against it professionally
and otherwise ... yet...' He had stopped abruptly,
buttoned his coat, and said, 'Good night. We'll know more in
the morning.'
Father Bailey had left the house without saying anything,
his face set and thoughtful.
Shane's reactions when he saw the girl sitting there were
surprising to John. He had come back into the kitchen and
stood looking down into the fire, his body strangely still. 'I
don't care who keeps her alive - it can be the divil himself,'
he said, 'as long as she doesn't leave me.'
He had turned and looked quietly at his son, and John
realized that beyond the drinking and the fighting there still
remained in his father a deep feeling for his mother. It surprised
him and at the same time brought him closer to this
man, whom at times he almost despised. A little while ago he

71

had managed to persuade him to lie down - Dominic was
already in bed, having retired there shortly after twelve. He
had stood with the others round his mother when they thought
she was breathing her last, but when she continued to breathe
he said there was no point in the lot of them staying up, and
anyway he'd have to be out early to see if he could get a
start.

John knew that he, too, would have to be at the docks by
six o'clock. There was a prop boat due in, and he might get
set on - not that he liked prop boats, for there was no piece
work - you received four shillings a day, and no overtime;
but that would certainly be better than nothing, for with his
mother bad, money would be needed now more than ever
before.

Although he'd had no rest he did not feel tired; the training
of working forty-eight hours at a stretch as a young lad when
on tipping had hardened him. He thought nothing of working
all day and all night to discharge an ore boat, and the men
liked him in the gang. He could set the pace, and the pace
meant everything when the quicker the discharging was done
the sooner the men were paid. He looked at the clock . ..
half past four. There were many things that should be done
before he left the house; so he proceeded to tidy the kitchen,
shaking the mats and sweeping the floor - his mother would
want them to be dependent on neighbours as little as possible,
kind as they might be.

He was setting the table for breakfast when Hannah Kelly
came from the front room.

'I'll go over home a minute, lad,' she whispered, 'and get
our Joe up. Then I'll be back.'

He thanked her, and asked, 'Do you think there's any
change?'

'I don't know ... perhaps there's a little - she seems to be
breathing easier. Funny about that lass, isn't it?' She looked
questioningly at John. 'Mary Ellen hanging on to her like that
after saying she wanted no truck with them.'

John made no reply.

And after a moment she whispered again, 'She's had me


72


scared stiff, sitting so still. 'Tisn't natural. What d'ye make of
it? And what are ye going to do if it goes on any longer?'
'I don't know,' he said.
Hannah shook her head: 'It's rum. Makes ye put yer thinking
cap on, don't it?'
He nodded slowly, and she said, 'Aye well, there's queer
things happen in the world. We'll know this time the morrer,
likely.'

After Hannah had gone, he stood staring before him. What
would happen to them all if his mother should die? She was
the axis around which they revolved. Molly would soon be
leaving school, but she would be less than useless to run this
turbulent house. He looked down on her, lying in the corner
of die couch. Her mouth was open, and even in sleep she looked
what she was, feckless. Now if Katie were older ... What! The
thought shocked him. Katie work and slave after the lot of
them! No. Let her have a better start than that, even though
it be only in service. But his mother wouldn't die. Somehow
they wouldn't let her die.
He classed Mr. Bracken and Christine as 'they' when he
thought of them in their strange and eerie capacity of healers;
but as Mr. Bracken and Christine, he thought of them as kindly
folk, and in Christine's case, as bonnie and taking.
When he went quietly from the kitchen into the front room
to replenish the fire, he saw them as he had seen them last his
mother, lying straight and still and curiously flat, with one
arm outstretched to that of Christine, who was sitting close
to the head of the bed; only this time there was a difference inches
separated Mary Ellen's hand from Christine's.
Christine smiled faintly. The smile seemed forced on to the
chiselled whiteness of her face, her eyes looked vacant, like
the hollowed sockets in a sculptured head.
John bent over her, whispering anxiously, 'Are you all
right?'
She tried to broaden her smile, but the effort seemed too
much, and she fell against him. He glanced at his mother. She
was breathing evenly now, and a faint tinge of colour had crept
into the greyness of her face.

73

Christine whispered, 'She's asleep ... it's over.' She sighed,
and her body pressed with gentle heaviness against him.
'Come into the kitchen,' he said.
'I can't yet. I've ... I've got cramp. I'm stiff. In a little
while.'
She sounded sleepy, and for a moment he thought she had
fallen asleep.
Hannah Kelly came into the room again, and exclaimed
softly, 'She's let go then.' She peered at Mary Ellen. 'She's
better. Ye'd better get away to bed, lass.' she said kindly to
Christine.
Christine, in an effort to rise, almost lost her balance, and
John put his arm about her and supported her to the kitchen,
followed by Hannah's quizzical glance and raised eyebrows.
'Aye, well,' she soliloquized, 'ye never can tell where blisters
light. But my God, won't Mary Ellen go mad!'
John sat Christine on a chair by the fire, and stood helplessly
watching her as she slowly started to cry. It was a gentle
crying; the tears welled up from their source, spilling over the
dark, thick fringe of lashes on to her cheeks, then down on to
her clasped hands.
'You're all in,' John said. 'Come on, I'll take you in home.'
Like a child, she placed her hand in his, and he drew her
to her feet.
'The cramp ... it's still there' - she tottered as she stood 'my
legs don't seem to belong to me.'
In the flickering light of the gas, she looked up at him and
smiled through the tears. 'It's been a strange night, John.'
He nodded silently. He wanted to thank her for what, in
the back of his mind, he felt that she and her father had done,
but to say 'Thank you for saving my mother's life' would
be to accept the strange and terrible power that was assuredly
theirs, and some part of him was afraid. It seemed ridiculous
that this slip of a lass could be anything but what she looked
... a fetching, boyish-looking girl.
Christine sighed and said, 'Everything would have been
perfect if the baby had lived. Will your mother be very upset?'
He couldn't answer for his mother ... nor for himself, for

74

he felt she would be shocked at his thankfulness that it was
dead.

She swayed, and again he put his arm about her and led
her to the door. Her legs gave way beneath her, and she clung
to him saying, 'It's only temporary. In the morning I'll be all
right, but now all my strength has gone.'

Stooping swiftly and saying, 'This is the best way then,' he
lifted her up into his arms. She offered no resistance, but sank
against him, her head on her shoulder. One of his hands was
under her breast, and he saw the curve of it as her blouse and
petticoat pouched, small, not much bigger than Katie's, and
the sight of it brought no more excitement to his blood than
the tiny mound of Katie's would have done. Some part of
his mind wondered at this. His other hand was below her knees,
and his face, as it bent above hers, was close enough for kissing.
He could have dropped his mouth on to the lips and told himself
it was in gratitude. And she too perhaps would have accepted
his excuse. And it would have been a start. It would also
have fixed Dominic. But he did nothing, not even press her
close. Perhaps it was because he was worried about his mother,
but he might have been carrying Katie, for his feelings were not
aroused above tenderness. Vaguely, he was irritated by this.
The night had brought them together in one way, a way that
was deep and would be lasting, he knew, but it wasn't the way
of a fellow getting off with a lass; it. was a way that had missed
his body and touched something beyond.

As he carried her into her own kitchen, she stirred and
opened her eyes, and her hand came up and touched his cheek.
And she whispered, 'You're so nice, John ... so good.' And
he knew that he would have started something had he kissed
her, because she liked him in a way perhaps that hadn't gone
past her body.


75


CHAPTER FIVE


THE COMIC


Katie moved the parcel on to her other hip. It was heavy;
but not as heavy as the weight inside her; the weight was
leaden. To go to the pawnshop with any parcel filled her with
shame; to walk up the dock bank, under the knowledgeable
stares of the men idling there against the railings caused her
throat to move in and out; and to meet any of her schoolmates
on the journey made her want to die; but when it was John's
suit she was carrying every tragedy of the journey was intensified
a thousandfold.

When her mother asked, 'Will you go down to "Bob's",
hinny?' Katie had stared at her, speechless. She wanted to
say, 'Our Molly should go, she's bigger,' but she knew from
experience that Molly always got less on the clothes than she
did, and generally too, she lost something, the ticket, or worse
still, a sixpence. And because her mother looked so thin and
white when she asked her she remained silent, and watched
Mary Ellen go to the box under the bed and take John's suit out.

It seemed such a shame that it was John's, because he had
started work only that morning. They all had, after being off
weeks. But there was nothing in the house now to make them
a meal, and although they would get subs, her mother was
relying on these to pay the three weeks' back rent. Katie felt
that once the rent was paid, her mother would look less white.

Going through the arches into Tyne Dock she met Mrs.
Flaherty.

'Oh, ye're not at school the day?' Peggy greeted her.

'No, I was sick.' Katie stared up into the half-washed face,
criss-crossed with wrinkles, and her tone defied disbelief.

76

'Oh, that's a pity, it is. Ye shouldn't miss your iducation.
Some day, when ye're old enough, I'll lend ye one o' me books;
they'll iducate ye like nothing else will. When ye're old
enough that is.' She snuffled and caught the drop from the
end of her nose on the back of her hand.

'Thank you.' For as long as she could remember Katie had
been promised one of Mrs. Flaherty's books, and the promise
meant nothing to her now. She said, 'Ta-ta, Mrs. Flaherty,'
and walked on, the parcel now pressed against her chest and
resting on the top of her stomach.

Although she thought impatiently that Mrs. Flaherty was
always on about education, she wished her mother was a bit
like her. She had almost given up talking to her mother about
the examination and what Miss Llewellyn said, for her mother
didn't believe Miss Llewellyn meant what she said - last time,
she had stopped her talking, saying, 'Oh, hinny, you mustn't
take so much notice of things; your teacher's only being nice.
The examination she's on about is likely the one you have
every year.' And when Katie had sat quietly crying, Mary
Ellen said to John, 'Look, lad. I can't go down to the school and
see what she keeps on about, I only have me shawl; will you
go?'

'What! Me? Not on your life. Now that's a damn silly
thing to ask me to do, isn't it! What could I say to the headmistress?'
'Well,
will you go and see her teacher, then?'

John had just stared blankly at his mother, then picked up
his cap and walked out of the house.

Katie thought the only one who understood was Christine.
She liked Christine nearly as much as she liked Miss Llewellyn,
but not quite. Life had taken on an added glow since Christine
came into it; for Christine made her pinnies and dresses out of
her own old ones. She gave her and Molly nice things to eat,
too; and she had even given them money, real money, half a
crown each. But only twice, for when they took their half
crowns into their mother the second week she made them take
them back.

Katie could not understand her mother's attitude of not


77


speaking to Christine and her grandfather. She allowed her
and Molly to go next door, but Mr. Bracken and Christine had
never been into her house since that terrible day some months
ago when their mother was taken bad. John and Dominic, too,
went next door; and she often sat on John's knee while he and
Mr. Bracken talked. They talked about funny things, one of
which stuck in her mind: Mr. Bracken said you could have
anything you wanted if you only used your thoughts properly.
... There were so many things she wanted, but she wanted
above all to be a teacher. Should she do what Mr. Bracken told
John, lie on her back with her arms outstretched and think of
being a teacher until she felt herself floating away? Eeh no!
she'd better not, for there were some people who said Mr.
Bracken was the devil. He wasn't; but anyway, she'd better not
do it.

She always had a queer feeling when Dominic was next
door, when she would wonder if he were trying to do what he
was doing that night she went in unexpectedly. He had Christine
pressed in the corner and was trying to kiss her. Her blouse
was open, and the ribbon of her camisole was loose. Katie
knew that Christine was frightened, for she held on to her
until Dominic went out. Then she told her not to mention to
John what had happened; and Katie only too readily promised.

At last she reached the dark well of the pawnshop, and
listened, her eyes wide and sad, as Bob said, 'Only three-and
six, hinny. It's getting a bit threadbare.' He turned to a woman
and asked, 'Will you put it in for her?' And the woman
nodded, taking the penny Katie offered her. Katie wished she
were fourteen, then if she had to come to the pawn she wouldn't
have to pay somebody for putting the stuff in - a whole penny
just for signing your name! It was outrageous, and she disliked
the woman intensely for being so mean as to take the penny.

As she was leaving the shop with the money tightly grasped
in her hand, Bob said, 'I've got something here that might
interest one of your brothers. It'll fit nobody else round these
parts. It's a top coat, and it's a bobby-dazzler. Ten shillings, it
is. And I only wish I had what it cost when it was new. Tell
one of them to have a look in.' Katie said she would.


78


She went on to the butcher's, and from there to buy a gas
mantle. In Mr. Powell's, she stood waiting while he hunted for
the box which contained the turned down mantles. His
search took him into the back shop, and Katie was left alone
standing before an assortment of comics. They were arrayed on
a sloping counter: Rainbow, Tiger Tim's Weekly, Comic Cuts, and others. Her eyes dwelt on them longingly. It was weeks
and weeks since she was able to buy a comic. She would likely
get a penny off John on Saturday. But Saturday was as far
away as Christmas, and there stretched before her the rest of
the afternoon and the long, long evening. And she daren't ask
her mother for even a ha'penny out of the suit money. On the
front of Rainbow, the Bruin boys were up to their games
again: the tiger, the parrot, the elephant, and others, were
playing one of their naughty pranks on Mrs. Bruin. And inside
the comic, Katie knew, would be the story of the little
girl who was really a fairy and worked magic. Her eyes darted
to the back shop. All she could see was Mr. Powell's feet on
the top of a pair of steps. Her hand went up and touched the Rainbow. It hesitated for a second, then with one swift movement,
the Rainbow was inside her coat, and for the first time
in her life she found herself wetting her knickers. The combined
horror was too much for her. She ran out of the shop,
down the dock bank to the arches. She did not stop to look
inside her coat; her sin had already obliterated the joy of the
comic. She was a thief! She had stolen! Mr. Powell would
miss the comic and put the pollis on her track; her mother
would be taken to court and her face would become white
again, and all at school would know . .. Miss Llewellyn would
know!

Standing over the gutter, under the high, bleak arches, she
vomited, and the comic slipped down from beneath her coat
and became fouled with the sick.


There was a long row of boys and girls waiting to go into
confession, for tomorrow was the first Friday in the month,
on which day they all attended communion. They nudged each
other and fidgeted whilst bending over in grotesque positions


79


in supposed prayer. They whispered and passed sweets, and
showed one another holy pictures; yet there was no noise at
all, so practised were they. It was three weeks since Katie
was last at confession, the longest period between her confessions
she could remember. Although the chill autumn air was
filling the church she felt hot and sick. She had been sick a
number of times since the day she took John's suit to the pawn
- she refused to think of it as the day she stole the comic. But
now she had to think of the comic, for she was about to make
her confession.

A teacher, not Miss Llewellyn, came and moved a row and
a half of children down to the pews opposite Father O'Malley's
box, which were singularly bare of penitents. This left Katie
the next to go to Father Bailey. She was filled with a mixture
of relief and fear, belief that she had escaped Father O'Malley's
judgment, and fear that her turn was upon her.

A small, dark shadow emerged from one door of the confessional
box, and Katie stumbled in. But for the faint gleam
of a candle coming through the mesh from the priest's side the
box was black dark inside.

'Please, Father, give me thy blessing for I have sinned,' she
began. 'It is three weeks since my last confession.'

'Go on, my child.' Father Bailey's voice was like a soft
balm falling on her.

'I have missed Mass once.'

'Through your own fault?'

'No, Father. It was me clothes; me ma wouldn't let me
come.'

'Go on, my child.'

'I have spoken in church and I have missed me morning and
night prayers.'

'How often?'

'Three times ... no, four ... perhaps a few more, Father.'

'Why?'

' 'Cos the lino's all cracked and it sticks in me knees when
I kneel down.'

The priest made a noise in his throat and said, 'To
strengthen your soul it is important that you say your prayers


80


- prayers are the food of the soul like bread is the food of the
body... . You understand, my child?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Then under no circumstances should you starve your soul.5

'No, Father.'

'Go on.'

But Katie couldn't go on. Her clasped hands, pressed
against the elbow rest on a level with her face, were stuck together
with sweat. The confessional box seemed weighed down
with the smell of incense and mustiness.

'Is there anything more?' the priest asked.

'Yes, Father.'

'Well then, what is it?'

Silence followed his question. And after a moment he went
on: 'Don't be afraid, my child; there is nothing so terrible that
God won't forgive.'

'I stole.'

The priest's hand was taken away from his cheek and his
face turned towards the mesh, and Katie looked up into two
white bulbs. Then the hand was replaced again.

Katie shivered during the silence that followed; she felt her
sin had been a shock even to the priest.

'What did you steal?'

'A Rainbow.'

'A what!' The hand was dropped again.

'A comic'

The priest coughed. 'Now, my child, you know how it hurts
our Blessed Lord when you do anything like that.'

'Yes, Father.'

'And will you do it again?'

'No, no. Never, Father.'

'No, I know you won't. And if you could find a way to pay
the shopkeeper for the comic it would put everything right,
wouldn't it?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Now, for your penance say one Our Father and ten Hail
Marys, and tell Our Lord that never again will you hurt Him;
and He will forgive you. And don't forget to kneel when you

81

are saying your prayers, in spite of the lino; for remember the
nails in the cross.'

The priest made the sign of the cross and said the absolution,
whilst Katie murmured, 'Oh, my God, I am very sorry
I have sinned against Thee, because Thou art so good and
by the help of Thy Holy Grace I will never sin again.'

'Good night, my child, and God bless you,' said Father
Bailey. 'And worry no more; He understands.'

In a holy daze, Katie walked out of the box, and in the
same state she said her penance, kneeling in the corner of the
dark church, straining her eyes up to the statue of the Virgin
and the Child, knowing that her sin was wiped away. And on
walking out of the church, there was John, standing under
the lamp. It all seemed part of God's Grace. She ran to him
and flung her arms about him, crying, 'Oh John! Oh John!'
as if she had not seen him for years. Then she asked, 'Are you
going to confession?'

'No,' John said; 'I was passing and I thought I'd wait for
you.'

She knew this wasn't true; he never had to pass this way;
he had come to meet her because she was crying when she left
home. She seemed to have been crying for weeks. She knew
that her mother and John were worried about her, for she
couldn't tell them why she cried. But now she was free again the
dreadful weight was lifted from her.

John, looking down into her bright face, wondered what
had wrought the change. He said teasingly, 'Has Father Bailey
given you a pair of wings?'

'Eeh, our John!' She shook his arm as she walked by his
side. 'But Father Bailey is nice, isn't he? He's so nice he makes
me want to cry.'

'Well, in that case, I'll tell him to go for you the next time
I see him, for you've done enough crying lately to last you a
lifetime.'

Katie did not speak for a time. And then she said softly,
'I won't be crying any more, John.'

'You won't? Well, that's something to know. Why have you
been crying so much lately, anyway?'

82

There was a longer silence before she replied, 'I stole.'

Her statement came as a shock, stunning him for a while.

'You what, Katie?' he asked.

'I stole, and I was frightened. It was a comic from Mr.
Powell's. And now I've been to confession and Father Bailey
says it's all right.'

'You stole a comic from Mr. Powell's?' There was incredulity
in John's voice. ... Mick and Molly could thieve; Dominic
and himself could lift things from the dock, although his own
lifting was a fleabite compared with Dominic's - Dominic
filled his trousers from the yorks up with grain, and sold it to
anybody who kept hens; the only thing in that line he himself
brought home was a few green bananas for the bairns, or an
odd bit of fruit from burst boxes. Nevertheless, they all did it;
but that Katie should lift anything seemed monstrous to him.
It might only be a comic, but everything needed a beginning.
'Have you done it before?' he asked.

'No, only that once!'

'Why did you do it?' The question was ridiculous; as if he didn't know why she had done it!

'I hadn't had a comic for weeks, and I hadn't a ha'penny.'

'If you want a comic, ask me. Don't ever do that again, will
you ?' He stopped and looked down on her.

Katie couldn't see his face clearly, but she knew by his voice
that he was vexed, more vexed than Father Bailey had been.
'Oh no, John, I'll never do it again ... never.'

Yes, she could say that now, but there would be times, many
times, when she would be without a ha'penny ... and he too.
What would happen then?

They walked on in silence, and he told himself it was only
a kid's trick ... Yes, it might be ... any kid's, but not Katie's.
It was this blasted, soul-shrivelling poverty, where a bairn
was driven to steal because she hadn't a ha'penny! The
thought persisted that because she had done it once she would
do it again, and that by the time she left school and was ready
for a place she'd be a dab hand at lifting. And then there'd be
more scope. Nothing big perhaps; just a few groceries, an odd
towel, or a hankie. ... Oh, he knew what would happen. ...


83


Well, it mustn't; not to Katie, anyway. He must try and get
more work, or different work, or something. He must see that
never again would she be short of a ha'penny. But would that
solve the problem?

He slowed his pace, and Katie, silent and apprehensive,
glanced up at him. Suddenly he stopped again and said, 'What
about this exam your teacher's on about? What have you got
to do?'

She peered up at him. 'Miss Llewellyn says that if I pass
this examination I can do pupil training after I'm fourteen;
and do another examination, and perhaps then I may be able
to ... to go to ... a college.' The last word was whispered,
and John whispered back, 'A college?' He sighed, and they
walked on again. It was fantastic ... College! Yet why
should it be? What did Peter Bracken say, not only say but lay
down that it was a law? Anything to which you applied your
thought you could bring into being. Peter had urged him again
and again to put some of his methods to the test, but he had
laughed at him, saying, 'No, Peter, I'm a Catholic; a poor one,
I admit, but nevertheless that's my religion, and I'm trying
nothing else.'

But Peter had said, 'This has nothing to do with religion,
John; it's merely using your thought in a proper way.'

Well, here was a test. ... Could he think Katie to a college?
It sounded as daft as if he had said he would think her into
being the Queen of England. Yet hadn't Peter given him proof
of his power of concentrated thought? His mother was living
proof. And she was aware of it too; that was why she never
spoke of it, or to Peter; to her simple mind it was something
too terrible for probing.

Peter said that once you set your mind and heart on something
and concentrated on it day after day, things came to your
aid in what seemed a mysterious way but which was simply
your positive thought reaching out into the realm of all thought
and making contact with its own kind.

John did not profess, even to himself, to understand half
Peter's words, let alone their meaning, but this much he could,
perhaps, believe ... if you wanted a thing badly enough you

84

could get it. But as Peter warned, beware of what you want, for
sometimes that which you felt you wanted most could, in the
end, wreck you.

Well, it would certainly be to Katie's good if she became a
teacher, and he couldn't see that wrecking anyone. It was a
wild and almost impossible dream, yet he would will it. But
first he must know what he was up to. He would go and see
Miss Llewellyn.

For the third time he stopped. Was he mad ? Go and see that
lass! She'd scare the yorks off him. Well, he wouldn't wear
yorks. No, he wouldn't. To Katie's astonishment, he hurried
on again, and now she had to run to keep pace with him.

Only Mary Ellen was in when they got home, and Katie
stood listening to John with an astonishment equal to that of
her mother's as he said, 'Look, ma, there's fifteen shillings' he
placed the money on the table - 'I was saving it up towards
a suit. I want you to pay the seven-and-six off that top coat and
get me a new shirt ... one with a collar.' He did not look
at Mary Ellen when saying this, for never before had he asked
for a shirt with a collar; it had always been a striped flannelette
one and a new muffler. 'Get a good one,' he added, 'about
five shillings. And get me a cap too, a grey one, darkish.'

'What's up, lad?' Mary Ellen asked quietly when he had
finished.

'Nothing much.' He turned and smiled at Katie, and punched
her playfully on the side of the head. 'I'm going to see her
teacher about that examination, as you asked me, and I want
to be decent.'


85


CHAPTER SIX


THE VISIT


John stood sheepishly before Mary Ellen: 'Now if you tell
me I look like the silver king I'll not set foot outside the
door.'

Mary Ellen didn't proffer to tell him anything, she merely
continued to stare at him. Who would have thought that a coat
and a collar on his shirt would have made such a difference.
He looked like a ... well, like one of those adverts in the Shields Daily Gazette . . . no, better; there's never been a coat
like this in Shields, she was sure. And anyway, the name inside
the pocket said London. He was big enough, God knew, but
the coat made him look even bigger. It was not shaped like
those she was used to seeing, but hung full and was as thick as
a blanket, with a check lining of fine flannel. A thrill of pride
surged through her. Why, he could pass for a 'big pot'. His
boots were shining as they had never done before, and the grey
cap matched the dark, heather colour of the coat. She said,
with a poor effort of offhandedness, 'You'll do. Mind, don't
forget to take your cap off when you go in.'

'Now what do you take me for! I'm not a numbskull altogether.'
'No,
lad, I know,' she said apologetically. 'Anyway, you'll
likely not find her in ... Saturday night and all. Why you
couldn't go in the daylight, I don't know.'

'You know fine enough. Imagine me going down the street
like this; the place would be out.'

Breaking the silence of her admiration, Katie burst out,
'They would have thought you were going to a wedding and
shouted, "Chuck a ha'penny out." '

86

'Yes, they would that.' he laughed. 'Well, here I go. And
if that Miss Llewellyn doesn't fall on me neck and say, "Oh,
John, you look lovely," I'll skelp her face for her.'
He left them both laughing, Katie rather hysterically, her
face buried in the couch.
Now he was outside in the dark street the jocular ease of
manner he had assumed before his mother fell from him. He
walked swiftly, passing people he knew but who failed to
recognize him, and of whom he felt one or two turn as if
puzzled and stare after him.
When he reached the dark stretch of road beyond the sawmill,
he slackened his pace and, like a child, fingered the coat.
He brought the lapel up to his nostril and sniffed. There was
a faint aroma of tobacco mingled with another smell ... not
scent ... he couldn't place it. He could only think it was a
swell of a smell anyway. But now he must forget about the coat
and think of what he would say to Miss Llewellyn. God, what
an ordeal! Would he be able to speak to her alone, or would
her family be there? Had she a family? He supposed so. Anyway,
as his mother said, being Saturday night she might be out.
Likely with that Culbert fellow. But it was early, not six
o'clock yet, so there was a chance he'd catch her. If he didn't
he could try again on Monday, which would give him
another chance to wear the coat. He chuckled to himself: 'I'm
like a bit of a bairn, and as frightened.'
Katie had told him where the house lay on the outskirts of
Simonside. She said he would know it, for it had a lawn in
front and two gates, and that one of the gates had a wooden
arch over it. He found it all too soon; it stood by itself, lying
well back from the road. There was a light in an upstairs
window, and the only light downstairs came through the
stained glass of the front door. He stood at the gate looking
towards the house until the sound of approaching footsteps,
which had the ominous tread of a policeman, gave him the
impetus to walk up the short drive.
His ring was answered by a maid, a little slip of a thing,
all starch and black alpaca down to her feet. Very much like
Katie would be if this didn't come off, he thought.

87

The maid spoke first, after having peered at him. 'Mr.
Llewellyn's not in.'

He almost laughed. They could titivate her up, but they
couldn't titivate that accent; it was the broadest of Tyneside.
'Neither is Mrs. Llewellyn,' she said, and was on the point
of closing the door on him when he found his voice.

'It's Miss Llewellyn I want to see.' He smiled at her; he
could be at home with her, anyway.

'Oh.' Her eyes grew wider, and she opened the door
further. 'Well, you'd better come in. She's upstairs; she's just
got back.'

John stepped past her into the hall, and she went to open
a door to the right, then changed her mind, saying, 'Eeh no,
you'd better wait in here.' She crossed the hall, passed the foot
of the stairs and went down a short passage. And when he followed
her she ushered him into a long, narrow room, at the
far end of which a fire was burning.

She left him, only to return before he had time to look round.
'I forgot. What's your name?' she asked.

A great desire to laugh came over him. It could be
Katie ... no, Molly; Katie wouldn't have forgotten to ask
the name.

'O'Brien.'

'O'Brien,' she repeated. Then, seeing the twinkle in his eye,
her face refused to be uniformed like her body and she smiled
broadly. 'I'm new, I've only been here a week.' She hunched
her shoulders. 'I'm always putting people in the wrong rooms.
This is Miss Mary's.'

She disappeared, and he stood, cap in hand, looking around
him. Well, he was inside, in Miss Mary's room. So she was
a Mary, like his mother. And she had a room to herself ... not
a bedroom either. He thought the Bracken's furniture wonderful.
Then what could he say of this room?

As he gazed about him, the room took away the ease and
self-possession the little maid had momentarily given him. It
was a melody of colour. He had never imagined colour as part
of a room - good, strong furniture, yes, but the colour never
got beyond a shiny brown. Here there was russet and green,

88

gold and white. The room was carpeted to the walls with green.
Green curtains hung across the entire wall at the further end of
the room, and a russet-covered chair and couch were standing
cross-wise before the fire. Half of one long wall was taken up
with a low bookcase, on top of which stood a number of china
figures, gentlemen in ruffles, ladies in crinolines, their delicate
colourings reflected in the dark surface of the wood, on which
they endlessly danced or bowed. The yellow tone was supplied
by early chrysanthemums, rearing with frosty elegance from a
tall glass vase standing on a round table.. .. And then the white
tone. He found his eyes drawn to this, and he walked a few
steps towards it. It was a statuette of a woman, dead white and
completely nude. The trailing hair covering part of one breast
and falling across her stomach and over her womb only emphasized
her nakedness. She was standing on an inlaid box by
the side of the green curtains and reached just above his waist.
She was about two feet tall, but she filled his entire vision,
seeming to become alive before his eyes. In the back of his
mind, he knew that she was indecent and should not be in a good catholic home, especially a schoolteacher's.

As he heard the quick, muffled footsteps descending the
stairs, he almost sprang back away from her into the centre of
the room again, and faced the door. Mary Llewellyn came in
smiling, and as he looked at her he wondered at his nerve in
daring to come and see this woman. Never before had he come
into contact with anyone like her, and he was struck dumb. She
seemed to move in a radiance. Did it emanate from the softness
of her eyes or from the tenderness of her lips, or from the
quick movements of her hands as she spoke ? He did not know
- he knew only that she was different.

'Hallo, Mr. O'Brien.' Like her eyes, her voice was warm; and
a slight catch of huskiness in it added to its charm. 'You wanted
to see me? Come up to the fire and sit down.'

He followed her, his eyes fixed on the piled coils of her hair,
and his inarticulateness was passed over in the process of sitting
down.

He sat, half in the big chair, his cap in his hand, and she
sat on the couch, across the hearth from him. She was wearing

89

a blue dress with a dark red belt... she was like her room, full
of warm, embracing colour.
'I suppose you've come to talk about Katie?' she smiled at
him and waited.
'Yes.' The voice didn't sound like his own; it was as if he
were shouting in a large, empty hall.
'I'm so glad you have, for I should like to know your plans
for her. . . . Would you like her to become a teacher?'
'Yes.' Damn! Couldn't he say anything but yes! She would
get the impression he was nothing but a numbskull.
'I'm glad of that. I know what to do now - I'll speak to the
headmistress about her. Even if she only becomes an uncertified
teacher, it would be something, wouldn't it?'
'Yes. Oh yes.' Was he a fool altogether? Yes, yes, yes. Why
couldn't he be himself and say something, badly as he might
express it?
There followed a silence, during which their eyes met and
held. Hers were the first to drop away, and he felt she was embarrassed
by his staring .. . perhaps annoyed. She leant forward
and stirred the fire, and he suddenly began to talk - to
straighten matters, as he put it to himself.
'I'm a poor envoy.' He wasn't sure if this was the right word,
but he liked his placing of it; and he went on, 'There is so much
I want to say about Katie, and so much to ask you. There's
nothing I want more in the world than for her to become a
teacher, but . . . Well, it's like this. You can guess how we
are .. .' he substituted the word 'situated' for 'fixed' - 'You can
guess how we are situated. It's no good pretending, is it?'
Without being aware of the transition, he was at his ease, talking
frankly as he would have done to someone who knew all
there was to know about him. 'There won't be any money to
help her as far as I can see. If it's going to mean money, well,
I'm afraid ...' He lifted his shoulders expressively. 'If it was
left to me and I could earn it I would, but I'm rarely on full
time.' This was coming down to earth with a vengeance, he
thought. So much for his coat.
Mary was leaning back against the couch now, and she too,
as she listened to him, was thinking about his coat. Remembering
90

how she had seen him before, she had expected to find him
dressed in much the same way. The coat so altered his appearance
that she hardly recognized him as the same person; he
looked rather handsome. Well, not handsome. There was something
too rugged about his face for it to be handsome. Attractive?
Yes, he looked very attractive. His eyes, particularly,
were nice, especially when he smiled. It was strange what a
difference clothes could make, outwardly at any rate. Yet the
first time she saw him, she remembered imagining how he
might look if he could dress like Gilbert. It seemed odd now
that she should have met him the day she refused Gilbert. . ..
Suddenly she thought, I like him; he's nice - he's like Katie
in a way.
She stood up hastily, saying, 'I haven't had any tea. Perhaps
you'll have a cup with me, and then we can talk the whole thing
out. Excuse me a moment.'
She gave him no time to refuse, but hurried away; and
when she reached the door she turned, saying, 'Would you
care to take off your coat ? . . . you'll feel the benefit of it when
you go out; it's nippy tonight.'
John stood up, staring down the empty room. This was a
contingency for which he hadn't bargained. Against the coat,
he knew his suit looked cheaper and shabbier than ever. ...
Well, she was no fool to be taken in by the coat - no doubt she
had guessed he had come by it second-hand. He took it off and
laid it with his cap over the chair. Then he stood on the hearthrug
looking down at his suit, and a determination was born in
him: this was the last suit he'd ever get from a tally man. The
coat had told him one thing: there were clothes that were
made to fit a man. And he'd have them. How? He didn't know;
but have them he would. If one rig-out had to last him a lifetime;
he'd be dressed decent for once.
And she had asked him to stay and have a cup of tea ...
tea with Miss Llewellyn! It was fantastic.
He ran his finger round the inside of his collar; it felt tight
against his neck. He glanced into the mirror over the mantelshelf,
and hardly recognized himself; the soft glow of the light
seemed to make him look different. Or perhaps it was the

91

collar. ... And that was another thing ... never again would
he wear a muffler at the weekends, and perhaps not at nights
either.

He had just sat down again when she came in with a tray;
a silver one, with a teapot and jug on it. As he would have
done to relieve his mother from carrying anything, he got up
and took it from her. She smiled her thanks, and brought a little
table, and set it between the chair and the settee, and he placed
the tray on it.

The maid came in carrying another tray, which Mary took
from her, saying. 'All right, Phyllis, I'll see to it.'

With a sense of unreality, John watched her pour out the
tea. She had set a little table at his hand and told him to help
himself. The bread and butter was so thin he could have put
the plateful in his mouth at once. He watched Mary double her
piece in two, and followed suit, refusing her offer of jam, for
that would mean too much palaver.

And so, like one in a dream, he took tea with Miss Llewellyn,
and listened with only half his mind while she talked of Katie.
He was thinking of this room and of her and of the strangeness
of the whole thing. ... They were sitting here alone together,
having tea, just as if...

He was startled back to the full import of what she was saying
by hearing her repeat something he had said weeks ago:
'A day of high winds and far mastheads, and bonnie lassies.'

She laughed at his startled expression, and said, 'Now, when
I find phrases like that in Katie's composition, although I know
she's a clever child, I don't think she's that clever. Nor when
she writes this: "The morning sky was massed with white
clouds, like brakes ready for a day off." '

He felt the hot colour flooding up from his neck, and she
asked, 'Have you tried writing these thoughts down and working
them into something ?'

'Writing them down?' he repeated. The? Good Go ...
lord, no.'

'Why not?' she said. 'Burns did, and many others. I think
you should. I was sorry when I had to make Katie scrap the
composition in which she stated that ore on her tongue and

92

sweat in her hair and bleeding nails meant gold on a Saturday
and roaming round the market, hemmed in with the smell of
tallow and the flapping of skirts.'

Now his face was scarlet, and he said, 'I'll have to be more
careful of what I say. ... You see, we go for walks--' He
stopped.

'You should write them up, you know,' she put in; 'a lot of
what Katie repeats has poetry in it. Why don't you try?'

He had been leaning back in the chair, quite at ease. He still
leant back, but he was no longer at ease. His face drooped into
a sadness, which conveyed itself to his voice, together with reproach
and stark frankness as he said, 'I can't even speak
properly.'

'Oh, please don't say that!'

It was Mary's turn to flush now. She stood up, and taking
his cup, refilled it. 'You don't speak differently from anyone
else. And that has nothing to do with putting your thoughts
to paper.'

'I've been told there's such a thing as grammar.' There was
a touch of bitter sarcasm in his voice.

'Yes, but that comes ... you learn as you go.'

He made no reply, and she, too, became silent, furious with
herself for being a tactless fool. He had been so at ease, with
quite a charming naturalness, and she had to bring up such a
suggestion as him starting to write, of all things! But on the
other hand, she was perfectly sincere in all she said, for some
of the things Katie repeated were surprising in their poetical
content. But be careful of what you are about, she warned herself.
Don't put into his head ideas that will make the life he
has to lead more obnoxious to him. Remember, you are not
talking to Gilbert.

She glanced at the clock ... half-past six. She hoped Gilbert
wouldn't put in one of his friendly visits; visits that were, she
knew, manoeuvred by her mother.

John, noting her glance, said rather flatly, 'Well, I'll think
over what you've said. I'd better be going now ... Saturday
night isn't a very convenient time to call.'

'No, no' - she put out her hand as if to press him back into


93



his chair from the distance - 'you haven't finished your tea
yet, and I'm not going out again. And anyway,' she laughed in a
renewed effort to put him at ease - 'there are many things I
want to ask you. Who, for instance, are Mr. Bracken and Christine?
Oh, Christine's wonderful!' She gave an imitation of
Katie, closing her eyes and screwing up her face. 'You see, I get
them every morning - while Katie is walking with me to
school.'
John laughed with her. 'Our Katie's a chatterer. They are
the people who live next door.'
'And Christine has a wonderful house, and cooks wonderful
food, and has wonderful clothes. ... Oh, she's wonderful!'
John's laugh rang out, free and unrestrained now - her
imitation was so like Katie when describing anyone. 'I'm afraid
Katie thinks a number of people are wonderful. Not that she
isn't right,' he added hastily, realizing that sitting before him
was, to Katie, the most wonderful of them all.
Mary, looking intently at him, wondered if he was in love
with this Christine, about whom she heard so much. Katie
talked of only two people, John and Christine; before, it was
only John. . . . Our John said this, Our John said that . . . and
the child had managed to convey a picture of someone quite
out of the ordinary. Mary knew that the O'Briens were poor;
not just clothes-poor, but of the poor who did not always eat
well, which was different and more potent kind of poverty; but
the child had made this John emerge as someone untouched by poverty, an independent being, living with yet not of them.
Then lately, to this worship was added that of this Christine
.... Christine and John, Christine and John.
How was it, Mary wondered, that some girls got men like
this to love them, big kind men with a sense of humour as he
had. At their first meeting, she'd thought he was to be pitied,
but now she saw that she was wrong - he was intelligent and
entertaining, the latter without making any effort to be so. He
was certainly better company than Gilbert, even if he lacked
Gilbert's taste in literature and art ... or perhaps, because of
it. Being a big man, like her father, was he attracted to small
women, she wondered. This Christine, according to Katie's description,

94
was apparently small. So was her own mother, small
and helpless. Helpless! The word brought a cloud over Mary's
eyes, for she had come to recognize that beneath her helpless
exterior her mother was pure granite; and to live in peace
with anyone like her meant submerging oneself entirely. When
she was young, her happy, loving nature did not question her
mother's tyranny, and it was easy to accept 'Mother knows
best'. How different her life would have been had she stood
against her; for now her art study would have been finished.
And who knows where it would have taken her - London even
Paris. Because her mother considered it wicked to draw
bodies with no clothes on, she obediently put clothes on them.
And again, when her mother said she would never make an
artist . . . and anyway, artists weren't nice people ... she subdued
her natural talent becoming a schoolteacher, not through
necessity, but because her father insisted she should have an
occupation. But during these last few years had come a change,
until now a state of undeclared war existed between her and
her mother. The request to have a room of her own began it,
and the refusal to be pushed into marriage with Gilbert
Culbert, the son of her mother's old friend, widened the breach.
And when, answering some inner urge, she bought the statue, and her mother demanded that it be removed from the house,
the breach was further widened.
Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice that they were sitting
in silence. How strange. She could never sit in silence with
Gilbert. She lifted her gaze from her hands and found John
looking at her, not intently, but rather reflectively. She smiled,
and he blinked and roused himself.
'Are you interested in boats?' she asked. 'I mean the building
of them.'
'Well, I know nothing about the building of them. I only
know I get certain feelings when working in them. A feeling of
friendliness for some and dislike for others. I suppose it has a
lot to do with their cargo ... and,' he laughed, 'the sweat in
my hair.'
She laughed with him and asked, 'Would you like to see
some models my father has made ?'

95


'Yes, I would, very much.'

'Come into his workshop, then.'

She rose and went down the length of the room, and John
followed her towards the green curtains. Before she drew them
aside she gently moved the box and the statue. He watched her
steady the statue with her hand, and it occurred to him as being
strange that the statue no longer looked indecent but rather
lovely ... very like what she would be ...

He was red in the face when she looked up at him, and she
said hastily, almost apologetically, 'I came across it in an
antique shop in Newcastle. It's an octoroon. I don't suppose
you know any more than I did what an octoroon is; but, on
looking it up, I found that she is the offspring of a quadroon
and a white person, and a quadroon is one part negro and three
parts white. Sounds very complicated, doesn't it?'

They were standing regarding each other now. Her hand was
on the curtain and her face was unsmiling, and in her eyes he
fancied he detected an appeal. For what exactly, he didn't
know. But he said, 'I think it's very beautiful.' He, too, was unsmiling.
And when she answered simply, 'Thank you,' it almost
appeared as if the compliment had been meant for her. She
turned swiftly and opened the french window, and stepped
into the conservatory. He followed, going through a door close
by and into the workroom.

It was in darkness, and she said, 'Just a moment. There are
matches here, I'll light the gas.'

She gave an impatient exclamation as the box fell from her
hand, and when, instinctively, they both stooped to retrieve it,
causing them to collide and she to overbalance, his hands
naturally were thrust out to steady her, and in the darkness he
supported her ... for one brief second his hands held her arms,
and in that second the thing was done - the fuse that might
have smouldered and died was fanned.

When the room was plunged into stark light from the double
burner, John was still standing near the door. Mary did not
speak for a moment, and when she asked, 'What do you think
of them?' he moved slowly into the room and began to look
round. There were dozens of models of small craft, set in

96

11

stocks, on the shelves. In amazement, he asked, 'Your father
made all these?'
'Yes. And most of them he's built full-size and sold. Do you
recognize Mary, the tug?'
It was with genuine astonishment that he exclaimed, 'Your
father's Llewellyn the boat builder then!'
'Yes. Didn't you know?'
He shook his head. He had never associated Llewellyn, the
boatbuilder, with Miss Llewellyn the teacher. He knew
Llewellyn by sight, as most of the dock men did. He had a
little boat-building yard, tucked away on the side of the river.
It still went under the name of Haggart's Yard, and it was
known that Llewellyn worked in it as a lad by the side of his
father. But that hadn't suited young Llewellyn; and he and his
father built a boat on their own and sold it. It was said they
built it in their backyard. That was a start, and eventually,
when old Haggart died, and his own father too, Llewellyn
bought the yard. He was known as a rising man. ... And he
was her father!
With this knowledge, she again assumed to him the unapproachableness
of an hour ago. How had he the nerve to
come here!
When she spoke to him, smiling over her shoulder and
saying, 'Come and look at this little yacht, my father hopes to
build her some day,' he went to her; but the ease had left him,
and he held the model in his hand without making any comment.
Her nearness made him uneasy. He suddenly wanted to
get away from her and her politeness ... she would act like
this towards anyone, a beggar on the road, even ... she was
made that way, courteous, easy of manner.
'What do you think of it? You have seen lots of boats, but
have you see anything like her?'
She was looking up into his straight face, trying to draw him
out again, when a voice from the doorway said, 'Hallo, Mary.'
They both started at the sound of the quiet, even tone.
'Oh! hallo, Gilbert,' she said, and after a pause, added,
'Come in a minute. ... This is Mr. O'Brien. Mr. O'Brien, Mr.
Gilbert.'
97


Neither of the men made the usual gesture to shake hands,
but inclined their heads... John in an abrupt nod, and Culbert
in a more leisurely movement. John knew that he was under
Culbert's scrutiny, and after his first concentrated stare, he did
not look at the man but at Mary; for he was asking himself
how anyone like her could take up with a fellow like Culbert,
a weed of a man, narrow all the way up, right to the pointed
head, over which his thin hair was meticulously brushed.
When Alary led the way back into her room John made
straight for the chair over which his coat and cap lay, and she
said nothing to delay his departure.
He nodded again to Culbert in farewell, and Mary escorted
him to the front door. The feel of his coat about him did
nothing to allay his renewed feeling of gaucheness.
'Well, thanks,' he said awkwardly. 'It's been kind of you to
... to help me about Katie.'
They stood regarding one another, and she too seemed to
have lost some of her ease of manner. 'I'll do all I can for Katie,
I'm very fond of her. And she's a clever child. ... Good night,
Mr. O'Brien.'
She held out her hand, and after the merest hesitation he
took it. Firm and cool, it gripped his, conveying a sense of
breathlessness and urgency. The feeling hung between them;
even when their hands parted and he passed through the doorway
it was there... a breathlessness.
He walked away down the path with her parting words acting
like an opiate to his brain. 'If you feel there is anything
you would like to know, at any time, please come and see me
again.' It was odd, he thought, but she was the kind of person
he could ask questions of.
But once out in the cold night air, the old brake of 'Steady
your keel' thrust its reality upon him, and he said to himself,
'Well, that's that! It went off all right; Katie's set.'
As he reached the bottom of the Simonside bank, he deliberated
whether to go into Shields and the market or walk
slowly back home. If he did the latter it would mean thinking
and going over every second of the past hour. No. He would go
into Shields where there were lights and people. ... But what
98 about being seen in this coat? Well, what about it? It seemed
that within the past hour he had lost and regained his self
confidence a number of times, but each time he regained it it
was stronger, for now he didn't mind being seen in the coat;
it was the portent of things to come ... he would have things
... his mother and Katie would have things. How, he didn't
know; but they would.

His decision to seek company in the shape of crowds did not
immediately have the desired effect, and he found himself
again thinking of Mary Llewellyn, but with a forced detachment.
Fancy a lovely lass like her going to marry that .. .
skinnymalink! Well, it was certainly no business of his. She
had been very nice to him, more than nice; and she would help
Katie; that was the only thing that mattered.

As he entered the first arch of Tyne Dock a well known
figure, shambling towards him, brought him back with a bump
to his own world. It was Nancy; and he could hear her snivelling
when she was still some distance away.

'Hallo, Nancy. What's the matter?' he asked her.

She hesitated, shuffled off the pavement in uncertainty,
then shuffled back when she recognized him. 'Eeh, John. Eeh,
John.'

'What's the matter?' he asked again.

'It's our Annie. She left me in the market - she run away,
and she had me tram fare. An' me ma said she had to look
after me and put me on the tram for me place.'

'Have you walked all the way from the market?' he asked her
gently.

'Yes. .. . It's our Annie. She run away, she did. An' me
mall skelp me when I get in, she will, cos Mrs. Fitzimmons
said I had to be back to clean the shop out when they closed.
An' me ma said our Annie had to put me on the tram.'

John put his hand in his pocket and gave her threepence.
'Now stop crying. You'll be back in plenty of time. There's
your tram fare and a penny to buy some bullets. Stand over
there' - he pointed back towards the bottom of Simonside
Bank - 'the Jarrow tram will be along in a minute.'

'Eeh! I can't get on the tram there, John. There's a bar


99


there an' me ma says I've got to keep away from bars, cos the men come out.'
John could see the tram in the distance swaying towards
them. He held out his hand to her: 'Come on, I'll put you on
it.'
The tram jolted to a stop, and he helped her up, saying to
the conductor, 'Put her off at the corner of Ferry Street, will
you?'
As the conductor rang the bell, a figure leant forward from
the end of the long wooden seat: 'Why, is that you. John?'
He recognized Mrs. Bradley, and answered rather shortly,
'Yes, it's me.'
'Why lad, I hardly knew you Well I never.'
The tram rumbled away, and the last John saw was Nancy
showing the coins in her hand to Mrs. Bradley. The picture
did not remain in his mind an instant, but he was to remember
it, and, unimportant as it seemed, it was to assume such proportions
that although it happened on this day of emancipation,
when he had first worn a fine top coat and taken tea with
Miss Llewellyn, its ugly significance was to blot them out.

TOO

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHRISTMAS EVE

Mary Ellen hummed softly ... it was many, many Christmases
ago that she felt as happy as she did now. The morrow
was Christmas Eve and she was really looking forward to it.
She worked at the table in the middle of the kitchen, cutting
out pastry for mince pies. Above her head hung a large, honeycombed
paper ball, suspended from the paper chains crisscrossed
under the ceiling. The kitchen was quiet and warm with
an unusual air of cosiness about it. As she worked she planned
for the morrow. She'd get up earlier than usual and blacklead
the stove before lighting the fire; and then, after she'd got them
all off to work, she'd get done and put everything shipshape;
then she'd get the dinner ready, and have the afternoon clear
... to go and get the coat.
Aye, it was a long time since she'd had a coat. A new
shawl would have done her; but no, John had a bee in his bonnet,
and she was to have a coat for Christmas. ... What had
come over him lately? He was the same lad to her, yet somehow
he was altered. It wasn't only the new suit he had, although
that made him look fine; no, it was in some other way he'd
altered. Well, never mind, he was still her lad, and the best on
God's earth. If only the other one was like him.
The thought of Dominic caused her to stop humming Why
hadn't he gone away, as he'd been hinting of doing for some
weeks past? Then Christmas would have indeed been grand.
She knew he had been inquiring after jobs in both the Liverpool
and London Docks; anywhere, he had said, to get away from
this hole.
When she came to think of it, Dominic too seemed changed.

101

It was all that lass next door she supposed - he was set on
her; but he didn't seem to be making much headway. Was
John his stumbling block? This was another thing which
puzzled her. John was always in next door, and often she heard
his laugh joined with that of the girl's. But there it seemed to
end. If he were courting her, he was doing it in a funny way;
for he never took her out. Pray God he wouldn't either. No,
no, that would be terrible if John really took up with her. Well,
she wasn't going to think about it; she was going to enjoy this
Christmas. She already had a piece of brisket and an aitchbone,
and if John went down to the market last thing the morrow he
might pick up a duck or something cheap. They sold them off
for next to nothing rather than have them left on their hands.
By, it'd be grand if he could get a duck! And on Christmas
Day they'd have Christmas cake and the rice loaf she'd made.
Nobody knew yet, but she was going to put icing on the cake.
By, they'd have a grand do.
A tap on the door broke in on her thoughts, and she called,
'Come in;' and Peggy Flaherty, after kicking her boots against
the wall, stumbled into the kitchen.

'Oh God above, it's enough to freeze your liver! It's at it
again, Mary Ellen - won't be able to stir hand or foot outside
the door shortly.'
'It hasn't started to snow again, surely?'
'It has so, Mary Ellen. As if it wasn't bad enough with
everywhere frozen solid. God's truth, I've never seen anything
like it! We'll have to be after watching the tap in the yard,
Mary Ellen, or it'll be a dry Christmas in one way we'll be
having. Oh, ye're lovely and warm in here, lass' - she wriggled
her fat inside her many coats - 'and the smell's good enough to
eat. And did ye ever see such a picture of a kitchen, with all
those bonny chains!'
'Sit down and warm yourself, and have a pie,' said Mary
Ellen.
'I will an' all, for I'm chilled to the bone. I'm just back from
Shields. Look' - she pulled three small packages from her bass
bag - 'some bits of things for the bairns' stockings.'
'Now, Peggy' - Mary Ellen compressed her lips - 'that's

102

madness, that is! You know you haven't got it to go and buy
presents.'

'Why haven't I then? I haven't a bite of sup to buy for
Christmas or Boxing Day, because out of the goodness of your
heart ye've asked me down ... so why haven't I? There they
are' - she laid the packages on the mantelpiece - 'we'll say no
more about them. There's only one thing I regret, and that is
I haven't got it to buy you all something. But business isn't what
it used to be; divil the pennorth of advice I've given out this
past three weeks. What's the matter with people, Mary Ellen?
'Tisn't as if there were no rows; God alive, they followed each
other like flies down at the bottom end last week? If it wasn't
for running me clubs I'd be hard set at times; but as long as I
get my rent I'm all right. And God's good. There was last
week-end I didn't know which way I was going to turn, when,
coming up the yard, that blessed lad of yours slipped me sixpence.
By, Mary Ellen, I think if ye lost everything in the
world and ye'd only him left, ye'd get by. ... Is he courting,
Mary Ellen?'

'Courting?' Mary Ellen turned and with a blank face looked
at Peggy. 'Not that I know of. Why do you ask?'

'Only I've seen him a number of times, three to be exact,
and the last no later than this dinner-time, talking to the same
lass. And a bonnier piece I've never seen. And mark ye, she
wasn't from around these doors either. Today she had a fur
coat on, and the tails hanging from the collar alone must have
left a number of poor animals feeling cold around their backsides.'
'A
fur coat?'

'The same. Tall she was, and strapping looking. And a voice
like the gentry, for I heard her as I passed. And it's me that
knows how the gentry talk - ye know that, Mary Ellen - for
Mr. Flaherty spent his life rubbing shoulders with them. And
it's the same process, ye know: as ye can't touch pitch without
becoming defiled, so ye can't mix among the gentry without
picking up their lingo.'

Mary Ellen surveyed Peggy. 'You must have made a mistake.'

103

'Not a bit of it, Mary Ellen. John called out to me himself.
"Hallo there, Peggy," he said, as true as I'm sitting here.'

Mary Ellen turned back to her baking board. ... John talking
to a lass with a fur coat on. Who could it be? And three
times. He wasn't a one to stand talking to lasses at any time,
only that one next door. She turned to Peggy again: 'It
wasn't--' She nodded her head towards the fireplace.

'No. I may be short in the sight, but I'm not that bad. This
was a big lump of a lass, in fact she was a woman: and twice
the size of that scrag end next door, bless ye.'

Mary Ellen could question Peggy no more at the moment,
for there was another knock on the door; it was Hannah Kelly.

She had a coat over her head, and she shook the soft snow
off it before coming into the kitchen. 'What weather! The only
ones enjoying it are the bairns. Hallo, Peggy. Is this where ye
are? By! they smell good Mary Ellen.' Hannah nodded towards
the pies.

'Help yourself, lass,' said Mary Ellen.

'Not now. Thanks all the same. I only came over to see you
a minute ... about something.'

Peggy, taking the covered hint with the abundance of her
good nature, said, 'I'll off up, Mary Ellen, for I must make a
start; I'm up to the eyes upstairs.'
'She never said a truer word,' said Hannah, when Peggy
had gone. 'How she lives among that junk, God alone knows.
I came over to tell ye about our Nancy, Mary Ellen; but I couldn't do it with her sitting there - she'd be offering me
advice, and I'm not in the mood to take Peggy's advice the
day.'

'Is anything wrong, Hannah?'

'It looks like it; I've had a letter from Mrs. Fitzimmons
about her. She says she's getting more queer every day, and
she's getting that way she won't work; she just stands staring
at her and says she can't. Ye know, Mary Ellen, that isn't like
Nancy. As bad as she is she can do the rough work of half a
dozen. Mrs. Fitzimmons says I'll have to bring her home if it
keeps on. ... Oh, Mary Ellen, there'll be hell to pay again with
our Joe if she's in the house all the time.'

104

'I'm sorry, lass. But perhaps you'll get her in some place
else.'

'Not if she won't work. Ye don't mind me coming across and
telling ye, Mary Ellen? Ye've got enough on your plate, I
know, without my troubles stacked on top, but ye're the only
one I seem to be able to talk to about her.'

'Why, lass, I only wish I could help you.'

Hannah sat down by the side of the fire and stared into the
glowing coals for a moment. 'It's an awful thing, Mary Ellen,
to know that a bairn ye've given birth to isn't all there.'

Mary placed her hand on Hannah's shoulder. 'We all have
our loads, lass; if it isn't one thing it's another.'

Hannah gnawed at her lower lip. 'You and John are the only
two who treat her like a human being. I know I don't. Sometimes
I can't stand the sight of her. Oh, ye don't know, Mary
Ellen, it's awful. But then, when I hear Joe going for her, I
get a sort of feeling and want to protect her somehow.' She
shook her head sadly. 'Well, the only thing I hope is she doesn't
come home till after the new year. Joe's banking on a little bit of
a do on New Year's Eve, but it'll be knocked completely on
the head if she's home; he'll do nothing then; likely stay out
most of the time.'

'She'll be all right,' Mary Ellen persisted, 'don't worry.
Look, let's have a cup of tea.'

Mary Ellen bustled about making tea. In the face of the
tragedy of having a partly imbecile daughter her load seemed
very light. She had poverty and drink to put up with, but not
that, thank God. Hers were all right up there.

The two women drank their tea and talked on ... about
Bella now. Hannah wasn't speaking to Bella, for whenever she
did Bella made some excuse to come downstairs and ferret out
her business. And Bella's constant presence in the house maddened
Joe. Mary Ellen could well understand this, for she had
no use for Bella Bradley, who was never happy unless someone
else was in trouble...

As the snow thickened and the light vanished earlier than
usual the kitchen was lit only by the glow of the fire - through
necessity the gas was never lit until it was almost impossible

105

to see, and Mary Ellen worked on, after Hannah had gone, more
by feel than anything else. She began to sing softly to herself her
mother and grandmother had sung the song before her - the
simple words expressing the tragedy of at least one phase of
their love:


Love, it is teasing,

Love, it is pleasing,

Love is a pleasure when it is new;

But as it grows older and the days grow colder

It fades away like the morning dew.


Mary Ellen wasn't thinking of the words, or how they
applied to her own life, but that she had much for which to be
thankful: Shane had not been really drunk since she was bad
that time, and his twitching had eased. There had been no row
in the house for months either. Well, they said it was a long
road that had no turning, and hers had turned.

On these pleasant thoughts the kitchen door was thrust
open again. She turned towards it, but could not distinguish
who was standing there. It could have been John, Shane or
Dominic; but she was expecting none of them for another
hour.

'Why can't you light the bloody gas!'

Mary Ellen groped for a piece of paper, which she lit in the
fire and put to the mantle, then turned and looked at Dominic.
She had seen his face portraying many moods, contorted with
passion or anger, drawn tight with cunning; but his expression
now was one she had never seen; his eyes were wide and hard,
and to her mind, had the thick, dull shine of a beer bottle. He
seemed to be spread in a new kind of anger, wide and high
with it.

'I want me tea now. I'm going out!'

'Well, get in first, can't you! It isn't ready yet. Can't you
get changed and have it with the others?'

'No, I can't! And anyway, you wouldn't expect God
Almighty to sit down with me, would you?'

She stared at him. Had he gone off his head? She watched
him fling his cap across the table on to the couch, pull off his


106


coat and fling it after the cap. The coat, in its flight, whipped
a number of pies on to the floor and sent a cloud of flour off
the board.

'Here!' Mary Ellen cried, 'what's up with you?'

He did not answer, but grabbed the kettle from the hob and
emptied it of hot water. He also emptied the pail of cold water,
and proceeded to wash, the water splashing over the side of
the dish and up the wall as he did so.

Mary Ellen cleaned up the mess from the floor; then picked
up the kettle and pail and went cautiously down the backyard.
The ashes on top of the ice were already covered with a layer
of snow. The tap was running in a thin trickle and she stood
on the fringe of ice and water, steadying herself against the
wall as she filled the pail. ... Always something to spoil
things. What was it now ?

She hunted around in her mind, but could find nothing.
Whatever it was was connected with his work, for he was home
early. And him saying, 'You wouldn't expect God Almighty to
sit down with me.' Did he mean John? She couldn't fathom
it.

When she returned to the kitchen, Dominic was in the bedroom,
and she hurriedly cleared the table and set some bread
and dripping and mince pies out.

When he eventually came to the table he stared down at the
food. 'That's a fine meal for a man, isn't it!' His voice seemed
to be torn from his throat.

'Well, you wouldn't wait. I'm going to fry.'

'You're going to fry!' he mimicked raspingly. 'Well, see
that you do plenty of it; the big pot'll need it to fill his swelled
head.'

Then his anger had to do with John. But how? What could
have happened at work?

After having eaten all Mary Ellen had placed before him,
Dominic left the house by the front way. As soon as the door
banged behind him Mary Ellen went hastily into the room,
and stood listening. Then, as she expected, came the muffled
knock. He was next door.

She sang or hummed no more but, filled with the old dread,

107


waited for John coming in - she had spoken too soon about
her road turning. There was something afoot, and from the
appearance of Dominic it was bad.
Katie and Molly rushed in, their hands blue and their noses
red. 'Oh, Ma, is the tea ready?' 'And, Ma, our Katie's dirtied
her knickers,' cried Molly.
'What!'
Both Katie and Molly burst out laughing at their mother's
expression, Molly bringing her head down to Katie's, and the
two of them pressing their faces together in their mirth.
'Not that way. She slipped on a slide and ended up in some
broken ice and slush,' Molly giggled.
'Are you wet?' Mary Ellen asked Katie.
'No, Ma, it dried.'
'Tea won't be for some time yet,' said Mary Ellen. 'Here,
take a bit of bread and get yourselves out again.'
Mary Ellen pushed a slice of bread at each of them. 'You
can stay out for another half-hour or so. Hunt up Mick and
bring him back with you.' It would be better, she thought, if
she had the house to herself when John came in.
When at last she heard the clanking footsteps in the yard,
she stood still facing the door. It might be Shane. The feet
kicked against the wall, and the door opened. It was John, not
with brows drawn and lips tight, bat with an almost childish
expression of pleasure on his face. He wasn't smiling - with
an effort he was keeping his face straight - but the light in his
eyes danced at her. She turned from him, puzzled. It couldn't
be that lass with the fur coat. No, how could that affect
Dominic?
'Is it still snowing?' she asked, as she bent over the pan on
the fire.
John didn't answer, but came and stood by her. 'Anybody
in?'
'No,' she said.
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her round to face
him, so close that her head had to go back to look up at him.
'I'll give you three guesses.... What do you think's happened?'
'Why, lad, how should I know?'
108'Go on.'

'You've been set on the Benisaf boat.'

John flung his head back and laughed out loud.

'Aye, lad, how should I know? Tell us.'

He stepped back, thrust his thumbs into the lapel of his
coat, drew himself up to his fullest height with mock dignity,
and said, in the deepest tones of his voice, 'Mrs. O'Brien, behold
... a gaffer!'

A gaffer ... Mary Ellen could make no comment. Had he
gone mad too? A gaffer. Her lad, and him only twenty-two.
Why, there was something wrong somewhere. There was only
one gaffer over the boats, and he must be a man steady in his
years. The old gaffer had died a couple of days ago, she knew,
but they couldn't have picked John. It was fantastic. Her face
expressed her feelings, and John laughed and said. 'You don't
believe it?'

'Well, lad ...'

'Yes, I know it's hard to take in.' He was suddenly serious.
'I haven't taken it right in meself yet. I couldn't, for the life of
me, believe they meant it.'

'Did the men pick you?'

'Yes, they voted for me to take old Reville's place.'

It was customary for the dock men who unloaded the boats
to choose their own boss. They also paid him so much a head
out of their wages. Most of the unloading was paid on tonnage,
and the gaffer's job was to select men for the boat and at the
end of discharging collect the money from the dock office, subtract
his due and pay out the men. But this alone did not cover
his duties, which often entailed taking off his coat and fighting
it out with any man who thought he was not getting a square
deal, and who said so forcibly. Another thing expected of the
gaffer was to provide subs for men who were out of work and
advances to those just being set on again.

This was in Mary Ellen's mind when she said, 'But lad,
how can you do it? ... The subs.'

'I've got over that. You know Mc'Cabe in the dock office.
Well, when I went to tell him he seemed to know how I was
fixed, and offered to lend me a few pounds to make a start...


109


I'll be able to pay it back in a few weeks. And I won't forget
him for it.'

'Lad, don't start on borrowed money. There's the twenty
five shillings for that coat. I don't need a coat; I've made ...'

'Here ... that's enough. You're getting that coat.'

'Were all the men for you?' She gazed up into his face;
she was smiling now and her heart was racing within her breast.
To think her lad had been picked for a gaffer. Oh, the road
had turned all right.

'Not all. But the ones that mattered were.' He turned away
and took off his coat. She knew he was referring to Dominic,
and perhaps Shane.

'Does your da know?'

'Yes. He took it all right.'

She heaved a sigh of relief. Now perhaps Shane would
get set on more often. No. She could quieten her hopes on
that score - John would more likely be fair to the other
extreme.

'Was none of the others after it?' she asked.

'Yes. But none of them were steady.'

Her eyes became misted. They had picked him, despite his
years, because he was... steady. Her John a gaffer. And Katie
set on the road to be a teacher. Oh, God was good.

The tears, gathering in her throat, threatened to choke her,
and she turned away and put her apron to her face.

'Here! Here!' John pulled her round, and as his great arms
pressed her gently to him a dam burst within her. No sorrow
could have broken it; but this happiness was overwhelming,
and she sobbed it out, leaning against him.


An hour later, when John saw Christine, he knew that she
was already aware of what he had come to tell her; and after
she exclaimed, 'Oh, John, what wonderful news! And at
Christmas too,' he looked at her closely and asked, 'What's the
matter? Aren't you well?'

'Yes. Yes, I'm all right,' she said hastily.

'No you're not, you're as white as a sheet. Has ...?'

She turned away and picked up a half-dressed doll from the

no

table. 'Dominic's just gone. He told me about you being made
a gaffer,' she said.

'Yes, I bet he did; and he'll likely be the first one I'll
have to take my coat off to. But that didn't make you look like
this.'

Christine sat down by the fire with the doll on her knee,
and proceeded to pull a frilled silk dress over its head.

'Look. If he's been up to any of his tricks...'

Christine cut him short with unusual curtness: 'He asked
me to marry him.' She said it while looking John full in the
face; the look was almost a challenge, and he experienced a
feeling of guilt. Why, he couldn't fathom; but it was so strong
that it swamped his indignation at Dominic's audacity.

'He wants me to go to Liverpool with him; then perhaps
abroad.'

'Abroad?'

'Yes.'

'Are you going to marry him?'

'No.' She was still looking at him, the dress was only half
over the doll's head. He blinked, and looked away from her
down at his feet; and she sighed faintly and resumed the fitting
of the dress.

John looked at her again. She was so sweet sitting there dressing
the doll; why couldn't he go to her and put his arms about
her and kiss her, just as often before he'd had the desire to kiss
her? But he knew that, whereas for him it would merely be a
kiss, to her it would be the absolute symbol of love. How he
became possessed of this knowledge he didn't know, for, as he
had asked himself on previous occasions, what did he know
about lasses? If she were Jenny Carey or Lily McDonald he
would perhaps have kissed her by now and let things take their
course, but with Christine he couldn't, it wouldn't be fair. Was
it even fair to come in so often? He supposed not, but he
liked talking to her and Peter.

The strain that had fallen on them was relieved by David
appearing. After glancing round, he asked, 'Has he gone
then?'

'If you're staying in take your coat off, dear,' said Christine.


in


John knew to whom David was referring, he also guessed
that Dominic had shooed David out.

'I'm getting a sculler for Christmas, John ... a real one.'

'No!'

'Yes. Aren't I, Christine?'

The boy's large, dark eyes, glowing in his pale face, always
aroused a tenderness in John. He was so thin, and almost girlish
in his fragility.

John asked Christine, 'He doesn't mean a real one?'

'Yes. Grandfather has already bought it - it's at the quay
corner. David's going to paint it himself and get it ready for
the fine weather. Aren't you?'

The brother and sister smiled at each other. John realized
that this was another of Peter's ways to eliminate yet another
fear from his grandson. The child was highly strung and
nervous, and had never quite got over the shock of seeing his
parents killed in a collision between a tram and a cab when
he was five years old. The episode at the gut no doubt added
the fear that the boat was to erase. And the thought came to
John, as it had often done lately, that Peter was a splendid
man. How could anyone mock at him? By! he wished he'd
been there when that crowd of hooligans burnt his hut down.
They would have gone along with it.

He looked at the boy standing by Christine's side watching
her put the bonnet on the doll.. .. They were like a little
family of saints, tender with each other, kind to everyone, and
forgiving beyond his power to understand. He sat for a while
longer watching Christine finishing the doll. Then he said he
must get indoors and give a hand, for there were still more
decorations to be hung around the walls.

Christine smiled at him as he left: 'I'm glad about your
job, John.'

'Thanks. I knew you'd be.... Tell Peter, will you?'
Christine nodded; and David cried suddenly, 'I'm going to
stand at the corner, Christine, and wait for Grandfather.'

The boy chattered loudly as he and John walked down the
yard, but outside, in the back lane, he pulled at John's arm
and whispered, 'John, can I... I want to tell you something.'


112


'Yes, what is it, David?' John stooped to him.

'It's Dominic - Christine's frightened of him ... she's always
frightened of him. He made me go out and he said to
Christine you wouldn't get her, but he would, some way. You
won't let him, will you?'

John remained silent for a moment, looking at the blur that
was the boy's white face, which stood out even against the
newly fallen snow. It was straining up to him, appealing,
pleading. 'Don't you worry, David. Christine will be all
right; I'll see to that.'

'Will you, John? Will you?'

'Yes--' John patted David's hand, and the boy seemed
satisfied and ran off in evident relief; and John turned thoughtfully
into the backyard, to meet Katie coming out of the
lavatory.

'Come in here a minute,' he said to her, drawing her into
the washhouse and closing the door; 'I want you to do something
for me.'

'Yes, John?'

He knew by her voice that her face was eager. 'Look; whenever
you hear Dominic go in next door, you run in the other
way, will you?'

'Yes, John. But if me ma .. .?'

'You can tell her you are going to return something of
David's, a picture book or something.'

'Yes, John.'

'And no matter what he says, don't leave him alone with her.
If he makes you and I'm in, come and tell me. You've got that
now?'

'Yes, John.'

'Has he ever chased you out?'

Remembering Christine's warning, Katie merely answered,
'Sometimes.'

'Have you ever seen him . ..?' John stopped. 'Well, never
mind. You know what to do, don't you?'

'Yes, John.'


Neither Katie nor Molly could remember a Christmas Eve

113

like this one. They had faint memories of being excited at the
prospect of hanging up their stockings, and a memory, not so
faint, of disappointment at the meagreness of their contents
when they opened them; but tonight was different. In the cupboard
at the side of the fireplace were parcels, some that John
brought in last night, some from Christine, and others. Katie
and Molly would make running dives at the lower door of the
cupboard, calling, 'I'm gonna open it, Ma! I am! I am!'

Apart from saying, 'You dare,' Mary Ellen took no notice
of them. Her face wore a faint smile and her body seemed
settled in contentment as her needles flew on the toe of a sock.
They were the last few rows of a pair she was knitting for
Shane. Why had she thought of knitting him socks for Christmas
she didn't know - she could not remember ever giving
him anything at Christmas, except the first Christmas they
were married. She wouldn't of course, say that these were for a
Christmas box; she would just put them out with his change of
clean underclothes. Perhaps he would notice them, perhaps he
wouldn't.

She glanced up as John came out of the bedroom, and she
had to say to Katie, 'Leave John be, hinny, he's got to go out.
.. . Stop clambering! you'll dirty his suit.'

'Give me a shuggy before you go. Come on, John, just one,'
Katie coaxed.

'Well mind, just one ... that's all.'

'You're worse than she is,' said Mary Ellen as John sat down
and crossed his knees and stuck a foot out.

Katie clambered on to the foot, and he held her hands as he
hoisted her up and down. And she giggled and shouted, 'But
say it! You're not saying it!'

'Give over, Katie, John's got to go out! You'll be packed
off to bed, mind. . .. Oh, what's the good! You're worse than
she is,' Mary Ellen exclaimed, as John began to chant with
each movement of his foot:


Father Christmas soon will come
Laden with all treasures.
I would like a boat to sail,


114


A rocky horse with a bushy tail,
A farthing or a spade and pail;
Katie wants a big, fat... dolly.

After the final heave, Katie fell off his foot, laughing, and
John's eyes were drawn, for a moment to Molly. She was
standing to one side, smiling, yet wistful. He suddenly realized
he'd never had much time for Molly, and, scatterbrain as she
was, she felt it. He saw it in her face now as she stood there.
Impulsively, his hand went out and he pulled her to him, saying,
'Come on, you big soft lass;' and, laughing and giggling,
she sat on his foot.
'Well I never. What next, I wonder!' Mary Ellen's tone
was half laughing, half derisive.
Molly wasn't so easy to lift as Katie, and before John was
half-way through the rhyme she had tumbled off on to the
floor, where she lay, clasping Katie, helpless with laughter.
Mary Ellen, trying not to allow her gaze to linger on this
son of hers, who was looking so grand, said, 'Get yourself away,
lad, or else I'll not get them to sleep the night. And if you
should see Mick, send him in.'
John put on his coat, saying, 'Well, expect me when you see
me - I may have to follow the men to Newcastle to get the
ducks. It's six you want, isn't it?'
He left the house with his mother joining in with the laughter
of the children. The sound made him happy. There was something
different about this Christmas.... Well, so there should
be. A gaffer! He breathed deep of the icy air. But it wasn't that
alone. There was a difference both inside and outside the house.
Perhaps the difference lay in himself; life at last seemed to be
opening.
He walked briskly to Tyne Dock, and stood waiting for the
Shield's tram. The snow plough had been out, and the space
opposite the dock gates had the appearance of land on which
the grab had been at work; pale grey mounds lined the pavement,
and the hurrying figures, passing in and out of the lamplight
and the light from the bars, looked jet black against them.
Some iron ore men, still in their working clothes, came out of

115

a bar and hailed John: 'Why, man, you look as if you've had
some money left you. Pinched our wages already? Or has the
North-Eastern left you a prop boat?'

'Aye, they offered me one for Christmas, but I told them
what to do with it: "A Benisaf or nothing" I said.'

There was loud laughter at this. 'I bet you did too! Well,
a happy Christmas, and many of them,' they called as they
moved away. 'And see we have full shifts for full bellies next
year, mind.'

'Many of them,' John answered.

As he watched their unwieldy figures disappear into the
darkness, he felt a thousand miles removed from them. They
were good enough fellows in their way, with but one thought
dominating them all ... plenty of work, which meant plenty
to eat and drink, or the reverse process. But somehow he didn't
feel of them. It wasn't just since he had been made a gaffer, he
had been feeling like this for some time past. Was it since he
had got this coat? He didn't know; something had changed
him ...

The aisles of the open market were congested with buyers,
and the shouts of the stall-holders were deafening. John saw
that it would be hours yet before the stuff was sold at anywhere
near his price. Ten or eleven would be the time to come
back. So he walked down King Street, debating whether he
should go to the second house at the Empire or the Tivoli.
To whichever place he went, he couldn't go in the three
pennies, not in this rig-out. It would mean the sixpennies,
or even the ninepennies. That was one drawback of being
dressed-up.

'Hallo, Mr. O'Brien,' Mary Llewellyn stood in front of him,
her arms laden with parcels.

'Good evening, Miss Llewellyn.'

They were blocking each other's path and that of the other
pedestrians as, after the greeting, they stood mutely surveying
each other, surprise showing in both their faces, as if this was
the last place one would have expected to find the other.

'Did you ever see such a crowd?'

'No, I never have.'


116


John hadn't noticed the crush before, but now they seemed
to be hemmed in on all sides.

'Are you doing your last-minute shopping?' she asked him.

'No ... yes ... Well' - his eyes twinkled - 'I'm hanging
around until they give the ducks away in the market.' And as
he said it, he wondered why it cost him nothing in pride to
admit such things to her.

They laughed together, and one irritated shopper exclaimed,
'If you want to stand laughing your heads off clear off the
flags and let people pass.'

They pulled long faces at each other, and Mary said, 'I suppose
she's right.'

'Can I carry some of your parcels to the tram?' John asked.

'Well, I wasn't going home yet. But it would be a help if
you'd relieve me of some of them for a time; I have a little
more shopping to do.'

He took the boxes from her and stacked them under his arm.
Then they turned towards the market again, John walking
slightly ahead of her to make a way.

Laughing gaily, she left him outside while she went into
a linen shop, and he stood gazing into the window, seeing
nothing. He knew that this night was different. There was
magic about; in the cold and the snow, in people's faces, and
in meeting her. Strange, up till a few months ago, he had
never set eyes on her. But since that night he had been to see
her they had run into each other a number of times, mostly
when he was coming from work; yet she didn't seem to mind
his working clothes. The first time they met, it was she who
stopped and talked, just as if he were all got up instead of being
covered from head to foot with splatters of wet clay. He had
been working on a boat from Sweden, and the ore was embedded
in lumps of clay, which made the digging and picking
heavy and dirty.

After these meetings, he never allowed himself to think,
using his mother's formula ... thinking got you nowhere. She
was interested in Katie, and through Katie, kind to him. That
was that. But this meeting, like everything else on this Christmas
Eve was different. She had asked him to carry her parcels,

117

and he was standing waiting for her as if he was her ...

'I won't ask you to carry this one.' She was standing by his
side, and he stared at her, not speaking; her face, under her
fur-trimmed hat, shone at him like a star. For one brief
second, the street and the hurrying crowds vanished, and she
was alone in a vast emptiness, shining, and for him.

His face was unsmiling and his voice deep in his throat as
he asked, 'Have you time ... would you care to go to a variety
show or the pantomime?'

He waited, tense and unthinking as her smile faded. The
expression in her eyes changed a number of times in as many
seconds, but not once did they portray annoyance or amusement.
'I
should love to.' She turned away from him, and he fell
into step by her side, thinking now, as he had never thought
before: Had he gone mad? What of the Mr. Culbert? It was
Christmas Eve and perhaps she was expected at home for a
party or something. What in the name of God had made him
ask her! And what about money? He had five shillings of his
own ... would that do? ... Yes. Somehow, he knew she
wouldn't expect too much. But again, what in the name of God
had made him do it! It was the last thing on earth he would
have thought of doing.... Or was it? Hadn't he often wondered
what it would be like to take someone of her stamp out?
Yes, but just as one dreamt dreams, never for one moment expecting
them to happen. The funny thing was she hadn't refused.
She hadn't been merely polite, either; she seemed quite
sincere when she said, 'I'd love to.' Well, now he must put his
thinking cap on. They would have to go in the very best seats,
and she'd have to have some bullets. Bullets! he repeated
scornfully ... chocolates. Get a little box. ... A box! No need
to go mad altogether. She wouldn't expect it anyway. He
pushed his shoulders back. Expected or not, he'd get a box.

'Do you think there's time for me to make a telephone call?'

They were standing outside the Empire, and for a moment
she drifted from him into the class that made telephone calls.

'Where do you have to go? The post office?' he asked.

'Yes; I won't be more than five minutes.'


118


'Of course. Come on.' He shouldered his way through the
crowd. Class or no class, she was going out with him, this once
anyway. And he'd do the thing properly; it would be something
to remember.
In spite of her fur coat and rinking boots, Mary shivered as
she waited in the telephone box. It had happened as she hoped
it might. But where would it lead? . .. There was time enough
to ask that later, she told herself. What she had to do now was
to smooth things over with those at home.
She gave a gentle sigh when she heard her father's voice
say,'Yes. Who is it?'
'It's me, Mary.'
'Mary? Why, where are you? What's up? You should be
home by now; we're nearly ready.'
'Look, dear. I won't be home . . . not until . . . quite late.'
'But where are you? You know you can't do that, Mary;
we're going to Gilbert's! Look lass' - he cut her short as she
was about to speak - it's Christmas, and we want things to go
peaceable like. Where are you, anyway?'
'Shields Post Office.'
'What's made you change your mind?'
'I... Well, I met a friend.'
'But it isn't right. You know what a state this will put your
mother in.'
'I never wanted to go. I've told her so all along. She shouldn't
have accepted for me.. .. Look, Father, can't you see what
Mother is trying to do?'
'Yes. I know, I know.'
'Well then why should you want me to go? And anyway, it
isn't fair to Gilbert. She's giving him the idea that I can be
coaxed round, and I can't.'
'Who's your friend?'
'Oh, you . . . you don't know him.'
'It's a man then?'
'Yes, it's a man.'
'Well, this is going to be a lovely evening for me.'
Mary laughed softly. 'It's yourself you're thinking about.'
'Well partly.' There was a chuckle. 'You'll be for it tomor 119row, mind. And somehow I did think this was going to be a
peaceful Christmas.'
'It's the loveliest Christmas I've ever known. Goodbye,
dear.'
'Here! Mary... look, who's this fellow?'
'We may talk about him later.'
'Mary ... you'll go to Midnight Mass? For God's sake don't
miss that, or there'll be hell to pay.'
'We'll see. Good-bye. Wait. Do you want to know something?'
'What
is it?'
'I like you, Mr. Llewellyn.'
Laughing, she hung up the phone, and almost ran to join
John.

Mary Ellen yawned. She wished John was in, and then she'd
go to bed. She leaned back and glanced up at the clock ...
ten-past eleven. Had he managed to get a duck?
She sat with her chair drawn up close to the fire, her feet on
the fender, her skirt tucked up on to her lap, exposing her short
legs to the dying ashes. The house was quiet, only Shane's and
Dominic's snores alternating with each other's from the rooms.
Behind her, the girls lay curled up under the thin brown blankets
and a heap of coats; and, at each end of the mantelpiece
hung their packed stockings, together with one for Mick.
As she yawned again, she heard the muffled pad of footsteps
on the yard, and, pulling down her skirt, she got up to
open the scullery door as John quietly lifted the latch of the
back door.
Stupefied, Mary Ellen gazed at him; then, in a whispered
exclamation, said, 'In the name of God! have you bought the
market?'
John laughed softly as he lowered a great parcel on to the
table, followed by a stone brown paper bag and a square box.
'You'll never guess what it is ... it's a turkey! And this is a bag
of fruit. And there's bullets in that box.' He spoke softly and
rapidly.
'A turkey! But where'd you get the money, lad?' Mary

120

Ellen looked closely at him. If she didn't know differently she'd
have thought he'd had a drop - his eyes were shining, like
coals.... Perhaps it was the frost.
'We ... I waited till the last thing, and I got him for four
bob.'
'But what's all this other?'
'Fruit.'
'A stone bag of it!' Mary Ellen looked amazed. 'Are they
specked?'
'No, I should say not.'
John did not look at her. He had taken off his cap and was
combing his hair. 'Miss Llewellyn sent them for the bairns.'
Mary Ellen stared silently at his profile. Miss Llewellyn.
John turned to her, putting on his cap again. 'I'm going to
Midnight Mass at Jarrow. I'm getting the last tram up.'
Miss Llewellyn and Midnight Mass. Her lad going to Midnight
Mass with Miss Llewellyn! It was funny, but she'd been
thinking about Midnight Mass earlier on this evening, feeling
the need to give thanks for all her good fortune at this Christmas
time. It was years since she had been to Midnight Mass,
and in spite of her tiredness, she'd thought: For two pins I'd
go to Midnight Mass if John was in. She would have worn her
new coat, although it wouldn't have mattered about going
in her shawl; there'd be mostly shawls and mufflers there anyway.
And she'd imagined herself kneeling as she used to do in
the aisle, or even on the altar steps, wrapped about in the
thick, incensed air, full of hushed rustle, so full would the
church be. And for a brief hour she would really feel the Child
was being born and be one with Mary in her travail.
But John was going to Midnight Mass, and he was going
with Miss Llewellyn. She knew now the reason for the light in
his eyes.
John tried not to show undue haste, but there was only a
few minutes before the tram would pass the bottom of the
street, and she would be on it. Already it was late, and perhaps
they'd not get in the church. He did not want this to happen,
for he had the desire to kneel at Mass with her, not only
.because it would mean being with her another hour or more,

121


but because to go to Mass with a lass had a subtle meaning,
which neither needed nor could be defined by words.
The four hours they had been together seemed to spread
back down his lifetime. There seemed no moment when he had
not watched the expressions dancing over her face like shadows
in a garden, nor a moment when he had not been carrying her
parcels or buying her chocolates, or when he was not sitting
with her in the dark and laughing with her at a pantomime;
or when was there a second in his life when she did not urge
him to remain quiet while the stallholder, in desperation,
brought his final and unmovable price of eight shillings a
turkey down to four shillings! or when had he not watched her
taking her choice of fruit, bananas, pomegranates, oranges,
apples, pears, and nuts. And now they were going to Midnight
Mass, and there would be no tram back. They would have to
walk all the way from Dee Street, in the centre of Jarrow, to
the heart of Simonside. It would be a long way for her, and
difficult walking, for the pavements were sheets of knobbly
grey ice; and it would be a long way to walk without touching
each other. She might have to take his arm - he thought of it
as 'link' - Miss Llewellyn and him linking!
A surge of feeling that demanded some form of expression
swept through him, and, stooping, he kissed Mary Ellen
swiftly on the side of the brow. Without a word, he was gone.
And Mary Ellen stood fingering the place his lips had brushed.
... Her lad had kissed her ... for the first time since he was a
tiny bairn. And because he was in love.
She had been worried lately, thinking he was struck on her
next door, and had wondered where it would lead, for she
doubted, if he took her, there'd be much happiness for him;
not that she had anything really against the lass, only that
terrifying religion of hers. God knew there was no happiness
came out of a mixed marriage. With a Church of England one
it would be bad enough, but with a Spiritualist! ... And yet,
as awful as that possibility seemed, he would have had a little
show of happiness in a way, whereas now there was none for
him that she could see. For what was the obstacle of religion
compared with the obstacle of class? Had he gone mad? And

122
that Llewellyn lass, too? Where did they think it would lead?
Her da was a ; and a docker, even a gaffer, would be
so much midden muck to him. They had a fancy house, with
even a lavatory inside, so Katie said, and kept a parlourmaid
and a cook. Was the lass mad? There was no one better than her
lad, no one in the wide world, but he was a docker and from the
fifteen streets. And that lass must know nothing could come of
it. ... She was struck by his size and his ways, and she would
shelve him when the novelty wore off. And what would it do to
him? She thought of his eyes when he had come in, and slowly
she sat down by the fire again and stared into its rose-grey
embers.

123

CHAPTER EIGHT


NEW YEAR'S EVE


It was a good thing New Year's Eve fell on a Saturday,
John thought, for it meant one day less holiday. They would
start work on Tuesday, the ones, anyway, who were sober
enough. He wanted work, and more work. If he had his own
way he'd carry on, night and day, for three parts of the week;
he'd make them throw the stuff out of those holds as it had never
been thrown out before. He wanted money. God, how he
wanted money.

He sat before the fire, dressed in his working clothes, tense
with thinking. Shane sat opposite him, sober and sullen; he'd
been drunk only once during the holidays. This was a record.
Was he turning over a new leaf? John wondered, or was it because
he was forced to realize that the more he drank the more he twitched? But twitching or not, tonight he'd likely have a
skinful. What would she say to this house and the lot of them?
Would she take them as she took him? That was too much to
ask. Whereas last Saturday night he thought he'd never known
a moment in his life without her, now, across the vast space of
time since he last saw her, he could not even recall her face
clearly. Again and again he tried to visualize her; but always
her face ran into a blur. Even when he attempted to recapture
the wonder and the ecstatic feeling of achievement as, with her
on his arm, he walked past the fifteen streets, huddled and
sleeping under the star-carpeted sky, the feeling would slither
away. It was strange, too, but he could not actually remember
how he left her. What did they say to each other? Nothing
much. They were quiet on the journey back; all the laughter
and fun had been left in Shields market. As they walked up


124


Simonside Bank, he had asked if she were tired, and she had
replied that she'd never felt less tired. Yet she sounded sort of
sleepy when she said it.... But there must have been more than
that said. One thing he knew he hadn't said: 'Can I see you
again?'

Why hadn't he, when it was foremost in his mind during
those last few minutes with her? But foremost, too, had been
the thought of money. He couldn't really ask her out unless
he intended taking her somewhere. Well, he could have taken
her out tonight.

All this morning he was hoping he would run into her as he
came home from work. And when he didn't, he told himself
it was the best thing that could have happened; there were
many things he could do with those extra few shillings - his
mother would know what to do with them. So perhaps it was
all for the best - he moved impatiently in his chair. Perhaps
... there was no perhaps about it. What was he aiming at, anyway?
Was his brain softening, just because of that one night?
If he were to see her again, what would it lead to? So intense
was the urgency of the question that he almost spoke aloud.
You are going stark, staring mad! Look around, and ask
yourself what you and she can ever be to each other ... even
if she does like you.. .. He was on his feet, staring down into
the fire; she likes me all right, I know it. She more than likes me ... she feels the same as I do.

Mary Ellen could remain silent no longer; John's drawn,
twisted face was wringing her heart. Shane was dozing now,
and she whispered, 'What's up, lad ?'

'Nothing. I'm going to have a wash.'

He went quickly into the scullery, and as he washed himself
Mary Ellen gazed sadly at his back. She knew this would happen
- she knew there'd be no happiness in it for him. She
wanted to go to him and in some way comfort him; but her
mind was lifted from him to Molly.

Molly's screeching voice came from the back lane, and Mary
Ellen knew she was fighting again, for she was hurling rhymes
at someone's head:


125


Annie Kelly's got a big fat belly,
And her belly wobbles like jelly.


My God! that lass nearly fourteen and yelling things out like
that. Mary Ellen pushed past John and opened the back door.

'You, Molly! come in here!'

Molly was having her last word: 'You wouldn't do much for
God if the divil was dead, Annie Kelly. You're mean, so you
are. Poor Nancy!'

'Come in here!' Mary Ellen hauled Molly over the step.
'You can thank your lucky stars your da's dozing,' she whispered
fiercely, 'or I'd bray you!'

'Well, I was only sticking up for Nancy,' Molly snivelled.
'She's been sent back from her place, Mrs. Fitzimmons won't
have her. And Annie wouldn't let her play with us; she
punched her.'

'Sent back from her place,' Mary Ellen repeated to John.
'That means the do's off.'

'Damn good thing, too,' John answered shortly. 'They'll
be yelling out for the money before the new year's in a
week.'

'It'll likely be spent now, lad, in any case.'

The door opened again, and Katie rushed in breathless.

Mary Ellen hushed her: 'Be quiet, hinny! And close that
door, the cold's enough to cut you in two.'

'Ma, can I go with Christine? And Molly too? There's a
big stretch frozen hard, past Cleveland Place, and everybody's
going there to slide . . . proper sliding. Christine's got proper
sliding skates with knives on the bottom. And there's a man
there with a fire selling roast taties. . . . Oh, Ma, can we go?'

'Go on, Ma, let's.' Molly joined her plea to Katie's.

'What about it cracking?' Alary Ellen asked John. 'Will it
be deep?'

'It won't crack in this frost.'

He was drying himself, and asked Katie, 'How does Christine
know there's skating? Has she been?' He hadn't seen Christine
since Christmas Day, and then only to wish her a happy
Christmas and to thank her rather sheepishly for the tie. He


126


knew now why he hadn't kissed Christine, and the knowledge
made him strangely embarrassed in her presence.

'Yes,' answered Katie. 'She was there yesterday, her and
David. She says they're going to have a big fire on the bank
the night to light the ice up.'

'How far past Cleveland Place is it?'

'It's in Roper's Field.'

'You'd better give it a miss,' said Mary Ellen; 'you'll slide
the boots off your feet.'

'Not any sooner than with sliding in the streets,' said John.

'But it's them falling through I'm afraid of.'

'Don't worry,' he said; 'I'll take a walk up and have a
look.'

He went into the bedroom and started to change hastily.
Roper's Field ... off the Simonside Road. There was just a
chance she might be there.


In the kitchen of Cumberland Villa, the two maids were
standing near the partly open door, straining their ears.

'Hear anything?' asked the cook.

'Not a word,' replied Phyllis. 'And the way the missis looked
I thought she was going to explode. I bet you anything you like
though she'd heard about that fellow.'

'I wouldn't believe a word of it,' said Cook. 'And I'd be
careful what I was saying if I was you. Miss Mary walking out
with one of the O'Briens! Huh! I'll believe that when I see it.'

'I tell you our Doris saw them in the market, and our Doris
knows them both as well as I know you. She was standing
behind them, and she said they were laughing and talking
together like ... well, like a couple who was walking out....
Sh! Listen.'

Phyllis's elbow stopped the cook's retort. 'There!' she
hissed. 'Get an earful of that. Have you ever heard the missis
go off like that before? What did I tell you?'

In the drawing-room, James Llewellyn was appealing to his
wife: 'Look, Beatrice, leave this to me.' He spoke gently and
soothingly; the jocular brusqueness, which was his usual defence
against her, was gone from his tone.


127


'Too much has been left to you, and look at the result!'
She turned from him, and again addressed her daughter, with
quiet tenseness now, 'No wonder you wouldn't tell me who
you were with on Christmas Eve! It is to your credit that you
were ashamed.'

Mary stood with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece; her
face was half turned from her mother, and she stared unseeing
into the fire, her attitude belying the anger that was filling her
body.

'You must have lost every spark of decency. You never, at
any time, had a proper sense of what is correct. But this!
Have you any idea how I felt when Florence Dudley told me
they saw you in the Empire with a ... docker?' Beatrice
Llewellyn spat out the last word, her thin nose and delicately
chiselled mouth almost meeting over it. Her large pale blue
eyes showed depths of purple, and her expression was weighed
with actual hate as she looked at this girl whom she had come to
think of as being by her but not of her. This last disgusting
episode proved only too conclusively from which side
she had inherited her qualities. 'Will Dudley says he comes
from the fifteen streets and the family are notorious,' she
ended.

Mary faced her mother, and her tone was infuriatingly quiet
when she said, 'Of course they are. Anyone within a three
miles radius of the fifteen streets knows that. If you didn't shut
out every unpleasantness from your life you would have heard
it before. ... One of the main things for which they are
notorious is hunger. Dwell upon that the next time you're preparing
for the Dudleys coming to dinner.'

Beatrice Llewellyn stood aghast - never before had Mary
dared to address her so. 'They are poor because they drink and
gamble. And you! You are a slut! You were out with that
man until three o'clock in the morning. Do you think it won't
be all round Jarrow and Shields by now?'

'I hope so.'

Mary's stillness seemed to lift the tension to breaking point.
Her father cried, 'Here, lass! Here, that's enough!' and Beatrice
Llewellyn perpetrated what was to her mind unforgivable


128


... she screamed. 'You low creature!' The words seemed to
emerge from the top of her head. 'You're utterly debased. I shall
have Father O'Malley to you. Yes. Yes, I shall.... Leave me
alone!' - she tore her arm from her husband's soothing hand,
and flung like a small tornado out of the room.
During their twenty-six years of married life, James Llewellyn
had never seen his wife lose control; this was the first show
of sincere passion he had witnessed, and it left him, not only
shaken, but worried. Usually she tried gentle tears and studied
silences, alternated with the persistent reiteration of her point.
But for Beatrice to lose her dignity meant this affair had indeed
struck home.
'You've done it this time.' He came to the fireplace and
knocked out his pipe against the bars. 'You know, lass, it was a
bit of a shock.'
'To you too?' Mary asked sharply.
'Aye .. . yes. It's no good saying one thing and thinking
another. But when Will Dudley got on about seeing you with
one of the Big O'Briens I could have punched him in the face.
Although he put it very nicely, I could tell it had afforded them
a good topic of conversation all the week, and that was why
Florence Dudley was so anxious for us to drop in this morning.
When your mother came downstairs with her I thought she'd
collapse.... How long has it been going on, lass?'
'It hasn't been going on, as you call it; that was the only
time.'
'Oh . . . Well' - there was a measure of relief in her father's
voice - 'and are you . . . Well, is it finished?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know! What do you mean, lass?'
'I mean that if it rests with me it won't be finished.' Mary
turned towards him, nervously rubbing the palms of her hands
together. 'I haven't seen him since, because he never asked me.'
James Llewellyn stared at his daughter. His lass, who was the
best looking lass for miles, and who could have her pick, was
in love. Even had she not practically put it unashamedly into
words, he could see it in her eyes. She was in love with this
dock worker, John O'Brien; and not in the light-hearted way
129
that lassies fell in love, but in an earnest, stubborn, painful
way, a way that would leave a mark on her, however things
went. Well, he wasn't going to stand by and see her make a
hash of her life, and say nothing. This was one time her mother
was right. 'Now see here' - he planted his feet firmly apart and pointed his finger at her - 'you know which side I've always
been on, don't you? You know that life would have been much
easier for me if I'd taken your mother's part all along.'

As his fingers wagged at her, Mary thought: he's nearly as
big as John, and he has the same clumsy movements, a sort of
endearing gaucheness. All the money in the world won't polish
him. Anyway, he was once a dock worker himself, so why
can't he understand about this?

'But I want you to understand, lass,' James Llewellyn
went on, 'that I'm with your mother in this.'

'You'd rather see me married to Gilbert then?'

'I don't want you to marry anyone you don't fancy. .. . But
yes' - he thrust out his head - 'yes, I'd rather see you married
to Gilbert than carrying on with this business. At least you
wouldn't starve.... Oh, Mary' - his large leathery face
crumpled - 'stop while there's time. You don't know what
you're running yourself into. Lass, I hate to say it, but I've
seen those O'Briens rolling from one side of the arches to the
other. I even remember the mother, years ago, a little body,
standing outside the bars with the bairns clinging round her,
trying to get a few shillings out her man before he blued the
lot. I tell you, lass, they're noted.'

'He doesn't drink.'

'That's what he says.'

'He doesn't, Father.' There was a fierce ring in her voice.
'And he's not just a docker either; he's been made a gaffer.'

'What! Did he tell you that? How old is he?'

'Twenty-two.' Her head was thrust up in defiance, daring
him to say, 'So he's younger than you.'

But what he said was, 'He's a damned liar! There's no
fellow could be made a gaffer at twenty-two. Thirty-two would be more like it. He's stuffing you, lass. Can't you see?' He was
angry for her.


130


'No, he's not. Anyway, it should be easy for you to find out.'
'Yes. Quite easy. But even so, if he is a gaffer, what's that?'
Mary did not reply but stood looking at him, her eyes wide
and sad, for she too, was asking herself the same question. ...
He was worth something better than that.
To James Llewellyn, she looked at this moment pathetic,
and he could never remember his joyous, laughter-loving
daughter looking this way. Taking her by the hand, he said,
'Hinny' - using the endearing word that was banned in the
house because of its commonness - 'I only want your happiness.
What do you think I've worked for all these years? To leave
you comfortable. Look, my dear, tell me you'll drop this.'
The tears gathering in her eyes obscured her vision. Why,
oh why, did they think money could buy off or replace a feeling
that was made of intangible stuff? Money and love were
on two different planes. .. Yet were they so divided? Love
needed money for its existence. Without it, more often than
not it died, as the body, wherein it was housed, fought and
struggled for life. Yet if the chance were given her, would she
risk the survival of this love that seemed to be eating her away?
Oh yes, yes. The tears spilled on to her face. 'I can't. If he asks
me out again, I'll go.'
She watched her father leave the room and close the door after him with painful slowness.. .
Mary was sitting in her own room, crouched over the fire,
when the dinner bell rang. She made no move to carry out its
summons. Nor, as the time went on, did anyone come to inquire
why. Never before had she felt so unhappy, and she
couldn't see the unhappiness lifting; it stretched on and on
into the future, for the only person capable of dispelling it
was as class-conscious as her mother. She felt now that Christmas
Eve had been merely a lapse of John's, and that during
the quiet walk back from Jarrow he was already regretting it;
he had left her with scarcely a word. Every dinner-time and
teatime of this past week she had fought with herself not to
stroll casually down through the arches, presumably on her
way to Shields, in the hope of encountering him. But some
hard core of pride said no ... she wouldn't scheme to trap him

131

into asking her out; if he wanted to see her he would find a
way; and there was always the post.
What a New Year's Eve! She got up and wandered about
the room. If only she could see him for a moment, run into him
accidentally, as she had done last Saturday night.... But
wouldn't it have been better had they not met at all - not
last Saturday, but in the first instance. He attracted her that
first night he sat in this room, and she had been unable to get
him out of her mind since.
The memory of that meeting brought back the niggling envy
of Christine. ... Was that girl something to him? Was she
the reason why he hadn't asked her to repeat the evening?
She didn't know ...
She went upstairs and put on her outdoor things, for she felt
that were she to stay indoors any longer she would scream, as
her mother had done this morning. Remembering her mother's
voice and look, she realized that whether she pursued this
business to its height or it merely fizzled out, the last supports
of the barrier that had been erecting itself for years between
them were hammered home today, and their combined lifetimes
would not be long enough to break it down.

Standing on the bank at the edge of the field, John looked
down in amazement on the scene. He had witnessed nothing
like it before. The field, which dipped into a shallow valley,
had every appearance of a lake, and there was scarcely a yard
of its surface which had not its moving figure. Very few had
skates; the main sport seemed to be concentrated on the long
single and double slides. On the double slides, young men
and girls crossed hands, skimming away with enviable balance
towards the centre of the ice. Children had their slides nearer
the edge, and were watched by the spectators, who outnumbered
the skaters. Some of the young lads were already getting the
bonfire going. The air was filled with laughter and shouting, the
smell of burning wood, and the thick, comforting smell of
roasting potatoes. The faces of the crowd seemed alight with
a newborn joy.
The feeling of mass gaiety puzzled John. It was this whiteness;

132


it had gone to their heads and caused a madness. The
drabness of life was lost under the spell of its gleaming sparkle,
and the people seemed to be deluded into thinking this clean,
white world would remain - their house roofs were white, their
window sills, their doorsteps. The docks and the ships, too,
lay buried under the clean illusion - even on the top of the
highest mast there was a virgin white cap of snow, fast and
secure and promising to remain for ever. There would be no
tomorrow, or the next day, when the gutters would be choked
with brown slush, the roads become rivers, and the houses grey
again, and they themselves grey and blue, feet wet, bodies
shivering. It was cold now; but this was a dry cold, which
quickened the blood, freed the perception and brought all the
instincts to the surface, giving to each person an awareness of
his existence, which demanded of the body that it be used, now,
at this very time.
As he stood there John began to feel something of this mass
joy. The whole scene, which seemed to have been dropped
from another world, where only light laughter existed, bewildered
him, and part of him realized that it was out of place in
the realistic grimness of this area.
He watched Christine gliding gracefully in small circles near
where Katie, Molly and David were sliding with other children.
She looked little more than a child herself, a dark, elfin, slip of
a child.
Christine caught sight of him, and waved and beckoned him
on to the ice; but he shook his head and waved his hand in
refusal. And after a while, she glided to where he stood on the
bank.
'Isn't it wonderful! Come on ... I'll pull you.'
'Not on your life,' he laughed.
He was relieved that there was no stiffness in her manner,
for it must have been evident to her that he had avoided seeing
her during this past week. She looked very fetching, standing
below him with a red tam-o-shanter on the back of her head,
and for a fleeting second he felt a regret that it was not she who was filling his mind and body at this moment, for then things
would have been plain sailing.

133

'A big thing like you afraid of the ice!' she called up to
him, teasingly.

'You'd be more afraid if you got me on there and I fell on
you.'

'I'll risk it. Come on. Come on, John' - the pleading was
in her eyes and voice.

He shook his head: 'I've a number of other ways of making
a fool of myself besides that.'

Christine saw that it was no use trying to coax him; nevertheless,
she stood for a time gazing up at him. Then, without
further words, she turned and skimmed away again.

John continued to watch her and the children, but between
times his eyes would search the field. Although the light was
fading he could still see the further bank, and he thought it
would have to be very dark to prevent him from picking her
out from the crowd. He noticed Katie leave the long line of
sliders and walk quickly towards him.

'What's the matter?' he asked. 'Are you tired, or after a hot
tatie?'

'Our Dominic's along there, John. He's watching Christine.'

John remained silent, and did not turn to the spot Katie indicated
but looked to where Christine was still whirling unconcerned.
'Is he all right?' he asked; which meant, was he
sober.

'Yes, he looks it... and ... and he's got a collar and tie on
too.' Katie's eyes fell to John's collar and tie, then to his new
coat; and she added, with awe in her voice, 'He's got a new
coat an' all, John.' Her eyes were round in amazement - the
advent of any new clothes in the house was something to dwell
upon, for in most cases their approach was awaited for weeks.
As late as last night Dominic had no new clothes, yet here he
was, all dressed up.

John's mouth moved into a twisted grin. Dominic wasn't
to be outdone then. The buying of new clothes would be all to
the good if it kept him off the drink; but John knew only too
well that someone would have to whistle for the money for the
coat. He glanced casually now in Dominic's direction. Yes,
there he was, practically head and shoulders above the crowd,


134


and
and even from this distance and the little John could see of
him, the difference in his appearance was noticeable.
Momentarily John's attitude towards his brother softened,
and he wondered if Dominic's feeling for Christine was anything
like his own for Mary. But his wondering was definitely
only momentary.... He would have gone about it in a different
way if it was ... and he still paid visits to 'Lady Pansy'. Moreover,
his love for Christine, if it could be called such, had instilled
her with nothing but fear.
He bent down to Katie: 'Don't forget what I told you about
keeping with Christine.'
'No, John, I won't.'
'No matter what he says on the way home, don't you leave
her, mind.'
'No, John.'
'Go on then, on your slide; I'll be here for some time yet.'
Groups of lads and lassies on the banks had started singing.
'Keep your feet still, Geordie, ninny' vied with 'Cushy Butter
field', and 'Bleydon Races' with 'Auld Lang Syne'. But now
the careless mad pleasure of the scene was dispelled for John,
for Dominic was there. His presence acted like a pressure,
forcing out the ease from his body and the quietness from his
mind, and replacing it with antipathy, which was the only true
bond between them.
As the daylight of the last day of the year faded, the
twilight seemed to urge on the gaiety. The bonfire was well
alight now, sending up showers of sparks through the grey dusk
into the far reaching blue beyond. John found that after looking
towards the fire for a time the skaters on the ice appeared
like dark, scribbled lines on a white canvas. He closed his eyes
and pressed his eyeballs with his fingers. And when he opened
them, there she was, standing not a yard from him.
When he was a child, his mother, if she had a piece of toffee
for him, would say, 'Shut your eyes and open your mouth and
see what God will send you.' He had shut his eyes, and look
what God had sent him.
He took a slow step towards her - Dominic and all he stood
for was gone, and the magic and madness of the scene was upon

135

him fully now. No subterfuge need be used on a night like this;
truth was easy, and desirable.
'I wondered if you would be here.'
At his words, her face, which had been set and strained, fell
into a smile; not her usual, light-flashing smile, but one holding
a tinge of sadness.
John did not detect the sadness ... sadness and this girl
were as apart as the earth and the sky. To his mind, she spelt
radiance, to his body, magnetism; she was ecstasy and foy. But
he had only plain words with which to speak: 'Have you ever
seen anything to equal this around these parts?' He did not take
his eyes from her face, but indicated the ice with a movement
of his head.
'Never. It's like something you'd see in Switzerland.'
Her eyes, playing over his face, made him drunk with feeling;
all the barriers between them were being swept away on a
swift moving tide. The need was upon him to touch her, if
only her hand.
'Have you been sliding?' he asked.
'I haven't any skates.'
'What about using our feet? It seems popular.3
'Here?' She pointed to the entwined throng below them.
'No. Let's go round to the other side; there are fewer people
there, and if we fall there'll be less to laugh at us.'
Mary made an almost imperceptible motion with her head.
The action was more pointed than words in its acquiescence.
They turned together. Then stopped. It was the red tamoshanter
that brought itself to John's notice. Without it,
Christine, at that moment, would have been merely another
face - even Katie was just part of the crowd.
Christine and Katie stood hand in hand below them, silent
and staring.
'Why! Hallo, Katie.'
'Hallo, Miss Llewellyn.' Katie's fat, rosy cheeks were very
like the proverbial apples as she smiled.
'Are you having a lovely time?'
'Yes, Miss Llewellyn.'
'And did you have a nice Christmas?'

136

'Oh yes, Miss Llewellyn. Oh, lovely! And thank you, Miss
Llewellyn, for the presents and all the lovely fruit.'

Mary's eyes were forced from Katie's to the girl in the red
hat. The girl was staring at her; her eyes, dark and enormous,
seemed to glow with a purple gleam. Even in the dusk, their
light was penetrating, and Mary felt it stripping her. It was
an odd sensation. It was almost as if the girl was looking into
the very depths of her heart and finding there things of which
even she herself was not aware.

When John said, 'This is Christine,' the girl, with a lightning
movement, whirled Katie round and away, and in a
moment they were lost in the moving figures and the dimness.

The situation had suddenly become awkward. Why had
Christine dashed off like that? He knew fine well why! His
neck became hot. Then a surge of relief swept over him ...
thank God he had never made up to her! He was free in that
sense, anyway .. . free for Mary. Oh the daring, the audacity,
the madness of it!

He turned towards her again, and this time the sadness in
her face was clear to him. She too then had seen how Christine
felt. He must make it clear to her that there was nothing in it.

'What about the slide?' he said.

Without answering, she turned from him, and they threaded
their way among the crowd.

'Christine's a nice girl,' he began lamely.

'Yes, she looks it.'

They were forced to step apart to make way for a group of
running children, and when they came together again, he continued,
'I don't think she'll ever grow up though. She's ... well,
she's just like Katie.'

She looked at him and smiled, a small, understanding smile.
He smiled back at her, and they walked on in silence.

The far bank was almost deserted, the crowds having been
drawn to the light of the bonfire and the man with the brazier
and the roasting potatoes. The ice, too, was not so smooth here,
for tufts of grass broke the surface.

'Shall we chance it?' He held out his hand, and she took it
and stepped from the bank on to the ice. 'Single or double?'

137

'Single I think, for a start. ... You go first, I haven't
been on the ice for two years.'

'Two years! It must be at least eight since I was on a slide.
... Well, here goes.' He ran and started to slide; wobbled,
steadied himself, and wobbled again; then, with a suddenness
that found every bone in his body, he sat down on the ice with
a heavy plop.

With a sureness that spoke of past schooling, she reached
him as he was getting to his feet. He was laughing, and said. 'Good job you weren't behind me.' And when he felt her hands
gently dusting his shoulders he prolonged his own banging of
his clothes to shake off the loose snow.

'Shall we try again ?' he asked.

'If you like,' she said; but there was little enthusiasm in her
voice.

'Do you want to slide?' He was facing her now, their breaths
were mingling and their eyes holding. The words were a question
that did not mean what it asked, and she answered with a
candour that seemed to be of the very essence of the day.

'No.'

He reached out and took her hand, and they walked carefully
towards the bank again.

'Would you ... would you like to go for a walk? Or what
about Shields?'

'Not Shields. Let's go for a walk.'

They walked down the narrow lane and on to the main road
without speaking. Being a country road it was unlit, and in
spite of the snow covering it, it appeared black after the glare
of the fire-lit field. The darkness gave him courage, and he
unclasped her hand and drew her arm through his, entwining
his fingers through hers and holding them close to his coat.
They walked on in step, and as he felt her hip moving against
his he became conscious of the stillness between them, a stillness
that seemed to be waiting only for the right moment to
burst into sound .. . sound that would bewitch and delight
him, because it would be her voice telling him what he wanted,
above all things, to know. But as they walked on, it seemed to
him as if the silence would never be broken.

138

When, of one mind, they turned down a side lane and
stopped and faced each other, he told himself that never before
had any man felt for a woman as he felt for her. But now
the moment had come he seemed paralysed, and even the
potency of his feeling could not lift him over the barrier to
her. It was she who opened the way, with such words that flung
barriers, prejudices and classes into oblivion: 'Oh, John, if
you don't tell me I won't be able to bear it.'

There was a second of wonder filled time before his arms
went about her, not gently, as he had imagined them so often
doing, but savagely, crushing her into him until he could feel
her racing heart pounding against him. He did not kiss her
immediately. His lips travelled the whole surface of her face
before they reached hers, but when they did, their bodies
merged and rose, above the snow and ice, above their separate
lives, away from this earth to some ethereal place where time
is not. When, swaying together, their lips parted, it seemed to
them both as if they had actually fallen into another era of
time, so much did they know of each other.

'Mary.'

She did not answer but leaned upon him, moving her face
against his.

'I love you.'

Her arms tightened about him.

'I'm mad ... I shouldn't say that.'

'Oh beloved.'

Beloved ... a woman had called him beloved ... him! This
beautiful woman, this girl, this...

'How is it you can care for a fellow like me? Mary! Oh,
Mary!'

Her reply was smothered against him. And when he would
have again begun deprecating himself her fingers covered his
mouth. 'You're the finest person I know - there is no one to
come up to you.3

She cut short his protest: 'John, let nothing ever separate
us, will you?' Her voice was earnest. 'Nothing, nor no one.
Promise. Never.'

The urgency in her voice stilled him - it was almost as if

139

she was pleading with him. That she should be asking to let nothing separate them seemed fantastic.

Taking her hand gently from his lips he said, 'It's me should
be putting that to you. What do you think will be said when
this gets about? Will you be able to stand it?'

Her answer was the covering of his mouth by hers with
such passion that all the longing, all the loneliness of his life,
all that was drab and tawdry, vanished. Her love for him raised
him to a new level of selfesteem.

'Oh, Mary, my love ... my dear ... do you know what
you mean to me? Do you know what you stand for?' He was
gentle now, holding her face between her large hands, peering
at her, seeing each feature in his mind's eye: 'You're
beautiful.'

'I couldn't be too beautiful for you.'

Her words were like notes of tender music, borne on the
white wings of the snow. He shook his head slowly at the
wonder of them. 'I don't know how you can love me .. . you,
who have everything. I'm ignorant, and I'm ashamed of it.
Mary' - his voice was shy - 'will you teach me?'

'Oh, my dear, you don't need .. .'

He stopped her, 'Yes, I do need. And you know I do. I
never want you to be ashamed of me.'

'John . .. John, don't.'

His humility brought the tears to her eyes, as he went on,
'And there's my folk. It isn't that I'm ashamed, only . .. well,
I suppose you've heard of our family. There hasn't been much
chance for any of us; my mother slaved all her days, and ...
and my father and brother . ..'

'Sh!' She leaned gently against him, stroking his cheek
as a mother would soothe a child.

She murmured something, and he whispered in awe,
'What?'

And she repeated, 'It's a case of Ruth and Naomi.'

But still he did not understand, yet although the words held
no meaning for him, her tone conveyed a deep humility, and
he was filled with wonder.


140


CHAPTER NINE


NANCY

The home-made paper chains lay in a jumbled heap on one
side of the table, the three bought ones lying neatly concertinaed
by themselves together with the honeycomb ball. These
would do for another year, Mary Ellen decided, if she could
hide them somewhere. She had never before been so late in
taking down the decorations; it was the 5th January, and she
was just escaping bad luck by taking them down today, the
morrow would be too late. But it had been nice to leave them
up till the last minute, for they carried on the feeling of this
wonderful Christmas and New Year. By! - she stopped in
her work to look out of the kitchen window to the roofs beyond,
where the last of the snow was sliding in a grey mass
into the gutter - she had never known such a time. The stuff
they'd had to eat! And Shane being sober, even on New Year's
Eve; and no rows in the house. There was Dominic's surliness,
of course, but she was used to that and had not allowed
it to spoil things. And anyway, he was out most of the time
... all night, once.
This business of John's troubled her at times; but what
could she do, for he said nothing. He was going about looking
like a cat with nine tails. She hoped to God something would
happen to make it last. But how could it - him and Miss
Llewellyn! Where would it end? ... Well, she wouldn't worry
- everything else was going fine; the coal house was full of
coal and the bairns were rightly set up with clothes, the last,
thanks to them next door - the thought of thanks took shape
before she could stop it - well, anyway, they had been good,
no matter what they were. She'd wished time and again she
141
could go and thank them, but she was unable to bring herself
to do so. The fear of them still held her, and she couldn't face
them, so she had sent her thanks by the bairns and John. The
fear had strengthened in an odd way too during these past
weeks, for Mick's ear had stopped running for the first time
in two years, and Shane ... Why was it, after all these years,
Shane had eased off the drink and his twitching had lessened?
Did he find himself lying on a platform above the bed with
Peter Bracken's hands moving over him? My God! She
shuddered. It was the first time she had admitted to herself
the influence of Peter Bracken on her the night the child was
born. She put her hand inside her blouse and felt for her
rosary, which she had taken to wearing round her neck of late.

Staring out of the window, she said her beads: Hail, Mary,
full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst
women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. ... She
had gone through two decades, when she saw the back yard
door open and Hannah Kelly enter the yard.

Hastily, she fastened her blouse.

What did Hannah want so early in the morning ? . .. There
was something curious about her walk: she couldn't have had
a drop already, surely. She watched Hannah fumble with the
latch of the kitchen door, and when she came in and closed the
door, and stood with her back to it, Mary Ellen exclaimed,
'Why, lass, you're bad! Come and sit down.'

Hannah shook her head and murmured, 'Oh, Mary Ellen!'

'What is it? Is it Joe?'

Hannah again shook her head. She tried to speak but the
words refused to come, her mouth opening and shutting like
that of a fish.

'What is it then? Nancy ?'

Hannah's eyes drooped and her head fell on her chest.

'Tell me, lass. What is it?'

'Dear God, dear God,' Hannah said, and her voice sounded
small and lost, and she looked like a bewildered child in spite of
her long, bony frame. 'I may be wrong. Will you come over
with me, Mary Ellen, and see? I came the back way, for Bella
Bradley's on the lookout.'

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'Is Nancy ill?' Mary Ellen asked, taking her shawl from the back of the door.
Hannah made no reply but went out, and Mary Ellen followed closely after her....
Nancy was in bed, lying well down under the clothes, and
Mary Ellen, as she entered the bedroom could see only her
eyes. They held an odd look, a mixture of wariness and cunning,
an expression not usual to their dullness.
'Hallo, Nancy,' said Mary Ellen.
But Nancy did not reply with her usual normal address;
she just stared from one to the other.
Hannah, stripping the clothes from her, said, 'Lift up your
nightie!'
With her eyes still darting from one to the other of the two
women, Nancy complied. The nightdress was short and tight,
and she had to drag it over her hips.
Mary Ellen gazed at Nancy's stomach. She knew now what
Hannah suspected, and she exclaimed to herself, 'Oh, Jesus,
don't let it be.' Nevertheless, to her eyes there was nothing
really to justify Hannah's suspicions, and she looked across
the bed to Hannah: 'Lass, what makes you think ...?' she
said.
'She's past her time, and I've seen nothing; and I think
that's what Mrs. Fitzimmons twigged. And her being sick and
not working.' She spoke as if Nancy wasn't there. 'Stand up!'
she said harshly to her daughter.
Nancy lumbered out of the bed, still with her nightdress
held above her stomach. And now Mary Ellen thought she
could detect a small rise. But still she would not believe this
thing possible; nobody in their right senses would dream of
taking a lass like this.
'Look, lass' - she turned to Hannah - 'it may only be wind.
Or perhaps a growth,' she said hopefully.
Hannah, her eyes dead in her large, round face, turned
away and walked into the kitchen.
'Put your clothes on, hinny,' Mary Ellen said to Nancy;
and the girl immediately pulled her nightdress over her head
and began to dress.

143

In the kitchen, Hannah was sitting dejectedly at the table,
and Mary Ellen said, 'Get her to the doctor's lass. Take her
now. It may not be what you think, and it'll set your mind at
rest.... Anyway, it can't be that.'

Hannah, in dismay, turned and stared into distances beyond
the kitchen walls: 'It's that all right. I'll take her, but
I know.'

'Have you asked her anything?'

'Yes, I asked her if a man had touched her, and she wouldn't.
answer. And that's a funny thing in itself, for she always says
right away, "No, ma, when men speak to me I run away."
And then again, twice last week she disappeared. I had Annie
out looking for her for three hours on New Year's night, and
she found her round by St. Bede's Church. She had come
across the salt grass, but she wouldn't say where she'd been....
Oh, Christ... Christ Jesus!' Hannah burst out. 'What's going
to happen? Joe will kill her. And if he finds out who it is
there'll be murder done. Oh, Mary Ellen, what am I going to
do?'

'Here, steady yourself, lass. Come on, get up and put your
coat on and take her now.' She pulled Hannah to her feet.
'You'll catch him if you go now.'

While Hannah was putting on her coat, Mary Ellen went
into the bedroom where Nancy was still laboriously dressing:
'Hurry up, hinny, your ma's waiting.'

Mary Ellen found she couldn't look at the girl. ... If she
were going to have a bairn and had kept quiet about the man,
then there was some part in her that was sensible, Mary Ellen
reasoned. Unless, of course, she was too afraid to say anything.
But now that she came to look at her, the lass looked
less afraid than she had ever done.

She bustled Nancy into the kitchen: 'There you are then,
lass' - she was addressing herself to Hannah - 'get yourself
off. ... And remember, whichever way it goes, don't worry.
You can't help it; the blame can't be laid at your door, you've
done your best.'

She watched them walking down the street, wide apart, like
strangers, Nancy humped and shuffling, Hannah as stiff as a

144

ramrod; and a sadness settled on Mary Ellen, the beginning of
a long, long sadness.


John hurried out of the docks . . . Friday night and the first
week of the new year over, and six boats discharging at the
same time. He had just come from the weigh beam after paying
off half the men. It was a strange sensation standing at the
weigh beam with his pockets full of money and handing each
man his due, and feeling that although he was young enough
to be a son to three parts of the men they liked him, and trusted
him to give them a square deal. As he left the last arch and
passed the bottom of Simonside Bank he glanced through
the darkness to the curving incline, and the thought that within
the next hour he would be hurrying up there brought a leaping
and tingling to his blood. The nights of the past week had
been like glimpses of paradise - was there anyone in the world
as beautiful and as sweet as her? Where was there a woman
of her standing who would take him as he was? He had no
notions about himself. Eight years in the docks had not filed
him down, but roughened him. The only saving grace, he told
himself, was that he was aware of it and would do his best to
remedy it. He would have to if he were ever to feel worthy of
her, even to the smallest degree. Moreover, another thing he
would have to do was to find a better job. It was impossible for
him to remain in the docks .. . even as a gaffer, for it would
take more than a gaffer's wages to support her in the way to
which she was used. Almost every night of the past week, after
he had left her, his main thought had been that he must better
himself; and he had worked it out that there was no chance for
him in the North, nor yet in England . . . America .. . the
Mecca of the Tyneside Irish loomed before him like a lodestar.
If she would have him he would go there. Perhaps she would
go with him right away. ... No; not for a moment would he
consider that. When he had made enough money he would
send for her. Not for one day of her life would she live differently
because of him. ... And then there was his mother and
Katie. If he went to America he'd be able to send them money
too. For look at the wages you earned out there! And it wasn't


145


all moonshine. The Hogans from High Jarrow were doing fine,
he'd heard; the father and four lads all in regular work, and
sending for the rest of them this year. And there was that
young Stanley Tapp, who went out and had his lass follow
him. So why shouldn't he, with his strength and fitness make a
go of it! There was no job he couldn't tackle. Yes, that's what
he'd do. But he'd have to wait a while before he put it to her;
he couldn't ask her anything yet; it was too soon. Had he been
loving her for only a week? It seemed now as though it had
been going on for years. And each time they met the knowledge
grew stronger that she loved him with an intensity that
almost matched his own. This coloured his life, and lifted him
to the heights whereon he saw himself wrestling a mighty living
out of the world and giving her, not only the things that she
was used to, but such things to which even she had not aspired.

He was whistling as he walked up the backyard, but stopped
before he entered the house; his mother wouldn't have whistling
in the house, it was unlucky. She was standing by the table,
and before her, on the mat, stood his father and Dominic with
their bait tins still in their hands. Shane's lower lip was thrust
out, and he was saying, 'The swine should be crucified!'

'What's up?' asked John, loosening his muffler.

'It's Nancy,' said Mary Ellen, looking down at her feet.
'Nancy? What's wrong with her?' John took off his coat and
rolled up his sleeves before reaching, for the kettle from the
hob.

'She's going to have a bairn.'

John's hands stayed in mid-air, 'She's going to what!' His
brows met over the exclamation.

'It's true. Hannah's had her to the doctor. She's nearly out
of her mind.'

Turning slowly, John looked from his father to Dominic,
and back to his mother again. Nancy Kelly going to have a
bairn! It was utterly incredible. He thought of her face as it
really was without the veil of his pity covering it... the loose,
repulsive mouth, the beady eyes, and the pushed-in nose. How
could any man touch her, unless he too 'wasn't all there'.

Mary Ellen was saying, 'And the funny thing is, she's gone

146

... odder' - she couldn't say 'brazen' to the men - 'I can't keep
her out of the house.'
Although Mary Ellen was filled with pity for Hannah and
the girl, she had found the day trying beyond description, for
when Nancy wasn't standing leaning against the stanchion of
her own front door, staring across the street towards the house,
she was knocking at either the back or the front door. Mary
Ellen felt she could not say anything to Hannah as yet, for
Hannah was distraught, not only with her daughter going to
have a child, but at the change in her. It was as if now, with
life moving within her, some part of Nancy had become activated
into normality ... a crude and shocking normality to
the women, for she seemed proud of her achievement and was
determined to show it to her world. Subconsciously through
the years, she must have taken in, with perhaps a feeling of
envy, the arrogance of the pregnant women standing at their
doors, their arms folded across the bulks of moving life. And
she may have laughed unknowingly at their jokes as they patted
the tiny flutterings of their aprons, saying with raw wit the
old, threadworn joke, 'Lie down, yer father's not workin'!'
Whatever had happened, she was now ... brazened, and
Mary Ellen's pity was turning to irritation.
Dominic sat down by the fire - he hadn't spoken - and
Shane and John still stood regarding Mary Ellen.
'This'll send the little bantam clean off his head.' It was
Shane who spoke, and he was referring to Joe.
As Mary Ellen was about to make some reply, the back doer
opened and Nancy sidled in.
'Look, Nancy!' Mary Ellen exclaimed sharply; 'get yourself
away home.'
But Nancy, who never to Mary Ellen's knowledge had disobeyed
a command in her life, simply ignored her. Instead,
she came well into the kitchen and stood looking from one to
the other of the men. They all stared at her, Dominic out of
the corner of his eye. And when Nancy met his gaze, she flung
herself round from him, showing him her back, like a child in
the huff, and amidst silence, she walked towards John, and
smiled her grotesque smile as she placed her hand on his sleeve.
147
'John.'

Tears almost came into John's eyes as he looked at her:
God, but it was awful! Yet above his pity there arose a feeling
of revulsion against her. Some subtle change in her was
making itself felt - she was no longer the child.

She said again, 'John;' and he was about to say something
to her when his head was jerked up by the sound of
choking.

It was Dominic; he had risen from his chair, his body
quivering with waves of shut-in laughter. Mary Ellen and
Shane were staring at him. He lumbered past them and threw
himself on to the couch, where he sat leaning back, facing
them, his face working with glee.

Staring wide-eyed and questioningly at her son's contorted
face, Mary Ellen was wondering what in the name of God had
come over him.

Suddenly Dominic could control himself no longer, and his
laughter filled the house. Bellow rolled on top of bellow. But
as he rocked himself back and forth his eyes never left John's,
and the implication was lost on none of them. He waved a
helpless hand, encompassing Nancy and John. And John's
voice rose above Dominic's laughter, almost deafening them,
as he cried, 'You bloody swine!'

With one movement he flung Nancy aside and sprang for
Dominic. At the same moment, Shane and Mary Ellen threw
themselves on him. Dominic got up, his laughter gone now:
'Let him fight, the dirty bastard! Come on!' He tore off his
coat and made for the back door.

John's rage sent Shane and Mary Ellen spinning away from
him, and he was after Dominic; but as he crossed the step,
Dominic's fist shot out and caught him full in the face: yet so
little did it affect John in his rage, it could have been Katie's
hand.

After the light of the kitchen, the backyard appeared black,
and for a time they struck at each other blindly. But soon their
fists met the other's body with quickening and sickening
thuds.

'For God's sake, stop them!' Mary Ellen cried to Shane.

148

She tried to push past him into the yard, but he barred her
way, saying, 'Let them have it out.'

'No! No! He'll kill him. John'll kill him! For God's sake
stop them!'

A small crowd was now gathering at the yard door, and the
windows on the far side of the back lane were being thrown up
- the cry had gone round, 'The O'Briens are at it.'

The one showing the least concern was Nancy; she stood
against the kitchen table her arms folded on her stomach and
a silly smile flicking her face.

The sight of her thus was too much for Mary Ellen. She
darted back into the kitchen, and taking Nancy by the
shoulders, pushed her through the front room and out into the
street shouting, 'Go on! Go on, you young trollop, you! And
don't darken these doors again!'

Back in the kitchen she tried once more to push past Shane,
for blood was flowing freely now. It was running from John's
mouth and from Dominic's eyebrow, and their shirts were
wet with it.

Peggy Flaherty's voice came from the upstairs window, crying,
'Stop it! Stop it, you lads! Stop it, the pair of you. John,
where's your sense gone ? Do you want to break your mother's
heart? Behave like a gentleman, can't you! Oh, if only Mr.
Flaherty was alive!'

Mary Ellen, through Shane's arm, could see the dark bulk
of Peggy hanging half out of the window.

Peggy cried down to her: 'Mary Ellen, are you there? Will
I throw some slops over them ?'

Mary Ellen made no answer, for she was now staring at the
lass from next door. Christine had come into the suffused light,
paused for a moment near the battling figures, then walked
right between them.

John's fist was travelling towards Dominic's body, and Mary
Ellen closed her eyes tightly, for the girl's face, as she confronted
John, was in line with it.

Only the sound of gasping breaths came to Mary Ellen. She
opened her eyes slowly, and they were apart, with the girl
standing untouched between them.

149

Christine lifted her hands and pushed John towards the
kitchen door, where Mary Ellen pulled him over the threshold.

Then Christine turned to Dominic. He was leaning against
the washhouse wall now, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve.
He paused and looked at her, and said pointedly, 'This is one
time I'm fighting in the right.'

'Fighting was never in the right.'

'No? Huh!' - he spat out some blood, then went on wiping
his face - 'not even when your wonderful John gives Nancy
Kelly a bairn?'

There was a rustle among the crowd about the yard door.
The whispers linked, forming a wave; then broke again, as
one person after another darted away into the blackness. ...
John O'Brien had given Nancy Kelly a bairn!


When John at last arrived at their meeting place, Mary
wasn't there, and his feelings became a mixture of sick disappointment
and relief ... and relief because of the uncertainty
of her reaction when she saw his face. She would, he knew, be
full of sympathy, but would she think that he was indeed one
of the 'Fighting O'Briens', fighting for fighting's sake? - he'd
be unable to explain why he had fought. So he walked towards
her house, keeping on the far side of the road, and when he
came opposite the gate he stood well back in the shadow of a
hedge, and waited, wondering what construction she had put
on his nonappearance.

The house was lit up, and occasionally a shadow darkened
the blinds, but the shadow could have belonged to anyone.

How long he stood there he did not know, but a clock somewhere
in the distance, struck the hour, and he guessed it was
nine o'clock. And as he was making up his mind to move away,
the front door opened, and she was there, silhouetted against
the light. But not alone; a man was with her, and from his
thinness, John knew him to be Gilbert.

John's nerves tensed as he watched them standing talking,
and his teeth grated when he saw Culbert's hand take hers. But

150

she remained still and Culbert moved away, and the door was
closed.
After standing for a while longer, John walked slowly away.
He was cold, and his eye was paining, and the whole of his
face was stiff and sore. Now the import of Dominic's wild
laughter rose to the fore of his mind again; and with it came
a paralysing sense of fear. Fear was the least of John's emotions
- he could not remember ever having known real fear; he had
been scared, but being scared had no connection with this
weakening feeling of fear. What if it got around, what Dominic
had suggested? God! he couldn't stand it. Anyway, people
wouldn't believe it. Him take Nancy Kelly! ... But wouldn't
they? The lot around the fifteen streets would accuse Jesus
Christ himself of it, if they were in the mood to do so. At times,
it would appear they were utterly devoid of reason or sense, the
rumours they believed and passed on.
As he neared the corner of Fadden Street, the huddled,
darker blur standing out against the wall told him the men
were there. It was usual for them to gather at the corner and
crack, and it was their voices which generally proclaimed them.
But tonight they were quiet. And as he passed them he knew
a mounting of his fear, which almost reached the point of terror
when he realized the rumour was already let loose.
A figure stepped from the group and walked for a few steps
by his side, then stopped. John stopped too, and the two men
peered at each other.
'I want a word with you,' said Joe Kelly.
John did not answer him, for the fear was drying his mouth.
He waited, and Joe seemed to be waiting too.
Then Joe brought out thickly, 'What have you got to say?'
'What about?' John parried.
'Come off it, you know bloody fine!'
John made a desperate effort to bring reason and calmness
to the fore: 'Look, Joe,' he appealed to the little man, whose
face, even through the darkness, conveyed its trouble to him,
'do you, for a moment, think I would do such a thing? For
God's sake, man, have some sense! Nancy's always made a set
for me because I've been kind to her. ... What do you think I

151

1

am? I mean no offence, Joe, but I'm not that hard up for a
woman.'

'Then why did you take her up the country?'

'Take her up the country? Me?'

'Aye, you! And give her money. ... You might be big,
John O'Brien, but I'm going to kick the guts out of you!'

Before Joe could spring to carry out his intention, John's
hands gripped his shoulders and pinned him against the wall,
while he kept his body bent out of reach of Joe's legs.

'Listen here, Joe Kelly: if there's any guts to be kicked out,
I can do a bit of it myself. But before we start that, let's get
this straight. The whole thing's a pack of damned lies from
beginning to end. You bring me the one that saw me up the
country with Nancy; and let's get Nancy herself and ask her.'

'That's the ticket,' said a voice from the group of men;
'give him a fair crack o' the whip. I told you you were up the
pole to believe it. Now, if it had been the other big sod ...'

Another voice was added to that of the first: 'Aye, Joe. ...
Ask your lass, and get Bella Flabbygob to face him and tell
him herself.'

Joe's writhing body was stilled. 'All right then,' he growled.
'If you've got the face, come and clear yourself.'

John, walking swiftly and tensely by Joe's side, said, 'I don't
need to have any face, I've done nothing that I'm ashamed of.'

Thrusting open his back door, Joe cried to the startled
Hannah, 'Get her up!'

After one bewildered glance towards John, Hannah went
into the bedroom, and in a few minutes returned, pushing
Nancy, half awake, before her.

Nancy had a coat about her shoulders, and her long, thick
legs stuck out, like mottled props, below her short nightgown.
Her feet were bare and not very clean, and the whole picture
of her was revolting to John. ... That anyone should imagine
he could touch a thing like this! The thought made him angry,
and momentarily banished his fear. He confronted Nancy.

'Look, Nancy. Have I ever taken you up the country?'

Still only half awake, she blinked at him.

'Have I?' he persisted.

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'No, John.'

John cast a quick glance at Joe.

'Now,' he went on, 'have I ever given you money?'

She blinked again. She was a child once more; her newfound
self was lost in bewilderment and sleep. 'Yes,' she
answered simply.

Joe scraped his feet on the floor as John said, 'Listen carefully
now. When did I give you the money?'

She thought a while, then said, 'Up Simonside.'

They all stood silent. Simonside was the country. It was
the place for lovers and courting. Hannah drew in her breath,
and Joe bit out, 'Want to know any more?'

'Yes. How much did I give you?' John bent towards Nancy.

'Threepence.'

'And what did I give it to you for?'

'For being a good girl.'

Joe snorted and John turned on him. 'I know the night I
gave it to her. I met her crying under the arches. Annie had
left her in the market and she hadn't her tram fare. She was
afraid to stand outside the bar, and I put her on the tram, and'
- the face of Bella Bradley peering at him came back to John 'Bella
Bradley was on that tram. It was her who put this into
your head.'

'I've no use for that 'un,' Joe said, indicating Bella with a
lift of his eyes towards the ceiling, 'but she said she saw you
coming down the Simonside bank with her.'

'How the hell could she,' burst out John, 'if she was in the
tram and it black dark!'

Joe had no answer to this. He turned from John to Nancy,
his look indicating his detestation. Then he flung a question
at her that made Hannah cry out and John wince.

Nancy stared back at her father, unmoved by the question
itself. She was wide awake now, and she wriggled and flung
her head to the side with a new defiance. As Joe, all restraint
gone, went to hit her, she screamed and jumped aside like a
grotesque animal.

Hannah caught her husband's arm, crying, 'Leave her be,
man!'


153


Then Joe, Hannah and John were struck speechless, for Nancy, standing in the corner, her coat lying at her feet, her
long neck thrust forward, was yelling at Joe: 'Leave me alone
... see, you! You hit me if you dare, see! I'm gonna have a
bairn, I am, an' be married. ... Yes, I am. I'm gonna be
married when the bairn's born I am.' She tugged her tight
nightgown back and forward around her hips, then turned her
face towards John: 'Aren't I, John?'
John stood gazing at her; he was dumb and sick. Had she
remained the half imbecile child he could hawe dealt with her,
but this new Nancy, full of craft and cunning, filled him with
horror. When she came boldly towards him, her hand outstretched,
he yelled at her, 'Take your hands off me!' and like
someone possessed, he rushed from the house and started to
run, with Joe's voice bellowing after him, 'You won't get off
with it like that!'

154

CHAPTER TEN


MARY LLEWELLYN


Her home had always appeared a place of warmth and comfort
to Mary, but not up to now had she looked upon it as
one of the tentacles of her mother's possessiveness. Mary knew
that, in her gentle way, her mother clung like a leech and sucked
at one's individuality; and one of her sucking tentacles was the
creating of comfort ... good food, warmth, even the seductive
fire in one's bedroom.

After Mary's victory of claiming a room to herself the
creature comforts were diminished for a time; if she wanted a
fire in this room she had to light it. Yet after a while, Beatrice
Llewellyn saw that by pandering to her daughter's ridiculous
idea of privacy, a new tentacle could be affixed. But since New
Year's Eve, much to Mary's discomfort, this tentacle had been
released. No fire had been lit in the sitting-room for a fortnight,
let alone in the bedroom, and Mary's inquiry of Phyllis had
been answered by, 'The mistress says there are fires in the
drawing-room and dining-room, Miss Mary.'

For the first week of the new year it had not irked her, for
her evenings were spent with John; and the fireless room was
merely something that showed up her mother's pettiness. But
for six days now she had seen John only once, and that under
such circumstances, she would rather not have seen him at all.
Added to this, the striking cold of her fireless rooms seemed to
have brought her up against life with a vengeance.

Last night, after having gone fruitlessly to their meeting
place, she wrote John a letter ... a letter bare of pride. She
had thrown pride over from the first night he failed to keep
their appointment, for each dinner-time since, she had taken a


155


roundabout way home, walking slowly through the arches,
hoping against hope to meet him. Then today she saw him;
but unfortunately only after she had met her mother and
father almost at the dock gates. After her father's kindly greeting
and her mother's fixed stare, they were walking on
abreast, past the gates themselves, when John came out. His
abrupt stopping brought them all to a halt; but before she
even had time to speak, he was gone, across the road and into
the Jarrow tram.

It was only by using all her control that she did not follow
him. In the brief moment of meeting she could see something
was wrong. He was in trouble, and he had been fighting. His
eye was discoloured, and there was a scar across his lip. But it
was the look in his eyes that shocked her. They were not the
brown, kindly eyes of her John, they looked haunted ... even
frightened.

It was disastrous that her mother should see him like this.
Mary knew, by her mother's tilted chin and stiff profile, that
she recognized him and was showing her disgust. And her
father's repeated short coughs spoke, too, of his embarrassment.

Mary stood now in her bedroom, recalling the incident.
There was another hour and a half before she would know if
her letter had broken this estrangement for which she could
find no cause. She pulled her fur coat tighter about her as
she sat down by the window and looked out into the black
garden. If he did not come tonight what would she do? Her
life seemed barren and futile without him, and he had toppled
her standards overboard. Up to a few months ago she was sure
she knew what she wanted from life: culture, travel, and of
course a lovely home. It was true she had never loved Gilbert
Culbert, but it was his profession, she thought, had weighed
her feelings against him; for she could not see herself going
out to work when married, and thirty-seven shillings a week
wasn't going to enable her to do the things she had planned,
although she knew if she were to make this match there would
be considerable help forthcoming from her mother. Yet, compared
with John, Culbert was a man of means. But here she

156

was, willing to forgo everything she valued for this man, who
would hardly be able to feed her, as her father had so strongly
pointed out, apart from supporting her in the smallest comfort.

She was helpless before the power of her feeling. No clear
thinking would touch it. Nor did she want it to be touched,
for she realized she had found something given to few, a love
strong enough to defy convention. And not in the ordinary way;
but to defy convention by living under its nose. For that's what
it would mean if she, Mary Llewellyn, the boat-builder's
daughter, married John O'Brien, the docker.

'Miss Mary!'

Mary started. 'Yes?'

'Your mother says she wants ... she would like to see you
in the drawing-room.'

'Very well.'

Mary turned from Phyllis, whose bright eyes were greedy
for more scandal. Mary guessed her own doings were the high
spot of conversation in the kitchen, and knew that, because
she was associating with one whom they considered to be below
their class, she was unworthy of their respect. It showed
covertly in their manner, and she upbraided herself for being
hurt by it. For this, she told herself as she went downstairs,
was nothing to what she would have to put up with - she must
get used to scorn, and the scorn of the poor was scorn indeed.

Her mother was sitting in her wing chair to one side of the
large log fire, the heat of which met Mary as she entered the
room. Beatrice Llewellyn looked smaller and younger and
more fragile at this moment than ever before.

'You wanted me?' Mary halted in the centre of the room.

'Yes.' Beatrice Llewellyn paused, adjusted the lace cover
on the arm of her chair, then went on, 'I would just like to
ask you, Mary, to conform to the rules of this house if it is
your intention to stay in it.'

Mary remained silent; it was like the ultimatum to a lodger.

'You know your meals are served in the dining-room! If
you do not deign to have them there with us, then I'm afraid
you'll have to eat out, for I'm not having them taken to your
room.'


157


Anyone but Mary would have been deceived by her mother's tone into thinking that behind its evenness lay forbearance and toleration, but to Mary its studied calmness, in itself, was a danger signal.
'Is that all you wanted me for ?' she asked.
'No, it is not all I wanted you for.' Beatrice Llewellyn lifted her eyes from the contemplation of the lace cover and looked
straight at her daughter. 'You astound me, Mary. I cannot
begin to understand you. .. .'
'No ?' Mary raised her eyebrows slightly and waited.
'I can't think that one, even with your liberal tastes, can
have sunk so low as to continue to associate with a man who
is the father of an imbecile girl's child!'
The words glanced off the surface of Mary's mind. She was
prepared to hear something against John, she hadn't thought
her mother would speak otherwise, and at this moment she was
feeling sick with cold and worry; so until, like a boomerang, their meaning rebounded back at her she just continued to
return her mother's stare. There was a cause then for the six
empty nights and his avoidance of her at dinner time ...
there was a reason; someone was going to have a baby by him.
What! - her mind jumped clear of its numbness - her John
who was clean and loving and kind, whose love, so full of
desire, was yet restrained, whose hands, even in their loving,
were not the probing, groping hands of Gilbert ... her John
going to father a what!
She repeated aloud, 'What! What did you say?'
'You heard what I said.'
'And you expect me to believe you ?'
'No' - her mother's voice took on a note of resignation 'No,
all Tyneside could believe it, but not you. You are so
obsessed by that ... that man, that individual with the
brutalized, battered face, whose licentiousness drives him to
take a poor imbecile ...'
'Be quiet! How dare you!'
'Don't speak to me like that, Mary!'
'I will! You sit there taking a man's character away ...
damning him... you, who know nothing...!'
158
'I take his character away! Can a man have any character
who would touch that dreadful Kelly girl?'

'Kelly? You mean Nancy Kelly?'

'Yes, I mean Nancy Kelly.'

'You're mad! No man would . . . would go with that
girl.'

'She's going to have a child, and you don't for a moment
imagine it's an immaculate conception, do you?' Her mother
was being unconsciously funny; if only the implications for
John were not so terrible Mary would have laughed.

There was scorn in her mother's smile and maliciousness in
her voice when she said, 'His exalted position of being a gaffer
is in jeopardy too, I understand. For even certain dock men
have standards of morals.'

The desire of her mother to hurt her was so palpably evident
that Mary was stung to reply, 'Yes, for your sake, I should
hope so, seeing that my father worked in the docks until he
was twenty. You seem to forget that, don't you. I, in my way,
am doing exactly what you did ... taking up with a dock
worker.'

Beatrice Llewellyn rose swiftly from her chair - she was no
longer calm; Mary had touched a vulnerable spot, and she
hated to be reminded that her prosperous husband had ever
been other than what he was now. 'There's a coarseness in you,
Mary, that disgusts me,' she said sibilantly. 'Your father was
never a dock worker; he was apprenticed to a trade, as you
well know.'

'What difference does it make?' Mary found she wanted
to argue, to keep talking, so that she would not have to
think.

But her mother ended the interview by leaving the room.
She walked past Mary, her face tight and her blue eyes flashing
with vexation, causing the air seemingly to vibrate with her
displeasure. Mary did not move - she stood nervously tapping
her lips with her fingers. ... Nancy Kelly was going to have
a child . .. that dreadful-looking girl who was no more than a
child herself. And they were saying John was responsible. So
that was why he looked as he did. And that, too, was why he


159


had been fighting. How had he come to be accused of such a
thing?

The old saying: There's no smoke without fire, came to her.
But she refuted it with her mind and body; and she swung
round and rushed upstairs. Yet the thought persisted; why had
he been named ?

Mary reached their meeting place half an hour before the
appointed time. In the darkness of the lane she waited, each
moment dragging itself out into seeming hours, filled with
dread and anxiety. Twice she heard footsteps on the main
road, but they didn't turn into the lane.

When at last she heard the heavy tread of feet coming towards
her, she pressed back into the hedge, fearing lest it was
not him. But as the dark bulk drew to a halt, she whispered
softly, 'John.'

No answer came to her, and she moved slowly forward, and
again she said, 'John.'

In the centre of the lane, he stood out against the starlit
night, and she could feel the tense unhappiness holding him
down. She reached out her hands and again spoke his name.
This time he answered her. His arms went about her, and she
was lifted into his embrace and held tightly against him in
an unhappy silence. He did not kiss her, but bent his head and
buried it against her neck; and his mental anguish engulfed her.

'What is it, my dear?' She purposely asked the question,
for she felt he must tell her himself, and in the telling perhaps
the strain would ease.

But he said nothing. And so they stood, wrapped close in
an embrace that was full of questioning and stress. Then, as
if his words had journeyed through many doors before finding
a way out and were now tremulous in their release, he
asked, 'Mary .. . would you marry me if I had enough money?'

The proposal was so unexpected - it was the last thing she
had thought of hearing at this moment. She had imagined he
would give some reason for their separation, if not speak of
this dreadful other thing. For perhaps a second she remained
still. Then she gently took his head between her hands and
raised it. His face was indistinguishable in the darkness, but so

160

well did she know each feature that his expression seemed at
this moment to be outlined in light.
'Oh, my dear, I'd marry you now, just as you are.'
The question of Nancy Kelly flashed like a falling star across
her mind, only to disappear into nothingness; its dreadful
import could not possibly touch this man.
'No, no. Never that.' John's arms fell from her, but she
held his face tightly, saying, 'Why not, my darling? Why
not?'
'Because' - his head moved restlessly between her hands 'I'll
never take you while I'm in the docks.'
'But, my dear ...'
'It's no use.'
He gently released his face from her hands, and held them
tightly: 'I couldn't do it. ... Mary, I'm going away. Will you
wait for me?'
'Where are you going?'
'America.'
'America! But John! Oh, my dear' - she pulled him towards
her - 'I can't let you go ... not all that way, not without
me. ... John, take me with you. Let's start together' - she
was pleading as if for her very life - 'if we are together nothing
matters.' She had her arms about him now, and he stood
still within their circle, steeling himself against her offer, which
for the moment had lifted him out of the terrifying depths of
despair and revulsion to life that had almost overwhelmed
him during these past few days, and which during that one
brief moment had erased the picture of Nancy Kelly from his
mind, so that he could no longer see her waiting for him at
the corner of the street, or watching the house from her door
or front window. His whole life had been coloured darkly by
her. He would see her face reflected in the expression of the
dock men's covert glances and in the too friendly overtures of a
section of the men, who wanted him to know they didn't
believe the rumour. The house that, during the holidays took
on a semblance of happiness, was now a place of dread, and his
mother seemed to have become bent under the load of it. Time
and again he had found her watching Nancy from behind the
161

curtains as she, in her turn, watched the house. ... What would
his mother do when he was gone ?

He jerked his head as if to throw off this additional worry,
and answered Mary, rejecting her offer, as he knew he must,
but crying out internally at the necessity that drove him to it:
'No, it wouldn't work. I've got to go there and get a start,
and make enough money to set up.'

The term set up and all that it implied lifted him back to a
week ago, when there was no fear in his life, only the ecstatic
feeling of loving her. He pulled her to him blindly and kissed
her, and so was lost for a time, until she murmured, 'John ...
listen to me. Now don't get wild at what I'm going to say. But
I've got a little money ... only a little' - she felt his withdrawal
and clung on to him - 'Listen, darling, don't be foolish.
It isn't much, for I've never bothered to save. It's what my
grandfather left me. There's two hundred pounds. We
could ...'

'Mary ... do you love me enough to wait a year, perhaps
two?'

It was as if she had never made her offer. She answered,
'Yes ... for as long as you wish.'

'That's all right then.'

He kissed her again. Then said, 'I've been making inquiries;
I'm going as soon as I can. I went up to see some people called
Hogan in Jarrow last night. They've told me what to do.'

'Oh, John' - the huskiness of her voice was deepened by the
catch of tears - 'why ... why all this rush?' And as she asked
the question, Nancy Kelly came back into her mind. It was
because of this he was going more than anything else. He was
running away.

'John, what is it? What's worrying you? Tell me.'

He remained quiet, and she felt the stiffening of his body
again. Then he put her thoughts into his own words: 'I'm
running away. ... I've been accused of something, and I can't
face it. ... Mary' - the muscles of his arms hardened against
her soft flesh - 'if you heard something bad about me would
you believe it? I can't prove to you that I'm innocent, I can
only tell you I am. ... It's about... I'm ...' He stopped and

162

a shiver passed through his body. He could not bring himself
to say, 'I'm accused of giving Nancy Kelly a bairn,' nor could
he say, 'I'm as innocent as Christ himself, for I've never had a
woman; nor will have until I have you, be it in two years or
twenty.'

The cold dark bleakness of the night pressed down on them.
They stood slightly apart, and Mary waited for him to go on
and voice his misery. But he remained silent. The silence
seemed to fill the lane and to widen the distance between
them. At last she could bear it no longer, for now she was with
him she knew without doubt that he was incapable of committing
that of which he was accused, and she cried out, 'You
would never do anything bad. Never! Oh, my dear, don't let
this thing cause you to make hasty decisions. Don't let it drive
you away. Stay and see it out.'
'You don't know what it is they are saying.'
'Yes, I do. I know all about it.'

The silence fell on them again, softly now, filled with
reverence.

She knew all about it and she was here! He whispered, 'You
know about Nancy Kelly?'
'Yes.'

The wonder of her love and faith coursed like a mountain
stream through him, sweeping before it the fear and dread
that had been intensified by the thought of her revulsion towards
him should the rumour ever reach her. Her name burst
from him on a broken laugh that could scarcely be identified
from a sob.

She was in his arms, crushed tightly against him, and he was
pouring words over her: 'Nothing matters now. I can face
anything. I'll make money. We'll start a new life together. ...
Oh, Mary, my love, I'm as innocent of what they say as ...
as Katie is. I've always been sorry for the girl. I used to mind
her when she was a bairn, and she would come to me when
she was frightened... . She's changed; she's different now. But
somehow, I think she's still frightened, and that's why she's
made a dead set for me. And it's made them think.... But
what does it matter now? Nothing matters, only you. We'll

163

start life in a new land; and you'll teach me, as you were going
to, and make a new man of me.'

She tightened her arms about him. ... She teach him! What
could she teach him but the superficialities, whereas he could
teach her all there was to know of life.


164


CHAPTER ELEVEN


ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE


The February storm had raged for three days, during which
hail, snow and rain was driven against the houses with such
force as to almost penetrate the walls. It succeeded through
many windows, and some of the people found it as dangerous
to stay indoors as to go out and risk the flying slates and
toppling chimney pots. But today the storm was lashing itself
out. The streets were dry and the sun shone fitfully through the
racing clouds.

It shone now on Nancy standing in her doorway. It showed
her up vividly to Mary Ellen as she watched from behind her
curtains. For the past three days Mary Ellen had seen Nancy
only dimly, and appearing more grotesque than ever through
the two rain-streaked windows. But now, there she was, as
vivid as the picture that was seared on Mary Ellen's mind.

The girl, Mary Ellen knew, was possessed of a devil. This
was the only way to account for her laying the blame of the
bairn on John without actually saying so, and for her turning
on Hannah and standing up to Joe. Mary Ellen knew that she,
too, had become possessed of a devil. It entered into her the
night Dominic and John fought, and when John stayed out
all night, wandering the streets, after Joe Kelly had followed
him into the house, demanding to know what he was going to
do about supporting Nancy. The devil had frightened Mary
Ellen, for he urged her to do Nancy a physical injury, and she
prayed constantly to be relieved of all temptation. But from
the night her lad told her he was going to America, she prayed
no more, and the devil took full possession of her. She watched
Nancy at every available moment, and there were times when

165

she actually lifted the sneck of the front door with the intention
of making a dash at the girl and tearing her limb from
limb.

Nancy stood now scratching her head. She was doing it
systematically, working over first one section then another;
and Mary Ellen wondered for the countless time how anyone
in their right senses could imagine her lad touching that
thing. ... But they not only imagined it, they voiced it. Since
Bella Bradley had set the ball rolling, at least half the fifteen
streets would swear to having seen John with Nancy Kelly
in some questionable place.

She could have borne it all, Mary Ellen thought, if only it
wasn't driving her lad away. What would she do without him?
The day he left the house, it would be as if she were laying
him in his coffin, for she would never see him again. It was
all right him saying he would send her money ... he'd want
all his money if he was going to marry that lass. And anyway,
she didn't want money, she only wanted him. What would
life be like when, cooking, washing and mending, she wasn't
doing it for him?

She moved from the window and leaned against the wall,
and pressed her nose tightly between finger and thumb, meanwhile
taking great gulps of air - she mustn't start crying
now, it was close on twelve o'clock, and John and Shane would
be in soon, it being Saturday. Dominic was already in, sitting
over the fire, picking his toes.

In spite of her efforts, tears started to flow. Unless
Dominic got that job in Liverpool she'd be left with him and
his beastly ways. John never sat over the fire, picking his toes
... he washed his feet in the scullery. But not Dominic; he'd
sit picking at the hard skin on the soles of his feet, or lifting
the dirt from his toenails with his fingernails. There was nothing
so ugly, Mary Ellen thought, as feet, and none so repulsive
as Dominic's, big and broad and well-shaped as they
were. She knew, with an overpowering certainty, that once
John was gone and she was left to suffer Dominic, the devil
would have his way. And there would be no door standing
between her and Dominic, as there was between her and

166

Nancy, acting as a deterrent to her uplifted hand. And the
devil alone knew what she would have in her uplifted hand.
Oh, if only her lad wasn't going to that America. Oh, God, if
only something would happen to prevent him! She groaned
and rocked her body. ... Ask and Ye Shall Receive. Yes, but
there were so many things she had asked of God, and had she
ever received them? Perhaps she hadn't asked properly. Or she
may not have wanted them as she wanted this one thing. If
there was only somewhere she could be alone and kneel down,
she'd pray to Him and ask Him. But the minutes alone were
few and far between, especially at the week-end. ... But she
was alone now. She moved swiftly to the room door and closed
it. Self-consciously she knelt down close by it so that she
wouldn't be taken unawares if Dominic made to enter, and
should anyone happen to glance in the window through the
narrow aperture of the curtains it would look as if she were
scrubbing.
Almighty God, she began, Almighty Lord of Heaven and
earth, grant me this one prayer, and I swear unto You that
never until the day I die will I miss Mass. Almighty and
powerful God, grant me this plea. ... She did not at once
voice the plea, even mentally, but searched about in her mind
for other words to denote power with which to adorn the name
of God. But she could think only of Great and Almighty. She
discarded the set prayers - she wanted something more powerful
with which to contact Him. So she began again ... Great
and Almighty God, Ruler of our lives, You who can do all
things, do this for me I beseech Thee ... don't let my lad go
to America. Make something happen to stop him. Only You
can do this, Almighty God... only You.
Her joined hands were pressed tightly between her breasts,
and her chin above them quivered with emotion. As she rose
trembling from her knees, Katie's voice called from the
scullery, 'Ma! Ma, I want you.'
Mary Ellen smoothed down her hair and rubbed her face
over with a corner of her apron before going into the kitchen.
She knew Katie must have seen Dominic and would not pass
him, fearing lest his fingers were pushed beneath her nose.

167

Katie was standing in the scullery, trying to tidy her windblown
hair before replacing her hat.

'What is it, hinny?' Mary Ellen asked heavily.

Katie whispered, 'Sh!' and pointed towards the kitchen.
She pulled the door to, before going on in hushed tones, 'I just
wanted to tell you I'm going to the slipway with Christine.'

'The slipway?' said Mary Ellen. And Katie again cautioned
her. 'Sh! ma.'

'What are you going to do there?' asked Mary Ellen
softly.

'The boat's there ... Mr. Bracken had it fetched from the
quay corner this morning on a cart. It's all painted up. David
did it all himself. Oh, it looks lovely, ma.'

'It's too windy, hinny, you'll get blown off the wall.'

'I won't go on the wall, ma. The boat won't be on the
wall' - Katie chuckled at her mother's ignorance - 'it'll be in
the water!'

After a pause during which Mary Ellen adjusted Katie's
hat, she asked, 'Who'll be there?'

'Only Christine and David.'

'Not Mr. Bracken?'

'No.'

'Then you'd better not go, hinny. There should be no messing
around with boats unless a man's knocking about.'

'But Christine knows all about boats ... she can row! But
anyway, ma, it's tied up, and Christine's not going out in it,
she says it's too windy. She says, maybe the morrow if the
wind goes down we'll have a sail ... there's a sail in it too,
ma!' She looked up at her mother with a mischievous smile.
'We'll take you out for a sail, ma ... right to where the big
ships are. And the boat'll rock, and you'll be sick.'

The picture of her mother being seasick tickled Katie, and
she leaned against her, and put her arms round her mother's
ample waist, and shook with laughter as she moved her from
side to side, imitating the rocking of a boat.

'Stop it, hinny!' Mary Ellen felt far from laughter, but she
smiled at this canny bairn of hers, and she had the desire to
fondle her. She took off Katie's hat again and reached for the

168

broken comb lying on the scullery window-sill, and began
to comb the top of her plaits.

Katie made a protest, 'Ma, Christine's waiting!' But she
still leaned against her mother, and the pressure of her arms
tightened about her.

When Mary Ellen replaced the hat she patted Katie's cheek.
Then, awkwardly, she stooped and kissed her. Katie's arms
came up swiftly about her neck, and she returned the kiss with
an ardour that seemed strange in one so young. Kissing was an
uncommon ritual in the house, and Mary Ellen said, 'There,
there. Now off you go.'

But although she told Katie to go, she still held on to her,
buttoning her coat, lifting her plaits from off her shoulders, and
yet again straightening her hat. When at last she closed the
door after Katie, she stood for a time thinking of her, and the
thoughts brought her a modicum of comfort ... she'd always
have Katie. For years and years yet she'd have Katie, and
they'd cleave together even more so when John was gone. ...
That was another thing ... Katie had to be told that John
was going. What would her reactions be, for John was to her
as a god?

A new fear entered into Mary Ellen. ... Would it create
an aim in Katie's life, and that aim to be to go to America to
join John? She shook herself. This was going too far ... this
is what came of thinking.... Let God's will be done.

She steeled herself to go into the kitchen and to the oven
where a hot-pot was cooking, for Dominic would be still on
with his poking - she knew he prolonged it merely to tantalize
her. But when she entered the kitchen he wasn't there; and
further to her surprise, he came out of the bedroom, pulling on
his old mackintosh. He had changed his trousers and was wearing
his good boots. And he passed her without a word and
went out, slamming the door after him.

Where was he off to in such a hurry? Surely he couldn't
have heard what Katie said. If he did hear, he was off now to
corner the lass at the slipway. It was quiet there, and nobody
to stop him ... only Katie. Well, Katie was as good as
any.

169

Dominic's chase of Christine had aroused little interest in
Mary Ellen of late. Under other circumstances the fact that
Peter Bracken had forbidden him the house would perhaps
have aroused in her a feeling of shame that a son of hers
should have acted in a way to merit such treatment. At times,
she did wonder at Dominic's persistence, and wondered too
what it was about the lass that made him half demented for her.
These past few weeks he had been drinking more than he had
done since the Brackens came to live next door; not getting
blind drunk, but just enough to arouse his temper and make
him more detestable still. He was close on that stage now, having
spent the best part of the morning in the bars.

Shane came in, and to her surprise spoke first.

'Lashing itself out,' he said gruffly.

It was some time before she answered, 'Yes, and about time
too.' There was a change in Shane that bewildered her; he
had almost dropped the drink, and he sat with her at nights
instead of going to the corner. It began, she felt, when she was
ill ... or was it when John was made the gaffer? She knew
that in his own way Shane was proud of that. And the change
was more evident still since this trouble of John's. She felt
dimly that he was trying to comfort her for what she was
suffering on account of the lad, and dimly also, she felt a bigness
in him for doing this, for it was John who had the affection
that should have been his.

'Will you have it now or wait for John ?' she asked, indicating
the dinner.

'I'll wait.'

It was strange that she should ask him this and that he
should comply. Not long ago he would have bellowed, 'Who
the hell's boss, him or me?'

When John came in she did not glance towards him, for
she knew how he would look - his face would be straight and
lean; the flesh had dropped from the bones these past weeks;
the brown of his eyes would be darker, and in their depths
would be a look she could not bear to see.

Mary Ellen's heart lifted towards Shane when, seated at the
table, he said to John, 'We got her out in time all right, didn't

170

we?' He was referring to the unloading, and her emotion
almost choked Mary Ellen as she realized that her husband
was trying to get on a friendly footing with his son; for never
before could she remember him speaking in such a way, not
only acknowledging John as an equal, but as his superior ... it
was how a man spoke to his gaffer; it was also how a father
tried to convey his faith in his son.

John looked hard at Shane, then said quietly, 'You did that.'

They ate on in silence, and Mary Ellen went into the
scullery to try to suppress the choking in her throat. As she
stood, her hands pressed tightly against her neck, Molly's voice
came screaming from the back lane. 'Ma! Oh, ma! ... Ma!'

What could she do with that lass? Would she never grow
up?

'Ma! Ma!' Molly's voice came nearer.

Was she mad, screaming like that! By, she'd box her lugs
for her when she got her inside.

Molly's cries effectively suppressed Mary Ellen's emotion,
and she pulled open the back door with an angry jerk. ...
She'd give it to her; she'd swipe the hunger off her!

'Ma! Oh, ma!' Molly tore up the backyard and flung herself
on her mother, ignoring the upraised hand: 'Ma! it's
Katie... Katie and Christine.'

She stopped and gasped for breath as Mary Ellen gripped
her shoulders.

'What's happened?' Mary Ellen asked with strange quietness;
then called over her shoulder, 'John!'

As John reached the door Molly was gasping out, 'They're in
the boat; they haven't any oars.... It's going round and round
down the gut. It was our Dominic; he tried to get in the boat
with Christine, and she pushed him back and Katie loosened
the rope. ... I was behind the railings watching. Katie
wouldn't let me go with her, but I sneaked down, and I saw our
Dominic come. Oh, ma! and David's screaming in the slipway!'
John
was running down the yard with Shane on his heels,
calling, 'Make straight for the slacks; don't go down the slipway,
it'll be in the main gut by now.'


171


Mary Ellen, with Molly at her side, followed them, whispering
as she ran, 'What is this now? What has come upon
us now?'
On the main road, passers-by stopped and gaped at the two
great men in shirt sleeves tearing along as if the devil was after
them, the old man behind the young one, and the little woman
and the lass behind the old man.
Someone called, 'What's up? Is it a fire?' But the running
men took no heed, and one after another, the passersby
appealed to the woman and girl. And sometimes the girl
answered, 'It's me sister ... she's in a boat an' being carried
down the gut.'
Children tacked themselves on to Mary Ellen and Molly, and
men turned in their tracks to run back down the road towards
the slacks.
When John came to the open space of the slacks his heart
almost stopped. Without looking towards the gut he knew
the boat was there, for the bank was lined with people. At this
end of the slacks was the double tram line, where one tramcar
had to wait for the other to pass. They were both standing
empty, and their drivers were calling to the people, 'We'll have
to go'; but none of the passengers attempted to leave the
bank.
As John ran on down the pavement towards the middle of
the slacks where the gangway of timbers led from the bank
to the edge of the mud, he had to push his way through the
people now pouring out from the streets known as the New
Buildings that faced a part of the slacks. He thrust at them
with his arms, knocking them aside and calling forth hot exclamations.
Those standing on the gangway jumped clear of
him, and he took the timbers four at a time. The noise from
the bank died down and there was only the wind, on which was
borne thin wails, and the squelch of the water between the
timbers beneath his pounding feet. Automatically he paused
at the cabin, which was mounted on a platform of lashed
timbers in the centre of the great square, and grabbed up a
long pole with a hook on its end that the timber man used for
pulling the timbers together. Now the race was to reach the end
172
of the timbers bordering the gut before the boat came abreast
of him. He could see it was being held stationary at the
moment; but by what he couldn't tell. If it was stuck on the
other side of the gut on the great mud flat that extended to
the river then it was almost a certainty that it would be sucked
into this oozing morass.
Arrived at the end of the roped timbers, he had to take to
the narrow planks that formed a precarious gangway to the
gut. Here, he couldn't run, but had to pick his way over the
green, slimy wood. The pole impeded him still further; and
once he slipped and the water swirled about his thighs before
he could pull himself up again. He had managed to retain his
grip on the pole; and as he regained his footing a great 'Oh!'
came to him from the bank. The sight of the boat speeding
towards him lent wings of sureness to his feet, and within a
matter of seconds he reached the gut.
Clinging to the great post that was the last support of the
foot timbers he shouted madly to the approaching boat, 'Grab
the pole!' But the wind tore at his voice, carrying his words
away from him and them.
The boat was now making swift circles; one second, he
would see Katie's face over the gunwhale, her eyes staring in
terror, the next he would be looking at the back of her head,
her hat still on it. Christine was sitting in the middle of the
boat, her arms stretched taut, her hands gripping the sides in
a pitifully vain endeavour to steady the tiny craft. She had seen
John, for each time she fronted him her eyes held his for the
second before they were torn away again.
It was not the wind that was driving the boat down the gut
so much as the tide which was in full ebb; the locked waters
between the floats of timbers were rushing madly back into the
gut to meet the water draining from the mud flat beyond.
Added to this, the suction of the cross channel, bordering the
sawmill on the far side of the slacks, made the main gut a
frothing, boiling mass of water.
As the boat came abreast of him, John bellowed, to the very
limit of his lungs, 'Catch the hook, Christine!'
Perhaps she heard him and was afraid to loosen her grip

173

on the sides of the boat, or perhaps his voice became only
part of the wind, for when he cast the crooked end of the pole
towards the boat it fell close to it, and anyone on the alert
could have grabbed it; but the fraction of time during
which this could have happened was lost. The boat gave
another mad turn and was away, past him. He saw Katie
stand up. She seemed to stand perfectly straight and still, and
he experienced the odd sensation that her face was floating to
him . .. imagination! But it was not imagination when he
heard her voice coming to him against the wind .. . 'John!
Oh, John!'

The boat was now flung into the vortex of water where the
channels of the gut crossed. It heaved and whirled. Then like
a ball, held by some mighty hand, it became still, and John
saw clearly the two figures, their arms wound tightly about
each other, crouched together; the hand was lifted, and the
boat like a ball, was thrown up and over.

As John raised his arms to dive, two hands clawed at him
and grabbed his belt. He half turned, screaming at the man
behind him, but in wrenching himself free he overbalanced
and toppled into the water. When his head broke the surface
Peter Bracken grabbed his hair, and Peter's agonized voice
screamed at him, 'It's no use! It's no use! They've gone. Don't
make another.'

Two more hands stretched out and, gripping John's braces,
hauled him on to the plank again, where he lay still with
Peter Bracken bending over him. A great stillness was pressing
down on him. It was the stillness of the dead of all time. In it
there was no regret, no pondering, no desire, no recrimination,
no feeling whatever; it was void, because it held no thought.

He looked towards the upturned boat; he watched Katie's
hat, mounted on a crest of frothing bubbles, rise and fall,
bobbing round and round the swirling boat, like the earth
round the sun. Peter Bracken's tearing sobs came to him, and
he did not wonder at them. Nor, when he turned towards
him was he surprised to see a very old man. Time passed and
the receding tide showed the shining mud about the planks on
which they stood.


174


Men were walking cautiously along the planks now. First,
Peter Bracken was helped back, and when the men said, 'Come,
lad,' John allowed himself to be led back to the timbers, one
going before him and one behind, steadying him as though he
were a child.

The timbers were thick with men, soundless men. John
walked alone now, and they made a path for him. Closing
in again after him, they followed him to the bank, where
the sobbing and wailing rose and fell like the waves of the
wind.

Three people were standing apart at the foot of the bank,
and when John stopped and looked at them, the stillness began
to lift from him. The first impression to penetrate it was that
his father had his tick back worse than ever. This was followed
by the painful realization that his mother was a little old
woman, and her not yet fifty, and that Molly would never be
Katie. They looked at him, and the sobbing on the bank seemed
hushed.

Then from the middle of a group of women, David's voice
rose, crying, 'Christine! I want Christine!' and the stillness
was lifted completely from John; and a name passed through
his brain like a tearing flame... Dominic!
He threw up his head as if sniffing a scent, and his eyes
swept the crowded bank from one end to the other. But from
where he was standing below it, it was impossible to seek out
anyone from the broken front line of the crowd.

A path was miraculously cleared for him when, turning suddenly
from the agonized stare of his parents, he rushed up the
gangway. Across the main road was a rise of grassy ground
bordering the New Buildings. He made straight for it. Now he
was looking down on the congested road, and there in the far
distance, on the very outskirts of the crowd, he saw Dominic's
head. It was hatless, and the fitful sunshine was turning the
hair to gold. Whether Dominic had seen him John did not
know, but as he tore along the comparatively clear ground
Dominic's head disappeared; and when John reached the spot,
Dominic was gone.

To a woman of the fifteen streets, John said only one word,


175


'Dominic?' and she pointed to the disused workmen's hall:
'He went round by the back of there, lad.'

When he reached the back of the hall John caught sight of
Dominic ... he was running across the middle of the field
used by the chemical works as a dumping ground for their
foul-smelling residue. The field was a mass of small mounds,
and Dominic was leaping like a kangaroo over them.

As John raced over the field the distance between them
lessened appreciably, and when he came out on to the Cleveland
Place road, there was Dominic, not twenty yards ahead,
disappearing round the corner of the tram sheds.

They were both on the main road now, and the people
struggling back to the fifteen streets called to John, 'Stop
lad!' ...' 'Give up, lad! ...' 'What's done's done ... think
of your mother.' And when men's arms went out and tried to
hold him he brushed them off like flies.

As they neared the fifteen streets Dominic was lost in the
dense crowd awaiting news from those who had been down
to the slacks. But John knew that Dominic would make for the
stackyard at the top of the streets; here, in the maze of stacked
timber he would hope to escape. He was right; he saw Dominic
mount the wall and disappear.

John did not jump the wall, but stood on its top - his
desire was teaching him cunning. He could not tell which
way Dominic had taken, and once on the ground it would
be like searching for a needle in a haystack; but from up
here he should see Dominic's head as he moved between the
stacks.

It was some minutes before John detected it, for Dominic's
hair was in tone with the seasoning wood. Dominic had paused
to glance behind, and John was off the wall, running swiftly
and noiselessly, not in Dominic's direction but to the right of
him. Dominic was making for the railway line at the end of
the yard, and he'd get him there.

John reached the end of the stacks and waited, his eyes darting
back and forth to the last three openings - it would be from
one of these that Dominic would emerge. He came out of the
middle one, running swiftly; and pulled up a few yards from

176

John. His mouth was open and his jaw was moving from side
to side. The brothers surveyed each other, John's eyes sending
out streams of diabolical hate, while in Dominic's the hate was
mixed with fear.

John did not say, 'You killed them ... Katie and Christine,
and now I'm going to kill you,' nor did Dominic say, 'It
was an accident'; without any word they closed, and John, like
a raving bull, smashed his fists into Dominic's face. From the
start, Dominic was handicapped by his raincoat, but fear made
him hit back desperately. It also made him aware that he could
not stand up to the blows being levelled at him; so he used his
knee. Bringing it up sharply, he rammed it into the lower part
of John's stomach, and as John bent double Dominic ran back
down the opening through which he had come, only to be
brought to a stop by the cries of men coming through the
jumbled stacks. Assuming that the men were after him, he
decided to carry out his first intention of taking to the railway.
But when he turned once more there was John, at the
opening of the stacks.

Blindly, Dominic rushed at him, using his fists and his feet;
but it was as if John had set up a guard of flaying hammers,
and soon all Dominic could do was to protect his face with his
crossed forearms. He was pinned against a stack, and long
after he ceased to fight John's fists pounded him, and he
seemed to be kept on his feet only by the succession of lifting
blows. At last, Dominic's knees gave way and he slid on to his
side. John stood above him, gasping; then, using his foot, he
pushed Dominic on to his back, and only then did he become
aware of the crowd gathered about them.

Exclamations came from all sides. 'My God!' 'Leave him
be, lad; he's had enough.' 'God Almighty, I think he's done
for him!'

On hearing the last remark, John wiped the blood from his
face with a sweep of his hand, and stared down on Dominic.
... Was he dead? No, he mustn't be dead .. . Not this way,
this easy way. He was going to die in the gut. He would drag
him there, to the spot where they went down, where Katie's
straw hat went round and round. The tide would be low, so

177

he'd throw him down the steep incline of mud. He would be
conscious and would claw at the mud as it slowly sucked him
in. But - he looked up from Dominic and stared glassily at the
faces of the men - they would stop him. Yes, if he attempted
to do it now. Well, he would beat them; he would take this
thing home. He moved Dominic again with his foot. ... He
wouldn't let him out of his sight, and in the night he'd get him
to the gut. If he had to drag him every inch of the way he'd
get him to the gut.

The exclamations came to him again, more shrill now, for
the women had joined the men, after forcing open the stackyard
gates.

'Oh, Jesus, have mercy on us! he's killed him. God
Almighty, it'll be a hanging job!'

It'll be a hanging job! ... The cry reached Mary Ellen,
standing on the outskirts of the crowd, surrounded by a group
of women, all with tear-stained faces, and all urging her, in
one way or another, to return home. ... 'You can do no good,
Mary Ellen.'

'You must think of yourself and Shane.'

'Yes. Shane's lying back there bad, the shock's been too
much for him.... Come on, lass.'

Mary Ellen stood quiet in the centre of them. She wasn't
crying, there was no liquid left in her body to form tears. Her
body was dry, it had been burnt up, and the flame was now
going to her head. ... If these women didn't get out of her
way, she'd scream. She must get to her lad. He had killed
Dominic, so she must be with him. To her, this seemed to be
the end of a long waiting - Katie was gone; Dominic was dead;
and there was only John. ... He had done what he said he
would do - John always meant what he said. Now there was
nothing else to wait for.

Mary Ellen knew that the agony within her was screaming
to be set free. The agony was wide and deep, reaching into
the bowels of the earth. In an odd way, she felt herself one with
the earth ... the dirt, the mire, and the richness. The scream
of agony was tearing around in the dry emptiness of her body,
and swiftly, in a spiral, it was mounting to her head. Once it

178

was there, she would be free, for when it escaped from her lips
she would feel no more ... at least, not with any feeling she
would recognize; once she screamed, she would be changed
for all time, for madness would possess her.

As her mind ran to meet the scream, she heard it. It seemed
to lift her and the women from the very ground. But it wasn't
her scream; it was Nancy Kelly's. And it was mixed with
laughter ... the terrible laughter. The women covered their
ears, but Mary Ellen stood listening. Then she thrust wildly
at the bodies hemming her in, and forced her way through the
men to the space where John stood, and Dominic lay with
Nancy Kelly kneeling by him, pulling at his torn and bloodstained
clothes, and crying, 'Dominic! Dominic! Don't be
dead! I've kept me mouth shut, Dominic ... I did what you
told me.' She pulled at him, trying to shake life into him again.
'Dominic, you must marry me when the bairn's born. ... I've
been a good girl, Dominic, I did what you told me.'

Nothing but her screeching voice could be heard; the crowd
was as silent as the stacked piles of wood.

The blood pounded into John's head. Dominic, the father
of the bairn! The swine! The god-damn, dirty swine! Reaching
down, he grabbed Nancy and flung her to one side. Then
he was on top of Dominic, crying out as he beat his fists into
the inert, blood-covered face, 'You dirty swine! And you put
the blame on ...'

His words were lost as the men tore him aside. Fighting,
they bore him to the ground, and so many held him that only his
eyes were free to move.

As one of the men shouted to the others, 'Look slippy there!
Get him away, can't yer!' John heaved in an effort to free himself.
... If they got Dominic away they'd hide him. Why didn't
he finish him off when he had the chance! He writhed and
struggled until the uselessness of his efforts was borne upon
him, and he suddenly became still. Well, wherever they
took Dominic he'd find him! Oh, Katie! Katie! - he closed
his eyes to shut out the men's faces as sorrow overwhelmed
him.

When the men released him and he got to his feet, he saw

179

his mother. She was picking at a button of her blouse, her
eyes, dead in her white face, staring at him.

When he said, 'I'll find him,' she remained silent; then she
turned and walked slowly away, and he followed her; and the
crowd closed in behind, like a gigantic funeral procession.


180


CHAPTER TWELVE


THE AFTERMATH


There was no door in the fifteen streets that was closed to
John; for three days he had walked in and out of the houses,
into bedrooms, some tidy in their bareness, some a mass of
jumbled old clothing and mattresses, and some indescribable
in their squalor. He saw nothing of the conditions, he looked
only for a concealed form; under beds, in cupboards, in rooms
where the sick were lying, and where weary hands would
reach out in a vain effort to give him comfort. He spoke to no
one, and he trusted no one; he knew that in this time of trouble
the people of the fifteen streets were united in one huge family
to protect him, as they thought, from himself. So he did not
search systematically, but after searching houses at the lower
end, he would suddenly double back to the top or middle
streets, and houses he had searched but a short time before
would be gone over again. No harsh word met him; even if he
stalked in on a family eating he would be greeted soothingly.

He had one assistant in his search: Peggy Flaherty. Her fat,
wobbling body hugged by coats, she would accompany him at
odd hours of the day, most of the time talking away at him:
'Never give up, John. We'll get him yet. By God! we will an'
all. ... He needn't run off with the idea he can escape you,
can he lad? And he'll not get out of these buildings.'

Often, in his darting from one place to another, he would
leave her behind; but she would be guided to the house where
he was. And again she would tag along after him, nodding
knowingly to the groups of people gathered in the street.
Only at night did she leave him alone for any length of time,
for then he paraded the main road.


181


John knew that Dominic would be in no fit condition for
days and that it was practically impossible for him, up to now,
to have made his escape by the stackyard, for since the breakthrough,
the gates were doubly locked, and there remained
only the wall as a means of exit that way. So for two nights
now he had watched from the main road. The night policeman,
on his beat, would stop and talk to him, the darkness wiping
away his officialdom: 'Is it worth it, lad? You know what will
happen, don't you ? You'll get time, if not the other. Anyway,
how do you know he's not already gone? By what I hear, he's
likely in hospital. If it hadn't been for your sister saying the
little lass loosened the boat, we should have been on to him
ourselves. And you can count yourself lucky, you know, one of
us wasn't on the scene when you got at him. So don't look
for trouble, lad, and get yourself home to bed.'

No words had penetrated John's mind since those spoken
by the men when they were holding him; and it might have
been that he did not hear this advice, for he made no reply. It
was as though his mind, so packed with the weight of his
sorrow and hate, could take in nothing more. During the first
two days he did not actively think of Katie and Christine, nor
yet of Mary, whom he felt to be part of his sorrow for all time,
for she, in some strange way, was a partner in the guilt he was
laying on himself. Because he had allowed the madness of his
love to possess him, he ignored the danger in which Christine
stood, and did nothing to protect her beyond ordering Katie to
act as a buffer to Dominic's advances.

On this, the third day of the search, when the strain was
telling on him, in the leaden weight of his limbs and his unsteady
walk, and in his burning eyes that would close whenever
he stood still for a moment, his mind, strangely enough,
was beginning to sort itself out; thoughts were separating and
presenting themselves, as it were, before him. He was standing
leaning against the wall on the waste ground at the top of one
of the streets, where he had paused for a moment during his
search; and his hand moved over the three days' growth on
his face. His body felt dirty, his inside empty, and his head
light. But the thoughts came, one after the other, isolated yet

182

joined: I must stop sometime ... if only they find them before
they're carried out to sea; if I could see Katie once again it
might not be so bad. Oh! Katie! Katie . .. My father's done
for, he'll not work again. Why am I not with my mother, she
needs me? But she understands I've got to find him. She
wants me to find him; she hates him as much as I do. ... Why
doesn't Peter Bracken look for him instead of yapping, 'Forgive
us our trespasses'. Father O'Malley says Peter is the
cause of all this, and if my mother and me had done as he
commanded this would never have happened.

As if his thoughts had conjured up the priest, Father
O'Malley, accompanied by Peggy Flaherty, appeared before
him.

'Oh, there you are, lad!' Peggy said. 'And here he is himself,
father. ... Away with you now!' she added to the children
who were following them.

Father O'Malley confronted John: 'Come into the house,'
he ordered, 'I want to talk to you.'

John blinked slowly and made no reply.

'Did you hear me?' demanded the priest.

And after a short silence, during which Father O'Malley
waited, and the children sniffed, and a few women added themselves
to the group at a respectful distance, the priest went on,
'This has got to stop! Who are you to take God's work into your
hands? He will seek vengeance without your help. He has
already shown you what He thinks of you going against His
Holy Will - I cannot repeat too often, that had you kept that
man Bracken from your house this state of affairs would never
have come about.'

'It's hopeless,' Peggy Flaherty broke in. 'Time and again
I've told him to give up the search. Oh! it's no use at all.' She
proceeded to rattle on, in spite of the priest's gimlet eyes
demanding her silence and John's blurred and bewildered
stare as slowly the fact forced its way into his mind that she,
and she alone, had urged him in his search.

There were murmurs from the women: 'The priest's right.
There's been no luck about the doors since that Bracken man
came.'

183

'No! nor will there be!' Father O'Malley threw at them,
effectually drowning the more considerate comment: 'Aye,
but he's lost his lass too.'

'Come!' Father O'Malley commanded John.

John stood for a while longer ... the priest and Peggy, and
the women, were becoming blurred: he must rest and have
something to eat if he intended going on. And so, in the eyes of
the women and children, strength was added to the priest's
power when John turned and obediently followed him. ...

In contrast to John's ceaseless moving Mary Ellen sat
almost immobile in the kitchen. At odd times she would go to
the front room and attend to Shane; but she cooked nothing,
nor cleaned, and, like John, she did not speak. And if at times
she stared at Molly, her face did not show any surprise or
wonderment at the change in this daughter of hers; for Molly
was 'running the house'. She had screwed her plaits into a
tight little bun at the back of her head and she wore her
mother's holland apron, rolled up at the band. Overnight,
Molly threw off her prolonged childhood; she was not now a
girl, but a little woman. And she was spurred on by the praise
of the neighbours: 'That's it, hinny, you be your mother's
right hand. You must take Katie's place now.' They talked as
though Katie had been an elder sister.

Sometimes Molly would stand in the scullery and cry for
Katie, while at the same time experiencing a feeling of relief
that Katie was gone; for she would never have been needed
had Katie still been here; and she was needed - they couldn't
do without her. Why, she told herself, she was the only one
in the house who hadn't lost her mind ... except Mick; and
he was no help, one way or the other. All he could do was to
stand among awe-struck groups of lads, bragging that he knew
where Dominic was hiding. ... He didn't! She tucked her
apron more firmly about her as she thought that, of all the
youngsters, she was the only one who really knew - Dominic
was taken into a house at the top of the street when they carried
him from the stackyard; but when John started to search they
moved him. It was Peggy Flaherty's idea. They did it in the
night and John hadn't found Dominic yet.

184

Thinking of John, Molly looked again at the screwed piece
of paper in her palm. ... After attending her father, the
doctor had said, 'Look, my dear; take heed of what I'm going
to say to you. Now do you think you can make your brother
John some tea when he comes in and put these two tablets in
without him seeing you? Be very careful of them; they are
strong and will soon put him to sleep.'

She felt very proud it was she who was asked, for her
mother was sitting there and he never asked her to do it. So
there was a rising of excitement in Molly when she saw John
and Father O'Malley coming up the backyard. She'd make
the tea now, and offer a cup to the priest; and perhaps he
would bless her and say she was a gift of God to her mother
and them all at this time.

But the priest did not bless Molly, nor speak to Mary Ellen,
but continued to talk to John, who was sitting with his elbows
resting on the table and his hand covering his eyes.

Mary Ellen listened while she looked into the fire. Did he
never tire? Would he never stop? Why did he persist that the
Bracken man was accountable for all this, when it was she
herself who had brought it about? Hadn't she prayed on her
bended knees to God, and asked Him to make something
happen to stop her lad from going to America? Well, He had
made something happen ... John would never go to America
now. God was laughing out Of the side of His mouth at her,
she felt, and He was waiting for the climax between John and
Dominic. The regret she felt in the stackyard when she knew
that Dominic was not dead had soon changed to a dread that
John would find him. By now, he must have been in every
house in the place bar one, and if he were not half demented,
that one would surely soon present itself to him. She cast her
eyes towards the ceiling.... How much longer would Dominic
remain there, hidden amongst the old furniture, the crocodile,
and the poss tubs? She felt like his jailer, sitting outside the
prison door, protecting him from a vengeance that hunted
him. Had the hunter been anyone but John she would have let
him in to do his work.

She turned to look at the priest drinking his cup of tea, and

185

she wondered what she would do if he should propose that
they kneel down and say the Rosary, for she was feeling hostile
towards a God who had done this to her ... using her own
prayers to bring her to grief! Her eyes moved slowly to John he
was drinking his tea at one go. Soon he would be asleep, if
Molly had done what the doctor told her. How long would he
sleep? Long enough to get the other one away? And when
would he go back to work? There would be only him to work
now, for it was doubtful whether Shane would do a hand's
turn again. .. . No. John would never now go to America.

She turned to the fire once more, and her old dominant self
made an effort to oust the apathy.. . . Get up and see to Shane!
it ordered. And that lass is wasting the food trying to cook it.
You can't expect the neighbours to go on bringing stuff in. ...
But the apathy lay heavily on her and she allowed it to settle
about her again as a protection.

The priest's voice was going on and on, and she was listening
again. He was saying, 'You've been godless for years, and then
you wonder why tribulation like this comes upon you. Can't
you see, man, you can't defy God and get away with it; the
ignoring of His Holy Mass Sunday after Sunday brings its
tribulation. Make up your mind to turn over a new leaf. ...
Throw off all undesirable companions, and come to Mass.'

The priest's voice was falling to an almost sympathetic
tone, it was quiet and even; and, as Mary Ellen listened, the
wonder was born in her that he could be capable of such
gentleness. As his voice became slower still, she turned to look
at him. His eyes half closed, he was leaning across the table,
for all the world like someone drunk, and he was emphasizing
each laboured word with a wobbly shake of his finger.

Mary Ellen rose sharply to her feet, staring at the priest,
her eyes wide and her mouth open. As Father O'Malley lifted
his head and slowly comprehended her astonished look, he
pulled himself upright. ... What in the name of God had
come upon him! This great, great tiredness. He shook his
head in an endeavour to throw it off. Holy Mother of mothers,
had he caught something? ... But what could he have
caught? Where had he been today? ... The Flannagans ...

186

and the child with the suspected sleeping sickness ... In the
name of God, it couldn't be! God wouldn't let his faithful
servant suffer such a thing. But he had surely caught something
- never before in his life had he felt so tired.
As Mary Ellen began to laugh, the priest rose slowly to his
feet. These people! what were they? Ignorant hooligans, who
could be driven to do the right thing only by fear. ... Oh,
God, don't let this thing fall upon me! he appealed. By the
use of my strong will I will bring these people to You.... Only
take this from me. ... that woman laughing! She was mad!
... He must get home and to bed. He turned and staggered
through the front room, with the terrified Molly behind him
and Shane, half raised up in bed, following his erratic course
in bewilderment and Mary Ellen's laughter becoming dimmer
in his ears.
Mary Ellen had no power to stop the laughter; it swelled
inside her, like the fire did a few days ago ... or was it years?
It shook every fibre of her body. She held one hand tightly
against her stomach and a forearm across her wobbling breasts.
John was standing over her, his glazed eyes blinking, and saying,
'Stop it, ma! Look; steady on.' He was holding her by the
shoulders, and her wide-open mouth and grimacing face
were doing more to bring back his mind to normality than all
the reasoning in the world. It only wanted his mother to go
mad to complete the whole thing. 'Look, be quiet!' His voice
cracked hoarsely on the words.
'I ... I can't, lad.' She moved her hands to her sides, where
the pain of her laughter was tearing at her. 'The ... the pills!
she p-put them in the wrong... ccup.'
John could not understand what her words were meant to
imply. He shook her again: 'Ma! Ma! Stop it, I tell you!'
Shane's voice came weakly from the front room, calling,
'What is it? What is it out there? Why are you laughing? For
God's sake!'
Slowly Mary Ellen's laughter subsided, and she gazed up
into John's dirty, stubbly face, and for a second her own
smoothed out into an expressionless mask before crumpling
under the release of her tears; and her broken words, 'Oh, me

187

bairn! me bonnie bairn!' cut through John, and completed his awakening.
He put his arms about her, holding her tightly, and her
emotion rocked its way through him, and the burning of his
eyes became unbearable. Like the rush of water when the
main dock gates were opened to admit a ship, the tears came
to him too. Silently flowing, they fell on Mary Ellen's brow;
and their raining, more than her own, restored her, and set her
once again in her rightful place as pivot of the house. And so,
as always, they balanced each other.
Mary Ellen's body still shaking and her tears still falling,
she drew away from John, and taking his arm, saying, 'Come,
lad,' she led him to the bedroom. When he sat on the bedside
she lifted up his feet, and as she unloosened his boots" he
groaned and, turning his face into the pillow, sobbed, with the
tearing, heart-rending sobs that only a man in sorrow can cry.

As Father Bailey hurried up Fadden Street he kept telling
himself that this was not the time to be amused; tragedy had
stalked this street, and was still doing so. But, nevertheless,
only the darkness hid the twinkle in his eye and the quirk on
his lips. The story the child Molly had brought to him was
fantastic ... giving Father O'Malley the tea with the drug in!
And him staggering out into the street to be confronted by
Peter Bracken, of all people. And then to be taken into
Bracken's house! Oh, it was the limit of limits. In the wildest
stretches of imagination, Father Bailey could not see his pastor
allowing himself to be even touched by the hand of Peter
Bracken, apart from being led into his house.
When Peter Bracken opened his door, Father Bailey said,
'You sent formed?'
'I did,' said Peter. 'Will you come in?'
Nothing more was said until they reached the kitchen, and
even then not immediately; for the sight of Father O'Malley
stretched out on the mat, with his head on a pillow and a
blanket covering him, was almost too much for Father Bailey.
Father O'Malley looked less prepossessing in sleep than he did
awake. He looked, Father Bailey thought whimsically, as
188
though he might be dictating to the sender of dreams as to
their type and quality.

Father Bailey suppressed his mirth and left till later the
relish this situation would provide, particularly for those
times when his superior would be most overbearing. ... Oh,
the laughs he would get from this would last him a lifetime!

'How did it come about?' he asked Peter, without daring to
raise his eyes from the floor in case this man, who was also in
sorrow, should detect his mirth.

'I happened to be coming up the street' replied Peter, 'and
found him slumped against the wall near my door. Molly was
with him and she told me what she had done. There was no
one about at the time, but I knew that should anyone see him
it would be said immediately that I'd put the evil eye on him.'

Without looking up, Father Bailey nodded.

'Or should he have been seen staggering about,' went on
Peter, 'some would have said . . . well, that he was drunk.
People only need to see a shadow to create the substance.'

Father Bailey slowly brought his gaze up to this man. . ..
How many terrible substances had been created from shadows
for him! And not a few by the priest at his feet. And yet he
had endeavoured to save Father O'Malley from the stigma
of drunkenness!

'You can get a cab and take him home,' Peter Bracken went
on: 'Or you can leave him here till he wakes.'

Yes, he could get a cab, Father Bailey thought, and take
him home. But then again, should he be seen being carried
from the house, this man would be blamed for putting some influence on him. ... No; he would leave him here. And please
God, he'd be here to see him wake ... he wouldn't miss that
for a bucketful of sovereigns.

'Would it be putting you out,' he asked, 'if he stayed?'

'Not at all,' said Peter Bracken quietly.

'And myself too?' added Father Bailey. 'I have some things
to attend to, but I'll come back later if I may. ... And I'd
better look in on the doctor who issued those tablets.'

'There's something I'd better tell you,' said Peter. ... 'It was
important that John should have taken those tablets' - he

189

nodded down at the sleeping priest - 'for tonight it is arranged
that ... that' - he couldn't bring himself to speak Dominic's
name - 'the other one is to be got away.'

'You know where he is then?' said Father Bailey, with
interest.

'Yes. But he can't remain there much longer. John will
shortly regain his senses, and he will surely guess; for he's
upstairs above him in the only house he hasn't searched.'
'Good God!'

'John is too good a man to suffer ... for him. He must be
got away!'

The priest nodded again, and asked, 'Where is he going?'

'I can't tell you that. I can only tell you he'll be put aboard
a tramp steamer.'

'Will he be fit to work his passage?'

'Not for a time; but that has been arranged.'

Peter Bracken said no more, but Father Bailey knew that
sick men weren't taken, even on tramp steamers, for nothing.
And the man before him was the only one round these parts
who could supply the money and arrange the whole thing. He
shook his head. ... Here, indeed, was a good Samaritan; and
under such circumstances as to make the act heroic. He looked
at Peter's shrunken figure and at the face, which during the
last three days had drooped into deep lines of age, and he said:
'I think you're a very brave and forgiving man.'

The old man turned away, his lips trembling: 'I am not
brave; it is that I can bear my sorrow easier than the others,
for my child is near me. Death to them' - he nodded towards
the wall - 'even with their religion, is a severance that only
death can join again. But to me there has been no parting, the
main part of her is still with me.'

For the moment, the priest experienced a tinge of envy for
this man's faith. ... Here was faith as it should be. Would
any Catholic think like this? No, he thought regretfully. Christ
Himself was in the blessed sacrament of the altar for them,
but their faith was so limited that it could not reach over the
boundary to Him ... so there were few miracles. They prayed
to God to come to them, instead of boldly going to Him.


190


'Can I help in any way?' he asked. 'Is there anything I can do?'
Peter turned to the priest again: 'You can, if you will. John
wouldn't suspect you. You could get more tablets and see that
he takes them. If the men don't get the other ... this done
tonight, there may not be another chance for days. And then
it may be too late.'
Father Bailey looked steadily at Peter Bracken: 'Why are
you taking all this trouble over someone who has done you
such a terrible injury?'
Peter's eyes closed, and his face set in lines of pain. He had
lost the mainspring of his life and hopes, for Christine would
have carried on his ideas. She had been brave; more so than
him in some ways, for he was vulnerable to jibes - how many
deaths had he died these past three days because of the attitude
that had been taken towards Christine. It was as if his
girl did not count... as if she too had not died the same death
as the child, even the blame for the tragedy, in some subtle
way, had been laid on her, while the perpetrator of it had even
come in for a modicum of sympathy from a section of the
people, and he himself was more hated and feared than
before ... and his heart was sore within him.
But he answered the priest calmly: 'Because I believe in
the Great Plan of Life. I believe all that has happened had to
happen. What I am doing I must do, for I feel also that it
isn't in the Plan for John to commit a crime and suffer for it.
There are other things for him, he has begun to think, and
nothing can stop him evolving.'
As if expecting some deprecating remark, Peter's eyes held
those of the priest for a moment before he went on: 'I believe
he will eventually do something for the betterment of his
people ... I know he will, for Christine has told me; and she
knows, for, you see, she loved him.'
Father Bailey's gaze was almost tender, as he looked at this
old man, who, strangely enough, held views which were in
exact keeping with some of his own; did he himself not always
say that the path was all mapped out for each one of us from
the day he was born, that the great Creator knew the shape of

191

every pebble to be trodden by our feet. This man was a
thinker, and was possessed of a spirit that wasn't unChristlike.
He preached that he was part of Christ in his understanding
and in his power, and although the doctrine he taught was
divided by insurmountable barriers from his own, nevertheless
the essence was very much the same. And he must talk to
him; for whether he knew it or not, at this moment his need
was great. Father Bailey knew that to extend to Peter Bracken
the hand of friendship would be a herculean task; the main
stumbling block would be, not so much the difference of their
religions or opinions, but the priest now lying on the mat between
them; and not him alone, but others of his breed, who
with a little learning packing the narrow channels of their
minds, set up theories bred of their own enlarged egos and
used them under the stamp of the Church. .. . Well, this was
one time he was going to make a stand. If this man and he
could never see eye to eye. they would have gone far if each
could respect the other's point of view. ... A flash of enlightening
candour through the priest's mind told him that the
trying would be his work alone, for this man in his humility
was advanced far beyond him.
He put out his hand and touched Peter Bracken's sleeve:
'I'll fix up that lad next door; then perhaps we can have a
talk.'
After Father Bailey had gone, Peter, his eyes bright and
head raised, stood by the side of the sleeping priest. He spoke
as if to someone near: 'You were right, my dear; your going
had a purpose. Never could this have come about otherwise.
Will you ask all the guides of tolerance to help this man here?
I, too, will work on him, that he may become more like him
just gone.'
While Peter Bracken was sitting at the head of Father
O'Malley the priest jerked violently - it was as if his spirit
was up in arms at this outrage. From time to time his lips and
cheeks would puff out and emit sounds like 'Pooh! poopooh!'
Peter did not smile - it needed Father Bailey to appreciate
the humour of the situation.

192

The tin alarm clock on the mantelpiece showed twelve
thirty. Father Bailey sat looking at it, and from time to time
he wondered whether it had stopped. But as he stared, the
hand would give a slight movement, and once again he would
tell himself that these were the longest three hours he had
spent in his life ... and the oddest. Was there ever such a
situation! Here he was, sitting in his kitchen, after midnight,
with this toil-worn woman opposite, so still she might be
dead; and three cups on the table, the largest holding the
white powder already mixed with the milk. And there on the
hob was the teapot, stewing its inside out. They would likely
all die from tannin poisoning if they were to drink the stuff.
Well, pray God there would be no need. Less than half an
hour now, and the men would be here and gone, and John
could remain asleep or wake up just as he pleased, and no
harm done. ... And for himself, he would go next door, where
at least there was a comfortable chair to recline in while waiting
for the grand awakening, as he termed it, of his superior.
. . . Was there ever such a situation! There next door was
lying the man who was the sworn enemy of all spiritualists,
and of Peter Bracken in particular and being tended gently by
the man himself.
Father Bailey felt his eyes closing, and he was thinking
sleepily that it was many years since he enjoyed a conversation
like the one this evening ... a very enlightened man that. Of
course, God help him, he was entirely wrong in many of his
opinions, but there were some which tied up amazingly with
those of the Church. Peter Bracken's idea, for instance, that the
spirits, termed guides, and through whom the healing was
done, were the good people who had gone on, whom he and all
Catholics termed saints. Now that was an interesting point.
... He was awakened, startlingly, by a gasp from Mary Ellen.
They exchanged glances and looked towards the bedroom
door; the bed was creaking heavily. There was a shuffling, a
short silence, and John appeared at the open door.
It was only two days since Father Bailey last saw John, yet
the change in him hurt the priest; he looked gaunt and twice
his age.193
But now was not the time, Father Bailey told himself, to
waste on useless pity. Of all the times John could have chosen
to wake up this was the worst; even if he drank the stuff this
minute, as strong as it was, it was doubtful whether it would
take effect before the arrival of the men.

John shook his head and ran his hand over his forehead.
Then he looked dully but inquiringly at the priest.

And Father Bailey said promptly, 'Your father's not too
good, John. Your mother called me in.'

John accepted this, and looked at his mother; then from
her to the clock .. . twenty minutes to one! The pain of his
existence flooded back to him ... he had slept for hours! They
would have got him away then. Well he had to sleep some
time. But, oh God, why couldn't he have got him first, then
this agony would have been appeased. Now it would go on
for ever.

'Have this cup of tea, lad.' Mary Ellen was pouring the
black tea into the cup with shaking hands.

John ran his hand round his face and shook his head: 'I'll
have a wash first.'

'I could do with another, myself, Airs. O'Brien. Have a
cup with me, John, it'll pull you together.'

The priest took the cup from Mary Ellen's hand and stirring
it vigorously, passed it to John.

Without demur, John took it and drank a mouthful of the
hot tea. He pursed his lips before replacing the cup on the
table. Huh! the taste ... his mouth was dry and thick!

Going to the hearth, he picked up the kettle. It was empty;
and the occurrence was so unusual that he shook the kettle,
then glanced at his mother. It seemed a symbol of the new
life .. . nothing would ever be the same again.

Mary Ellen took the kettle from John's hand, whilst he
went to the table and finished his tea. The priest sighed and
sat down heavily, saying to John, 'Sit down, lad.'

Docilely, John sat down, as if his being knew nothing of
hatred and the craving impulse to destroy.

Mary Ellen passed between him and the priest and placed
the kettle on the fire. Then she too sat down, and the silence

194

became heavy; until Father Bailey exclaimed, 'Well, Mrs.
O'Brien, I must soon be making my way home.' But he didn't
move; and into the renewed silence came a soft padding. It
bore no relation to footsteps. Mary Ellen and the priest
exchanged quick glances, but John went on looking at the
kettle, which had begun to hiss softly.

The padding which came from the wall at John's back now
passed on to the ceiling. The priest turned his gaze from Mary
Ellen and stared into the fire. . .. Well, if they made no more
noise than that, it would be all right - the old stockings round
their boots were quite effective. Another two or three minutes,
and it would be over.

The minutes passed, and John stood up and lifted the
kettle from the fire, forcing back into himself the urge to be
going. What was he idling here for, anyway? In another few
minutes he'd be asleep again. And there was still the chance
he might find him; for how did they know how long he
would sleep. They might have been afraid to risk getting
him away. This time he would stay at the bottom end of the
streets; it was ten to one he was there, for his cronies were in
that quarter.

'That water isn't hot,' Mary Ellen broke in, getting to her
feet - in the scullery he would be standing under the staircase,
and the padding had started again.

'It'll do.'

As he made to pass her, he was brought to a halt by the
sound of something falling on to the floor above. It could have
been a chair or a box, or any piece of Peggy Flaherty's menage.
Perhaps John would have let it pass as just that had he not
looked at his mother and from her to the priest. The apprehension
in their exchanging glances was like a revelation to him.
... 'The bitch!' The words were forced out through his
clenched teeth - at this moment he wasn't thinking of Dominic
so much as Peggy Flaherty. It was as clear as daylight... her
trailing round with him to throw him off the scent of that
swine! What a bloody fool he was! He almost threw the kettle
on to the hearth; but when he turned to dash out of the back
door he found the priest barring his way.


195


'Get by!' he said grimly, towering over the tubby figure of
Father Bailey.

'Listen, John. I'm not going to get by. ... Now you listen
to me!' - the priest stared up at John with as much aggressiveness
as was in him to portray - 'you can do nothing ...
you're as helpless as a new-born babe. Get that into that big
head of yours. You've just swallowed an excellent sleeping
draught, one that would put a horse to sleep. And that's where
you'll be in a very few minutes.'

John stepped back and glared at his mother. Mary Ellen, her
hands clasped, her eyes dumbly pleading, said nothing. He
remembered her laughter, earlier on, and her jumbled words
about Molly and the pills, and the queer turn of the priest....
Now Father Bailey sitting there waiting, with that tale about
his father. Why, they'd all hoaxed him like a child! But he
wasn't asleep yet. No, by God! not by a long chalk.

He swung up the bucket of water standing by the tin dish
and bending, poured it over his head; then towelled himself
vigorously. And before Mary Ellen and the priest were aware
of his intention he was through the front room.

In the street, he ran as he had never run before, round the
bottom corner and up the back lane. But when he reached the
backyard he found only Mary Ellen and Peggy there. They
were standing by the kitchen door, an epitome of the conspiracy
against him and of its successful close.

In the moment of his pausing he was made aware of the
effects of the drug, for he had the desire to push past them into
the kitchen and to sit down. But the desire was swept away and
he turned and ran again, for the main road now. However they
tried to evade him, eventually they must make for the main
road.

A cold drizzle was falling, and already his shirt was wet; but
this would keep him awake. There was no one in sight, as far
as he could see, and he stood in the shadow of the wall, scanning
the openings to the streets. There was a lamp at each corner,
but so far did the streets seem to stretch away into the
darkness that he realized he must keep on the move if he hoped
to discern any movement from the lower streets.

196

His lids felt heavy and drooped slowly over his eyes. He
stretched them and swore grimly to himself. They had only to
play a waiting game ... they were in there somewhere still, he
was sure. How much longer could he fight against this increasing
drowsiness?

He had to lean against the wall. Gradually his anger died
in him, and all he wanted to do was to lie down. ... Blast
them! He started to walk, briskly as he thought, but soon
stopped again and leaned against a lamp post. His head was
throbbing to the rhythm of approaching horse's hooves. Soon
the black shape of a cab rocketed towards him, and ahead of
it, on the pavement, he made out the scurrying figure of Father
Bailey.

Panting, the priest came alongside John and laid a hand on
his arm. He murmured something, but John did not hear
what it was. He was looking at the cab, which was now
abreast of him ... and there was Dominic's face! His eyes
were turned towards the window. They were sockets of darkness
in a white blur. Time seemed to stand suspended, giving
the brothers the opportunity to exchange their last looks of
hatred. Then something sprang from John and leaped upon the
sneering face of his brother. But whatever it was it had no
effect ... the cab rolled on, the bandaged face disappeared.
And John, like a child, allowed himself to be led gently away
by the priest; he was thinking dimly that all his life there
would be a want in him... something uncompleted.


197


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RENUNCIATION

The under-manager of the sawmill watched John jump the
wall; he was waiting for him on the pavement of the main
road.
'You know, that's a punishable offence,' he said evenly.
John straightened his cap. 'I suppose so.'
'Well, I don't want to seem stiff' - the man was almost
apologetic - 'but it's got to stop. I shouldn't mind if it was
just one doing it, but it only needs a start you know, and we'll
have everybody living in Jarrow coming out this way, and I
leave you to guess what'll happen to the timber. ... It's got to
stop, you see.'
John merely nodded before moving off; and the man,
looking after him, thought 'poor devil'. It was right what they
said, he had gone a bit queer. What other reason could there
be for him not using the dock gates - for though the sawmill
yard might be a short cut to Jarrow, it was difficult of access.
Perhaps the lad thought he was still chasing his brother. Well,
whatever Vie thought he was doing now, he'd have to find some
other way of doing it but by this wall.. . .
John realized this as he strode homewards. But there was no
other way to avoid meeting Mary; if he used the main gate
sooner or later they would be bound to meet. For four weeks
now he had come out by the wall; it cut off the arches and the
length of road past the Simonside bank. It did not cut off the
gut - no deviation could cut off the gut. At first, he was determined
to avoid Mary only until he should feel strong enough to face her; but with each passing day he became weaker, and
told himself that in the silence between them the madness
198

would fade and he would not have to see her. Then her
letters started to come. Every day for the past three weeks there
had been a letter. They were all neatly stacked in his box under
the bed ... and all unopened. With the coming of the first one
he knew he must not open it, for the words it held would break
down his reserve.

In the long stretches of the night he would think of the
letters and what they held, and it would seem as if their substance
created Mary herself, bringing her into the room to him
... at times, even into the bed. He would feel her there, even
smell the faint perfume that was hers, and his arms would go
out to her, and in pulling her to him he would come to himself
and, getting up, would stand on the cold floor, staring out of
the window into the black square of the backyard, or up at the
piece of sky visible between the houses, and know that Mary
and the magic world that she alone could make was not for him
- this wherein he stood was his world, this his night view for
all time ... this was his far horizon; this was the limit to all his
wild hopes; here in this house he would have to work out his
salvation. Sometimes he would lean his head against the window
frame and murmur, 'Katie, Katie,' as if asking her forgiveness.
... If only he had never had the idea of making her
a teacher! It was his fault, for she was a child and would have
forgotten about it. Then he would never have got dressed up to
go and see ... her. And not seeing her, he would have come
to love Christine; and the issue between him and Dominic
would have been finished earlier, and his Katie and Christine
would have been alive today. ... Again, had the Brackens not come next door, and, like a disciple, he had not sat at Peter's feet, lapping up all his mad ideas about the power of thought, this would never have happened.

Well, he was finished with thinking ... his mother was right
- it got you nowhere. There would be no more wild imagining
for him. The road he was on held no space for flights of fancy.
He had been mad in a number of ways. Between her and Peter
he had gone crazy for a time. She even made him believe that
the quaint thoughts which came into his head were unpolished
gems, holding poetic qualities ... and Peter, that life held

199

something gigantic for him, that one day he would lead men,
not into battle, but out of it ... out of the battle with squalor
into brighter and better conditions. Peter even egged him to
take on the job of being a delegate to the Labourers' and
General Workers' Union. ... God! how far above the earth he
had walked; until that business of Nancy Kelly's! Even then
he saw his Mecca in America. But now it was all over. He
knew where his Mecca lay ... in this house, in the fifteen
streets and in the docks, working to feed his mother and father
and Molly and that other growing Dominic.

Yet as he walked up the road, he knew that it wasn't all
over; the hardest part for him was yet to come. He would
have to see her and finish it. Far better make a clean cut than
try to keep dodging her. Once it was done, he would feel
better; he could not feel worse.

Saturdays were like the opening afresh of a wound; the
week-ends altogether were a torture. And now another was
upon him. Since jumping the sawmill wall, he knew how he
must spend this one... he must read the letters! ...

When he entered the kitchen, his eyes, in spite of himself,
were forced to the mantelpiece. There was yet another letter
against the clock. He thrust it into his pocket, then washed
himself before sitting down to dinner. Shane was already at
the table, and John, out of the pity growing in him for his
father, answered his questions patiently. ... Yes, the first boat
of the year was in from Sweden with Lulea ore, and it seemed
heavier than ever ... yes, there was one due in on Monday
from Bilbao.

'That'll mean piece work,' his father said ... 'five shillings
a shift.' He shook his head and looked down at his trembling
hands. 'Perhaps if I made a start I would steady up ... eh,
lad?'

'Give yourself time,' said John, knowing that all the time in
the world wouldn't put his father back in the docks.

'Yes. Another week then,' said Shane, with pitiable relief.

Silently, Mary Ellen moved between the oven and the table.
Into the love she held for this son of hers was creeping a feeling
of awe. The letters were creating it. That lass was writing


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to him every day, yet he was standing out against her. If ever
a lad was in love, he was. But he was renouncing her ... and
for them. Where did he get his strength? She recognized him
as a man with a man's needs, and her humility ignored the
origin of his strength in herself. If only in some way he could
have the lass. ... But it was impossible, the house depended
on him; they could only live by him.

Here was another Saturday. How she dreaded and hated
Saturdays! She seemed to spend her weeks gathering strength
to face the Saturdays. Yet life went on. Round the doors, it
was back to normal. Already the incident was being referred to
as something long past, in remarks, such as, 'That was a Saturday,
wasn't it?' or, 'That day the two bairns went down.' The
only ones outside the house who still felt the weight of that
day were Peggy Flaherty and the Kellys ... Peggy, because
John, as she said, wouldn't look the side she was on. He
wouldn't forgive her for duping him, and her fat was visibly
disappearing through the worry of it. Her simple soul felt
that until she was on speaking terms with John again nothing
would be right. The Kellys were affected because now there
could be no redress for Nancy. They would be saddled with
her child and their scraping to live would become more difficult,
while the possibility of yet another Nancy would be growing
under their eyes. Mary Ellen, too, often thought of this. In
a short while now, the child would be born, and she would be
a grandmother. And always there would be Dominic across
the street from her ... from behind her curtains, she would
look for the traits to show. She could see herself doing just
that all down the years, for there was no possibility of her
ever leaving the fifteen streets. Nor did she want to now; all
desire for a change had long since left her, and she knew she
must see life out to its close here. This did not worry her, but
what did was that her lad would have to do the same. She
hadn't wanted him to go to America, but that wasn't saying she
wanted him to be stuck in the fifteen streets all his life. ...
Dear God, no....

The meal was over, and while Molly cleared away Mary
Ellen, taking Mick's shirt from the top of the pile of mending,


201


cut off the tail and pinned it across the shoulders, before sitting
down opposite Shane and beginning to sew.

John came from the bedroom, and looking hard at Molly,
asked, 'Did someone call here a while ago? You know who I
mean.'

Molly, after staring back at him for a second, hung her head
and answered, 'Yes.'

'Why didn't you say?'

Molly turned her head a little and stared down to her
mother's lap. ... How could she say to him, 'You were all
mad when she came?' She recalled going to the door on the
Sunday afternoon and seeing Miss Llewellyn standing there.
She had asked to see her mother or father, and Molly had said
she couldn't, they were both bad. It felt nice, at the time, to
deny something to her one-time teacher, a teacher who had
never taken any notice of her; and when she was able to deny
her John, saying that he was out and she didn't know where
he was, she experienced a definite pleasure. There was no
room in her to feel sorry for Miss Llewellyn, who looked pale
and bad. She didn't want her here, anyway. She guessed that
Miss Llewellyn had clicked with their John, and she was
puzzled, yet made bold, by sensing the come-down it was for
anyone so swanky to click with their John. And so, after Miss
Llewellyn had gone, she forgot about her. And now here was
John blaming her, and she didn't want him to be vexed, for
the daily aim of her life was that he and her ma would come
to like her as they had liked Katie.

When she gave him no reply, John went back to the bedroom.
He picked up the letter he had been reading ...
'Dearest, I felt I must come and see you. Judged by my own
sorrow, yours and your people's must be unbearable. ...' She
had come here, to this house. Through the open door she must
have glimpsed the conditions from the bareness of the front
room, yet it had not put her off; nor the fifteen streets themselves.
Nothing would put her off. She would go on believing
that when he had accepted his sorrow he would come again to
her.

He picked up another letter ... 'Beloved, I understand. I


202



A

will wait patiently. Each night I go to the lane, and I know that
if you are not there there is always the following night, or the
one after, or yet the one after that. ...' He ground his fist into
the palm of his hand, and getting up, began to pace the floor
in his stockinged feet. ... How much could a man endure! Of
all the millions of women in the world, this one, who stood
out above them, had to offer him a love such as this, a love
men dreamed of, and died with it still but a dream. And it was
his, it was being offered to him, John O'Brien, of 10 Fadden
Street, of the fifteen streets. Yet he must renounce it, and do so
now, this day. He must tell her in words that the mad dream
was over. He must do it quickly and cleanly; the cut must be
made without sentiment; there must be no tender goodbyes,
and no holding out hopes for the future. He knew what the
future held for him ... he was a gaffer, and he'd remain a
gaffer; and there was not even the remotest chance of her even
becoming a gaffer's wife.


John caught sight of Mary before she saw him. She wasn't
in the lane but on the main road, walking slowly with her back
towards him, and the setting sun cast an aura of white light
about her as she moved. He paused and drew in to the side of
the road. The sight of her back had taken all the strength and
determination out of him - what hope had he then to stand
firm when he faced her. It was easy to be brave in a room talking
to oneself. There you asked the questions and fired the
answers; there were no eyes to bore into your heart and no
touch to set the blood racing. In the bedroom he had been
brave enough to don his old style of dress; with a grim defiance
he had knotted the muffler ends around his braces, put
on his old trousers and heavy boots, and lastly his mackintosh
and cap. This, he told himself, was getting back to what he
really was, and it would make things easier for her; she would
have less regret at what she imagined she was losing. But now
he wasn't so sure. His decent clothes would at least have left
him free of thinking of himself. Fingering his muffler he could
only think of her reaction when she saw him like this - well,
wasn't that what he wanted? He continued to watch her for

203

some minutes, and his heart defying his head, cried out, 'Mary
-oh! Mary!'

As if the voice of his longing had become audible, she turned,
and John, knowing that the time had come, stepped into the
centre of the path and walked slowly towards her.

Mary remained still, gazing over the distance towards him.
She did not see his clothes, only his face. Even from a distance
it sent out its lostness to her, and she murmured aloud, 'My
dear! my dear!' and with a little cry she picked up her skirts
and ran to him. John halted before she reached him, and the
resistance needed to stop the automatic gesture of holding out
his arms became a pain.

'Oh John! - my dear!' Her hands were on his chest.

He swallowed as if ridding himself of a piece of granite, and
said, 'Hallo, Mary.'

'Hallo, my dear,' she smiled at him gently; 'how are you?'

'All right.' He could not take his eyes from her face. She
was pale, but she was more beautiful than he had ever seen
her, and the tenderness in her eyes caused him to groan inwardly.

'How is your mother?' she asked softly.

'All right.'

'And is your father better?'

'Yes.'

Her eyes fell from his to her hand. Her fingers were softly
stroking his muffler. 'I've missed you, dear.'

It was unbearable. No flesh and blood could stand it. He
moved brusquely away from her and began to walk; and in a
second she was by his side with her hand in his arm. 'What is
it, John?'

He did not reply, and she went on, 'Shall we go up the
lane?'

He turned into the lane without speaking, his arm hanging
straight and stiff under her touch. The action was boorish,
but he knew that if he allowed himself one tender move he
would be finished. They stopped by the field gate, where they
had been wont to lean and watch the moon and make love.
Beyond, the after-glow was tinting the field of young wheat

204

with sweeping strokes of pastel colour. John did not lean
against the gate but stood staring into the field.

'Talk about it, my dear. Katie would want it so. It will make
you feel better.' Mary had withdrawn her hand from his arm,
and now she stood by the side of him, waiting.

'No talking would make any difference to that,' he replied
tersely; 'but there's something else I've got to talk about.'

She remained silent, and he went on, swiftly now, 'I am not
going to America - that's finished. This business has put paid
to my father. He'll never work again. And Molly and Mick
are still at school. There's no money coming in, only mine.' He
turned now and looked at her; the afterglow which was mellowing
the world around had no softening effect upon his
face. 'Nothing can come of it now - it's no good going on. You
understand?'

'No,' she said, 'I don't.'

He moved his head impatiently: 'How can I? What will
there be to live on?'

'We could wait ... you asked me to wait while you were
in America.'

'That was different. What could there be to wait for now?'

'Molly leaves school this summer, and your brother will
soon be fourteen.'

'And what about my mother and father?'

'There are ways and means. You could always manage to
keep them.'

'Out of what?' he almost shouted. It was as if he were fighting
her now, and some part of him was shocked; but he went
on, 'Where would we live, and on what? - just tell me that.'

She made no answer. And his head dropped, and he murmured,
'I'm sorry.'

'There's no need to be sorry.' She took a step nearer to
him, but did not touch him. 'John, look at me.' She waited
until he raised his head before going on: 'We love each other.
There won't be anyone else for either of us - we know that so
don't let this happen. There is a way out, there must be there
is a way out of everything.'

Peter's words - 'There is a way out of everything. Use your

205

mind and it will give you the solution.' Peter's reasoning,
added to the appeal of her voice and the entreaty of her eyes,
broke the tension of his body for the moment, and he allowed
his mind to clutch at a fleeting hope - could there be some way
out? Could the madness be resurrected? Oh the joyful bewilderment
of touching her again! Her face blurred before his
eyes, and her voice became blended with the evensong of the
birds.

'If you'll only listen to me, darling - I don't mind where I
live or how I live, as long as I'm with you. We could be married
and I'd go on working. John - I'll come to the fifteen
streets. ...'

The blur cleared. The mention of the fifteen streets held the
power to betray dreams for what they were. No longer did he
see the pleading in her eyes. He saw only her well-cut costume,
the gold wrist-watch, the ring on her finger with the large
amber stone in the centre, the patent leather of her narrow
shoes, and the glimpse of grey stockings, which were of silk;
and covering all, the perfume which emanated from her was
in his nostrils, the perfume whose ingredients lay not in any
bottle but in a sequence starting from a scented bath to fresh
linen - and she said she would come to the fifteen streets!
He laughed inwardly, harsh, bitter laughter, and said sharply,
'Be quiet! You don't know what you're talking about. Have
you ever been inside a house in the fifteen streets?'

'No.'

'It's a pity you haven't.'

'There's no disgrace in being poor.'

'No? I used to think that at one time, but I don't any
longer - it's a crying disgrace, but one that I can't alter. But I
can do this - I can save you from yourself. You shall never
come to the fifteen streets through me.'

'John, darling, listen.'

'I can't listen, I've got to go.' He stepped back from her outstretched
hand.

'John, please . . . Oh, don't go like this - John, I love you.
... Don't you see, I can't go on without you ?'

The stillness of the field settled on them. Outwardly they


206


appeared lifeless things, fixed in their staring. Then, in spite
of himself, he spoke her name, 'Mary.' And like a caress it
touched her. But the caress was short-lived, for he went on,
'This has got to be - it's got to finish right now. It's no use
going on - no - no!' - he silenced her quietly and with upraised
hand. 'All the talking in the world won't make it any
different. You'll forget - time will help.'

'It won't - I know that deep within my soul you'll remain
with me for ever; I won't be able to forget you - John, oh,
John - please! Please let us try to find a way out.' She held
out her arms to him, and the humility in their appeal probed
a fresh depth of pain in him. But he did not touch them, and
Mary made a desperate final effort: 'Katie would have wanted
it - she loved to think that we...'

'Don't! .. .Good-bye, Mary.' For a second longer he allowed
his gaze to linger on her. A lark in the field beyond suddenly
rose, singing, from the grass and soared into the dusk of the
closing evening. When he saw the mist of tears blinding her
eyes, he turned from her and went down the lane.

It was done!


207


CHAPTER FOURTEEN


WHITHER THOU GOEST


Mary Ellen was puzzled by her own emotions. The sorrow
of Katie's loss had not died or faded - it was as poignant as
the hour when it happened - but she could bear it now with
equanimity because of use. What puzzled her was that it
seemed to have moved aside to make room for the sorrow she
was feeling for John. Daily she watched him closing up - life
seemed to be dying in him. He was becoming the kind of dock
man he had never been, even before he had taken to wearing
collars and ties. He had not yet taken to drink or lounging at
the corners, but he never seemed to get out of his working
clothes, and he never moved from the house once he came
home from work. Nor did he sit in the kitchen, but spent hours
in the bedroom - wrestling, Mary Ellen thought, with himself.
It
was a fortnight since the letters ceased, and in some
strange way their cessation had brought an added emptiness
to her days. With their daily arrival, there remained the hope,
however faint, that things would come right for her lad. Now
hope was dead, and with it the part of him that had survived
Katie's loss was dying too.

What was there to live for now? Mary Ellen asked herself,
as she banged the poss-stick up and down in the tub, full of
clothes. With no possibility of happiness for her lad and
nothing she could do about it, her usual incentive to 'cope' was
gone - if only an act of God would finish them all off and
leave John free! But God never did things like that - nothing
with any sense or reason in it. ... There she was, going again.
Her bouts of defiance against God brought her hours of fear


208


and remorse in the night, yet mixed with her fear was a tinge
of admiration at her day-time audacity at facing up to Him,
and strange, too, was the contradictory feeling of late that she
wanted to go to church - not to Mass, so escaping Father
O'Malley's censure, but just to sit quietly in church, with no
one there, and perhaps come to terms with God. She did not
actually think of it like this - she had not advanced so far in
her bravery to do so - but the feeling in her urged that should
she go to church and sit quiet she would feel better. The feeling
was strong in her now, and she stopped possing and whispered
aloud, 'I'll go - I'll go now!' She rubbed her wet arm
across her forehead and shook her head, and muttered, 'For
God's sake, what's come over you? Have you gone completely
up the pole? There's another two hours washing in front of
you yet!' She stooped, and lifting the clothes from the tub, began
running them into the mangle. There was a series of groans,
squeaks and loud jolts, as garment followed garment.

The tub empty of clothes, she dragged it into the yard and
poured the water down the sink, and she made no effort to
move as the dirty foam swirled about her feet. Rolling the tub
back into the washhouse again, she happened to glance up, and
met Shane's eyes on her. He was standing at the kitchen window
and his face bore the look of despair that covered them
all. Although he had made no mention of it for weeks now, she
knew that he, too, was continually crying out inside himself
for Katie, and also that he was suffering because of the knowledge
that through his dependence things were not right with
John. She stood leaning over the empty tub for a moment, her
eyes, gazing down at the water-worn wood. Then, as if she
had found a command written there, she hurriedly left the
washhouse.

In the kitchen, she dried her arms and combed the top of her
hair. Shane watched her silently. Even when she put her coat
on he did not question her. With her face turned from him, she
said, 'I won't be long.' Then, as if compelled to expose her
madness to him, she added, 'I'm going to the church.'

That any woman could leave her washing at two o'clock in
the afternoon to go to church must prove, she thought, to a

209

man like Shane that she was mad; but he made no comment
on her extraordinary behaviour. Not until she was going
through the front room did he speak.

'Mary Ellen.'

She turned:'Yes?'

He was groping in his trouser pocket. 'Will you light me a
candle?' He handed her a penny and their eyes met over it;
and perhaps for the first time in their married lives they felt
joined in thought and purpose.

As Mary Ellen opened the front door a pantechnicon passed
and stopped at Peter Bracken's, and she saw Peter himself
standing on his doorstep. For a space they looked at each other,
and she knew that she should go to this man and say some
word, for her son had been the means of killing his lass; yet
through his lass she had lost Katie. With his very coming here,
tragedy had entered her life. Peter's eyes were asking her to
speak, but she found it impossible. It was strange that only
once had this man and she exchanged words - that day in the
kitchen, the day the bairn was born. Before she turned away
she tried to send him some kindly message; but whether she
succeeded or not she couldn't tell. She hurried away down the
street, knowing that she had looked her last on Peter Bracken he
was leaving the fifteen streets and never again would they
meet. Why had he come here in the first place? To relieve
poverty and ignorance, he said. Oh, God, how happy she would
have been in her poverty and ignorance had she still Katie. Yet
she could feel no virile bitterness against him, which was
strange. Instead, she felt they were sharing the same sorrow,
and she wasn't troubled at her manner towards him, knowing
intuitively that he understood....

The day was dull and the sky low. Inside the church the
light was as dim as if it were evening, and the air, as usual,
was different from that outside - thick and heavy with the
weight of stale incense. At the top of the centre aisle, Mary
Ellen, her head bowed, made a deep genuflexion. She did not
look towards the altar, where always and forever reposed Jesus
in the Blessed Sacrament; somehow she wanted no 'truck' with
Him; it was His Mother she needed. She went down the side


210


aisle walking softly, as if trying to escape the notice of the Holy
Ones standing in their niches with flowers at their feet.

There were no candles burning on the half-moon stand to
the side of Our Lady, and she stood in shadow until Mary
Ellen lit her candles, one for Shane, one for John and one for
herself. Then The Virgin was illuminated, smiling down on
Mary Ellen, half holding The Child out to her.

Mary Ellen knew she should kneel and say a prayer, and
ask The Virgin about Katie and tell her about John, but she felt
very tired and all she wanted to do was to sit. She sat in the
end of the front pew, as near as she could get to The Virgin,
and gazed at her, preparatory to speaking about her lad. But as
she sat on, her feet resting on the long wooden kneeler and her
hands joined in her lap, she found she couldn't think of John.
It was as if he and his troubles had shrunk, her mind groping
for them in vain. As the flame of the candles lengthened, the
smile of The Virgin deepened, and it seemed to Mary Ellen
that she moved and hitched the Infant higher up on to her arm
as she herself used to do with Katie. The light of the candles
grew brighter and brighter as she stared at them, and the
church outside the ring of light became darker. A great peace
swept over Mary Ellen. It started in her feet with a tingling
warmth and coursed through her body, flooding her being
with a happiness she could never remember experiencing before,
or ever imagined possible. So great was her happiness
that it left no room for fear when she saw The Virgin move
and gently push someone towards her.

When Katie stood at the end of the pew and, smiling shyly,
said, 'Oh, ma!' Mary Ellen felt no surprise. She leaned forward
and gripped Katie's hands. 'Why, hinny, I thought you
were - gone.' She wouldn't say 'dead'. And when Katie
answered her, saying, 'It was only for a few minutes, ma.
Things went black and then it was over,' Mary Ellen took it as
a natural answer, and went on, 'You're not out there then,
hinny? - not out in the sea?'

Katie's laugh tinkled through the church, and she glanced
back at The Virgin, and The Virgin's smile broadened. 'We
never went out there, did we, Christine?'


211


Katie turned her head and spoke into the shadows, and
Mary Ellen asked, 'The lass, is she with you?'
'Why, of course! We're waiting together - it's nice waiting.'
'Waiting?' repeated Mary Ellen. 'For what, hinny?'
'For the time to come when we should have died, and then
we'll go on - we went too soon, ma.'
'Yes, hinny, you did.'
Now death had been mentioned, a sweet contentment was
added to Mary Ellen's happiness - she felt she was with death,
and it was a pleasant thing, nay, not only pleasant, but strangely
exciting. Her bairn was in it, and was happy. 'How long must
you wait, hinny?'
'We don't know; but once it's over we'll start growing again a different growing, getting ready to come back - won't we,
Christine?'
Mary Ellen peered into the shadows but could see nothing,
and Katie went on, 'Before we go, I'll come and see you again and ma ...'
'Yes, hinny?'
'Don't worry about John; he's going to be happy, so very
happy.'
'How can you tell, hinny ?'
'We know about those we love. Go home now, ma.'
Katie's lips rested on Mary Ellen's and the sweetness of
them pressed down into her being ... the sweetness like a
gentle perfume was in her nostrils when she opened her eyes.
'Katie, hinny--' She put out her hand, gropingly. She could
not see Katie, but something stronger than reason told her she
was there. She whispered again, 'Katie, hinny,' then looked
towards The Virgin. She was as she had first seen her, yet
different, for her face seemed to hold the knowledge of all
eternity.
Katie and Christine were all right . .. they were with her.
It did not enter Mary Ellen's head to question how Christine the spook's daughter - could be with The Virgin, who, above
all others, was a Catholic first and the Mother of God after.
Smiling gently to herself, Mary Ellen left the church. Katie
was happy, oh indeed she was happy - and everything was

212

going to be all right for her lad. Katie had said so.

The ghoulish picture of Katie floating in deep water that
had filled her mind for weeks was gone - Katie wasn't there she
knew where Katie was....


Going homewards Mary Ellen walked with a lighter tread;
there was an urgency in her to reach the house and tell Shane,
although how she was going to tell Shane about Katie without
him thinking her completely mad she didn't know. But Shane
needed comfort, and if she could tell him in a sensible way
that she had seen Katie she had no doubt that he would feel as
she did now. She hurried up the backyard, ignoring the dead
fire under the washhouse pot and the mounds of unfinished
washing, and entered the kitchen. Shane was there, sitting in
his armchair beside the fireplace, while opposite him sat the
lass. Mary Ellen had never met Mary Llewellyn, but there
was no need for anyone to tell her who this was.

Bright spots of red burned in the dull colour of Shane's
cheeks: 'I told the lass to stay - you wouldn't be long.'

Mary rose to her feet and watched the little woman unpin
her hat and hang her coat carefully behind the kitchen door.
She had not spoken, and Mary began, 'I hope you don't mind,
Mrs. O'Brien... I wanted to talk to you.'

'Sit down, miss,' said Mary Ellen with strange gentleness,
'you're quite welcome. Can I offer you a cup of tea?'

'Please; I should like one.'

Mary Ellen pressed the kettle, which was standing on the
hob, further into the fire. At the same time Shane rose, saying,
'I'll be lying down for a while.' He left the kitchen without
glancing at Mary - it was as if she had been there always and
was likely to remain. The room door closed behind Shane and
the two women were left alone.

Mary Ellen, filled with a growing awe and wonder, silently
placed the teapot to warm, and unhooked the cups from the
back of the cupboard and put them on the table. Oh, Katie,
Katie. Can this mean what you said about John's life? She
dare not look at the lass in case she should disappear as Katie
had done.


213


'How is John, Mrs. O'Brien?'

Mary Ellen was forced to stop in her trotting to and fro and
look at this woman, whom her lad loved. She said simply,
'He's not too grand, miss.'

Mary turned her gaze towards the fire, and after a moment
asked, 'Do you agree with his decision?' Then before Mary
Ellen could make a reply, she turned to her again and went
on rapidly, 'Please believe me ... I understand ... I know
that you have only him now to look after you, and I want him
to do that always. But that is no reason why we should be
separated - is it, Mrs. O'Brien? We care for each other - very
deeply, and there is a way out if only he would listen to
reason.'

'You can't marry without money, lass.'

'Did you wait until you had money ?'

Mary Ellen shook her head. 'This is different . . . you're
different. He'd want money to give you a home.'

'I don't want that kind of a home, Mrs. O'Brien' - Mary
leaned forward and took hold of Mary Ellen's hands - 'the
solution is for me to come and live here. I must show him that
I can do it. There are always empty houses going, and I could
continue my work. Even if I didn't, I have a little money,
enough to keep us a couple of years, living simply. ... How
much is the rent of these houses?'

'Four and tuppence.' Mary Ellen, her hands locked in the
soft firmness of Mary's, was trying to measure the cost it had
been to her lad to give up this lass, whose charm was already
telling on her. ... Aye, but it wouldn't work out. She would
never be able to stick it here; it would strip her of everything
but the capacity for regret. ... Yet why should she stick here?
Wouldn't John fight with every fibre of his being to take her
out of this? That is, if she persisted in coming here and persuaded
him to marry. .. . Peter Bracken's gone, the house next
door is empty. ... It was almost as if Katie was at her elbow the
voice in her head was Katie's. She remained still, listening
to both Katie and the lass.

'Will you help me, Mrs. O'Brien? I can assure you that
you'll not suffer for it. Please, Mrs. O'Brien, do help me. I

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want to come and live here, somewhere near. He will know
nothing about it until it's done. I will show him that I can live
here successfully. .. will you?'

'There's a house empty right next door, lass.' It was as if
Katie had nudged her. 'It was the Brackens' you know ...
the lass ...'

'Yes, yes, I know. ... Oh, Mrs. O'Brien, tell me what to
do. Who do I see about it?' In her excitement Mary stood
up, and Mary Ellen, her mind suddenly filled with doubt,
turned away and mashed the tea. Would John want to live in a
house where the lass Christine had lived? . .. She seemed to
hear Katie's laugh tinkling again as it had done in the church.
Now it was deriding her superstitions, and Mary Ellen set
down the teapot, and turning back to Mary, said resolutely,
'I'll do anything to see my lad happy; although I'd better tell
you, lass, it'll be hard for you ... at the very best it'll be hard
going.'

'You doubt that I'll be able to stand it ?'

'No, somehow I don't. If you care for him enough it'll keep
the iron out of your soul.'

With a sigh that swept the tenseness from her body, Mary
sat down again. As she took the cup of tea from Mary Ellen,
they smiled at each other and a quietness settled on the kitchen
as they sat drinking and thinking, their thoughts in different
channels but flowing the one way.


The flat cart was at the door - a clean, respectable flat cart,
but the sight of it and its import had prostrated Beatrice
Llewellyn. She lay on her bed, faint with rage and self-pity.
There was rage, too, in James Llewellyn's voice as he talked
to Mary from the doorway of her room, moving from time to
time to allow the removal man to pass. He only spoke in the
man's absence, talking rapidly to get in all he had to say.

'You'll regret this to your dying day ... do you hear me?'

'I hear you.' Mary, with her back to him, went on lifting
books from the shelves and packing them into a tea chest.

'You don't know what you're doing - you can't! Why,
woman, the scum of the earth live in the fifteen streets - he's


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not a man! No man who could lay any claim to the name
would ask anyone like you to go there.'

'He hasn't asked me, he has refused even to see me.'

'And you have so little pride you are going to live there and
push yourself on him?'

'Yes, I have so little pride I am going to do just that.'

The man came in and as he lifted the tea chest asked, 'Is this
the lot, miss?'

'Yes... except the two trunks and the cases in the hall.'

James Llewellyn threw a murderous glance at the unfortunate
man as he lumbered past him with the box. 'Have you
got the place furnished?' he barked the question at her.

'No.'

'No ? You mean to say you are going to live there with those
few odds and ends ?' He nodded towards the hall.

'I have bought a bed and a table ... just the necessary
things.' Mary kept her face turned from her father. She
thought of the problem the buying of the bed had caused whether
to be modest and buy a single bed, or to be true to
herself and buy what she hoped would be necessary. She had
not asked Mary Ellen's advice about this. It was something
she had to decide for herself. ... And was she brave enough to
face the comments of her future neighbours? for she did not
delude herself into thinking it would escape their notice; and
she could practically hear their comments on a single lass buying
a new double bed. She knew already that the hardest
thing to bear in the fifteen streets would be her lack of privacy.

She had ordered a double bed and by now it would have
been delivered. She glanced for the last time round the room,
her eyes avoiding her father's. He was standing, black and
massive, filling the doorway. She did not mind her mother's
censure, but his cut deep into her. She would have gone happily
to the fifteen streets had he given her some kind word.

'You'll be the talk of the town - a laughing-stock!' He
barred her way, and she waited, eyes cast down, until he would
move aside.

'I'll not be the first, or the last.'

'Your mother's ill.'


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'My mother isn't ill ... she's merely angry, and you know
it.' She lifted her eyes to his. His face was mottled with his
emotions, and she could not bear to witness it any longer.

'I must go. ...' She stepped towards the door, but her
father did not move. He stood staring at her, his face working,
fighting against the softening emotion that was breaking him
down - his lass going to live in the fifteen streets! His Mary,
who loved colour, and light and laughter, who was so close to
him, closer than his wife, who could reason like him and laugh
at the same things. She was going to live in one of those wrecks
of houses, just to be near that big docker .. . God Almighty!
it was unbelievable. ... Yet he had given her credit for being
able to reason like himself. Then could she be so far wrong?...
Was there something worthwhile in the fellow? Worthwhile
or not, she had no right to be doing this. She was mad.

'Mary, lass, don't go. ... I'll try to fix something ... a job
or something, for him.' His face fell into pitying lines of entreaty.

She shook her head slowly and put out her hand to him,
speaking with difficulty.

'It wouldn't work ... he'd refuse. This is the only way, to
take whatever he has to offer, however small, and make it do.
... Perhaps later—'

'Oh, lass' - he pulled her into his arms - 'oh, Mary, lass!'

They held each other for a moment, tight and hard. Then,
thrusting her from him he went hurriedly down the passage,
and Mary, trying to stem the flood of tears, listened in amazement
to him barking down the drive at the carrier.

'Come in here, and give a hand with these things.' He came
back, followed by the man, whom he bewildered with his torrent
of orders.

'Get that china cabinet out, and that bookcase. And the
couch and chair. Then up with this carpet.'

'Father - no, don't. Listen to me,' she protested, 'I don't
want them ... I must go as I am. It will only make it more
difficult. He wouldn't want ...' She stopped. Her father
wasn't listening; he was in a frenzy of action. He passed her,
carrying one end of the heavy bookcase, almost pushing the

217

man off his feet, both with his confused orders and force, and
she knew she must let him do this for her. However more difficult
it would make the work ahead, she must accept these things.

When the room was at last bare, she walked down to the
gate, her father at her side. In deep embarrassment they stood
facing each other.

'Well, good luck, lass. I dare say I'll find my way to see
you.. . what's the number?'

'Twelve Fadden Street.'

'You can always come back, you know.'

'Thanks, my dear.'

'Good-bye, lass.'

'Good-bye.' It was impossible to say more. Blindly she went
down the road. The cart on ahead was a blur, and it remained
so until she came within sight of the fifteen streets.


All afternoon they worked. They cut the carpet, and it
covered the floor of the front room and bedroom. The kitchen
boards were bare except for two rugs, which to Mary Ellen's
mind were far too bright and grand for such a room. The
things the lass had brought were lovely! She was glad the lass's
father had made her take them, for now one of the main
problems to the marriage, as she saw it, was removed .. . they
were set up. But her happiness in this new turn of events was
marred, and it was the statue that was responsible ... that
great, white, bare woman, as naked as the day she was born,
and standing on a box where anyone at the front door would
get an eyeful of her. The lass was respectable, she knew that,
and apparently to her mind this naked woman meant nothing
except what she was, a statue. But let them about the doors get
a glimpse of it, and Mary Ellen knew the result as if it had
already taken place. The women would dub the lass 'a loose
piece', and from the start her life in the fifteen streets would
be suspect. They would conjure up the men she'd had, and her
lad would become an object of pity for having been caught,
and never would the lass be able to pass the corners of the
streets without hungry eyes and low laughter following her. If
only she could explain to her ... but it was a hard thing to


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explain. Mary Ellen knew she wasn't at her best with words,
but actions now ... yes. If she were to knock the thing flying
accidentally ... She stood looking at it. There wasn't much
time left, for John was due any minute now. Molly was on the
watch for him at the corner, and the lass was in the kitchen
getting her first meal ready. Well, it was now or never. She
lifted her hand and swiped the naked woman to the floor. As it
crashed, she heard a gasp, and there, standing in the doorway,
her face white and shocked, was Mary.

Across the debris they stared at each other. Mary Ellen, her
face working, tried to explain. 'I had to do it, lass ... they
would think . .. the women would say .. . They wouldn't
understand around these doors ... I want you to have a good
start.'

Mary gazed down on the fragments of her expression. The
statue had been a symbol of truth to her; a figure indeed of
her emancipation from cant and hypocrisy; a symbol of her
growing freedom. But now it was gone. Never until this
moment had she fully realized what coming to the fifteen
streets would mean. She imagined at worst it meant living
meagrely. Now she saw that was but a small part of it. To live
happily, her life would not only have to be altered from the
outside, but from within. Not only her actions, but her
thoughts, must be restricted. This little woman had not broken
the statue from malice, but from a desire to help her. Some
deep knowledge of her own people had urged her to its destruction,
and it might be only one of the many things which must
be destroyed if she were to suffer this life. Could she suffer it?

'Lass, I didn't mean to hurt you.' Mary Ellen's face was
pitiable, and her fingers, as always when she was in distress,
picked nervously at the button of her blouse. Had she, with her
mad action, destroyed what she wanted most? Happiness for
her lad. The lass looked hurt and bewildered. She wanted her
off to a good start, but she had achieved just the opposite. She
bent her head in an effort to hide the raining tears ... was
nothing ever to go right?

When she felt the lass's arms go about her, she leant against
her, faint with relief, and felt herself almost a child again as

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Mary patted her back, saying, 'There, there! It's all right. I
understand. I should have had more sense than to bring it.
Please don't cry! Just think' - she gave a little laugh - 'if
Father O'Malley had seen it!' They both began to shake, small,
rippling tremors, which mounted into laughter; quiet, relaxing
laughter such as Mary Ellen never thought to laugh again. Oh,
the lass would get by. She knew what to laugh at.

They both stopped abruptly when a knock came on the
front door, and Mary Ellen opened it to Molly.

'He's coming up the road, ma.'

'All right,' said Mary Ellen, 'you know what to do. Tell him
I want him to come in the front way.'

Without looking again at Mary, she said, 'Well, lass, I'll
get myself away in,' and she went through the kitchen and out
of the back door.

In her own backyard she paused a moment. Within the next
few minutes she would have lost her lad, for she had no doubt
that once he stepped inside that door he would be gone from
her and another woman would have him. She wanted his
happiness didn't she? Yes, above all things she wanted his
happiness. But with it she hadn't thought to feel this added
sense of loneliness. Well, she'd have to turn her mind to the
others. Shane, for instance, who needed her as never before.
And Molly, who seemed to have been born when Katie died.
And Mick, who'd need two steady hands on him to keep him
from Dominic's path. Yes, she still had a lot to cope with. And
her lad would be next door for some time yet - Rome wasn't
built in a day.

Left alone, Mary felt unable to move. There were a dozen
and one things she wanted to accomplish before seeing him;
among them to change her apron and do her hair. But now she
could only stand rooted. A few minutes ago she had asked
herself if she could suffer this life. What a ridiculous question
to ask, when her whole being told her she could suffer no life
that did not hold him.

The heavy tread of his steps reached her, and she lifted her
head to the sound. All the colour of life, all the essence of the
music she had heard, all the beauty she had seen and felt with


220


her soul's capacity, rose in her, and she moved towards the
door. Not until she heard the sound of the knocker on his own
door did she lift the latch.
It was some time before he turned his head towards her, and
then he did it slowly as if afraid of what he would see. She
held out her hand, and he moved towards her but did not touch
her. It was she who took his arm and drew him over the
threshold and closed the door behind them. Walking ahead
of her into the room he looked about him, and his face was
drained of its colour. He brought his gaze from the fragments
of the broken stature lying by the fireside to her face, and he
said grimly, 'No, Mary. You can't do it ... that's how you'll
end, like that - broken.'
'Some things are better broken.'
'I'll not let you do it.'
'You can't stop me, dear ... it's done. Here I am, and here
I stay until you have me... and after.'
His eyes travelled again round the room, and she smiled
gently at him. 'Do you like it?' He made no reply, and she
said, 'Come and see the kitchen.'
In the kitchen he stared at a table set in shining whiteness
for two. The kettle, startlingly new, was singing on the hob.
It caused something to break in him. He closed his eyes, striving
to fight the weakness. 'You don't know what you're doing
... you'll regret it... your father should--'
He could say no more. She was leaning against him, her
arms about his neck. The oval of her face was lost in light.
'Hold me, John.'
His arms, telling his hunger, crushed her to him. The faint
perfume of her body mingled with the acrid smell of iron ore,
and in the ever increasing murmur of his endearments and the
searching of his lips her words were lost:

Whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest,
I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God
my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be
buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but
death part thee and me.

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