A Whisper to the Living (13 page)

He blanched and I knew he was worried in case I came out with it all there and then in front of my mother. I decided to keep him worried.

Gathering all my strength, I forced myself to sit at the foot of the bed and, keeping my tone light, I went on, ‘You see, there are people in this world I just don’t like. You know the sort – they say things and do things that hurt. Well, when I’m old enough to have a boyfriend I’ll give him a list and say “get them for me”. That’ll be good, won’t it?’

He jumped up and stormed out of the room without a word.

‘Ooh, Annie, you shouldn’t upset him like that!’

‘Upset him? I wouldn’t dream of it, Mam.’

St Mary’s was a Catholic Grammar School for girls. It sat on top of a mound between Daubhill and Deane Road and it turned out young ladies of varying abilities, many reaching Oxford or Cambridge, some becoming adequate seamstresses and housekeepers, others going on to be teachers, a few, a very few, entering the Passionist convent after several years’ constant indoctrination and brainwashing.

Although this was, for me, a golden opportunity in educational terms, I felt like a little child again, especially on my first day when I travelled on the 39 with girls twice my size, sixth formers who, although they wore the same uniform, carried it with panache, with flair – a tilt of the hat, a tightening of the belt to emphasize a true womanly shape.

There were six hundred girls in the school, most on scholarships, some fee-paying. Once again, I was back with the Passionist nuns, though many of the staff were lay teachers. The atmosphere in the school bordered on the sinister, was holy and serious enough to allow fear into the hardest breast among the ninety-odd new starters. Corridors were dark and occupied by a collection of plaster saints dotted around to remind us of the real reason for our being here. First and foremost, we were to become holy; education was secondary and incidental compared to this prime and vital objective.

The Headmistress was a Mother St Vincent, four feet two of solid dynamite and with a tongue that lashed like a whipcord. There were rules, rules and more rules. Never run in the corridors, say grace before eating even a sweet, speak to a teacher each time you meet one in a corridor (the staff must have been exhausted after a day’s answering of a thousand greetings) keep your gym shorts long – to test the length, assume a kneeling position and measure no more than four inches from hem to floor – and so on.

Each morning we lined up before Mother and sang Latin dirges after which we prayed, then listened for at least ten minutes to a lecture on behaviour and deportment before marching to the sound of an ill-played piano to our various and wide-spread destinations.

As a first-year, I was destined for St Gertrude’s building, which was separated from the main school by a garden through which we were forbidden to walk, being forced instead to take a circuitous route past the tennis courts. During that year I spent much of my time sneezing because I was, more often than not, drenched through to the skin by that famous Bolton rain as I passed, with monotonous regularity, from building to building. Each time we changed buildings, we changed shoes, ‘indoors’ for inside and ‘outdoors’ for out. Uniform inspections were carried out after Mass Register (we had to account for our Sundays too) each Monday and scorn was poured on any poor girl who had lost the brown gloves or whose shoes were of inferior quality.

Nevertheless, I settled to my various tasks, took to French, Latin and English Language and Literature like a duck to water, coped, just about, with maths and hated history right from the start. Sister Olivia, who had a severe speech impediment which caused her to spit as she spoke, was our history teacher. We mocked her with the usual viciousness of youth and those of us who sat on the first four rows talked of bringing in umbrellas (brown, of course) to protect ourselves from Sister’s leaky mouth. I felt sorry for her, but this pity of mine did not endear me to her subject which I dismissed as pointless, as everybody was dead and I could not see the virtue in learning lists of battles and treaties that nobody had respected anyway. I knew enough about Chamberlain now to realize that bits of paper promising peace were a waste of ink.

The science facilities were poor, as science was not quite ladylike or pretty and was definitely not holy. But we still managed to create a fair amount of mayhem with a couple of bunsen burners, one or two pipettes and the odd sheep’s eye or earthworm.

My chief regret was that Josie Cullen had failed to gain a place and was destined, therefore, for another school – St Anne’s, which was a secondary modem and churned out mill-fodder or, at best, waitresses and shopgirls. Josie was clever – I knew that – and I was annoyed with her for not trying. But, in Josie’s book, St Mary’s girls were a ‘right soft lot’ and she was determined to be a ‘hard case’ and earning by the age of fifteen.

For my own part, I began to excel, particularly in English and French, in which subjects I came out top of the class on most occasions. My essays were often read out to the whole school, an honour I learned to accept without blushes. When it came time to produce the school magazine, I wrote almost all the first-year contributions, selling my pieces to the other girls for pocket money.

In my second year, a shocking thing happened, a thing that caused me to pull myself up and assess my situation anew. Sheila Davies, my friend from those hopscotch and skipping-rope days, who had also gained a place at St Mary’s, died of kidney failure. The school choir sang her requiem and I sat staring at the small light-wood coffin in All Saints Church, my heart and mind filled with grief and sadness. She had been so alive, so vibrant. Now she was gone, gone for ever. What if this were to happen to me? If I were struck down in this way, then I would not be given the chance to work out how to make sure Eddie Higson got his just deserts in this world.

As the coffin was carried out past us, I made my decision. Surely here, in this holy place, I could get help? Surely a priest, a man of God would come to my aid and rescue me?

But I would not speak to Father Sheahan of this parish, or to Father Cavanagh from my own; better, in this case, the devil I did not know.

After much deliberation, I chose St Patrick’s, as it was far enough away from both the churches I knew so well, yet near enough for me to reach for tuppence on the number 45.

I sat in St Patrick’s the very next evening, waiting until every sinner had passed through the confessional, making sure that I would be the last. I wanted to know that no believer lingered to listen to what I must say once I got inside the box.

It was a pretty church, stone-built and with beautiful stained-glass pictures in the arched windows. I gazed at the Stations of the Cross, vivid portrayals of Christ’s suffering that lined the walls of this and every Catholic church. The scent of incense lingered in the peaceful air. For a few moments, I began to understand why people came here, because the tranquillity was somehow hypnotic and comforting. Then, at last, it was my turn. I genuflected as I left my pew, hesitating for just a second or two before entering the confessional.

I closed the door quietly behind me and knelt on the deliberately uncomfortable plank near the floor, making the Sign of the Cross on my forehead, chest and shoulders before beginning. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is three weeks since my last confession.’ The priest, a dark shape at the other side of the grille, yawned audibly. I was, after all, the last of a very long queue of penitents. ‘Tell me your sins, child.’

‘I have taken the name of the Lord in vain twice – I said God when I was angry.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I laughed at Sister Olivia because she was spitting when she talked and she can’t help it.’

‘We must not mock the afflicted, child. Go on.’

‘I tell lies. I honestly can’t remember them, Father, but I do tell fibs. I stole a sixpence from a girl at school, but I put it back in her desk the next day.’

‘Good girl. Anything more?’

‘I listened to dirty talk at school, but I didn’t join in.’ I hesitated. I had to do it now. It was now or never . . .

‘Go on, my child.’

Seconds passed. I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead, running along the bridge of my nose and I wiped my face with the sleeve of my blazer. He sounded kind and gentle like Dr Pritchard. Perhaps God was real after all, perhaps He had sent me here so that He might perform one of His miracles. I found myself praying, really praying, begging for God to intercede on my behalf, to show me the way, to show this hidden priest the way . . .

‘What is troubling you?’ asked the tired, pleasant voice.

‘I . . . I do not honour my . . . stepfather and I can’t honour him. Ever.’

‘Oh, I see. And why is that now?’

I paused, then passed a piece of paper under the grille. ‘That is my name and address, Father. I am not of your parish, but I want your help.’

The shadow behind the partition picked up the paper then straightened in its seat.

‘In what way can I help you . . . er . . . Anne?’

I cleared my throat before continuing, ‘The man who is married to my mother has been . . . well . . . doing things to me for about four years. I want it stopped.’

A brief silence followed. ‘What sort of things, Anne?’

‘Dirty things.’

‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

I swallowed hard. ‘He touches me where he shouldn’t. He says if I tell anyone, then he’ll kill me and my mother. He already murdered my mother’s baby before it was born. My mother was in hospital because he’d kicked her half to death.’

‘What do you want me to do, child?’

I thought about this. ‘I want you to make him stop. I don’t know how, but you must. Perhaps you could . . . well . . . talk to him, tell him he’ll go to hell and all that if he doesn’t leave me alone. But you have to come in the evening and during the week, when my mother will not be there.’

I heard the priest shuffling about behind the grille as he prayed almost under his breath.

‘Anne. Are you telling me the truth?’

‘Yes!’ It had never occurred to me that I might not be believed.

‘You said yourself not a minute ago that you tell lies, child.’

‘I do not lie in the confessional, Father.’

‘And you have heard . . . dirty talk at school?’

‘Yes, but that’s nothing to do with this.’

‘I have to be sure, Anne, for it is another person’s sin you are telling me. And I have to admit to you, child, that I am at a loss. I have never had to deal with this kind of thing before. I will pray. We must both pray. Now, make an act of contrition.’

‘Oh my God, I am sorry and beg pardon . . .’ What the hell was I doing here? What kind of a fool was I? I knew Eddie Higson had a grudging respect for, even a fear of the church in spite of his bold words to Father Cavanagh, but could this man really do anything for me? Still, I had tried. From now on I would have to try everything – everything, that was, except telling my mother directly. Because soon, I would reach the age when Eddie Higson would do the really bad thing to me, the thing he had been promising for so long now. Against that, at least, I must protect myself.

The next assault took place the following evening. This time Higson wanted me to touch him, was on the point of opening his trousers when I managed to escape, naked and screaming, down the stairs and out into the back yard. He stood shaking in the doorway as I screamed my fury into the night sky. ‘Come in, Annie. I won’t do it again, I promise.’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘Stop shouting. Come in or they’ll have you locked up as a mad woman.’

‘Touch me again and I’ll scream.’

‘Alright then, come in.’

I rushed past him and through the house up to my attic room where I swiftly put on my nightie. All kinds of plans were running through my head. Perhaps I could loosen the rungs on his ladder so that he would fall to his death in the street, whereupon I could go and smash his dead face with the heel of my shoe and wipe him out of my mind forever. Or I could push him under a bus or put poison in his tea – he’d never notice the taste, he always drank it black and stewed. But I didn’t know where to get poison, hadn’t the strength to loosen his rungs, wasn’t big enough, yet, to push the bastard under a bus.

He didn’t come near me again that week and I decided that screaming had not been a bad idea.

Father Keegan, from St Patrick’s, arrived on the Friday evening. He shut himself in the living room with Higson and I crept down, terrified, to listen at the door.

‘Your daughter confessed to me earlier in the week, Mr . . . er . . .’

‘Higson. She’s my stepdaughter.’

‘Ah, yes.’ There followed a long pause.

‘What did she tell you, then?’

‘That, I am not at liberty to divulge, Mr Higson. The confession is a confidential matter between God, Priest and sinner. You, as a Catholic, must surely know that.’

Higson cleared his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was high in pitch. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘To tell you that your stepdaughter is unhappy in this house, to ask you, beg you to . . . make her life easier.’

‘In what way?’

‘I think we both know what I’m talking about, Mr Higson.’

I heard the shovel in the scuttle as Higson fed the fire, probably to give himself time to think. He spoke again, his voice more confident now. ‘She’s a fanciful lass, is our Annie, very – what’s the word now – talented, yes that’s it. She’s forever making up stories and writing them down. She even wins prizes for some of them.’ His tone was wheedling now. ‘So, you see, sometimes she doesn’t know where her imagination’s taking her. She does imagine things, you know. Her head’s crammed full of nonsense – I put it down to her age; she’s at that funny age, you see . . .’

‘I’m not too sure of that, Mr Higson. She strikes me as a very level-headed young person. And I feel sure that she would not bring her imagination with her into the confessional.’

Higson coughed again. ‘What are you going to do about it, then?’

‘There is nothing I can do. My hands are tied by the laws of my faith. I only wish there were something I could do.’