A Whisper to the Living (17 page)

I stayed near the wall for a while, drying my few tears furtively with the cuff of my cardigan. When at last I regained a degree of composure, I began the short walk home. I watched the 45 as it dropped its passengers, noting that Higson was among them. He walked along on the other side, pausing by the pillar box to light a Woodbine.

From the opposite direction a black shape loomed large, its girth seeming to increase as it passed the ironmonger’s, the chip shop, the Co-op on the corner. The cloaked figure crossed the small side street, waddled past the shop on our corner and along the block till it reached our house where it came face to face with Eddie Higson. I leaned on a gatepost and watched this encounter between priest and sinner. They had both seen me; there was no escape. After taking a deep breath, I crossed the road and joined them.

‘Father Cavanagh wants a word,’ snapped Higson.

I walked between the two men, opened the front door and led the way through to the living room. It was customary to offer food and drink to a visiting priest. Father Cavanagh in particular was obviously used to over-indulging in both – the size of his stomach demonstrated his fondness for food, while his nose, which shone like a rampant flame in the centre of his yellowing face, spoke volumes about the state of his liver. The fire was dying. I made no move towards the kitchen for refreshments and we stood, the three of us, in an awkward semi-circle with our backs to the range.

Higson cleared his throat. He’d probably had a pint or two and I could see that he was not in the best of moods. ‘What can we do for you then, Father?’

The priest removed his biretta. “Tis about the confirmation I’m here. Annie should be attending classes on a Thursday to prepare herself.’

‘Aye, well – that’s nowt to do with me. I reckon I’ll go up for a bath.’ Higson turned to leave.

‘Sure, ’tis indeed your business, Mr Higson, as well as mine and the girl’s. Are ye not interested in this child becoming a member of the Faith, the one true Faith?’

Higson turned on his way to the door. ‘You’d best talk to her mam about that. Remember, she’s not my kid.’

‘She’s your stepdaughter, Mr Higson . . .’ The priest’s voice tailed away as he found himself addressing a closing door. He now turned to me. ‘You won’t come, then?’

‘No.’

He eased his large frame into the fireside rocker. ‘Why not? Why won’t you come to the classes?’

‘Because I’m not going to be confirmed.’

His eyes flashed cold anger. ‘If you’d been confirmed when you ought to have been – four years ago . . .’

‘Then I would have had no choice. As it was, I was ill in bed. And it wouldn’t have meant anything if I’d had no choice, would it? Now, I’m old enough to choose and I am choosing.’

‘But your Mammy wants you confirmed,’ he said, his tone wheedling. ‘Honour thy father and they mother. You’re but a child yet, only thirteen years old. How can you expect to be allowed to make choices? Think of your Mammy now . . .’

Blackmail. How used I was to that! But no, I’d had enough and would not allow any more of it.

Higson suddenly re-entered the room and I almost laughed aloud when I noticed the sheepish look on his face. He was afraid, frightened to death that I might tell this black-robed ignoramus what my ‘stepfather’ was doing to me. After all, hadn’t I told a priest once before?

‘I think you’d better leave, Father,’ he said. ‘You’ll get nowhere with her once she’s made her mind up.’

The priest struggled out of the rocker and stood swaying at the edge of the rug. I suddenly realized that he was drunk, that he was probably often drunk, that he depended on whisky to get him through ordeals like this one. A strange mixture of pity and contempt flooded into me as I stared at the large bumbling fool who granted absolution, administered sacraments, represented the gateway to salvation.

‘And you allow her to make up her own mind?’ he shouted.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Higson yelled back, his confidence restored. ‘Drag her up to the church by the hair and chain her to a pew? If she says she’s not coming then she’s not coming and that’s that.’ He folded his arms and stood, feet slightly apart, obviously enjoying every minute of his own Dutch courage.

‘You’re supporting her then, in this sin, Mr Higson?’

‘He’s not supporting me, Father. I don’t need supporters.’ Especially him. I needed him like I needed a broken neck.

I turned to the priest. ‘I think it would be best if you left, Father.’

Yes, he had better go. I didn’t want two rows in one evening – my one-sided argument with Dr Pritchard had been enough. I was relatively safe now. My mother would be back in less than an hour, so I didn’t need the priest to hang around and preserve me.

‘’Tis small wonder she has never honoured her stepfather, Mr Higson. You are not fit to have in your care the soul of a young girl, especially a young Catholic girl. Are you ever to Mass these days? Ever to Confession or Holy Communion?’

For answer, Higson opened the door wide. When the priest made no move, he shouted, ‘Get out and don’t come back. Just leave her alone, will you? Come on you old drunk before I kick your backside out of here.’

Father Cavanagh pointed a finger, none too steadily in Higson’s direction. ‘You are excommunicated,’ he pronounced.

‘Excommunicated?’ Higson threw back his head and laughed. ‘Listen lad, I quit – bloody years ago, I can tell you. Get back to your whisky bottle and your rosary beads.’

The priest, speechless and purple in the face, stumbled out of the room. Higson followed him, slammed the front door, then came back into the living room. He was shaking. In spite of his brave words, he feared the Church. Like all Catholics, he had been indoctrinated from infancy and even now, he half expected a bolt of lightning.

‘Bloody cheek!’ he joined me in front of the range, his hands reaching out for the little warmth that came from the dying fire.

‘Get that fire seen to and make some tea,’ he snapped.

I stared at him levelly, forcing myself to meet the deep-set and bloodshot gaze. Knowing that I was inviting yet more trouble, I stood my ground. ‘Do it yourself,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m not your servant.’

He pulled me roughly towards him, forcing my body against his and I struggled in vain to free myself. When would I learn to keep my big mouth shut?

‘You’re asking for it, you are,’ he whispered, his spittle wetting my face. ‘And you’re going to get it. Know what I mean?’ Yes, I knew what he meant. And no, there wasn’t time for him to start on me just now.

‘Are you going to do the fire?’

I nodded.

‘And make the tea?’

‘Just let me go.’ He stank of beer, sweat, tobacco and bad teeth.

He released me so suddenly that I fell back against the range oven, banging my head on the mantel shelf. Whether it was the sharp pain, or simply a culmination of all that had happened that evening, I didn’t know, but something in me snapped and I flew at him, my hands clawing at his face then beating against his chest. Someone was screaming, sobbing, cursing and only when his hand came over my mouth did I realize that these sounds had been coming from me. His breathing was laboured now and he had to struggle to hold me still.

‘Listen, you little bitch,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again – you do exactly as I say. If you don’t, then I’ll get your mother and you, the bloody pair. Understand?’

I tasted salt. Something warm and thick was dripping from my mouth. He howled like a wolf and sprang back, but even then my teeth maintained a bulldog grip on his finger until he brought up the other hand and sent me reeling across the room with a single flat blow. I caught sight of myself in the flower-bordered mirror, saw blood on my face and ran to the kitchen to swill his filth down the sink. My stomach heaved and I vomited noisily into the white porcelain, my hands gripping the edge to stop me sliding to the floor. I must hold on, had to keep sane. This was not the way, could not be the way. I was behaving like an animal, a wild beast – no. Animals did not carry on like this – they had order, a kind of discipline in their lives. What was happening to me? Where was my order, my discipline?

Some time later he came through to the kitchen, the stink of Dettol, with which he had no doubt bathed his hand, mixing with all the other scents that clung to his malodorous person.

‘Try that again and I’ll kill you,’ he announced, his voice dangerously quiet.

Kill me
, I wanted to say.
Kill me and you’ll hang
. But this was not the time. Today had been a disaster and yet, out of this series of storms a plan was forming, spreading its tiny roots in my brain. Although I was uncertain of the details and felt very unsure of the outcome, the seeds were sown and I knew I would have to be not just cool, but icy cold to carry it out. So I shovelled coal and made the tea while he nursed his damaged finger.

When my mother came in, she commiserated with him about his poor hand, said that people should be sued for leaving nails sticking out of window frames. My, it was a mess and no mistake – if she didn’t know different, she’d swear he’d been bitten by a mad dog. As she knelt at his side to apply a bandage, he looked at me over her bent head, a smile of triumph playing over his ugly, weathered features.

My skull ached where it had hit the mantelpiece and I was tired to the bones of all these charades. Yet I summoned up the energy to feel annoyed at the sight of my mother kneeling at his feet, the soles of her shoes crusted with steel rings, her hair dotted with cotton, the back of her work frock still damp from her labour.

‘I hope you’re well insured,’ I said to Higson. ‘You can get lockjaw from a rusty nail – there’s no cure. It’s a horrible death too.’

‘Ooh, Annie.’ My mother glanced up from her task. ‘What an awful thing to say.’

‘Well – I’m only being practical. It stands to reason – anybody who climbs ladders for a living should be well insured. It’s just common sense, that’s all. He might break his neck, mightn’t he? I’m off to bed now.’

She got up off the floor wearily. ‘Just you wait there, our Annie. Is that alright, Eddie? Not too tight?’ He grunted and she turned to lean against the table as she spoke to me. ‘All I ask, Annie, is for some peace when I get home from the job. Going on about him getting lockjaw and breaking his neck – it’s not very nice, is it? Can’t you have a bit of respect?’

‘People have to earn respect,’ I said, as calmly as I could.

‘Have you two been arguing? Have you? Can’t I even go to work now without worrying about you giving cheek, Annie? What’s got into you these days, eh?’

‘Ask him. He’s your husband, supposed to be the man of the house . . .’

‘Annie!’

‘Oh leave me alone, Mother. Just leave me alone!’ I stamped out of the room and slammed the door behind me.

‘Let her go, Nancy,’ I heard him say. ‘Bloody priest’s been down again mithering her – she’s got a right bee in her bonnet over it.’

‘She still won’t get confirmed then?’

‘Nay. She as good as threw the drunken old bum out of the house.’

‘Oh Eddie – she didn’t . . .’

‘Just let it go, woman. For goodness sake – can’t you see she’s at a funny age . . .?’

Yes, he’d said that before, hadn’t he?

I switched on my light and looked across into the Cullens’ front room. Martin was standing in front of the fireplace staring into the mirror. He did that a lot these days. The single bare bulb in the centre of the parlour (as Mrs Cullen called it) shone down on Martin, making his hair a lighter red than it really was. He was a strange lad, the odd one out in that large family. Although he was Josie’s twin, the two of them were like chalk and cheese. While Josie continued open and voluble, Martin seemed very reticent at times, as if he, like me, were planning something, a secret he could not share.

I took the diaries from the drawer and added the notes about Angela, who had confirmed what I already suspected. The plan unfolded as I wrote and I scribbled furiously in spite of my aching head. It was dangerous, but wasn’t my situation already fraught with danger? This would simply accelerate matters, take me off the knife’s edge, put me in charge. If I lost my gamble, then at least I would go down fighting instead of remaining as I was now, a sitting duck for him to take pot shots at whenever he pleased.

To ensure that I would not weaken, I forced myself to go back yet again through these notebooks, reaffirming that I was right, that these things had really happened to me, that none of it was my fault. I must fuel my anger, feed my resolve, make sure that I would not relent at the last moment.

Oh Mam, Mam . . . what would you say if you could read all this now? What did you think of me all those years ago when I told you I hated him, that he made me shiver, that his eyes were sly? Did you care? I bet you thought I was an odd little thing because of all I’d been through, losing my Daddy and all. Then that stray bomb had been enough to frighten any small lass and make her wary . . .

I pushed the book away and stared blindly through the window. Yes, she probably thought I’d been shell-shocked for a long time, because the blast had been deafening, terrifying. We had sat there under the table for hours until a warden, his feet crunching on splintered glass, had dragged us out. We were the lucky ones, we residents of Ensign Street, because half the next road had been blown to kingdom come. For weeks after that, I had searched for Rosie Turner, not believing, not wanting to accept. Then gradually, Rosie had faded, slipped away out of focus, leaving just a vapour-trail of memory. Now that too was gone and I could not even imagine what she had looked like.

Everyone had said that I was an unusual child, ‘highly-strung’ according to my mother’s family, ‘precocious’ in Sister Agatha’s book. My mother probably never expected me to react to Eddie Higson in a normal way, because I had not led a normal life. Few war babies had enjoyed a normal life.

I left the table, switched off my light and went to lie on the bed. Yes, I would do it – I would, I really would! Remember, I told myself. Remember the first beating . . .

We got back to the house on the wedding night. For reasons I could not fully understand, I shut myself in the small front bedroom with a pair of scissors and painstakingly cut to ribbons the awful pink dress I had been forced to wear. He beat me that night and my mother did not succeed in stopping him. So, on the night of my mother’s wedding, I received the first of many such beatings, beatings I would never forget, would not allow myself to forget. Because my mother did not approve of his hitting me, he always got me on my own after that first time. I could not fail to notice how his face changed as he hit me, those small piggy eyes glazing over, the mouth wet, wide and panting.