Angel Meadow (16 page)

“Ye know what I’m wantin’, m’darlin’.” She could see him more clearly now that her eyes had become used to the diffused darkness which seemed to hang like a veil about the leaning, lopsided headstones. He was holding out his hands placatingly in a way she had not seen before, pleading, begging her to listen to him, since there was no one in this dark place to see charming, handsome, winsome Mick O’Rourke humble himself.

“I’ve never said this ter any woman before, Nancy Brody, but . . . I love yer, yer see, an’ well . . . I reckon we’d be ’appy together. I’d do me best, acushla. As the Blessed Virgin’s me witness I swear yer’d not want fer owt. I . . . Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I wanter marry yer, lovely girl, so what d’yer think ter that?”

He stuck his chest out. His pride in himself was very clear, his willingness to put aside all other considerations, like the amazement of his mates, evident in his tone of voice. His belief that though it had cost him a great deal of soul-searching, if the only way he could have this mysterious, fascinating, irritating girl was to wed her then so be it. In his eyes and in the eyes of Angel Meadow he was considered a good catch. He was strong and healthy. He had a steady job and didn’t mind hard work. He could provide for her in a grand fashion, by the standards of those hereabouts, for not only did he have decent employment he earned many a purse in the prize-fighting ring. There wasn’t a girl in Angel Meadow who wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry Mick O’Rourke and he had convinced himself that the reason Nancy Brody had been so bloody elusive was because she was not aware of his grand intentions. His mam would have a fit but what did he care. He was a Catholic and went now and again to mass since he had been taught that he would undoubtedly go straight to purgatory if he transgressed and, though he didn’t believe it, just to be on the safe side he showed his face to the Blessed Virgin on the occasional Sunday. His and Nancy’s children would be brought up in the true faith, naturally, even if Nancy wouldn’t come over and his mam would have to be satisfied with that.

“Well?” He grinned, his teeth a white slash in the darkness of his face, cocky and pleased as punch and glad, really, that he was to make the great sacrifice of his freedom, for would that not prove to her what his feelings for her really were. “Let’s ’ave a kiss then, acushla. All these bloody months when we’ve bin . . . friends I’ve never even kissed yer. That shows ’ow much I respect yer, darlin’. ’Ave yer any idea ’ow ’ard it’s bin for me, watchin’ yer go by wi’ that way yer walk what sets all’t lads off? A real teaser, so yer are, but I’ll say nowt more. So, ’ow about it, darlin’, come over ’ere an’ give us a kiss.”

She made a mistake. Mick O’Rourke was not a violent man, not with women at any rate. He meant her no harm. He had dragged her out here because it was the only place he could think of where they could be totally alone and uninterrupted. Everywhere they met there had always been someone about but here she could not escape him. She would be forced to listen.

His cocky assumption that she had only to be offered marriage to fall into his arms infuriated her and she made no effort to keep the contempt and loathing out of her voice.

“Dear sweet Jesus, why won’t you listen to me, Mick O’Rourke,” she snarled, white-hot with anger and rage. “I wouldn’t marry yer if yer were the last man on earth, d’yer hear. I don’t love yer. I don’t even like yer, yer cocky bastard. Yer never see any further than the end o’ yer nose, do yer? Are yer so puffed up with the belief that yer God’s gift ter women yer think every lass yer smile at’s bound ter fall inter yer filthy ’ands? Well, ’ere’s one who won’t, so just step aside. Go on, get out o’ me way, yer jumped-up piss-pot, fer yer must be drunk if yer’d imagine—”

“Yer little bitch, don’t yer dare speak ter me like that. ’Oo the ’ell d’yer think you are. I’m offering marriage, yer daft cow,” just as though she had misunderstood him and needed further explanation.

“I don’t bloody care if yer ter be made King of England and want me ter be Queen, Mick O’Rourke. I don’t want yer. Can’t yer get that inter yer thick Irish ’ead.
I don’t want yer!
Now get out o’ me way fer I’ve ’eard enough o’ this bloody nonsense.”

His fist came out of the darkness with the swiftness of a bullet from a gun, catching her on the point of her jaw where, in a dozen fights, Mick had learned to knock his opponents to the canvas. His eyes were blind in the darkness, with an uncontrollable anger, a frustration at the contemptuous smashing of his hopes and dreams and longings, for he truly loved Nancy Brody, a destruction of what he had believed to be the rightness of his proposal. She had belittled him and his aspirations. She had spat on him and his longing to do the right thing by her and in that moment, a moment of rejection he had never known before, his mind went blank, empty of everything but his male desire to hurt, to possess, to humiliate, to subjugate; in other words to show Nancy Brody who was boss.

She fell away from him in the dark, landing spreadeagled on the grave, her head, as it thumped downwards, catching the corner of the headstone. The darkness, which was a kind of sombre grey all around her marked here and there by the deeper darkness of the headstones, dragged her downwards into an inky black hole and the last thing her anguished eyes saw were the onion-smelling hands of Mick O’Rourke reaching out for her.

He was gone when she came to. She was alone in the dead of night among the sneering ghosts of those who must have come out of their graves to mock her. In her arrogance and belief in the absolute rightness and strength of Nancy Brody she had taken one step too far and it had knocked Mick O’Rourke far from the whimsical, good-humoured, fun-loving Irishman who had pursued her for the last few months. She had taken something from him with her contemptuous refusal of the honour he was doing her, the honour of marrying the best catch in the Irish community and he had . . . Oh, dear God in heaven, what had he done to her? While she had been unconscious – the aching of her head and her jaw told her she had been unconscious – what had he done to her? She hardly dare stand. She hardly dare raise her head from the weeds on which it lay, for she could feel the cold and the damp and the mossy slime, not with her hands which were still out spread as though in crucifixion, but on her . . . on her . . . Dear Lord . . . Oh, dear Lord, help me . . . on the backs of her bare legs, on her belly and thighs, on her buttocks and the small of her bare back which was pressed down on to the cold stone and rotting vegetation of the grave. She ached from head to foot as though she had been given a beating and she was sore in that private place she had defended so fiercely. There was something wet and sticky on the inside of her thighs; aah, dear God . . . oh, please not. Please, sweet Jesus, help me . . . help me.

She knew what had been done to her, of course she did. She had been knocked down, forced on to her back and while she was there, dazed and semi-conscious, held like a bitch and raped. Mick O’Rourke, allowing his wild rage to overpower him, had taken what she had denied him.

She was a strong woman; circumstances and her own resolute will had made her so and despite the hardships ahead of her she had not been afraid. She had confidence and pride in herself, a belief that she would succeed. She also believed she was a woman of warmth and humour with an inclination to do a kindness where she could to those who deserved it. She had in her a capacity to do things that would not only help her family but others whom she hoped to employ to escape the trap of poverty. A woman then, of consequence, in a small way. A woman who had a joy in her own self-esteem, for she knew it to be justified.

She was not that same woman when she finally got to her feet. She had been weakened. She trembled in deep shock and her hands fluttered uselessly as she made an attempt to smooth her clothing about her abused body. She felt frail, not just physically but in her woman’s mind which flinched away from the horror of what she had suffered. Indeed it could not believe it. Her stunned senses could not seem to function on the level she had become used to, wandering confusedly among images that she could not remember. She wanted to weep. She wanted to run home and be gathered in some strong and protective arms, shushed and petted and told she would be all right but there was no one in Nancy Brody’s life to do that for her. There had never been anyone in Nancy Brody’s life to do that for her. Ever. And if there were, would she let them? Did she want anyone to know that Mick O’Rourke had finally had his way with Nancy Brody? She was pretty sure he would tell no one, even if he wanted to boast of it, since he would be too afraid she might tell the truth of it, show him up not only as a rapist but as a man who had been contemptuously refused by a woman, which would be worse in his eyes. A woman he had to rape to get!

She would keep it to herself then. She was helpless and ready to stagger like a toddling child at this moment of vulnerability but give her a few minutes and, by God, she would be herself again. Not the same, but strong again. She would not let this . . . this desolation drag her down as Mick O’Rourke had dragged her down; but she’d not forget it, not if she lived to be a hundred, and neither would Mick O’Rourke!

9

Though the sun was shining from a cloudless blue sky, the blue the colour of a duck egg, it was bitterly cold with a crackling coverlet of hoar frost underfoot. The frost even helped to disguise the ugliness and filth of Angel Meadow, painting the roofs and window ledges, the piles of rubbish, the cracked pavements and cracked doorsteps with a shining silvery white which dazzled like scattered diamonds in the sunshine. It was a Sunday and there was no one about, for even those who were to attend mass had decided that the later one would do when perhaps the streets would be “aired”. They huddled together under their thin coverlets or sat over carefully nursed nuggets of coal on fires that were barely alight, cursing the winter and all its tribulations. Life was hard at all times of the year, wages earned, when not poured down the throats of the men in the beer house, eked out to keep body and soul together, but in the winter it was malevolent. They fought it, some more savagely than others, but it was hard going until spring came to ease the burden.

Nancy Brody’s fire leaped cheerfully up her chimney and had they seen it would have caused serious envy among her neighbours. She sat with her feet on the fender, brooding into the flames, her face pale and sombre. The room was warm, since she had left the fire in last night. She had banked it up with clinkers and ashes saved especially for the purpose in the ancient bucket Mick O’Rourke had mended for her mam many years ago and which was kept at the side of the chimney breast. Nothing was wasted in this household, not a scrap of food nor a scrap of material, not a button nor a pin nor a spoonful of water, not a farthing spent unnecessarily; and as soon as spring came she and Jennet were to hire three sewing-machines and move them in here. There had to be enough money to keep all four of them until the business began to make a profit. There was cotton cloth to be bought, thread, needles, oil for the machines and money enough to rent a stall in the market on which to display and sell their goods. Initially she had intended that she and the girls would move on from Mr Earnshaw’s in Brown Street, where the business of shirtmaking took place, to the production of undergarments and baby clothes in the sweat shops on Shude Hill. But it appeared there was no need, for Jennet knew all there was to know about such things, since she had been employed in their manufacture before being taken on at Earnshaw’s. Jennet was invaluable with her knowledge of the trade, knowing exactly where to purchase what was necessary, especially the fabric. They must make every farthing count, for if they failed it would be back to the sweated trade of shirtmaking for Mr Earnshaw or someone like him.
They must not fail
. She repeated the words over and over again, trying to regain the enthusiasm, the sheer, overpowering excitement that had surged through her for a long time now, but despair, something she had never allowed herself to suffer before, swept it all away on a wave of hopelessness that she could not seem to swim out of.

She sighed deeply, allowing her glance to wander round the room in which she had taken such pride. She had made it what it was. She had overcome the filth, the squalor, the misery, though she still lived, with the rest of the denizens of Angel Meadow, in unpaved streets, strewn with offal and refuse, airless cul-de-sacs and noisome alleyways. Among huge, unsightly, shapeless mills, towering chimneys which tainted the sky to a dull, leaden colour, the cesspools and ash-pits which were a familiar part of her everyday life. But her determination, her sheer bloody-minded determination had lifted her out of the life the others led, the life they saw no chance of changing nor had the will to try. It had given her the resolution to sweep aside all obstacles that might stand in the way of what she wanted for herself and her sisters. It had made a shining path that was hers to follow. It had got them this far but now . . . now, how was she to survive this last and fatal blow? This room was a symbol of all she had achieved. Nobody else in Church Court had strips of matting spread on a floor from which you could have eaten your dinner, nor two armchairs and a settle. None of the neighbours except Mick O’Rourke had been inside in all the years the Brody girls had lived alone, but if they had they would have been open-mouthed with wonder at the sight of the whitewashed walls, the cupboard in which were displayed her precious assortment of mismatched crockery, her skillet and stewpan, her teatray, her clock and the pictures, cheap prints, that hung on her wall, her cracked ornaments, all costing next to nothing but loved just the same. Upstairs were two iron bedsteads with spotless feather mattresses and regularly changed bedding, warm blankets and even, bought in a dreadful fit of extravagance, a couple of worn patchwork quilts. She shared one bed with Jennet and the second was occupied by her sisters.

She had come so far, she, Nancy Brody, daughter of Angel Meadow’s whore and now that was what they were going to call her. Like mother, like daughter, they would say, which didn’t matter, for what did she care what people thought or said? What had she ever cared about the opinions of the people who lived beside her? What mattered was the enormous extra burden, the impediment, the strain this would put on not just her but on Jennet and the girls.