Light A Penny Candle (10 page)

But Eileen didn’t want to get involved in the black
market
. She was happy to use the food to pay for the outing.

Maureen’s hospital looked very forbidding. Elizabeth thought it looked a frightening place, Aisling said it was worse than school. But they were told to straighten themselves up and behave nicely and not to make a show of themselves.

The goodbyes were said; Maureen was to write every single week. Eileen had given her eleven stamped envelopes.

That would see her up to the Christmas holidays. The two Moriarty girls were saying goodbye too. Donal looked as if he might cry, Eamonn looked as if he couldn’t get out quick enough. Sean ended it with a formal note.

‘It’s always hard to see the first bird leave the nest but it’s the way things are.’

The nuns and everyone else seemed to like this and it got people moving.

‘Yes, this is our first
girl
to leave the nest,’ said Eileen firmly to the nun who ran the students’ home. And then they were out and getting back into the truck.

Mrs Moriarty was crying and sniffing into her handkerchief. Suddenly Elizabeth leaned over to her.

‘Do you have any relations in Cork, Mrs Moriarty?’ she asked. This was such an odd event that the tears ceased almost at once.

‘No, child … no, why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that… oh, about a year ago when I was coming to live here, I met a Mrs Moriarty on the train, and she was
going
to her son and daughter-in-law in Cork … and you know I hadn’t heard the name before … and I wondered, since everyone in Ireland seems to be related. …’

Elizabeth stopped. Everyone was looking at her. She had never spoken like that before.

‘You talk like us now,’ said Aisling, laughing.

‘God help us, we’ll have to get that out of you fast before the war is over,’ said Eileen.

Violet got out of bed just as the hall door closed, and George came in from his night’s work. Sleepily, she put on her lilac dressing-gown, brushed her hair and padded down the stairs to put on the kettle.

‘What kind of a night was it?’ she asked him. He looked very drawn and old. He looked fifteen years older than his forty-two-years.

‘All right, really,’ he said.

‘George, what does that mean? Does it mean that you were fire watching and there were no fires, or that you put them out?’

‘No, I was shelter attendant,’ he said wearily.

‘But what did you do?’ Violet leaned against the sink. ‘You never tell me what it’s like, what happens.’

‘Well. It’s like when we went to the shelters, you know, and they sort of took charge.’

‘Do you mean just shepherding people in and out …?’

‘Yes, in a way.

‘Like a porter in a station …?’ Her voice had a high cracked disappointed note about it.

‘It’s much more dangerous,’ he said, hurt.

Suddenly her tense body seemed to soften and she looked at him with real concern. An old, tired man, just finished a night of fear. He could have stayed in their own ‘shelter’, a cellar which had always been considered a nuisance and now was padded with cushions and mattresses. But two nights a week he spent with a torch and a round tin hat guiding people, people with no shelters, up and down stairs, trying to sound authoritative and trying to sound calming.

Tears came to Violet’s eyes and poured down her cheeks. George raised his tired head and half stood up …

‘What is it Violet… what did I say?’ he began.

Her shoulders heaved.

‘I didn’t say
anything
. …’

‘Oh, the pity of it … the stupid pity … if someone up in the sky were looking down at this pathetic house in this pathetic stupid life, what would they say? You’ve had no sleep, I’ve only had a little sleep. Other people are dead. There’s nowhere to rest, no food to eat, you have to go to that silly stupid bank and I have to go off to this dreary, dull endless factory. Two buses there, two buses back, four sets of queuing … and what’s it all for?’

The kettle whistled behind her and she took no notice.

‘What are we doing it for, George, what on earth is the point? There’s going to be nothing afterwards. It’s going to be just as bad after the war. …’

‘Oh no … after the war. …’

‘Yes, after the war. Tell me, what will be so wonderful?’

‘Elizabeth will be back,’ he said simply.

‘Yes.’ She stopped crying. ‘That will be something.’

George got up and turned off the kettle; he made a pot of tea slowly.

Violet wiped her eyes.

‘I must write to Elizabeth today,’ she said. ‘I might do it at my break at work.’

Aisling and Elizabeth were now the senior members of the family. It was even suggested that they might have separate rooms, since Maureen would not be needing hers, except for the holidays. Sean’s room, boxroom or not, would never be offered to them. But the girls didn’t want to change their ways, finding first one excuse and then another. Maureen’s room didn’t get such good light for homework. It was further up the stairs and away from the bathroom. Aisling clinched it, in a fit of kindness, when she said that it would be sad for Maureen if she didn’t think her room would be there to come back to.

Eileen let it go. It would be nice to have a guest room in case they ever had any guests. She had often hoped, over the years, that Violet would come to stay. There had been that visit a long time ago … before Violet had married … it hadn’t been a success. Probably because Sean had been a baby and Violet had been full of the bright young flappers and all the excitement of the twenties in London. Nobody had ever said that it was a failure, but deep down Eileen almost wished that it had never taken place. Now? Well, now, of course, anything would be a treat for Violet and George after the miseries of Britain, the long queues, the
black
market, the endless waiting at night for the bombs to fall. … In fact she should really write and suggest it. …

Elizabeth was distressed to hear that Eileen had asked Mother to come over to Kilgarret. She wished the invitation had never been sent. She remembered Mother saying the place was dirty – sudden visions of Mother’s nose wrinkled up in horror at some of the habits in the O’Connor household made Elizabeth almost faint. If Mother did come, she wouldn’t fit in and Elizabeth would be running from one side to the other. It would be like old times, when Miss James said one thing and Mother misunderstood, and then Mother would say something and Miss James would be offended. Here in this house, people didn’t brood and wonder what other people had meant, they asked them, and they shouted at them and often they thumped them. Elizabeth’s heart lurched again when she thought how Mother might react when she saw Aunt Eileen slapping things out of Eamonn’s hands if he had picked up some food that he wasn’t meant to have taken. Mother would be appalled at Niamh’s nappies trailing as she toddled round, and at Donal’s stained dressing-gown, which he wore as much around the house as he did in his bedroom. Elizabeth couldn’t even bear to think of what Mother would make of Peggy and whether she would ever bring herself to eat anything that Peggy had touched. …

The prayers that were muttered kneeling in the bathroom – she didn’t want Aisling to know what she was
praying
for – were answered. Violet wrote to say that it was quite impossible. She did envy everyone in Ireland eating butter and cream and meat. She thought that it sounded like a kind of paradise. There was little gratitude for the invitation, but much on how everyone in Kilgarret was faring better than those in London. Eileen showed the letter to Sean.

‘You can’t say she isn’t making much of us now. She says it sounds like heaven here compared to what they have to endure.’

‘Well, you can write back and tell her that Ireland doesn’t have to endure all that because Ireland didn’t go on like the British Empire, shadow-boxing and fighting other European people instead of minding its own business.’ Eileen had no intention of telling her anything of the sort. She went back to the letter. It sounded more interested in Elizabeth than any of the previous notes and scribbles had been.

I suppose she’s much taller now. They do grow between ten and eleven. A woman beside me at work asked me if I had children, and when I said I had a daughter of eleven she couldn’t believe me. I told her I hadn’t married until I was twenty-eight and she couldn’t believe that either, but she said I didn’t look like anyone who had children. Suddenly, right in the middle of work, I felt very lonely and I started to cry. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately – it’s war nerves, people say. They tell me to take these nerve tonics –
everyone
takes them – but they’re worse than useless. I think of Elizabeth a lot these nights. I’m glad she’s well and out of reach of the blitz. But sometimes, when I’ve had a long day, I wonder whether there was any point to all we learned at school. It means nothing now. There’s no point in being able to run a gracious home with nothing to run it on. And all that history. They never told us that wars just went on and on. …

Maureen’s letters arrived every week. Sometimes they had blots on them, and the lines were crooked, but neither Sean nor Eileen seemed to mind a bit, and read them out cheerfully to everyone. Una Moriarty, who was eleven months younger than Norah, was doing very well, but Norah was being homesick and silly. They had been given a late pass and they all went to the pictures in O’Connell Street, but it was the one night when the projector broke down and there was half an hour’s delay, so they’d had to go home without knowing the end of the picture. There was an awful lot of bed-making. The way the beds are made at home is all wrong, they have no corners. Staff Sister Margaret is like a devil but Sister Tutor is very beautiful and glides around, seeming not to walk like other people. They’d all be home on the bus the day before Christmas Eve. Maureen was looking forward to sleeping on and on and on. Doctor Lynch went on one of his batters the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. It had nothing to do with the event, in fact he didn’t even hear of
it
until five days later when he was discovered by the Guarda in a sailors’ public house in Cork, slumped over a table. This time the return home was less dignified and discreet than on previous occasions. This time, Doctor Lynch was handed unceremoniously to a Guarda van going to Dublin, and then to another on its way to County Wicklow. The family had been told to expect him. The Guarda left him in the square. Their custody of him had been entirely informal; they had abuse from him all the way to Kilgarret. … He was now sobering, but in deadly need of another drink. He ranted that he had their numbers and they would all be demoted for this. Unshaven, without his coat – which had been abandoned somewhere on his joyous journey south to Cork – his eyes narrowed at the sight of the O’Connor house. That was the bloody family which had dared to insult his position by refusing to let their red-haired brat play with Berna. Tears of self-pity came into his eyes. That thick, ignorant Sean O’Connor with his builder’s yard and dirty shop, with his tinker’s brood of children, had dared to forbid Berna his house. Had dared to apologise on
his
daughter’s behalf for something … which had never been proved, mind you.

Doctor Lynch came slowly up the steps. Peggy let him in and stood back fearfully as he climbed the stairs. Donal, running down to see who was the visitor, met him on the landing between the kitchen and the sitting room.

‘Doctor Lynch.’

‘Yes. Which one of them are you? Which of Sean
O
’Connor’s brats are you? You’re in your dressing-gown. Are you sick? Have you been sick, boy, come on?’

Flattened against the wall, Donal stared up at him with huge eyes.

‘I’m Donal,’ he said, ‘I’m seven. I’ve a touch of asthma. It’s not bad. I’ll grow out of it.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Everyone says it. Mam says it.’

‘What does your Mam know about it? Does she deign to take you to a doctor at all, or does she have medical skills herself?’

Aisling and Elizabeth heard the shouting and rushed to protect Donal.

‘Well, has she?’ Doctor Lynch was roaring.

‘Go to the shop and get Mam,’ hissed Aisling, and Elizabeth, round-eyed, slipped down the stairs.

‘Who are you?’ The man smelt awful and had stubble all over his face.

‘I’m just visiting,’ said Elizabeth, backing away. She didn’t stop to get her coat, though it was freezing outside.

‘Nice to know the O’Connors are still allowed some visitors. Who’s her father, then – a duke? A doctor’s child isn’t good enough for Sean O’Connor. …’

‘Her father works in a bank in England,’ said Donal helpfully.

Doctor Lynch gazed at him. ‘You’ve more than a touch of asthma, young fella, you have a chest that whistles like a kettle. A great pity your mother never took you to a doctor. I don’t like the sound of it. …’

Aisling’s face blazed. ‘There isn’t a thing wrong with Donal, not a thing. He’s a touch of asthma, that’s all, it gets worse in the bad weather. And Mam has taken him to a doctor, to Doctor MacMahon. And the hospital. And everything. So you’re all wrong. You’re not a proper doctor anyway.’

‘Oh, Aisling.’ Donal looked at her nervously, afraid that she had gone too far. People didn’t say things like that. … Doctor Lynch drew himself up. Aisling’s mind churned, but she saw that she had to go on. If she stopped now, Donal’s faith would go. He would always believe he had a terrible disease if she backed down in front of Berna Lynch’s awful father. Taking a big breath and putting her arm around her brother’s shoulder, she continued.

‘I know what I’m talking about. My father and mother don’t approve of you, Doctor Lynch. They think you’re unreliable. That’s why none of us go to you when we’re sick. We go right out to Doctor MacMahon’s house.’

She didn’t hear her mother bounding lightly up the stairs, summoned by Elizabeth in a few short sentences.

‘Doctor Lynch … Aisling. …’ She saw that Donal was terrified as the two faced each other – the shaggy, unkempt doctor and Aisling, her eyes bright and her red curls bouncing.

‘You’ll answer for this, you impudent little brat,’ he said, moving towards her. Donal, standing in the corner, raised his voice, but only a thin squeak came out.