Saturday's Child (15 page)

When he had left, Magsy let out a great sigh of relief before placing herself in front of the overmantel mirror. She touched her hair, smiled, tilted her head this way and that. Whatever was the
matter with her? Why should she care how she looked? He wasn’t even a Catholic and he most certainly was not William.

William. He was not coming back, was he? There was no more William and there could never be another like him. So, what was a person supposed to do? Settle for less, make do with whatever was
available? A second adult with an income would make life easier in one sense, but did she want more children?

Tut-tutting at herself, she turned from her reflection and picked up the small parcel left behind by Paul Horrocks. Rosary beads. In buying those, in choosing rosaries, he had paid his respects
to her religion. He was a good man, a kind man, and . . . And she had to go across to number 3. Ernest Barnes would be waiting for her, hair combed flat, stick leaning on the fireguard, lust in his
eyes. ‘This is Christmas Eve,’ she reminded herself, ‘so go and do the decent thing, Magsy O’Gara.’

She picked up a bag filled with small delicacies and made her way to the door.

In the street, Paul Horrocks stood under a lamp post. He was talking to another man, was whiling away the minutes before going to face his crippled mother. Yes, he was yet another human who
lived with human miseries. Sighing, Magsy went to do her Christian duty. Sometimes, being a Catholic was not easy.

His heart missed a beat when the door opened. She was here. Every fibre of Ernest Barnes’s being was suddenly alert, and he hated himself. How many times had he berated
his sons for talking to Holy Romans? He was an Orange Lodger, a man whose hatred for Catholicism was a legend in his own lifetime. And yet . . . and yet here he was, doddery, old, a couple of
hundred in the bank, head over heels with a pretty face.

She came in and placed a bag on his table. ‘Just a few mince pies and a very tiny Christmas cake, Mr Barnes. Oh, and I sliced you a bit of my ham for a sandwich.’

He fixed her with his eyes, wished her gone, wished her in his arms.

Magsy, pretending not to notice, chattered on about the puppy, about tomorrow’s dinner, about the weather. The effect she had on men was annoying, to say the least of it. Here she stood,
just minutes away from the previous encounter, another male gazing intently at her face, her body . . . She did not wish herself ugly, yet she did not like this, either.

He cleared his throat. ‘I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. There’s a parcel yonder – behind you – on the dresser. Open it.’

With hands that suddenly trembled, Magsy opened the package. Inside, she found the brooch and a book for Beth. The book was too childish for her daughter, but Magsy thanked him. ‘I cannot
accept the brooch,’ she stammered uneasily.

‘It was my mother’s and I want you to have it. Dot never liked it any road. Come to think, she never liked my mam, either.’

Magsy placed the brooch on the table. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t want any thanks and I don’t need presents, Mr Barnes. Without wishing to appear ungrateful, I
must decline to accept.’

She was bright, especially for a Catholic. Her English, softened by the brogue, was perfect. Ernest concluded that Magsy was not just a pretty face and a wonderful body – she was also
extremely well read. ‘I want you to have it.’

‘And I refuse to take it,’ she insisted.

The challenge was there. This was a strong-minded woman, one who would stand by her principles no matter what the temptation. Her beauty was startling, and she was aware of it. They were all
like this, the pretty ones, in charge, wielding a power that left men shaking in their shoes.

‘I shall leave the brooch here, Mr Barnes.’

Fuelled by temper, Ernest rose to his feet. After many hours of practice, he could now manage a few steps unsupported. When he reached the other side of the table, he stopped just inches away
from his visitor. ‘I could give you a good life,’ he said.

Magsy shivered and leaned back against the dresser. Shocked to the core, she saw his hands reaching out to touch her.

‘I’ll look after you,’ he continued, ‘and the kiddy – I’ll look after her and all.’ Gently, he touched her waist, a thumb straying upward in search of
softer flesh.

She was unable to speak. His eyes, narrowed by desire, contained a coldness that she had never seen before, not at such close quarters, at least. His reputation was dreadful, though his bigoted
anti-Catholic activities had lessened now that age precluded him from indulging his hobby.

‘I just want to look after you,’ he continued.

Magsy swallowed a lump of fear, then opened her mouth and screamed.

Startled, Ernest stumbled backwards against the table. He righted himself clumsily, then hit her hard across the face. ‘Stop this hysterical carry-on,’ he ordered.

She stopped. Her cheek stung from the blow, but she was no longer afraid, because she could hear signs proclaiming that help was at hand. After a perfunctory knock, the front door flew open and
Paul Horrocks marched into the house. His long legs covered the area between front door and kitchen in three or four strides. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he yelled before dragging
Ernest away from Magsy. He threw the man into a fireside chair, then stood over him. ‘If you ever, ever touch her again,’ he jerked a thumb in Magsy’s direction, ‘I swear to
God I’ll separate you from your breath, you bad bugger.’

Magsy, her legs suddenly deprived of substance, sank into a straight-backed chair. She shook so violently that she bit her tongue and began to weep noiselessly into her hands.

Paul continued to glare at Ernest. ‘She’s too good for keeping company with you. Get your own flaming dinners.’

Magsy did not know what to do. She could not go home like this, because Beth would be there any moment with Tinker, her puppy. Also, Magsy’s legs were continuing to refuse to co-operate
with her brain; she could not stand up, yet she could not continue to sit here in this room, in this house, with this dreadful old man. Deliberately, in an effort to stem the urge to vomit, she
dropped her hands, opened her mouth and inhaled deeply. She must stop crying and must not be sick.

Paul continued to stand over Ernest Barnes. ‘We all know how you treated your wife.’

‘Shut your gob,’ yelled the seated man. ‘It’s nowt to do with you.’

Paul shook his head as if in despair. ‘Nowt to do with me? Nowt to do with me that you plagued Catholics round here, that you spoiled walking days, that you threw stones at church
windows?’ He leaned forward until his face almost touched the old man’s. ‘Listen, you. Any more trouble and I’ll put you in the morgue, never mind the infirmary. I’m
glad your Frank got out of here.’

‘Frank?’ spat Ernest Barnes. ‘Frank?’ He laughed, though there was no merriment in the sound. ‘He’s nowt a pound, our Frank, not worth a bloody second
thought.’

‘He’s worth ten of you,’ answered Paul.

‘Is he now?’

‘Aye, he is – and so’s your wife. I hear they’ve got a lovely shop up Hesford way, a good living and a nice place for Dot’s grandchildren to grow up in. As for you,
you’re a bitter, twisted old wreck – and I don’t mean just your body. You’ll never see your grandkiddies, because Frank’ll have enough sense to keep them away from
you.’

Maggie let out a shuddering breath. ‘Leave him, Paul,’ she advised quietly. ‘Don’t get yourself into trouble because of that desperate creature.’

Paul straightened. ‘Did he . . . did he touch you?’

She shook her head.

‘Why would I touch a bloody Mick?’ roared Ernest.

‘Because you think you can,’ came the reply. ‘Because you think women are there for your amusement and your comfort. Am I right? Aren’t they there to wash and iron and
cook and for your other bodily needs? Well, let me put you straight, because I’m one who has to do all that for himself and for a sick mother. I could have found a slave, I suppose, but no,
I—’

‘You work for a Mick,’ spat Ernest.

‘Yes. Yes, I do. I work for Pat Murphy, and a fairer man I’ve yet to meet, so smoke that in your pipe.’

Ernest stared into the startling blue eyes of this cocksure young man. Aye, he thought he knew everything, did Paul bloody Horrocks. ‘I’d sooner starve than work for an
Irishman,’ he said now.

‘Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought,’ answered Paul, ‘because a sensible soul would choose work over starvation any day of the week.’ He turned to
Magsy. ‘Come on, let’s be having you out of here. This isn’t a healthy place for a young woman, so you’d best stop away in future.’

She dragged herself up, using the table for support until Paul came and led her out of the house.

Ernest Barnes leaned back in his chair, eyes closed tightly against the memory of his own stupidity. Why had he done that? Why had he tried to make a play for a woman young enough to be his
daughter, an Irish immigrant, too? He had been mad, deranged, ready for the funny farm.

But Magsy O’Gara’s face was still there, imprinted on the inner surface of his eyelids, burnt into the flesh like an indelible tattoo. He hated her, missed her, needed her. Tomorrow,
she would not come. His heart was a lead weight in his chest, hopeless, no bubble of joy rising unbidden in expectation of tomorrow. He did not want tomorrow. And whose fault was this? Whose?

Bloody Dot, that was who. Bloody Dot with her martyred air and those sly looks she thought he had never noticed. But he had noticed, oh yes. They had been corner-of-the-eye jobs, small flickers
under those age-shrivelled lids, quick darts expressing pure poison. She had hated him, had hated his mother, had brought all this on by tormenting him. Wife? She had never been a bloody wife,
would never have made a wife in a thousand years.

He fumbled down the side of his chair, retrieved pen and paper, scribbled a note. Then, in accordance with a pre-arrangement with Lily Hardcastle, he tapped the poker against the wall three
times. Three times meant Roy. Young Roy would take this note to Charlie-at-the-end. Charlie Entwistle had offered several times to take Ernest out, so a ride up to Hesford was a distinct
possibility. Aye, it was time to get a few things straight.

Nellie Hulme’s parlour sparkled. In fact, it was so clean that it looked surprised, firelight dancing excitedly on newly polished surfaces, the mirror winking, gaslight
glowing warmly from wall-mounted mantles. There was a new three-piece suite in green, a carpet square, a dark red rug in front of the hearth. And then there was the picture.

It was a photograph in sepia, one she had overlooked. How grateful she had been to Charlie Entwistle when he had returned it to her after finding it while removing one of her many mounds of
rubbish. It had been secreted between the leaves of an old magazine, and Charlie had brought it back to her.

She stirred the embers with a shiny new brass poker, smiled at Spot who lay curled in a padded wicker basket, then she closed her eyes and slept, the photograph resting on her belly, hands
folded over the pleasant scene.

They were there in the dream, the two people in the photo. A tall man and a shorter, pretty woman, a garden behind them, birds flying, birds . . . singing. But, after a nap lasting just seconds,
Nellie opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. There was another factor, a black edge to the dream, a feeling that she was moving away from trees and grass towards . . . whatever, it was
menacing.

She had to concentrate on something else, something ordinary, had to kill the panic in her chest. Yes, the walls needed decorating. She intended to get the whole house papered and painted in the
spring, but she had to be content for now with stained walls and a cracked ceiling. So much had been achieved, including new clothes and a brand new self, a person who washed each day and went to
the slipper baths every Thursday, a towel rolled in a basket containing sweet-smelling soap and a tin of Johnson’s Baby Powder.

What was the threat in that dream? What dire event would shatter the pleasant interlude in a lovely garden? Whatever it was, it crept a little closer every time she slept. And, if she could
‘hear’ while asleep, why was she unable to catch sound in her conscious mind? Was it sound? The thing that happened while she dozed, that extra dimension, was that noise, was it really
birdsong?

She studied the photograph for what seemed like the hundredth time. Such a pretty young woman, such a handsome man. Yes, she had ‘heard’ them too, him laughing, her singing. Singing.
How could a deaf person know how song sounded? Yet she did know, but only when she was asleep.

How many times had she woken with a start, only to find that she could recreate none of the qualities of sound? Yet in spite of having no recall, no ability to reshape in her head what she had
found in sleep, she owned this certainty that she had experienced sound. Perhaps she was going mad. Perhaps a lifetime of silence was finally driving her to the edge of sanity.

She laughed at Spot. He had risen from his cot, had found his over-long and stringy tail, was chasing it round in an eternal circle. Yes, that was it. Like Spot, she was turning, turning,
following a dream that came and went. It was probably a figment of her imagination. Yet no, here sat the evidence, two people printed on thick paper, the pair who haunted her every night.

The dog stopped his whirling, stood still as stone, then ran excitedly towards his mistress, the barking reaching her only by means of what she could see – that opening and closing mouth,
the tension in his ribcage as he attracted her attention. Nellie knew that this little chap understood her deafness, because he had trained himself in just a few days to warn her of the comings and
goings of mankind. As ever, he leapt up and touched her knee, waiting for the titbit that was always his reward.

Nellie walked to the window, saw a distraught Magsy O’Gara weeping on the shoulder of a fine-looking young man. What had upset this usually calm woman? Ah well, perhaps she would remarry.
He looked a fine enough chap, well-defined features, a smart jacket that looked rather thin for December. Yes, it was time for Mrs O’Gara to start again.