Saturday's Child (21 page)

Nellie nodded. ‘For you, for Thomas.’

Sal looked at his name and knew that it had been no nightmare. He was dead. Laughing Boy with his wide smile and blond curls had really gone and this was proof, his name across a missal.
‘John!’ she screamed.

And it was over, final, complete.

John collected his weeping wife and led her home to face what lay ahead. As he reached the door, he turned to Nellie Hulme. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Drink flowed, regulars spoke with Catholic intruders, darts came out once the grieving family had left. Domino games began in the snug, everyone relaxed, pork pies were handed round.

Nellie smiled to herself, picked up her bag and left the pub. She grinned all the way home, because it had taken just two orphans to break down the barriers of religion. One had gone to his
Maker, the other, well over seventy, still struggled to discover who she was. Yes, the lacework had been hard and hurried, but it had been well worth the time and effort.

She reached home, steeled herself against Spot’s greeting, made tea, fed the pup, settled down in front of a newly lit fire. She had plans for the Higgins family, though the blueprints
remained vague just yet. But she would do something – oh yes, she would. Lily Hardcastle was in the picture, too, but that was another uncertain area.

She settled back, feet warmed by the fire and by Spot’s body. He plucked a lot of stockings, but that was a small price to pay for the comfort offered by the young dog. Oh, that rug was a
lovely colour, such a rich red . . .

Red was not a good colour, no no. She was asleep, yet not asleep. Someone screamed. There was red everywhere, a great deal of red, wet red . . . blood. Was she asleep? If not, why and how did
she hear that noise, that . . . that dying? Red, red, everywhere red. And the man turned and looked at her. The doorknob was so high, almost too high to reach. A small thing screaming. Louder,
louder and the bigger scream and the rug was red – she should have bought green or blue or any colour but red . . .

Nellie’s eyes opened so suddenly that she had to blink quickly. Five minutes, she had dozed. Five minutes, yet a lifetime. It was a nice rug, it was. But perhaps green would have been an
even better colour . . .

Ernest remained the exception that proved the rule.

People from the mean streets hereabouts had neglected chores, had abandoned work, had ignored their religious divisions on this sad day. Oh, he had watched the damned fools as they had walked
past his house, a grey-black sea of people off to church – to a Catholic church – to say farewell to the Grogan boy. The trouble with folk these days was that they had no principles, no
sense of their own identity. It was easier in the old days – Catholics were rubbish and Orangemen were superior – so what had gone wrong?

‘Do-bloody-gooders,’ he muttered under his breath when he saw the grieving parents entering their house. His hatred for the Higgins family had not abated. His intention remained to
get up to Hesford and have it out with bloody Dot and bloody Frank. He wanted an explanation, would get one if it killed him and the rest of them, too. How had she dared to leave? She had walked
out after years and years of work, his work, his striving to put food on the table and coal in the grate. Well, he would pay back the lot of them even if it took every last ounce of his
strength.

He was walking better, was practising for several hours a week, could now get halfway up Prudence Street without losing balance or breath. Soon, Charlie Entwistle would take him up to Hesford to
visit the household of his younger son and that beautiful bride.

He grinned, picked up his sticks and walked away from the window. He was doing very well. With her brood in hospital, Lily Hardcastle no longer helped, but Ernest had made an arrangement with a
local grocer who delivered, while Charlie Entwistle had become a regular visitor. Yes, good old Charlie was not averse to carrying home a bag of fish and chips or a couple of chops from the market.
To hell with Dorothy Barnes. Ernest was doing a grand job without her. But she would pay, by God, she would.

Magsy came back from the hospital with her step lightened considerably. She was filled with joy and hope, because her daughter was improving to the point where she was becoming
difficult.

She stirred the fire, set the kettle to boil, sank into the rocking chair without pausing even to remove her outer clothing.

Beth had started to demand books, had delivered a diatribe on germs to a very young doctor who had waited for Magsy.

Laughing out loud, Magsy relived the scene.

‘Excuse me?’

She turned in the corridor and looked at him, a small man with spectacles and earnest features. ‘Yes?’

‘Your daughter is an unusual girl.’

‘I know.’ She didn’t bother with details, just stood and waited while he shuffled his feet. Like many men of his age, he became tongue-tied in the presence of Magsy
O’Gara.

‘Wants to be a doctor,’ he managed after a pause of some seconds.

‘Yes, she does.’

‘I’ve seen you before,’ was his next comment.

‘I clean here.’

‘Ah.’ He rearranged his stethoscope and fixed a look of insouciance to his face. ‘Very bright – extraordinary medical knowledge. Er . . . Beth, I mean. In fact, I would
go so far as to call her a prodigy.’

Magsy acknowledged that statement with a nod. ‘At this point, I am more concerned with her medical condition than with her knowledge. Is she better?’

‘Oh, yes. Very mild case, very strong constitution. She is a credit to you, Mrs . . . er . . . O’Gara.’

‘She is a credit to regular cod liver oil and malt, doctor.’

‘Erm . . .’

Magsy was getting tired of the ers and the erms. ‘When will she be home?’

‘Soon.’ He drew a hand through his hair, tried to make the best of a very thin show. ‘Just a few more days, until we are sure that she is no longer infectious.’

Magsy felt like dancing up and down the green-floored corridor, but she damped the urge. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

He stepped closer. ‘Where did she learn?’

Magsy lifted a shoulder. ‘From books, of course.’

‘Library books?’

‘Among others, yet.’

His brow knitted thoughtfully. ‘She should get the best, you know, should be educated properly.’

Magsy smiled at him. ‘She will be. She will get into grammar school, and from there to medical college.’

‘Catholic?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ countered Magsy, an edge to the word.

He shrugged. ‘Ah well, the good nuns. They don’t exactly go mad on the sciences, you know. Science is not quite ladylike, so emphasis tends to be mostly on the arts. The best you
could do would be Bolton School, somewhere non-denominational, or private. There is a school not too far from here – no boarders – where each child is treated as an individual. Very
good teachers. They take on only gifted girls, then cater for each particular need.’

Magsy had never considered that aspect. She had done her best to prepare her daughter for a free place at the local Catholic grammar school, but had never really thought about Beth’s
needs. All she knew was that her daughter would want maths, English, ancient and modern languages, general science and a smattering of other subjects.

In the privacy of her own home, Magsy O’Gara now faced what the doctor had said, but she found no answer to the problem. Bolton School, the best for many a mile, was not the place for a
Catholic girl. There were free places at this mainly fee-paying school, but Magsy was Catholic to the bone. ‘You are prejudiced,’ she informed herself out loud. ‘All very well for
you to invade a Protestant pub, but look at you now. Afraid of what the priests might say?’

The private school mentioned by the doctor was beyond consideration, was as out of reach as a full moon. That was a place for the daughters of businessmen, folk with real money and cars and
whatnot. ‘Bolton School,’ she murmured. Perhaps Beth might get permission from the bishop to go there. Magsy could explain that Beth needed good science facilities . . . But no. The
clergy would not be amused by such a request. What, then?

A knocking at the door put a stop to Magsy’s wonderings. She sped down the hall and allowed Rachel Higgins – now Barnes – to step into the house. ‘Rachel. Come in –
I have the kettle on.’

Rachel sat at the kitchen table. Grieved by the death of her adopted brother, she sat still for a while, waited until Magsy had poured two cups of tea. She sipped and swallowed, decided to get
straight to the point. ‘How’s Beth?’

Magsy grinned. ‘Up to no good, Rachel, driving the doctors out of their minds, telling them how to do their job.’

‘Ah.’ Rachel allowed herself a little smile. ‘So she’s on her way back to normal, then. She will be needing a lot of fresh air now that she’s over the worst. So
she’s tormenting them?’

‘She is, and God help them.’ Magsy placed her cup in its saucer. ‘I am so sorry about Thomas.’

‘Yes.’

‘That was a terrible blow.’

Rachel nodded as if attempting to clear unpalatable thoughts from her pretty head. She would have to get back to the shop soon, as she had left her mother-in-law to cope alone with the grocery
side of the business. ‘I met Katherine Moore,’ she began, ‘lives opposite the shop in a big house. She needs help.’

‘Ah.’ Magsy waited for more.

‘She gave me this suit and I made it over.’

‘It’s lovely,’ said Magsy.

Rachel launched into the tale of Miss Katherine, holding back none of the truth, yet emphasizing the fact that Miss Moore’s bark was worse than her bite. ‘She’s lonely,’
Rachel concluded, ‘and Phyllis is useless.’

Magsy pondered. ‘And I would be living in a shed?’

‘It isn’t a shed – it’s a summer house built around a big stone chimney. And the garden’s nice and big, too.’ Rachel omitted to mention the fact that the
summer house seemed to have an occasional occupant – that would be dealt with now that the funeral was over. ‘Come and meet her – you have nothing to lose.’

Magsy’s brain shot into overdrive. ‘The air’s very fresh, then?’ She looked at Rachel’s skin, glowing with health in spite of her despondency.

‘It would be the making of Beth, Magsy.’

With her mind still working furiously, Magsy thought about the future – a change of school for Beth, how would she get to Bolton when she passed for the grammar, was there a church?
‘When does this woman want to see me?’ she asked.

‘Any time,’ answered Rachel. ‘Just call at the shop and I will take you across and introduce you.’

When Rachel had left, Magsy made a bit of toast and continued her ponderings while she chewed absently on the frugal meal. Her head was like a sponge that had soaked up too much water, full,
saturated, no room for further expansion. She couldn’t just up and leave, could she? She was due for promotion at the hospital, would be working in an area that might be termed medical, no
more sweeping, mopping, polishing. Beth was happy at school, though she could afford to be better challenged – would a village school be an improvement, would it be Catholic, did Catholic
matter?

But the fresh air, the chance for Beth to run free in the countryside, no mills, no smoke, little traffic. Oh, God, why was life so complicated?

As if to underline that question, a voice greeted her. ‘Hello? Magsy?’ It was Paul.

She set her plate on the fireguard. ‘Come in,’ she invited wearily. Yes, there was him, too, the eternal suitor, a man for whom she might even develop feelings if she wasn’t
careful.

He entered the room. ‘Oh, I am sorry I missed the funeral,’ he said.

Magsy shrugged. ‘Tell Sal, not me. Sorry,’ she added, realizing that her voice had been sharp.

‘I have told her.’ He lingered in the doorway, the now familiar smell of sand and cement wafting over to greet her. She tried a smile for size, rejected it because it did not fit her
mood. ‘Sit down, Paul.’

He sat. ‘What is it?’

So she told him, outlined details of the job and the location, gave him her worries and misgivings, saw a trail of varying emotions tracking across his features. She saw fear, relief, concern
and the usual affection in his eyes.

When she had finished, he processed the new information before replying. ‘Think of Beth,’ were his first words.

‘I have. I am thinking of Beth.’

His knuckles tightened on the table. ‘She needs the air, Magsy.’

It was then that Magsy realized that she was in real trouble. The man cared so much that he would allow his own wishes to be put aside for the sake of her daughter. Loving such a man would not
be a difficult task. Oh dear.

‘But schools?’ she asked.

‘Never mind schools,’ he replied. ‘Beth will get there somehow. You know I don’t want you to leave, but we have to think about the greater good. Anyway, you could well go
up there and decide you don’t like Miss Moore. There is no decision to make, Magsy, because you can see only half the picture. Go and meet her – I’ll borrow a van and run you up
there on Sunday.’ He grinned. ‘After Mass, of course.’

‘Of course.’ She returned the smile. He already owned a small corner of her heart and was moving in on the rest of that territory. Why was he so . . . so nice? ‘You are good to
us,’ she told him.

He chuckled softly. ‘I’m a good man, Magsy. My mother would try the patience of every saint. Sometimes, I could choke her. But I don’t, because I am a good man.’

‘Yes.’

His expression changed. ‘Will you love me back one day, Magsy O’Gara? Will you?’

She made no reply, opting instead for a long look straight into his eyes. If he failed to read what her soul showed, then he was not the right man after all.

With his heart turning somersaults, Paul Horrocks did what he knew to be the right thing. He lifted cement-coated fists from the table, lifted the rest of himself from the chair. She was saying
it, was allowing it to flood from those incredible eyes until it filled the space between herself and him. She had affection for him, was unafraid to show it.

He cleared a throat that seemed as stiff as the cement he had mixed only hours earlier. There were things to do – supper for Mam, some washing, the arrangement to borrow Pat Murphy’s
van at the weekend. And he would buy that second-hand motorbike advertised in the newspaper, because Hesford was a few miles out and he didn’t need to be waiting for buses every time he
wanted to visit this delightful, adorable woman.