A Whisper to the Living (8 page)

Furthermore, now that men had returned from the war and had recovered from wounds of body and mind, they were reclaiming their jobs and my mother was forced to agree, with reluctance, that she would eventually take an evening shift at the mill. This bitter pill was sweetened by the offer of promotion to supervisor in charge of two rooms and as this meant an increase in rate, her money would not be noticeably reduced.

The elevation in her status should have cheered her and improved the atmosphere at home, at least between her and him, but still the long silences continued. I knew that my mother was very unhappy and I understood enough to realize that Eddie Higson was responsible for her state of mind. This was one thing for which I could not blame myself, because I was being as good as I knew how to be, was keeping out of ‘his’ way as frequently as possible, spending my time at the Cullens’ or in my attic room.

But for many months now, I had not heard my mother laugh, had seldom seen her smile. The marriage had been a mistake. Even at my tender age, I could sense this. Yet I derived no satisfaction from having been proved right.

Father Cavanagh persuaded them both to attend my First Communion and they looked so embarrassed and out of place, never having been inside St Stephen’s before, that I rather wished the priest had kept his nose out of our business. I wore a long dress of creamy-white satin, a veil with a stiff crown of artificial flowers and new white shoes. In my hands I carried a nosegay of mimosa and gypsy grass, together with a white missal and a rosary that my father had had blessed by Pope Pius XII himself.

The priest placed the bread on my extended tongue while an altar boy held a solid gold plate under my chin in case of crumbs. Should the body of Jesus Christ crumble, then it must crumble only onto precious metal.

I blessed myself, trying to feel solemn and dignified and waited for the wafer to melt, for I had been forbidden to chew. It stuck to the roof of my dry mouth and I hoped that Jesus wouldn’t mind too much when I edged it away with my tongue, for this thin consecrated biscuit now embodied Christ, who had died for me.

I felt empty of grace and of breakfast, as we were forbidden to eat or drink before Communion. We new communicants, eight boys and seven girls, went obediently back to our families while Father Cavanagh droned his solemn way through the rest of the Mass.

Then it was over. Now I would have to be very, very good, for every misdemeanour I committed would have to be relayed through the black grille of the confessional and right into Father Cavanagh’s ever-inquisitive ear. If sins were left untold and if the Blessed Sacrament was allowed, therefore, to descend into a stomach full of sin, then this would be a sacrilege, for which crime there would be no absolution.

Yet I felt nothing at this, my first communion with Jesus Christ. What I had expected to feel, what I should feel, I didn’t know, but I was sure that I should not feel so . . . so ordinary, that Jesus should be filling me with grace and happiness, that I should be inviting Him, welcoming Him into my heart and soul. And when I returned to my pew and saw Eddie Higson sitting next to my mother, my loathing for him hit me with renewed force and I fell to my knees to make yet another act of contrition. ‘Lord I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word and my soul shall be healed. O my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins . . .’

After the Mass, there was a party in one of the classrooms and we were given a breakfast of sorts, sandwiches, biscuits and orange juice. My mother and Higson stood awkwardly to one side, while the rest of the parents, obviously regular churchgoers, grouped themselves about the room, exclaiming over what a lovely Mass it had been and didn’t their Mary look sweet in the white frock and wasn’t Jimmy quite the little man in his new suit.

Father Cavanagh, when he entered the room, made a bee-line for my mother. As consecrated shepherd of this particular flock, it was his bounden duty to round up the stray sheep first. The priest beckoned me to follow, which I did with reluctance as the food was disappearing fast and I hadn’t had much.

‘Well now,’ he was saying. “Tis lovely to see the pair of you here, so it is. And you’ll be after setting a good example for little Annie here now, won’t you?’

My mother nodded while Eddie Higson stifled a yawn – he was not used to being out of bed so early on a Sunday.

‘And will you be attending the Mass in the future then Mr . . . er . . . Higson?’

‘Depends on the weather. I sometimes do a few houses on a Sunday if the week’s been bad.’

‘You work on a Sunday? On God’s holy day? Mercy in heaven, isn’t that a sin now?’

Higson shrugged. ‘Well, you work on a Sunday, don’t you? I reckon Sunday’s about your busiest day. And if we all did what you’re suggesting, they’d have to shut all the hospitals for a start, wouldn’t they? So do we just leave people to die being as it’s Sunday?’

‘Ah well now, that’s a different matter altogether, for hospital work is essential and as for my work, well . . .’

Eddie Higson interrupted loudly. ‘So’s window cleaning if it pays my bills.’

The two men glared at one another for a few seconds, then Father Cavanagh turned to my mother.

‘Will yourself be bringing Annie to the Mass then, Mrs . . . er . . . Higson?’

‘I’ll try, Father.’

‘Yes, yes, you do that. And isn’t it time you made your Easter Duties? I have not seen you at Communion, Mrs Higson.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind, Father.’

‘Aye, you do that now, and God bless you.’

The priest moved on to speak to the other parents and Eddie Higson grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the classroom. My mother followed at a slower pace crying, ‘But she’s not had her party, Eddie . . .’

‘Bugger her party. We’re getting out of here.’

Then, at the far end of the corridor, I spotted two familiar figures making their way towards us. With a great cry of joy, I wrenched my arm free and began to run, coronet and veil slipping unheeded to the floor.

‘Aw, we missed it, luv.’ Mrs Hyatt enfolded me in her large heavy arms then Tom pulled me away from her, lifting me up, swinging me into the air just as my father had used to do.

‘You’ve not gone to America, then,’ I said happily.

‘Not yet, Annie.’

‘But you’re still going?’

‘Aye, he’s still going,’ said Mrs Hyatt before moving on to greet my mother.

‘Are you alright, Annie?’ Tom whispered.

‘Yes, I’m alright.’

‘Is he . . . good to you?’

I looked over my shoulder at Eddie Higson who was standing a little way apart from my mother and Mrs Hyatt. ‘I don’t take any notice of him,’ I said. ‘I just keep out of his road.’

‘He doesn’t hit you or anything?’

I shrugged. ‘Not much. When are you going anyway?’

‘Next week.’

This news dropped like a stone into my stomach and I had to swallow deeply before I could say, ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Tom.’

‘Tell you what, Annie. You wait for me and I’ll come back and marry you when I’ve made me fortune. How does that sound?’

‘Daft,’ I said, but I knew I was blushing.

My mother and Mrs Hyatt joined us now.

‘Will you come and have a cup of tea with us then, Florrie – and Tom, of course. And I’ve a scone or two and a bit of window pie left – come on back with us.’

‘Aye, we will that,’ answered Mrs Hyatt. ‘And I’m sorry we missed your Communion, Annie, but it’s a fair stretch from Ensign Street up here – more ways than one, eh, Nancy?’

The walk back down Long Moor Lane was uncomfortable, for neither Tom nor Mrs Hyatt spoke to Eddie Higson after the initial greeting. My mother and he walked in front while I skipped along behind, one hand in Mrs Hyatt’s, the other in Tom’s.

They were, of course, very impressed with the house – or at least, Mrs Hyatt was. Tom had little to say on the subject, but his mother oohed and ahed over every detail, especially when it came to the bathroom and the walk-in wardrobe.

Eddie Higson, after drinking just one cup of tea, went out to collect money from his customers. In truth, I felt, he went to get away from Mrs Hyatt who, apart from casting the odd furtive glance in his direction, had ignored him almost completely.

When there remained just the four of us, Mrs Hyatt, more relaxed now, said to my mother, ‘By, tha looks a bit weary, lass.’

‘Yes, well, it’s tiring at the mill. I’m starting evening shift soon, so it should be a bit easier.’

Mrs Hyatt stirred her second cup of tea slowly. ‘And who’ll be looking after ’er while yer out?’ she asked.

‘Oh, Eddie’ll see to her.’

‘Will ’e now?’

I felt Tom’s leg brush past mine as he kicked his mother’s shoe under the table. My mother, bristling slightly, spoke up. ‘He’s quite capable of seeing to the child, Florrie. Fact is, Annie can very near take care of herself.’

‘Aye, ’appen she might ’ave to an’ all from what I’ve ’eard.’

In the silence that followed, you might have heard a feather, let alone a pin drop. My mother rose with exaggerated quietness, taking with her the teapot as a signal that the Hyatts were no longer welcome, then she said softly, ‘That, Florrie Hyatt, was all talk and you know it. And if you’ve come all the way from Ensign Street to cause bloody trouble, you can just damn well get back where you belong.’

Tom, leaning an elbow on the table, put a hand to his forehead. ‘Cut it out, Ma. I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again – no good can come of this.’

But Mrs Hyatt, her colour heightening, jumped up from the table as fast as her bulk would allow. ‘Leopards doesn’t change their spots, Nancy Byrne – ooh, I’m forgettin’ meself, aren’t I? Nancy ’Igson, I mean. What can’t speak can’t lie an’ them as is dead don’t get up and talk for theirselves, do they?’ Her face was darkening to a purplish hue.

‘They don’t need to. You do all the talking for them. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, Florrie Hyatt? Mouthpiece of Bolton? Why don’t you get under the clock in the Town Centre, maybe they’ll give you a loud-hailer.’

‘’E did things. You know ’e did.’

‘I know nothing, Florrie and neither do you.’

Tom looked anxiously at me, then waved an arm towards the door, asking me, with a raised eyebrow, to step outside with him, but I shook my head. I was not going to miss this. For once, I might learn something about Eddie Higson.

Mrs Hyatt continued. ‘I know ’e were wild and evil, that’s what I know. ’E were a bad lad and bad lads becomes bad men.’

My mother slammed the teapot back onto the table, causing cups and spoons to rattle. ‘Do you want me to get the law on you, Florrie Hyatt? Is that what you want, a big scandal? Because I will, you know, I shall get a solicitor. And if Eddie knew what you were saying . . .’

‘Why, what ’ave I said?’

‘That he’s a bad lot.’

‘Prove me wrong, then.’

‘Oh no, you prove you’re right. I know enough about the law to know the onus is on you. Innocent till proved otherwise, Florrie Hyatt. You just remember that. Whatever happened all those years ago – if anything ever did happen – was before I ever lived in Ensign Street and if you hadn’t kept your great mouth flapping it would have died a death by now. Eddie’s a good man. He works hard, he’s got the house nice – what more proof do you want?’

Tom looked quickly at me. ‘There’s a time and a place for this sort of thing. Have neither of you any consideration for this child? And you listen to me, Mam, once and for all. A lot of lads sow wild oats but turn out decent. So shut up, will you?’

This was, by now, totally beyond my comprehension. As far as I could work out (and it wasn’t very far) Eddie Higson might have done something bad and then again, he might not. Whatever he might have done had made Mrs Hyatt go a funny colour and Tom said it was something to do with sewing. I had never seen Eddie Higson sewing. It was always my Mam who did the mending and stitching and sewing on of buttons.

Whatever it was all about, Tom and his mother were leaving and I might never see Tom again. As my mother and I stood in the doorway watching them walk away, I felt the tears of self-pity pricking my eyelids. I had not enjoyed my First Communion day one little bit.

Swiftly, I pulled myself away from my mother and ran down the road, the long satin skirt lifted high and bunched carelessly in my two clenched fists.

‘You won’t forget me, Tom?’

He looked down at me, his own eyes suspiciously wet. ‘No, I’ll never, ever forget you, Annie.’

‘And you’ll write to me?’

‘That I will. Soon as I get there.’

Mrs Hyatt bent to give me a kiss and whispered in my ear, ‘Remember, lass, any bother at all an’ tha comes fer me an’ Freddie. OK?’

‘OK.’

I sighed deeply as they walked away. Grown-ups were such a puzzle to me, telling half a tale, warning you about things you couldn’t understand.

But I was to understand only too soon what they had meant, what they had been trying to guard me against. I was eight years old and teetering on the brink of a nightmare that was to last for many years to come, a bad dream from which I would not wake until I had gained considerably in age and experience.

For a while at least, forgiving Tom and Mrs Hyatt would not be easy, for they might have protected me if they had tried harder. But they were, after all, no blood kin to me and I was no responsibility of theirs.

Forgiving my mother would, strangely, be easier, because I would have to care for and protect her from the evil in our midst.

But I would never, as long as I lived, forgive Eddie Higson for what was about to happen to me.

Mrs Cullen was having a clearout.

This was something she did two or three times a year and it was carried out with a precision that fell a long way short of the military. The idea was, as she put it, to ‘shift all th’ upstairs muck to downstairs an’ all t’ downstairs muck out ter t’ back o’ the ’ouse, then kick it about till it disappears’.

We lined up on the stairs like a chain-gang, playing a game of pass the parcel with objects of varying size, shape and incredibility. We handled torn sheets, rag rugs, jerries without handles, half-sets of false teeth, corsets with the whalebone whipping free about our ears, toothless combs, bits of lino and oilcloth and several dozen back copies of the
Bolton Evening News
, some turning yellow with age.