Saturday's Child (12 page)

‘Why?’ he blurted before he could check himself.

She smiled. ‘Why is the sky blue? Why is the rain wet? I have no answers to those questions either. They are just facts of life, you see. And another fact is that you are beginning to
annoy me.’

He drew a hand through his hair. ‘It’s such a waste,’ he managed after an uncomfortable silence. ‘You shouldn’t be alone.’

‘I have a daughter.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Magsy nodded slowly as if considering her next words. ‘Mr Horrocks.’ Her tone wore an air of deliberately applied patience. ‘I had an excellent husband. He died. William is
irreplaceable.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing, Mr Horrocks. You have no claim on me. I have given you no encouragement and have made you no promises. This is my life; this is the way I have chosen to live. Now, it is cold
and I want to get back to my ironing.’ She turned, opened the door and walked back into her house.

Angry and confused, Paul Horrocks walked away. Like all beautiful women, Magsy O’Gara knew her power, was well aware that he had fallen under her spell.

Magsy closed her eyes and pressed her back against the wall. Would he never give up? And what was it about herself that attracted men in droves? Didn’t God understand that she would never
remarry, that no-one could ever replace her wonderful William?

‘Was it Paul Horrocks again?’ asked Beth when her mother entered the kitchen.

‘Yes.’

‘It would do no harm,’ Beth began, ‘for you to—’

‘No,’ snapped Magsy. ‘Do not interfere, Beth.’

Across Prudence Street, in the house known as number 5, Ernest Barnes watched the young man trudging homeward at the pace of a reluctant schoolboy. ‘Not good enough,’ Ernest
whispered. ‘She needs a man, not a boy.’

After uttering these words, he staggered to a mirror and stared at his own reflection. He was a very old man. And she was a very young Catholic. And his hair needed a trim . . .

The trouble with having a bright child was that bright children understood a little too much and a little too little. In spite of her great capacity for learning, Beth remained
immature, emotionally unable to cope with adult life and all its complexities. Engrossed in the Korean War, she had begun to concern herself about America’s relatively new but terrifying
arsenal.

Magsy shook out a tablecloth and sprinkled it with water in preparation for ironing. ‘It won’t happen,’ she said for what seemed like the tenth time.

‘How do you know?’ was the next question.

‘Because Mr Attlee was reassured by President Truman that—’

‘Mother!’ cried Beth. ‘Mr Chamberlain had a piece of paper promising that there would be no war.’

Magsy began to iron the best cloth. Christmas loomed and she still was not ready. ‘Beth,’ she sighed, ‘there will be no atom bombs dropped on Korea. Truman is not a liar
– Hitler was, I’m afraid.’ Why couldn’t Beth just look forward to getting her puppy? Why all this fretting? Magsy, who knew the answer to her own unspoken question, pursed
her lips and carried on ironing. No matter what she said, her daughter would continue to speculate about radiation sickness and the unfairness of mankind.

Beth, who had taken to having nightmares about war, was not convinced. She had been reading about Hiroshima, about people who were still dying slowly, about newborn babies who were malformed.
‘There’s no cure,’ she said sadly.

Ah, well. Magsy pressed Irish linen, worried about her chicken, worried about being forced to work for part of Christmas Day, worried about Beth worrying about atom bombs. Would the chicken
stretch to feed Ernest Barnes? Should a good Catholic mention to a priest that she would be cleaning on the holiest of feast days? Probably not. She folded the cloth and stood the iron back on its
plate in the hearth. People who worked in hospitals were exempt – as were priests, of course.

‘You still miss Daddy.’

‘Of course I do.’ Right. Now where was this conversation going?

‘Paul likes you.’

Ah, destination achieved in one move. ‘Beth, I do not want to talk about Mr—’

‘Paul. He said we should call him Paul.’

Magsy leaned against the table and stared at the photograph of William. He took centre stage on the mantelpiece, halfway between Beth as a baby and a framed certificate from the king.

Beth followed her mother’s gaze. ‘May his sacrifice help to bring the peace and freedom for which he died,’ she read aloud. ‘So, if the Americans drop atom bombs on
Korea, my dad’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.’

‘Beth?’

‘Yes, Mam?’

‘Would you ever shut up?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

Magsy grinned. ‘There’s a good girl. Now, put the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of tea. No Paul, no atom bombs, just a drop of milk, thank you.’

Ernest wiped the brooch on a bit of chamois, polishing the silver filigree until it shone like new. Neglected in a drawer for several years, the metal had blackened, had been
as dark as the pearl it surrounded. This was Mam’s black pearl. It had been passed down from Grandma, was old and possibly valuable.

He paused, placing the jewellery on the table. Was it right? Should he be giving this precious item to a Catholic woman? Better than leaving it for Dot, that traitorous so-called wife, or to the
Higgins floozy, who had taken her and Frank away. No, this would look right bonny pinned to the breast of Magsy O’Gara. She wasn’t the usual run of Catholic, was a hard worker, had
confided in him about her ambition to become an auxiliary nurse at the infirmary.

‘I’m going daft in me old age,’ he advised his reflection in a small shaving mirror. God, he wished he were twenty years younger. But he didn’t look too bad, considering.
The barber had been to cut his hair, and he was getting about a bit better, was even managing the odd step without the aid of sticks.

He packed the brooch into a little box, then wrapped the box in red tissue. Closing his eyes, he called to mind her face, that perfect oval surrounded by hair so clean, so blonde, those blue
eyes, lips that were naturally pink . . . oh God, he was like a stupid kid. His heart, banging like the big bass drum at an Orange parade, missed a beat, settled again.

Using the wraparound fireguard for support, he heaved himself up and practised walking without sticks. Slowly, painfully, he passed the rocking chair, reached the understairs coal store, turned,
went back to his seat at the table.

He was almost ready. Soon, he would venture outside, would get up to the road, would catch a trolley into town. At Moor Lane bus station, he would find the Hesford terminus . . . At this point,
his thoughts became confused. Why did he need to get to Hesford? To show her. Yes, that was the reason. To show them both that he no longer needed them, that wife and son were surplus to
requirements.

All was well. Ernest Barnes would walk again, would hold his head high. And Magsy O’Gara was wonderful . . .

Well, at least all the puppies were spoken for.

Lily stood in her back yard, listened as Nellie breathed her way to the lavatory, the large woman’s steps interrupted every time she came to a pile of rubbish. Rubbish? There was enough
for a tip, enough for landfill where the houses had come down during bombings. Charlie Entwistle had sent several rag carts over recent weeks, but the heaving and clattering had continued to
disturb Lily’s short rests. She would sit there with the Bolton paper, cigarette lit, cup balanced on the fireguard, then Nellie would kick off again, chucking all kinds of debris into her
back yard.

Tinker, the puppy intended for Beth O’Gara, began to chew Lily’s shoelace. She lifted him gently with her foot, the movement absent-minded. They had made a right mess between them,
this lot. And Skinny, their doting mother, had lost interest now that they were weaned, leaving them to get up to all kinds of mischief. Next door, Spot barked. Well, the other three were promised
and would be gone in a few days.

‘Come on,’ she bade the dogs. ‘Inside before you start another war.’ They had a habit of answering Spot-next-door, and Lily had had enough yapping for one day.

Inside, she finished icing her Christmas cake, flattening the white coating with a palette knife. She would stick a ribbon round it later, would balance a plastic snowman and a Father Christmas
on the surface. It was the same every year, same figures, same ribbon, same routine.

‘What is the matter with you?’ she enquired of her reflection. ‘You’ve as much shape as a melted caramel, you dozy bugger.’ It was as if the life had begun to drain
out of her – and it wasn’t just her body, either. Her mind was going on strike.

Skinny, ever-hopeful, hovered near the table looking for scraps. ‘And you can lose yourself, too,’ she advised the animal. ‘Costing me a fortune – and I’ve to pay
to have you doctored.’

Skinny crawled under the table. Sometimes, it was best to take the line of least resistance.

Lily lit a Woodbine and sat by the fire. Ever since Dot Barnes had escaped, Lily’s restlessness had increased. She wanted to get out of here, wanted a fresh start, a new life, something to
look forward to. But she had nothing to run away from had she? Sam never hit her, never started a row. How could she walk away? How could she blame nose-picking, sweaty feet, open-mouth eating and
scabby spots? What sorts of reasons were they for a God-fearing woman to use as justification?

Lily sniffed. ‘I mean, I’m not perfect, am I? Why should I be different?’

She didn’t resent Dot, but she envied her. That bad bastard next door deserved to be on his own, while Dot, poor soul, deserved a better life. ‘Ooh, I wish I could walk away,’
she muttered. ‘But I’d only be fretting over me guilt.’

The front door opened. ‘Are you there, Lily?’

Lily smiled. Dot’s leaving had opened many doors – not just Lily’s. Sal Higgins from across the street had become a regular visitor, a welcome one. ‘Come in,
Sal.’

Sal strode into the room, a plate of buttered soda bread in her huge hands. ‘I thought we’d just indulge ourselves, so,’ she announced. ‘This is still warm, so we
mustn’t eat too much of it. Away, now, get the kettle on.’

Lily did as she was told, her heart lighter now that the large Irishwoman had taken up temporary residence in her kitchen. Things could have been worse. A lot worse.

The house across the road still looked dead.

Rachel Higgins-as-was, now Rachel Barnes, turned to the mirror, smoothed her hair and made sure that her coat was fastened properly. Frank had bought her some new Christmas clothes – a
pretty blue-grey suit in wool, a navy coat, some gloves, a bag and shoes. She was so posh. After receiving an answering smile from her reflection, Rachel went down to the shop to elicit the
approval of her mother-in-law. ‘My Christmas outfit,’ she cried, swivelling on the spot. ‘He’s good to me, is your son, Dot. See how nice I am going to look at midnight Mass
this year.’

Dot stopped her shelf-stacking. ‘Eeh, love,’ she murmured, ‘you favour one of them models in a magazine. No wonder our Frank’s proud of you.’

Rachel grinned. ‘Good enough for Miss Katherine Moore, do you think?’

Dot sniffed. ‘Aye, too good. Too good for her, from the sound of things. Aye, you are that.’

Dot would never lose the habit of repeating herself, thought Rachel. It was as if she needed to double-underline all her expressions in order to convince herself that she deserved an opinion.
Ernest Barnes had done a lot of damage here. ‘Should I wear a hat?’ asked the younger woman.

‘To walk across the road? I should flaming cocoa.’

‘Flaming cocoa’ was as bad as Dot’s language got these days. ‘I want to be proper,’ said Rachel.

‘Aye, well, I wouldn’t stir meself over being proper for her, not from what I’ve heard.’

Rachel laughed. ‘It’s Christmas and we have to be Christians.’

‘I know all about Christians.’ There was an edge to Dot’s tone. ‘I lived with one for long enough. Aye, I did. Long enough, too long and that’s for certain
sure.’

Rachel nodded. ‘I know, love.’

Dot picked up a bottle of Camp Coffee Essence and placed it with its brothers on a shelf. Turning to face her daughter-in-law, she asked, as casually as she could, ‘Will I be able to come
to that midnight Mass? I mean, I’m not a Catholic.’

‘All welcome in God’s house, Dot.’

‘I’m not saying I’m for turning, like, but I want to have a look at what goes on. It’s a mystery.’ She nodded. ‘Aye, it’s all a mystery.’

Rachel picked up her handbag. Suddenly nervous, she patted her hair again.

Dot allowed herself a tight smile. She had lovely hair, did Rachel. Not for her the universal rule of waves to the ear lobes, then pin-curls into the nape. Rachel allowed her tresses freedom,
let the dark locks cascade down to her shoulders, no clips, no slides, just a side parting in that slightly wavy sheet of silk. ‘Ye’re bonny love,’ she proclaimed, ‘too
bonny for that owld woman. She’ll look at you and be jealous. Then, if she says she’s coming for Christmas dinner, we’ll all have indigestion for the next twelve
months.’

Rachel giggled. ‘Aw, remember she’s got nobody.’

Another sniff made its way up Dot’s nose. ‘Some deserve to have nobody. Your father-in-law’s got nobody, so will you bring him up here for Christmas Day?’

‘No.’ The dark head moved emphatically. ‘Because Frank wouldn’t let me.’

‘So think on,’ answered Dot. ‘You are swapping one bad so-and-so for another, that’s all. Only difference is that Ernest were bad to us, while her across the road hurt
other people.’

But Rachel was determined. She blew a kiss to Dot, then stepped outside into the clean frostiness of country air. It was lovely up here. She could see for miles across to the east where the
Pennines began their sweep towards Yorkshire. The moors, crisped and whitened by hoar, were sectioned into many shapes, each farm marking its bounds by hedges and dry stone walls.

Yes, she was lucky. She had a fine man, a lovely ma-in-law, a business that gave her life purpose and dignity. No longer subjected to the deafening clatter of machinery, no longer living in the
shadow of factory walls, Rachel was enjoying many kinds of freedom. And, as time went by, she missed her family less and less. Not that her love for them had diminished, but contentment grew within
her, helping a healthy young mind to embrace with gratitude all that she had been given.