Coming Home to the Four Streets Page 5

  Mrs Barrett returned, first with the tea and then with a dark green glass bottle with a handwritten label.

  ‘Bridget made this and she’s been the village seer at Tarabeg for as long as I can remember,’ Mrs Barrett said. ‘We don’t need doctors here, not when we have Bridget.’ She removed the cork stopper and smelt the liquid. Her head recoiled and her eyes watered. ‘It has the kick of a mule, so it does,’ she said as she passed the bottle to Maura who read the label. Apply with lint, and blow.

  ‘What’s in it?’ asked Maura, squinting.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mrs Barrett, ‘but Daedio Malone out at Tarabeg used it for years on his knees and he was dancing in the street at ceilidhs when he was well past a hundred. This will definitely do the job.’

  Maura slipped the bottle into her basket. ‘Well, I’m clean out of ideas myself and it can’t make his hands any worse, that’s for sure.’

  On this particular outing, she had hitched a lift back with Liam Deane in his van. The light was fading as they turned onto the road that led out to the coast, the mountains slipping from green to grey as, laden down with provisions, she squeezed onto the front bench alongside Liam. She would only just make it back before opening time and, no doubt, her least favourite customer would be waiting at the door. But her heart was lighter now than when she’d left. There were letters in her coat pocket waiting to be opened and savoured at the end of the night when she and Tommy sat and enjoyed their nightly whiskey. She would open them, one by one, and read the contents out loud.

  She could tell by the envelopes who they were from: Kathleen Deane, Liam’s own mammy; Maggie Trott; one from Malcolm at the Seaman’s Stop, which was somewhat of a surprise, but the thickest was from Sister Evangelista, who would be giving her all the news about the school, the mother’s union and, even all the way across the sea, Maura would be told who was failing in their obligation to attend mass and be given chapter and verse about the carnival arrangements.

  There was a letter from Peggy, too, and she had felt a sense of relief when she turned the envelope and read the name and address of the sender on the back. If Peggy was writing, all must be well, and last but not least, because it was bound to be trouble, a letter from the docks board.

  ‘You have a wicked grin on your face,’ said Liam.

  ‘Have I? Well, I have letters from home, including one from your own mammy and that’s always a treat. Nothing I can buy on any weekly shop would bring me as much pleasure as hearing all the news from back on the four streets.’

  ‘We have one too,’ he said. ‘I’m not a man for the reading, though, I’ll leave that to Maeve when I get back to the farm.’

  Maura didn’t question him further. She had no desire to embarrass him into owning up that he could read no better than Tommy. ‘I’ll wait until tonight to open ours. Tommy and I like to read them together,’ she said. ‘I’m so delighted there’s one from Peggy next door – to think she was that organised to go to the post office and buy the airmail letter and then to even go back and post it. Peggy is obviously getting her act together now that I’ve gone and so, I suppose, every cloud does have a silver lining – because, God, she needed to.’

  ‘Even we hear about Peggy in our letters from Kathleen,’ said Liam. ‘Kathleen says she feels sorry for the kids.’

  Maura sighed as the smile slipped from her face. ‘I do miss those kids, especially little Paddy, and I do worry. I suppose the nuns or Kathleen will tell me if I’ve anything serious to be worrying about though, isn’t that right?’

  Liam nodded sagely. ‘You haven’t really settled here, have you, Maura?’

  Liam dropped a gear and turned onto the narrow road which led to the coastal village. It was more of a statement than a question and it caught her off guard. The last of the daylight clung on stubbornly as the ocean roared to the left and the moon began to rise over the Nephin Beg and made ghosts of the mountains before them. The road ahead held another half hour of travel before they reached their destination.

  ‘Why would you say that, Liam? Have people been talking? Have I not been putting on a good enough show? Jesus, why would I not settle? It’s such a joy to wait on those miserable bastards all afternoon and evening.’

  Liam roared with laughter. ‘I’ve heard that you haven’t exactly been making best friends with the locals. You’ll have to forgive them, Maura, it’s a man they are used to have running things, so you will have taken them by surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s because I’m a woman, is it? It’s their wives I would pity, if I didn’t know they send their miserable bloody husbands down to me in the pub, to get them out of their way.’

  ‘Maura, they are the men who keep handing you their money over the bar; you should be delighted their wives kick them out of the cottages. What would you be doing without them? You know, I wish your Tommy had spoken to me before you spent every flaming penny on that place. I’m not sure if you will ever get your money back – but you shouldn’t bite the hands that are feeding you right now.’

  Maura sniffed and pulled her handbag closer into her for comfort. ‘I wish he had too. Get our money back, that would be a fine thing. Have you seen how many cottages are standing empty? Everyone is leaving. We’re the only soft buggers that came back – and spent a fortune doing it. And it isn’t just that place; I’ve gone backwards in so many other ways too. I miss the four streets, Liam. The people, the shops, the carrying on.’

  Liam crunched the gears and the engine screamed out. Maura wondered would the old van make it. ‘The carrying on?’ Liam glanced at her with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Yes, the carrying on. There’s always something happening – and the bingo, God, I really miss the bingo. I was good at winning, often had the luck with me but I was never greedy, mind.’ She sighed and, absent-minded, her hands patted the envelopes in her pocket, as if to reassure herself that she was closer to the four streets, just by touching them.

  ‘The kids are happy though?’ said Liam.

  Maura snorted. ‘I don’t know, I daren’t ask,’ she said as her mind scrambled to remember the last time she saw her children laugh.

  She was keen to change the subject. She knew she really should have said: no, the kids are as miserable as sin and when Liam probed her feelings, as he was doing now, the fact that Tommy had spent every penny on the rundown inn made her feel sick to the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Maeve asked me to tell you she’s expecting you and Tommy and the kids over on Sunday after mass and the kids always seem to have a grand time when they come to the farm.’

  Maura smiled at the memory of their Sundays, their only day off. As soon as everyone was up, they headed over to Ballynevin for mass, avoiding the church next to the inn, and after, walked back to the farm with Liam and Maeve.

  ‘That’s it! That’s when the kids laugh,’ she said to Liam. ‘When we come to the farm. It’s the best bit of our week, Liam, and whatever the weather, the kids have a blast. Harry is beside himself that you are taking him out for the salmon again when the summer holidays come.’

  Liam laughed. ‘Angela insists she’s coming too. I’ve told them, they can hold the landing net.’

  ‘I don’t think our Harry will be holding anything for a while; that Mr Cleary, he took the stick to our Harry the other day and you should see the state of his hands. He ripped the skin raw, he did.’

  ‘Mr Cleary, you say? Aye, well, sure enough, I know what that feels like all right. He’s been teaching the kids around here for as long as I can remember; the Christian Brothers brought him with them when they came from Dublin. They thought we were all peasants and they would need protecting.’ Liam laughed at the memory. ‘Anyways, it will only have been for Harry’s own good. It did me no harm when he took the stick to me.’

  Maura turned to look at Liam. She wanted to ask him, was he mad? Like Tommy, he couldn’t even read but she said only, ‘That’s no way to teach a child, inflicting pain like that. I never saw the sisters so m
uch as lay a finger on one of our boys ever, and the kids at the school in Liverpool? Well, they can’t do enough for the nuns and every one of them is clever, especially Harry, and do you know, Liam, when our Harry told Mr Cleary where he was up to with his maths and English, Cleary didn’t believe him and told him he would have to do it all again. No wonder he has no interest and is as miserable as sin.’

  Maura chose not to mention the priest who was murdered, no one ever did, especially not Maura and Tommy. To mention his name was to give recognition to a man who had been an imposter in their faith.

  ‘Aye, well, Harry will do fine. We all did.’

  Maura swallowed down her exasperation. ‘Liam, your mammy told me you spent most of your time in the fields on the farm at home and you were out every night with your own daddy, poaching the salmon. Which is all well and good, but don’t be giving out to me that you know what Cleary is like – you don’t know what our Harry’s hands look like.’

  On the opposite side of the road an elderly man with white hair and beard, on a bike, raised his hand to wave and, as he did so, his bike wobbled precariously.

  ‘In the name of God!’ said Maura as her hand flew to her mouth and, just in time, the bike steadied as they passed.

  ‘He’s never fallen yet,’ said Liam, who chose the diversion to end the conversation about Mr Cleary, aware he couldn’t win.

  Ten minutes later, Maura stood at the door to the bar, waving Liam on his way. As she watched the tail-lights of the van become consumed by the dark night, she felt deflated. ‘You can’t even read, Liam, what would you know,’ she muttered.

  Why couldn’t Liam see that what Mr Cleary had done was very wrong? Only she and Tommy were indignant at the way Harry had been treated. She was Irish born and bred and she knew the ways well enough, but that didn’t mean that those who had experienced better should tolerate less. Maura knew the difference between right and wrong and what Cleary had done to her boy was very wrong. A feeling of dread she had yet to acknowledge or identify, slipped into the pit of her stomach, made worse by the sight of her first customer walking towards her. There was still the fire to light, food to get ready for the children, and all the while the oaf lumbering up the path towards her would be barking out his demands: ‘Get the fire, Maura. Fill my pot, Maura. Close the door, Maura.’ She sighed. ‘God in heaven, was it meant to be like this?’ This wasn’t the life she and Tommy had dreamt of.

  ‘Get the door open, Maura,’ her customer called out and she bit her tongue and fought back the urge to shout back, ‘Open it your fecking self!’

  Chapter Four

  Paddy farted so loudly that it woke his wife from her deep and dreamy sleep. Her eyes opened wide and the vision of a twin-tub washing machine disappeared in a flash. Maggie Trott had taken delivery of one only the week before and Peggy, along with every other woman on the four streets, had formed an orderly queue in order to inspect it. Since then she had dreamt every night about owning one. Then the efficient rumble of a spin dryer vibrating on her kitchen floor was replaced by her husband’s flatulent emissions. She turned her face towards Paddy.

  ‘You dirty fecking bastard,’ she snarled at him and, heaving her large frame up from the brass bedstead, threw back the old stained army blanket she had meant to wash in the copper boiler on the first sunny spring day. But that had been weeks ago and though there had been other sunny days since, somehow some inconsequential events got in the way and the blanket got dirtier and dirtier.

  Peggy just didn’t know how that had happened. Before the Dohertys had left for Mayo, she and Maura had washed their blankets on the same day every single year without fail. Peggy had no mangle, but she and Maura would carry the heavy wet blankets, one by one, out of her yard, down the entry and back into Maura’s yard, feed them through the mangle and then carry them back in before throwing them over Peggy’s line. There was never any knowing when a sunny day would appear, but when it did, Maura would bang her mop on Peggy’s kitchen wall and Peggy would realise it was time to wash the blankets. She had meant to do it, the intention was there, as was the mangle, still standing in Maura and Tommy’s yard, but as she often did with so many things in life, including in the man she had chosen to marry, Peggy had failed miserably and the bed bugs had breathed a sigh of relief.

  She crossed the few steps to the sash window, her bare thighs slapping together because, although she was only forty, she tottered on arthritic feet. They were made worse by the excessive weight she carried, thanks to living on bags of broken biscuits while she fed what meat and vegetables they had to her husband and children. She flung the window upwards, allowing the sound of the church bells to fill the room.

  ‘Jesus Christ, be quiet, will you?’ Paddy muttered, almost under his breath.

  ‘Stop your blaspheming, you fat slob.’ Peggy folded her arms across her winceyette nightdress to protect herself from the fresh breeze. Grey, almost threadbare and peppered with the occasional cigarette burn, it strained at the seams of Peggy’s bulging frame. Dipping down, she stuck her neck out of the window and scanned the blackened chimney tops perched above the rows of two-up, two-down terraced streets to see who was awake and had coal to light a fire this Wednesday, the day before payday. Her eyes narrowed as Maggie Trott opened her front door to usher her large tabby cat indoors and stood as she always did in her doorway. Peggy watched as she pulled her long knitted cardigan to her body and scanned the street to see who was about. As the milk cart trundled around the corner, Maggie Trott quickly stepped inside.

  ‘She’s off to get the tea for him,’ said Peggy.

  ‘Who is?’ said big Paddy from halfway into his pillow.

  ‘Mrs Trott. I wonder if he knocks anything off her bill for that? I’m surprised his Gladys allows it.’

  Paddy snorted with laughter. ‘He’s playing with fire, that one. If Gladys knew, she would chop his tackle off. Tell Maggie Trott to bring me one up next.’

  ‘Tell her yerself,’ said Peggy and, placing two fingers into her mouth, she sent out a piercing whistle to Eric. He didn’t look her way and she knew it was deliberate. She waved her hands furiously to attract his attention.

  ‘Wave your tits at him,’ said Paddy. ‘That’ll make him look up.’

  Peggy ignored him. ‘I’ll just have to wait until he finishes gassing and gets closer; Maggie definitely saw me.’ Eric would take five minutes to drink the tea and he never dawdled for longer. ‘Look at that, he’s giving her a ciggie again. That must be their little arrangement, a ciggie for a cuppa,’ Peggy tutted. ‘I wonder who they are gassing about.’ In Peggy’s world, it was always who, not what.

  Eric drank his tea and appeared to be in no hurry. ‘Get a move on, will you,’ she hissed. Peggy couldn’t see the look of dismay that crossed Eric’s face as he eventually took his leave of Mrs Trott and made his way along the street, depositing bottles of milk on each doorstep. He was getting closer and closer and, as he did so, his determination to keep his gaze fixed pointedly downwards, ignoring Peggy, became more obvious.

  ‘Eric!’ she hissed. ‘Eric, up here,’ as if he didn’t know.

  The brass bed frame creaked behind her. ‘You’re wasting your time. That tight bastard won’t give you nowt,’ said Paddy, heaving himself up the bed and reaching down to pick up his cigarettes and matches from the floorboards. He stuffed a ticking pillow, brown with old sweat and Brylcreem, down behind his back and slapped on the cap which had been hanging on the bedpost above his head.

  ‘Me back’s killing me. I’ve hardly slept a wink,’ he said, doubting that there would be any sympathy from Peggy, but it was imperative he imparted the information. He was laying out his stall for the day. ‘Ouch, Jesus, I can hardly move.’ He lit his Woodbine and, flicking the match, dropped it onto the floor to join the pile of dead ones already there.

  Peggy tried to attract Eric’s attention yet again; he was now only two doors away. ‘Eric!’ she hissed. ‘Feck, Annie O’Prey will be off to mass if he doesn’t hurry up and
she’ll see me. I swear to God he’s walking slower than usual.’ The sound of clinking bottles landing on steps marked Eric’s progress until he was almost under the window. ‘Eric,’ Peggy hissed again, but he was stubbornly refusing to look up.

  ‘Tell him you’ll give him a quick leg-over in the wash house if he leaves us a couple,’ said Paddy, and then he began to chuckle. ‘No, don’t do that, I’ll have them all feeling sorry for me down the pub if you do for he’s bound to refuse; the man is known for his good sense, even if he is married to Gladys.’

  Eric couldn’t have heard a word big Paddy was saying, and he knew it, which was just as well because Peggy’s expression revealed that she might be about to lose her temper. But before he could say another word, Eric finally looked up. Peggy, spurred on by need, pushed her head well out of the window, holding onto her breasts with one hand and pushing up the sash window further with the other.

  ‘Ah, you’re a good man, Eric.’ Her voice held an assumption that Eric noted in the tone of his response.

  ‘What do you want, Peggy? You’ll have the whole street out.’

  Peggy tried a flirtatious giggle, but it had been a long time. ‘God love you,’ she said, ‘what do you think I’d be wanting from a good-looking milkman like yourself? Would you just leave us a couple, for the kids’ breakfast like, and I’ll pay you on Friday.’

  ‘Come on, Peggy,’ Eric said, ‘don’t put me in this position. You know you owe me for eight as it and Gladys hasn’t forgotten it.’ He looked exasperated. ‘Peggy, you’re putting me in a spot here.’ He was arguing with himself whilst Peggy, minus her teeth, grinned down at him. He knew if he gave her a pint of the steri, which had a flavour similar to evaporated milk, she would water it down and make it stretch to three pints and it would last her for two days. If she had any stale bread and a scraping of sugar, her kids would have pobs for breakfast. It was just the thought of the kids, hungry, that got to the man who was childless and felt the pain of it every day. Peggy’s kids were half as wide as any others, with eyes that looked permanently haunted and hungry. They were fed by the street, by women like Maggie Trott and the nuns. Eric knew he had a moral obligation to play his part and he lifted four pints of steri out of his basket.