Life and Mary Ann Page 11

  The doctor nodded.

  The doctor now looked at Mrs Flannagan and said, ‘You are the mother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Flannagan had lost her spruceness. For the first time that she could remember, Mary Ann saw her other than neat. Her face was tear-stained; her hair, like thin wire, stuck out from each side of her hat. She seemed to have shrunk and was now no bigger than Mr Flannagan. It seemed odd, too, to see her sitting there with one hand clasped in the tight grip of her mother’s hand.

  Mike and Mr Flannagan came into the room, and the doctor said again, ‘It would be better if you all went home, for you can do nothing, nothing at all.’

  He was passing Mary Ann now, and he put his hand on her head as if she was a child, as indeed she looked at this moment. And he seemed to be addressing her solely when he said, ‘The only thing now is to pray and leave the rest to God…’ And it was with a sort of gentle inquiry that he added ‘Eh?’ to his words.

  Michael, not to be deterred, stayed in the waiting room and Mr Flannagan stayed with him. Mrs Flannagan went back to the farm with Lizzie and the rest …

  Three days later Sarah was fighting for her life, kept alive only by the miracle of the iron lung. On the seventh day it was known that she would live, but without the use of her legs, and Michael sat at the kitchen table, his head buried in his arms and cried. And Lizzie cried, and Mary Ann cried and Mike went out to the cowshed.

  Lizzie stood by Michael’s side, her hand on his head, but she could say nothing. She could not find words adequate for comfort, until some minutes elapsed, and Michael, lifting his head slowly from his arms and shaking it from side to side in a despairing movement, muttered, ‘And I said I would take her on that holiday if I had to take her in a box…Oh God!’ And Lizzie, remembering the time not long ago when she herself had said, ‘That’ll be the day when you howl your eyes out,’ whispered brokenly, ‘We say things in joke, take no notice of that. She’s alive, and they can do wonderful things these days.’

  Mary Ann’s throat was swollen with the pressure of tears as she stood at the other side of the table and looked towards Michael. Poor Michael. But more so, poor Sarah. She was feeling for Sarah, at this moment, anguish equal to that which she would have felt if they had been sisters. It was impossible to remember that they had ever been enemies. She thought, ‘Her poor legs, and she loved to ride. Oh, what will she do?’

  It was as if Michael had heard her thinking, for he stood up and, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes and around his face, he said, ‘As soon as she comes out we’ll get married.’

  ‘Michael.’

  Lizzie had just spoken his name, there was no indication of shock or censure, but he turned on her sharply, saying, ‘You can do what you like, Mother, say what you like, put all the obstacles on earth up, but as soon as she’s out of that place we’re getting married.’

  ‘Yes, yes. All right, Michael, all right.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, Mother.’ He was yelling at her. ‘As if I’d get over it and change my mind, and by the time she’s out I’ll be seeing things differently. I won’t, I won’t ever.’

  ‘Don’t shout, Michael.’ Lizzie’s voice was very low. ‘I understand all you feel at this minute, believe me…’

  ‘But you wouldn’t want me to marry Sarah, crippled like that, would you? She would handicap me, wouldn’t she? What would happen to my career?’

  ‘Now, now, now.’ This was neither Lizzie nor Mary Ann, and they all turned to see Mike standing in the kitchen doorway. His face looked pale-ish, his eyes were bright, and his voice and manner were quiet. How much he had heard of the conversation Mary Ann didn’t know. But little or much she knew he had got the gist of it, for looking at Michael, he said, ‘Don’t worry at this stage. Just go on praying that she’ll get better quickly, and then do what your heart tells you you’ve got to do.’

  Mary Ann watched Michael looking towards her da. She watched their eyes holding for a long while before Michael turned away and went out of the kitchen and up the stairs. It was strange, she thought, Michael was her ma’s, her ma and Michael were like that—metaphorically, she crossed her fingers—yet lately it had been her da who had seen eye to eye with him, while her mother seemed to cross him at every point. Perhaps, like all mothers, she was afraid of losing him, and he knew it, and this was bringing a slight rift between them.

  Lizzie had the palms of her hands pressed tightly together. If her fingers had been lifted upwards, they would have indicated her praying, but they were pointing towards the floor, and she rasped her palms together as she said under her breath, ‘He says they’re going to be married as soon as she comes out.’

  ‘I heard.’ Mike nodded his head. ‘Well, you’ll have to face that, Liz.’

  ‘But how will he manage? He’s just starting out, Mike.’ Lizzie’s voice was soft. There was no tone of opposition in it, just helpless inquiry.

  ‘People have managed like that afore, they’re shown a way.’

  ‘But if she can’t walk. If she’s in a chair…’

  ‘Liz!’ Mike walked over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Listen to me. Things’ll pan out. Just remember that. Whatever you think or do, things’ll pan out one way or the other. But this much I think you’d better get into your head and accept it. Whatever condition Sarah comes out in, she’ll be the only one for him…Now it’s no use saying he’d get over it. Don’t start to think along those lines, because I know this…he’d rather have his life a hell of a grind with Sarah than be on velvet with anybody else…Now don’t cry.’

  But Lizzie did cry. She turned her head into Mike’s shoulder, and as he held her and spoke softly to her, he looked across the room towards Mary Ann, but she herself could hardly see him, her vision was so blurred. She felt a weight of sadness on her that she had never before experienced. It sprung, she supposed, from Sarah’s condition. Yet she knew that not all her feelings were due to Sarah. Vaguely she realised that life was opening her eyes wide, stretching them with knowledge, painful knowledge, such as the fact that her mother was crying, not so much because Sarah was crippled for life, but because her son was determined to take on a burden that to her mind would cripple him too.

  It was the worst Christmas Mary Ann had ever known. No-one felt like jollification. Presents were given and received without much enthusiasm. Mr Lord bought Mary Ann a portable typewriter for her Christmas box, and although she was pleased with the gift, she simulated delight that she didn’t altogether feel. But Mr Lord was very thoughtful and kind during this period. And she wanted to please him.

  The old man had shown great concern over Sarah. Twice a week he sent her gifts of flowers, he had looked at Lizzie and said, ‘There’s no need to inquire if the boy will stand by Sarah. I feel that Michael knows his own mind, and it’s a very good thing. Perhaps it will be very good for both of them. And he can rely on all the help he needs when the time comes.’

  Lizzie had said nothing, but Mary Ann had wanted to fling her arms about the old man’s neck, as she had done years ago, by way of thanks.

  Corny did not send Mary Ann a Christmas box, but he sent her a letter which was of much more value in her eyes. Although the letter was brief, she read volumes between the lines. He liked it in America. He liked the people he was staying with, they were very good to him. He liked his job. The boss was very good to him. He had been put into another department which meant more money. He could get a car if he liked, but he wasn’t going to. He was saving. It was funny not being at home for Christmas but everybody was nice to him. Mary Ann felt a stir of jealousy against this oft-repeated niceness. But she told herself he hadn’t known what to say, he was no hand at letter-writing. His writing was as terse as his speech. Her Corny was a doer, not a sayer. She liked that idea, and she told herself a number of times: Corny was a doer not a sayer. The letter ended with the same request as had his first one: Would she go and see his granny?

  The only other thing of note that happened over the Chri
stmas was an announcement in the paper to the effect that Mrs Lettice Schofield of The Burrows, Woodlea End, Newcastle, was seeking a divorce from her husband.

  PART TWO

  THE YEAR PASSES

  Six

  ‘Look,’ said Mike, as he leant towards Michael across the little table in his office, ‘I know the old fellow means well, at least I want to keep on thinking that. But I’d rather you didn’t start your life, your real life along with Sarah, beholden to him.’

  Michael, with one elbow raised high resting on the top of the small window, rapped his ear with his fingers as he stared out across the farmyard towards the chimneys of the house, where they reared up above the roof of the byres. ‘I know, I know what you mean.’ His voice was deep and very similar to Mike’s now, except for the inflexion garnered from the Grammar School. ‘I don’t want to take the place, for the very reason you’ve just stated, but another reason is that Sarah’s cut off enough where she is now. Although she’s with her mother, she’s cut off. She feels lost, they don’t speak the same language. She’s closer to her father, but he’s out all day. And then there’s not a blade of grass to be seen, looking out from that window onto the street. It drives me mad when I’m sitting with her. I can’t imagine that we ever lived opposite. The only good thing in taking the bungalow is that she would see a tree or two, and the fields. But then it’s a good two miles away, and although there’s houses round about, Sarah doesn’t want other people.’ He brought his eyes from the window towards his father. ‘She’s already one of us. She’s always seemed to have been one of us. She hasn’t said this, but I know that she looks upon us as…her people. As I said, she likes her da, but I can tell you this, she likes you ten times more.’

  Mike dropped his eyes away from his son as he said, ‘That’s good to hear, anyway.’

  There was silence in the little office until Mike said, ‘There’s a way out of this.’ He cast his eyes on the open ledger as he spoke, and Michael kept his eyes on the view across the farmyard as he replied, ‘Yes, I know. But who’s going to put it to her?’

  He did not say put it to Mother…but to ‘her’, and this phrase hurt Mike. Although it meant that he and his boy were closer than ever before in their lives, it also meant that Michael had moved farther away from Lizzie during the last few months. Somehow, he would rather that the situation were the same as it had been years ago…yet not quite. He did not want his son to hate him and he had, at one time, done just that. No, he didn’t want that again, and please God he would never deserve it, but he didn’t want Lizzie to be hurt. Michael was Lizzie’s, at least she had always considered him so. It was as if years ago she had said to him, ‘You have got Mary Ann, Michael is mine.’

  At this moment the door was pushed open and Mary Ann, coming round it, said, ‘Oh, there you are.’ She looked at Michael. ‘I’m going in to Sarah’s, Tony’s running me down. Is there anything you want to go?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Tell her I’ll be there round about six.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mary Ann looked from one to the other. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘No, no.’ Mike got to his feet. ‘We’re just talking about the bungalow.’

  ‘Oh, the bungalow.’ Mary Ann nodded her head, and looking again at Michael she said, ‘Are you going to take it?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  Again she nodded her head. ‘Then why don’t you ask her?’

  Again, the ‘her’ was referring to Lizzie, and Michael, moving out into the yard, said, ‘I couldn’t stand a row. And if she did consent, having Sarah on sufferance would be worse than anything so far.’

  Mike and Mary Ann, left together, looked at each other, and when Mike’s eyes dropped from hers she said to him under her breath, ‘Something should be done, Da. What’s going to happen to Sarah up there by herself all day? It won’t work. He just couldn’t take that place.’ She looked at Michael’s broadening back as he went across the yard, then her gaze lifted up the hill towards Mr Lord’s house and, her tone indignant now, she commented, ‘If he’s going to advance him the money for a bungalow why couldn’t he have one built here? He’s got piles of land.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as laws about building on agricultural ground.’

  ‘Boloney!’

  ‘Not so much boloney as you think.’ Mike nodded solemnly at her. ‘Once you start that, it’s like a bush fire, one house goes up and then the place is covered.’

  Mary Ann looked her disbelief, then after sighing she remarked, ‘Well, I’m off, Da. See you later…Goodbye.’

  His goodbye followed her as she went across the yard towards the road that led up to Mr Lord’s house. She knew that he was standing watching her.

  In the far distance she could see the hood of Tony’s car.

  She glanced at her watch. He had said half past two on the dot, and now it was twenty-five to three. She walked slowly up the hill, through the gate, over the back courtyard to where the car was standing. There was no sign of Tony and, going to the back door, she knocked as she opened it, a courtesy she still afforded Ben.

  ‘Hello, there.’ The old man’s tone was gruff, and he hardly raised his eyes from the occupation of silver-cleaning to look at her. But Mary Ann, over the years, had come to know Ben, and a ‘Hello there’ she had come to consider a very affectionate term.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it, Ben? How’s your hip?’

  ‘Same as afore.’

  ‘Well, it’s your own fault.’ She stubbed her finger at him. ‘You should have taken it easy these last few weeks while Mr Lord was away. It’s your own fault.’

  ‘And have him come back finding fault in every corner, like an old fish woman.’

  ‘You should let Mrs Rouse do it.’

  ‘Ugh! Ugh! I have to go behind her all the time now.’

  Mary Ann smiled, then said, ‘Is Tony upstairs?’

  ‘No. In the study…on the phone.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mary Ann went out of the kitchen and across the large hall towards the study. There was no sound of anyone speaking on the phone, and she stood outside the door for a second before saying, ‘Are you there, Tony?’

  ‘Yes. Come in.’

  When she entered the room she saw him sitting at the desk, and he turned his head towards her, saying quickly, ‘I won’t be a minute, I want to get this off.’

  She sat down in the hide chair to the side of the fireplace, and her small frame seemed lost in its vastness. She liked this room: the brown of the suite, the soft blue of the deep carpet; the low, ranging bookcases set against the panelled walls. She looked towards Tony, his head bent over the letter. He looked nice…he always looked nice, but today she seemed to be seeing him in a different light. She realised with a kind of pleasant shock that he was very handsome, in a thin, chiselled kind of way. She supposed Mr Lord had once looked like this. Her gaze was intent on him when he turned his head quickly and looked at her. ‘I’m glad you came up,’ he said. ‘I hoped you would, I want to talk to you.’

  As she watched him turn to the desk again and quickly push the letter into an envelope, she experienced a quiver of apprehension. It went through her body like a slight electric shock, and felt as unpleasant. Tony and she had exchanged nothing but polite pleasantries for months. He had continued to take her into town on a Saturday, and sometimes he picked her up later, but where he went in the meantime he did not say. Nor did he ask where she spent her time. He no longer seemed interested in anything she did, but she knew that Mr Lord was under the impression that they were together during these Saturday afternoon jaunts. She had an idea now, in fact she knew, what he was going to talk about. And when he came towards her, and pulled a small chair close to the big one before sitting down and leaning forward, she could not meet his eyes.

  ‘Mary Ann.’

  ‘Yes.’ She still did not raise her eyes.

  ‘If Corny had not come on the scene, would you have liked me enough to have married me?’

  She li
fted her head with a jerk, and her eyes flicked over his face for a moment before she looked away towards the window beyond the desk and she seemed to consider for quite a while before she answered.

  ‘I don’t know…I suppose I might, and yet I don’t know.’ She paused again. ‘There might have been someone else. You just don’t know, do you?’ Now she was looking at him full in the face.

  ‘No, you just don’t know. But as things stand you want Corny, don’t you? Tell me…please.’

  ‘Yes…yes, I want Corny.’ She felt she was blushing right into the depths of her stomach.

  ‘Yes, I knew you did. But I wanted to hear you say it. I don’t want you on my conscience. I have enough to face up to without that…I’m going to marry Mrs Schofield, Mary Ann.’

  Although Mary Ann had known that he had wanted to talk about Mrs Schofield, that he might say to her, ‘I’m friendly with Mrs Schofield…I like Mrs Schofield,’ she had not expected him to say, slap bang, that he was going to marry her. This statement suggested an intimacy between him and Mrs Schofield that deepened the blush. She could have said she was going to marry Corny, and Michael could say he was going to marry Sarah, but in either case it would not have been the same as Tony marrying Mrs Schofield. Mrs Schofield was a married woman. And then there was Mr Lord. Mr Lord would go mad, she knew he would go mad. She said as much.

  ‘What will he say? He’ll go for you, he won’t stand for it. He’ll go mad.’

  ‘I know that. But whether he will or no, I’m marrying Lettice as soon as the decree nisi is through.’

  Mary Ann put her fingers over her lips and swayed a little. She felt some part of her was in pain, and it was for Mr Lord. At this moment she would gladly have fallen in with his wishes and married Tony if that had been possible, just to save him the pain that she knew the failure of his cherished plans would bring him. And the pain would not be alone. There would be with it anger and bitterness. Once before she had seen what extreme anger and bitterness did to him. That was the time when he had discovered that Tony was his grandson. And what had been the result? He had a heart attack and nearly died. She clasped her hands tightly now between her knees and asked, ‘How are you going to tell him?’