The Devil and Mary Ann Page 7

  Realising the advantage of possessing such allies as the Holy Family had unconsciously brought to Mary Ann’s face an expression which was not in keeping with the events of the moment, and she was not aware that the relief she was feeling had slipped through, until her eyes met Mr Lord’s, where he stood by the gate.

  The joy was wiped from her face: she even stopped dead for a moment, brought to a halt, it would seem, by the knowledge in the eyes regarding her. Then as she stared at him an odd thing happened, for out of his head sprouted two horns, and between his thin legs came flicking a tail, a forked tail. Her joy sank: she could feel it draining from her chest, right through her stomach and down her legs. Dread reality was on her again. It was as Father Owen said, The Devil had many guises. And now he had gone into…the Lord, and she knew that there was going to be a fight on between him and her amalgamated company of the Holy Family, and for the life of her at this moment she didn’t know which side to back.

  Chapter Four

  And now it was her da saying, ‘There won’t be any time in the morning to talk.’ He was sitting on her bed and his voice was very low. He looked tired, weary.

  ‘If you’re not happy there, you’ll tell me, won’t you? You’ll write? Very likely they’ll read your letters. I think they do—but if you’re not happy get a letter to me somehow…Look…look at me.’ He brought her face to his again. ‘You really want to go to this school? Tell me the truth now.’

  No power of hers brought her head to a sharp nod, nor her voice to say, ‘Yes, Da’; it was the combined voices of her ma and Mr Lord inside which did it. She could still hear Mr Lord saying airily to her da, ‘She’ll be all right. She’ll be in the care of the guard to London, and a nun will meet the train. I’ve arranged everything. This is a very unfortunate happening. I would take her myself, but I hate trains and’—his voice had dropped to a note of regret—‘and, of course, it’s a pity you can’t be spared.’ Then on again it had gone, lightly, airily, ‘Oh, she’ll be all right. Anyway, she must be there for the beginning of term.’ And then her mother, holding her hand tightly until the bones hurt, and saying, ‘Mr Lord has made all the arrangements. And, darling, if your da should ask you if you still want to go, you’ll say yes, won’t you? You’ll say yes.’

  She had said it.

  Mike stared at her; then shook his head in a bewildered fashion. ‘Then why aren’t you more happy about it?’

  ‘Well…Well, I don’t want to leave you.’

  Pulling her to him, he held her tightly, and as he stroked her hair, he murmured, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right.’

  Although he had not put it into definite words, she knew he was telling her he wouldn’t get…sick. She clung to him silently, until, laying her down he pulled the clothes about her; then kissing her gently and saying, ‘Sleep now,’ he went swiftly out, forgetting to switch off the light.

  She wanted to cry, a loud crying, that would bring him hurrying back, but instead, she lay staring up at the beam which started in the centre of the room and sloped down over her head, to disappear into the wall at the side of the bed. Methodically, she counted the holes in it, as many as she could see, and when she had reached seventy-two Michael came in. Awkward and shy, he stood at the foot of her bed and said, ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo,’ she said.

  This polite exchange was too much, and turning swiftly over she buried her head in the pillow, and Michael, moving quickly to her, whispered, ‘What is it?’ He touched her shoulder, and when her sobs rose he went hastily and closed the door; then coming back to the bed, and going down on his hunkers, he whispered again, ‘What is it? Don’t you want to go?’

  Slowly she twisted round, and raising herself on her elbow and with the corner of the sheet pressed tightly over her mouth, she shook her head vigorously.

  ‘Good Lord!’ It was the lowest of whispers. But he did not ask, ‘Then why are you going?’ This small sister who could madden him in so many ways had always remained outside his understanding. When he thought of the things she did and got off with, in his imagination they made her appear older than himself, quite grown-up in fact, different altogether from her appearance. Sometimes, looking at her in exasperation, he couldn’t associate her doings with the look of her at all. She should have just been…his little sister, but ‘her!’ and ‘she!’ and ‘that little beast!’ as he sometimes was justifiably brought to think of her, never had any connection in his mind with her small and fragile make-up. Grudgingly, he was aware that she had powers which he himself was without. Cheek, he sometimes named them—he had not reached the stage where he could pinpoint them simply as facets of character.

  Now he looked into her eyes, all streaming with tears, and although he couldn’t fathom it all out, he knew that she was not going to this school, as he had thought, partly to display her sense of showing off, but she was going solely to please Mr Lord. And in pleasing Mr Lord…His thoughts would go no further; he would not allow himself to think. This is all mixed up with me da, for in that thought lay fear and insecurity. The wonder of his father being manager of a farm still lay on the surface of his mind—it had not yet weight enough to sink in—and made a reassuring pattern of life that held no fear…no fear of drink and unemployment and a broken home, and no fear of death that he had so nearly reached, when he put his head in the gas oven…So, going so far as to take hold of her hand, which was a long way for him, he said, ‘You’ll like it. And—and I’ll write to you.’

  ‘Will—will you?’ Unconsciously she blew her nose on the end of the sheet, and as he watched her he did not say, as he surely would have done under any other circumstances, ‘Stop that. Use your handkerchief, you dirty thing!’ but, ‘Yes, I will, and I’ll tell you how things are going.’

  ‘You will?’ She looked up, her face eager under her tears as she whispered, ‘Will you tell me about me da, and if everything’s all right with him?’

  They looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then he said, briefly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And of course about me ma and her foot…and the farm an’ all. And everything.’

  ‘I promise I’ll write you once a week.’

  In this moment, such a promise seemed a very small price to pay for what she was doing, and, quite suddenly, he knew that he didn’t want her to go, and a fear came on him that with her going the bond that held them all together would be broken, and they would drift. The fear was not so much for his mother but for his father, yet he was only too well aware that what touched one touched the other.

  Rising, he said, ‘Go on, get to sleep now, it’s late. I’ll put the light out for you…I’m going to the station with you in the morning. Goodnight.’

  The light went out and the door was gently closed, and slowly she slid down, and turning her face once more into the pillow she started to cry again, but softly, so that no-one should hear.

  It was the first time she had been ‘over the bridge’, in Newcastle Central station, and never before had she seen a train as grand as this one, with places all set for breakfast and everything. And she was to have milk and biscuits at ten o’clock and her dinner at twelve—it was all arranged—and the guard was to look after her. She had four comics and a real box of chocolates, and a pile of money, one pound, seventeen and fourpence. The excitement of all this splendour and wealth had taken a slight edge off the coming wrench, until Michael said, ‘Just another five minutes.’

  This statement, while it sent her heart tumbling heavily into her shoes, seemed to arouse a nerve of energy in both her da and Mr Lord. Mike moved quickly and went inside the compartment and looked up at the cases on the rack; then, turning to the elderly couple, the only other occupants of the carriage and interested spectators, he said thickly, ‘Would you—would you give an eye to her?’

  The old man, hitching himself to the front of the seat, said, ‘Aye, lad, don’t you worry—we’re going right through. The missis and me
’ll see she comes to no harm.’

  The voice was thick Geordie, and, a little reassured, Mike nodded and said, ‘Thanks. Thanks very much. It’s her first trip alone.’

  ‘Poor wee thing.’ The woman, too, was sitting forward now, and she emphasised her statement by adding, ‘She looks so small.’

  ‘Aye’—Mike turned away and the words were lost in his throat—‘she’s small.’ Why the hell had he let this happen! Why had he stood for it! He should have put his foot down and said, ‘A school near, or none at all.’

  As he stepped down onto the platform, even his breathing was checked. Mr Lord was bending over Mary Ann and tying a watch on her wrist. A flame of searing jealousy shot through him, making him fighting mad, as if he’d had a bellyful of booze. Buying her again…at the last minute like this…with a watch that looked all gold. And what had he himself given her? Some comics and a few chocolates. And now the old fellow was pushing an envelope into her pocket. God! He wished he could get over this feeling against him. He had tried, and he thought he had succeeded. Then last night when he had insisted on her going, he had hated him.

  ‘Da! Da, look what Mr Lord’s given me. Isn’t it lovely?’ She was holding her wrist high.

  The doors along the train began to bang, and Mr Lord said quietly, ‘Come now.’ On this she turned from Mike again and stared up at the face that seemed, in the last few minutes, to have suddenly become very, very old, and in her impetuous way she rushed at him and held up her arms and face.

  Mike turned towards Michael, and he did not look round again until her voice cried, ‘Oh! Da…it’s going!’ Swiftly now he lifted her into his arms, and cupping her face with his good hand he held it still, drawing her on his mind.

  ‘Oh, Mary Ann!’

  ‘Da…Da.’

  ‘Don’t cry.’ His voice was unsteady, and he went on, low and hurriedly, ‘But remember what I told you last night—if you don’t like it, tell me.’

  ‘Oh, Da!’

  ‘All aboard!’

  ‘Oh! Da.’ Panic was now welling in her, and as Mike’s arms crushed her close to him she became filled with terror, consumed by it, terror of the train…the school…the unknown.

  ‘Da! Da! Oh, Da!’

  ‘There now. Ssh! There now. Say goodbye to Michael.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ There was no sound of the word, and when Michael put his lips to her cheek the tears spurted, and she was blind. She felt herself lifted into the carriage; she heard the door bang and the window pulled down; she felt her da’s face close to hers again, then Mr Lord’s voice, saying, ‘Goodbye, child. Learn—’ was cut abruptly off. But the wheels took up his words and chanted, ‘Learn, learn, learn, learn—learny, learn, learny, learn.’ Faster and faster they went, and her da was still beside the window, running with the train.

  ‘Oh, Da!’

  ‘Be careful, hinny.’ The woman had hold of her.

  ‘God bless to you, my love.’

  ‘Careful! Oh, be careful!’

  He was gone, left standing alone on the very end of the platform, and she struggled from the woman’s hands and tried to lean her head out of the window. But she couldn’t reach, and so she put out both her hands and waved them frantically.

  ‘There, there. Come on,’ coaxed the old woman.

  Limply she sat down on the edge of the seat, and blinking through the rain of tears she stared dazedly at the blurred outline of the old couple.

  ‘My! You’re a clever lass to go all this way on your own. Come and sit aside me, and tell me your name.’

  The old man drew her over to his knee, and with an ‘Ups-a-daisy!’ lifted her onto the seat. ‘There now,’ he said, ‘dry your eyes and tell me what they call you.’

  ‘Mary—Ann.’

  ‘Mary Ann.’ He smiled, and the old woman said, ‘That’s a good old-fashioned name. And it’s funny you know, we’ve got two granddaughters, and one’s called Mary Elizabeth, and the other’s called Ann Elizabeth.’

  Mary Ann sniffed and rubbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Me ma’s name’s Elizabeth. She was c-coming with me, but she f-fell down last night and put her ankle out.’

  ‘Oh!’ They nodded at each other, and the old man said, ‘By! He’s a fine looking fellow is your da. I’ve never seen a mass of red hair like he’s got, not for years, I haven’t.’

  Still emitting shivering sobs, she looked from one to the other. They were nice. The man was like Mrs McBride, the way he talked, only he was a man; and the woman was very little, but she had a nice face.

  She sobbed a great sob, and licked at her tears: then asked brokenly, ‘Would you like a sweet—a chocolate? They’re real chocolates. It’s a pound box—me da bought it for me.’

  Without waiting for their reply she slipped off the seat to fetch the chocolates, and when she was settled again the old woman said, ‘My! What a grand box…And who was the old man? Your granda?’

  ‘No, he’s Mr Lord. He owns the farm; he’s sending me to school.’

  ‘Oh.’ Over her head, the couple looked at each other again, and the old man said, ‘This school where you are going—where is it?’

  ‘It’s in the country, outside of a place called St Leonards. It’s the Convent of the Holy Child of Bethlehem.’

  ‘A convent?’

  The horror in the old man’s voice brought her attention sharply from the unwrapping of the Cellophane around the box, and she looked up at him. His brows were now gathered and his chin jutted as he repeated, ‘A convent?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was very small, as if she was admitting to some personal misdemeanour.

  ‘God in heaven! All that way and to a convent. It isn’t right.’

  ‘George!’ The little woman’s voice was stern now.

  But George did not seem to hear it. ‘You a Catholic then?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘George!’

  ‘Aren’t there no schools near? Have you been in a convent afore?’

  ‘George! Do you hear me?’

  ‘No—I mean yes, there are some near.’ Mary Ann looked in bewilderment from one to the other. ‘But I haven’t been in a convent afore.’

  ‘Come on, dear, open your chocolates.’ The old woman, greatly agitated, began to assist with the opening of the box, while the old man, leaning back against the seat with a soft thud, fumbled in his pocket for his pipe.

  ‘Oh, they’re lovely!’ The woman gazed down on the top layer of chocolates, and Mary Ann said, ‘You have one.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Will you have one, Mi-mister?’ Mary Ann turned to the old man. But once again he was obscured by the tears she could not stop.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m having me pipe, hinny…Ah well, all right, I will. There, I’ll have that one.’ He picked a small chocolate from the corner of the box. ‘Our name’s Wilson. How old are you?’

  ‘Eight, nearly nine.’

  ‘Eight. My God!’

  For no reason Mary Ann could see her age seemed to annoy the old man, for he stuffed the chocolate into his pocket, shook his head sharply, then glared at his wife. But Mrs Wilson was occupied in extracting some knitting from her bag in the corner of the seat; so once again Mr Wilson lay back. And as he filled his pipe he began to mutter to himself.

  Mary Ann looked from one to the other questioningly, but neither of them looked at her, and she was puzzled. She liked them, they represented, through their voices and kindly manner, all the people she was leaving behind. If she hadn’t felt so utterly miserable she would have talked to them and told them all about the farm and her da. They liked her da.

  ‘Will you have another chocolate?’

  ‘No, thanks, hinny,’ Mrs Wilson smiled down on her. ‘You eat them, or save them for school; it’s always nice to have some taffy or something as a stand-by at school.’

  Mary Ann sat staring down at the box on her lap. She had never seen such lovely chocolates, but she didn’t want to eat them. Da. Oh, Da! Oh, Ma! Oh, Ma, I’m frightened
! Panic was rising in her again, when her attention was brought from herself by Mr Wilson’s mutterings becoming louder.

  ‘Them places!…Traps…no schooling…I know what I know.’

  ‘George! That’s enough.’ This was not said as a command but as a plea, and the gentle words seemed to have a strange power over Mr Wilson, for they changed his attitude. After taking only one deep breath, he said brightly, ‘Would you like to go and sit in the corner, hinny, and look out of the window?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Heavily Mary Ann went across to the other seat and knelt up into the corner; then tucking her legs under her, she turned almost completely around so that in this position she could pretend she was looking out of the window and cry and they wouldn’t know it.

  The old people looked at each other; then Mrs Wilson concentrated her attention on her knitting, while he gave himself up to his pipe and his mutterings, but he kept the latter well below his breath.

  The eternity of the journey was nearly over and Mary Ann was feeling tired—and different. The farm and all she loved seemed far away in time like last Christmas, and when she tried to think about them a funny thing happened—everything became blurred and ran into one; even her da’s face wouldn’t stay put, and she couldn’t see what he looked like. But Mr and Mrs Wilson seemed to have been in her life forever and she felt that she knew all about them, about Mary Elizabeth and Ann Elizabeth, and even about their other granddaughter. But when Mr Wilson started to talk of her, Mrs Wilson had shut him up by saying, ‘George!’ Yet at intervals during the endless journey he had kept coming back to her. Her name was Teresa. Teresa was in a convent, too, but they hadn’t seen her for years, nor her father. Without being told, Mary Ann knew why this was…he had ‘turned’. When people turned it did something, caused rows and things. She wished her da would turn. She prayed that he would, every night she prayed, because as everybody knew all Protestants were destined for hell …