Mary Ann Shaughnessy - The Devil And Marianne Part 12

It was unfortunate that within five minutes of her entry into the convent two things should happen to breathe life into the thought that at the moment was but a germ in her mind. The first was a letter from her mother, very short, telling her nothing, only as usual to be a good girl, to do her lessons, and that the holidays would soon come. But at the bottom Mary Ann noticed something that hadn't been on her previous lettersthe cheap paper was raised in a blob where a drop of water had hit it.

Mary Ann recognized that blob. When she first came to the convent it had dotted her own letters-that blob was a dried tear. Her mother had been crying, and a longing to see her that would brook no cautionary advice such as "Eeh! but you know you can't, not till the holidays" a.s.sailed her. And then, as she folded the letter and went to move out of the recreation room, there was Beatrice standing in her way, laughter filling her eyes.

"9 m 'i J There was no retaliation left in Mary Ann at this moment with which to meet her enemy; she had not the power even to thrust out her chin. She knew that she could not fight Beatrice-she was not on her own ground, this was Beatrice's ground.

She could not realise that in a year or two this would be her own ground, too, and she could meet Beatrice as an equal; she only knew that Beatrice was the one who had written that bit of poetry and stuck it in her book, Beatrice was the one who had caused her all this trouble, and there was no way of showing her UPLike a small, fascinated rabbit, and very unlike herself, she watched Beatrice go out. Then she shivered, as if from a chilling wind, and waited, so as to give her enemy sufficient time to get well ahead before she followed her but not to the playing fields tcrjoin up with the rest of her form. There was a milling of girls in the corridor as the lessons changed, and she mixed with them; then made her way to the cloakroom. There she took up her gaberdine hat and mackintosh, stood for a moment swallowing hard, then, with the hat in her hand and the coat over her arm, she walked out of the cloakroom, across the great hall, down the steps and, unbelievingly, down the drive and out of the convent gate without a soul stopping to question her. Perhaps she had the appearance of a child who had come in from a walk and been sent quickly on some errand down to the lodge.

Only at the main gate did she pause, and that was when she had to make her way round a lorry that was unloading sand on to the side of the drive. She did not see the caretaker. If she had, some lie would have leapt to her lips that would have convinced him of her right to be there. And when once outside she did not pause in fright, nor start to run, but walked, with her heart pumping so hard that it made a knocking sound in her head, towards the main road where the buses ran.

She had still threepence left out of her sixpence and two pounds in her locket. She kept one hand over the locket as she waited for the bus, and when it came and she was firmly seated in it, she asked the conductor with a stammer that sounded natural, "How much is it to the station?" And when he said, "Threepence half," she tendered the coppers with a feeling that G.o.d 120 . . . .

had started to direct the proceedings, for if the conductor had asked for more she would have had to get off and she didn't know where the station was.

As she alighted from the bus a clock confronted her and it said ten to four. She felt sick now and terrified, but it did not enter her head that she should return to the convent. She walked into the booking office, her eyes searching for the familiar faces of the Wilsons. And now the feeling that this whole business was out of her hands was confirmed, for there, among the numerous people standing in the hall, was Mr. Wilson, and he was alone. He was counting his change and looking at his tickets. When she pulled at his coat he looked at her as startled as if she had been an apparition.

"G.o.d in Heaven! hinny, where have you sprung from? Have you come to say us good-bye?"

"Mr. Wilson," the tears were now in her eyes and she choked on his name; then started again, "Mr. Wilson, I wanta go home."

Mr. Wilson straightened his back and pressed his head backwards as he said, "But, hinny, you canna do that!"

"I want to, Mr. Wilson. Take me-oh, please!"

"Take you, hinny-home? Look, what's up with you ? Is anything the matter? Have they been goin' for you?"

Now she nodded dumbly, and then added, "It's not only that, it's me ma-there's something wrong at home."

"What makes you think that, hinny?"

"I know by the letters me brother's sent-that's our Michaelhe's always goin' on about me da and another. . . ."

When she stopped Mr. Wilson said angrily, "I knew from the beginning they should never have sent you this far. I've said all along to the missis. All this way for a bairn like you, I've said. You're North Country, you belong there like meself. This is no place for G.o.d nor man. I've found that out." He bent nearer to her as he delivered this last statement. "I'll be glad to see the Tyne again, hinny. Aye, by G.o.d! between you and me I will. But about taking you home." He straightened. "Aye, that's another kettle o' fish."

^ "Oh, Mr. Wilson, please." She lifted her face up. "Please. I've got the money, it's in me locket where you put it."

:l " Tisn't the money, hinny, it's what's going to happen. And Mrs. Wilson, she'd never stand for it. No, hinny, it's out of the question."

Mary Ann's whole face crumpled, and then she whimpered, "I can't go back now, I'll get wrong and be put in the punishment room."

It was the two last words that did it.

"Punishment room ! "

They altered Mr. Wilson's whole expression, for before his eyes he saw a cell, a convent cell, with high, grated windows, cold stone floor, and dry bread and water for sustenance.

His face was hard and flushed as he said, "Have you been in the punishment room, hinny, here?"

"Yes, yesterday. They said I wrote some bad poetry, and I didn't. And "

The sound of a train pa.s.sing through the station cut off her words, and Mr. Wilson looked round him, his thoughts written plainly on his face. He knew that if Mrs. Wilson caught sight of the child the game would be up, there would be no chance of getting her on the train, and now he was determined to get her on the train.

Mr. Wilson saw himself bringing his battle into the openhe was fighting a convent, all convents, because a convent had taken one of his grandchildren from him. "Look, hinny," lie said in a strangely controlled voice, "stand aside, I'll get your ticket; we'll settle up later. Do as I tell you now," he said quickly, "the missis is in the main hall. When you come through the barrier after me make yerself scarce, for it'll be all up if she sees you." He nodded at her. "Keep out of the way-you understand?"

Mary Ann nodded quickly back at him, and stood to one side, her eyes riveted on the old man. Mr. Wilson had now taken on the form of G.o.d-everything was in his hands and she trusted him implicitly. Father Owen's warning of the Devil and his many disguises was forgotten. Had she thought of it she would not have made it applicable to Mr. Wilson. Anyway, if Mr. Wilson had sprouted horns at this moment he would have had her vote of confidence. When, having bought the ticket, he turned from the booking office and did not look at her, but walked to Mrs. Wilson and pushed her ahead through the barrier, her heart began to race at an even faster pace. Close on his heels she followed him. But when the tickets were punched and they were through she kept her head down, and when she saw his legs going one way she turned and walked in the opposite direction, until in the distance she saw the very end of the platform. The emptiness this indicated brought yet another kind of fear to her; and so she stopped and glanced cautiously over her shoulder along the platform. But from where she stood there was no sign of the Wilsons, and in panic she scampered back between the groups of people. And just as she caught sight of them standing at the far end there came the train.

The panic in her head yelled, "Eeh! eeh! ee . . . eh!" and the sound was much louder than the noise of the train. As the doors were flung open, Mr. Wilson marshalled his wife into a carriage, then furtively turned and thumbed Mary Ann towards another compartment. This action seemed to bring her out of her state of petrification, and she dashed towards the open door, scrambled up the high step and threw herself on to a seat opposite to two women, and there she endeavoured to compose herself to wait for Mr. Wilson.

She had no book, nothing to look at, so she looked at her hands, and the women from time to time looked at her and smiled. But she didn't smile back; instead she turned and fixed her gaze on the window, in case they should ask questions.

Ten minutes later, when the train stopped and Mr. Wilson had not yet been along to her, she had a sudden desire to scream and jump out. But she put her fingers into her mouth and pressed her face closer to the window. The train moved again and she began to feel sick. And just when the sickness was about to get the better of her and she knew she would soon do something on the floor Mr. Wilson appeared in the corridor.

The old man's eyes moved swiftly between her and the two women, and then he smiled and said, airily, "Oh, there you are ! Come on, hinny." Under the staring eyes of the women he held out his hand, and Mary Ann, grabbing it eagerly, left the cornpartment.

3 I.

In the corridor, Mr. Wilson's smile vanished and he bent above her, saying, "Now, look. The missis is up in the air-she's not for having it, she wants to send you back. It's up to you, come on."

Mrs. Wilson looked a different person altogether from the one Mary Ann had seen only a short while ago in the sweetshop. Her face was white and strained and she didn't look at Mary Ann in a nice way, and on first sight she didn't even speak, her lips were pressed tight together. Then she sprang them apart, and began to talk as Mary Ann had never heard her talk. Much quicker than Mr. Wilson she talked ... on and on.

"Look . . . you're a naughty girl . . . you shouldn't have gone and done it. You know you're a naughty girl, don't you?" Mary Ana just stared. "What d'you think's goin' to happen? We'll get" into trouble, it's like kidnapping. Just think of the state they're in at the convent. They'll get the police, and then it'll be on the wireless and then you'll be found. You've got to go back . . .d'ye hear? As for you"-Mrs. Wilson now turned on her husband-"it's you who started all this, you and your talk about convents. You won't give credit that Teresa is the best off of all our grandbairns. Oh, no ! it's because she's in a convent. And then you're the one to talk about bigotry-you started all this-you! But now I'm goin' to finish it-she's goin' back."

Mary Ann looked at Mr. Wilson. He wasn't the Mr. Wilson that she knew either, it was as if Mr. Wilson had become Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson had become Mr. Wilson. He sat with his head bowed, his back stooped, and his hands dangling between his knees, and to her astonishment he didn't open his mouth. And she realised, as he had said, that it was now up to her. But what could she do against this force? Nothing.

Her heart was so heavy its weight was unbearable. She began to cry, silently, the tears in great blobs rolling down her cheeks. Mrs. Wilson watched her with her lips falling again into a hard line, and she seemed to draw them right into her mouth before emitting almost in a shout, "You're a bad la.s.s ! That's what you are, a bad la.s.s. Why did you do it?"

"Me da ... me-me ma. She-she must have been crying-it was on her letter-there's something up at home, it's Mrs.

124 Polinski, she's after me da. Oh! Mrs. Wilson, I want to see me me rria." In desperation she flung herself against the old woman's knee, and, throwing her arms around her waist, gave vent to a paroxysm of sobbing. Mrs. Wilson hesitated only a second before gathering her up and saying, "There! there! All right, but something must be done." Then turning her eyes in the direction of her husband she spoke one word. "You!" she said. The exclamation spoke of surrender, but Mr. Wilson's head did not lift but drooped lower. His hands came together in a tight clasp and he let out a long-drawn sigh.

7.

'V.

With a rhythmic beat Lizzie, hit the rough stone wall of the scullery with her clenched fist, while the mutterings from her lips sounded unintelligible even to herself; then turning with a swift movement she went and stood over the sink and retched. She retched as if she wanted to throw up her heart. Mary Ann! Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! Even her pores seemed to ooze the name; every'blood vessel in her body was beating out the name : Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! Since six o'clock this evening she had started. Was it the miss of her that had brought it about? the mirror she could not believe she was not looking at a very old woman. . . . Her child was lost, her child had been taken away by a man. And on the thought she cried, "Oh, my G.o.d . . . Oh, my G.o.d!"

All her life she had known worry, nothing but worry, worry; but during these last few months she had thought she was being repaid for all her tribulations, especially those of her married life. Hadn't Mike landed this grand job. After setbacks and trials he was now settled, and the child was away at a grand school receiving first-cla.s.s education. And then the other trouble had started. Was it the miss of her that had brought it about? When had Mike first begun to notice Mrs. Polinski? She retched again and exclaimed, "d.a.m.n Mrs. Polinski! d.a.m.n everyone -everything ! Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! " Where was she at this moment? Would nothing ever be heard of her again ? It had happened to other bairns. Oh, my G.o.d ! would she never hear anything? She raised her head and looked round the lighted scullery. Nearly midnight. Where was Mike? Where was Michael? Would they never come and tell her.

She stumbled into the kitchen trying to shut down on the terrifying thoughts racing into her mind. But there was no power 126 in her strong enough to keep them at bay, and she stopped dead to look at the picture presenting itself before her eyes. . . . Dead by now. Raped . . . raped !

"No! no! no!" She cried this denial aloud, then clapped her hands to her mouth. She would go mad, stark, staring, raving mad. And it was all her own fault. Why had she let her go? The child hadn't wanted to go. She had pushed her, pushed her to save Mike, pushed her to satisfy an old man's whim. She could have been educated at a school near here, just as well as all those miles away. It was as Mike had said, the old fellow had wanted to separate her from them. d.a.m.n him ! d.a.m.n money and farms. d.a.m.n youth ! Young girls, empty-headed with big b.r.e.a.s.t.s, flaunting them under a man's nose. Mike had laughed at her and said she was crazy. "I'm old enough to be her father ! " he had said. "What ! me take notice of that empty-headed piece when you are around? Don't be so d.a.m.n silly, Liz! Be your age."

She had been her age and looked at Mrs. Polinski, a young s.e.x-starved girl. Mike was missing Mary Ann. He wanted her laughter, her young hand in his, and so he talked to Mrs. Polinski. He just talked to Mrs. Polinski, that was all, but how she hated Mrs. Polinski. And then he had said, "You're jealous, Liz!" He enjoyed her being jealous. "Now you know what I felt like over Quinton. Now you know what it feels like, that feeling that somebody's stepped into your shoes. But you're mad, Liz, you're quite mad." She could hear his voice interrupting her thoughts that cried, Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Mary Ann! He had held her close in his arms one night and said, "We're missing her, that's what's the matter with us, that's what's the matter with all of us. The house isn't the same, nothing's the same. There's only one person happy out of all this, and that's the old boy. d.a.m.n and blast him-him and his money, him and his power." Oh, my G.o.d ! She gazed about her wildly. What was she thinking? With a wave of her arm she swept everything from her mind but her child, and again she was crying aloud : "Please, please, Jesus, save my bairn. Oh, Holy Mother of G.o.d, do this for me. It doesn't matter if he loses his job, it doesn't matter if we go back to Mulhattans' Hall, nothing matters, security or ^S'lf-St**"^ feSft t;fc nothing, only bring my child safely back to me. Don't let her come to any harm. Do you hear?" She raised her eyes to the ceiling: "Don't let her come to any harm!" She was shouting now. Then dropping into a chair, she buried her face in her hands and tore at her thick hair. She was going mad, stark, staring mad-she couldn't bear it.

The latch of the door clicked, and she flung up her head, her eyes clutching at Mike's face. But when his eyes moved quickly away from hers she turned round and joined her hands together and pressed them into her chest.

Mike moved slowly across the stone floor, his steps ringing with the weight of his body, the weight that seemed to have increased in the past few hours. He was heavy all over, his head, his limbs, his mind. He was old; he, like Lizzie, knew he was old. Never again, he felt, would he find an urge towards life. The latest news was that she had been noticed leaving a Hastings train on Charing Cross Station. She had been in the company of an old man, he had had her by the hand. Her being with an old man had been confirmed earlier by the two women in the train who had rung up after the nine o'clock news.

He stood looking in the fire, his thumbs in his belt. He could see himself standing that way. He seemed to be outside of himself, and he saw himself possessed by an odd quietness, part of a terrifying quietness, a quietness full of calculated premeditation, and this part was talking to Mr. Lord. It was saying, "You're to blame for this, you and you only. You wanted to take her away from me, didn't you? Well, now you're going to pay for it." And as he watched this side of himself he knew that if she was not found by the morning he would make the old man pay, and pay thoroughly.

Then there was the other side. He both saw and felt this side -a tearing, raging, cursing side-wanting to run, to fly hither and thither; to search and kill; to turn men round in the street and stare in their faces and demand, "Have you seen her? Have you seen her? Have you seen her?" He saw himself taking a man by the throat and bearing him to the ground and stamping on his face until there was nothing left. . . .

The latch moved again, and now both swung round towards il the door as Mr. Lord entered, accompanied by Michael. With a pitiable frailty the old man came into the room. Gone was his brusqueness and supercilious manner; he looked like any old man who had lost all he possessed, and when he spoke, even his voice sounded frail. He addressed himself to Mike, as he said haltingly, "I've just heard-there may be a chance she's on the North-bound train."

"What? Who? How did you hear?" Lizzie stood before him, standing close and peering into his face.

He put out his hand and patted her arm. "They phoned. I'm going to Newcastle now." He turned towards Mike, who said nothing but picked up his cap from the table and went out.

Mr. Lord now spoke to Michael, but without looking at him, as he made for the door. "Don't you come, you stay with your mother."

Michael stood watching him until he went out, and when the door was closed he turned and looked at his mother. Then throwing himself into a chair, he flung his arms across the table and, dropping his head on them, began to sob.

Lizzie, going swiftly to him, put her arms about him, and drew his head to her breast, saying, "There! there! She'll be all right. Very likely she'll be on the train. Yes, that's it. She wanted to come home." For a moment she tried to make herself believe this, until Michael, raising his head from her chest, muttered between gulps, "How-how could she?" Then again, "How could she? She couldn't come by herself." His head dropped, and Lizzie, her hands still on his hair and hope gone, murmured, "No, she couldn't come by herself."

It must have been three-quarters of an hour later when Lizzie, with her arms still around Michael but now sitting beside the fire in a form of stupor, heard the car come back. The sound seemed to inject them both with life again, and they sprang up and reached the door together, then stopped dead, peering into the night. The farm looked as if lit up for a gala. There were lights on outside the byres, there were lights in Mr. Lord's new house on the hill, which meant that Ben was also keeping ...s**

vigil; the Jones's light was on too, but not the Polinskis'. The voice of Mr. Jones came to them from the farmyard. It was loud as if he was crying across a distance, and it asked, "You got her?"

When there was no answering voice, no scampering of feet, Lizzie's hand tightened on Michael's shoulder and they both turned slowly back into the house, leaving the door open.

Within a few minutes Mike came in. He looked wild, half mad, his hair was matted with sweat and falling into corkscrews, like a piccaninny's, about his brow. His eyes were sunk deep in ;,his head, and he seemed to have lost his height. Lizzie looked at him across the table, and Michael looked at him, and he returned their glances with a wild stare.

Lizzie's voice sounded like a whimper when she said, "You heard nothing?"

"No." He beat his clenched fist on the corner of the table; then striding to the fireplace he leant his head against the mantelpiece.

Lizzie stared at his back. She could give him no relief-for a moment she was barren of everything but fear-it was left to Michael to offer a crumb of comfort.

"Tony's been in, Da. He's got the idea she'll make her way home somehow. He's gone back to Pelaw Station to the phone. He says "

Mike swung round from the fire. "Make her way home! With an old man?" He was speaking to Michael now as one man to another, and Michael's eyes dropped before the knowledge his father was imparting to him.

"Oh, G.o.d in Heaven!" Now Mike's voice was high and rough, and he was shouting as Lizzie had been shouting, and using almost the same words. "She should never have left this house. But who's to blame for her going? Him ! him ! " He was still addressing Michael, but he was really speaking to Lizzie. "The old boy-the old boy who must be placated. Well, this is the end, I've had enough. I'm finished, but before I'm done I'll put paid to him. He wanted her away from me-I know, oh ! I know, I wasn't blind-and now she's away-away! away! And .he'll go away an' all. My G.o.d ! he will."

Into Lizzie's misery came a terrible fear. The look on Mike's face was not sane, and his jealousy of the old man because of his love for Mary Ann was turning into something grim and gigantic. It was like a madness developing before her eyes, and what it would lead to she could see as plainly as if it was happening. By this time tomorrow tragedy could have been heaped upon tragedy.

She attempted to swing his thoughts away from his mad intent by saying angrily, "Yes, go on! Blame someone else, put the blame on anybody but yourself. Mr. Lord, what's he got to do with her going away? It was for you, you, she went away!"

"Me?" The demand filled the room.

"Yes, you-you who were never capable of doing anything on your own-you who had to be sustained by her. Why did she go away? Why? I'll tell you." In her effort to turn his mind from Mr. Lord she knew she was going too far, she was going to tell him things that in a saner moment she would have cut out her tongue rather than voice, she was going to make him plain to himself. "She was giving you security, she was buying you a job. Yes!" She screamed at him now, "Raise your eyebrows, open your mouth-she was buying you a job. She sold herself, if you like, to get you this job. Did the old man send her to school? Yes, but she only went because she knew that you owed him a debt and she was paying it. She was paying for your job, do you hear?"

Before her eyes Mike seemed to swell, and then up from the depths of his being, he dragged his voice, deep and terrible. "You're a b.l.o.o.d.y liar! Tell me you're a b.l.o.o.d.y liar!" He went a step nearer to her, just one, and he looked like a mountain shifting itself heavily. "Tell me!"

"I've told you the truth." Now Lizzie's voice was screaming, and her hands were pressed against each cheek, holding her face as if to give herself support for she had gone too far, she knew she had gone too far, but she could not stop herself and she went on yelling, "She's always borne your burdens, she's always directed your cause-you, the big fellow. And as soon as she was out of your sight what did you have to do? Laugh and lark on with a lazy, dirty, young "

!3! It was Michael's voice now, high-pitched, yelling, "Stop it! Stop it, Ma ! " that checked hers. So hysterical was it that immediately it had a calming effect on them both, and when they turned from each other and looked at him he jumped with both feet from the ground, he jumped and stamped on the stone floor and yelled again, "Stop it! Stop it! Both of you." Then before they could react in any way he made a wild dash for the open door, and Lizzie, remembering another occasion when their fighting and the hopelessness of their lives had got the upper hand of him, rushed after him and caught him just on the threshold. But what words she would have said to him were checked, for there, coming up the path, was Mr. Lord.

Stepping back into the room and pulling the struggling boy withjier, she made way for the old man to enter. When he had done so, he stood looking from one to the other. Nothing escaped him. Unasked and uninvited, he walked towards the table and slowly turning a chair round he sat down and, addressing Mike without looking at him, he said, "Sit down."

Mike did not move, and Mr. Lord, in a voice utterly unlike his own because of the touch of humility in it, said, "All right, I know how you feel, and I'm going to tell you now that I'm taking all responsibility. It was my fault the child went away." He raised his eyes to Mike's red-rimmed, staring gaze. "I wanted her to be different, I wanted to give her a chance that you hadn't it in your power to give her. I know I was wrong."

When Mike spoke, his own voice sounded calm, even normal: "Did you give me this job on condition that she went away to school?"

There was a long pause during which Lizzie's eyes were on Mr. Lord and Michael's were fixed on his father. Then Mr. Lord, his eyes dropping to his hands, said slowly, "Yes. ... It was her idea in the first place. She came to me and told me you could manage this farm. I hadn't thought about it, it was the last thing that would have entered my mind, but I grant you that once it had entered I saw the possibility of it-of it being a good thing. And you've proved that, there is no doubt about it."

"Huh!" There was a smile on Mike's face, but a terrible smile, a smile devoid of pride, devoid of all the things that gave *32 a man self-respect, and of all the qualities that any man needed MH;e needed self-respect.

Lizzie had wanted to lift the blame from Mr. Lord's shoulders and put it on Mike's, and she had succeeded, but with an agony filling her she saw that the weight was too heavy for him. She need not now fear for what he might do to Mr. Lord, but she need fear, and fear terribly, what he might do to himself.

She moved towards him, until she was standing at his side, and she looked up into his face, all her love and tenderness returning, and just as she was about to put her hand on his sleeve it was arrested. Not only was her hand, but her whole body was stiffened into a state of immobility. And not only hers, but Mr. Lord's and Michael's. Only Mike moved. His head jerked upwards on the sound of running steps, light, tripping, running steps. They all heard the gate bang; and the flying steps came up the path, accompanied now by short, sharp gasps of breath, and before their unbelieving gaze there stood the child, hat in hand, in the doorway, and it was evident in this moment that in spite of her audible breathing not one of them thought her to be real.

She stood, as it were, transfixed in the frame of the door, held there by their eyes. All the way from the cross-roads her mind had gabbled what she would say. "Oh! Ma," she'd say, "I'm sorry, but I had to come. Oh! Da," she'd say, "I missed you, I had to come. Oh! I did miss you. Oh! Ma," she'd say, "it was awful. . . . And Beatrice and Sister Catherine . . . and I can't go back. I don't care, I can't go back; I want to stay home." But now all that was pressed down by their eyes, and what she said was, "h.e.l.lo." Just a small whisper, "h.e.l.lo." The one word went to each of them, saying, "h.e.l.lo." It made them all tremble in their combined relief at the memory of their fears of the past hours. It was Lizzie who spoke first.

"Child!" she said, "Child!" She flew towards the doorway, and Mary Ann, with a bound now, sprang towards her and flung her arms about her waist. And Lizzie, gazing stupidly down at her head, her hand smoothing her hair, repeated, "Child, child!" She did not ask, "How have you come? Where have you come from? Who have you been with?" but just kept saying, "Child! Child! Child!"

J33 Mr. Lord was standing now by the table. He looked even older than he had done a moment ago, if that were possible. His wrinkled skin was moving in little tremors all over his face and his eyes were blinking as if he had just woken from sleep. Quite suddenly he sat down again. Nor did Michael rush to greet her, but groping behind him he felt for a chair, and he'too sat down. This left only Mike.

Across the room Mike looked at Mary Ann, pressed hard against her mother, and a terrible feeling overcame him, a sort of hatred for this flesh of his flesh, this power embodied in the smallness of her, this power, without which, even his wife had said, he was lost. A wife was there to bolster a man, but when she told him the truth it was the truth, as he only too well knew now. He was nothing without his daughter. She had got him a job, job as manager of a farm, a job beyond his wildest hopes and imaginings. He had imagined he had achieved this all by himself-him, the big, red-headed, burly, one-handed Mike Shaughnessy had secured a grand job with his own ability. But no, he had been given the job because of his child's power. She held the power to take hold of a heart-an old man's heart. And now, because of her, his whole life had been rent; he had been stripped naked, split open and presented to himself; it was as if he was gazing at his bowels and he could not bear the sight of them . . . and all because of her, because she had run away from school. He could see it now. She may have been with a man, but she had come to no harm, she had come in through the door just as if she had returned from school in Jarrow. Just as easy as that. But during the time she had left the convent and arrived in this room, his whole life had altered and he had become old. The first thing the news of her flight had done to him was to press the weight of years on to him. Never again, he felt, would he know what it was to feel young and virile; never would he be able to laugh, to bellow from his belly great sounds of mirth. And then the knowledge that she had bought him the job had stripped him even of his remaining manhood-he was nothing, only something that a child could buy. Inwardly, he had always resented the fact that it was because of her that Mr. Lord had first employed him, but his work on the farm, he felt, had proved *34 fc his capabilities and carved his own niche. Now he knew that that was only a wishful thought in his mind-he had carved nothing. The old man had said, "Make your da a manager! Well, all right, I'll do it if you go away to school." He had carved nothing.

Mary Ann raised her wet face from her mother's body and looked through blurred vision across the room. There was her da, big as she remembered him. She could only see the outline of him, but now she rushed towards him, muttering, "Da ! Oh, Da ! " Her hands were outstretched and her body seemed to leap over the distance, but when she clutched at the remembered flesh something happened-she was thrust roughly back. She stood blinking up at him. Her vision cleared and she saw his face, and her mind told her that he was mad, flaming mad. He was vexed with Her for running away, that was understandable, but nothing told her that she couldn't get round this. She thrust out her hand to grab his sleeve, and when the blow hit her, her thinking stopped and she became frozen inside. Her stunned mind did not even say, "Me da's. .h.i.t me!" This was too big for even thought.

As Mike had raised his hand and struck at the fingers clutching at him, Lizzie had gasped and sprung forward. Michael too had gasped, only Mr. Lord remained still. And when Mary Ann, the tears flooding silently down her face, turned for an explanation and looked from one to the other, she saw that all eyes were not on her, but on her da. But no one spoke, no one said, "You shouldn't have done that."

Mr. Lord raised himself slowly from the chair. Not now did he say, "There's no need for that;" not now, as he once had done, did he check Mike from threatening to smack her bottom; instead he appeared indifferent to what might happen to her. His eyes looked at her but did not seem to see her; they rested on her as if he was making a conscious effort to blot her out of his mind, and when he turned from her, she found that for a moment the feeling of horror at the blow her father had given her was lost in a new feeling that made her want to rush to the old man and cry, "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, but I wanted to come home. I'll tell you all about it and then you'll see." But she said none of these things. She knew Mr. Lord only too well, !35 and her mind told her that he was finished with her, and this thought brought a pain into her body, surprising in its effect, because it was equal to that pain which her da had caused.

As Mr. Lord disappeared through the door Lizzie sank on to a chair. She, too, had felt something of what the old man was experiencing. She did not pay any attention for the moment to her daughter. Only Michael now turned his attention to her, and after staring at her for a moment his face screwed up, trying as it were to a.s.sociate this small sister with the trouble and agony that had come upon the house, and finding it an impossibility. He turned from her and rushed upstairs, and when his door banged overhead, Mary Ann, shaking with sobs, walked slowly to her mother and put her hand tentatively on her knee, as if to question her welcome in this quarter, too. Lizzie's arms came out, slowly, but steadily, and pulled the child once again into her embrace. And across her head she looked at Mike.

For the first time in his life Mike found he had nothing to say, good or bad, to his daughter. He had threatened to bray her often enough because of her escapades, because of her constant fighting with Sarah Flannagan; now, he hadn't brayed her as a child, but hit her a blow that he would have dealt to a grown-up.

He was standing staring into s.p.a.ce, as if he were riveted to the spot on the hearth-rug, and the silence in the kitchen, apart from Mary Ann's sobs, was terrible. As always Lizzie's mind went out like that of a mother to him, and she asked herself over and over again, "What has she done to him? What has she done?" But not only the child was to blame, oh no, she must be fair, she herself had done a lot of damage tonight. Never in a thousand years would she have told him the truth, at least she had thought not, but the events of the night had rent tact and diplomacy from her, and deprived her of all wisdom, and although the relief of having her child back safely was now relieving the tension of her body, once again, as always, she was worrying, worrying about Mike and what would happen next.

Mary Ann's spluttering through her sobs, "I-I-I'm sorry, Ma, I'm sorry," told Lizzie that what she should do now was go for the child, spank her and send her to bed, but she knew that Mary Ann's entire world had dropped apart. Mike had thrust her off; Mr. Lord would have none of her; they weren't even interested in how she had got here-even she herself had forgotten to demand how she had come home, for from the first sight of her she knew that however she had come she was unharmed. She said gently to her, "How did you get here?"

Gulping and sobbing, Mary Ann said, "With Mr. Wilson."

"Mr. Wilson?" Lizzie's face screwed up.

"Yes. You know, the man me da met in the train and told to look after me." She cast her eyes hesitantly towards Mike's averted face. "They were coming back home, and I got into trouble at school and I got your letter, and " Again her eyes flicked towards Mike, and she said, "I thought-I thought something was wrong. There were marks on it-I thought you were sick."

Puzzled, Lizzie muttered, "Marks on it?" Then rising angrily and almost upsetting Mary Ann off her feet, she exclaimed, "It's him that's at fault! He should be locked up for bringing you. He'd no right."