Daughter of Mine (22 page)

Her mother turned from the press, her arms full of dishes, her dancing granddaughter before her, and smiled at Lizzie as Johnnie came in after her with the case and caused her to step into the room. ‘Hallo, Mammy.’

Catherine put the dishes on the table and put her arms about her child. ‘Welcome home, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I’ll rest easier in my bed, knowing you are here and safe, for a wee while at least.’ She held her daughter away from her for a moment. ‘You look well,’ she continued, ‘And I’m glad to see you have gained weight, for while it might be fashionable to be thin, you were too skinny for my liking. You look good now, you carry the weight well, so you do. Come on up to the table now and I’ll endeavour to keep you well-fed at least.’

And then, turning to her son, she said, ‘Will you go out to the byre and see if your father is finished with the milking? I’ve kept the water hot for his wash, so.’

Johnnie turned and went out, and Lizzie, too choked
to speak, helped her mother lay the table. She knew she had to tell her things that would wipe the delight from her face, and she trembled, fearful of her reaction and guilty for bringing shame to her door.

But she decided she’d say nothing yet awhile, for the urgency had gone now that she was here. For a few days at least she would bask in her parents’ approval, be the feted daughter home at last, and later, before the fire, the children tucked into their bed, she talked and laughed with her parents and Johnnie as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Eventually she had to seek her bed, and she was moved when her father put his hands on her shoulders as she stood at the threshold to the bedroom and said, ‘It’s good to have you home, cutie dear.’ Tears stung Lizzie’s eyes as she kissed her father’s creased cheek, for she couldn’t have spoken without breaking down. She went into the room, undressed and got into bed beside the sleeping Niamh, curling against her, taking comfort from her warm little body, and tried to sleep.

For a week, Lizzie said nothing. She visited all her brothers and sisters and their families and she and Tressa spent time together. Lizzie wondered if she should tell her cousin. Once, she wouldn’t even have had to think about it, but that Tressa was gone, swallowed up in the demands and needs of her children, so that she seemed to have no time or energy for anything else.

Anyway, Lizzie thought Tressa may not need to know anything and maybe it wouldn’t be wise, for if she was to tell her mother, Margaret could always let it slip in the shop as she served the customers. Tressa was always saying her mother liked nothing better than a good gossip. Lizzie knew she was right, for though she liked her Aunt Margaret, everyone knew she could never be trusted to keep anything quiet for long. No, Lizzie decided, it was better that Tressa too was kept in ignorance.

Lizzie enjoyed her time with her children and the weather was kind to them. Once Niamh had come home from school, Lizzie would often take them down
to the shore where the big Atlantic rollers cascaded onto the beach. It delighted the children, and they all leapt over the waves, squealing at the cold of the water slapping at their legs. They liked the feel of sand between their toes as they walked or they’d kneel to build big sandcastles or perhaps clamber over the rocks and search the rock pools for anything interesting, before settling down to the picnic tea Lizzie had made up for them. The children were so happy she was there, for neither of them had realised how much they had missed her, and Lizzie treasured every day.

After Mass on Sunday, Father Brady spoke welcoming Lizzie and he talked kindly to the children and made them laugh. Lizzie had decided that morning at Mass that the time had come to tell her mother, for she could see changes in her body and she wanted to tell her before Catherine tumbled to it herself.

Later that evening, she listened to the children’s prayers before bed and asked Niamh the questions in the catechism that she needed to know before she could take Communion. ‘It’s just a week now, Mammy, I can hardly wait,’ Niamh said.

Lizzie remembered her own excitement. Niamh’s dress hung in the wardrobe, protected by the thin plastic sheets either side of it, and the white sandals and socks, brand-new, stood at the back, ready for the child to wear the following Sunday.

‘I’m glad you’re going to be here, Mammy,’ Niamh went on. ‘When I wrote and asked, Granny said you mightn’t be let, now you’re working an’ all.’

‘Oh, I told them,’ Lizzie assured her daughter. ‘I
said my wee girl is taking her First Communion and I had to be there and was taking no nonsense, so don’t you worry your head.’

Niamh giggled and said, ‘I love you, Mammy.’

‘And I you, pet,’ Lizzie said. ‘Lie down now and go to sleep or you’ll have bags beneath your eyes and be a sight by next Sunday.’ And she bent and kissed her small daughter, turned down the lamp and left the room.

That evening, Lizzie waited till both her children were in bed, Johnnie out on business of his own and her father checking the stock, before attempting to speak to her mother. She knew her father would be quite a while. On fine nights like this he was in no hurry to come in; he’d sit on a wall for a while and have a smoke of his pipe, and since Lizzie had been home he’d tended to linger longer, giving the two women time to talk, Lizzie presumed.

That evening she was glad of it. Catherine had made tea and Lizzie took it and they sat together before the fire. Lizzie’s heart thumped against her ribs and her mouth was so dry she took a gulp of tea, scalding though it was.

She licked her lips, and, doubting things would ever be the same between them after this, she took a deep breath and said, ‘You know you noticed I’d put weight on, Mammy?’

‘Aye, and it suits you. I told you that too.’

‘Aye, Mammy, but d’you see, there’s a reason for it. I’m…I’m pregnant, Mammy.’

‘Ah, that’s it,’ Catherine said. ‘I knew there was
something a sort of bloom about you, but I never thought. And God knows, I hardly think it very sensible, the way you’re placed with Steve away and you in the middle of war…but there, I suppose we must be grateful for what God sends. You didn’t tell me Steve had leave?’

‘He hasn’t had any leave.’

She saw her mother’s eyes widen and then, as the realisation of her words sank in, she saw her mouth drop open in shock. Her hands, holding the cup, were shaking so badly that she was in danger of spilling the tea all over herself. Lizzie put her own cup on the hearth and took her mother’s cup from her and knelt on the rug before her and took hold of her hands. ‘Mammy, I have to tell you something now, something awful and terrible that happened to me, and I swear to God on my own children’s lives that every word passing my lips will be the truth.’

She saw the hard mask fix on her mother’s face, the mask she’d learnt to dread as a child, and she felt her heart sink. She told her first of life in the blackout. She’d spoken of this before on her holidays home the previous summer, and the time she’d brought the children in the autumn, but in passing only. Now she endeavoured to get her mother to see the horror of it all.

‘It’s dense, Mammy, so that you can almost touch it. Sometimes there is a moon and twinkling stars, but these are often obscured by clouds and the smokeriddled air that many a time turns to swirling, stinking fog that is smelt rather than seen. That’s how it was that night. I had a torch, but the batteries had given
out and it was the time also that Violet was ill, so I was on my own coming home, and a lonely, cold journey it was, for no trams were running because of the fog.

‘When I got down the entry and was nearly at the house, I was so relieved, and then suddenly there was a shape before me. I wasn’t alarmed, that sort of thing happens often in the blackout, and I apologised and made some comment.

‘There was no reply. Whoever it was had no time for pleasantries. He grabbed me, a hand around my mouth so that I could make no sound. I tried to struggle, though, and then I felt an agonising pain in my side and I fell to the ground. I remember no more. He must have dashed my head on the cobbles, the doctor said, though I have no recollection of it. Whoever it was and for reasons known only to himself, he had stabbed me in the stomach. The doctor said the coat saved my life.

‘The next thing I remember is waking up in Violet’s. She’d tripped over me in the yard and she’d found my knickers lying beside me and put them into her pocket.’

‘You have no idea who did this?’ Catherine said, scarcely able to believe it.

‘None,’ Lizzie said. ‘The police were called. They had to be, for the doctor insisted. He said they couldn’t have a madman like that loose in the blackout. After the attack, no women went out alone. A lot of women at the factory were collected by any men folk they had left at home and there were more police drafted into the area.’

‘But he was never found?’

‘No, and as far as I know he attacked no one else, though he could of course have been killed in one of the raids.’

‘But if he just attacked you, it must have been someone you knew.’

‘Mammy, I wouldn’t know. I could see nothing.’

‘You must have encouraged him.’

‘In that dark and black night? Encourage him to stab me?’

‘Not then,’ Catherine said, ‘but I’ve heard of the lax morals in England. Women enjoying themselves with the men away.’

‘Mammy, I never go over the doorstep except to work or Mass or to Violet’s next door.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No more do I, Mammy, and the police too were baffled.’

‘And this man…You let him…?’

‘Let’s get this straight, Mammy,’ Lizzie said angrily. ‘I didn’t let anyone do anything. I wasn’t aware of any of it. I was unconscious and bleeding. I had no idea what he had done and have no recollection of it.’

‘Well, you know now all right!’ Catherine snapped. ‘How far on are you?’

‘Nearly five months.’

‘Oh Holy Mother of God,’ Catherine wailed. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this. Brought this shame to our door.’

‘I know, and I am sorry,’ Lizzie said. ‘Truly I am, but Mammy, it wasn’t of my making. Surely you can see that?’

‘What I see, girl, is a woman with a swollen belly and her husband overseas this long while. We won’t be able to hold our heads up. We’ll be dragged through the mud.’

‘What could I do about it, Mammy?’ Lizzie asked. ‘Just tell me that?’

‘You have no right to demand answers of me, and don’t you forget it,’ Catherine said, her worry turning to anger. ‘Why were you attacked and none other? I think there’s something here you’re not telling me?’

‘Mammy, I swear to you,’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘Please listen? I want nothing to do with this child, begat of violence. Do you know of a place I can go to have the child and afterwards leave it with the nuns?’

‘So you can forget all about it and go on with your life?’

Lizzie sighed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what is the alternative, Mammy? And in your anger over the condition I’m in now, remember what I told you first. The man nearly killed me. He had a damned good try.’

‘I remember all you’ve said. And I know this much,’ Catherine continued, ‘I’ll never be told the truth if I ask from now till doomsday.’

She sighed heavily. ‘I will discuss these things with your father and we’ll have to have a word with the priest.’

‘Shall I have speak to daddy?’

‘You will not,’ Catherine said. ‘You’ve said enough for one day anyway. You keep your mouth shut. I’ll speak with your father. Get yourself into the room before he comes in.’

Next morning, Seamus could hardly bear to look at Lizzie and spoke not at all. Her mother told her in clipped tones that her father would take Niamh up to the school in Ballintra that morning and talk with the priest, while Johnnie would look after Tom until the discussions were over.

Lizzie had known Father Brady all her life. He’d christened her, christened them all at St Bridget’s in Ballintra and later was a regular visitor to the county school. He’d heard her first confession, administered Holy Communion and was with her when she was confirmed by the Bishop at the abbey in Donegal town. He was a regular visitor to her parents’ home and often stayed for a few words with them all after Mass, and she had always counted the man as friendly and kind. She would have said he liked her. He certainly had when she was small.

But the man who strode down the lane with her father later that morning bore no relation to the priest she’d known for years. The grim expression on his face and the very stance of him made him appear a stranger to her.

Johnnie spotted the men and said, ‘I’m away then, Mammy.’

‘Aye, son.’

‘Come on, Tom,’ Johnnie said to his small nephew.

Tom was by his uncle’s side in a minute. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To Owen’s,’ Johnnie answered. ‘He needs me to give a hand with something, and I thought you might want to come along and play with your cousin Chris.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Put on your jacket then. For all the day’s fine now, we might be away a long time and it could turn colder before we come home.’

Tom did as he was bid and Catherine scurried about buttoning him into his jacket, despite his protests, and readied a wee bottle of rhubarb preserve, for Owen’s wife was partial to it.

Johnnie took the opportunity to sidle up to his sister. ‘Sorry for your trouble, Lizzie,’ he said.

‘Johnnie…’

‘Hush, don’t let Mammy hear. The way I was told, I think you’re more of a victim than sinner. Remember that when it’s over.’

‘Aye. Aye, I will.’

He turned from her as if a word had never passed between them, and said to Tom, ‘Are you ready yet?’

‘Course.’

‘Well, come on. What are we waiting for?’

Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘I dunno,’ he said, and Johnnie laughed. Even Lizzie, with emotions running ragged around her body, smiled at her small son.

‘Are you not giving Mammy and Granny a kiss?’

Tom gave a sigh, anxious to be gone, and the hug and kiss he gave Lizzie were perfunctory. Then he was across the room after his uncle, passing the priest in the doorway. He hadn’t seen the priest coming down the lane, but because it wasn’t unusual for the priest to call, he smiled and said, ‘Hallo, Father.’

‘Hallo, Tom,’ the priest answered heartily. ‘Where are you bound for?’

‘Uncle Owen’s, Father,’ Tom said.

The priest’s eyes met those of Catherine’s above the
child and he nodded his head. But to Tom he said, ‘Be a good boy for your uncle now and enjoy yourself.’

‘Aye, I will, Father,’ Tom called. ‘Bye, Father.’

Lizzie watched her young son almost scampering up the lane holding on to his uncle’s hand, and heard his high-pitched voice rising into the summer air as Catherine turned to greet the priest. ‘I’ve got the pot boiling for a drink, Father.’

Lizzie was silent and desperately afraid, a queer weakness had affected her limbs since she’d seen the look pass between the priest and her mother. It had also affected her mouth and she seemed unable to speak.

But the priest spoke to her. ‘Come, Elizabeth. Sit yourself down. You and I need to have a little chat.’

Elizabeth,
Lizzie thought. I’ve not been called that since my school days. She forced her legs to obey her, to move forward, and she crossed the room like a zombie. The priest had a chair pulled out for her.

She was aware of her father standing behind her motionless. Her mother was busying herself at the hearth as the priest said sternly, ‘Your father’s been to see me with shocking news, Elizabeth, absolutely disgraceful news. He says you are with child.’

Lizzie had never noticed how small the priest’s brown eyes were, or how cold. And he’d stated the bare facts only. She wondered what he’d been told. She glanced over at her mother and wondered if she’d even told her father the whole truth.

Maybe not, but she’d put the priest right now, and maybe her father too.

‘Father, in early February I was attacked. I was
stabbed and my head smashed against a wall and I lost consciousness.’

The priest lifted his hand. ‘I understand that is what you want your parents to believe.’