Goodnight Lady (8 page)

He felt his eyes mist up at the thought of her. In his drunken mind, Rosalee was the fault of his wife as well. He knew she’d tried to get rid of her, he knew everything about the bitch he lived with. Then the naked white body of his infant son came into his thoughts. It was the night Eileen left to work for Mr Dumas, and somehow, in his drink-fuddled mind, he decided that Molly had got rid of his son as well. The thought induced a rage so violent he felt he could choke on it. A man was judged by his sons. Splitarses - as girls were referred to - were a slur on a man’s manhood. They were no good for anything except the begetting of more sons.

As he passed by the empty streets he thought of all the setbacks he’d experienced in his life: never enough money, never anywhere decent to live. And somehow, all the blame was laid at Molly’s door.

She’d never worked like other women. She used to clean doorsteps when he met her, had specialised in that. She’d been a tweenie since seven and at fourteen had begun specialising in her damned doorsteps! For a split second he saw her as she had been when he met her. High-breasted and tall, she had looked a fit mate for the big handsome Irishman he’d been. But marriage and the bearing of children had changed all that. Her and her fancy ideas about the girls going to school. Not working, oh no. Or even doing adecent day’s housework until they were twelve. He gnashed his teeth in temper. With the four girls working they could have lived the life of Riley, but oh no. Not good enough for Molly Cavanagh. Her children, her girl children, were too good to slave fourteen hours a day in a sweat shop to earn their brass.

As he neared home Paddy’s rage was reaching astounding proportions. He even began to blame his wife for his own drinking and gambling. If she had treated him as a wife should, he wouldn’t stay out like he did, he justified it to himself. He omitted the fact he had always led the life of a single man even when married.

He opened the front door. His face was blue with the cold, but one look at his eyes and the girls saw their father was in the mood for a fight. Dressed in their Sunday best, they waited patiently for their mother to braid their hair ready for Midnight Mass at St Vincent’s where Kerry had been asked to sing a solo.

Molly was busy buttoning Rosalee’s dress. Hearing her husband enter, she cried: ‘Where the hell have you been? You know Kerry’s singing at the Mass. You promised me you’d be home early.’

She looked up into his face and her heart froze in her chest. He was drunk, roaring drunk. He wouldn’t miss Midnight Mass, though. He’d stumble up to Communion like he did every Sunday, oblivious to the staring faces around him. Most of the Irishmen left it to their wives to attend church for them. It was no sin for them to sit in the pub all day Sunday, but let an Irishman’s wife miss Mass with the children and she would be ostracised by all and sundry. Not for the first time the divide between men and women irritated Molly Cavanagh. Maybe it was this that prompted her to fight with him instead of ushering the children from the house to Mother Jones next door and then letting Paddy do his worst ’til he fell asleep in front of the fire. She resigned herself to a black eye for Christmas and decided that this time she’d get it for a good reason.

‘I’ll not walk in the church with a drunk, Paddy. You can either go alone, or sleep the drink off and go in the morning.’

He pushed Kerry and Bernadette out of the way. ‘What did you say to me, woman?’

Molly pulled Rosalee into her skirts and glared at her husband.

‘You heard me!’

Paddy stared first at his wife then at each of the four girls in turn. Eileen gathered her three younger sisters together and, slipping past her father, took them to Mother Jones. Knocking gently on the window, she held the three white-faced girls to her. Mother Jones was in the process of tying a large bonnet of dark green taffeta on to her wiry grey hair. She opened the front door with a wide grin on her face, thinking they were all ready to go to Mass. One look at Eileen’s face told her otherwise.

‘It’s me dad, he’s drunk as a lord and about to go at me mum. Can I leave these three here?’

‘Of course you can, lovie.’ She pulled Eileen inside her door, closing it against the bitter wind. As they settled the children round the fire they heard Molly’s scream, and a sound like splintering wood. Rosalee whimpered and the old woman pulled her on to her lap.

‘There now, me pet. Everything’s fine.’

Eileen stood up. ‘I’ve got to go in there. He’ll knock her from here to next week if someone doesn’t stop him.’

‘Stay here, child. Abel will be here soon with the cart to take us all to Mass. He’ll go in.’

Eileen wiped her hand across her face.

‘I’ve got to get their coats anyway. I’ll go in.’

She left the cottage and went back inside her own home.

Molly was crying, harsh racking sobs. Eileen saw her mother’s eye already swelling and the blood from a cut on her lip. Paddy had punched her to the ground and one of the wooden chairs was lying broken on the floor. It was what her father was doing now that made Eileen pick up the iron from the fire.

He was pulling up her mother’s skirts and dragging at her underclothes. Eileen knew what he was going to do because it brought back painful memories of Mr Dumas. She knew how much it hurt, and how sick and ill it made you afterwards.

Molly was staring at her daughter, beseeching her with her eyes and crying over Paddy’s shoulder softly.

‘No, Paddy, not like this, man! Not like this!’

Bringing back her arm, Eileen swung the iron down on the side of her father’s head with all her strength. The spray of blood that shot up into the air covered both mother and daughter. Paddy slumped down over his wife, his legs twitching for a few seconds before death took him completely.

Eileen put her hand over her mouth to stem the tide of vomit rushing up inside her. Molly, with a strength born of desperation, pushed the lifeless form from her. Dragging herself upright, she put her hand to her mouth in shock. The two stood there like statues until Abel, who had arrived with the cart, was sent in by his mother.

He took one look at Paddy lying spreadeagled on the floor, his head a mush of blood and brains, and swore under his breath.

‘Jesus sodding Christ! What happened here?’

Eileen began to shake. It started in her hands and travelled through her cold body until even her teeth were chattering. Abel dragged Paddy over on to his back. The unbuttoned trousers told him the whole story.

‘Was he at the girl? Was he at Eileen?’

He assumed that Molly had taken the iron to him. She shook her head, and as he heard Eileen moan, Abel saw the iron still in her hand.

‘He was at you, Moll?’

She nodded. Her blonde hair was in disarray and her clothes were ripped. A strand of saliva was hanging from her top lip as she tried to speak.

Abel took the iron from Eileen and put it into the sink. Then he went outside to the pump and filled a bucket with icy water. He washed the iron clean of blood, talking over his shoulder as he did so.

‘First I want you to get some sheets to wrap him in. Come on, you two!’ His voice was urgent. ‘We have to get rid of him, girls, or else one or the other of you will be before the beak in the morning.’

Molly felt his words penetrate her brain and forced herself into action. Going up the stairs, she pulled the sheets from her bed and brought them back down to the kitchen.

Abel had put Eileen in the easy chair and was pouring out a cup of hot sweet tea for her.

‘We’ll wrap him up tight and I’ll dump him somewhere. We’ll think of a story later, let’s just get rid of the ... of Paddy’s ... of his body.’ There, it was said.

‘Oh, Abel, what are we going to do?’ Molly’s voice had risen now as the shock wore off and he went to her and put his arms around her.

‘Listen to me, Molly. We must get rid of him now, before anyone finds out what’s happened. I’ll take him down to the docks, dump him in the water. Plenty of people turn up there dead. You report him missing tomorrow and the police will assume he was set upon for his wages.’

The words were tumbling out of him. One thing was sure, he had to help Molly. Since she had moved in next-door he had grown to care for her deeply. Many was the night he’d heard Paddy going for her and had wanted to do exactly what the girl had just done. As far as he was concerned, his main priority now was to get rid of Paddy’s body and keep the girls safe.

He began to wrap Paddy in the sheets, covering the broken head as best he could.

‘What about Midnight Mass? Kerry’s to sing there tonight!’

‘The Mass has started, Moll. We’ll say you was waiting for Paddy to come home. Yes, that’s what we’ll say. Now help me to wrap him tight, and then I’ll put him on the cart and you and Eileen can get this floor scrubbed clean of blood. Come on now, Moll, or we’ll all be done for.’

Eileen watched as Abel and her mother wrapped up her father’s body. She felt nothing as she saw Abel put the blood-stained bundle over his shoulder and take him out to the cart.

Molly put the kettle on for more hot water and drank her tea standing up by the fire, waiting for the kettle to boil. She was suspended between two feelings. One of shock at what had happened, and the other a drive for self-preservation. The world now consisted of herself, Eileen and Abel Jones. Because Abel had involved himself for her, and she knew why. Though Paddy’s passing was shocking, it was also a passport to a better life for her and this thought kept her going through the gruelling night ahead.

Abel went in to his mother before he took Paddy’s body off in the cart. She had put the children to bed in her own room and he explained what had taken place to her in hushed tones. Being a sensible woman she didn’t moan or wail, but nodded at her big handsome son and then began to talk.

‘Take him to Dagenham Docks, son, but don’t put him in the water wrapped in the sheets. Bring them back and I’ll burn them. Empty his pockets. Street thieves take everything, even a good coat, remember that. If his boots are in good nick, take them off and we’ll get rid of them too.’ She racked her brains for what else she should tell him.

Abel kissed her on the forehead and tried to wink at her.

‘You know you’ll hang if this is found out?’

He nodded. ‘I know that, Mum. But if you could see those two in there...’ His voice trailed off.

‘You’re a good boy, Abel. Too good sometimes, I think.’

On this he left the kitchen and, taking the blanket off the horse, covered the body with it and clip-clopped down Oxlow Lane in a light flurry of snow.

Briony turned up at nine on Christmas morning, laden with food and presents. As soon as she walked into her mother’s house she knew that something had happened. The three younger girls ran to her and she kissed them, pushing gaily wrapped presents into their hands. The smell of roasting duck was heavy on the air, but her mother’s wan, swollen face and the absence of Eileen told her that something was afoot.

‘Where’s Eileen?’

‘She’s lying down, Briony. Come upstairs and see her.’

Briony followed her mother up to the bedroom without even removing her coat. Once inside the tiny room, she gasped. Eileen was lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

‘What’s wrong with her, Mum? And where’s me dad?’

Molly bit on her swollen top lip.

‘Eileen ... she hit him last night. He was drunk and trying to ... Eileen saw him and something snapped inside her, girl. She hit him with the flat iron.’

Briony stared into her mother’s face.

‘Where is he then? In the hospital?’

Molly shook her head.

‘He was dead, Briony. Stone dead. And Abel ... Abel...’ She swallowed back tears. ‘He dumped him in the Thames. In the docks. She’d have been taken away otherwise.’

Molly’s voice was rising and Briony put her arms around her. ‘All right, Mum. All right. You did the right thing. What’s the next step?’

‘I’m going to report him missing like, this afternoon. I’m going to pretend that he stayed out often all night and that if he’s been picked up drunk then they can keep him. Abel ... well, Abel says that’s the best way. More natural like.’

Briony nodded, seeing the sense of what was being said. The police in this area were used to women like her mother who brought up families on the money they could slip from a drunken husband’s pockets. But if they came to Oxlow Lane then they’d wonder where the hell the money came from for the house. Briony felt no loss at the death of her father, he had been like a thorn in all their sides. All she had ever known was either the back of his hand or his drunken caresses. She was more interested in looking after Eileen and her mother.

‘If they question you about this place, then you tell them about me. I’ll deal with them when and if I have to, all right?’

Molly nodded. Briony went over to the bed and stared down at her sister’s face. It was white and pinched. Her eyes, normally so blue and clear, looked dull. Eileen stared back at Briony and her lips trembled.

Kerry and Bernadette burst into the room, both waving pairs of shiny new leather shoes.

‘Oh, Bri, they’re lovely, thanks, thanks!’

Briony turned and hugged them, while Molly hastily wiped her eyes.

‘Keep your noise down now, Eileen’s not feeling well.’

Kerry jerked her head towards Eileen and frowned. ‘Will I sing you a nice song, our Eileen? To cheer you up.’

Eileen nodded weakly, trying to smile.

Kerry put her new shoes on the bottom of the bed and, pushing back her thick black hair, began to sing.

Isabel Dumas watched her husband closely as he cosseted his niece. He had pulled the little girl on to his lap and was caressing her blonde hair as he whispered endearments to her. Isabel felt a sickness inside herself as she watched him. She glanced at her husband’s sister and saw that she was smiling benignly at her brother and daughter. Isabel dragged her eyes from the scene and, excusing herself on the pretext of seeing how dinner was progressing, went up to her room.