Masters of the House (2 page)

“Well, Mr Heenan, I'm afraid we'll have to be going. You know how things are at the moment. We'd like to offer our sympathy to all of you—sincere sympathy.”

There was silence. The man looked at his cup. Then, the words seeming to be wrung from him, to come from some barely remembered convention of behaviour, he said, “Thanks for all you've done.”

Later, in the ambulance, the woman, unable to find words for her unease, said, “I hope he gets a grip on himself.”

The man nodded, not unsympathetic, just overworked and exhausted. “He'll bloody have to, won't he?”

“The children seemed to cope better than he did.”

“They don't understand, do they, not in the same way—about money and getting help and whatever. . . . The whole bloody system's breaking down,” he added bitterly.

As soon as they got back to the infirmary they were called out to a woman who had been battered half to death by her husband. Even the woman let the Heenans slip from her mind.

 • • • 

Annie and Matthew were frightened. They had encouraged, coaxed, forced their father to drink some tea; and he had got down perhaps a quarter of the cup. Now he sat once more, hunched forward, staring ahead. From time to time he muttered things—words, phrases, something to do with “punishment.” They didn't understand. They didn't see their mother's death as a punishment—not for her nor for any of them. It was a disaster but unrelated to anything they had done.

Scared by the silence, they sent the younger children out to play in the back garden.

“But play quietly,” they said, with some rudimentary understanding
of the decencies of death. Then they cleared up the tea things and went out to the kitchen.

“I don't know what to do,” said Matthew.

“Nor do I.”

“We've never had anything to do with death.”

“Except Aunt Lucy's. And we didn't even go to the funeral.”

Aunt Lucy had left them her house. She had been a jolly, loving aunt, but she had died three years before, and their memories were becoming dim.

“Dad will have to look after us now,” said Matthew.

Annie was the manager, the realist. She had been her mother's great help in keeping the younger children clean and tidy. Now she looked straight into Matthew's eyes.

“What if he can't cope?'

“He'll
have
to cope,” said the boy fiercely. They washed the cups and saucers under the tap and put them on the drainboard to dry. “There were those children in my class who were put into care.”

“I know. The Mortons.”

“None of the teachers could control them.”

“They were dreadful.”

They said no more. There was nothing else to do in the kitchen, but they didn't want to go back to their father. They stood by the sink, looking at each other.

“Maybe he ought to go to bed,” said Matthew.

“It's only half past six.”

“Yes, but he's not well. He ought to go to bed and rest so that he can think about it and . . . accept it.”

Annie voiced the fears of both of them.

“He doesn't sound as if he ever will.”

“He's got to come to terms with it,” said Matthew, talking very adult and using a phrase he'd learnt from television.

“Perhaps we should try and persuade him.”

Reluctantly they went back into the sitting room. Matthew leant over him.

“Dad . . . Dad? Would you like to go to bed, Dad? It's been a shock to you. . . .”

“It's been a shock to all of us.”

Again the words seemed to be wrung from him.

“Not so much for us. You see, we knew.”

“Knew
what
”?

“About Mum and . . . and the danger. She didn't want to tell you, with you being so worried about your job.”

His father gave something between a grunt and a sob.

“We think you ought to go to bed and get some rest.”

“It's more than rest I need. . . . Forgive me, Lord.”

“Will you come up with us?”

“Aye. . . . Aye, I'll go up.”

Little by little they got him up the stairs. He would stop after one or two steps and say, “Are the young ones all right?” or, “You've something for your suppers?” Finally they got him to the landing and steered him towards the door to the big double bedroom.

“I can't sleep there!” The words were bellowed out.

“Dad!”

“I can't sleep there! Not where I used to sleep with your mother, God rest her soul. Annie, I'll never sleep there again.”

They looked at each other. Then they steered him to Gregory's little bedroom. Once inside, Annie retrieved the boy's toys and books which were scattered around, while Matthew persuaded his father to take off his jacket, then his trousers. They fetched his pyjamas from the big bedroom, but they found him sitting on the bed in his shirt and underpants, sobbing. They put his legs up under the blankets and sheet,
and he lay down docilely, like a small child. But when Matthew turned in the doorway before switching out the light, what his father reminded him of, on the bare bed frame in the narrow room, was a picture of a monk in his cell in a religious book his mother had treasured.

He and Annie tiptoed downstairs and watched the smaller ones in the twilit patch of garden at the back.

“We've got to think what to do,” said Annie.

 • • • 

There was no problem about getting the smaller ones to bed. Their play had been solemn, and they seemed to welcome bed as a chance to absorb their new, motherless state—or perhaps to escape from it in sleep. The smallest one, Jamie, really did not understand. Jamie usually shared the second bedroom with Matthew, though Matthew had always intended to assert his right to a room of his own when his brother was older. Daddy's being in Gregory's room presented problems, and Matthew proposed to solve them for the moment by having Jamie in with him in the big double bed that Daddy said he would never sleep in again. Jamie cried, though, and said it was too
big.
He did indeed look tiny in it, and perhaps it brought home to him some sense of his loss. In the end he was put into Matthew's room with Gregory, and Matthew faced the prospect of sleeping in the big bed on his own. Annie, the only girl, had always had a room to herself.

When they had been tucked up for the night, and talked to, Matthew and Annie crept along the landing and listened outside the smallest bedroom. They had hoped for silence, but what they heard were sobs and muffled words and phrases. White-faced, they tiptoed downstairs.

“He'll get better,” said Matthew, louder than he intended but still sounding unsure.

“Yes, he's bound to,” agreed Annie. “He's strong.”

They both knew they were contradicting themselves, merely cheering themselves up.

“Of course he is,” Matthew said, his voice still too loud. “He'll get himself together. Look at all the overtime he did when he was afraid of losing his job.”

“That's right. It's just that sometimes he looked the weaker one, beside Mum.”

“She shielded him. Took things on herself and kept them from him.”

“There won't be anyone to do that now.”

The conversation seemed to be taking a direction unwanted by either of them, but they were powerless to turn it back.

“It may take him a while to recover,” said Annie.

“We'll have to get him to the funeral. Somehow.”

“Funerals,” said Annie. “It's the little baby's, too.”

“Dad didn't want another. Though he never said.”

“We none of us really wanted another—not even Mum.”

“It's Mum's death that's upset him. . . . I suppose the dole money will just keep coming in, will it? Could we phone Social Security and ask them to send it here? Or does he have to go and collect it?”

“Surely he'll be able to go and collect it? He wouldn't want us to starve.”

“He doesn't sound as if he can think straight about anything at the moment. . . .” He looked at her, the worry now undisguised. “If only people don't start asking questions—while he's like
that
.”

“We can cope with Greg and Jamie,” said Annie.

“Of course we can. But they'll say I'm only thirteen. . . . I wish I knew more about funerals.”

“Couldn't you go and talk to Father Muldoon about it? And perhaps you could bring up the dole then, or go to him after.”

“I don't think we should go to school tomorrow. I don't think you do till after the funeral.”

“I suppose not.”

“I'll go and talk to him. . . . I suppose if he's still like this we'll have to cover up. Perhaps do it for a few days.”

“Yes.” Annie looked at him hard. “We've got to do something. We mustn't all be taken into care.”

He gazed back, then nodded determinedly.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
the children got up with fear in their hearts.

Matthew made the breakfast while Annie got the two younger children dressed. Gregory had cried himself to sleep but then had slept soundly through. Jamie still didn't understand and kept saying, “Mummy?” Annie thought it would be best not to try and explain; perhaps eventually he would just stop saying “Mummy” and say “Annie” instead.

They had cereals and toast as usual. Uncertainty made them nervous, silent. Matthew made a big pot of tea, and the question of who should take tea and toast up to Dad was there in the air. With a heavy heart Matthew decided it was man's work. When they heard the lavatory flush, he put two rounds of toast on a plate, poured out a strong, sweet cup, just as his father liked it, then went slowly upstairs.

Dermot Heenan was sitting on the bed in his underclothes, staring ahead.

“How can I eat?” he muttered. “Why should I keep myself alive?”

“For
us
,” said Matthew urgently.

“By God, don't you know you'd be better off without me?” came the thick mumble.

Matthew looked at him, and a tingle of fear went up his spine. He turned and left the little bedroom.

When breakfast had been eaten and washed up, he rang the Presbytery at St Joseph's and spoke to Father Muldoon. The priest had heard the news from the hospital chaplain and had known more about the danger to the lives of mother and unborn child than Dermot Heenan had done. He was sad for the woman and her family, and he said soothing words to Matthew that were no less sincere for having become standard with him.

Matthew had to concentrate hard, determined to get it right.

“I wondered, Father, if I could come and have a talk with you—about the funeral and that.”

Father Muldoon's surprise showed in his voice.

“You, Matthew?”

“Well, Dad and Annie have their hands full, you see.”

“I'm sure they do. I could come round to the house—”

Matthew had to stop himself saying “No!” too loudly and too quickly.

“I think it would be better, Father, if I came round to see you. The little ones find it difficult getting used to the idea of Mummy not being here, and Annie and Dad are trying to take their minds off things.”

Father Muldoon was used to eldest children in large families
shouldering adult burdens early in life. He accepted the position more readily than Matthew had expected he would.

“I see. Well, I'm free at eleven.”

Promptly at eleven, Matthew was ringing the Presbytery doorbell. He still had the black tie he had been bought when Aunt Lucy had died, and he wore his blue school blazer and grey trousers. Father Muldoon didn't quite know what to offer him, but he put a mug of Nescafé in front of him, and the boy sipped at it as they talked quite composedly about the funeral.

“Dad's so upset he doesn't want to talk about it. I wondered if you could help with the arrangements, Father.”

He meant, “. . . if you could arrange it all.” Father Muldoon was used to doing that. It happened often enough, especially with lonely old people. He talked the situation over with Matthew, especially the father's unemployed state, and then arranged something simple and decent for the following Thursday.

“Your mother and father both had an insurance policy towards the cost of funerals in the family, I know that. And the parish has a fund that might help a bit with the rest,” he said. “Will there be many family members coming, do you think?”

“I don't think so,” Matthew said, glad to be able to say that truthfully, glad that there was hardly anyone to ask questions. “Mum has—had—a brother and a sister in Ireland, but I don't think they'll come over. Dad had Aunt Lucy, but she's dead. All our grandparents are dead.”

“Perhaps we'll have two cars for family, just in case.”

“I wanted to ask about money, Father.”

“Money? Well, as I said, there's this fund—”

“No, I don't mean the funeral. I mean for food and that.
Housekeeping. Now Dad's all we've got, he won't be able to work, will he? They won't force him to get another job?”

“Oh, I wouldn't think so. Not with the four of you to look after. Your dad needn't worry about that. I tell you what. There's someone in the parish—Nan O'Connor, you probably know her—works at the Social Security office. Would you like me to make an appointment for your father to go along and see her?”

“If it's not too much trouble, Father.”

So by the time he left, he had an appointment for his father to talk over the situation with Mrs O'Connor on Monday at ten o'clock. Of course it was Matthew who went.

She was surprised at first, but the boy was such a little adult, and he explained so sensibly about his father's being so upset and having to be both mother and father to the little ones, that she readily talked over the situation with him.