Rainbow's End (27 page)

It was the custom in Dublin for moochers to gatecrash on wakes, regardless of the age or sex of the departed, but on an occasion like this one even the greediest moocher had stayed away to let the mourners say their last goodbyes in peace.

And people were so kind, Maggie thought that night as she lay in bed with her arms around Ticky’s comforting little shape. A great many people had brought flowers, though December is an expensive time of year for them, and holly wreaths had abounded. People who had known her since she was small had assured her that there had been nothing she could have done, had reminded her, but kindly, that her mammy had sent her away years ago and must now, in her heavenly kingdom, be praising God that she’d done such a thing.

‘Out of all her fambly, only youse and Aileen saved,’ one elderly woman said piously. ‘Eh, your mammy must be proud she sent you to the Nolans – they’re good to you, I dare say?’

‘Very good,’ Maggie had replied. Because Mrs Nolan had been wonderful, she had treated Maggie like her own and the boys couldn’t have been kinder. She marvelled at how fortunate she was, for even Conn, a feller she scarcely knew when all was said and done, had come calling, bringing her little presents – a rosary, money for candles, a mourning ring which he’d bought off the stalls in Henry Street.

‘When you’ve had time to grow accustomed, we’ll talk,’ he had said tactfully, sitting on the sofa in the Nolan kitchen looking very large and rather uneasy in such elevated surroundings, for he had told Maggie during their night on the pavement that he had come from a turf-cutter’s hut in Connemara and had mostly lived either in the hut or on the road. ‘You know I’m takin’ over me uncle’s stall? Well, we miss you, so we do – I’d like nothin’ better than to have a crack wit’ you, when you’re in the mood.’ He had hesitated, looking shyly at her from under his thick brows. ‘Will you come back, some time?’ he ended.

Maggie had assured him that she would, though when she was not so sure. ‘Mrs Nolan needs me wit’ Christmas coming up,’ she said. ‘Oh, I’d rather be on Henry Street if I’m honest, but she’s been so good, Conn! Do you know, a while ago when I was makin’ the beds she came in an’ axed me if I were still mortal fond of the picture that’s hung on me bedroom wall ever since I come here to live. An’ I said I was, an’ she said it was mine, to do as I liked with, an’ if ever I married an’ moved away it could go wit’ me,’ she ended.

‘That was nice, indeed,’ Conn said. But he said it doubtfully. He could not be expected to realise, as Mrs Nolan had, how important the picture had become to her, Maggie saw. Besides, he could not possibly know how . . . well, how mingy Mrs Nolan could be towards Maggie. Because she was now paid a small sum each week for her services, Maggie could not help noticing how Mrs Nolan always made sure she got her money’s worth. Mrs Nolan wiped a finger along the mantelpiece to check for dust, asked what had happened to the last of the maggie ryan and soda bread, suggested that windows needed cleaning, stairs scrubbing, when Maggie knew quite well that they had been cleaned and scrubbed recently. Food was still given her, of course, but now when they had something nice for supper Mrs Nolan saw to it that Maggie had the smallest helping.

Not that Maggie cared, not really. Though she did miss the fact that before she started paying her Mrs Nolan had always provided her clothing, admittedly in hand-me-downs and new dresses made from old, but she had still clothed her. Now she was a paid employee Maggie was expected to clothe herself. Which she managed to do, at a pinch, by going to the Iveagh or the Daisy markets and buying from the dealers there. The second-hand clothes smelt of disinfectant, for it was the law that when a tugger, one of the women who went from house to house swapping delft for unwanted garments, brought clothing in it must be disinfected before it was allowed in the market, but the material was usually quite good and with a fair amount of careful stitching it was possible to turn out a decent coat or skirt.

Sometimes Maggie thought wistfully of the nice things which Mrs Nolan had made for her, but then she told herself that she was more independent now and could at least choose colours and materials, and once or twice, when she found a real bargain and brought it triumphantly home, Mrs Nolan had helped her to alter it to fit and she’d been really pleased with the garment.

However, she could scarcely explain all that to Conn, so she just told him once more that Mrs Nolan was very good to her and agreed that one day soon they must meet up again. ‘But I’ll tell Mrs Nolan that Mrs Collins needs me and I’ll be back in Henry Street before you know it,’ she assured him. ‘We’ll have a bit of a jangle then, shall us?’

Conn left, reminding her that the Henry Street stall awaited her, and Maggie went back into the kitchen and began peeling potatoes. Mrs Nolan preferred them peeled, though the McVeighs always ate their spuds . . .

Maggie sniffed as a tear ran down the side of her nose but she peeled determinedly on. Aileen had come to the wake and they had wept together, but Aileen had to go back to her mistress, for she was a kitchen maid in a big house by the sea, and sometimes Maggie felt like the only McVeigh left in the world. But there was no point in crying every time she thought about her mother and their sordid rooms in Dally Court. Better to imagine her in heaven, with a gold harp, on a cloud . . . only here Maggie’s imagination always let her down, because she knew very well, really, that her mother wouldn’t be thankin’ anyone for a harp or a cloud. Her mother would want warmth, something nice to eat, her kids around her and no worry over where the next penny was coming from.

And she’ll have it now, Maggie told herself, patiently peeling. The father said that heaven was what you made it, and that’s what he meant, I know he did. No point in wishing; just get on with your life, Maggie McVeigh, she told herself. And right now, that means peel the spuds and put the pig’s trotters into the pot or they won’t be ready when Liam gets back.

A week after the wake Liam came in, popped his head round the kitchen door to check that his mother wasn’t yet home and went to his room to get out of his uniform. He had decided to take Maggie to the Tivoli, in Francis Street, because they were showing a film with Francis Bushman and Beverly Bayne, a couple greatly admired by the young of Dublin, but he hadn’t yet broken the good news to Maggie. She had gone back to the Henry Street market the previous day and he felt, he told himself, that if she could work again then she could have a bit of fun again too. He had bought some Liquorice Allsorts, because he knew she loved them, and two large oranges, and he meant to treat her to chips after the show.

He had met Conn at last. A big feller, but probably stupid, because most bog-trotters were, Liam told himself disdainfully, hanging up his uniform on the back of his bedroom door and going over to the piece of mirror on the wash-stand to comb his hair tidy after its sojourn under his peaked uniform cap. I wonder why Maggie admires those dark, oily good looks, his thoughts continued. You’d think, having been brought up with us Nolans, she’d go for a feller with lighter hair . . . someone slimmer, too. Why, that Conn looks like a tinker – he probably is a tinker. Now what on earth would a girl like Maggie see in a bog-trottin’ tinker?

Still, he would take her to the cinema and give her a good time and cheer her up and then, surely, she’d stop wasting her time on a . . . a tinker? And once Conn is out of the picture, Liam found himself thinking, I can go back to . . .

Go back to what? To treatin’ the girl like a sister? he asked himself, rather shocked. Liam Nolan, what is it that you want? Is it a dog in the manger you are, not wantin’ Maggie yourself but not wantin’ anyone else to have her either? Now look, Liam, is she a pretty girl or is she not?

The question startled him because he realised, now, that he’d never really thought about Maggie’s looks. She was just . . . well, just his Maggie. Someone to lark about with, laugh with, walk and talk with. But thinking it over, he decided he liked her face. It was small, pale, heart-shaped and framed with soft, dusky curls. Her eyes were nice too. Large, grey-blue, wide-open, with lashes which were dark as her hair and curled upwards so that she often looked surprised.

A rattle on the door heralded the twins, who burst into the room and came one to either side of Liam as he stood before the piece of looking glass.

‘What’re you doin’ here, prettyin’ yourself?’ Garvan said scornfully, seeing the hairbrush in his brother’s hand. ‘Liam Nolan’s a girlie, Liam Nolan’s a girlie!’

‘Shut your gob, you,’ Liam said. ‘Or s’welp me, I’ll bleedin’ shut it for ye.’

‘He swore!’ Seamus said, trying to sound shocked. ‘He swore at his little brothers – did ye ever hear anyt’ing like it?’

‘I know, Shay, he did indeed,’ Garvan agreed. ‘Oh, I s’pose he’s goin’ out wit’ that red-haired crittur from down the road, the one Mammy says is no better than she should be.’

Liam had taken out red-haired Sally O’Sullivan for almost a year, but Sally had speedily decided that Liam wasn’t good enough for her purpose. She was keen to get married, and though she liked Liam’s steady job and good prospects, she didn’t like what she called his ‘addiction to his family’, or his lack of interest in getting wed, so their affair, if you could call it that, hadn’t lasted.

‘No he ain’t, she throwed him over weeks ago,’ Seamus said scornfully. ‘Don’t you know
nothin
’, Garv?’

‘I know that if the red-haired crittur won’t have him then no one will,’ Garvan said. ‘Poor ole Liam, you’re a has-been, you’re on the bleedin’ shelf, an’ I thought that was gorls, not fellers.’

‘Get out o’ here, the pair of yiz,’ Liam shouted, feeling the rich beetroot shade of true wrath burning up his neck and into his face. ‘I’m goin’ to the Tiv an’ I want to look dacint, so you can git your ugly faces out of here before I t’umps ye!’

‘All right, all right, we’re goin’,’ Garvan said, grinning. ‘Wonder if you’ll see Maggie there?’

There was a moment’s pregnant silence before Liam said, carefully casual, ‘Well, I might see her, if she’s goin’ to the Tiv. Why? Is she off out as well?’

‘Come on, Garv,’ Seamus said impatiently. ‘He telled us to get out, so let’s get. I want me tea, even if you doesn’t.’

They left, slamming the door so hard that Liam’s highly prized lavender hair oil jumped on the shelf, then they clattered along the hallway, their boots loud enough to wake an army.

‘Little buggers,’ Liam muttered. He felt so disappointed that he could have cried. Had they meant it? Was Maggie really off to the Tiv without him? Who was she going with? Was it the abominable Conn, the Connemara tinker?

Straightening his tie, Liam gave it such a savage tug that he nearly throttled himself and hastily had to loosen it off a bit. What does it matter to me, anyway, what Maggie does, or who she does it with? he asked himself bitterly. I don’t give a tinker’s cuss, it’s her business. But suddenly it did matter. She was
his
Maggie, so she was, and had no business taking up with Connemara tinkers, no matter how silver-tongued. He slammed his hairbrush back on the wash-stand and went over to the door, letting himself out into the hallway. He hastened towards the kitchen, still with his tie under one ear, he suddenly realised, and without a drop of his beautiful hair oil to subdue his mop of dark hair into sweet-smelling obedience. But he had no time to go back and remedy the defects; he grabbed the tie in a concealing hand, passed the palm of the other quickly across his head a couple of times and opened the kitchen door.

Maggie was standing in the middle of the room, reading the newspaper. When he opened the door she jumped guiltily and turned at once to the fire, then realised it was he and smiled. ‘Phew, what a relief, Liam – I thought it was Mrs Nolan, come to cotch me not workin’, and the supper scarce started! But she’ll not be home for another forty minutes an’ by then I can have t’ings cookin’.’

‘Why?’ Liam said baldly.

Maggie blinked. ‘Why what, Liam?’ she asked.

‘Oh! Ummm . . . why . . . why is the meal not on?’ Liam stammered, uneasily aware that this was not the answer Maggie expected. ‘Why . . . why do you want to get supper started early? Is it goin’ out you are?’

‘I don’t want to get supper early,’ Maggie said. A frown wrinkled her white brow. ‘Why on earth d’you say that, Liam?’

‘Are you goin’ out somewhere?’ Liam said again, deciding that tact was not for him; a straight question and a straight answer, he told himself. That’s the best way, so it is.

‘Me? Goin’ out? Why? Do you want me to go a message for you? Only I’d best get the food started on to cook first.’

‘What on earth are you sayin’, woman?’ Liam asked severely. He was finding this whole conversation extremely confusing. ‘Who wants a message? I asked you if you was goin’ out.’

‘Oh. No,’ Maggie said simply. ‘Are you goin’ out, Liam? Is it an early supper you’re wantin’?’

Liam heaved an exasperated sigh. If he wasn’t careful they’d spend the whole evenin’ talkin’ at cross purposes, so they would. ‘Yes, Maggie, I am goin’ out,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m goin’ to the Tiv, to see a fillum starrin’ that feller you like . . . Francis Bushman.’

‘Oh, Liam! An’ Beverly Bayne?’

‘That’s her,’ Liam admitted. ‘An’ Maggie, what I want to know is . . .’

‘Are you takin’ that Sally?’ Maggie demanded. ‘You’ve not been seein’ much of her lately, I’ve noticed. Or are you goin’ wit’ Roy?’

‘I’m going . . .’

‘Because if you’re goin’ wit’ Roy I wonder if there’s any chance . . .’

‘Will you sh . . . I mean hush a moment, woman, an’ let me get a word in edgewise?’ Liam said crossly. ‘Will you come wit’ me, Maggie? To see the fillum at the Tiv?’

Maggie stared at him with her mouth a little open and her eyes gradually widening until they looked like saucers. ‘Me?’ she whispered. ‘But you never take me to the picture house, Liam, you know you don’t. When we go out we go walkin’, or into the country on a bus.’