Pack Up Your Troubles

And Maeve had thought he’d taken a day off because he could, because he was one of the bosses – a foreman or some such – as Michael had indicated in his letters home. There had been no preparation for a man who worked only three days a week. Suddenly she felt sorry for her Aunt Agnes. Already managing on little money, she had now to feed another mouth.

She took off her coat and hat and laid both on the bed, then picked the bag up and said to Jane, ‘I have some things here to please your mother. I think she’ll be happier when she sees them.’

It had grown quiet downstairs and though Maeve knew it was probably the uneasy silence of an argument not resolved, she was still grateful for it. She took the parcel of food downstairs and presented it to Agnes, together with the five-pound note for her keep.

The change in Agnes was swift. She pocketed the money in her apron immediately and smiled at Maeve in a belated welcoming gesture. But Maeve noticed the smile didn’t reach her eyes and she knew then that Agnes would never be a friend to her.

The meal was fine and filling enough, with the bacon and eggs and soda bread and butter from home, together with chips from the chippy that Billy had been dispatched for, and everyone tucked in with a fine appetite.

Maeve made pleasant small talk for courtesy’s sake, but still couldn’t take to her aunt, and it was obvious that her uncle was almost afraid of Agnes. Maybe he had reason, but the fact remained that the man who’d warmly welcomed Maeve at the station did not exist in this house, and that realisation saddened her. She resolved to get a place of her own as soon as possible.

The children fired questions at her about Ireland, the homestead she’d left behind and their daddy’s family, and Maeve answered them as best she could. But the journey and the emotion of the whole day had tired her out, and she was glad when it was late enough to take to her bed. She lay beside Jane, and though Jane would have liked to talk more, Maeve was too exhausted and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

After a few fraught days, during which her aunt openly showed her displeasure in having Maeve there despite the five pounds, she was glad to begin work. Maeve was no stranger to hard work and she knew what the woman had told her on the train was no lie. Work was scarce, and she’d seen men, often extremely thin, and shabbily and inadequately dressed, lolling on street corners. She knew she was lucky to get a job, and probably wouldn’t have it at all if her uncle hadn’t asked for her. She had no wish for her boss to regret his decision to employ her and didn’t quibble at the hours he asked her to work, but because they were so long she asked him to let her know if he heard of some place nearby that she could rent.

Mr Dolamartis thought this over. He’d never had such an industrious little waitress, and so beautiful too; she certainly drew the men in. But the hours were often from early morning to late night, and though she never complained, he knew sometimes Maeve had trouble getting there in time in the morning and back at night to her uncle’s house.

Above the café there was a flat, basic and small, and though Mr Dolamartis had never used it as a flat but as a storeroom, he knew he could use the room off the kitchen for storage instead, and give Maeve the chance of having a place of her own.

Maeve was thrilled. She wasn’t put off by the grime and neglect, and set to with a will to clean it all. Mr Dolamartis, amused at her industry, brought her some distemper to brighten the place up. There was a battered old sofa there already, and a table and chairs were supplied by the café. The bed was set into the wall of the living room and pulled out at night, but Maeve had no bedding, no crocks or cutlery, no curtains for the windows nor lino for the floor.

But though she’d paid over a good proportion of her wages to her Aunt Agnes, she’d kept her tips and sometimes they were sizeable. These she spent on essentials, then saved up for other household goods she wanted. She was often free in the afternoon for a few hours after lunch when Mr Dolamartis would take over. Then Maeve would usually take a tram to the city centre and stroll around the shops, enthralled by the choices available and particularly attracted to the Bull Ring, where she was able to find many of the things to make her flat more like home.

She joined organisations at the Catholic Church, St Francis’s, that she attended in Aston, in a bid to make friends with some of the younger parishioners. She’d been to the pictures and dancing with some of the young single Catholic girls on one of her rare evenings off, but she seldom went to her uncle’s house, knowing that she wouldn’t really be welcome.

TWO

Maeve met Brendan Hogan as she came out of Benediction one late summer’s evening in 1930, when she’d been in Birmingham less than six months. She thought he’d been to church too, but though he hadn’t, he didn’t enlighten her. He was struck by the beauty of the young woman and wanted to impress her, but though he never missed Mass or Communion – and certainly not confession, because that’s where all his sins were absolved – he hadn’t much truck with Benediction. He thought you could get too much of religion if you weren’t careful and, anyway, Benediction cut into his drinking time. He was actually on his way to a pub at Aston Cross, which he knew many ladies of ill repute frequented, when he bumped into the luscious golden-haired beauty who introduced herself as Maeve Brannigan. If the lovely lady wanted to believe he was a good clean-living Catholic boy, he wasn’t going to deny it.

Brendan was well muscled and handsome, with jet-black hair, a clear complexion, deep brown eyes and eyebrows that met across his broad forehead. Even the nose seemed to have little shape but sort of spread across his face, and his thick lips did not detract from his handsomeness, and Maeve Brannigan could not believe that such a man could possibly be interested in her.

But he was, and he smiled at her and said he was very pleased to meet her. He asked her name and Maeve told him without any hesitation, for she knew by the man’s voice that he was as Irish as herself and a good Catholic too, going to Benediction no less. She felt as if her heart had turned a somersault and Brendan knew he wasn’t going to walk away from this girl who attracted him so much.

‘Maybe you’d do me the honour of letting me walk you home, Miss Brannigan?’ he said, admiring to himself her soft lilting voice, and added with another smile, ‘My name is Brendan Hogan.’

Maeve was stunned. She wanted Brendan to see her home, but she wondered if she was being forward by accepting his offer. Maybe that’s how things were done in the cities? If she refused because she was afraid, then she might as well have stayed in Ireland, she told herself.

‘Thank you, Mr Hogan,’ she replied. ‘You can walk with me if you wish, but I don’t live at home. I work in Dolamartis’s café and live in the flat above it.’

Her own place, Brendan thought. This gets better and better. But he behaved impeccably, wanting to see Maeve again, and when he delivered her to the door of the café, he didn’t even kiss her. Never had the walk home appeared so short, Maeve thought regretfully, and never had she chatted in such an uninhibited way to someone she’d just met.

‘Can I see you again?’ Brendan asked, and Maeve thought her heart had stopped beating altogether.

‘Please?’ Brendan said, misinterpreting Maeve’s silence. He knew his cronies at The Bell public house wouldn’t believe this was Brendan Hogan of love-them-and-leave-them fame, but his body was on fire for Maeve Brannigan.

He was sure she wasn’t used to pubs, so their first date was to the cinema to see Charlie Chaplin. Brendan was the perfect gentleman, presenting Maeve with her first box of chocolates and taking her arm for the short walk to the Globe picture house at the junction of High Street and New Street in Aston. Maeve knew that was the entrance for the better seats. On her previous visits, when she’d gone on her own on a free afternoon, or with friends from the church, she’d bought cheap tickets from the little window in New Street. When she told Brendan this, he laughed and gave her a squeeze.

‘Only the best for my girl,’ he said.

Maeve felt dizzy. Was she really Brendan’s girl or was it just the way he talked? She began to think it meant nothing as the evening wore on, for Brendan made no move to take advantage of the dark to put his arms round her, or steal a kiss.

Never could Maeve imagine what self-control it took for Brendan to keep his arms by his sides. He scarcely watched the film because he was wondering if he’d given Maeve a good enough time for her to reward him with something else afterwards. With some girls a couple of gins did the trick, but he had an idea Maeve might be more difficult and he had no desire to frighten her off.

They left the cinema arm in arm.

‘Happy, darling?’ Brendan asked, and Maeve nodded. She was happy, she supposed; she’d laughed uproariously at Charlie Chaplin at the cinema and had been escorted there by a charming and very handsome man. But she was also confused, for the same man had said she was his girl, and just a minute before had called her darling and yet had scarcely touched her. She thought it a peculiar way of going on and she wondered if Brendan’s words meant anything at all.

It was brought home to her that they did when they got to Maeve’s door and he pulled her into his arms. His kiss made her feel weak at the knees and she responded readily to the embrace. Brendan was delighted; maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult after all. ‘Why don’t you ask me up for a nightcap, Maeve, my darling?’ he asked, raining kisses on her eyes, her cheeks and her throat till she was hardly able to think straight.

She nodded eagerly. After all, the man had given her a good night out and presented her with a box of chocolates of her very own, and it would be churlish and against all she had ever been taught to refuse him a cup of tea. She wasn’t anxious for him to leave just yet either and would love to talk some more.

It was when she realised that Brendan had neither tea nor talk on his mind that she became uneasy.

‘I’m sorry, Brendan,’ she said, pulling out of his arms with difficulty and regret. ‘I just can’t.’

Brendan was angry, but he hid it well. He told himself that Maeve was a decent girl, and he’d not met many of them, that was the trouble. She was not given to going too far on a first date. He’d just have to have patience.

‘It’s all right,’ he said.

Maeve saw the angry glint in Brendan’s eye and knew she’d put it there, but she couldn’t have gone further than they had. She’d let him touch and fondle her breasts, and that was bad enough and not something she’d ever have done if she’d been in her right mind and if Brendan’s kisses hadn’t made her dizzy and aching with longing. Well, she thought, I’ve kept my virginity, but lost my man because he’ll want no more to do with me after tonight.

But Brendan most decidedly did want to see Maeve again. She had few evenings off, though Brendan never complained about that. He had plenty of mates from the brass foundry where he worked who lived in Aston Cross and drank in the pubs there, and he’d stay there on Maeve’s evenings at work, arriving at the café at about half-past nine. Maeve closed up officially at ten, but if there were no customers she could close earlier and then all her time was devoted to Brendan. She never minded that he was drunk. After all, she reasoned, what else was there for him to do? Nor did she mind the bottles of beer he would bring to wash down the little bit of supper she would always save for him.

‘Let me stay the night, Maeve?’ he’d pleaded time and again on these nights.

Maeve’s answer was always the same: ‘Brendan, I can’t.’

‘Oh, but you can, my darling,’ Brendan said one day almost a fortnight after their first date as he caressed and fondled one of Maeve’s breasts. ‘It would be so good. You’d enjoy it.’

Maeve didn’t doubt it. Already she was allowing Brendan more liberties than she’d ever dreamt of allowing anyone and, finding it so nice, it would have been easy, so easy, to let Brendan do what he wanted. But always her mother’s face would be before her, sorrow-filled, or the disapproving visage of the parish priest, and both images had given her the strength to pull back.

‘Wouldn’t your mother worry if you didn’t go home anyway?’ she asked Brendan one evening when he was again wheedling to spend the night with her.

He gave a bellow of laughter. ‘Maeve, I’m a big boy now. My mother has no say in my life. No one has. And that’s how it should be for you. You shouldn’t worry so much about other people. You should do what feels good to you.’

But despite Brendan’s urging Maeve wouldn’t be moved. Brendan tried harder than he’d ever tried with any other girl, and on Maeve’s rare evenings off he would forgo his pleasures at the pub and take her somewhere special. They went to the cinema twice more and even to the theatre once. The highlight of that visit to the Hippodrome in Corporation Street was to see a young Lancashire lass called Gracie Fields singing wonderful stirring songs that she urged the audience to join in.

Brendan was opening up new horizons for Maeve, and she was grateful to him and said so as they made their way home.

‘How grateful?’ Brendan said. ‘I know a way you could show true gratitude.’

‘Ah, Brendan, if only I could.’

‘You can,’ Brendan said. His desire for Maeve seemed to be growing rather than diminishing. Often he had to seek consolation elsewhere after he’d left Maeve, for the limits she put on his lovemaking fuelled his frustration.

Maeve didn’t know how Brendan felt, though she hoped he truly loved her as she did him, for no one should do the kind of things they were doing to each other, and wanting to do more, unless they loved each other. The natural outcome was marriage and she waited for Brendan to ask her, knowing if he didn’t ask her soon, she’d give way to his urgings and her own body’s needs anyway and let Brendan love her as he wanted to for she’d be unable to help herself. She didn’t tell Brendan this, but he guessed a lot from the little moans and sighs she was unable to suppress.

Brendan wanted to take Maeve down the Bull Ring on a Saturday evening but she never had a Saturday free.

‘It’s hardly fair,’ he said one night as she lay in his arms.

‘It’s our busiest night. Mr Dolamartis would never agree.’

‘Bet he would if I asked him,’ Brendan said. ‘I’ll tell him he’s destroying my love life keeping you behind the counter, or over a hot stove every Saturday. It isn’t as if he doesn’t get his bloody money’s worth out of you. And he’s a right stingy bugger. I’ll have a word with him, don’t you worry.’

And Brendan had a word and Maeve thought she’d remember for ever the first sight of the Bull Ring on that Saturday evening, lit up with gas flares and looking like fairyland. The noise was tremendous – both from the people thronging the place and the vendors shouting out their wares. Brendan caught up Maeve’s hand and they ran like children down the cobbled streets of Jamaica Row.

‘Let go of me!’ she cried, laughing at him. ‘Let go!’

But though Brendan slowed down, he kept hold of her hand as they walked among the stalls, looking at the array of goods on offer. Maeve had discovered the Bull Ring on her first visit to the city centre, but she’d never seen it at night. It seemed a different place, a magical place.

She jiggled a hot potato from hand to hand as she watched a man tied in chains free himself, while others tottered on high stilts among the crowds. A bare-fist boxer was challenging the men for a fight, five pounds to be won if they beat him.

‘Shall I try?’ Brendan asked teasingly, but Maeve held him back.

‘You will not, Brendan,’ she said firmly. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

Brendan laughed at her. He’d had no intention of offering himself, but liked to see Maeve’s concern.

Maeve didn’t like the poor ragged men selling a variety of things from trays around their necks. ‘Old lags from the last war,’ Brendan told her, but he wouldn’t let Maeve dwell on their poor existence or buy their razor blades or matches. He steered her instead towards the man with the piano accordion, and they joined in with others singing the popular songs.

That evening Maeve had her first taste of whelks when Brendan bought her a dish. She wasn’t sure she really liked them, but thought they were better than the slimy jellied eels that Brendan chose.

Brendan put his arm round Maeve, amused at her delight in everything, and as she smiled up at him he felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know if it was love or not, he just knew he wanted Maeve more than he’d wanted anything in his life before.

They stayed at the Bull Ring until the Salvation Army band marched in blowing bugles and trumpets, and singing hymns with great gusto. Maeve was amazed how many stood and listened and even joined in some hymns, and when the Salvation Army left, they had tramps and some of the old lags in tow.

‘Where are they taking them?’ she asked Brendan.

‘To the Citadel,’ he replied. ‘They’ll give them thick soup and bread, and try and find some of them a bed for the night.’

Maeve was moved by that. She’d never met people of different religions, or of no religion at all, before she’d come to Birmingham, but she thought those in the Salvation Army must be good, kind people and brave to go about in their strange costumes risking ridicule.

‘Come on,’ Brendan said. ‘The only one in your head should be me, my darling girl, and certainly not those down-and-outs. My throat’s as dry as dust and I want a drink.’

Maeve didn’t very much like the pub to which Brendan took her, but she quite liked the port and lemon he bought her. In fact she liked it so much she drank it down almost at once and Brendan smiled at her.

‘It’s not pop, you know. Treat it with care.’

Maeve remembered the brandy she’d had on the boat and how the Irish woman had said something similar. ‘I’m not used to alcohol,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s obvious,’ Brendan said. ‘I’ll buy you another and you sip it this time.’

Maeve did sip it, but the unaccustomed drink made her feel peculiar and a little giggly, and as they made their way to the tram, she confessed to Brendan that her head felt swimmy. Brendan was pleased; he wanted Maeve in a compliant mood that night.

The café was in darkness and there wasn’t a soul about as they stole up the stairs to Maeve’s flat, and once inside Brendan pulled Maeve on to the settee beside him. Suddenly it didn’t matter to Maeve that Brendan hadn’t asked her to marry him. He would, she was sure, in time, and until then . . . After all, he’d been so kind to her and so generous. She didn’t repel Brendan’s groping fingers, nor the kisses that she seemed to be drowning in.

But then at the last moment she pulled back and Brendan let out a howl of agony. He felt as if his crotch would explode and he knew by Maeve’s wild eyes and breathlessness that she wanted it as much as he did. No pleading would shift her, and Brendan thought of taking her by force, but knew it would destroy everything between them if he did.

But Maeve too had been shaken and was frustrated and unhappy. It was getting harder and harder to refuse Brendan when she wanted it so much herself. She’d never in her life felt the hot shafts of desire that Brendan induced in her and knew that eventually she would give in to him.

Brendan knew it too, but he didn’t know how long it could take to break Maeve from her upbringing and the moral confines of the Church, and wasn’t at all sure he could last out that long. However, despite his deep desire for Maeve, he’d had no intention on God’s earth of marrying her in the beginning.

He’d had no intention of marrying anyone. He’d never known a happy marriage – certainly his own parents’ had been no advertisement for blissful contentment. All his brothers had gone down the same road and he’d seen the lifeblood squeezed out of them with their demanding wives and houses full of screaming brats. He had no use for children.

He was the eldest in his family and each child his mother had had after him had meant less attention for himself. He’d felt further and further pushed away as the younger ones got what care and love there might be, though there was precious little of either.

There had been no time at all for his father either. His mother just seemed to regard him as a walking pay packet. She’d never been satisfied with the amount he’d given her every Friday night. Small wonder, Brendan thought, his father had felt the need to smack her about now and then. Brendan had certainly seen no harm in it. She was a moaning bloody nag, like most women, and he agreed with his father that they all needed teaching a lesson a time or two. A man had to be master in his own house.

He’d decided long ago that he’d share his money with no woman. He worked for it and he’d choose how it was to be spent. Brendan was the only one left at home. His mother cooked his meals and washed and ironed for him, and he paid keep, which she was always bloody grateful for. He always had enough left to buy as many fags as he wanted, a bellyful of beer as often as he liked and to place a bet if he had the mind to. He thought his brothers fools and saw marriage as a trap.

He didn’t live like a monk either. He had plenty of money to jingle in his pocket and buy drinks for those willing to please him, and he found there were women enough to accommodate him if he was that way inclined. He used to boast he’d never had to pay for sex. After a good night out most were only too grateful for a bit of slap and tickle, and Brendan always admitted to it later in confession and got absolution. He saw no reason for his life to change. That was until he met Maeve Brannigan.

That night, with his whole body on fire, he faced the fact that to have Maeve he had to marry her, for his need for her had got between him and his reason. And so he proposed.

Maeve was ecstatic that the man she adored, loved more than life itself, had asked her to marry him and soon they could love each other totally and fully as they both longed to.

However, Maeve’s parents didn’t want their daughter marrying a man they’d never seen, especially as she was under age. In desperation, Maeve turned to her uncle. Michael knew Brendan, had known him for years because they attended the same church and drank in the same pub when Michael ever had the money and Aggie’s permission to do so. He thought Brendan Hogan a grand man altogether, but because Maeve seldom went near them he had not been aware that his niece was even seeing him.

He knew Brendan had a bit of a reputation with a certain type of woman, but he told himself there was no harm in that – many young men sowed their wild oats until they met the girl they wanted to marry. He wrote and told Maeve’s parents Brendan was a good fellow altogether and would make Maeve a grand husband, and wasn’t he not only a good Catholic, but as Irish as themselves and from County Clare? Reassured and relieved they gave their blessing.

Brendan knew there were ways of preventing pregnancies, for at the pubs he’d met many old lags, veterans of the Great War, who had told him about it. Not that the rubber sheaths they wore were necessarily to prevent pregnancy, but rather the clap that the French prostitutes seemed riddled with. But they would prevent pregnancy too, and that’s what he was interested in. He wanted Maeve all to himself and not just for the tiny morsels of time that were all she’d have left for him if she had a houseful of weans to attend to.

But when Brendan went to see the priest before the wedding, Father Trelawney was shocked that he should even consider such a thing. Didn’t Brendan realise that it was totally against the Church’s teaching? Didn’t Brendan appreciate each child was a gift from God?

Chastened and resigned, Brendan married his Maeve in late October 1930 at St Catherine’s Church where he and his family worshipped. Maeve was coming up to nineteen. Her white wedding dress and the bridesmaid dress for her cousin, Jane, were paid for by her parents, and the wedding breakfast was paid for by Brendan’s parents. They said they were glad to get him off their hands and especially to one of their own. ‘Sure, didn’t we think he’d be hanging round our necks for years?’ his mother, Lily, said.