Pack Up Your Troubles

‘Ach, he’ll hear worse before he’s much older,’ Thomas told his daughter.

‘Not from me, he won’t,’ Maeve said. But she knew the swearwords her small son unwittingly used were not the biggest issue here.

‘Come away in, anyway,’ Annie said. ‘Let’s not quarrel among ourselves.’

Maeve sighed. ‘Aye.’ Her mother was right. They had enough trouble with people outside of the family; they shouldn’t fight each other.

‘Don’t worry so much, pet,’ Thomas told his daughter. ‘It’ll just be a nine-days’ wonder, you’ll see.’

Maeve knew he was trying to cheer her up and didn’t believe that any more than he did, but she gave him a watery smile anyway. ‘I really hope so, Daddy. Oh, I really hope so.’

But the situation didn’t ease. Other family members, although supportive, didn’t understand what it was like. Tom, for example, was living far enough away from the family to belong to another parish entirely. He came to see Maeve and though he told her forcibly no woman should be forced to stay with a man who beat his wife and child and drank his wages, he couldn’t help her at all.

Liam and Kate, away in Dublin, had almost forgotten what life was like in the small towns and villages in the north of Ireland, but in their letters to Maeve they urged her to stick to her guns after Annie wrote telling them all about it. And Maeve was glad of their support, for the only positive letters she got apart from theirs were from Elsie, who told her of the goings-on of the street. She also assured Maeve that while the tale of her taking off with the children was on everyone’s lips for a while, in a street where one person’s business is known to all, there were always new bits of gossip to chew over.

Her Uncle Michael, on the other hand, seemed totally confused by Maeve’s flight. He expressed surprise that she’d returned to the very place that just a few years before she was mad to get away from. And he claimed Brendan was a broken man. He wrote to Annie:

Besides, I don’t see that the problem between them could be so big, or surely I would have had some indication of it? Brendan, at any rate, is willing to forgive and forget and I think Maeve would be best to come home now. She has taught him a wee lesson and I’m sure he’ll be a changed man after it.

‘Why does no one see the man is evil through and through?’ Maeve cried.

‘You didn’t,’ Annie reminded her. ‘It took you some time to get the measure of him. And when all’s said and done, despite what you said about the house you live in, and how everyone knows your business, the man seen walking down the street might not be the same as the one within your own four walls.’

Maeve knew her mother was right. No one but his family had known Brendan as she had, yet she’d not seen through the veneer of his charm and had paid the price for nine years. Surely to God that was long enough?

Father O’Brien didn’t think so. He was at the farmhouse the Saturday evening after Annie had received Michael’s letter with yet another letter from Father Trelawney.

‘This letter from your parish priest, Maeve, has your husband’s assurance that things will be different. He promises that this will be so. He says also that you are unreasonable in some of your demands on him. Going for a drink after he finishes work is not unusual in a job such as his.’

‘I know that, Father,’ Maeve cried. ‘I’m being made out to be a monster. I don’t object to Brendan having a drink and never have had. But surely to God it’s not right to take food from the weans’ mouths for his beer money, or to give to the bookie’s runner?’

Father O’Brien smiled and Maeve had the urge to smack him hard enough to swipe the smile from his face, especially when he said, ‘Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?’

‘No, I bloody well don’t,’ Maeve said. ‘I wish you’d all leave me alone and mind your own business.’

‘Your spiritual welfare is my business.’ Father O’Brien shook his head. Father Trelawney said Maeve was subject to exaggeration and, anyway, whatever Brendan Hogan had done in the past, he’d assured him he had changed, he’d been so upset by his wife’s actions. ‘You must give the man a chance, Maeve,’ he said. ‘You must forget the past. Things will be different now, I’m sure of it.’

Maeve didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it, but Father O’Brien did and so did Father Trelawney. She was the wicked perpetrator who wanted to end their mockery of a marriage and Brendan the deserted husband, seemingly out of his mind with worry, and promising the moon if only his wife would come back to him.

She turned to face the priest. ‘And can you guarantee that no harm will befall the child I’m carrying? And that no incident, however accidental, will result in a miscarriage? Whether you believe it or not, the child I miscarried was due to the impact of a hobnail boot in my stomach and I carry the imprint still. Whatever I told the authorities, they didn’t believe me. I should imagine that they have me on some list or other, labelled “Suspicious Circumstances”, don’t you?’

Maeve had no idea whether this was true or not but, she guessed, neither would the priest. She was right, he didn’t, and he made no attempt to answer her. Instead, he turned to Rosemarie, who was waiting for Greg to pick her up. Father O’Brien had chosen the time to visit the family with care, wanting them all to be there.

‘Are you looking forward to your wedding, Rosemarie?’ he asked.

Rosemarie was disarmed. Whatever argument the priest had with Maeve, she decided, did not concern her and she certainly couldn’t be blamed in any way. ‘Why, yes, Father.’

Father O’Brien smiled, and Maeve, seeing it, recognised the curl of the lip that had been the same as Brendan’s just before he was to deliver the punch between the eyes. ‘It would be a pity then,’ the priest said, ‘to postpone the ceremony.’

‘But, Father, there’s no need,’ Rosemarie said, and Maeve could have wept for the naïvety and genuine bewilderment in her voice. ‘Everything is arranged for August now.’

‘Ah yes, but I wonder if you understand the sanctity of marriage, Rosemarie?’

‘Yes, Father. Of course I do.’

‘Your sister doesn’t seem to.’

‘Father, surely that’s nothing to do with me?’

‘Not directly, no,’ the priest said. ‘I just want you to fully understand the commitment you’re making.’

‘Stop this!’ Maeve cried. ‘Hound and harass me if you must, but for God’s sake, leave my family alone.’

Father O’Brien’s eyes sparkled with hatred. ‘Leave your family alone,’ he repeated. ‘Like your family should have left you alone. Your mother should have shown you the door when you arrived, lest you corrupt your young brother and two sisters. But she didn’t, so they share in your guilt and shame and will continue to do so, until you see sense.’

‘Father, for pity’s sake,’ Annie cried. ‘How could I turn my back on my own child?’

‘When a woman is given in marriage, she and her husband should be as one,’ Father O’Brien thundered. ‘It was your Christian duty to point this out to Maeve.’

‘Oh, you’d know all about it,’ Thomas said sarcastically. ‘Marriage, and all it means. Don’t you come to my door again threatening my bloody family.’

‘Thomas!’

‘Don’t you “Thomas” me, Annie. The man has a bloody nerve.’

‘Shouting at me will change nothing,’ Father O’Brien said. ‘To come between a husband and wife is a mortal sin, and you should be aware of it. If you were to die with a mortal sin on your soul before you were able to repent and ask forgiveness, you would roast eternally in hell’s flames.’

Maeve saw her mother’s face blanch with fear, but her father’s was red in temper. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Well, let me tell you, if welcoming my daughter, who was in dire need, is your idea of mortal sin, then I’d be glad to meet the others of like mind in hell and shake them by the hand. Not that I intend to see them for a wee while yet.’

‘Thomas, you are making a grave mistake,’ Father O’Brien said. ‘God will not be mocked.’

‘It’s not God I’m mocking, you sanctimonious bugger,’ Thomas said. ‘And if you have nothing further to say, I’d like you to leave.’

‘As I said, you’re making a grave mistake.’

‘No doubt. Good night, Father.’ Thomas turned from the priest and sat down facing the fire with his back to the outraged man, then threw on another two peat bricks and gave the fire a poke.

It was up to Annie, flustered and upset, to see the priest to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said in a whisper as she opened it for him. ‘He’s . . . Thomas is a wee bit upset.’

‘It’s not to be wondered at. Everyone is upset when they go against God and what He wants,’ the priest said, ducking his head to go out of the farmhouse. ‘Think carefully about what I said back there, Annie. Good night to you.’

‘Good night, Father.’ She closed the door behind the priest.

Thomas turned to his wife and growled, ‘Don’t you ever do that again and apologise in my own house on my behalf.’

‘I couldn’t leave it like that,’ Annie protested. ‘You swearing at the priest and ordering him from the place.’

‘You should think yourself lucky. If I’d had to look and listen to the hypocrite much longer, I would have punched him on the jaw,’ Thomas said.

‘That wouldn’t have helped anyone, Daddy,’ Rosemarie said, and she appealed to her mother. ‘Do you think he meant it, about postponing the wedding? Only Greg’s mother wouldn’t like it.’

Maeve knew Greg’s mother wouldn’t, but then she liked so little. In many ways she felt sorry for Rosemarie, for Sadie Fearney was a widow and reliant on her son, Greg. She had no desire for him to take a wife and lose her place in the household, and Maeve guessed would make Rosemarie’s life a misery unless she established herself at the very beginning. The last thing Rosemarie needed was for the priest to postpone that wedding indirectly because of something her elder sister did. Surely he couldn’t do that, even though priests seemed to be a law unto themselves. Surely that was going beyond the bounds of reasonableness?

‘I’m sure that was just an empty threat,’ Maeve said. ‘Just said to frighten and worry you.’

‘I hope so,’ Rosemarie said. Greg didn’t have a very strong personality and was not able to stand against his mother at the best of times, and Rosemarie was not one for asserting herself either. She was frightened of her future mother-in-law, but she also knew if she wasn’t to marry Greg, life would lose its meaning and if the priest were to succeed in blocking the wedding, Rosemarie knew Sadie would make hay out of it.

Maeve could see the worry of having a mortal sin on her soul was torturing her mother. Annie could never remember committing a mortal sin before. Mortal sin was for stealing, murder, adultery or missing Mass, but Annie had done none of those things and Maeve knew she would fret over the priest’s words. Her father might be able to fend them off but her mother couldn’t do that, she knew, and her heart felt like lead.

That night in bed, she lay long after Grace, Nuala and Rosemarie’s even breathing told her they were asleep, and she thought about the trouble she’d brought to her family. Even the children were no longer carefree. Now Grace often had mysterious stomach aches before school, and both she and Kevin returned solemn-eyed and never spoke of the happenings through the day as they once had done. Neither indeed did Nuala and Colin, and Maeve guessed they were going through it too – and Rosemarie, behind the counter in a shop in the town, unable to hide away from people. Maeve supposed she should be grateful Rosemarie hadn’t been sacked, but she knew she probably had to run the gauntlet daily.

Then, there was her mother, a prisoner on the farm for she couldn’t face the townspeople. Thomas had to fetch her groceries, and though she went to Mass, she didn’t go to confession, Benediction or Devotions and hadn’t been to the Mothers’ Union since Maeve had arrived at her door.

Maeve knew she had to return and, if necessary, live out the travesty of her marriage in her back-to-back hovel in Birmingham. Then maybe everyone else’s life could go on as before. But she’d not take the children back to suffer with her. She couldn’t do that to them for she knew full well what she’d be returning to.

She’d dreamt of starting afresh in Ireland, bringing her children up in peace and tranquillity and, in time, getting a job. Now the dream lay in tatters, and ahead of her, she had no doubt, lay a nightmare. She sobbed in the bed, muffling her tears in the pillow.

The next afternoon, she went to see Father O’Brien. She went alone, for she’d not told the family of her decision.

Cissie O’Brien, the priest’s sister, looked at Maeve coldly. ‘Yes?’

‘I’d like to see the priest, please.’

‘He’s resting after his dinner.’

‘It’s urgent.’ And it was urgent, Maeve thought, for if she didn’t carry out the resolution now, having wrestled with it all night, she’d lose the courage to do it at all.

‘Wait a minute,’ Cissie said through compressed lips. ‘I’ll see how he is.’

A little later she was back, disapproval written all over her face. ‘Come in,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Father will see you now.’

Father O’Brien was sitting before a fire, in a cosy-looking armchair in a comfortably furnished but very tidy sitting room.

‘Well, Maeve?’ Father O’Brien said heartily as if they’d never had a cross word in their lives. ‘This is a surprise.’ He got up from the chair and said, ‘Sit down, sit down. I’ll ask Cissie for tea.’

‘No!’ It came out louder and sharper than Maeve intended, and she went on, ‘No, I’m sorry, I want no tea and I’d prefer to stand. What I have to say shouldn’t take long.’

Father O’Brien’s eyes narrowed but, undaunted, Maeve persevered. ‘If I was to return to my husband,’ she said, ‘would you stop the harassment of my family?’

‘Maeve, I object to the word harassment.’

‘Call it what you like – your bounden Christian duty, if you like,’ Maeve said impatiently. ‘I’ve not come to bandy words with you but to ask for assurances. If I return, will you hear the confessions of my family and administer Communion to them at Mass? Will my mother be able to shop in Ballyglen again without folk whispering and sniggering behind her back? And will the children be free of taunts? And finally, will you allow Rosemarie’s wedding to go ahead as planned and allow Kevin to rejoin the Communion class?’

‘Maeve, that isn’t all my doing.’

‘A fair bit of it is,’ Maeve said. ‘And you could have stopped it all with one or two words to the parishioners from the pulpit. Isn’t there a piece in the Bible, where Jesus meets the prostitute at the well, and when people would have stoned her to death Jesus stopped them and said that those who were without sin should cast the first stone? As I remember it, the woman got away without a mark on her. That’s what my God’s like, Father. Yours seems full of anger: “Vengeance is mine; . . . saith the Lord.” Mine says, “Do your best, you’re only human.”’

‘Maeve, you are blasphemous!’

‘I’m not, Father,’ Maeve said. ‘My God is very real to me, but I can’t see Him like you do.’

‘Do you believe God speaks through me?’

Maeve shrugged. ‘It’s what we’re taught to believe. I don’t know, but whether you are answering for yourself or as God’s mouthpiece, can you answer my questions?’

‘And you will go back to Brendan?’

‘Aye. And whether it’s your God or mine, I hope one of them will help me,’ Maeve said.

Father O’Brien pursed his lips, but didn’t censure Maeve further. ‘If your parents come and confess their sins in confession – all their sins – then there will be no problem with that, or allowing them to take Communion. Rosemarie’s wedding will go ahead as planned, but Kevin will be going back to Birmingham with you.’

‘No, Father, he won’t. Nor will Grace.’

‘Oh, I’m sure Brendan—’

‘Brendan, Father, won’t give a tinker’s cuss. In any case with all the talk of war, I feel the children will be safer over here in Ireland. He’s never cared for them anyway, and they are scared witless of him. When he hears I am pregnant again, he will be furious. But this time, I want to carry this baby. Another condition is that Father Trelawney tells him that if anything happens to the child, he’ll be held responsible.’

‘Maeve, the miscarriage was an accident.’

‘Well, I want no more of them,’ Maeve said firmly. ‘So will you do it?’

Father O’Brien looked at the girl before him and for all her twenty-seven years he thought, she was little more than a girl. Her body was slender despite the slight rounding of her stomach and her frame small-boned, her whole face was determined, but behind the determination he read real fear and apprehension in Maeve’s face. He nodded. ‘I’ll see to it,’ he promised.

‘And, Father, Brendan can drink the pubs dry for all I care, as long as he tips up the rent and money for the gas and enough to feed us.’

‘Didn’t you say he beat you?’ Father O’Brien said. ‘Don’t you want that stopped too?’

Maeve sighed. ‘The age of miracles is passed,’ she said. ‘Brendan will never change. In fact, not having Kevin to torment and terrify might make it worse for me, but I am better able for it than a wee boy. I’ll be all right.’

Father O’Brien suddenly felt immeasurably sorry for the woman in front of him. She’d been wilful and headstrong all of her growing up, a trial for the nuns who’d had the teaching of her since she’d been small. He was glad she was retuning to her husband, but for all that . . . ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve seen sense at last, Maeve,’ he said.

‘Seeing sense, is that what they call it?’ Maeve said sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but really I’m not returning to Brendan through choice, but because you’ve forced me. I’m not going to argue with you over it now. I’ve agreed to go back. Let it lie there.’

The priest gave a nod. ‘When will you leave?’

‘Oh, as soon as it can be arranged,’ Maeve said. ‘Now the decision has been made, there is no point in delaying things, is there?’

The priest nodded again and Maeve went on, ‘And you will write immediately to Father Trelawney?’

‘I will, I assure you.’

‘So, I’ll say goodbye, Father,’ Maeve said.

The priest put out his hand and Maeve looked at it, but made no effort to take it. The silence stretched between them as her glance shifted from the outstretched hand to the priest’s face.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I cannot shake hands with a man I have no respect for.’

She saw the priest’s face flush with anger and embarrassment. She knew her words had shaken him and she also knew he’d probably never forgive her. She walked across the floor and opened the door. Father O’Brien watched her go but did not move, nor did he call his sister to see her out, and once outside Maeve let her breath out in a huge sigh and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

She tramped the hills for hours, seeing no one and glad of it, for the tears continued to flow and she gazed about her as she drank in the space and peace around her. She knew it might have to last her a lifetime.

Eventually, emotionally exhausted but with dry eyes, and her feelings so tightly in check that every part of her body ached, she returned to the farmhouse to tell her family what she’d done.

EIGHT

Brendan and Father Trelawney were waiting to meet Maeve at New Street station on the evening she returned home in the middle of June 1939. The journey had been horrendous and she’d been as sick as ever on the ferry, but as she’d been sick with misery and despair since she’d left, it hardly mattered. The vision of her solemn parents and tearful children haunted her throughout the journey back to Birmingham.

Father Trelawney treated her as if she was a valued guest and not an errant wife returning because she had to, and Brendan barely acknowledged her. Yet she was glad of the priest’s presence, knowing while he was there Brendan could do little to her, and when he suggested going home with them both to talk things over, she accepted it, though never could she remember ‘talking things over’ with Brendan.

Everything looked dirtier and drabber than Maeve remembered as she came out of New Street station flanked by the two men and got into an uncomfortable tram for the short ride home. Latimer Street was full of children playing out in the summer evening, and many women stood at their doorways opening on to the street, talking to their neighbours. As they became aware of Maeve, all conversation ceased and most of the women’s eyes were sympathetic, but Maeve kept her head down and acknowledged none of them.

They turned down the entry into the court, where Maeve was surprised to see Elsie’s door shut and the windows closed. She’d written Elsie a letter telling her that she was being forced to return but, knowing how she’d feel about it, had only posted the letter the previous day. But it should have arrived that morning, and Maeve was surprised her friend wasn’t there to greet her and hoped it wasn’t because she was cross with her for coming back. Maeve felt her spirits sink. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been looking forward to seeing Elsie again.

Father Trelawney saw her glance at Elsie’s house and said, ‘Mrs Phillips is away at her sister’s in Handsworth. She was taken bad and Mrs Phillips went over a couple of days ago.’

Maeve said nothing, but she saw the hard cruel smile on Brendan’s face and was afraid. She knew it was the thought of Elsie next door that had saved her many a time. Brendan couldn’t stand Elsie and told her so often, but she didn’t give a damn and was one of the few people who seemed unafraid of him. When Brendan started on her Maeve knew those around would tut and say something should be done, but no one would interfere, and she shivered in sudden apprehension.

The step into the house was nearly black and the house itself smelt musty and was covered in a film of dust. Maeve remembered Elsie telling her that Brendan had been living at his mother’s – not that he’d have done anything to clean the house even if he had been living in it; he wouldn’t have had a clue where to start. Maeve longed to boil up some water and attack the place and knew she would as soon as she was alone, but for now Father Trelawney was there and wanting to ‘talk things over’ and she knew she’d have to humour the man.

She wondered if there was a bite to eat in the house, but before she was able to ask, Father Trelawney said, ‘Brendan has got in a few basics, Maeve, and I suggest you put the kettle on, and Brendan and I will go out and treat the three of us to pie and chips.’

Maeve stared at him. Never had she tasted a pie from the chip shop. She’d seen them and smelt them, but never tasted one. Once she’d been in Elsie’s house when her husband came in and Elsie had brought him chips and a steak-and-kidney pie from the chippy. The crust of the pie had been golden brown and when Alf cut into it, the sight of the chunks of meat in the thick appetising-looking gravy had made her feel faint. She’d had nothing to eat that day, her stomach had grumbled with emptiness, and she’d known there was little in her house to make a meal of. She’d had to make an excuse to Elsie and leave before she was tempted to grab the pie from Alf’s plate and shove it in her own mouth.

‘That would be grand, Father,’ she said, her mouth watering at the thought of it. She was grateful, for everything looked better if you had a full stomach. And she was glad too that Father Trelawney was taking Brendan with him. She’d be on her own with him long enough, God alone knew, and she was terrified, bloody terrified, but she pushed such fears to the back of her mind, filled the kettle and laid the table for the meal.

Neither the incongruousness of the situation nor the presence of the priest and her brooding husband could take her enjoyment away from the delicious pie and crispy chips, which she forced herself to eat slowly. She hadn’t known she was so hungry before she began, and the food and tea revived her. She was quite happy to let Father Trelawney carry the conversation.