Read Online A Whisper to the Living by Ruth Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
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on tick. Be nice. Smile at the woman for God’s sake. Martin, get that knitting needle off our Tony, ’e’ll ’ave ’is bloody eye out like a lolly on a stick in a minute. An’ get that bloody cat out o’ the cupboard, Cathy. Yes, I know she’s lookin’ where to ’ave ’er kittens – find ’er a box in the front room an’ a couple of old
Evening Newses
. Now. ’Oo’s took the bloody lid off me bloody kettle? Annie love, go an’ ’ave a look round t’ back garden will yer? An’ while yer about it, see if you can catch sight o’ me fryin’ pan. Only they’ve been playin’ ’ouse again, so you’ll likely find a cup or two while yer at it . . .’
I loved every minute I spent in that smelly, untidy house. There was nowhere to sit, scarcely an inch of room to even stand in, but at the centre of it all was Mrs Cullen, her great belly heaving with laughter as often as not, calmly dealing with each crisis as it arose, spreading her love and generosity equally amongst all-comers.
When I would go home, always reluctantly, I could not help comparing my mother with Mrs Cullen. Long hours in the mill were taking their toll and it was plain that my mother was not a happy woman, for her face, once rounded and well-fleshed, was becoming sunken and seemed to be acquiring new and deeper lines with each passing day. Even her Titian hair was losing its vibrance, while her shoulders became rounder, as if they were carrying a great invisible weight.
Higson, on the other hand, appeared to be thriving on good food and fresh air and had regained most, if not all the strength he had lost while in the prison camp. But however many windows he cleaned, however many spools my mother doffed, however many frames she tended, there was never enough money in the house.
Furthermore, now that men had returned from the war and had recovered from wounds of body and mind, they were reclaiming their jobs and my mother was forced to agree, with reluctance, that she would eventually take an evening shift at the mill. This bitter pill was sweetened by the offer of promotion to supervisor in charge of two rooms and as this meant an increase in rate, her money would not be noticeably reduced.
The elevation in her status should have cheered her and improved the atmosphere at home, at least between her and him, but still the long silences continued. I knew that my mother was very unhappy and I understood enough to realize that Eddie Higson was responsible for her state of mind. This was one thing for which I could not blame myself, because I was being as good as I knew how to be, was keeping out of ‘his’ way as frequently as possible, spending my time at the Cullens’ or in my attic room.
But for many months now, I had not heard my mother laugh, had seldom seen her smile. The marriage had been a mistake. Even at my tender age, I could sense this. Yet I derived no satisfaction from having been proved right.
7
Communion
Father Cavanagh persuaded them both to attend my First Communion and they looked so embarrassed and out of place, never having been inside St Stephen’s before, that I rather wished the priest had kept his nose out of our business. I wore a long dress of creamy-white satin, a veil with a stiff crown of artificial flowers and new white shoes. In my hands I carried a nosegay of mimosa and gypsy grass, together with a white missal and a rosary that my father had had blessed by Pope Pius XII himself.
The priest placed the bread on my extended tongue while an altar boy held a solid gold plate under my chin in case of crumbs. Should the body of Jesus Christ crumble, then it must crumble only onto precious metal.
I blessed myself, trying to feel solemn and dignified and waited for the wafer to melt, for I had been forbidden to chew. It stuck to the roof of my dry mouth and I hoped that Jesus wouldn’t mind too much when I edged it away with my tongue, for this thin consecrated biscuit now embodied Christ, who had died for
Evening Newses
. Now. ’Oo’s took the bloody lid off me bloody kettle? Annie love, go an’ ’ave a look round t’ back garden will yer? An’ while yer about it, see if you can catch sight o’ me fryin’ pan. Only they’ve been playin’ ’ouse again, so you’ll likely find a cup or two while yer at it . . .’
I loved every minute I spent in that smelly, untidy house. There was nowhere to sit, scarcely an inch of room to even stand in, but at the centre of it all was Mrs Cullen, her great belly heaving with laughter as often as not, calmly dealing with each crisis as it arose, spreading her love and generosity equally amongst all-comers.
When I would go home, always reluctantly, I could not help comparing my mother with Mrs Cullen. Long hours in the mill were taking their toll and it was plain that my mother was not a happy woman, for her face, once rounded and well-fleshed, was becoming sunken and seemed to be acquiring new and deeper lines with each passing day. Even her Titian hair was losing its vibrance, while her shoulders became rounder, as if they were carrying a great invisible weight.
Higson, on the other hand, appeared to be thriving on good food and fresh air and had regained most, if not all the strength he had lost while in the prison camp. But however many windows he cleaned, however many spools my mother doffed, however many frames she tended, there was never enough money in the house.
Furthermore, now that men had returned from the war and had recovered from wounds of body and mind, they were reclaiming their jobs and my mother was forced to agree, with reluctance, that she would eventually take an evening shift at the mill. This bitter pill was sweetened by the offer of promotion to supervisor in charge of two rooms and as this meant an increase in rate, her money would not be noticeably reduced.
The elevation in her status should have cheered her and improved the atmosphere at home, at least between her and him, but still the long silences continued. I knew that my mother was very unhappy and I understood enough to realize that Eddie Higson was responsible for her state of mind. This was one thing for which I could not blame myself, because I was being as good as I knew how to be, was keeping out of ‘his’ way as frequently as possible, spending my time at the Cullens’ or in my attic room.
But for many months now, I had not heard my mother laugh, had seldom seen her smile. The marriage had been a mistake. Even at my tender age, I could sense this. Yet I derived no satisfaction from having been proved right.
7
Communion
Father Cavanagh persuaded them both to attend my First Communion and they looked so embarrassed and out of place, never having been inside St Stephen’s before, that I rather wished the priest had kept his nose out of our business. I wore a long dress of creamy-white satin, a veil with a stiff crown of artificial flowers and new white shoes. In my hands I carried a nosegay of mimosa and gypsy grass, together with a white missal and a rosary that my father had had blessed by Pope Pius XII himself.
The priest placed the bread on my extended tongue while an altar boy held a solid gold plate under my chin in case of crumbs. Should the body of Jesus Christ crumble, then it must crumble only onto precious metal.
I blessed myself, trying to feel solemn and dignified and waited for the wafer to melt, for I had been forbidden to chew. It stuck to the roof of my dry mouth and I hoped that Jesus wouldn’t mind too much when I edged it away with my tongue, for this thin consecrated biscuit now embodied Christ, who had died for
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