Read Online Goodnight Lady by Martina Cole - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Martina Cole
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the steaming pot over to the table.
‘What am I going to do?’
Molly sighed. ‘I don’t know, girl. We’ll put our thinking caps on and maybe something will come up.’
Rosalee started to cry and Briony went up the stairs and brought her down to the kitchen. ‘Bri ... Bri ...’
Briony hugged her close and kissed her. ‘Yes, it’s Bri Bri, and she’s got a lovely present for you for Christmas.’
Molly watched the red head and the blonde together and felt a sadness in herself. Both were tainted but in different ways. Of the two she’d rather have Rosalee any day.
Paddy was drunk; not his usual boisterous drunk but a sullen, melancholic mood. He staggered out of The Bull at twenty past ten. He would have stayed longer except he’d run out of money and his friends, on whom he had spent over a pound, were now preparing to leave as well. Paddy stumbled home.
The long walk, instead of sobering him up, only made him more peevish with every freezing step he took. In his mind he conjured up all the wrongs done to him by his wife. First and foremost in his mind was the fact she’d have no sexual relations with him. He’d get the priest round to talk to her about that. Then there was the fact that she doled out the money to him. He knew she had a good wad stashed away and, on the rare occasions that he was alone in the house, had searched for it fruitlessly. Then there was her attitude with the girls. By Christ, they were grown up now, except for Rosalee who would never grow up.
He felt his eyes mist up at the thought of her. In his drunken mind, Rosalee was the fault of his wife as well. He knew she’d tried to get rid of her, he knew everything about the bitch he lived with. Then the naked white body of his infant son came into his thoughts. It was the night Eileen left to work for Mr Dumas, and somehow, in his drink-fuddled mind, he decided that Molly had got rid of his son as well. The thought induced a rage so violent he felt he could choke on it. A man was judged by his sons. Splitarses - as girls were referred to - were a slur on a man’s manhood. They were no good for anything except the begetting of more sons.
As he passed by the empty streets he thought of all the setbacks he’d experienced in his life: never enough money, never anywhere decent to live. And somehow, all the blame was laid at Molly’s door.
She’d never worked like other women. She used to clean doorsteps when he met her, had specialised in that. She’d been a tweenie since seven and at fourteen had begun specialising in her damned doorsteps! For a split second he saw her as she had been when he met her. High-breasted and tall, she had looked a fit mate for the big handsome Irishman he’d been. But marriage and the bearing of children had changed all that. Her and her fancy ideas about the girls going to school. Not working, oh no. Or even doing adecent day’s housework until they were twelve. He gnashed his teeth in temper. With the four girls working they could have lived the life of Riley, but oh no. Not good enough for Molly Cavanagh. Her children, her girl children, were too good to slave fourteen hours a day in a sweat shop to earn their brass.
As he neared home Paddy’s rage was reaching astounding proportions. He even began to blame his wife for his own drinking and gambling. If she had treated him as a wife should, he wouldn’t stay out like he did, he justified it to himself. He omitted the fact he had always led the life of a single man even when married.
He opened the front door. His face was blue with the cold, but one look at his eyes and the girls saw their father was in the mood for a fight. Dressed in their Sunday best, they waited patiently for their mother to braid their hair ready for Midnight Mass at St Vincent’s where Kerry had been asked to sing a solo.
Molly was busy buttoning Rosalee’s dress. Hearing her husband enter, she cried: ‘Where the hell have you been? You know Kerry’s singing at
‘What am I going to do?’
Molly sighed. ‘I don’t know, girl. We’ll put our thinking caps on and maybe something will come up.’
Rosalee started to cry and Briony went up the stairs and brought her down to the kitchen. ‘Bri ... Bri ...’
Briony hugged her close and kissed her. ‘Yes, it’s Bri Bri, and she’s got a lovely present for you for Christmas.’
Molly watched the red head and the blonde together and felt a sadness in herself. Both were tainted but in different ways. Of the two she’d rather have Rosalee any day.
Paddy was drunk; not his usual boisterous drunk but a sullen, melancholic mood. He staggered out of The Bull at twenty past ten. He would have stayed longer except he’d run out of money and his friends, on whom he had spent over a pound, were now preparing to leave as well. Paddy stumbled home.
The long walk, instead of sobering him up, only made him more peevish with every freezing step he took. In his mind he conjured up all the wrongs done to him by his wife. First and foremost in his mind was the fact she’d have no sexual relations with him. He’d get the priest round to talk to her about that. Then there was the fact that she doled out the money to him. He knew she had a good wad stashed away and, on the rare occasions that he was alone in the house, had searched for it fruitlessly. Then there was her attitude with the girls. By Christ, they were grown up now, except for Rosalee who would never grow up.
He felt his eyes mist up at the thought of her. In his drunken mind, Rosalee was the fault of his wife as well. He knew she’d tried to get rid of her, he knew everything about the bitch he lived with. Then the naked white body of his infant son came into his thoughts. It was the night Eileen left to work for Mr Dumas, and somehow, in his drink-fuddled mind, he decided that Molly had got rid of his son as well. The thought induced a rage so violent he felt he could choke on it. A man was judged by his sons. Splitarses - as girls were referred to - were a slur on a man’s manhood. They were no good for anything except the begetting of more sons.
As he passed by the empty streets he thought of all the setbacks he’d experienced in his life: never enough money, never anywhere decent to live. And somehow, all the blame was laid at Molly’s door.
She’d never worked like other women. She used to clean doorsteps when he met her, had specialised in that. She’d been a tweenie since seven and at fourteen had begun specialising in her damned doorsteps! For a split second he saw her as she had been when he met her. High-breasted and tall, she had looked a fit mate for the big handsome Irishman he’d been. But marriage and the bearing of children had changed all that. Her and her fancy ideas about the girls going to school. Not working, oh no. Or even doing adecent day’s housework until they were twelve. He gnashed his teeth in temper. With the four girls working they could have lived the life of Riley, but oh no. Not good enough for Molly Cavanagh. Her children, her girl children, were too good to slave fourteen hours a day in a sweat shop to earn their brass.
As he neared home Paddy’s rage was reaching astounding proportions. He even began to blame his wife for his own drinking and gambling. If she had treated him as a wife should, he wouldn’t stay out like he did, he justified it to himself. He omitted the fact he had always led the life of a single man even when married.
He opened the front door. His face was blue with the cold, but one look at his eyes and the girls saw their father was in the mood for a fight. Dressed in their Sunday best, they waited patiently for their mother to braid their hair ready for Midnight Mass at St Vincent’s where Kerry had been asked to sing a solo.
Molly was busy buttoning Rosalee’s dress. Hearing her husband enter, she cried: ‘Where the hell have you been? You know Kerry’s singing at
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