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Authors: Ruth Hamilton
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collection of ballbearings in a variety of sizes was massive. A ‘bolly’ was worth at least three glass ‘ollies’ in the local barter system.
Magsy’s eyes swept the room, taking in piles of books, a photograph of her dead husband, some ironing, a few bits of utility furniture. Every last penny after food and rent went into the
improvement of Elizabeth O’Gara. Magsy was determined that her daughter would not become a mill-girl or a cleaner. Beth would have a proper job, one that carried respect and a decent salary.
Oh yes, Beth would never wear an apron at work. A thought struck – surgeons wore aprons, but their aprons were not badges of slavery.
‘Mammy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who was that man?’
‘Which man?’
Beth closed her book. ‘You’re blushing, Mammy.’
Magsy laughed. ‘Ah, that’ll be the heat from the fire.’
Beth was unconvinced – the fire was scarcely up and running. ‘Don’t try to wriggle off the hook – I saw you coming down the street with him.’
‘Ah, that man.’ Magsy turned away and put the blower to the flames. The blower, a square of metal with a handle at its centre, served to encourage flame to pull its way up the
chimney, thereby enlivening the weakest of fires.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ continued Beth.
‘Oh, have you?’
‘Yes.’
Magsy carried on tending the grate. She had no idea why, but she did feel embarrassed, as if she had been caught doing something wrong. And she hadn’t done wrong at all. ‘We were
walking in the same direction, Beth.’
‘Yes. Yes, you were.’
The mother, feeling the child’s eyes boring into her back, removed the blower, took up the poker and lifted kindling to allow in more oxygen. The trouble with having an intelligent
daughter was that said daughter was always a couple of paces ahead, sometimes in the wrong direction. ‘You have an imagination,’ said Magsy, ‘but don’t let it run
wild.’
‘Paul Horrocks.’ There was a giggle contained in Beth’s words. ‘Lives round the back with his mother. She is ill in bed and he has to do everything for her. According to
Mrs Higgins, the poor man will never get married while his mother’s alive.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, Mammy.’
When Magsy turned round, Beth’s nose had reburied itself in neurology. Beth always knew a great deal about the neighbours, as she spent time with Sal Higgins, who made everyone’s
business her business. Not that there was any malice in Sal . . .
‘Do you like him, Mammy?’
‘Read your book.’
‘But do you?’ The chin was raised. ‘I won’t mind. If you get married again, I’ll be happy for you.’
‘Holy St Joseph,’ cried Magsy, ‘can I not walk along a few paces without the banns being announced to all and sundry? You are a desperate torment to me, Beth
O’Gara.’
‘We couldn’t breathe or eat without nerves,’ came the reply.
Well, thought Magsy, thank the same holy St Joseph for that. The good thing about a genius was that she was easily drawn back into her chosen subject of study. Marry again, indeed. What would
she be wanting with a new husband when no-one could hold a candle to Billy O’Gara? Such dignity, he had owned. Magsy had called him William, because that name had suited him. She carried the
kettle through to the scullery, poured its contents into the enamel washing-up bowl.
The voice of genius floated through the doorway. ‘He’s had a lot of women after him, Mammy.’
Magsy scrubbed bacon fat from a plate.
‘He is very handsome.’
Knives and forks clattered.
‘Are you going to see him again, Mammy?’
A flustered Magsy appeared in the doorway between scullery and kitchen, a knife in her hand. ‘Have you any idea about what I’d like to do with this?’
Beth grinned. ‘You’d have to sharpen it first – that wouldn’t make a dent in my epidermis. You’d be better with a scalpel.’
The special moment happened then, an event they shared on an almost daily basis. They
Magsy’s eyes swept the room, taking in piles of books, a photograph of her dead husband, some ironing, a few bits of utility furniture. Every last penny after food and rent went into the
improvement of Elizabeth O’Gara. Magsy was determined that her daughter would not become a mill-girl or a cleaner. Beth would have a proper job, one that carried respect and a decent salary.
Oh yes, Beth would never wear an apron at work. A thought struck – surgeons wore aprons, but their aprons were not badges of slavery.
‘Mammy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who was that man?’
‘Which man?’
Beth closed her book. ‘You’re blushing, Mammy.’
Magsy laughed. ‘Ah, that’ll be the heat from the fire.’
Beth was unconvinced – the fire was scarcely up and running. ‘Don’t try to wriggle off the hook – I saw you coming down the street with him.’
‘Ah, that man.’ Magsy turned away and put the blower to the flames. The blower, a square of metal with a handle at its centre, served to encourage flame to pull its way up the
chimney, thereby enlivening the weakest of fires.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ continued Beth.
‘Oh, have you?’
‘Yes.’
Magsy carried on tending the grate. She had no idea why, but she did feel embarrassed, as if she had been caught doing something wrong. And she hadn’t done wrong at all. ‘We were
walking in the same direction, Beth.’
‘Yes. Yes, you were.’
The mother, feeling the child’s eyes boring into her back, removed the blower, took up the poker and lifted kindling to allow in more oxygen. The trouble with having an intelligent
daughter was that said daughter was always a couple of paces ahead, sometimes in the wrong direction. ‘You have an imagination,’ said Magsy, ‘but don’t let it run
wild.’
‘Paul Horrocks.’ There was a giggle contained in Beth’s words. ‘Lives round the back with his mother. She is ill in bed and he has to do everything for her. According to
Mrs Higgins, the poor man will never get married while his mother’s alive.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, Mammy.’
When Magsy turned round, Beth’s nose had reburied itself in neurology. Beth always knew a great deal about the neighbours, as she spent time with Sal Higgins, who made everyone’s
business her business. Not that there was any malice in Sal . . .
‘Do you like him, Mammy?’
‘Read your book.’
‘But do you?’ The chin was raised. ‘I won’t mind. If you get married again, I’ll be happy for you.’
‘Holy St Joseph,’ cried Magsy, ‘can I not walk along a few paces without the banns being announced to all and sundry? You are a desperate torment to me, Beth
O’Gara.’
‘We couldn’t breathe or eat without nerves,’ came the reply.
Well, thought Magsy, thank the same holy St Joseph for that. The good thing about a genius was that she was easily drawn back into her chosen subject of study. Marry again, indeed. What would
she be wanting with a new husband when no-one could hold a candle to Billy O’Gara? Such dignity, he had owned. Magsy had called him William, because that name had suited him. She carried the
kettle through to the scullery, poured its contents into the enamel washing-up bowl.
The voice of genius floated through the doorway. ‘He’s had a lot of women after him, Mammy.’
Magsy scrubbed bacon fat from a plate.
‘He is very handsome.’
Knives and forks clattered.
‘Are you going to see him again, Mammy?’
A flustered Magsy appeared in the doorway between scullery and kitchen, a knife in her hand. ‘Have you any idea about what I’d like to do with this?’
Beth grinned. ‘You’d have to sharpen it first – that wouldn’t make a dent in my epidermis. You’d be better with a scalpel.’
The special moment happened then, an event they shared on an almost daily basis. They
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