‘Do you know, I believe I will?’ Mrs Prescott said slowly. ‘What was it somebody said?
Why should the devil have all the good tunes
?’ She chuckled. ‘And why should the stuffy, self-satisfied upper classes, who put money into a collecting tin and think that’s sufficient, get all the best congregations? Yes, I’ll come along to the Barracks with you on Sunday, see what I think of a proper service.’
That had been in January. Now it was April, and Sara, who was now an extremely quick packer, had been told to call at the office on her way home, to see Miss Bateman.
‘My three months is up, so I should get a pay-rise,’ she said excitedly to Liz, the girl who worked next to her on the packing bench. ‘I could do with a few bob more. Gran and Clarrie and I manage all right, but it’s by the skin of our teeth sometimes.’
‘You
should
gerrit,’ Liz said rather cautiously. ‘But the old bat’s mean as ’ell’s ’ot, chuck. If she can see a way to get out of payin’ you she’ll grab it, I tell you straight.’
‘I’m fast, I’m tidy and I’ve never arrived late or left early; let her find fault if she dare,’ Sara said at once. ‘What’s more, I’ve gone to marking without a single moan when we’re ahead with our work in here. And no one in their senses can stand marking.’
Marking was done in a small, hot room by a team of girls with special indelible pencils and reels of tape. On sheets and towels the customers’ surnames and their laundry number were marked on the actual article, but on clothing a tape would be made and then stitched in where it would not be noticed. On the tail of a shirt, the hem of a nightgown, the waistband of pyjama trousers. Sara was no seamstress and very much disliked the pernickety, fiddly business of sewing on the tapes, though she thought the writing part was rather fun.
But it was the position of the marking room which made it so unpopular. It was right up against the offices, and Miss Bateman was forever popping in and criticising one’s work, one’s handwriting, the positioning of the tapes . . . Sara shuddered at the thought of being within reach of Miss Bateman whenever she was sent through there.
‘You shouldn’t write so nice and neat. You should cultivate sweaty ’ands, like I done. She never axed me to mark but once,’ Liz said, her hands continuing to smooth and fold as she talked. ‘Still, it’s better than bein’ sent to iron shirts what’ve been starched, I can tell you.’
When they were short in ironing Liz was often called for and though she grumbled, she took a pride in her work. Sara laughed at her.
‘Oh, you! You shouldn’t iron so beautifully, then. If you’d got any sense you’d rest the iron on a shirt-tail a moment too long, or turn cuffs under instead of over.’
‘Yes, well. The money’s not bad,’ Liz said. ‘Eh, look at the clock – we’ll be ’eadin’ ’ome in twenty minutes.’
‘Via the offices,’ Sara said. ‘Come with me, Liz! I’ll be really upset if the old bat tries to deny me that pay-rise.’
And half an hour later, when she came out of the supervisor’s office, she was as upset as she had anticipated.
‘The rise? Oh yes, I can have the rise. If I move to marking full-time,’ she said furiously, her eyes big and shiny with unshed tears. ‘So I said I’d rather stay in packing if she pleased and she said very well, but I’d have to work another three months on my present wages. Oh, Liz, and Gran and I have talked about what we’d do with the extra money . . . I thought I’d do an evening class, learn shorthand and typing.’
‘Never mind; I dunno a single gal as gorra rise after three months,’ Liz said consolingly as they walked down to the gate. ‘She never lets anyone gerraway wi’ that three months business, it’s always six.’
‘Hmm. Well, one of these days I’ll find something else, something which pays more money for shorter hours,’ Sara said darkly. ‘And then won’t I just tell her what to do with her job!’
Chapter Ten
June 1932
‘Are you excited? I’m the most excited I ever was,’ Polly said, stroking her mammy’s dark curls. It was a fine June evening and having put young Ivan, protesting vigorously, to bed, the two females of the family were wedged into the windowseat of their living room, chatting quietly and occasionally turning to stare down at the other members of the family, indulging in a game of hurley in the street below.
‘I believe you’ve mentioned that you’re excited over the “do”, if you can call a celebration of Mass at the Eucharistic Congress a “do”, a grush o’ times already today,’ Mammy said drily. ‘You’ve even worked Ivan up, and he a babe of three! He shouted at me when I put him into his bed that it weren’t fair; he was too young for to join in the game of hurley and nor he couldn’t go to the Mass tomorrow, and wasn’t Phoenix Park his favourite place, now?’
‘I’d have been down there too, so I would, playin’ hurley wit’ the fellers, only I’m to stay pure for the Mass tomorrow,’ Polly observed, turning to look out of the window and bringing a snort of amusement from her mammy’s lips. ‘What’s so funny, Mammy? You can’t stay pure
and
play hurley with the boys, can you?’
‘I don’t think your purity would be affected by a game of hurley,’ Mammy said. ‘But never mind, I won’t have you out there now, tirin’ yourself out and your big day tomorrow. Come on now, tell me the rest.’
‘Well, Sister says if we’ve not got white veils sure and wouldn’t a piece of butter muslin do the trick fine? And we’re to assemble by the Wellington monument at an ungodly hour . . . only she didn’t say that, Tad said that . . . and we’ll all be marched to our places and all the children in the whole of Ireland will be there, you betcha!’
‘Don’t talk American slang,’ Mammy said disapprovingly. ‘Or I’ll stop you going to the tuppenny rush so I will. There’s a lot of rubbish shown to kids these days, I know it.’
‘You don’t, because you never come to the fillums,’ Polly said, rubbing her head against her mother’s neck like a small, affectionate cat. ‘I’m quite tired; am I all ready for tomorrow, Mammy? For the biggest day so far in me whole life?’
‘You’ve got your veil, and your white dress, white shoes, white ribbon,’ Mammy said, counting the items off on her fingers. ‘Did the sister say to take your dinner or a drink? If all the children in Ireland are crammed into Phoenix Park won’t you need a bite and a sup?’
‘Sister said not to drink too much or we’d want to go, and sure no one would think of such a thing wit’ all the holy fathers around,’ Polly observed. ‘But we can take a little bottle if we like.’
‘To go into?’ Mammy said, then laughed apologetically; her daughter’s outraged glance told her she had overstepped the mark. ‘No, of course not, how foolish I’m bein’. The sister means you to wet your whistle with cold tea when the Mass is over.’
‘That’s right,’ Polly said sleepily. ‘Will I go to bed now, Mammy? Only I’m after callin’ for Aideen before ’tis light, tomorrow mornin’.’
‘Poor babe! Yes, all right. I’ll come and tuck you up.’
‘I’m not a babe, I’m eight,’ Polly said, climbing down from the windowseat and knuckling her eyes with both fists. ‘If tomorrow’s me big day, and Aideen’s big day, and Tad’s big day, is it the biggest day in the whole world for children everywhere?’
‘Well, no, because they aren’t all going to a children’s Mass in Phoenix Park, to see all the papal dignitaries,’ Mammy said. ‘Now come along, into bed wit’ you and I’ll bring you a hot drink. You’ll sleep better and you won’t need too much drink in the mornin’.’
‘All right. Mammy, I wish I could stand near Tad tomorrow. But they’re puttin’ the boys one side an’ the girls the other, Sister says it’s only right. And besides, Tad’s at the National School now and I’m at the Convent, and the nuns don’t think we should mix even wit’ the girls at the National,’ Polly said drowsily. ‘I’d sooner stand wit’ Tad, Mammy.’
‘What about Aideen? You wouldn’t let Aideen stand all alone, would you, alanna?’
‘No-oo, she could stand on me other side,’ Polly observed. ‘I’m so excited, Mammy, that I’ll never sleep a wink all night; you do know that? Everyone in my class is so excited they won’t sleep a wink, not a wink!’
‘Sure, you won’t sleep a wink,’ Mammy said soothingly. And when she came back and Polly was sound asleep she only smiled, and drank the hot drink herself. But she did wonder, as she got ready for bed, whether it was right of her to pay out money to have Polly convent-educated, when the boys all went to the National School.
But a wee girl’s different, she told herself resolutely as she climbed into bed beside her sleeping daughter. Sure and haven’t I always known she was a special child, God-given, so should have extra special care taken over her? Besides, ever since Polly began to talk about her guardian angel I’ve known that her sister, the one Brogan told me about, was still watching over her precious one. I wouldn’t like to let that little girl down. And it’s fine teachin’ they get at the Convent, a grand education. Polly will turn out a real little lady so she will and that’s what we all want.
Dawn breaks early in June and Polly was up in time to see the first light greying the sky. Mammy woke her, speaking low, stroking her face.
‘Polly, me love, you’d best get up now. Aideen’s mammy will be wakin’ her, and Tad’ll be stirrin’, and you don’t want to be last, do you?’
Polly came wide awake on the instant, eyes round, feet feeling for the rug.
‘Has mornin’ come, then? Oh, where’s me white dress? I mustn’t be late, I’d never forgive meself . . . hold on . . . is me bottle of cold tea ready? Sister says cold tea is good for us. Where’s me veil? I need pins . . . oh, I haven’t washed . . . I haven’t brushed me hair . . . me teeth . . . oh janey, I’m in a state so I am!’
‘Calm down, alanna,’ Mammy said, laughing. ‘Just do things one at a time, like you usually do – I’ve called you before the boys because you’ve got more to do. They’re wearin’ their best things, sure they are, but that doesn’t mean white veils an’ that. Now first, wash. The fire’s lit and the water’s warmin’ in the kettle. Then clean your teeth, then brush your hair. I’ll fix the veil and put a ribbon in presently. Now stop
worryin
’, for you’re in good time, you won’t be late. I’m sure Aideen isn’t even up yet, and as for Tad, he’ll be like Bevin and Donal, he’ll leave everything to the last moment. He’ll still be snorin’, I daresay.’
‘Oh, but it’s different for boys; boys don’t care,’ Polly said, flapping barefoot through into the kitchen and hopping with impatience whilst her mother took the kettle off the fire, poured hot water into a bowl and stood the bowl on the side table. ‘And anyway, you know what Tad’s mam and dad are like.’
‘I do,’ her mother said, fetching a clean piece of towel from the slatted shelf beside the fire. ‘He’ll get himself up and no fuss, either.’
‘If he comes,’ Polly said rather bitterly. ‘He was sayin’, after school yesterday, that wit’ a million children there no one ’ud notice one feller less. I told him I’d kill him and never, never marry him if he missed a chance to clear out his immortal soul, but you know Tad.’
‘I daresay his immortal soul will survive uncleared,’ Mammy said, smiling and bending down to give the fire a poke. ‘You’re a bit young to be considerin’ marriage, though, alanna.’ She straightened, a hand to the small of her back, then took a piece of soap off the mantel and handed it to Polly . . . ‘Wash well now, behind the ears an’ all remember, for wouldn’t you feel bad if the holy father thought to himself,
there’s spuds that child could grow behind her little lug-holes
?’
Polly, washing, giggled. ‘If he wants to see where spuds could grow he’d do better on the other side of the Park, where the boys are. There!’
‘What d’you mean,
there
? If you think you’re clean, Polly O’Brady . . .’
‘Well, you do me nails, then,’ Polly said grandly, holding out a small white hand whose black-rimmed nails made her mother moan beneath her breath. ‘Sure an’ I don’t know how me nails do it when I keep the rest of me hands spicky-clean. Mammy, I am goin’ to marry Tad, one day. We’ve agreed.’
‘Oh well, if you’ve agreed, there isn’t a thing I can say,’ her mother said placidly. She began work on Polly’s nails, using a sharpened matchstick. ‘You could grow spuds in the stuff I’m gettin’ out from here, young lady, I tell you! What on earth have you been doin wit’ yourself?’
‘Playin’, mostly,’ Polly said. ‘Hurry, Mammy, hurry, I’ve not got me white dress on yet nor I haven’t brushed out me hair nor put me veil on . . . I’ll be late, I know I will!’
Polly trailed home from Phoenix Park later that day, head in the clouds, one hand firmly grasped by Mammy, the other by Bevin, for the whole of Ireland, it seemed, had congregated in the park that day and it would have been all too easy to get separated.
The older boys had made their own way home and because of the vast numbers Polly had been unable to find Tad, but Mammy, with Ivan in her arms, had stayed as close to the crowd of children as she could get and had pounced on Polly and Bevin the moment the service was over. Now they were making their way out of the park as fast as they could, the children, at any rate, eager to get fed and watered, for a hard biscuit and a sip of cold tea had been no substitute for a proper meal.
‘Did ye see God, Polly? I saw ’m,’ Ivan remarked as they made their slow way across the seemingly endless grass. ‘Big an’ white he was, wit’ gold hair like yours, Poll. He was floatin’ on a cloud smilin’ an’ beamin’ down on all the pretty lickle girls an’ the smart chisellers.’