But Grace knew she herself was thirteen or possibly fourteen, and in the ten years which had elapsed since Jess died she had never seen hide nor hair of her little sister. She thought the baby must be dead, and she hadn’t been hunting for her tonight, either, it was just an excuse for being on railway property. In fact she had been hunting for the men’s carryout. Grace knew that railway workers quite often didn’t eat all their food, that sometimes they scattered it for the birds, or left it where hungry urchins might find it. Some of them fed stray dogs, some stray kids, she had heard one of the men remark, and she knew it was true.
So Grace had been scavenging in the foggy marshalling yard earlier, when the man had spied her and called out. She had let him get very near her, fascinated by the rich Irish brogue, the kindness in the dark eyes. And then the train had come, and he had been hit . . . and she must, she must get help!
She could see a light shining ahead of her, just visible through the fog. She had a stitch now but she ran still, and came panting up to the light. It was streaming out of a small hut and when she poked her head round the open door she saw five large men, a coke-burning stove and a dog.
‘Someone’s been hit by the train!’ Grace shouted, her voice very thin and small suddenly. ‘He’s up the line . . . he’s hurt bad!’
The men surged to their feet. The oldest, who had a beard, said: ‘Can you show us where, chuck? Can you find ’im again in the fog? Is it a railwayman, or someone else? A kid, perhaps?’
‘It’s a railwayman,’ Grace said breathlessly. ‘Folly me!’
With the men hard on her heels and the fog swirling around them, thick and yellow as phlegm, the little group set off. Don’t let ’im be dead, God, Grace prayed as she did her best to retrace her steps. Oh God, don’t let ’im be dead!
When the train had passed, silence crept back. The fog seemed to sigh and settle, thicker than ever, densest, perhaps, around the man’s body, lying motionless beside the tracks.
The only sound was the
drip, drip
of water, falling from the overhead wires. And another sound . . . was it the patter of feet, running, running, away from the terrible figure across the sleepers? Or was it the patter of the blood which ran from the man’s terrible open mouth?
Brogan knew within the hour.
‘There’s been an accident, Mr O’Brady,’ the policeman said, standing on the doorstep, his helmet in his hand. ‘You’ve got to get to Liverpool, pronto. It’s your dad; a train hit him.’
Brogan didn’t wait to ask questions, there was, in any event, no time. He went with the policeman to the station where he boarded the train and reached Liverpool an hour later. He went straight to the hospital where they had taken his father’s broken body.
‘You could telegraph your mother,’ the nurse said kindly. ‘She’s not on the telephone, I suppose? Or you could telephone the nearest police station, they’d gerrin touch for you.’
‘I’ll telegraph,’ Brogan said tightly. He straightened. ‘I’d best send a telegram.’
He had been given his father’s clothing and had checked through as the staff had requested, to make sure that nothing had been taken. There was a large blue and white checked handkerchief, his father’s old hunter watch, stopped now, and some loose change. And the letter.
He had read the letter because he’d not understood how his father could possibly have got in the way of the 7.03 when he knew, none better, that it was expected. Like all the men who walk the lines, Peader could have got careless, but – in fog? At night? When every bone in your body, every solitary muscle and nerve, is on the look-out for that tell-tale vibration in the rails?
After he’d read the letter he’d understood and for thirty minutes a great longing to feel his mother’s slender throat between his hands had consumed him. But . . . she was only a woman, she could not help her feelings, her desperate desire for her own home, her own place. Besides, to be angry, wanting revenge, was no way to help any of them. His mother would be no better a person if she carried a load of guilt to the grave. Better that she never knew his daddy had received the bloody letter, that she was simply told he’d been struck by the train whilst fixing detonators to the line, in fog.
So he went and sent his telegram –
Peader hit by train stop Please come stop Brogan –
and then returned to the hospital.
They were having their tea when the knock came at the door. Mammy was presiding over the pot with Polly beside her and the boys in their appointed places. Polly jumped up and opened the door; the boy handed over the small yellow envelope and Mammy looked up, saw him – knew. Her face whitened as though the blood had been dragged away from it and her eyes darkened. A hand flew to her throat. Whilst the boys were clamouring, Mammy snatched the envelope from Polly’s fingers and tore it open. She read it at a glance, then tottered over to her chair and collapsed into it.
‘Is it me daddy? What’s happened, Mammy?’
Deirdre said nothing; she simply sat, staring at the telegram, until Polly took it from her and read it aloud.
‘
Peader hit by train stop Please come stop Brogan.
’ Polly frowned. ‘Daddy’s been hit . . . oh, Mammy, Mammy, is me daddy . . .’
There was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. Then Donal took the telegram from his sister’s fingers and knelt down by his mother’s side.
‘Mammy? Does it mean Daddy’s gone? And Brog doesn’t say where we’re to go, nor anything! I’ll go down to the post office, telephone to England, see what I can find out. You wait here now – understand?’
Deirdre nodded, closed her eyes. Donal ran from the room; they heard him clattering down the stairs, then they heard the outer door slam.
‘I wish Martin was home,’ Polly whispered. She sat down on the floor, close to her mother’s chair, clinging to Deirdre’s skirt, and after a moment her mother sat up a little straighter and took her daughter’s hand in hers.
‘Martin won’t be long, alanna. And Donal will be back soon enough, you see.’
But it seemed a long time before the door opened again and when it did, Donal slipped back into the living room.
‘Did you get t’rough to Brogan?’
‘Is he . . . is he . . .’
‘What happened, son?’
The questions came all at once and from more than one throat. Donal went straight to Deirdre and knelt down before her. He took her hands and spoke directly to her.
‘Mammy, I got t’rough to the polis, an’ they put me t’rough to someplace called the Stanley Hospital. Daddy’s awful bad, but there’s hope. They want you to get the next boat. Will you pack a few t’ings now, then we’ll take you down to the docks for your ticket.’
Deirdre got up. Moving like a sleepwalker, she crossed the room and went out, leaving the door ajar. Polly, white as a sheet, glanced at her brothers, then followed her mother out of the room. Within seconds of them leaving there were footsteps on the stairs and Martin came into the room. He looked round.
‘Where’s Mammy? I was workin’ late . . . what’s up?’
‘Daddy’s hurt bad. Hit by a train,’ Donal said. ‘I telled Mammy to pack a bag; Brogan sent a telegram, saying Mammy must go across the water.’
Martin hissed in his breath. ‘What happened, for the Lord’s sake? Daddy’s a careful man . . .’
‘It was foggy, so Daddy was laying the detonators,’ Donal explained quietly. ‘He couldn’t have heard the train, because he stepped into its path.’
Unnoticed by any of them, their mother had come back into the room. At Donal’s words she threw back her head and gave a keening wail. ‘Ah, Peader, Peeeaaddder . . .’
It was uncanny, horrible, coming from their happy, humorous mother. Martin stepped forward, raised a hand and slapped his mother sharply across the cheek. The keening wail stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Deirdre put her hand to her face, incredulously, as though she expected to find blood running. Then she shook her head in a dazed fashion and took a deep, gulping breath.
‘Martin, your daddy’s dyin’ and it’s all . . .’
‘He’s not dead yet, Mammy,’ Donal said. ‘Martin and me’ll take you down for to catch the boat. You’ve packed a bit of a bag, now?’
‘I have. But . . . but I can’t be goin’ alone, I can’t, I can’t!’
‘I’ll go wit’ you, Mammy,’ Martin said. ‘But I can’t stay, I’d lose me job for sure. Still, once you’re wit’ Brogan you’ll be all right, hey?’
‘Aren’t we all goin’, then?’ That was Bev, staring from face to face.
‘No, indeed,’ Martin said. ‘Too many people are worse than too few. Donal, can you give an eye to ’em for a day or so? Make sure no one steps out of line?’
‘Yes, sure I will,’ Donal muttered. ‘Is there nothin’ else I can do indeed, Mart? Poor Daddy! What a turble t’ing.’
‘Aye. No, there’s nothing else, save keep ’em safe until . . . until I can come home.’ He turned as Polly came back into the room. ‘Got Mammy’s bag packed? Good girl.’
‘Mammy’s puttin’ her coat on, then she’ll be ready,’ Polly said. ‘Will I come wit’ you, Martin? To take care of me mammy? She’s not well, poor soul.’
‘I’ll take care of her,’ Martin said. ‘You do as Donal tells you, alanna, and keep house for Mammy. I’ll be home in a day or so and Mammy’ll come back as soon as she can.’
‘Right,’ Polly said. She was still pale. ‘Martin, will ye give me daddy a kiss from me? To make it better?’
Bev started to speak, then stopped. He turned from them, his shoulders shaking. Donal got up from the table and put his arm round his brother and Martin, too, stood up.
Bev . . . come on, man, don’t give way. We’ll all do what we can . . . We all love, Daddy . . . come on, we’ll all have a bit of a cry, then it won’t seem so hard and cold.’
Deirdre came back into the room. She was wearing her black winter coat, a rather pretty rose-coloured felt hat and her black court shoes. She carried a shabby black hold-all and her cracked, black leather handbag.
‘Ready, Mammy? Kisses all round, then.’ The children crowded round, hugging her, kissing. ‘Now you’ll be prayin’ for Daddy, each day, all of you?’
‘Sure we will,’ Polly said through her tears. ‘Though if Daddy goes to Jesus he won’t stay in Purgatory a moment, once Jesus knows who it is waitin’ to come into Heaven. He’ll have our daddy out o’ there quick as you can.’
Martin caught hold of her and hugged her very tightly for a moment, then he spoke over the top of her red-gold curls.
‘Sure and Daddy’s mortal bad, alanna, I’d be the last to deny it, but he’s not knockin’ at the pearly gates yet awhile. ’Tis prayers for the livin’ you must be makin’, not prayers for the dead!’
‘But Mammy said our daddy was dyin’.’
Deirdre’s eyes filled with tears and colour flooded her cheeks. She picked Polly up and hugged her hard, then kissed the child’s smooth, tear-wet cheek. ‘’Tis wrong I was to say such a t’ing, alanna. If we all pray very hard every day, your daddy will come home to us so he will.’
That night, after they had waved the ship off on its way to Liverpool, the boys and Polly walked back to the Liberties and when they reached Thomas Street, without a word said, they turned automatically into John’s Lane Church.
It seemed odd to go into the church when there was no service on, Polly thought, but the red lamp burned on the High Altar and the blue one in the Lady Chapel and somehow the church no longer seemed strange but calm, serene. When Donal beckoned she followed him and the other boys into the Lady Chapel and Donal went and bought them a candle each. Polly knew which one was hers, it was thinner than the others and a tiny bit smaller but it was, she decided, the nicest. Donal lit the taper which was laid by the big candle and then brought the light over and the children lit their own candles, and Polly went on her knees and stared at her candle flame very hard and then began to pray.
The O’Bradys were not an exceptionally religious family. They went to Mass on a Sunday, paid their dues, bought candles, kept a shrine on the mantelpiece, holy water in a stoup by the door. But they did not ask the father before taking decisions, never visited the church mid-week, did not expect or ask for any particular favours from God.
Peader was less religious even than that. When he was home in Dublin he usually went to Mass on Sunday, but Polly guessed that he seldom attended church in Liverpool. Deirdre had once asked him about his church over there in her presence and, taken by surprise, his replies had lacked conviction.
‘Sure an’ you’re a heathen, Peader O’Brady,’ Deirdre had teased. ‘Don’t tell me; I know it all. A little drink here, a little drink there, and sure Sunday’s over before you know it’s begun, so it is.’
But now, praying as she had never prayed in her life before, staring at her candle flame, something happened which gave Polly comfort as well as conviction. Beside the candle flame and just behind it, she could just make out a vague figure, a shape. It was the girl Polly had first glimpsed on the stairs and now, when Polly looked straight at her she wasn’t there, but when Polly stared at the candle and concentrated, she came, smiling, back.
She’s me guardian angel, and she’ll look after me daddy for me, because I know well how horrible it would be wit’out me daddy, Polly decided. And presently, when the boys scrambled to their feet, she got up and took Donal’s hand and hugged it tight. Donal was sixteen, as good as a man, and he had snail trails down his face where the tears had been shed; poor Donal, he had neither her faith nor her guardian angel.