The Loom (33 page)

When she saw that look she was all ready to blubber. She didn’t because she was stopped in her tracks by a whiff of alcohol. She blinked and turned to Paddy, puzzled. He gave a brief sideways jerk with his head at Father O’Donnell. She stared at the priest in surprise. He’s drunk, she thought. After all his sanctimonious sermons he was drunk performing the wedding ceremony! What a cheek!

She had known he drank. Everyone did, but most just laughed at his ‘little drop’. He needed something to make life bearable, didn’t he? This little drop was more like a bucketful from the smell. Paddy winked quickly at her as if to say, don’t let it bother you. Well, she was bothered, all hot and bothered. Father O’Donnell was as drunk as a mop and she was so mad she’d like to
mop
the floor with him. He could hardly hold the prayer book his hands were shaking so much.

She should have expected something like this though, with her luck. She glared at the priest as he began mumbling intonations. He fumbled clumsily and the book dropped on the floor. Paddy bent and picked it up and then a second later the priest almost dropped it again and a loose page floated lazily to the ground. All eyes were fastened on this piece of paper, watching as it finally landed on the Paddy’s foot.

This is ridiculous, Leah thought. She was flushed now, not pale as she had been, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as Father O’Donnell droned on, quite oblivious that he was making a mockery of her wedding.

Leah gasped as he wielded the receptacle with holy water as though heaving a sledgehammer, drenching her. This can’t be happening, she thought! Then suddenly she wanted to laugh. Her sense of humour never could be contained no matter what the situation and she had to place her hand over her mouth and pretend she was coughing (making it worse because she remembered her mother did this when she tried to cover up that she’d passed wind).

A sound came from her between a screech and a gurgle. Paddy began to shake next to her. She daren’t look at him. He gripped her hand tightly. She felt better all of a sudden. If she couldn’t start their married life with love then laughter was the next best thing. She squeezed Paddy’s hand and listened as the priest finally mumbled… ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’

PART SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
he ice-cream man made the ice-cream wafer: Wall’s ice-cream, the wafer first then packing the ice-cream in, another wafer and, like magic, there it was, mouthwatering, delectable, something which Christine O’Shea would remember, as one of her pleasantest memories.

She paid the man three pence and then licked carefully between the wafers. A slight squeeze for more ice-cream, savouring as the cold sweetness slid like silk down her throat.

‘Give me a lick then, Christine!’

Christine stopped in mid-air. Clara Pearson seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Christine hesitated. ‘No, I can’t, Clara. Me…I mean
my
Mam said I ‘aven’t …I haven’t to give any one a lick, it’s dirty and I could catch all sorts of germs.’

‘It is not dirty; I do it all the time! You’re mean you are Christine O’Shea and if you don’t I won’t play with you.’

The ice-cream was beginning to drip. Christine looked at Clara dubiously. Her mother had told her never on any account, let other people have a bite, or in this case a lick, of what she was eating because if she did she’d get hundreds of other people’s germs. Clara stood with her hands on her hips, scowling. Christine liked playing with Clara and Christine’s friends, Anne and Gloria had gone to visit relatives. Suddenly resolving the dilemma Christine thrust the melting ice-cream at Clara.

‘You can have it all, Clara, I don’t want it and you can give your Tony a bit as well.’ She indicated the scruffy little boy standing next to Clara, who was watching the drama in silence, except for his loud breathing (his adenoids, Mrs. Jones from next door said). Tony loved ice-cream!

Christine looked with distaste at Tony, Clara’s young brother. He’s scruffy, she thought. They’re all scruffy, the Pearsons and if her Mam knew she was playing with them she’d be really mad. Clara licked the dripping ice-ream. When she’d finished and the ice-cream no longer dripped, she held it out to Tony.

‘
Here,’ she said, ‘but only one lick, our Tony.’ She bent down so that her face was close to her brother, whose snotty nose was running like a tap. He wore short dirty pants and his well-scuffed clogs were turned slightly in as he was extremely pigeon-toed.

‘
You’re a little bugger, aren’t you our Tony?’ Clara said again. ‘Go on then, have a lick but don’t gobble the lot or I’ll give you a good hiding.’

Christine watched as Clara made a face at ‘our Tony’ teasing him with the ice-cream, pulling it away when Tony tried to take it. Clara looked worse than her brother: knees grimed with dirt as though they hadn’t been washed for weeks; huge holes in her cardigan, and part of the hem of her pleated skirt had come undone and trailed almost to the ground. Christine looked down on her own immaculately pleated tartan skirt, neat jumper, white socks and polished shoes. If she got dirty her Mam would be mad!

Tony’s hand suddenly moved like lightning. He grabbed the ice-cream and was off down the street with it like the wind. Clara gave an outraged yell. ‘Come on,’ she called to Christine. ‘Let’s get him.’

Christine watched the rapidly retreating figures. Should she? She began to run after them and the three sped down Queen Street, dodging people and then onto Princes Road where Clara lived. When Christine arrived at the house, Clara had already dealt with her brother, judging from a loud wailing, and she was finishing off the now grubby looking and not at all appetizing wafer.

Mrs. Pearson stood at the table (which took up a large area of the untidy room) kneading a big mound of dough with a decidedly heavy hand. Flour clung to her arms up to her elbows and there was a generous amount on her face, as well as the floor. When she saw Christine peering through the doorway she called out in her usual friendly way.

‘
Come in, lass, come in, that is if you can find room.’ She gave one of the many children in the room a push as he tried to grab some of the dough on the table. ‘Get out of it, our Jimmy,’ she said, cuffing him again. ‘Go on you lot, go and play outside for a bit.’

Christine looked around the none too clean back room, which was used as a kitchen cum living area and was still filled with children in spite of the fact that some had gone outside to play. Clara had told Christine that she had six brothers and three sisters and Christine had been awed into silence as she digested this. She had made a quick calculation and discovered that with Mr. & Mrs. Pearson and Clara that made twelve in the family. Twelve people in this one small house (a two up, two down terrace), which was identical to her Grandma’s house in Glebe Street only this one was a lot dirtier!

Christine gazed in wonder at Mrs. Pearson, who was short and round like a roly poly pudding. She was so different from her Mam! Mrs. Pearson continued to knead the dough, her youngest child, two years old and just as grubby as the rest of the family, still clung to her mother’s leg. She peeped shyly at Christine with big round eyes as she sucked noisily on her thumb.

‘Now come on, our Mary, leave go of me leg,’ Mrs. Pearson said, trying to shake her off. ‘It’s only Christine. You know Christine. Now don’t be a big baby. Here our Nellie, get hold of Mary or she’s going to look like a flour bag’s hit her.’

Christine edged slowly into the kitchen. Her Mam would have a fit if she could see where she was. But in spite of the crowded dirty house the Pearsons always seemed happy, especially Mrs. Pearson who laughed in her booming laugh at nothing most of the time. And Mrs. Pearson was always home when Christine visited. She hardly saw her Mam during the week because she was usually at the shop and often wouldn’t get home until after six. Not that she thought Mrs. Pearson was a patch on her mother. Oh, no never! She thought her Mam was lovely! She made beautiful clothes and she always looked beautiful as well, but still, it would have been nice to get home from school and see her mother standing at the table, her arms in flour and good smell coming from the oven.

And of course their house was a lot cleaner than this and she looked uneasily around her, remembering suddenly that her mother had told her only yesterday that a lot of people in Princes Road had nits. She looked around fearfully again, as though expecting an army of ‘nits and donkeys’ to come marching in the door, or out from under the carpet. She studied the children worriedly and was relieved to see that none of them seemed to be itching, which was evidently a sign that you had them.

She edged slowly towards the chair indicated by Mrs. Pearson, stepping over discarded saucepan lids, pieces of cardboard, a large spoon, an old dish and various other odds and ends. An old and extremely dirty rag doll with no face and only one arm lay on the chair and Christine picked it up gingerly before sitting down.

Mrs. Pearson smiled at Christine. Half her front teeth were missing. Christine was shocked. She could never imagine her Mam with no teeth! It looked really horrible. She only just managed to repress a shudder.

‘
Just throw that thing on the floor,’ Mrs. Pearson said, indicating the doll. ‘That’ll not make much difference. Ee, it’s always like a pig-sty in here, there’re all that untidy.’

Christine smiled timidly and watched Mrs. Pearson thump and roll until a large, almost round thin piece of pastry took shape. She put it on a large pie dish and then ladelled wimberries into it. Christine’s mouth watered. Wimberry pie! She
loved
wimberry pie! Mrs. Pearson deftly rolled another piece of pastry and placed it on top of the wimberries, pressed the edges together, lifted the plate on one hand and cut off the overhanging bits, her movements like lightning as the plate seemed to whiz around on her hand like a top.

‘Well, that’s done,’ Mrs. Pearson exclaimed in satisfaction as she put the pie in the oven. Now all I’ve got to do is the apple pie, then I’ve finished.’

Apple pie as well, Christine thought longingly. Clara was so lucky to have a mother who could cook. They had nice food at home, but it was often bought at the Palatine and although she liked it, it wasn’t like homemade, not like her Grandma made, anyway.

Then she felt guilty. Her mother didn’t have the time for a lot of cooking, but still, and she looked again at the apple pie Mrs. Pearson was now making, it would have been nice to go home to homemade wimberry!

Thinking about home made her look quickly at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was making a loud ticking noise so it must be working, although one of the small legs had come off and it was leaning as though it would topple over any minute. It was half past four, she thought proudly, for not many in her class could tell the time properly and some of them were seven and she had only just turned six!

She sidled off the chair. ‘I’ll have to go now, Mrs. Pearson. Me and Stephen have to pick Julia up at the nursery before five o’clock.’

Mrs. Pearson wiped her hands on a ragged bit of cloth. ‘Aye, all right then, love; would you like a piece of parkin to eat going home?’

Christine thought again of all the germs and nits and reluctantly declined. ‘No thank you, Mrs. Pearson.’ She looked over to where Clara was sitting on the settee. ‘I’m going now, Clara, ta-ra.’

‘Aye, ta-ra, thanks for the ice-cream.’

Christine walked up Queen Street, looking in all the shop windows, the haberdashery shop, the butchers, Smithson’s cake shop, which didn’t have much in it at the moment. She saw Stephen further up. She called and waved and he looked up from a conversation he was having with some boys. He lifted his hand slightly. Christine hurried on, smiling. Ee, she loved their Stephen! Oh, she’d forgotten, she was not to say ‘their Stephen’ or even ‘our Stephen’ or ‘ee’ because her mother said it was too ‘colloqy’ or something or other. But it was hard not to when everyone else said it and she’d even heard her mother say it once or twice, and then quickly correct herself. She was also having difficulty putting all the ‘h’s’ in the right place and saying my Mam instead of me Mam.

‘We’d better go and pick Julia up now, Stephen because we promised Mam we’d clear up before she came home and set the table for tea.’

Stephen pulled a wry face. ‘Aye, I’d better get ‘ome or I’ll catch it.’ He beckoned to Christine as he strode off ahead of her. She ran to catch up.

‘Mam’ll go mad at you. You know you have to say yes, not aye and home not ‘ome.’

‘I know, I know,’ Stephen said irritably and kicked a stone out of his way. ‘But they’ll think I’m a real namby-pamby if I talk like that.’ He kicked another stone despondently. It was hard living up to his mother’s high expectations. He frowned, his black hair flopping over his forehead, eyes bleak.

He was quite aware of the circumstances surrounding his birth, as was everyone else in Harwood evidently. Because of this he felt he stood apart from his friends. In some vague way it made him different and he didn’t want to be different. He wanted to fit in, to be easy as part of the gang. How many fights had he got into to prove himself, he thought? He’d lost count there had been so many, going home with a black eye or bruised cheek, clothes torn and dirty and his Mam going mad at him. He just felt that he didn’t belong and there was always a bit of tension when he was around. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and walked the rest of the way in silence. Christine glanced worriedly at him from time to time.