Cath Staincliffe - Trio

Brendan wanted to know all about the baby and it was great to be able to tell him. Her mammy didn’t want to know. Put it behind you, darling, it’s only more heartache, she said when Megan first tried. You did what was best, she said. That’s all you can do.

After a few months Megan wrote to Sister Monica, asking if she could have a photograph of her daughter to remember her by. She got no reply. She wrote again when May came round and she imagined the child having a first birthday party, in a lovely white smocked frock with frilly knickers and a bow in her hair. She thought about her a lot, the weather and the blossom reminding her of St Ann’s.

This time a small studio photo came back. Black and white. Looking at it was like a punch in the stomach. Claire, her baby – the name meant light and Megan hoped her life would be full of light and brightness – Claire was sitting up, a broderie anglaise dress on and bare feet. A sprig of close curls framed her face. Her hair would be red with both Megan and Brendan that colour but you couldn’t tell in the photo and no one had colored it in like the studios sometimes did. She must have studied that picture a thousand times that day, and when the children were all in bed she showed it to Mammy.

‘Does she look like me?’

‘Like spit. But Megan,’ her mammy’s voice sounded thin and pained, ‘don’t be upsetting yourself. You have to forget her.’

‘I know. But it’s hard.’ She left the room not wanting to cry in front of her.

Brendan understood when she showed him. They had got the bus up Rochdale Road to Boggart Hole Clough, he’d sat upstairs and she down, just in case anyone got on, but they were OK. They wandered through the park and found a secluded spot to sit, surrounded by pretty trees, their leaves shivering in the slight breeze. He stared at the photograph, his face all blank and narrow like he’d seen a ghost. He shook his head. He didn’t say much but she knew he felt like she did: that it wasn’t fair.

They talked of marriage again and Brendan said he would go and see her Dad.

‘The apprenticeship.’

‘I’ve two more years. The rules are clear. We can get engaged but they don’t need to know. I just won’t tell them.’

‘There’s other work,’ she said. ‘Vickers are crying out for people, and Universal Stores.’

‘I know they are but this is a trade, Megan. I could work anywhere then, they’ll always need printers. If I left now… I don’t want to end up portering or on the markets.’

‘Just seems so long.’

‘I’ll ask your Dad. Least if we’re engaged we can stop acting like spies.’

He began to kiss her. She could feel her breasts tingling. They were bigger since she’d had the baby even though the doctor had given her something to dry her milk up. As he unbuckled his belt, pulling at the zipper on his pants, he was still kissing her, French kisses. It made her wet and weak and hot for his fingers. She held him in her hand, made the movements copy the rhythm of his breathing.

‘Megan,’ he spoke softly in her ear. ‘I’ve got a rubber johnny.’

She froze, shocked. He wanted to go all the way. Did she? Her mind raced about. It’d be all right, it would stop any consequences. Her body was hungry.

‘Put it on then.’ Her throat was dry.

While he sat up and fumbled she closed her eyes. Felt desire skip over her skin and quicken her pulse. Then he bent to kiss her again, moving over her. She wriggled her hips and opened her eyes to look into his. Cornflower blue, she thought. He nudged his way inside. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes.’ She lifted her hips to meet him. She ran her own hands over her breasts, watching his face darken with lust. She began to unbutton her cardigan.

Three weeks later Brendan Conroy put on his Sunday best and walked round to the Driscolls’. He had quizzed Megan about the best time to catch her father. She reckoned Saturday morning before the pub opened.

Megan watched from her bedroom window as Brendan came down Livesey Street. He’d got awfully long legs but he didn’t stoop like some lanky lads did. He blew her a kiss and she pulled a face. Then she sat on Kitty’s side of the bed, nearest to the door, and craned to hear.

She heard Daddy – ‘… of all the bloody cheek…’ Then Mammy calming him down. Then nothing. But no door slamming, which meant they hadn't slung him out. Her stomach was twisted up and she felt lightheaded. If they said no, she’d die. If they carried on in secret they were bound to get caught and her Daddy would make good his threat about seeing Mr Hudson, who Brendan was apprenticed to. They’d have to run away. Try and get to Australia or somewhere. They’d be pioneers, like the wagon trains you saw in the Westerns.

‘Megan!’ Her father’s roar made her jump out of her skin.

She ran downstairs and into the parlour, where Brendan perched awkwardly on the edge of the armchair. Her father stood by the sideboard and her mother had the other chair. She noticed Brendan’s socks didn’t match and she could see the milk-white skin of his shins and the curly ginger hairs.

‘You know what he’s here for?’ her father demanded.

‘Yes.’ She kept her chin up. She would not let him make her feel bad.

‘And you want to marry the man who ruined you?’

‘Anthony!’

‘I’m not ruined,’ she retorted.

‘Huh!’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Says who?’

Megan was itching to argue with him but this was too important. He could think what he liked, damn her to hell. As long as he gave his permission he didn’t have to like it.

‘I want to marry him.’

‘He’s apprenticed.’

‘We’ll wait.’

‘He’s stuck by her,’ Mammy said.

‘Stuck too fecking close in the first place,’ Daddy slung back.

Maggie Driscoll gasped and closed her eyes. She spoke with them shut, as though she was close to breaking and it was all too much. ‘Anthony, the boy is here in good faith and he’s asking you for your daughter’s hand.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Megan. ‘I’m sure they’ve learnt from their mistake. It’s over a year since the bairn was born and nearly two since she got caught. They are older now. We want them to make a good life. I’ve no desire to have them sneaking around because you’ve got stuck on your principles. The Lord tells us to forgive.’

No one spoke. Daddy craned his neck back as though he’d a crick in it and then rubbed at his face. He turned to Brendan. ‘There won’t be any monkey business,’ he said. ‘If I find out you’ve laid a hand on her before you walk down the aisle I’ll cut your tackle off.’

Megan choked. It was a yes. The crude old git. All hot air. Did anyone honestly believe they’d get engaged but still wait another two years to touch each other? Mind you, every time Daddy looked at Mammy she must have fallen pregnant. Megan wouldn’t be like that. They’d use johnnies and pity the Pope. No babies until they were ready. God would understand. Or the Blessed Virgin. She’d lost her child when they crucified him, she’d understand.

‘Yes, Sir.’ Brendan was bobbing his head up and down like a nodding dog on the back of a car, his face the colour of Campbell’s tomato soup.

There was a pause. Driscoll looked at the clock and rocked on his heels. They were open in five minutes, Megan knew, and his thoughts were already with his first pint.

Mam broke the spell. ‘Congratulations!’ She shook Brendan’s hand and hugged Megan and seemed genuinely pleased.

‘I best be off,’ Daddy said.

When he’d gone, Mrs Driscoll told Brendan, ‘Be sure and let your mammy know. It’ll be all round the Grey Mare as soon as the big fella gets there and everyone in Collyhurst’ll know by tea time.