September Starlings Read online

  I walked slowly upstairs, stepped past my father’s bed. He was lying on top of the quilt and his eyes were closed. In the dressing room, I found the leather case, turned to carry it downstairs. His eyes were still shut. ‘Laurie?’

  ‘Yes, Dad?’

  ‘Don’t let her turn you against me.’

  ‘No. I won’t.’

  ‘And don’t be cheeky to her. Remember that she can’t help how she is.’

  I was young, far too young to be dragged by either of them into the quagmire of their dreadful marriage. But I was on my father’s side at all times, would not have reached for Mother even if he had abandoned her.

  I thrust the case under her nose. She sat at the dining table and filed her broken nail. ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Lying down.’

  ‘Reading?’

  ‘No.’

  She held out the hand, stretched the fingers wide so that she could assess her workmanship. ‘Did he speak to you?’

  I paused for a moment. ‘No.’

  The wedding ring was being twisted round and round. ‘Your father does not care about us, Laura. All he thinks about is that wretched shop and some crazy invention that will never work. There is no time for us, no time for his home. I’ve been asking him to distemper the bathroom walls for three years. Three years, Laura. He doesn’t care what happens to us, you know.’

  I didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what she expected. Was I supposed to speak? Or should I just stand and listen?

  Her voice was low. ‘He doesn’t love you.’

  I swallowed, maintained my silence.

  ‘He pretends to, but he could not care less about his own daughter, his only child. There won’t be any more, not from me, not while the sleeping arrangements—’ She cut herself off, glared at me. ‘I’m all you’ve got.’

  If this was really the case, then I was totally alone. ‘He loves me,’ I said, unable to hold back any longer.

  ‘He loves his pestle and mortar, his bottles of crystals and coloured water. People are nothing to him.’

  I would have argued sensibly, would have reasoned with her, but the whole situation was just a jumble in my head. Some of the words I needed were hard to remember, and my chest was hot, bubbling, boiling with a mixture of fear and anger. I erupted suddenly, could not help allowing the scalding words to fall from my mouth. If I hadn’t spat them out, I might have exploded. ‘The postman says you are a hoity-toity bitch.’

  An implement clattered to the floor, a metal thing with a tortoiseshell handle. It was a strange item, rather like a tiny spoon, something she used when digging away at the base of her nails. ‘What did you say?’

  My voice was quieter now. ‘A hoity-toity bitch. Like a lady dog.’

  Her teeth were bared as she drew a long breath. ‘No. You’ve got that from your father, haven’t you?’

  I shook my head. ‘The postman said it. He’s always saying it.’ Oh God, why couldn’t I just sink through the floor? It was as if I were on automatic pilot, just floating at the behest of an invisible power that propelled me into waters that were so dangerous.

  Instead of hitting me, she smiled that one-sided smile, the look that announced to the world, ‘I am better than all of you.’ ‘The postman is a common person, unused to dealing with culture. It’s a pity that we lost Mr Oakes, because he was a gentleman.’ Our previous postman, the Mr Oakes whose praises she was singing, used to warrant clean blouses, cups of tea and a few kind words from Mother. He had even come into the house sometimes, had taken a glass of sherry and a slice of cake during his afternoon round.

  ‘Mr Oakes was no fun,’ I insisted stubbornly. ‘The new one sings like George Formby.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded sagely. ‘Common. An attractor of attention. And what he said about me is slander. I might see a solicitor about him, make sure he loses his job.’

  She was so nasty! ‘You can’t help being sad, I suppose.’ I was trying to remember what my father had said. ‘It’s part of you, like … like breathing, but it’s not fair. You’re always smacking me. I don’t even know why I get smacked sometimes.’

  But she had latched on to my earlier words, was ignoring my plea for clemency. ‘Who says I can’t help it? That’s not something you made up, Laura. Who has been discussing me?’ A hand pushed itself through her hair, made it untidy and quite interesting for a change. ‘You will answer me.’

  I was too young to plead the fifth amendment, too afraid of her to answer with a ‘mind your own business’. ‘I can’t remember.’ My brain slipped desperately into top gear. ‘Oh yes, it was at school. Sister Ignatius went on about unhappy people making other people unhappy. It’s selfish, she said. But sometimes they can’t help it.’

  Mother’s dander was up. ‘Have you been sitting in those stupid catechism and Latin lessons? Have you?’

  ‘No. I sit under St Anthony next to Norma Wallace. She’s under St Joan and a big bonfire. And she snerches all the time, never has a hanky.’ Yes, I would distract Mother. ‘It’s Norma who snerches, not St Joan. Her nose is red because she has to wipe it on toilet paper. She should go to the doctor’s and get seen to. We could all catch her colds. I could catch one and bring it home, then we’d all be snerching all the time—’

  ‘“Snerch” is a vulgar word. When did you get this lecture from Sister Ignatius?’

  ‘During history. She said that greedy and unhappy people start wars. If people would be …’ I groped for the word. ‘If they’d be satisfied with what they had, there’d be no misery and no wars.’

  ‘How nice.’ She was sneering again. ‘I suppose they can’t keep that religion out of anything, can they? I do my best, try to stop you becoming indoctrinated, so they let it spill over into history. Don’t listen to them when they start being pious.’

  Pious. What did that mean? I supposed that it referred to nothing simple. ‘That’s the Pope’s name. He’s number twelve,’ I remarked, my tone helpful. One way or another, I had to guide the direction of her mind, send her off course. She must not find out about Dad talking to me.

  ‘Who is the Pope?’ she asked.

  ‘Head of the Church.’ My reply was immediate and automatic.

  ‘Head of which church?’ She lit a cigarette, blew a plume right up into the air where it curled and twisted round the shaded light. ‘Of which church, Laura?’

  ‘Well.’ I tried to keep my face blank, but could not help hoping that my answer might engender a change of school. What did they say in the playground? ‘He’s in Rome with cardinals and he’s the head of the …’ Ooh, I wished with every fibre that my mind would catch up soon. ‘Of the one true faith.’ Good. With any luck, that would do it.

  ‘And who is the King, Laura?’

  Oh dear. ‘Dad was only joking. It’s not King George he’s going to see, its the patent.’

  She stamped a foot. ‘Stop being clever. The King is head of the Church of England. Catholics were cruel, they burned people and tortured them. The King had to stop the Catholics being in charge, because they were killing everyone who didn’t agree with them.’

  Ah. Sister Ignatius was useful after all. ‘Henry the Eighth,’ I announced innocently. ‘He was fat with sores on his legs and he wore knickers and he cut the queen’s head off. So after that, he told the Pope that England wasn’t Catholic any more. Sister Ignatius said that the Church of England was made so that Henry the Eighth could have a lot of wives.’

  ‘Preposterous!’ I had never before known Mother to throw away a half-smoked cigarette. ‘You will leave that school at once. I believed that I was doing the right thing by enrolling you at a kindergarten where proper subjects are taught from the start. But what use are history and geography if the teachers are filling your head with propaganda?’

  I didn’t care what my head was full of as long as I could get away from St Mary’s. ‘They hid in cupboards,’ I said, anxious to strengthen my position. ‘The priests had to go behind bookshelves and stuff so that the soldiers wo
uldn’t find them. Some of them starved away to skellingtons. Kings are wicked and popes are good.’ I was breathless, overcome by my new power.

  ‘Skeletons, Laura, skeletons.’ She wrung her hands. ‘This is awful.’ In my mother’s book, there were rich people, poor people and Catholic people. The latter category was the lowest, as Catholics usually had a lot of children. I didn’t know the reason behind Mother’s philosophy, because I thought that big families were wonderful, but for once, I was glad of her prejudices. ‘You will transfer immediately to another private school.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough!’ She sank into a chair. ‘You are not going to have your way, Laura McNally.’

  I sorted through my scrambled list of priorities. I wanted to go to school with Anne, but that wasn’t going to be allowed. If I had to go to a private school, then I preferred to stay where I was. Although I was only five, I clung to the devil I knew, was not happy about transferring and starting again. And it was no use trying to be clever, I told myself. She would win in the end, even if she had to knock my head against a wall to achieve her victory. Still, I must try, I must do my best … ‘It’s so funny, isn’t it?’ I asked mildly. ‘When they’re talking, those nuns, I have to be good and pretend to be on their side. But I know they’re just papists like you said before. And we’re up to our five-times tables now. They teach very fast, don’t they? We are all in front of Anne’s class – they haven’t even heard of times tables.’ For a child who struggled to keep up in class, I was doing a grand job, I thought. Perhaps I might turn out nearly clever after all.

  She was eyeing me with mistrust, but she held her tongue.

  ‘It would be a shame if we had to buy another set of uniform. They all have different uniforms. If I went to Brook Lane, I wouldn’t need any more clothes and—’

  ‘You are not going to Brook Lane.’

  ‘Then I’ll need all new things.’

  She began to think aloud. ‘And there might be no places. Yes, we could well be in trouble if you leave now. I shall ignore all this for the moment, but we shall think again at the end of the year.’

  I sighed with relief. Even Norma Wallace was a part of my life. I didn’t like her, but I always knew what to expect.

  ‘You will take no notice of the sisters’ opinions,’ said Mother. ‘Just learn your history – all the dates and battles – but never mind the rest of it.’

  There was no way of besting her. I washed, went into my room, crawled beneath the covers. Anne banged on the wall, but I ignored her. This was a special kind of misery, the sort that does not improve with an airing. My parents hated one another, stayed together because of me. Dad might have been happier elsewhere, but I was making him stay, making him miserable. And Mother was getting worse, more fidgety, more fractious. But I counted my blessings, because I hadn’t been beaten that day, hadn’t lost any hair.

  Dad went to London. During his absence, I watched my mother like a hawk. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking for. But after a while, things changed, she changed, and I realized that I had expected some alterations, had been waiting for them. She took to leaving the key in the shed, wrote messages on smelly pink paper on the dining table. ‘Laura, your meal is in the pantry. If the coalman comes, the money is under the tablecloth in the sideboard drawer.’

  When she came in, she failed to say anything about where she had been. But she was giggly and silly, smelled of sherry, smoke, make-up. Sometimes, she would pick out a tune on the piano, sing quietly to herself, songs like ‘We’ll Meet Again’. I became used to caring for myself, learned to make toast by the fire, brewed coffee from the Camp bottle, even tried custard, but it came out too thin.

  Then one night, I was disturbed by a lot of whispering and laughter. From my slightly open door, I watched her coming up the stairs. She stumbled, swore, righted herself, toppled over again. I thought that she had three hands, then I saw a strange man reaching out to help her, guiding the faltering steps. He was tall and bald, with a silly moustache all thin and oily at the ends.

  I came out onto the landing. ‘Mother?’

  Her eyes were glazed. ‘Is that you, Laura?’

  ‘Yes.’ Who was she expecting? ‘Are you ill, Mother?’

  The man guffawed. ‘She’s in the grip of the grape, little girl.’

  She was in his grip – his large hands almost circled the tiny waist. I didn’t like him. His eyes were not quite straight, as if they had been put into his head on a day when God was all fingers and thumbs. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, she’d never have got herself home, would she? Could have been run over by a tram. Found her in the Wheatsheaf. Landlord asked me to fetch her home.’

  My mother had been in a pub. I could not believe that my mother had been in the Wheatsheaf, especially after what she’d always said about women in pubs. ‘Why were you there?’ I asked.

  She belched, grinned. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ An unsteady finger waved itself in front of my face. ‘Miss Clever-Clogs, aren’t you? Tommy?’

  ‘Aye?’ The man paused, took his hands from mother’s waist and heaved himself onto the landing. ‘What’s up, lass?’ he enquired of Mother.

  ‘Take me to my room.’

  ‘Right-o.’

  I pointed, sent him in the right direction, crept back to bed. She screamed a couple of times but I stayed where I was. After what seemed like an age, Tommy clomped downstairs and slammed the front door. The oilcloth was cold against my toes as I made for the landing. She was sobbing, moaning to herself. Through a gap in the door, I watched as she fell about the room, the lovely dress torn from her body. ‘Men,’ she spat over and over. ‘They don’t do it at all, or they attack. Attack,’ she repeated. ‘I have been attacked.’ She vomited then, heaved her stomach’s contents onto the floor.

  I ran towards her, tried to help her to the bathroom. For my pains, I received a hefty swipe across the ear. ‘Keep away,’ she screamed. ‘A lot of this is your fault. You just sit there, little daddy’s girl, no time for me. I’ve got nothing and nobody, nothing, nobody—’ Her self-pity was cut off by another bout of vomiting.

  I backed away, scuttered across the landing and into my own bedroom. She didn’t want me and I didn’t want her.

  It was to be years before I understood that my mother was raped in her bedroom that night. Nothing came of it. She had been out looking for excitement, had found the wrong kind. No policeman came and, as far as I know, my father was never told of the incident.

  After this occasion, I was filled with more uncertainty and revulsion than I had ever known. There were people I had heard of, drunks, layabouts and thieves – the sort who got their names in the Bolton Evening News. My mother was like two different women then. She was a posh lady some of the time, a wandering streetperson at others.

  Dad came back and life returned to normal. Except that some of the zest had gone out of the beatings. Perhaps a few grey cells had been uncorrupted by booze that night. Perhaps she worried that I might remember her behaviour and report on it. The cruelty continued for many years, but the earlier intensity had been diluted.

  As I grew up, as I began to understand my parents, I never once felt safe or secure. I have heard it said that a bad mother is better than no mother at all. That is a gross untruth. A bad mother is an affliction, a chronic disease that distorts your thinking to the end of your life.

  And I still had a long way to go.

  Chapter Three

  As I had to be almost good at home, school was the place where I let down my hair. I also let down my family, though Mother and Dad were not aware of that fact for quite some time.

  My early stabs at rebellion were not severe enough to warrant parental intervention, but I did become naughty, almost wilful in some instances. Many of the nuns were old, severe, used to handling fractious little girls. Yet among their number were one or two young ones, newly qualified as teachers, with the bloom of Ireland still glowing on their cheeks, the
bright light of vocation shining its powerful torch in their eyes.

  One such was Sister Maria Goretti. She became our form teacher, replaced Sister Ignatius who was returning to the Mother House for rest and recuperation after a bout of rheumatism. Maria Goretti floated into our classroom on a cloud of lavender water, hope and charity. She told us her name, then asked us all some questions about ourselves. She called this a ‘getting to know you’ session.

  My turn came. ‘My name’s Laura McNally,’ I answered sweetly.

  ‘And what is your favourite lesson, Laura?’

  I looked at her, wondered what to say. History was good, especially when old Ignatius got worked up about wars and persecutions. Sums were all right, spelling was easy. ‘Religion,’ I said. ‘That’s the best subject.’

  Her eyes burned with renewed intensity. ‘It is so wonderful to meet a child who takes an interest in the most important of all our lessons, girls. When I was a small girl in Ireland, I knew straight away that I would take the veil, for I loved our religious classes. Do you know your catechism, Laura?’

  I smiled, tried to simper. Other girls were beginning to giggle and snort behind hands and handkerchiefs, because they knew that Norma Wallace and I spent forty minutes each morning in a corridor with a lot of dead people. ‘I’m not sure, Sister Maria Confetti.’

  The ‘Confetti’ was a genuine mistake, but it added greatly to the air of tense delight that was beginning to pervade the room. ‘Maria Goretti,’ she corrected gently. ‘I have been allowed to keep my baptismal name, you see.’

  I didn’t know what she was on about, but I nodded in a way I imagined to be sage.

  ‘Maria Goretti was a little Italian girl who was a virgin martyr.’

  They were hot on martyrs, were the Catholics. I had been wont to call them ‘tomatoes’ till one of the sisters had put me straight with a lecture and two playtime detentions.

  The nun was warming to her subject. ‘Maria Goretti died when she was twelve, was murdered while defending her purity. One day, she will become a saint.’