To Have and to Hold
ANNE BENNETT
To my eldest grandchild and only granddaughter Briony Wilkes with all my love.
Table of Contents
Carmel was positively mesmerised by the bustling docks at Belfast. She could barely wait to board the mail boat anchored in the dock, fastened tightly to the solid concrete bollards with ropes as thick as a man’s forearm. Yet still the boat moved ever so slightly and Carmel tingled all over as she wondered how it would feel to be aboard that vessel and moving out into the open sea.
Just a little later she stood at the rails and watched the shores of Ireland disappear. She felt not homesickness, but relief, and she gave a defiant toss of her head that set her auburn curls dancing, while the excitement shone in her flashing dark brown eyes as the boat ploughed its way through the waves. Many were sick as the boat listed from side to side, including the nursing nuns that she was travelling with, but Carmel discovered her sea legs and explored the mail boat from end to end.
She was quite disappointed to leave the boat in Liverpool, yet as she and the nuns boarded the train for New Street Station in Birmingham, her insides turned somersaults with excitement—and a little trepidation. From the station she would be taken to the nurses’ home attached to Birmingham’s General Hospital where she would live for four years. She could barely believe that she was really here at last, and just as far from her family as she had wanted to be. She had known she wouldn’t feel free of her father’s dominance until she reached the shores of Britain. From now on, she decided, her life was to be her own. She would start the same as all the other probationers and no one need know about her earlier life at all. She would try to scrub it from her mind and forget it had ever happened.
But as the train rattled over the rails, taking her to her new life, she allowed herself to remember with great relief all she was leaving behind, like the abject terror her brutal father had always induced in her till she didn’t know that there was any other way to feel, and regarded herself as worthless and of no account.
She would never forget her horrifying schooldays, especially that awful day when she was about seven, when Breda Mulligan, the post mistress’s daughter, had pushed her face close to Carmel’s and said, ‘My mammy said I am not to play with you because you are dirty, smell bad and have nits in your hair.’
It had all been true. Carmel remembered then how the other children had formed a circle around her and chanted tunelessly in the school yard, ‘Carmel Duffy has nits in her hair, nits in her hair, nits in her hair.’ Time and again she had tried to break out of the circle, but the children held firm and pushed her back in. Even now, years later, she recalled crying with helplessness and fear. As the tears had trickled down her dirty face, they mingled with the snot from her nose that she wiped away with the sleeve of her ragged cardigan. ‘Filthy, snotty Duffy,’ Breda had cried with disgust, and they had all taken up the call. Eventually, one of the teachers, Mrs Mackay, had saved Carmel, scolded and scuppered the children and took Carmel