‘And you will go back to Brendan?’
‘Aye. And whether it’s your God or mine, I hope one of them will help me,’ Maeve said.
Father O’Brien pursed his lips, but didn’t censure Maeve further. ‘If your parents come and confess their sins in confession – all their sins – then there will be no problem with that, or allowing them to take Communion. Rosemarie’s wedding will go ahead as planned, but Kevin will be going back to Birmingham with you.’
‘No, Father, he won’t. Nor will Grace.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Brendan—’
‘Brendan, Father, won’t give a tinker’s cuss. In any case with all the talk of war, I feel the children will be safer over here in Ireland. He’s never cared for them anyway, and they are scared witless of him. When he hears I am pregnant again, he will be furious. But this time, I want to carry this baby. Another condition is that Father Trelawney tells him that if anything happens to the child, he’ll be held responsible.’
‘Maeve, the miscarriage was an accident.’
‘Well, I want no more of them,’ Maeve said firmly. ‘So will you do it?’
Father O’Brien looked at the girl before him and for all her twenty-seven years he thought, she was little more than a girl. Her body was slender despite the slight rounding of her stomach and her frame small-boned, her whole face was determined, but behind the determination he read real fear and apprehension in Maeve’s face. He nodded. ‘I’ll see to it,’ he promised.
‘And, Father, Brendan can drink the pubs dry for all I care, as long as he tips up the rent and money for the gas and enough to feed us.’
‘Didn’t you say he beat you?’ Father O’Brien said. ‘Don’t you want that stopped too?’
Maeve sighed. ‘The age of miracles is passed,’ she said. ‘Brendan will never change. In fact, not having Kevin to torment and terrify might make it worse for me, but I am better able for it than a wee boy. I’ll be all right.’
Father O’Brien suddenly felt immeasurably sorry for the woman in front of him. She’d been wilful and headstrong all of her growing up, a trial for the nuns who’d had the teaching of her since she’d been small. He was glad she was retuning to her husband, but for all that . . . ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve seen sense at last, Maeve,’ he said.
‘Seeing sense, is that what they call it?’ Maeve said sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but really I’m not returning to Brendan through choice, but because you’ve forced me. I’m not going to argue with you over it now. I’ve agreed to go back. Let it lie there.’
The priest gave a nod. ‘When will you leave?’
‘Oh, as soon as it can be arranged,’ Maeve said. ‘Now the decision has been made, there is no point in delaying things, is there?’
The priest nodded again and Maeve went on, ‘And you will write immediately to Father Trelawney?’
‘I will, I assure you.’
‘So, I’ll say goodbye, Father,’ Maeve said.
The priest put out his hand and Maeve looked at it, but made no effort to take it. The silence stretched between them as her glance shifted from the outstretched hand to the priest’s face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I cannot shake hands with a man I have no respect for.’
She saw the priest’s face flush with anger and embarrassment. She knew her words had shaken him and she also knew he’d probably never forgive her. She walked across the floor and opened the door. Father O’Brien watched her go but did not move, nor did he call his sister to see her out, and once outside Maeve let her breath out in a huge sigh and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
She tramped the hills for hours, seeing no one and glad of it, for the tears continued to flow and she gazed about her as she drank in the space and peace around her. She knew it might have to last her a lifetime.
Eventually, emotionally exhausted but with dry eyes, and her feelings so tightly in check that every part of her body ached, she returned to the farmhouse to tell her family what she’d done.
Brendan and Father Trelawney were waiting to meet Maeve at New Street station on the evening she returned home in the middle of June 1939. The journey had been horrendous and she’d been as sick as ever on the ferry, but as she’d been sick with misery and despair since she’d left, it hardly mattered. The vision of her solemn parents and tearful children haunted her throughout the journey back to Birmingham.
Father Trelawney treated her as if she was a valued guest and not an errant wife returning because she had to, and Brendan barely acknowledged her. Yet she was glad of the priest’s presence, knowing while he was there Brendan could do little to her, and when he suggested going home with them both to talk things over, she accepted it, though never could she remember ‘talking things over’ with Brendan.
Everything looked dirtier and drabber than Maeve remembered as she came out of New Street station flanked by the two men and got into an uncomfortable tram for the short ride home. Latimer Street was full of children playing out in the summer evening, and many women stood at their doorways opening on to the street, talking to their neighbours. As they became aware of Maeve, all conversation ceased and most of the women’s eyes were sympathetic, but Maeve kept her head down and acknowledged none of them.
They turned down the entry into the court, where Maeve was surprised to see Elsie’s door shut and the windows closed. She’d written Elsie a letter telling her that she was being forced to return but, knowing how she’d feel about it, had only posted the letter the previous day. But it should have arrived that morning, and Maeve was surprised her friend wasn’t there to greet her and hoped it wasn’t because she was cross with her for coming back. Maeve felt her spirits sink. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been looking forward to seeing Elsie again.
Father Trelawney saw her glance at Elsie’s house and said, ‘Mrs Phillips is away at her sister’s in Handsworth. She was taken bad and Mrs Phillips went over a couple of days ago.’
Maeve said nothing, but she saw the hard cruel smile on Brendan’s face and was afraid. She knew it was the thought of Elsie next door that had saved her many a time. Brendan couldn’t stand Elsie and told her so often, but she didn’t give a damn and was one of the few people who seemed unafraid of him. When Brendan started on her Maeve knew those around would tut and say something should be done, but no one would interfere, and she shivered in sudden apprehension.
The step into the house was nearly black and the house itself smelt musty and was covered in a film of dust. Maeve remembered Elsie telling her that Brendan had been living at his mother’s – not that he’d have done anything to clean the house even if he had been living in it; he wouldn’t have had a clue where to start. Maeve longed to boil up some water and attack the place and knew she would as soon as she was alone, but for now Father Trelawney was there and wanting to ‘talk things over’ and she knew she’d have to humour the man.
She wondered if there was a bite to eat in the house, but before she was able to ask, Father Trelawney said, ‘Brendan has got in a few basics, Maeve, and I suggest you put the kettle on, and Brendan and I will go out and treat the three of us to pie and chips.’
Maeve stared at him. Never had she tasted a pie from the chip shop. She’d seen them and smelt them, but never tasted one. Once she’d been in Elsie’s house when her husband came in and Elsie had brought him chips and a steak-and-kidney pie from the chippy. The crust of the pie had been golden brown and when Alf cut into it, the sight of the chunks of meat in the thick appetising-looking gravy had made her feel faint.