The Four Streets (6 page)

Both she and the other women had agreed the previous day to send the children off to school early and to keep the little ones indoors. Today was no day for footie games or laughter on the green, regardless of the weather.

She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fire, next to a pair of Staffordshire pot dogs. They were the only things of value in the house, although they spent more time in the pawnbroker’s than on the mantelpiece.

The morning routine of feeding and dressing seven children began in a hurry. Kitty took Angela, and Maura the twins. Tommy helped today as he was at home, and took over from Maura as baby Niamh had her next feed. Kitty took the twins to school and then returned to help look after the little ones until Mrs Keating, a neighbour, came in. The teachers wouldn’t bat an eyelid. They were all from back home and knew of the terrible tragedy that had struck the four streets.

Tommy had brought chocolate back from the newsagent’s, something they had only ever had at Christmas before.

‘Don’t let them have any until ye see us turn the corner at the end of the street, now, Kitty, do ye hear me?’ Maura said as soon as Kitty came back in through the door. ‘What did Miss Devlin say to ye? Was she all right now about ye coming back home?’

‘Aye,’ said Kitty, ‘she was grand, Mammy, and she asked me to tell ye she would be putting in a prayer card in St Mary’s for Bernadette.’

Kitty was smart and older than her years. Her childhood was doomed to be short as she shouldered the responsibilities of an elder sister. She didn’t need to be asked or told anything twice.

The church bell began to ring out the death knell. A Liverpool funeral wasn’t worth having without the solemn, dramatic accompaniment of the slow, steady call to a requiem mass. They told everyone on the four streets it was time to leave. Put on your coat. Check your lipstick. Put on your hat. Leave the house.

Maura looked out of the window to see if anyone else had begun to drag their hard-backed kitchen chairs outside into the street. The rain had petered out into a drizzle. How did anyone cope in this life without prayers to be answered, she thought. She put on her funeral black coat and mantilla, shouting to Tommy to come and help her put their own chairs out onto the pavement.

As she stepped outside she looked towards the top of the street and noticed that the dogs had ceased to bark, the tugs had stopped blowing and every curtain in the street was drawn in respect. Most houses had been in darkness with their curtains drawn for the last six days and no curtains would be opened until after the interment.

The cranes, visible on even the murkiest day, stood motionless like dormant lighthouses in relief against the flat landscape of the harbour. Even the dockers who didn’t live on the four streets, and who hadn’t known Bernadette, knew Jerry. They wanted to pay their respects and show solidarity in his worst hour. The Mersey Dock Company, the stevedore bosses and even the gaffers knew this wasn’t a time to pull rank or to lay down the law. The faces of the men were too grim, too set to challenge. The docks were as silent as the four streets.

A hush had fallen over the cobbles and the only noise was that of wooden chair legs being scraped across the pavement as they were dragged outside to be lined up in a row along the pavement edge. Along with softly falling tears and the occasional sob, this was the only sound to be heard. No one spoke, but everyone crossed themselves each time they looked towards Jerry’s house.

There were no words to be said. The feeling of loss was so acute, the shock so profound, that normal chatter had ceased.

People were used to grief. Everyone knew at least one person who had suffered as a result of the war even if they hadn’t lost someone of their own. Infant mortality rates were high and maternal death from childbirth the biggest single killer of young women, particularly those from impoverished backgrounds like their own. Death was no stranger to the families on the four streets but, still, they hadn’t expected it to snuff out the very brightest light that burnt in their midst. They were grappling in the dark. She was too vibrant, too noisy, too vital to be lost.

It was nine-thirty as everyone took their seat and lined the pavement in a guard of honour. At just that moment, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine broke though. The older neighbours, who weren’t going to the church or the graveyard, came out, the women with their headscarves fastened over hair curlers and heavy dark woollen coats flapping open on top of faded nightdresses or, for the men, stained pyjamas. They wore outdoor shoes with bare legs and no stockings, or work boots unlaced with no socks. The laces flapped around bare ankles and soaked up the rain from the pavement. No one batted an eyelid at the coats worn over nightwear. Everyone had wanted to say a last goodbye to the young, exuberant girl with the flaming red hair and the infectious laugh.

The women took their places on the chairs lined up in the street as their men stood behind, holding onto the backs. Some were shaking, some were tearful, and all were in shock. Today was a day they all wanted to be over as soon as possible. Even Maura. Despite her inner torment, her unstoppable tears and the acute pain in her diaphragm, the survivor in her knew that once a line could be drawn under today, she could take a fairy footstep towards normality. Life had to move on. She had her own children and family to hold on to, and if there was one thing she had learnt from death, it was to love and appreciate those around you because you never knew what tomorrow would bring.

None of the women were strangers to death from childbirth; Bernadette wasn’t the first woman on the four streets to meet her maker that way. But Bernadette had done something different: she had chosen the hospital over a home delivery.

‘I’m taking no chances,’ she had told her neighbours. ‘It’s all the rage with the fancy women,’ she had declared, laughing her decision off when the others asked why a home birth wasn’t good enough.

‘Ooh, get you, Silver Heels,’ they had all teased her.

But Bernadette hadn’t cared; she thought no ill of anyone for laughing at her. She had just wanted the best for her baby. None of the other women had a clue what plans they had in store for their child’s future, and for Bernadette a hospital birth would lay down the first marker of change. It would be the first of many steps she wanted to put in place to break with the past. Their child would not be living its life on the four streets, but she couldn’t share that desire with anyone. Never mind the fact that she knew, Bernadette just knew, that life for her baby would be very different from that of any of her neighbours’ children.

They heard the horses’ hooves before the gleaming black and glass hearse reached the top of the road. The first thing they saw were the white bouncing feather plumes attached to the horses’ brow bands as they came into sight and turned the corner. Bernadette was coming home, back to the door of her proud, pristine house for one last time. She was coming to say one last goodbye to them all.

The men removed their caps and, casting their eyes downwards, clutched them to their chests. The women held each other’s hands along the row, like children in a playground, and sobbed. Squeezing each other’s hands tightly, they were holding one another up. The sudden emotion that had flooded the silence of the street as Bernadette had turned the corner was in danger of knocking them over, of taking one of them down. The shock of knowing that she was only feet away from them, that they could reach out and touch her coffin if they so tried, had brought up sharp the reality of her loss. There but for the grace of God could go any one of them. Most of them had at least half a dozen children each. At the rate they turned out babies, on any week Bernadette’s fate could be theirs.

At the top of the dock steps, they heard the slow, steady ascent of footsteps as, one after another, dockers appeared and removed their cloth caps as they gathered along the top, stood in silence and watched.

As the carriage horses slowed to a standstill, everyone’s eyes were on the house as Jerry’s front door opened. For a few moments there was nothing. Not a sound. It looked as though the door was going to close again without Jerry coming out; then suddenly he stepped out with his baby cradled in his arms. For a second, he held onto the door frame, then looked down as his foot came off the front step and he stood in the street.

Hardly anyone other than Maura and Tommy had seen Jerry since Bernadette’s death. The neighbours had been in and out of the house but it was Jerry’s parents, who had got straight onto the ferry as soon as they heard the news, who had sat and talked with neighbours for hours, entertaining in true Irish tradition. No one had paid their last respects at the house and left without a glass of Irish whiskey and a sandwich in their insides.

Jerry had lost a great deal of weight and seemed ten years older than his age. His face looked grey and lined, and his red eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark circles from lack of sleep and continuous crying.

‘Have ye ever seen a man so heartbroken?’ Peggy could be heard to whisper.

She said that at every funeral of every widow, and it could have been the case; however, on this day, it was a fact. The truth. A statement exaggerated in a way only the passionate Irish could manage. Truly, had anyone ever seen a man more bereft or heartbroken?

Jerry’s mother and father stood one each side of him and, without touching, were providing the invisible support to keep him upright. They were coping and giving no sign of being under stress themselves. Jerry’s mother, Kathleen, the true matriarch of the family, was doing what all mothers do, being strong for her boy. No one could have mistaken Kathleen for anything other than an Irish mother. Fair, fat and looking like fifty. Her once light strawberry-blonde hair was partly grey and fresh out of rollers. Her eyes were also heavy but shone with a determination to get her son through this awful day in one piece.

Behind them came Bernadette’s brothers. As soon as they had heard the news, they had packed up and made their way straight to Liverpool, just as they knew their mammy and daddy, who had both passed away, would have wanted them to do. The landlord at the Anchor pub on the Dock Road had rung the owner of the pub in Bangornevin, who had sent out a cellar boy on a donkey to the pub in Killhooney Bay, where there was no phone, who had sent out Celia, their cleaner, who was related to Bernadette’s brother’s wife, to break the news. The Irish mule telegraph. Both families had all arrived by coincidence in Liverpool on the same boat three days later.

In the meantime, whilst Jerry had waited for family help to arrive, Maura had kept him fed, watered and sane, but only just.

Each morning when he woke he felt a huge shock as the realization washed over him that Bernadette was dead. In the first few seconds as sleep half left him, he would reach out to scoop her into his arms; sometimes he would smile to himself, believing her still to be there. Every day since their wedding, he had woken as the happiest of men. But now, leaden dismay slowly descended upon him as it filtered through the haziness of sleep until suddenly, as though he had been slapped on the face, his eyes opened and the adrenaline kicked in, ready to help his body handle the shock, as fresh every day as it had been on the first.

It began with a hint. A small clue. A question. An odd pain between his ribs. A feeling that all might not be quite right and then, with a rush, the thought,
she’s gone,
would flood in so quickly that even the adrenaline had no ability to protect him from the sudden pain and outpouring of tears.

If it weren’t for Maura and Tommy, he would never have got out of bed in the morning. One or the other was always there, shouting up the stairs, telling him the kettle was on and the fire was lit or there was a stew or a pie on the table. How did they manage to smile and laugh as they did, as though nothing had happened? Had they cared nothing for Bernadette? Did they not understand his agony?

The hospital had insisted on Nellie remaining there until Kathleen arrived. ‘Ye cannot be dealing with managing a first newborn now, in the midst of all ye grief,’ the Irish ward sister had told him kindly. ‘I do know what I’m talking about. Now, get yer mammy and daddy over and come back to the hospital, and by then baby Nellie will be settled on a bottle and ye can take her home.’

Jerry felt as though the hospital were kidnapping his baby. No. No. No. The words screamed in his mind. This is not what Bernadette wanted. This is not what she had planned.

‘Now come along,’ the sister said kindly but firmly. ‘If Bernadette were here, both of them would have been with us for a week. Nothing is different for the baby.’

And so he had returned home alone. He had walked the full length of the city back to the four streets, unaware of where he was going. Unable to see through his tears. Unable to comprehend what was happening. She had been dead for only an hour and here he was, out on the street alone.

When he had spotted the blood pouring onto the floor, he had slowly stood up and, disbelieving, taken the three steps from the chair to his wife.

‘Bernadette,’ he whispered. ‘Bernadette, what’s wrong with ye?’

Only minutes before they had been kissing, crying and laughing, and now she lay deathly silent with a complexion of sallow wax beaded with clammy cold perspiration. He reached down and took her hand to shake her awake but dropped it just as quickly as the wet, unnatural iciness seeped from her fingers into his.

He ran into the corridor screaming for the midwife. In what seemed like seconds, it was as though all of hell had broken free. They no longer cared whether or not he could hold a baby’s head properly as they had done only minutes earlier, as he was yelled at to take Nellie and to get out of the labour room.

Doctors in white coats stampeded down the corridor, with nurses running after them, pushing metal trolleys, their shoes on the floor sounding like waves of angry thunder coming towards him. He saw his beautiful wife thrust out of the room on a gurney and he wanted to shout at the doctors to be careful as it smashed against the side of the narrow corridor, leaving black rubber skid marks on the pastel wall as hospital staff became clumsy in their haste. Bernadette was as white as the sheet upon which she lay, with her long red hair splayed over the pillow, as the nurses, with panic running alongside, yelled at people to get out of the way.