Light a Penny Candle by Maeve Binchy
She returned to the house in the square. Peggy, who hadn’t expected the mistress back so soon, was half-heartedly fending off the gropings of Johnny O’Hara, the postman. Johnny was drinking tea and eating bacon on his soda bread, and that annoyed Eileen more than the fumblings. She had ruled that it was extravagant to have bacon for breakfast, and here it was being handed out to the postman. She took the letter from the speechless Johnny, brushed aside the protests and explanations from Peggy with a curt request that Niamh should be restored to her cot.
Then she read that Sean had failed his Leaving Certificate examination.
She decided that she would tell her husband before anyone else.
Then she found that Eamonn had already gone to the school when the list was being read out and had galloped back to the shop with the news.
Then she heard on the wireless that an almighty blitz had begun on London, and that people were huddling down in the Underground to avoid the bombs and the falling buildings.
Then a message was sent from the school to say that Elizabeth had been sick and that Aisling was being sent home with her.
And as she sat down to try to cope with all the day had brought, she realised that she had not had her period since the middle of July and that she was probably pregnant. Pregnant at the age of forty.
Most things had sorted themselves out, as most things do, after two weeks. Most, not all.
Donal seemed stronger and happier at school than he had been during the summer term. He came home with names of friends and stories of what Sister Maureen had said. And plans for the Christmas play, where he would be playing an angel.
Elizabeth was not quite so fearful, and seemed to clutch at Aisling for safety. Aisling, in turn, was pleased and proud to have a new responsibility. It was better than a sister if not quite as good as a best friend. She was now an object of great interest in her class. An English Protestant refugee from the war over there and a kitten called Monica.
Peggy was so contrite about the episode with the postman that she took it on herself to make amends. She scrubbed floors unasked, and even tidied out cupboards, unearthing the most extraordinary things.
Young Sean got over the disappointment of his failure. Several other boys had failed too. The Brothers couldn’t understand it, although one told Eileen quietly that he thought a few of the lads had their heads stuffed with all this nonsense about going over and fighting a war, and they hadn’t given their work or their books enough attention.
Sean O’Connor had taken his eldest son’s failure much better than Eileen had hoped. He had had a man-to-man talk and told him that life was full of failures and problems, that Irish history had been one crisis after another … all had to be met, faced and solved. He arranged a regular wage and regular hours of work for Young Sean in the store, and saw that he had a smart dun-coloured coat to wear, which lifted him into a different category.
News from London was bad. Every night the bombers were coming over. Every night the Underground stations were full. There were stories of people leaving London again for another evacuation, but not nearly as many went as had gone before, the previous year. A message came from George and Violet, that they were managing. They had taken their beds down to the cellar and lined the walls with mattresses and padding. Eileen shuddered to think what it would be like, and managed to explain it all to Elizabeth in terms of fun. Elizabeth found it hard to think of her parents doing anything in a spirit of fun.
Eileen’s period resumed before she had told anyone of its delay. For four evenings she had had very hot baths and a glass of gin. It was just a relaxing thing to do after a day’s work. She didn’t even think she would worry Father Kenny by telling him about it in confession. It wasn’t a sin or anything, it was just something women did to get their bodies back to normal when they were a bit overstrained.
*
Maureen had seen pictures of nurses bending low over fevered brows and holding the hands of brave young men while reading temperatures and noting pulses and being generally indispensable. She had started writing to Dublin hospitals for details of training. She thought that there would be more brave young men languishing in Dublin than there were likely to be in the local county hospital which they visited whenever Grannie was taken in, which was every winter. Or when Donal had been there for his asthma.
Sometimes Young Sean discussed it with her, which pleased her. It made her feel grown-up to be talking about careers and futures with her elder brother.
He had tried to persuade her to train for war nursing; then they could both go together. There wouldn’t be so much fuss if they both said they thought it would be a great opportunity. He had changed his approach: he had begun to realise that his father really didn’t see the cause of Good and Honour being with Britain. He now brought the subject up in a purely practical way. …
‘What other chance would ever be half so good … the pay alone is terrific … they’ll train you, you know, for a career or a trade. I’d be a skilled man when I came out … I’d have a whole set of qualifications I’d never be able to get anywhere else. … Did you not hear there’s fellows already from Dublin, fellows with hardly any education doing great out there, learning and getting qualified. …’
It wasn’t any better than other lines of persuasion. Ones about duty and wishing to defend our way of life. But at least when he and his father argued now it was about points of fact and not blazing ideological rows which Young Sean didn’t really understand and always lost. …
‘Tell me, boy, why we should lift one finger to help them, let alone lose our young men for them in their fight? Yes, it’s their fight. What ever did they do for us except bring us torture and humiliation for eight hundred years. … Yes, and leave our country when they had to leave it … leave it in the state it’s in … half the land still bitter about the Civil War and a good quarter of it they’re still hanging on to. … When they give us back the North, which belongs to us by right, when they make some compensation for all they did, then I’d consider fighting in their wars. …’
Maureen tried out her hair in different ways with her friend, Berna Lynch, and wore lipstick and powder when she was out of the house. Sixteen was a tiresome age to be in Kilgarret. There was nothing for young people: instead they were watched with suspicion, as if they were on probation from the age of sixteen to twenty – and even longer if, by then, they hadn’t settled into the role of ‘walking out’ decorously with a suitable person. There were no social occasions. Maureen and Berna were considered too respectable to go to the local dance, where messenger boys and maids went. Peggy went to the dance on Saturday nights, but she hated to be asked about it. It wasn’t for the likes of Berna and Maureen, she kept saying. They’d hate it even if they managed to get there. They were too well born for the fun and glitter of a hot dance hall, but they weren’t well born enough for the tennis parties and supper parties of the people in the big houses. There were the Wests and the Grays and the Kents, all with young people of Maureen and Berna’s age, but they never met them. The children had been in boarding schools in Dublin; they came home at the end of term to the railway station three miles away, sometimes they arrived on the bus in the square with their lacrosse sticks and suitcases and blazers. Families in station-wagons met them with cries of excitement, but they never mixed in the life of the town.
Berna, as a doctor’s daughter, could have been their social equal … but for all their gentility, it was known that her father had a problem with the drink. It was well hidden, but well known at the same time. So Berna missed her chance. Sweet little thing – such a pity about her father. Awfully good doctor, of course, but inclined to go off on his own and mixing with all kinds of rough people. Then into a nursing home in Dublin and after that he wouldn’t touch the stuff for about eight months. …
They were bored at the convent, they thought the other girls silly and parochial. The time passed very slowly while they waited for Maureen to be called for interview to the hospital
*
Eamonn was having an unexpectedly bad term. He had looked forward to going back to school, for it held no terrors for a big strong eleven-year-old able to defend himself. But this term, everything was different. Brother John kept rapping him over the fingers.
‘Concentrate, young Eamonn O’Connor … we don’t want you flopping your exams like that big brother of yours. …’ And Brother Kevin, one of the kindest Brothers who never said a hard word to anyone, was also coming at him and being annoying.
‘Now, listen to me, Eamonn, like a good boy. Remember next year you’ll have little Donal here, after he makes his first communion, please God. Now, he’s not a strong little lad and you’ll have to take care of him, you know, you’ll have to keep an eye on him. …’
And at home, things weren’t any better. Peggy was no fun; she was forever cleaning and looking nervously over her shoulder, as if she and Ma had had a row. But there had been no row. He couldn’t understand it.
Niamh had begun to cut teeth, and oh janey, what an awful noise she made. She had a bright red boiled face and her mouth was always open and dribbling. Eamonn thought she looked revolting and couldn’t understand why they were always picking her up and soothing her. Everyone cut teeth, he thought savagely. When he had lost his and got new ones there was no fuss and roaring.
And Father was in a bad humour, he’d fight with Sean at the drop of a hat. And then Ma would get upset and look away; she was very tired every evening and had no time to talk to him about school or anything. Even Maureen was never there any more, she was always up at Berna’s house.
But the worst of all was Aisling. Aisling used to be all right. Someone to play with. A girl, of course, and a sister, but only a year younger, so not too bad. But since the arrival of this Elizabeth, there was no fun to be had out of her. When the two of them came home from school, it was a glass of milk and a bit of soda cake with currants in it and then up the stairs with the kitten. Stupid name, Monica. Up the stairs and the door with their silly notice on it would close with a bang. Aisling and Elizabeth. Eizabeth and Aisling. It would sicken you.
IV
AISLING HAD TAKEN her responsibilities about Elizabeth very seriously indeed. Not everyone was given a foreigner of their own to look after at the age of ten. Admittedly there were compensations like the beautiful Monica who had a white front and a purr like an engine and an endless capacity for running after bits of string and rubber balls. And another was that she could get away with lots of things by ‘having to help Elizabeth’. She never had to help with the clearing of the table at home nor the washing-up on Peggy’s half day. At school she could get out of extra homework.
‘I can’t Sister, I really can’t, I have to show Elizabeth how we do things. Honestly Sister.’
And she thought she was doing a good job. Day by day Elizabeth began to appear more confident. That anxious upturned look was getting less frequent. Aisling noticed that she didn’t say sorry so much. She still wasn’t very forthcoming about secrets and confidences and though Aisling pressed her about a whole variety of subjects she seemed withdrawn.
‘But go on tell me about school … tell me about Monica … the first Monica.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Elizabeth would say.
‘Oh go on, go on. I tell you everything.’
‘Well, she was Monica Hart. She used to sit near me, that’s all.’
‘That’s all?’ Aisling was not only disappointed, she felt that Elizabeth was holding out on her. There must have been more.
Or about birthdays. What did Elizabeth do, who came to the house, what did she get as presents?
Elizabeth had got a cardigan last May when she had been ten, and a box of paints. Yes, that was all. No, no party. Yes, perhaps some of the girls at school had parties. No, not Monica Hart. Who did she miss most? Well Miss James. Miss James was very nice. Nicer than Sister Mary? Well different. Nicer in a way because she wasn’t a Holy Sister, You know, more a real person. Yes, she missed Miss James most.
‘Apart from your Mam and Dad,’ Aisling added just to have the record straight.
‘Oh yes. You said at school. Of course I miss my Mum and Dad.’
Aisling used to include Elizabeth’s parents in her prayers.
‘God bless me and make me good, and God bless Mam and Dad, and Peggy and Sean and Maureen and Eamonn and Donal and Niamh, and Sister Mary, and everyone in Kilgarret, and everyone in Wicklow, and in Ireland, and in the world. And God bless Elizabeth and make sure that her parents, Auntie Violet and Uncle George, are safe during all the things that are happening in London.’
Elizabeth used to say thank you at the end of these prayers which were chanted from the end of Aisling’s bed. But Aisling pointed out that she wasn’t saying them to Elizabeth, just to God.
Sometimes Elizabeth wondered what Mother would do if Aisling ran up to her and called her Auntie Violet. She was sure that Mother would think Aisling and all the O’Connors very rough. Which, of course, they were. But she hoped that Mother wouldn’t come over and see them just yet anyway. If Mother came now she might take Elizabeth away. Mother hated dirt, and really sometimes the house was very dirty.
Nobody ever cleaned the bathroom, and the kitchen had bits of food all over it, not just under nice food covers like Mother had. Mother would never understand sitting at a table where the cloth was full of stains, where nobody had their own napkin ring, where if something fell on the floor it was picked up and eaten as often as not. Mother had been here years and years ago and only remembered that it had been dirty. Elizabeth feared that it might have got even worse since those days.
Even in a few short weeks Elizabeth had become very defensive about her new home; she would hate to hear Mother criticise it, or Father to make a disparaging remark about the way they lived. When Sister Mary had corrected Aisling in class the other day Elizabeth’s face had burned.
‘Sit up straight child and tie that carroty hair back. Now do you hear me, Aisling O’Connor, don’t come into this classroom tomorrow without a bow on all that streelish hair.’
Elizabeth had been offended on Aisling’s behalf. To call her beautiful hair ‘carroty’. It was a great insult. Miss James would never have said anything about a pupil’s appearance. It just wasn’t done. But funnily, Aisling hadn’t minded at all; she had just shaken it back, giggled at Elizabeth and, when Sister Mary’s back was turned, made a face at her retreating presence which made all the other girls stuff their hands into their mouths to prevent a squeak escaping.
The other girls were from farms near Kilgarret, or else their parents had small businesses in the town. It was all so different here from home. Hardly anyone’s father went out to work at a place and then came home from it in the evening. There was a bank but there only seemed to be two people in it, not like Father’s bank. Eileen had pointed it out to her one day, as she pointed out lots of things which had some kind of link with home.
The pupils in the convent welcomed Elizabeth as a novelty but because she was so shy and timid some of them lost interest in her fairly quickly. This in itself was a relief, as she hated being the object of their attention. Aisling, as her self-appointed knight-in-armour, was often more of a menace than a help.
When the girls asked her about her other school, Aisling would intervene on her behalf. …
‘She doesn’t know much about it. It was bombed, you see, in the blitz. Everyone dead and buried in the rubble. …’
Sometimes Elizabeth would protest afterwards.
‘Honestly Aisling … you shouldn’t say that, I don’t think the school is all in rubble … it’s not true.’
‘Oh, it might be,’ Aisling would say airily. ‘Anyway, you talk so little about your life in London people think it’s funny. It’s b
Did she talk very little? Possibly. Mother hadn’t encouraged long tales with no middles or ends like Aisling, Eamonn and Donal related about their doings … Mother hadn’t been interested to enquire about the other girls at school and had even been bored when she talked about Miss James. It was all so different.
Nothing had led Elizabeth to expect their passionate interest in her soul. It had been explained to the class that since she was of the Protestant faith she would read her Bible during catechism classes. Green with envy for a lifestyle that didn’t include five hard questions of catechism each evening, the others pestered Elizabeth about her own particular route to God.
‘But you don’t go to church, not even the Protestant church,’ Joannie Murray persisted.
‘No. I … Auntie Eileen said she would take me … but, no. It’s a bit different you see,’ Elizabeth stammered.
‘But don’t you have to go to some church even if it’s only a Protestant church?’ Joannie Murray hated things to be inconclusive.
‘Well … yes if you can. I think.’
‘Why don’t you go to the Protestant church then? It’s just beside you … it’s nearer than our church and we all go up the hill to our church. Every Sunday and holidays of obligation. Otherwise we’d go to hell. Why won’t you have to go to hell?’
Aisling was usually at hand.
‘It’s different for her. She didn’t have the gift of faith.’
This satisfied some of them but not all.
‘The gift of faith is only hearing about God, she’s heard about God from us now.’