Mary Ann Shaughnessy - The Devil And Marianne Part 10

"Oh, yes, heaps-and they make you stuff it down, cabbage an' all. And "

"They treat you all right?" Mr. Wilson, finding nothing to get at in having too much food, altered his approach. "Yes."

"Hit you or anything? Lock you up?"

Mary Ann's eyes widened. "No. No, they don't."

"Look, have a bit cake," Mrs. Wilson thrust a paper plate

towards Mary Ann. "Oh, ta, Mrs. Wilson." ' Mary Ann ! Mary Ann ! " The almost hysterical

shoutingcoming from behind the rock startled them all, and Mary Ann,springing up and remembering that she wasn't on the sands,said, "Eeh! pu catch it, I'm not supposed to be round here.That's Marian) my friend." "Well, bring her round, hinny." "It's out of bounds. Eeh! I'd better go."

"Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Oh, Mary Ann!" Now Marian'sscreams were hysterical, and to her voice others were joined, achorus of them.Eeh. ivfary Ann looked from one to the other, her eyes large and startled. "Eeh ! Ta-ra, Mr.

Wilson. Ta-ra, Mrs. . Wilson; it was lovely seeing you."

She turned and ran down to the water's edge, and as she pledged wiiaiy in she imagined somehow that the end of the lor rock had moved out into the water, for the s.h.i.+ngle, sloping steeply at that point, brought the water round her waist. It was still calm and sunny water, but when three steps from the end of the rock it came up to her armpits, the world suddenly became a ma.s.s of water and she knew a tiny tremor of fear, and just as she heard Mr. Wilson's anxious voice, calling, "Come on back here, hinny!" around the bend rushed Sister Agnes Mary, with the bottom of her habit, although tucked up a little, trailing in the water.

"Child! you'll be punished for this. . . . You will! you will!"

Voice and manner were so unlike those of Sister Agnes Mary that all Mary Ann could do was to stare up at her, and when she was hoisted out of the water and into the Sister's arms, she saw that she was really flaming mad.

Sister Agnes Mary was flaming mad, but it was with fright. Like a distraught mother seeking relief from her fear in action and heedless of the s.h.i.+ngle crippling Mary Ann's bare feet, she pulled her along the beach. At the a.s.sembling point from where, only ten minutes before, Mary Ann had departed, Sister Agnes Mary took Ijer hands and slapped them; then did the same to her bottom, and sent her, crying now, to get dressed, whfl' Marian stood by sniffling and saying, "I thought she was drowned when I didn't see her-I thought she was drowned."

During all this Mr. Wilson had been standing by the point of the rock, his trousers rolled up well above the knees, sending an angry commentary back to his wife.

"What did I tell you! Nun clouting her . . . and in the open. If they do that with folks lookin', what'll they do when they can't be seen. . . . It's as I've always said . . . for two pins TM "

U.

"George! you'll do no such thing. Come on, it's none of your business. Perhaps the woman was worried."

"Worried? and belting her like that! She looks as big as a house and as mad as a hatter. . . . Convents! By, if I had my way."

He stood taking in the proceedings of the group, now being hustled into their clothes until the rising tide threatened to engulf him, when he retreated, telling his only listener what he thought about convents-as if she didn't already know-and that he'd give that bairn's da an earful of what went on when he saw him.

iV+'

Dating from the beach incident, life became a problem to Mary Ann, one large, painful problem made up of lesser problems, one of which, the honour of her house, rated highly. Not that she cared too much for the honour of her house, but the ten black marks she had received for just going round the bend put her away ahead of the worst culprit in the convent, and was bound, she was a.s.sured from all sides, which included Lola, to place their house bottom in the running for the cup. She had lain awake at nights thinking along such entwined lines as "Bust the cup!" and "Oh! Da," and "What's our Michael mean? He's always keeping on"; then, during this particular week, fourteen days after the fateful Wednesday and still three weeks and three days from the holidays, she had asked herself each night not "What does our Michael mean?" but "Why didn't he write last week?" It was now eleven days altogether since she had heard from him, and during that time she'd had two letters from her da but only one from her ma, and all three letters had been short, telling her nothing, only to be a good girl and learn her lessons-as if Mr. Lord didn't tell her that every Monday morning.

Leaving out her home worries and returning to her school ones, there remained one ray of hope on her horizon, a ray that might be the means of her getting twenty-five whole marks and so erasing some of the blackness from her sheet. In each house, every' year, was held a compet.i.tion for the best written essay and the best sonnet. Now Mary Ann wasn't as yet much good at the essay, but as to sonnets-she knew them as poetry-she thought she was the tops. She was good at poetry, she told herself with conviction. Hadn't even Mother St. Bede praised her for her efforts-although she had added she must not misconstrue things, like the way she had when asked to write a twelve-line poem on "Flag Day", and she wrote : It's was.h.i.+ng day, It's was.h.i.+ng day, My Py-jams are all soap.

They'll shrinl^ and shrinl^ And shrin and shrink^, Oh dear! there is no hope.

It's was.h.i.+ng day, * '.

It's was.h.i.+ng day, The things are on the line.

There's me ma's things, And me da's things, And next to them are mine.

She couldn't have made it rhyme i she had stuck their Michael's name in, and she hadn't thought of

turning "me ma's" to "my mother's", or "me da's" to "my father's", and this seemingly had detracted still

further from the poem's merit; yet, in spite of this, Mother St. Bede had praised her, and apparently for

the very thing that she had condemned which she called misconstruing.

She hadn't pointejl out to Mother St. Bede that "Flag Day" was how her da referred to the was.h.i.+ng in

the back lanes; Mo^er St. Bede, she felt sure, wouldn't have understood if she had.

And now to write a poem, a beautiful poem, that would win not only the house prize but be the top of the four houses and be set to music, as the winning poem always was. Just that morning they had all sung last year's winning song, which had been won by a girl not in the Upper House, but in the Middle one.

She hummed it to herself :

"Come fly out oj doors and see the rain, Rain that won't come for a year again; **

Golden rain, brittle and brown Singing as it floats waverly down. :

Come, let joy sing in your veins, For only once a year it rains Leaves of Autumn , , Yet promise of Spring. Come fly out of doors and let your heart sing."

It was a lovely tune an' all. Oh, if only she could write a song like that. So filled did she become with her desire to write a song that the day was but a prelude to the recreation hour, and she waived all thought of letter-writing so that she could get down to it. Having bagged her favourite seat near the window she was down to it when Marian made her appearance.

Marian, Mary Ann was finding, could be a bit of a nuisance. If she wasn't crying about her da she was talking about him. This side of her Mary Ann understood perfectly, and she always allowed her to go on for some time before b.u.t.ting in herself to continue the same theme, but, of course, with a very different da. When she spoke of Mike to her friend she continued to use the forbidden term, and through repet.i.tion Marian had come to think of Mary Ann's father as her da.

"What are you doing?" she asked now flatly.

"Writing some poetry, a poem." Mary Ann didn't look up.

"It's a waste of time, you won't get anything. Beatrice'll win it."

Mary Ann's head came up now, and quickly she retorted, "She won't! Mother St. Bede didn't take no-any notice of hers.'; "Shus.h.!.+" Marian looked slyly up and around. "She's over there. . . . You know what?" She sat down and brought her head near to Mary Ann's and, in a voice scarcely audible above the buzz in the room, she said, "She was going at Lolo about you."

Mary Ann's attention was successfully brought away from her task. "She was?"

"Yes." Marian nodded and nuzzled nearer. "She said you were common, and this place would never alter you, and-and you were the biggest sow's ear she had ever known here. A sow's ear, that's what she called you."

Mary Ann had heard the first time. Sow's ear, she knew all about sows' ears. Mrs. Flannagan had said she was one, and Sarah Flannagan had shouted it after her, adding that you couldn't make a silk purse out of it. But Father Owen had told her that you could, for he had been a sow's ear himself once. But in this moment Mary Ann found no consolation in Father Owen's ancestry, which was apparently akin to her own. That Beatrice was a cheeky thing. She cast her eyes to the far corner of the room, where Beatrice was writing, surrounded by three of her cronies. For two pins she'd go over to her and say, "Who do you think you're calling a sow's ear ! You're a bra.s.s-faced monkey. Take that!" She had a beautiful mental picture of delivering a ringing slap that would knock Beatrice clean off her feet.

"Don't look over there," begged Marian now in some fear, "she'll come over and then she'll give you more marks. Let me see what you've done."

"No." Mary Ann put her hand over the paper.

"Oh, well, all right, if you want to be huffy." Marian moved away a little and idly opened a book, and Mary Ann returned to her composing. But she had scarcely begun to think when Marian's voice canse again, insinuatingly, "Aren't you going to write to your-da," tonight ?" ,0No."

"Oh."

Mary Ann's mouth went into a tight line. Why couldn't Marian do something? She was always "just asking". She wasn't going to take no notice of her, she was going to do her poetry. What went with . . . lawns of green? Bean . . . lean . . . sheen? Yes . . . sheen, lawns of green sheen . . . No. Glossy sheen. Yes, that was it : lawns of green and glossy sheen.

"I wish it was the holidays." There was a sigh from Marian, which elicited no response whatever from Mary Ann.

Falling like-like what? Mary Ann pictured the lawns outside below the terrace. What fell ? ... Waterfalls ... oh yes, falling like waterfalls. But that wasn't long enough . . . and then there was something about de-da-de-da's that Mother St. Bede said you had to count to get the lines right. Oh, she couldn't bother about that, she would forget what she was making up.

Lawns of green and glossy sheen, falling like waterfalls-toto valleys .. .

"Do you know that all the nuns-Sisters, too-were called to Mother Superior today? I wonder what for.

Do you know?"

Mary Ann did not raise her eyes, but let out a long-drawn breath that sounded like the leak of a bicycle

tyre. Bust Marian. And nuns and Sisters. . . . Oh, Burns and blisters, she had lost it now. But her disappointment was suddenly turned to excitement by this last thought, which rhymed, nuns and Sisters, Burns and blisters. Eeh ! but you couldn't say Burns, not here ! A little laugh wriggled inside of her and found its way up to her lips and eyes. Eeh! but it could be funny. She liked doing funny ones, she was good at funny ones. Her pencil was now away ahead of her thoughts.

"Let's play needles and pins, Mary Ann." It was a whisper from Marian.

"No, not now, I'm working. Can't you see?" She would want to play needles and pins now. . . . Needles and pins, needles and pins, sit on them p.r.o.nto for your sins. You see, she could write funny ones.

Needles and fins, Needles and pins, . .

Sit on them p.r.o.nto for your sins; ^ // you don't eat your cabbage there'll be some fun And a whac on your bvm by a Sister or a Nun.

Eeh! it was funny. She could make a really funny one up out of that. But she'd have to take that "b.u.m"

out.

"What on earth are you writing?"

As the hated voice fell down on her a hand came over her shoulder, but before it could reach the paper

Mary Ann's hands, aided by sheer terror and panic, had grabbed it up, and she had sprung from the table. And now both of these emotions were directing her self-preservation, for her hands, as she backed from her tormentor, endeavoured to tear up the paper.

"Give it to me!"

"No, I'll not!" .-..*; .

"Do as you're told."

"I'll not for you, so there !"

The whole attention of the recreation room was now turned on Mary Ann. And Beatrice, seeing that in a few more seconds there would be no evidence left of the self-convicting of this, to her, common individual, made a lunge towards her. But Mary Ann's riposte, owing to her slightness of form, was as quick as any foil in the hands of a master, and as she leapt to the side Beatrice, losing her balance, sprawled forward and aided by the glib surface of the floor, skidded some distance on her stomach being brought to a stop by a chair and Sister Alvis's thick Irish voice, crying, "Beatrice! get up out of that. Mother of G.o.d! what do you think you are playing at ! Keep your hockey demonstrations for the fields, child."

Sister Alvis can be forgiven for lacking sympathy, for half the room had dared to burst into laughter at the result of Beatrice's attack; moreover, Sister Alvis had very little liking for Beatrice-a hoity-toity piece, and full of pride. Jesus forgive her for pa.s.sing judgment-and so now, if she were under the impression that anything was amiss, she pa.s.sed it over by crying loudly again, "Come on now! Come on now, all of vous, all ofajjous. And pick up those pieces, Mary Ann; you're spraying the floor with them. . . . Are you hurt, Beatrice? You're a big girl to go throwing yourself about like that. Away you go upstairs and tidy yourself; there's five minutes before supper. Now go on. Go on." She shook her head. "I can't listen to any chatter now."

Mary Ann could have flown to Sister Alvis and flung her arms about her. She was lovely, she was wonderful, she was holy, a saint-everything-the lot. A minute ago she had thought that the Devil didn't appear only in men who wanted you to go for rides in cars. She had seen him plainly advancing on her, dressed up as Beatrice. But Sister Alvis had come and saved her. Her faith in human nature, as supplied by convents, and justice, about which she had always had her doubts, were both revived and strengthened.

She picked up the pieces of paper with lightning speed, ran from the recreation room straight to the lavatory and pulled the chain on them. There ! what could Beatrice do now.

Later, in chapel, she looked across at the Holy Family. Wooden as they were, and without colour or feeling, tonight they seemed to be a little alive, warmer somehow, and for the first time since her coming here she addressed them as she would have the group back in Jarrow. "Thank you, dear Holy Family." Eeh! if she'd got hold of that paper I'd have been in for it. Oh, she's awful. . . . "Thank you for making Sister Alvis come in. She's lovely, like Mrs. McBride. I like her best next to Mother Mary Divine and Sister Agnes Mary, although she did clout me, Sister Agnes Mary, I mean. G.o.d bless me ma and da and our Michael, and make him write to me. And will you help me with me poetry, cos I want to get some marks. In the name of the Father and of the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen." Eeh ! where was she, they were giving the responses. She hadn't her mind on her prayers, on the real prayers. . . . "Spare us, O Lord-" she spoke up loud and clear. Then not yet being in her stride and over-excited by the preference G.o.d had so openly shown her tonight, she forgot that she should read the next line to herself and leave the verbal oration to the priest, and so to her own horror she heard her voice, saying, still loud and clear and joined now solely with that of the priest: "AGNUS DEI QUI TOLLIS PECCATA MUNDI." Her Latin p.r.o.nunciation was something akin to her English and "Paa-car-ta-Moon-day" trailed horribly away in the silerce, and her head drooped to pew level, forced there by the quick glances of those about her. Eeh ! Eeh ! she had no words terrible enough to pour on her own head over this sacrilege, yet away behind a boarded-off section of her mind, the boards being constructed of convent veneer, the real Mary Ann was crying out in her own defence: What could you expect from a wooden Holy Family-they should have stopped her. It would never have happened in Jarrow.

Strange as it seemed to Mary Ann, she never even got ticked off about the chapel incident, but it had its repercussions, one nice . . . lovely, and one horrible . . . beastly.

The first occurred the following morning. When b.u.mping into Mother Mary Divine in a temporarily deserted corridor, the nun had bent above her and touched her cheek softly and whispered, "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi . . . bless you. Indeed, bless you," and then had glided away. And Mary Ann had stopped for a moment to gaze after her, speechless but filled with a ... lovely feeling ... a holy feeling, and this feeling persisted right through the morning in spite of Mother St. Bede going at her again for the way she spoke. You never knew how you had Mother St. Bede. One minute she was praising you for your poetry, and the next she was going at you just cos you said "ca.s.sel" instead of "carsal"; and then the blooming word was spelt castle-it wasn't fair. But the unfairness was not strong enough to force its way beyond her holy feeling. What completely shattered her celestial affinity, however, and brought her to mundane earth with a b.u.mp was when she ran into a group of four girls in a carefully prepared circle round by the side of the gym-house and all wearing mournfully long faces, behind which laughter was bubbling to escape. With eyes raised to heaven and with hands joined as if in prayer, they were groaning quietly, one afterjthe other, in voices fitting their expressions: "Agnes Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, SfOfc Mary Ann Shaughnessy, O Lord."

"Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, Spare her da, O Lord."

"Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi-and their Michael."

Now it was Beatrice's voice, groaning with emotion and strangled laughter: "Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, And her ma . . . and the farm and Mr. Lord-and-and the whole of Jarrow."