The Wasted Years Read online

  To her amazement, May eyed her keenly and asked, ‘Are you happy, Rosaleen?’

  ‘Of course I am. What made you ask that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ May gave a little laugh. ‘You’d have a cheek not to be happy. Married to Joe … a beautiful home … and now a lovely baby.’

  May’s reply was appeasing; Rosaleen’s answer had been too quick, too emphatic, and May wasn’t fooled. Remembering Sean had come back on the scene, she inquired after him.

  ‘Is Sean Devlin still going out with Annie?’

  She was dismayed to see hot colour stain Rosaleen’s cheeks.

  Aware that she was blushing, Rosaleen answered abruptly. ‘He’s at sea at the moment, but yes, he is dating Annie.’

  ‘Oh… I see.’

  ‘What do you mean, you see? What do you see?’ Rosaleen asked sharply.

  ‘I … I … ah, now, Rosaleen, I just asked.’

  Rosaleen managed to get control of her voice before she replied. May was no doser, she must never guess that Sean was still interested in her. ‘I’m sorry, May. I’m just worried in case Annie finds out about me going out with him.’

  ‘Rosaleen, it was just a couple of dates … Oh, I see. You’re afraid of Joe’s reaction, is that it?’

  Rosaleen nodded, relieved that May was being diverted.

  ‘Well, he’ll never hear from my lips, so he won’t. Not that I’m likely to be talking to him.’

  She sighed. ‘I miss you, Rosaleen. I have to admit, I’m a bit lonely.’

  Rosaleen squeezed her hand. ‘Why not come and visit me every Tuesday night when Joe’s at the confraternity?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think that would be a good idea.’ May turned the thought over in her mind and repeated sadly, ‘No, me da might find out. I’m not just anxious about myself. I just don’t want you involved. I’ll have to be satisfied seeing you once a month.’ She reached for a parcel that was lying on the bench beside her, and thrust it at Rosaleen. ‘Here! Just a wee present for Laura.’ She peered once more into the pram at the sleeping child. ‘She’s lovely, so she is. I wish she had wakened … but perhaps next time.’

  ‘Thanks, May, thanks a lot. She sleeps most of the day and night at the moment, but I’ve been warned that that state of affairs won’t last long. Next time she’ll winge and gurn and you’ll be glad to get away from her.’ For a moment they both gazed in wonder at the sleeping child, then Rosaleen said, ‘I’ll be here waiting, this day four weeks. If it’s raining, I’ll be in the summer-house. OK?’

  May rose to go. ‘That’ll be great, Rosaleen. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’ She reached for her friend’s hand and clasped it warmly. ‘So long for now, and thanks for coming.’

  Rosaleen watched her walk across the park towards the side gate that led out on to the Grosvenor Road. At the gate she paused and waved, before heading for the tram stop. Rosaleen waved back.

  Lost in thought, she sat on until a hungry cry from Laura brought her back to reality. A glance at the face of the clock on the wall of the hospital opposite brought her hurriedly to her feet. If she didn’t get a move on Joe would be home before her and that would lead to a lot of questions. She had no intention of mentioning her arrangement with May, so haste lent wings to her heels as she pushed the pram up Cavendish Street.

  Chapter 3

  Kept busy with the baby and the running of the house, Rosaleen looked forward to her monthly meeting with May in the Dunville Park. The park was a sanctuary where young mothers, after leaving their older children at St Vincent’s girls’ school in Dunlewey Street or St Finian’s boys’ school on the Falls Road, pushed their prams and, when weather permitted, spread rugs on the grass to sunbathe whilst their babies slept in the warm air protected from insects by pram-nets. When the weather was fine, Rosaleen often walked down and sat in the park to give Laura the benefit of fresh air, but the days she met May were special. On those days she wore her best clothes and carefully made-up her face, knowing a new, splendid May would arrive in the latest maternity wear. She was happy that things were working out for May, although she could not understand how she could be happy living among ‘Them’ on the Shankill Road.

  As she sat waiting, Laura blissfully asleep in her pram, the sun warm on her plump, bare limbs, Rosaleen examined the park and took delight in its layout. She was sitting on a bench with her back to the hospital, so she had a view that seemed like countryside. This was deceptive as the park was completely surrounded by a built-up area. The Royal Victoria Hospital loomed high on the far side of the Grosvenor Road behind her, and to her left the busy Falls Road was hidden from view by high hedges and bushes, the other two sides flanked by rows of terraced houses. However, the houses were blocked from view by thick bushes and it was easy to forget that they were there.

  The park had been given to the people of the Falls at the end of the nineteenth century by William Dunville, owner of the whiskey distillery which, at that time, had premises off the Grosvenor Road. A family man, he had felt sorry for the people uprooting themselves from the countryside to come and work in the mills, their young children playing barefoot on the then cobbled streets. He had arranged for the building of the park, complete with washrooms, and had set up a trust to maintain it, for the enjoyment of the public and as a lasting memorial of his sister Sarah. His gift was appreciated by all and Rosaleen liked to believe that it was kindness that prompted his actions. Her grandmother had thought otherwise because of the comment ‘Perhaps now the people of the Falls will manage to keep themselves clean’, allegedly made by Mrs Dunville, and spoken in the hearing of the newspaper reporters. It caused an uproar when blazoned across the newspapers the next day and had made the older generation very bitter in their attitude towards the gift. But whatever the reason for the building of the park, it was a favourite spot for the younger generation.

  The middle of the park was dominated by a huge fountain, once brilliant white, now weathered to a pale grey and at the moment out of order. Around the top were carved gargoyle heads and Rosaleen remembered the fear with which she had once regarded them. Were they not there to guard the fountain? To prevent naughty children from defacing it? Oh, yes, she remembered well the day Marie Brannigan, the school hero who feared nothing and no one, had carved her initials into the stone work with a nail. For days the rest of the girls in the gang had waited with bated breath for something terrible to befall her, but they waited in vain. If anything, Marie thrived.

  No more did water tumble down from the mouths of the gargoyles, to be recycled in a continuous circle. She could well remember how breathtaking it was, remember paddling in the shallow water at its base, and in the winter, the naughty excitement of sliding about on the frozen ice. This was forbidden, for although not deep, many pairs of boots were destroyed when it cracked and feet occasionally went through. She sighed for times past, and continued her perusal of the park. To her left, in the far corner, the old weigh house still stood. Here, in the not too distant past, at the beginning of the century, the farmers had stopped to have their livestock weighed on their way down to the market – but that had been before her time, in the days of the horse-drawn trams, the days of mucky roads. Now the house was occupied by the caretaker and his family, the trams were electric and the roads concreted. Nearer the centre, to the left of the fountain, stood one of a pair of summer-houses, the other hidden from view by the fountain. These were where the older men of the parish played chess and dominoes or read their newspapers while having a quiet smoke or even forty winks.

  Flowerbeds dotted the park as if thrown by a careless hand. Great big mounds of turned earth, a riot of colour at the moment, with sweet williams, stock, dahlias and pinks permeating the warm air with their heavy perfume. Four lawns of dark, lush green grass flanked the fountain, sloping gently down from a raised height, and in the centre of each lawn was yet another large flower bed; each one a different shape. Some distance to her right, at the very bottom of the park, was the play area, where th
ere was an assortment of amusements to entertain the older children. Some slides, swings, swinging boats, a witch’s hat, and in the centre, in pride of place, the maypole! Rosaleen recalled how, when she was younger, looping a rope around the handle of the maypole she had sat and swung for many a long hour. Oh, yes, the park was indeed appreciated by the people of the Falls, no matter what their age.

  The thud of someone sitting on the bench brought Rosaleen back to reality with a start. She turned, and her mouth gaped in surprise when she saw it was Kate Brady.

  ‘Sorry to startle you … I just want to see May,’ Kate explained apologetically. ‘See for meself that she’s all right, ye know? She’ll not mind, will she?’

  Wondering how Kate had known just when she and May met, and not knowing how May would react to seeing her mother, Rosaleen confined her answer to an abrupt shake of the head. She hoped that there would be no unpleasantness, and made inane conversation as time passed with no sign of May.

  She was aware that her friend took the tram to the stop at the bottom of the park to avoid meeting any neighbours at the busy junction where all the roads met. This was where the post office, home bakery and other shops were situated, and was always busy with shoppers. Rosaleen wondered if May had seen her mother as she passed by in the tram, and declined to meet her. However, the thought had just entered her mind when she saw her friend hurrying up the park, dressed to kill. From the corner of her eye, Rosaleen watched Kate’s reaction to the new, stylish May. She saw her face twist with amazement and her mouth agape.

  And no wonder! May was a sight for sore eyes. Dressed in a long pleated maternity skirt with a matching loose hip-length jacket, she looked every inch the grand lady. Made of slub rayon material, and blue in colour, the suit brightened the colour of May’s eyes and Rosaleen noted that she had lightened her mousy fair hair to a pale ash blonde.

  When she saw her mother, her arms stretched wide. ‘Ma! Ah, Ma! It’s good to see you.’

  Rising slowly to her feet, Kate tentatively embraced her, all the while examining this stranger.

  ‘Ye look well,’ she muttered. Then, noticing the slight bump, she wailed, ‘Are you expectin’?’

  Some of the joy faded from May’s face as she nodded confirmation to her mother’s question.

  Her face crumbling in distress, Kate wailed, ‘Oh, my God. Wait ’til your da hears.’

  ‘It’s none of his business,’ May retorted, tight-lipped. ‘He won’t be asked to rear it.’

  ‘I should bloody well think I won’t be asked to rear the bastard!’

  The blast of these words brought Rosaleen to her feet to join the others, and all three turned to face big John Brady where he stood in the shadow of a tree. He must have entered the park by the gate near the weigh house and crept down to hide behind the tree. Rosaleen’s lips curled and she bestowed a look of scorn on him at the very idea.

  Kate moved until she was between husband and daughter, but blind with rage, he pushed her roughly to one side. Rosaleen could see spittle foam at the corners of his mouth as he fought to find words low enough to degrade May. She pushed the pram with her precious child in it to one side, out of harm’s way.

  ‘You dirty wee bitch!’ he hissed, as he advanced towards them. ‘You dirty … friggin’ … wee friggin’ bitch!’ His words were sliding into each other and he gulped for control. ‘T’ think of a daughter of mine, lyin’ in the arms of a bloody Orangeman … It gnaws at me guts, so it does. Turns me stomach.’ His mouth gaped and words failed him at the very thought of it. He hovered over May with clenched fists. ‘An’ an ugly bugger he is too. Surely even a plain Jane like you could have done better,’ he sneered.

  May flinched at these words. She was aware that Billy was no oil painting, and that neither was she, but it hurt to have it thrown in her face. After all, not everybody could be beautiful. Bravely she stood her ground, head high, lips pressed tightly together. Aware of people gathering to watch, colour burned in her cheeks and tears glistened in her eyes, but still she stood her ground.

  Father and daughter glared at each other and then, seeing that May would not be cowed, with an angry oath, John’s hand (as big as a shovel) rose in the air. May saw it coming and stepped back as it swung her way, but she did not move quickly enough and it caught her on the side of the head. The weight of the blow sent her staggering and she ended up sprawled on the gravel path, a look of outrage on her face.

  As she lay stunned, Rosaleen hovered anxiously over her, glaring fiercely up at big John, daring him to strike again; protecting May from another blow.

  This defiance caused him to turn his wrath on her.

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own bloody business, eh? Stay out of it! There’ll be no more go-betweens. She’s made her friggin’ bed, now let her lie on it. We don’t want any Prod’s charity!’ His glare swung back to May. ‘Do ye hear me? We want no charity from a friggin’ Prod. Our bloody windows have been put in … twice.’ At May’s wail of dismay, he repeated, ‘Yes, twice! Ye didn’t know that now, did ye? An’ it’s all your bloody fault!’

  With these words, and another glare of wrath, he gripped his wife’s arm and pulled her roughly towards the gate at the far side of the park, leading out on to Dunville Street, at the same time shooing the embarrassed crowds away with threats of what he would do if they didn’t shift.

  Stumbling along beside him, Kate tried to shake off his hand but he was adamant. Throwing Rosaleen an apologetic look, she mouthed the words: ‘Will you look after her?’

  Rosaleen gave her a reassuring nod and, bending, assisted a bewildered, weeping May to her feet. When May saw that the rough path had scored through the elbow of her new jacket she started to howl. Great harsh sobs, from deep down in her chest, not caring who saw or heard her.

  ‘The bastard! Oh, how I hate him, Rosaleen. How I hate the friggin’ bastard! Hate him! Hate him! Hate him! The unfeeling brute!’ Then her eyes fell on the few stragglers still hovering about, all eyes and ears, and leaning forward she bawled, ‘Well? What are ye waiting for?’ And flapping her hand at them: ‘Go on … go on now. The show’s over.’

  ‘Hush, now. Never mind them,’ Rosaleen said consolingly. ‘Do you feel all right?’ She nodded down at May’s stomach, and her friend’s eyes stretched wide with alarm as she patted her bump.

  ‘I … think so. I haven’t any pain,’ she assured Rosaleen, anxiety dampening the flames of her wrath.

  Pushing her gently down on the bench, Rosaleen said, ‘Just take it easy for a while, ’til we see how you are.’

  May buried her face in her hands, muttering, ‘I’m sorry, Rosaleen. It’s awful that you had to be involved in all this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It wasn’t your fault.’

  May’s head jerked up and down as she disagreed with Rosaleen.

  ‘It was. Oh, yes, it was. If I hadn’t asked you to be go-between, all this would never have happened.’

  ‘But you weren’t to know that your mam would come round and that your da would follow her, so don’t be so silly.’ Rosaleen sighed and added, ‘With hindsight, I suppose it was stupid us meeting here, so close to Spinner Street. It was obvious some of your good neighbours would see us and tell your da.’

  ‘Did you know our windows had been put in?’ May’s brow was furrowed with worry.

  At Rosaleen’s shake of the head, she continued, ‘It mightn’t have had anything to do with me, ye know. Maybe me da or one of the boys have done something wrong. I’d hate to bring trouble to them … me mam has enough to put up with. Do you think it was because of me?’

  Rosaleen thought it was more than likely that May was the reason for the broken windows. Really, she should stay away from the Falls Road. Coming in all her grandeur like she did was like thumbing her nose and saying, ‘Look, see how well I’m doing on the Shankill?’ Rosaleen realised that she should not have encouraged her back by agreeing to meet her, but they were best friends and she had wanted to keep in touch.

  Not wanti
ng to distress her more than she was already, she muttered, ‘I don’t know, May. I really don’t.’

  ‘I feel so guilty, Rosaleen. I wanted to send money, but it was guilt money. I was salvin’ me conscience, giving money every month. I felt awful deserting me ma. With him not working she needs my money, and I didn’t even get giving her any today. Him and his bloody pride! It’s me ma that’ll suffer most. An’ our poor wee Jenny … I bet she’s suffering an’ all. With me not there for him to vent his temper on, me da will turn it on our Jenny.’ Tears flowed afresh. ‘Poor wee mite, she’s terrified of him.’

  Not knowing what to say, Rosaleen remained silent. She had guessed that big John was a bully, but it dismayed her to hear it put into words. Obviously, May had suffered more than the odd blow.

  Picturing May’s brother Colin, twenty years old and not very tall, but no scrawny wee thing either, and the next one down, thin, lanky Daniel, eighteen years of age, she ventured to say, ‘Surely Colin and Dan will be able to stand up to your da, and look after Jenny?’

  ‘They’ll be getting picked on an’ all. Because of me.’ May smiled wryly. ‘You don’t understand, Rosaleen. You live a very sheltered life. He never touches the boys, not since they left school. Even our wee Kevin’s left school now. Oh, he picks on them, but he knows better than to lift his hand to them. They’d all gang up on him.’ She sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, they’d hit back. It’ll be Jenny he’ll pick on most. Her being the youngest. An’ he’s a crafty aul bugger, he’ll pick on her when nobody else is about.’

  She turned to watch Rosaleen’s expression when she asked the next question. ‘Does your da ever beat your ma?’

  When Rosaleen’s face showed surprise, she laughed bitterly. ‘No! I can see he doesn’t. You don’t know how lucky you are. Everything handed to you on a plate. You’ve always had it easy.’ She gave a long heartfelt sigh. ‘Ah, it’s different in our house. My da can’t get a job … and to be honest, he does try … but he just can’t get a job, so he tortures me ma for the wee bit of money she has coming in.’ She shot Rosaleen a derisive glance. ‘Do you know something? When me ma pays all the bills – or I should say all the bills she can afford to pay, she has to decide every week whose turn it is to be paid – the little she has left to see her through the week she has to hide. She’s running out of places to hide it. You should see me da hunting for it. He wrecks the house … It would be laughable if it wasn’t so bloody serious.’