our way then, Mrs O’Neill.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Vera offered.
‘Oh well, no – but thanks,’ he said. ‘We’ll be going.’ There was a pause. ‘Will you be having a wake for him?’
Vera looked confused, anguished. She didn’t know what to do, was too English, not instinctively Catholic and too much in shock. ‘Well, I don’t know – I hadn’t thought.’
‘Well, you know, we could put on a bit of a wake for him, Mrs O’Neill. If you want us to.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’d . . .’ She struggled to control herself. ‘I’d be most grateful.’
‘Right then – that’s settled.’
There was a Mass at the English Martyrs parish. It was one of the very few times Katie could remember seeing her mother at Mass, though Patrick had told her that Vera had converted to marry his brother, and had attended Mass devoutly when he was alive.
‘I think she lost her faith when he died,’ Patrick said once. ‘It’s never easy, that sort of thing, losing someone so young.’
She would not have brought Katie up as a Catholic – it was Patrick who had done that, as best he could, talking her through her catechism and making sure she made her First Holy Communion in a white dress.
Father Daly said Mass for Patrick O’Neill, as he had been the priest who knew him best. He said some kind words about him, about his work as a Brother, his faithfulness to the parish. His death was treated compassionately, in no other way than as an accident.
Standing in the dark church and seeing his coffin up near the altar, now looking small, though it had looked quite big in their front room, started to bring home to Katie that he was never coming back again. All the kind things Patrick had done for her passed through her mind: the way he had been there steadily through her life, like a father although he wasn’t one; the way he had encouraged her at school, introducing her to the library and the world of books; the swimming. She thought she might burst with grief as the coffin was carried in slow procession from the church. She would miss her kind, tormented uncle. She knew, more clearly in those moments than she had ever known before, that his life had been a constant battle with suffering, which he had borne with a quiet, heroic bravery; and she knew instinctively that that day, for no reason they would ever fathom, it had become too much for him. There had been no accident; he had lost the battle. The tears ran down her cheeks and, as she looked up at her mother, she saw that her face was wet as well, with grief for a man whom she had not loved as a husband, but who had won her gratitude and an odd kind of respect.
Seven
1942
‘Well, I might have a job for you,’ the lady in the Labour Exchange said. She had a miserable, whining voice and seemed to begrudge handing out jobs, as if they were her personal property. ‘There’s a position for a shorthand typist . . .’ She eyed Katie over her horn-rimmed spectacles, then peered down at Katie’s references. ‘They’re probably looking for someone with more experience, but,’ she added dismally, ‘you look as if you might stand a chance.’
She told Katie that the firm off Bradford Street, which made carburettors, urgently needed a secretary for one of their quite-senior staff.
‘Shall I tell them you’re interested? They’re offering four pounds a week.’
‘Yes, please!’ Katie said.
She left the office daunted, but excited. Four pounds! That was a hell of a step up from her present wage of fourteen and six in the typing pool. And to think she started as a filing clerk only five years ago on nine shillings! But she was bright and good at her work: she knew she stood out. Serck Radiators, where she was working now, would give her good references, and her looks didn’t do her any harm, either.
As usual, she was very smartly dressed. Katie had inherited her mother’s elegance along with her father’s dark looks. Ann and Pat,
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Vera offered.
‘Oh well, no – but thanks,’ he said. ‘We’ll be going.’ There was a pause. ‘Will you be having a wake for him?’
Vera looked confused, anguished. She didn’t know what to do, was too English, not instinctively Catholic and too much in shock. ‘Well, I don’t know – I hadn’t thought.’
‘Well, you know, we could put on a bit of a wake for him, Mrs O’Neill. If you want us to.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’d . . .’ She struggled to control herself. ‘I’d be most grateful.’
‘Right then – that’s settled.’
There was a Mass at the English Martyrs parish. It was one of the very few times Katie could remember seeing her mother at Mass, though Patrick had told her that Vera had converted to marry his brother, and had attended Mass devoutly when he was alive.
‘I think she lost her faith when he died,’ Patrick said once. ‘It’s never easy, that sort of thing, losing someone so young.’
She would not have brought Katie up as a Catholic – it was Patrick who had done that, as best he could, talking her through her catechism and making sure she made her First Holy Communion in a white dress.
Father Daly said Mass for Patrick O’Neill, as he had been the priest who knew him best. He said some kind words about him, about his work as a Brother, his faithfulness to the parish. His death was treated compassionately, in no other way than as an accident.
Standing in the dark church and seeing his coffin up near the altar, now looking small, though it had looked quite big in their front room, started to bring home to Katie that he was never coming back again. All the kind things Patrick had done for her passed through her mind: the way he had been there steadily through her life, like a father although he wasn’t one; the way he had encouraged her at school, introducing her to the library and the world of books; the swimming. She thought she might burst with grief as the coffin was carried in slow procession from the church. She would miss her kind, tormented uncle. She knew, more clearly in those moments than she had ever known before, that his life had been a constant battle with suffering, which he had borne with a quiet, heroic bravery; and she knew instinctively that that day, for no reason they would ever fathom, it had become too much for him. There had been no accident; he had lost the battle. The tears ran down her cheeks and, as she looked up at her mother, she saw that her face was wet as well, with grief for a man whom she had not loved as a husband, but who had won her gratitude and an odd kind of respect.
Seven
1942
‘Well, I might have a job for you,’ the lady in the Labour Exchange said. She had a miserable, whining voice and seemed to begrudge handing out jobs, as if they were her personal property. ‘There’s a position for a shorthand typist . . .’ She eyed Katie over her horn-rimmed spectacles, then peered down at Katie’s references. ‘They’re probably looking for someone with more experience, but,’ she added dismally, ‘you look as if you might stand a chance.’
She told Katie that the firm off Bradford Street, which made carburettors, urgently needed a secretary for one of their quite-senior staff.
‘Shall I tell them you’re interested? They’re offering four pounds a week.’
‘Yes, please!’ Katie said.
She left the office daunted, but excited. Four pounds! That was a hell of a step up from her present wage of fourteen and six in the typing pool. And to think she started as a filing clerk only five years ago on nine shillings! But she was bright and good at her work: she knew she stood out. Serck Radiators, where she was working now, would give her good references, and her looks didn’t do her any harm, either.
As usual, she was very smartly dressed. Katie had inherited her mother’s elegance along with her father’s dark looks. Ann and Pat,
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