Mary's Child by Irene Carr

Jack behind her, hissing, ‘Put your foot there – no, there !’ And his hand guided her boot into place, until they both sat astride the branch. Chrissie caught her breath, then held it, awed, as she stared through the gap in the curtains.
    The table had been pushed back against one wall and now a string ensemble played at one end of the long room. Chrissie did not know the name of the piece they played – ‘The Blue Danube’ – but she would always remember the lilt of the music. The light from the huge glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling reflected from the polished floor.
    The men in their black and white, the officers in scarlet, dark blue and gold, the women in their silken gowns that reached the floor but barely covered their breasts, all flowed and swirled. The stately dancers circled the room, spinning and sweeping gracefully in time to the music. The light glinted on jewels; flowers in head-dresses and corsages added to the blaze of colour.
    Chrissie held Jack’s hand in hers and watched open mouthed. She had never seen a sight like this before, would never forget it to the end of her days.
    In the kitchen Mary Carter put down a loaded tray and looked around her, saw Chrissie had gone from the stool and looked again, anxious, demanding loudly, ‘Where’s Chrissie? My little lass?’
    Betty Simpson said, ‘I saw her go out about ten minutes back. I thought you knew.’
    Mary hurried to the door and flung it open, stepped outside. A pathway of light swept out from beneath her feet, reaching into the darkness. She peered, eyes searching and head turning from left to right. Then she saw another, thinner strip of light escaping from the gap in the curtains of the long room. It lit, though dimly, her daughter and a small boy. They sat astride the branch of a tree and at its foot lay an empty dish.
    Mary ran to the tree and saw that the two small faces turned down to her were smeared with jelly. She demanded, ‘ Come down! ’
    Chrissie, startled, swayed and almost fell, but Jack’s hand in hers steadied her. They descended from the tree as they had climbed it, Jack showing the way.
    Mary grabbed Chrissie with one hand, the dish with the other. ‘How dare you? Who said you could take this?’
    The boy answered, ‘I did.’
    Mary flared at him, ‘And who the hell d’you think you are?’
    And Amy Jenkinson said behind her, ‘Oh, my God! It’s Master Jack!’
     
    Amy took him up the back stairs, berating him all the way. ‘What your grandad will say, I daren’t think. I reckon it will be the strap for you, my lad, and no treats for a long time. Suppose you’d fallen out o’ that tree and split your heid?’ She had got his account of that out of him. ‘You could ha’ laid there all night.’
    Jack lied, ‘I don’t care.’ He was not going to plead for mercy. That little girl had not, nor had she blamed him.
    They came to the landing. The door to the nursery was open and now a man came hurrying out of it. He was just thirty years old, tall like George Ballantyne but sandy haired and brown eyed. He took after his mother rather than George. He still wore his overcoat open over a well-cut tweed suit. It had been his carriage the children had heard while eating outside the kitchen. Richard Ballantyne said with relief, ‘There you are! When I found your bed empty—’
    Jack broke away from Amy Jenkinson and ran into his arms, shouted with surprise and delight, ‘Papa!’
     
    Mary warned Chrissie, ‘I expect you’ll get a hiding off your dad.’ They had caught the last tram with the rest of the girls brought into the Ballantyne house only for the evening. ‘And so should that other little divil. His father’s expected home tonight.’
    Chrissie said, barely heard above the tram’s clangour and grinding, ‘I liked him.’
    Mary hissed, voice lowered so the other passengers would not hear, ‘You want to have nothing to do wi’ that sort! They use you, like he did, then toss you away.’