life, a
thread of continuity, something he saw every day.
She had left him. Memory flooded back into place, the surge causing his head to hurt even more. He had spoken to Higgins, had prodded him with a stick, thereby unseating himself. All those
damned girls had crowded round him, then he had passed out. And he still had his problem. Who was going to look after him? A bang on the head might buy him a few days in hospital, lumpy porridge,
lumpier mash and soggy toast, but what about afterwards? The angel was not smiling. She was simply staring at him, her gaze unflinching.
‘Mr Barnes?’
Oh, God. Another flaming Irish Catholic, another voice that sounded as if it belonged in a musical box. He grunted a ‘yes,’ the monosyllable echoing in his skull. She lived at number
2, had a daughter who was reputed to be some type of genius. The trouble with these Irish types was that they were often endowed with an extraordinary beauty. She looked like something off one of
those holy picture cards – all she needed was a halo and a bunch of flowers.
‘I’m just now going off duty, so I thought I’d come and look at you. How’s your head?’
‘Sore.’
She nodded sympathetically. ‘The ward sister said a neighbour of mine had been brought in. Well, I hope you will soon be feeling better.’ This was one terrible man. Until his leg had
been shattered, he had introduced misery into many lives. Magsy O’Gara prayed for patience, but could not offer much of a smile to the man in the bed. He had cold eyes, no expression in them,
certainly no hint of remorse in those steely orbs.
Ernest cleared his throat. ‘And I might as well tell you before the street does – my wife has left me, and my son is going to marry one of the Higgins lot.’ He could not
remember speaking to Magsy O’Gara before. As she lived at number 2, she was attached to all the din that came from the Higgins household. She had just the one child, as her husband had died
before the papist breeding programme could get off the ground properly. Rabbits, they were. They should be marched en masse to a vet for neutering.
‘Then I am sorry about you, Mr Barnes.’
He tried to lift his head from the pillow, failed. ‘I don’t want your pity,’ he replied.
‘’Tis your situation I feel sorry about,’ she said, the soft Irish voice lilting across the space between the two of them. ‘Feeling sorry for you personally would be a
difficulty, as you invite no concern and no friendship.’ Well, she told herself, it was time somebody put the truth to him. He would have to ask for help now, would be forced to drop his
guard.
His jaw slackened after she had spoken, but he offered no answer.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ she said now.
He considered his immediate needs. ‘Will you fetch me some tobacco and papers?’ he asked. He pointed to the bedside locker. ‘There’s a ten bob note in there.’
She retrieved the money, held it up for him to see. ‘I will get your tobacco. Anything else?’
‘No.’ After a moment spent beneath that gentle, undemanding stare, he added, ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be going, then.’
He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t know why he didn’t want her to go. ‘Are you a nurse?’ he found himself enquiring.
‘A cleaner,’ she answered. ‘I’m on extra hours today.’ She eyed him dispassionately. ‘Beth is cared for by my neighbour, Sal Higgins. After all, what
difference to them is one girl-child more or less? I mean – they have so many already.’
He caught the benign challenge, did not rise to it. ‘You lost your husband right at the end of the war. Couple of months later, it was all over bar the shouting.’
‘That’s right.’
If he had been capable of squirming, he would have squirmed. Ernest had never been so close to Magsy O’Gara before; she lived on the Catholic side while he was an inhabitant of the
Protestant terrace in Prudence Street. Why was he bothering with her? And why did he
thread of continuity, something he saw every day.
She had left him. Memory flooded back into place, the surge causing his head to hurt even more. He had spoken to Higgins, had prodded him with a stick, thereby unseating himself. All those
damned girls had crowded round him, then he had passed out. And he still had his problem. Who was going to look after him? A bang on the head might buy him a few days in hospital, lumpy porridge,
lumpier mash and soggy toast, but what about afterwards? The angel was not smiling. She was simply staring at him, her gaze unflinching.
‘Mr Barnes?’
Oh, God. Another flaming Irish Catholic, another voice that sounded as if it belonged in a musical box. He grunted a ‘yes,’ the monosyllable echoing in his skull. She lived at number
2, had a daughter who was reputed to be some type of genius. The trouble with these Irish types was that they were often endowed with an extraordinary beauty. She looked like something off one of
those holy picture cards – all she needed was a halo and a bunch of flowers.
‘I’m just now going off duty, so I thought I’d come and look at you. How’s your head?’
‘Sore.’
She nodded sympathetically. ‘The ward sister said a neighbour of mine had been brought in. Well, I hope you will soon be feeling better.’ This was one terrible man. Until his leg had
been shattered, he had introduced misery into many lives. Magsy O’Gara prayed for patience, but could not offer much of a smile to the man in the bed. He had cold eyes, no expression in them,
certainly no hint of remorse in those steely orbs.
Ernest cleared his throat. ‘And I might as well tell you before the street does – my wife has left me, and my son is going to marry one of the Higgins lot.’ He could not
remember speaking to Magsy O’Gara before. As she lived at number 2, she was attached to all the din that came from the Higgins household. She had just the one child, as her husband had died
before the papist breeding programme could get off the ground properly. Rabbits, they were. They should be marched en masse to a vet for neutering.
‘Then I am sorry about you, Mr Barnes.’
He tried to lift his head from the pillow, failed. ‘I don’t want your pity,’ he replied.
‘’Tis your situation I feel sorry about,’ she said, the soft Irish voice lilting across the space between the two of them. ‘Feeling sorry for you personally would be a
difficulty, as you invite no concern and no friendship.’ Well, she told herself, it was time somebody put the truth to him. He would have to ask for help now, would be forced to drop his
guard.
His jaw slackened after she had spoken, but he offered no answer.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ she said now.
He considered his immediate needs. ‘Will you fetch me some tobacco and papers?’ he asked. He pointed to the bedside locker. ‘There’s a ten bob note in there.’
She retrieved the money, held it up for him to see. ‘I will get your tobacco. Anything else?’
‘No.’ After a moment spent beneath that gentle, undemanding stare, he added, ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be going, then.’
He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t know why he didn’t want her to go. ‘Are you a nurse?’ he found himself enquiring.
‘A cleaner,’ she answered. ‘I’m on extra hours today.’ She eyed him dispassionately. ‘Beth is cared for by my neighbour, Sal Higgins. After all, what
difference to them is one girl-child more or less? I mean – they have so many already.’
He caught the benign challenge, did not rise to it. ‘You lost your husband right at the end of the war. Couple of months later, it was all over bar the shouting.’
‘That’s right.’
If he had been capable of squirming, he would have squirmed. Ernest had never been so close to Magsy O’Gara before; she lived on the Catholic side while he was an inhabitant of the
Protestant terrace in Prudence Street. Why was he bothering with her? And why did he
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