feel so uncomfortable? She had the advantage – she was in a standing position while he lay flat and
helpless – but it was more than that. She was so . . . composed. In a way, she put him in mind of Dot, the woman whose failure to react had caused all the trouble at home. Women were devious;
they drove men to drink and worse.
‘But you have to remember that my late husband was only another Irishman, Mr Barnes.’
He shifted his gaze until it rested on a man across the ward, an aged chap with no teeth and very little hair. ‘What time is it?’ he asked now. The old chap was dribbling onto a bib
tied round his neck.
‘Time I was off to Mass,’ she answered.
‘On a Saturday?’
‘It’s Sunday,’ she informed him, ‘you have been unconscious for the whole night. That was quite a crack you took, according to the nurses. But you’ve been X-rayed
and you seem to be in fair condition.’ She paused, and her eyes twinkled slightly. ‘That’s a good, thick, Protestant skull you have there, Mr Barnes. If you will wave sticks at
your neighbours, you’ll be needing those strong bones. Mr Higgins is a large man.’
He attempted no answer.
‘So, I’ll be off to the early service at St Patrick’s, Mr Barnes. Will I say a little prayer for you?’
Again, Ernest found nothing to say.
Magsy drifted away down the ward, stopping to chat with several patients on her way out.
In the doorway, she paused, turned and looked at Ernest Barnes. He was the enemy, yet she could not think of that pale, shrivelled and injured man as a foe. He had beaten his wife and his
children; he was a deeply, radically unhappy man.
She came out of the hospital and breathed deeply. The smell of pine disinfectant, floor wax and human waste was cleared from her nostrils in seconds. She hated her job, but was glad to have
work. In Magsy O’Gara’s life, there was one aim – her daughter must not be a workhorse. Oh no, Beth would live to see better and easier days. To this end, Magsy O’Gara
worked ceaselessly. If there was overtime to be had, she took it, and the powers were so impressed that she was under consideration for an orderly job. Orderlies, still dogsbodies, helped the
nurses, cleaned patients instead of floors, and the pay was another sixpence an hour.
It was a fair stride from the infirmary to Prudence Street, but Magsy would walk home. Only in the filthiest weather did she allow herself the luxury of a bus ride through town and up Derby
Street. She covered her head with a scarf, pulled up the collar of her coat and trudged towards the fire station. The weather was not particularly cold, yet she armed herself, covered as much skin
as she could. Because Magsy had an enormous problem.
The problem was men. Men coveted her. Everywhere she went, she discovered a follower, a would-be suitor who wanted to ply her with drink, take her for a walk, take her home to meet his mother.
At the age of thirty-one, Magsy still managed to look like a teenager. She had accepted this with equanimity for a while, but, after having been chased by a group of marauding youths, she had
decided to cover herself up and keep her head down. William was dead; she wanted no other man in her life.
Well, it looked as if Ernest Barnes was in a fix. Scarcely able to walk unaided, he had finally been abandoned by that poor, thin little wife. He must have been in a bad temper to force himself
to walk across to the Higgins house – his hatred for that particular family was hardly a secret in these parts.
After calling in at St Patrick’s for early Mass and Holy Communion, Magsy soldiered on, striding past the open market towards Derby Street. His anger might have helped him to move, she
supposed. And there again, he had probably wanted a word or two with John Higgins. A Barnes marrying a Higgins? Never! God, there promised to be some fair and not-so-fair fighting within the
foreseeable future.
‘Hello, love – sorry to bother you – don’t I
helpless – but it was more than that. She was so . . . composed. In a way, she put him in mind of Dot, the woman whose failure to react had caused all the trouble at home. Women were devious;
they drove men to drink and worse.
‘But you have to remember that my late husband was only another Irishman, Mr Barnes.’
He shifted his gaze until it rested on a man across the ward, an aged chap with no teeth and very little hair. ‘What time is it?’ he asked now. The old chap was dribbling onto a bib
tied round his neck.
‘Time I was off to Mass,’ she answered.
‘On a Saturday?’
‘It’s Sunday,’ she informed him, ‘you have been unconscious for the whole night. That was quite a crack you took, according to the nurses. But you’ve been X-rayed
and you seem to be in fair condition.’ She paused, and her eyes twinkled slightly. ‘That’s a good, thick, Protestant skull you have there, Mr Barnes. If you will wave sticks at
your neighbours, you’ll be needing those strong bones. Mr Higgins is a large man.’
He attempted no answer.
‘So, I’ll be off to the early service at St Patrick’s, Mr Barnes. Will I say a little prayer for you?’
Again, Ernest found nothing to say.
Magsy drifted away down the ward, stopping to chat with several patients on her way out.
In the doorway, she paused, turned and looked at Ernest Barnes. He was the enemy, yet she could not think of that pale, shrivelled and injured man as a foe. He had beaten his wife and his
children; he was a deeply, radically unhappy man.
She came out of the hospital and breathed deeply. The smell of pine disinfectant, floor wax and human waste was cleared from her nostrils in seconds. She hated her job, but was glad to have
work. In Magsy O’Gara’s life, there was one aim – her daughter must not be a workhorse. Oh no, Beth would live to see better and easier days. To this end, Magsy O’Gara
worked ceaselessly. If there was overtime to be had, she took it, and the powers were so impressed that she was under consideration for an orderly job. Orderlies, still dogsbodies, helped the
nurses, cleaned patients instead of floors, and the pay was another sixpence an hour.
It was a fair stride from the infirmary to Prudence Street, but Magsy would walk home. Only in the filthiest weather did she allow herself the luxury of a bus ride through town and up Derby
Street. She covered her head with a scarf, pulled up the collar of her coat and trudged towards the fire station. The weather was not particularly cold, yet she armed herself, covered as much skin
as she could. Because Magsy had an enormous problem.
The problem was men. Men coveted her. Everywhere she went, she discovered a follower, a would-be suitor who wanted to ply her with drink, take her for a walk, take her home to meet his mother.
At the age of thirty-one, Magsy still managed to look like a teenager. She had accepted this with equanimity for a while, but, after having been chased by a group of marauding youths, she had
decided to cover herself up and keep her head down. William was dead; she wanted no other man in her life.
Well, it looked as if Ernest Barnes was in a fix. Scarcely able to walk unaided, he had finally been abandoned by that poor, thin little wife. He must have been in a bad temper to force himself
to walk across to the Higgins house – his hatred for that particular family was hardly a secret in these parts.
After calling in at St Patrick’s for early Mass and Holy Communion, Magsy soldiered on, striding past the open market towards Derby Street. His anger might have helped him to move, she
supposed. And there again, he had probably wanted a word or two with John Higgins. A Barnes marrying a Higgins? Never! God, there promised to be some fair and not-so-fair fighting within the
foreseeable future.
‘Hello, love – sorry to bother you – don’t I
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