Mother’s Only Child Page 2

  As soon as Easter was over, Maria had got a job in the shop with Bella and her mother, Dora, and began at her evening classes, but wasn’t in the house when Philomena went to see her mother and told her about the Grafton Academy in Dublin where the gifted Maria could learn Dress and Fabric Design, which would fit her for a fine and well-paid job in a Dublin fashion house later. ‘I am sure she will win a scholarship,’ she’d said. ‘The girl has an amazing talent. I’ve never seen or taught someone so good before.’

  ‘But she’s so young,’ Sarah had said. ‘Little more than a child.’

  ‘We’re not talking about now,’ Miss Clarke said gently. ‘But of two years’ time. Maria will be sixteen then.’

  ‘But where would she stay?’

  ‘Well,’ Philomena said, ‘I have been making enquiries and the college has a hostel nearby. I believe the rates are very reasonable.’

  And there the discussion had ended, for times had been hard for years. Often Sam had repaired a boat for a neighbour, knowing that if he insisted on payment the man and his wife and children would not eat. How could he do that? Sometimes he took his payment in fish, sometimes in instalments, and sometimes he’d get nothing at all. He was glad his parents, who’d died within a month of one another in 1935, were no longer there to provide for from a yard that paid so little. In those lean pre-war years Sam often thanked God that he had just the one child to rear, though he would have loved a son.

  When England finally made the declaration of war with Germany in the autumn of 1939, life became harder still. There was no longer any fishing at all, for Lough Foyle was commandeered by the navy, and so were the docks in Derry, which were renamed HMS Ferret. Lough Foyle was quickly filled with naval warships, destroyers, frigates, corvettes and converted trawlers.

  The open sea, full of mines and German submarines, was no place for fishermen either, so they hung up their nets and many younger men enlisted in the armed forces, despite the neutrality pact.

  Sam too had little work, although there was a small fishing fleet still operating in Lough Swilly on the other side of the peninsular. There he was able to pick up a bit of repair and maintenance work. Sometimes, though, he had so little to bring home at the end of the week, he was ashamed.

  Many of the women took themselves off to Derry to work in the shirt factories, most now converted to making uniforms for the armed forces. In a good few homes it was the women who put the food on the table. Sam knew himself how it cut into a man’s pride to see his wife provide for the family while he was idle. He was embarrassed that he was often dependent on the money that Maria would tip up on the table every Friday evening and the big bag of groceries that Bella would pack for her. They got by, like many others, but there was no money to spare and certainly none to send a daughter off to Dublin to train in some fancy academy. Sarah told Philomena Clarke that firmly. Maria never knew of her visit.

  In June 1940, the rescue of the British from the beaches of Dunkirk was heroic, but while the operation was a magnificent achievement, it was still a defeat, a fact that couldn’t be disguised. Most of mainland Europe was under Nazi control and only a small strip of water separated Britain from the German Armies, massing ready for invasion on the French coast.

  A smartly dressed man called in to see Sam in the boatyard just a few days after the fall of France. He was so unlike Sam’s usual customers that he was intrigued. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so,’ the man said. ‘My name is Robert Dawlish and I work for the Government in London. Word has it that you are the best around here at repairing boats.’

  ‘I do all right.’

  The man stood gazing at the very few boats bobbing in the small harbour. He knew the navy commandeering Lough Foyle had sounded the death knell for the fishermen that had operated from here and, because of that, this man’s business too. But winning the war held precedent and everyone had to be expected to make sacrifices. He asked the question he already knew the answer to. ‘Is the boatyard profitable?’

  ‘Is that any of your business?’ Sam snapped.

  ‘It could be and I have a reason for asking.’

  ‘I have no reason to reply.’

  ‘Don’t be so pig-headed, man.’ Dawlish snapped. ‘You haven’t even heard what I have to say yet. I may be able to offer you something more lucrative.’

  Then Sam knew he probably couldn’t afford to be too rude. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘State your business.’

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Dawlish said. ‘With Ireland determined to be neutral in this war, Derry is Britain’s most westerly point. It will be needed as an escort base, to try and protect the merchant ships. We intend to establish a large repair workshop on Strand Road, alongside the present graving dock, and use Derry as a refuelling depot too.’

  Sam nodded. He could see the sense of it. ‘How do I come in?’

  ‘I’d like you to be part of the repair team,’ the man said.

  ‘Working for the British Government?’ Sam said, bristling.

  ‘Indirectly, but if that offends you, think of it as working for a freer Europe,’ the man said, adding more harshly, ‘Do you think for one moment your neutrality will matter a jot to the Germans if they invade Britain? Norway tried that, to no avail. If Britain is invaded, Ireland will fall too. Mark my words.’

  Sam was no fool and he knew the few men the Irish Government had stationed at Buncrana would be no match for the highly disciplined German Army if they were intent on invasion and so he said to the man, ‘All right then, say I agree to this, how is it to be arranged?’

  The man sighed inwardly in relief. He hadn’t been sure he’d get this Sam Foley to agree. The word was he could be stiff-necked, and he was no lover of the English. Dawlish went on, choosing his words with care, ‘You would work for the Admiralty, but in a civilian capacity, and as the foreman you could choose your own team, men you know and can trust.’

  Sam knew he was being given a chance, certainly while the war lasted, to lift the standard of living for all the men involved. Pride was a fine thing to have, when you had enough to eat, warm clothes to wear and a good fire to sit beside. ‘When would you want us to start?’ he asked.

  ‘Time is of an essence,’ Dawlish said. ‘We have a war to win. Shall we say Monday week? Is that time enough to get people together?’

  ‘Plenty of time, but how are we to get to the docks? The first bus from Moville doesn’t get to Derry till eight twenty. Presumably you’d want us to start work before then.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll send a military truck to pick you up at half-past seven. How many men can you round up?’

  Sam did a swift calculation. ‘Sixteen, maybe seventeen at the outside. Would that be all right?’

  ‘Splendid.’

  ‘And wages. They’ll need to know. I’ll need to know.’

  ‘This will have to be agreed upon officially,’ the civil servant said, ‘but it will be in the region of twelve pounds ten shillings for yourself as foreman, and ten pounds for the men you bring with you.’

  Twelve pounds ten shillings—the figure floated in Sam’s mind. It was riches. It would be riches for them all. He extended his hand to Dawlish and they shook warmly.

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  Sam went out visiting the neighbours he wanted in his new team that night, even routing a few from Rafferty’s pub. Eventually he had his chosen men around him. His special mate, Conrad Milligan, was to be his second in command.

  The men all went back to Rafferty’s to seal their future in pints of Guinness. There they met Barney McPhearson, who listened to the talk of the men and then approached Sam and asked if he could be part of the team.

  Sam had little time for Barney. The McPhearsons had always been known as a bad lot and Barney’s brother was the worst of all. He had never had a real job of work, though he didn’t seem short of money. Sam didn’t want the responsibility of taking Barney on. Every man was hand-picked and he could vouch f
or their diligence and honesty. He could not do that with Barney McPhearson.

  ‘I have all the men I need,’ he said shortly.

  Barney’s face fell. ‘I’m real sorry about that, Mr Foley,’ he said respectfully enough. ‘There’s sod all doing in Moville just now.’

  Sam suddenly felt sorry for the lad. Maybe Barney could be turned around yet, he thought. After all, he was just twenty. Maybe all he needed was a helping hand.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Sarah said that evening, when Sam discussed it with her. ‘If you don’t want the man on your team, why not give him a job at the boatyard? He can do the work you’ve picked up in Buncrana from the Lough Swilly fishing boats. Willie is too old to make the journey to Buncrana more that a time of two, but he’ll be there to keep him in line.’

  Sam offered this position to Barney, though he knew Willie, who’d been in the boatyard since he’d been a lad, working for his late father, wouldn’t be able to keep anyone in line. He’d never been that sort and now the old man’s mind had begun to slip. Sam kept him on only out of kindness. He didn’t even pick up a wage any more, for he said he was fine with his pension and he just loved being around and dealing with boats.

  Sam said none of this to Sarah, but what he did say was, ‘Tell that teacher our Maria can go to that Academy place now. I’ll be earning enough soon to pay for her accommodation.’

  ‘The girl knows nothing about any academy, sure,’ Sarah said to Sam.

  ‘Surely she should have this chance?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sarah said. ‘She’s not that type of child.’

  ‘I wonder what Sean would think about it,’ Sam mused.

  Sean was the only sibling Sarah had left. She loved him dearly and thought a lot of his opinion. He’d been delighted when Maria was born and took great joy in her, seeing in his niece the child he might never have. Despite the confines of the farm, he saw the family as often as he could. Maria in turn adored her uncle.

  Sean had often regretted that his beloved niece would be brought up on her own, but accepted it as the will of God, like he’d accepted the idea that she wouldn’t be able to go to Grafton Academy, despite her gift, when Sarah had told him of the teacher’s visit. Now, the opportunity was there again as Sarah explained when Sean next visited her. He fastened his wise brown eyes upon Sarah and said, ‘It would be wrong to deny her the chance at least of trying for the scholarship.’

  ‘Ah, Sean, how can you say that? You know I only have Maria.’

  ‘You cannot chain her to your side,’ Sean said. ‘God knows, I’m well aware what that feels like.’

  ‘You don’t like the farm, do you?’

  Sean sighed. ‘It isn’t me we’re talking of. If Maria ever found out that you denied her this chance, she might hold it against you.’

  Sarah couldn’t bear the thought of that. Later, reluctantly, she said to Sam, ‘I’ll contact Philomena and see what Maria has to do.’

  Maria, who hadn’t any idea of the things being planned for her, was ecstatic when she was told. The light of excitement danced in her eyes at the thought of being given the chance of such a glittering and wonderful future, doing something she enjoyed above all else. She had no problem with the work Philomena set for her, either. The teacher explained that the academic standard was high too, and Maria would have to work hard if she wanted to secure a scholarship.

  Maria told Greg all about the plans for her future as soon as she could, and though he was sincerely pleased for her and said so, other worries had been pressing on his mind after Dunkirk. One of these was the thought that it was wrong to sit out the war in Ireland, when Britain was in such dire straits. While he was milking the cows, hoeing the ground for planting and feeding the pigs, many like him were away fighting the enemy.

  He turned this over and over in his mind. Phil, the brother nearest to him in age, was fifteen now and had left school, Billy was thirteen, and both of them were now well able to help their father. The girls, still at school, already helped their mother.

  That same night Maria told Greg about the Academy, he told his father he wanted to enlist. Greg’s father wasn’t surprised, for he knew how the lad felt about farming. He respected him for the fact he had never shown any resentment and worked alongside him as hard as the next man. He knew too that Greg was worried about the war, the more so since Dunkirk.

  ‘You’ve never taken to this life, have you, Greg?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Dad,’ Greg said. ‘I know why you took the place on and that if we were to make a go of it we had to work hard. Phil and Billy were too young to be of any use, but now…‘

  ‘Now they are,’ his father finished the sentence for him. ‘You must do as you feel fit. What outfit were you thinking of joining—the Fusiliers, the Inniskillings?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ Greg said. ‘There is only one regiment for me. I want to go back to Birmingham and join the Royal Warwickshires.’

  His father clapped him on the back. ‘Good on you, son.’

  ‘There’s just Mom,’ Greg said. ‘She’s bound to be upset.’

  ‘Leave your mother to me.’

  However, Greg’s mother wailed and cried, and held her son tight as if she’d never let him go. When all this failed she said, ‘And what of Maria in all this? I know you are sweet on her.’

  ‘She is set for two years yet in the Academy in Dublin next year if she passes the scholarship,’ Greg said. ‘There is no understanding between us, although I will ask her to write. She will understand I must follow my heart, as she is doing.’

  Greg’s mother said no more. She knew she had lost.

  Maria was sad to see Greg leave, but soon she was too busy to miss anyone. She had little time for a social life—for going around the village arm in arm with giggling girlfriends, or having a day in Derry. She wrote to Greg, though they were letters only of one friend to another. Now, in her next letter, she could tell him all the extra work and worry was over and her future was set.

  When Maria reached the boatyard to tell Willie Brannigan her news, the first people she saw were Barney McPhearson taking his ease outside, talking to his brother, Seamus. She knew her father wouldn’t like Seamus hanging about the boatyard, for he always said he was a bad influence on his younger brother, but what could he do, away in Derry everyday, even if she were to tell him? And what could she tell him? Only that Barney was talking to his brother. She had no idea if Seamus was a regular visitor to the boatyard. Maybe he’d just popped in today with a message. Surely Willie would mention it if he were worried?

  Barney’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of Maria approaching, for he had a great fancy for the girl. ‘Now isn’t this a sight for sore eyes, or any eyes at all, for that matter,’ he addressed Seamus. The older man looked her all over, his leering eyes raking her body in a way that made Maria feel uncomfortable.

  She had no time for it, and none at all for Seamus, so she gave neither a greeting and asked instead, ‘Where’s Willie?’

  ‘In the boathouse,’ Barney said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Maria said. ‘It’s not that important. Well, I mean it is to me. I got this today,’ and she handed Barney the letter.

  Barney had known about Maria taking the exam for the Academy and hadn’t been pleased. He was a handsome, well-set-up young man, and most girls and young women were falling over themselves to be noticed by him. But Maria, the one he wanted, seemed not a bit impressed by him. He had no desire for her to be spirited away to Dublin and snapped up by another, but he sensed that to say so wasn’t the way to play this and so he congratulated her warmly.

  ‘Why, that’s tremendous, so it is, Maria,’ he said, taking the paper from her hand. ‘D’you see this?’ he said to Seamus, pointing at it. ‘Our Maria here has won a scholarship to a fancy academy, in Dublin no less.’

  Seamus murmured his congratulations. Barney knew his brother thought him mad to hanker after the unattainable. Their parents had died when Barney was ten, but his father ha
dn’t worked for years before that. The family had lived on charity. Barney was left in the doubtful care of his elder brother, who’d then been twenty-one. He had often gone hungry and Seamus was not averse to giving him the odd clout, or even a thrashing a time or two. The priest had been called out once by worried neighbours and yet Barney perversely loved his brother.

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ Seamus had said, when he first saw the lustful glances Barney was giving Maria Foley. ‘She’s not for the likes of you and guarded well. Anyway, you know what you are like. If you got her you’d likely not want her, because it’s how you are with everything.’

  ‘This,’ maintained Barney, ‘is different.’

  And now here she was before him. Greatly daring, Barney put his two arms around Maria’s waist, and drew her close.

  Maria submitted to the embrace willingly, though usually would not have allowed such familiarity. She put it down to the man being so pleased for her. Certainly she found the kiss he planted on her full lips very pleasant indeed.

  Seamus shook his head over his young brother. Willie, watching from the doorway, felt prickles of alarm down his spine. He could have told many a tale about the young man, like the fact Barney was too fond of drinking the afternoon away while he played a hand or two of cards with his brother and like-minded fellows and took little notice of Willie if he tried to take him to task about it.

  Willie had said nothing to Sam because he could do little, away in Derry all the day. He’d never worry Sarah about such things. It wasn’t as if they were overburdened with work now that the fishing fleet had had to be disbanded.

  Maria broke away from Barney’s embrace, and ran over to tell Willie the news. He was as delighted for her as Maria had known he would be. His lined face beamed and his blue eyes became moist with the emotion of it all.

  As he put his arms around her, his words of congratulations held a note of relief, though Maria wasn’t aware of it. A new life beckoned Maria, Willie thought, and quite right too, well away from the clutches of people like Barney McPhearson. Really, he thought, it couldn’t come soon enough.