A Cuppa Tea and an Aspirin. Helen Forrester

Since her fourteen-year-old sister Lizzie had gone to be a kitchen maid in a house in Princes Road, she had not enjoyed being promoted to eldest and, therefore, responsible for all her siblings’ misdoings.

      Resentment in every line of her, she started to cry. ‘Sister Elizabeth was angry with me and says I must do me homework and she give me a pencil and book to do it in.’ Her voice faltered, as she remembered the biting remarks of her teacher. ‘The kids was all right. They were playing “I went to the market and I bought…”’

      Her mother grunted and her mouth closed in a tight line. ‘Doesn’t Sister know you’re the eldest and you got other things to do besides homework?’ she snarled, as she again dipped the rag into the mug of water and absently continued to wipe Mary Margaret’s face with it.

      Kathleen swallowed a sob. ‘It’s only happened just now. I heard Dollie say Bridie had missed one item – and I think Bridie had – I heard her – but she wouldn’t admit it. And in no time at all they were at it.’ She looked imploringly at Martha, as she added, ‘I thought Auntie Mary Margaret would stop them.’

      ‘Don’t you start,’ Martha ordered through gritted teeth, as the tears ran down the child’s white cheeks. ‘Your auntie needs all the help she can get.’

      She looked towards the fireplace, and asked, ‘Is there any tea in the pot?’

      Kathleen got up off her knees and reached for the teapot keeping hot on the hob by the fire. She weighed it in her hand. ‘There’s some,’ she said doubtfully, and sniffed back her tears.

      On the mattress, Connie and Minnie, their grubby faces greyer than usual, knelt near their mother’s head. They whimpered hopelessly, ‘Mam, Mam.’

      Exhausted, Mary Margaret ignored them. She had, however, heard Kathleen being scolded. She slowly raised herself on her elbow, as she whispered to Martha, ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. It’s not Kathleen’s fault.’

      ‘You stay right there, love. Kathleen’s going to get you a cup of tea. Then I’ll feed everybody.’ She turned to look for another daughter.

      When Martha had knelt down by the mattress, her younger son, Joseph, had picked up Number Nine and was now trying to make him laugh. He was promptly instructed, ‘Joe, you give Number Nine to Tommy – he looks as if he wants to pee. Then bring a few bits of coal over from the box there, to get the fire going.’

      Since the room was so crowded, Tommy had retreated again to the bottom stair, and was listening to the scene without much interest; he was, however, relieved that Mary Margaret was apparently showing signs of life.

      He obediently came in and took Number Nine to show him, yet again, how to do pee-pee in a bucket without spraying the floor.

      When the child had finished, Martha told Tommy to bring in the rest of the food from the pram, ‘Before anybody from upstairs gets ideas about it!’ she added savagely: petty theft was always a problem which had to be guarded against.

      Feeding everybody was going to be a loaves and fishes job, she worried. Patrick had not returned at midday so she hoped that he was working. She must keep something in reserve for him and for Brian. Mary Margaret would want to do the same for her Thomas.

      SEVEN

       ‘Suffering Christ! Norris Green?’

       January 1938

      Supported by Martha’s arm round her back, Mary Margaret sipped the promised tea. From long being kept warm on the hob, it was a bitter brew, its flavour unrelieved by either tinned milk or sugar: but it was at least hot.

      As she regained her senses, Mary Margaret glanced vaguely round the room crowded with children, some of them still whimpering, and asked, ‘Where’s Dollie?’

      Martha explained Dollie’s temporary banishment and that, by now, she was probably safe with her Auntie Ellen. ‘She knows how to look after herself, she does,’ she said with a wry grin.

      Mary Margaret sighed. ‘Oh, aye, she does. I wasn’t quick enough to separate them – I didn’t want to drop me sewing on the floor – the ould fella gets mad if the hankies aren’t clean when he comes to collect them.’ She paused, and then went on more firmly, ‘But Bridie did cheat.’ She took another sip of tea.

      ‘Oh, aye, she probably did,’ responded Martha, eager not to start a quarrel. She looked up at blood-spattered Bridie, whose nose was still running red. ‘I’ll deal with her later.’

      At the implied threat, Bridie rubbed her dribbling nose on her sleeve and broke into a fresh howl.

      ‘Shut up,’ shouted her harassed mother, ‘or I’ll really give you something to cry for.’

      Bridie feared another slap, so the howl was reduced to a whimper. She considered joining Dollie outside. Then reluctantly decided against it: Dollie had probably cooled off, but she might still be resentful enough to hit her again, a harder blow than her own mother would give her. Though the sight and smell of her own blood was scary, she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, and held back her sobs.

      Tommy had been to see what was in the pram. The situation eased as the children’s attention was diverted when he brought in the brown bags.

      Now, he inquired eagerly, ‘What you got in the bags, Mam?’

      His mother actually smiled. ‘Something to eat,’ she replied. ‘And don’t you touch it – any of you,’ she added, as her smile turned to a glare.

      She poked Kathleen, standing uneasily beside her. ‘You and Tommy line up all the mugs – and your dad’s bowl. And there’s Mr Flanagan’s bowl by the hob. Put that by your Auntie Mary Margaret.’

      She turned back to the sick woman. ‘I got your jar filled with soup for you and a loaf of bread – and some spuds, ready-baked. Do you want to have it now – or will I put it up in your room for when your hubby comes home? It’s cold already – from the walk home.’

      There was an audible gasp of hope from her two little girls, as Mary Margaret hesitated. ‘Maybe we could make a fresh cup of tea, now – I’ve got a quarter of tea upstairs – and we could have some bread with it – and a bit of potato.’ She looked at her expectant children, still kneeling by her on the mattress, and promised, ‘We’ll get Auntie Martha to heat the soup when your dad comes home – and we mustn’t forget Dollie, must we? And Mr Connolly and Brian.’ She turned back to Martha. ‘I’ll share the tea with you.’

      Martha nodded agreement. ‘I got a tin of milk I was keeping for Number Nine,’ she offered. ‘Instead, he can have some soup at teatime like the others. Then we can use some of the conny-onny in our tea.’ She got up off her knees, and was suddenly aware of how wet she was.

      She kicked off her boots into the hearth and shook out her skirts, to which a nervous Number Nine was again trying to attach himself. Mother of God, how cold her feet felt. She smiled down at her baby, as she picked up her shawl from the floor and hung it on the oven door to dry. The coal added by a quietened little Joseph was beginning to catch, praise be, so she paused for a moment to warm her hands over the fire and let her feet be eased by the warmth of the hearth.

      Still rubbing her swollen red hands, she turned to Kathleen and ordered her to fill the kettle and put it on the fire.

      Mary Margaret asked Connie to get her precious quarter-of-a-pound packet of tea from underneath her camp bed upstairs.

      ‘And, love, take the jar of soup up for me,’ she instructed. ‘Be very careful, ever so careful not to drop it!’ There was a hint of laughter in her voice at this latter instruction.

      The children caught her lighter tone and began to giggle. Even Bridie grinned slyly. Though she was sick hungry herself, she thought what fun it would be if Connie did drop the jar and break it; then,