A Handkerchief for Maria - 1

Chapter 1

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PART ONE

Day 1

Maria is late, the bus is full, and she stands all the way from the city centre, feeling faint on this muggy evening. Faint from the heat, and faint from not knowing if tonight will be her daughter's last. There are two buses each night to make visiting time at the hospital, and the first is emptier.

Mothers, fathers, sisters, and friends pile off and clog the pavement, crossing the road in twos and threes to dodge the traffic trailing behind when their transport rolls away. No young men, other than a single soldier with one limp sleeve in his uniform. She spends another wasted moment to take in the vast, blackened exterior of the hospital, with window after grimy window reflecting the grey Manchester sky. Alice's ward is on the other side, where wide veranda doors allow sunlight to pour in on summer mornings.

She feels a tug at her elbow and turns to see a smiling younger woman.

'Come on, love, we can cross now.'

Maria breaks from her daydream and steps into the road, hardly noticing her new companion's chatter. On the other side, a question is being repeated

'Who are you here to see?' 'My ... my daughter. Alice. You?'

'My Eric. Silly sod bashed his head at work yesterday. Knocked him right out. Said they'd keep him in for a night or two just to make sure. Should be home tomorrow though. What's wrong with your girl?'

'Some kind of cancer in her brain. She's in a coma now, so no pain. Thank God.' The woman looks away. 'I'm sorry.'

'Ah well, she's been here a few weeks so we've known this was coming. I spend my time talking to her, giving her the news. Run out of things to say some nights though.'

They walk in silence up two flights to the first floor, where Maria points down a corridor on the right. 'This is me,' she smiles and turns,' I hope your husband is feeling better, and out of this place soon.'

Maria sees the visitor's mouth start to wish her the same for Alice, then close, trapping in the false comfort.

*

Alice looks peaceful, her nut-brown hair spread across the pillow, and her white sheets tucked tight. The only sign of her serious condition is the feeding tube and funnel on her bedside cabinet. Maria bends and kisses her daughter's forehead before sitting and clasping her cool hand. She speaks to the girl, as she does on every visit, as if she is conscious.

'How are you tonight, Alice? I brought a letter from your brother. It came this morning and I've not opened it, thought I'd read it to you but now I'll leave it for a while. Which brother? Well Josie, of course, all the way from India. Who out of them would bother to write to their mam even to tell her they were still breathing? I know, I know, they're good boys. Though none as considerate as Josie. You remember I named him after my grandfather, John Joseph Byrne? I'll tell you why … sometime.'

'Your dad, my father, my grandfather and even his father, all soldiers. Soldiers

travelling to places I've never seen, nor want to see. Places you might never have the chance to see. Just eighteen and no life before you.

'At least Josie and your dad fought for their own country not some foreign power. Through all those years, hardships, Alice, always hardships. Daddy used to tell me we came from nobility. Lords and ladies all, he'd say, then slap his knee and laugh. The best laugh you'd ever hear. That's how I remember him most. That, and the cough.'

Leaden clouds have turned the sky dark and Maria sees herself in the window's reflection. Still-black hair, glasses, a solid, forty-six year old, without the curves Billy ogles in the News of the World. She looks away and strokes the creases from her best weekday skirt down towards her knees.

'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look at the state of me. Little Tommy ran in crying when I was getting ready. The poor mite fell and scraped his knee. It wasn't much more than a wee scratch but the leg was covered with blood and he'd got dirt in it. By the time I'd cleaned him up I'd not time to run an iron over my clothes, else I'd have missed my bus.'

She reflects on the hour here and hour back, twice a week, and how she struggles to afford it on Billy's postman's wages. The bit sent from Josie' and Alan's army pay helps but the others don't bring in much. Billy nags her all the time for spending money on bus fares.

'You know, I’d been married nearly five years when you came along. Overjoyed I was, and you such an easy birth. Never gave me any trouble, only smiles. Three boys by then and me thinking I'd never have a girl. How was I to know there'd be another four girls and two boys come after you? All wonderful in their own way though. Twenty years between first and last, and Rose coming as a little present when they de-mobbed Billy after the heart attack two years ago.’

Two visitors appear at the next bed, where a pale woman, Mandy, lies barely breathing. Their faces are as careworn as Maria knows her own to be. Over the past six months she's come to know a few of the patients and their families, exchanging words of encouragement or condolence but this pair is new. Mandy would be around twenty, two years older than Alice. She'd arrived in the ward two weeks earlier, though this is the first time Maria has seen anyone come to see her. A nod in their direction but she'll not speak, not tonight. Maybe next time. If there is a next time.

Maria sniffs back a tear as the thought escapes its cage. Her daughter's death is near and she knows she has to be strong. She sits quietly for what seems a lifetime, struggling to dredge words to get her through the visit, then heavy raindrops spatter against the glass and Maria finds inspiration to continue.

'Wasn't it warm today, Alice? Baking. Got the clothes dry with no trouble. Could be a thunderstorm tonight, I expect, sticky enough for it anyway. My dad used to say it was boiling almost every day when he was in Malta, I wonder how we'd put up with that? I don't think I'd enjoy it, everything dried up and brown. Not like home. Manchester? No, my baby, my original home. Wicklow, in Ireland. Damp, surely, but green. Ever so green. Don't you remember the stories about it? I'll tell you again soon, maybe when I come next time, would you like that?'

The girl won't answer but Maria needs to talk about something when she's there, so

why not about her life? Tell a story to pass the time. Where's the harm in that?

A starched-white sister marches over to Alice's bed. She straightens the sheets, takes the girl's pulse, notes the result then turns to the mother.

'Just five more minutes, Mrs Byrne.' Maria hates her for these words.

She takes in the ward, scanning for beds which were occupied on her last visit. Of the twenty lining the walls, two have changed. A young man had coughed and wheezed in one of them, but seemed cheery enough, so must have gone home or moved. In the other, a woman in her mid-forties like Maria, had been unconscious all the time Alice had been in this ward. She must have slipped away in the night and they've now stripped her bed, ready to prepare it for its next patient. Maria can't handle this. Every time she sees it she doesn't sleep. For weeks a picture in her head of Alice's bed the same. Empty, scrubbed.

She stands and leans over Alice, brushes her hair and strokes the girl's cheek with the backs of her fingers. A bell sounds to signal the end of visiting time. Maria struggles for something to say in the final moments.

'Oh, heavens, I didn't read you Josie's letter. Never mind. I'll look at it on the bus on the way home and tell you his news on Saturday. I have to go now, my darling. Sleep tight and you'll be a bit better by then.'

Maria stands, puts on her jacket and turns towards the doors. When they swing shut the tears flood, as they always do.

*

Maria feels like a smoke but she’s no cigarettes left and no chance of affording any the day before payday. She takes a seat near the back of the bus, where she can take some relief from the humid night, pleased, at least, she doesn’t need to drag herself to the top deck. The ward sister had asked her for a word as she'd finished her visit.

'The news isn't good I'm afraid, Mrs Byrne. Doctor thinks it won’t be long. It could be days but he thinks three weeks at most.’

Maria bit her lip so hard the blood had run warm and sweet on her tongue.

Only weeks? How can she tell Billy she must be out every night from now on? She'd not raised it when she got home, deciding to wait until the moment was right. Surely he'll understand? She's never sure how he'll react. He's the kindest, most generous man she ever met but can be stubborn, and he thinks his word is law. She knows he'll feel Alice's loss as much as she will, and his objections are just his way of trying to protect her from the pain that's to come. Still, she wishes he'd see it from her point of view and accept she can't be away from her daughter. Not now.

She thinks of the cheaply-framed photograph on the cream-painted wall by the stove in her kitchen. Nine of her children, in three lines, the eldest boys at the back, Josie and Alan in uniform, Bobby in a suit. Alice, looking like she'd still her entire life before her, alongside the other middle ones, Ruth and Brian, then the smallest at the front, Annie, Lizzie and Tommy. No Rose, she'd be there a year after we took this picture. They'd just heard Billy was coming home. In hospital after a heart attack, but safe. Maria dragged them all to Sunday Mass to give thanks, and Mrs Parker's son, Eric, came round with his camera.

Lizzie is a trouble. She's only nine but her mother can tell there's something different. The others are bright as buttons, despite a few not liking school. The girl seems in a world of her own. Thoughtful, not practical, and not a reader like Ann either. Maria can't see how she will ever hold down a job or find a husband.

She's all ten children to worry about, half still at school or tugging at her skirt hem. Three others are fighting in the war and Alice is dying in hospital. And Billy not even able to boil a potato. Maria can't bear to think how they'll manage if she falls apart. She closes her eyes and bows her head, ignoring what other passengers might think. She needs an extra hard prayer for Him to give her strength.