Saturday's Child by Ruth Hamilton Read Free Book Online Page A

for a second. The trio drank tea in uncomfortable silence, then Frank arrived, his joyous cry declaring that Bolton had won
and would surely get to Wembley soon.
    Bert Mansell left the house as quickly as a hounded fox.
    Frank took Bert’s place at the table, looked at his parents, realized the significance of Bert Mansell’s visit. ‘All right, Mam?’
    ‘Oh, fair-to-middling.’ Her voice trembled as it hit the air. ‘Aye, lad, fair-to-middling.’
    Frank looked at his father, held his gaze. ‘Get your stuff,’ he told his mother. ‘Go and fetch all you can carry, Mam, because I’m not leaving you here with this bad
bugger.’ He continued to stare into Ernest Barnes’s eyes. ‘You’ve hit my mam once too often and I’m taking her well beyond your reach.’
    Ernest roared, leaned sideways, picked up one of his sticks and waved it across the table. Unafraid, Frank caught the stick with his right hand, scarcely flinching as the wood crashed into a
coal-hardened palm. ‘No more of that.’ His voice was low.
    ‘This is my house,’ snarled Ernest.
    ‘It was our home,’ replied Frank, ‘mine, our Gerry’s and Mam’s. This was where we came after a long day at school, the only place we had. When we got here, we had
to tell Mam all our troubles before you came home.’
    ‘Give over,’ Ernest yelled, ‘you sound like a flaming nancy boy.’
    ‘Do I?’ Frank wrestled the stick from his father’s hand. ‘Well, let me tell you what you are. You’re a big bully, a stupid, nasty piece of work who gets a thrill
out of hitting people and hurting them. I bled every time you strapped me for wetting the bed. Well, it’s finished, done with, all of it.’
    It was then that Dot spoke up. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a bundle of unironed clothing in her hands. ‘Why won’t you die?’ Her voice, soft and gentle, did not fit the
seemingly callous words it framed. ‘While I’ve polished yon grate, while I’ve cooked and washed, I’ve prayed for you to die. All I’ve ever wanted was a life without
you in it.’
    Ernest found no reply.
    ‘I’ve felt like killing you meself,’ she continued, ‘but it’d only have made a mess. I’ve cleaned enough of your messes.’ She glanced at Frank. ‘I
thank God for him and our Gerry. Gerry enlisted in the army, joined the Merchant Navy, because of you, just to get away.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ shouted Ernest.
    ‘You’re the rubbish,’ was Dot’s retort, ‘and ooh, I’ve waited long enough to tell you that.’
    Frank threw the walking stick onto the hearth. ‘You’re going to be alone now,’ he advised his father, ‘because Mam will be living with us.’
    ‘You and a bloody Higgins,’ snapped Ernest.
    ‘Aye.’ Frank nodded. ‘She’d make ten of you.’
    ‘Papist shite,’ spat the furious man.
    Frank took an item from his pocket. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘for counting prayers on.’ He rattled the brown rosary beads. ‘For the Our Fathers, the Hail Marys and the
Glory Be’s.’
    Ernest tried to snatch the beads, but his fingers closed around fresh air as Frank pulled the rosary out of reach. ‘I hate you,’ he informed his father, the voice not quite as gentle
as Dot’s had been. ‘For as long as I can remember, me and our Gerry hated you. You drove us to that.’
    ‘Get away with your bother,’ roared Ernest, ‘you’d have been nowt without me.’
    Dot pushed past her older son, placing her bundle of possessions on the dresser. ‘Without you?’ she asked. ‘Without you, they would have had skin on their backs. Do you know
they’ve both got scars?’ She rolled up a sleeve to display black, brown and yellow bruising. ‘See them? Well, you made them marks. But you have hit me and mine for the last time,
Ernie Barnes. And if you need help, go to your lodge, see if any of your friends’ll give a hand. As far as I’m concerned, you can starve to bloody death.’
    She bundled her belongings into baskets, picked up her coat, walked