Ragamuffin Angel by Rita Bradshaw

was grieving to the Almighty that he should favour one of the lambs of his flock in this way, but there it was. Somehow the thought of this child’s spirit being crushed was unbearable. And now here she was, speaking in that certain tone experience had taught him meant trouble.  
    ‘Father, you don’t like me mam goin’ into town at night, do you?’  
    ‘What?’  
    ‘Me granny says you think she oughta be here with us, but if she stayed at home there’d be no money comin’ in.’  
    Dear God, dear God. Father Hedley blew his nose on a large white handkerchief, but even with this prevarication no words came to him.  
    ‘The thing is, Father, me mam’s bin workin’ at the laundry for years now an’ she’s not well. You know she’s not well, don’t you?’  
    Father Hedley nodded, his black-clad figure straight as he forced himself not to sag with relief. So Connie still believed the story she had been told about the laundry. Thank God. Aye, thank God.  
    ‘An’ she won’t get any better till she gives up workin’. So you don’t think she ought to work, an’ I don’t think she ought to.’ Connie glanced at him as though the last statement was an explanation.  
    ‘What are you saying, child?’  
    ‘Me mam says I’ve got to stay on till at least next year, an’ she wants me to perhaps train in an office, somethin’ like that, but that’ll take ages till I’m earnin’ proper.’  
    ‘I think I get your drift. You are saying you wish to leave school and obtain employment so your mother can give up her job working at . . . Ahem!’ The Father cleared his throat somewhat violently. ‘At the laundry. Is that it?’  
    ‘Aye, yes, Father.’  
    ‘Well, I agree with your mother.’ The priest’s voice was crisp now. ‘You should stay on at school and finish your education, Connie. You are a bright girl. A very bright girl and –’  
    ‘But, Father’ – Connie cut him short – ‘that won’t help me mam now, will it, an’ I’ve learnt everythin’ I can learn already.’  
    ‘We’ve never learnt all we can, child. I am over sixty years of age and I am still learning. It’s only the good Lord who is truly wise.’  
    He was avoiding the issue, and Connie’s face and voice stated this when she said, ‘Aw, you know what I mean, Father.’  
    He knew what she meant all right, and like he had said, he was with her mother on this. Everything in him rebelled at the idea of Connie in domestic service, or working in a factory, or some other dead-end employment. It was too late for the mother but not for the daughter. Father McGuigan had what amounted to an obsessive fear of their parishioners seeking education and enlightenment, maintaining that once ordinary people were taught to think and question, the first thing they questioned was the existence of heaven and hell and God Himself. Personally he believed that his God was greater than any questions that could be put to Him, but this avenue of argument had not been well received by Father McGuigan; neither had his pointing out that Pope Leo XIII, who had died two years ago, had worked unstintingly to reduce class warfare and provide equal opportunity for all men. No, that hadn’t gone down well at all with Father McGuigan, Father Hedley reflected ruefully.  
    ‘Father, please, listen to me.’ Connie’s voice was a little too shrill and a little too quick to be natural, and now, as he glanced down at the ethereal, golden-haired child at his side, he met the full force of the great sapphire-blue eyes under their fine curving brows, and the appeal in them drew him to a halt. ‘Me mam . . . Me mam’s not well. She’s not, Father.’ Connie’s voice was passionate in her desire to make him understand. ‘She has these turns, pains in her chest an’ she looks awful, an’ they’re gettin’ worse. She tries to make out she’s all right but I know she’s not, Father. An’ I could work. I could, Father.’  
    ‘Child,