as Annie O’Prey appeared before her, in an obvious state of distress. For the second time that night, Harriet came face to face with Little Paddy, now standing at his mother’s side. Both were in tears as, for the first time in her life, Peggy struggled to speak.
Maura knew she was in hell.
Leaning against the bar of the Anchor, she held the phone out to Kathleen and watched the smile on the other woman’s face slowly fade as, on the other end of the line, Rosie told Kathleen the news.
Kitty was dead.
‘Kitty is dead, Maura. Kitty is dead.’
With no preamble, Kathleen had said it, just like that. And in just the three seconds it took her to tell Maura that her beautiful, precious and beloved daughter had gone, before Maura’s very eyes Kathleen was transformed from the upright, proud and bonny almost sixty-year-old she was to a woman who looked nearer eighty.
Maura heard the screams. She thought they came from Kathleen but then realized they were her own.
‘Carol, get out here and help me quickly,’ Bill called to his wife and, together, they put their arms round Maura and led her to a chair.
‘Sorry for your troubles. Sorry for your troubles. Sorry for your troubles,’ Carol and Bill repeated, over and over.
Kathleen pushed a glass of port into Maura’ s hand, but it was too late. Maura stumbled and as she hit the sawdust-covered floorboards she kept on going, plummeting all the way down, deep into her own living hell.
Tommy carefully guided a pallet of jute across Huskisson dock and took the ropes, whilst Jerry lit up a quick fag. The light was fading and they were minutes from the klaxon ushering them home.
‘Oi, Stanley Matthews, get yer corner quick,’ shouted Tommy to Jerry as the pallet swung round.
Jerry ducked and then, with the grace of a leopard, sprang back up to take his rope and helped to ease the pallet down. Holding his thumb up to the crane driver and moving his head from side to side, he frantically blinked away the smoke from the smouldering ciggie that dangled from his bottom lip. There was no man alive who could light up as fast as a docker.
‘What’s Bill’s lad doing, Tommy?’ asked Jerry. Throwing Tommy his tobacco tin for him to make a quick roll-up, Jerry unhooked the ropes and the pallet rested safely on the cobbles.
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Tommy. With a quizzical frown, he let the rope and hook swing back to the crane, then followed Jerry’s gaze.
They could see Billy speaking to a policeman in the hut positioned halfway down the dockers’ steps. The officer waved Billy on as he raised his helmet and rubbed his brow, scanning the dockside.
‘’Tis bad news,’ said Jerry.
He watched as little Billy clambered over a wall of stacked jute and ran up to men who were working. He was pulling on their jackets and seemed to be asking questions. He was shouting, agitated.
‘Aye, ’tis that to be sure. I’ve never seen that kid run before. I wonder what it can be,’ said Tommy thoughtfully.
He took a long drag on his ciggie and lifted his cap to wipe the sweat from his head with his sleeve and, as he did so, he noticed a gang of men point towards them both. Tommy instantly knew not only that little Billy was running towards him, but that he carried the worst news.
Tommy, overcome with a desire to turn and run himself, knew that he would never forget these last seconds as little Billy covered the ground across the dock. He sensed that nothing would ever be the same again.
‘Stop him, would ye, Jer,’ said Tommy, a note of desperation in his voice.
With a furrowed brow, Jerry turned to Tommy, but it was too late. Little Billy was within hearing distance and he was shouting as loud as he possibly could. ‘Tommy, Tommy, ye have to come to the pub, me da says to tell ye ’tis bad news. Maura needs ye, Tommy, ’tis Kitty, your Kitty, she’s dead.’
‘Tommy is on his way. Tommy is on his way. Tommy is on his way.’
Since there were no words of comfort
Maura knew she was in hell.
Leaning against the bar of the Anchor, she held the phone out to Kathleen and watched the smile on the other woman’s face slowly fade as, on the other end of the line, Rosie told Kathleen the news.
Kitty was dead.
‘Kitty is dead, Maura. Kitty is dead.’
With no preamble, Kathleen had said it, just like that. And in just the three seconds it took her to tell Maura that her beautiful, precious and beloved daughter had gone, before Maura’s very eyes Kathleen was transformed from the upright, proud and bonny almost sixty-year-old she was to a woman who looked nearer eighty.
Maura heard the screams. She thought they came from Kathleen but then realized they were her own.
‘Carol, get out here and help me quickly,’ Bill called to his wife and, together, they put their arms round Maura and led her to a chair.
‘Sorry for your troubles. Sorry for your troubles. Sorry for your troubles,’ Carol and Bill repeated, over and over.
Kathleen pushed a glass of port into Maura’ s hand, but it was too late. Maura stumbled and as she hit the sawdust-covered floorboards she kept on going, plummeting all the way down, deep into her own living hell.
Tommy carefully guided a pallet of jute across Huskisson dock and took the ropes, whilst Jerry lit up a quick fag. The light was fading and they were minutes from the klaxon ushering them home.
‘Oi, Stanley Matthews, get yer corner quick,’ shouted Tommy to Jerry as the pallet swung round.
Jerry ducked and then, with the grace of a leopard, sprang back up to take his rope and helped to ease the pallet down. Holding his thumb up to the crane driver and moving his head from side to side, he frantically blinked away the smoke from the smouldering ciggie that dangled from his bottom lip. There was no man alive who could light up as fast as a docker.
‘What’s Bill’s lad doing, Tommy?’ asked Jerry. Throwing Tommy his tobacco tin for him to make a quick roll-up, Jerry unhooked the ropes and the pallet rested safely on the cobbles.
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Tommy. With a quizzical frown, he let the rope and hook swing back to the crane, then followed Jerry’s gaze.
They could see Billy speaking to a policeman in the hut positioned halfway down the dockers’ steps. The officer waved Billy on as he raised his helmet and rubbed his brow, scanning the dockside.
‘’Tis bad news,’ said Jerry.
He watched as little Billy clambered over a wall of stacked jute and ran up to men who were working. He was pulling on their jackets and seemed to be asking questions. He was shouting, agitated.
‘Aye, ’tis that to be sure. I’ve never seen that kid run before. I wonder what it can be,’ said Tommy thoughtfully.
He took a long drag on his ciggie and lifted his cap to wipe the sweat from his head with his sleeve and, as he did so, he noticed a gang of men point towards them both. Tommy instantly knew not only that little Billy was running towards him, but that he carried the worst news.
Tommy, overcome with a desire to turn and run himself, knew that he would never forget these last seconds as little Billy covered the ground across the dock. He sensed that nothing would ever be the same again.
‘Stop him, would ye, Jer,’ said Tommy, a note of desperation in his voice.
With a furrowed brow, Jerry turned to Tommy, but it was too late. Little Billy was within hearing distance and he was shouting as loud as he possibly could. ‘Tommy, Tommy, ye have to come to the pub, me da says to tell ye ’tis bad news. Maura needs ye, Tommy, ’tis Kitty, your Kitty, she’s dead.’
‘Tommy is on his way. Tommy is on his way. Tommy is on his way.’
Since there were no words of comfort
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