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Pack Up Your Troubles
Anne Bennett
The latest heartrending tale of hope and heartache from bestselling author Anne Bennett. Perfect for fans of Katie Flynn and Annie Groves.Maeve Brannigan is only eighteen when she leaves her rural home in County Donegal and moves to Birmingham, where she falls in love with handsome Brendan Hogan. But married life isn’t as idyllic as she’d imagined, and when Maeve falls pregnant with their first child, she soon realises that Brendan isn’t the man she thought he was.Saddled with a violent husband and with two young’uns needing her protection, Maeve bears her life as best she can. After a particularly vicious attack, she is forced to flee back to Ireland – but her presence is greeted with open hostility by the close-knit catholic community that she was once so eager to escape. Driven away to face her abusive husband, Maeve’s future looks bleak. Will she find the strength to break free and make the prospect of a better life a reality rather than a distant dream?
Copyright (#ulink_8a0a689f-76f5-5154-a15c-c973d1d07c65)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Anne Bennett 2000
First published in 2000 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb (woman); John Topham /TopFoto (street scene).
Anne Bennett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007547807
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007547814
Version: 2017-09-08
Dedication (#ulink_fe84baf2-a4da-568e-8cff-c8fb1c72ab16)
I am dedicating this book to Denis
for the immense help and unfailing support
he has given me over the years.
Thank you.
Table of Contents
Cover (#uf86d3292-cd45-5ae0-97ea-bfc8ab3697d4)
Title Page (#ucd588a1b-97f9-556d-b0c9-ab42170e1823)
Copyright (#ulink_ef1d1b08-b882-533a-8e33-590a9a6cf63a)
Dedication (#ulink_9b203404-5bf4-5594-b7f1-1b6451a0542d)
Chapter One (#ulink_9b89567e-2c49-5945-8f32-2a2a5039d177)
Chapter Two (#ulink_5dc4daa6-8a11-5490-9bb1-7534cee92c23)
Chapter Three (#ulink_03387c29-5adf-5146-a9bd-91f0f9c8a7ec)
Chapter Four (#ulink_1439d912-1d95-5e62-a65a-70a99c40eb23)
Chapter Five (#ulink_74b2c970-1d03-5d2b-a131-56be956afa6e)
Chapter Six (#ulink_6e1d0be0-8851-527d-9b65-578f52240c46)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_15ace97b-221d-5a9a-916c-623a5dc4821f)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_8d121a55-8709-5a15-a5b6-4fed763deee9)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Anne Bennett (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
ONE (#ulink_8476abf9-3de1-51c3-ae8d-581261ea17b8)
Maeve Brannigan couldn’t believe she was actually leaving the little farm in Donegal where she’d lived all of her eighteen years. It had been worth the cajoling and pleading, her mother’s tears and her father’s bad humour that had made him moody and snappy with them all. She’d survived it all, as well as the old biddies in the parish, who’d prophesied that no good would come of it, and did she think she ought to go when, after all, she was such a grand help to her mother, for wasn’t the woman herself always saying so?
Maeve had been brought up to have manners and it had only been that innate politeness that had stopped her screaming abuse at the interfering old gossips. Did they think she didn’t know all that? She was the eldest of seven and even when Maeve had begun work in the grocery store in the town when she was fourteen, there had always been a list of chores for her at home.
Well, now it was the turn of Kate and Rosemarie, who at eleven and twelve years of age were well able for it. Maeve was sick of being at everyone’s beck and call; fed up with the isolated farm, and of the suffocating small town where everyone knew everything about you and yours. Her total social life revolved around church activities, and the weekly dance, held only in the summer months, where she met boys she’d known for years, as familiar to her as her brothers and just as exciting. Few of them had any ambition and were content to live in Ballyglen all their lives, and expected the wives they would eventually take to be satisfied with that situation too.
Maeve decided it wasn’t for her. But she wasn’t to go to Dublin, or ‘God forbid’ London, a desperate place altogether, her parents claimed, and where she knew not a soul. No, she was to go to Birmingham where Maeve’s mother, Annie, whose maiden name had been O’Toole, had a brother called Michael.
Maeve knew of her Uncle Michael, though she’d never met him. He’d been in Birmingham since early 1919, when he’d met and married his English wife, Agnes, in just a couple of months, and had never been home since. Maeve also knew that no obstacles had been put in the way of his leaving his home, but in fact the reverse. He’d served in the British Army in the Great War and had come back in late 1918, a bitter and disillusioned young man. Ireland was in disarray, the troubles at their height and rebel gangs roaming the country. His family, terrified he’d be caught up in it all, had encouraged Michael to accompany a neighbour catching the emigrant boat for England. He’d ended up in Birmingham and had got a job – a grand job he’d said, in a foundry. But he was still Annie’s little brother and she wrote him regular letters of the family, and now was sure Maeve could lodge with him to see how she liked the place. In fact Michael had written her a very long, encouraging letter. Not only could she stay with them and welcome, he said, he could even get her a waitressing job in a café. He knew the owner, a Greek man by the name of Dolamartis, a good Catholic, and they went to the same church. He’d told Michael his assistant was leaving. Jobs were hard to find, her uncle said, and Maeve couldn’t afford to be too choosy. Maeve had no intention of being choosy at all and at the mention of a job and place to stay, her parents’ resistance finally crumbled. Maeve was on her way.
They were all there that early spring morning with the mist still swirling around the hills, to put her on the little rail bus that ran at the bottom of Thomas Brannigan’s farm, to start the first leg of her long journey. She saw her mother holding little Nuala’s hand and dabbing at her eyes with her apron, her father, his face still in stiff lines of disapproval, and the others staring at her as if they couldn’t quite believe she was going. Maeve knew her father didn’t want her to go, in fact he dreaded it, and in a way she understood why. She knew she had a special place in her father’s heart, partly because she looked so like her mother and also because she was the firstborn. She also knew it had been her mother who’d persuaded her father to allow her to go, and if she hadn’t supported her, it would have been far more difficult.
The way he’d gone on, it was as if he expected her to be leapt on by every man in Christendom as soon as she left the farm. She knew the lads all had an eye for her; she wasn’t stupid. But her mother had talked to her, and anyway, she knew right from wrong. So though she felt sorry for her parents, she couldn’t wait to be gone.
Maeve watched until the group by the farm gate had become like small dots and then she settled into her seat with a sigh of contentment. Excitement fizzed inside her so that she could hardly sit still. She wished she could snap her fingers and be in Birmingham, where she was sure everything that was good awaited her.
She sustained the excitement all the way to Belfast, though the size and noise of the station unnerved her. The clatter of the enormous trains that seemed to hurl into the station to stop with a hiss of steam and a piercing screech and a whistle made her jump more than once. She left the busy Belfast station for the ferry, feeling apprehensive about the journey across the water.
Maeve boarded with what seemed like thousands of other people crowding on to the gangplank, her case bumping against her knees. Once on board, she made her way on to the deck and, putting her case beside her, she held tightly to the rail as she watched the shores of Ireland fade into the distance and then disappear altogether. She felt quite suddenly unexpectedly desolate and a little frightened. The overcast leaden grey skies belied the fact that it was early April and although it was midmorning the light was as poor as dusk, which didn’t help Maeve’s mood. Nor did the roll of the ship and the churning of her stomach.
She leant over the side, overcome suddenly by nausea, and vomited all she’d eaten that morning into the white-fringed grey water crashing and foaming against the ferry’s sides. She continued to retch over and over and she realised she wasn’t the only one.
When eventually her nausea was over and as she wiped her mouth with a handkerchief she became aware of a dumpy little woman dressed in black watching her. The rain came then, not soft spring rain, but sharp shafts that stung Maeve’s face and soaked her coat in minutes.
‘Come away into the bar,’ the woman told her, lifting her case as if it weighed nothing at all. ‘You’ll freeze to death out here.’
Maeve allowed herself to be led indoors, where she was met by a cacophony of people talking, laughing, shouting and quarrelling, and here and there she heard snatches of songs, the laments of the emigrant Irish that brought tears to her eyes.
‘Tch tch, that won’t do,’ the woman said. ‘You need a brandy to buck you up. I’ll send my Sean to get you one.’
Maeve’s protests were waved aside and the woman escorted her to where a man also dressed in black sat on a suitcase just a little way from the bar.
‘Sit down,’ the woman commanded and, as the seats were all occupied, Maeve upended her case and sat on that.
The woman introduced herself as Minnie O’Rourke, and her husband, whom she dispatched for the drinks, as Sean. They were returning from a funeral for Sean’s parents, who’d died within days of one another on the family farm in Galway. The farm now belonged to Sean, Minnie O’Rourke explained, though his three sisters ran the place. Maeve, having told her new acquaintance her own name, smiled politely and hoped the brandy would ease the cramps in her stomach.
The bar reminded her of Donovan’s in her home town, with the tobacco stench that stung Maeve’s eyes and hung like a blue fog over the room, together with the familiar smell of Guinness. Sean O’Rourke returned with two glasses of the black drink with the creamy white top for himself and his wife, and a large brandy in a balloon glass for Maeve.
Maeve looked at it fearfully. Never had she had any strong drink, except the odd sip of her father’s Guinness, which he’d allowed her at Christmas and which she’d not liked. The brandy caught in her throat and caused her to cough and splutter, and Minnie O’Rourke patted her back and with a smile told her to treat the drink with respect and sip it.
And Maeve did sip it, grimacing at the taste as one might at foul-smelling medicine that promises to do some good, but she did like the warm glow that the brandy induced.
‘That’s brought the colour back to your cheeks anyway,’ Minnie O’Rourke told her. ‘Where are you bound for?’
‘Birmingham,’ Maeve said. ‘To my uncle’s place.’
‘Well, isn’t that good news?’ Minnie exclaimed. ‘We’re going to Birmingham too. We have a fine house in Erdington. You’d best come along with us. It’s desperate altogether travelling on your own.’
And Maeve was glad to have their company. It might stop her feeling fearful that she was making some dreadful mistake. She was also anxious to learn as much as she could about the city she was going to.
‘Are you having a holiday?’ Minnie asked.
‘No,’ Maeve said. ‘I’m staying there. My uncle has got me a job in a café, near a place called Aston Cross.’
‘My! You’re lucky,’ Minnie said, ‘for God knows, jobs are few and far between at the moment, with the slump after the war, you know?’ Without waiting for a reply she went on, ‘My Sean had to have his gaffer’s word that he’d have a job to go back to, or we wouldn’t have been able to go to the funeral at all. Even then we could only take three days. His sisters wanted him to take three or four weeks, but we daren’t, and he’s a skilled man. He works in the brass industry.’
Maeve made no reply to this, for she was suddenly unaccountably weary and her head swam with the unaccustomed brandy on her empty and very sore stomach.
‘Still and all, you have a job to go to, that’s something,’ Minnie went on.
‘He knows the owner of the place,’ Maeve said.
‘That would be the way of it, right enough,’ Minnie said. ‘As I always say, God’s good.’
Maeve opened her mouth to make some sort of reply, but all that came out was a large yawn.
‘My, my,’ said Minnie. ‘You’re dead beat, so you are, and no wonder after you being so sick and all. Lie yourself down across the cases and have a wee sleep, why don’t you?’
What a relief it was, Maeve found, to lay her swimming head down, even across the lumpy hard cases, and pull up her legs to ease the cramps and close her eyes to ease the throbbing pain in her head. In minutes she was fast asleep.
She slept till the ferry docked. The O’Rourkes shook her awake and took her in hand, and she shambled behind them in the damp rain-soaked air, pushing her case before her as people thronged the decks in the rush to embark. They were waved through the customs sheds and into the noisy station in Liverpool that was teeming with people. Not that Maeve saw much of it, for the train was in and the O’Rourkes, seasoned travellers that they were, steered Maeve quickly through the crowds and on to the train to make sure of a seat, and Maeve was glad they had when she saw many passengers filling the corridors later, sitting astride their cases.
She was glad that on dry land once more she was feeling much better and able to face the picnic her mother had packed with such loving care early that morning. She shared it with Sean and Minnie O’Rourke while she plied them with questions about the city she was to live in. And as the train chugged its way southwards, they told her of Birmingham’s cinemas and dance halls, which opened all year round. They described the music halls and the Bull Ring, a huge shopping centre where great entertainment could be had, they said, on a Saturday night. Maeve was no longer nervous; instead she was in a fever of excitement to get to her uncle’s house and begin her job. Then, she was sure, her life would take an up-turn.
When Maeve and the O’Rourkes finally alighted at New Street station, Maeve wondered if she’d ever find her uncle in such a loud and busy place. All around her was the noise of people. Porters pushing laden trolleys were yelling out warning to anyone in their way, and at a newsstand, a vendor shouted his wares, while beside her the gigantic train was giving little pants of steam, as if it were an untamed animal out of breath.
