Fee cleared the dishes off the dining table and got a big galvanized iron tub down from its hook on the wall. She put it at the opposite end of the worktable from Frank, and lifting the massive cast-iron kettle off the stove, filled it with hot water. Cold water from an old kerosene tin served to cool the steaming bath; swishing soap confined in a wire basket through it, she began to wash and rinse the dishes, stacking them against a cup. Frank worked on the doll without raising his head, but as the pile of plates grew he got up silently to fetch a towel and began to dry them. Moving between the worktable and the dresser, he worked with the ease of long familiarity. It was a furtive, fearful game he and his mother played, for the most stringent rule in Paddy's domain concerned the proper delegation of duties. The house was woman's work, and that was that. No male member of the family was to put his hand to a female task. But each night after Paddy went to bed Frank helped his mother, Fee aiding and abetting him by delaying her dishwashing until they heard the thump of Paddy's slippers hitting the floor. Once Paddy's slippers were off he never came back to the kitchen. Fee looked at Frank gently. "I don't know what I'd 18 do without you, Frank. But you shouldn't. You'll be so tired in the morning."
"It's all right, Mum. Drying a few dishes won't kill me. Little enough to make life easier for you."
"It's my job, Frank. I don't mind."
"I just wish we'd get rich one of these days, so you could have a maid." "That is wishful thinking!" She wiped her soapy red hands on the dishcloth and then pressed them into her sides, sighing. Her eyes as they rested on her son were vaguely worried, sensing his bitter discontent, more than the normal railing of a workingman against his lot. "Frank, don't get grand ideas. They only lead to trouble. We're working-class people, which means we don't get rich or have maids. Be content with what you are and what you have. When you say things like this you're insulting Daddy, and he doesn't deserve it. You know that. He doesn't drink, he doesn't gamble, and he works awfully hard for us. Not a penny he earns goes into his own pocket. It all comes to us." The muscular shoulders hunched impatiently, the dark face became harsh and grim. "But why should wanting more out of life than drudgery be so bad? I don't see what's wrong with wishing you had a maid."
"It's wrong because it can't be! You know there's no money to keep you at school, and if you can't stay at school how are you ever going to be anything better than a manual worker? Your accent, your clothes and your hands show that you labor for a living. But it's no disgrace to have calluses on your hands. As Daddy says, when a man's hands are callused you know he's honest." Frank shrugged and said no more. The dishes were all put away; Fee got out her sewing basket and sat down in Paddy's chair by the fire, while Frank went back to the doll.
"Poor little Meggie!" he said suddenly.
"Today, when those wretched chaps were pulling her dolly about, she just stood there crying as if her whole world had fallen to bits." He looked down at the doll, which was wearing its hair again. "Agnes! Where on earth did she get a name like that?" "She must have heard me talking about Agnes Fortescue-Smythe, I suppose." "When I gave her the doll back she looked into its head and nearly died of fright. Something scared her about its eyes; I don't know what." "Meggie's always seeing things that aren't there."
"It's a pity there isn't enough money to keep the little children at school. They're so clever."
"Oh, Frank! If wishes were horses beggars might ride," his mother said wearily. She passed her hand across her eyes, trembling a little, and stuck her darning needle deep into a ball of grey wool. "I can't do any more. I'm too tried to see straight."
"Go to bed, Mum. I'll blow out the lamps."
"As soon as I've stoked the fire."
"I'll do that." He got up from the table and put the dainty china doll carefully down behind a cake tin on the dresser, where it would be out of harm's way. He was not worried that the boys might attempt further rapine; they were more frightened of his vengeance than of their father's, for Frank had a vicious streak. When he was with his mother or his sister it never appeared, but the boys had all suffered from it.
Fee watched him, her heart aching; there was something wild and desperate about Frank, an aura of trouble. If only he and Paddy got on better together! But they could never see eye to eye, and argued constantly. Maybe he was too concerned for her, maybe he was a bit of a mother's boy. Her fault, if it was true. Yet it spoke of his loving heart, his goodness. He only wanted to make her life a little easier. And again she found herself yearning for the day when Meggie became old enough to take the burden of it from Frank's shoulders.
She picked up a small lamp from the table, then put it down again and walked across to where Frank was squatted before the stove, packing wood into the big firebox and fiddling with the damper. His white arm was roped with prominent veins, his finely made hands too stained ever to come clean. Her own hand went out timidly, and very lightly smoothed the straight black hair out of his eyes; it was as close as she could bring herself to a caress. "Good night, Frank, and thank you."
