Saturday's Child by Ruth Hamilton

spots, though they had managed to stop short of manufacturing craters all over their
faces. Roy had fiddled with his chicken pox until his skin had started to bear a strong resemblance to the surface of the moon. And there was something about redheads that made such blemishes more
visible, probably because their epidermis was finer than the skin of most other folk. The red hair had come from Sam’s side of the family, so Lily took no blame for that.
    She was sure that other wives and mothers didn’t sit here with a pile of ironing to complete and shopping to do, their minds fixed on feet, nose-picking, eating habits and teenage acne.
She wasn’t normal. Women loved their families instinctively – real women, anyway. They didn’t loll about with a Woodbine, minds fixed on faults, thoughts reaching the point where
they said, out loud, ‘They’re boring, that’s the problem.’ Lily had just said it, had heard the words coming from her own mouth.
    Someone tapped at the back door.
    Lily jumped up, threw the cigarette end in the fire, smoothed her apron. She had to look the part, even if it was all just an act. Women fettled. They were here to fettle, to keep the house
nice, provide food, warmth and clean clothes.
    Lily opened the door. ‘Nay, lass, you should have just walked in, no need to wait.’
    Magsy O’Gara stepped inside, followed Lily into the kitchen. ‘Ironing,’ she declared, ‘don’t you just hate it?’
    Lily laughed as she pushed the kettle onto the fire. ‘I’d sooner drink a cuppa any day of the week.’ She was glad that Aaron was still at school, because there was a natural
elegance to this beautiful young woman, and Lily could not imagine her tolerating the smell that accompanied her middle son through life.
    After being invited to sit, Magsy placed herself at the table. ‘Now, I hope you don’t mind me coming.’
    ‘No bother. I needed an excuse to leave that lot alone for a few minutes.’ Lily inclined her head in the direction of clean but wrinkled clothing. She busied herself with cups and
saucers. Magsy O’Gara might be poor, but she was definitely not the type for an enamel mug or a cheap pot beaker. And here was history in the making, a Catholic taking tea in a Protestant
home!
    ‘I was in the back street here,’ Magsy began to explain.
    ‘That’s as may be,’ replied Lily, ‘but you can come to my front door any time you like.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Magsy accepted a slice of malt cake.
    ‘Can’t be doing with this Cat-lick and Proddy-dog business,’ mumbled Lily. ‘Look what it’s done for that daft beggar next door. Dot’s gone, you know.’
And oh, how Lily wished that she had the courage to follow the woman who had always been known as ‘poor Dot’. Well, Dot was poor no more, God love her. At least she had reaped some
reward after years of drudgery and violence.
    ‘I have visited him in the hospital.’
    Lily froze, caddy and spoon in her hands. ‘You what?’ she asked, too shocked to stop herself.
    ‘And glad enough he was of it,’ continued the visitor. ‘Sure, he’s had not one single caller except for myself.’
    Lily brought the teapot to the table. ‘Mags,’ she declared, ‘that man has only himself to blame, I can tell you that for no money. Years he’s laid into her. I’ve
not enough Christian charity in my soul to go and see him on his sickbed.’
    ‘I know he was cruel to her.’
    ‘And the kiddies – when they were kiddies. Flayed their little backsides raw, he did. As for Catholics, he would have tarred and feathered the lot.’
    Magsy sat back while Lily poured.
    ‘Whatever were you doing in our back street?’ asked Lily.
    ‘Oh, it’s young madam,’ replied Magsy. ‘lost a button off her cardigan while playing tig. Whoever caught her dragged so hard that the button flew off. She’s a
caution. She’s out there now still searching, thinks it may have gone down a grid.’
    Lily swallowed a bite of malt cake. ‘Isn’t she