An Unravelling

by Elske Rahill

  Their niece, Freya, always gets Aoife worked up. Freya, or Freya’s child. Because Mammy is mad about that elfin creature, when he should really have been a source of shame.

  ‘Oh, she thinks Freya’s so different from Eileen, but actually the apple doesn’t fall far…’

  Sinéad pulls the elastic off her wrist and lays it on the hall table. Slug pellets and copper spray. Perhaps she can save the tomatoes.

  Terence makes an exaggerated shrug and leaves, shaking his head and muttering.

  Their father used to pay them a penny a slug, and they would go out in their wellies with buckets of salt water, pick them deftly off the strawberries and plop them into the killer bath. It used to make her feel sick, watching them curl into themselves and sink to the bottom. And there was one concoction their youngest sister Eileen made from things in the garden shed, which made the bigger slugs foam and judder and change shape. She remembers Aoife standing over the bucket, trying to conceal her horror, two hands on her portly belly and the serious, downturned mouth explaining to her little sisters that Lily’s experimental mixture turned slugs inside out, that it was ‘inside-outing potion’, and must not be allowed to splash on humans.

  She has no childhood memory of the slime they left on the fingers. The slug slime this morning was impervious to water. She scrubbed her palms with a nail brush but still the stickiness remained. It was impossible to shift. It sent a nausea right into her scooped-out pelvis and her shaky spine. Eventually she soaked her hands in the syrupy brown soap her mother uses for cleaning floors. It turns white when it’s mixed with water. She has at least a dozen bottles of the stuff, left over from that phase Mammy had, of giving her cleaning products ‘to help you get that house in order’. She sat looking at her hands in the basin of hot, cloudy water. She did nothing but sit and watch as the skin turned white and wrinkled and free from slug slime. Her nails frayed, layers peeling back in thin, transparent furls.

  ‘Remember the library fine, Sinéad? Only that I found the receipt in Mammy’s handbag I never would have known about that. Paying Freya’s library fine! A fine, because she couldn’t be bothered to bring her books back on time… Oh, I ate Mammy over that one, but she never learns.’

  Sinéad knows how her mother must have trembled and nodded, saying as little as possible while Aoife ‘ate her’. It’s the same way she responded to Daddy when he would rant about one thing or another. She would nod, and look down or far away, and try to agree without agreeing. It gave Sinéad a pain in her throat, as though there was a wedge of cold porridge lodged there. She could never bear to see Mammy quiet and cowed and nodding like that; those sudden red patches under her eyes, and then her cheeks flushing so hot that as a child Sinéad would have to look away, or run to the bathroom to cool her own face with water. She could never speak to her mother the way Aoife does.

  ‘Okay, Sinéad, I’m going to be completely honest with you here, but this is between us – you’re not to tell a soul, because Davitt wasn’t supposed to tell me all this…’

  Maybe she never participated in her father’s slug hunts after all. Maybe she refused. Because there was nothing familiar about the sensation of slugs on her fingers today, and she has no recollection of the slime they left. But she remembers him offering them a penny a slug, and she remembers little Eileen watching them die in the bucket – her boxy bobbed hair and gappy mouth and her eyes pale and round with the excitement of it; and Aoife’s face too – the way she locked her jaw against pity, the way she had of looking sensible always, and respectable, plucking them swiftly and daintily, plopping them into the bucket, frowning.

  ‘This new will, Sinéad, bypasses her own children! Davitt read it out to me Sinéad – “My children have had plenty of financial support over the years, they want for nothing…” all this jibber. Now don’t tell me it’s not Freya who’s behind that – working on Mammy day and night to get what she wants. So, in this new will she wants everything divided in equal parts between the grandchildren – Freya and Cara and Valerie – and the great-grandchildren; so that’s the little bastard as well as Cara’s three…’

  ‘You’re being nasty now, Aoife. You can’t call a five-year-old child a bastard.’

  Oh, there’s a deathly chill in the hallway. The ceiling stretches all the way up to the second floor, that’s why. And the blind stuffed stag head hanging there, casting its dead gaze over the house. God, she has always hated Terence’s family heirlooms – all of them; the stuffed things and the rust-bleeding knives and the once valuable tapestries and the handmade lampshades. Why has she never put her foot down and got rid of them? And where has he gone off to now? Trailing mud all over the house…

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, I’m being accurate, Sinéad. He is a bastard. Or do you not know what a bastard is?’

  ‘Whatever, Aoife. Go on.’

  ‘She’ll let us have a few of Daddy’s paintings, but everything else is to be turned to money, and divided in seven parts, equally between them all…’

  ‘Well, I suppose that seems fair to her…’

  ‘Jesus, Sinéad, do you not get it? Instead of being divided in three between you and me and Eileen – it’s divided every which way now. So, we are being punished Sinéad, do you see? We are being punished – basically you have been disinherited. Eileen’s kids will get everything – you get nothing for having no children and the Ladies Muck take it all! Freya will, effectively, get twice as much as Valerie because she gets a share for the bastard – and Cara gets a cut for every brat she’s popped out…!’

  Her sister’s voice hurts Sinéad, like something pecking, pecking, dragging her up like a worm from the earthy quiet she’s been sheltering in.

  ‘Tell me this, Sinéad, why should you be punished for being barren?’

  Aoife knows full well how that word stings, carrying with it the image of a parched landscape, cracked earth, women with hairy lips and cheeks; their insides all wrong. But she can’t help herself, sometimes. It’s a kind of relief for her, to put people down, push them out of the way, feel better than them.

  Aoife just never found her feet in the world – that’s what Daddy used to say, that’s how he explained her; Our Feefs; she just hasn’t found her place yet… Perhaps that’s true. Aoife seems always to be grappling; there’s a kind of terror that lurks just beneath her chin.

  Sinéad swallows quietly. ‘That’s not nice, Aoife.’

  ‘Well, why should Eileen be rewarded for being a slut and having illegitimate children? And then Freya follows suit, knocked up in the first year of college, and Mammy acts like the Virgin Mary couldn’t have done better.’

  ‘It’s upsetting, Aoife, but I don’t see what we can do.’

  ‘I’ve told you what we can do, Sinéad – if you were listening you would know exactly what we can do. Brendan has talked to her and she won’t go ahead with it for now. He explained that it was unjust and she understands. But – now both Davitt and Brendan have suggested this so I really think it is sound advice – what we can do is distribute as much as possible now. It’s better tax-wise anyway. What we do is we get her to sell the properties, and we sort out those proceeds first, and then we make sure she gives us the paintings now directly – I don’t think that’ll be a problem. They’re just hanging in the studio anyway, she can’t even bring herself to look at them…’

  ‘Aoife, can I call you tomorrow? I’m sorry, I’m feeling very lightheaded.’

  ‘Where is Terence? Is Terence there? Brendan wants a word with him.’

  ‘He’s out. He’s watching for foxes. I just need to sit down for a bit. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.’

  ‘Okay, well listen, we’re having a lunch on Wednesday. Come to lunch on Wednesday…’

  It is a relief to hang up, but the word is still here in the coolness of the hallway, settling on the mahogany console and the dusty pictures and the stag. Barren.

  ‘At last!’ Terence is standing at the entrance to the hall, the top of a big toe poking ou
t of one of his nice lambswool socks. She’ll have to ask Mammy to make him some more. He’s holding two cut-crystal glasses with ice and generous portions of whiskey.

  ‘Whiskey! Oh Terry sweetheart, thank you. Phew. Just the thing. Oh God, she’s tough going.’

  ‘She’s a bitch. The Dragon of Dublin South.’ He pads towards her, her soft-bellied, soft-chinned, gentle old badger of a husband. He hands her the whiskey. He kisses her temple. ‘She always upsets you. I don’t know why you answered the phone.’

  ‘She’s my sister.’

  16

  FREYA WAKES TO THE frantic light of an SMS alert:

  Freya if u don’t drop those papers back within 24 hrs u can expect a court summons if that is really my son like u claim then i want access half and half

  It’s three in the morning. She pushes the power button until the phone dies, and places it screen down on the bedside table. She takes a mouthful of water from the glass by her bed, lies back, turns to face the velvet curtains – plush black in the dark. Her mouth is already dry again. She can hear the workings of herself; tongue unsticking from her palate, the even beat of her blood.

  As she falls back asleep, she has the sensation of tripping forward, hurling into some unknown. Her foot gives a sudden twitch, and she turns onto her other side.

  She is not going to vomit again. She is not going to take another shower. She is not going to give that skinny prick any more weight than he deserves.

  But she notices she is hugging herself, stroking her own shoulder, her nose in her armpit. She’ll need to cop on. She’s a big girl now and she won’t let a blowjob change her life.

  Jem is fine. He’s right there in the room next to her, just the other side of the wall. If she listens closely, she can hear him breathe – or is she imagining that? Did she check on him before she went to bed? No harm to peek in on him.

  *

  Seeping through the curtains, a haze of orange streetlight traces the shape of her boy. There he is – of course he is, bony limbs all heaped up at the pillow. There is always a scent of lavender in Jem’s little room. She moves quietly to the bedside, feeling for the switch to his LED globe – a flimsy plastic sphere mapped with shapes of yellow and green and white-blue for the sea. When it lights up it sends a cool glow over Jem’s nose and the sharp, moist peak of his upper lip. She turns it off quickly, letting the cosy darkness wrap him safe.

  Across the landing, Grandma’s door is standing open, and Freya can see a chair where her skirt and blouse and her sturdy beige bra have been laid out for the morning. There is a streak of white lamplight reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe.

  ‘Grandma?’

  A wire-frame bedside lamp with frayed golden tassels casts fuzzy curves over the ceiling and walls and turned-down sheets, and the head-shaped dip in the big pillow.

  ‘Grandma?’

  She’s not in the toilet. She must be downstairs. Knitting maybe, or cooking. That’s what Grandma does when she can’t sleep.

  Wary of startling her, Freya whispers as she moves down the stairs – ‘Grandma? Grandma?’

  She knew Grandma wasn’t right this evening; creases chewing her forehead, her voice quick and her eyes bleary with a kind of bewilderment.

  It was nearly nine when Freya got in with Jem. Just as she was lifting him to the bell to herald their arrival, Grandma opened the door, her throat wobbly with panic, ‘Oh, oh Freya, thanks be to God, I was worried!’

  ‘I told you, Grandma. I told you we’d be late…’ When she rubbed Grandma’s shoulders the bones felt close and tight under the crunchy shoulder pads and straight-cut blouse.

  There was a small pot of leek-and-potato soup on the stove, a leathery skin on its surface. Grandma ladled some into a bowl before realising it was cold. She looked like she might cry as she poured it back into the pot to reheat – ‘Stupid old goose!’ She had already buttered two stacks of bread: one brown, one white.

  *

  The hall is dark, but there’s light coming from the good room.

  ‘Grandma? Hello?’

  The moment she opens the door Freya is hit by the metallic coldness of the room. Grandma is sitting at the big mahogany dining table, her back to the door.

  ‘Grandma?’

  The good room is huge and rarely used. It smells of furniture polish and chemical-cleaned upholstery. A big Turkish carpet covers one half of it, and the walls are furnished with matching pieces – a display cabinet and a big, tall unit with locked doors and a locked drawer. In the bay window, a sunken velvet couch and armchairs; a granite fireplace, and a tall grandfather clock. The family only uses this room when there’s company, or for big gatherings, like Easter and Christmas dinner, when they light the fire and switch on the heaters, and Grandma covers the table with a lace tablecloth and silver trivets.

  ‘Grandma?’

  ‘Oh!’ Grandma’s hands flurry up to her mouth. She moves her whole body around stiffly, turning the chair with her, and the hands land on her chest. ‘Oh Freya, it’s you!’ She taps her breast bone hard with hooked fingers, as though to dislodge her panic.

  ‘What are you doing up, Grandma?’

  Grandma is wearing only her faded floral nightdress, so thin that the straps of her thermal slip show through.

  ‘Come and sit down, darling.’

  ‘Grandma, are you not freezing? Let me get you your cardigan, it’s just in the hall…’

  Freya fetches the soft primrose cardigan from the newel and Grandma allows herself to be helped into it. ‘Thanks darling. Aren’t you very good. Great girl.’

  ‘What’s up, Grandma? Why aren’t you asleep?’

  ‘Sit down here, darling. Now look here at this.’

  There’s a big book on the table – thick chocolate-brown pages with sheets of parchment between them.

  ‘Now look. Weren’t we thrilled with ourselves?’

  It’s a picture of a couple, taken indoors. Freya recognises her grandad from his slender neck and straight gaze, but Grandma – Grandma looks so different, brazenly tall, and a closed, triumphant smile. She looks no more than a teenager, wearing a woman’s tailored skirt and blazer, and a blouse with a lace collar. She’s taller and broader than Grandad, who has hollowing cheeks and dark eyes.

  ‘Weren’t we two silly young things, really…’ There’s something girlish about the way Grandma pushes her hands into her lap, as though afraid to touch the picture. ‘Delighted with ourselves so we were.’ She nods at the picture: ‘That was a wool suit I had my Aunty Dolly make. She was a spinster, Mam’s big sister, but she had lots of friends, you know… She was a wonderful seamstress. And she could make pancakes. No one really made pancakes, but a French neighbour taught Aunty Dolly to make them like the way they do in Paris. That’s how I learned to make pancakes – my Aunty Dolly. But I’ve told you that, haven’t I? I’ve told you about my Aunty Dolly. I was her favourite…’

  Then, as though it takes great daring, Grandma lifts a finger and touches one corner of the picture.

  ‘It was a beautiful suit. Navy blue wool. A nice shade, like, not too dark. I changed into it in the hotel after work and the girls all came up from the kitchen to have a look at me and help me with a bit of powder for my face – your grandad never liked perfume or makeup, you know, so I only let them dab on a little rouge and some Vaseline on my mouth and lashes. Even the girls from reception came to see. And off I went, walking up the road on my own, to get married – wasn’t I a little madam?’

  There is something fragile about being here, and hearing this, and Freya is afraid of her own clumsiness. She doesn’t know what to do with her face, or her hands, or what to say. But Grandma is looking at the book, asking nothing of her.

  ‘They went berserk at home you know, when I said I was marrying Dinny. Well no, now that I say that, no – Dada was quiet, “Has he a house to take you to?” that’s all, real quiet and worried like, “You’re not going to those lodgings with him, are you?” But it was Mam who didn’t approve at all
– “And you who loves to dance and is asked everywhere,” she said. She was suspicious of Dinny, you know, “And what’s he been doing the last ten years child? He’s not been waiting for you in a glass box I’ll tell you that much.” But they didn’t know Dinny. You know what’s funny, Freya? He was. He was waiting in a glass box. You know what I’m saying now don’t you? You know what I mean? He hadn’t a clue about women or the world – all he knew was books and pictures. He spent his time in the gallery, and he spent his money on postcards of paintings. He collected them in a photo album. I knew more than he did, and that wasn’t much… He’d never been to Dublin before he came up for the CIE job.

  ‘But Dada was right, we had no home to go to. Dinny’s people had more than us like, but he was the youngest of eight boys… There was a bit of money left to Dinny by an uncle – a Protestant uncle, mind, but I didn’t tell Mam that. A little tin of cash, but it came to a lot – it seemed a lot to us, anyway. Dinny got a piece shown in the annual RHA, and well – we thought that was it! We were made! Off we were to make our fortune by Dinny’s paintings! Weren’t we foolish little things? And selfish, really. That’s what my sister Kat said, and we were. We were. I knew it then, even, but I didn’t care. That’s the truth of it. The bigger girls were sending money home from America, and passages for the younger ones and for cousins and everything, and I was off to London to be a painter’s wife. I suppose, you know, I didn’t think Mam needed me all that much by then… thought I’d done my time, maybe.’

  She taps the page. ‘Yeah. Well… and bold. Brave and bold little things, and selfish. Thought we were the first in the world to fall in love.’

  She frowns at the picture. Then, after a few moments she says, ‘You can turn the page, Freya. Turn over the page there now, good girl.’ She places the sheet of parchment over her wedding photo, and waits.