An Unravelling

by Elske Rahill

  ‘You know, we would have been married anyway, Freya. It was a foregone conclusion. But we were in a hurry for a reason. You know what I mean, do you Freya? My Aunty Dolly knew. I don’t know how she knew, but she knew, and I think she went and talked to Mam because all of a sudden Mam fell very quiet on the subject. They came to the wedding in the end – Dada in his good coat and the lot, and there was a little party back at the house – but there were none of Dinny’s people there. We never saw much of Dinny’s people, really. His father was a cruel man. You can turn the page, Freya. Turn the page.’

  They look older already on the next page, and very happy – standing on a street outside a dingy-looking door. They are wearing winter coats and both of them are smiling, like they can’t believe their luck. Grandad looks even skinnier, and Grandma’s face is a little thinner too. On Grandad’s arm, a round-faced baby of – what, four months? Six? Below, on a white strip of paper, someone has written in fountain pen ‘Molly and Dinny and Dinny Óg. Soho, 1956’.

  ‘That’s him,’ says Grandma slowly, and her eyes widen, as if something is just dawning on her. ‘Our little boy. That’s him exactly.’

  She runs her finger around the edge of the picture, touching only the cream mount and not the photo itself. A gravel sound comes from her throat. She looks at Freya and nods, takes a breath, makes a smacking sound with her lips, and breathes out. ‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘that was him. That was. Yes.’ Her mouth stretches into a brave, wet smile that doesn’t match her eyes, and she nods again, blinks slowly, takes a breath to speak, and swallows instead.

  *

  It was from her cousin Valerie that Freya had first learned about the little boy who died. They were down at the end of the garden, picking raspberries for Grandad. Valerie was a bully of a child, and she insisted on being the only one to pick the berries. Because she was younger, Freya had to hold the bucket; but she ate fistfuls every time Valerie turned her back, and told Grandad on her afterwards.

  ‘Do you want to know a secret?’ said Valerie.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘There was another child, before our mammies. There was a little boy who died. He died when he was three. But we’re not allowed to talk about it. Don’t ever say it. Swear!’

  She never said it, except to Cara, who knew already and warned her again never to mention it. But after Jem was born, Grandma sat by the hospital bed, ‘Now you know, Freya. Now you know. You know now, don’t you? What it was like when he was born, my first baby; our little boy; and why I would sit up all night beside the basket, knitting him booties and hats and more booties and waiting for him to wake again… Now you know, Freya. You know what that was…’

  *

  Grandma taps the page again, slides a finger in under the next one, as though to turn it. But she seems to change her mind suddenly, and she takes the rest of the book in her hand – all the thick pages and the parchment paper and the stiff back cover – and smacks it closed on its face. She rubs a hand up and down the faux leather on the back of the book, then takes it between both hands and turns it the right way around.

  ‘I think probably that’s the last time I will look at those pictures Freya. You know, I don’t often look at them.’

  She slides the book towards Freya. ‘Put it with your private things, Freya, will you? Keep it. I don’t want anybody else to touch the pages or that. Keep it safe, will you, and take it with you whenever you get your own house, okay? It’s not for showing people, really. I don’t want it mauled. Just keep it with you.’

  Freya takes the album and puts it on her lap. ‘Okay, Grandma.’

  From the other side of the house, the carriage clock chimes gladly. Grandma looks to the far corner of the good room, at the tall, stern grandfather clock, its pendulum silently swinging. ‘What time does it say, Freya?’

  ‘It’s four o’clock, Grandma. It’s Tuesday morning already. You should try to sleep.’

  ‘Well, what are you doing mooching around at this hour?’

  ‘I was restless too. Couldn’t sleep. Will I make some camomile, Grandma?’

  ‘Well, you know. If you twist my arm, just this once I think I’ll have a little cup of cocoa. I think I’ll make us both some cocoa and then we’ll go up to bed and have a good sleep. Maybe we should drop a bit of whiskey into it. I should have a sleep.’

  She pushes herself up off the table. Freya straightens her cardigan for her, and fastens the top button, and the two women make their way to the good-room door. As they enter the hallway, Grandma reaches for Freya’s shoulder, as though to steady herself, and Freya puts her hand around her grandmother’s waist. Grandma still has a figure that curves into a crease at the waist, and Freya can feel the hard cleave; the density and sureness of the flesh there.

  ‘But you weren’t foolish Grandma, were you? You did make a life from Grandad’s paintings.’

  Grandma frowns for a moment. Freya has said the wrong thing.

  ‘We’ll lie in in the morning, darling, will we?’ Grandma gives Freya a forgiving pat on the small of her back. ‘For as long as the little fellow will let us.’

  17

  AFINE MESS SHE’S made.

  Aoife scrapes out the gritty mush, tilting the bowl over the bin and shoving the mixture to the edge. Her new spatula is a tasteful shade of teal to match her mixing bowl, and made of silicone for easy grip and easy cleaning. It bounces cheerily as she bangs it on the edge of the bin; shakes and bangs, shakes and bangs.

  A fine mess.

  Slowly, impudently, the gunk turns on the soft blade-tip, drops. She scoops up another lump and flings it hard into the bin. It lands on the inside of the black liner and starts to tumble sluggishly down, a soft, sinister crackle as it goes.

  She uses a wrist to push her fringe from her eyes, and brings the bowl over to the sink, squidges washing-up liquid, twists on the hot tap full blast and throws the spatula in.

  She will start again, following the instructions more carefully this time. She has time; as long as the cleaner comes when she said she would, she has time to get this right. It’s no big deal anyway; just a nice little lunch to welcome Valerie home. Sinéad couldn’t be persuaded to come – perhaps that’s a blessing, and her mother won’t be here until one at the earliest. A casual little lunch, that’s all.

  Leaving the hot tap beating into the sink, she leans over the recipe booklet, and taps the page: ‘Almond flour.’

  The chirrup of her mobile phone. She rushes into the hall – she hates having to call back – unzips her handbag, fumbles to find the right pouch. It’s Valerie’s name flashing on the screen. Aoife’s sternum tightens. Her throat hurts. She slides right just in time. ‘Hello.’

  Her daughter speaks in a little-girl voice, ‘Hiiii Muuum!’

  ‘Hiya petal, are you near?’

  ‘Mum, you’ll never guess who was on my flight with me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guess?’

  ‘Who, Val? Who was on the flight with you? I’m in a hurry… I made a dog’s dinner of the starter, I have to begin all over—’

  ‘Alex! Do you remember Alex?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Alex? Alexia Sullivan? From school. Well, listen, do you mind, we thought we’d have lunch in Dublin and catch up a bit – the traffic will be terrible anyway, so I’ll be in later tonight. Alex has a car so I’ll get a lift ….’

  ‘Valerie, your grandma is coming and everything. She’ll be very…’

  ‘I’ll call in to her during the week Mum – honestly, like the flight was delayed a bit too, you know, and I won’t even be there by one, like even if I get the bus right now…?’

  Aoife surveys the very clean tiles of the entrance hall; the Moroccan carpet; the winding stairs and the magnolia-pale expanse of wall. She should hang another painting or two here in the hall. It seems terribly empty now with the half-full shoe rack and the antique boot-pull, the solitary shopping bag sitting there neatly beside it. In the end, she got the knickers for Eileen’s kids. Why di
d she do that? Aoife Monday, In Brown Thomas please can you get… Just thinking about it now, Aoife feels the insult like a slap to the face. She shouldn’t let herself be treated like that.

  The fringe swings down over her eyes again. She thrusts out her lower jaw and blows at it. It’s an impractical haircut, but her stylist is right; it takes years off.

  ‘Grandma was so looking forward to seeing you, Valerie, she’s driving all the way out to see you…’

  Mammy never bought knickers for Valerie. Or pyjamas – that was the other thing she was always buying for those girls – brushed cotton pyjamas and flannel nighties.

  ‘What am I supposed to tell her? She’s really been looking forward—’

  ‘Tell her I’ll call into her during the week. Look Mum I better go, I’ll see you tonight. It won’t be a late one.’

  Valerie has hung up before Aoife can respond. Her throat is raw with the silence; a taste like metal. She slides her phone back into her handbag and zips it closed. Then she stands for too long looking at the very empty wall. They used to have a series of photographs going up the stairs – Valerie as a baby, Valerie on her communion day, Valerie as a teenager – braces and lank hair. When did she take those down?

  *

  Back in the kitchen foam peaks are lathering up out of the sink. There’s steam spilling over the worktop, fading across the kitchen in slow white whorls. Ninny. She twists the tap closed. She will have to wait for the water to cool before she empties the bowl. Does she have to wash the Wonder Whisk too? It doesn’t go in the dishwasher – how does it come apart? Somehow, she didn’t factor that in when she bought it. It’s not like her to be so reckless.

  On the floor of Aoife’s stomach, a slow dread begins to gather. They’re nice colours, these gadgets – all teal and buttercup and magenta. But look at them all! Was it a mistake buying so many? Has she made a goose of herself?

  They saw you coming, Aoife, that’s what her mother will say, silly goose.

  She hadn’t expected to buy anything at all when she went to the Tupperware party. It was hosted by one of the ladies from the village; Aoife knows her from Sunday mass. She didn’t want them all to think she was too up herself to go – it is something she risks, she knows, living in the biggest house on the most prestigious road; wife of the town solicitor and daughter of a famous artist – So she made the effort to go, but she wasn’t expecting much. All the kitchens in those semi-ds are the same – fitted units, formica worktops, parquet – common-looking. The women were friendly though, and the hostess mixed fruity cocktails; it isn’t often Aoife drinks cocktails. She had brought a bottle of plonk with her; and she felt bad then when the kind-eyed hostess offered her a cosmopolitan – fresh lime juice and all. The Tupperware lady was the hostess’s cousin, just moved home. She couldn’t put an age on the woman. She coloured her hair, certainly. The skin around her eyes was taut.

  *

  The steam has settled in the kitchen like dusk. The window is misted and streaked with condensation. Aoife pushes the dying bubbles off the windowsill into the sink. That’ll have damaged the paint.

  She returns to the recipe booklet. She will go slowly and carefully. She will lay out all her ingredients first, and check as she goes, just as Mammy taught her.

  ‘Okay,’ she says aloud, ‘almond flour.’

  She lifts the almond flour – it’s in one of her big rectangular storage jars; really handy things the size and shape of cereal boxes with airtight lids and easy-pour spouts – and places it firmly down at the other end of the counter. ‘Check.’

  ‘Wheatflour…’ She slides the flour across – ‘Check.’

  ‘Parmesan’ – has she got enough parmesan? Yes, plenty – ‘Check.’

  Parmesan is expensive; some people would replace it with the cheaper cheese displayed next to it in the supermarket – it looks the same and has a similar name, but it’s not parmesan.

  ‘One egg…’ Stupid goose. The egg! She forgot to add the egg, that’s what it was.

  She opens the fridge and there they are – six eggs perched in their little holder in the fridge door. She forgot the egg, that’s all. That’s what it was. She was all a-fluster, that’s all. She’ll start again.

  *

  At the Tupperware evening it looked so easy; the woman smiled and chatted as she did it. She had shiny blonde hair gathered elegantly at the back of her neck, not a strand out of place, and beautifully glossy red nails; really classy-looking. She didn’t get a speck on those lovely nails the whole time. ‘We just pop it all in here, and shake… you just drop it in here, and push the handle…Voilà! There was an exotic edge to her accent – she had just moved back from Canada, she said. A disastrous marriage, perhaps – no wedding ring. But she made it seem alright to be selling Tupperware for a living; she didn’t seem in the least bit ashamed.

  It really was impressive how quickly and easily she made the starters, but it is harder than it looks.

  Perhaps Aoife should have stuck to a simple roast chicken, and smoked salmon for starter. Perhaps she is setting herself up with all this fuss. And Mammy might accuse her of putting on airs.

  Aoife takes the Wonder Whisk apart – twisting the lid, removing the three twirly bits, getting the mixture on her fingers and the sleeve of her nice cashmere cardigan – and drops it into the hot bubbles. Best not to cut corners. She will start afresh and get it right.

  She scrunches her sleeves up to her elbows – she’ll have to soak the cardigan afterwards.

  Last time Mammy came, Aoife really went to quite a lot of trouble. Mini quiches. She even made the pastry herself, because she knew Mammy would comment otherwise. But it didn’t matter what she did. ‘Quite nice, Aoife,’ said Mammy, swallowing her mouthful and placing the rest of it delicately on the rim of her plate. ‘You know – now you won’t take it in bad part if I say this darling, but a bit of nutmeg makes all the difference. Well, last night Freya made the most beautiful omelette – well, beautiful Aoife, spinach and leeks in it, and I said, “Well, Freya, I know your secret – nutmeg and sugar”; just a pinch of sugar on the leeks, and a bit of nutmeg grated in at the end. Try it next time Aoife. You’ll see it makes all the difference…’ Then she made that gesture that sends the heat shooting up Aoife’s back – the tips of her forefinger and her thumb pressed together like a parody of a chef, and repeated it like a mantra, ‘All–The–Difference.’

  Aoife lines up the measuring spoons before her on the worktop. She can feel her shoulders rise up, her lips tighten – she has always had a thin upper lip but these days, when she gets at all anxious, she can feel it narrow into a strip of sinew. That’s how wrinkles spread. She needs to relax, but the whole thing with Daria is bothering her. She was supposed to come yesterday, and then she called with some excuse about her grandchild. She’ll be here at eleven thirty, she said, but Mammy’s arriving at one, and Daria won’t have the cop-on to make herself scarce. Aoife will have to send her home at quarter to one, whether she’s finished or not. There’s the problem then, of cutting her €33 down to €14. It might be very awkward.

  Never mind. She’ll get her to start with the dining room and living room – Mammy doesn’t need to see the rest of the house. She’ll hand Daria an envelope and if she has the cheek to complain, Aoife will act insulted – You don’t expect me to pay you for work you haven’t done do you, Daria? She points the 10 ml spoon at an imaginary Daria, eyebrows raised, a little shake of the head, ‘do you, Daria?’ She hears herself mutter. Stupid goose. There’s no need to get all worked up about it; it won’t come to that.

  When people know you have money, they try to take advantage of you. She’s never been short, but it’s the principle of the thing. Aoife won’t be taken advantage of. She won’t be made a fool of. The world is full of profiteers.

  Right. The parmesan twists.

  The important thing is to enjoy cooking – that’s what the Tupperware lady said, and that’s what Aoife intends to do.

  *

 
When the landline sounds, Aoife grabs a microfibre cloth to wipe the egg from her fingertips.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Aoife, it’s you.’

  ‘Hi Mammy, are you not on the road?’

  ‘Now listen here Feefs, you won’t take it in bad part, will you? I’m just in from the hairdressers and there was a lot of traffic for coming back and – I can say it to you, can’t I, darling? I didn’t sleep very well. I’m tired. I would prefer just to stay at home now for my lunch. I only want an egg and I’ll sit down then with my knitting… Aoife? Fifi, can you hear me, darling?’

  ‘I can hear you, Mammy.’

  Aoife has wandered absentmindedly into the hall again. She is standing before the bare wall. Her mother sighs down the phone, ‘You don’t take it in bad part, darling?’

  ‘Well, Valerie will be very disappointed, Mammy.’

  ‘Well, you tell her to call in one of these evenings and we’ll have a nice chat, will you? Is she there now and I’ll have a word with her?’

  Aoife looks down at the neat shopping bag: cream and dark brown stripes.

  ‘No. That’s fine, Mammy. You suit yourself.’

  ‘Well yes, that’s what I thought. That’s what Cara is always telling me – Grandma, you need to just suit yourself, she says… you know Aoife, I’m an old woman now!’ – she says that like it’s a joke; does she expect Aoife to contradict her? – ‘Oh, there’s the door, darling, I’ll go. Now you don’t take it in bad part, do you? You tell Valerie to come and see me? Oh goodbye, darling, there’s someone at the door.’

  ‘Who? Who’s at the door, Mammy?’

  ‘Well, Fifi, aren’t you a funny one? I don’t know yet, do I?’

  ‘Yes, goodbye Mammy.’

  Aoife kicks the shopping bag. It falls on its side and the contents spill cleanly onto the floor: twelve slim boxes of knickers, parcelled together in white tissue paper. Why the tissue paper? As if they were delicate or something… She kneels down and stuffs them back in.

  When her parents first took those girls on, Aoife did her part to lighten the load, bringing them on days out to the cinema, or to the play centre with Valerie. Yes, she encouraged the three cousins to play together once. She thought long and hard about her nieces’ Christmas presents and the best school to send them to. She was generous with gifts and generous with her time. It has been a slow souring, fuelled by the little one’s red-faced whining and the way she clung to Mammy, and – oh God, when she thinks of it – the adenoidal arrogance of Cara; who quickly grew to have opinions – so many beliefs and opinions and hobbies, that were indulged by Mammy and admired by Daddy. Even then, Aoife continued to do her best. She forgave the vegetarianism and the sanctimonious little lectures the child would give; those offensive Christmas cards with a turkey on them saying, ‘Get Stuffed Yourself’ that Daddy found so funny and Mammy blushed about. When Aoife tried to speak to them about those cards, explained that they couldn’t allow that carry on, Daddy just shook his head as if she was the troublemaker. Vegetarians are like communists, he said. Anyone with a heart is a vegetarian when they’re young… He was right about one thing: it didn’t last.