Big English Girl

by Paula Clamp

  Ellie tossed the lip balm and brush back into her toilet bag, scraped her hair back, pinned it tightly and pulled on the Afghan coat. With her pen and notebook thrown into a small backpack, she was out of the room in a matter of seconds. Pulling the door behind her, she triggered a plastic fish, mounted on the landing wall, to sing ‘Always look on the bright side of life’.

  Back out onto the Lusty thoroughfare, there was little ‘thorough’ or ‘fare’ going on. At eleven-thirty on a Saturday afternoon in July, all was dead quiet. Ellie’s first plan of action was to acquire the key from the neighbour and, hopefully, start asking a few questions.

  Chapter 4

  The door to the left of the bordered up one was wide open, but no amount of doorbell ringing could attract the owner’s attention.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Still no answer.

  The white paint on the doorframe was blistered, revealing a vibrant red below. The ‘Welcome’ on the doormat was balding and the ‘l’ and the ‘m’ were worn away with heavy use.

  “Hello!” Ellie stepped into the house, her own size-nines covering the few remaining letters, “Rosie?” She nervously called into the quiet, dark interior.

  Hearing no reply, Ellie left the front door and made her way through a dilapidated side gate, into the back garden.

  A forest of dense, woody bramble, formed a painful archway to what Ellie saw as a clearing ahead. The thorns hooked themselves into the trimming on her coat, leaving tiny pulled threads. The sweet fragrance of wild jasmine, mixed with the clawing notes of phosphate and sulphur.

  “I’ve got you now!”

  Ellie froze.

  “You bloody bastards!”

  Ahead, in the clearing, Ellie just about made out a pair of skinny, bare legs and bare feet. A hippy-looking woman, Ellie guessed to be in her fifties, was bent over a clump of dandelions, with a bottle of weed-killer spray in her hand.

  “Excuse me, are you Rosie?”

  “I turn my back for five minutes and they’re at it again – growing!” The woman held out her hand, badly scratched from all her efforts. Her long fingers were also pitted with old scars, which Ellie guessed were a legacy from previous summers’ battles.

  “Aye, I'm Rosie and you are?”

  Ellie enthusiastically shook the outstretched hand, “Ellie Edwards. I’m staying in the Airbnb and…”

  “Ena and Soupy sent you round for the key?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry to bother you. Do you get pestered with guests a lot?”

  “No. You’re the first.” Rosie wrinkled up her nose, “Do you know anything about weeds?”

  Ellie knew very little about almost everything, “Well…dandelions make you pee the bed.”

  “Okay, you're an expert - what do you know about killing them?”

  Ellie thought hard. Her father used to be a keen gardener. He would come home from the munitions factory and straight after dinner would disappear to his vegetable plot, for hours at a time. What would a man, who once spent his days making bombs and his evenings growing carrots, have answered?

  “Nuke them?” Ellie ventured confidently.

  Rosie smiled. Her physical appearance looked to be in perfect harmony with her archenemy; with waist length, tawny-greying hair, she looked as unruly as the brambles around her. Her complexion was flawless and her limbs long and elegant.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Ellie Edwards - you take the clippers and clear a spot big enough for two chairs and I’ll run in and get you a coke - and that key.”

  There was something about Rosie, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that Ellie felt instantly drawn to. When her host promptly returned with a couple of slices of fruit-loaf, a cold drink for Ellie and a hot tea for herself, the ‘stranger-danger speech’ from her father melted away with the ice-cube in her glass.

  The roughly patched wickerwork chairs wobbled on the uneven ground and, as they sat down, both Rosie and Ellie sunk into the earth at an angle.

  “My Dad once said that it’s best to dig the roots out.” Instantly, the vision of the young jogger’s sweaty patch came flooding back to Ellie, “Are there any strong guys around Lusty who wouldn’t mind giving you a hand?”

  “I’m not that decrepit, yet,” Rosie dropped a chunk of fruit-loaf into her tea and watched it bob about, “I remember being as young and as beautiful as you...then one day, just like that, it was gone.”

  Rosie shrugged her small shoulders. She had a slight curve in her back.

  Ellie was beginning to like the Northern Irish – a lot. The 'beautiful' hung in the air like a bubble daring to burst, “I’m just a big, useless, lump of a thing.”

  Rosie fished out the soggy fruit-loaf with a spoon and then lent forward, in a conspiratorial fashion, "The best way to become useless, is to think that you’re useless."

  As they then sat on in silence, Ellie could almost sense the brambles healing and refuelling themselves. She missed sitting with her mother, just like this, as much now as she ever did.

  Sadly, Ellie’s time in the clearing was limited. Time wasn’t on her side and she couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted. Not if she was to achieve what she had come to Northern Ireland for. The rain clouds had cleared and the two women’s small isolated patch, set within the thick vegetation, was now bathed in the midday sun.

  Rosie squinted into the light, “Dear me, Ellie, here’s me just killing time and you haven’t told me what brings a young girl, like you, to our village in the first place.”

  “Well, actually, it's something you might be able to help me with.” Ellie fidgeted in her bag, “Do you know anyone called Niamh Byrne?”

  ‘Niamh Byrne’ felt weird just saying it. It was only her mother’s death certificate that had revealed her first name at birth to have been Niamh, rather than the Marianne-Mae that Ellie and her father had always known her as.

  “Or do you know anyone who might want to change their name from Niamh to Marianne-Mae?”

  “No. I…don’t understand.” Rosie, suddenly, became agitated.

  “Maybe, this will help.”

  Ellie took out a black and white photograph from her bag. Oily finger marks and tears along the edges suggested this one had spent a long life outside of the protection of an album. The image dominating the photograph was of a massive, sprawling oak tree. At its foot, was a solitary figure – a woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in a grungy, off the shoulder sweater, jeans and heavy-duty boots. She was absolutely stunning: long, flowing dark hair, with piercing bright eyes. Her most distinguishing feature, however, was her height, created by long legs that just didn’t know where to stop. The woman wasn’t smiling and had her arms across her chest, as if to say, ‘here I am, so what’.

  “Do you recognise her, Rosie?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “The woman’s my mother. I only ever knew her as Marianne-Mae.”

  Ellie flipped over the photograph to reveal faint, pencilled handwriting which read, ‘A special place, Lusty, County Tyrone’.

  “My mother never spoke of her past, or where she came from. All I know is that she left Northern Ireland for England shortly after this photo was taken and she never came back. This photo is all I have of her life here.”

  Rosie’s earlier casualness had turned to ice, “Maybe, you should persuade your mother to tell you more.”

  “I can’t – not now. She’s dead.” Ellie quickly rambled on, not wanting to have to explain anything more, “If you don’t recognise her - I know it’s a bit of a long shot – but do you know if there are any oak trees in the area – ones as big as this one?”

  The broken and twisted brambles groaned under the intensifying midday heat.

  Rosie shuffled in her chair, “Nothing like that around here - nothing but spruce for logging.”

  “That’s strange…” Ellie searched through her bag again and pulled out a handful of scribbled notes, “…I found an ancient woodland marked on a map…”

&
nbsp; “Well, it’s not here anymore.”

  “But…”

  “Look, these weeds won’t kill themselves. Don’t let me forget about your key.” Rosie reached into her pocket and held out a small, brass key, “Here you go. Just give it back to Ena and Soupy when you’re done with it.” She then abruptly retrieved the weed-killer spray from under her chair, stood up and straightened out her back. Smiling warmly, the older woman quickly added, “Now let me get back to ‘nuking’ these wee bastards.”

  Back out on the ‘main’ road, Ellie stood in a kind of emotional vacuum, suspended by Rosie’s sudden change in manner. Their little conversation had ended as abruptly as it began. What should she do now? Ellie hadn’t really thought through what she would do if her visit came to a dead end.

  Making the overdue phone call was all Ellie could think of doing.

  "It’s me."

  "Do I detect an Irish twang already?" Came the familiar reply. Her father’s voice was clear, but the tone was flat.

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m not sure if this place has anything to do with Mum. There isn’t even an oak tree like the one in the picture.”

  "Literally barking up the wrong tree, hey?” Her father used to have a reputation as a bit of a comedian, but now his humour was consigned to throwing out the occasional bad joke - like stale bread for birds, “I thought you had some reliable research?”

  Along with the old photograph, there was only the map, found in a second-hand bookshop on Fulham High Street, to go on.

  “I did…I mean I have…” Ellie was a pitiful liar, especially when she was trying to impress her father, “I just don’t know if Lusty is where I’ll find answers.”

  The sigh from the other end of the line was enough to deafen Ellie.

  “Oh, Ellie,” Her father groaned, “Giving up already?”

  Ellie didn’t reply. She just stared down at her big feet, positioned as her father used to joke with her at ‘Ten-to-two.” He used to say a lot of things that he didn’t anymore.

  “Is that what you’re doing, Ellie? Ellie?”

  Ellie’s phone had run out of charge.

  Chapter 5

  Slouching up the path that lead to both the village pub and to the chapel, Ellie was torn as to which direction to take. She wasn’t going to give up so soon. What she needed was a more reliable primary source. Between the chapel and the pub, where would she find the most sense and reason?

  She opted for Doherty's Bar & Lounge.

  Even though Ellie knew that she could easily pass for eighteen, she would never have dared go into a bar at home for fear somebody would recognise her and tell her father. Here in Northern Ireland, however, who was to know?

  Once inside, Ellie was surprised to see that this ‘traditional' bar was not what she presumed it to be. She was greeted with a massive plasma television screen, reproduction plastic ‘Guinness Is Good for You’ signs and Two Door Cinema Club blaring out at her from the speakers. The place was empty, except for the barman, with his back facing her, as he stacked glasses behind the bar.

  “Excuse me - I’m looking for the owner.”

  The barman turned around and gave out a broad, toothless smile, which was only marginally over-shadowed by his white, plastic dog collar.

  The priest read her thoughts and proudly ran his finger along the collar, "I made it from a washing-up liquid bottle," He sniggered, "Saves on the hassle of starch."

  “Good idea.” Ellie stumbled on the words.

  “This is Patrick Doherty’s place. He’s next door fixing the guttering on the chapel.”

  Any faith in the church that Ellie possessed had been stripped away nearly two years ago, by her mother’s sudden death. As far as Ellie could see, the church had let her down and she felt uncomfortable in the presence of any man of the cloth. She knew in her head that the priest would be a good man to ask about her mother, but in heart, Ellie didn’t want to have to ask him anything. She turned and looked around the empty bar and was slightly unnerved when the priest appeared to read her thoughts for a second time,

  “They’ll all be in at around four. We’ve a meeting about a charity event. If you’re looking for anyone else, everyone will be here then.”

  With her father’s disappointed voice still whining in her ears, Ellie didn’t really want to waste any more time. After a hasty 'thank you', Ellie hurried out of the pub, down the short path and turned right towards the chapel.

  The sound of hammering to the accompanying rhythm of Queen’s We Will Rock You was Ellie’s first big clue as to the whereabouts of the bar-owner.

  “Mr Doherty?” Ellie shouted up to the rafters.

  “Oh, please, call me Paddy.” A raspy voice answered back, “The only one who calls me ‘Mr’ round here is the ex-wife’s solicitor. You must be the young one they're all talking about...” His deep voice trailed off.

  ‘What ‘all’? Ellie self-consciously wondered.

  Paddy skilfully slid down the low edge of the chapel roof, landing precisely on his two feet and then straightening with his arms outstretched in a triumphant, gymnastic presentation.

  “Seven out of ten?” He asked her cheekily, “Or nine if I had my leotard on?”

  Ellie laughed.

  Paddy was easily pushing forty, with greasy, slightly-greying hair and a ginger goatee. His short legs hadn’t grown much in the shadow of a stomach that was a wonder of spherical-perfection. Ellie blocked this leotard-clad vision in her mind’s eye, before it had time to solidify.

  “I wonder if you can please help me, Paddy. Have you ever heard of a Niamh Byrne? She was really tall – like me. Or do you know where there’s a big oak tree - huge?”

  Paddy took a moment to catch his breath, “Slow down. You want to know about a big woman called Niamh Byrne and about an even bigger tree. Is that it – not looking for the lottery numbers whilst you’re at it?”

  “Any information about Niamh Byrne is my priority – she’s my mother.”

  “Well, Big English Girl – you’re in luck.”

  “Really?”

  For a moment, Paddy looked to be in serious thought, “The woman, I’m so sorry, I can’t help you.” His mood instantly shifted and the barman pointed out towards a dark, wooded area, just behind the chapel, “But, if it’s an oak you’re after – and a big one at that – then anyone around here would point you in one direction only – in the direction of Lusty’s famous Liberty Tree.”

  The canopy of leaves along the front row of trees where Paddy was pointing, suddenly, became illuminated by the sun to create a silver-lining. Ellie gave a mighty, involuntary sigh of relief. A massive weight had just been lifted from her shoulders and she felt as light and buoyant as she imagined a regular-sized seventeen-year-old girl would be. So, her map wasn’t wrong after all?

  “Liberty Tree? Why is it called that?”

  “Can’t really remember – something to do with way back – it’ll come back to me.”

  “Fantastic.” Ellie went to leave.

  “Not so fast, little one.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure I can find it. I have a photo.” The news of the tree, combined with the ‘little one’ reference had miraculously cleared away all of the tiredness from her journey.

  “Slight complication.”

  “Slight?”

  “Big.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s on private land and there’s no access - to anybody.”

  The conflicting emotions tearing around her body had only one outlet - Ellie began to cry. Not fine whimpers with trickles of tears, but an exhausted, full-bodied, snot induced, undignified bawl. She felt like a big baby rather than a big girl. Paddy instinctively reached up, put his arm around her shoulders and scanned for a seat to rest her on. A gravestone was all that was available.

  A forlorn Ellie hesitated before seating.

  “It's alright,” Paddy rubbed the marble, “No body here. This grave belonged to the priest we had before Father Daly and his body was exh
umed years ago - taken to Belfast, or Ballymena – it’ll come back to me.”

  Paddy grinned, playfully, and Ellie gave a light smile, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her coat. Here she was being comforted by a complete stranger, in the middle of a cemetery, miles away from home. She couldn’t help but see the funny side of her situation. Ellie sat down and her thighs instantly felt the cold of the marble.

  “I…I…” She sobbed again.

  “Slow down – there’s no rush.” Paddy ran his stumpy fingers and blackened nails through his hair, “Before we sort out this Liberty Tree problem of yours - first things first. Let’s try a few sentences…my name is…?”

  “Ellie Edwards.”

  “And I am from…”

  “London.”

  “Good girl,” Paddy gave her a congratulatory smile, “And I am in Lusty to…”

  “Find out about my mother, Niamh Byrne – I want to find out about where she came from and…” She hesitated.

  “And?” Paddy shook his head in disappointment – the grease glistening in the sun, “Ellie, you need to give me more than that to work on.”

  Ellie’s soft voice was barely audible, “And why she killed herself.”

  Paddy didn’t pull back the way everyone involuntarily did at home. His arm remained firm around Ellie’s broad shoulders. With his other hand, he calmly began to stoke the wiry goatee on his chin in quiet contemplation.

  “Okay, Ellie, let’s look at the facts. The Sullivan’s were always very protective about their land – that’s where the Liberty Tree is. They put up bloody great fences a while back and Bernard Sullivan, and then his son, Conor, don’t even let the locals in anymore. It’s pointless even trying.”

  “Conor Sullivan?”

  “Aye, do you know him?”

  Ellie lowered her head. How could she have missed an opportunity to get to know the only person who could afford her access to the tree? Yet again, her head had been metaphorically and literally in the clouds. Right now, she just had to force herself to act against character if she was ever to achieve anything. Ellie wiped her nose on her sleeve again.