by Claire Allan
She stayed here, in this house, back then, when I was a child. For a few months, before she moved to England, if I recall correctly. It was, I think, about a year after my mother died. So I had been maybe ten or eleven. I can’t quite remember. We’d had a strange, strained, relationship. At times she was so loving and caring towards me, I felt as if I never wanted her to leave. I realise now that a part of me was longing for someone to fill the hole my mother had left, but also instinctively knew no one could. I was so lost without my mother, though, I grabbed on to every act of affection tightly.
But then, at other times, Kathleen would look at me as if I was completely incomprehensible to her. An alien child. I’d see no trace of warmth or love. Those times were scary.
I’ve often wondered if she knew what happened under this roof, if she had any suspicions at all. It’s hard to believe she didn’t, but it’s worse to think that she might have and did nothing about it.
Even though she says she will stay with Pauline, I decide to make sure the two spare rooms are ready. Joe is sleeping and Lily is napping in her pram in the living room, so I decide to kill the time productively. One used to be my old bedroom and the other a guest room. At least they’d be in a decent state for anyone unlucky enough to get landed with an overnight shift.
If nothing else, it gives me something to distract me from my own thoughts, which have a tendency to slip towards darkness and despair a little too often for comfort these days. It’s best just to keep busy, I tell myself.
I can’t remember the last time I set foot over the door of my old bedroom. God knows when anyone was last in it. There’s no doubt it will need to be aired and dusted, especially if there’s a chance Lily will have to spend a night here with me.
But even walking to the far end of the landing makes me feel a sense of horrible foreboding and when my foot lands on the squeaky floorboard – the floorboard that used to act as my warning signal – my body tenses.
I take a deep breath and open the door, feeling the cold air hit me. The room has a damp feel to it. A musty smell. I need to air it but it is much too cold to consider opening a window just yet. I shiver and switch on the overhead light, the bulb giving just one pathetic flicker before it pops and dies. I reach for the switch to the bedside lamp instead and thankfully it turns on, although it must be the weakest wattage known to man. A dim, yellow glow lifts the darkest corners of the room but I wouldn’t say it is in any way light. Stubbing my toe on the foot of the bed, I swear as I walk around to plug in the small oil-filled radiator that sits by the desk.
We can probably fit a travel cot in here for Lily if the need arises, but apart from that there is only enough space to walk around the bed, open the chest of drawers or sit at the small school desk. Still scored with my childish graffiti, it sits under the window.
An unpleasant burning smell rises from the radiator and I curse myself for not thinking to dust it off before switching it on. I grab an old towel to give it a wipe while I look in the airing cupboard for any suitable bedding to dress the bed with. I decide I’ll bring my own, buy new stuff if I have to. I don’t want anything he has slept in touching me.
The room doesn’t feel like my room any more, although the echoes of my childhood and teenage years are still here, down to the remnants of Blu-Tack still clinging to the walls, where posters once hung.
Sitting on the bed, I look up and see the dolls, which were once the most important thing in the world to me, on the shelf of the far wall. Four of them. Porcelain, pale-faced, dressed in Victorian-style clothes. Ciara hated them. Said they were ugly and gave her the creeps. But when I was younger they were a vital link between my mother and me. She would buy me one each Christmas. ‘A little girl deserves a very special doll,’ she would say. I’d nod. I loved them. Especially Scarlett, a doll with the darkest black hair and green eyes, in a green velvet gown. She reminded me so of the actress Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind, my mother’s favourite movie, so Scarlett seemed the most apt name.
I can hardly believe I’ve left her here. I can’t believe I reached an age when I am embarrassed by her and the others, too embarrassed to bring this vital link between my mother and me to my new home. I’ll get some bubble wrap, I vow. Wrap them up and take them to our house, even though it’s small with not enough storage space. We’ll find somewhere for them. Maybe Lily might want them when she’s older.
I wonder what her granny would have made of her. What she would think of me as a mother. My heart aches for her. Then again, my heart always aches for her.
Chapter Thirteen
Heidi
Then
I was nine and three quarters when time ran out and my mother died.
I remember her death in snapshots. Like looking at old pictures. Moments in time captured forever in my mind, the minutes and hours between just a blur.
It’s as if I hear a click of some imaginary camera and I’m in my bedroom listening to a raised voice from the room two doors away. It’s not an angry voice. It’s something else – something that makes my stomach tighten and my heart hurt. It belongs to my granny, I think, or the smiley nurse who has been visiting each evening. She always gives me lollipops. The taste sours in my mouth.
Click.
‘Mammy’s in heaven now.’ The nurse isn’t smiling any more, but her face is soft, sad. Her mouth downturned.
Granny’s face looks strange. Twisted. Changed. Her eyes are red – so red that the blue of her pupils looks almost too bright, like there are lights shining on them or something. She doesn’t look like herself any more. I don’t think she’ll ever look like herself again.
Joe wanders around the house, lost. He seems to stand a lot. Like he has forgotten how to sit down. He looks so sad. He looks how I feel. As if a part of him has died, too.
Click.
I’m on the stairs and I can’t understand it. They say Mammy is in heaven, but I know she’s in the living room. Lying in that box. I’ve seen her through the door. It’s definitely her. I want to ask how can that be her if she is in heaven, but I’m afraid to. I don’t want to make my granny cry again.
Click.
‘Who’s going to mind me now?’ I ask.
Granny is crying. She pats my hand.
‘Am I coming to live with you and Grandad? You’ll have to get a new house with a bedroom for me.’ I’m momentarily lost, wondering what my new bedroom will look like.
‘Well, here’s the thing,’ she says. ‘You know how Joe has lived here for the last year helping your mammy and you?’
I nod.
‘And he loved your mammy for a year before then?’
I nod again.
‘Well, he loves you so much that he is going to stay here and look after you,’ Granny says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Your mammy talked a lot about it, you know. With me and with Joe, and we all thought it would be easier for you if you were able to stay here. In your own house, in your own room with your own toys.’
I don’t want that. He’s not my daddy. I don’t even like him. Not really. I was nice to him for Mammy. He’d moved in a year ago and everything with Mammy had changed. She spent less time with just the two of us. More with him. And then she got sick.
He doesn’t know how to look after me. He doesn’t give me cuddles like Mammy did. He doesn’t bake me cookies like Granny does.
My lip wobbles. I feel tears settle in my eyes and I’m trying so hard not to blink and let them fall.
‘Your grandad and I will always, always be here for you, darling,’ Granny says, her voice cracking a little. ‘But we’re not as young as we used to be. And Grandad doesn’t keep well. I’m sure you’d much rather stay in your own house, among your own things, anyway. All your toys. Sure, Grandad and I don’t have room for toys.’
‘But if you got a new house …’ I say, trying to keep the pleading tone from my voice.
I watch as Granny shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry, pet. We can’t do that. I wish we could, but y
ou will be fine with Joe and we’ll always be close by. Always. I promise you.’
‘But Joe’s not my daddy,’ I stutter. ‘He wasn’t even married to Mammy. He’s not my family. I can’t stay with him!’
I notice she’s crying and guilt swoops in. I don’t want to make her cry any more, so I stop talking.
‘It will be okay, my angel,’ she says through her tears and I will myself to believe her.
Click.
‘You have to be brave now.’
He’s sitting beside me. My little hand dwarfed in his. His hand is clammy. Sticky. People have been coming and going to the house all day and it’s stuffy in here. There’s a smell of strong tea and cigarette smoke. People keep looking at me with funny expressions on their face. Telling me I’m a great girl. They bring me sweets and treats as if it’s my birthday.
I want to ask them why.
Click.
Granny tucks me into bed. I don’t want to sleep. Not with Mammy downstairs in that box. Who is sleeping in her bed? Is Joe there? Who will be there if I wake up in the night? I lie awake, afraid to close my eyes. Will they put me in a box like Mammy, too? Tell everyone I’ve gone to heaven?
Click.
I’m sitting on my bed and my grandmother is pulling the hairbrush through my hair. She’s distracted. The brush keeps catching on knots. It hasn’t been brushed properly in a few days. Still, I’m a brave girl. I don’t cry out. It seems such a babyish thing to cry about. Especially now.
She has a new dress for me to wear. Black. With ribbon. I hate it. Mammy would never have made me wear something like this. She knew I loved running about in jeans and a T-shirt. Playing in the garden and getting covered in mud.
Click.
A church. It’s cold. Everyone is crying and looking at me as if I’m the one making them sad. I want to tell them I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t hurt Mammy. I swear I didn’t! But Granny has told me to be on my best behaviour.
‘I won’t be able to cope if you don’t behave,’ she said.
I’m angry. I want to tell her I always behave. I’m always good. I always do exactly what I’m told.
Click.
He sits on the edge of my bed. His jumper smells of beer and stale cigarettes again. It makes me feel sick, as if I might throw up. The last people have left the house. Why has it been a party? Cake and sandwiches and the grown-ups drinking. Someone singing and laughter ringing out every now and then. My mammy is dead. I don’t understand.
I pull away from him as he tries to hug me. I don’t want him near me. I’m fed up with grown-ups. His hands are still clammy.
‘You’re not to worry. I’m not leaving you. I’ll make sure you’re okay.’
I hold my tears inside me, give in to his hug. I’ll be a great girl. And a brave girl.
Just like Mammy would want.
Chapter Fourteen
Joe
Now
There’s not a single person in this world who hasn’t made a mistake. Who hasn’t done something they are ashamed of. Anyone who denies this is a liar.
I’ve not always done the right thing. I’ve absolutely done the wrong thing a few times. Some of these things for the right reasons. Or I thought so at the time.
Like when Natalie was sick. She was in so much pain. So wretched. It hadn’t been that hard to get my hands on some extra morphine for her. I suppose things weren’t as rigid then as they are now.
I was trying to help. I still believe I did help. I took her pain away, and then I stayed because even though I knew it was good and humane that her suffering was over, I was still overcome with guilt.
Each and every time I saw Heidi look up at me, her eyes wide, her face pale. Her grief too painful to watch, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. I’d taken a mother from her child.
So I stayed. Did what Natalie had wanted. She’d begged me, you see. ‘Make sure Heidi is okay,’ she’d say, knowing her own parents weren’t fit to look after the child. Natalie was so terrified that Heidi would end up in care. Bad things happened in care, she said.
She’d had faith in me. She was foolish, too. I tried to be good, but I was – I am – only human and I am flawed.
But I’ve fought my demons. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? I rehabilitated myself. Found God. Asked for His forgiveness for what I did to Natalie. What I did for Natalie.
And I lived a good life. I thought it would make a difference, but in the end it seems it doesn’t matter what you do for people, it’s never enough.
No one realises how hard this is. What a burden it is. Temptation is everywhere. Urges don’t just go away, you know. I had to content myself with looking and not touching, but I did that because I wanted to prove I could change.
I was prepared to wait for forgiveness. I’ve been very patient, but time is running out and now I think there’s a cruelty to them that they aren’t prepared to let go of.
How do they not see how hard it was for me, too? How it ate me up inside? Because it did. I hated myself for years. It almost destroyed me, almost drove me to suicide.
I was a victim, too. I didn’t ask to be born this way.
I wasn’t perfect. I did so much for them that they will never bring themselves to acknowledge.
The selfish, spoiled little bitches.
Chapter Fifteen
Ciara
Now
Auntie Kathleen is far changed from the confident, fashion-conscious, funky auntie who I hero-worshipped through my childhood and into my teen years.
Looking at her from across the living room in my father’s house, I feel shocked at her distinctly middle-aged appearance. She can’t be any older than her mid to late forties, but she dresses like someone in their late fifties or sixties. Gone are the short skirts, the big hair, the coloured tights and bright make-up. Instead, a woman with the same salt-and-pepper hair as my father sits in sensible black trousers, a pale pink jumper over a crisp white blouse and black shoes, which owe more to comfort than style, on her feet. The only jewellery she wears is a pair of pearl stud earrings and her plain gold wedding band. She wears no make-up and I can’t help but notice that her eyebrows could use a good reshaping.
She’s smaller, too, than I remember. A remnant of the person she was, or am I just remembering it all wrong? Sometimes I don’t know what I remember any more.
She looked lost when she arrived at the airport. I’d gone to pick her up and had been waiting for her at arrivals, when I saw this rather wretched-looking creature walk through the security doors blinking as she glanced around. She looked pale, tired and old, and she’d promptly burst into tears when she saw me.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she’d said over and over, to the point where I wanted to scream at her to stop talking.
She was quieter in the car, lost in her thoughts for a while. Then she asked about me. About Mum. About Heidi. How she was coping.
‘She is okay, isn’t she?’ Kathleen asked. ‘You know, stable?’
‘She seems to be,’ I said, which was the truth. I don’t think I was ignoring any warning signs just because it suited me to have Heidi doing the lion’s share of looking after Joe.
‘Because we have to be careful,’ Kathleen said. ‘You know she’s fragile.’
Yes, I knew Heidi was fragile. Everyone kept reminding me, not that I needed telling. For a year or so when she was a teenager our entire existence had revolved around ‘poor Heidi’ and her fragility.
‘She’s a different person now,’ I said, as if I knew her well enough to comment authoritatively on her mental wellbeing. ‘Her husband seems to be lovely and she’s focusing on her baby.’
Kathleen made a noise that was at best non-committal. ‘I don’t know,’ she’d said. ‘I wouldn’t want to push her too far.’
I’d tried to draw her further on what she meant, but she clammed up. Refused to say any more. Frustrated, I’d switched on an audiobook through the car’s Bluetooth system and tried my best to lose myself in
it as we drove the rest of the way home.
Of course, when Kathleen had finally seen my father, she’d collapsed into a paroxysm of grief. ‘My poor big brother,’ she’d wailed, pulling him into a hug and then apologising as he’d winced from the pain. I’d winced, too. The show of emotion ringing hollow in my ears.
But she’s calmer now as she stands in front of the fireplace, orating on palliative care and family responsibility.
‘Perhaps we could put our heads together and think of things that might encourage him out of that bed and back into the world for another bit. Maybe we could get him to make a bucket list. You know, things he’d really like to do while he can. We could try to make them happen.’
She seems so determined she can make a difference. That taking him on some poorly thought-out adventure might save him that I almost feel sorry for her.
She’s also assuming the rest of us have the same desire to have him around for as long as possible as she does.
‘Do you have any ideas?’ she asks to the silent room.
I see Heidi bow her head like the shy girl in class desperately hoping the teacher will have forgotten she exists and skim past her. I feel a sense of dread build as her gaze falls on me.
‘Ciara?’
‘Dad and I aren’t very close,’ I tell her, which of course is a gross understatement. ‘I’ve no idea what he might want to do.’
To my annoyance, I feel the warm glow of shame rise in my cheeks.
‘He’s still your dad. You must have some ideas.’
I know when I was little he liked books and gardening. He liked being the centre of attention. He liked people thinking he had brains to burn. Country walks. Talking about himself. Wildlife documentaries. Hurting people. Manipulating their feelings. Leaving.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Maybe a drive to the beach. A visit to the museum,’ I say with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
‘We could try to get him down to the library, to see his old friends,’ Stella suggests and I could kiss her for trying.