by Ruth Hogan
She dawdled down the street, sniffing back the tears and tightly gripping her ice-cream money. Her thoughts returned to Auntie Wendy and how she was a lot like a smiley, slightly bossy fairy godmother arriving just in the nick of time when there was trouble. Lassie was a bit like that too, but she was more serious and could talk to adults by barking, even though Tilly never really knew what she was saying. Come to think of it, Uncle Bill was more like Lassie. He was very calm and always knew the right thing to do. He came from a country called Newcastle, and Tilly could never understand a word he said either. Tilly watched her feet, trapped in her ugly brown sandals, as she walked along being careful not to tread on the cracks in case she broke her mother’s back. Her mother seemed to have enough problems as it was, even if Tilly didn’t know exactly what they were. She tried a bit of hopscotch-style hopping and jumping, but it was too hot for that, so she went back to staring at her feet.
If you step upon a crack,
You will break your mother’s back.
It was making her dizzy now, all that staring and being careful. Tilly crossed her fingers and spat on the pavement as a signal that she had finished playing that particular game, and if she should tread on a crack now it wouldn’t count. She didn’t know exactly who was in charge of these things, and who made up the rules. At first, she thought it might be God or Jesus or Noah, but because they were most famous for being really good and holy and, in Noah’s case, having a really big boat, it wasn’t very likely that they would approve of a game that involved crippling your own mother. Tilly had seen a cripple once when she was shopping for a new watering can with her daddy. He was a big fat jelly of a man, with red cheeks, sitting in a wheelchair that was being pushed by a pale, scrawny-looking woman who Tilly thought must be his wife, and who would surely end up a cripple herself, if she carried on pushing her great lump of a husband everywhere. Her daddy told her not to say ‘cripple’ because it wasn’t very nice, but Tilly thought that the man seemed to be having a fine time of it. Anyway, if it wasn’t God or Jesus or Noah, Tilly concluded that it must be a sort of kraken in the sky (but obviously not the same bit of sky where God lived) who looked down on you to make sure you stuck to the rules.
Tilly raised her eyes from her shoes in search of something more interesting to look at, and found Mrs O’Flaherty, resplendent in lime green polyester, just coming out of her gate.
‘Good afternoon to you, Miss Tilly, and where are you off to this fine afternoon?’
Tilly loved that Mrs O’Flaherty called her ‘Miss Tilly’ and spoke to her as if she were a grown-up. Mrs O’Flaherty had a funny way of speaking because she came from an island, but Tilly thought it was pretty and sounded a bit like singing without the music, and anyway she could understand her a lot better than she could Uncle Bill.
‘I’m going to the shop to get an ice cream.’
‘And would you give me the pleasure of walking with you?’
Tilly’s face lit up as she grinned her agreement, and Mrs O’Flaherty’s big, warm Irish heart flinched with pity. Mrs O’Flaherty knew about Tilly’s daddy, and her mother’s illness. It was that kind of neighbourhood, where secrets were as hard to keep as pennies on pocket-money day, and other people’s business was everyone else’s entertainment. But it wasn’t meant unkindly, and Mrs O’Flaherty worried that Tilly’s obviously fragile mother was struggling day to day to preserve what was left of her broken family home. And she felt sorry for Tilly. She seemed like such a singular and solitary little girl. Not at all like her own boisterous offspring whom she had left in the charge of her eldest, Teresa, while she slipped away for half an hour’s peace.
‘Are you going to the shop too?’
Tilly skipped along next to Mrs O’Flaherty to keep up with her surprisingly nimble pace.
‘No, Miss Tilly, I’m going to Confession.’
‘Where’s Confession?’
Mrs O’Flaherty smiled.
‘It’s not a place; it’s something I have to do.’
Tilly thought for a moment.
‘Well, where do you do it?’
‘In church, Miss Tilly, under the watchful eyes of our Lord.’
‘Can I watch too?’
Mrs O’Flaherty hesitated. Sure, what harm could it do? The sight of Tilly’s eager face made up her mind.
‘If you’re sure your mammy won’t mind?’
‘She won’t even notice.’
Sadly, thought Mrs O’Flaherty, that was probably true. The church was at the end of the street, on the corner. A huge building, it seemed to Tilly, with pointy turrets and arches and coloured glass windows, like a castle or a palace. It had a tall steeple pointing straight up to heaven. Tilly liked this church much better than the one where she had been to Sunday school, which was a modern, concrete box with no steeple at all and a car park. Mrs O’Flaherty’s church looked much more like the sort of place where God would live with his angels, even though Tilly hadn’t been inside yet. Mrs O’Flaherty strode up the stone steps leading to the massive wooden doors, Tilly trotting along beside her. She twisted the great metal ring that served as a handle, and opened the door into the still, cavernous coolness that was God’s house on earth. Tilly stood and stared in amazement. She had never seen anywhere so beautiful. The rows of flickering candles shimmered in the shadows like fairy lights. Everywhere she looked there were rich, glowing colours, burnished gold and silver, and sparkles, glitter and twinklings. The breath of magic hung in the air. Tilly thought it was as though someone had put a fairground, a fairy-tale and Christmas in a box, shaken them all together, and tipped them out again. The only thing missing was the noise, but somehow the silence made it seem even more beautiful. She could quite see why God and his angels wanted to live here. She wouldn’t mind living here herself. Mrs O’Flaherty did a funny little curtsey towards the altar, and sat down in one of the dark, wooden pews. Tilly sat down next to her, relieved that Mrs O’Flaherty’s knees hadn’t given way, which was her first thought before she realised it was deliberate. The cold, smooth surface of the wood felt good against the back of Tilly’s legs, but the best thing was the peace and quiet. It was quiet at home, most of the time, but not like this. At home the silence was stretched and tight, like holding your breath until you felt your chest might explode. Here, the silence was soft and deep and Tilly sank into it as though it were a pile of velvet cushions. Mrs O’Flaherty loved the quietness here too. Heaven knows, there was precious little of it in her busy days. She glanced at Tilly, lost in her own world, staring open-mouthed at her surroundings, and for a moment Mrs O’Flaherty was envious of her innocence and wonderment. The silence was broken by the clacking of brisk footsteps as a man in a long black dress with a white collar walked through the church and into a little wooden hut to one side of the aisle and shut the door. Mrs O’Flaherty stood up.
‘Now, you wait there for me, Miss Tilly. I shan’t be long.’
Mrs O’Flaherty followed the man into the hut using a different door, and silence crept back into every corner of the church once again, and Tilly was alone and spellbound. But she didn’t feel alone. She couldn’t see them yet, but she knew that there were others here. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, sucking in the scent of polished wood, burning candles and incense. This place even smelled of magic. She wondered who had the marvellous job of lighting all the candles and how many matches it would take. When she opened her eyes again Tilly had company. An elderly couple was sitting quietly together, holding hands. They looked up at Tilly and smiled. She leaned forward and whispered, ‘Hello. I’m Tilly.’
The old man lifted the hand that he was holding.
‘This is my beautiful wife, Gloria Bow, and I’m the luckiest man in the world, Albert Bow.’
‘And very handsome you are too, my love,’ his wife whispered.
In the pew in front of them, a young woman was writing furiously in a tiny notebook, and further back, towards the door, a little boy was playing with a toy car in the aisle. But the silence
remained unrippled by their presence. Mrs O’Flaherty, true to her word, wasn’t very long. After only a few minutes with the man in the hut, she came back and sat down again next to Tilly. She pulled the hem of her lime green dress firmly down towards her knees, and bowed her head. In her hands was a pretty necklace made of sparkling red beads that rattled softly against one another as she moved them through her fingers. Mrs O’Flaherty began to talk quietly to herself whilst counting the beads. She seemed to be saying the same little poem over and over again, as though she was trying to learn it. It was something to do with two ladies called Mary and Grace, and their fruit. And then came something Tilly recognised. It was ‘Our Father’. Mrs O’Flaherty was saying her prayers. Tilly joined in. It seemed like the polite thing to do. She muttered the Mary and Grace one under her breath, trying to pick it up as she went along, but when it came to the ‘Our Father’ her voice rang out in clear, confident tones around the empty church. When Mrs O’Flaherty had counted all her beads, it was time to stop praying. She looked a bit red in the face, and a bit wet round the eyes, as though she had been laughing or crying, but Tilly thought it was probably just the effort of all that praying and counting at the same time. Mrs O’Flaherty slipped the necklace into the big brown handbag that was wedged into the crook of her elbow. She turned to Tilly and smiled.
‘Well, Miss Tilly, I’m sure that will have made our Lord sit up and listen. You’ve a fine voice for praying.’
‘Can I come back again another day?’
‘Miss Tilly, our Lord’s house is always open, and I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you any time.’
As they got up to leave, the big wooden doors opened from the outside and more people came into the church. Several of the women greeted Mrs O’Flaherty warmly. They looked at Tilly and then back at Mrs O’Flaherty as though posing a silent question, but Mrs O’Flaherty chose not to answer, other than with a very slight shake of her head. Outside, the sun was still shining, and it felt even hotter after the coolness of the church. Tilly’s thoughts turned to ice cream. She thanked Mrs O’Flaherty for letting her watch ‘Confession’, and Mrs O’Flaherty said she was as welcome as the flowers in May, which Tilly didn’t really understand but thought sounded lovely anyway. She set off in the direction of the shop, but had only gone a few yards when she turned and called, ‘Mrs O’Flaherty, what kind of soap powder do you use?’
Mrs O’Flaherty laughed at Tilly’s strange question, but answered nonetheless.
‘Daz.’
That explains it, thought Tilly.
She skipped off to the shop and bought a strawberry ice cream, which dribbled all over her hands, melting before she could eat it. She was still sucking her fingers as she walked up to the back door. She didn’t go in straight away but sidled up to the window to see if Auntie Wendy was still there. Her mother was seated alone at the kitchen table. A cigarette was burning in an ashtray at her elbow, and her mother was bent low over the table, writing in a small blue book. Tilly turned away from the house and wandered down the garden towards the shed where the matches lay waiting for her. Nestled in the bottom of her pocket was the key.
8
Tilda
I knew somehow that the small brass key would fit the lock of the walnut box, but I had no clue as to what I might find inside. The lifted lid reveals piles of notebooks, neatly stacked. My mother’s diaries. I had no idea she kept a diary. But then, why would I? It seems, after my afternoon tea with Miss Dane, that there is probably a great deal I don’t know about my mother. The books lie before me now like another box of matches. But would these ones light a candle to guide me, or a bonfire to burn my memories on? The answer is almost certain to be both. From childhood, I have always loved playing with matches, but now they have become one of my rituals. Some people cut themselves. I light matches. I flirt with the flames, but their fire is under my command. I could conjure black and blistered skin or catastrophic conflagration. But I choose not to. So far. The books are all different colours and sizes, but the one on top looks as though it has been placed there deliberately. It is a small blue notebook containing entries that begin in the year of my seventh birthday. My heart is pummelling my chest as I flick through the pages. This is not merely a record of appointments and a reminder of birthdays and anniversaries. This is the full story, chapter and verse, of my mother’s secret life; a life I had lived alongside, crossing over and bumping up against, but never really sharing. Until now, perhaps. Each page is crammed with my mother’s elegant handwriting. Words like ‘love’, ‘hate’ and ‘Tilly’ shout out to be read, but the woman who wrote them is a stranger to me, and I am now more scared than excited about what I might discover. The book slips from my hands and drops back into the box with a soft thud. I am sitting on the floor with the open box in front of me, and as I look up I meet the steady gaze of the deep, dark eyes that have long been my solace and my sanity. Eli is sitting just the other side of the box. He rarely comes this close, but when he does his presence is like a cool breeze on a sunburnt face; a warm blanket on a bitter night; a nice cup of tea on the heels of disaster. No matter what is wrong, he always makes it better. He is my strength. I shall, of course, read the diaries; every word. But not just yet. I have some clearing up to do first.
As I sweep the pieces of the little blue and white pot into the dustpan, I wonder if I could glue them together again, but what’s the point? I only want the pot because of the memories it brings with it, and perhaps, by now, they are as cracked and broken as the pot itself. Or if not now, they might be soon, when I have read the diaries. It occurs to me that perhaps my mother kept the key in the pot precisely because of these memories. Perhaps she kept it there because she wanted me to find it. I have always had the suspicion that some of the early pages of my life story have been ripped out and torn up. That some things have slipped away from me. I sometimes catch a glimpse of the ghostly blacks and greys of a faded negative softly printed on my mind, or hear the dying notes of a once familiar tune, but the photograph is gone and the song forgotten.
The smashed glass in the sink has made a dreadful mess, and I have cut myself twice trying to clear it up. I can almost hear my mother saying, ‘serves you right’. These grand gestures of rant and rage are all very cathartic and gratifyingly theatrical at the time, but if you have to do your own clearing up afterwards, it’s very tedious and completely ruins the effect. Outside, it is dark and raining by the time I have finished, but I need to do something to dampen the volatile cocktail of emotions that are fizzing inside me and I have already used up my self-imposed quota of matches. I feel like a small child who has been stuck in a stuffy classroom on a windy day. I need to get out. Instead of my heavy winter coat, I drag on a lightweight trench coat that is hanging on a hook in the hall. It is mine; one of the few things I left here between infrequent visits to Mother. It is entirely inappropriate for the weather outside, but perhaps that’s why I choose it. The front door to the building is slammed shut by the wind before I can close it. Eli stays on the other side of it. He hates the rain. I head off down the street towards the sea; always back to the sea. It’s like an addiction to a fairground ride that thrills and threatens in equal measure. It has a hold over me from which I can’t escape. Maybe I don’t really want to. Almost at once I am drenched and freezing. My hair is plastered to my face and my coat is sodden. I may as well have gone swimming with my clothes on, but already I’m beginning to feel more in control of myself; safer. I march on defiantly, stomping over the wet pavements towards the promenade. By the time I am face to face with the sea, I have been lashed and battered into a state of calm. Even my eyelashes are dripping and all I can make out of the pier are higgledy-piggledy stings of bright lights smudged onto the darkness. The promenade is all but deserted. The windows of the bars and cafés drop squares of light onto the pavements like shadows in reverse. Inside, the people look warm and happy, talking and drinking. Being normal. Outside, I look like a mad, wet tramp-lady; a banshee, washed up by the sea.
The idea makes me smile, which probably only compounds the mad-lady image.
I should really like a drink. Now that I am safely calm, I have no further need to be cold and wet, and I am very much both. I am particularly tempted by one café that looks warm and clean, and a little shabby round the edges. I have passed by it several times, when I was visiting my mother, but was never brave enough to go in. It stands in the exact spot where Ralph and Ena’s shop used to be when I was a child. The neat shelves full of seaside souvenirs, postcards, flags and toys have been replaced by red Formica tables with chrome legs, and old film posters on ice-cream-coloured walls. Behind the bar, old-fashioned milkshake and knickerbocker glory glasses stand in rows, and a gleaming silver coffee machine hisses and steams on the counter. In the corner, a curvaceous 1950s jukebox is playing an old Roy Orbison song. The door is closed, but the music is drifting out through the air vents in the windows. I know all of this, because I have walked past four times now, trying to decide whether or not to go in. I was always welcome here as a child, but what about now? The man behind the bar is watching me with unabashed and amused curiosity. The café is almost empty, which is good in one way; not many people to notice me, stare at me or interact in any way with me. Bad in another; I am therefore more noticeable to the man behind the bar, who may feel obliged to talk to me. God, I wish I wasn’t so out of practice at being with people. It’s a dance I’ve forgotten the steps to. These days when the music plays, I end up tripping over my own feet or treading on someone else’s toes. I’m much more comfortable being a wallflower, standing on the edge of the floor, watching other people dance. My life has gradually evolved into a largely solitary existence. University was a social minefield for someone like me; a place where fitting in was sacrosanct. Of course, individuality was considered a merit, and certain anomalies and eccentricities were acceptable, even encouraged. But not mine. I could do something that scared the bejesus out of some and provoked cruel ridicule from others, and so I learned to hide it. I chose a career that meant I could work from home and did my shopping online. My occasional and fearful attempts at some sort of social life always ended in disaster. Eventually I gave up altogether. As I turn to walk past the café for an embarrassing fifth time, the door opens and the man from behind the bar stands watching me. He smiles and sings along with the song that is still playing inside.