by Ruth Hogan
‘Sailed in fresh, the cod said, “See”!’
‘Hail in the garden, David’s tea!’
Tilly liked ‘Hark the Herald’ and sang with gusto, even though she wasn’t too sure what a talking fish had to do with Christmas. She hadn’t bothered with a hymn book, as she knew the words by heart. Tilly was a child who had to get things straight in her head, and she had asked Mrs O’Flaherty about Jesus being both the son of God and Joseph, as her mother had suggested. Mrs O’Flaherty’s answer had been immediate and beyond question. She had leaned forward and placed a hand on each of Tilly’s shoulders before saying, almost in a whisper, ‘God moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform,’ followed by a firm nod and a wink, which placed a perfect full stop on that particular conversation. It did occur to Tilly that having ‘mysterious ways’ gave God quite a lot of chances to get away with things that he didn’t have to explain, but then he was God, after all, and in charge of everything, so she supposed you just had to trust him.
A magician could perform tricks that fooled the people who saw them, but everyone knew that really they were just clever tricks with a clever explanation. Her daddy used to pretend to swallow a penny and then pull it out of Tilly’s ear. Tilly always tried to look impressed, but she knew it wasn’t real. The penny wasn’t even wet. Perhaps the reason why God didn’t have to explain anything properly was simply that his magic was real, and if he wanted talking fish in his Christmas carols, Tilly was happy enough to sing about them. The hymn finished with a resounding chord from the organ, followed by one wrong note when the organist knocked the sheet music onto the keys with an over-enthusiastic final flourish. Tilly and Mrs O’Flaherty’s six younger children giggled and spluttered, but were fiercely shushed by Mrs O’Flaherty and Teresa, who was looking very grown-up in a smart navy blue coat and a pout of scarlet lipstick. Teresa’s attention was divided between keeping the younger children in order and pretending not to notice a rather good-looking young man several pews in front of them, who kept turning around and smiling at her. Declan, who was a lively little chap and missed nothing, quickly spotted Teresa’s admirer and her feigned indifference to him, and began clutching both hands to his heart and making kissy-kissy noises that quickly earned him a clip round the ear from his mother. Tilly was torn between finding his antics funny and upsetting God for not being holy enough and not taking things more seriously, especially on Christmas Eve. She decided that she wouldn’t look at Declan for the rest of the service, in case she got distracted again. Even when he let Margaret out of her matchbox for a little stroll down the pew to stretch her legs, Tilly only allowed herself a brief glance, and anyway, that was at Margaret and not at Declan.
As Father Damien climbed the steps to his wooden turret and spread his bits of paper out in front of him ready to give one of his speeches, Tilly looked round for something to keep her amused for the next twenty minutes. She knew that what he was going to say was probably quite important, and was intended to give her a few tips on how to be a better person and get God to be proud of her, but more often than not she didn’t really understand a lot of what Father Damien said. It didn’t help that he got really excited and spoke so quickly and in such a shouty voice, that Tilly sometimes thought he sounded more like he was describing a horse race on the television than telling people how to get in God’s good books and what some of the strange stories in the Bible actually meant. Tilly studied the row of heads in the pew in front. The first was a shiny bald dome, ringed with coarse white hair, like an egg wearing a grass mini-skirt. The next was a pom-pom of tight brown curls sitting on a short fat neck, wrapped in a silky scarf covered in roses. Tilly thought that the pom-pom was probably married to the egg. Then came a small, bobbing-about head, crowned in waves of golden thistledown topped by a pale blue bow almost large enough to serve as a hat on a head that small. Tilly thought that it was probably the weight of such an enormous bow that was causing the head to wobble and bobble about so much. Number four was a shapeless brown tea cosy of a hat, with a yellow flower attached to one side of it, which looked as though it had got there by mistake; ‘self-seeded’, as her daddy would have said, Tilly thought with a sudden pang. The glamorous mane of blonde waves that was number five belonged to a very pretty lady who Tilly sometimes saw in Mrs Dawson’s shop. Tilly had once heard Mrs Dawson describing the pretty lady’s blonde hair to another customer as ‘not the colour God gave her’, but Tilly thought that Mrs Dawson was just jealous and being horrid because the blonde lady was as beautiful as an angel, and Mrs Dawson had bushy eyebrows and a wart on her chin with a hair growing out of it, which God had probably given her for a very good reason. Next came a sleek, black slick of hair with an immaculate side parting, above a pair of large ears that stuck out just a bit too far for Tilly to consider their owner to be handsome. Mr and Mrs Bow were there, holding hands as usual, and finally there was a beautiful, soft white bun, shaped like a cottage loaf. Tilly knew that this belonged to the old lady with the kind smile and the brown lace-up boots who normally sat right behind Mrs O’Flaherty. Tonight all the pews were full, so perhaps she had arrived too late to get her normal seat.
There was a loud bang as Father Damien slammed both hands down in front of him to emphasise the final point of his sermon, which woke up those parishioners who had managed to drop off in the muzzy warmth of the crowded church. The next hymn was ‘Away in a Manger’, during which Declan sang ‘Teresa and Seamus asleep on the hay’ loud enough for Teresa’s admirer, Seamus Milligan, and the rest of his pew, to hear, causing the young man to grin and giggle very inappropriately, and earning Declan a double-sided ear clipping from both his mother and Teresa. Tilly managed to keep a straight face. But only just. A nervous middle-aged woman in a sensible beige suit and pearl earrings read out the story of Mary and Joseph and the donkey getting to Bethlehem very late at night when all the hotels were shut, or full, or both, and having to make do in a stable, where Jesus was born and shepherds came to visit him. Tilly loved this story, no matter how many times she heard it, but was always puzzled that his grandparents never came to visit Jesus, as well as the shepherds. She knew that after a few weeks the three kings came with gold, Frank and scent, and more, but there was never any mention of the grandparents. Maybe they were dead. The final carol was ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. Tilly wondered vaguely if the city belonged to the same David whose tea was in the garden, but before she could decide, Father Damien had passed them by, and members of the congregation were spilling out from their pews and shuffling towards the great wooden doors to go home and drink beer and snowballs, hang stockings and wait for Father Christmas. Outside it was cold and clear, and a glittering frost was already icing the roads and pavements. The stars had all flown back to print their proper patterns on the blue-black inky map of the sky. Tilly’s daddy had told her that this was the map that Father Christmas used to find his way, so she was glad that it was a clear night.
When they reached the O’Flahertys’ home, Tilly was invited into the front room to fetch her present from under the Christmas tree. She had only been in as far as the kitchen before, and was surprised to see that, despite having to accommodate so many occupants, the room was neat and tidy, but still warm and cosy, with bright curtains and cushions, and a gleaming sideboard covered in pretty ornaments and photographs in frames. A familiar face shone out from one of the pictures: the old lady with the cottage loaf bun. Tilly pointed to the picture and said, ‘That’s the lady who always sits behind you in church.’
Mrs O’Flaherty smiled at Tilly’s mistake but said nothing; instead she fetched two small parcels from under the tree and handed them to Tilly.
‘There’s one for you, and one for your mother. Now, Miss Tilly, you have a very happy Christmas, and wish your mother the same from all of us.’
She bent down and kissed Tilly on the cheek as Tilly thanked her for the presents.
‘Now, Teresa, you walk Miss Tilly home, and the rest of you hang up your coats and wash your hands
for tea.’
Left alone for a moment, in peace, Mrs O’Flaherty picked up the photograph of her much-loved and long-dead mother and kissed the cold glass.
‘Merry Christmas, Mammy.’
18
Tilda
The winter sky outside scowls grey. It matches my mood as I return, once again, to my mother’s diary.
14 October
It was so long ago, and since then I have forgotten so many things: names, places, things that have happened, but nothing about that day has been smudged or softened by the time that has passed. That day still has all its sharp edges, bright colours, scents, sounds and silences frozen perfectly in my mind. It was a beautiful spring day, full of promise, and I was wearing my new dress as I knelt in the road holding in mine the still-warm, tiny hand of a dead child. She looked like a broken doll lying in the gutter. Her face was perfect, framed by soft, blonde curls, and her eyes were closed as though she was sleeping. But her legs were all wrong, and the back of her head was smashed. Kneeling beside me, her daddy was gently cradling her head in his lap, his hands cupping and pressing as though to stop the life from slipping out of her, but I could see the blood, and bits of flesh and bone on his trousers. And I felt so sick. Silent tears were streaming down his ashen face but I knew that inside he was screaming. A few minutes earlier, she had been skipping towards me wearing a frilly pink ballet skirt, smiling and holding her father’s hand. He stopped to buy her a balloon and the next moment she lay crumpled in the road. Every time I think of her, I see that red balloon.
As I knelt there with her father, I could hear the traffic around us, and beyond that, the sound of the waves on the beach. In the public gardens across the road, a blackbird was singing and I could smell the lilac blossom. But it all seemed very far away as we waited and waited there in helpless, hopeless silence, her father and me. The ambulance took forever but it didn’t really matter because I knew she was already dead. I remember the driver of the car that had hit her, standing on the pavement shaking and shouting, and telling everyone who would listen that it wasn’t his fault. I remember the faces of the people who just stood watching, horrified, but still too morbidly curious to move on. But most of all, I remember her father’s desperate, silent sobbing, and the feeling of her hand in mine. It was still warm when they took her away. Afterwards, I sat on a bench in the gardens, listening to the blackbird. The sun was still shining and the heavy, sweet scent of lilac filled the air. There was blood on my new dress.
Somewhere in the next room, my mobile is ringing. I ignore it. I remember the little girl with the red balloon. I remember asking my mother if she had ever seen a dead person, and she had told me about her. She had probably been drinking, and the drink allowed things to sneak out that sobriety would have kept a secret. I was young and so curious, and desperate to know about everything, especially the things that grown-ups didn’t seem to want to tell me. And I could be very determined if I wanted to know something badly enough. Knowing things made me feel safer back then. Now, I’m not so sure. As a child, I always wanted the details, the what, who, when, why and how. The synopsis was never good enough; I always wanted the complete works. I can remember my childhood very well, but the proper sequence of events is sometimes harder to get right. Did I learn to tie my own shoelaces before I could make myself go cross-eyed, or was it the other way round? If I’m right about where these pages fit into my past, I had a very good reason to be curious about dead people. But reading her words, written so long after it happened, it’s obvious that she was haunted by that day. It must have felt to her as though I was kicking a bruise. The coffee in front of me has gone cold, and I shudder as the unexpectedly tepid liquid fills my mouth. I’m tempted to spit it back into the mug but manage to swallow it. I get up and tip the rest into the sink and pour myself a glass of wine as compensation before returning to the diary that lies waiting for me on the kitchen table.
I sat on the bench. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t think what to do next. Everything had changed and it could never be put back. Suddenly everything all seemed so completely pointless. Perhaps that was the day when my illness really started. I don’t know how long I would have sat there if the dog hadn’t come to take me home. He was completely black, and one of his ears stood up and the other flopped over; Stevie’s dog. I recognised him from a tattered photo that he always kept in his wallet. He was supposed to be a family pet, but he was only ever interested in Stevie. He was fifteen, the same age as Stevie, when he died. That day, he came right up and sat just inches away, staring at me with his solemn eyes. He led me home to Stevie. I had some news for him. That morning I had been to the doctor. I was pregnant.
I never saw the dog again after that day, but now he’s come back, and this time it’s Tilly who can see him. She couldn’t be happier. She always wanted a dog. At first, she thought that I had got him for her, but I have denied him. I have told her that there is no dog. The irony is that I would love to give her something that brings her so much happiness, but as usual, it’s Stevie’s doing. And now, I’m afraid; afraid that the dog means something bad is going to happen. He is here to protect her, I’m sure. But from what?
I drain the rest of the wine from my glass, and take a match from the box. Once struck, the flame twists the wood into charcoal and I drop it into the saucer of water that is beside the box. And again. And again. I get up to refill my glass. Eli is watching my every move, and raising each eyebrow alternately as I slam the fridge door and bang the chair on the floor as I sit down again.
‘You may well look at me like that. You knew all about this, didn’t you?’
He plonks his head down onto his paws with a huge sigh, as if it has suddenly become too heavy for him. I sit at the kitchen table and slap the diary shut. I want to bang and crash about to relieve my frustration, but resist the urge to go and hurl pots and pans around the kitchen. I’ll only have to clear them up afterwards. I sometimes wish I had a set of drums. I have no idea what it is exactly that I am feeling, but a red warning light is flashing inside my head that I know I can’t ignore. She lied to me about Eli and her parents. And if she lied to me about them, what else did she lie about? What else did she ‘protect’ me from? I have already used up six of my matches today and I like to keep some for the night time. Just in case. I kick the table leg. Hard. It hurts. I forgot that I have no shoes on, and it really hurts. But at least the pain is a distraction.
I read the last lines of the diary entry again. Eli first came to me just a few weeks before my dad died. My mother always denied his presence. Did she have a premonition about my dad’s death, or did she have something to do with it? Both options seem equally ridiculous. My mother was a fanatical pragmatist; she would have had little truck with premonitions and the like. Was she a murderer, then? She had some sort of breakdown when I was about three, and spent several weeks in a psychiatric hospital. She had even had electric shock treatment. I was too young to remember much about it, but I do remember thinking that she must have done something naughty, because somebody, maybe it was my dad, said it was ‘for her own good’ when she went away, and grown-ups only ever said that when you were being punished for something. I must have heard him talking to someone else about it, because nobody told me anything, and when she came home it was never mentioned in my presence. And she never spoke of it to me until one day, about a year before she died. We were sitting on the promenade, drinking coffee and watching the gulls swoop and glide on the wind, when she told me that she had sat waiting on a wooden bench in the hospital corridor with another woman, wearing only a gown that tied at the back, and it was chilly. The other woman was crying, so they took my mother in first, and when they strapped her to the bed they placed a gag between her teeth so that she wouldn’t bite her tongue. It had tasted of rubber and disinfectant. And that was it; like a snatch of conversation caught when changing stations on the radio. So, could she ever have been mad enough to kill him? I need to get out more. My imagination is beginning to mess wi
th my head. I am about to get up from the table when the realisation hits me like a swallow of turned milk; the day my mother found out that she was pregnant with me was one of the saddest days of her life.