Birdy Flynn

by Helen Donohoe

  ‘No, Bernice.’ She got hold of my chin and turned my face so she could see me. ‘You will not deal with it. We must tell the police.’ She paused. Her chest moved slowly up and down. ‘The sooner the better, so get those brain cells thinking.’

  ‘Can we go and live in Ireland, Mum?’

  ‘What on God’s earth?’

  ‘Please. I want to live on a farm,’ I said, and Mum had a gentle laugh. ‘I want to live with animals.’

  ‘I’ll run a bath.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You’ve to go to school tomorrow.’

  I jumped up. ‘No, Mum, I won’t.’ I was desperate to see Kat, but the thought of Martin and Mrs Cope and the rest of the school made me feel sick.

  ‘Bernice. You are due back at school.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We can’t avoid it. I’ll iron your uniform.’ She got up to go. ‘Get a towel from the press.’

  ‘No, Mum. Please.’

  ‘And you need to tidy up.’ She pointed at my floor. ‘Your new clean room is back to being a mess.’

  I hated baths. Sitting there in dirty water with nothing to look at but your naked body. So, with my trousers and vest still on, I splashed my face and shoulders, got my hair a bit wet and let the bathwater run free. I made sure the towel looked used, hung it up behind the door and changed into my pale blue pyjamas, the ones with the dark blue trim and pockets in the trousers.

  ‘Nice and clean, are we?’ Mum said.

  She was sat on the sofa watching Family Fortunes. Her voice was softer. She sipped her tea. I sat next to her and rested against her shoulder. Her right arm reached around me and pulled me in so I could rest on her belly, which bounced with her boobs as she laughed at the telly.

  ‘Something you do in the bathroom?’ Bob Monkhouse said. I thought it was a question to trick me.

  ‘Decorate,’ the family man said.

  Mum erupted in laughter.

  ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ I said when the adverts came on.

  ‘Go on then, why not.’ She patted my leg.

  ‘And a biscuit or a bit of angel cake?’

  ‘You’re going to school, Bernice.’

  ‘Can we not move to Ireland?’

  ‘What, tonight? What is it that you’re trying to escape?’ Mum said, and I saw a chance to get my own way.

  I thought it through. How to get away with being frightened of school.

  ‘Was it someone from school?’ Mum said before I was ready. ‘That did that to you? Who was it now? Tell me.’

  ‘One more day off, Mum.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll bunk then.’

  ‘You will not.’ She sat upright, as if she was ready to jump out of her chair.

  ‘These are for you.’ I handed Mum some folded pieces of newspaper from my top pocket.

  She opened them up, but her smile wasn’t as big as I was hoping.

  ‘Oh, Bernice, love.’

  ‘They’re about the Pope.’

  ‘Are they?’ she said, sounding more excited. ‘Oh yes, I know.’ She laughed. ‘Of course, yes. I can see.’

  ‘One more day?’

  ‘No,’ she said and her eyes turned back to the telly as the adverts ended.

  ‘I don’t like Mondays.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I can’t go in, Mum,’ I said.

  But she was fixed on the pictures of the Pope.

  ‘Mum,’ I repeated. ‘Mum.’ I gave her a nudge.

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘You’re scared?’ She looked up. ‘You’re scared of your school?’

  I nodded.

  She looked hurt and worried and confused. ‘Right, one more day off, and then I’m coming into that school with you.’

  Chapter 13

  From the moment the sun crept in under my curtains, I lay awake, on my blanket, waiting for Mum’s croaky call.

  ‘Are you up, Bernice?’

  I rolled over.

  ‘Bernice, love, come on.’

  My head raged with the confusion of it all.

  ‘I know it’s hard.’

  Oh shut up, Mum.

  ‘But you’ve had an extra day off.’

  Her shouting went on. I uncurled and dragged my feet from the bed to the floor, stretched, yawned and pushed myself up, as straight as I could go.

  In the bathroom, I pulled Noely’s metal comb through my hair and placed it carefully back where it belonged. I filled the sink and splashed my face, without going near the mirror. In the next-door room, Dad snored like a gorilla.

  My school clothes scratched my skin. They were stiff, like Mum had baked them in the oven. Either they’d shrunk or I had grown. Or my swelling made me fatter, because where before the clothes were baggy and loose, they had started choking my bones. My shirt collar strangled me. When I folded my arms I felt a stretch in my skin, and I tugged and pulled at my jumper to stop the shape it was showing in me, but it was like wire not wool, and I felt trapped, bumpy, awkward and awful.

  I pulled out my tin and sat at my desk. Each item was in there, looking up at me, wishing me good luck for what was ahead.

  ‘Come on, Bernice,’ Mum yelled from the kitchen.

  Before I put my tin away, I looked at my letters. The one on top had been written in the middle of the night, about three o’clock.

  146 Prospect Street

  Middleton

  England

  20 July 1982

  Dear Sir

  I realise that going to school is not the same as going to war or going to prison or going into hospital for a big operation. Our headmaster tells us during assemblies that our school years are the best years of our lives. This worries me. Is every school in the country like Middleton Comprehensive? If they are then prison sounds like quite a good option.

  I won’t learn anything today, except who is snogging who and how many girls fancy John Taylor more than Simon Le Bon. Some teachers will look at me funny. Some will complain that the school has no money, that Thatcher hates them, each of them. Like Thatcher knows and hates them individually – one by one.

  Which she probably does, according to Mum.

  Yours faithfully

  Birdy Flynn

  I took each of my letters out of the tin and put them in my school bag to keep them with me. I picked up Murphy’s name tag and, to keep it safe, I put that in too.

  ‘Your breakfast is here on the table.’

  ‘OK,’ I shouted back.

  ‘It’s Shredded Wheat.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ I positioned my Casio firmly on my wrist. It was only 7:43. I put my tin back under my bed.

  ‘Bernice.’ Mum came out of the kitchen and shouted, and then noticed me there, stomping each foot down the stairs. She was holding Eileen’s green jacket and brushing its collar. I tied my jumper around my waist. Mum looked down at my feet. ‘Not those shoes.’

  ‘They’re comfy.’

  ‘And I left you a nice blouse out. A bit softer.’ She fiddled with my crisp collar.

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  ‘It was left on your bed.’

  ‘I’m wearing this,’ I said.

  Her arms dropped.

  I stepped around her.

  ‘What is wrong with you? Why are you yawning?’ She examined my face. ‘Did you not sleep? Because, I tell you, I didn’t get a wink. Should be me that is yawning. Should be me locked up in a nuthouse, the way things are going.’ She threw the jacket over a chair and pointed to the bowl of cereal. ‘Get that down you.’ She slid the bottle of milk towards me.

  I caught it like in a cowboy film and both of us giggled.

  ‘Then we’ll hit the road,’ she said in an accent that was both Irish and country and western.

  ‘We?’ I didn’t think she was serious. She hated going near the school, with the chaos and noise and teachers.

  ‘Yes.’ Mum sat down with her mug of tea in one hand and a roll-up in t
he other. The mug had brown stains from three or four refills.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just because.’ She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I want to talk to your headmaster.’

  ‘Mr Williams?’

  ‘Yes, correct. Eat your breakfast.’ She looked away, as if the kettle had spoken.

  ‘What about?’ I forgot to chew and the Shredded Wheat scraped the side of my throat.

  ‘I want a word, that is all.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked with a mouthful of cereal.

  ‘That . . .’ Mum stalled. ‘Never you mind. It’s grown-up talk.’

  ‘Will you talk to him slowly?’

  ‘Will I talk to him slowly?’ she said in the fast way her voice goes when she’s nervous. ‘Mind your cheek.’

  I drank the milk straight from the bowl and waited for the telling-off, but when I looked up, Mum was looking out the window.

  ‘I’ll tell him that his school is a joke,’ she said in a low, slow voice. ‘That’s what I’ll do. Tell him he needs to get a grip.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know what,’ Mum said, drifting off to another thought. ‘We need to have a gathering for your homecoming too.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mum turned away from the window and looked at me. ‘Your aunties and uncles have presents they want to give you.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes, Bernice. For weeks they’ve been asking, but I’ve been keeping them away.’ Mum’s mind was wandering. ‘So, I’ll sort that,’ she said. ‘I’ll bake some cakes.’ She downed the rest of her mug and took it over to the sink.

  She switched off the radio at the socket, which let off a spark. She emptied the ashtray, checked the fridge door was closed properly, then opened it, then closed it again and made sure both the taps were turned properly off.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘come on.’ She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I don’t want to be too long. It’s a great day out there for getting the drying done.’

  We walked from our house into bright sunlight.

  ‘Lovely breeze,’ Mum said about the gentle wind that fluttered the Union Jacks flying from window ledges. As if she was racing the cars and motorbikes, Mum picked up her speed.

  I yanked my bag higher up my shoulder and widened my strides to keep by her side.

  The bell had already gone as Mum stormed us through the school gates. I was sweating with nerves, but I kept moving, not complaining, waiting to see if the school had changed in the time I’d been away. The sun reflected off the metal of the main school building, and the brightness was blinding. We covered our eyes from the glare. I looked around to avoid seeing Martin. Mum walked faster, with a deliberate straight back, and I watched her and wondered why she wasn’t frightened like I was.

  ‘Watch that,’ Mum said about a plastic bin that had fallen over.

  A group of girls strolled across our path, chatting and prodding each other.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in class?’ Mum said to them.

  They turned, looked at her and laughed.

  ‘Mum, don’t,’ I said.

  ‘Have you no respect?’ Mum stepped towards them.

  ‘Mum, please.’

  ‘Have you no decent satchels?’ Mum went on. They had their books in plastic bags.

  ‘Satchels?’ one of the girls giggled.

  ‘No, that’s right,’ a voice said from behind us, and her voice hit me like a cricket bat.

  I reached for Mum’s arm.

  ‘Why aren’t you girls in class?’ Mrs Cope said. She stood inches from my body.

  I tugged Mum’s arm to move us.

  ‘Hello, Bernice.’ Mrs Cope spun round to face me. She looked the same. The pink on her skin, the golden rope necklace, her wide shoulders, smart suit and white toothy grin.

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘It is lovely to see you back.’

  I almost said thank you, but I stopped myself. My jaw jammed, not knowing what to say instead. I found my eyes looking down at her hands. They looked like claws. She put them in her pockets and pulled her jacket in around herself.

  ‘We’re off to the headmaster’s office,’ Mum informed Mrs Cope, as if it was a brag. I looked at Mum’s face. It was rock solid.

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Cope’s voice went higher. ‘I don’t know if he’s here today.’

  ‘We’ll try anyway.’ Mum pulled me to go but stopped when Mrs Cope spoke.

  ‘Did Bernice tell you about the lovely earrings she made me?’ Her eyes were on me.

  My neck started to burn. All I could look at were the buttons on her blouse.

  ‘I don’t think she did.’

  ‘I don’t have them on today.’ Mrs Cope twiddled her earlobe. ‘But I was so thrilled, Bernice.’

  ‘You would be,’ Mum said.

  ‘Everyone has their favourite teacher, don’t they, Mrs Flynn?’

  ‘They do, yes.’ Mum pulled me to go again.

  ‘Such a sweet girl.’ Mrs Cope stepped towards us.

  I stepped back. It took all my strength to not swear at her so badly that Mum would give me a whack.

  ‘Would you like me to take you to the Head’s office?’ she said.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Mum told her.

  ‘Great.’ Mrs Cope brought her hands together in one loud clap. ‘You will pop that field-trip money into the school office, won’t you,’ she said, and went.

  I could tell Mum was thinking deep as she held open the door to the school’s main entrance. ‘What’s that woman’s name?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Cope.’

  ‘That’s it, Mrs Cope. I thought so. She’s some woman of mystery, isn’t she? Earrings indeed. What does she teach you? Bit full of herself. She was on the school trip, was she not? Of course, she did the assembly. Bloody cheek she’s got. Has she a soft spot for you or what?’

  ‘No,’ I said, wanting Mum to stop.

  ‘And the earrings were for her? Why is that, Birdy?’

  ‘She used to be nice to me.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t take to her at all. Too prim and proper, looking down her bloody nose. Could come down a peg or two, she could.’

  ‘She could, Mum. Yes, she could.’

  Mr Williams’s new secretary, Mrs Coffey, was polishing her typewriter when Mum tapped on her desk. I didn’t know she was Irish until they both started talking and it was like Jesus himself had come back to earth.

  ‘I’m so delighted to see you back, Bernice,’ Mrs Coffey said. I didn’t know that she knew me.

  Mum squeezed my hand so hard I thought my blood would clot.

  ‘Get off to your class, now,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll see you at home later.’ She let my hand go. ‘Go on, off you go.’ She bent down to kiss me.

  Time was up. Ding-ding.

  Mrs Coffey made a circular motion, rubbing her cheek.

  Mum spat on her fingers and wiped my face clean.

  ‘Bye,’ I said.

  I knew I had no choice. I went through the swing doors and left Mum and Mrs Coffey having a gossip. I opened the doors into the longest, most narrow corridor in the school. It had a glass roof and sunlight beamed off the bright lemony walls.

  As I walked towards it, the door at the far end seemed a mile away, the end of the earth. Muffled talking and laughter came from inside each classroom as I went past.

  At the end of the corridor, I found the school gymnasium and silence. I found a stiff metal door and went outside to a place I didn’t know. My mind battled to remember where I was, or where I should be, what my timetable was, or what my next lesson might be. I loosened my tie, undid my top button, took my bag off my shoulder and let it drop. I wanted Mum to come and get me. I’d gone out into a different car park through a door I didn’t recognise, and there were tall evergreen trees and a rusty shelter full of toppled-over bicycles. The school’s back gate was open. I knew that it probably led to the Gibraltar Estate, and I thought about doing a bunk. It was quiet and no one would see. But then a shr
inking feeling sunk into me. That running away would make things worse. That I couldn’t go home. That my body was whacked and could barely walk.

  Mr Rice appeared from the door of a small shed, and I spun and ran in the opposite direction.

  ‘You OK?’ A tall girl put her arm out to stop me.

  I looked up at her. She had a prefect’s tie and sewn on her jumper were badges for netball, badminton, athletics, rounders and hockey. Her long blonde hair was tied back neatly.

  ‘I’m not lost,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to remember where I should be.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m not. I just don’t know where I’m going.’

  ‘Have you got your timetable?’

  ‘No. I’ve been off ill. I just came bad today.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Back, I mean.’ I put my hand to my head.

  ‘Who is your form teacher?’ she asked, and she made me feel nervous, so I had to stop and think.

  ‘Mrs Walsh?’ I said as if it was a quiz.

  ‘OK, come with me.’ She strode away elegantly, and I followed her footsteps.

  Mrs Walsh looked pleased to see me.

  ‘Good morning, Bernice,’ she announced, arms stretched out, and my form class turned and smiled as I sat at my usual desk. ‘Lovely to see you back.’

  She waited for me to settle. She looked the same. Double thick glasses and tight permed hair. She was wearing a yellow blouse that looked like a chain of extra large daffodils wrapped around her neck.

  Martin sat in the desk next to hers as he always did. He kept his eyes forward, in the direction of the blackboard, so all I could see was the back of his head. My desk lid still had the BF that I’d scratched deep into it and the streams of biro rivers that stretched from left to right inside the grains of the wood. When I opened the lid, the hinges squeaked and the same dusty vinegar smell spilt out. There was a folded piece of paper in there with Birdy written on it. While Mrs Walsh carried on talking, I opened it. It was Martin’s writing. It said: Had the sex change yet? I screwed it up.

  Tracey Heaney leant over to me. ‘You OK, Birdy?’ she asked.

  I wanted to hug her for being nice, but I just nodded and smiled.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ she whispered.