‘Fine. I told you.’
‘Did anything happen?’
‘In what way?’ I said, and Eileen sunk into thinking.
I looked back at Mum, but she was staring out the window. I leant down to put the chocolates in my school bag, but it wasn’t at my feet. Where’s my bag? I said to myself. I looked left and then right.
‘I’ve lost my bag.’ I stood up and pulled the chair out. I bent to look under the table. ‘My bag.’
Everyone shuffled their feet.
‘What are you doing?’ Mum turned around.
‘I’ve lost my bag, Mum.’ I went to the back door and looked outside. ‘I’ve lost my bag,’ I said, back in the kitchen. ‘Mum, I’ve lost my bag.’
‘I heard you.’ She came towards me and had a glance under the table. ‘Did you leave it at school?’
‘No.’
‘Where else have you been?’ Eileen stood up like there was a massive emergency.
‘The shop where I got the chocolates.’
‘Well, nobody has died over a lost bag. You can get it tomorrow.’ Mum pulled out my chair. ‘Sit back down.’
‘I need to get it now,’ I said, and Mum laughed. ‘Why are you laughing, Mum?’
‘We’ll go and get it.’ Eileen grabbed her keys from beside the radio. ‘Come on.’ The radio was smashed up, like it had been in a car crash.
‘Sit down, Eileen,’ Mum told her. ‘I’ll need you to go and find your father.’
‘What?’ My voice was more angry than I meant it to be. Mum looked surprised. ‘Why has she got to get Dad?’
‘Just eat, Bernice.’ She rolled a cigarette, and I wanted to take it and stamp on it and crush it into pieces.
‘I’m going now,’ I said, and she put her arm across me.
‘You are not. Nobody has died.’
‘I know nobody has died, Mum. Why do you keep saying that?’
‘A lost bag never killed anyone.’
‘Stop talking about killing.’
‘Sit there and eat your food.’ As I sat on the chair, she pushed me in. ‘An empty belly is far more lethal.’
‘Why can’t Eileen help me? Why does she have to go and find Dad?’
‘Calm down, Bernice,’ Mum said.
My sister looked to the ceiling.
I couldn’t look at Aunty Peggy or Uncle Timmy.
‘What happened to the radio?’
‘Leave it,’ Eileen said.
I sat back in my seat. I remembered I didn’t want Mum unhappy. Nobody answered me. I ate my tea quietly. Aunty Peggy and Uncle Timmy had another mug of tea. We didn’t open the chocolates – they had a slice of fruit cake each. Then they went early.
‘If you’re sure you’ll be all right?’ they said to Mum.
They left their bikes at ours. Eileen guided them out and gave them a lift home.
‘Right, you,’ Mum said to me.
I searched my head for what I’d done wrong.
‘Mum,’ I started, not knowing how I would finish. ‘Why is your radio all smashed up?’
‘Off to bed. Let me hear not a peep.’
‘Mum, tell me. I’m not going to bed until you tell me,’ I said and I stood solid to the spot.
Mum took a short sharp breath. ‘Your father.’
‘Dad?’
‘There was another bomb. In London. And you know how it sends your father.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh.’ Mum’s face said the rest. ‘So before he gets home, you get to your bed.’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Thank you for the chocolates,’ she said while wiping something off my chin. ‘They’re lovely, so they are.’
I nodded. She gave nothing else away.
I turned and went slowly up the stairs.
I brushed my teeth extra hard and watched the tap water whirling away into the world below. I rolled up my pyjama sleeves as far as they would go and threw heavy splashes of cold water against my face. And, for longer than I’d ever done, I looked in the mirror. Mum was cutting back on our haircuts, so my brown hair was getting curls. The summer was sprouting more freckles on my cheeks, but the sun still hadn’t burnt away the spots that bubbled in the greasy skin on my chin.
I pictured the shop lady’s smiling cherry face as she picked up my bag and put it in a safe place. I imagined what I would say to her and how she would be thrilled with the good deed she’d done.
The bathroom window was open, letting in the damp evening air and the sounds of night-time coming, like crickets and birds in the distance that I pretended could be owls. Then, after a thump against the back door, I heard Dad’s growl.
Then he was inside. I heard him below my feet. The shouting began immediately. I ran down the stairs to see what was going on.
Mum was stood at the bottom. ‘Go back to bed.’
Dad stomped towards us like a red-faced giant.
‘No questions, just go,’ Mum said.
She went into the front room, but Dad followed her. He slammed the door and I sprinted, jumping up two stairs at a time.
Dad shouted like a football rant. It went quiet for a while, just the humming of the TV in the background. He yelled again. I curled up and covered my ears. My body jumped when the TV suddenly shouted. The newsreader was yelling, counting the soldiers and horses that had died.
Dad started howling the word horses. ‘Fucking horses.’
I held tight to my pillow.
Dad shouted louder. Louder than he’d ever done. It was a deep, crashing, yelping roar. Not the normal way that Dad shouted at Mum.
‘Don’t, Frank.’ Mum’s scream came up through the floorboards, like she was telling him off. ‘Frank, please. They are not my bloody people.’
Something hit the wall. The door to the front room opened.
‘Well, go,’ Dad shouted at Mum in the hallway. ‘I’ll marry a decent English woman.’
‘You do that.’
‘I should have, and had English children.’
‘And an English van and English work?’
‘Shut up, you fucking Fenian,’ Dad shouted. ‘Your blood got us that one upstairs.’
‘Stop it, Frank.’
‘She dresses like a bleedin’ Action Man.’
‘Do not talk about my child like that.’
‘That’s right – your blood. Same lot that blows horses up.’
Mum got a burst of coughing and I got out of bed and opened and slammed shut my bedroom door. I punched my bed, I punched the wardrobe and I got down and hammered the floor like I was smashing rocks. In my head I saw Dad’s face and my fists lost control. Bang, bang, bang. My fists got cut, like there was glass in my carpet; my knuckles got red as blood.
From my hands and knees, I tried to get up but my head fell on my bed and I pulled in the blanket and hugged it in closely. I held the silky edging of the blanket and ran its smoothness against my cheek.
The front room’s door opened, the TV blasted more and the door slammed shut. Wee streamed out of me, down my legs, around my knees.
For a few seconds there was no shouting. In the quiet I took my pyjamas off, rolled them up and hid them under my bed. I tiptoed across the landing to the airing cupboard, found some clean pyjamas and tiptoed back.
A shock pelted through me as something crashed, like the noise of a football smashing a window. All of me started shaking, and I wanted to be gone. I couldn’t listen any more. I would rather be asleep for ever than wait for the next crash or a scream from Mum.
The door of the front room opened again. Mum was in the hallway. She got on the phone. The dial turned around clickety-click quickly.
‘Come on, come on,’ she said, tapping her finger on the glass shelf.
A wait. A hello.
Mum talked as posh as she could. ‘No, don’t worry, Mrs Clarkson.’ She faked a laugh. ‘Ha ha, yes, of course, isn’t she a one.’ Then Mum’s voice rushed. ‘Not at all, thank you anyway. See you Sunday.’
I stood at the banister and looked down. I saw her wipe her eyes. Through the w
indow on our landing I saw Mrs Clarkson in the house opposite, pulling her curtains to the side.
Mum swore at the telephone dial for being too slow as she tried another number.
‘Marie, would you mind? Can you be quick? Thanks a mill. We’ll wait outside.’ As the phone receiver clunked down, Mum wiped her sleeve across her cheek and looked up. She smiled. ‘Come down now, love.’
‘OK.’
‘Get clean pyjamas on.’
‘I have,’ I said, but she’d gone.
I went down and stood in the doorway.
‘You’ll have a nice time, so you will. It’s just for tonight.’ Mum fussed about. ‘I’ll get you a sheet.’ She looked in a trance. ‘Aunty Marie has lovely fluffy blankets and hot-water bottles. Just get in the car and you’ll be fine.’
What car? I thought. Mum talked like the house was on fire. She pushed me out the door. It was cold. We stood shaking at the gate. Mum spluttered on about special treats and how I shouldn’t worry.
‘We’ll have a great time at your homecoming party on Sunday,’ she said.
‘I don’t want a party any more.’
‘Ah, here she is,’ Mum said, waving with one hand and pulling me with the other.
‘I want to stay with you, Mum.’
‘Go on.’ Mum pushed me towards the car.
‘What if he hits you?’
‘Oh, he won’t, love. Your father’s all bark.’
‘What? Please, Mum.’
‘Goodnight. God bless,’ she said, and as I sat on the back seat she kissed me on the forehead. Then she closed the car door and turned her face.
I wound the window down. ‘Mum.’
‘See you tomorrow.’ She couldn’t look at me.
‘Goodnight, Mum,’ I said.
Dad was stood at our front door.
‘Where the Hell’s she going?’ he was shouting.
At Aunty Marie’s bungalow, I sat at her eating table in the corner of her living room. She put a blanket around me and gave me a mug of warm milk. Uncle Tommy smiled and winked. The room smelt of his feet. Aunty Marie clattered about in the little kitchen to the side, singing the ‘Black Velvet Band’ song out of tune because she was trying to make things peaceful.
Uncle Tommy turned the TV up, and the bell above their front door tinkled. In slow motion, a person came through the door. A small woman in an orange pinafore.
‘Come in, Maureen. Will you have tea?’ Aunty Marie stepped over to hold the door open.
‘Have you seen the news, Marie?’
‘What news?’ Aunty Marie showed her to a seat.
‘You’ve not?’ the neighbour said.
‘I haven’t, Maureen. What’s wrong?’
‘You’ve not seen the news, Marie?’ the neighbour said, as if Aunty Marie had done something outrageous, like go two weeks without cleaning the toilet.
‘Maureen, what has happened?’
‘There’s been another bomb, lovey.’
‘Oh, I saw that, yes.’
‘Terrible,’ Uncle Tommy said.
‘Yes.’
‘People are dead, are they?’ Aunty Marie asked.
‘They are,’ the neighbour said, and I looked at each face, waiting for someone to explain it to me.
Sweat dripped down my back, tickling my spine, but I kept the blanket wrapped round me.
‘Oh, dear Jesus. Not women and children?’
‘Soldiers and horses, would you believe.’
‘Horses? Good God,’ said Aunty Marie.
The neighbour’s voice crackled. ‘It’s an awful shock each time.’
‘It is shocking all right.’ Aunty Marie stood staring into space, then snapped out of it. ‘Maureen, will you have tea?’
‘I will, Marie. And a brandy if you have one.’
‘Good for you,’ Aunty Marie said.
‘A large one.’
‘Right you are. Sit yourself down.’
The neighbour sat on the sofa, the other end to Uncle Tommy.
Aunty Marie leant over to whisper to me, ‘She’s always been so good to us.’
I nodded, as I knew I should.
They talked about political things and how violence doesn’t solve anything and how there should be more talking.
‘Isn’t it true that things are never black or white?’ I said, and they looked at me like I was super clever.
‘Yes, love –’ Aunty Marie said.
‘No, Bernice,’ Uncle Tommy interrupted. ‘Some things are just wrong,’ he said, and Aunty Marie and Maureen nodded.
‘Like?’
‘Murder for a start. Setting off bombs.’
‘Some people say that’s all right, that it’s justified,’ Aunty Marie said.
‘No, Marie. That is always wrong. Same as hurting children or animals.’
‘That’s always wrong?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ Uncle Tommy said.
‘So, it’s always wrong if you’re hurting someone?’
Uncle Tommy didn’t look so sure. ‘Of course. Yes.’
‘So that’s why people in this country don’t like us.’
‘What, love?’ Uncle Tommy looked like he was losing patience.
Aunty Marie poured out more brandies, and the neighbour sat watching us like we were playing tennis.
‘No,’ Uncle Tommy then said. ‘Well, yes, but that’s wrong.’
‘I don’t get it.’ I said.
‘Look, love.’ He sat forward on his chair. ‘A small group of crazy men do evil, atrocious things. That is nothing to do with us.’
‘OK.’
‘OK? We are not to blame,’ Uncle Tommy said and paused to make sure his words had gone in.
As I thought it through, their front door had a heavy thump against it. We all looked at each other. The second bang was louder. The neighbour finished her drink, got up and said she should be off.
As the little body of the neighbour went out the door, my big bulky dad barged towards us.
Uncle Tommy sprung out of his armchair. ‘Let me deal with this.’
‘No.’ Aunty Marie put her hand up. ‘Hello, Frank,’ she said. ‘How are you now?’
She guided him back towards the door. There was muffled talking. Dad stumbled backwards on to the doorstep.
Uncle Tommy tried to fix his eyes on Only Fools and Horses, but couldn’t help looking up. When it finished he got up and switched the TV off.
‘We’ll give the news a miss, Birdy, eh? Will we have a game of cards?’ He opened the cupboard, but Dad pushed past Aunty Marie and was right there in front of us.
‘Get your jacket,’ Dad snapped at me.
Aunty Marie stood next to him.
‘I don’t have a jacket,’ I said.
‘Now, hang on,’ Uncle Tommy interrupted in his gentle voice.
Dad held up his fist.
‘Frank.’ Aunty Marie raised her voice.
‘Now, you hold on, Paddy.’ Dad stepped towards Uncle Tommy. ‘Turn the fucking telly on.’
‘Frank,’ Aunty Marie said again in a calming-down voice, but Dad went over and hit the TV button with his fist. It warmed up. The picture fizzed.
‘Off to bed, Birdy,’ Aunty Marie said.
‘You stay where you are.’ Dad grabbed me at the back of my neck. ‘Look at this, my girl. Come here and look.’ He forced me in front of the screen. ‘Look,’ he shouted.
I looked, but didn’t understand the pictures. It was dead animals. Laid out on their bellies, in puddles of blood. Some had blankets covering their bodies.
‘They’re horses, Birdy,’ Dad said. With his finger, he prodded each one on the screen. ‘Dead, murdered horses.’
I saw them, flat out, dead, blood everywhere. Little Murphy’s eyes came into my head. The screen changed to pictures of cars that were buckled and burnt. The newsreader came on. Aunty Marie and Uncle Tommy stood like statues.
Dad turned to face them. He was red as sunburn. He looked straight at Uncle Tommy. ‘Who would do that? Who would
murder innocent animals?’
My insides began to melt.
‘I’ll tell you who. This lot,’ Dad said.
Uncle Tommy stayed fixed to the spot, one hand in his pocket.
‘Bad people, Birdy. Mongrels like you.’
‘Frank.’ Aunty Marie put a hand out to touch Dad’s arm.
‘Shut your mouth.’ Dad pushed her away, and I felt the air rush past me as Dad collapsed from Uncle Tommy’s punch.
Aunty Marie gasped as Dad fell against the TV, which hit the ground, crackling then crunching. Dad landed on top of it, smashing his head against its wooden cabinet.
Uncle Tommy leant over Dad’s body, picked up Aunty Marie’s golf trophy and placed it on the windowsill. He adjusted his slippers and walked over to the kitchen. Aunty Marie went to him, and I looked at Dad splayed out.
‘Come in here, love,’ Aunty Marie said. She was wrapping Uncle Tommy’s hand in a wet tea towel.
When Dad slowly got to his knees, then up to his feet, I told him to go.
‘Just go,’ I said.
He struggled to focus on who I was.
‘You’re embarrassing,’ I told him. My heart raced but my voice was calm. ‘You can’t say things like that.’ My voice got louder.
‘Jeepers, get him to sit.’ Aunty Marie moved to get hold of him.
‘No.’ I put my arm out to stop her. She looked shocked at me. ‘No, Aunty Marie. I want him to get out.’
‘I think you should sit down, Frank,’ she said, as he swayed about on his legs.
‘No, Dad. Get out.’
‘Birdy, love, he needs to sit down.’
‘No.’
‘Let the child speak,’ Uncle Tommy said.
‘Sorry, Aunty Marie. I want him to go.’
I expected the back of Dad’s hand or an almighty telling-off, but he was like an animal just hit by a truck. His cheekbone was as shiny as a snooker ball and his arms just hung.
I reached to open the door.
‘Get out, Dad. Go on.’
He didn’t look at me. I pushed him. I didn’t mean to and I shocked myself. He stumbled and hit his head against the wall. I grabbed him so he didn’t fall again and held his arm as he stepped out the door. He staggered, hunched over, down the path and struggled with the latch of the gate, but eventually he was gone.
Uncle Tommy was pouring two glasses of brandy.
I asked him to drive me home. ‘I want to go and check on Mum.’
Birdy Flynn Page 22