“Sorry for the delay; we’re all set now. As you can see from these sheets”—he sat down on the edge of the desk, opening a file and swinging it round so that neither one of them could see it clearly without craning—” our records show that you were in receipt of full Housing Benefit less one fifth of rates or sixty-nine pence per week paid up until the second of the eighth ninety-two. However, our office notified the Housing Executive that you were no longer eligible for Income Support as of the twenty-first of the fifth ninety-two, though this information was not received by the NIHE for a further six weeks—”
He had stopped, it seemed, in mid-sentence, and now was gazing at Maureen with a curious intensity, as if she might have been able to contribute something vital to his own deliberations if only he could be sure they were thinking the same thing. With a decisive nod he stood up, leaving her file on the desk.
“Let me get Miss Burns in here with you. She was handling your case until they gave it to me. Just wait here a minute, I’ll fetch her, okay?”
He was gone before she could protest. She sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, her belongings clustered uncomfortably on her lap. Nerves made her unwrap the cigarettes and put the cellophane in her pocket before she remembered the No Smoking sign and the fact that Albert would notice when she gave him the box. Once again she rose to leave. A woman’s voice, high-pitched and cheery, called her back.
“Hullo, Mrs Reid—Julie Burns. Please, have a seat. This shouldn’t take long.”
Her voice was too strong for the confines of the room, but she had a pleasant appearance, her large, thick glasses and plump face creating an impression of good-natured efficiency. After a moment’s shifting of hips and thighs she settled herself down in her seat and rested her elbows on the table’s edge, her hands clasped beside a ball-point pen.
“Strictly speaking, Mrs Reid, this is a Housing Executive matter, but Miss Clarendon informed us that you had some question about why your husband’s Income Support had been stopped as of the sixteenth of April, and since that termination resulted in a reduction in the total amount of Housing Benefit to which your husband is entitled, it seemed to them it might be best all around if you came and reviewed your case with us here.” The girl smiled brightly. “Now. I think it’d be helpful if we go through these figures from the start of the year; that way I think you’ll find that all our calculations are correct. You know, of course, that you and your husband are now considerably in arrears. Perhaps you could remind him that your failure to pay will jeopardise your eligibility for any future benefit from any governmental office, and that any further refusal to reimburse the appropriate departments could put you both potentially at risk.”
Again the girl smiled pleasantly. Maureen nodded, but there was nothing she could think to say.
“Shall we make a start, then?” the girl asked briskly. “I’ve summarised the most recent developments in your case and itemised with the corresponding dates all the changes in your husband’s income over the past six months, so if you’ll just bear with me and save any questions you might have for the moment, I’ll take you through the figures and ask you a few questions, and that should be us finished, okay?”
She asked her questions and Maureen responded, watching the girl’s plump fingers travel over the coloured sheets in front of her. Her nails were clean and sculptured, her wrists surprisingly delicate for someone a little overweight. From the pocket of her skirt she produced a calculator and a small slip of paper, and Maureen followed the curves and lines of the figures as the girl added and subtracted them for her benefit. Her pen was an elegant instrument, thin and stylish like the ones that came boxed, together with a mechanical pencil and a fountain pen. Maureen imagined her receiving the set, a birthday or a Christmas gift from her boyfriend, imagined her smiling and her strong voice laughing with appreciation and delight.
“Well, that’s it, Mrs Reid,” the girl said, replacing her pen. “I hope that’s answered any questions you might have had regarding your account. Please urge your husband to repay the advance; if you’re unable to pay the full cash amount we can alway arrange to have a small percentage deducted each week from any benefit he’s still entitled to receive. I’ll make a note of your visit today in your file, but you should plan to come in to see us again soon.”
They rose together. As she left the building, Maureen glanced at the wall clock in the security hut, but the hands had stopped at twenty past twelve, over an hour before she’d left the house. The men in the hut were crowded around a small black-and-white monitor, and Maureen heard the mild voices of the sports commentator expressing his excitement in the aftermath of a goal. She hurried on.
The Road was still crowded, though the sky was threatening rain. She hurried past the shops and manoeuvred the traffic, growing anxious each time the lights were against her. When she turned the corner into her own street she found it roped off, the yellow strips of plastic ribbon taut against the wind. There were land rovers and army vehicles at both ends of the street, and she could see soldiers, their weapons raised, crouching in the gardens behind the low, red-bricked walls. Bewildered, she followed a group of children down to the barriers where a policeman stood, legs apart, facing away from the street. Three of the boys ran up to him, their faces eager, jostling for space and speaking all at once.
“Here, mister, what’s goin on?”
“What is it, mister? Is it a bomb?”
“Have they called in Felix, mister? Have they, mister, aye?”
The policeman ignored them. They continued to demand attention, reaching out, even, to tug at his sleeve, until a young UDR officer shouted to them to clear off.
Maureen stood awkwardly, uncertain how to proceed. At a shout from the direction of the rover, the officer by the barrier moved away, and Maureen watched him lean against the vehicle as someone inside handed him a flask. She glanced about her furtively, hardly daring to turn her head, then lifted the ribbon with two fingers and ducked underneath. A tall boy in khaki was standing in front of her when she straightened up.
“You can’t go in there, miss,” the soldier said. A trio of constables standing by the rover with their hands inside their vests turned towards them, their visors so low over their eyes that they had to tilt their heads back in order to see.
“But that’s my house there,” Maureen said, indicating the one with the front door missing. From the corner of her vision she saw the first constable returning. “I’ve just been to the shop.”
The soldier shrugged. “Sorry.”
Maureen stared back at him helplessly. He was very young, no more than sixteen, his face so soft and smooth she was certain he’d not yet started to shave. A plain, very slightly heavy boy, only his eyes were remarkable, cornflower blue and ever-steady, an infant’s eyes before they begin to turn.
“Please,” she said, “I have to get home.”
A second constable had joined the first and the two arrived together. They nodded curtly to the soldier who stepped aside to let them through.
“Problem?” the first one asked. His eyes were on Maureen but he had not directed his question to her. The soldier shook his head.
“Nah, I don’t think so. This one says she lives here.”
“I do,” Maureen told them. “I’ve only just come from the shop.”
The second constable nodded again, his eyes on the road behind her. “Sorry, luv. No one’s allowed in till the squad says it’s safe.”
“But what is it?” she demanded petulantly. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry about, luv, it’s under control. Now, if you’ll excuse us. . . .”
Maureen scanned the length of the empty street. Mrs Mackie’s washing spun slowly on the rotary line in her backyard, the breeze lifting the tiny frocks and blouses of her newborn. A child’s tricycle stood upturned in mid-repair near the top of the street with one wheel missing, an oversized spanner and a box of screws abandoned beside it. Just below, a brown-and-yellow cat stalked ginge
rly along the low garden walls towards an overturned bin. Maureen hurried after the two policemen.
“But my husband,” she called, “he wanted fags.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll wait for them,” the second constable said. “Just you wait over there, there’s a good lass. Stay well back, please, out of the way.”
“But he was asleep when I left him,” she continued, “he didn’t know I’d gone. He could still be in there.”
“No one’s in those houses now, luv; everyone’s been cleared out. Now you just wait away over there out of the road. As soon as it’s safe we’ll let you know.”
Maureen turned away, casting about for a place to sit down. He’s not in the house, she thought. He could be anywhere, anywhere at all. A number of people had emerged from the houses just beyond the cordon to watch the activity, and for lack of an alternative, she headed their way. Apart from them and a few older residents who had not ventured beyond their front gates, the whole area was deserted. She felt the air growing damp and chill, and even as she approached, one or two people who’d been passing round cigarettes and speculating about the nature of the incident amongst themselves headed back indoors, glancing up at the sky. A pair of soldiers sprang up from their position behind a wall and ran a few paces towards the top of the street. Maureen turned to watch them, her mind on the last time Albert had disappeared. She’d gone round to a friend’s house to pass the time. The woman had had her front room redecorated, had offered Maureen her old carpet and suite; they’d just poured the tea when Albert arrived. He’d raised his fist though he had not hit her, then he’d hauled her off across three streets back to their own house.
Someone shouted from the top end of the street and Maureen flinched; a policeman appeared walking swiftly, both hands on his gun. Her eyes were drawn towards a child sitting on the kerb opposite the yellow ribbon, wearing an adult’s court shoes and absorbed in the effort of removing her cardigan. Maureen carried her belongings over and squatted down. The child glanced up with a look of distracted concentration and silently presented the buttons to Maureen for help. She set the milk and the cheese and the other purchases down and took the toddler on her knee, tugging gently at the knitted garment, her eyes watchful for her husband’s approach.
Undertow
It was close to September and the date of the wedding when my father started bringing us to Castlerock. After breakfast we’d board the first train from Central Station that went south to Lambeg and Lisburn before turning north and arriving eventually beside the sea. We’d spend the rest of the day there on the rocks above the beach, hurling stones into the oncoming waves and fishing without bait until it was time to catch the last train from Derry home. The train leaned hard into the left shoulder just before the platform came into sight, and as we moved towards the exits to be ready when it stopped, I would watch the reflection of the streetlights on the far side of the Lagan wink on the spiral whenever a fish rose up for air.
What’s that flashing? I’d asked my father the first time I’d seen it.
Fairy lights, he answered.
Bullshit, Ricky said, under his breath. He was five years my senior, thirteen and no longer a baby; rebellion came easily to him like a dog. We were fifty yards from the platform and the sign above him told him No, but still he’d thrown his weight against the window, pulled it down and thrust his head out into the wind. He would not take my father’s hand as we stepped down from the train.
My mother was sitting at the kitchen table with John-O Noonan when we got home. John-O’s fingers were yellow from nailtip to knuckle and his whole hand twitched with desire; there was no smoking allowed in my mother’s house.
It’s happened again, she told my father.
Has it indeed? What’s it of this time?
I’m flat out of paint, she said, so you’ll have to go get some. I won’t have that damn thing on the side of my house.
After our tea we went out to look at it. This time they’d painted flags and emblems, and every letter of the words that went with them was outlined in black and at least two feet high. The last time they’d done a map of the country with a pair of armed soldiers on either side, and before that there’d been a bright yellow shield on a powder blue background, and a list of the names of the most recent dead. Each time my mother had covered it over by climbing a stepladder and chucking buckets of paint at the house.
When do they do it, that’s what I’d like to know, John-O said. He lived in the house which terraced ours, where he spent his days minding his sister’s children and keeping his eye on the Help Wanted columns, in case something came up that my father could do. He shook his head with slow admiration. How the hell do they do it when youse’re here all the time?
I wish to God I could catch them at it, my mother said. I don’t care who they are. That’s the last bit of painting they’d ever do.
It’s a real shame, my father said.
Don’t start with me, Joe, my mother told him. I’ve no time for hoods. I’ll get that paint myself if I have to.
First thing tomorrow, he answered. The shops’ll be closed now, anyway.
The next day my father and I lay on till eleven. My mother was working at the kitchen table when I went downstairs to make us tea. She’d been working steadily since early that morning but the sound of machinery hadn’t disturbed us, because each sequin and pearl was sewn on by hand. By this time the shell of the dress was nearly finished—the bodice and skirt, the two mutton sleeves, the veil, the headdress, and the wide, four-foot train. She had still to complete the undergarments, and she’d promised to hem the girl’s linens, embroider their edges, and inscribe the corners with the first letter of her name.
Your brother’s gone out, my mother told me, so it’s up to you to look after your father. Don’t let him come home without that paint. I stood just behind her while the kettle boiled, skewering beads on her upright needle as soon as she’d fastened the previous one. Oh here, listen, she said, and reached under the fabric in search of her purse. The table was lost under cover of satin, a full bolt of chiffon lay unwrapped on the floor, and thick books of patterns sat on each chair, their insides fat with slips of paper, receipts, and newsprint torn into strips to mark a page. A spool of white thread, luv, she said, giving me money, say you want the kind for all types of fabric, and get me at least two hundred yards. I’d ask your daddy but you know he won’t do it.
Because I don’t think it’s right, my father said from the threshold. Taking advantage of a foolish woman when you know rightly there won’t be a wedding on the twenty-first. You can’t have a wedding without a groom.
More’s the pity, my mother said, and unnecessarily switched on her machine.
Well I won’t be part of it, my father continued. I will not add to that girl’s disappointment.
For God’s sake, Joe, my mother said, it’s none of my business what they want the clothes for. That girl placed an order same as anyone else.
A wedding gown’s different, my father told her. Especially this.
I didn’t ask to hear her life’s story, Joe, my mother told him, and what she does with her money is her own affair. If she wants to waste it on fortune-tellers that’s got nothing to do with me.
I think we are obligated to protect the innocent, my father said quietly.
Fair enough, my mother answered, but only if they’re mine. That girl pays good money, in advance and on time. I’ve got this family to worry about, Joe.
We spoke no more about it, though my father refused to come in the shop with me when I went in to purchase thread. We bought two tins of paint, a tray, and a roller, and were in the sitting room stirring the tins when Ricky came home with a sackful of chestnuts.
How come they’re called conkers? I asked my father.
Why d’you think? Ricky said. He took one whose green armoured shell had not yet broken and slapped it, palm open, against his head.
It began with a farmer, my father answered, who owned a good bit of land
not far from Mullan Head. He was a man who didn’t like to spend money, and it’s not like he didn’t have it to spend. Every night he sat in the dark so he wouldn’t have to run the electric, and all the beasts on his farm had bad teeth and were spindly because he was too cheap to give them a decent feed. Now there was a tree on that land and the farmer didn’t like it. Its shade kept him cold, he said, and it made his house dark. He blamed the tree for his own mean nature, and one day he decided, I’ll cut the thing down. But the tree saw him coming with his rolled-up sleeves and his heavy boots and the toothy new saw in his hand. It got so frightened it shook and heaved, and a whole shower of chestnuts fell on the farmer, sticking and pricking him with their rubbery spines. He was so bruised and battered he spent six weeks in hospital, and as soon as he got out he picked up and left. Then a husband and wife with two little children, a boy and a wee girl about your age, came to live in the house. They put a swing on the tree and built a conservatory, and the house is so full of light now that they built a train past it, and if you’re a good wee girly this evening and eat all your peas, I’ll show you it tomorrow on the way to Castlerock.
Joe, my mother said from the other room. How old is your daughter?
So why don’t all trees throw conkers all the time?
Cuz it’s all bollocks, that’s why, Ricky said. They fall cuz the stems rot, that’s why its easy to knock em down.
You know what your problem is, Ricky? my mother called to him.
Humankind had grown impatient, my father answered. The cold facts of science take less time to tell.
. . .
The side of our house stayed white for six days. On the morning of the seventh my mother noticed the additional shadow when she stepped outside to bring in the milk.
Joe, she called from the bottom of the stairs, c’mere till you see this.
From the room next to mine I heard my parents’ bed creak as my father rolled onto his back and sighed.
Ah, Belle, he said, it’s not even seven.
Departures Page 13