She followed Kevin into the bedroom, past Conor’s stubbornly closed door. She wouldn’t dream of hugging her eldest son now. Fifteen and so angry with her, with the school, with the world. Like his father, he’d a massive chip on his shoulder all the time. That was an ugly thought but it didn’t make it less true.
In Kevin’s room, she fiddled with the curtains and picked up some dirty football socks from the floor. Kevin was already under the covers in the bottom bunk. Ever since Conor had moved out to set up camp in the little study, Kevin had slept in the bottom bed. “I feel safe here, Mam,” he’d said. Conor had teased him for being a Mammy’s boy, too frightened to sleep up high. When Kevin came to her crying about this, Deirdre felt another heartstring fray and then snap, twanging out its pain in the dark place where she kept her soul. Kevin was scared but not of heights. He, more than anyone, soaked up all the anger in the house, like a little sponge that could not bear the weight of all the tears.
She bent to kiss him. He was nearly asleep already, wrecked by playing football all afternoon on the patch of green that had notions of being the estate’s park. He loved football but she was pretty sure he also wanted to make himself scarce. He was no fool, she thought. Between the hormones, the exams, and all the rest, this was a right madhouse at the moment. Better off out of it altogether, my darling.
“Goodnight, Mam, love ya.”
For the umpteenth time, she marvelled at how different Kevin was from the others. What did that mean? Was it her fault? Did she treat him differently because he was the youngest? Was she stupid enough to love Conor less because he looked more like his dad, while Kevin was definitely from her side, with the straight hair, wide eyes and the Flaherty lips? Surely to God not.
As she turned to blow Kevin a kiss from the door, she thought of Theo, the new lad at work. If parents were responsible for the way their kids turned out, who was responsible for Theo? The parents he’d had there in his own country or his foster parents? During their break today, she’d stepped outside to keep him company as he smoked and he’d told her a bit of his story. She’d had to press him a bit, and he didn’t seem over the moon about talking, but there was something about him that made her want to know more. To look after him somehow.
“My parents were killed in the genocide,” he’d said.
The word sounded ludicrous in the scuzzy yard. It was too big for the small space, too big for her. She wanted to say something back but what? What did you say for a genocide? Sorry for your troubles wouldn’t really cut it. She should ask Grace, she would know more about what happened in Rwanda. Deirdre herself knew the basics, of course. She was pregnant with Conor around then, and out of her skull with tiredness, but still she remembered being yanked out of her personal fog by the pictures on the telly – a church in the middle of nowhere, all around it quiet apart from the chirping of insects, and then bodies, everywhere. The images were fuzzy, faces and injuries blurred out, but they couldn’t kidglove the scale. She remembered in one news report the bodies were barely there. Just the clothes left, and the bones, as though the people had just oozed into the ground.
“I remember the pictures on the telly,” she’d said finally. “All those poor people killed in the churches. Aren’t humans just terrible? Mind you, we’ve had our own horrors here.” She was rambling, she knew. “But tell me, Theo, what was it all about then?”
He told her of the plane crash and the radio messages that told people to ‘clean up the dirt and clear the brush’, and then explained that in his language, those 100 days – and she was shocked to learn it took so little time but then, how long could you keep killing? – were called itsembabwoko from the words for exterminate and clan. She tried out the long word with her clumsy tongue, and maybe it was something about the way she mangled it, but suddenly, Theo threw down his half-smoked fag and stomped back inside. She felt foolish as she stood there shivering in the cold wind that seemed to always be whipping round this yard, even in August. She should leave the poor boy alone, instead of sticking her nose into things she didn’t, and couldn’t, understand.
She knocked like a supplicant on Conor’s door.
“What?” Her hackles rose. The tone on him. Still, now was not the time.
She popped her head in. He’d go ballistic if she actually walked into the room. Her son was sitting at the computer, his back to the door. He didn’t even bother to turn round. The window was open and she thought she could smell just the faintest whiff of nicotine. God help him, wait ’til he finished the exams. She would be on his case then. If it weren’t for the fact that Fergal might rock up any moment now, she’d give him a piece of her mind. He knew damn well he wasn’t allowed to smoke, especially not in the house. Tomorrow. She would give him a right earful tomorrow. She took a deep breath.
“Can you finish up now, Conor? You need to get your sleep ahead of the exams. No use getting too tired. There’ll be time enough to study again in the morning.”
She said it all in a rush because she knew she’d only get the one chance. He never turned, much less acknowledged what she said. She waited, sighed loudly, a teenager again herself, and closed the door quietly.
Lights flashed onto the wall downstairs through the glass panes of the front door. The van was turning, too fast, into the drive. He was back. She hurried past Grace’s door. She could just about hear her music but was that her daughter’s voice buzzing underneath? She was probably on the phone to that bloody boyfriend. She’d have to talk to her about that. Tomorrow again.
She slipped into the sitting room, picked up her glass, put it down again, and waited. Shit, her heart was beating like a drum, her hands were shaking.
“Pull yourself together, woman,” she muttered under her breath. “He’s just a man.”
It didn’t comfort her as much as she had hoped.
She’d always known Fergal was easily wound-up. Pauline used to say he was a bit of a headcase and that was even before they got married. It wasn’t until after they’d walked up the aisle – him with a monumental hangover, of course – that she realised he was prone to slapping. She supposed it was that peculiarly Irish code of silence that made violent men wait until they were hitched to lash out, knowing full well that their bruised wives would keep quiet. What woman would want to be hearing whispers behind her back as she went up to communion on Sunday, or see heads tilted knowingly her way in the shop? Better to suck it up.
They weren’t stupid, the violent men.
It had started with the odd slap, not too bad though he’d string them together when he was particularly langered. But the beating he’d given her this week had stunned even him, she thought. Apart from the pain, that was the worst thing: realising he wasn’t in control of whatever rage was eating him up like a cancer. Later, when she was in the bathroom, cleaning the blood from the inside of her nostrils after dabbing witch hazel around her eye, he’d come in, guilty-looking as a rat.
He hugged her and she suffered his embrace, even though every single part of her wanted to grab his hair and smash his face, teeth first, into the ceramic of the sink. Even as he whispered beer-breath ‘sorrys’ into her ear, the fear she had of him flowed like venom through her stiff shoulders and clenched fists, deactivating her rage so that she was a hollow nothing.
The door slammed and she heard the keys clang onto the small table in the hall. Then silence. He was waiting, standing there, swaying, trying to get his bearings, no doubt. The whole house seemed to hunker down in the silence. Deirdre realised she was barely breathing. She forced the breath out. She heard his heavy, fumbling footsteps in the hall. Please God, let him go straight up to bed. I won’t drink for a week, she promised, remembering the bargains she tried to strike as a girl with whatever was up there dealing out the cards. Let Mam live and I’ll never pinch Cian again. I’ll never swear again.
The sitting room door creaked. God was always out when she called.
Fergal came in, tripping on the mat in front of the fireplace, lurching towards
the sofa. She tensed, half-rose, but he collapsed beside her. He stank and there was a dark stain on the front of his light blue shirt.
“Jesus, I’m wrecked,” he said. “What a shaggin’ day.”
She chanced a look at him. He’d thrown his head back and his eyes were closed. He had the beginnings of a dark beard around his chin and the drinking seemed to have sucked the moisture from his skin so that the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were deeper.
He was still a handsome man – a fine, straight nose and the cheekbones of a squire, but his cheeks were sunken now from the late hour. He was deadbeat drunk, she realised. There’d be no flying fists or filthy words tonight. She felt her whole body relax, her muscles aching in the release.
“Y’alright love?” she said. “What happened? Was it fierce busy?”
He didn’t answer and she thought he might be asleep. She was just rising to get a blanket and cover him up but then his eyes flickered open, he grabbed her hand and she saw, to her horror, that he was crying.
“God, Fergal, what is it? What’s happened? Did something happen to your mam?”
“I lost me job, Deirdre. I lost me job. They’ve only gone and laid off five of us. Jesus Christ, what the fuck are we going to do, Deirdre? What are we going to do?”
He was sobbing now, all tears and snot, head on her shoulder and hand clasping her arm, just below the bruise he’d given her. His fingers hurt but she didn’t move. She just rubbed his head, like she would with Kevin.
“Shush, shush now, we’ll be okay, we’ll be alright, love. You’ll find something else. Come on, now. It’ll be fine.”
Meaningless, automatic comforts like kisses on grazed knees. But she felt no real sympathy. All she felt was relief. Tonight the drink had lost. She’d won this round. Then slowly, she let herself take in what he’d said. No job. He was right. What the fuck were they going to do?
The door creaked again. Grace looked in.
“Is everything okay, Mam?”
“Ah yeah, love. It’s grand. Dad’s just tired.”
Her daughter’s eyes flickered to her father’s slumped form.
“Will I get ye a blanket from the room? So ye can cover him up. I suppose he’s going to sleep here.”
Deirdre ignored the tone.
“That’d be great, love.”
She heard Grace head upstairs. Fergal was sleeping proper now. His head was a deadweight on her shoulder. She eased herself out, prised his fingers from her arm and let him slump the whole way down. She managed to put a cushion under his head and took off his trainers and socks. His toes made tears rise in her throat. When she met Fergal all those years ago, she fell for the sharp look of him, the pretty face, the banter, the way he made a crowd laugh and then looked for her eyes, to give her a wink, all for her. But now, these knobbly toes, with the slightly too-long nails, owned her heart more than all the rest. In the toes, she saw the young man he had been, all that promise, all that hope they’d had together. Toes never aged.
Grace came back and together they laid the blanket over Fergal. Grace’s touch was light but her face was dark, and there was a briskness to her hands. She’d make a great nurse, Deirdre thought.
“Cup of tea, Mam?”
“Yeah, love.”
She followed her daughter into the kitchen, switching off the light and shutting the door softly behind her. She felt like dancing down the hall, and crying, and collapsing into the deepest sleep.
Grace put a cup of tea in front of her and they sat facing each other at the tiny table by the window that looked onto the small back garden.
“Pissed again, I suppose.”
It wasn’t a question and Deirdre didn’t answer.
“I don’t know why you put up with it, Mam. Look at the state of your face today. You have to do something about this, or God knows where it will end.”
Grace’s voice was full of righteous anger and tears, and it hurt Deirdre more than the bruises on her face and the red mark on her arm, which had started throbbing again.
“Ah love, don’t worry. It’s the drink. We know that. He isn’t always… like that. Look, tonight, he’s like a baby. He’ll sleep it off and be grand in the morning.”
“Yeah. ’Til the next time. And the time after that. I swear to God, Mam, if I catch him at it again, I’ll swing for him.”
Deirdre had to smile but that just infuriated Grace. Of course, it would.
“Jesus, Mam, it’s no laughing matter. There’s words for it – domestic abuse. It might’ve been okay in the old days but it’s not now. You could have him locked up for what he’s done to you.”
“And where would we be then, love?”
Deirdre took another sip of her tea and looked straight at Grace. Her daughter’s pale face was even whiter than usual, apart from the two spots of rage staining her cheeks.
“I’ve made my bed and I have to sleep in it. Anyway, I think it’s just a phase. A kinda mid-life crisis, maybe. You know, maybe for men like your dad, men who can’t afford the Ferrari and can’t pull the young ones, maybe they have to find other ways to deal with the whole getting older thing?”
“That’s rubbish, Mam, and you know it. It’s a crime and I’m telling you, if he lifts a hand to you again, I’ll shop him to the Gardaí myself.”
“Shush now, you’ll wake him and then we’ll both be for it. Forget about it.”
Deirdre reached across to rub her fingers down Grace’s cheek and smooth the hair from her creased forehead. She had an urge, almost a physical need to tell her that Fergal had lost his job, but she wasn’t so far gone that she didn’t see that burdening her daughter, just days before her exams, was the move of a weak woman. Her eyes welled. I’m not that desperate, she thought. Jesus, it was bad enough that her teenage daughter was having to comfort her over her marriage. How the hell did she fuck things up so monumentally? Married to a violent drunk, washing dishes in a kitchen. She felt the self-pity rise in her but she blinked hard, looked across at Grace and thought of Conor and Kevin sleeping upstairs.
They are reason enough for this poor life. Now today, they are enough and they always will be, she thought.
“How’s the studying going?”
Grace grimaced. “I’m absolutely bate,” she sighed. “I never want to see another book again. I’m going to burn them all after this and my highlighters. Especially the highlighters.”
She narrowed her eyes. She’d bloody do it too, Deirdre thought and swallowed a smile.
“Just a few more weeks now and it’ll be over,” she said. “You won’t feel it.”
“Of course I bloody will. A few weeks is a… lifetime. Anyway, I’m taking a break tomorrow and going out. And don’t even start with the lecture. I’ll go mental if I don’t take some time out. Nothing big. Just me and Neville and a few friends, down the pub for a couple of hours.”
“Now is that wise, Grace?” Deirdre couldn’t help it. “There’s only a couple of days left and God knows, you started on the books late enough. Yes, you did,” she said as Grace rolled her eyes, picked up her cup and stomped to the sink.
“Anyway, ye can’t stop me. I’m going off out and that’s that.”
“Well, it’s alright for Neville,” Deirdre persisted. “He’s well past all this – what’s he? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? I’ve told you before, Grace, and I’m telling you again: that boy is too old for you.” And too posh and too smart, she added silently. Not that her daughter wasn’t smart but Deirdre had taken an immediate dislike to Neville when she bumped into him and Grace at the Jervis shopping centre last week. He was charming, for sure, but there was something doomed about his easy ways, something that raised goose bumps on her arms. Maybe it was the way Grace had looked at him, up at him despite her own height. There was adoration there and Deirdre did not think he was worthy. That was probably all it was, nothing more and nothing less than a mother’s natural jealousy.
“He’s twenty-two, Mam, and you’ve got it all wrong. He told me to stay in.
He’s only coming because I told him I was going out anyway, with or without him. Jesus, you really don’t get anything at all, do you?”
She dropped her cup into the sink and legged it up the stairs.
Deirdre got up, took her own cup to the sink, rinsed both, wiped down the table, and switched off the light. She had messed that up alright. Time for bed.
Fergal would be fine where he was and there was no way she could move him in any case. He might whinge in the morning but he was never violent when he was sober so he could moan all he liked. No skin off her nose. The light was on under Conor’s door but she was dead tired, she’d nothing left to give, and no patience for treading on teenage eggshells.
She lay for a while worrying over Fergal’s news. What the hell would she do with him at home under her feet all day long? And how would they pay the bills? She could take more shifts maybe at the restaurant, if Des would let her, but there was Theo to do the weekends. Would Fergal drink more now? Surely there’d be no money for it. Or for his fags. She’d better hide the cash she’d saved to spend on Grace and Conor. It was all in an envelope at the bottom of the shell-studded jewellery box Conor had brought her from Nice after he went there on a school trip. She’d better find a new, safer place.
Rain Falls on Everyone Page 6