Lifesaving for Beginners

by Ciara Geraghty

  ‘So a supernova is a dying sun.’

  ‘Sort of. But it’s better than it ever was before. That’s why it’s super, see?’

  Faith nods but I don’t think she’s all that interested anymore. That’s the thing about adults. They’re only interested in the actual universe for a little while and then they go back to talking about their kids or their houses or someone they saw in the shop who was the spitting image of Tony Blair, who used to be the boss of England but isn’t now. I think he got fired or something.

  Faith throws away her cigarette. She cups her hands round her mouth and blows into them.

  I say, ‘Why did you walk past the house?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just . . . I need to think about what I’m going to say.’

  ‘I thought you were doing that on the plane.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Thinking about what you were going to say.’

  ‘I couldn’t think of anything.’

  We look towards the sea for a while. I think it’s cold enough to snow. Ireland’s climate is mild, moist and changeable. Mrs O’Reilly told us that. It doesn’t feel mild today. I stuff my hands inside the sleeves of my jacket. I have ski gloves at home. I don’t use them for skiing but they’re great for building snowmen because they don’t get wet, like woolly gloves do.

  I jump off the wall. ‘You could write a note.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could write a note and we’ll leave it in the letterbox. There’s one attached to the pillar at the start of the driveway. I saw it. A green one with a lock so no one can get the post out of it except the person who lives in the house.’

  Faith slithers off the wall. She’s still looking at me but I don’t think she’s seeing me exactly. She’s thinking. You can see it in her eyes.

  She says, ‘That’s not a bad idea, Milo.’

  I’m glad she likes the idea. Maybe now we can go someplace where it’s warm. I could change my money. Buy some gloves for Faith and me. Her hands are blue on account of the cigarettes and the cold.

  ‘You could write your mobile number on the note. Then, we could go to a café where it’ll be warm, and we can have a muffin and I’ll think of things that you can talk to the woman about. There’s tonnes of stuff you could talk about.’ Girls are always talking. Like Imelda and her mam. They never stop talking. Sometimes it’s fighting but mostly it’s talking.

  Faith opens her bag. Takes out a notebook. The one she writes her songs in. The last one she wrote was called ‘All About You’. It’s a love song but it’s not bad. She wrote it a long time ago. Before Mam was in the accident.

  Faith holds her pen between her fingers but she doesn’t write anything down. She looks like she’s thinking again and not coming up with any ideas.

  She glances up. ‘I don’t know what to write.’

  You’re supposed to know loads of stuff when you’re an adult, but I’m not so sure about that anymore.

  ‘Just put your name and your mobile number. And say you’re in Dublin and you’d like to meet her. That’s all.’

  After a while, Faith says, ‘OK.’ She blows into her hands again and then begins to write.

  I say, ‘Don’t mention me, whatever you do.’

  Faith says, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Some adults aren’t mad about kids.’ This is true. Like Mr Swinton at our school. The caretaker. He says, ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ if you ask him when the leak will be fixed in the hall so we can play dodgeball again.

  When Faith gets mad, her face turns sort of pink and her eyes go into a sort of narrow line. She unfolds the page and adds a line at the bottom of the note.

  PS. I am with my brother Milo, who is ten.

  I say, ‘I’m not ten yet. I’m only nearly ten.’

  Faith draws an arrow in the gap between ‘is’ and ‘ten’ and writes, at the top of the arrow, ‘nearly’. ‘Happy now?’

  I nod. If people think you’re ten, they might expect you to be bigger than you really are. There’s a pretty big difference between nine and ten. Even Damo doesn’t pick his nose in front of people anymore. Not since he turned ten. He wants girls to fancy him. None of them do yet, apart from Tracey in Miss Roberts’s class, and she fancies just about every boy in the school, even Donald Battersby, who tells on everyone and cries when you say you don’t want to play with him on account of him being a telltale.

  We walk back. The buses in Dublin are blue and yellow instead of red. The postboxes are green. The national emblem of Ireland is a shamrock. That’s green too. Irish people are mad about green. There’s green in the flag, which is called the Tricolour. It’s flown at half-mast when a patriot like James Connolly dies. Mrs O’Reilly said the Brits tied him to a chair and shot him in the head. I asked Mam if that were true. Mam said it was a Rising, which was a bit like a war and that it all happened a long time ago. I didn’t tell Damo about it because he might worry about Sully getting tied to a chair and shot in the head when he’s at the war.

  Apart from the buses and the postboxes, things look pretty much the same. The sweets in the shops are the same as the ones we get in Brighton. I checked when Faith was buying cigarettes in the Spar in the city centre. They have Mars Duo, which happens to be my favourite chocolate bar on account of it being bigger than an ordinary Mars bar. I also like the Mars Duo ice cream, but I didn’t get to check the freezer to see if they had those.

  Outside the house, Faith hands me the note that she has folded and folded until it’s about the size of a stamp. I unfold most of it and push it through the letterbox. It doesn’t make any sound when it lands.

  I say, ‘There,’ instead of saying, ‘What are we going to do now?’ which is what I really want to say.

  Faith says, ‘Thanks.’

  I say, ‘For what?’

  When Faith smiles, she doesn’t look as thin and worried as before. Rob tells Faith not to smile at him because it makes him do things he doesn’t want to do, like the dishes, or watching a film that’s not in English.

  She punches my arm and says, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  I don’t punch her back. Mam said you should never hit a girl. Besides, I might hurt her by accident.

  Not many people know this but I’m a lot stronger than I look.

  May 1987

  Me and Ed and Minnie are watching Top of the Pops. It must be Thursday.

  Minnie says, ‘Mel and Kim are still at number eight.’ We love Mel and Kim. We have Mel and Kim hats. We put them on and do the Mel and Kim dance. I am Mel. Minnie is Kim. I am a better dancer but the hat looks better on Minnie.

  Something happens. I’m not sure what. I look down and am surprised to see the top of my jeans darkening with wet. It feels warm.

  ‘Jesus, Kat, did you piss yourself ?’ Minnie says. Ed laughs, because Minnie said, ‘piss’. He loves bad language. All ten-year-old boys love the word ‘piss’.

  I’ve been feeling strange all day. There have been pains. Tight clutches of pain that are gone as suddenly as they arrive. I ate a McDonald’s for lunch. I put it down to that. Now, with the water gushing from me, I’m not so sure. I sit on the couch.

  Minnie says, ‘Be quiet.’ I don’t realise I have made any sound. She closes the door. ‘My mother will hear you.’

  Ed sits on the couch beside me. ‘Is Kat OK?’ he asks Minnie.

  Minnie says, ‘Don’t worry, Ed.’ She grabs my hand and tries to pull me up. ‘Kat’s just got a pain in her tummy. I’ll take her to my room.’

  Ed says, ‘I’ll go and tell my mammy,’ and Minnie runs after him while I wrestle with another pain. It hurts more than the last one.

  Minnie says, ‘Shut up, would you?’ She’s got Ed in a headlock. He’s struggling but he doesn’t say anything, which means he’s scared.

  I say, ‘Let him go,’ when the pain loosens its grip.

  Minnie says, ‘He’ll tell your mam.’ Ed begins to cry. He doesn’t cry often but when he does, he lifts the roof of the house. I feel a k
ind of relief. Resignation. Ed will tell Mum and she will come and she’ll know what to do.

  The next pain terrifies me. Up to now, the most painful thing that ever happened to me was getting my finger caught in the hinge of the hood of my doll’s pram.

  ‘Help me, Minnie.’ I think I shout it.

  Ed looks as scared as I feel. He struggles out of Minnie’s grip and runs out of the room. For once, Minnie looks unsure.

  I say, ‘What will I do?’

  Minnie shakes her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. That’s the first time she’s ever said that.

  I hear the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. I know it is Minnie’s mother. It’s the plink-plink of her stilettos against the floor that gives her away. No matter how many babies she holds in her arms, she insists on high heels. She says they’re all she has left, whatever that means.

  ‘Girls?’ she calls as she approaches. ‘Minnie? Kat? What’s going o—’ I look up. She stands in the doorway, looking at me. Her mouth is a circle of shock. Her hands fly to her face.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she whispers.

  I begin to cry.

  We’re in a café that’s called the Cream Bun, which is a pretty good name for a café but not as good as the Funky Banana. The Christmas tree is a silver, artificial one with flashing lights. If you’re going to put a Christmas tree up this early, you’d better make sure it’s artificial. Otherwise, it’ll be long dead by the time Christmas comes around.

  They don’t have banana muffins so I just get an apple and cinnamon one, which happens to be my second favourite. It’s good, but there’s icing on the top. Muffins aren’t supposed to have icing on the top.

  I don’t order the hot chocolate with the marshmallows because it’s three euro and twenty cents. I haven’t changed my one hundred and thirty-six pounds and fifteen pence into euro yet and I don’t know how much money Faith brought with her. I know she’s in a band and everything, but I don’t think she makes very much money. It’s not that they’re no good or anything. It’s just that no one’s ever heard of them and their songs aren’t on the radio yet. When their songs are on the radio, I expect Faith will have more money for hot chocolates. I ask for a glass of water and when the man says, ‘Sparkling or still?’ I just say, ‘From the tap, please.’

  Right about now I’m missing maths, which is fine by me, but in twenty minutes, I’m supposed to be in the library with Carla. It’s our turn to help Miss Rintoole tidy up and put the books where they’re supposed to be. The library is just a classroom really. And Miss Rintoole is not a real librarian. She’s a teacher who happens to be in charge of the library. Miss Williams always gets me and Carla to do jobs together, like bringing books to the office to get photocopies. Carla’s got one of those laughs that make no sound, which is probably why she never gets in trouble. Her hair is very long. She can sit on the ends of it when it’s not in plaits. She looks a bit like Pocahontas, when her hair’s in plaits. And she never wears anything but jeans. She was the only girl wearing jeans at Stephanie Nugent’s party. Stephanie’s mam said it wasn’t fair to leave people out so she had to invite everyone. Even George Pullman.

  Faith says, ‘You’re miles away. What are you thinking about?’

  I say, ‘Nothing.’ If I tell her about Carla, Faith will think that Carla is my girlfriend, because that’s what adults say when a boy happens to be friends with a girl who happens to be in his class.

  Faith says, ‘You never tell me anything anymore.’ She’s sort of smiling but I think she’s being pretty serious too.

  I say, ‘I do so,’ even though I don’t. Not really. Not anymore. Because Faith is sort of a bit like Mam now. Like, she’s supposed to make me my dinner and make sure I brush my teeth and check that there’s no dirt under my fingernails and that I say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when I’m talking to adults. Stuff like that.

  Before, I might have told her about Carla. Not that there’s anything to tell, exactly. I might have said something about me liking Carla, not because she’s a girl or anything but because she happens to be a pretty interesting person when you think about it. She knows a lot about the Big Bang.

  Faith looks at her phone again. It hasn’t rung or beeped since she left the note in the letterbox but she keeps checking it as if it has.

  So I say, ‘I was thinking about school.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Me and Carla usually help in the library on Tuesdays. Just before break.’

  ‘Carla?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is she your friend?’

  ‘She’s in my class.’

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ See what I mean?

  I shake my head.

  Faith checks her phone.

  Before Faith goes to the loo – she calls it the Ladies – she checks her phone again. It hasn’t made one single sound since the last time she checked it.

  Then, the minute she’s gone, her phone starts to ring. If Mam were here, she’d say, ‘Typical!’

  Ed says, ‘Kat, do you think the baby will mind that I have Down’s?’

  I say, ‘She’s not a baby. She’s twenty-four.’

  Ed says, ‘Is she ten years younger than me, Kat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So that means I was ten when she was born.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing her when I was ten.’

  ‘You didn’t see her.’

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That must have made you sad.’

  Ed and I are ice-skating in Smithfield. Well, Ed is ice-skating. I stand outside the rink, on the green felt that is reserved for anxious parents so that they can watch their offspring wobble round the rink.

  I am not anxious. Not about Ed ice-skating, at any rate. He loves falling as much as he loves skating. He has no fear of falling, which sets him apart from any of the other adults on the ice. He falls in a tumble of arms and legs and ends up skidding, on his knees, sending up ice like a flurry of snow. This sets him off. He laughs like a group of people laughing. It’s loud. And pretty traditional. He actually uses the words: ‘Hahahahahahaha!’ When you hear him laugh, you’ll laugh. Even if you’re like me and not given to outbursts of laughter. And it’s not because I’m humourless. It’s just that things are rarely all that funny.

  This is our December tradition. We always come here as soon as it opens on the first of December, to avoid the Christmas crowds. We’ve been doing it for years. Just me and Ed. Ed has never invited Sophie. I have never asked Minnie. Although, last year, Ed suggested that Thomas might come. And last year, Thomas asked me if he could come. I told Ed that Thomas couldn’t come because he was working. And I told Thomas that he couldn’t come because Ed would prefer if it was just the two of us. Just me and Ed.

  Ed said, ‘That’s a shame.’

  Thomas said, ‘I see,’ looking at me like he knew everything. Then he said, ‘Maybe next year.’ And for a moment back then, I thought: yeah. Maybe. Why not? Why not next year? And I shrugged my shoulders as if I wasn’t thinking that and I said, ‘Maybe,’ and then I stopped walking and I grabbed his arm so he had to stop too. We were on Dollymount Strand that day doing one of those unbelievably long walks that Thomas was so fond of. I suppose I got used to them in the end. I might even have enjoyed some of them. And he said, ‘What?’ And I said, ‘Nothing.’ But I think he sort of knew what was going on inside my head because he bent down and stuck his face in front of mine and kissed me in that offhand way he had. Without touching me. He had no form whatsoever. No style at all. I don’t know why I liked it so much. The way he kissed me. Then, only because he knew I wasn’t a sand-dune kind of woman, he suggested we go straight to my apartment for a matinee performance of Grey’s Anatomy. I said, ‘OK.’

  Ed says, ‘Did it, Kat?’

  I say, ‘What?’

  ‘Did it make you sad? When you didn’t get to see Faith?’

  I don’t
answer quickly enough because Ed shoots off, shouting, ‘Time me,’ over his shoulder as he scorches his way up one side of the rink and down the other.

  I say, ‘Twenty seconds.’

  He says, ‘That’s my fastest time, Kat.’

  ‘No it’s not. You did it in nineteen the year before last.’

  The woman standing beside me looks at me. She has a white face and a long narrow nose with a red tip – a testament to the bitterness of the day. If her face wasn’t so frozen solid with the cold, it would have an expression that I have seen before. A ‘have a bit of compassion’ expression. A ‘give the mentally handicapped man a break’ expression.

  I see off her look with a matching one of my own, except that mine is more of a ‘mind your own bloody patronising business’ kind of an expression. She looks away.

  Ed is sulking. I know he is because his bottom lip sticks out.

  I say, ‘Go on, try again. If you did it in nineteen seconds the year before last, you can do it in nineteen seconds now.’

  Ed says, ‘I can’t do it any faster.’

  I say, ‘You can.’

  He pushes himself off the wall and goes again. Nineteen seconds around the rink.

  I say, ‘See? I told you you could do it.’

  Ed can’t respond because he is bent over the wall, panting hard.

  I put my hand round his arm. ‘Ed?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Ed? Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?’ I bend so I can see his face, which is brick red. His eyes are shut. Maybe Thomas was right. But the tests from the hospital were good the last time. So long as he keeps taking the medication.

  ‘Ed?’

  When he straightens, his bottom lip is not sticking out anymore. It is curved in a smile. ‘I did it!’ he says, when he catches his breath.

  I smile. ‘I told you you could do it. Come on.’ When he steps off the ice, I take his hand. He’s great on the ice but inexplicably unsteady on level, non-slippy ground when he’s got the skates on. ‘Let’s go and get some lunch.’ I want red wine and a packet of cigarettes but Ed will want a main course and dessert. The doctor told him to watch his weight but it’s like telling Gordon Ramsay not to shout in a kitchen.