Her Mother's Daughter

by Alice Fitzgerald

  Mummy walks around like she’s playing a zombie in a film. Her hair sticks up almost as much as Thomas’s and she doesn’t talk to us. Just says her head hurts, and what in the name of God will she do?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. And she turns to me, with her big black eyes that look nowhere, not wanting to dance with Daddy and not wanting to hear a squeak out of us or play with us before dinner, and walks straight past. I miss Mummy.

  There’s one big photo on the wall in a really fancy gold frame, so you can’t help but look at it first. It’s of all of us, at the altar. Mummy and Daddy are standing with a font between them, the round top filled with water. The water is holy, and was poured over my little brother’s head just before the photo was taken. Thomas is the baby in Mummy’s arms, in a huge, white gown that flows down past her waist. You can’t see Thomas’s face, just the blondie curls of hair on the top of his head. I am standing in front of Daddy, one arm up in the air; holding his hand. I am wearing a flowery dress with a pink sash round my waist, and my reddish hair curls around my face. My eyes twinkle and my mouth is wide open because I’m laughing. I think that was when we were happy.

  Daddy is tall and handsome in a navy suit. He is looking at the camera, smiling so you can see his white teeth. His fine set of white teeth, as Mummy says. She says they were one of the first things she noticed about him. It’s hard to come across in an Irish man, she says. The other thing she noticed was the scar on his forehead, which she liked because he told her a funny story that made her laugh, and his lovely blue eyes. I don’t have them, but Thomas does. And Thomas has his blondie hair and his button-nose. He is Daddy’s mini-me and I am Mummy’s. I have her big brown eyes and her auburn hair that is a reddy-brown and goes really red in the sun. Mummy says Thomas takes after Daddy’s side of the family, and I take after her side, but I’m not sure I want to take after her side because they don’t sound very nice.

  Mummy is wearing a navy dress that goes to her knees, with a cream belt pulled round her waist. It’s one of her favourites. She keeps it in the wardrobe even though she doesn’t wear it any more. She is looking over the font at me, so you can see the side of her face, her pretty nose, her eyelashes curling upwards with mascara. She is so pretty, all made up. If I ask really, really nicely she puts a splash of colour on my cheeks, and dries my hair so it’s big and fluffy, and I look like her.

  Sometimes, when we’re all done up, we pose in the back room for photos, and I hug Mummy and smile for the camera, wondering if this one will be pretty enough to put up on the wall. I wish now I had chosen nice outfits for me and Thomas to wear on Sunday. Maybe then Mummy wouldn’t be so sad.

  There are so many photos. They’re on the mantelpiece and the side tables and on the wall of the sitting room, all the way to the French doors that we open after school, now that it’s warm and I can wear my summer dresses and Thomas can wear his shorts and vests. That way we can run in and out of the sitting room to the garden, and along the side of the house and in the back door and through the kitchen, then back through the sitting room and out through the French doors. We do that for hours.

  One of the photos is of us sitting on the grass in the park down the road, where we go all the time with Daddy. It’s the day Daddy taught us how to play with shuttlecocks, and I’m blowing a kiss at the camera and I have buttercups in my hair and Thomas has one behind his ear, which I put there. First I showed him what you have to do with buttercups. I held one under my chin, so he could see the colour of butter spread onto my skin. He held one under his chin and it went yellow like the sun and I told him so. Then I put mine in my hair and Thomas’s behind his ear and Daddy called us and said to smile, and we did. That was last year. We haven’t taken any from this year yet. Maybe when we’re at home-home. It will be brilliant and we’ll have a great time.

  There’s one photo in a wooden frame – each one is in a different frame – of me and Thomas with our cousins. We’re kneeling down in a row, filthy dirty from rolling around in the sand, our hair falling into our eyes. I’m on the end and next to me is Thomas, and next to Thomas is our older cousin John and next to him is our other cousin Mary and then beside her is Sarah, their little sister. Mary is my age and Sarah is the same age as Thomas. Their dog is digging a hole in the sand, splashing us all, and John is about to hit her around the ear. That’s Pretty Lady, she’s lovely and soft and cuddly. That photo was taken by Daddy when we were playing at home in Uncle John’s. We go there every year and spend all summer there and, except for when it rains, we spend every day out playing in front of the house, or on some days when we are really adventurous we make our way out the back and in through all the trees. That’s where we’re going in six days, which will be five tomorrow, and then bang on my favourite number – four – days the day after that. Our cousin John got his name off our Uncle John. Mummy said it’s traditional for people to call their baby boys the same name as their dads, and when I ask why Thomas isn’t called Michael, like our dad, she said it’s because we’re not that traditional.

  When we go to Uncle John’s we see our Aunty Joan, because she’s John’s wife, and we see Aunty Anne. She doesn’t have a husband, so we have no cousins in her house, not like at Uncle John’s. All of them are in photographs on the wall, too, but there are none of Mummy’s brothers and sister or her mummy and daddy.

  We’re late for school. I go upstairs quietly, along the landing and to the front room, which is Mummy and Daddy’s room, but where only Mummy sleeps lately because Daddy gets up so early to go to work that she doesn’t want him waking her. I listen. The door is closed and there isn’t a sound, only my heart going bum-bum, bum-bum. I don’t know what to do. I could just go downstairs and put the TV on and sit down and watch it with Thomas. But then Mummy will stay up here all day and forget about us. Better to go to school and see Mandy and Hannah, and eat lunch made by the school cooks. There’s nothing to eat in the kitchen, anyway. Me and Thomas have finished the last bit of cereal, which is my favourite bit because it’s all sugar crumbs. I have PE today as well, which means we’ll play games. We always play games in the last PE class before holidays.

  I knock on the door as lightly as I can. I wait. Nothing. I hold my breath and knock again. ‘Mummy,’ I whisper. ‘We have to go to school now.’

  I try to turn the golden knob, but my hand is sweaty and it slides without moving anything. I wipe it on my sleeve and try again. I edge the door in a teeny-weeny bit, so that she won’t hear or notice it, and if she’s really mad I can run away and get down the stairs before she throws anything at me. Through the small gap I can see the darkness in the room. The curtains are still closed. I squidge my eyes together and see her dresser over in the far corner, clothes over the back of the chair, the drawers open. It looks messy. So does the kitchen. Mummy hasn’t cleaned for days, and Daddy gets home late and by the time he makes us beans on toast we have to go to bed. Then he washes the dishes, but I don’t think he’s doing a very good job because there was hard cereal on my bowl this morning.

  I move the door in a teeny-weeny bit more and push my forehead right up to the gap. I bet I’ll have a line down my forehead afterwards. ‘Mummy,’ I whisper. I wait. ‘Mummy.’ I push it in more, but it knocks against something. I poke my head round the door and look at the bed. The sheets are pushed back and Mummy’s not there. I scan the room and try to push the door in more, but it won’t budge. Stubborn as a mule. I look down and there she is, in a ball on the floor. I scream as loud as I can and turn and run away, along the landing and down the stairs, one-two, one-two, and I slip and fall down the last few steps and land at the bottom with my leg twisted up behind my bum, but even though it hurts I get up and run through the kitchen and into the sitting room, to where Thomas is sitting on the sofa watching the cartoons on TV really loud. He turns and smiles at me and I stand there and breathe in and out and I want to scream and cry to Thomas, but what will he do? I can’t tell him Mummy is dead upstairs because he’ll scream even more than me, a
nd that would ruin him for ever. I go over and sit on the sofa next to him and rub his hair.

  ‘What’s wrong, Clare?’ he says.

  I breathe. My chest is going up and down. ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Is Mummy coming down?’ he says.

  ‘In a minute,’ I say. My head is flying like a plane in the clouds and I’m trying to think of what to do. My chest pops in and out with the short, sharp breaths that hurt. I know what this means. It means I’m having one of those attacks like I had once when I ran around too much and I couldn’t breathe. I go to the front door to get my inhaler from the drawer, holding on to the wall as I go, my fingers rubbing against it. I wonder if there will be a stain afterwards.

  I open the drawer and take out my pump, unscrew the lid, and I breathe in and hold my breath. I do it again. I hold my breath as long as I can, and then everything goes grey and I fall to the floor, but it doesn’t hurt because I can’t feel anything. I can’t see anything, either. Just grey like the sky from my bed. A square of grey clouds.

  JOSEPHINE

  10TH JULY 1980

  Dear Granny,

  London is wonderful, just like something out of the pictures. There are the red double-decker buses everywhere and people rushing around all the time. It’s gas altogether. When I have enough money I’ll buy you tickets to come and visit and we’ll go for walks and see Buckingham Palace where the Queen lives and shop in London’s shops and eat scones with cream and jam and drink tea like the posh ones do in the films. I keep thinking that any minute now I might see the Queen and her corgi dogs, would you believe it? She has loads of them, they say. I met a lovely Irish girl called Joyce who got me a job doing bits and bobs until I find something else. A girl from her flat is going back home so I’m moving in with her at the end of the week. We’re going out on Friday night to a dance in the church hall. I’ll have a dance for you.

  I’m grand anyways, so don’t be worrying about me now, will you. I have Saint Christopher watching over me and I don’t take him off.

  All my love,

  Josephine

  Dearest Bernadette,

  How’s your father? Have you had any luck finding a job? Here I am in the big smoke. (I know that’s New York but this is my big smoke.) I’ve got a job in a café with another Irish girl called Joyce. She’s lovely and has lots of friends she’s introducing me to on Friday. She loves your lipstick, and she’s teaching me how to make my face up properly. You’d like her. Everything is really fantastic, I’m having a blast. Are you sure you won’t come out and join me? We’ll have an absolutely gas time. Everything here moves so fast, I don’t have a moment to think. Running, running, running, that’s how it is here. The English boys are lovely, you’d love them. They’re real gentlemen and open the door for you when you leave, not like at home. Have you seen Siobhan? Don’t forget to keep an eye on her for me, will you?

  Love,

  Your good friend Josephine

  P.S. Tell your mother I arrived safe and sound at the address she gave me. Please thank her for me. The owner is very nice and had a room for me without a problem.

  Dear Mammy, Daddy and ye all,

  I hope this finds ye well. I am well and everything is going fabulously. I’ve found a job doing secretarial tasks in a restaurant and have a local church where there is a nice Irish parish priest called Father Francis who I’ve already been to see. He says I can help out at Mass and do the flowers on the altar. I might be moving in with a new friend I met at work soon, fingers crossed. When I get my pay cheque through I’ll send some money.

  Love, Josephine

  It takes me several attempts to get the letters right. I didn’t think of buying a notepad with a page of black lines, so my writing slants upwards and looks untidy. When they are presentable, I put them in their envelopes and lick the seal closed, careful not to cut my tongue. It tastes of melted rubber. I put the letters in my bag until I can buy stamps at the post office later.

  I get in early and Mister Cohen is there, with his yellow skin and bald top and small, glistening eyes. I thought he might be Irish because of the shamrock, but he says that’s just to attract the Irish. He is Jewish himself. A shrewd businessman, the girls say.

  When the café empties out after the morning rush, I move in and out of the tables, wiping them clean, taking away dirty plates and cups and saucers with baked beans and eaten corners of toast and bits of congealed egg, smiling as I go.

  During my afternoon break I go to the post office for the stamps and send the letters.

  *

  Time flies and before I know it, it’s Friday afternoon and myself and Joyce are walking to her flat, and I’m taking some of my things.

  Joyce’s flatmate is having a gathering before she goes on Sunday, so when we arrive, the sitting room is already full of girls standing together and talking, with drinks in their hands and music playing in the background. We go in and no one introduces themselves to me, so I pretend I’m busy looking out the window and playing with my fingernails, going red in the face while I do it. I am grateful when Joyce gets me a drink.

  I watch them and they all look so confident and sure of themselves, with their little fingers sticking out from their glass and throwing their heads back when they laugh. Their confidence only makes me feel worse. I am the one fresh off the boat, and surely they can tell. One of them offers me a cigarette and I nod and take it, shaking a little bit as I light it.

  A girl with light-brown curly hair and pale skin and blue eyes in a glamorous dress with polka dots goes over to the record player to put on a new record. She is the girl who’s leaving, because the boy she left behind wrote to her and asked her to come back and said he wants to marry her. I would congratulate her, but I worry she will think me false and wonder who am I to congratulate her. She calls over to another girl called Maura.

  It wouldn’t be Maura from the boat? I wonder. Joyce, who was called away, comes back. I ask her if she knows her, and she tells me Maura has come over recently. I explain what happened on the boat and Joyce calls Maura over to us.

  ‘Maura?’ I say to her. ‘You didn’t come over on the boat last month?’

  ‘I did,’ she says. ‘You’re not…?’

  ‘I am!’ I say.

  We erupt in laughter and all the others watch us, wondering what’s going on.

  She turns to them and explains what happened, and now everyone is laughing at the wonders of London and I already feel more at ease.

  Maura is funny as she tells the story of her vomiting on the boat the whole way over and that I was the only one to ask if she was okay. Then she tells me about herself. She is from Kerry and is twenty-three, and is staying in a motel down the road and hasn’t got a job yet, but she’s all right because she comes from money. She has a nice gold necklace around her neck and a pair of sparkling earrings.

  Joyce puts make-up on one of the girls in front of a mirror propped up on the table while we talk. When she’s finished, she asks who wants to go next. I look around and everyone is distracted in conversation, so I ask if she’ll do me.

  Sure, she says, patting the seat of the chair in front of the mirror.

  I sit down and hold my glass on my lap.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she says.

  I do. The girls behind me are laughing and someone puts on a record. It starts up and at first I don’t think I know it, but then I realize I do: it’s ‘Walkin’ Back to Happiness’ by Helen Shapiro. They’re all singing along and I hum along myself as Joyce wipes cool, wet cotton wool over my face, before patting my skin dry. Then there’s another layer of something wet being spread over my skin: a mask. Next, she tickles my eyelids with a brush and then she draws a line along the rim of my eyelashes.

  She tells me to open my eyes and look downwards and she pushes the mascara brush up through my lashes several times on both eyes. Then I look up and she does the bottom.

  She puts lipstick on my lips and says I can look.

  A face has been painted onto
mine, and it is quite beautiful; the eyes are big and sparkling with long black lashes and the lips are red and shiny. The skin is peach-coloured and silky-looking. I look sophisticated and worldly.

  ‘Make sure, when they invite you for a drink, that you get me one, too!’ Joyce says, and all the girls laugh.

  I smile, hiding my lower teeth the way I have practised.

  I would say I have a nice smile, and nice teeth, as long as I only show the top row. The bottom ones are all different lengths, from when Daddy filed them when I was small. Dear Jesus, the pain. He came home one day and told me to come here. He sat me between his legs, his knees clamped into my sides, and told me to open my mouth. I did. Then he stuck his fingers deep into my mouth and I heaved to be sick.

  ‘Stop it and sit still,’ he said.

  My eyes streamed with water as I kept the vomit down and held my mouth open, and he reached for a tool on the arm of the chair. I wanted to ask what it was, but my mouth was wide open and his hand was inside and I was about to be sick and I couldn’t risk trying to speak because I would get a belt around the face. He told me he was going to make me look right, that the dentist was too expensive. He pointed the metal tool into my mouth and slid it outwards. A pain as hot as the poker from the fire shot through my head and down my back. It was a chisel he was using to file my teeth. Since then my bottom teeth have been all different heights and slanting up and down, like see-saws with one end held to the ground by a heavy child, the other one skinny and light, the end high in the air. I still get shooting pains through my mouth sometimes, and can hear the scream of the chisel scraping my teeth away.

  Not long after that, my poor brother Brendan started complaining of toothache. I tried warning him to keep quiet, but he couldn’t. Sure enough, Daddy removed the rotten tooth with a pair of pliers. Brendan couldn’t eat for a long time after that.