by Martina Cole
She had lived with the images of that night her entire life, and she had still kept her own counsel, even when she had finally understood what had really happened. She had spent such a large part of her life trying to make her mother care for her, make her mother acknowledge her in some way. She had hoped and prayed that her continued silence for so many years would make her mother finally accept her. But it had never happened and, finally, she had accepted that it was never going to happen. She had suddenly understood that she was so far beneath her mother’s radar that her involvement in anything pertaining to her mother was negligible as far as Imelda was concerned. In short, she knew that she just didn’t exist for her. She also knew, even then, as young as she was, that that would never change. It was another thing that she had pushed down inside of her, another thing she had tried to blot out. To bully a child was a terrible thing, but to ignore them and their desperate attempts for attention, was far more wicked.
Kenny Boy had never been on the receiving end of his mother’s hate, or her spite. He still didn’t understand, all these years later, how she had used her own flesh and blood for her own ends. He wouldn’t understand, even now, that he had been protected, had been sheltered from his own mother’s self-destructive lifestyle. And that was only because of how Imelda had used her own daughter. Kenny Boy didn’t realise that, if it wasn’t for her taking the brunt of Imelda’s lunacy, he would have eventually been used by her as a scapegoat as well.
Jordanna knew that her brother was only arguing their mother’s case because she, his sister, had in effect turned her back on him, and all he stood for. But that wasn’t anything personal, it wasn’t about him. It was about her, and her need to make her life mean something. She had realised after her breakdown just how useless and vacuous her life had been. She had been bundled off to Spain, money had been thrown about in huge amounts, and she had once more been expected to digest, to accept, and to forget what had happened to her. Even her granny, God love her, had expected her to just wipe it all away. Forget about it, pretend it had never happened. Kenny Boy, like Granny Mary, had managed to do just that. Like Mary Dooley, Kenny had the knack of deleting from his psyche anything that he saw as troublesome. Well, Jordanna didn’t have that knack, and she had always known that. Imelda could do it, she did it unconsciously; she could edit anything that happened in her life to suit her own ends.
Imelda took after her mother for that and, as much as Jordanna loved her granny, she knew better than anybody just how easy Mary found rewriting history for her own ends. This, after all, was a woman who had buried her husband amid serious accusations and violence, and who had then turned her back on her own sons. This was the same woman who had regularly visited her only daughter in prison, knowing all the while that she had been the cause of her granddaughter’s complete mental breakdown. The same granddaughter that she had taken great pleasure in removing from her only daughter’s orbit all those years before. Jordanna had believed, for all those years, that she had done all that to save her from her mother’s car crash of a life but she now knew that she had actually done it to ensure that she had another family to raise. She had allowed her husband free rein with her first batch of babies, had walked away from her sons and made sure that her daughter’s children were wholly hers. Her granny had her love, she always would, but she had lost her from the day that she had learnt of her granny’s new-found interest in her daughter.
Jordanna couldn’t pretend that things had not happened, couldn’t pretend that she didn’t care: unlike Kenny Boy, whose attitude was if you don’t think about it then it never happened. Her breakdown proved that she did care, that all the things she had pushed aside, that she had forced away, that she had tried to forget, could never be erased, forgotten about. She had been forced to confront them, had been forced to accept them, and she had finally understood that her breakdown had culminated in an act of violence so shocking and so devastating that she would never get over it. She would never again know a day’s real peace, or experience a full night’s sleep.
Unlike her brother, Jordanna wasn’t capable of conveniently forgetting the things that she didn’t want to remember any more. Her trouble was that she remembered them too well, in stunning clarity, and they were the reason that she would never again know a truly happy day.
Kenny Boy was genuinely heartbroken at his sister’s sorrow, he could feel the deep sadness that he knew would always be a part of her. In fact, had always been a part of her since he could remember.
Jordanna had always been there for him, all his life she had been the one person he had known he could rely on. She had been the only person who had never been scared of him, who had never had a hidden agenda. He knew how terrifying he could be, he knew that, like his mother, he was incapable of really caring for anyone, except this woman before him. Jordanna was the only person he had ever loved. His granny Mary had his care, she had his loyalty but, like his mother, she was only really important to him because she was his flesh and blood. Other than Jorge, there was nobody.
Her breakdown had affected him far more than he had ever let on. He had seen it as a personal affront, seen it as something he could not control, that he couldn’t mend, couldn’t make better. He had understood, for the first time in his life, that money and prestige were worthless when you were faced with genuine grief. He had been forced to accept that some things in life were far too important for money to make a difference. Kenny had watched his sister live quite happily in her little house, and saw her try to heal herself with prayer and a belief in a God who he felt, in his darker moments, had abandoned his sister from a very young age.
‘Please, Jordanna, don’t make me feel like I failed you, all I have ever wanted is what was best for you. I still want that.’
Jordanna smiled sadly, and Kenny saw the evenness of her teeth, the kindness in her face that her smile always portrayed. He saw the dark blue of her eyes that, even without make-up, made the person looking into them see the beauty inside her. She had high cheekbones and thick, blond hair that needed a good cut, but still shone with a burnished gold coveted by the majority of women. Jordanna was a real beauty, but the saddest thing of all was that she genuinely didn’t know that. She honestly had no idea just how lovely she really was.
Jordanna had wandered through her life and she had never once realised her true worth, she had stumbled from one fucking disaster to another. Kenny knew that he had turned a blind eye to her problems, had been more than happy to pretend that they had not even existed. He had removed his mother from her orbit, and that had assuaged his guilt for a while. But, deep down, he had known that one day he would have to deal with all of this. Why was it that he only admitted that to himself now?
‘I hate her, Kenny, and I pray every day for that to change. But it doesn’t. In fact, my antipathy for her just seems to deepen, and my capacity for hatred towards her seems to grow stronger by the second. Every time I move away, she tracks me down, and I have to subdue the urge to physically attack her. Destroy her once and for all, because until she is dead and gone, I know I will never experience even one day of real peace. So stop trying to buy me happiness, stop trying to purchase my peace of mind, and please stop believing that one day I will finally let her come back into my life. It will never happen. Unlike you, Kenny, I remember the real Imelda and, unlike you, I know what she is really capable of. I’ll move house again if I have to. I really don’t want to do that, but if that is what it takes, then that is what I am willing to do. You want her, you can have her, but don’t try and palm her off on me. I’ve had just about enough of her to last me a lifetime.’
Kenny saw the distress and the anger in his sister’s face, he felt the hurt as she instinctively stepped away from him, distanced herself from him both physically as well as mentally.
‘She went away for you, and because of that I will be eternally grateful to her. Nan pointed that out to me, Jorge, and she was right.’
Jordanna nodded her hread slowly and Kenny kne
w that she’d had just about enough for one day.
‘Read my lips, Kenny, I really don’t give a flying fuck.’
Imelda was stoned out of her brains; she was unaware of how out of it she actually was, but that was nothing unusual for her. As Imelda cut herself a line of coke, she silently thanked God for her son’s generosity. He knew she had done them a favour and, Imelda being Imelda, she now felt that her selfless act could never really be repaid by her children. As she snorted the large, fluffy white line of cocaine, she allowed herself to dwell on her children’s disrespectful behaviour and their gross ungratefulness. Although her son saw her all right for money and her other sundries, knowing that he was in receipt of serious amounts of wedge, had started to bother her.
Imelda’s sensible head reminded her that she was not to be trusted with money; she admitted that if she had twenty quid, she would spend twenty-one quid. But, all the same, she had come out of nick expecting her children to welcome her with open arms. She had kicked the needle, though she still used occasionally when the urge came over her. In Holloway she had been introduced to the wonders of cocaine. A drug she felt was far more suited to her particular personality. There, heroin users were seen as being below even child killers, and Imelda had understood that from the off. As a murderer, she knew that she would be kept as A-category for a while. So she had weaned herself off the habit with the help of methadone and a social worker from the Gambia who had a sketchy command of the English language and a rather unhealthy habit of believing everything he was told. Consequently, Imelda had had a field day. She had been weaned off the needle, but still maintained the availability of her methadone, and had sold it on in good faith for a tidy profit. Her son’s name had guaranteed her an easy ride, and that was why she now felt confident enough to push her luck as and when the fancy came over her. She had gone inside because she had not had any other options available to her; she had fucked up big time with everyone around her. But she had also come to realise that she was doing a dirty great big favour for her kids at the same time.
Once she had settled in, her fear of her actions and their consequences had faded away. She had realised just what a big favour she had done for them both, after all, her son and daughter were very close, closer than a junkie and their dealer. It didn’t come much closer than that. She had expected her daughter to have at least thanked her for her lost years. She had expected her to appreciate exactly what she had done for her. Instead, she had been on the receiving end of her daughter’s absolute contempt.
Now, her daughter’s constant refusal to even acknowledge her was really rankling. She had conveniently forgotten the past, as was her wont. Imelda had always been capable of editing her life to suit her own purposes. Jordanna’s impudence and repeated rudeness had struck a chord inside her somewhere. Imelda accepted that she might not have been mother of the year, but she felt that her selfless act should have cancelled all those bad feelings out. She owed her mother; Jordanna fucking owed her. And she owed her big time, if not for her, she would have been banged up and forgotten about. After all, it was only her addiction that had helped her get a reduced sentence.
None of her kids had tried to help her with that. She had been left to sort it all out on her own, and as she told herself on a daily basis, that had been the story of her life. Her kids had been like a pair of fucking albatrosses hanging around her neck, dragging her down. At least Kenny Boy had afforded her a measure of entertainment, had grown up to make her proud of him. She prided herself on that much anyway.
In all honesty she had always loathed her daughter, had seen her as the reason for all her bad luck, had blamed her for everything that had ever gone wrong in her life. Yet now she decided Jordanna should recognise her, appreciate what she had done for her. She had done a lot for that ungrateful little whore, and she was determined to see that she was given the credit for it. She would hunt her down, and force the respect from her, if it was the last thing she ever did. She had Kenny Boy onside, so it was only a matter of time before that stuck-up little mare was forced to bend her knee, and finally accept her mother into her life. Because, for all her new-found faith, Jordanna would always be nothing more than the shit on her mother’s shoes. Jordanna thought she was better than everyone else, well, she wasn’t. As Imelda cut herself another line of coke, she couldn’t help smiling; she was now welcome everywhere. She knew that was because of her son and she milked it for all it was worth. It was a matter of principle now, making her daughter come around to her way of thinking, she felt strongly that whatever might have happened in the past, she had cancelled it out.
She needed her daughter’s approbation, because she knew that without it, her precious son would eventually be forced to choose between them, and she also knew that should that scenario ever happen, he was not about to choose her.
‘Nan, she is driving me up the fucking wall. She sits in that fucking little house praying and reading her Bible. I don’t know what she wants from me, I don’t know what I am supposed to do.’
Mary Dooley sighed, she was too old for all this and they both knew it. ‘That girl has had to put up with a lot and, unlike you, she has not been in a position to shrug it off. She killed somebody, someone she loved dearly. Now, I know you might not think that is something important, but she does. So, leave her be, will you?’
Kenny was angry, he knew that his sister had problems, but he also felt that she should be sane enough to let him help her with them. His granny suddenly acting like she was in the know annoyed him: she was the one who had decided that their mother should be brought back into the fold. As far as he was concerned, she should either shit or get off the fucking pot, and he said as much, his anger making him vindictive.
‘You are the one who insisted me mother be treated like visiting royalty; if it was left to me I would have given her a drink and waved her on her way. She is an old brass, she spent her life on her back, pursuing the business, and she was very good at it by all accounts. She thinks that Jorge is a fucking nut-job and she is, she is a fucking Looney Tunes with her praying and her fucking ramblings about the Book of Revelations. I know she flipped her lid, but that was years ago. I think it’s time Jordanna pulled herself together and stopped blaming everyone else for her problems.’
Kenny had finally said what he really thought out loud, and the words didn’t make him feel relieved: they made him feel like a snide, like a grass. He was ashamed of her, knew that she was looked on with disdain, knew that people who saw her and listened to her felt she was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. He loved her, but he hated her for how she was, he resented her for not getting over her depression and making a life for herself.
‘She does nothing, Nan. She looks like the Wreck of the fucking Hesperus, she talks bollocks and she won’t move on. She’s had a few bad breaks but, as you and I know, that’s fucking life. If she doesn’t get a grip soon she never will.’
Mary sat at the kitchen table and watched her grandson as he tried to understand his sister and her way of life. She knew he was incapable of even scratching the surface where Jordanna was concerned, and she was sorry for that. She knew that he was the kind of person who was classed as a doer. He didn’t have the patience for anyone who wasn’t like him, who wasn’t capable enough.
Kenny opened his arms wide in a gesture of defeat. ‘I think we should get her put away again, make her get better this time . . .’
Mary laughed at his audacity. ‘You can’t just put her away because she doesn’t fit into your world, she is happy enough. She is marvellous if you consider what she had to contend with all her life.’
Kenny dismissed her words with a wave of his huge arm, and Mary was reminded of how dangerous this young man actually was. ‘I know she had a bad time, but she has to sort herself out now. Have you seen her lately, Nan? She looks like a fucking immigrant. She goes to Mass three times a day, takes communion three times a day. Look, Nan, I have tried to help her, but she won’t let me. If she would face me mo
ther I think she would be halfway home, but she just fights her. And, in fairness, Mum came up trumps for her. I know I might have made her take the can, but she did her time without letting on about the truth . . .’
Mary was now getting sick and tired of her grandson’s constant insistence that his mother was some kind of fucking saint: she had been the cause of every ill that had befallen this family. She might have been grateful to her for taking the pressure off Jordanna but, considering she should have been banged up years ago it was what she now deemed a moot point.
Standing up with difficulty, Mary walked to her pantry. Opening the door, she removed a bottle of Teachers whisky, poured herself a large tot into a tea cup and swallowed it down quickly. Then, pouring herself out another hefty measure she looked at her grandson who was watching her in awe and she said softly, ‘You don’t know the half of it, Kenny, we all protected you from the truth. Jordanna has the right to do whatever she wants. Leave her be.’
Kenny laughed incredulously, his granny was supposed to be agreeing with him, she was supposed to tell him that he was right, that Jorge needed to be sorted out properly.
‘So I should stand back and let her move again, should I? Watch her find another shithole to rent, and stand by while me mother tracks her down once more? Jordanna needs help, she is still not the full shilling. You know what I am saying is the truth.’
Mary looked at her grandson. He was the love of her life, and because of that she had forgiven him everything. He had been protected all his life from the harsh reality that was his mother’s addiction, and his sister’s destruction. His arrogance and his assumption that his opinion of his sister and her mental state was accurate annoyed her. That he had not understood the reason why his sister had finally exploded made her want to shake him, grab his shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled in his head.