Hood

by Emma Donoghue

  I suck soft air into my mouth. This rooftop is no longer attached; it has become our flying carpet, nine miles above the convent, sailing nearer to the sun. Cara is pulling up her hem. She is so near I can hear her breathe. She is cradled in my hot skirt. I would do anything for this girl. I will make her smile, make merry, make up for it all.

  MONDAY

  I woke wet, my body straining to her ghostly wrist.

  Three full seconds of lull after I slapped off the alarm clock, before a great fist punched me in the guts.

  I lay still for a moment under the shock of it. Then my soles thumped the carpeted boards, my hand lunged for the hairbrush. September sun was blazing through the window. Snap the bra shut with practised fingers, eight strides to the bathroom, face, teeth, underarms, eight strides back.

  The phone rang twice, but Mr. Wall got it. I could hear his subdued vowels in the hall.

  I had certain techniques for rationing emotion and making the hours click by. I was fairly sure I could do it, having got through other days which were each the first day after something unspeakable. If you put all those previous losses together they might add up to something approaching this one, and similarly, I reasoned, pulling on a loose skirt and shirt and my baggiest grey cardigan, my strengths would add up and be sufficient. Else what? the remaining third of a broken button asked me, but I ignored it and reached for my shoes. Eyes low, averted from everything that might remind me, which would have to include most things. Knotting my laces in a double bow, I focused on the blank wall, and saw the grey smear where Cara dabbed correction fluid on a scuff mark the day before she went to Greece. I shut my eyes and concentrated on my laces.

  Straightening the pockets of yesterday’s trousers, I found my ‘To Do’ list and used a seashell pin to stick it to the cork board over the desk, between a rumpled sticker that said Cork Women’s Weekend is Fun in ’91 and a photo of Grace dangling resentfully from the hammock a couple of summers ago. It was blurred, but then Grace was often blurred.

  When I reached the kitchen, the windows were foggy and the kettle had boiled dry. There was an evil-smelling black patch on its base. I wrapped it in a paper bag and pushed it deep into the bin, then boiled a cupful of water in a saucepan. The tea tasted faintly of garlic.

  Grace was up on his hind paws scratching at the back door, his outraged orange face pressed against the glass. Though there was a cat-flap cut for him, he sometimes disdained to use it. I let him in and crouched to stroke him, but his spine shrank under my touch. He headbutted the fridge. He had eaten already, but who was I to stint him at a time of trouble?

  Watching the anonymous meat glisten, I couldn’t face breakfast. Mr. Wall was nowhere to be seen; he must have put the kettle on to boil then forgotten all about it, something as foreign to his usual careful behaviour as if he had gone to work with no trousers on. I left a scrawl on the phone pad: ‘If Kate rings from airport I’ll be back by nine – Pen.’ Handbag on one wrist, money, tissues, car keys, more tissues in case of hysteria, then run. Grace tried to follow me out the door, but I held him back with the side of my shoe.

  At the red light I braked and removed the tiny black triangle from my lobe with shaky fingers. Not that the nuns would be contemporary enough to interpret it, even if I forgot, but if you were going to live in a closet you might as well make it draught-proof.

  The little light above Sister Dominic’s office was green, so it was safe to knock. As always, this door reduced me to twelve years old. Though there had been a decent interval of five years between my leaving the senior school and coming back to teach in the junior, where I had never been a pupil myself, sometimes it seemed that I had been a prisoner of Immac all my life, and this woman my gracious warder.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ The Dominatrix had her inspiring Monday smile on, and a camel-coloured week-at-a-glance diary open in front of her.

  I cleared my throat, to give my voice some authority. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be needing a few days off, Sister.’

  The pale brown mouth began to furl.

  ‘I know it’s dreadful to give you no notice but I only heard yesterday.’ This scene was going to be harder than I thought.

  ‘This will cause some hiccups in our schedule. A crisis of some sort, Penelope? A bereavement perhaps?’

  I nodded. Which word, out of all the wrong words? ‘My friend’s dead.’ A glossy walnut cross hung on Sister Dominic’s linen chest, holding my eyes. Concentrate, Pen, sound convincing, you’ve years of lying behind you. ‘My housemate. In a crash.’

  Her eyes grew owlish. ‘My poor dear girl. Would you like to sit down and have a cup of tea?’

  I was alarmed to find myself lacking the energy even to want to scrape my ring into Sister Dominic’s windpipe. I shook my head. How I wished I could make up a story, a complete and safe fiction. Maybe a fiancé in a private plane, call him Séamas, say, and let him plummet out of the blue in the Australian outback, and let me cross the world with a black mantilla over my eyes, and don’t ask me any more questions, Sister. But nuns had long memories, and some geriatric at the convent’s unseen dinner table would be bound to connect me with the death notice about that poor skinny Wall girl, the redhead with the broken home. That was their term for such things, as if when a wife walked out of her house the walls rent themselves in protest and the children were left coughing in the debris.

  Sister Dominic waited a few judicious seconds for the tears. I looked her in the eye. ‘Maybe, I was wondering, if I could have up to Wednesday – that’s the funeral – I have to make arrangements, there are family visiting – and be back on Thursday.’ Grammar fell apart in her presence.

  The nun consulted her book; the turning leaves sighed. ‘Rather a pity you didn’t think to ring the convent last night. I suppose we could bring in that nice Dundalk girl if it’s no more than three days; she’s always grateful for the work. We don’t want your class to be falling behind, so early in the term.’ Sister Dominic looked over her bifocals with the eyes of a Baroque martyr. ‘I don’t suppose you could go to them now and keep them occupied until I can get hold of the girl? Just till lunchtime?’

  Thirty faces rose in front of me, squealing their requests. ‘No, Sister, I’m afraid not, sorry. I have to pick up some visitors from the airport.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’ Sister Dominic shut her book with a weighty snap. ‘I’ll have to send Sister Barbara to sit with them if she’s feeling up to it. Now I would love to say a little prayer with you for consolation, but I’m in too much of a hurry; as you know, I don’t like to begin Assembly much past 9.03. You may be sure I’ll have all the children pray for the repose of the soul of…what did you say your friend’s name was?’

  ‘Cara.’ My throat locked on the word.

  ‘Of poor Tara.’

  I wanted to claw the name back out of her mouth. She didn’t even remember her, after six years of merciless teasing about redheads.

  ‘Well, Penelope, God grant us all such a swift end.’

  Any minute now she’d inform me that the good died young. ‘See you on Thursday, Sister,’ I muttered, backing out of her office as if away from a throne.

  I walked downstairs like a zombie. Robbie was staple-gunning his children’s pictures to the noticeboard; he looked relieved to see anyone out of pigtails. I tried to get by with a limp smile, but he called me back. ‘Where you off to at nine in the morning, hen?’

  ‘Going home.’

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ he said in a careful whisper.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ I told him; such an awful euphemism. And then a sudden need for company seized me. ‘If you’ve a free now, could you come for a coffee?’

  Robbie pushed his fringe out of his eyes. ‘When have I ever got a free? After getting this lot of potato prints on to the wall I’ve thirty-six infants to club to death.’

  I glanced at the rows of printed hearts, clowns’ faces, and something that looked like a purple mushroom, repeated over and over, getting fainter towards the
bottom of the paper. How good it would be to be five again, with nothing to do but cut slices out of potatoes.

  ‘Monday morning, and I’m panting for the weekend already,’ he yawned. ‘You ever going to come walking with me and Sheila and the pups?’

  ‘Some Sunday, definitely. Give me a ring later, maybe?’ I asked him, my voice getting a little vibrato. ‘Only if you’re not busy,’ I called, and crashed out through the swing doors into the warm air.

  Down in the loose gravel of the car park, squashed damsons from an overhanging tree sent up a whiff of ferment. Scrabbling in my handbag for Minnie’s keys, I let my eyes rest on the grass. Across the back lawn a red uniform came loping. Whoever she was, she was going to be late for Assembly. Carroty hair, clashing with the jumper. Shorter, too; a much more ordinary body than the one it had reminded me of.

  If I shut my eyes I could see Cara in uniform still, though I had watched her rip it up with relish on the day of the sixth-year party. The red hood she hated in particular; once, bored at the bus stop, she buttoned it on the wrong way round, over her face, and tried to get me to lead her on to the bus, with her repeating, ‘I am noth a monsther. I am the elephanth woman.’

  Seventeen and a half, she looked, as long as I knew her. It came flooding at me now, as I stared over the car door at the redhead pounding towards the side entrance, the distillation of god knew how many wintry afternoons.

  Ten minutes after the bell I stride out of the school gate with my gaberdine hood up and shielding my face, just in case the day is considering another dash of rain. My mind is full of algebra and whether Mum will have bought any bread. I am always hungry in winter. Halfway to the bus stop, I hear feet flapping behind me on the pavement.

  Cara, who was supposed to be out sick. I have to hug her, she looks so Snow White with the cold.

  ‘Get your hands off me.’ She recoils.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You could get us both expelled.’

  ‘Friends hug,’ I tell her forlornly.

  ‘Not in uniform.’

  I fall into step beside her. ‘I don’t see why you’re giving out to me, I’m not the one who’s been skiving off.’

  ‘I amn’t skiving exactly.’ When I scan Cara’s pale face, her eyes dip to the ground. ‘I did come in today,’ she says, ‘but when I got off the bus I couldn’t face it, with it being Thursday and all.’

  ‘What have you got against Thursdays?’

  She gives me a pained look. ‘No Art.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘I knew I wouldn’t get a glimpse of her all day unless I could contrive to be hanging round the noticeboards at the exact second when she’d be coming out of the staff-room.’

  ‘Ah, Cara, there’s more to life.’ I cannot stop the exasperation from welling out.

  She stops in her tracks, suddenly witch-faced. ‘No there isn’t. What’s with you, are you turning jealous on me? If you can’t accept –’

  ‘I’ve always accepted it.’ Careful now, Pen, soften the voice again. ‘You know that your, what you feel for Mrs. Mew, is the thing I admire most about you.’

  Cara nods reverently, and we fall into step again. ‘You see why I couldn’t face today. It made more sense to stay away from school and dream of her. I knew I’d do her more good that way.’

  We stop at the oak on the corner, and I glance at the bus stop too briefly for her to notice. Probably missed it already. ‘So what did you do all day?’

  ‘Hung around the Proddie cemetery mostly; they’ve got such funny double-barrelled names. Sheltered in the hardware shop when it was raining.’

  ‘Did you have your pack lunch at least?’ I know I sound like a mother but I need to ask.

  ‘Cheese sandwiches, but I left them at home; couldn’t have faced them anyway.’

  My face sinks. ‘Ah petal, you need your protein. So what did you eat all day?’

  ‘I must have overdosed on sherbet because I was sick behind a tomb statue of a little girl with wings. I hope she didn’t mind.’

  ‘You can’t go on like this.’ My voice snaps harder than I meant.

  Cara stares down at me as if I have stabbed her under the arm. The plump lower lip juts. ‘But that’s what I said to you on the phone last night, and you said yes I could, if I thought positive thoughts and had lots of comforting hot baths.’

  I take a heavy breath. ‘No, what I meant was you could go on with life, with coping – but this isn’t coping.’

  ‘I cope,’ she says in surprise, wiping her fringe out of her eyes. ‘I haven’t run away to sea or anything. Bet you wish I would, though,’ she adds.

  ‘No I don’t.’ I find it hardest to sound convincing when I am telling the truth.

  ‘Bet you do sometimes. Didn’t realize you’d be letting yourself in for all this when we became sort-of-girlfriends, did you?’

  ‘It has its compensations,’ I tell her, and she grins wider than a slice of melon. ‘So. How long have you been lurking out here?’

  ‘Couple of hours, I think. Left my watch at home so I had to guess by the sun. I thought you might come out early,’ Cara adds wistfully; ‘hadn’t you got a double free after Maths?’

  I lean back against the hedge, then feel the wet and straighten up. ‘No, sorry, I stayed in the library, it’s easier to work there than at home.’

  ‘You’re a swot. You prefer books to me.’

  ‘No I don’t. Listen, petal, I’m really sorry I didn’t come out earlier, but you mustn’t stand round in the cold.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Cara is perking up, twisting her cow’s lick between her fingers. ‘Can I come home with you now?’

  ‘Ah, you know you can’t.’

  She opens her grey eyes till she is Deirdre of the Sorrows. She knows I’m a sucker for that look. ‘I wouldn’t be any bother.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair to surprise Mammy with a visitor on a Thursday.’

  ‘Why, does she hate Thursdays too?’ asks Cara.

  ‘No, you eejit. Daddy’s payday’s Friday.’

  ‘So?’

  I am ridiculously awkward. ‘So Mammy won’t have been shopping yet, and we might have nothing but baked beans in the house, and Gavin will be mouthing off.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says, her forehead still furrowed. ‘My dad shops every two days, I think. But I like baked beans,’ she smiles.

  ‘Oh, stop it.’

  Cara can change tactics faster than anyone I know. ‘Tell your mother I’m not hungry, I’ll wait in your room.’

  ‘And that’s another thing, the walls are paper-thin.’

  ‘Ah da pur wee gurlie, is she ashamed?’ She skips around me.

  ‘It’s not about shame, it’s about getting thrown out into the street without a spare sock.’

  ‘You’ve got me, I’m your old s.o.g. But your parents wouldn’t throw you out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet money on it. Anyway, it would be worse if they let me stay but had thrown me out inside, if you know what I mean.’

  Cara takes pity on my incoherence, and puts her chilly hand deep into my gaberdine pocket to find my thumb. ‘I only meant, they’re not likely to guess; we look like all the other pairs of best friends. Let me come over, and I promise I won’t squeak this time.’

  My head shakes, heavy as a marionette.

  ‘Ah, please please please. I’ll twiddle your nipples.’

  ‘Stop it, they can hear you.’ I allow a smile to bubble up. ‘Why can’t you go home to your own house?’

  Her face is sullen. ‘It spooks me.’

  ‘But it’s so roomy, and all that lovely furniture, and your father’s so nice.’

  Cara pulls her fingers out of my pocket. ‘He’s not on this planet most of the time. He comes in for tea from the library with his fingers grey from those mouldy old books. It’s a ghost house since the others went to the States. If I go into the middle bedroom I always feel Kate watching me in case I touch her trophies or try on her clothes.’

  I restrain my head f
rom turning towards the bus stop. ‘Look, love, if you go home now I’ll ring you at eight.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘If I have my Biology done. And I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and we’ll go to the woods and I’ll make you smile.’

  Without changing colour, Cara can give the impression of going pink. ‘If you really want to.’

  I am winning. ‘And no following me on the next bus and hanging round outside the kitchen window; you scared Mum witless last time.’

  ‘I said all right. But what’ll I do tonight?’

  Not wanting to trip at the last hurdle, I scan my memory. ‘Top of the Pops is on; that gorgeous Mexican woman might have made it into the top ten. And you could have a long scorcher of a bath.’

  ‘Borrrring.’ My sort-of-girlfriend smiles, showing her canines.

  ‘I’ll ring you at eight.’

  ‘Seven. Pen?’ Her face slipping again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me nice things.’

  I turn back, weakened by compassion. ‘We could go to the mountains on Saturday.’

  ‘No, but about her, Mrs. Mew. I won’t see her all weekend.’

  An inspiration: ‘The photos of the school concert will be ready; you’ll have your own picture of her.’

  Cara’s face lights up then fades in one wave. ‘It’s hopeless. Be honest with me, amn’t I pathetic?’

  ‘No you’re not. More nice things, let’s see. Not long to Christmas.’

  ‘You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel there.’ She plucks a tiny leaf from the hedge and sets it in my palm; it holds a platinum drop of rain.

  ‘Bye now, love.’

  ‘Pen?’

  Her voice melts my exasperation, and I walk back one more time. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you, I was wondering, do you still love me when I’m not here?’

  ‘When are you not here?’

  ‘When I’m not with you.’