by Doreen Finn
‘I hear y’all are joining us for a little celebration for the Fourth,’ Chris said. With a gesture, he included the three of us children, but he really meant Gemma.
‘I believe we are,’ Gemma replied, as though invitations to Fourth of July parties were a common occurrence.
‘Wonderful.’
I glanced at my mother as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her topknot had all but fallen out, the pencil that she used to keep it in place dangling precariously at the back of her head. A streak of paint was smudged on her cheek, yet still she managed to look utterly beautiful. I knew it. Daniel knew it, Beth knew it. And Chris Jackson, with his suntanned face and his straight white teeth, knew it too.
In that moment, Judith stepped through the French doors. Chris turned casually towards her as if nothing had happened.
‘I’m sure I’ll see you soon,’ he said, touching his forefinger to his temple in a somnolent salute. His eyes didn’t leave Gemma’s as he tugged Beth’s hand. ‘Coming, baby girl?’
Beth said no, not yet.
Chris strolled over to his wife, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He disappeared into the darkness of indoors, Judith following him. The voile curtains stirred in their wake, and came to rest again.
For the rest of the day I wondered if I had imagined it all.
7
The next day was the Fourth of July. Sarah explained that it was like St Patrick’s Day for Americans, their national day. That year, 1976, was a big one because it marked two hundred years since the Declaration of Independence had been adopted. All over America there would be fireworks, parties, barbecues and parades. Americans were very proud people. They loved their country and knew their history. They had no problem hanging flags outside their houses, or putting stickers on their cars saying they were proud to be American. Sarah told me all this during breakfast on our newly painted deck. We sat with our bowls on our laps, watching the early sun burn the haze off the garden. I’d already done the watering, slopping dishwater into the tubs and over the plants. There hadn’t been enough water, though, and I was feeling guilty for leaving so many flowers thirsty.
Church bells chimed. All over the city, Mass-goers were putting on their best clothes, mindful of the heat. The very organised would be at early Mass, the rest of the day open to them, like a clean sheet of paper. Then the tardy would troop to the church later, children whining, mothers determined. It was always the same. Observing them from the window in the front room, I watched families, some in cars, most on foot, beating the same path to Mass every Sunday in the local church. Daniel’s mother went to the Latin Mass at seven on Sunday mornings, then again at half past ten, her children in tow. The routine never changed. Sometimes I wished I could go too, just so we could be normal. I didn’t bother asking, though, because I knew what the answer would be. Any place that rejects your mother, Sarah liked to say, rejects you and me as well. It wasn’t always easy, being on the outside.
From our deck, we could see into the neighbours’ gardens. That was why some of them objected when my grandfather had built it. He’d meant it to be just for going down to the garden, to save Sarah from having to go through the garden flat, back when they first started to rent the flat out. Then he expanded the structure into what we now had. We loved it. It was our lookout on the world behind the house. We could see the low walls of the piggery down the lane that stretched behind the back gardens, the stench of pig sometimes too much to bear. On that morning, though, the piggery was quiet. No snuffling or oinking, no mad dashes for freedom as there often were. Next door, Mrs Doherty was already on her blanket, sunglasses on, her book held up against the sky. Of her husband, there was no sign. Three doors down was the swimming pool, a cobalt oval at the end of the garden, almost completely hidden from view by the overgrowth of trees. Gemma remembered it being lowered over the back wall by six men, then sunk into the ground. We didn’t know any of the people who leased the house, a revolving door of students and short-term renters. The pool had remained dried out, neglected, and until Beth had recalled her father’s episodes of night swimming, I hadn’t thought about it in a long time.
But now a plan was hatching in my head, a means of bringing the swimming pool back to life. Surely no one would notice? Daniel’s mother said that the house was empty for the summer. I’d overheard her telling Sarah. She said that maybe it would be suitable for Beth’s family, would give them more room than our garden flat, but Sarah said that the house three doors away was in no fit state for anyone to live in, not even students. Nothing worked, she said; the windows at the back were cracked and she was sure the place was full of mice. She wouldn’t want anyone to live there. I also knew that Sarah didn’t want the Jacksons moving out because we needed the money from their rent.
But the pool. In my mind it loomed – large, blue, deep. I could almost feel the cool water as though I were submerged, washed clean of the summer dust that coated my skin.
I would need help in restoring it.
Daniel’s mother appeared and began hanging washing out on the line. That was unusual enough in itself. She was so religious that she never did any work on Sunday, except for cooking a simple dinner. No cleaning, no laundry, nothing. She was fond of quoting the Bible on Sundays. She was fond of quoting it any chance she got, but especially on Sundays. And God blessed the seventh day, and declared it holy, because it was the day when He rested from all His work of creation. Nothing was so important that it made her work on Sundays, not even gardening. And there she was, only in the door from Latin Mass and she was hanging out washing. But, as Sarah said, heat made people funny, made them do strange things. And that was a hot day, even though it was early, only just gone eight o’clock.
Sarah fanned herself with a handkerchief. I sipped water from a glass. On the chair beside me were my sketchpad and a new box of pencils that Gemma had bought for me when she went to get her paints. I touched their sharpened tips, ran my thumb over the impressions they left in my fingertips. A ladybird landed on my knee and crawled speculatively around before opening up its curved wings and taking off. The sky was drenched in colour, the day thick with possibility.
8
It wasn’t until much later that day that we saw the Americans. Sarah, Gemma and I took the eleven o’clock bus for Dun Laoghaire to spend the day escaping the stupor of heat that was dragging the city under. The bus was packed with day trippers making for the shore. Families with children and an abundance of buckets and spades, teenagers in groups and couples. There were some individuals in their Sunday best, maybe destined for church or an early Sunday lunch. Not having a car meant it wasn’t as easy to drive off somewhere cooler, find a river miles away and drop a fishing line in, or a field to throw down a rug and have a picnic. The sea was the best we could do, but it always worked. Sarah had packed sandwiches and a flask of tea, Gemma folded rugs and swimming things, and everything had been stuffed into a couple of oversized bags.
When we arrived at the tiny beach at Sandycove, the sun was high and it glinted off the sea. The water was green and mild, and there was enough room to spread out. Splashing with my mother was the best bit of all. I ran and she chased me, while Sarah sat with her back to the stone wall, the tiny cove a perfect crescent around us.
I swam underwater, my waterlogged ears muting sound. Down there, everything was darker, greener. Sand was kicked up by my thrashing limbs. Seawater swirled past my eyes, a billion minuscule bubbles set in motion by my movements. My mother’s legs were dark shadows ahead of me. I kicked off, grabbed her, pulled her under. We both surfaced, spitting water, laughing. Water ran in rivulets down her face. Her long dark hair was plastered to her shoulders, down her arms. She blew water off her lower lip and kissed me.
Later, eating our picnic, I thought how lucky I was. I didn’t need anyone else. I had Gemma and Sarah to care for me.
Sometimes, rarely, Sarah suggested that Gemma should meet someone. By someone, she meant a man. Sarah wanted Gemma to have someone to t
ake care of her, to keep her company. My mother had gone out with men, but it wasn’t a regular occurrence. Gemma preferred to be with me, with Sarah and me. Men didn’t really want to be with her, I heard her say once to her friend Ruth. They just wanted to see what they could get for themselves. I had no idea what they wanted, but Gemma was convinced that it was only one thing. That was another thing I heard her say. They only want one thing, and they’re not getting it from me. That sort of thing made her sad and a bit angry. I was glad she didn’t want a man, a husband.
Beth had asked me again, more than once, about my father. What could I say? He was a closed book. It’s not that he had gone to work one day and forgotten to come back, like Daniel’s dad. He simply didn’t exist any more. There was no dad, no man who had been around at the beginning. What there was, was an unmarked resting place, a mound of earth under which Felipe reposed. I didn’t know where it was, and nor, I assumed, did Gemma – not that I asked her.
Beth liked secrets. She liked whispering about things, liked talking behind her hands, behind closed doors, liked beckoning me to sit with her while she told me things, things like night swimming and why her parents were sad. I didn’t want to hear her secrets. There were a few in my own life and I didn’t have space in my head for anyone else’s. Gemma’s attic ghosts for starters. They swirled above my head, kept things in the attic safe. Kept my mother safe. Beth wanted to tell me about her father, and why they’d moved to Ireland. Something about a girl at the university, a line Chris overstepped. She tried to tell me about her mother. Sometimes Judith sat with bottles of wine, Beth confided, and only stopped drinking them when they were empty. Sometimes, but not all the time.
I didn’t know what to do with other people’s secrets. They were secret for a reason – so that no one else could know them. Secrets were for keeping, for guarding and making sure they stayed unknown. You couldn’t decide to pass them around like a box of sweets at a party, with everyone being allowed to choose which one they wanted. Maybe that was why I liked being Daniel’s friend. He didn’t pressurise me the way girls did. He knew me and accepted me as I was. There were no conditions with him. He was my friend. I was his. It was very simple.
Gemma snapped her fingers in front of my face. ‘Earth to Megan.’
I looked at her. The stone wall was warm against my bare back, the sand cool and damp under my legs. The remains of my sandwich flopped between my fingers. I stuffed it quickly into my mouth. ‘What?’
‘Ice cream?’
I nodded.
‘With chocolate?’
‘Please.’
Sarah looked at her watch. ‘We should get moving soon after that. That way we won’t have to rush back. It’s not fair to be late.’
Judith had said she wanted to start the party at six. She had managed to borrow a barbecue for the evening from another American family living nearby, and she was spending the day leading up to the party making food.
‘Who’s going to this party besides ourselves?’ Gemma asked Sarah as she rummaged in one of the big bags for her purse.
‘I’m not sure. She’s asked the Sullivans, but I can’t see them going.’
‘Is Daniel going too?’ The possibility of having him there lessened my apprehension about spending the long evening with only Beth for company.
Gemma dug through her purse, shook change onto her towel. ‘Her nibs might lead us in a decade of the rosary. To keep the sin away and all that.’
Sarah was gently admonishing. ‘Not in front of the child.’
‘She’s not stupid, Mother. She can see for herself.’
‘See what?’ My mother and grandmother often did that, spoke over me when I was sitting right there with them. ‘What can I see?’
Gemma shushed me. ‘Nothing, don’t worry about it. Now, three ice creams and then we’ll make tracks for home.’
She walked over to the striped van that sold ice cream, her wet ponytail swinging. The van was parked where it always was, up on the footpath. It was the only van that we ever bought ice cream from. The man had been coming to this spot since Gemma was a child, and there was always a queue.
As Gemma waited in line, I struggled into my T-shirt and shorts while Sarah held a towel around me. Once dressed, Sarah and I packed up our things. I gathered our towels and shook them hard. Sand flew into the air. It settled on my legs, my arms. Walking to the water, I rinsed my skin. Tiny waves sucked at my feet. The sun dried my arms, leaving shadows of salt on my skin. I stooped to pick up some shells for Daniel. Then we stacked the buckets inside each other, wrapped our wet swimming things inside the towels, and threw the remnants of our picnic into the bin. My hair I yanked into a ponytail. I was sticky from the salt water and it was an effort to get the elastic around it.
‘A bath for you when we get home,’ Sarah said. ‘Just a small one. We don’t want to waste water.’
The walk to the bus stop was punctuated by the slap of our flip-flops on the hot pavement. My ice cream melted in the hot sunshine. I licked it off my fingers. Around us, people lazed on blankets, boys threw Frisbees, dogs sat panting, tongues hanging out. Old people sat on benches along the seafront, pointing out things to each other. A sailboat, perhaps, or the staggered walk of a toddler on the shoreline. The sun was relentless, burning my eyes. Gemma had sunglasses, large dark discs that obscured her face and in the same instant made her look like a film star. Not for the first time, I noticed men noticing her. Not in the subtle way Chris Jackson had noticed her, but in an open, gaping way. Stop it, I wanted to shout. Don’t look at her. She’s my mother.
Gemma finished her ice cream, wiped her fingers on a tissue, brushed cone crumbs off her sundress. Catching me watching her, she smiled at me, pinched my nose.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine.’
She slung her arm around my shoulder, kissed the top of my head. ‘You’re getting taller, do you know that?’
I didn’t know, but it thrilled me. Beth was so much taller than me; maybe soon I’d catch up.
Gemma rubbed my bare arm. ‘Don’t grow up too quickly, do you hear me?’
I smiled up at her. ‘I won’t.’
‘What would I do without my baby girl?’
I pressed my face to my mother’s middle. She smelled like she always did – of warm skin, cotton and the faded scent of her green-tea perfume. I didn’t even know what green tea was, but it smelled wonderful.
Sailboats were triangular flashes of colour far out in the bay. Seagulls spiralled overhead, wheeling like bits of discarded paper. Flowers wilted in beds. The sea moved imperceptibly, layered in blue all the way to the horizon. I wanted to catch the afternoon, spin it out for as long as I could. The heat, the sun on my skin, and Gemma and Sarah on either side of me. We were in no hurry to get home. There was still plenty of time.
9
Being late for a party in your own garden is strange. By the time we arrived home, washed, changed, went downstairs and rang the doorbell of the garden flat – like proper visitors, as Sarah had insisted – everyone else was already in full party mode. Daniel was standing by a small table, his hand in a bowl of crisps. Stevie skulked behind him, his face cloudy. Mrs Sullivan stood with her twin girls gathered at her legs. She held a glass of orange juice in one hand, the other hand fiddling with her silver crucifix. Despite the heat, she was dressed as though for Mass, her good blouse fussy and out of place in the simmering late afternoon heat, her skirt in rigid pleats to her knees. Her hair was held back with a tortoiseshell clip. A wide grey streak ran from her forehead and disappeared into her clip. She was staring off into the distance. Probably thinking about Father Bob and the next letter she would write to him. She smiled when she saw me, touched my cheek with her fingertips.
‘Hello, pet. Did you have a nice time at the beach?’
I nodded, accepted the kiss she placed on my head. The back of my leg itched with sunburn and I scratched it with the strap of my sandal. Gemma had tried to insist on my wearing sandals and
a dress. I hated dresses and so we’d compromised – I was allowed to wear shorts, but with a sleeveless top that Ruth had brought me from Spain. It was white cotton, with tiny figures embroidered across the front. Judith was directing Beth towards a long table draped with a white cloth. Food was piled in dishes in a straight line down the centre of the table. Bunches of flowers in small vases were dotted at intervals. Unlit candles squatted in jam jars all over the garden. A black grill smoked in a corner. Chris stood with a long fork, poking periodically at whatever was being cooked. There were other adults I didn’t recognise standing around, glasses in hand. Shouts of laughter punctuated the various conversations as exotic smells that I hadn’t encountered before filled my nostrils.
I glanced around for Sarah, spied her carrying two bowls of salad to the table. She smiled at something Judith said, then shook hands with a tall woman in a short, lime-green skirt and bare feet. I strained to hear their conversation, but they were too far away. On the patio near the French doors, a record player belted out The Doors.
My mother hadn’t appeared yet. She had some things to do before joining us. I knew what she wanted. A bath, with plenty of water and no Sarah around to object. Gemma would wash her hair, lie back in the lavender water and have a short burst of time to herself. Sometimes I watched my mother in the bath. It was always the same. Lavender oil, smoky steam spiralling, water almost spilling over the edge of the cast-iron, claw-footed bath. Her hair swirled on the surface, her eyes closed. Unobserved, I had seen my mother cry in the bath once, as though the heat and the steam and the privacy of our large bathroom allowed her sadness to seep out. Gemma wasn’t given to sitting around swamped in sorrow, but there was something that made her sad and at times it just had to be let out.