Carn

by Patrick McCabe

  She began to feel as if she were intruding on Benny and Joe Noonan. They no longer spoke directly to her, the northmen often talking behind their hands in her presence, as if they quietly disapproved of her. Finally one night, when her anxiety had backed her into a corner, Sadie blurted out nervously, “Benny—are you going to give in your notice or are you not?”

  Benny looked away and ran his fingers through his hair. He pulled her close to him. Then he looked at her and with honesty in his face said, “I can’t. Not now. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

  She looked at him and felt nothing. “That’s it then,” she said as they stood there outside her house, listening to the rattle of the torn chicken wire at the bottom of Mr Galvin’s garden.

  Some weeks later, she told him of her pregnancy without any hysterics. He did not say anything, just passed his motorbike helmet from hand to hand as if he had somehow forgotten who she was.

  In her cottage in the Hairy Mountains, Josie Keenan answered the telephone to hear Pat Lacey’s voice at the other end of the line. “Josie—I need to see you. Please! Can I come out? Please say I can come out, Josie . . .”

  Josie soothed him as he cried, her mind far away as the rain dribbled down the window pane.

  And not long after that, the town of Carn froze when it heard how Blast Morgan had lifted a bundle of rags in the doorway of the Home Bakery and cursing, “Bloody tinkers, never clean up after them,” had tossed it into his bin before being blown twenty feet across the street with half his stomach hanging out.

  Part Two

  X

  It was some years later.

  The Christmas tree swung into place and its roped branches unfurled like wings across the The Diamond. Jack Murphy, the secretary of Carn Council, stood back and mopped his brow, observing it from every angle like a photographer gauging a shot. “She’s a beauty,” he said, and the other members of the council concurred, taking this as the signal to break into animated conversation about the tasks that still faced them. There was the Meals on Wheels Jumble Sale; the Fire Brigade Party for the itinerants; the annual Dinner Dance; and of course the Christmas party for the old folks. “No rest for the wicked,” laughed the chairman as he rubbed his hands with a cloth and set off across The Diamond.

  Christmas bells were ringing in Carn.

  There was snow above on the hill where the lights of the meat plant twinkled merrily as the noise of squealing beasts tumbled out across the fields of the hinterland. In the Sacred Heart Church, the baby Jesus was snug in his crib and the candles were being lit for midnight Mass. Carols jingled in the shops. Alec Hamilton’s Five-Star Supermarket was lit up like a ship and had no intention of closing until well after ten. Alec Hamilton himself stood in the doorway in his brown coat welcoming all his customers personally and wishing them a merry festive season. Not to be outdone the new Hypermarket across the road was raffling no less than ten turkeys. There had been dances for the past four nights in The Sapphire Ballroom. The Golden Chip restaurant had undergone complete refurbishment and was now called Pete’s Pizza Parlour, its dayglo menus advertising the best in hamburgers and mouth-watering pizzas specially prepared by Sergio who now wore a striped uniform with a name badge on the chest.

  Dusty snow fell on the slated rooftops of Dolan Square where the neatly-painted black letters commemorated the valiant deeds of Matt Dolan. The windows of the upstairs lounge in the Turnpike Inn lit up suddenly and music blared out into the main street as Dekko and his Jetflite Disco began his evening stint. At the counter James Cooney stood with his chin resting on his hand as a worker insisted, “You and me were at school together James. You had the brains. Not many saw it then but I knew it all along. Without you where would this town be? On the rubbish tip, that’s where James.”

  On the wall Davy Crockett had a sprig of holly pinned to his nose. John F. Kennedy was criss-crossed with flags. The huge video screen at the back blared incessantly. There was an insatiable demand for the mince pies from the microwave.

  MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL read the cardboard letters above the entrance.

  And the Christmas tree, bedecked with coloured bulbs, looked down over all from the centre of the The Diamond, as they swarmed from the disco and The Sapphire to the Yankee Doodle Burger House and Pete’s Pizza Parlour and then towards home, the snow covering their tracks as Francie Mohan fell across the square shouting about the boat train and the brown paper parcel. Then the lights went off in the Turnpike Inn and James Cooney checked the doors again before saying goodnight to his staff and sliding into his BMW.

  His new mansion three miles outside the town was the envy of all, with its swimming pool, jacuzzi and pillars like a Greek temple.

  The factory was poised like a puma on the hill, ready for action at six-thirty and not a minute later.

  In the town hall, Pat Lacey, since chosen as Mayor of Carn in two successive elections, finished off his meeting with Father Kelly who had privately come to his house on a number of occasions in order to persuade him to become secretary of the newly founded Anti-Divorce League. The priest felt that a man of his popularity could do much to influence the people and hold back the insidious tide of alien values and beliefs that was threatening to destroy the traditional way of life in Carn and in Ireland as a whole.

  He visited constantly until Pat Lacey had little choice but to consent. So now, after this latest meeting, Pat Lacey was not only the President of Carn Rovers FC and the Mayor of Carn, but was now the official secretary of the Carn branch of The Anti-Divorce League.

  Then Carn turned over in its bed, checked the money in its pocket and went off to sleep as happy as it had ever been, the little spot of bother with the bomb some years back already fading into memory.

  There was one man in the town who had of late acquired a profile almost as high as that of James Cooney.

  That was JR Ewing, the dude rancher and oil magnate from Dallas, Texas. Almost every conversation, no matter what the subject, managed to include a reference to him or his family at some stage. There were very few who did not tune in weekly to catch up on his mischievous deeds in the world of high finance, and those who vowed they wouldn’t be caught dead watching often sneaked the odd private look into his glittering world. He split the town in two. One half loved him and the other hated him. They spoke of the characters as if they were real living flesh and blood. The toyshops and newsagents were filled with portraits, magazines and souvenirs relating to the Ewing family. Their white mansion beamed from the window of The Hypermarket. The back windows of cars sported triangular stickers which queried Who loves JR Ewing? The daily newspapers carried stories of their social and sexual exploits which were devoured with glee and the Sunday supplements were eagerly awaited as they often ran stories which were lavishly illustrated with photographs of the interior of the Ewing mansion. They took away the breath of the people who lived in The Park and The Terrace.

  On their way home from the butcher’s, Sadie listened without interruption as Benny’s mother breathlessly outlined the story of the most recent episode. Sadie nodded at the appropriate intervals. By the time they reached the house, she had got on to Coronation Street and the most recent atrocity in the north. Sadie did not interrupt her flow. Since the blistering row they had had over Josie’s babysitting Tara, she wanted to keep their exchanges as anaemic and neutral as possible. She winced as she recalled the older woman’s bitterness. “Do you know who that woman is, do you? Do you know who you’re letting into your house, do you? Have you no sense, letting her near your child? Benny, for God’s sake talk sense into her . . .”

  She had persisted until Sadie, worn out and for the sake of peace, had been forced to decline Josie’s persistent offers until it dawned on her and she no longer made it her business to pass by Abbeyville Gardens on her visits to the town. When they met on the street, conversation between them now was stilted and awkward. “Why do you never call now?” Sadie said. “Too busy,” Josie laughed, “haven’t a minute to
myself.” But Sadie knew. And she knew. And it made Sadie feel sick when she thought of it.

  “There’s not much sense in me waiting until Benny gets home. God knows what time he’ll be off that nightshift. The sooner that stops the better.”

  She kissed the sleeping child on the forehead and Sadie saw her to the door. She watched as she went down the road and turned the corner to the Jubilee Terrace where Sadie’s old house lay idle since her mother’s death. Her mother-in-law faded from sight and Sadie shrugged. She went inside and made herself a coffee. She switched on the television but there was nothing on any channel but football. Although she had no interest in it she left it on and sat drinking her coffee, waiting for the first sign of a stir from Tara. The terrace crowd chanted as she staved off her growing unease. She had nothing to complain about, she told herself. Nothing. What was she worrying about? What could she have done about Josie? Mrs Dolan would have gone on and on and on about it. There was nothing else she could have done. She did it for the sake of peace.

  No, she had nothing to complain about. Things had improved in the last year. It wasn’t like it had been. Not remotely. Then it had been hard. She had never dreamed then she’d come this far.

  That day on their honeymoon in The Atlantic Hotel. Benny sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette and staring out the open window at the ocean. “It’ll be all right,” she said, “won’t it Benny?” He turned to her and laid a hand on her forearm. “It’s going to be okay Sadie,” he said. “It just took us by surprise, that’s all.”

  After that, when they had returned, the shadow of Mrs Dolan hovered about the house at all hours. Bootees and small cardigans piled up in cupboards and women stopped her in the street regaling her with stories of pregnancies past and present. “For God’s sake,” said a former colleague from the factory, “don’t go to Doctor Patton—he gave our Mary a turned-in foot.”

  Faces lit up as they uttered the words “colic”, “uterus” and “heartburn”. She had begun to swell and she felt Benny drawing away from her. She knew it was through no fault of his own, perplexed by these things women had made their own, with whispered talk of “cystitis”, “lactations” and “backache”.

  She lay tense in the night watching the moon on the bedroom window and slowly coming to the realisation that things were never going to be the same again. She had strange dreams. Of herself in stirrups with whitecoated doctors sawing and pulling out of her as she felt its squirming body wrenched away from her, looking down to see the grotesque head of a devil. She had behaved erratically at that time, bursting into tears while sweeping the kitchen or standing staring into space while shopping in the supermarket. Una called regularly to console her. “Never mind those scaremongers,” she said, “they’ll tell you everthing but the good news. You can be sure of that. I had our John in an hour. Out he popped like a cork. You won’t know yourself afterwards.” But when Sadie’s turn came, her daughter didn’t pop out like a cork. She was taken to hospital two weeks early and had to lie unattended for hours at a time in a lime green ward surrounded by glum women who stroked the mountains of their bellies and leafed sullenly through magazines. When the contractions started, she floated through space and the only sound she heard from the earth was the squeaking of wheels on a trolley as they led her into a gleaming silver ward. They laid her on a table and in her own mind lying there she went for Benny Dolan in The Atlantic Hotel and clawed at him with her fingernails as she cried bitterly, “You did this to me. You did this and it’s all for nothing. I hate you. I hate you! I never loved you!”

  Faces loomed but she spat at them too and the sweat streamed onto the pillow until the calm came and she looked up to see a nurse with the infant cradled in her arms.

  After that she had opened out like a flower and those days were the happiest of her life. Joe Noonan had arrived in the ward somewhat the worse for drink and presented her with a bunch of sorry-looking carnations. Benny kissed her on the cheek and said, “I told you it’d be okay, pet” Mrs Dolan busied herself by the bedside, changing the baby authoritatively, tidying magazines. Sadie felt she was in good hands and the days stretched out warmly before her.

  Then, on the last day of her stay in hospital, after she had said goodbye to all her afternoon visitors, she found herself sitting erect in the bed as if she were hanging on a cliff edge. She wanted to cry out for help and she didn’t know why. Her body felt drained and dragged. The infant’s squeal pierced her head. Everyone was gone. She was on her own. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she was inconsolable, the nurses looking at each other, perplexed.

  But the feeling passed and when she arrived home with the baby wrapped in the shawl Una gave her, she felt protected and warm again. A fire burned in the hearth and her own mother and Mrs Dolan had chops grilling. Benny greeted her in the doorway. “Tara,” he said, “We’ll call her Tara.” She began to feel it had all been some sort of temporary aberration, some inexplicable malfunction of her disturbed body, the reaction of confused hormones. It would never return again.

  But it did.

  Some weeks later, when all had settled and the routine of the day was once more established, she was sitting feeding the baby, cooing to it, when out of nowhere, the feeling slid down over her like an invisible skin. Her hands began to shake. The child cried. Her whole body seemed to be stained with the smell of the baby. Her dressing gown was completely covered in small white pools of its sick. She felt as if they were breeding on her and would drive her mad. The baby continued crying. She shook it violently to stop it but it only became more frantic. Then she was consumed by guilt over what she’d done. “Help me Benny,” she cried aloud. “Please Benny I can’t stand it.”

  She waited for some kind of answer from thin air. Outside the window, birds sang on a telephone wire. A child tossed a red ball into the air and raced across the park, calling. She could hear the television in the house next door. She just lay down before the feeling that had come upon her, its terrible weight pressing tears from her eyes as the child kicked its legs, demanding everything she had to give from Sadie.

  The feeling came and went over the next few years. She never knew when it would come. It was as if she were under siege, threatened by an enemy whose face she could not make out in the darkness. She tried to talk to Benny about it but often his work had drained him too and when he did listen, he explained it away by saying, “It takes time. It’ll work itself out. It’s common Sadie.”

  Gradually Sadie began to feel that such feelings were part and parcel of the whole arrangement and that she was being unreasonable in complaining about it.

  The only one who could begin to understand was Una but she could only counterfeit a kind of empathy as she had been in and out of hospital in two days and had experienced nothing as severe as Sadie’s feelings.

  “I’m sure it will pass in time,” she said. “Isn’t that what it says in these books?”

  Unable to battle the unpredictability of her emotions alone, Sadie often woke up in the night in a state of dread, anticipating the cry of the baby and the oncoming blackness. When it came upon her in the middle of the day, she gave herself to the television, let it whisk her mind where it would, for anything was preferable to facing the thoughts her own mind thrust upon her. She just wanted away from what waited inside herself.

  Much of the day she passed in this fashion, sitting in her dressing gown with the child slumbering on her lap and a cup of coffee always at her elbow. The frenetic voices of quizmasters and childern’s presenters rang out throughout the morning.

  A year went by and slowly the skin began to peel from her. She dressed earlier in the day, drank less coffee and paid less heed to the flickering screen. Her daughter had grown a beautiful shock of blonde hair and was a star turn with her blubbering attempts at “da da”. Visitors adored her huge blue saucer eyes. Sadie felt gladdened when locals stopped her in the street and plucked the child’s cheek, examining her for family resemblances.

  When she mi
ssed a period the second time, she was filled so full of disbelief that she nearly burst out laughing. She told no one because she was convinced it was so ridiculous. She reeled inside herself. Then she drank gin. Bottles of it. Benny had been stunned to find her lying by the fireplace and the child soiled, screaming. He told her to get a grip of herself.

  Before she knew where she was, they were gathering around her again and congratulating her on her enthusiasm. When she met the girls from the factory in the street, they crossed over and said, “I hear you’re about to go again. You’ll have your hands full now. But it’ll be great company for Tara.” Her mother squeezed her shoulder and said, “Ah, it’s not so bad, daughter, one will rear the other.”

  The litany began again—nightfeed, lactations, colic . . .

  But this time she heard none of it. Benny was delighted and gave her more flowers. Joe Noonan sent her a card. “Another wee Dolan stalks the land Sadie,” was written on it.

  But that was as close as either of them came to the child for Benny was too embarrassed to over-involve himself. To him it was women’s work. Her work. In the street, he touched the buggy uncertainly with one hand, his awkward fingers buttoning the baby clothes half-heartedly.

  The child was born but this time the admirers did not linger. “The second one is different,” her mother said. “People have their lives to lead Sadie.” That was the way it was and the way it was going to be for Sadie, and she knew that.