‘We have to get it to go nearer to the front door,’ I whispered.
‘I need to Instagram, like now,’ Sasha said.
Will, who was always good in an emergency, took off one of his many layers of clothes, reached up as the bat flew past his head and covered it with his sweatshirt. The bat and Will wrestled mid-air for a time until the human won the battle. Will held out his hands, where the tiny creature lay trembling.
‘You’re all right, mate,’ he whispered softly. ‘Off you go now.’ It was a beautiful moment.
‘I hope the cat doesn’t get it,’ said Sasha, ruining the ambience.
Will stood by the front door, then slowly opened his hands. The bat paused before taking off, swooping away into the inky black.
*
It was a few months after we’d left, before I realised that we could be all right again. The terrible upheaval was behind us and we had survived the move. The most important thing remained – Will, Sasha and I were all still together. A new buttermilk-coloured Aga hummed out a familiar background warmth. On the first spring-like day, we sat outside on the black iron bench made by Will and sipped cups of tea, warmed by sunshine. Together, we admired the crocuses and the delicate snowdrops that looked so fragile growing in the chipped Belfast sink. We listened to a woodpecker, far down in the woods below us. After the particularly wet and cold winter, the river, still high, raged through the valley, taking with it branches from fallen trees but, for us, it was the day when the sun and the light returned. At our old house, we had taken cuttings of the honeysuckle that grew where the dogs were buried. Later, our kind neighbour visited the deserted garden and gathered a few more shoots to try to cultivate them in her greenhouse, but out of the forty shoots, not one survived. Instead, I took the earth that I’d brought from our old home in tiny pots, scattering it into the soil at our new cottage.
I missed Merlin and our old home more and more, feeling like we’d truly left him and the past behind. I had wept, trying to accept that that part of life was behind us now.
Later, while moving one of the many weather-beaten stone containers brought with us from the farm, I noticed green shoots in one pot that I hadn’t seen before – it was a healthy, thriving honeysuckle. The seeds that had germinated there must have been blown by the wind from the original plant. Strong and healthy, it had been busy growing, unnoticed, in this old container – the honeysuckle had survived.
That summer it climbed the copper drainpipe toward the sun, grasping on by tiny fronds that wrapped and curled back on each other. I touched its yellow petals and it released its delicate scent.
That day, I suddenly realised that I had let Merlin go. When I wasn’t paying full attention, he had slipped away into the past. While I still longed for him, the feeling wasn’t as strong as it once was. At first it made me feel uneasy that I’d allowed him to fade. As if I wasn’t watching him properly, loving him like I should have been. When I conjured up his image now, it took effort. Even so, I sometimes still caught a glimpse of him, lying by me in the night. Or when there was a flash of light dancing off the water as I walked along the river bank.
*
Months later, I finally got around to unpacking one last thing – my treasures’ box. The emptying of that box would mean that perhaps we were home. Reading my birth file felt stranger than ever. Perhaps because it was nine years to the day since I’d received that first letter from social services. It seemed such an appropriate day to look through it again.
The letter lay nestled between crisp, jade-green tissue paper along with children’s first teeth; the faded leather collar of our first dog, Blue; and Merlin’s red coat, still with the smell of him woven into its fibres. These were my secret special things.
Hidden beneath the papery sheets of the file were yellowing newspaper clippings; their black titles leaped out at me. One of them read, “Ex-soldier skis the country.” There was a picture of my birth father, Tommy, with a trophy; photocopied pictures of my grandparents too. Tommy’s wedding photo, except the bride had been chopped from the picture. He appeared to be celebrating his marriage alone. It looked like the bride had disappeared forever.
The clippings, photographs and birth file shifted me into another time.
I unfolded Merlin’s coat, held it up to my face, inhaling the memory of his smell one last time, then wrapped up the gems of a past life and slipped the box back into the wardrobe.
Chapter 31
Similarities
Despite being busy with the move, Marie and I kept up our long Friday evening phone conversations. After a brief ‘hallelujah moment’ when BT had managed to get the phone line working for just twenty-four minutes, we were yet again without it. They were having more weather-related trouble, this time with wind. So, once again, I was sat at the kitchen table ready to call her from my mobile.
Apart from the similarities of appearance Marie and I shared (including the webbed toe, flat feet and having one boob bigger than the other), I’d soon come to realise, through our phone chats, that she’d also passed on some fairly quirky character traits, these included.
1.Fear of driving.
2.‘Of course, I would have liked to have learned to drive, Dervla,’ said Marie, ‘but it’s not for me, it makes me anxious. And I’m not keen on motorways.’
3.Fear of motorways.
4.Love of cleaning.
‘What have you been up to today, Marie?’ I’d ask.
‘Cleaning, again. What about you?’
‘Cleaning.’
‘We’re quite similar, aren’t we?’ I’d say.
‘You’re so like me, Dervla, but you remind me of my dad, with your sense of humour and your storytelling,’ Marie told me.
We hadn’t met face to face so very often, over the nine years, so when we talked on the phone I had to imagine when she looked cross. Or I’d listen for the grin in her voice. I was getting to know my phone mother better and better.
‘I think the humour and the storytelling is your fault, actually,’ I told her.
‘That’s the Irish for you, love,’ she said. It was always the fault of the Irish, according to Marie.
‘Did I tell you about the time my dad came over from Ireland to stay with me?’
‘No,’ I said. But I knew I was in for a treat of a tale.
‘He caused chaos. One night he took the mattress off the bed, he were age seventy, and used it as a slide to get down the stairs. He’d put our Helena on the back. First I knew of it was when they both slid into the front room.’
‘He sounds a card.’
‘God, he was that. He got sectioned. He only went out for a packet of fags and was gone three years.’
‘What was wrong?’ I asked.
‘Manic depression. They call it something fancy nowadays. Bipolar, isn’t it?’
‘Yes…’
‘And there was the anxiety,’ Marie said.
Oh God, number four!
4) Anxiety.
‘There’s also my compulsions,’ Marie sighed.
‘Does anyone else suffer from any problems in the family?’ I asked, tentatively.
‘Well, you’ve met our Helena – we’re all a bit touched… and I’ve had my problems,’ she added, ‘although I’m okay now, darlin’, as long as I stay on the medication.’
‘Have you got a compulsion now, do you think?’
‘I have that – a compulsion to kill Vernon. I had a panic attack once and felt a desire to harm him with a carving knife.’
‘When was this?’
‘It were a while back. I wanted to kill someone, but Vernon were the only one in the house.’
‘Shhh, don’t be wicked,’ I said.
‘He can’t hear me.’
But I could hear her as she clip-clopped across the kitchen on her, I guessed, massive heels, then kicked the door to the
front room shut. There was a creak as she opened the fridge, tucking her walkabout phone under her chin.
‘I’m on a diet, I’ve lost a stone and a half.’
‘Blimey, you must look even lovelier.’
‘I only eat strawberries. Been doing it a month.’
‘What about your nutrition?’
‘Oh, sod that. I feel fantastic,’ she said.
I loved talking to her. She cheered me up every Friday evening with her stories.
‘You should come and visit, Dervla. I haven’t seen you in months. I miss you, love.’
‘Why don’t you come and visit us? You’re more than welcome.’
‘I would love to visit, but Vernon’s not so well at the moment.’
She had only ever been to visit us the once, maybe it was the ghostly messages that had put her off, but I realised that if I wanted to see Marie it was always going to be me catching the train. It was easier that way. I could live two lives, one ‘Up’t North’ where I morphed into a party-loving creature, and the other life down south, all quiet, where I created disgusting casseroles in Paula’s orange Le Crueset and warmed my heart by the Aga.
What a privileged position – to be either free or cosy. I was beginning to wonder which life I preferred.
Chapter 32
And off I go again
Marie and I are sitting side by side in her backyard; perched on wooden chairs that are lined up outside the kitchen wall, as if we are waiting for a bus to arrive. We sip wine. The washing machine gurgles its waste down the drain next to us, wafting up a faint aroma of detergent. Children play in the field out the back; their thin voices weave towards us, then fall and die.
The background is normal, everyday, familiar, in the same way that Marie and I are now familiar to each other.
‘Home tomorrow then, love?’
‘Yes…’
‘To your mum?’
I know what I’m meant to say.
I’m meant to say, ‘But you’re my mum, Marie.’
But I can’t.
So instead I reply, ‘Yes…’
Marie tilts her chin up slightly; her eyes are closed as she soaks in the last few rays of sunshine.
‘Bet she’ll be glad to see you.’
This isn’t a question.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye and bite my lip; I don’t want to make it obvious that I’m studying her reactions. She sniffs, opens her eyes, leans forward and reaches for the wine bottle that sits on a small wooden table in front of us and automatically tops up the glasses.
‘Marie…’
I can’t get the words out, so I roll a cigarette. It’s pleasant sitting here with her, the first awkward meetings a distant memory. We seem to have reached a comfortable acceptance, perhaps something neither of us were expecting to achieve; any disappointment lies behind us.
I turn to face her.
‘She’ll be glad to see me, like you are when your children come over. I have my mum and you have your three children… we are friends though, Marie, aren’t we?’
‘Of course we are, you daft bugger.’
She strokes my elbow, then carries on.
‘But I’m your mother too, Dervla. You look like me and I’m the one that carried you and brought you into this world. I named you.’
‘Oh yes, of course. It’s just that no one calls me Dervla anymore, except you and the doctor. I mean, not since I was in trouble at school have my family ever used that name.’ I glance at her.
‘You aren’t ashamed of me are you, Dervla?’
‘No… NO… don’t be silly. How could I be? You’re an amazing woman.’ This time I mean it.
The silence is broken by the closing credits of Coronation Street. Vernon has it turned up so the whole street can hear. We carry on sitting.
‘I love you darlin’, always have.’
We clink plastic glasses and grin at each other. She slips her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me. I stare at the washing on the line as it’s easier than making eye contact, and I notice for the first time how small Marie’s pants are compared to Vernon’s.
‘Vernon’s pants are enormous.’
‘Shame he can’t fill ‘em,’ she says.
We are nearly prostrate, the tears streaming down our faces.
‘Buy him smaller ones then. Calvin Klein do all sizes.’
I fill the glasses this time, flicking my cigarette ash onto the warm tarmac.
‘You’re very glamorous, Marie.’
‘People keep saying that.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘What time’s your train tomorrow?’
‘10.30, I’ve booked a taxi for 10.00,’ I reply.
‘Don’t be stupid, Vernon will fetch you to the station. I’m not having you waste money on a cab.’
‘I’m fine, please don’t bother Vernon again,’ I say.
But she’s off through the back door and telling Vernon.
‘Vernon, our Dervla wants a lift to the station tomorrow.’
In the morning, we stand in our normal little huddle by the newsagents’ stall, Vernon, Marie, Carla and me. We’ve been saying goodbye for about fifteen minutes, now we all just want to get on with it. Then suddenly I’m bundled into the carriage, case hurled in behind me and Marie is passing in a sandwich and some fruit.
‘I made this for you for the journey.’
‘No!’
‘Go on love.’
The train doors are slammed shut, so I push down the metal-framed half window and hang my head out. She plants two red kisses on my face; I inhale her perfume.
‘Thanks for having me.’
She has my face in her hands and I blink back the tears.
Yes, thanks for having me, but we know I must leave again.
As the train chugs out of the platform, I watch her through the long windows framing the side of the train. We are moving slowly, but Marie is striding towards the exit in her high heels, leopard skin jacket, and black skinny jeans. I’m amazed by her resilience. From the back, she still looks like a girl, with slim, boy-like hips that would never give her away as having had five children.
She turns to wave, she uses her long painted nails to launch a thousand kisses, blowing the caresses along her hands and letting the affection float toward me. Just before she reaches the exit she stops and stares.
‘Love you, Dizzy,’ she calls.
At last she has called me by my proper name.
Chapter 33
Roots
What with the work happening at the cottage to make it more habitable, it has been months since I’ve been able to take time out to go to Sheffield.
Now I feel grubby and weary from six hours of travelling, beginning with carting my luggage across London and onto the Sheffield train. I have the laptop containing the story about finding Marie with me. Already, I feel nervous about what she will make of it. I heave the case onto the tube for a fourth time so I can make the King’s Cross connection.
In Sheffield, Marie is waiting for me at the top of the escalator.
Her outstretched arms are ready to embrace me, when I see her face, full of welcome, the tiredness melts away. On this journey, I surprise myself. This time, I realise that I really am travelling with an open heart.
Vernon’s silver car is parked just outside the train station in its normal preferred spot. I climb into the back seat and we head off.
As soon as we get to the bungalow, Vernon is away in the front room to watch the telly. He closes the door firmly behind him so as not to be disturbed. The smell of Domestos is as present and familiar as ever.
Within minutes, I have my arms around Marie’s neck, kissing her face.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve missed out on you.’
‘I’m sorry, da
rlin’, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
On the second day of my visit, I set Marie up at her tiny formica kitchen table with the laptop, gave her a quick lesson in how to use a wireless mouse, then left her there so I can nip out for a smoke. I’ve finished writing. Finally, she can read our story.
When I come back inside, I fret about in her kitchen, picking up the dishcloth to wipe surfaces, setting and putting away until everything is neat and orderly. I realise that we have swapped places; now it’s me with the dishcloth, Marie sitting in front of the laptop. Six hours into reading, she finally lifts her head up from the screen.
‘Send Vernon out for fish and peas,’ she says. ‘I need some dinner, then I’ll read the rest.’
‘Are you all right? Shall I delete the whole thing?’ I ask.
‘No, you won’t delete it,’ she says, smiling. ‘But, I’m sorry, I can’t do the Riverdance, Dervla.’
‘It’s never too late.’
‘And you have made me out as being a bit plastic looking,’ she continued, turning her face away.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I’ll change it. Or I could forget about the whole thing.’
‘No, it’s very important that you don’t. But you haven’t shown how hard it’s been for me. When I lost my babies, it was the worst time of my life. No-one can know, I suppose. Unless you’ve lost children, you can’t know.’
Right there, in that moment, I properly let Marie into my life. Which made it easier than ever before to be with her. This visit was wonderful. Marie was allowed to fuss over me, hug and kiss me. Cook me food, which was what she had longed to do all along. It was a special time for both of us. Up until then, there had always been this anxiety, this feeling of too great a difference. I no longer wanted her at arm’s length.
We were just finishing off our fish and peas when Vernon got up from the sofa and walked towards the telly. He leaned over, reaching behind the screen to turn it off at the plug. Marie and I stared at each other in disbelief, waiting for Vernon’s explanation – some pearls of wisdom from hitherto unsuspected depths, perhaps? This could be a life-changing moment.
Strays and Relations Page 18