When the day came, she helped me put on the dress and tied the ribbon to my hair, at the side of my face. She told me I wasn’t allowed to play in the dress. But when I went outside, the boys were hanging from the tree. Before I knew it, I was scrambling up the branches, slipping a lot because I was wearing girl shoes.
“Astrid, don’t,” said Michael. “Mammy says you’ve to keep your dress nice for the lady.”
“You can’t stop me.”
The boys reached down and held me steady while I climbed. At last I reached the branch they were on.
“Show me how to hang upside down,” I said.
Michael held my hands and Joseph held my legs. As I swung free, my glasses slid off my face. There was a rushing noise in my head, which felt lighter than before. All I could see were clumps of green and yellow. I was at the top of the world. Through my delighted squeals, I heard Mrs O’Brien’s voice.
“Merciful hour, child, get down out of there. You’ll be killed.”
The boys pulled me upright. Hands made a circle around my waist and pulled me down. My feet hit the ground and wobbled. The hands reached out for me again. When I turned around, I saw that they belonged to the brown lady. Mrs O’Brien picked up my glasses and handed them to me. As I put them on, she rubbed leaves and bark off my dress, making sweeping sounds with her hands.
“Look at your nice dress,” she clucked. “I told you to keep it clean for the lady.”
The brown lady bent down and pressed her face close to mine. Her chin had a point at the end. I took two steps back.
“Hello there, Astrid,” she said. “Do you remember me?”
“Where’s your clipboard?”
She laughed. I didn’t know why.
“Aren’t you a clever girl?”
“Why are you here?”
“She just wants to have a little chat with you,” said Mrs O’Brien.
“But Matthew isn’t here. She only comes when Matthew’s here. He shouts at her.”
The lady laughed again. Her laugh sounded different this time.
“Come on, we’ll go inside,” said Mrs O’Brien.
“Don’t want to,” I said.
The boys were still up in the tree, snorting with laughter.
“It won’t take long,” the lady said. “Then you can go out and play with your little friends again.”
When we reached the house, Mrs O’Brien went to the kitchen. The lady perched on the edge of Mrs O’Brien’s chair and asked me questions. It took her a long time to say all the words. I listened to the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Mrs O’Brien came in with a tray. She always used a tray when the visitors came. Air whooshed out of her mouth as she set it down. There was a teapot, a brown one, not the metal one she used at dinner time. The cups were different too; they were smaller and thinner and stood on saucers. Slices of her sponge cake were arranged on a plate. The milk was in a jug instead of a carton. Mrs O’Brien didn’t tell the lady not to sit in her chair. Instead, she sat beside me on the couch. She put a glass of orange liquid in front of me. When I sipped it, bubbles spurted up my nose. It didn’t taste like an orange; it tasted of sugar and metal mixed together. I put down the glass and didn’t drink any more.
“Astrid, we need to talk to you about where you’re going to live for the next little while,” the lady said.
“But I live with Matthew. I’m just staying with Mrs O’Brien until he comes back.”
“Of course you are,” she said. “But your daddy isn’t going to be back for a while.”
“He said he was coming back.”
“Well, he has to rest for a bit longer, you see.”
“Why? Isn’t his fever gone yet?”
“Oh.” She gave a little laugh. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be feeling much better soon. And in the mean time, you’ll be going to a school in Dublin. It’s called Immaculate Heart and there are lots of other little girls there who are just like you.”
The taste of the orange drink was still in my mouth, even though I wasn’t drinking it. I swallowed, trying to take the taste away.
“You’ll love it there; you’ll have loads of fun. And lots of little friends to play with.”
Her voice went up and down, like a song.
“But when Matthew comes back, he won’t know where I am. I’ll go to Michael and Joseph’s school and then I’ll be here when he comes.”
“You’ll be coming back here on the holidays, pet,” said Mrs O’Brien.
She squeezed my hand.
“Your daddy knows where you’ll be,” said the lady, “and you’ll be much happier in the school in Dublin. They can look after you there. We’ll be going up in the car next week.”
“I only wish you could stay here all the time, but the house is too small,” said Mrs O’Brien. “You’ve only that oul’ mattress to sleep on.”
I liked sleeping on the mattress. It was on the floor next to Michael and Joseph’s bunk-beds and made squeaking sounds when I jumped on it.
“You can go back outside now, pet. We just need to talk about a few things.”
The boys weren’t in the tree any more. They asked me if I wanted to play football with them, but I said no. Instead, I sat in the space between the tree and the hedge. The leaves on the ground crunched as I sat down. Matthew was going to come back and find me. The lady’s words kept going around in my head. I tried to fit them together, but my head became heavy and dropped onto my knees. Vikings were separated all the time when they went on adventures, but they always found each other again.
Rising steam
The cafe was a heaving mass of bodies. Shrieking Teutonic voices clogged my ears. It was similar in appearance to the hotel, with wood-beamed ceilings and tables covered in pink-and-white check cloths. Warm, thick air blasted into my face, fogging up my shades. I made for a quiet corner, took them off and rubbed them with the sleeve of my ski suit. The crowd blocked out the bulk of the sunlight, but my eyes still began making their traditional escape bid. I slipped my shades back on post haste and squeezed them tight shut. Calm those eyes of yours was Matthew’s dictum whenever they performed their fluttering dance. Closing them had the desired effect. At least none of them were in a position to witness my little ritual.
“Oh, there you are,” said Martin. “Come over and join us. We’re getting our kit on. Not off. Just in case you’re confused.”
He roared with laughter; at least one of us was amused by his wit.
The other Cabbage Patch Kids were clustered at a group of tables by the window. I took a seat at the edge and began the delicate task of inserting my feet into my boots. Johno was beside me, but he was engrossed in the skiing horror stories being related at top volume by the Greek Chorus.
This time, my fingers located the grooves in an instant. I folded the Velcro strap at the top so that both sides were in perfect alignment. All around me, guides knelt before Cabbage-Patch Kids, adjusting their straps. Even Johno was submitting to the treatment. Although Cliona wasn’t. She and Kim sat side by side, fastening their boots in silence. As Mia waited for her guide to finish, her body moved back and forth to an inaudible rhythm. It looked eerie. One of the Greek Chorus stood up, his hands flapping from side to side.
“Where’s me shades?” he muttered.
One of the guides marched up to him.
“You left these on the bus, mate.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I was getting worried there for a minute. God, they’re awful tight, aren’t they, the boots?”
What perception.
“Sure they have to be, so you don’t snap your ankles in half,” said the other.
“Like the shoes they have for Irish dancing. You could use these for Riverdance.”
They started thunking their boots off the gr
ound. The noise was thunderous. My jaw clenched, my teeth were set on edge. I ducked my head, in order to dissociate myself.
“Jaysus, could you save the Michael Flatley stuff for the slopes? Me head’s killing me,” said Johno.
Johno shared Matthew’s sentiments. Best to blend in with your environment. Observe some form of camouflage. He and I only had time to exchange a grunted, ‘Good luck,’ before his guide whisked him away. A furry beard came towards me. Martin. I stood up, ready for the off. No need for him to dance attendance.
“Proper speed merchant, aren’t you.”
“They’re all right once you get used to them,” I said, with affected nonchalance.
“You’re not quite finished kitting up yet though.”
“Oh?”
He held out a fluorescent vest trimmed with black. The words ‘Blind Skier’ were emblazoned on it, above a sick, winking eye.
“Get this on you.”
I cleared my throat. Time to establish the ground rules.
“Um, I think there’s some confusion here.”
“Yeah? Well you’d better clear it up quick then. Snow’ll melt at this rate.”
“I’m not a stick tapper.”
“You what?”
Fucksake, did I have to spell it out?
“I’m not blind,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Not even close.”
Martin stood in silence for a moment, scratching his beard.
“Well, I have to wear this,” he said, holding up another fluorescent vest with the words ‘Ski Guide’ printed on it. “Matches my green hangover skin.”
He laughed. I looked down at my boots and counted the clasps, one two three, one two three.
“Least yours matches your suit. Might as well be in this together then, eh?”
I watched as my hands grasped the offending beast, pulled it over my head and teased the material over my torso. When I looked up, Kim and Cliona were leaving. They were wearing the green uniform too.
“What’s he need that for?” I muttered.
“Oh no, he’s got a guide one. He takes Cliona down every year,” Martin said, following my gaze. “He’s been skiing since he was knee-high.”
“His-n-hers skiing vests.”
Martin laughed.
“That’s it.”
“Guess they’re the fashion must-have of the season.”
He was right; it highlighted the flecks of yellow and green on my suit.
One day I didn’t go to school. Instead, I went to a big room full of toys and played games while people watched. Some of the games were the same as the ones in the clinic, but some of them were different. The people threw coloured balls that were never where I expected them to be. When they asked me to draw, I didn’t know what my pencil was supposed to do and it made a hole in the paper. They said it didn’t matter. My mouth became filled with the taste of orange-drink. It did matter. It mattered to me and to Matthew.
The games lasted for a long time. It felt strange to play them without Matthew there to watch. But I listened to his voice in my head, giving instructions as I wrote my name, read lists of words and stacked coloured blocks with numbers written on them. When the pink ladies said, ‘Good girl,’ I heard him say, ‘That’ll do.’ It was easier to listen to him.
When the games were over, one of the pink ladies brought me to a clinic, like the one at home. We drove there in a car, because it was far away. When we arrived, we went to a room with a lot of machines in it. The pink lady sat on a soft chair in the centre of the room and held me in her lap. Her grip was soft, but too tight to escape from. She gave me a sweet with pink and yellow swirls. I held it close to my face and examined it, pressing my fingers into the swirls and squashing them flat. When I licked it, sugar stuck to my tongue. Another lady came in. She wore a white coat and held a small stick in her hand. There was a black and red dot at the top of the stick. When she held it close, I saw that it was a mouse, with round ears and a pointed nose. It wore a red dress. I knew the mouse wasn’t real, because real mice didn’t wear clothes. She moved it backwards and forwards; it was there and then it was gone. I swivelled my head in time to the movements. Then she asked me if I could follow the stick without moving my head and I couldn’t see it any more. She put the stick away and asked me to read letters at the other side of the room. But I could only read the biggest one.
After that, a man came in, with a lady who wore a white dress. The man wore a white coat, like the first lady. He took out a box with metal rings on it and put them on my eyes. His hands were cold and the rings were cold as well. The lady in the white dress told me she was going to put liquid into my eyes. The people in the clinic never did that. The liquid stung my eyes and I whimpered.
“You’re alright, lovie,” the pink lady said.
I stopped wriggling. In my head, Matthew was telling me to be a brave little Viking.
Then the bright lights came on. My eyes kept jumping up and down. They always did that when the lights shone on me. They were trying to pop out of my head. I wriggled, but I didn’t make any noise. When they turned the lights off, black spots appeared in front of their faces. The pink lady clucked when she saw that I was still holding the sweet. She covered it with a tissue and took it away, but bits of it were still stuck to my hand, so she took me to the toilet to wash it off. When I looked in the mirror, I saw huge black holes where my eyes were supposed to be. In the car on the way back to the school, I held my fingers up to my face. They blurred into each other. I closed my eyes. Matthew’s voice was still there, he was telling me that I could be whatever I wanted.
Martin and I spent the rest of the day on the patch of snow outside the ski cafe, as I followed the traditional recipe for learning to ski: start, stop, turn, fall over. Rinse and repeat. It wasn’t too taxing; I only ever moved six feet or so in each direction from my original spot. Yet even that minimal effort was enough to mangle my limbs. The sun never emerged from behind the clouds, but my eyes still burned. As dusk fell, I tottered towards the bus, my legs struggling to hold me up, my ears still ringing from Martin’s avalanche-inducing yells. The back of the bus was open and the Greek Chorus sat on the edge, taking off their boots.
“Ahhh,” they sighed in unison as the boots slid off.
“It’s like an orgasm, isn’t it?”
“How would you know?”
When I took off my own boots, I was inclined to echo their sentiments.
The bus was driven by Kevin, Mia’s guide. He drove round hairpin bends at speed, the radio playing in the background. The music was a palatable mush, Complan for the ears. Cliona was in full flight, describing the minutiae of her skiing technique and giving a thorough evaluation of her own performance. Johno was describing his falls in detail to Mia; each spillage was more dramatic than the last. She herself contributed little to the conversation, other than helium-balloon giggles. I switched on my phone. The screen taunted me with its resolute blankness. I filled it with the words,
Ges who cn ski.
Then rendered it blank again.
The windows were covered in condensation. I traced words on the steam, the Latin names of all the muscles I believed were hurting me at that moment. As Cliona’s monologue reached its climax, I wrote the words Stercus pro cerebrus. Shit for brains. That was the good thing about Latin. It enabled me to deliver stealthy blows.
“Oi, Astrid, you’re writing filthy words on the window,” Kevin yelled over his shoulder.
Nuts.
“Just random observations,” I muttered.
“G’wan, tell us,” said Johno.
Anything to reel him in.
“Sort of posh swear words.”
“Like what?”
Words flashed across my mind; my eyes oscillated in tandem with my thoughts.
“You ever hear of onani
sm?” I asked Johno.
“What’s that?” Kevin asked.
“Sort of biblical masturbation.”
“Ooh, kinky,” said the Greek Chorus.
Mia giggled with her hand over her mouth. Cliona and Kim carried on with their own conversation, their voices lowered to prevent words from escaping.
“I could do with expanding me vocabulary,” said Johno. “You’ll have to give us a posh swear word every day.”
This was an encouraging development, a strong tug on the line.
Pictures at an exhibition
The church was almost full. Matthew’s heavy footsteps drowned out the clamour of voices. We claimed our usual places near the front, at the edge of one of the long church seats. Beams of sunlight poured through the windows. Dust danced in the air. I kept my shades on, but put my straw hat on the floor, under my feet. As I straightened up, a shadow floated in front of me.
“Excuse me,” said a soft voice.
Matthew grabbed my arm and pulled me upright.
“She needs to get past,” he hissed.
The woman stepped over our feet and sat down with a plop on Matthew’s other side.
“So sorry,” she muttered, as she settled herself in.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap. My plaits were threatening to unravel. Mrs O’Brien showed me how to make plaits before she moved away, but mine never stayed tight like hers. I tilted my head so it perched on my shoulders. Figures moved around, wearing black and white suits like the one Matthew wore when he went to Dublin. Some of them carried violins which gleamed in the sunlight. Matthew nudged me.
“What have I told you about sitting like that?” he said.
I straightened up and the musicians swam out of focus. He read to me from the programme. This time, the concert featured a performance of The Four Seasons, by Antonio Vivaldi.
The Pink Cage Page 7