The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  “Oh, I’d love to see them,” said Ora.

  Matthew started to rustle through one of his tattered folders. Ora walked around the room. She picked up some of the books and put them down again.

  “So many books,” she said. “Have you read all of them?”

  “Of course I have,” said Matthew. “I don’t keep them for decoration.”

  Ora didn’t reply. She fingered one of the tapestries, the one of Tutankhamun in his gold armour, which was my favourite.

  “This is beautiful,” she said. “So much attention to detail. Who did them?”

  “Astrid’s mother,” said Matthew.

  Matthew had never told me that. I wanted to ask him about it, but he whipped his head away from the tapestry and spread the photographs out on the coffee table.

  Ora picked up one of Matthew’s photographs. When she was finished looking at that one, Matthew passed the others to her, one at a time. She examined them for a long time. The clock on the mantelpiece marked each minute. My legs kicked against the chair. Matthew and Ora talked with their heads close together, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When they stopped talking, I went over to them.

  “Matthew, could we go outside now? It’s stopped raining.”

  “So it has. Would you like to get some air?”

  “That’s a lovely idea,” said Ora.

  We didn’t go to the beach, because Ora wasn’t wearing the right sort of shoes. Their pointed heels dug into the ground. When we walked in the garden, she stumbled and Matthew caught her arm. She didn’t fall, but Matthew forgot to let go. They kept stopping to examine the flowers, which strained against the wind. I was able to pass Matthew out.

  “I’m afraid these are rather shabby efforts at horticulture,” he said. “Astrid’s mother was the gardener in the family.”

  Ora caused Matthew to say the most surprising things.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you. I’ve been offered some work,” Ora said. “It’s quite a big project too. A brochure promoting tourism in Wexford. It’ll be out next year.”

  “That’s quite a coup, for such a recent photography graduate.” said Matthew. “Wexford has a great many hidden wonders. We could bring you to them, couldn’t we, Astrid?”

  “Yes.” I turned to face them and started walking backwards. “We know lots and lots of places. From our field trips.”

  “Well, I was kind of planning to start taking interior shots next week.”

  “Excellent,” said Matthew. “We should be able to fit you into our schedule.”

  “That’s great. I’ll look forward to that. Now I’m afraid I have to go. I’ve to deliver some more photographs on my way back to Wicklow.”

  We walked with her to the front of the house, where her car was parked.

  “Ring me. We’ll decide on a venue,” said Matthew.

  “Thanks for the lovely afternoon.”

  Matthew leaned over and kissed her cheek. He had to bend over to do it and his lips made a loud smacking sound. Then he spun around and walked back to the house. I stayed where I was and waved until she was gone.

  Ora came on all our field trips after that. We went on a lot more field trips than before, which I loved, because it meant I had less homework to do. Ora enjoyed them too. She smiled and laughed a lot. She was always asking if everything was all right. I didn’t know why she asked so much, because the answer was always yes. Ora was the most colourful person I knew. Her clothes floated around her. She looked like a bird of paradise, with her plumage of red, yellow, purple and blue. When I told her that, she laughed, which puzzled me. It wasn’t supposed to be funny.

  We drove all around Wexford, along rough, twisty roads. When the days were clear and bright, we took her to Viking burial sites and places where unusual flowers grew. On wet days, she did her interior shots in big old houses which were hidden from the road by trees. I liked the sound of the gravel crunching under our feet as we walked up the avenues. Ora wanted to take pictures of us, but Matthew said no, which was a relief. Having my photograph taken was a tedious experience.

  On each field trip, Matthew delivered monologues about the history and wildlife of the area. I regaled her with stories about the things I had learned during our lessons. She talked to me in a grown up way, which I liked.

  Ora brought picnics in a big wooden basket. The bread she brought was different from ours. It was softer and there were little nuts on the crusts which crunched when I bit into them. She always brought a flask of coffee, but Matthew was the only one who drank from it. He let me have a little and I grew to savour its fragrant tang. Ora drank tea. It didn’t smell like Mrs O’Brien’s tea; it smelt of flowers.

  When we weren’t on field trips, Matthew and I came up with plans for the next one. He grumbled about the time we were wasting, but I knew he enjoyed them, because he smiled a lot too. Sometimes he threw back his head and laughter boomed out of his open mouth. He talked a lot more than usual, stumbling over the words. There were times when he forgot to stop talking and I had to tug his sleeve to remind him that it was time to go home.

  Matthew and I always went on a special field trip for my birthday. When she heard it was my birthday, Ora offered to cancel, but Matthew told her not to be silly.

  “I’ll bring something nice to eat for dinner afterwards. What kind of food do you eat, Astrid?”

  “I’m an omnivore. That means I eat everything.”

  She smiled.

  “That’s handy,” she said. “You’re easy to please.”

  Matthew always gave me books for my birthday. But this year, Matthew presented me with a copy of a magazine called National Geographic, with a note saying that I was to receive a copy of it every month for a year. It was full of information about wildlife, bones and distant tribes. I was sitting at the window seat leafing through its crisp, shiny pages when Ora arrived. The window seat was a nice place to read, because the sun never came into the kitchen until the early evening, so the light was soft. She looked over my shoulder at a bird perched on a slender branch.

  “Oh, aren’t those pictures stunning,” she said.

  I swung my legs around to make room for her on the windowseat and handed her the magazine.

  “Goodness, that’s National Geographic. I always stole my brothers’ copies when I was young. The photographs were so beautiful. Aren’t you lucky to have one of your own?”

  “Why didn’t your parents give one to you?”

  Ora’s face turned pink.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I never thought of asking.”

  “Maybe someone will give it to you for your birthday. Matthew gave it to me for mine.”

  “Well actually.” She rummaged in her enormous leather handbag, “I got you something too.”

  No one ever gave me presents except Matthew.

  “Why?”

  “I believe the correct response is thank you, Astrid,” Matthew said, as he walked into the room.

  “Oh, here it is,” Ora said.

  She handed me a parcel covered in stiff paper that crackled when I touched it. It was a treasure chest waiting to be unlocked. Matthew’s presents were never wrapped in layers like this. The folds of paper came away to reveal a black cap with the word Yankees written in white letters. There was a visor at the front of it.

  “Why does it say Yankees on it? Does it come from America?”

  “I think it’s the name of a baseball team. You know, because it’s a baseball cap.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Why don’t you try it on?”

  I went to the mirror by the window. When I put it on, I looked different, sleek and grown-up. The visor was better at blocking out the sunlight than my straw hat and it fit me better too, because there was a plastic clip at the back which I could adjust to fit the shape of my head.
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  Our field trip that day was long. They were often long now. When we came back, Ora took pieces of meat, onions and potatoes out of a bag. She cut them up and put them all in a frying pan, until the potatoes were brown and the onion was soft and sweet. The meat was dark and crisp at the edges, but it was soft in the middle, softer than the meat in the stew. She said it was called steak. As we ate, the rain blew against the windows. Matthew said the weather was too bad for Ora to drive back to Wicklow, so she could stay the night. It was lucky that we had a spare room for her.

  One morning, Ora came up to me as I was reading on the window seat. My hair was still damp from my swim. I didn’t have to do any lessons after swimming because it was a Sunday. Even though Matthew didn’t believe in God, he still thought we deserved a day of rest. Ora was staying the night again. She always did that now when our field trips were long. I jumped as she touched on my shoulder. The Swiss Family Robinson fell to the ground.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’ve just been taking some views of the beach from the bottom of the garden. The light is so soft this morning.”

  I shrugged. She was always taking photographs.

  “Well, you see, the thing is.” She took a deep, gulping breath. “I ended up taking a picture of you. It just sort of happened; I swung the camera around and you were there. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I had a vague recollection of a click and a whirr, camouflaged among the wildlife sounds.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I reached down for my book, anxious to return to the desert-island paradise.

  “It’s just that I wanted to give it to Matthew for Christmas. Is that all right?”

  “We don’t celebrate Christmas. We’re humanists.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realise.” Her voice was faint. “It was just an idea.

  She moved away, her feet dragging along the ground.

  “But he likes your pictures. He says you have an eye. I don’t know why he says that, because you have two eyes.”

  She laughed. Her cheeks were pink.

  “It’s just an expression.”

  She turned back to face me.

  “So you don’t mind if I give it to him?”

  I shrugged again. It was only a picture.

  Ora visited us once more before Christmas. As always, she came laden, but this time one of her parcels was a flat package, wrapped in gaudy paper.

  “It’s just a token,” she said, as she handed it to Matthew.

  “That was unnecessary,” he said. “We don’t subscribe to that sort of nonsense.”

  “I know. It’s just something small.”

  The paper crackled as he tore at it. It fell to the ground. I picked it up and crunched it into a ball.

  “Must you make such a noise?” said Matthew

  He was staring at the object inside the package. It was a photo frame.

  “Let me see,” I said.

  I inserted my head in the crook of Matthew’s elbow. The picture was covered in splodges of grey and there was a girl at the centre, silhouetted against the sky. The grass she was standing on looked familiar, but it still took a moment to realise that the girl was me. Matthew shook me away.

  “In a moment,” he said.

  He held it at arm’s length. The kitchen clock marked the seconds. Ora broke the silence.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “You’ve captured her,” he said.

  The frog was back in his throat. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew into it.

  After Ora left, I went to fetch Matthew in his study, to tell him it was time for tea. He didn’t hear me knock, so I pushed open the door. He was holding the photograph in his hands. I didn’t know why the photograph fascinated him so much. He already knew what I looked like.

  Back to Black

  I collapsed on the bed with a plop; my whole body sighed with relief. The curtains were drawn. After the brilliant brightness of the slopes, the relative darkness of the room was blissful. I was wearing only a towel; it was difficult to summon up the energy to dress. My skin tingled from my shower and the exertion of the day. Mia’s suitcase was propped up against the bed. She made no effort to lift it.

  “Aren’t you going to choose your evening attire?” I asked.

  “My what?”

  “Your clothes.” Was I required to dress her?

  “It’s just my suitcase; it’s kind of heavy. Can you give me a hand lifting it?”

  I didn’t move.

  “Why did you bring such a heavy case if you find it difficult to lift?”

  The flawless logic of my question silenced her. She began to make vague tugs at the suitcase and it thunked onto her bed, causing my own bed to vibrate a little. Rather than choose an item of clothing, she burbled about her day’s skiing and how wonderful her guide was. I closed my eyes and let my hand travel towards the bedside locker. It brushed past my glasses and phone before it landed on my iPod. Without opening my eyes, I began making my selection. Air’s Moon Safari was number three on my French electro album playlist. I was in the mood for retro. The wheel wobbled for a moment, but soon, the familiar beats caressed my ears and drowned Mia out. I fast-forwarded to Sexy Boy, which provided an ideal backdrop to thoughts of Johno. I summoned up images of his arms, my hands tracing their protruding veins. But other arms kept obscuring my view, chunky arms with muscles that rippled.

  They don’t happen very often now, these interludes. Maybe once or twice a year, when neither of us are hooked up and I end up back at Jazz’s after the club. I just follow Jazz into his room instead of sleeping on the couch. His bed waits for us, with its vast expanse of duvet, mountain of pillows and burnished-steel bedstead. We lie naked in the bed, spooning each other, flesh against flesh. The mattress moulds our bodies. Our hands wander everywhere. Then we fall asleep, our arms interlocked. We never face each other, never speak.

  I reached for my phone and typed:

  Hot guy here. Taller dan u. Skinnier dan u.

  Always aim for the Achilles heel. I punched in the number. Jazz looked back at me, his buzz-cut hair accentuating the planes of his face. I erased the message, dropped the phone back on the bedside locker. There were far more important things to consider. Like the next stage in my campaign to lure Johno. After a day of being separated by a wall of Cabbage Patch Kids, serious spadework needed to be done.

  When I took off my headphones, Mia was still delivering her stream of consciousness monologue. I peeled myself off the bed and wrapped my towel tight around me. Mia’s insistent woodpecker touch landed on my shoulder. She stood by the bed, her hands flapping. She was already dressed, in a long denim skirt and a pink shirt adorned with frills. She was a nifty mover when it suited her.

  “Astrid?”

  “In a minute.”

  I went over to the wardrobe and selected a black silk shirt and denim hotpants. I tied the shirt under my breastbone so that my taut midriff was exposed. Given the gloom of the bar, the need for shades wasn’t pressing, but I decided to wear my Miss Sixtys with the jagged bolts of lightening running along the arms. It never hurt to make a statement. My hair was free of gel after my shower, so I combed it into a soft flip.

  “You ready?” I asked Mia.

  “No.”

  Her voice shook, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Can you help me find my earrings?” she whispered.

  Her bed was strewn with detritus.

  “How do you expect me to find them?”

  “Well, you see, they were a birthday present from my parents. I don’t want to lose them.”

  She had that little-girl-lost act down; even I was sucked in. I bent over her bed and ran my hand up and down the duvet with angry sweeps. Something hit the ground with a tinkle. I crouched down and inche
d my hand along the ground until it made contact with a small, hard object, camouflaged by the wooden flooring. The second earring was easier to locate. As I straightened up, I saw a gleam of gold next to the handle of her suitcase. I pressed the earrings into Mia’s outstretched hands.

  “Here. Guess we’re ready to roll.”

  While Mia inserted the earrings, I examined my reflection through the black spots of the mirror. Hot, in a mellow way. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Of course, there was the small problem of Johno not being able to see me, but I planned to circumvent that by inviting him to lay his hand on my shirt sleeve, to feel the soft silkiness of the material.

  When I opened the door, Kim was standing there, poised to knock. He was wearing a purple shirt and tight jeans. Naff in the extreme. Cliona stood beside him.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “We were just on our way down for dinner,” said Cliona. “I see you’re wearing black this evening.”

  I see your eyes are working well this evening.

  “Are you not worried it’ll make you look washed out?” she asked.

  “Not especially.”

  I looked shit hot in these clothes.

  “You need to be careful how you dress, you know. Seeing as you look a little different.”

  Cliona wore a pair of sagging jeans and a white T-shirt that billowed outwards, masking her figure.

  “Perhaps you should attend to your own wardrobe.”

  I jostled past them and clattered down the stairs, pulling Mia in my slipstream. The stairs were familiar to me now, so it was easy to make a quick getaway. But I still heard Cliona’s tongue-click from halfway down.

  In the classroom, time stood still and dry air stuck to my cheeks. Brown tiles criss-crossed the floor. The walls were made with white bricks. Shelves stretched the whole way round the room. They were filled with books and colourful objects.