‘Good bless us and save us. Keep well away from that one, whatever you do.’
‘I fully intend to. The last thing I need is everyone thinking that me and her are … you know.’
‘Don’t even talk like that.’
He buries his hands in his pockets and starts pacing again. The pots and the pans have stopped fighting and the smell of dinner is floating up the stairs and in under the bedroom door.
‘I think, begod, I’d better have a chat with your mother about this Mulcahy lassie.’
‘And while you’re at it, you can tell her that the only true friend I have is Lesley. You know, I’m not popular, Daddy. The other girls look at me like I’m a freak. If they have to sit beside me in class, they moan and roll their eyes to heaven, as if sitting next to me is some sort of punishment.’
‘Why didn’t you …’ He sits on the stool again and looks at me with watery eyes.
‘They call me Mousy, all of them except Lesley. She treats me with respect. She likes me, Daddy; Lesley Kelly likes me. And I don’t care what you or Mammy say, I’m staying friends with her and that’s that.’
Reaching across, he squeezes my hand gently, nodding his OK. Tears start brimming in my eyes again, but I don’t care if I look weak any more because my father’s on my side and wants to make things better for me, just like I did for him many years ago when I found him crying in the middle of the night.
‘I’m tired of being lonely,’ I sob.
‘I didn’t know,’ he says, handing me his handkerchief.
‘I know.’
‘I’ll talk to your mother and see if she’ll cut you some slack.’
‘OK.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t know how difficult –’
‘It’s all right.’
‘But you’ll let us know from now on where you’re going and what you’re doing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good lassie.’
‘Dinner’s ready,’ my mother shouts up the stairs.
‘Do you think she’ll listen?’
‘Maybe if you apologized to her, she’d be in a better mood for listening.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Well, it’ll make it a lot easier for me to persuade her to allow you more freedom, if you assure her that you’re sorry and that you’ll not disrespect her again.’
‘OK, but I’ll do it for you, Daddy, not for her.’
‘I dare say it doesn’t matter whom you do it for, love, so long as you do it,’ he says, heading towards the bedroom door. ‘Are you not coming down?’
‘I’m not hungry. I’ll just do my homework and go to bed.’
‘Your hair, I –’
‘What about it?’
‘Arragh,’ he says, half smiling.
‘So you really don’t like it, then?’
‘I’ll put it to you this way, love – don’t be one bit surprised if you’re greeted at the bus stop in the morning with a cock-a-doodle-doo.’
After he closes the door, I bring the stool back over to the dressing-table and sit looking into the mirror. Leaning my face towards the glass, I open my mouth, exhale a big puff of breath on its surface, making a cloud of condensation, and write with the tip of my nail, Mousy Fall RIP 10/10/1979.
A couple of hours later, not having eaten since lunchtime, I tiptoe downstairs for a glass of milk and some biscuits. Neither of my parents passes any remark as I scuttle through the living-room, where they’re watching the nine o’clock news. I’ve no idea what, if any, conversation has taken place between them since dinnertime, only that, so far, no one has raised a voice.
Around ten o’clock, I’m sitting up in bed reading the second chapter of Silas Marner for my homework, when I hear the first rumblings of an argument coming from downstairs. I can’t catch what they’re saying; all I know is that my mother is doing most of the haranguing. I’m waiting to hear my father storm through the hall and out the front door, like he usually does when my mother verbally slaughters him, but he doesn’t leave the room. He continues to respond to her in a low and patient tone.
When I wake up the following morning, I think that the row must have gone on into the small hours. The last thing I remember from the night before is checking the clock: it was half eleven. On my way downstairs, I notice that my mother’s humming is chirpier than usual and I don’t know what to make of it.
‘By the way, I’m sorry,’ I mumble, entering the kitchen and heading straight for the cutlery drawer to get a spoon.
She doesn’t answer. She has a dishcloth in her hand and is wiping everything in sight – the draining-board, the counter-top, the cupboard doors, the cooker. I sit at the table and pour out my cornflakes. Just in case she hasn’t heard my apology, I say it again. ‘I’m sorry.’
Leering at me with a tight-lipped grin, she leans her hands flat on the table and narrows her eyes. ‘Oh, you will be, madam,’ she says, nodding her certainty. ‘You will be.’
The spoon slips out of my hand and into the cereal, splashing milk over the side of the bowl.
‘But Daddy …’
‘But Daddy what?’ she sneers, wiping up the milk around the bowl, her mocking face threateningly close to mine.
I push my chair back and dash into the hall where I pull my coat from its hanger and grab my schoolbag. Finding it still open, I get down on my hunkers to fasten the buckles. I don’t cop, until I stand up again, that she has crept up behind me.
‘If you think that hideous hairdo is going to do wonders for your popularity,’ she says, ‘then you’re a bigger gulpin than I thought. That Lesley Kelly was out to make a laughing-stock of you, and you’ll see for yourself when you get to the bus stop that that’s exactly what she’s done.’
Daunted by her remarks, I walk out the front door and slam it shut. What if she’s right? What if they do laugh at me? My mother, not in the habit of making unlikely predictions, would never risk being proved wrong, would she? The thought of being ridiculed fills me with dread. As I approach the bus stop, I look back and see her standing outside the front door staring down the street after me, arms folded across her chest.
Attracta and Angelina Reilly are crossing the street and smiling.
‘Love your hair,’ Attracta says, and Angelina agrees.
Susan Scully looks me up and down and says, ‘Since when did you go all funky?’
One of the lads says he thinks it makes me look tarty, but I don’t mind because that’s better than looking mousy.
The bus pulls up. The driver asks to see my ticket because he thinks I’m new and wants to check that I have paid up for the term like everyone else. The boys at the back whistle as I step over bags that are strewn all down the aisle. I find an empty seat and sit down. Susan Scully sits next to me and says, ‘Who did your hair anyway?’
‘Sandra Kelly.’
The bus pulls back out on to the street.
‘The colour’s rockin’.’
‘Thanks.’
My mother is eyeballing me as we approach the house. Do it, I think, my heart skipping a beat.
Vroom vroom. She’s gone.
‘Am I fucking seeing things,’ Susan says, nudging me, ‘or did you just give your mother the fingers?’
22 October 1999 (evening)
I gave her the fingers all right; just like I did the day I took the baby.
You didn’t think I’d be a good mother – fuck you!
Her eighteenth birthday
I pull in at a shopping centre. I need stuff – a car seat, bottles, nappies, formula, clothes. That will do until I have time to sort myself out and decide what to do. The baby is awake again and moaning. I must be doing something wrong. I didn’t know a child could be so restless.
After attaching the carrycot back on to the pram-frame, I wheel him into the centre and head straight for a store where I see baby accessories in the window.
‘Can I help you?’ a young woman asks.
‘I’d like to buy a car seat for my baby.’
She escorts me down to the aisle and shows me the range.
There are so many, I can’t decide.
‘A boy?’ she says.
‘Yes.’ How does she know?
‘That eliminates these so,’ she says, pointing to two that are pink and purple. ‘How about this green one? It’s suitable for newborn to nine months. And it has a padded handle, which makes it easier for you to carry.’
‘Yeah, fine.’ It’s the blue teddies on his baby-gro; that’s how she knows.
The baby starts to cry.
‘Sounds like he’s ready for a feed.’
‘He is. Where’s the nearest coffee shop?’
‘Next door.’
She offers to hold on to the car seat for me until I’ve fed the baby and had my coffee.
‘I know what it’s like,’ she says, swiping my credit card, ‘having to lug a load of stuff around when you have a baby in tow. I’ve a four-month-old daughter myself. Just back to work after maternity leave, worse luck. Is your baby sleeping the night yet?’
‘Yes,’ I say, signing the receipt.
‘You’re lucky. I’m still getting up twice a night with my little monkey.’
As she hands me back my credit card, I notice that she’s not wearing a wedding ring and wonder if she’s raising the child on her own.
‘Do you do all the night feeds?’
‘I have to. I’m a single mum.’
Well, then, if she can do it, so can I.
‘Me too.’
She cranes her neck and looks in at the wailing baby in the pram. ‘Oh, poor babba.’
First I go into the Ladies to rinse out the bottle with hot water.
‘Ssh ssh.’ I can’t pacify him. My feet are slippery in my sandals. I can smell the perspiration from under my arms.
‘Ssh ssh.’ I could just leave him, walk away, get in the car, drive off. Someone would take care of him.
But I can’t. I cannot fail. I must succeed. I can and I will take care of this child. Do you hear me, Mother? Are you listening? You didn’t think I’d be a good mother; fuck you! Just you wait and see. He’s hungry, that’s all.
Everyone turns and stares as we enter the coffee shop. A waitress says I can leave the pram in the corner.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks, pulling out a chair for me.
‘White coffee, please,’ I say, sitting down and trying to settle the baby in my arms.
Two old ladies smile at me sympathetically as I struggle to open the second carton of Cow and Gate milk.
‘Will I hold him for ya, sweetheart?’ one of them says, tottering over to me and taking him anyway. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Joseph,’ I say, thinking of my father.
‘Ah, you could steal him, couldn’t you?’ she says, looking back at her friend.
I did. I did steal him, but I didn’t mean to; it just happened.
I become tearful again as I pour in the milk and tighten the cap on the bottle.
‘God bless him,’ the woman says, handing him back to me. ‘The old baby blues, is it, love?’
I nod.
‘We’ve all been through it, sweetheart; it’ll pass.’ She pulls a tissue from up her sleeve, leaves it on the table and joins her friend again. I can’t pick it up, my hands are busy, so I dab my cheek on my sleeve.
The baby is glugging back the milk, his curious eyes sweeping over every inch of my face.
‘Who’s a happy baby now?’ the waitress cheeps, smiling at him and putting the coffee down in front of me. ‘Would you like anything to eat with that?’
‘No, thanks; I’m grand.’
The two old ladies natter, smiling over at me every so often and nodding their encouragement. I like the attention, how nice everyone is being to me, the automatic respect I’m getting just because I’m a mother. For the first time in years, I’m visible. I’m inside the circle, not skulking around the outside, afraid to cross the line.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper, kissing the baby’s forehead. ‘Thanks, Joseph.’
And if he’s a boy, so what? Why should I have assumed that he was a girl? I didn’t think he was Baby Fall, did I? I just came to the wrong conclusion. But there’s no reason why him being a boy should change the situation, is there? He could still have been abandoned. This could still be fate, right?
‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,’ the old woman says as she gets up to leave.
‘Aye, and look after that wee babby,’ her friend croaks, leaning on her walking stick.
‘Thanks. I will.’ I smile without telling myself to do so.
I check the time; it’s ten to five.
Joseph is resting his head on my shoulder now. I’m rubbing his back to relieve his wind. There’s a smell of new life off him; it’s like breathing in hope.
By the time his bottle is empty, I’m the only customer left and he’s falling asleep. As I gather my things to leave, the waitress wheels the pram over to me and I lay Joseph on my cardigan.
‘The bottle spilled on the sheet.’
‘One of those days, is it? Don’t worry, we all have them,’ she says, holding the door open for me.
‘What time does the supermarket close at?’
‘Seven o’clock; you’ve loads of time yet.’
It’s a quick, easy scoot around the aisles as I fill the basket on the bottom of the pram with all the things I need. At the checkout, I pack five bags and place them in the basket.
When I go in to collect the car seat, the girl who’d served me earlier tells a young male employee to carry it out to the car for me. He helps me to fold the pram and to secure the car seat with the safety belt. I strap Joseph in. He doesn’t stir.
It’s the first hotel I come across.
‘A double room with a cot,’ I tell the receptionist. ‘My husband will be joining me tomorrow.’
‘Certainly. How many nights?’
‘Just two.’
It’s only now I realize that I’m in Kilkenny. There are several leaflets stacked in stands advertising nearby tourist attractions. Casually, I pick up a few and put them in my handbag. Joseph is sleeping in his new seat at my feet. Phones are ringing. Keys are dangling from hooks. A digital clock tells the time in cities all over the world – 13.13 in New York. Lucky numbers.
‘Would you fill this in for me, please?’ The receptionist hands me a clipboard and I write in my details on the check-in form.
‘Would you like the porter to take your luggage up to your room?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’ve a few bags in the boot of the car.’
The porter follows me to the car and carries my shopping and my overnight bag up to my room.
Settled at last, I put the car seat on the floor by the bed, draw the curtains, flop on to the mattress and close my eyes.
25 October 1999 (middle of the night)
In the visitors’ room today, a man burst into tears when a young boy walked across the room and hugged him. It’s like Mrs Scully said, there’s nothing as sad as to see a grown man cry.
My father’s tears
It’s a year since Aunty Lily’s death. Nancy and Mrs Scully, the local postmistress, call to the house one afternoon to talk to my mother about filing an official objection to the planning permission granted for the construction of twenty-four council houses on the outskirts of the village. I’m in the middle of making bread and butter pudding.
‘If it goes ahead,’ my mother says, ‘we may kiss goodbye to village life as we know it.’
Mrs Scully suggests that the villagers sign a petition. She’ll be able to nab them all when they call in for their pensions and children’s allowances.
‘And by the way, Rita,’ she says, ‘Herbert’s retiring. Didn’t you tell me at some stage that Joe had applied for the Crosslea post?’
‘He did when we moved here first. But that’s almost ten years ago now.’
‘Well, it’ll be up for grabs in August. Wouldn’t that be a handy number for him? Sure he could tip home for hi
s breakfast every morning and all.’
‘There’ll not be too many tears shed over Herbert’s departure,’ Nancy says. ‘Talk about a contrary article.’
‘You know, I’d swear he eats a bowl of wasps for his breakfast every morning,’ Mrs Scully says. ‘Oh, it’d be lovely to have an agreeable man like Joe about the place. I’m telling you, Rita,’ she points her teaspoon at my mother, ‘you got a good one there.’
‘Joe’s a brick,’ Nancy says, ‘there’s no doubt about it. The way he took over the running of the house when you were looking after Lily; you’d not find another man in the country to fill his shoes.’
‘You did as much and more yourself, Nancy,’ my mother says, lifting the teapot. ‘Anyone for a hot drop?’
‘Aye, thanks,’ Mrs Scully says, holding out her teacup. ‘By the way, I’m very sorry I missed the anniversary Mass last week, Rita. I didn’t hear a thing about it till it was all over.’
‘Not to worry,’ my mother says.
‘Any word from Xavier at all?’ Nancy asks.
‘No.’ My mother shakes her head. ‘Not a dickybird.’
‘I can’t get over him not keeping in touch,’ Nancy says. ‘It maddens me when I think of how much support ye gave him in his hour of need.’
‘Sure, there’s not much point in him keeping in touch with us,’ my mother says. ‘We only knew each other a lock of months altogether.’
‘All the same,’ Nancy says, ‘the odd phone call wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Will you ever forget him the day of the funeral?’ Mrs Scully looks from my mother to Nancy. ‘Only for Joe, he’d have been in on top of poor Lily in her grave.’ She sighs and blesses herself. ‘He was a sorry sight.’
‘It doesn’t seem like a year ago, does it?’ Nancy says, rubbing her knees in a circular motion and gazing at the floor. ‘Where does the time go at all?’
Mrs Scully sips her tea. ‘How are you bearing up yourself, Rita?’
‘Arragh,’ my mother says, picking up stray crumbs and flicking them on to her side plate, ‘as well as can be expected, I suppose.’
‘Daddy still cries in the middle of the night,’ I say, scooping a handful of raisins from the bag and sprinkling them over a layer of bread soldiers. ‘I heard him.’
The Fall Girl Page 10