The Fall Girl

by Denise Sewell

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It goes lovely with that suit. You’ve great taste.’

  ‘Oh, th … th … th … th … thanks very much, love,’ the man says, straightening the tie. ‘Though I didn’t pick it myself. I’d be no good at that crack.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who picks the clothes, Mister Jermyn, so long as there’s a decent peg to hang them on. And you’re not a bad peg, is he, Frances?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you’d give a fella an awful big head, so you would,’ the man laughs. ‘Anyway, what can I do you for?’

  ‘Just a couple of bags of cheese and onion please.’ Lesley holds out her hand to me for the 30p.

  ‘Twenty-six pence please, girls.’

  Lesley hands him the money, leaning across the counter when he turns to the till. ‘They’re good, sturdy boxes, them Tayto boxes, Mister Jermyn. Would you have any to spare?’

  ‘God knows, I might, love. Why?’

  ‘I’ve a whole load of stuff at home ready to take out to the sale of work, only I have nothing to put it into.’

  ‘What sale of work is this?’

  ‘They’re having one out in Crosslea where Frances lives. It’s for Trócaire, isn’t it, Frances?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, if youse hang on there a minute, I’ll have a wee gander out the back and see what I can come up with.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. Why would I?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How many do you need? One … two?’

  ‘Two’d be great, cos she has a pile of stuff needs packing too, haven’t you, Frances?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I nod.

  As he disappears through the swinging doors, Mr Jermyn is whistling chirpily.

  Before I have time to draw breath and ask Lesley what she’s up to, she’s in behind the counter swiping packets of fags from the cigarette dispenser.

  ‘Lesley!’

  ‘Shut up, will you?’

  I’m hopping from one foot to the other. My heart’s doing a sprint.

  ‘Jesus, Lesley, hurry up, I think I hear –’

  She slips back out from behind the counter and starts stuffing cigarettes into my jacket pockets. I try to protest but it’s no use; there’s a packet in each pocket and two more stuffed into her bra.

  ‘Take the guilty-looking face off ya,’ she says, zipping up her bomber jacket, ‘unless you want to get caught.’

  Get caught! What’s she talking about? I haven’t done anything.

  Mr Jermyn backs his way through the doors carrying two boxes, walks out to the customer side of the counter and hands one to each of us.

  When we thank him, he holds the front door open for us.

  ‘I don’t care what people say about you youngsters today having no religion about you, as far as I’m concerned what you girls are doing now is far more important than any amount of praying.’

  ‘And I don’t care what some of the smart alecks of teenagers say about you adults,’ Lesley says without a hint of mockery, ‘I don’t think you’re a generation of morons.’

  As soon as I hear the shop door close, I start to run. I’m convinced that Mr Jermyn will notice the missing cigarettes straight away and come tearing down the street after us.

  ‘Relax, will ya?’ Lesley says, catching up with me.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that. What if he cops the missing fags?’

  ‘He won’t,’ she says, taking the box from me and throwing both down the mouth of an alleyway. ‘He’ll be back in front of the telly now, watching the afternoon film.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Did you not hear the cowboys and Indians fighting every time he came through the swinging doors?’ she says, breaking into a tribal dance on the footpath, tapping her open mouth and imitating an Indian war cry.

  I fold over laughing. I can’t help it. She could have got us both arrested for shoplifting and it wouldn’t have cost her a thought. But I don’t care. I still love her – my crazy, beautiful friend.

  Lesley changes her mind about going back to the town square. She wants to sell some of her cigarettes to her brother Keith, so that she’ll have the money to go out dancing later on.

  ‘What about the girls, Lesley? They’ll be expecting us.’

  ‘Yeah. And they’ll be expecting free fags too. Fuck them. Come on,’ she says, linking my arm.

  Half-way up the hill to her house, we stop at the children’s playground and sit on two swings. There’s no one else around. The chains screech as we throw back our heads and swing as high as we can.

  ‘Yahoo,’ Lesley roars, and I turn my bobbing head to look at her. Her neck is elongated. Her black tresses are flying through the air like an open fan, skimming the ground each time the swing drops downwards.

  I haven’t been on a swing since Aunty Lily died and I’ve forgotten how good it can feel. I love the soothing motion, the wind in my face, the way I can close my eyes and think about nothing.

  When I hear Lesley’s shoes scuff the gravel, I snap out of my trance and slow down the swing.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t have to go home at all?’ she says, straddling her seat to face me.

  ‘It’s all right for you. Your parents are really liberal.’

  ‘My parents don’t give a shite. There’s a bit of a difference.’

  ‘I wish my mother didn’t give a shite. I swear, she’s worse than Hitler.’

  She extends her right arm and roars at the top of her voice, ‘Sieg Heil!’

  An old woman passing by on the footpath staggers and looks anxiously around to see where the outburst has come from.

  ‘Was that you, young Kelly?’ she says, looking through the wire at us.

  ‘No, Missus Costello, it was this one here,’ she points at me, ‘she’s my German pen pal.’

  The woman ogles me suspiciously.

  ‘Up Ireland,’ she croaks, punching the air with her knobbly fist. ‘Never mind your oul Sieg Heil.’

  When we burst out laughing, she mumbles something and then hobbles on.

  ‘Lesley, you get on well with your mother, don’t you?’

  ‘I did … until yesterday.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I had a big row with her.’ For a moment her eyes look glassy.

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘Not helping her out around the house,’ she says, taking two cigarettes from the packet. ‘Sandra was working yesterday, so I was supposed to do the shopping, the vacuuming and a whole load of other crap as well.’ She strikes a match and we light up. ‘I told Mammy I had to call down to Jackie first, but promised to be back in an hour. That was at ten in the morning. I didn’t get home until ten last night.’

  ‘You’re codding me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she says, smirking.

  ‘Were you not shitting a brick going home to face her at that hour?’

  ‘No. Why should I be? I’m not her bloody slave.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She went pure mental … attacked me with a wet fucking dishcloth, the demented bitch. I swear, I was just waiting for her head to start spinning, like that possessed kid’s does in The Exorcist.’

  ‘Did you not feel awful guilty, letting her down like that?’

  ‘Says she who’d stick a knife in her own mother if she got half a chance.’

  ‘That’s different. My mother is a demented bitch. But your mother … she doesn’t be well, does she?’

  ‘Hey, whose side are you on? She said some really rotten stuff to me, so she did.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That I was just like my stinking father.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘That I’m a liar and a cheat, I suppose, cos that’s what he is.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her father had made me feel very uneasy the day I’d met him on his upstairs landing, but Lesley has never talked much about him one way or the other.

>   ‘She must really hate me, comparing me to that oul bastard.’

  ‘Is he really that bad?’

  ‘No, he’s worse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly ever home for starters, and when he is, he struts about the house like he’s lord of the fucking manor. Mammy could collapse in front of him from an asthma attack and he’d barely lift his head up over his newspaper to check if she was still breathing.’

  With reluctance, I remember my surprise at Lesley’s own indifference towards her mother when we’d found her bent over the kitchen sink, gasping for breath.

  ‘It’d probably suit him down to the ground if she croaked it. Then he could hammer away at the widow across the border and have nobody to nag him about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s having it off with some widow woman from Keady.’

  ‘You mean he’s having an affair?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Jesus, I can’t believe that! I’ve never known anyone to have an affair before … except for President Kennedy that is … him and Marilyn Monroe.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if my mother was living in the White House with a shitload of servants, she wouldn’t give a bollocks, but seeing as he spends half his wages keeping yon tramp in gin –’

  ‘You mean, your mother knows?’

  ‘Yeah – they’re always rowing about it. It’s no secret: everyone knows.’

  ‘Janey Mac, that’s awful.’

  ‘The whole reason we came home from England was because Mammy couldn’t stick his cheating any longer. We lived in a huge estate, ten times bigger than where we’re living now. According to Sandra – she remembers better than I do – there was always some husband or other banging on our front door claiming that Daddy was screwing his missus.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘She was going to leave him, but then he promised her he’d change, and, like an eejit, she believed him.’

  ‘The poor woman.’

  ‘Huh.’ Lesley looks offended. ‘After what she said about me, she can shag off. I can’t stand either of them now.’

  ‘At least she’s not as bad as my mother.’

  ‘Well, we can’t choose our parents, can we?’ she says, stamping on the butt of her cigarette, ‘but we can choose our friends.’

  ‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Lesley. And no matter what your mother says, I think you’re …’

  ‘Go on,’ she says when I hesitate. She has a big grin on her face.

  ‘Smashing,’ I say, hoping that she won’t think I’m stupid for being so corny.

  ‘I know you do,’ she says, tossing back her hair. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’

  Just to hear her say those words is such a big deal to me. I’m as close as I’ve ever been to bursting with joy, and I don’t want the feeling to pass.

  ‘Fuck them all,’ she says, winding the swing around tight, ‘your parents and mine.’ She lifts her feet off the ground, throwing back her head as the chains unravel at speed.

  She’s smiling at me from upside-down. I can’t take my eyes off her. I have to stop my hands from reaching out and stopping her mid-spin.

  Don’t be daft, I think, you’re not a lesbian; you don’t fancy her.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she says, sitting up straight as the swing squeaks to a halt.

  ‘Same as you,’ I say, blushing with guilt over my private thoughts. ‘Fuck them all.’

  3 November 1999 (afternoon)

  I went to the shop to buy cigarettes this morning. There was a new woman behind the counter. Not very friendly. When she handed me my change, she shook her head and looked me up and down. I’m sure she was letting me know that she knows who I am and what I’ve done.

  I gave him back, I wanted to tell her. But I didn’t. Instead, I hurried back to my room and smoked three cigarettes in a row.

  Her eighteenth birthday

  I switch off the TV and sit on the end of the bed staring at the blank screen. My ears begin to buzz. I can’t take in what I’ve just heard. I don’t want to. Surely all that hysteria couldn’t have been about me.

  Don’t be daft, I think. You only heard the tail end of the bulletin. You didn’t get the whole story.

  Baby boy … Henry Street … kidnapped. Jesus!

  My heart is pounding. I feel like I’m having one of those dreams where I’ve just fallen off a cliff. Oh God, please, wake me up before I hit the ground. The seconds tick away. The baby is getting restless. His head feels as if it’s crushing the bones of my upper arm and I know it’s no illusion.

  ‘Nathan,’ I whisper, looking down at him, ‘what have I done?’

  He doesn’t care. All he wants is his soother. I find it in the baby-bag, put it into his mouth and lay him down between the two pillows. Without him in my arms, my chest feels cold and I shiver. The crying woman I’ve seen on the TV is knocking on my brain but I can’t let her in; she’ll have to wait.

  I pace from one side of the bed to the other, trying to breathe properly: in through my nose … hold, out through my mouth … slowly. But my heart isn’t fooled by my artificial composure; it’s jumping about with my thoughts. The Gardaí are scouring the country for me. What if the receptionist suspected me? They could be on their way to the hotel right now.

  I hear footsteps out on the corridor. Is that them already! No. No, it’s OK. Whoever it is has just walked by my room. Thank Christ for that.

  But what about the two old women in the coffee shop? They’d have no problem giving the Guards a detailed description of me and Nathan. They never took their prying eyes off us. Or the lad who helped me with the car seat – he might even remember my car registration. If he does, it’ll not be long until they track me down. The thought makes my legs go rubbery and I have to sit down again. What if they find me? And arrest me? I just couldn’t handle it. I’d crack up. All I want now is to drive home, tiptoe up the stairs, climb into my bed and pull the blankets tight around me.

  A rap on the door makes me yelp and Nathan opens his mouth and bawls.

  ‘Who is it?’ I whimper, but no one answers.

  I creep across the room and open the door, just a crack, to check who’s there. When I see a waiter standing outside the next room with a tray in his hand, I shut the door and hurry back to comfort Nathan.

  ‘Please be quiet. Oh please, I’m begging you, be a good baby.’

  He won’t hold the soother in his mouth and he won’t stop wailing. He’s driving me mad because I can’t think what to do. When I pick him up to rock him, it hits me that my feelings for him have changed. The bond is gone. I know now that he isn’t mine and that he was never meant to be. I’m not even sure I like him any more. Part of me resents him for being there, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘Stop crying, for Jesus’ sake.’

  He’s getting worse.

  ‘Please, shut up,’ I cry, laying him back down on the bed. Maybe a bottle would help. I open one of the new ones I’ve bought and rinse it under the tap. As soon as I have him settled, I think, while pouring in the formula, I’ll pack my stuff and go.

  My shoulders are burning with pain as I sit hunched on the bed feeding him for the last time. Careful not to upset him again, I don’t bother taking the bottle away to wind him, and he guzzles it down to the last ounce without a break. His body feels relaxed now and he’s beginning to fall asleep. I hum a lullaby and rock him gently, all the while thinking about my next move. I’ll leave the room key on the bedside locker and the door unlocked. Then I’ll ring the Guards. But not from the hotel – that would be risky; I’ll phone them from the nearest kiosk and let them know where Nathan is. By the time the child is fully asleep, I can see myself back on the motorway to Dublin. I sit him into his seat and fasten the buckle. Then I gather my stuff and throw a bag over each shoulder. A surge of relief washes over me as I walk towards the door.

  ‘Goodbye, Nathan,’ I say, turning round to take a final look at the child. His hea
d is leaning to one side. His lips and cheeks are twitching as if he’s still sucking on the teat of the bottle. His two closed fists look as soft as teddy paws. He seems completely content.

  ‘Don’t wake up,’ I whisper, blowing him a kiss.

  But what if he does? What if he wakes up before I even get as far as the car? He could be all on his own for ages. The thought of his big, blue, trusting eyes scanning the room for a motherly face, waiting to be touched, fed, comforted, breaks my heart.

  ‘You’ll be home with your mammy soon, I promise,’ I say, turning the doorknob.

  He lets out a long, quivery sigh. Anyone would think it was his last breath. My shoulders slacken and I don’t stop the two bags from sliding down my arms and plopping on to the floor. My body folds and I fall to my knees in tears.

  By the time I stop crying, it’s getting dark and I feel exhausted. All I want is to put an end to this nightmare. Nathan is still sleeping. I crawl across the room to the telephone, pick up the receiver and phone reception.

  ‘Reception.’

  ‘I need the number of the local Garda Station.’

  She gives me the number and asks if I’m OK.

  ‘Fine,’ I say and hang up.

  After a few deep breaths, I pick up the receiver again and dial the number.

  4 November 1999 (10 p.m.)

  The rebellion against my mother was like dance. Once I started it, there was no turning back. I had to dance it out until the bitter end.

  No turning back

  Over the following year, I’m not sure which galls my mother more: the humiliation of having a daughter who has, as far as our neighbours are concerned, gone wild, or the realization that she has, despite her best efforts, lost control of me.

  Within three months, my grades have dropped considerably, and I’m moved from the honours to the pass classes for French, Maths, History and Irish, where Lesley is causing havoc. She has Mr Sweeney, our middle-aged, thick-spectacled, badly dressed Irish teacher, driven round the bend with her endless disruption. She arrives late for class most days, with the waistband of her skirt turned down so many times that there’s only a few inches between the bottom of her jumper and the hem of her skirt. As she passes his desk, she drops a book and bends down to pick it up, groaning with the exertion. The rest of the class snigger behind the pages of Peig.