‘I did surely,’ he says.
‘Which way did she go?’
‘They went that way,’ he laughs, pointing to his right and left, ‘all two hundred of them.’
Bollocks, I think, walking away. When I hear the introduction to the Nolan Sisters’ ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’, I perk up and circle the dance floor hopefully. I’m convinced I’ll find Lesley somewhere in the middle, strutting her stuff and singing at the top of her lovely voice. Whenever we go discoing, she begs the deejay to play the record at least twice and then drags me out to the centre of the floor to boogie with her. She says it reminds her of when we were little girls. But by the end of the song, I haven’t found her and I’m really starting to sweat, because I know that if she were still in the hall, she’d have made her way on to the floor no matter whom she had to knock down to get there.
At the end of the night, the Irish national anthem blares from the speakers, and the mob, who have just finished buck-leaping around the dance floor to Horslips’ ‘Trouble’, are now standing to attention like an army of well-trained soldiers. I’m leaning against the wall by the main doors praying that wherever Lesley has spent the previous three hours, she’ll come back to meet up with me there. But fifteen anxious minutes later, I’m still watching and waiting, and the hall is almost empty.
‘Looking for me, sexy?’ some fella slobbers. His breath is reeking of whiskey.
‘No. For my boyfriend,’ I say, turning my back on him.
My stomach is in bits. I don’t know what to do next. The bouncer I’d spoken to earlier is dragging a bloodied skinhead by the scruff of his neck across the hall towards the exit. As soon as he’s rid of the fella, I approach him again.
‘Excuse me, can you help me? I’ve lost my friend and I’ve no way of getting home to Castleowen.’
‘Castleowen!’
‘Yeah,’ I say, feeling stupid.
‘Fuck me, it’s hardly a quick spin out the road, is it?’
‘No.’ I burst into tears.
‘Come on,’ he says, walking me back inside the hall and sitting me down near the bar. ‘Is there anyone you could ring for a lift?’
‘No.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They won’t come,’ I sob. ‘They never cross the border.’
‘If they want you home tonight, they’ll have to cross it, won’t they?’
‘They’ll kill me. I’m not supposed to be here.’
‘Aye, they might. But they’ll hardly leave you stranded all the same,’ he says, tapping a cigarette from his packet. ‘Want one?’
‘Thanks,’ I snivel.
After lighting my cigarette, he asks for my home phone number and goes behind the bar to make the call. With the shutters down, I can’t see whether he’s managed to get through to my parents or not. There are a few stragglers still staggering their way towards the exit. Another bouncer is walking behind them, urging them on like a farmer does with straying cattle. I could kill Lesley for landing me in this mess. That’s if it is her fault. Maybe I should be worried, not angry. What if something bad has happened to her? It is the North after all. Someone might have copped her English accent (she still has a touch of it) and thought she was a Protestant, or a Unionist, or even worse – a terrorist. She could have got beaten up, knee-capped or, God forbid, killed. Jesus, such a night! I can’t wait to be back on familiar territory. Without Lesley by my side, I feel out of my depth.
A couple of young lads are clearing glasses from the tables. Some of the drinks look as if they haven’t been touched. There are several on the table in front of me. It’s a shame to see them going to waste, especially when I’m in dire need of an injection of courage. I don’t want my mother seeing me upset. She’d make mincemeat of me if she caught me with my defences down. Besides, the booze is only going to end up being emptied down the drain, so it could hardly be considered stealing. I pick up a half bottle of Coke and pour it into what looks like a shot of vodka. Afraid of being caught by the bouncer, I gulp it down quickly. One of the lads approaches the table.
‘I saw that,’ he says, grinning at me. He lifts a drink from his tray and sniffs it. ‘Gin,’ he says, handing it to me.
‘Thanks. Is there anything to mix it with?’
‘Just this,’ he says, pouring in the end of a small bottle of tonic water. ‘Are you Mac’s girlfriend?’
‘Whose?’ I ask, taking a bitter mouthful and almost choking on it.
‘Mac’s. The bouncer.’
‘Are you mad?’ I splutter. ‘That man must be fifty.’
‘Don’t let him hear you saying that. He’s only in his thirties. And what’s more, he’s got off with younger girls than you.’
‘Well, he’s not getting off with me. He’s just arranging a lift home for me.’
‘I’ll give you a lift if you like.’
‘Too late, Ownie boy,’ the bouncer says, coming up behind him and clipping his ear. ‘Her very irate parents are on their way as we speak.’
‘Sneaked out your bedroom window, did you?’ the young lad asks, handing me another glass of spirits.
‘No, I –’
‘Oi,’ the bouncer says, swiping it out off my hand. ‘I think you’re in enough trouble as it is, don’t you?’
‘Ah, come on, Mac, the poor girl may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’
‘Shut up, for fuck sake,’ he says, plonking the drink down on Ownie’s tray, ‘and just get on with the job you’re being paid to do.’
As soon as the bouncer turns his back, Ownie picks up the glass and sets it down by my feet.
‘Thanks.’
‘Just make sure Mac Bollocks doesn’t see it.’
Shortly after three o’clock, the staff have finished clearing up and I’m three shots of liquor less concerned about having to face my parents than I’d been an hour earlier. In fact now it seems quite funny. As we leave the premises, Ownie offers to wait with me until my parents arrive.
‘No need,’ I say, spotting them driving into the car park.
‘How about a quick kiss then?’
The bouncer clips his ear again.
‘I’d better go,’ I say, walking away feeling light-headed.
‘Good luck,’ Ownie shouts. ‘Might see you here again some night.’
My father gets out of the car and, without looking up, opens the back door for me as I walk towards him. When I catch sight of my mother, I start tittering. I can’t stop myself. She’s sitting in the front passenger seat staring straight in front of her. Over her hair rollers, she’s wearing a cream-coloured beret. She looks just like a head of cauliflower.
‘Hiya, Daddy.’
‘Hiya!’ He peers at me with small glassy eyes and shakes his head. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘Sorry.’ I glance at him briefly before climbing in.
My mother straightens herself up and, half turning her head, addresses my bare knees. ‘This is a lovely carry-on on the Sabbath, I must say.’
‘I was at a disco and missed my lift home. It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it?’ Whatever about my father, I’ve no intention of allowing her to make me feel guilty. ‘Anyway, it’s not the Sabbath, it’s Saturday night.’
‘It’s long past midnight, in case you haven’t noticed, madam. So that makes it Sunday. The Sabbath.’
My father gets back into the car.
‘Normal people would call this Saturday night,’ I mutter, ‘but then again, you’re not exactly what I’d call normal.’
‘That’s enough,’ my father says, slamming the door. ‘You have some explaining to do when you get home, young lady. A mouthful of bad manners is hardly going to appease things, is it?’
‘And taking the door off its hinges won’t help much either,’ my mother snaps, glowering at my father as if he’s as responsible for this situation as I am.
‘This is neither the time nor the place to argue,’ my father says shakily. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
/>
We drive in silence through the streets of Enniskillen and back out to the Castleowen road.
‘I suppose this is all down to that Lesley Kelly,’ my mother says.
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Don’t give me that. That’s her excuse for a skirt you’ve on, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you weren’t wearing it when you left the house this evening.’
‘You mean yesterday.’
‘What?’
‘Well, if this is the Sabbath, I left the house yesterday evening,’ I say, sticking out my tongue behind her back.
She swivels her cauliflower head and considers me with narrowed eyes.
‘What?’ I say after a few seconds when she’s still leering at me.
She raises her nose, takes a couple of suspicious sniffs and turns to my father. ‘She’s been drinking!’
‘My God, you haven’t, have you, Frances?’
‘No way.’
‘Hah!’ my mother scoffs. ‘You reek of alcohol.’
‘Someone spilt a pint all over my clothes, Daddy. That’s what the smell is of.’
‘Absolute rubbish,’ she yells. ‘You’re a lying little …’ She shakes her head, racking her brain for a befitting insult.
‘Am not am not am not am not,’ I say, raising my voice above hers.
‘… tart.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ my father shouts, turning down his headbeams, ‘will ye keep your voices down? We’re approaching a checkpoint.’
As we drive slowly over two ramps into the glaring light, I feel a mixture of dread and giddy anticipation. A uniformed policeman approaches the car, followed by a soldier in his late teens carrying a rifle with as much ease as a girl of his age would carry a shoulder bag. When my father winds down his window, the soldier shines a torch into the back of the car, making me squint. The policeman examines my father’s driving licence and talks into his walkie-talkie. As the torch scans every corner of the car’s interior, my mother sits motionless, arms folded and eyes downcast, as if her survival depended on her stillness. Out of the side window I see two more soldiers lying in the ditch with rifles pointing in our direction. I slither down in my seat.
‘Where are you going, sir?’ the young soldier asks my father as he withdraws the torch. He sounds just like Keith, Lesley’s brother.
‘Castleowen.’
‘And where are you coming from?’
‘Enniskillen. We had to collect the young lassie from a dance.’
The policeman hands the licence back to my father.
‘OK, Mister Fall,’ he says. ‘Have a safe journey.’
‘Thank you,’ my father says, ‘and goodnight.’
No one utters another word until we’ve driven over several more ramps and across the bridge that takes us back into the Republic.
‘Thanks be to the Lord God Almighty,’ my mother says, blessing herself. She then turns to my father. ‘I don’t ever want to have to go through that again,’ she whines. ‘Them guns are very threatening.’
‘Don’t worry, Rita, you’ll not have to.’
‘I hope not.’
‘You won’t. I promise.’
Behind them, I’m rolling my eyes at her helpless little woman routine. I just don’t buy it.
We travel on in silence until we’re only a couple of miles outside Castleowen. By now, I’m getting it hard to keep my eyes open.
‘The gall of you to tell me that you weren’t drinking,’ my mother says, when she sees me with my hand over my mouth. ‘Look at her,’ she says, nudging my father, ‘she’s going to throw up.’
‘No I’m not,’ I say through a yawn. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. God, am I not allowed to yawn now?’
‘I know by your eyes you’ve been drinking, Frances Fall. Do you think I came up the river on a banana skin?’
‘No, on a spaceship.’
‘How dare you!’ she yelps, reaching back to take a swipe at me.
In an attempt to stop her, my father grabs her wrist and loses control of the steering wheel. The car swerves to the left.
‘Jesus, Jesus, oh Jesus,’ my father cries out, jamming his foot on the brake as we judder along the grassy bank, narrowly avoiding the drop into a ditch. Half crying and half laughing, I grab hold of my father’s headrest and close my eyes. In the next few seconds, the only thing that crosses my mind is Lesley – will I ever see her again? Then, thump! The car comes to a halt and all three of us are jolted forward.
‘Aaagh!’ my mother shouts.
‘Rita, Rita, are you all right, love?’ My father’s voice is trembling.
‘No,’ she cries, holding her hand to her forehead. ‘I hit my head on the dashboard.’
‘Let me see,’ he says, trying to take her hand away.
‘Leave me alone,’ she screeches. ‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Please, Rita, let me have a look at it to see if you’re cut.’
‘Will you just get me home, you silly man!’
‘I’m sorry, Rita. I shouldn’t have interfered: I should’ve kept my eyes on the road.’
She takes a sudden, sharp intake of breath and winces as if she’s in agony, though I have my doubts. ‘Yes,’ she whimpers, ‘you should have.’
‘There’s gonna be changes,’ my father says as he turns the key in the ignition. ‘Do you hear me, Frances?
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll not have you putting Mammy through the likes of this again.’
Shite! She has him now. A wee bump on her head and she’s a martyr to the bloody cause. Any excuse at all and he gives in to her.
‘Lesley Lesley Lesley – where the hell are you?’ I whisper, as I climb out of bed the following morning.
It’s half past eleven. What if she’s still in Enniskillen? What if she’s hurt? Dead! I run across the landing to the bathroom. My head is throbbing. I’m sure my parents are waiting down-stairs to confront me, but I haven’t time to listen to them. I have to get out of the house and down to the kiosk to ring Lesley’s. There’s no way I could talk in peace from the phone in the hall. After scrubbing my mouldy mouth, I swallow several mouthfuls of tap water and put on the jeans and jumper that have been lying in a ball at the bottom of my bed for almost a week. Then I sneak downstairs and out the front door. It’s only then I realize my parents aren’t home. The car isn’t parked in its usual spot, in front of the sitting-room window. I’d thought that the deadly silence in the house when I woke up earlier on was down to the atmosphere, not their absence. Where could they be? Ten o’clock Mass is long over. In fact, I’m surprised my mother didn’t insist on dragging me along. Just as the front door clicks shut, I realize I haven’t taken any money with me for the phone, and I’ve forgotten my key. Nancy has a spare. Although I don’t feel comfortable about calling at her house – she’s very frosty with me these days – I have to get back in the house, so I hurry down the street and knock on her door. I’m surprised when there’s no answer; her car is in the driveway.
‘She’s away with your parents,’ Susan Scully shouts from across the street. ‘I saw her getting into their car about an hour ago.’
‘Thanks.’
A few doors down, I see my primary school teacher, Master Fitzgibbon, coming out of his mother’s house and getting into his car.
‘Hello, Master,’ I say, walking towards him. I still him call that. Everyone does.
‘How’re you doing, Frances?’
‘Grand. You’re not heading into town by any chance?’
‘No. Why? Do you need a lift?’
‘Ah no, it’s OK.’
‘Come on. I’ll run you in.’
On the way, he tells me I’ve changed. That of all the children he’s taught over the years, I’ve surprised him most. I like that.
‘Any thoughts on what you’re going to do after the Leaving Cert?’
‘Move to Dublin,’ I tell him, because that’s what Lesley and I have planned. We’re going to share a fla
t and have a great social life.
‘To study what?’
‘Nothing. I just want to get a job.’
‘You haven’t considered university?’
‘No way. I’ve had my fill of school.’
‘Your parents must be a bit disappointed.’
‘It’s my life, Master.’
‘Indeed it is. But there aren’t that many decent jobs on offer nowadays if you haven’t a degree in your back pocket.’
‘I don’t really mind what I work at. I’m just looking forward to getting away.’
‘Yeah, I can see that.’
‘She’s still in bed,’ Lesley’s mother says. ‘Come on in, love.’
‘So she’s home?’
‘Only a couple of hours,’ Sandra says, coming out of the sitting-room with her hands on her waist. ‘Where the hell were ye last night?’
‘Don’t jump down the lassie’s throat,’ her mother splutters through a cough. ‘Anyway, Lesley’s already told us what happened.’
‘Lesley fed us a cock and bull story and well you know it.’
‘Innocent till proven guilty, Sandra.’
‘Ah, will you cop on to yourself, Mammy. When it comes to Lesley, you’ve blinkers on. Come on, you, Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth,’ she says, taking my elbow and leading me into the sitting-room. ‘Sit down and give us your version of the story.’
‘Stop bullying her, will you?’ her mother says, sitting down beside me and patting my knee. ‘If youse missed your lift, youse missed your lift. Youse did the right thing waiting at the depot for the first bus.’
‘Oh, Jesus wept,’ Sandra shouts, shaking her head in frustration. ‘I give up,’ she says. ‘I’ve fucking had it with Lesley. She’s your responsibility, Mammy, not mine.’
‘Don’t worry, she’ll calm down,’ her mother says when Sandra leaves the room.
I’m flabbergasted. I’d have thought Sandra would be cool over something like this and that her mother would be the one to hit the roof, not the other way around, especially after some of the things Lesley’s been telling me about her mother lately. I was beginning to dislike the woman. Something doesn’t add up.
‘You’d swear that one never put a foot wrong herself,’ she says. ‘Since she got engaged, she’s turned fierce sensible.’
The Fall Girl Page 17