by Susan Stairs
Mam was a country girl, born in Wicklow in a cottage somewhere out past the Sugarloaf Mountain. She’d spent her childhood roaming fields and meadows, and what she hated most about where we lived was the fact that we had nowhere to play. Out the back was a tiny concrete yard, completely out of proportion to the size of the house. Gran had sold off more than half the original garden to a mechanic who’d built an eyesore of a shed on it years before we were born. At the front of the house we did have some outdoor space, but it was only a tiny railed-in patch of grass, bordered with purple and yellow crocuses in spring, and plump, dark pink roses in summer.
Traffic hummed up and down South Circular Road at all times of the day: dusty, navy double-decker buses; enormous, clanking lorries; and cars in dull shades of grey or brown. Mam often wiped black carbon dust from the silver-painted railings in the morning, only to find they were filthy again by late afternoon. Not that she was worried about us inhaling it; nobody knew the dangers of leaded petrol back then. What annoyed her was the dirt, the way it grubbied our fingers so that we left black streaks all along the dado rail in the hall, contributing to her never-ending housework.
So it came about that Mam’s constant but good-natured nagging won out – the day arrived when we learned we were moving to the suburbs. To a house in an estate called Hillcourt Rise. Mam’s trump card came in the form of our baby brother, Kevin. At thirty-nine, I guess she’d presumed her child-bearing days were over. But when she discovered she was pregnant with something we heard her describe as ‘an afterthought’, she decided it was quite definitely time to go. It was going to be hard enough getting used to night feeds and nappies after ten years, without worrying about keeping an eye on us three.
‘They need somewhere safe to play, Mick,’ I’d strained to hear her saying to Dad one evening after dinner. We were used to hearing whispers between the two of them while they were washing and drying at the kitchen sink and we were supposed to be doing our homework at the table. I used to imagine they’d won the sweeps, and were desperately trying to keep it from us for fear we’d demand new bicycles, roller skates, and holidays to Disneyland. Or that one of us was terminally ill (it was always me) and they couldn’t bring themselves to break the news.
‘And some kids to play with,’ she said, her yellow rubber-gloved hands smoothing over her rounding belly. ‘What do you think?’ It was a question she’d asked him many times before, and one he usually ignored.
Dad looked out the window, stroking his moustache and breathing hard up his nose. I could tell he was thinking about it this time. And so could Mam. She held her head to one side with her eyebrows raised and her mouth ready to curve into a smile. Then finally Dad let out a sort of false sigh as he turned and put his arm around her.
‘I think you’ve finally won, Rose,’ he said, pulling her close. Mam let out a little shriek and kissed him noisily on the cheek. Then he whispered something into her ear, and she hugged him tight around his waist.
I didn’t let on to the others for a while, but the next Friday evening when I saw Dad sorting through tins of paint and brushes out the back, I knew the preparations had begun and we were in for a weekend of chores. I said as much to the others and, as usual, they were suitably impressed when, the following morning, Dad handed us three brushes and a bucket of magnolia and told us to get to work brightening up the back wall of the shed.
‘I think we’re moving house,’ I said, as we sloshed paint over the grey concrete.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Mel. He stood back to look at our progress, scrunching up his face. ‘Wish Dad had given us bigger brushes. We’ll be ages. And get a move on, you two,’ he ordered, mimicking Mam. ‘I’ve done most of it.’
‘Why would we be moving house?’ asked Sandra, absently wiping her brush over and back across the same square foot of wall. ‘Where would we go?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, reaching up as far as I could. ‘Maybe to a house that isn’t so old. With a big back garden.’
‘Hope you’re wrong,’ said Mel from behind us. ‘All that grass to cut. And I’d be the one made to do it.’ He shouldered his way between us, anxious to prove he could stretch up further towards the top of the wall than Sandra. Mel was finding it hard to accept that his younger sister was the same height as him and he raised himself up on his toes whenever she stood near. In some seaside photos, his face had a manic, glacial expression as he tried to puff himself up for the duration of the pose while Sandra smiled sweetly, completely unaware of his desperation. With their similar fair skin and hair, blue eyes and gangly limbs, they were often mistaken for twins. By contrast, my small, slightly chubby build and dark colouring brought about expressions of surprise that I could even be distantly related to them, let alone be part of the same family.
THREE
We nearly killed Shayne Lawless the day we moved into Hillcourt Rise. He ran in front of our car and Dad had to jam on the brakes. He looked in at us – the newcomers – with his giddy eyes and grinning mouth just inches from the bonnet. Dad cursed under his breath, holding his hairy hands up as if to say sorry, even though it wasn’t his fault. A tiny stream of sweat ran down his neck, under the loosened collar of his white shirt, and his washed-out eyes in the rear-view mirror implored us not to tell Mam. She wasn’t with us for the actual move; we’d had to leave her in the hospital with our new baby brother.
It was a sweltering July day in the hottest summer for years. I was ten years old. Mam and Dad had signed the contract for the house that morning in a solicitor’s office on Merrion Square, leaving me, Mel and Sandra to wait in the car. We were on our summer holidays from school, and for some reason there was no one able – or perhaps willing – to look after us. As soon as they’d been handed the keys to forty-two Hillcourt Rise, Mam told Dad it was time, and they’d walked quickly along the east side of the square to Holles Street Maternity Hospital, where, fifteen minutes later, Kevin shot out like a bullet. Well, he was number four. They thought they’d timed it all to perfection and that we’d be nicely settled into our new house before he arrived. But Kev was impatient to get out into the world and didn’t want to wait any longer. So Dad could be forgiven for being a bit distracted that evening as he drove behind the removal lorry into the estate.
The events of that day are obviously memorable: new brother, new house, new neighbours. But another thing took place that morning in Merrion Square Park that was to mark the day out in my mind. Something a lot more strange and frightening. I kept quiet about it at the time; it wasn’t something I wanted to share. The day would come when I’d think maybe what happened had been some kind of warning. But by then, it was already too late.
Dad had pulled in under the shadowy, dark green tangle of trees that dipped over the park railings, rushing around to help Mam as she tried to heave herself and her ballooning stomach out of the car. She was making a huge effort to breathe regularly, taking long streams of warm air up through her nose, waiting a few seconds, then pushing them out steadily through the ‘O’ of her pursed lips. In the last few weeks, her movements had slowed. She tired easily. Often, she went to bed in the afternoons and we had to wait longer for our dinner. Occasionally, Dad even had to make it and bring it up to her on a tray. When Mel grumbled once that the mashed potato had black bits in it, he was made to do the washing up and the drying.
Dad pushed his head through the open window, his chin showing the marks of a rushed shave. ‘Won’t be long. Just have to sign for the new house and get the keys.’ Then, leaning in further, he whispered, ‘And for God’s sake, behave yourselves. Your mother doesn’t need any of your carry on today.’ He looked at me. ‘You’ll let me know if there’s been any trouble, Ruth?’
I nodded my head with a mixture of pride and apprehension; while I was used to the role of informer, I was mindful that both Mel and Sandra were bigger and stronger than me, and were expert at giving Chinese burns.
‘I’m so thirsty,’ Mel complained. ‘I’ll die if I don’t get a drink.�
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‘Pity about you,’ Dad said. ‘But don’t worry. We’ll all go to the funeral.’
I watched the way they crossed the road, Mam using Dad like a crutch and keeping one hand on the underside of her huge belly. The beige smock she wore was one she’d made herself, using a pattern that came free with Woman’s Way. The heat of her body against the even hotter PVC of the car seat had caused a dark stain to emerge on her back. Against the sandy fabric, it reminded me of an oasis in the middle of a desert. Without thinking, I said as much to Sandra. She frowned at me, her eyebrows straight golden lines above her sea-blue eyes.
‘It’s just sweat, Ruth,’ she said. ‘It’s hot, or haven’t you noticed?’
Her nose was sunburned, a new, pink layer peeping through the curls of peeling skin. She bit at her bottom lip with her front tooth, the one she’d chipped at my last birthday party, when, in the rush to get the Rice Krispie cakes, someone (we never discovered who, but I always suspected Brainbox – our cousin, Trevor) pulled her chair from under her as she was about to sit down, and she walloped her chin off the edge of the kitchen table. She blamed me because it was my party. Mam said she was lucky she didn’t break her jaw. Her lip biting had since become a habit, the sharp edge of the tooth often drawing blood. She’d scraped her red-gold hair into an untidy ponytail that morning, tying it with a purple bobble to match the bib-front shorts with the heart-shaped buttons she’d begged Mam to make for her. It hadn’t taken much persuasion; Mam loved to sew. Most evenings she sat in front of the telly in the wickerwork armchair, eyes darting from needle to Kojak or Columbo or whoever, and back again, as she hemmed or cross-stitched as perfectly as any machine. She always got it spot on with Sandra; everything she made for her seemed to fit exactly right. I was more hit and miss, perhaps because I was small, and not as graceful or perfectly proportioned. So I was thankful that the last few months had limited her output to cute romper suits for the new baby and huge tent-like dresses for herself.
The second Mam and Dad had left to get the keys, Mel started. He began by ficking toast crusts into Sandra’s hair. Because we’d been late leaving, we were allowed to eat our breakfast in the car, and Mel had saved up his crusts for ammunition. Being the eldest, he had that air of supreme authority that he thought the eleven months he spent as an only child entitled him to for life. I don’t think he ever forgave our parents for diluting his one hundred per cent share of their attention and he used up huge amounts of energy trying to get it back. He always got the best reaction from Sandra. He’d given up on me, but my big sister was easily provoked. I saw the relationship she enjoyed with Mel as like a sort of earthquake graph: long periods of inactivity combined with spells of minor movement that progressed towards massive eruptions. I saw myself as something of a dormant volcano: one whose silence was effectively guaranteed, but should never really be taken for granted.
Mel and Sandra’s squabble soon reached Wimbledon proportions. Back and forth between the two of them the ball of accusations flew. Mel jumped into the driver’s seat, twisting the knob that made it recline.
‘Ouch! You’re leaning on my knees,’ Sandra whined.
‘Move over then,’ Mel told her.
‘No, I don’t want to. Lift the seat.’
‘Make me.’
I felt the warmth of the glass against my cheek and wished I’d brought a book. I’d wanted to, but Dad had said we were late already and there was no time to be rummaging around in tea-chests for stuff that was already packed. Thirty seconds would hardly have made a difference, but I’d said nothing. Dad wasn’t much of a reader – except for newspapers – and didn’t understand my compulsive need to escape into an imaginary world. I felt he should have though; he knew what Mel and Sandra were like. I thought it unfair that he expected me to put up with them when I didn’t have the necessary distractions.
Soon, the stuffy atmosphere of the car became too much. Sandra opened a door and jumped out. Mel was next. In seconds, my face was cutting through the morning air as I ran behind them, through the gates, and into the park. I had on my new Clark’s sandals and a pair of white knee socks, the toes of which quickly became sodden and green from the dewy grass. The sky was clear of clouds and sort of hazy, with that early-morning promise of all-day blue. It seemed higher than usual, as if it needed to raise itself up to avoid the treetops and the roofs of the four-storey Georgian terraces lining the square. I knew we wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving the car. I think it was a sense that things were shifting, changing; and punishments were always difficult to give out when normal routines weren’t being followed.
Mel found a red plastic ball and tried to involve me in a game, but I wasn’t interested. Besides, my open-toed sandals were hardly suitable for playing football. Sandra was willing, despite their earlier bickering. So I left them to it and wandered off in among the trees and bushes to explore, hoping I might be lucky this time. I regularly dreamed of discovering a hoard of gold coins hidden in undergrowth, or some priceless ancient treasure stuffed inside a hole in a tree. I climbed in under a holly bush, its waxy, spiked leaves pricking my back through the thin cotton of my dress. The sound of Mel and Sandra grew faint, drowned out by the thick, green growth on one side and the low rumble of traffic from around Merrion Square on the other.
It was much darker in there. Sunlight barely found its way through. High above, the trees had twined and twisted their branches together and only tiny flashes of blue showed through. It smelled old and damp and sort of rotten. A crumpled newspaper, a few crushed cans and a broken bottle lay at the base of a tree, and in the middle of a small clearing, hundreds of matches lay scattered around a circle of blackened stones. I listened. The place was silent. I trudged through last years’ autumn leaves, still crisp in deep, rusty piles under my feet, and was glad when I reached the railings. I could see out to the square from there. I found a gap in the hedge, squatted down and nestled myself into its cover where I could watch the people passing by.
I felt safe there. I was in a place of my own. Unseen and unheard. The best place. At home, I was used to finding some seemingly inaccessible spot to hide myself away for a while: in the cupboard under the stairs; on the bottom shelf of my wardrobe; in the space between the back of the couch and the radiator. I think I sometimes needed to find a place away from the constant tug-of-war of family couplings. Mam and Dad formed one pair, Mel and Sandra the other. In truth, I understood there was no way to break through the intertwining links that had been created well before I’d been born.
I began counting shoes and legs. Brown shoes, black shoes, bare legs, trouser legs. It was easy enough for a while. But it grew complicated when a group of chattering office girls breezed past in a criss-cross of rubber platforms, straw wedges, flapping blue jeans and orange nylons. After a while, my legs grew stiff from squatting, so I stretched out each one in turn for a few seconds, before realizing that I really needed to wee. I was well used to going behind bushes; on Sunday drives, Dad regularly had to pull over someplace for one or other of us. And although I was quite good at holding it, I didn’t want to take the chance this time. I’d no way of knowing how much longer Mam and Dad might be. And anyway, this was the perfect place to go. I stood up and moved backwards, away from the gap and further behind the hedge. Then I reached up under my dress, pulled down my pants and bent my knees again.
Just then, a blackbird few down beside me. Even in the murky light, his feathers had a kind of sheen and I could clearly see the bright orange-yellow of his beak and eyes. He cocked his head left and right then he fluttered up, settled on a low branch about ten feet away, and started to sing. My wee rushed onto the mess of old leaves and undisturbed black earth in a steady, hot flow. Although there was no one else to hear, the splashing made me feel embarrassed and I was glad the birdsong drowned most of it out. A slight wind swished through the leaves and the screech of an ambulance siren came and went from somewhere out beyond the square. When I was nearly done, I fixed my eyes on the blackbird,
willing him to keep singing for the last few seconds. As my wee slowed to a trickle, the cold air found its way under my dress, creeping up my legs and around my middle. I shivered. At the very last drop, like somehow he knew, the blackbird stopped and the place fell silent.
I didn’t move. I was suddenly scared. I was still staring at the blackbird but I couldn’t see him any more; he was just a dark, blurry blob. My gaze had shifted. My eyes were focused on something behind him now and what I realized I was looking at made my skin start to prickle and crawl. There was movement in the tree. A faint swaying in the branches behind the blackbird.
I wasn’t alone at all.
What I saw was a foot. A large foot. In a muddy black boot that had a strap and a silver buckle. And close beside it, another one, kicking lamely against the tree trunk. Above them was a pair of mucky, brown corduroy trousers, then, further up, a dark red shirt and around it, a grubby black coat.
The prickle on my skin turned to a burning flood that seeped through my body and thump-thumped in my head. Hard as I tried to convince myself that someone might’ve put together a sort of scarecrow for a joke, I knew this collection of limbs and clothes had to belong to a person.