by Susan Stairs
We were all out on the green that Friday afternoon when Liz left. She stood up in Vic’s car as they drove alongside us and stuck her head out through the sunroof, waving a white straw sun hat and shouting something none of us could make out. Valerie said it sounded like ‘Adios’ but I doubted it. I couldn’t believe Liz knew even a single word in another language.
Shayne had been out for the past half hour, circling around us on his bike. He didn’t even look up when Liz and Vic drove by and I wondered if any form of goodbye had taken place between them. Had Liz given him a great big bear hug and left a list of do’s and don’ts sellotaped to the fridge? Had her eyes glittered as she showed him the week’s worth of frozen meals in the freezer and pushed a wad of notes into his hand? And when she’d lovingly placed a pile of freshly washed and ironed clothes in his wardrobe and put clean sheets on his bed, had she looked around his tiny attic room, then rushed downstairs and flung her arms around him, telling him she’d phone every day without fail? I almost laughed out loud at the scenario I’d imagined. She’d probably left barely enough food in the cupboards, the place in a mess, and a parting instruction that the house be clean and tidy on her return.
David was holding court under a cherry tree, his broken wrist lying heavy in his lap. The cast was still blindingly white; he’d refused to allow any of us to autograph it. A circle of girls – Valerie, Tracey and Sandra included – sat around him as he read aloud the words to ‘Hotel California’. He often did that: copied out the words to songs and ‘explained’ their meaning to anyone who cared to listen. He broke off when Shayne came within earshot. His words showed that things were a bit strained between them.
‘I see the Wicked Witch of the West has left us,’ he said, using his preferred name for Liz. ‘How I’ll miss her sweet visage. Would that Mother and Father O’Dea might fly off to some far and distant land. ‘What a tempting prospect.’
Shayne showed no reaction, save for a toss of his head. I doubt he even understood what David was saying. For him, his mam being away made little difference, seeing as she pretty much left him to his own devices most of the time anyway. For someone like David, it would’ve been an altogether different story.
‘Now,’ David said, turning once again to his audience. ‘When the words of the song refer to checking out but not being able to leave, what do you suppose that means?’
Aidan Farrell had been watching the group and he began to run around the circle of girls, pointing to his bum and roaring with laughter.
‘It’s when . . . It’s when you can’t do a shite even though . . . even though . . . you’re dyin’ for it!’ he shouted. ‘And you’re fartin’ like mad! Great big stinkers, like!’
Tracey leapt up, eyes blazing, her face red with rage. ‘Come on!’ she announced to everyone. ‘We’re going down to the graveyard. At least we’ll have some peace and quiet there.’ She yelled at her brother, ‘Go on home! And you can take them with you!’ She pointed at the collection of Farrells playing in among the bushes. ‘And if you don’t do what you’re told, I’ll tell Mam what you said.’ Aidan stuck his tongue out but then he slunk off, rounding up his siblings with a branch he’d broken off a tree.
We all obeyed Tracey and soon we were heading up the lane towards Churchview Park, where a narrow pathway would lead us to the graveyard. Mel ran into Mealy’s for a bag of gobstoppers and Shayne cycled on ahead, disappearing from view while David led our small group, chattering away like some annoying tour guide. The way he walked annoyed me – each step measured and deliberate. As if he was on a stage, aware of an audience. Sandra decided to imitate him behind his back, careful not to let the twins see. Tracey’s giggles encouraged her but Valerie didn’t find it as funny. ‘Be careful he doesn’t catch you,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think he’d be amused.’
‘I’m only messing,’ Sandra said.
‘David’s not someone I’d mess with,’ Valerie said. ‘He can be quite . . .’ She trailed off.
‘Quite what?’ I asked, curious.
‘Well, he’s . . . he’s . . .’ She slowed down, allowing the twins to walk ahead. Then she took a deep breath and looked at the three of us. ‘Promise you won’t say this back to him?’
‘What?’ Tracey asked in a high whisper. ‘Say what back to him?’
Valerie leaned in close to us. ‘He . . . well . . . he didn’t fall out of the tree. He threw himself from it deliberately. To get out of that piano competition.’
‘You mean . . . on purpose?’ Sandra asked, her eyes wide. ‘He did it on purpose?’
‘Ladies, ladies!’ It was David. He’d stopped and turned around to face us. ‘No dilly-dallying now. Keep up with the group.’
‘Sshhh!’ Valerie hissed at us. ‘Don’t let on. He made me swear I’d keep my mouth shut.’
David gave us a big smile when we caught up. Then Mel arrived back, gobstopper in cheek. ‘Wonderful!’ David said. ‘We’re all together again.’
Soon we were walking alongside the churchyard. The branches of the copper beech towered up and out over the high stone wall, making the pathway dark and damp. As we passed under the canopy of purple-brown leaves, David held his cast out from his body and gave an exaggerated shudder.
‘Pity about that piano competition,’ I said, unable to resist. ‘I mean, after you’d been practising so hard and all.’
Sandra gave me a dig and Valerie glared.
‘It is indeed,’ he replied. ‘Especially as I was so looking forward to it.’
Just then, through the black railed gate that opened into the churchyard, I spied Father Feely. He walked slowly past the Virgin Mary in her concrete grotto, muttering to himself. He carried a big red book in one hand, and a huge bunch of keys jingled in the other. He looked up as we passed and we all stopped dead; his gaze had the power to root our feet to the ground. He made a beeline for us, crunching across the fine gravel, his face getting redder and redder with every step until, when he reached us, I half expected steam to start whooshing out of his ears. ‘Well, well, well, and who have we here? Hmm?’ he puffed. He looked around. ‘Let me see.’ He named us all, one by one, and stood beaming, his yellow eyes all googly and glassy and the long hairs that grew out of his nose quivering as he breathed. ‘And how is young Master O’Dea?’ he asked, eyeing the cast on David’s wrist. ‘That was an unfortunate mishap, was it not?’
‘It was indeed, Father,’ David said, plain-faced, meeting Father Feely’s gaze straight on.
‘And did I hear ’twas from our copper beech that you fell? What the divil had you up there in the first place, lad?’
David paused for only a split second. ‘I was praying, Father,’ he said. ‘Praying to the good Lord to grant me the strength to do my very best in the piano competition the next day.’ He ran his fingers over his cast as he spoke. Father Feely dipped his head to one side, his features softening while he listened. ‘And . . . well . . . you see, Father, I . . . perhaps stupidly . . . I imagined my prayers might have more success if I was . . . closer to God, as it were.’
Father Feely reached out a hand and laid it on David’s head. He closed his eyes and said something in Latin, then blessed himself. ‘I knew. I knew as soon as I heard that there’d be a plausible explanation. I said to myself, there’ll be a reason that lad was up that tree. Perhaps he was rescuing a little kitten, or returning a tiny fledgling to its nest . . .’ He smoothed his plump hands over the fattest part of his belly. ‘God bless you, my son. And know that this is merely the Lord’s way of testing the strength of your faith.’ He took David’s wrist in one hand and made the sign of the cross over it with the other. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’
Valerie pinched my arm. Though she knew she could trust Sandra and Tracey not to blab about the truth of David’s accident, she wasn’t as sure about me. But she needn’t have worried; I wasn’t about to say anything at all. My feelings were confused. Witnessing the skill of his little act with Father Feely, I couldn’t decide if what I felt for David
O’Dea was admiration or disgust.
‘Thank you, Father,’ he was saying now, blessing himself and genuflecting.
‘Ah, now, that’s enough, that’s enough.’ Father Feely laughed, tousling David’s hair. ‘And next time you want to be closer to the Lord, come to me and I’ll make sure to let you up into the gallery to say your prayers. No more climbing trees, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And don’t forget. The Lord hears our prayers no matter where we are. He listens to us wherever we happen—’
‘Yes, Father. Thank you, Father,’ David said, backing away, anxious now to escape. He blessed himself again and turned solemnly on his heels, leaving the priest muttering under his breath.
We followed David until we were out of Father Feely’s sight. Then everyone sort of exploded and collapsed in on top of one another with laughter. Tears welled in Tracey’s eyes. Valerie made a sound like a donkey. Sandra squealed. Mel was clearly in awe of David’s ability to keep a straight face; his way of showing it was to wallop David on the back and offer him a gobstopper.
‘Jesus! What’s keepin’ ye?’ Shayne called as he cycled towards us. He skidded to a stop and looked at the girls. ‘What’s so funny? What’re ye all laughin’ at?’
‘Ah, nothing,’ Mel said, spitting his gobstopper into his hand so he could speak. ‘We were just talking to Feely, that’s all.’
I stepped forward. ‘David was explaining how he came to break his wrist, weren’t you, David?’ I said. ‘About how you climbed the tree so you could be . . . closer to God . . . while you prayed for success in the piano competition.’
‘And Feely was very impressed, wasn’t he?’ David said. ‘Why, I’d even go so far as to say I made his day.’ He laughed, picking a small stone from the path and firing it at Shayne’s bike where it clanged off the mudguard and shot off into the air. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Shayne. ‘Would you say he believed me?’
Shayne frowned. He rode up close to him, jamming on the brakes just short of David’s legs. ‘What do I care?’ he said. ‘Come on, will yez. Don’t be takin’ hours. There’s a new grave and all.’ He sped off, elbowing David as he cycled past. I watched David now as he walked through the graveyard gates, his steps so sure and precise and his voice so annoyingly loud.
And I found myself wishing he hadn’t come away so lightly from the fall.
Once inside, Shayne zipped down the winding paths, past the old granite gravestones and crosses covered in ivy and moss. He stopped beside the new grave, waiting to show it off like it was some art project he’d spent ages working on. A freshly filled grave always attracted our attention. It was kind of thrilling to imagine that beneath the mound of newly turned earth lay a human body in only the very early stages of decay. A person that probably looked like they were asleep, even though they were just as dead as the piles of bones and teeth and hair in all the other graves. We gathered around it, our noses filled with the scent from the wreaths and bouquets that were piled on top. Mel’s eyes watered and he sneezed, the sound of it almost deafening in the silence. There wasn’t a headstone yet so Shayne leaned down to read some of the cards stuck in among the flowers.
‘It’s someone called Teresa,’ he announced quietly. ‘There’s one from her kids.’
‘Someone’s mam is lying under all that muck?’ Linda shrieked, horrified at the thought.
‘We all have to face it,’ David said to his sister, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘Don’t expect Mother O’Dea to be around forever.’
‘Shut up, David,’ Valerie said, throwing him a sharp glance. ‘Your mam’ll be around a long time. She’s not that old or anything. This Teresa woman was probably ancient.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. The grim reaper can pay us a visit at any time, I’m afraid.’ He looked at Shayne. ‘Isn’t that so? Why, even the Wicked Witch of the West will leave us one day. Who knows, it may be sooner than we think . . .’ He twirled around, the toe of one shoe grinding deep into the loose, dusty gravel. He placed the tip of a finger to his bottom lip. ‘Let me see. Could it be the bite of a mosquito that does it? Or too much . . . what is it they drink over there? Sangria, isn’t it? Yes, that’s it, sangria . . . Too much of that and a badly timed lunge from Uncle Vic while they’re watching the sunset from their balcony. Or, worst-case scenario, complete engine failure at thirty-five thousand feet.’ He turned his eyes upwards, where, as if he’d planned it, a noiseless jet snaked across the sky, leaving a long white plume in its wake.
No one said a word. We watched the jet, almost waiting for it to burst into flames or take a sudden nosedive towards the earth. Shayne gripped his fingers tight around the handles of his bike, twisting hard. It was obvious he was ready to pounce.
David looked him in the eye. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference if she never came home, anyway,’ he sneered. ‘She’s hardly ever around. She might as well be dead.’
Shayne crashed his bike to the ground. With the back of his hand he pushed the hair out of his eyes before curling his fingers into a tight, hard fist and landing a punch of some force on David’s right cheek.
‘Fuck off, O’Dea! OK? Just FUCK OFF!’ His words ricocheted around the graveyard like bullets.
We stood, hypnotized.
None of us ever used the F word.
Not even on the green where we were completely out of our parents’ earshot. And here was Shayne, shouting it out loud. Twice. And in the graveyard!
As we watched the colour drain from David’s mole-dotted face, it wasn’t clear what stunned him more: the stinging crack to his cheek or the shocking cut of the curse that had sliced right through the holy air. His eyes were round and wide and his mouth hung open in a big, trembling ‘O’.
The twins started to cry. Much as they didn’t get along with their brother, blood is thicker than water, as Bridie was fond of telling me, and so they rushed to David’s side. But their sympathy changed to puzzlement when his lips began to curve into a slight but definite smile. Then we heard a familiar voice from behind.
‘What in the name of the Lord God Almighty is going on here?’
It was Father Feely walking towards us, his face on fire. David couldn’t hide his delight at the perfect timing.
‘This is a holy place. A holy, sacred place,’ Father Feely spat at us. ‘And you –’ he turned to Shayne – ‘you dare to behave like a . . . a . . . heathen. Like a hun. Like a . . . a . . . barbarian.’ He shook his head at each description, his cheeks faming with scribbles of spidery, purple veins. ‘And you needn’t be looking at me like that, Lawless. I saw what you did. You dare to use violence and profanity in a blessed place? In any place? Shame on you! And this young boy here already injured.’ He put his hand on David’s shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Are you all right, lad? ’Tis the mercy of God there’s no damage to your eye.’
David nodded, cradling his cast to his chest and managing to keep his quivering lips from smiling. Father Feely waved his hands at Shayne. ‘Off with you!’ he commanded. ‘Go on! And take your filthy mouth with you!’ He began examining David’s swelling cheek, making him turn his head so he could see the bruise that had started to appear. David was loving it. I couldn’t stand it.
‘It’s . . . it’s not fair, Father,’ I blurted. ‘David’s as much to blame. He was slagging Shayne about his mam, and—’
‘And nothing,’ Father Feely cut in. ‘That’s no reason to resort to violence and vulgar language, is it?’ His boiled-egg eyes bulged. ‘Well? Is it?’
It was no use. I might as well have been trying to defend the devil. Shayne had no chance against the holiness of Saint David. ‘No, Father,’ I sighed.
‘Now,’ Father Feely said to Shayne, sticking his stomach out like a penguin. ‘I won’t say it again. Off you go. And you can walk. Vehicles of any kind are prohibited in graveyards. Prohibited. Do you hear me?’
He turned his attention once more to David. As everyone crowded around for a closer look at his injury,
Shayne lifted his bike and slowly wheeled it away. I stood watching him for a moment, listening to the babble of the group as they jostled for space. He shuffled along the path, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed.
It sickened me. David was getting all the sympathy even though he’d been the one who’d started it. It wasn’t Shayne’s fault that Liz didn’t look after him properly. David had said those things to deliberately hurt Shayne. He’d deserved the punch. I left the group to themselves.
‘Hang on,’ I called after Shayne.
He glanced back but kept walking. ‘What do ye want?’
‘I . . . I . . . David O’Dea’s a pig.’ It was all I could think of to say.
I followed him through the gates. Under the shade of the copper beech, he stopped. ‘Ye want a crossbar home?’
I nodded and climbed up. It was wobbly at first as he got used to my weight. Then he began to cycle faster. He leaned hard on the handlebars, his chest pressed into my back and his breath coming in hot blasts against my head. Apart from that time he’d squeezed my wrist, I’d never been so close to him before. I’d never been so close to any boy before. I hadn’t expected him to offer me a crossbar home but I supposed it was his way of thanking me for sticking up for him. His left thigh thumped against the side of my leg as he pedalled. I’d left my hair loose that morning and I could feel it lifting into the air, sure it must be whipping across his face, finding its way into his mouth. But I didn’t want to turn my head back to look.
We were almost into the cul-de-sac when Dad drove past, heading home. His eyes were fixed straight ahead and he didn’t notice us. I felt Shayne’s muscles tense when he saw the car. He leaned his face close to my head and whispered warm words in my ear.
‘Would ye forgive yer da anythin’?’
I thought I’d heard him wrong and for a few seconds tried to convince myself he’d said something else like: Would you give your doll a ring? Would you live with the king? But nothing I thought of made any sense.
His mouth was at my ear again. ‘Well, would ye?’