by Susan Stairs
‘And you’d know all about them, wouldn’t you?’ I mumbled under my breath.
‘What was that?’
I didn’t think he’d heard, but I couldn’t be certain.
Mam came back into the room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
Dad gathered his eyebrows into a thick black line. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Ruth. I really don’t.’ His face was close to mine now. ‘Ever since we moved in here, you . . . you . . . I don’t know!’ He threw his arms in the air. ‘If you’ve any sense, you’ll keep your mouth zipped in future. Some things are none of your business.’ He brushed past Mam on his way out to the hall. ‘I’m going for a drink,’ he said. ‘I rue the day we ever came to this shaggin’ place.’ He slammed the door on his way out.
Mam wouldn’t look at me.‘You can go back upstairs,’ she said flatly, folding her arms. ‘For the night.’
There was no use in me trying to go back to my book. I couldn’t concentrate. I lay on my bed and looked at the ceiling, hot tears dripping into my ears. But I was glad Dad had said he was sorry we’d moved to Hillcourt Rise. It made me feel better about The Kiss. He regretted it, I could tell. We’d both done things we shouldn’t have. But if I wanted him to forgive my mistakes, I had to forgive his too. I wished he hadn’t stormed out. Even though I didn’t feel everything was entirely my fault, I did have to take some of the blame. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wouldn’t even have to say the word; Dad would know by looking at my face. He’d put his arms around me and hug me tightly and everything would be forgotten. I couldn’t wait for him to come home. I wanted to do it now.
After I heard Mam putting Kev to bed, I waited a while before creeping downstairs. The sitting room door was open a crack and I peeped inside. Mel was in a kind of trance looking at the telly. Charlie’s Angels was just starting. Sandra was staring, studying The Angels, every toss of their heads and spin of their heels. Mam had a paper pattern laid out on the floor and cut-outs of material spread across her lap. She was in the middle of making a pair of dungarees for Kev. I took my coat from the hall cupboard and a key from the table. None of them would be budging for at least an hour.
Once I was down the hill, it took five minutes to reach The Ramblers. Its mirrored glass windows glowed golden through the darkness and a smoky, sour stench wafted through its half-open door, along with a slurred chorus of ‘The Wild Rover’. No nay never no more . . . I gulped as much fresh air as I could before poking my head through the door of the pub.
It was packed inside. I could barely see from the amount of smoke. Practically every person in the place was puffing on a cigarette. And the noise was deafening. Shouting and singing and laughing and ‘Jaysus’ this and ‘bloody’ that. I shoved my way through the dark crowd of bodies, hiding behind a bulky man in a musty brown overcoat. I scanned the murky room. It didn’t take me long to find Dad. But he wouldn’t have seen me even if I’d stood right in front of him. His gaze was drawn to the large expanse of flesh on show between the open buttons of Liz Lawless’s black satin blouse.
They were sitting together on a bench. Dad said something and she shook her head, then something else and she nodded. She stared into her glass, as if she found the piece of lemon floating in the dregs the most fascinating thing in the world. Dad offered her a cigarette and she took one, leaning in to the match he held out then throwing back her head and blowing a long, straight plume of smoke towards the yellowed ceiling. My stomach felt queasy. And it wasn’t because of the smell of the place. I pushed my way to the door, stomachs, backs and bums squeezing up against me. When I got outside, I was gasping. I ran most of the way home, up the hill and across the green, only slowing down when I reached the cul-de-sac. When I let myself in, I tip-toed back upstairs, fell onto my bed and cried myself to sleep.
I didn’t feel the way I usually did coming up to Christmas. I wasn’t excited at all. I felt more alone than I ever had. Mam was running around after Kev all the time, often falling asleep soon after she put him to bed. And since they’d started in Grangemount, the others barely noticed my existence. Mel had joined the football team and succeeded in attracting the attention of some girl he’d fancied for ages. Sandra had made loads of new friends and she stayed back after school most days to play basketball. Dad was working around the clock to keep up with the usual demand for house decoration in the run-up to Christmas, even working weekends. That was one thing I was glad about. The less I saw of him, the better. I could hardly even bear to look at his face.
Auntie Cissy came to stay the day before Christmas Eve, along with Bertie the budgie in his battered old cage. We weren’t too pleased to hear about the sleeping arrangements. I was to have the pull-out bed in Mel’s room, and Cissy would sleep in with Sandra. But we put up with it for Cissy’s sake; we knew she would’ve been far too lonely at home without Uncle Frank. She tried to make herself useful when she arrived, helping to ice the cake and singing ‘Pat-a-Cake’ and ‘Incy Wincy Spider’ with Kev while Mam went about her work. But after that, she sat in front of the telly looking lonely and sad. Mel grumbled because she didn’t bring any presents for us and Mam gave him a clip around the ear, telling him to keep his voice down and not to be so selfish. Whether Cissy heard or not I don’t know, but on Christmas Eve morning, she handed each of us a five-pound note and told us to go to the shops and buy ourselves something nice.
We took Kev with us in his pushchair, wrapped up tightly against the cold in a stiff, quilted all-in-one suit that made him look like some sort of blow-up toy you could burst with the prick of a pin. The skin on his cheeks was cracked and red and his eyes watered as soon as we brought him outside. There was no one else about as we made our way along the path. Everything about the estate seemed different: sharper, clearer, fresher. A kind of electric silence buzzed in our ears and gulps of tingling air whooshed into our lungs, waking up our insides. There was no day in the whole year like Christmas Eve. It held the weight of so much expectation. And even though we didn’t believe in Santa any more, it was still as magical as it’d ever been. The sun hung low in the sky. Its light was almost blinding. But it wasn’t warm enough to melt the cover of crisp frost that had settled on the green in the night. We each took a turn to run across it, crunching over the hardened blades of grass and leaving behind a curving line of footprints.
When we came close to the lane that led to the shops, I noticed tracks criss-crossing the area in front of the trees. Whoever had left them had come from the far side of the green, walking over and back in a looping figure of eight. As we got nearer, I saw a small, dark shape against the white ground, lying not far from the base of a tree. I left the others and ran over, curious to find out what it was.
Long before I reached it, I noticed the blood. The footprints that came towards it were clean, but the ones that led away were coloured with smudgy splats of red. I slowed down, shielding my eyes from the flashing rays of yellow-white sunlight that sliced through the leafless trees. My steps joined the upper arc of the eight, following the tracks until they arrived at the shape.
As far as I could make out, it was a blackbird. Its coal-black wing feathers splayed out like a fan, twisted and broken by a deliberate, forceful stamp. Its once plump stomach had been crushed flat, sending its guts bursting out over the frosted earth in an oozing, mangled mess. Keeping my eyes down, I followed the bloody track lines that led away from the scene of death. The red staining faded slightly with each step until, as the footprints reached the edge of the green, it disappeared completely. Right opposite the O’Deas’.
I crossed the road to the path and heard the soft, sweet tinkle of David’s piano drifting out over the silent estate. Through the window I saw him, bent over, his head swaying from side to side and his hands rising up and down in slow, graceful waves like a pair of swans diving underwater. I stared hard, wishing my gaze was a red hot beam that could pierce the glass and bore a hole right into his brain. But he kept on playing his airy tune,
deep in concentration. Then he suddenly stopped and swivelled around on his stool. I could tell from his face that he knew what I’d seen. He gave me a weak sort of smile before turning back to play.
I walked slowly back to the others. Mel couldn’t understand why I was making such a fuss. ‘Won’t you be eating dead bird for dinner tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘With roasters and bread sauce and everything?’
‘But that’s . . . that’s not the point,’ I said. ‘At least there’s a purpose to killing a turkey, isn’t there?’
‘I’d say that blackbird was already dead before someone stamped on it,’ Sandra said. ‘Birds always die when the ground is hard, don’t they?’
‘But who’d do something sick like that, anyway?’ Mel asked.
‘There’s only one person round here sick enough,’ I said. ‘You can hear him now if you strain your ears.’
Sandra swerved the pushchair into the lane. ‘David? David O’Dea? You think so?’
‘Can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Sure it could’ve been anyone,’ Mel said. ‘Forget about it.’ He ran ahead of us. ‘Come on! We’ve money to spend!’
What had David been thinking about when his foot came down on the bird’s body? And how could he just smile and wave at me knowing what he’d done? David O’Dea wasn’t just strange; David O’Dea was sick.
Sandra and I agreed we should buy Auntie Cissy a present in Sheila’s Fashions. Mel said he’d contribute but wasn’t going into a ladies shop so he’d wait outside and mind Kev. But he warned us not to be more than five minutes or he’d pull out of the deal.
Because it was Christmas Eve, Sheila actually had a few customers in the shop when we went in. Dolly Flynn, who ran the bingo in the parish hall every Thursday night, was there, trying to decide between two equally awful outfits. Sheila was trying to convince her to buy both.
After a scan of the display cases, we spotted a small gold brooch in the shape of a cat. I was sure Auntie Cissy would love it but Sandra wasn’t convinced. She argued for a few minutes but then we saw Mel making signals through the window and she gave in. We quickly paid for the brooch and almost knocked each other over running for the door. I got there first and pulled it open, throwing myself through.
Straight into Bridie’s batch-loaf bosoms.
She scowled down at me, her nose glowing red from the cold. ‘Well! Of all the . . .’ She turned to her companion. It was Mona O’Dea. ‘I don’t know, Mona. Manners don’t cost anything, do they?’
Mona clasped her handbag to her chest. ‘They were free the last time I checked, Bridie,’ she sniffed.
I was about to open my mouth to apologize when the two of them elbowed Sandra and me out of the way and barged into Sheila’s, muttering under their breath. Sandra’s face was pink from embarrassment. I could feel my own cheeks heating up too, but not from shame – from anger. I might as well have been some stranger, some brat Bridie had never seen before in her life. She knew perfectly well it was an accident. If it’d happened a few months ago, she’d have been apologizing to me.
I let the others go into Mealy’s while I waited outside with Kev. I’d lost any desire for sweets. Bridie may as well have punched me in the stomach. And Mona O’Dea – I was sure the tin of coconut macaroons was left open on the counter whenever she called round. They were welcome to each other. They were blind to almost everything going on around them. They only saw what they wanted to see. The truth about David was plain and simple but they chose to pretend he could do no wrong. I knew what he was really like. My mind was in tune with these things. I took my time and looked for clues to the truth. They stumbled about, missing out on the most obvious hints.
Walking home, I told the others we should bury the blackbird, but they didn’t agree. Sandra said wild creatures die all the time and no one goes around burying them. Mel shook a box of wine gums under my nose and said he’d better things to be doing than kicking bird guts into a hole. And then Kev started to moan because he wanted more chocolate than we were prepared to put in his mouth and that made them walk even faster towards home. But it didn’t seem right to leave the poor thing lying in the open with its insides squirting out all over the place, so I told the others to go on without me and, ignoring their mocking, ran back across the crunchy grass to the scene of death.
When I got there, I began searching around for something I could dig a hole with. It had to be sharp, able to cut through the hardened ground. I bent down and lifted the bottom branches of a bush. Scrabbling around among the crisp packets and sweet wrappers, I found an empty Coke bottle. I struck it against a rock but it just bounced off, sending a tremor up my arm. I gripped it tighter and tried again. This time, the base of it broke away, leaving me holding a sort of glass scoop with a nicely jagged edge.
I pictured Bridie’s face in my head as I stabbed at the earth and gouged out lumps of frozen dirt. Puffy white clouds of my breath rose up in the air as I worked and though I knew I must’ve looked strange, I carried on. It wasn’t long before I attracted attention.
‘Yuck.’ It was Valerie, with Tracey in tow. ‘What did you do to that poor bird?’
I breathed out a long sigh. ‘Nothing. I’m just burying it.’
‘Looks like you slashed it open with that bottle,’ Tracey said. ‘Its guts are all over the place.’
I looked up at them. ‘I found it like this, OK? Someone stamped on it. Can you not see their footprints all across the grass?’
‘Sure that could’ve been you,’ Valerie said.
‘And why would I do that?’
‘’Cos you’re weird, that’s why.’
‘No weirder than you.’
‘Ha! That’s funny.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘That’s really funny. I’m not the one down on my knees in the freezing cold burying a dead crow on Christmas Eve.’
‘It’s a blackbird, if you must know.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s weird,’ Tracey said. ‘Everything you do is weird. You’re a weirdo, Ruth Lamb. A weirdo.’
‘Me a weirdo?’ I said. ‘I wasn’t the one leaving sheep’s heads on people’s doorsteps at Hallowe’en, was I?’
‘Can’t take a joke, can you? It was hardly the end of the world.’
‘I always knew it was you,’ I said. ‘Even though you swore it wasn’t.’
Tracey sniffed and looked away.
‘You think you know everything, don’t you?’ Valerie said. ‘Always poking your nose into other people’s business. And because of you David’s going away now.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. That’s nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘I only told him the truth. And what do you care, anyway?’ I stood up, as much to stretch out my legs as to look them both square in the eye. ‘You should be pleased. You’re always saying how much you can’t stand him. You only pretend you don’t like him when really you fancy him like mad.’
‘I do not!’
‘You do too, Valerie Vaughan! And so do you, Tracey!’
Tracey took a few steps closer. ‘Well, if you can say we both fancy David O’Dea, then we can say you fancy someone like –’ she rolled her eyes in her head as she searched for a name – ‘like . . . Shayne Lawless!’
I didn’t think about what I did next. I just saw her horrible, pathetic face and her dirty little mouth with its curling lips. And although her flesh was covered, I pictured it under her clothes: chalky and bruised and brushing against me, goosebumped and cold, like the scrawny dead turkeys hanging in Boylan’s window. As her face leaned into mine and she opened her eyes wide in defiance, I raised myself up on my toes and held the broken bottle to her cheek. ‘Shut up,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘Shut up, Tracey Farrell, or I’ll burst your fuckin’ face.’ She was stunned, I could tell. She tried to cover up with a nervous laugh.
‘I’m straight telling on you,’ Valerie said. ‘You’re in deep trouble.’
‘Tell whoever you like,’ I said, lowering the bottle. ‘I don’t care. Go away and leave me alone. In fact,
leave all of us alone. None of us can stand you!’
‘Yeah, well, we hate all of you too,’ Tracey said. ‘My mam says you’re nothing but trouble and everything was fine till you came along.’
‘Well, maybe we’ll just leave. And you can find someone else to blame for everything.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re wishing for,’ Valerie said. ‘In fact, that’d be the best Christmas present ever.’
Tracey was about to add another comment when across the green came the distinctive call of her mother. Clem had reversed the car out of their driveway and Geraldine stood at the gate in her anorak and woolly hat, ready to climb in. Over the last few weeks, her stomach had grown huge. Farrell number eight would be arriving soon and for Tracey, the prospect of even more responsibility. She closed her eyes and sighed. I got the feeling that, given the choice, she’d prefer having a broken bottle held up to her face than yet another few hours looking after a houseful of snotty Farrells.
‘Come on,’ she said to Valerie, linking her arm. ‘Let’s go. There’s a horrible smell around here, anyway.’ She glanced back as they walked off, thinking I wouldn’t be able to resist throwing another remark their way. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction. Geraldine and Clem drove away when they saw her coming across the green, so if she was thinking of telling on me, it would have to wait till later on.
I got back to my digging and when the hole was big enough, I used the bottle to push the blackbird’s body into its grave. I covered it with earth and when I stood up, I levelled it softly with the sole of my shoe. A small, fluffy feather lay on top of the trail of guts left behind on the frosty grass. I stuck it into the grave and it shivered, though there was hardly a breeze. As I walked home over the whitened green, I found myself wondering if the person who’d held the bottle to Tracey’s cheek and said the F-word could really have been me. It was like it was someone else; someone I didn’t know at all.
FIFTEEN
On Christmas morning, Auntie Cissy came down to breakfast fully dressed in her drab ‘Christmas rig-out’ while we were all still in our dressing gowns. She gave Bertie a handful of seed, then sat at the table fiddling with the neck of her blouse. Dad whistled as he fried rashers and sausages, looking over his shoulder every now and then to ask, ‘Are you all right there, Cis?’ I felt sad for her. It was the first Christmas in years and years that she wasn’t with Uncle Frank in their own home. Mam had told us the evening before that no presents would be opened till we came home from mass. That was what Cissy would expect, she said, and we should do our best to make her happy. So we were ready for the earliest mass at nine o’clock; the sooner we could get it over with, the sooner the ripping of the wrapping paper could begin.