“...aye, and ye see that Mrs. Gee from up in Creggan? Letting on she be’s skint, while me niece tole me she be’s minted.”
“Ye mean yer woman down the Sav-U-Mor?”
“Och, naw, I mean the elder Mrs. Gee, her mother. Why she allows her daughter to slave away at the counter of that minging tip, if she does indeed be rolling in dosh, I kyanny comprehend. The mortification!”
Fionnuala percolated. Her fingernail clawed out the left eye of a grinning Angelina on vacation in the Caribbean, and, having learned that Malta had sun as well, Fionnuala reached for her special satchel. She had learned many things from her visit to the travel agent’s down the Strand that morning, including that to get to Malta they would have to go “down,” not “up,” as it was an island in the Mediterranean. And that the Mediterranean was a sea under Ireland, and that it was located below the entire continent of Europe. Fionnuala fumed over Moira choosing the furthest point of Europe from Derry to move to.
Most of what else Fionnuala had learned was not good. The scene was still vivid in her mind, but she felt no shame for the tongue lashing she had given the trainee travel agent, a wee girl who should’ve stayed in school as she was a dim-witted simpleton, as Fionnuala told her, and whose eventual tears and threats to call the police Fionnuala scoffed at.
Fionnuala had erupted when the girl told her the thousands of pounds such a trip would cost. Weren’t there seats for two or three pence on budget airlines? She saw the ads on the telly all the time. It wasn’t Fionnuala’s fault she had just recently learned about the betrayal of her daughter, and the need to bag cheap seats for three adults, four children plus an infant six weeks later. What the stupid girl couldn’t realized, Fionnuala had harped on, was that their trip to Malta was more important than all others’ who had already made reservations to travel there just to luxuriate in the sunshine.
When the girl suggested the cheaper alternative of ferries coupled with Eurorail, and the excitement of traveling through the Chunnel from England to France, Paddy had to pull Fionnuala’s rage-infused, sputtering body away from the desk. But Fionnuala had snatched brochures and things from the plastic displays up front as Paddy ushered her out. She pulled out one of the maps from her satchel now.
“That’s a grand and lovely bag, sure,” the pensioner who apparently knew Mrs. Gee’s niece offered. Her friend smiled and nodded in agreement.
“Och, that’s wile civil of ye to say,” Fionnuala smiled, running her hand fondly over the frayed stitching of the straps, though she didn’t need a doddery old pensioner to tell her the obvious. The Celine Dion-Titanic-“My Heart Will Go On” Tour 1997 satchel was Fionnuala’s second most-prized possession, after her Kenny Rogers “The Gambler” teaset.
For their fifteenth anniversary back in 1997, Paddy had gotten her tickets to the Celine Dion concert in Belfast. They had dumped the seven brats off on Ursula and Jed and taken the bus over. Her memories of the night were misted by the passage of time, and she had long repressed spewing up in the lap of the women sat in the auditorium next to her (too many trips to the bar in the lobby), but she remembered as clearly as if it were the day before the chivalry Paddy had shown as he had cracked open the skull of the heroin-addicted ticket tout who had grappled her left breast outside the venue, and the many pounds he had handed over at the souvenir stall in the lobby for the satchel.
As the two pensioners cooed admiringly, purple rinses bobbing, Fionnuala wittered proudly on about the features of the bag.
“Here’s Celine’s face on the one side, ye see, holding her microphone. And ye see on the other side here, there be’s the Titanic ship itself. There’s a wee mechanism where, when the bag be’s empty, the ship be’s sailing as it was before it hits the iceberg. The more ye stuff in the bag, but, the more the ship tilts, until when it’s full, the ship finally sinks into the water. A limited edition, so it is.”
“Whatever will they think of next?” marveled one pensioner to the other.
One reached for Fionnuala’s wrist, but Fionnuala flinched as she thought she was going for the bag. Nobody was allowed to touch it.
“And did ye know the Titanic was built down the road in Belfast?” the pensioner asked. “The centennial of its launch be’s quickly approaching.”
“Aye,” said the other. “2012. Celebrations aplenty, there’s meant to be.”
“Och, I’m not an eejit, sure,” Fionnuala snapped; she had been counting down the months. Fionnuala was grateful the two were called into the nurse’s room. She turned to the map and began to study it.
Eurorail Exotic European Excursions, Senior (over 60) and Youth (Under 26) Fares. EU Child Fares and Age Limits said the top of the map.
Paddy woke up with a moan.
“Is yer man still in there with that doctor?” he asked.
“Do ye see him here?” Fionnuala snapped.
“What are ye doing with them maps?” Paddy asked.
“I’m trying to work out the most economical way to transport the lot of us across the Continent. I’m already prepared to shame meself into claiming I’m a pensioner to get the seniors’ rate. Ye’re to do it and all. It’s the wanes I’m worried about, but. Ye see here...? All them nations we’ve to go through lets wanes what be’s under five years of age in free of charge.”
“Seamus be’s five and Siofra be’s eight,” Paddy said. “We kyanny get them in for free.”
“We kyanny fork over thousands we’ve not got just so’s the wanes can gawk at the Eiffel Towers. Sure, there’s pictures of them plastered all over the Internet in the library, and they can march down there and goggle them till the cows comes home. I’ve another route in mind.”
Paddy look at the map further and noted that the Eastern Bloc countries let children under ten travel free. He stared sadly as Fionnuala’s eager finger bypassed the simple journey from France to Italy, from Sicily to Malta, and propelled a journey that wound through Belgium, Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Montenegro and Albania. And then, he supposed, a ferry to Malta. His wife was desperate. She had no idea that, with her being sacked and his last paycheck quickly running out, finding food would be more of a priority than prancing off on a dreamtrip to Malta. He had to tell her about the strike.
He cleared his throat, already smarting from the back of her hand that had yet to hit his cheek.
“Have ye not wondered, love, why I’m sitting here next to ye like this on a Monday? Why I’m not at the plant?”
“How the bleeding feck should I know? One of them roster changes, I suppose. And I asked ye to get more overtime. Even traipsing across the Continent on ferries and trains is sure to cost a bundle.”
“The workers was afeared of all them new mixing and grinding machines both chomping off wer extremities and replacing wer positions, like. We’re on strike.”
The receptionist flinched at the violence on the plastic chairs.
“A strike? A strike? Are ye outta yer flimmin mind? How are we meant to eat? How are we to pay them bills? Ye fecking useless gack, ye!”
“I voted against it, like,” Paddy managed, arms shielding her blows.
“How are we meant to afford wer trip to Malta?”
Finally Fionnuala’s fists were still. Fionnuala boiled in her chair, nostrils like a raging bull, as she struggled to get her mind around the black pit of destitution into which she had just fallen. The receptionist relaxed the finger hovering over the security button.
“We’re putting that flimmin 5 Murphy up fer sale,” Fionnuala decided.
“We can try,” Paddy said meekly. “In this market, but? It’s never gonny happen.”
Fionnuala considered.
“Aye, and we’ll be dead of starvation long before the closing date, anyroad.”
She fixed her eyes on him so he was of no doubt the importance of her next utterance. Her voice rang with foreboding: “As God’s me witness, you’ll be marching proudly past that picket line the morrow.”
>
“But, a scab...?” Paddy asked weakly. “How could I ever face me workmates? And breaking the picket line be’s against everything we stand for as members of the working class, sure.”
“Och, catch yerself on, spouting that ancient union working class shite! From the whinging and moaning from ye the past few months, ye’ve no mates to speak of on the factory floor anyroad. Betraying themmuns should fill ye with joy.”
Dr. Khudiadadzai entered the waiting room, Padraig dragging his heels behind her. Although he didn’t want to look at his son’s face, Paddy was grateful for the distraction. They jumped up and faced the doctor, hope in their eyes.
“Well?” Fionnuala demanded.
“Mrs Flood, I’ve run numerous tests on your son, taking into account his headaches and his straining of the eyes. I’m afraid the tests are inconclusive.”
“What the bloody feck does that mean?”
“It means that—”
“It means ye’re bloody useless!”
“I would suggest you take him to an op—”
“And I suggest ye get yer flimmin useless arse back to Pakistan where ye belong! Invading wer country with yer foreign degrees and bloody foolish accents! I kyanny comprehend a fecking word coming outta yer mouth, ye sarky skegrat, ye!”
Even Padraig cringed in mortification. Fionnuala grabbed her satchel, her husband and her son in that order and stormed out of the clinic. She whipped around to Paddy as they climbed down the stairs.
“Hell will freeze over before I let ye prance around them factory gates waving foolish placards in the sunshine, not while ye’ve seven mouths to feed and a holiday to fund.”
“Sunshine?”
“Ye’re entering that factory the morrow if I have to drag yer limbs across the picket line meself!”
Paddy went to the pub.
CHAPTER 20
MRS. PILKEY, HEADMISTRESS of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, had been ravenous all morning long, but there were so many things to take care of she hadn’t a moment to rest. She finally settled at her desk at 2:30 and slipped out of her heels with a sigh of content. Hunger gnawing a hole in her stomach, she unwrapped a chocolate croissant with bony fingers that could barely contain themselves. She was an angular woman, all elbows, ribs and protruding teeth. Those teeth opened wide in anticipation.
“Ye kyanny barge in there! She be’s in a meeting! A meeting, I tell ye!”
Mrs. Pilkey distanced her tongue from the golden flakes in dismay as the door flew open and in barged a man who looked like a forgotten ‘70s porn-star, all paunch and scraggy mustache, a tiny redhead dangling from his huge right fist. The secretary waved her hands frantically from the door frame, mouthing ‘I tried to stop them, Miss.’ Then her finger circled her ear wildly to indicate mental instability.
Mrs. Pilkey shooed Magella back to her hutch and greeted the intruders with a mouth that looked as if it had just tasted something it hadn’t much enjoyed, though of course it had yet to taste anything. She ran a hand through her black hair, captive in a chignon with a chopstick driven through it.
“What is the meaning of—?”
“Inspector Liam McLaughlin here. Sorry to disturb yer meeting.”
He motioned archly to the croissant and flashed his credentials under her nose. She raised a hand to her chest.
“Are you here on...official duty?”
“Me daughter Catherine here and her two helpless mates were set upon by thugs in yer schoolyard the other day. I can see by the confusion yer face that ye’ve no idea what I’m on about.”
Mrs. Pilkey was indeed confused; it was the first she had heard of Catherine McLaughlin having ‘mates.’
“You’d better have a seat, then. Catherine, is it?”
Catherine nodded haltingly and dragged herself in shame to a chair facing the headmistress. The child stared at the croissant. Inspector McLaughlin remained upright, pacing back and forth like he was down at the police station, informing the troops of the details of a fatal drunken stabbing the night before.
“They was attacked by a pack of vicious hooligans who pelted them with dog shite and balloons filled with human urine. Poor wee Catherine’s been living a misery ever since. Kyanny put her head down on at night, as she wakes up screaming. Plagued with nightmares, so she is. Nightmares of evil urinating balloons with legs chasing her over endless hills of feces. Are ye not informed of all the bullying what occurs in yer own school?”
Mrs. Pilkey winced. “We prefer to call it child-initiated contact.” She took in the girl, who was ogling the croissant as if she had just been released from a refugee camp. Mrs. Pilkey edged some papers over it. Does he not feed her? she wondered with a flash of irritation. Inspector McLaughlin continued:
“Can ye not see the wane be’s traumatized? Post-traumatic stress disorder! Textbook case!”
Mrs. Pilkey was a business administrator brought in three years earlier mainly to balance the school budget, and as such she knew little about teaching and less about children. She fiddled with a staple remover, wondering how to handle the problem on the chair. She toyed briefly with the idea of sharing the croissant, but...perhaps with kindness instead? She screwed her feet back into her shoes, checked Catherine’s hair for signs of lice, then placed a tentative hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“What did the perpetrators look like, love?” Mrs. Pilkey asked, wishing the kindness in her voice was more convincing. She should have paid more attention during that sensitivity training course.
“I kyanny remember,” Catherine said. “Afeared, I was. Pure heart-scared.”
Inspector McLaughlin roared: “The thugs was yelling out anti-Catholic slurs. Must be from How Great Thou Art. More to the point, where be’s yer security measures? Yer guards and dogs? Yer flimmin CCTV footage? According to me daughter, me officers should’ve been sent out on at least seven incidents of child-on-child abuse since the school year began. None of yer wanes wants to approach us, but. We kyanny protect the community if nobody be’s prepared to shame themselves to come forward, and we kyanny prosecute crimes if there be’s no evidence.”
Catherine and her father looked around the office.
“What’s that noise?” Inspector McLaughlin demanded.
Mrs. Pilkey willed her stomach to silence. Father and daughter glanced at the papers on the desk.
“Then,” Mrs. Pilkey said, “perhaps you should speak to the headmaster of How Great Thou Art. They were the instigators, after all. When did this occur, Catherine, love? Can you remember that?”
“Yesterday,” Catherine said with a pout.
“Sunday?” Mrs. Pilkey touched her chopstick. She wasn’t surprised that such an attack had taken place on the day of the Lord, more that the children had visited the school when not under duress. She clacked the staple remover like it was a little black mouth with silver fangs.
“You must realize, of course, that as it was the weekend, we are technically not liable. If fact, the children were trespassing.”
“I know loads of wanes from this school, and I’m well aware they doesn’t be innocent wee lambs. I’ve seen them down at the Richmond Shopping Center, alarming packs trolling the streets, their threatening behavior and cruel taunts directed at the aged and the infirm, their casual shoplifting. Even so, they deserve protection from hate- and bias-crimes. If ye kyanny protect wer wanes in yer own schoolyard, I’ll have to take steps meself to ensure their well-being. I can arrange officers to come down and patrol on an hourly basis.”
“Could you please leave the room, Catherine?” Mrs. Pilkey asked. “Ask Magella the secretary to, er, give you something.”
Catherine did so gladly. Mrs. Pilkey leaned across her desk.
“Police officers parading through the schoolyard?” she scoffed. “I think not. Parents would yank their children out of the school, and our staff would be teaching to empty chairs.”
“Because it would show how violent the school be’s?”
Mrs. Pilkey looked at him as if he had
just stepped off the banana boat.
“Because fully three quarters of your force are Unionist sympathizers! You think the parents of my charges want their children rubbing shoulders with. Protestants?”
“Have ye not a clue that be’s part of the same problem? One city, two communities. The Peace Process began yonks ago, and still the people in this city divides everything by Green and Orange, Coke and Pepsi, Derry and Londonderry. You, but, be’s the gatekeeper between what the new generation, the wanes of the day, thinks and does and the backward thinking of the aul ones and their parents. Have yer heard of that new school where there be’s some sorta goings-on hoping to lead to Proddies and Catholics holding hands in unity for the future? And more Catholics be’s joining the police force as time goes by, I’ll have ye know.”
Clack-clack-clack! What the Inspector had brought up was a thorn in Mrs. Pilkey’s angular side. She had done research about the integrated schools movement in Northern Ireland, the social experiment of the past twenty years which sought to implement cross-denominational student bodies, and if this is where the police inspector was heading, it was making her uneasy. There was one such overly-progressive school in Derry, and they had not only the mixing of religions, but also the mixing of the sexes...who had heard of such a foolish thing? It was an institutional policy she found distressing.
“Actually, Mr. McLaughlin, I was only playing devil’s advocate. My personal beliefs are moot. I can’t disregard what others in the community, especially the parents of my charges, think. They are adults and their minds can’t be changed. I must live in the real world.”
“Ye get this sorted,” Inspector McLaughlin warned. “Any more harm comes to me wee Catherine and her mates, and there’s gonny be more police officers marching up and down that schoolyard than you’ve had, er, hot dinners.”
Not these fantasy mates again, Mrs. Pilkey thought. The inspector stormed out of the office. Mrs. Pilkey pounced on the croissant and tore into it like a wolfchild.
Groaning in the luxury of sustenance, Mrs. Pilkey twisted under the expanse of her oak desk, fingernails clacking like castanets on what used to be a lacquered sheen. She ran through the Rolodex of her mind for someone who could help her solve the generations-old problem of schoolyard sectarian violence and abuse and cursed the staleness of the croissant. She’d never again buy from that Sav-U-Mor next to the schoolyard.
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