“She’s not me Ursula,” Fionnuala seethed, irritation lancing her brain at the mention of the cunt’s name, the whiny chorus of “Imagine,” the wanes babbling at her feet, the close proximity of the Protestant bitches. She rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan with two buttons missing and unharnessed Keanu from her back.
“Take youse yer wee nephew over the street there,” Fionnuala decided, its inhuman grunts and squeaks causing her grief. She unloaded the infant into Siofra’s struggling arms. “The violence be’s set to kick off.”
The children staggered away, and Maureen grappled her cane in mortification as Fionnuala burst through a pair of linked arms.
“Leave wer wanes be!” Fionnuala roared at the facade of the school. “Protect wer wanes! Protect wer wanes!”
The lone copper at the fire hydrant looked up in alarm and reached for his walkie-talkie.
“C’mon, youse!” Fionnuala urged the slumbering sheep. “Let them intellectual twats hear the fire in yer bellies! Leave wer wanes be! Leave wer wanes be! SAVE WER WANES!”
Uncertainly rippled through the rows, but the few tuts and clucks were drowned as pockets of anarchy erupted in the sea of bargain bin gear and joined the chant, “Save wer wanes! Save wer wanes!” Maureen wobbled on her cane as she was elbowed by unlinked arms transformed into fists of rage aimed at the windows of the school.
Fionnuala whipped around to her troops, eyes blazing. “Enough of the John Lennon shite! He was an Orange cunt and all! Scoop up them rocks, ladies, and fling em at the Proddy bitches in their swanky gear! One pair of the tights themmuns wears takes the likes of us a week of hard graft to afford, sure!”
The Protestant contingent squealed and scattered as the crowd did just that, rocks ricocheting around their fleeing Giuseppi Zanotti heels. The copper’s two hands flailed ineffectually at the sudden wave of bloodlust.
“Fling em at the school!” Fionnuala roared through her smile. They turned like a well-trained squad, cheerleaders of rage, housewives of hatred, stones sailing through the chill along with the chant “Save wer wanes! Save wer wanes!”
They stormed the school gates, fingers grappling anything they could and flinging it through the railings. Fionnuala’s ears pricked at the sound of sirens, already at the Lecky Road, if she wasn’t mistaken. She pushed through the roaring crowd and scooped Maureen up.
“Let’s disperse,” Fionnuala said, duty done and gathering the children. “The Filth be’s on their way, and I see no sign of life behind them windows. Nobody be’s listening to us. As usual.”
“Are we away off home, Mammy?” Seamus asked.
“Naw, wee dote,” Fionnuala said, patting his curls as Maureen looked on in surprise. “The Richmond Shopping Center.”
Certainly not to shop; she had no money. But she had seen Niamh’s and Mrs. O’Hara’s threadbare perms teetering down the street when the aggro erupted, and she had a duty to perform. They set off along the filthy streets lined with brightly colored murals of old violence.
Fionnuala ignored her mother’s scolding about violence breeding violence, about the Peace Process and the dawning of a new day, about being mired in the past and the turning of new leaves and the Lord staring down in shame.
“Enough of yer mouth, Mammy,” Fionnuala said as they shoved through the Sunday shoppers into the mall. “Go on youse wanes and play with the escalator.”
Seamus and Siofra screamed with delight and raced towards the steel jaws. It was the closest they ever got to an amusement park ride. But Fionnuala spied Niamh on the Down escalator and called them back. “I’ve changed me mind. Play with them sliding doors instead.” These could give hours of diversion as well. Siofra and Seamus clapped their hands eagerly. “Take Keanu, Mammy, and keep you an eye on the wanes.”
Maureen did as instructed. She wanted no part in whatever lunacy Fionnuala was certainly up to. Fionnuala hurried to the escalator and positioned herself behind Niamh, staring down at her blue rinse bobbling up and down as she blathered on to Mrs. O’Hara a step below her. Fionnuala elbowed Niamh roughly in the back, and the woman grabbed for the handrail, but it hadn’t moved along with the steps in months, and Niamh screamed as her body clattered down the remaining twenty-four steps. Fionnuala galloped over the shopping bags and the spilled oranges, and she hovered over Niamh’s body, shuddering in pain on the tiles.
“Shocking, them young hooligans of the day be’s,” Fionnuala tutted. “I saw a hoodie reach out and shove ye, so I did, and off he raced, back up the escalator. Are ye feeling any pain?”
“Me hip! Me..ankle?” Niamh moaned. “I kyanny move, so I kyanny. Broken, they must be. Get the ambulance!”
Mrs. O’Hara twittered in distress, and Fionnuala fumbled for her mobile. Her smile was hidden behind a swinging ponytail as she made the call. After she hung up, she would ring Aileen Harris at OsteoCare, as a position for a new volunteer had just opened up.
CHAPTER 23
MR. SKIVVINS AND MISS McClurkin perched uncomfortably on the tattered pleather sofa in the headmistress’ office. Mrs. Pilkey had called an emergency meeting of the Fingers Across the River Foyle committee. She was bewildered.
“I don’t understand all this protesting, it’s so Seventies. Why are the students and their parents complaining? I’d be delighted if I had a chance to win a basket of fresh fruits. And isn’t soda the drink of choice amongst the young?”
“It’s all energy drinks and alcopops that I’m confiscating from their backpacks,” Miss McClurkin said. “And I haven’t seen a piece of fruit in their hands unless they’re launching it at someone they hate in the schoolyard.”
“Victoria sat me down and had a talk with me,” Mr. Skivvins said, doing his best to avoid the lure of Mrs. Pilkey’s pacing legs. “She thinks we should offer a prize that is a bit more modern, something that will give the children more incentive to appear in the talent show, focus on performing to the best of their ability, and allow them to forget that they are competing against the enemy. If we change the attitude of the children, the parents will follow. Hopefully. And as for the parents, I do believe the drinks reception will be an opportunity to calm their ruffled feathers as well. I have the perfect prize.”
Miss McClurkin had flinched at the word ‘modern.’ She was afraid to ask what perfect prize Mr. Skivvin’s brain had conjured up, as his easy smile, caring eyes and general aura of earnestness immediately put Miss McClurkin on guard, and his suit was of the most peculiar cut. When Mrs. Pilkey had introduced him to her the week before, his outstretched hand had seemed curious to her: manicured and soft to the touch from expensive lotion. A homosexual or a Protestant? Miss McClurkin had worried. She had taken the hand with reluctance and done her best to shake it, but she now knew the answer to her question, as the man had a daughter at How Great Thou Art and eyes that were clinging onto every movement of Mrs. Pilkey’s calves. Miss McClurkin found lust distasteful, and the lustful man continued with his madness:
“Victoria tells me there’s an entertainer popular with the youngsters of today. Her name, apparently, is Hannah Montana, and she happens to be giving a concert over in Belfast in a few weeks time. The venue is owned by the cash-and-carry owner I buy all of Sav-U-Mor’s stock from. He owes me one. I can put a call in and see if we can’t get a few free tickets.”
“Is this Hannah Montana age-appropriate?” Miss McClurkin demanded to know.
“She’s from the Disney Channel,” Mr. Skivvins said. “I’ve watched her show many times with Victoria.”
“That’s alright, then,” Mrs. Pilkey replied, relaxing. “As much as it pains me to say it, Miss McClurkin, I believe he is right. Perhaps we should make The Togetherness Basket the Runners-Up prize, and free tickets to this Hannah Montana concert the Grand Prize.”
As the man prattled on, Miss McClurkin swerved from unease to alarm to downright horror. The details kept spewing from his blindingly white teeth, Mrs. Pilkey bobbing her head eagerly like a spastic child at his side, and Miss McClurkin stared d
own at her two arms as if choosing which vein she would inject the heroin into. She could keep silent no longer.
“Have you both taken leave of your senses? Have you no clue to the left-wing manifesto of the Disney Corporation? Don’t be fooled by the connotation of Disney with family values, cuddly cartoons and a Christian view of life. Nothing could be further from the truth! The same company condones same-sex partnerships by allowing them to extend health benefits to their partners. They allow such perverts to participate in the Fairy Tale Wedding program at their resorts, Disneyland and DisneyWorld, where the degenerates are permitted to ride in Cinderella’s coach, followed by uniformed trumpeters into the castle, and waited on hand and foot by Mickey and Minnie Mouse. The mere thought of what shenanigans they get up to in the back of the Cinderella coach makes my skin crawl, and should even have you, Mr. Skivvins, reaching for the sick bucket and all. The Disney Corporation owns ABC, the American network known for its anti-Christian agenda, their news reporters frequently skewing broadcasts against Pope Benedict, branding him an attacking Rottweiler. Many God-fearing Catholics and,” Mrs. Pilkey glanced at Mr. Skivvins, “also those from lesser religions have been boycotting Disney’s resorts for years, and with good reason. DisneyWorld is full of homosexuals flouncing around in costumes of their cartoon characters, allowing innocent children to sit on their laps while their unsuspecting parents snap holiday photos of them. The good Lord alone knows what sinful gropings and filthy arousals occur during those lap-sittings! I understand we have to change the prize, but I put my foot down at having children under our charge being entertained by a pawn of an institution promotes such low-brow, sexually-deviant culture. Mrs. Pilkey, I will be forced to hand in my resignation if the prize is filth! And don’t get me started on violent video games!”
Mr. Skivvins adjusted the knot of his tie, his animated grin having faltered long ago. He turned to Mrs. Pilkey, confusion in his eyes. Mrs. Pilkey touched her chignon.
“You’ve certainly spent some nights worrying about Disney,” Mrs. Pilkey said weakly. “We can’t stop the march of time, Miss McClurkin. I know you are of the mind the sexually-charged culture of the day is leading our children straight down a path to eternal damnation, but perhaps we must face the fact that innocence is a thing of the past.”
Mr. Skivvins said through pursed lips: “I’ve watched the show with my Victoria, and there is nothing degenerate or homoerotic or anti-Christian about it. It’s a pleasant, happy family show about a little girl from Tennessee who leads a secret life as a pop star with her song-writing father, who is played by Billy Ray Cyrus.”
Mrs. Pilkey brightened.
“Didn’t he sing ‘Achy Breaky Heart?’” she asked, warming immediately.
“Yes.”
“I quite like that one, spent many a night line-dancing to it in my university days. Don’t break my heart, my achy breaky heart,” she warbled.
“Billy Ray Cyrus?” Miss McClurkin struggled to maintain calm. “And you say the show has no homoerotic element?”
“The role of Hannah Montana is played by his daughter, Miley Cyrus, who is becoming a pop star in her own right. She has a brother as well in the program, Jackson. Let me put your mind at ease. When Hannah’s not touring the country as a secret pop singer, she is a normal little girl, who likes going camping and going to the beach, and is afraid of spiders and the dentist.”
“And who doesn’t like going to church and has no healthy fear of the Lord, no doubt,” Miss McClurkin sniffed. “And where is the mother in this charade of happy families, I’d like to know? I presume this ‘caring father’ is, dare I utter the word, divorced, as all Yanks appear to be these days? The American media is quick to celebrate alternatives to the nuclear family, forcing our children to believe jumping from one marital bed to the other is the natural arc of adult life!”
“Hannah’s mother died of a terminal illness, if I remember correctly. Cancer, I believe it was.”
Miss McClurkin was nonplussed, steadfast in her conviction.
“If she’s a secret pop star, I presume she must lie to those close to her? Breaking one of the ten commandments—bearing false witness against her neighbors—every time she opens her mouth.”
Glossy brochures and pamphlets abruptly appeared from Mr. Skivvin’s briefcase and were shoved with irritating earnestness towards her.
“And I have here a poster of the concert.”
Mrs. Pilkey inspected with suspicion the photo of a blonde teenager in a sparkly purple top, jeans, and a tasteful dark red jacket with many buttons, no sign of cleavage or belly buttons beaming out at them. She took an immediate dislike to her.
“Her teeth are too big for her mouth. Her lying mouth.”
“She’s a Yank,” Mrs. Pilkey explained. “All their teeth are too big for their mouths. And unnaturally white, as we all know.”
Miss McClurkin stole a glance at Mr. Skivvins’ teeth.
“Those Yanks, I can’t stand people who are so full of themselves,” she said, then glanced again at Mr. Skivvins. “In a bad way, I mean,” she added apologetically.
“I think you are missing the obvious, Miss McClurkin,” Mrs. Pilkey said. “Mr. Skivvins’ daughter could have been a fan of that harlot Britney Spears.”
Miss McClurkin grew pale at the thought...
“Or Katy Perry,” Mr. Skivvins put in. “Remember that song about lesbian sex which spent weeks at number one on the hit parade?”
...and shuddered..
“Or Lily Allen, every song of whose deals with sex and is littered with expletives.”
...and gripped the arm of the sofa, finally calming.
“Or Amy Winehouse, extolling the virtues of drink.”
“Given a Grammy by the Yanks! Rewarded for bad behavior!” was Miss McClurkin’s knee-jerk response.
Miss McClurkin was relenting. She had long since resigned herself to the fact she was a one woman windbreak of decency against the tsunami of modern culture. She didn’t trust anything that had come out of America since Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” in 1979. Who but a nation of degenerates would release a double album about prostitution and then market it to impressionable young minds? “Toot Toot-Hey, Beep Beep,” indeed!
Miss McClurkin sighed. “I suppose I’ve no choice but to agree,” she said in a cold, dead voice.
Mrs. Pilkey and Mr. Skivvins high-fived over a pile of tattered faxes.
“Oh, and Miss McClurkin?” Mrs. Pilkey said as the teacher made to escape through the door.
“Yes, headmistress?”
“Any whiff of insubordination on your part, any plans of sabotage whispered into the ears of the girls, and, tenure be damned, I’ll find a way to ensure you’re down that Job Center sharpish.”
Miss McClurkin left, shattered.
CHAPTER 24
FIONNUALA TURNED DOWN the heat on the pot of potatoes to simmer. She carried a tin-foil covered plate of beans on toast, leftovers from the night before, around the corner to 5 Murphy Crescent, shopping cart trundling behind her. She pried open the gate which sagged off one hinge and marched through the shame of the front garden.
“I’m now an OsteoCare volunteer,” she announced to Maureen. “I’ve me first visit planned for old Mrs. Ming on Rossville Street the night. Taking Siofra and Seamus with me and all, I am, to show them what compassion be’s all about.”
As she dug her dentures into the beans, Maureen found it difficult to mask her shock. Care, compassion and Fionnuala were three words she had never considered in one sentence.
“A—?” she struggled.
“What the feck’s yer problem?” Fionnuala scowled. “I’ve always been up for helping the aged.”
Maureen carefully avoided her daughter’s eyes.
“And how much are they paying ye?” she asked in an offhand manner, attacking the soggy toast with a fork and attempting a smile.
“Och, ye never have a decent word to say, have ye? Always thinking the worst. Volunteer means volunteer.”
But although Fionnuala had no problem spewing out bold-faced lies to strangers, her mother was another matter. It was now Fionnuala’s turn to avoid Maureen’s eyes, and it was their misfortune to turn towards what Maureen had shoved down the side of the chair.
“Is that where that flimmin book got to!” Fionnuala said, pointing accusingly at the battered and bean-juice-stained Lotto Balls of Shame.
“Kyanny put it down,” Maureen confessed. “Fascinating, so it is. Och, don’t bore into me with them eyes of betrayal. It pays to know yer enemy, so it does.” Maureen had no trouble lying to her daughter; Moira was one of the old woman’s favorites, if not the favorite, of the whole sorry lot of them. She was proud of her granddaughter’s gumption to admit she was a degenerate, her bravery to leave the city and of her ability to write in cursive. “Perhaps before ye kill yerself trying to get the funds together to attempt this fantasy trip across the Continent to cause wer Moira grief ye ought to read a word or two of what she’s written. I don’t believe ye’ve even had a glance inside?”
Maureen flipped through the book to read a chance paragraph, then grimaced. “Perhaps I should choose a different page.”
“Naw!” Fionnuala barked. “Read that page ye didn’t want to!”
“If ye insist, love,” Maureen murmured. She cleared her throat of beans and began. Fionnuala stared at her, fascinated.
“To call Nelly Frood an obese layabout would be an understatement. Although she had given birth to nine children in a row, that’s where her labor stopped. Her sister-in-law, Una Bartlett, however, couldn’t have been cut from a more different cloth. Civic-minded, loyal and industrious, the classy lady of Derry City rightfully deserved the multi-million pound win on the lottery which had given her a swanky new home with a view of the Foyle River, a chauffeur for her BMW, and an upscale nail salon to which she was the sole proprietor.”
Fionnuala gave a wail like a wounded beast and buried her head in her calloused hands, the same hands which had proudly cradled her first newborn offspring all those years ago (at least that’s how her selective memory now imagined it; Moira’s labor had been long and arduous, and when the child had finally been spit into the world, Fionnuala had begged the midwife to get it the hell away from her). Closing the book, Maureen was shocked at the sobs arising from those worn knuckles. The last time she’d seen her daughter cry was in 1995 when Ireland won the Eurovision Song Contest.
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