by Alison Walsh
I squeezed her tight. ‘Of course I am, you silly girl.’
‘It’s just …’ she bit her lip nervously, ‘with all the trouble with John-Joe and your parents …’
‘Shush,’ I said. ‘This is your day, not mine, and we are not going to breathe a word about Mummy and Pa. They will come around. They’ll understand how much I love him, I know they will, and then, well, they’ll be happy for me.’ My bottom lip trembled as I said the words. ‘Because I’m happy, Maeve, truly I am. I’ve found my other half in John-Joe.’
Maeve couldn’t help it, the doubtful look that crept into her eyes, and I felt the hurt spring up inside me. ‘You don’t believe me either. You’re like them. You just think it’s an infatuation; that any day I’ll change my mind and announce that I’m marrying Ivan, with his horrible sweaters and that musty smell … ugh.’ I shivered, and we couldn’t help it: the two of us exploded into giggles.
‘Oh, Michelle, how I’ll miss you.’
‘For God’s sake, Maeve, I’m only going to Kildare.’ I laughed, but the look in her eyes told me the truth. That I might as well be going to Timbuktu.
But I don’t care. I don’t. I have the man I love and that’s all I need. It’s just the two of us now. The two of us, and the new life we’ve made together.
‘Guys, this looks like the place,’ Bob says quietly, and he slows the engine, pulling the car into a gateway by the side of a tiny country lane. When we climb out of the car, the air is damp, a cold wind blowing a mist into our faces, laced with the smell of manure that always seems to hang in the air here. There isn’t another soul to be seen and it’s hard to believe that in just one hour the car of the President of the United States of America will pass through Timahoe village, his ancestral home.
‘Where the hell is everyone?’ Bob is saying, looking around him. ‘They said they’d all be here,’ and then he smiles as a man steps out of what looks like a hole in the hedge, followed by another and then another and then a woman, and then four women, and soon there are about fifty of us huddled together against the rain, which has begun to fall more heavily now. There are handshakes and stamping feet and cigarettes are offered and smoked before one slight, dark-haired man claps his hands and says, ‘Right, lads. The place is full of guards and the secret service, so we only take the designated routes to the site, understood?’ There is a murmur of agreement and I can’t help wondering about the military language. He didn’t learn that in the army, that much is obvious. With his stripy jumper and straggly brown hair, the man looks an unlikely soldier. ‘We know what the plan is.’ He pulls a map out of his pocket and unfolds it onto the bonnet of the Beetle, a patter of drops falling on it as he indicates the points at which we are to stand. ‘Here, here and here. Now, remember, don’t interfere with the convoy or we’ll get ourselves arrested, just maximum visibility and lots of noise, OK? And look out for any cameras, make sure you keep right in front of them. If they get the shots, we’ll make the front pages tomorrow. Right?’
More murmurs and nods. I squeeze John-Joe’s hand and we look at each other, sharing the excitement. The blood begins to pound in my ears as I take my placard from Bob. Just as quickly as it appeared, the crowd melts away, crossing the fields to the village, and Bob motions us to slip quietly up the lane to the crossroads, where a statue of the Virgin Mary has been adorned with the Stars and Stripes, a huge banner draped over her head. ‘Timahoe welcomes Richard Milhous Nixon’. Red, white and blue bunting is strung from the lampposts, and small children are waving little American flags on white sticks. We stuff the placards into the hedge and try to see over the heads of the crowds who’ve gathered by the roadside, six deep. As we wait, there’s a low murmur of conversation and lots of stamping of feet to keep the cold out. A little old lady is standing beside me wearing one of those fold-up plastic rainhoods and a brightly coloured rain jacket. On her feet, she wears sturdy black lace-up shoes. ‘The Lord hasn’t seen fit to bless us with the weather, but, sure, we have to make the most of it, don’t we?’ She smiles. ‘To think, the President of the United States is coming to our little town. Even if he is a Quaker, but, sure, God loves all his people, so he does.’
I nod, ‘That’s right,’ suddenly feeling guilty that, in just a few minutes, we are going to spoil her day, but then, I reason, it’s the only thing to do. That man can’t be allowed to go on destroying all those young lives in Vietnam. It could have been Bob, I think, if he hadn’t managed to get out. He’s what they call a draft-dodger. It sounds kind of cowardly, but I think he’s brave to stand by what he believes: that the war is wrong, and has cost so many lives, and for what? American imperialism.
‘Do you not have a nice umbrella or something,’ the woman is saying, ‘that lovely blonde hair of yours will be wet through. Here, I think I have another one of these,’ and she rummages in her big black bag, producing a little fold of plastic with a flourish. ‘Here we are, pet,’ she says, pulling it open, ‘put that on now, and you won’t catch your death.’
‘Oh, it’s all right, thank you,’ I say, but then I see the look in her eye and I take it. ‘Thank you very much.’ And I put on the plastic hood with the pink flowers on my head, while John-Joe snorts with laughter beside me. I give him a sharp dig with my elbow and he leans towards me and whispers in my ear, ‘Oh, what I’d like to do to you with that lovely rainhood on.’
I blush. ‘Stop it,’ and I smack his hand, which has wandered around my waist, away. And then the quiet murmurs in the crowd build to an excited roar. The little old lady clasps her hands. ‘Here he is, thank the good Lord,’ and John-Joe pulls me back through the crowd to the hedge, where we take the placards out and wait until the roar becomes louder. ‘Wait till I see where things are at,’ John-Joe says and goes to the edge of the crowd, craning his neck, looking down to the end of the road and then back at me, motioning at me to come forward. ‘Right, the car’s about two hundred yards away, so when it gets to the statue, we begin, OK?’
‘OK,’ I agree. And he peers up above the heads of the crowd, my lovely handsome man, and we wait and then we hear the low rumble of the convoy. If I stand on my tiptoes, I can just make out the top of a huge black car, the American flag fluttering in the damp breeze. ‘Right, in ten, lift the placard and begin, right?’ John-Joe is shouting now over the roar of the crowds, and I don’t know whether it’s the noise or the excitement but I feel a sudden jolt of energy and it doesn’t feel like me, but I’m surging forward, pushing my way through the crowd, oblivious to the tuts and murmurs and the ‘careful, loves’. I can feel John-Joe’s hand on the edge of my sleeve, but I just shake it off and then I’m at the front of the crowd, the grey, slick road in front of me. I’m facing the Virgin Mary and for a second I think, ‘Sorry, Mary,’ and then I look to my right. He won’t be in the first car, I reason. I pull the placard behind me, apologising as it catches someone’s leg, and tuck it in beside my feet so that the slogan doesn’t show. By now, the first car is level with me and the granite face of a secret service man is looking out the window, and he seems to be staring right through me. Just for a second, I falter, then there’s a small gap before the second car approaches, and I don’t know if that’s the car with the president in it, but I know what I have to do, and so I find one foot pushing out onto the road and then another and then I’m standing there, feeling the damp wind around me, and I don’t know why nobody stops me and I don’t care, I just lift my placard high above my head and I yell, ‘Nixon out of Vietnam, stop the killing now!’ I must look such a sight, with my plastic rainhood and my Navajo cape, but I don’t care. I don’t care when a man the size of a house comes lumbering towards me, his arms open as if to embrace me, but I know it’s no embrace and so I turn and I hurl myself back into the crowd, and I feel his hand take hold of the back of my coat and pull it, hard, and I just keep pushing forward and then I can see John-Joe’s hand and I reach out and I grab it and he pulls me to the back of the crowd.
‘Jesus Christ, Michelle, are you out of y
our mind?’ he says, but his eyes are flashing and I know he’s as excited as me. I feel that I really, really want to laugh, but I’m too scared and so I just let him pull me down the narrow country lane again, the wind slapping against my face, my breath ragged in my throat. ‘Bob and Melody,’ I manage.
‘They’re coming,’ he says, and then he turns around and I see the look of panic on his face.
‘What is it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just run, will you. Run!’ And so I run, my feet pounding against the mud and the stones of the lane, and I keep running until I see the black shape of the Beetle at the bottom of the lane and then John-Joe is pulling open the doors and starting up the engine with a roar. I barely have time to get in, half-hanging out of the front door, when he reverses the car, then pulls it forward, and for a second I think we’re going to fall into the ditch. The huge man is running towards us now, the thud of his feet heavy on the road, and then we roar off up the lane, the car belching a big cloud of smoke behind us.
I can’t help it, I have to let it out then, a big whoop, and John-Joe yells, ‘Woo-hoo,’ and slaps the wheel of the car so that the horn beeps and then we are both laughing so hard we can hardly breathe. I look in the wing mirror and see the man, bent over, his breath steaming out into the damp air. Fuck you, I think, and then I hold my hand over my mouth as if I’ve said the words out loud. If only Mummy could see me now.
‘We’ve forgotten Bob and Melody,’ I say then, my hand on John-Joe’s arm.
‘They’ll be all right,’ he says. ‘One of the others will take them.’ And then he leans across to me, one eye on the road, and runs his free hand through my hair and pulls me towards him, planting a sloppy kiss on the side of my mouth. ‘My God, Michelle, you are fuckin’ amazing.’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘What the hell kind of woman have I married?’ and he roars with laughter. And I feel so proud and happy and alive. As if everything we’ve gone through since we came here has melted into the distance. This is what I’m here for, I think proudly, as we whizz along the country roads. This is what I was born to do.
And then later, when we’ve prodded the damp turf in the range to some kind of warmth and spread the little bit of bread we have left with a smear of butter and a dab of jam, washing it down with a pot of hot tea, he pulls me on top of him, on the only chair we own, an old red armchair with a wonky arm that leaks stuffing, and he begins to take off my Navajo cape, which I wear all the time to keep out the cold, and then my green woollen jumper and then my vest, and then I’m half-naked on top of him, and his lips are on mine, and he whispers, ‘Let’s make a baby.’
I sit up on his knee then, my hair around my face, and I look into those black eyes, searching them for any sign that he’s joking. That it’s just one of his pranks and that he’ll turn around any minute and say, ‘Got you there!’ And a little voice in my head says, ‘I don’t know, it’s too soon. My life is just beginning. Didn’t you see what we did out there, what we achieved?’ But I don’t know how to say this to him without hurting him, and so I say nothing.
‘If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Richard.’ He grins, and then we both collapse into giggles and then we’re kissing and pulling off our remaining clothes and, because at that moment I want so badly to give him what he wants, I find myself saying, ‘Yes.’
Part Two
Autumn
6
June found that she was getting pretty good at lying these days. Mammy had raised them not to, had drummed it into them: as far as Mammy was concerned, the truth was the only thing that mattered. But even though June might not be as bright as Mary-Pat or Pius or Rosie, she knew that Mammy had been wrong about truth. Sometimes it was better avoided. That way, you didn’t ruin people’s lives with it.
And so she’d kept it all to herself for the next few weeks after Daddy had ruined everything with his nonsense. She’d watched her little sister struggle with it – she must have been feeling so confused – but all she’d done was visit once or twice, bombing down the motorway and back in an afternoon, to nod and to pretend to listen, to agree that he’d just lost his mind and that was all there was to it, all the time feeling that she shouldn’t really be there. That she didn’t deserve it, the right to comfort her sister.
That was why she’d had to pretend when Pi had given her Mammy’s book, her copy of Gone with the Wind. He hadn’t known what to say, poor lamb, that look on his face as he’d handed it to her, and she couldn’t tell him that it didn’t mean that much to her. It was nice to have it, to feel the weight of it in her hand again and to remember all the times she’d lain on her bed at home and lost herself in the sheer romance of it, but it didn’t feel to her like it must feel to the others, she thought. It didn’t feel like Mammy was back with her, because she’d had her all along. And so, every time she got back from Monasterard, she’d go up to her bedroom the way she always did, to get ready for Gerry, to make a bit of an effort, and she’d pull the writing box out from under her side of the bed, and she’d unfold the aerogrammes and read them, her eyes scanning the flimsy paper for clues.
She was a great secret-keeper. She knew that. That was why the letters had been sent to her. Because she wouldn’t tell a soul and besides, she told herself, it wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t change what Daddy had said, would it?
When Maeve had first rung, all those years ago, June had been living in Dublin, working in that funny little office on Fenian Street. She’d loved it: keeping her little flat just the way she wanted it, going out with the girls from the office to race meetings and to the Shelbourne Hotel and the lovely bar, where, after a few near misses, she’d bumped into Gerry. It was as if she were a new woman, had been given new life. She’d made something of herself, just as she’d planned, and now her whole life lay in front of her, full of promise.
It had been a glorious, sunny morning, the trees a bright, zingy green, the city alive with colour and life. She’d been just about to leave her flat on Haddington Road for work and had hesitated about answering the phone, figuring she’d be late, and then decided to pick up in case it was Mary-Pat. Mary-Pat was always ringing her at funny times, even though she’d tried to explain to her a thousand times that she worked all day; suppressing the flicker of guilt that Mary-Pat was still at home, cleaning up after Daddy, while she’d managed to escape. ‘What’s happening in the big smoke?’ Mary-Pat would ask, that eager tone in her voice, as if she were living her life through June.
At first, she’d politely listened to the woman at the other end. It had taken a while for the penny to drop, to realise what it was the woman was saying. She was ‘an old friend of your mother’s’. Could they meet for a coffee some place convenient for June? Maeve – the woman had cleared her throat and said, ‘Maeve with an “e”’ – had something that she thought June might like to have. Something of Mammy’s.
June’s first instinct had been to say ‘no’, that she didn’t want anything of Mammy’s. That, quite frankly, she’d rather die. ‘Do you have any idea,’ she wanted to ask Maeve, ‘what I’ve been through for the last ten years? Do you have any idea at all what you’re asking?’ She opened her mouth to say as much, but then stopped herself. Because, of course, she did want something of Mammy’s. Any tiny crumb, she’d reach out and grab it, because she wanted to know, to understand, to find an answer, no matter how much she tried to persuade herself otherwise. She needed to understand what she’d done to make Mammy leave like that. She needed to know.
And so, she found herself agreeing to meet Maeve at the Mont Clare hotel. ‘It’s a nice hotel, dear, quiet and out of the way. We won’t be disturbed.’
The morning had dragged by. June had felt she was wading through treacle, dragging her feet up and down the office, trying to pretend that she was filing so that Paddy, her boss, wouldn’t notice how distracted she was. At the dot of one, she’d grabbed her handbag and stuck her head around the office door. ‘Just popping out, Paddy,’ and she’d run before he could ask anything further
.
She’d bustled around the corner of the maternity hospital, a little cluster of women on the steps, resting their huge bumps on their knees as they took in the sun. She passed them every day on her way to and from the office, and every time she did, she’d wondered if one day she might like to be there, on the steps, in a snuggly dressing gown, a baby in her belly. Once, it had seemed a faraway dream, but with Gerry on the scene, the idea had slowly been taking shape in her head. But now, it just seemed sinister, fraught with danger. She knew what mothers really did. She knew.
She’d passed Merrion Square, then shivered as she’d stepped out of the bright sunlight into the gloom of the hotel lounge. She’d hardly been able to make out anyone in the near-darkness of the hotel, but her stomach had heaved at the smell of the lunchtime bacon and cabbage. She should have brought her glasses, she’d thought. She was normally too vain to wear them, but she could have done with them as she’d squinted into the cavern of the lounge.
In the end, Maeve hadn’t been that hard to find, a dark twist of hair piled on her head, a nut-brown face with two eyes like currants pushed into dough above a button nose. She looked like one of those friendly dolls made of fabric, with buttons for eyes. She’d been sitting alone with a bowl of soup and a copy of The Irish Times in front of her. ‘I feel a little like a spy,’ she’d chuckled, standing up to meet June.
June couldn’t bring herself to smile back. She managed to shake Maeve’s hand briefly then perched on the edge of the worn velvet banquette. No, thank you, she said, she wouldn’t have coffee or soup. She’d cleared her throat then, saying, ‘Maeve, I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve only got half an hour lunch break …’