by Mandy Hager
‘Pull yourself together, love! Poor Tara here will think you’re a right gobdaw.’
She slaps him playfully. Sniffs back the last of her tears. ‘I’ll give you gobdaw!’ She turns to me, her face pleating into a smile. ‘You must be bushed, are you? Let’s get you home.’
She hooks her arm through mine and leads me through the crowd, while Uncle Royan totes my suitcase. We climb into an old Volkswagon van, all three of us across the front so I’m wedged in between. They start to fire questions, wanting the latest on Dad, Mum’s job, the flight across. They speak so fast, with such thick accents, it’s hard to follow — meantime, they’re struggling just as much trying to decipher mine. All the while Shanaye clutches my hand. At times she sighs. Twice I see her fight back further tears.
We drive through fairly open countryside, the paddocks ringed by low shrub hedges, then skirt row upon row of terraced houses. It’s so different from home: the stone so grim and sober. It’s claustrophobic. The skyline of the city rises in the distance but around us now is scrubby open space. It slowly dawns on me that it’s a cemetery that goes on for miles. I may have come here to discover where Van’s buried but this is all too soon, too in-your-face.
Finally, we turn away at a big roundabout.
‘Falls Road,’ Uncle Royan says. ‘This is where we live.’
‘It’s got a lot of history,’ Shanaye chips in. ‘These days we have to fight off tourists … it’s funny what people choose to see.’
We’re in the thick of housing now and I’m struggling to imagine what it must be like to live in such a dour place.
‘We’re lucky,’ Shanaye says. ‘We live near the park. The littlins are always up there kicking round a ball.’ She points to our left. Inside a barbed-wire-topped fence lie asphalt courts in an arid sea of patchy grass.
At last the van pulls up outside the last gate in a row of four two-storey terraces.
‘Welcome!’ Uncle Royan says as we clamber out. He leads me along the footpath to where the blank side wall fronts a side street called Beechmount Ave. There’s a huge mural painted there: a columned building dwarfed by a uniformed man wielding a gun. It’s topped by an inscription — Éirí Amach na Cásca — and the date: 1916. A memorial plaque lists nine men’s names and sports several coats of arms.
‘In memory of the 1916 Easter Rising,’ he says, ‘when Irish rebels seized the Dublin Post Office and proclaimed a republic free from British rule.’
‘Until the British shelled the place,’ Shanaye adds. ‘Sixteen of the rebels executed, the rest chucked into jail.’
It’s too much to take in. Tiredness has left me dizzy and disorientated. They show me into the house through a shabby green door. Inside it’s only one room wide, the passageway and staircase taking up the rest. The front room’s been extended by a bay window and the furniture’s not changed in the five years since my photo of Van. We pass a bathroom to reach the kitchen-diner, which opens out to a narrow garden at the back. I collapse onto a dining chair, watching mutely as Shanaye produces home-made scones and brews a cup of tea.
Once we’re all at the table, eyeing each other, Shanaye turns to Royan. ‘You’d better meet the littlins before they come in from school. We can’t have them shocked.’
‘Do I look that bad?’
Shanaye snorts out an embarrassed laugh. ‘Lord love you! Not in the least!’ Her face is all sharp angles, skin stretched between the bony triangle of cheeks and chin. ‘It’s just you’re so much like our Van. We don’t want the kiddies thinking they’ve seen a ghost.’
‘And like your mammy too,’ Royan says. ‘It’s gobsmacking. When you walked through those airport doors you could’ve blown me over with a kiss. It took me back well over twenty years.’
Shanaye nods. ‘So it did.’ There seems so much baggage weighing down those words the conversation stalls.
‘Now you’ll be wanting to freshen up, I dare say,’ Shanaye says at last. ‘Then maybe have a wee lay down before the littlins get home?’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That would be great.’
She shows me the bathroom, then takes me upstairs. ‘You’ll be bunking in with our wee Helen,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
The bedroom is a noxious shade of lolly pink with purple trim. It’s small and dark, with bunk beds taking up one side. Nets full of toys hang from the ceiling, and pictures of Disney characters adorn the walls
‘Is this where Van slept too?’
‘Indeed it is. Though at that time we kept Helen in with us. She was only a snapper then, so Van had it to herself.’ She points to the top bunk, where a neatly folded towel and face cloth have been placed. ‘Will you be all right up there?’
‘It’s fine.’
When she leaves I plonk down on the lower bunk and drop my head into my hands. I don’t know what the hell I expected, but it wasn’t this. I take my toilet bag out of my case and head down for a shower. Surely that, at least, can’t be too different from home.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I freeze. Down in the kitchen, Aunt Shanaye is sobbing. I sneak forward. She’s enfolded in Uncle Royan’s arms. He pats her back, rocking her from side to side as if she were a child.
‘Hush now, Shannie, it’ll do no good.’ His gaze drifts up and suddenly he’s netted me. His eyes are watering too.
I jerk backwards. In that short glance he beamed more love and sympathy than I’ve ever felt from Dad. I flee to the bathroom. Fortunately, Shanaye is right: hot water’s what I need. Back in the little pink room, I try to sleep. From the top bunk the ceiling’s only just a little higher than the full reach of my arm. I close my eyes and picture my universe of iridescent stars back at home. I should’ve ripped them from the ceiling the night I left. I miss their constant glow.
It’s not long before the clamour of kids’ voices floats upstairs; my unknown cousins must’ve returned from school. I’m terrified to go back down, not sure I can cope with four more faces looking at me like I’ve risen from the grave.
There’s a scratching by the door and I roll over just in time to see a little hand snake in. Now comes a turned-up nose, a pigtailed head.
‘Come in,’ I say. I slip down from the bunk just as a little girl edges into the room. Her eyes are startling cornflower blue. Hair auburn, just like mine. Her gorgeous nose harbours more freckles than all of Vincent’s stars. ‘Hello. You must be Helen.’
She sticks her thumb into her mouth, head dropped to one side as she examines me. ‘You talk funny.’
I smile. Considering she says this through a thumb, she’s got a cheek. ‘You talk funny too.’
‘I don’t!’ She takes two steps towards me. Removes the thumb. ‘Mammy says you made her cry.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I just reminded her of someone who had died.’ She’s so tiny she looks far less than five.
‘Our Van.’ She says it like they talk about Van every day. ‘Did you know her too?’
I squat down and hold out my hand. She slips hers into mine. ‘She was my big sister.’
‘And now she’s dead.’ She says it so matter-of-factly, all I can do is nod. Helen points to her hanging toys. ‘You can play with them if you want. Mammy says I have to share.’
‘Thank you, Cousin Helen. That’s very kind.’
‘You’re Malcolm,’ she says.
Where did that come from? ‘No, I’m Tara.’
She eyes me critically. ‘I know, silly. But Daddy said that when someone says thank you we should say You’re Malcolm back.’
‘Ah … I think Daddy means You’re Welcome.’
‘Cop on! That’s what I said.’
I bite back a grin. ‘Can you take me down to meet the others?’
‘Do I have to?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘They’re boys.’ Five going on fifty. When I laugh she reaches for my hand. ‘Come on. Mammy’s made scones.’
She leads me back downstairs and presents me to her brothers like I’m a bug inside a jar. ‘Here she is! She’s got my
hair.’
They look me up and down. I recognise the twins, Connor and Frankie, from photographs. Helen informs me they’re ten and mean to her. Billy, she says, is eight, and he’s mostly okay.
Billy is the male version of Helen, a pixie boy with mischief in his eyes. ‘Did you bring presents?’ he asks.
Shanaye pokes him with her finger. ‘Billy! Mind your manners! What a thing to say.’
‘I did,’ I say. ‘I brought you some New Zealand books. Hang on, I’ll go and get them from upstairs.’
I fetch the books and then hand them out. I also bring the cardboard cylinder which holds the painting I did especially for Royan and Shanaye. ‘It’s very New Zealand,’ I say, wishing now I’d brought them something else instead.
Shanaye unrolls the canvas and gasps. ‘Oh my god! She always said you’d be top class!’ She lays it on the table and they all hunker over it.
Part of me feels really ashamed. I didn’t know what kind of picture they would like, so went for safe. It’s my version of the standard tourist painting: a white sand beach, pohutukawa trees bursting with their red starburst flowers, paua tinges in the lapping sea — all framed by flowering flax bushes, a tui in their midst. Ms R would cringe. But here, at least, it seems to be a hit.
‘You never painted this?’ Uncle Royan says.
I nod. Point to the squiggle in the corner that bears my name.
‘Fair play!’ he says. ‘It’ll be just grand in the front room.’
Helen corrals us all into the lounge, and they start a raucous all-out family debate over where it will look best. I can’t take my eyes off the mantelpiece, where a row of family photos sit in cheap cardboard frames. There’s one of Van, standing between Royan and Shanaye, a baby Helen in her arms. She’s smiling — the kind of open, happy smile she usually saved for me alone. A wave of emotion nearly knocks me off my feet.
Meanwhile, consensus has been reached: the picture will be hung above the fireplace, which houses an ugly electric heater. As Shanaye takes down the chocolate-box landscape print already there, Frankie runs off to source pins. Then Uncle Royan does the honours, and I must admit it brings the room to life.
At five thirty on the dot we clear off the table and sit down for a meal. ‘We’re having chicken ’cause you’re a special visitor,’ Helen whispers. ‘And pudding with cream!’
Shanaye dissects the small roast chicken and metes it out with such precision not a scrap is left. Now we help ourselves to boiled potatoes, cabbage and peas. I only take a small amount, worried there won’t be enough to share around. I wait to start, expecting they’ll say grace. They don’t. Everyone dives in, filling up with loads of thick white bread. They talk about the day, teasing and talking over the top of each other. There’s a lot of laughter. I do my best to eat what’s on my plate but I’m seriously flagging now. I push my barely touched bowl of apple crumble over to Helen and she ostentatiously divides it into four to share. Shanaye watches with an amused air while Uncle Royan grins at me and winks.
‘You wait,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow we’ll be back to normal and they’ll be brawling over crusts.’
After dinner and dishes, I’m so tired I can barely think. It’s still broad daylight but I really need to go to bed. ‘Off you go,’ Shanaye insists. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to chat tomorrow.’
I stretch out on the top bunk again and close my eyes. I’m actually in Ireland, in the very room that Van once stayed. It’s so confusing. If the family were as cold and distant as Mum and Dad, it might explain why Van chose here to take her life. But they clearly loved her, thought of her as their own. It makes no sense.
What was going on inside your head? What flipped the switch? Tears slide into my hair.
It hurts to see such love, Miss T. To see how family’s work when parents care.
That’s it, of course. It’s like drinking too much water after weeks of thirst. The balance is all wrong; the body just can’t cope. And so we get dammed up inside and all the misery, rejection and unspoken words stagnate until our heads grow so bloated they burst. The life we lust for is only a mirage — and the more we try to quench our thirst the more we end up choking on sand.
I WAKE IN DARKNESS, Helen’s breath purring below me. I have no idea what time it is but I urgently need to pee. The house is quiet, except for the rolling snore that floats out of the master bedroom as I tiptoe down the stairs to the bathroom.
Coming out, I notice a light on in the kitchen, and Shanaye ironing a huge pile of clothes. The wall clock says it’s twelve fifteen.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You’re up late.’
‘It’s my quiet time.’ She stands the iron up and crosses to the bench. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Thanks. I think my body clock’s all up the shoot.’
She laughs. ‘You’re accent is so funny. I’d forgotten how it sounds.’
I draw a chair out from the table and sit down. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
She shakes her head. ‘Just sit and chat.’
My mind goes blank. Come on, come on … ‘So. What does Uncle Royan do for work? I hope it was okay for him to take time off to pick me up.’
‘He’s master of his own time.’ She winks. ‘He’s unemployed, lovey, like all the men round here. He picks up the odd job when he can and sees to the littlins, if need be, when I’m at work.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I have four cleaning jobs for rich folks on the other side of town.’
‘I’ll pay my way,’ I say. Damn it. I should’ve said this at the very start.
‘One more mouth to feed is nothing, darlin’. We’re happy that you’re here.’ She hands me a cup, sips at her own, then returns to her ironing. ‘I’m sorry I was so doolally when you first arrived. Van’s death rocked us. For a long time we thought it was all our fault.’
‘It’s Mum and Dad’s.’ Bitterness hardens my voice. ‘They treated her terribly — and when she begged them to bring her home they refused.’
Shanaye switches off the iron and sits down next to me with a sigh. ‘Some damage never heals, Tara love. We Irish know it more than anyone. People try to bandage over the top, but if they don’t peel back the skin and cleanse the wound it’ll always weep.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I need to make it stop.’
‘Then let us help you, darlin’. Tell us what you need.’
I take a deep, shuddery breath. I’ve thought about it the whole trip over. ‘I need to see her grave. I need to see the place she died. And I need someone to help me understand why we weren’t ever good enough for Mum and Dad.’ The other goal, lurking behind everything, I push aside for now. Its pull on me fluctuates. I’m still not sure.
Something, possibly pain, flits across her face. ‘The first two are easy, though why you’d want to see the place she did it I don’t know. But your poor Mammy and Daddy are another story. If we open up that can of wrigglers, you’ll never stuff them back. I often wonder if that’s where we went wrong with Van. There’s things it’s just not good to know.’
‘Did she talk to you? Tell you what her life was like?’
‘That she did. We never thought Kathleen would let him rule the roost like that.’ She picks up her cup, staring into its depths. ‘She was the smartest girl in all the school, our sweet Kathleen. Was going to go to university — the first one in our street.’
‘You knew her way back then?’
‘We all grew up round here. The Troubles meant that we were really tight.’
‘What was she going to study?’
‘Lordy, I don’t know! Hold on, yes I do. She wanted to be a doctor.’ She chortles. ‘Now me, I always just wanted to be a mam.’ She yawns, exposing heavily filled teeth. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, darlin’? With looks like yours I’m sure you have.’
I shake my head. Johannes? In your dreams. ‘Not really.’
Shanaye rubs a hand over her face. ‘That’s it for me tonight. Plenty more hours to finish this tomorrow.’ Sh
e pats my hand, then starts to pack up the ironing.
‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘You go to bed. My sleep’s all mucked up so it’ll be good to have something to do.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘Well then, I’m off. Thanks, love. We’re glad you’re here.’ She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Tomorrow, once the kids are off at school, I’ll take you to see Van.’
14
I firmly believe that there are things in the depths of our souls that would cut us to the quick if we knew about them.
— VINCENT TO ANTHON VAN RAPPARD, NUENEN, MARCH 1884
I’M WOKEN AT SEVEN when the family starts their day. Helen chatters as she dresses for school but when she bounces off downstairs I doze a little longer. It’s procrastination as much as tiredness. Half of me’s relieved I’ll finally get to see Van’s grave, the other terrified I’ll crack. Already a lump the size of Pluto blocks my throat. My stomach is awash with nerves.
By the time I’m up and dressed, Uncle Royan is shepherding the kids into the van. After the school drop he’ll do two of the cleaning jobs — that way Shanaye can spend the day with me.
We set off on foot and everything’s far stranger than the pictures I’ve seen online. People aren’t happy here — are really struggling — you can feel it in the air. Shabby houses sprout small shops, sturdy roller doors in place instead of glass. Every second corner hosts a church, looming over squalid backyards like a hanging judge. There are more of the big murals too, each one with a story Shanaye relates to me as we walk past.
‘That one’s for the Hunger Strikers.’ She points to a huge H surrounded by chains and shackled fists. An in-your-face reminder of Dad’s hero Bobby Sands and all the others who suffered in the Maze.
‘…Oh, and that ballbeg’s Oliver Cromwell.’ In the midst of a battle scene there’s a quote from the great man himself: Catholicism is more than a religion, it is a political power. Therefore I’m led to believe there will be no peace in Ireland until the Catholic Church is crushed. I’m not sure how this makes me feel. On the one hand I agree with him: religion still breeds fear not love. On the other, it’s the poor suckers on the ground that pay the price and not the Church.