Grandma fusses around, now closing up the gazillion cereal boxes with those freezer bag ties. I notice she looks like an older, female version of Dad, which you might think is obvious, but it doesn’t always go that way. I look like my mum and my dad. Everyone says I have Mum’s eyes, but I think they’re too big for my face, and they’re grey, which let’s face it is an eye colour nobody would ever choose.
I should probably start writing that list of stuff to email Magda. I know it’s ungrateful, but her impeccable competency just annoys me lately. She’s the complete opposite of Mum. Well, maybe she’s not. I guess she’s more like what Mum would be if she wasn’t so … God, my eyes and nose are beginning to run. Maybe I’m getting my period? I can’t keep track of it these days.
Grandma stops watering a plant on the window sill and thumbs one of its leaves, shaking her head gently from side to side. ‘I’ve overwatered the poor begonia,’ she says, tutting loudly before carrying it outside.
I pick up my phone to check my email when it pings with a text from Rupert. Rupert!
SOZ HAVEN’T REPLIED. HEARD U R IN DUBLIN 4 SUMMER. DUNNO IF I’M FLY WITH LONG DISTANCE? HAHAHA. HOPE UR OK. RU
I collapse against the back of the chair and reread the text, scanning it for clues of something … but there’s nothing; lame shouty caps with a question mark, when he’s not even asking a question. The phone quivers in my hand. What’s just happened? I don’t hear from him in over a week and now this? I stare at his name; the very sight of which once set surges of electricity racing through me, but there’s nothing. I wasn’t even his to dump.
‘Asshole.’
‘What’s that, pet?’ Grandma asks, strolling back into the room obscured by her beloved plant. I know she heard me.
I pick at some imagined milk flecks on my T-shirt. ‘Nothing.’
‘Oh,’ she says, before leaving the room by the other door. It’s not even Rupert and his shitty text; it’s the reality that I’m really stuck here; that this is true and why this is true. I put down the phone and push away my bowl; I can’t eat any more.
I walk into the living room and Grandma is watching TV. I clear my throat.
‘I want to call Mum.’ I hadn’t even rehearsed it. I’m not even sure I knew it was coming.
‘Of course,’ she says, pushing herself up from her chair. ‘Your dad left the name of the place by the phone. Let me see.’ She’s up on her feet now, rifling through Post-it pads on the hall table.
‘S’OK, I’ll google it.’
She shuffles on her feet before disappearing towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll be in here if you need me,’ she calls back.
The phone answers after three rings. ‘Foxford Park Clinic, good morning,’ says a cheery lady on the other end.
‘I’d like to speak to my mum, Eliza Rutherford.’ It comes out as a whisper and as soon as I’ve said it damp patches prickle my underarms.
‘Bear with me, please,’ she says and she’s gone.
Mum didn’t take Dad’s name when they married. It was, she once claimed, an attempt to keep her family name alive, which is ironic given that she barely speaks to the rest of the Rutherfords now. It’s like they’ve been erased, somehow rubbed out by the reality of never being talked about. Their names, so little spoken of in our house, have faded now and we almost behave like they never existed.
A man comes to the phone. ‘Hello, is that Emerald?’
I’m surprised to hear my name, but then I realise who it is. ‘Yes. Hi, Nick.’
‘How are you, Emerald?’ he says in that slow, draw-out-each-word-I’m-really-listening voice. I don’t answer. ‘May I ask, is it an emergency?’
I want to say yes; I’m falling apart. But no words come out.
‘Your mum is doing well and I’m sure she’d love to talk to you, but you’ll remember our policy for new patients, which, I explained, is a period without family contact. I appreciate this may be difficult for you, Emerald.’
He’s using my name a lot. Perhaps this is something you learn as a counsellor; to make people feel heard or some such thing.
‘She’ll have an opportunity to call home next Saturday, so I’ll let her know you phoned. Is that OK?’
‘Uh huh,’ I reply, biting down hard on my lip. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to speak to Mum at first, but now I want her more than anything in the world. My mother, who’s screwed up everything so badly she’s not even allowed to come to the phone.
‘I hope you can understand, Emerald?’
‘Sure,’ I mumble and quickly hang up. I look in the mirror above the old phone table and watch a fat tear attempt to form in the corner of my eye. For a moment I don’t recognise myself, or the strange expression my face is making. I drag a tissue from the table and dab the wet blob back into someone else’s eye.
Grandma watches me from the doorway.
‘She was busy,’ I say quickly. I guess I’ve got so used to covering for Mum I’ve become incapable of telling the truth, even when there’s no need to lie.
Grandma sees right through me. ‘It is difficult, isn’t it?’
‘I’m going to have a lie down.’ I slur the words as I tumble up the stairs.
I flop on to the creaky, old wooden bed. Next Saturday! I can’t speak to my own mother for yet another week. I think about getting really angry but I’m actually embarrassed for her. I’m embarrassed by her too and the shame of it all rinses through me. I hate how well I know this feeling, but still, I crawl underneath it and let it cover me like a blanket.
My brain’s too fizzy for sleep so I pick up my phone and reread every one of the eleven(!) texts Rupert has ever sent me. I file back through his entire Instagram and all I feel is empty. What if underneath the tanned exterior and Hollister hoodies there’s nothing but an alarmingly uncomplicated void? In any event, I was nothing to him. We shared nothing. There is nothing to even miss. Did I even like Rupert Heath or did I just like him to be liked?
I go through my feed, which might be the worst idea ever, but I’m on an emotionally battering roll. Only nineteen likes for my selfie with those marshmallow biscuits. One of these is from Magda so that doesn’t even count. I hit delete. What’s the point? It just looks bad. Might as well have ‘loser’ as my username these days. I scroll down to see Kitty and Bryony screaming out from the endless sea of people at Glastonbury. There’s at least ten new uploads too, each with a gazillion comments beneath, all with excited grammar and extraneous emojis. Why do their smiles make me feel so sad? What on earth is wrong with me?
Bryonibbgal #tbt GLASTO!!! SIKKK START TO SUMMER WITH MY BAE!!!!!!!
0o_kittykatz_o0 SO MUCH LOVE 4 THIS ONE. FKN YASSSS!!!
Hang on! Where am I????? I was in these photos once but I’ve been airbrushed out of the entire weekend! 114 likes for another photo of Bryony waving the enormous flag that Kitty and me tie-dyed in her garden two years ago: our flag; our special flag! I clamp my hand over my mouth, seized by a painful wave of envy and loss. I hug my knees into my chest and bury my face in the musty pillow.
There’s a tiny knock on the bedroom door. I don’t know how long I’ve been out but the sleep felt deep. Grandma pushes gently into the room, armed with a tray. I blink a few times before my eyes slip shut again.
‘Banana loaf,’ she nods. ‘Still your favourite I hope?’
I peel my lids apart once more and watch as she slowly comes into focus. Maybe I’m still half asleep, but for the first time since I arrived Grandma’s eyes sparkle a little like they used to. I’d entirely forgotten that banana loaf existed, but as the room fills with its warm, nutty smell, all sorts of powerful feelings wash over me. My chest sinks with gratitude as I sit up.
Then it comes back to me; I ate it here in the kitchen, that Christmas. I remember Mum and Dad driving away, and Grandma was so sad after. I’m pretty sure I told her it was my favourite just to cheer her up. There’d been a fight; I can remember that too. I close my eyes, wishing all the images in my head would stop flying ab
out for long enough for me to actually see them.
Grandma hands me a steaming mug of tea. ‘D’you know it’s been years since I’ve done any baking. Can you believe that?’ she asks, tucking a spare pillow in behind my back. I sit up straighter and listen. ‘It felt good to get the cake tins out again. So thank you, love.’
‘For what?’
She taps her hand on mine. ‘For taking me out of myself.’
We’ve gone skiing for the last five Christmases. What was so bad that we left Grandma here for the Christmas holidays alone? Like me, Dad’s an only child so there is literally no other family on his side apart from some distant cousins we never see. What if no one came to visit her? No friends have called round since I arrived over a week ago and she hardly leaves the house except to go shopping. I haven’t heard her talk to anyone except Dad and some old guy selling aloe vera products door to door. Maybe that’s why she seems so on edge? Maybe she’s nervous about upsetting Dad? Maybe she’s afraid if she does we may never come back here again?
Baking was Grandma’s thing. When she’d stay with us, she’d make pies and cakes and all sorts in our kitchen. I suddenly feel inexplicably sad.
I go to sip my tea but it’s too hot. ‘Why did you stop?’
‘Ah, you know …’ she starts and then says nothing more, that way Irish people seem to do. I watch her go to speak again but she just lightly closes her eyes.
‘Grandma?’
‘Well, it’s not the same, greasing tins for one,’ she says, thumbing at loose crumbs on the plate.
‘But you baked all the time.’
She blows into her cup, her lips quivering as she goes to take a tiny drink. ‘Well,’ she says, smoothing out her skirt, ‘that was usually for the church; coffee mornings and the like,’ she says, with her eyes resting softly on mine. ‘I tend not to go there much these days.’
‘Don’t you love a good mass? Dad always says –’
‘Things change, Emerald,’ she says, brusquely.
‘Have you?’
‘In some way, perhaps. That is, I assumed the church was the place for me. I never questioned it. I assumed the parishioners there were my friends but one day I realised they weren’t true friends at all,’ she says, more softly now, twisting her stooped shoulders towards me, her palms cradling each other in her lap. ‘I was looking for comfort, Em, but let’s just say, I was looking in the wrong place.’
A final nod seems to signal the end of the topic. As we sit together silently I can’t help running through everything she’s just said in my head. I can’t pretend to understand it all but that doesn’t stop the flash going off behind my open eyes.
‘Have your cake in peace now, pet. I’m here if you need me. That’s all I wanted to say,’ she says, pressing up off the bed and padding softly towards the door.
‘Grandma,’ I call after her. ‘It smells delicious.’
She smiles back at me and then she is gone. Letting my eyes slowly close, I sit back against the headboard and for a few short seconds my mind is blissfully still with nothingness passing gently in and out. My heart swells as I lift the plate on to my lap but just as I raise the cake to my lips the flash sparks again, almost blinding me.
I sit bolt upright, slamming the plate down and rummaging around the duvet. My hand finds the cold slab of laptop and I flip it open, quickly clicking on Safari. On the top of a deep inhale I hold my breath and open a new tab for Instagram. I look at my username, ladyesmerelda01, in the top right-hand corner. My heart thumps wildly, but I stare straight ahead, my eyes boring into the weird-looking word, determined not to let my focus slip down to the shiny new posts below. I click on EDIT PROFILE, scroll to the end and there right at the bottom I see it: TEMPORARILY DISABLE MY ACCOUNT.
I click again and slam the laptop shut.
Long, slow exhale.
LIAM
The King stays the King
I’m cycling up Paddy’s Hill en route to meet Kenny. It’s not far from the Metro, nor is it that warm out either, but I’ve got a fierce sweat on due to my broken gears and a misjudged woollen jumper, so the fine mist of rain on my face feels lovely. The new playground at the top of the hill looks out over the marina and there’s no finer lunch spot than those swings.
When I arrive there’s only one shifty-looking bloke and his kid on the see-saw. I dawdle over to the swings and sit myself into the rubber seat like it’s a throne on loan. Pushing off with my feet, I sail high above the wood chips and the fence in front, watching over the passing traffic and the restless world below.
I’m reflecting on the morning gone, when it strikes me I’m actually beginning to enjoy my crap job. I guess I’m lucky to have it. Lorcan, our old neighbour, got it for me, which was sound of him. Three years on from the Leaving Cert and he’s reached the dizzy heights of Duty Manager at the Metro Service Station on Portwall Road.
I shouldn’t knock him. That’s the deal once you leave school: graft like a knob-end to get up the ladder in a job that just cages your soul. God knows why our school tried to pretend it was any different.
No matter who you are you’ll need fuel for your car or milk for your kids. People come into the station for their diesel or the paper or what have you, but they stay for a chat. Not with me, but I see them with Lorcan or the guys on the till. Having a gas about the weather, the economy, their holliers. The Leaving results: oh, the chats have started on that now too. What the kids are going to do, where they’re going to college, will they get into the bank? Who’s heading off to Australia, Canada or Qatar? I expect Da’s having the same conversation: boring people in other shops, any eejit he meets. Dying to tell them all that his son is going to study Quantity Surveying up in Dundalk, and then he’ll explain it for them. ‘Building site management,’ he’ll say proudly. I see their concerned faces, looking at his fragile scaffold of hope and they’re praying to Jaysus it works out. Nobody around here wants Donal Flynn suffering another blow.
I’ve a horrible feeling I’ve done enough and I’ll get on to the course. The unspeakable thing is that I don’t want any part of that plan. I don’t want to build anything. I don’t want to manage anyone. I don’t want to be in any way associated with, or responsible for, anything in the sorry world of construction. Flash bastards financing even more boxes, ugly little boxes for caged and broken souls.
Da wants me to challenge the Gods. He doesn’t say it of course, but I know his strategy and it’s doomed. Even if I work my pawny-arse through college and make it all the way to the other side of the chessboard, the best I can hope for is to be the Queen. Developers have the money and will always be King. As Da learned the hard way, the King stays the King and I swear I’m never going to be any developer’s bitch.
A snazzy-looking Freelander pulls up by the pitches and I know it’s Kenny. He gets to borrow a new motor each week. Come September he’ll be working for his uncle in the showroom full-time. ‘A born salesman,’ as Da says.
I’m getting tired of my own weighty thoughts so the sight of him, hopping out of the car in his cheap suit, is a welcome relief. I watch him for a bit, strolling around on the phone, with his heavy bowl of gingery hair flopping about his face. He starts pacing up and down, all hand gestures and long, dramatic drags on his fag. I’m marvelling at what it’d be like to be in Kenny’s head, when I realise I’m smiling. He sees me and hangs up, stomping over urgently.
‘All right, man. What’s the story?’
Kenny does this a lot. It’s important to note he’s not actually asking a question here; it’s merely an opener to what he’s got to say.
He plonks himself on the swing beside me and takes out another fag. ‘So that was Fiona …’ He’s about to burst with something else, his lips are tight, like a trouser seam about to give way. ‘Party at her gaff Saturday!’ he says, grinning at me.
I kick off the ground again and start to swing.
‘Where are her folks?’
‘Off on a golfing weekend in Connemara, my friend.
Woohoohoo!’ he roars, joining me in the air now. ‘I’ll be checking out me honey’s new tan lines, I tell you.’
As he says this, he does something with his eyebrows, adjusting the knot of his tie, which is pink. He looks like a complete flute. ‘Who’s coming?’
His eyes are wide and excited. ‘Everyone!’ he says, biting down on the unlit cigarette.
I slow down and run my feet along the ground. ‘Seriously?’
He pulls on the chains and leans in close enough to slap my thigh. ‘And a load of her mates from school. ALL of whom are pretty rideable, I might add.’
Fiona went to an all-girl school three stops up on the DART line. Her parents are a bit posh. Not proper posh, but like five-bed posh, which is posh enough around here. ‘What’s the party for anyway?’
‘It’s her eighteenth next week. I told you. Total free gaff, man!’
‘Nice one!’ It’s all I can think to say. I have to admit it’s the best outlook for a Saturday night we had so far this summer.
‘So I was contemplating,’ he says, sounding out each of the word’s four syllables while looking needlessly over each of his shoulders. ‘We dig up McDara’s buried treasure and look for our just rewards. Surely even a pirate like him will swallow a small commission for the safe return of his bounty. What do you say, Flynn, my man?’
But I’m no longer listening. I’m overcome with a brave and brilliant notion. Possibly the finest idea I’ve had for some time. ‘Do you think it would be cool if I brought that girl?’
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