Being Emily

by Anne Donovan

  We went upstairs and in the front door. Janice shouted, Anybody here? so the twins would have time tae hide. Ever since they were wee she done this same routine but they never seemed tae get fed up wi it. Then she said in a very loud voice, What a shame. Ah was so lookin forward tae seein the twins. Oh well. Ah’ll just need tae eat these sweeties all by mysel.

  All of a sudden she was near knocked tae the ground by what looked like twenty twins chargin fae the livin room. Mammy appeared at the door of the kitchen and they turnt back intae angels.

  Don’t jump on your auntie like that. And you’re no gettin sweeties at this time of the day – they can go in the cupboard for later. Janice, you’ll need tae stop bringin them so much rubbish.

  The twins followed us into the kitchen.

  What’s that smell? said Rona.

  Patrick’s teachin me tae bake bread – he showed me how tae dae the kneadin and everythin.

  Yuck, said Mona and they disappeared intae the bedroom to play.

  It’s just about ready, said Patrick. Want tae take it out the oven?

  Ah opened the door and there it was, a beautiful golden plaited loaf. Ah lifted it out, turned it carefully ontae the rack tae cool.

  That smells fantastic, said Janice.

  Fiona’s first loaf. You can have some wi your tea. Mammy switched on the kettle.

  Wanny the auld guys showed me how tae dae it by haund, said Patrick. It’s all machines at the bakery noo.

  Really? said Janice. Another illusion shattered.

  Once we were sittin round the table Janice turnt tae Mammy and said, Will ah tell them now?

  On you go.

  Ah’m havin a baby. Janice’s eyes shone.

  Congratulations, said Patrick.

  That’s great, ah said, chewin the bread. It was warm and the butter melted intae it. Tasted better than any bread ah’d ever had. Ah didnae know you had a boyfriend.

  Ah don’t, she said.

  Sorry. Ah felt ma face gaun red. Should of known better. Auntie Janice was dead independent. Career woman, Da called her. Lots of women are single parents noo. And you’ve got a good job and everythin.

  Ah’m no gonnae be a single parent – me and Angela will bring the baby up thegether.

  Your flatmate?

  My partner.

  Ah felt like a right numpty. Couldnae say anythin. Scared ah’d say somethin else stupid. Janice talked about how the father was a friend of theirs but he lived abroad and wouldnae have much tae dae wi the wean.

  After we’d had tea Janice and Mammy took the twins out to the park, leavin me and Patrick to dae the washin up.

  You’re awful quiet, he said. You okay? About Janice?

  Aye – it’s just, ah just never realised.

  She’s been livin wi Angela for years. They dae everythin thegether.

  Aye but so dae Jean and Betty up the stair.

  Uhhuh, said Patrick.

  You’re kiddin. Jean and Betty are about ninety-five.

  No quite. Anyway, d’you think folk grow out of it when they get past a certain age?

  Naw, ah didnae mean that. Just cannae imagine them …

  Ah didnae know what ah meant. Never thought about it really. There was lesbian couples on the TV sometimes but that was different, they werenae real, characters in a soap opera or film stars or that. The idea that my auntie or the two wee auld ladies up the stair could be like that. It was just weird.

  Patrick finished the last plate, wiped his haunds on the edge of the teatowel ah was usin. You’re no … ah mean you don’t think there’s anythin wrang wi it, dae you?

  Ah wiped the sink wi the cloth and hung it on the drainin board.

  Mammy seems to think it’s okay.

  But ma da thought there was somethin wrang about it.

  What about the baby but?

  What about it? said Mammy. The twins were away tae their beds and the resty us were sittin in the living room, watchin TV, well, no actually watchin it, watchin ma da flick through the channels while we were waitin for ER tae come on.

  Janice’ll be a great mother.

  That’s all very well when it’s toty, said ma da. But when it grows aulder it’ll start askin where its daddy is.

  Loads of weans never have a daddy in the first place. Or they have one that’s never around. At least Angela will be there.

  No the same, said ma da.

  Ah know it’s no the same, said Mammy. But there’s different ways of daein things. Janice cannae help how she is.

  Ah kept quiet. Ah was surprised they were havin this conversation in fronty me and ah thought if ah said anything, they might stop. A few month ago they’d never of mentioned sex, even though Mammy had tellt me about it that long ago ah couldnae remember no knowin. And if anythin sexy came on the TV they’d change channels or send me out tae make tea.

  Ah never said she could. Ah just think her and Angela should be discreet, no flauntin it.

  Da, said Patrick. Why should they have tae lie about their relationship?

  Ah never said that, you’re puttin words in ma mouth. There’s a difference between bein discreet and lyin. Ah mean we don’t run round the hoose wi nae claes on, dae we?

  Patrick laughed. We don’t. But some families dae. Willie Slavin’s ma and da have a shower and then walk through the hall wi nothin on.

  How d’you know that?

  Harry tellt me. He was in the hoose wan day when Mrs Slavin walked in the livin room, said ‘ah think ah left ma hairbrush in here,’ picked it up and walked out again, starkers.

  Jeezo. Ah think that proves ma point about discretion, said ma da. Mrs Slavin.

  Could be worse, said Patrick. At least the Flanagans arenae at it.

  Da turnt the volume up. Shoosh. It’s startin.

  AS WE LEFT the chapel Mrs Reilly slipped a sweetie tae the twins like she done every week after mass. The twins mouthed thankyous and Mammy smiled, placin the sweets in her bag. For later, she’d say, but later, at hame, she’d throw them in the bin.

  Such a lovely family.

  Mrs Reilly wore a knitted beret even on a day like this in the height of summer. She sat in the pew in fronty us. Da was always nearest the centre aisle, then Patrick, me, Mammy, Rona and Mona. When the twins were toddlers it was easier tae have them at that end so if they got girny Mammy could bundle them out doon the side without disturbin the whole congregation.

  Nooadays, of course, they were model children. Hair smoothed back in alice bands, wearin identical pink cord skirts and sparkly tee shirts, white frilly socks and patent shoes, they sat demurely through mass, kneelin and staundin and sittin when they were supposed tae, only occasionally takin out their fifty pence piece for the collection and examinin it. They’d made their first Holy Communion in May so we all went up thegether when it was time, me sheltered behind Patrick’s blue cord jacket. He attracted attention fae the granny brigade too as he was always smartly dressed, that different fae the other young guys in their jeans and trainers. Patrick didnae buy many claes but the ones he had were expensive. Between Patrick and the twins naebody ever noticed me, which suited me fine.

  When my granny was alive we used tae go round tae hers every Sunday efternoon for gammon sangwiches and hard boiled eggs and cake wi pink and yella squares in it. There was a funny smell in my granny’s: the pot of soup on the stove, solid wi barley, the ancient cat that ignored the twins’ attempts tae get it tae play wi balls of wool, the carpet in the hall that looked as if it was ages wi my granny, all mingled intae one.

  Noo she was gone Sundays felt looser. Sometimes Patrick was on the nightshift and went tae his room in the efternoon tae have a nap or lie on his bed, listenin tae music on his heidphones. The twins played in the back court, sometimes by theirsels, other times entertainin weans fae the next close wi cartwheels or dancin displays. Ah went round tae the swing park to meet my pals.

  Monica, Jemma and me had teamed up when we started secondary. Ah still mind that first day at St Philomena’s, the churnin fe
elin in my stomach. All the different primaries had been mixed up and in the mad scramble for seats ah was left staundin like a stookie. Jemma rescued me. She appeared out of naewhere and said, Partner? Ah nodded and the two of us sat thegether at the front. Ah hardly knew her then, though ah’d seen her around cause she went to the same dancin school as the twins – her class came out as theirs went in. Monica arrived later, waited at the front of the class for the teacher tae find her a seat. Sweet and smiley, that neat and shiny in her uniform she looked as if someone had polished her. When ah got tae know her family ah suspected her mother actually did polish her alang with everything else in their immaculate house. Her parents owned a Chinese takeaway and her ma cleaned the house fae top to bottom, drove Monica to school and went tae mass afore her long day’s work.

  Jemma was on a swing when ah arrived, swayin gently, tappin one foot on the ground tae stop hersel gaun high.

  You’re late.

  Had tae wash up.

  Time your ma got a dishwasher.

  Ah sat in the swing next tae Jemma’s, started to move, higher and higher, usin ma knees tae power me. Ah loved the squidgy feelin in my belly, felt ah was flyin. Ah kept on swingin, fast and high for a few minutes, then let the swing slow doon till it idled and stopped.

  Ah love that feelin you get in your belly when the swing goes dead high.

  A lassie in our Alison’s class says it’s a sin. Jemma’s sister was fifteen.

  How can it be a sin? You don’t go tellin the priest in confession you went on the swings.

  It’s okay when you’re wee. But when you start gettin your thingummies, the feelins you get are sexy.

  Really?

  A nun tellt her.

  Ah started tae giggle. How did the nun know?

  Jemma giggled too, then the giggle became a laugh and the next minute the two of us were nearly fallin aff the swings helpless.

  Mibbe it’s a … test. Jemma could hardly get the words out. If you want tae become a nun they test you to see if you can control yer sexy feelins.

  The tears were streamin doon ma face. Aye – when they join the convent … they have a row of swings and all these nuns swingin away prayin that they won’t feel sexy.

  Jesus Mary and Joseph protect me fae impure thoughts.

  Through the blur of tears ah seen Monica wavin at us fae across the road.

  Ah waved back. Don’t tell Mon what we were laughin at.

  Later, pretendin to read in the bedroom, ah kept thinkin about this efternoon. Sometimes it was like that when Jemma and me were on wur ain thegether. Monica was lovely but she’d of been really shocked about us laughin at nuns. And somehow, away fae Jemma, ah felt ashamed. Ah knew ah’d need tae confess it next time ah went and it made me feel a bit sick inside tae have to say it to a priest. Even though ah knew ah was really tellin Jesus and he knew anyway, it was dead embarrassin.

  And ah kept wonderin about what Jemma had said. Ah’d always thought sexy feelins meant fancyin boys or someone in a band. In RE we’d done a unit called ‘Growing Up: Issues of Morality’ but it was all about no puttin yoursel in situations with boys that could go too far, kissin and stuff. No one ever said you shouldnae go on the swings. Ah wondered if ah’d ever had other sexy feelins without knowin. Sometimes if ah woke up at night and needed the toilet, ah’d lie there for a minute, enjoyin the feelin of my bladder bein full, wantin tae go but wantin tae lie in the warmth too. Then when ah got up and peed the nice feelin went. Was that sexy too? Was any feelin inside you?

  Fiona? Mammy came in the bedroom. Ah’m gonnae get the twins aff tae bed.

  Okay.

  Mammy stroked my hair. Sorry, hen. Your da’s watchin the TV but if you want some peace you can read in the kitchen. She smiled at me.

  Ah wanted tae ask her, but somehow the words didnae come.

  Four Years Later

  WHEN I FIRST knew Jas his front teeth had wee jaggy bits across their biting edge like a wean’s. Serrated. Most folk’s teeth wear tae a straight edge by the time they’re about fourteen but in sixth year at school his were like mini-saws. I could feel them when we were kissing, hours spent tangling with passion in a quiet bit of wasteground on the edge of the park. We never really done anything much, just kissed till wur lips swelled up. Every time it seemed as if we’d be carried away by it, one of us would pull back or move the other’s haund away fae the danger spot and we’d break, talk for a while until the moment passed. Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I’d imagine what it’d be like for him tae put his haunds under my claes, touch my naked skin. In the beds across fae mines were Mona, an unidentifiable lump under her downie, and Rona, wan airm thrown out of the covers, white in the light of the streetlamp.

  How did Jas sleep? What would it be like to lie beside him, coorie like spoons all night long?

  It seems weird we never spoke about it, since we spent all the rest of our time talking, never ran out of conversation. He never anyway. Always something on his mind; big things, never trivia.

  Look at this, he’d say, showing me something he’d cut out the newspaper about fossil fuels. Or he’d start a conversation wi my da. So what do you think of the situation in Iraq, Mr O’Connell? D’you think we should end the sanctions?

  Da cairried on watching Countdown wi the sound turned doon; I knew he was making up words in his heid while he answered Jas.

  Havenae a scooby aboot politics son, but these things’ll never hurt the government – it’s always the ordinary folk end up suffering.

  Jas didnae know the meaning of the word casual; everything was important to him and if it wasnae important, what was the point in talking aboot it? Why gossip aboot some daft popstar’s lovelife when you could discuss the meaning of life, why watch soaps when you could read about the molecular composition of polymers?

  And he didnae just talk about things, he done them. He was aye writing letters for Amnesty or campaigning for something on the school council. Or studying. Or working. Probably the only time he wasnae daeing something purposeful was when he was with me.

  I met Jas when I moved to the non-denominational (or – as my da called it – proddy) school in sixth year. I wanted to dae Advanced Highers in English, Art and History and St Philomena’s couldnae timetable them thegether. They tried tae persuade me to change one of the subjects, then suggested I go to Burnside just for History but it seemed less complicated tae move school – it was only for a year. And though I’d been dead happy at St Phil’s when I was younger, after all the stuff that had happened this past year, I was glad enough tae go where no one knew me.

  I met Jas the first day when he came up to me after English and thrust a photocopied leaflet about the debating club in ma haund.

  ‘Is multiculturalism the new racism?’

  I went alang cause I’d nothin else to dae efter school on Friday and Friday is a day when you want to have something to dae. I thought it’d be good to get tae know some folk at school but it was just Jas and two of his pals and a couple of fourth-year girls who wanted to get off with the sixth years. And me. Clocked in a dusty classroom wi the desks moved back and stacked upside doon so you could see the chuggie stuck tae the underside.

  Jas was electrifying. I wasnae convinced by all he said, but he said it wi a passion that was infectious. He had these beautiful haunds, long and spidery like the winter branches of trees, and he moved them as he spoke, like someone daeing calligraphy in the air. The other guy never stood a chance; he plodded through his well-prepared and well-meaning speech at a steady pace, stopping at regular intervals tae pause, look at us and sum up his point in a deeper voice afore lifting the next index card. He said all the things I’d ever been told about respecting different cultures and religions, about us all co-existing in some happy melting-pot of a city.

  But Jas.

  I am sick, sick, sick of being a Sikh.

  He looked round, dark eyes taking in each of us.

  Not because I am unhappy with my religion or my culture or my family herita
ge, but because so-called multiculturalism has stolen Sikhism, has tamed it and made it cute and cuddly. He put on a patronising adult voice, the kind of voice people use when they’re trying to humour a three-year-old.

  Oh, look at the cute little Asian boy with his hanky tied round his heid, that’s because he’s growing his hair. It’s his religion, you know.

  Oh, why don’t we all make paper lanterns this week in the Art lesson because it’s Diwali? Maybe Jaswinder could tell us about it. Then next week Hassan can tell us about Eid. Then it’ll be time to start learning the carols for our Christmas concert.

  If I had a fiver for every time I’d told my primary school class about friggin Diwali I’d be a millionaire. But making lanterns every November or drawing pictures of the five Ks doesnae mean they understand anything about being a Sikh – it’s just paying lip service to the real diversity of our culture and smoothing over the racism and suspicion that divides us, even those of us who tick the brown boxes in the ethnic monitoring forms we need to fill in in the name of equal opportunities – Sikh and Muslim, Hindu and Sikh.

  And I don’t have time in the four minutes allowed me to even get started on those of mixed race – those who should be the zenith, the culmination of our so-called multicultural society (if we really believed in it). Yes I am referring to those of mixed race, who, rather than being what we aspire to, far from being the epitome of multiculturalism, are in fact an embarrassment as they can’t be done, ticked off on a multicultural calendar by making something symbolic out of coloured paper, or placed in the correct box on the multicoloured form. No, they fit nowhere, not even with their own family.

  Efter the debate, predictably, was won by Jas, he and the other guy shook haunds and the fourth-year lassies fluttered round him. I sloped off out the room and heided doon the road.

  SO. MS HARRIS crossed her legs and clicked the top of her pen. Today I thought we’d go round the group so each of you can say what topic you’re proposing for your dissertation and why you chose it. I’d like you to give us some idea of the areas you intend to explore. Is that clear?