A Small Part of Me

by Noelle Harrison

  Please can I stay a little longer?

  No, no, I already let you stay up late.

  Oh, please?

  No, the guests will be here soon. She opens a large cake tin and hands Christina a meringue. Go on, you can have one of these. They embrace.

  Night, night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite, because if they do… They say together in unison.

  Parcel them up in brown paper and string and send them off to Peru, adds Angeline.

  That’s a good one, Christina says and skips out of the room, up to bed.

  Christina keeps the light on in her bedroom. She hears the people arrive, the low notes of the men’s voices, the light chatter of the women. She smells the cigarette smoke as it drifts up the stairs, mixing with the enticing scent of the food. She gets out of bed and creeps along the landing, sitting on the top step, straining her ears, hoping to catch a word or two.

  When her mammy had been there, living with them, Christina couldn’t remember any dinner parties. But she couldn’t cook. Now Daddy was proud of Angeline. She was like an exotic bird everyone wanted to come and see.

  GRETA

  Something very strange happened today. And it wasn’t the sort of day you’d expect anything to happen. A filthy, wet day.

  I was on the way to the bank and there was an absolute downpour. My hands were freezing, numb with the cold and the wet. I was just darting in through the door when I heard someone calling my name, calling me Greta Stone. No one calls me that any more.

  I turned, and I saw this vision coming towards me. A tall, dark woman with long, black, shiny hair. She was wearing a beautiful pair of purple velvet trousers and a large, hairy Afghan coat. I couldn’t believe my eyes, because I instantly recognised her. She looked so different, but it was unmistakably Angeline.

  Greta, she cried, flinging her arms around me, remember me? Angeline, Angeline Mahony, we were in the same class at school.

  Of course I remember you, I said, pulling back, staring at this transformation. But you look so different.

  I suppose I’ve lost a bit of weight, she said, putting her hands on her hips.

  But you’re taller as well!

  Oh, that’s these, she said, lifting up one of her feet and showing me a giant platform boot.

  Goodness! I exclaimed, thinking what Tomás would say if I came home in a pair of those.

  Well, you haven’t changed a bit, she said, reaching out and flicking my hair with her hand. Still the girl with the golden hair!

  I nodded, blushing, uncertain what to say. And then, glancing at the clock in the middle of the square, I noticed that I needed to be home soon.

  I’d love to chat, I said, but I have to get going. Let me give you my telephone number and maybe you and your husband could come over for dinner sometime. Are you over for long?

  Angeline’s face changed then. The smile disappeared and she put her hand on my shoulder, as if she was stopping me from walking away.

  Thank you, Greta, she said, but I’m divorced now.

  I was mortified. Oh.

  That was all I could say, oh. Divorced! I didn’t know anyone who was divorced.

  You probably don’t believe in it, right? she said, sounding almost American.

  Well, I’m not sure…

  I didn’t want to lie, but still, I didn’t want to insult my old friend.

  It wasn’t through choice, Greta, she explained. He ran off with another woman, deserted me.

  Oh, that’s terrible.

  Yes, she said, staring straight at me, her eyes direct, her face open, the rain dripping down it as if she didn’t care how wet she got. I can’t have children and, well, he wanted a family.

  I took her hand. It was all I could do; it was wet but warmer than mine.

  Could you not have gone for adoption? I asked.

  That takes time, she sighed, and he was in a hurry. She gave a little laugh, then dropping my hand, she said, I’m sorry, how rude of me to launch into all of that.

  No, it’s fine, I asked you.

  And then, to my embarrassment, I found myself saying, Angeline, I’ve missed you so much. It was a little too dramatic, but she seemed pleased and smiled some more.

  Let’s go for a cup of tea, out of the rain, she said, linking her arm through mine. I want to hear all about your life, and your family.

  That had been it. Something pulled inside me, a part of myself so completely smothered that it made my lips dry.

  Okay, I said, knowing I didn’t have time, knowing that I had to get to the butchers and the green grocers and back before school was over, otherwise Tomás would have nothing for the tea. But all that flew out of my head, was washed away in the rain. In that very moment all I desired was to talk, and the only person I wanted to talk to was her, my smiling dark friend.

  CHRISTINA

  In the kitchen Christina turned slowly, her eyes half closed, and stopped at the window. The hours she had spent staring at the field, listening for the latch to drop, for Angeline to walk in, to come and help her…but she had never called round, not once. She seemed so distant to her now, her advice flat, without resonance. Instead there was a hum inside Christina’s head, a thought which refused to go away – what about her real mother? What about Greta?

  Christina opened her hand and looked at the old photograph curled up on her palm. The dim, vague shadow of her mother reached up, appealing to her. It was hard for her to draw the distinction between the point at which her mother ended and Angeline began.

  She looked out the window. The land was one big empty green sweep, rising and falling like the ocean. Clusters of sheep pricked the view. Spots of white, they appeared motionless, as if frozen in time and the only movement, sudden and grand, was a single black crow diving out of the clear blue sky to land on the bins.

  She shook herself, rinsed out the dirty mugs and put them away. Her hands were trembling as she locked the door and slipped the key in behind the brick on the lintel. She felt breathless already, nervous.

  She paused outside the house and a warm breeze pushed into her, lifting her shirt. Flies buzzed around her and the air tasted dry. The reed bed was cracked and broken, though the reeds had somehow still found moisture and were an alarming shade of red. She watched a tiny blue damselfly hover, then gradually drift off. She could hide here forever.

  But she wasn’t going to give up. It was no longer a matter of choice.

  The pressure of her loss was bursting out of her, something so physical and real that it could happen at the strangest moments, a sensation that she was dying, that her heart might give out.

  The first time she was just walking down the street, on the way to the video shop, when she started to cough as if there was something stuck in her throat, and then her breath came shorter and shorter. She could feel her heart pounding, her chest tightening and she started to sweat. She staggered back to her car and sat inside it, hands shaking on the steering wheel, for at least half an hour. At the time she had been terrified. But then, with everything going on, she had forgotten about it, putting it down as a one-off.

  Weeks later, right after the case, it came back. She had been in the supermarket trying to get some food for Cian for the weekend when she felt the prickle of fear inside her, like a bad taste in her mouth. It was Friday and the place was packed. She held onto the edge of the freezers, staring down at packets of peas and spinach, beans and sweetcorn, and everything merged into a sea of green. She tried to breathe in but all she could do was gasp desperately, trying to get enough air. The pain in her heart was excruciating. She thought she was having a heart attack.

  That time people had noticed. A boy packing shelves had seen her and made her sit down in the back of the shop. Someone else brought her a cup of tea. She was in a circle of pity.

  Doctor Marsh told her she was depressed. He frowned at her, and she felt like he was telling her off when he said that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her heart. He asked her if she smoked or drank a lot. Sh
e said no. Then he told her to cut down on coffee and gave her some pills – Prozac. She had been embarrassed when she had found out what was really the matter.

  She didn’t take the Prozac, because if she did it would be like before when she couldn’t feel anything, and that was worse, and that was why things had gone wrong in the first place. So she put them in her bedside locker. Still, she couldn’t stop taking them out, spilling them onto the bed and playing with them on the eiderdown, tempting herself.

  She had made pictures with them. Taking some of Cian’s paper and his art box, she had sat on the bedroom floor and methodically stuck all the pills onto the paper in little geometric patterns. Then she had painted around them in strong, bold colours, dabbed each one with a spot of glue and sprinkled glitter on them, and finally cut out strips of tin foil and stuck them around the pills. She made little pill icons.

  It was all a conspiracy, Christina had told herself. They just wanted to make sure that she stayed in line. All those colours and circles and brushstrokes had had so much energy, the pictures just kept moving in front of her eyes. They were dancing in the dusty afternoon and hypnotising her. She had sat staring at them until dark.

  GRETA

  I have a plan.

  The day after Angeline and I had tea in town, she telephoned me and invited me over to her parents’ house. She said that her mother and father were both out for the day, and it would be a chance for us to continue our conversation from the previous afternoon. I’d had to dash off to collect Christina from school in the middle of her telling me all about her life in England. It had been so fascinating.

  So I asked Tomás if he minded and he said of course not as long as I didn’t forget his dinner again. But he was smiling when he said it so I knew he didn’t really mind. I was still feeling sick but I was so excited about seeing Angeline that I managed to keep it down!

  Angeline lives the far side of Mountnugent, just off the Cavan road. It’s a long, straight bog road to her house. I like driving it because you go up and down, up and down, and it’s like being on the sea. It reminds me of when Daddy took me out on a boat in Galway, many years ago now.

  When I arrived Angeline was opening up all of the windows. Isn’t it a beautiful spring day? she called down to me as I got out of my car.

  And she was right. The birds were twittering away and I felt far too warm in my woollen coat and hat. There were dozens of snowdrops scattered all around the house and crocuses sprouting up everywhere.

  Look, she said, coming out of the front door in a splendid-looking dress, all twirls and swirls and circles of red, orange and yellow, like flames. There’s the first primrose!

  I crouched down with her and examined the tiny bud. She made me feel excited over something as little as a flower.

  Come on in. She took my hand and pulled me up. We strode into the house, arms linked, like in the old days. Now you sit here, she said, pointing to the big carver at the head of the table.

  Isn’t that your daddy’s chair? I asked.

  I don’t see his name on it! It’s just a chair, sit, sit. You need to rest in your condition.

  I was stunned. We’ve only told close family. How did you know?

  To me, it’s as plain as day, she said. The colour of you, and the way you’re moving even.

  But I’m not even showing yet.

  Well, if you notice the little things, like me, you can just tell. Now what would you like – tea, coffee or my spectacular cocoa?

  Oh, I have to try your cocoa.

  I felt awkward then that there I was, pregnant right in front of her, and she couldn’t have a child. But Angeline didn’t seem to mind and she continued what she was doing, cool as a cucumber, taking out a pot and putting it on the stove.

  This is a special recipe my mother learned from her mother and so on and so on. You know that my grandmother was half French and half Algerian?

  Goodness, how exotic!

  That’s where my name comes from. Angeline Cassar was my grandmother. She grew up in Algeria and that’s where she learned this very special chocolate drink recipe. She handed me a giant cup of steaming chocolate. Now try a slice of this.

  Sitting down opposite me she placed a honey-coloured cake in front of us. It looked plain enough, a small round circle glazed with syrup on the top.

  But oh, mother divine, for the next twenty minutes I was in heaven! I have never drunk or eaten anything quite so delicious in my entire life. The drinking chocolate was like pure melted chocolate but with something else - something sweet but not too sweet, something creamy but not sickening. The effect was pure contentment. And the cake…although she only gave me a small slice, it was enough. The sponge was dense yet soft, and slightly almondy. It melted in my mouth, instantly, so that the syrup could slide across my tongue, leaving a lovely honey taste behind.

  Oh my goodness, Angeline, you didn’t learn to cook like this at school!

  She smiled proudly. You like it?

  I don’t know which is better, the drink or the cake. I could just carry on like this all day.

  I’ve worked at my cooking, she said. It was part of our livelihood, you see.

  She continued, clearing the table as she spoke. When Jack and I moved to England, he decided that he’d like to work on one of those grand estates as a gamekeeper or something like that. He’d had plenty of experience here with the Synotts. So when we were looking for work we noticed that it would be better if I had a skill too. That’s when my mother unearthed all of Granny’s old recipe books and sent them to me. Well, Greta, I found my calling, so to speak. From the first day I picked up a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, I loved it. It became a passion. In the end we became quite a sought-after pair.

  It was then that I had an idea, that I formed this plan. I was looking at my old friend and eating her excellent food that was making me feel so well, better than I had done in weeks, and she was gazing down at the table looking sad and lonely. And I thought, We need each other. It could all be so simple.

  Surely she’d be happy of the company, to be with me and my little girl as well, rather than living on her parents’ charity?

  Surely she’d feel better having an occupation rather than being the deserted wife, all alone? And I needed a cook. It was time to face the truth – I would never be able to create things like this. I couldn’t even imagine Tomás minding, because you know what they say – the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! If I could make sure he had good food, then he would be happier with me. Wouldn’t he?

  CHRISTINA

  It was time to leave Helen’s house. Christina could hear a tractor and saw it crawling up a hillock in the field next door. She had a perfect three hundred and sixty degree view. The land rolled across from her, the fields broken up by unkempt dry-stone walls, the odd patch of bog a deeper, richer shade of green, clumps of razor-sharp grass encircling them. It felt like the West.

  She couldn’t see one other house, apart from a derelict farm two fields away. She had walked there one day, fascinated that there had been no road, not even a track to its front door. The place was deserted, but not that long empty. She had noticed light switches and a septic tank. Whoever had lived there had loved their garden. The place had been jammed with bluebells. Spread before her feet had been a carpet of blue tinged with purple and deep green stems. The aroma of the flowers had made her feel slightly light-headed. They reminded her of the woods at home.

  It had always been her favourite time of year, to go walking ankle deep in a blanket of violet, and to pick away at the bluebells but never see them diminish. When she was a little girl, Angeline would go with her. Maybe her mother had too, but Christina couldn’t remember an occasion. Angeline had a special basket – Christina called it her Little Red Riding Hood basket – and together the two of them would fill it with the limp bluebell bodies and charge home to resurrect them in legions of jam jars placed all over the house.

  May. The month of our Lady, the time Angeline called Bealt
aine. Not until Christina was in her late teens did she explain what it meant. They had been arranging the bluebells at the time, filling up the kitchen sill with their posies, when Christina asked Angeline.

  It’s a pagan festival, when May represented a month of fertility and sexual fun, she’d told her. It amuses me to think about these two extremes. There’s our Lady, divine symbol of virginity, and on the other hand there’s the May Queen, a sexy young maiden wanting to mate. In the olden days, Angeline whispered, young people would use Bealtaine as an excuse to go out into the fields and have sex. It was the time of year for it.

  Had Angeline sensed that Christina already knew about these things? Did she pick it up in her guilty glance at the floor, her reaction not to giggle but let the slow flame of red pass across her cheeks? It must have been obvious.

  Angeline had been more than a mother. She had been like a sister too. There had always been something conspiratorial about their relationship, little things they shared that Daddy didn’t know about. Angeline knew everything, too much. It was she who told her she wasn’t able to mind Johnny and Cian any more. It was she who convinced her to give them up.

  Angeline betrayed her.

  Christina got into the car, taking care to put her case in the boot first. She had to stay focused.

  Friday. It was busy in town. There were cars parked on yellow lines, delivery trucks right out in the middle of the road. She squeezed her car in next to the vegetable stall. Getting out, she tucked her chin to her chest, kept her head down and tried not to look about her. The last thing she needed was to meet somebody now. She ran across the road to the chemist, only to discover it was closed for lunch. She glanced at her watch.

  ‘Christina!’

  She ignored the voice, and instead of turning around, walked briskly into Kraft Kaffee.

  The place was packed, with just one free table in the corner. She walked over and slid in. She was hot now. She knew her cheeks were red, and it wasn’t just because of the heat outside. Her sense of shame felt like a brand.