Lily Poole

by Jack O'Donnell

  Mary had decided the night before how she was going to pass the morning cutting out history. She scraped together their family photographs. The colour, the black-and-white and the sepia were sealed like spaghetti in a Scotty biscuit tin with an embossed picture of a white terrier with tartan cladding round the edges. A pair of silver shearing scissors glinted against the mirror and lay on top of the tin. She squeezed past the coffin and picked up the scissors and the tin. The photos tilted and slid, shuffling and running together.

  Opening the tin, she picked and brought order to the smilers, then those that shied away from the camera. She lopped her head and body off any picture she was in. Then she cut Joey out too. Her children were left orphans in the frame, which she could not bear. After the first few cuts it was easier. An arm, a leg, a face, another arm, they all fell together, like ash into the coffin.

  The front door clattered. She was heartsick of visitors, and wanted the problems they brought and everything to do with funerals and mourning over and done with. She reached into the pocket of her floral-patterned pinny and, sighing, lit a fag to give her strength as she went to answer the door.

  A woman, shifting from one foot then the other, stood on the front step. A raddled fox-fur hat sloped over her forehead and down to her nose so she had to tilt her neck to make eye contact with Mary. A smudge of dull lipstick peeked out and curved into a line that might have been a smile. Her coat was the same furry material as the hat, but thicker, more substantial. She looked like a Yeti.

  ‘I’m Maeve, I’ve heard so much about you.’ Her accent was definitely north of Hollywood, and she shot out a black-leather-gloved hand. Mary loosely gripped three fingers and gave them a perfunctory shake. She looked over her shoulder for some clue as to who she was.

  A taxi was parked on the road, the engine ticking, and a man backed slowly out of a side door carrying two suitcases the size of small pit-ponies. She recognised her brother. His hair was a monk’s crown and he wore a long, tan leather coat which seemed feminine and far too young for him. The taxi rattled off the kerb and drove up the road. He caught her looking at him and held a hand up in a wave. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he shouted, in a transatlantic accent that would have failed to be authentic on any continent Mary knew. He picked up the suitcases, took a step, and put them down again. ‘It’s my arthritis,’ he drawled.

  Maeve stepped inside and stood behind Mary in the hall, peering over the top of her shoulder as Morris hirpled round the path, picking the bags up and putting them down again, looking up at the door, drowning in martyrdom, but keeping his head up. St Stephen’s school bell peeled in the air, a clear sound signalling the fifteen minutes of morning playtime. Mary could take no more. Playtime would be finished by the time he had the bags in the house. She bounded down the stairs onto the path and lifted a suitcase. His face was a road map of threaded veins and watery red eyes. On his last legs, she thought, just as quickly correcting herself and believing the opposite; he would probably outlive the rest of the family. When he made no objection she lifted the other case as well.

  ‘It’s my arthritis.’ His brave smile was on display with a full panoply of plastic teeth.

  ‘What in the hell have you got in here?’ She tried to sound unruffled as she lugged the bags into the house, but disapproval showed on her face.

  ‘Just a few wee things.’ His transatlantic accent dis­appeared as quickly as the petrol fumes of the cab. He caught up with her, gawped up and down the hall as if newly slaughtered moose heads and ancient family portraits were hung on display, not whitewashed wallpaper and a chipped, gold-plated model of Dürer’s Praying Hands. ‘It’s a grand house you’ve got here.’ He sighed and, like a man changing hats, adopted a more sober tone. ‘It was so hard to hear about poor Joseph.’

  He patted Mary on the arm, in consolation or commiseration she was not quite sure. She imagined word of Joey’s death blowing over the Atlantic, drifting over Africa, settling like dust in North America and Canada. The house smelled of the outside from his long coat, fresh as a squall of rain and she felt guilty, because his fingers were bent back and stuck together like sardines.

  ‘Small,’ Maeve remarked, to nobody in particular. She unbuttoned her coat with one hand and grasped her hat in the other. Her bobbed hair was like a blue-black hairnet draped over a full-moon face.

  ‘Can I take your coats?’ Mary remembered her manners and stuck her arm out.

  She guessed Maeve had dressed for comfort on the flight over. A white swirl-about blouse of lace curtain material that covered her cleavage appeared along with navy blue elasticated slacks, distended by a pygmy hippo’s buttocks. The coat she dropped into her waiting hands was warm to the touch, like road kill.

  ‘Where were you thinking about staying?’ Mary asked, making conversation as Morris huffed and puffed out of his coat. He wore a grey pinstripe suit, frayed at the cuffs, but still above reproach.

  ‘We’ve not really thought about it yet, May.’ His watery eyes looked towards Maeve. ‘We just came straightaway when we heard.’

  The memory of being called May by him when she was wee brought a lump to her throat. She opened the cupboard door next to the bathroom, using the frame as a hanger for both coats. ‘I suppose you could stay in The Boulevard. It’s not far. A couple of quid a night.’

  Morris spluttered, ‘We’re not made of money.’

  Maeve cut in, her accent see-sawing through what he said and smoothing things out. ‘We’ve not changed our money yet, we’ve only got Canadian dollars.’

  Mary dipped into her pocket for her fags and lighter. Took her time to light up. ‘How did you pay for the taxi then?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Morris clawed at the back of his neck, flakes of skin falling like bits inside a snow globe. ‘I gave him ten dollars. That’s a lot of money, you know.’ His chest swelled as he waited for her to challenge him, then he scratched at his chin and seemed to deflate, adopting an ingratiating tone. ‘We came straight here. We’ve not had time to stop off for the necessities yet.’ He eyed the cigarette stuck to her lower lip.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Mary flapped as she pulled out her packet of twenty Regal, handing them to him with her lighter. ‘Do you want one, Maeve?’ She waved the cigarette she was smoking about, to show what she meant.

  ‘I don’t really smoke,’ she said, but when Morris handed her a cigarette out of the packet she bent forward so quickly to receive it her top set of falsers fell out. She popped them back in as if it had happened to someone else and she had simply caught them. Mary had visions of Johnny Morris in Animal Magic talking to a camel, and the camel chewing out an answer. Maeve breathed out smoke and smiled unconvincingly.

  Mary took them into the kitchen to make tea. Their bags were left at the front door. Everything was fine or hunky-dory in Montreal, or wherever it was they were from. Mary did not have to say much more, just nod and pass over the packet of cigarettes she had stashed in a kitchen drawer for emergencies. They kept gabbing, conversation strung between them like a kite. The feeling of being alone was washed away, consumed by company that never shut up talking about themselves.

  She tried to get away. One or both of them dominated the spaces in front or behind her, backed her against the wall, jammed her thin body against the window and the sink. She fiddled with the lace curtains in the bathroom to let in more light, even though they were fine. Folded the towels again and again. She washed the coal tar soap after she used it and washed it again because it was too soapy. She smoothed out brown paper bags in the kitchen to reuse later and smiled, glassy-eyed, at Maeve as she did it. The washing machine was dragged out and clattered and spun; the perfume of beeswax insulated her from an overdose of conversation in the living room; the nasal-damaging, bottle-brush of Co-op bleach kept her head down the toilet pan; the neck of dishrags were wrung in savage swishes and chamois cloth squealed on anything vaguely wooden. Work rippled out from Mary. But the sound of flapping feet behind her chased Mary round the kitchen, living room and bed
rooms.

  She stuck on a headscarf and a camel coat and went outside to the front green, holding the neck of the coat shut against the driving wind and rain. She picked the snowdrop from under the hedge and brought it inside to stick in a milk bottle. Mary thought about swapping places with Joey in the coffin to get some peace, but when she glanced out of their bedroom window at the back green for something else to do, she noticed how dark it was getting. Bolting through to the living room, where the couple had taken up residence with the two bars of the fire and the afternoon telly on, she peered at the Westclox on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Is that the time?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Morris in a cheery tone.

  Maeve checked her watch. ‘Well, we’re five or six hours behind in Montreal so I’d guess that’s roundabout right. You lost something?’

  ‘Ally didn’t come in for her lunch.’

  ‘Oh, you know kids.’ Morris shook his head and squeezed his lips together in a way that suggested if anybody knew kids, he did.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Maeve, ‘when I went to school we had to walk five miles there and five miles back. If we were lucky we had a piece of day-old pie.’

  The sound of the front door opening and shutting gave Morris a chance to practise his I-told-you-so look.

  Auntie Caroline came into the living room and shook water off her plastic rain hat. Her gaze shifted from Morris, to Maeve, to Mary. Mary’s features sloped into an unsung wail. ‘What’s the matter?’ Auntie Caroline asked.

  ‘Ally’s not come in for lunch.’ A whimper escaped from Mary and she found herself enfolded in her eldest sister’s arms. ‘She always comes home for lunch. Always.’

  ‘I think—’ said Morris, but he got no further.

  Auntie Caroline glared at him, spat out what she thought. ‘You’re not entitled to an opinion. You’re en­­titled to shut up.’ She gave Maeve a warning look and shushed Mary until she had gathered herself. ‘Did you have an argument with the wee wan this morning?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Mary, ‘well, nothing that would have made her stay away.’

  ‘And has she missed coming home for lunch before?’

  Mary angled her head to think about it. ‘Once or twice, when she gets caught up with things.’ She smiled and moved towards the window, peering out as rain dimpled the pavements. ‘You know what they’re like at that age.’

  Auntie Caroline gawked at the clock. ‘Another hour before the schools are out. Best wait and see, eh? Best wait and see.’

  Mary’s eyes were a new world of sadness. Without blinking she studied the whorls of the carpet, the whirls of orange and red, as though she could read her own face in them.

  ‘I’ll get you some Andrew’s Liver Salts,’ said Auntie Caroline, ‘that’ll do you the world of good,’ but she remained gridlocked. The telly brought the drama and noise of other lives into the living room.

  ‘I’ll make dinner,’ said Mary.

  ‘No. No. I’ll get it. You’re too—’ Auntie Caroline searched Morris’s and Maeve’s faces for help with the right word.

  Mary brushed past her, barely registering her presence or what she had said. ‘I’ll make chips. That’s Ally’s favourite. She loves chips.’ She coughed, searching her pockets for her fags, slippers dragging like tombstones into the kitchen.

  She peeled spuds like a machine, peelings corkscrewing into the sink, as she gazed out of the window, searching for some sign of Ally. Outside, it grew darker, turning windows into imperfect mirrors. Her own eyes and wan face stared back at her, condensation running like tears down the pane. Reaching blindly under the small sink for the chip pan, she grunted with effort; it was a heavy pot with a heavy lid, kept on top of an old Daily Record to keep the shelf under the U-bend from becoming sticky. She swung it up and over in a half-­circle to the cooker. It was half-filled with animal fat, a solid of white lard dotted with the dandruff of brown crispy fries which floated to the surface when she turned on the ring. Droplets hung in the air, its perfume clinging to her drab clothes. She waited until the fat was hot enough to blush her cheeks before dunking in the sliced and diced corpses of potatoes. The air in the kitchen was heavy with the smell of cooking.

  The front door cracked open, thudding shut again.

  ‘Mum!’ Jo shouted.

  For a moment Mary held onto hope, then, recognising Jo’s voice, her face sank and fell, her lips stuck together in a flat line of forced cheerfulness.

  Jo banged into the living room, a breeze of adolescent indifference. She traded a prim smile with Auntie Caroline, standing with her back to the fire. Jo scrutinised the two adults sitting in the best seats and they looked back at her. Pencil-thin straps from the mock-leather school satchel slipped from her shoulder, leaving empty homework books at the door, and she traipsed through to the kitchen.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jo asked her mum.

  Mary shoogled the chips inside the metal basket. ‘Nothing’s the matter, hen.’ She reached for the fag on the windowsill, sucking in smoke, the glowing tip burning down. ‘It’s just your wee sister isn’t in from school yet.’

  Jo brought her breathing under control; her tone was upbeat when she spoke. ‘She could be anywhere, at Ann’s or Pauline’s. There’s hundreds of places she could be.’

  ‘Aye, hen, you’re probably right.’ Mary lifted the basket of chips out of the fryer, letting the emulsified fat drop back into the pot. ‘You want chips for your dinner?’

  ‘What are we having with it?’ Jo asked.

  The question caught Mary unaware. She stiffened with the basket of chips in her hand, her face flushed, the whites of her eyes congealed like a duck egg and her irises flickering. ‘It’s just, she never came in for her lunch.’

  Auntie Caroline stole into the kitchen, squeezing past Jo, taking the pannier out of Mary’s hands, moving the chip pan to another ring, turning the cooker off and balancing the cooling chips on top of the upturned pot lid. ‘I think it’s time we phoned the police.’

  There was a breathy silence. ‘No. That’ll be too much bother.’ Mary took a last drag from the fag. ‘Jo will go out and find her. Won’t you?’ She waved her hand towards her eldest lass.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ was all Jo could manage. Tears spilled down her daughter’s cheeks and a white clenched fist was pressed against her lips. ‘What about all those other wee girls?’

  ‘I’m going to get Morris to phone the police.’ Auntie Caroline stood straight as a totem pole, and stomped into the living room.

  Morris looked up at Auntie Caroline. He had heard what was said but made no move to get up from his seat. ‘Is it no’ a bit early for that kind of fuss? I’m sure she’ll turn up.’ He glanced over at Maeve.

  ‘You goin’ to phone them or no’?’ Auntie Caroline loomed above him.

  ‘It’s funny, but we left a few things unfinished in Montreal.’ Maeve picked and plucked at her pearl-drop earring.

  Auntie Caroline turned to face her. ‘For God’s sake. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Och, I’m sure the wee lassie will turn up,’ Morris groaned, using the cushioned armrest of the chair to lever himself up. He stood beside his big sister, a crumpled paper bag version of her. ‘We’d rather not involve the police.’ Jo slouched against the door jamb, listening. He shrugged, repeating himself, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’ll phone,’ said Jo.

  ‘You do that, hen.’ Auntie Caroline nodded at her as a sign of encouragement. ‘You know what to say and what to do? Just dial 999 and tell them you want the police. Tell them your sister’s missing. Tell them to come as soon as possible.’ She glowered, head turning one way then the other, as she searched for her bag and purse she had left lying on the couch. ‘You’ll need a two pence for the phone. Where’s my bag?’

  ‘You don’t need money for 999 calls.’ Jo shot out the living room and the front door clicked open and banged shut behind her.

  Maeve exchanged a glance with Morris and s
himmied up out of the chair, toasting her hands on the two-bar electric fire. ‘It’s so cold here. We’ll just be going, better book ourselves into a hotel with a nice hot tub.’

  ‘We’ll just get our bags and be ofty-pofty.’ Morris patted his sister on the arm. ‘We’ve got problems with our passports. You know what they’re like. You won’t mention to the police we’ve been here?’

  She scraped his swollen fingers from her arm. ‘Scram.’

  Maeve smiled at Auntie Caroline in passing, ignoring her withering look, as if she had been offered the keys to the house as keepsakes. Morris paused at the kitchen door, peered in at Mary and offered her some advice. ‘Sometimes you have such a run of bad luck, hen, you think that nothing good will happen again, but you know it does. It does.’

  She made no movement to show that she had heard, muttering to herself, ‘I’ve killed them. Killed them. If I hadn’t cut their photos up. I’ve killed them. Killed them.’

  Day 50

  Janine breezed into John’s room, her sheer nightie wrapped round her body like a spider’s web with breasts. It remained dark outside Although she had not slept, she was wired with nocturnal energy and had to tell him the good news. Standing ghoulishly beside his bed, she chuckled at the fuzz of his hair and his agreeable face. She leaned over and nipped his nostrils shut with her thumb and forefinger to stop him snoring. He made rude choking noises from the back of his throat before he opened his eyes.

  ‘Whit?’ His jaw tightened and his head burrowed into the pillow to get away from her nipping fingers.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve just heard?’ She pulled the blankets back and slipped into bed beside him. He grunted and turned his back on her, his bum poking against her shaved legs, but her tone remained light. ‘They’ve moved Jocky. He’s working in Morrison Ward now.’