The Translation of the Bones

by Francesca Kay

  Oh God. He was so beautiful, that boy. Beautiful. And already married. By the age of eighteen he was a married man, by the age of nineteen the father of a . . . Ah stop. What was he to do about it? He had simply been there when she went back to the old place for the last time that last summer, a boy she’d known, friends with her big brother, they had all walked to school together over the flaggy places, all the children of the strand. Their bare feet in the summer sinking into warm bog water, meadowsweet and clover. He was there when she came back but only as the stunted trees were there, and the sheepfolds or the heaps of stone. A part of the surroundings, not to be remarked on, that boy who had always been there, until one night he looked at her and suddenly she’d seen him and his eyes as gray as winter sea.

  There’d been others since, Lord knows, and not for love but money, most of those. Can there be a more unpleasing smell than dirty money? Their fingers stank of grubby tenners and fistfuls of dull copper; the same reek on their trousers, their flies all stained and greasy. Tongues thick with smoke and lies. She’d do what she had to, except she would not kiss them. Suck it, bitch. The stink of public toilets, stale clothes, like the stink of jumble sales, and she’d known those too, God knows.

  Fidelma closed her eyes. All those long and weary years. And the times of freshness so far away and few. His scent of cold salt water. Peat smoke in his hair and on his clothes, not the city smoke of pubs and coal and desperation. Her face against his shoulder, the thick wool he was wearing, she breathed in peat smoke and salt water. The taste of his mouth as clean as grass, so sweet his kissing, and his mouth on hers and signals sent through every vein and every nerve. Both bodies craving, meeting, crying, shaking like two birds tumbled in a storm after the great joy they had shared. The way he gasped, a breath indrawn, a sob almost, the way he closed his eyes.

  What happened to him in the end? She would never know. The summer she was there by the seashore with him was the last summer, and the first since she’d been sent away, with Bridget, Maeve and Mary, to the city. Their mother had struggled on awhile, with the younger children: Deirdre, Siobhan and baby Ronan. For the first few years she made the journey to the city every six months or so to see her elder daughters; later she could not afford it. By then Siobhan had joined the others and Deirdre gone to an aunt in Sligo; that last summer there was only Ronan left. Seven years old, he was, that summer. And, all of a sudden, without a word of warning, Mammy took up with a fellow visiting from Toronto, and went back with him when his visit ended, taking Ronan. Promises there were, of course, of airfares and of money, but they never came. And besides, by that time, Fidelma was a mother herself, or about to be.

  She must have asked herself a thousand times if she had made the right choice then. And a thousand times supplied the answer. That there was no choice. The boy with the wintry eyes was spoken for already. The Sisters of Unmercy, in their winged veils like crows, would have swooped on the newborn baby as if she were fresh carrion if Fidelma had not shooed them all away. Why had she not handed them the child? God knows. Because the child had not chosen to be born, perhaps? Because of the pleasure in her making? Because there had been love as well as winter in the boy’s gray eyes. Because the mite was small and so defenseless and there had been no one else in like need of Fidelma.

  And afterward, what then? A ferry into furtive exile. Jumble sales and council offices and tricks in the backs of cars for cash. And the fisher-boy, perhaps the father of a brood, thinking from time to time of his lost daughter. When he was out there, on his own, on the lonely sea. Cold rain on his skin and his small boat pitching; like all fishermen he had never learned to swim.

  But would he think; would he remember? Would he taste Fidelma’s kisses in the rain? She had been beautiful herself then; lithe and slender as the fish he hunted, skin as white as buttermilk and soft as flower petals. And look what she was now. A mountain of loose flesh, a huge great wobbling heap of blubber, something seen on a butcher’s slab in nightmares, quivering and overflowing, fold on fold and layer on layer; the girl she once was now encased in fat, imprisoned and so deeply changed that she might never have been. Flesh that smelled of mold and grease, not meadowsweet and grass. Breasts like the swollen udders of abandoned cows, spread-nippled, thick-veined, bulging.

  Yet this monstrous blooming did not mean that hunger had been sated. No, not at all. Hidden in the caverns of the hulk there was that place still yearning, and the terror, and the knowledge that it would never now be filled. No mouth would ever kiss Fidelma’s, no man encircled by her eager body cry with pleasure when he came. The only loving she would know again was lovemaking in dreams. And she did feel love in dreams. So intense the feelings, and so real, that the climax washed her up onto the stony shores of wakefulness and left her weeping for lost pleasure and for helplessness, for sadness that it had only been a dream.

  On Wednesday evening Kiti Mendoza’s Auntie Rita had already started cooking for the picnic. She was planning leche flan and coconut cake, adobo, dumplings to be eaten cold, skewers of fried chicken. Would it be possible to roast a suckling pig on one of those baby barbecues? Lumpia were good party food, but could they be reheated? She was looking forward to the day. Whatever about that crucifix—and the truth was she couldn’t care less about it one way or another—it was a good reason for a party. And Rita could do with one. A thankless and a tiring life she had, cleaning rooms in a hotel, hoarding the pennies she made to send back home. This distraction was very welcome, this excuse to gather friends together from their scattered community, to cook properly for a change, to share real food. Today she had tasted the promise of summer in the air, the long winter was over at last and she was pleased.

  Felix Morrison spiraled in and out of sleep like a sycamore seed caught in a gust of wind. He hovered between sleep and wakefulness as he hovered on the threshold between holiday and term time. He had been counting the days and they had gone so slowly. Tomorrow he would be home. But only twenty-one days later, he would be back at school. In a moment of clarity, in the dead hours of that Wednesday night, Felix saw the years stretching ahead of him like an endless seesaw on which he would never find his balance. He would spend his whole life tossed between looking forward in excitement and looking forward in plain dread.

  Was he quite alone, a minute ant in a giant universe, with this sicky feeling? Or did all the other boys now snuffling and sighing in their beds beside him share it too? How would he ever know? Unimaginable it was to strut up to, for instance, Pommeridge, who was the dormitory head, and say: now tell me, Pommeridge, do you live in the present? Or are you always straining for the future?

  Could he ask his mother? Tell me how to live today? Just possibly, yes, he could but there might be a danger then that she would ask him why he was afraid. And that would not be good. He did not want to make her sad with that. Ever since he was a little boy, Felix had tried to shield his mother from upset. Which was why he never told her how he cried at night in school. Although, actually, he was quite sure she felt the same for him. Quite probably she cried at night as well, but she would never say so. They were brave for one another, that’s just how it was; the way the world worked, maybe, or maybe it was something else.

  Maundy Thursday. Father Diamond woke with a sick feeling, as if some sour thing were squatting in his guts. He knew immediately what day it was. Maundy Thursday. The syllables tolled like a death knell. Holy Thursday was the correct new term, but Father Diamond still thought of the day as Maundy. Because he was on his own he was excused some of the customary duties of a parish priest. But there was still so much to do. What for? For an empty church with the altars stripped, for darkness and for nothing.

  Mrs. Armitage got out of bed with a glad heart. These mornings of bright daylight were still surprise enough to be a wonderful new present, the possession of which gave pleasure every time you thought about it. Opening the window, she sensed the air had changed. After a long winter, spring could be a ditherer, putting one foot forward and the
n withdrawing it, like a shy child unsure whether to join in with the game. Even when fine, the days of March and early April could hold a taint of winter but today the light was clear. In her tidy garden, forsythia in full bloom was sunshine captured and distilled and the birds were singing as if their little lungs would burst. Honestly, she thought, this is more than just a change of season; it is the whole world breathing a great sigh of relief. Winter has at last let go, Lent is almost over, it will soon be Easter Sunday, Fraser is coming home.

  The most delicious smell in the world—fresh toast—was wafting in through the bedroom window from the kitchen below. Larry was up already, making breakfast. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday: five whole days unbroken by work, holidays, holy days, with Larry. On Easter Sunday Stewart and his girlfriend would come over; Mrs. Armitage would buy the lamb today. A leg was the traditional thing but she always said you got more value from a shoulder. Better texture, better taste. She had the eggs already. Larry would have bought one for her and hidden it behind his shirts in his side of the cupboard. They always gave up sweets and chocolate for Lent, and things with added sugar, and although neither she nor Larry really had that much of a sweet tooth to be honest, it was nice to look forward to the Easter eggs. She would keep one by for Fraser.

  She had a lot to do today. The shopping for the holiday weekend, as she absolutely didn’t hold with doing it on Good Friday, even though, apparently, the shops would all be open. She’d pop in to see Mr. Kalinowski and poor Phelim; Antoinette, if she had time. She must make sure that Father D had not forgotten Joan, who would want Communion. And she needed to be sure the house was sparkling clean. It’s an animal instinct, she said to herself, to sweep out the burrow in spring. Larry, bless him, would do the windows, if she asked him. This new gift of daylight didn’t half show up flyspecks, smears and fingerprints on glass! An image of the soul in the sight of heaven? You’re quite the poet in your old age, she told herself and laughed. But first she had the church to do. Although she cleaned it every Thursday, this Thursday was special. Come to think of it, with a small detour, she could go there via the baker’s. Pick up some hot cross buns for Father Diamond to eat tomorrow. Father Diamond was shrinking before her eyes, becoming paler and thinner by the week, and he hadn’t enough to lose in the beginning. That sharp-faced housekeeper of his evidently didn’t feed him. Probably she didn’t make the effort when he was on his own; she favored Father O’Connor.

  Azin Qureshi woke to the first squawk of his alarm clock and hit the off switch hard before the noise irrevocably disturbed his wife. She had the day off but he was working as usual and was then on call for the whole weekend. Not that it mattered—his family had no particular plans in any case and would probably do what they always did at weekends: watch television, go shopping, go to football practice. His sons would have their friends round and the house would fill with the sound of small boys playing on Nintendos. Jenny claimed her Saturdays as time all to herself; after a hectic working week she certainly deserved a few hours off, a pedicure, her dance class, coffee with a girlfriend. She’d asked people round to supper, Azin now remembered, but as she had recently discovered a service that delivered food to your house all ready to heat up, she wouldn’t have to worry about cooking. The food was good but not so slick that you couldn’t pretend it was homemade.

  When he was a child, bank-holiday weekends had seemed very long and very quiet. Azin could recall a time when shops were shut for days on end, as well as every Sunday. Now, he thought, it was left to a few fanatics in the Scottish Highlands to protest that Sundays should be special. Sabbatarians? Or were those Orthodox Jews? Muslims made it easier—or harder—for themselves by making every day a day of prayer. Fridays, though, had particular significance, now he came to think about it. Good Friday. Azin had forgotten how it got its name. He made a mental note to look it up; it was the sort of thing he should be able to tell his sons.

  Meanwhile there was today to deal with. A meeting with the Mental Health Trust, the review of an American psychiatrist’s book on depressive illness that he had promised to the TLS last week, his notes for a talk at a conference in May, his clinic at the hospital in the afternoon. Patient after patient, the sad, the lonely and the old, those bare forked beings bent beneath the weight of disappointment, disillusion, hopelessness and loss. Azin closed his eyes for a moment and saw them in procession, today’s and yesterday’s and those who were still to come, straggling in a long line through the years, like pilgrims winding round steep mountain paths, except that they had no common goal. What was it that they would count as cure? Relief from the pain of being human and alone—and no psychiatrist in the world could offer that.

  Azin got out of bed. Jenny, with her back to him, on the other side, was lying so still that he knew she was awake and waiting until he left the room. Then she’d burrow deeper into the tangle of bedclothes and keep the day at bay a little longer. She was not one for conversation first thing in the morning. Azin glanced at her bright blond head a little wistfully. It would be nice if she turned over, opened her eyes, and smiled, and stretched her arms up to him; if she would draw him into her warm softness, welcome him inside her without need for words. But she did not move, and he put on his dressing gown and went downstairs to make breakfast for the boys.

  Mary-Margaret told her mother at breakfast that she had champagne in her veins instead of blood. Fidelma laughed. They were eating eggy-bread and bacon. Have you ever had champagne? she asked. Mary-Margaret had not, but she knew that it was fizzy. She was simply trying to give her mother a sense of her excitement; she should have saved her breath. But Fidelma’s scorn only temporarily tamped down the rising joy. She felt it surge and bubble, her heart was beating fast, her head was light and full of air. Shall I get Father Diamond to bring the Sacrament to you? she asked her mother. Get away, Fidelma said.

  After breakfast Mary-Margaret collected her kit together: duster, an awl for scraping out the candle wax, a J-cloth, Pledge. I’m going to do the church, she told Fidelma. Then I’ll do the shopping. Is there anything you want me to get? Not that it’s the end of the world if I forget stuff. The corner shop is open all the time. Mentally she made a note to stock up for Fidelma. She didn’t expect to be around much after this weekend. There’d be interviews and television, apart from anything else. But she’d have to take care of her mother, come what may. She is my cross, she thought. Fidelma reminded her that they had run out of margarine.

  On her way down Falcon Road to church Mary-Margaret made plans. The right dress, for a start. How was she meant to be the bride of Christ in Oxfam jeans? She’d have a look on her way back, after the church, before it was time for Shamso.

  Felix Morrison, in the front seat of his mother’s car on his way home to London, was lapped in warmth and safety. His trunk was in the boot and the old ice-cream container he had scrounged from the school kitchen for his minibeasts was securely wedged in with it. There’s a boy in my year who lives in Scotland, he said to his mother. And he has another name for wood lice. Slaters. Don’t you think that’s funny? Two names for the exact same thing in the same language? I mean it’s not like he’s speaking Scottish!

  There are alternative words for lots of things, Stella said, distractedly. She did not much like to talk when she was driving. Local words, or old ones, especially for animals and plants. Think of brock and badger. Emmet and ant. Stinking iris or roast-beef plant.

  Stinking iris! I’ve never heard of those. That would be a cool name for a band. I suppose, two words for one thing, that’s all right for flowers and stuff because you can actually see them, you can show the other person what you are talking about even if you don’t know the word. Like you could if they were German. But when there are two words for a thing that can’t be seen, that’s a bit confusing, don’t you think?

  It can be, Stella agreed. But mostly those words which seem to be almost the same have different shades of meaning. Like adore and love.

  Felix glanced at hi
s mother’s profile. Adore and love. Trust and faith. I’ve never heard anyone call an ant an emmet, he said. Or a badger, brock. They only say that sort of thing in books.

  Thursday evening, almost six o’clock. For the past hour Father Diamond had been hearing confessions. Before that he had prepared the church for a solemn mass and made ready the place of reposition in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. He had already mustered as many male parishioners as he could for the foot washing.

  The faithful were arriving. After the purples and tallows of Lent, the whiteness of the vestments, the altar hangings and the candles pierced the eyes with the sharpness of light at the end of a long journey through a tunnel. Father Diamond had covered the crucifix on the altar with a white cloth but left the other crosses and the statues in their purple. Behind the altar the tabernacle was empty, open and unveiled, shocking as an accident, the space revealed within it a space that should never be seen.

  Glory be to Jesus,

  Who in bitter pains

  Poured for me the lifeblood

  From his sacred veins!

  the congregation sang. We are gathered here to share in the supper, Father Diamond said in the opening prayer. He put his hands flat on the altar for a moment, to steady himself, to derive some strength from the stone beneath the linen cloth. Comforter, where is thy comforting? Miss Daly stepped up to the lectern for the readings. In her voice was the confidence earned from years of addressing schoolgirls in assembly and understanding the word of the Lord. “It must be an animal without blemish,” she read, “a male one-year-old. . . . That night I will go through the land of Egypt and strike down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, man and beast alike, and I shall deal out punishment to all the gods of Egypt. I am the Lord.”