by Bill Walsh
No, Rita.
A pretty girl like you? The boys must be queuing up.
What she’s up to? Why doesn’t she just come out and say it? Get it over with. I watch her out of the corner of my eye when she leans forward to turn on the television.
Do you like Kojak, Matilda?
When the nuns let us stay up late, I do.
That Telly Savalas is just gorgeous. Isn’t he?
He’s bald, Rita.
But he’s so, so manly. You needn’t be shy with me, Matilda.
I’d wonder what way is this for someone who was almost a nun to talk but I know she’s building up to tell me what she really wants me here for. I can feel it coming. It’s in her voice. She moves in the seat and it’s like she’s winding herself up and I feel my hands grip the arms of the chair. I close my eyes and wait for it but she says nothing and, when I open them again, there she is relaxed on the sofa watching Kojak.
Is that it? She hardly asked me here to find out about boyfriends. Maybe my grandmother put her up to it. Especially after all the trouble there was with Mona.
I finish the crisps and the can of orange and Rita hands me more. I say, No, thank you, but she presses them on me.
Thank you, Rita.
You should call more often, Matilda. I don’t see much of you these days unless it’s tearing through Grace’s supermarket like an Olympic sprinter. You spend quite a bit of time there.
Not really, Rita. I… I, I’m not let out much.
Doesn’t seem like that, Matilda. And now that you’ve brought it up…
Who, me? I didn’t bring anything up.
The point is we need to discuss the matter. It’s been bothering me a long time and now seems as good a time as any to get it out in the open. Woman to woman, so to speak.
There’s a lump in my throat the size of Kojak’s lollipop and I feel the crisps jar in my stomach. I’m ready to admit everything when she leans so close to me I can smell her lipstick.
I know what’s been going on, Matilda. It’s very wrong and your grandmother would be very upset if she knew. She worries a great deal, and if she finds out…
I start bawling, for real.
I didn’t mean it, Rita. Honest I didn’t. I was made to do it.
I jump up ready to run for the door but she tells me to sit down. This must be sorted out before Philip comes home. He’s up in your grandmother’s. Your grandfather is ill. They don’t expect him to last out Christmas. That’s why I wanted to see you on your own, Matilda. We don’t want to upset your grandmother, she has enough on her plate.
But… I…
Rita leans closer and puts her hand on my shoulder.
I know you’ve been stealing, Matilda. It’s wrong and, if you get caught, I could lose my job.
What?
Stealing, Matilda.
Stealing! She’s worried I get caught and she loses her job. I’m so weak with relief I don’t care what she says now. I tell her, I’m sorry, Rita. I won’t do it again.
I know it’s not you, Matilda. You’re far too nice. You’re just mixing with the wrong company in that convent and I know very well they made you do it.
You do?
Of course I do. You must try to find other friends. It’s not easy but you must make the effort. Think of your future.
It’s no use telling Rita the convent kids are my family. It’s easier to agree and go home.
I will, Rita. Thanks for telling me.
Good girl, Matilda. I’m glad we got that out of the way. Aren’t you?
I am, Rita, thanks.
Now, would you like tea and toast before bed?
No thanks, Rita. I can’t stay. I have a race in the morning.
No, no, you’re staying for the weekend.
What?
Philip arranged it with Sister Gabriel.
No one told me, Rita.
Philip wanted to surprise you. I’ll be working in the morning but Philip will be here. He’ll be delighted to see you.
But I can’t. I… I… I have a race. Gabriel should have known. It’s important.
Rita stands up to go to the kitchen. She straightens the front of her dress and buttons her wool cardigan.
Of course you can stay, Matilda. I won’t hear another word. We can sort something out with the race. Perhaps Philip will bring you. You look pale, Matilda. Are you ill?
I am, Rita. I think I have the flu. I better go home to bed.
Let me have a look at you. Oh, you’re flushed and trembling all over. That’s very strange. I don’t think you’ll be racing tomorrow. I’m sorry, but you’re staying here.
She unscrews the blue veil from Our Lady of Lourdes on the mantelpiece, makes the sign of the cross on my forehead with the holy water and tells me to sit back in that chair. I’ll make you a nice warm cup of tea.
It’d be better if I went home, Rita. If I have the flu, you’d get it.
It’s too late to worry about it now, Matilda. Philip has the car and I wouldn’t have Sister Gabriel ringing me to say I let you out on a bad night like this, and you as weak as a puppy. You’re staying here and that’s the end of it.
I’m in bed with the light on, a big soft feather bed with brass knobs that belonged to Rita’s dead mother. There she is staring at me from the wall with her black eyes accusing me. An old woman in a shawl sitting in a wooden rocking chair on Ballybricken in olden days, when men smoked little white pipes and the children had no shoes.
I pull the quilt over my head when I hear the front door open and close. I know it’s Philip. I know the quiet way he has with doors. I hear the sitting-room door open and close and Philip and Rita’s voices drifting through the floorboards.
What do I do? Do I turn the light out and pretend to be asleep? No, that never bothered him and I don’t want to be alone with him in the dark. I’ll lie here until I hear them go to bed. He won’t bother me with Rita here.
I hear the footsteps climbing the stairs and I know they’re Philip’s. I’ve heard those footsteps so many times on my grandmother’s stairs when we’ve stayed for holidays and weekends. He stops outside the door and I think about jumping out the window or hiding under the bed. I don’t have time to do anything. He taps on the bedroom door, then walks in and smiles at me when he sees I’m still awake and I know he thinks I was waiting for him. I feel so stupid.
Philip stays by the door and checks out on to the landing to see if Rita is following. He’s wearing a grey suit and red tie. His hair combed back and his face blue from the glare of the lampshade. His shiny black shoes squeak when he moves to the side of the bed.
I told Rita I was coming up to say goodnight and to talk to you again about the stealing. What she doesn’t know, won’t trouble her.
He sits at the side of the bed and puts his arm around me and there’s a strange scent of perfume that isn’t Rita’s. I look straight ahead at the picture on the wall of Rita’s dead mother and I don’t know if it’s her watching me, or Philip himself making my stomach retch. I watch Philip out of the corner of my eye and, as he opens his belt buckle, my whole body stiffens. Maybe if he sees how scared I am he’ll let me alone. Maybe with Rita downstairs he won’t go too far. Maybe I should know better. He takes my hand in his, rubbing it.
Do you know how pretty you are, Matilda? Do you know how I feel about you? I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it. Believe me, I’ve tried. I just can’t help myself.
His hands are large and soft and I pull my hand away but he tells me, It’s all right, Matilda. Don’t be nervous.
I sit up in the bed trying to look like I got a fright.
Stop, Philip. There’s someone there.
Then he jumps up. He did get a fright. He goes to the bedroom door and peers outside to the landing and smiles to himself when it’s empty and comes back to sit beside me on the bed. He whispers, Shush, Matilda, it’s okay. There’s nobody there. He’s still smiling when he pulls the quilt back but he frowns when he sees I’m still wearing my jeans. He holds my hand again and
leaves it between his legs and moans and begins opening my jeans. I tell him I have to go to the bathroom but he begs me to stay.
I’ll be here all day tomorrow, Philip. I promise I will. I have to go to the toilet now, honest.
He stands up and straightens his pants and I jump out of the bed and run.
The bathroom is cold and has mirrors everywhere. The walls have green tiles and the floor has white tiles. There’re goose bumps on my arms and legs and a hard lump clogging my stomach. I feel tears, loads of them, starting between my legs and gushing to my eyes. Rita is on the stairs shouting, Is everything all right up there, Philip? The green tiles are spinning around me. There’s cold sweat dripping from my forehead and stinging my eyes. Oh, Jesus, help me. What am I going to do? Voices in my head. My grandmother screaming I made him do it. My father beating me. Rita shouting, You’re a thief, a liar, look what you made your uncle do. My stomach heaves and splashes into the toilet– tea, orange, crisps, toast. I feel my feet running and I can’t stop them. Black loafers running on white tiles. The metal tips clicking faster and faster. Please, Jesus. Please help me. I can’t live like this anymore.
Rita is here. She has one hand on her forehead and the other holding the open door. Uncle Philip is behind her with his two hands frozen to his face peeping at me between the gaps in his fingers. Rita holds me and I lean against her. There, there, she says like I’m a five-year-old, but I don’t care. She strokes my hair and tells me everything is all right. I knew you weren’t well. Didn’t I say you were pale? Too much orange and crisps, that’s what it is. You’ll be right in the morning. I rest against her, afraid to let her go, and I promise myself I’ll never be alone with him again.
Later, I hear them go to bed and their door close. I’m too scared to sleep. I don’t want to wake in the morning with Rita in work and Philip towering over me. I stand at the window and lift up the bottom sash. The icy night air stings my face and turns the room so cold I’m certain even Rita’s dead mother has pulled her shawl a little tighter. The hill of Ballybricken is dark and deserted, the only light is from the Gardaí’s Barracks on the other side of the hill. There are no stars and no mother to talk to. Just a quarter moon floating above the spire of St John’s church. There’s no clock in the room, no watch on my hand. The squad car roars out of the Gardaí’s Barracks with its blue light flashing and disappears down Patrick Street, then everything goes quiet again. I watch and wait and, when I hear the convent bell ring for morning mass, I run downstairs.
My poncho is hanging in the sitting-room closet. I think about just grabbing it and running, but I’m frozen from standing all night. I pull it on over my head but hear footsteps coming downstairs. Uncle Philip comes in the room in his bare feet and his belt buckle open and tells me to stay. I turn my face from his and try to pass but his arm blocks the door. The veins throb in his arm but his voice is almost sweet.
Come on, Matilda. We’ll talk when Rita goes out to work.
I don’t want to talk. I have to go, please just let me go.
He takes his arm away to fasten his belt buckle and I try to push past him. He grabs the poncho as if he’s playing with me.
Come on. You can stay if you want to.
I don’t want to. I want to go home.
I wriggle away from him and nearly knock over the Christmas tree. A Christmas bulb falls to the floor and he crushes it under his foot when he moves to block the door again. I can smell that strange perfume from him again that isn’t Rita’s. I straighten up and try to look at him straight in the eye, but can’t. I’m too ashamed. Too embarrassed over things I’ve done. But somehow I manage to mutter, if he doesn’t let me go I’ll tell.
I told you already what would happen.
I don’t care. I’ll tell Rita. I swear I will.
Ha, she won’t believe you either. Don’t be stupid.
She will. I know she will. I’ll make her believe me. And don’t call me stupid either. That’s what my father calls me. I’m not stupid.
Off you go then, tell Rita.
He moves away and I hurry towards the hallway, but he runs after me and pulls me back by the hair. I grab his hand and look up. I see his face now. It’s almost purple and there’s spit at the corners of his mouth. He drags me back to the sitting room and I want to cry out with the pain but I don’t want Rita to hear. He lets my hair go and sits on the pink sofa with his head in his hands. I wish he wouldn’t do that. I don’t know what it means. I never know what to do with people when they’re like this. He looks up at me like I think an uncle should look at you, but I’m not sure because I never had uncles like that. His voice is trembling and he’s not making any sense. I don’t know what he’s mumbling. His knees are trembling. I’m trembling. I want to get out of here.
I hear Rita’s footsteps on the floorboards upstairs and the wardrobe door closing. Philip’s pupils are as big as pennies. His eyeballs wide open. His hand reaches into his back trouser pocket and takes out a five-pound note but I don’t want money. I don’t want anything. I don’t feel anything. I just see the front door and dawn breaking through the frosted glass. I need to be on the other side of that door. He’s still looking up at me with the money in his hand.
I never meant harm, Matilda. You know I didn’t. You’re just so pretty.
I have to go now.
Take the money. Please, Matilda. I’d feel better.
What do you mean?
I mean, I’d feel better if you just, you know. Here, go on. Take it.
He’d feel better? What does that mean? Fuck him. I don’t know where I get the strength but my blood must be on fire because I’ve said it before I know I’ve said it.
Fuck off. That’s what you can do now. Just go and fuck yourself.
I turn towards the door without looking back and leave him with his money in his hand and his eyeballs rolling and meet Rita coming down the stairs fixing her handbag strap over her shoulder.
You’re leaving, Matilda?
I am.
You must feel better.
A little.
You’re certain you won’t stay?
I’m positive, Rita. But thanks anyway.
I close the front door and sprint down the street and around the corner. I sit on the doorstep of a house with the porch light on and Christmas lights shimmering in the window. It’s barely light. I’m too cold to cry. There’s a pain between my ears like my tears have frozen at the back of my eyes. Up the street is my grandmother’s house. Across the street there’s a hypermarket where Denny’s meats used to be.
I sit here watching the sun rise above the chimney pots. The milk float comes down the street and the milkman’s helper runs from house to house. I better go home. People are passing on the way to town and I don’t want anyone to see me like this.
Back in the convent Sonny is pacing up and down the kitchen with his hands clasped behind his back.
What are you doing here, Sonny? Oh Jesus, Sonny, I’m sorry. I forgot.
Never mind that now, Matilda. Get your stuff, quick. The bus is waiting.
I can’t, Sonny. I’m knackered. I’m awake all night.
Awake? Was it the nerves or what? Don’t answer. You don’t have time. You’re here now, that’s the main thing. You can catch forty winks on the bus.
Couldn’t I just give it a miss, Sonny?
Supposin’ I have to carry you to Limerick on my shoulders, you’re comin’ with me. Days like this are rare. These are the days you can look back on and I won’t let you throw it away now. What are you smiling at, Matilda? Did I say something funny or what?
I run upstairs. My bed is made; part of me wants to crawl under the covers and cry but I can’t lay down feeling sorry for myself. I grab my stuff from my locker and we run for the bus.
It’s my last race under fourteen. It’s the All-Ireland finals and we’re in the relay. Sonny’s daughter, Caroline, Lisa Healy and me. Everyone says St Mary’s from Limerick will win because they have the best young runner in the c
ountry and she looks it. Tall and lean with a long blonde ponytail, doing little run-ups in her navy tracksuit, knowing the world is watching. Her mother and father are standing at the finish, all wrapped up in their woolly hats and scarves, checking they have enough film in the camera and wondering, Where’s the best place to take a picture now, do you think?
Sonny says she’s the anchor and that means she’s running last and that means I’ll be running against her. I know Caroline is fast, maybe the fastest of her group, and Lisa Healy is good too, but I’m petrified. Sonny comes for my tracksuit, looks up at the grey sky, down at the mud, tilts his cap back on his head and walks away whistling. There’s a cold wind in my face and fog so thick I can barely make out the hedges. I wish I knew why Sonny was so happy.
I’m standing under a tree with four other girls because there’s no point goin’ out on to the track, getting wetter, until we see the runners coming through the gate at the top of the field. The girl from St Mary’s is standing under another tree, a little away from us, talking to her coach. She’s testing the mud with her toe and it doesn’t seem to bother her. She looks like she’s been getting ready for this all her life and all I want to do is go to bed and cry.
Her coach looks smart in his bright white tracksuit and the gold whistle around his neck and smiling all round him with his big white teeth. You’d never see Sonny in whistles and tracksuits and big white teeth. He wanders around in that overcoat he wears winter and summer, choking on a fag, lucky to have a tooth in his head. Do your best, girl, he says. Don’t let yourself down. That’s the main thing. Never be less than you are. Still, I see the pride in his eyes when we win. I know it’s not for himself and that’s what I like about Sonny. Everything is just so simple.
There’s a roar. A girl appears at the top gate. She’s on her own. I can’t see who it is yet. She’s too far away and in this fog she’ll have to be right on top of me before I know for certain, but I never prayed so hard it’s Caroline.
And it is, it’s Caroline’s red vest coming out of the fog. But there’s a girl close behind in blue. I step out onto the track, my heart clattering in my chest and my throat so tight I can barely breathe. Caroline is getting closer, the baton swinging back and forth in her hand. The girl from St Mary’s jogs out and stands beside me. Christ she’s tall. Everyone says I’m tall but she has legs like a giraffe.