by Roddy Doyle
“Really?” she said.
Her boyfriend, on the other side, stood up.
“What’s the story?” he said.
“It’s my seat,” said Frank.
The boyfriend looked at Frank’s ticket. Then he looked at his own.
“N18,” he said. “We’re in the wrong row. Oops.”
He left his seat, and Frank sat down beside Sandra. And, by the end of the concert, they were in love, even though Sandra’s boyfriend was sitting right behind them. She explained it to Frank, later.
“It was the way you listened,” she said. “You leaned forward in your seat. You really listened. I loved that. And you have a lovely nose. What was it about me?”
“Everything,” said Frank.
He meant it. He loved everything about Sandra. He even loved the way she’d coughed when she swallowed a sweet during one of the quiet songs.
“What about Jason?” said Frank.
Jason was the old boyfriend.
“Ah well,” said Sandra. “He was all right. But I could never really love a man who says oops.”
Sandra met Gráinne, and they liked each other. Gráinne was six. Sandra made her laugh a lot, and Gráinne thought she was beautiful, and she liked the way her dad looked at her. He laughed a lot too.
And three weeks after that, Frank took Gráinne to the Bad Ass Café, just the two of them, and he told her that Sandra was going to move into the house with them, and how did she feel about that?
“What about Mammy?” she said.
“She lives in New York,” said Frank. “She probably needed to get away. For a while, maybe. She loves you, Gráinne, but not me. You can go to New York to see her. When you’re a bit older.”
So Gráinne nodded and said, “Fine.” She liked Sandra. It would be nice.
And it was. Sandra wasn’t much good at cooking but she was funny and lovely, and she sang a lot. They went shopping together, and she bought Gráinne clothes that Frank never thought of – jeans and tops, socks and knickers. Frank always bought her party dresses and skirts, and coloury tights and necklaces. They went driving a lot, the three of them, up the mountains and to Howth or Malahide.
Then one morning, Gráinne woke up. It was still dark outside, so she went into Frank’s room, to get into the bed beside Frank. And Sandra was in the bed beside Frank, both of them asleep. Gráinne stood looking at them. She was cold. She got into the bed, beside Frank. He hugged her. His eyes were still closed. He turned, still hugging her, and she was between them, squashed between Frank and Sandra, and it was fine. It was lovely and warm. When she woke up again it was bright outside, and the bed was empty, and she heard laughter from downstairs. Frank and Sandra were laughing.
Then, another day, months later, they took her to the Bad Ass again and they told her – Sandra told her. She was pregnant, she was going to have a baby.
“Are you the daddy?” she asked Frank.
Frank was shocked at the question, and impressed. Gráinne was looking straight at him.
“Yes,” said Frank. “The baby will be your sister or brother.”
“No, it won’t,” said Gráinne.
She worked it out.
“It’ll only be my half-sister, or half-brother.”
“But it’s great news, isn’t it?” said Sandra.
“Yeah,” said Gráinne.
But, really, she didn’t know what it was, good or bad, or even news at all. She didn’t know what she felt.
The baby was Johnny. And Gráinne loved him, he was so cute. Sandra was at home all the time now and, even though she was often busy feeding Johnny and playing with Johnny, Gráinne loved it. She was old enough to walk home from school on her own, and Sandra was always there when Gráinne rang the bell or went around to the back door and, nearly always, her dinner was ready, the smell of it filling the kitchen. She sometimes felt alone, and a few times, when she went into her dad’s room to get into the bed, he asked her to go back to her own bed because Johnny was already in the middle and there was no more room.
“He’s a brute,” said Frank. “Look at the size of him.”
But Frank and Sandra made sure Gráinne wasn’t left alone for long. She loved it when Frank got down on the floor beside her and played. He did it a lot, and so did Sandra. Gráinne knew that they were looking after her. They checked her homework, checked that her clothes were clean, checked her hair for head lice when the letter came from school.
“Uh-oh, the lice letter.”
“It’s the same one every time,” said Gráinne. “The exact same words.”
“That’s not fair on the lice,” said Sandra. “Every louse is different. Come here, till we look.”
Then they took Gráinne to the Bad Ass again, and Tom was born soon after. He was cute too, but Sandra was mad busy, and Johnny was very jealous. He climbed and pushed his way on to Sandra’s lap when she was feeding Tom. He threw his food across the kitchen. He dumped it on top of his head. He did anything to get Sandra to look at him. There wasn’t much room for Gráinne. But Frank always kissed and hugged her first when he came home, even though, sometimes, Johnny bit his leg while he was hugging her. And he often took her out for special times together. They even went to Paris for a long weekend. It was OK, living in that house, growing up with Frank and Sandra, and Johnny and Tom. Gráinne was happy.
Then she was a teenager and suddenly, it seemed, she was unhappy and unfriendly, and silent and loud at the same time. She spoke to no one, but slammed the doors. She turned her music up loud, talked loudly to her friends on her mobile phone, telling them how stupid her family was and how she hated them all. It was teenage stuff, Frank and Sandra knew, but it was hard. Especially for Frank. He felt guilty and, sometimes, angry. She was like this because he was a bad father – there was something he wasn’t doing right. Other times, he decided she was just a selfish wagon, like her mother, and the sooner she grew up and got out of the house the better. And then he’d feel guilty again. He was the selfish one. She was a teenager; it was a phase she was going through. It would end and they’d be pals again.
“Fancy going to the Bad Ass?” he said one Friday, when he came home and she was by herself in the hall.
“No,” she said.
“Just the two of us,” said Frank.
“Like, wow,” she said, and she went up the stairs. He felt her door slamming. The whole house shook a bit.
“You’re not my mother!” she roared at Sandra. More and more often.
It was rough.
“It’ll only last a few years,” Sandra told Frank, even though she’d just been crying because of something Gráinne had said to her. “I was like that myself when I was her age.”
“Yeah,” said Frank.
But he didn’t sound convinced.
He stayed out of Gráinne’s way. He didn’t interfere, and he hoped she was doing OK at school. He hoped she wasn’t being stupid when she went out at night, on the weekends. He always stayed awake until she came home, but always in bed. He didn’t want her to think that he was spying on her. The next day, he always asked her how she’d got on, and he never looked too closely at her eyes or tried to smell her breath. He kept his distance and respected her independence. But it was hard.
She was caught mitching from school, and suspended for two weeks. She was caught shoplifting. Mrs Fallon, from the shop at the end of the road, didn’t phone the Guards, but it was awful. Frank apologized, and thanked her, and bought loads of things he didn’t ne
ed or want.
Gráinne left school two months before the Leaving Cert exams. She wouldn’t go back.
“You can’t make me,” she said.
And that was the really terrifying bit: she was right. They couldn’t make her. They just had to hope she’d be OK, that she’d calm down and become Gráinne again, their Gráinne.
But, for now, she was a different Gráinne. A monster, a big, horrible kid. A terrorist. It was after she threw the cup at Sandra that Frank suggested that Sandra and the boys needed a break.
He wrapped the broken pieces in some newspaper.
They could get away for a while, he said. It would be good for them. It might even be good for Frank and Gráinne to have the house to themselves. Like the old days.
“Like the good old days,” said Sandra. “Before I arrived.”
“Ah stop,” said Frank.
“No,” she said. “I won’t.”
She was still shaking. The cup had just missed her head. She looked at the coffee stains on the wall and on her blouse. She took off the blouse and soaked it in cold water. Frank put the newspaper into the bin and wiped the wall.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Sandra. “And what about the money?”
“We’ll manage,” said Frank. “We can do without a holiday in the summer.”
“No,” said Sandra, finally. “She’s not going to push me out of my own home. It is my home.”
“I’ll talk to her.” said Frank.
“Give me a break,” said Sandra. “Just shoot her.”
It was quiet enough for a few months. It wasn’t too bad. They all kept out of Gráinne’s way, and she kept out of theirs. The days got colder and shorter. Sandra came home one day and found the three of them, Johnny, Tom, and Gráinne, watching the telly. They were all on the couch, long legs and arms all over the place. It was the sweetest thing she’d seen in a long time. But Gráinne saw her looking at them. She took back her arms and legs, stood up, and walked out of the room, past Sandra. Black eyes, black lips in a sneer that would have been funny on someone else’s daughter – stepdaughter.
Then the news came. Gráinne’s mother, Rosemary, was coming home.
“Oh, God,” said Sandra. “How do you know?”
“Her mother phoned me,” said Frank.
“I don’t want to meet her,” said Sandra.
“Fine,” said Frank. “We can work that out. No problem.”
“For good?” said Sandra.
“What?” said Frank.
“Stop being thick, Frank,” said Sandra. “Is she coming home for good?”
“Oh,” said Frank. “I don’t know. Her mother didn’t seem to know.”
Sandra stood up, and sat down, and stood up. Frank tried to hug her, but she sat down again as his arms went out to her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I’m going away. Me and the boys. I can’t stay here.”
And the day after that, she came home in the rain and told the boys the good news.
The Bedroom
She sat on her bed. Her eyes were closed. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her knees were right up to her chin.
She could hear them. Talking about her.
She couldn’t. Her music was all she could hear. But she knew what they were saying about her. Down in the kitchen. She could hear them. They hated her.
They hated her. And she hated them.
CHAPTER TWO
There were things they had to get. Thermal underwear – long-sleeved vests and long underpants down to their ankles – gloves, special socks, hats, scarves.
“What about skis?” said Tom.
“No,” said Sandra.
“What about a canoe?”
“Nope.”
The shop was full of outdoor adventure stuff. Canoes hanging from the roof, and tents all over the place. But all they were buying was socks and gloves. Johnny picked up a mountaineering hammer.
“What about one of these?”
“Each,” said Tom.
“No,” said Sandra. “Put it back.”
“We might need them.”
“Put – it – back.”
“We might.”
“Put. It. Back.”
Johnny and Tom had been outside the back door when they heard the cup hitting the wall. Johnny had his hand on the door handle. They stayed there. They were both a bit scared. Johnny waited to hear more from inside, but there was nothing. He looked at Tom.
“OK?”
“OK.”
They went in, Johnny went first. Their mother was at the sink, in her black bra, the one that used to be new. They noticed that the wall beside her was wet and very clean.
“I spilt bloody coffee on myself,” she said.
“Oh,” said Johnny. “Can we watch telly?”
They weren’t allowed to watch telly on school days.
“OK,” said their mother.
And they knew for definite that something was wrong, and they went in and watched Complete Savages.
“My mother’s going to take me away from this dump,” Gráinne told them.
“Cool,” said Tom. “I’ll get your room.”
“No, you won’t!” Gráinne roared, and she slammed the door.
“What’s her mother called?” Tom asked Johnny.
“Rosemary,” said Johnny.
“Do you think she’ll really take her away?”
“Hope so,” said Johnny.
They knew that things weren’t completely OK. But, as far as they knew, they were going on their holidays to Lapland, in northern Finland, and that was all. They were going to a place with snow and reindeer and huskies and snowmobiles.
Their dad drove them to the airport, and it was typical early-morning adult talk, all the way.
“Will you have to wait long in Manchester?”
“No.”
“Grand.”
“An hour, I think.”
“That’s not too bad.”
“No, it’s fine.”
He didn’t come into the airport with them; he had to get to work. But he got out of the car and hugged them. It was kind of sad that he wasn’t coming, but Tom was happy they were going with just their mother. It was special, and she was always a bit crazier when their dad wasn’t around. She’d let them run up the down escalator if it wasn’t too crowded, and push each other on trolleys. But not this time; they had to go straight to the departure gate after they’d checked in. And then they were in the plane and in the air, and down again, in Manchester Airport, and straight to the next plane and in the air again. Nothing happened, except Johnny had to open his bag for a security man who searched inside and found no guns or weapons.
They had to wait for an hour and a half in Helsinki Airport, for the plane to Lapland, and Sandra went to the toilet three times.
“For a smoke,” said Tom, as they watched her cross the wide corridor.
“Yeah,” said Johnny.
“What’s in the women’s toilets that isn’t in the men’s?”
“Don’t know. What?”
“Women.”
“Thick.”
“Muppet.”
“Thick.”
Then they were up again, their third flight in one day. Johnny had the window seat.
“It’s not fair,” said Tom.
“I’m the oldest,” said Johnny.
“So?”
“Shut up.”
“Now, now, lads,” said Sandra. “You can swap halfway.”
But they did
n’t, because the plane began its descent while they were still arguing – they were less than half an hour in the air. They could see big snow at the side of the runway. And the snow, small mountains of it, the deep tyre tracks, the whiteness, and the airport lights made them forget about the row and everything else. There was only the next six days.
There was a man standing at the arrivals gate with a sign, WINTER SAFARIS, held to his chest. Sandra and the boys walked up to him.
“Winter safaris?” said Sandra.
“Winter safaris,” said the man. “Yes. Come, please.”
They followed the man through the tiny airport to a minibus. It was right outside the exit. He opened the rear door, and took their bags, and shoved them in with other bags. Then he opened the side door and stood back. They got in, and there were three other people in there, at the back. Sandra, Tom and Johnny squeezed into the seat right behind the driver’s seat, and the driver slid the side door behind them, and disappeared.
They sat there for half an hour, watching their breath and saying very little.
“Cold?”
“Yeah; no.”
Tom looked back at the three people behind them. The one in the middle was asleep, and the other two were whispering to each other, across the sleeping woman’s face. They were a boy and a girl, in big padded clothes and hats. They leaned over the sleeping face and kissed, and Tom stopped looking.
They heard the rear door being opened, a grunt, and the door slammed shut. Then there was a blast of very cold air. The driver’s door was open and he was getting in.
He looked over his seat at them.
“Apology for lateness. I must see a man about a dog.”
And then they heard it.
A bark.
There was a dog in the back. They looked. The woman still slept; the other two whispered. Johnny couldn’t see the dog. But it barked again, and let out a howl. And barked again, and stopped when the driver started the minibus.
“Welcome to Lapland,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Sandra.
“You are welcome.”