by Molly Aitken
Pat’s gaze is fixed on the road, his knuckles white on the wheel.
There’s a metallic taste in my mouth. My knowing jolts back into me. It wasn’t just a dream. Joyce is missing and we are driving to Ottawa to find her.
Pat’s jaw is working but his eyes stay focused on the road. I don’t know what he’s thinking. If he was a normal husband he would be suspicious and ask me questions, ask me what I had done to send our daughter running. But he is not like other people. He has never pressed me for anything.
Green blurs outside the window. We need to get there, to question Pat’s mother. I always see every judgement in her stony face, never able to keep anything hidden, but she’ll have held some truth back. Mrs Lightly knows everything that goes on in her house and Joyce wouldn’t vanish without her knowing.
‘I’ll drive now,’ I say.
‘You’re still half asleep.’
‘We’re going so slow.’
He nods and the car shoots forward, throwing me back against the seat. I only realised he will do anything someone asks when Joyce, she must’ve been four or five, begged him for another ride on his back, and even though he had done more than twenty trots around the kitchen that evening, he relented.
I should have come to see my child in the city but all those thousands of people are stifling, and then there was Mrs Lightly. I never did manage to use that name for myself. It’s always just been hers and I have always just been Oona. No last name. I missed Joyce sometimes but I didn’t know how to talk to her after everything we lost. It’s seven months now Enda has been dead but really it feels as if no time has passed at all. I remember him at the worst times, like when I’m arguing with the librarian about whether Yeats really is a genius, which he is of course, but it’s fun to see her so affronted, I am laughing, and then mid-argument I see Enda by the fire, reading ‘The Second Coming’, and I lose track of myself and lose the argument.
I glance at Pat without turning my head. He looks old. His shoulders are a little hunched and his eyes squint through his glasses. His grey hair is tangled at the back like a child’s. I resist the urge to run my fingers through it. Pat was always beautiful, like a girl in a song, the kind you go to war for or would kill her husband just to have a chance with her.
He clears his throat. ‘You’re staring at me.’
‘I know.’
I wonder if he’s noticed my dark hair is run through with ash-coloured strands now too. I avoid mirrors because the older I grow the more I start to look like Mam. She was in her early forties when I left the island and it will only be a few years before I am there too.
‘Your arms are bruised,’ he says, eyes on the road.
The purple stains are bunched like irises across my skin. ‘I must’ve walked into a wall.’
‘Sleepwalking?’
‘I locked the cabin door, so I was safe enough.’
‘God, Oona.’
‘I’m fine.’ I rub at them, then smooth my palms against my thighs and jumper.
While I knitted all through Joyce’s childhood, she would sit in her nappy, and later on a stool, among the balls of wool, and carefully unravel each one then gaze up at me, waiting for me to re-roll them so she could begin her work all over again. Once I had finished Pat’s jumper, I made a tiny one for her and she squealed with such glee I just couldn’t stop knitting for her. As soon as she’d grown out of one, I’d have three more ready. It was then I started sewing the patchwork with the pieces of my old clothes for her. I’d seen one in a shop in town and the little woman explained how her grandmother made them from clothes that no longer fit or were too torn to be worn. ‘It’s a record of a history,’ the woman said. I didn’t know how to tell Joyce about my past but I could stitch it together for her. No words, only patches of worn colour.
I unwind my window and stare out at the blur of green. Here the forest is like Inis’s ocean. It hems me in, and if I were to go too deep I would lose myself. But the trees are not so haunted as the waves.
I shift closer to the door. We were once warm with Joyce between us on cold evenings by the fire, our fingers woven over her downy head. There were happy years then. She wasn’t able to speak yet.
‘Do you remember,’ he says ‘when Joyce ran away and walked six kilometres to get to Ottawa?’
‘She was about eight, wasn’t she?’
He nods, smiling, the skin around his eyes all creased.
‘It was because I wouldn’t let her go live with your mother,’ I say.
‘No. She wanted to see Enda.’
‘Oh.’
The trees claw overhead, snatching at each other and throwing us into shadow.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you didn’t let her leave us. I never could say no to her.’ He coughs, covering my silence. ‘Joyce took the road north instead of going to town. Must’ve been some natural instinct in her, like the duck she is. Drawn to water.’
‘You always knew where to find her,’ I say.
The air between us stills.
He chews his bottom lip. ‘She was usually at the lake. Like you.’
I snap the glove compartment open, flipping through the maps, although he knows just where he’s going and so do I.
His breathing is steady now. Too steady. ‘I brought a bag of things for you,’ he says. ‘Your clothes and toothbrush. Just what you’ll need.’
‘How did you have time to pack if you drove straight to the lake after talking to your mother?’
‘When you took off, I thought you’d need some warm things. I kept planning to drive over and give them to you. But then I thought you’d come back if you needed anything.’
‘Pat—’
‘I have your mail as well. It’s on the back seat.’
I reach over and grab the bundle. I rip the first open.
‘Library fine,’ I say.
‘Nothing new.’ He smiles.
The second is an envelope with our address written in a spiky, childish hand. I drop it unopened in the glove compartment and flip it shut.
‘I’m awake now,’ I say. ‘I can drive.’
He glances at me but says nothing and pulls over.
I open the door and the wind rushes in.
‘You’re not going to drive off and leave me here, are you?’ I ask.
He manages a smile, unbuckles his belt and gets out and so I do too. The forest darkens the road but just on the edge of the trees a dogwood is still in bloom. It’s as if time has stopped here, like the last week never happened.
He presses a hand to his eyes and shakes his head like he’s ridding himself of some thought. I want to reach out and pull him into the safe, leafy shade. He walks by me without a glance.
In the driving seat, I ease my foot off the clutch. The dogwood branches wave their goodbye. He pulls at his collar. The top two buttons of his cotton shirt are undone and a few greys have crept into the wispy hair there too. I stare at the tarmac vanishing ahead.
‘I miss you,’ he says.
‘I wasn’t meant to be a mother.’
‘I’ll find her,’ he says softly.
Joyce was only a child when she used to run away. Now she’s nineteen with money and sense to hide somewhere we won’t know to look. I open my mouth to tell him but he gives me his smile, fissures cutting from his eyes and mouth. He smiles and smiles because if he stops he’ll cry.
Stolen Eggs
Is a gift that was stolen still a gift?
I found it, the blue-black wing on the windowsill, and knew Felim had left it for me. It set my heart battering and I decided one day he and I would fly away from the island and live in another country like England, and we would bring Enda too, as he couldn’t be left behind. We would all be free and grown together.
The men were at home for my tenth birthday but Kieran moaned about it because he wanted to go to Éag for the yearly Saint John’s Eve fire. It was the only day people ever went for a celebration rather than a death, although, as I understood it, death was
celebrated on these occasions. I had never been, as Mam said it was a pagan fancy and not to be bothered with. A lot of years the sea was too rough anyway and the races were held on a beach on Inis instead, but Liam complained it just wasn’t as wild, and Pegeen agreed, saying it was much better to have it at home where everyone, meaning the men, could be watched.
We sat around the table and everyone handed me a present. Dad gave me a tiny wood-carved haddock; Kieran: a kiss; Enda: a bunch of wildflowers that he stuck in my hair; and Mam: an extra scone. It was a generous offering from her because more and more I was catching her hunched by the dresser, shoving butter-lathered bread into her mouth and spraying crumbs on Mary. She was growing fat and wept and snapped at me and prayed more than ever.
Throughout the day and the ones that followed, I stuck my fingers in my pocket to stroke the wing Felim left for me until it started to smell and I had to throw it over the back wall. I kept one feather.
* * *
A few nights later, after he’d read and Mam had sent me to bed early, Enda crept into the room and lay down on my mattress beside me. He was warm and I held his hand to keep him with me longer.
‘Littlie,’ he whispered. ‘Would you like to come with me tomorrow?’
I sat up. ‘What about Mam?’
‘She’s at the priest’s tomorrow.’
‘Where will we go, Enda? The mainland?’
‘I’ve an idea for us but I won’t tell you now.’
‘I won’t sleep with the nerves,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Wait for Mam to leave in the morning and then come down to the shore to meet me.’
He bounced up and left the room.
I lay back and began our adventure, visiting the lighthouse, hunting on the cliffs, walking the whole island until we came to Aislinn’s and she had us in for biscuits.
The next morning I pushed open the little room shutters and the sky outside had paled to the colour of seagull dirt and a wetness hung in the air.
I rushed with the morning meal, spilled tea and Mam yelled at me, but her words slid off me like rain on bare skin. Enda smiled one of his magic ones, his snaggletooth pinching his bottom lip and his cheeks rolling up into roundness like moulded wet sand, and I grinned back.
‘What’s the matter with yous?’ Dad said.
‘Nothing,’ Enda said.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
Mam’s hand froze, gripping her teacup. I stared at my plate, feeling her eyes on me, but I didn’t look up and soon I could hear her usual soft sipping.
Mam listed the day’s tasks for me that I was to do without her and left before the table had even been cleaned up. I glanced at Enda but he was whistling at the cut hide hung drying from the line over the fire.
‘I’m going down to the shore to fix up the currach,’ Enda said.
Kieran wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Dad nodded at them. ‘I’ll leave yous to it. I’m seeing Liam about his bull.’
The Virgin Mary watched me from the dresser. She knew what I was planning but she didn’t warn Mam as she left, running her fingers over the Virgin’s skirts.
The boys were off right after and I cleaned up the breakfast, quick.
As I went out the front door, the sun darted out to warm me and even though it dipped away again I was free, for a while. I rushed away from the cottage, nose towards the sea.
The shore was just down the curve of road and when I got there Enda and Kieran and two other boys were bent over the currach. One looked up and waved at me, and I recognised the straw-coloured hair and freckles of Jonjoe. He was smirking at me in a way that made me want to hit him.
The other boy straightened too, pulled off his hat and the light caught his hair so it gleamed. My fingers plunged into my pocket and found the feather, but Felim only glanced at me.
‘Why’s he here?’ I snapped, stung.
‘Felim’s our friend now,’ Enda said, as if there hadn’t been any judgement in my words.
Felim gazed at my brother, amazement on his moon face.
‘How do yous even know each other?’ Kieran said, dragging a damp length of rope out from under the plank seat of the currach.
‘Father Finnegan,’ Felim said. ‘He tells us about God together.’
Kieran groaned, the mention of the priest always enough to set him whinging.
Enda’s cheeks were pink as he tried to lift the front of the boat on his own.
‘What’re you doing?’ Kieran said.
‘I thought your mam didn’t like the priest or religion,’ I said to Felim.
He darted me a look from under his pale eyelashes. ‘I don’t have to be like her.’
‘Have you been out on the water before, Oona?’ Jonjoe said. ‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a girl fishing.’
‘No.’ I stared at Enda, hoping he’d come to my defence, but he was distracted talking in low tones to Felim. ‘I’ve not been in a boat.’
He kicked at a rock, his head crooked down. ‘Do you like me, Oona?’ he mumbled. ‘I know I’m your Kieran’s age, but—’
‘Jonjoe. I don’t know what you’re on about,’ I said.
‘Did you ever think of coming to school?’
‘Mam doesn’t think I need it. She teaches me Bible and speaks English with me.’
‘Ah, but school is grand. We could sit together.’
‘Enda?’ I yelled, turning away, but he, Felim and Kieran were already carrying the boat down to the waves.
‘Come on.’ I lifted an oar, which was heavier than it looked. ‘Let’s go down to them.’
‘I know you’re younger than me. But when we’re grown it’ll not matter.’
‘Stop dancing around my sister, Jonjoe,’ Kieran roared over his shoulder. ‘Grab the oars.’
Jonjoe jumped and grabbed the oar off me, balanced it on his shoulder and swaggered down to the water.
‘I’m going home, Enda,’ I called as they ploughed through the shallows.
‘Good,’ Kieran yelled. ‘Mam’ll take the Bible to us for bringing you.’
‘You’re coming, Oona,’ Enda said.
The boys jumped in. Jonjoe beamed at me and held out a hand for me to take. I paused, still on the dry.
‘Come,’ Felim said.
I did, splashing in up to my knees, and reluctantly grabbed Jonjoe’s hand. He dragged me in and I wiped his touch off my fingers as soon as I was safely seated in the middle beside Felim. The boat rocked as they took us over the low waves. My belly sucked up and down, rising and falling with the water.
I wanted to say thank you to Felim for giving me the wing, but it felt wrong in front of my brothers and especially Jonjoe. I brushed the feather and thought of taking it out to show him, a silent message, but the wind might steal it away. Our shoulders rubbed and Felim, keeping his body low, went to sit with Enda to balance the rowing, although he gritted his teeth to keep up with the other boys’ strokes. I tried to be happy to be out and free, but I couldn’t help the jealousy rising in me. I had so wanted to be alone with Enda, and have this day to ourselves.
I lay in the belly of the boat among the ropes and looked up at the sky. Seagulls spun above, calling sharply to each other, the wind snatching at the smaller, younger birds. I pressed my ear to the tarred bottom and listened for the silver fish slipping beneath. Enda whistled quietly. I sat up as we passed further out to sea. For long breaths everything seemed still, as if the island and the sea had quietened to match the peace that had washed over all of us in the boat.
‘Row close to the cliff,’ Kieran yelled.
‘What about Oona?’ Jonjoe said. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘I want to see,’ I shouted.
‘That’s you told.’ Kieran hooted at the sky. ‘Now! Left. Left.’
The oars ducked and rose, ducked and rose, and we sculled closer to the scarred rock face.
‘Get up,’ Kieran yelled at me.
I crawled over the seat and back towards Felim w
here he was perched with his knees drawn up to his chest. Kieran squatted in the middle of the boat. He was going to jump. The currach rocked, but Kieran was still beside a lobster pot. I looked up and Felim was slithering up the cliff, his bare toes finding cracks to wedge in and fingers hauling him up towards the top. The seagulls nesting above cawed in deep, gurgling voices, casually warning him off. He vanished behind the beating wings.
‘Careful,’ I yelled and he glanced down, his hair blown up by the wind. He was smiling.
When he slid back into the currach his hat, clutched at his chest, was full of seagulls’ eggs.
‘You could’ve killed us,’ Enda bellowed. ‘You’ve never jumped before.’
‘None of you know what I’ve done,’ Felim said to the eggs.
Kieran licked his lips and tickled my stomach. ‘You hungry, littlie?’
I slapped his hand away. ‘I’m not a baby.’
‘Let’s get this one back, lads,’ he roared.
As we rowed away, the curdling cries of the mother seagulls hit me. Felim stole their babies and they could do nothing to stop him.
We all jumped out in the shallows, Felim cradling his hat like it was a baby. As soon as the currach had been hauled up above the tideline, Kieran, dragging Jonjoe with him, trudged off, saying he needed to get some real work done.
Enda threw himself down on the grassy slope, tossing his legs out, and I felt his joy at the sky and the wind and the waves. He laughed at nothing and it caught in Felim and me, rang between us, tying us together.
‘Show us the eggs,’ Enda said, pushing himself up on one hand to look at Felim.
The white-haired boy scattered rocks about him in his rush to get to my brother. Enda made everyone want to please him. It wasn’t Felim’s fault but he had said almost no words to me; it was like we’d not shared that moment with the baby whale at all, like he hadn’t given me the wing.
I hovered a few steps away as Felim knelt at Enda’s feet and placed the hat between my brother’s knees. Felim’s head was tilted up, still, gaze fixed, I thought, on my brother but I couldn’t see their faces.
‘Give me one,’ Enda said.
Felim reached into the hat and he lifted a grey speckled egg out. Their hands met around it and Felim startled backwards like he’d been stung. The egg smashed.