Our Little Cruelties

by Liz Nugent

  My house was huge, but I was away so much it never felt like a real home. There wasn’t a lot of furniture. There was a state-of-the-art sound system and loads of giant beanbags and the mantelpieces were strewn with souvenirs. But I couldn’t always get the central heating to work. I’d chopped up some of the dining-room chairs to use as firewood. I didn’t open my mail often because a lot of it was technical stuff about pensions from my increasingly impatient accountant or fan mail from little girls who hadn’t learned how to do joined-up writing yet. It depressed me that these children looked to me as their hero, their idol, when I knew I had nothing to offer anyone. I was a pop star with the right looks, writing predictably cheesy tunes, who could fill stadiums and arenas all over Europe, but I was scared and lonely.

  I was drinking most days, enough so that I would crash out and not dream of anything. I rarely answered the door, because too often my callers were fans who didn’t know what to say to me, but stood on the doorstep, open-mouthed. I didn’t know what to say to them either. Sometimes I just signed their autographs and they went away. Other times, they wanted to come in and hang out, but I was too embarrassed by the state of my house. I knew it was unhealthy. I knew I needed to leave the house and interact with the world.

  Will lived in a small house a few streets away from mine. I don’t know why he didn’t get a bigger place, especially now he and Susan had a baby of their own. They had a real live baby and I wasn’t so crazy that I couldn’t tell the difference between her and my tiny imaginary baby. But I knew that when other people were in the room, my tiny baby disappeared, so to get away from it, I used to go to Will’s house regularly. I’d eat with them and watch TV. They’d ask me questions, but I was never in the mood for much conversation. Will started to hassle me about getting on board with some film project, but I had no interest in it. Then, after a few months, he told me not to visit any more. I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong, but I guess Mum was right all along and I had an annoying personality. By the end of the summer, I had to go back into the studio to record some new songs for the highly anticipated third album. Sean came over to tell me because I’d stopped answering the phone. We’d been on a six-month break after two years of constant touring. He looked really surprised when I let him in.

  ‘Jesus, Luke, have you been taking care of yourself? Christ, look at this house! Don’t you have a cleaner? You need to take a shower, man. And shave. Hillbilly is not the look that Sony want for you.’

  Sean was my only friend and my manager, but even he had insisted we take a proper break from each other during our hiatus. He would handle anything urgent and he told me I should just rest and recuperate.

  ‘Didn’t you take a holiday? Go anywhere?’

  I tried to explain that having been away for most of the previous two years, I just wanted to be home. I tried not to cry.

  ‘Have you been eating? Luke, I think you need professional help.’

  Sean brought me to a psychiatrist. The first in a long line, as it turned out. I was diagnosed with depression and sent on my way with a prescription. It was a relief to know there was a reason for the nothingness I felt, the lethargy and lack of concentration. The tablets definitely helped. I felt better and got busy. I cut back on the drinking and smoking hash. The baby disappeared. My nightmares became far less frequent. We recorded the new album. This time we had a full symphony orchestra behind us for the last few days of recording, so everything was on a much bigger scale. The days in the studio to prepare for this were long, but I liked the swell of music that turned bland pop songs into something magnificent. This was the album Sean said was going to break out in America. We were excited and optimistic.

  In mid-December, the record company threw us a big party in the Clarence Hotel. It was one hell of a bash. Every celebrity turned up, all home for Christmas: actors, musicians, painters, poets, dancers. Glitter fell from the ceiling and the champagne flowed. I was being sensible about the booze though I was slightly edgy with all these people around. Sean was pretty drunk, but he noticed my discomfort. He came over and said, ‘It’s okay, Luke, you can let your hair down tonight. You’ve earned it!’ He poured champagne from a bottle into a pint glass and passed it to me.

  I had such a good time that night that I continued partying for the next few days. I realized I’d skipped my tablets, but I was feeling great and I was sure they’d fixed me by now.

  There were messages on my answering machine from Brian and Will about Christmas Day. Where was I going to be? Would I like to come to Will’s for my dinner? I remembered being barred from his house earlier in the year. I thought I should apologize to him. I realized I’d been an arsehole, going to his house every day like that. I decided to buy him a really extravagant, meaningful gift but I was daunted by the Christmas shopping crowds, and then I had some inspiration. I’d make him a gift with my bare hands. I’d make a doll’s house for his kid. On one of the days previously, I’d bought a couple of grams of coke and I reckoned I’d need it to help me through this task.

  I wasn’t sure what wood to use. I thought it should be sturdy but thin so that it wouldn’t be too heavy. I ventured out on a mission to buy all the materials I would need for the construction. I had a clear picture of it in my mind. The guy in the hardware shop recognized me. He was really helpful and said I should make it from plywood. He even gave me free sample paint pots to use to paint it with. And he gave me large wooden pegs that I could use to carve doll figures if I wanted. I felt a rush of energy as I set about the work. I’m not sure how long it took, but I don’t think I went to bed for three nights. I had to start again three times because I got impatient sawing the wood and cut it wrong and accidentally sawed through the dining-room table.

  When I was finished with the house, I decided to carve a Mummy, Daddy and little girl out of the pegs. I started with the little girl, but my enthusiasm turned to horror when I realized the tiny figure I had carved was the baby, and the baby was alive and silently screaming at me again.

  I couldn’t bear it. I tried to calm it down. I wrapped it in cotton wool and stroked it, but I could still see the tiny face twisting in pain.

  I rang the psychiatrist but got a recorded message saying that his office would be reopening on the 7th of January after the Christmas break.

  I didn’t want to be left alone with the baby. I rang Sean, but he didn’t answer. I couldn’t ring Brian because he was staying at Mum’s and we weren’t allowed to ring her house after nine p.m.

  I looked at the clock. What day was it? The early hours of 26th December. I had missed Christmas Day. I remembered I’d been supposed to go to Will’s for dinner. I’d been building the doll’s house for his kid. I decided the only thing to do was to put the baby into the doll’s house and bring it to Will’s. He and Susan knew how to look after babies.

  I delivered the gift in the middle of the night. I don’t think Will was pleased to see me. I went home then and smoked enough blem to knock me out. When I woke up two days later, the tiny baby was next to my head on the pillow. I could see the hairs on my arm raise as it crawled into the nook of my elbow.

  23

  1979

  A week before my ninth birthday, my mum sang at the Pope’s Mass. Nobody was more excited about this than me. She was to sing ‘Ave Maria’, and that was my favourite song. She couldn’t get it confirmed but it was likely she might even get to meet the Pope, that he might touch her head and pray for her. Through that blessing, I knew she would finally love me truly and for ever. And better than that, if the Pope touched Mum and blessed the holy water I’d bought her for her birthday, we might be able to save Paul’s soul.

  Paul was my cousin, and Brian’s best friend. He was always nice to me. He thought I was funny and interesting. He used to quiz me about the lives of all the saints because I knew them all off by heart. He speculated that Elvis Presley was going to be a saint, but I knew Elvis was never going to be a candidate. I liked him in his films, but I don’t think any saints ev
er went around in sports cars, kissing girls in hula skirts and wearing tight trousers. But Paul used to joke with me about all the miracles Elvis performed. For example, he could make girls scream just by waving his hand at them. I patiently explained to Paul that miracles had to be for good things and I didn’t think screaming girls qualified.

  But in recent months, Paul had grown even more pale and quiet. He was in hospital a lot these days and even when we went to visit him, he often didn’t wake up. William would eat his jelly and ice cream when nobody was looking. I told William that was a sin, but William never cared about sins. He went smoking behind the church with his friend Steve when they were supposed to be at confession, so I prayed for them too.

  One day I visited with Mum on my own. It was the end of the summer holidays. And I asked Mum how Paul was going to go to school in bed. Mum looked at me, and I could tell she was cross because the two lines between her eyes deepened. ‘Paul won’t be going back to school, Luke. Don’t be so stupid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She heaved a deep sigh. ‘Paul is dying. He’s not going anywhere.’

  I knew he’d been sick and I knew he’d been getting worse, but I thought my prayers were worth something. Father Martin had always said that if we truly believed, God would answer our prayers. And I truly believed.

  ‘But he can’t be,’ I said. ‘I’ve prayed about it.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody naive. You’re eight years old –’

  ‘I’m eight and three-quarters,’ I said.

  ‘You’re old enough to know about death and dying. There’s cancerous poison in his blood. It’s called leukaemia. There’s no hope for him. It’s very sad.’

  I was silent for a while. When we turned into the hospital car park, I said, ‘But he’ll go straight to heaven, won’t he, Mum? He won’t have to wait in purgatory, will he?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ she said as she hauled her bag wearily out of the car.

  When we saw Paul, he was sitting up. He was having a good day. There were dark circles around his eyes. I was used to seeing him without hair but his parents, Uncle Dan and Aunt Judy, brought him new hats every week. His favourite one was the knitted Viking helmet that Auntie Peggy had made him, even though Auntie Peggy was Mum’s sister and Uncle Dan was Dad’s brother. Auntie Peggy was just kind like that, to everyone.

  Paul was laughing at a joke book someone had given him. He started trying out all these knock-knock jokes on me. Mum and Aunt Judy went to the hospital café and left us to chat for a while. I know he’d have preferred it if Brian was there and not me, but he didn’t let it show.

  ‘Will we say a prayer?’ I offered.

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘We should say a prayer that you go to heaven when you die.’

  ‘Die? What do you mean?’

  I knew I’d said the wrong thing, and while my cheeks grew red, I tried to backtrack a little.

  ‘In case. I mean, if you did, wouldn’t you want to go to heaven?’

  His eyes widened in his pale white face. ‘Did you hear something? Did my mum tell you I was dying?’

  ‘No!’ I could say it truthfully.

  He turned back to his book and started reading out knock-knock jokes again. I realized he was scared. I could feel it through my skin. I was scared too. What would happen if he didn’t get into heaven? I took out the rosary beads I always kept in my pocket and waved them over him. He ignored me and started laughing harder at the jokes in his book, but the laughter wasn’t real. It was forced and fake.

  After that day, I wasn’t allowed to visit Paul again. Aunt Judy told Mum she thought I was too young. Mum asked if I’d said anything to upset Paul that day. I didn’t tell her a lie exactly, just that I’d offered to pray with him.

  ‘Prayers aren’t always answered,’ she said. That memory stands out because she was saying the opposite of Father Martin and I wasn’t sure who to believe.

  I asked Dad about Paul dying.

  ‘Did your mother tell you that? She shouldn’t have mentioned anything.’ He lifted me up on to his lap, even though I was way too old for that.

  ‘Sometimes, Luke, people die, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Even children?’

  ‘Yes, son.’

  ‘Is it God’s will that makes children die?’

  ‘I suppose it must be.’

  ‘But why? And why Paul? He’s really nice. Does that mean I’ll die? Or Brian or William?’

  ‘No, it’s a very rare thing for a child to die. You don’t need to worry about you or your brothers.’

  ‘But if I prayed really, really hard, could I pray away the poison? The poison in his blood?’

  ‘It’s not for us to choose who lives or dies,’ said Dad, ‘but let’s not mention that Paul is dying to the others, okay? It’s not something I want any of you to be thinking about.’

  That night, I heard Mum and Dad arguing. Dad said that Mum shouldn’t have told me about Paul. But later, in bed, I thought maybe Mum had told me for a reason. Maybe God had chosen me to save Paul from eternal damnation.

  In school that week, when we were making welcome banners for the Pope, it all fell into place. I realized I was on an actual mission from God. I constantly badgered Mum about the arrangements for when she’d sing for the Pope. Was it before the Mass or during it? Would she definitely meet him? Would she ask him to bless the holy water? Would she really believe it while he was blessing it? Because that was very important. She was vague about the details. Her schedule for the day was top secret and wouldn’t be confirmed until the last minute because the Pope was a Head of State and there were big security issues around him. Dad and the rest of us had good tickets because of Mum. One million of our three million population was attending this event in the Phoenix Park, and others from all over the world were coming to see the Pope in Ireland. Every window had a papal flag flying from it and most streets were decorated in yellow-and-white bunting. People had cleaned up the fronts of their houses and swept their doorways so as the Pope wouldn’t think we were dirty. Priests and nuns circled our schools, teaching us new prayers and new hymns. I was guilty of the sin of pride because I felt that finally the rest of my class and my neighbourhood were catching up with me in my belief. I went to confession to tell Father Martin, but he said it was okay and that believing was something to be proud of. Sometimes it was really hard to keep track of all the rules.

  As the most religious boy in the school, I was chosen to come and have a special tea with the Archbishop when he visited the school to make sure we were ready to see the Pope. I sat in a room with him and some other priests and a few nuns clucking around him, serving tea and fancy cakes. I was too intimidated and nervous to swallow any of the cakes. Eventually, when the Archbishop was leaving, Father Martin said to him, ‘Now, your grace, you haven’t met Luke Drumm yet, the best boy in the school. We are pretty sure he’s heading for a vocation. A devout boy, I can assure you. His mother is going to be singing for His Holiness at the Mass next week.’

  The tall man stooped down and shook my hand. ‘And who is your mother?’ he said.

  ‘Melissa Craig,’ I said, ‘she’s a singer and actress.’

  The Archbishop turned to Father Martin and said, ‘That showgirl?’ He sniffed. ‘I note she didn’t take her husband’s name. I voted against her personally, but she seems to be popular.’ And then he swept out of the room, followed by his black flock.

  I didn’t like the Archbishop, but I had to put those feelings out of my head and find love in my heart for the task ahead.

  On the day of the Mass, Dad served breakfast at five a.m. I hadn’t slept at all because of the excitement. I spent most of the night on my knees, praying. Mum was collected by a state car with a papal flag insignia on the car door. She was dressed demurely in a white dress topped with a yellow cardigan and white gloves. She had a white mantilla around her neck to cover her hair and face during the Mass. She carried the handbag in which I
had made sure to put the bottle of holy water. I made her promise to get it blessed and she swore she would if it was at all possible. I thought maybe just the fact that the holy water would be so close to the Pope might be enough to make it miraculous.

  The whole neighbourhood came out to wave her off. Everyone was in a good mood, laughing and chatting to each other over garden walls and fences about what they were bringing in their picnic baskets, and which area of the park they had been designated. Some of them were jealous of us because we had seats near the front. Everyone else would be corralled into what looked like sheep pens across the vast expanse of the park in front of the brand-new papal cross. We had all watched it on the news the evening before. But there was no special treatment for us about getting to the park. We got the bus like everybody else. It was so early. The buses were leaving at six a.m. On the way to the bus stop, a rat crossed the footpath right in front of us and disappeared into a drain. A lady behind us screamed when she saw it. I tried to interpret it as a sign. I decided it was telling me that all God’s creatures had a place on the earth and I silently prayed for the rat. The bus driver was grumpy and kept shouting at all of us to sit down and move to the back of the bus to make sure everyone got on. I stood up to let an old man sit down and Dad did the same. At the next stop, Dad slapped Brian and William’s legs to make them stand up for old people too. The mood was festive. The luggage rack was heaving with picnic baskets and you could smell egg sandwiches or early-morning farts down the length of the bus.

  When we got off the bus, we had a mile’s walk ahead of us. We passed the front of the zoo and I wondered if the animals in there were excited too, if they could hear the noise and singing outside. In our droves, we walked and walked, past stalls and prams selling chocolate, flags, minerals, holy statues, posters of the Pope and lots of other memorabilia.