by Anne Donovan
They have tae fight, you know – it’s no a fashion parade.
It’s a good life for a boy. He’s that good wi his haunds too, he’d learn a trade.
Have another cuppa tea, Gran, said ma da. Patrick’s no really the type.
Patrick never said anythin, just went on wi his jigsaw or his model makin or whatever he was daein wi his long fingers. He looks dead different fae the resty us; fair straight hair and skin that pale and thin you can near see through it, while we’re all brown and curly-haired. Like tinks, ma gran’d say when she was in a bad mood.
Patrick appeared at the door.
You finished? Ah want tae go tae bed.
Our room’s a guddle of Barbies and scrunchies, My Little Pony and Animal Hospital toys, hauf of them broken or twisted fae bein left on radiators or ootside in the rain. The wardrobe door was hingin open and a long red scarf ah’d started knittin in Primary Seven and never finished, still on its needles, trailed out, wrapped round one of the twins’ pleated navy school skirts. The three beds are hunched thegether wi only a few inches between them. Ah don’t know where they’d of put Shona if she’d arrived. Mona’s bed has a Princess Barbie cover, Rona’s has a Horse Riding Barbie cover and mines has a purple and lime green Groovy Chicks one with a shiny blob on it where ah spilled some glittery nail polish. Mammy was really mad at me.
That cover’s split new, Fiona.
She’d scrubbed it for ages but the stain never came aff. Ah quite liked it but; at night when the twins were asleep and ah was readin in bed, the mark glinted in the light of the torch.
Ah climbed over the other two beds and sat on mines, the wan nearest the windae. Emily would of liked the purple background; purple was her favourite colour and she had a frock that was purple wi lilac lightnin patterns on it. She had a room of her ain but, a toty wee wan just big enough for a bed; she’d sit there in the cauld of winter wi her notebook on her lap, writin Wuthering Heights. Wuthering Heights is the best book ah’ve ever read, but Emily was a poet too and ah’d learned some of her poems aff by heart.
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere
Fiona, are you finished?
Nearly.
Will you bring the washin through, hen?
Mammy stuffed the washin in the machine afore she went out tae her work. She does part-time in Boots, starts at ten three days a week.
Don’t forget tae take that washin out when it’s done. She opened the fridge and put in the mince she’d just cooked. That’s for the night. And make sure the twins eat fruit for their lunch.
Although the twins were in the next room ah knew they were makin the silent vomitin noises they always done when the word fruit was mentioned.
And keep them quiet while Patrick’s sleepin – take them tae the swing park. You could read your book while they’re playin.
Aye that’ll be right. See, she thinks the twins are wee angels and when Mammy’s around they nearly always are, but the minute she’s out of sight they turn intae monsters. You can almost see the change comin over them as she puts on her coat, like the way you smell thunder in the air afore the storm actually breaks, then when the door closes behind her the devils dance out their eyes and they start. The number of times she’s come hame tae an upside doon settee, earth fae a plant spilled all ower the carpet, and turnt tae me and said, Fiona, in that voice. How could you let the twins make such a mess?
And they’re climbin up her legs like squirrels, cuddlin her and sayin, Mammy, you’re hame.
They’re nearly as bad wi ma da, but he puts on that helpless look and Mammy says Bobby, but no in the tone she says Fiona, mair like, well what d’you expect, he’s a man.
As usual, the second the door slammed Mona started haulin the cushions aff the couch in the livin room. We’re tigers and you’re our prey. She growled and clawed at me.
Let’s go tae the swing park, ah said.
Don’t want tae go tae the swing park. Want tae kill wur prey. Rona bit ma leg through ma jeans.
Hey, pack it in. Ah’ve got Smarties for yous.
The twins’ll dae anythin for chocolate and Patrick’ll dae anythin for a quiet life so he gies me money tae buy sweeties.
Gimme, gimme.
After we’ve been tae the park.
At the swing park the twins climbed up the chute the
wrang way while ah read ma biography of Emily. Her brother and sisters and her all lived in this hoose on the edge of the moors; they went out for long walks and made up their ain imaginary world. Their brother Branwell got a box of toy soldiers so they each picked wan and made up stories aboot it, wrote them doon in wee booklets.
The wumman next tae me on the bench said, Are they your wee sisters?
When ah looked up Rona was hingin upside doon fae the chains on the swing and Mona was shovin a toddler aff the baby chute. Ah shut ma book.
C’mon, we’re gaun hame.
How?
Dinnertime. Anyhow, it’s startin tae rain.
* * *
Later in the efternoon, ah got out paper and felties and scissors. Ah cut the paper intae squares and folded them so they were like wee books, then sat Mona and Rona doon at the table.
Are we playin a game? said Mona.
We’re gonnae write stories about your Barbies.
But we’ve got stories about them. In the Barbie comic.
Ah know, but new stories, wans we make up wursels.
The twins have got loadsa different Barbies but they each have a special favourite they drag aboot wi them. Rona’s is called Bendy Barbie because, due tae some accident, she has a big bit missin fae her leg and it bends round as if she’s double-jointed. Mona’s is called Bubbly Barbie cause she’s always greetin.
Ah’ll dae the writin. You just tell me the words tae put doon.
The twins looked at each other then Rona said, Okay.
Ah’ll start, ah said. It was the first day of the summer holidays.
Bendy Barbie went tae the park, said Rona. She was playin on the chute.
Ah printed the words, dead neat.
Along came Bubbly Barbie. She pushed Bendy Barbie aff the chute. Mona whacked Rona’s Barbie wi hers. Bendy Barbie started greetin so she was Bubbly Barbie noo.
Are you sure this is what you want in the story? ah said.
Rona hit Mona’s Barbie back, then the two of them started batterin each other. Just then Patrick appeared in his stripy jammies.
What’s this – Blue Peter?
A zebra, a stripy zebra. Tigers kill zebras! shouted Rona.
She and Mona stood up on their chairs, started clawin at Patrick and growlin.
Then suddenly a miraculous change came over the twins’ faces. They smiled sweetly, sat doon and started tae cuddle the dolls. They must be like dugs, can hear things humans cannae, for the next second there was Mammy.
Clear that stuff aff the table, would you, Fiona?
The twins rushed to switch on their music.
Just because we’re married
Don’t mean we can’t fool around.
Let’s walk out through the moonlight
And lay the blanket on the ground.
Should they be listenin tae that? said Da, who’d just come in the door.
What? said Mammy, stirrin the mince.
Never mind, said ma da.
Efter tea Mammy took the twins tae their line dancin. They’re the youngest in the class but they’re stars. For the displays they wear cowboy hats and waistcoats wi shiny fringes; it’s like watchin wan person, as they step and birl, turn and clap, spot on the beat.
It was dead quiet without them. Patrick, ma da and me sat in a row on the couch. There was a decoratin programme on the TV and a guy in an orange tee shirt was witterin on aboot paint effects. Patrick watches this every week and Da just sits in fronty anythin that’s on the box. Ah looked up from ma book.
Da, what’s consumption?
Consumption no be done aboot it
?
Da?
Whit, hen?
It’s the Brontës. There was six of them at the start and the two big sisters died of consumption. Whit is it?
It’s a disease.
Ah know that – whit kind of disease?
Some kind of pneumonia or that. They’d all kinds of diseases in they days we don’t really get noo. Your granny had scarlet fever when she was wee. My God, would you look at the colour he’s puttin on that wall.
Pistachio, said Patrick.
You’d need tae be well pistachio-ed tae paint yer livin room like that.
Ah could hear Mammy and the twins outside. If ah got out the road quick ah’d miss their bedtime. Ah slipped through the close, away tae the far endy the back court and hunkered doon at the wall. Mrs Flanagan’s washin was still out, her enormous great drawers and her man’s gigantic tartan boxers saggin fae the line. Ah think if ma bum was as big as that ah’d dry ma washin inside. In the bin shelter the Jacksons’ grey cat slithered round the edge of a wheelie bin, its tail skitterin against the plastic.
Ah leaned on the wall, took Wuthering Heights out ma pocket and opened it at ma favourite bit.
‘My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath, a source of little visible delight, but necessary.’
Patrick came doon the path carryin a plastic binbag.
Mammy’s wonderin where you are. Better get inside.
Okay. Patrick, are there any moors round here?
Moors?
Aye. Emily used tae wander aboot the moors.
Ah don’t think you want tae dae that. You might get consumption.
Consumption no be done aboot it?
Patrick stood leanin against the washin pole, swingin the bag fae side tae side. The grass was all worn and patchy under his foot.
If you like, ah’ll teach you tae bake bread.
Really?
Ah’ll bring hame some yeast the morra. Mammy’s no workin so you won’t have tae watch the twins. You can watch yer dough risin instead.
Patrick lifted the lid of the bin and chucked the binbag inside. Then he went out the gate and doon the lane. The last of the sun was vanishin over the roof tops and the back of the buildin looked like a castle, big grey blocks a sandstone risin out the earth. Deep recessed sills. Mammy would of liked a new house wi wur ain garden, but Da loved tenements. Solid, he’d say. Built tae last. He was a tiler tae trade, done bathrooms and kitchens maistly, but he loved the tiles in our close, the subtlety of their colours, even the wee cracks that ran through them. They don’t make them like that noo.
Our flat was two up and at the back bedroom windae the curtains were drawn. With a bit of luck the twins would be lyin next tae their scabby Barbies, sleepin like wee angels, breathin deeply and dreamin about line dancin. Ma and Da would be sittin on the couch thegether, watchin TV.
The grass felt sticky wi damp and deep grey settled round the back court. The fluorescent light in our kitchen flickered then snapped on, and Mammy’s face was at the windae, peerin out. She spotted me and smiled, made a T sign wi her index fingers. Ah gied her the thumbs-up, lifted ma book, and heided inside.
Being Emily by Anne Donovan is published by Canongate Books Ltd.
HIEROGLYPHICS AND OTHER STORIES
ANNE DONOVAN
‘A page-turner to make you laugh and cry.’ Scotsman
This beautiful collection gives voice to a variety of different characters: from the little girl who wants to look ‘subtle’ for her father’s funeral, to a child who has an email pen pal on Jupiter, to an old lady who becomes a star through ‘zimmerobics’. It introduced Anne Donovan to readers for the first time, and announced one of the most exciting new writers in Britain. Its charm, wit and poignancy continue to sparkle in its pages.
‘Conjures up spellbinding stories of childhood and change, in voices so vibrant they leave you speechless.’ Sunday Herald
ISBN 978 1 84195 519 3
www.canongate.tv
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to family and friends, and to everyone who has given support and encouragement during the writing process
By the same author
Hieroglyphics and Other Stories
Being Emily
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2003
by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2009
by Canongate Books Ltd
Copyright © Anne Donovan, 2002
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
Being Emily was first published in 2008
by Canongate Books Ltd
The author would like to thank the Scottish Arts Council
for a bursary which enabled her to devote time to
writing this book
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on
request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 552 1
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