Three Little Truths

by Eithne Shortall

  ‘Shoot!’ Cormac took a step back. ‘I don’t understand. I thought I sorted this just before . . . Okay. Just wait here, okay?’ And he went in, battling the smoke with his lanky arms like he was clearing a path in a forest. There was something gloriously nerdy about him. She, the queen of sarcasm, liked how earnest he was.

  A minute later he returned, his forehead creased apologetically. ‘How do you feel about a roast chicken dinner without the roast chicken?’

  ‘Just how I like it.’

  He held his fringe back tightly as his face twitched with stress.

  Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

  ‘Okay, well. You wait here’ – he opened a side door and pushed her in – ‘and I’ll try to get rid of the smell and salvage some dinner.’

  ‘All right,’ said Robin as the door closed behind her. She took in the chest of drawers and double bed. The green checked shirt from the other night was thrown on the floor under the window. This was Cormac’s bedroom. A faint smell of smoke and chicken lingered but it was usurped by aftershave. The same scent was masculine on his skin, but awkwardly boyish in the air. Would Jack’s room smell like this one day, too?

  Robin heard doors and windows opening and Cormac muttering. The blanket on the bed was thin and the sheets were different shades of navy. There were postcards of paintings thumbtacked to the wall and two books on the bed stand: a fantasy novel she’d never heard of and a biography of Harold Pinter. Robin hadn’t read a book in ages. She heard Cormac’s voice clearer.

  ‘Okay, great . . .’

  She moved to the door and pressed her ear against it.

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

  There were footsteps and she hurried back to the end of the bed. But he didn’t come in, not for another few minutes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing open the bedroom door with his elbow and carrying in two plates of food. He set them down on the chest of drawers and lifted his shirt to his nose. ‘I smell like I bathed in grease.’

  ‘All okay?’

  ‘There are bowls of baking soda all over the kitchen, so they should soak up the smell.’ He stood just inside the closed door, his hands on his hips, as if he was trying to decide what catastrophe to fight next.

  ‘I didn’t know baking soda got rid of odours,’ said Robin, impressed.

  ‘Neither did I,’ admitted Cormac. ‘I rang my mother. Here . . .’ He took a plate off the chest of drawers and proffered it. Robin stood from the bed and, as Cormac extended his arm further, he also recoiled. ‘Oh God, I really do stink.’

  Robin took the plate from him and placed it back on the chest of drawers. ‘Let me?’ She took one more step and her face was at his neck. She bent in slightly and sniffed his shirt. ‘It’s . . .’ She moved her head to the other side and breathed in. She could smell their almost-dinner but an inch higher, at his skin, she breathed in the clean aphrodisiac from earlier. His chest rose and fell. She thought she could hear his heart.

  ‘It’ll have to come off, I think,’ she said quietly, placing a hand on either side of the hem of his shirt and lifting. He helped her pull it over his head. ‘Hmm,’ she said, taking in a chest that had more definition than she’d expected.

  He looked embarrassed and she knew it might have sounded sarcastic but that wasn’t how she meant it. ‘You look great,’ she said as genuinely as she could manage.

  His arm was across her lower back. He held her there and raised his other hand to her face. He tilted her chin up. His unmasked affection had her embarrassed now too and she was about to pull back when, ever so gently, he kissed her. Once, twice.

  ‘More,’ she whispered.

  He dropped both hands to his side and entwined his fingers with hers. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, until Robin’s lips started to swell and the potatoes were definitely cold. She put her hands on his cool smooth shoulders. They were beautiful shoulders. She stood on her tippy toes and kissed one. He smiled. She kissed the other, and he brushed his hair from his face.

  ‘Do you want . . .?’

  They moved towards the navy bed and, on the sheets, they took their time. Indicating to each other when they wanted to remove an item of clothing and not growing impatient when some took more dexterity than others. Lace-up boots had been a terrible idea. Robin didn’t think about her underwear with the rip along the waistband until they were all she was wearing. Cormac barely looked at them anyway. Naked, she pulled up the covers and threw them over him.

  She pulled him closer and wrapped her arms around him as she pushed her body against his.

  ‘I think you’re great,’ he said, and Robin went to make a joke about it, to say of course he did now she was naked in his bed. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to cry. I think you’re great. The no-bullshit honesty of it, and all the ways it wasn’t true.

  She kissed him again, seriously this time, like she needed oxygen or sustenance or just something that was good. Then she guided him inside her. She and Eddy never watched each other during sex, but she looked at Cormac, watching him watching her, and it felt like magic. She loved his eyes and his skin; she loved the breadth of his face and the few brown hairs in his dark moustache. She loved him, she thought; she didn’t really, of course, she barely knew him, but in that moment, in that act, she did. He was perfect.

  When it was over, he pulled her on to him and still Robin feared she might cry. She never cried, but she felt like a different person here. The rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arms against her lower back. She felt like he would go to war for her. Wasn’t that often how it was after sex? Until someone got up and left the room to pee or get a glass of water or whatever it might be that instantly broke the spell.

  Her phone rang then and he shifted. There it was: the practical thing that destroyed the magic. She rolled over, breathing in the last of it, and reached for the pocket of her coat at the end of the bed. She was glad it hadn’t fallen to the floor; her worst angle was definitely naked and on her hunkers.

  Johnny.

  ‘Sorry, Robin. Jack woke up and said he’s allowed two bananas during the night but I wasn’t sure if—’

  ‘I’ll phone you right back.’ She hung up and looked over her shoulder, but Cormac hadn’t heard her brother.

  ‘All okay?’ he said sleepily, the tranquillising effect of an orgasm.

  ‘I should go.’

  And suddenly he was more awake. ‘Was that not – did you not want—’

  ‘No, no!’ She leapt back up towards him and kissed his lips. ‘That was grrreat. Tony the Tiger great. I just have to go.’

  ‘I promised you dinner and you got nothing. I’m a terrible host.’

  ‘I couldn’t eat another bite.’

  ‘Can we do it again?’

  ‘What? Make dinner plans and then not eat a thing?’

  He nodded, scratching at one of those lovely shoulders.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said, allowing herself a big giddy grin as she pulled her dress slowly over her head.

  *** Pine Road Poker ***

  Fiona:

  96FM!!!

  Edie:

  ?

  Fiona:

  Turn on 96FM!!!

  Ruby:

  Already listening.

  Carmel:

  Got it.

  Oh no.

  Edie:

  What?

  Carmel:

  They’re talking about the bathroom list at Saint Ornatín’s.

  Bernie:

  Oh my God. Trish?? Are you listening??

  Ruby:

  I’m playing ‘national disgrace’ bingo. Two mentions so far.

  Carmel:

  Some girl who was on the list has phoned in. Lots of angry callers.

  Bernie:

  What kind of mother would let their teenage daughter on this show? The host is so sleazy!

  Rita Ann:

  She’s a great vocabulary, to be fair to the gurdle.

  *girl

/>   Ellen:

  It’s not just ‘some girl’. It’s Sinead Costello – Martha Rigby’s daughter.

  Fiona:

  Who?

  Ellen:

  New family at No 8.

  Rita Ann:

  Is it? Oh Lord.

  Ruby:

  And again! Bingo!

  Fiona:

  Trish?? Are you listening?? Trish??

  Trish:

  As I already said, I cannot discuss this matter.

  Bernie:

  As neighbours and parents, that’s not going to cut it, Trish. That girl is telling the whole city what a disgrace Saint Ornatín’s is!

  Carmel:

  Isn’t that what you were doing on Prime Time on Tuesday night, Bernie? And that was national TV, not local radio.

  Ellen:

  Bernie was raising the profile of poor management at our schools. She did it in a calm and reasonable manner. Bernie is a trained media professional.

  Ruby:

  She was raising the profile of something all right ...

  Fiona:

  Is this going to affect the school’s ranking in the annual league tables?? Maybe I need to be looking at other back-up schools for my two! Trish??

  Ruby:

  She really does have a great vocabulary for a young one. Her mother must be proud.

  Rita Ann:

  What’s a Patrick Norman when it’s at home?

  *Practical Worm

  *Patriarchal norm

  Ellen:

  I told you that family had no community spirit.

  SIXTEEN

  Martha was folding sheets in her bedroom when her phone beeped. It was Edie, from up the road.

  I think Sinead’s on 96FM. In case you don’t know . . . x

  Martha read the message twice before reaching for Robert’s clock radio. The digital face blinked 22:12. Sinead was hardly on the radio. She’d just gone to bed; she was up early Saturday mornings for soccer practice. Martha turned the dial from Newstalk to 96FM.

  ‘. . . not surprised, Frank. When I was a lad, we had respect for women but now why would you bother? You only have to look at how they’re dressing to know they’ve no interest in respect and sure, as the young lady was just saying, she doesn’t even like having a door held open for her. This is just the way society’s going now, Frank, to hell in a handcart. And that’s all I can say on the matter.’

  Martha glanced back at her phone and double-checked she had the right frequency. Why did Edie have her listening to this garbage? Be Frank with Frank. You didn’t have to be from Dublin to have heard of the late-night phone-in show, and it hadn’t found fame through thoughtful debate and nuanced explorations.

  ‘All right, Gerry, well thank you for your contribution. We have Mary on the line now and she says, wait for it, she says this kind of thing is happening all over the country! Well, that’s a frightening thought. Do we really not know what’s going on in our educational facilities? I have to say, it’s making me consider my children’s school in a whole new light. Go ahead, Mary – be frank with Frank!’

  ‘Hi, Frank. Have to say I love the show. You’ve a lovely voice.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mary.’

  ‘Sort of like butter, slipping and sliding all over my radio.’

  ‘Careful now, Mary. I’m a happily married man. Ha ha ha. Do you want to share your views?’

  Martha started to compose a response to Edie.

  ‘Oh yes, Frank, well, as I was saying to your nice researcher there, my son actually took my granddaughters out of their school because of this exact kind of thing. So I’m not at all surprised. It’s happening everywhere.’

  ‘This exact kind of thing, Mary? I’m shocked. Tell us more.’

  ‘Well, in my granddaughters’ school, which I don’t mind naming, I’d be only too happy, it was—’

  ‘Please don’t, Mary.’

  ‘Okay, right so, I won’t. But the kind of behaviour – and this was sanctioned by the teachers. They were only twelve, barely out of national school, and they were told all about s-e-x. One of them came home and started telling my son about erogenous zones. He nearly fell off his chair. As did I when he told me. I didn’t know about that until I was married. And why would I need to have known before then? If girls just kept their knickers on . . .’

  Martha had had enough. She reached over and was about to snap off the radio when a shaky version of a very familiar voice piped up.

  ‘Why is the blame always put on women? Why – why is Mary putting the blame on women and not on men?’

  ‘That’s Sinead Costello there. If you’ve just tuned in to us, folks. She was one of seven young female students named on a so-called “Rape List” in a male bathroom at Saint Ornatín’s secondary school in north Dublin. The list said, can you remind us of the wording, Sinead?’

  A pause. ‘It – it said, the girl with the most ticks beside her name would be raped.’

  ‘Truly, truly shocking stuff, folks. And some serious questions need to be asked of school management, I think we’d all agree. You said earlier, Sinead, that you weren’t surprised by this list either, but for different reasons. Do you want to tell us those again?’

  ‘Well, yes, okay. We – we live in a society where men are allowed to do what they want to women, and they just get away with it. Just because women are physically weaker, they think they can treat us how they like, humiliate us, use us for their amusement. Women are too scared to stop them, but we can’t be scared. We have to fight back.’

  ‘Remind us how old you are, Sinead.’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Six-teen. And at sixteen, have you really experienced these things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shocking. Absolutely shocking. And where were your parents when this was going on?’

  ‘W-well, recently our house was broken into while we were at home and my mother—’

  ‘Sinead!’

  Martha flung her phone on the half-folded sheets, threw herself out of her bedroom and into Sinead’s, where her daughter was sitting cross-legged on her bed in the Harry Potter pyjamas she’d had since she was twelve.

  ‘Get off that right now! Right now!’

  Sinead pulled her phone away from her ear and covered the speaker with her hand. ‘It’s important people—’

  ‘No!’ Martha grabbed the phone out of her daughter’s hand and hung up.

  ‘Mum! You can’t just—’

  ‘I can do what I like; I’m the parent. What you can’t do is call late-night radio shows and tell them our business without even consulting me. I thought you were in bed, for God’s sake! What were you thinking? Are you stupid?’ Martha was fuming, the pent-up emotion gushing out of her as if a valve had suddenly been released. ‘These people only want to exploit you. What about when you go into school on Monday? Well? Did you think about that?’

  ‘Someone has to do something, Mum! The school is acting like nothing happened. They’re going to forget, they’re going to let them get away with it. People should know – they should know what their precious sons are capable of.’ The drawstring in her Harry Potter shorts had frayed from wear and, on her chest, a toothpaste stain covered Harry’s scar. Why hadn’t she thrown out those pyjamas? Had that stain been there since . . .

  ‘I have to call your father.’ Robert was at some retirement do, but should be done by now. ‘And I’m keeping this.’ Martha picked up Sinead’s phone. ‘Just – just stay there, and keep the shouting down or you’ll wake Orla.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I shout? I’m angry. I refuse to be another polite, nice little girl.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ muttered Martha. She went to retrieve her own phone and tried Robert, the fury rising in her with each unanswered ring. After the third call she spoke into the answering machine through gritted teeth: ‘Sorry to disturb you, Robert. It’s just your family, who need you desperately, again. But that’s fine. Don’t worry. I hope you’re enjoying your party.’ Mar
tha hung up and waited for herself to calm slightly. Then, having no one else, she rang Ellis. She explained as quickly as she could and he said it was fine, he had just finished his shift, he’d be right over.

  Less than twenty minutes later, Ellis was jumping out of a taxi and heading up their short garden path. Sinead came down from her room and all three of them sat around the kitchen table. Sinead refused to put on a cardigan even though the kitchen was freezing, but Martha threw a rug at her all the same. She couldn’t stand to see the outline of her daughter’s nipples against that pyjama top.

  ‘Mum told me about the rape list at school, Sinead. What a disgusting thing for someone to do. I’m really sorry.’

  Martha loved her son. She loved his kindness and honesty and compassion.

  ‘Thank you, Ellis,’ said Sinead with such restrained dignity Martha nearly rolled her eyes. ‘It is disgusting,’ she added, shooting her mother an accusatory stare. ‘And thank you for calling it what it is. Everyone else is being euphemistic. They just say The List.’ Sinead drew quotation marks with her fingers. ‘As if some fifth year wrote his shopping on the back of the bathroom door.’

  ‘Nobody’s saying it isn’t serious,’ said Martha, rising to the bait. ‘I know it’s serious. The distinction that has to be made, I think, is that nobody was raped.’

  ‘That we know of.’

  ‘Sinead.’

  ‘Well, maybe they were, Mum,’ she snapped. ‘Maybe they were and we don’t know. Maybe they’re too embarrassed to talk about it. Maybe they’re in denial.’ Tears appeared in Sinead’s eyes but she continued to stare at Martha defiantly.

  Martha seemed to spend half her life being grateful she was no longer a teenager and the other half petrified of the era in which her daughters were coming of age. She looked at her skinny, scrappy, whip-smart, crusading daughter shivering in her favourite pyjamas that were tainted for ever. She wanted to carry her upstairs, wrap her in layers of bubble wrap and store her under the bed until the time came to celebrate her twenty-first birthday.