by Siobhan Dowd
'She'd always given me a smile and the time of day. I thought we both knew where we were going.' He shook his head and half smiled, half grimaced. 'You'd have liked a new mam, wouldn't you, Shell? You, Trix and Jimmy? Because that's why I did it. I did it for you.'
Shell shrugged. 'Dunno, Dad. We're fine as we are.' She took two scones off the cooling rack and laid them before him on Mam's favourite plate, a dainty china one with ducks and reeds painted on it. He ate the first scone, cramming it into his mouth at once. The crumbs dribbled from his lips, onto the lapels of his jacket and down his tie.
'So what happened?' Shell coaxed.
He swallowed the last bit and started on the next. His eyes went bleary and his hand shook.
'What happened, Dad? Did she go out walking with you?'
'She didn't,' he said. 'She told me no.'
'Who, Dad? Who told you no?'
He stared at Shell as if she were an idiot. 'I just told you. It was Nora. Who else?'
'Nora? Nora Canterville? The priests' housekeeper?'
'She's been leading me on with her fine cakes and jams for months. You see, she's the best cook in the whole of County Cork.' He shook his head. 'And now she won't have me.' His hand smashed down on the table so hard the plates jumped and the teacup rattled. 'She won't bloody have me.'
Shell stepped back.
'Mr Talent,' he said, mimicking Nora's cultivated accent from two counties eastward. 'It's an honour you're asking, but I'd rather stay in, if you don't mind. On these wet nights we've a grand fire going in the drawing room to keep out the chill and I'm happy out. It's where I call my home.'
Shell thought of Nora Canterville with her tight curls permed fast to her head, her quaint suit of heather wool, her stockings of thick tan. Then she thought of Mam with her pink shiny dress and long slim legs, her hair of fresh-washed chestnut, singing her way through the morning chores. The man was crazed.
'But Dad,' she said. 'She's not even pretty. Not like Mam was.'
He shuffled from his seat and grabbed Shell's arm so fast she didn't have time to dodge. The china plate went flying and smashed to the floor. 'Shut it, Shell,' he menaced. His lips snarled back to his ears, his yellow teeth glistened, with the crumbs lodged between them. 'Don't you breathe a syllable.' He gripped her wrist, wringing it hard. 'What I just said. Don't-you-breathe-a-syllable.' Each word came out a hot, boozy hiss, and his face loomed over hers, getting closer every second.
She wrested her hand from his and picked up the broom. 'No, Dad,' she said. 'I won't.' She started up a clatter with the bristles zooming over the floor, fetching in the fragments of plate and the mess he'd made eating. 'Don't worry, Dad.' He swayed, watching her work. Then he gave her a royal salute, a little wave in the air with his right hand, and staggered out the door back into the night. She heard a sound down by the gatepost like a goat coughing. She knew what that was.
She closed the door to, but didn't lock it, and put the broom away. She put the tea towel over the rest of the scones on the cooling rack. Then she vanished into her bedroom. Jimmy and Trix were sleeping. Softly she drew the bottom bolt across the door, changed into her nightdress and got under the covers. She cuddled up to herself, listening to the sing-song breathing in the dark. Soon her mind was full of rainbows and lightning strikes. Nora Canterville was skating down the shafts of colour instead of Angie Goodie, a steaming tureen in hand. Father Rose was driving Jezebel over the cliff roads into the sky. Declan was tugging her by the arm to the top of Duggans' field. Would you, Shell, or wouldn't you? She slept.
Twelve
In the heart of the night, she woke to the sound of Jimmy groaning. She turned on the light and saw his legs and arms muddled up with flannel sheets, a sweat-gloss on his skin, his face mottled red and white.
'Jimmy,' she whispered.
'It's throbbing mad,' he said.
She touched his forehead and he winced. 'Where? There?' she said.
He didn't answer but flailed his arm around as if his pyjama top were too small for him. Trix stirred in her sleep. He groaned some more.
Shell had never seen him so bad. Jimmy was often poorly. Dad said he did it to attract attention. But tonight she remembered the fate of Michael Rose, the curate's brother, dead from a flu in the brain.
'Maybe you've the meningitis,' she said.
Jimmy started bawling mad.
Shell panicked. She'd never had a sickness in the night to deal with. They had a phone, but Dad had barred them from ever touching it. It sat by his bed in his room beyond the kitchen. It was off-limits.
'Hang on, Jimmy. I'm away to Dr Fallon's,' she said. She unbolted the bedroom door and ran into the kitchen. She flung on her shoes, and ran out into the night. There was a steady drizzle still. Her nightdress was soaked in minutes. She took the short cut over the fields to the village.
The night was black and terrible. Clouds covered the moon. The hedgerows were alive with scrabbles and flaps. She stumbled in a rabbit hole and grazed herself in a thicket. In her head the words of Father Rose chased round like a dog after its tail: We didn't get him to the doctor soon enough soon enough didn't doctor get him soon... The copse shivered with strange sounds. Eyes appeared like devils in the undergrowth. 'Jesus, Lord!' she yelled, out of breath. The eyes vanished. A scurry behind her, a bird of prey flapping, then clear of the last trees, down to the field. The moon came out.
Coolbar came into sight as she ran downhill. She clutched her side, staggering with a stitch, breathing hot and fast. Dr Fallon's house was close by, at the top of the village. She rammed the knocker. 'Please, let him hear us,' she gasped, knocking again. She doubled over. Yellow streaks flared inside her eyelids.
The door opened suddenly. The doctor appeared before she could straighten up. 'It'd better be appendicitis at least,' he muttered. She could see broken sleep in his cross face. His lips were hard and flat.
''S not me, Doctor,' she panted, standing upright. 'It's Jimmy. He's wicked bad.'
'Your father sent you, did he?'
She nodded.
'Couldn't he have phoned? The cut of you!'
Shell looked down. Her nightdress was wrecked. She was soiled and damp and torn. Shell, she heard Mam say in her head, you're the wreck of the Hesperus.
'Wasn't working,' she said. She started crying. 'The phone.'
'OK, Shell. Don't panic. I'll get my bag.'
In a minute they were driving back together round the roads. 'What's wrong with Jimmy, then?' the doctor said. 'Has he a fever?'
'I think it's meningitis, Doctor. The flu you get in the head.'
'Doubt it,' the doctor said. 'No outbreaks at present, as far as I know. Where'd you get that idea?'
'Father Rose, Doctor.'
'Father Rose!' The doctor snorted. He shook his head. 'What's he got to do with it?'
'Nothing. Only he told me about it today, see. His brother had it.'
'Did he indeed?' Dr Fallon shook his head and accelerated. 'That young curate's full of notions.'
Shell didn't reply. She thought of Jimmy in his hot, fevered agony, and Michael Rose who'd been named for an archangel, dying young. They sped round the last sharp turn. The grey breezeblock wall that marked their bungalow loomed ahead through the darkness. She realized she'd left the front door wide open in her panic.
Dr Fallon followed her into the house, through the kitchen and down to the back room, to Jimmy's bed.
Trix woke up when they came in, whimpering in confusion. Shell went over to her. 'Whisht, Trix,' she murmured. The doctor went over to Jimmy. Shell heard him say, 'Hello, young man...' but she didn't stop to hear more. Mam had often told her when she lay dying that the doctor's visits were private. Shell wrapped Trix up in a blanket and carried her in her wet, muddy arms to the kitchen. She plumped her down in Dad's armchair and mimed a shush. Then she crept into the hall, to the door that led off to Dad's bedroom. She listened at the keyhole. She could just hear the sound of him snoring. She came back to the kitchen, got out the co
mb and went over Trix's hair again.
Dr Fallon soon joined them. 'Where's your father?' he said.
Shell stared at him. There was a scrape in his voice. A cold fist yanked her insides. 'Is he that bad, Doctor?' she said.
'Jimmy? No-he's only an infection.'
'It's not the meningitis?'
'Of course not. You can get that notion out of your head. He's a cut below the shoulder that's gone bad. I've given him an injection and some pills.'
'So-I was on time calling you?'
'You were, Shell-with time to spare. He'll be right as rain. But I'm glad we didn't leave it longer. He's been running a fever. He must have cut it days ago. Did you not notice?'
Shell shook her head. 'No, Doctor. I didn't.' Days. He'd been hurt for days and she hadn't known? She hung her head. Dear Jesus. She thought of all the times she'd slapped Jimmy, feeling a rage with him that she didn't understand. Dear Jesus, forgive me for my lack of loving.
'You weren't to know, Shell,' Dr Fallon said. His voice was different. The scrape had gone out of it. 'But I'd like a word with your father.'
'He's in bed, Doctor. He's gone asleep again. Since he sent me for you, I mean.'
The doctor walked out to the hall. Shell heard him open her dad's door. He came back with a wrinkle on his nose. 'I see,' he said. He looked sharply at Shell and at Trix, who'd a thumb in her mouth, a habit she'd gone back to in their troubles. 'I see.' He picked up his bag. 'Make sure Jimmy has a pill with his food. Three times a day. And get yourself out of those wet clothes.' He shook his head, glanced around at the kitchen as if it smelled bad. 'Good luck,' he said, and left.
Shell put Trix back to bed. Then she crept over to Jimmy. 'Are you awake, Jimmy?'
He opened his eyes.
'Is it sore?' she whispered.
He nodded. 'A small bit.'
'Can I see it?'
He eased his arm out from the pyjama top. 'It stung mad when he wiped it,' Jimmy said.
An angry gash of about an inch was halfway between his elbow and shoulder. It had gone a crusty yellow, with red skin all around. She felt the hot hard mound around it.
'How'd you do that, Jimmy?'
'It was a stone,' he said.
'A stone?'
He nodded. 'The other morning. I found this sharp small stone. Only I didn't put it on the cairn. I tried it out. To see if it was sharp enough to cut.'
Shell nodded. 'I see.'
'I've it in my treasure box still.'
'You should throw it out, Jimmy. A bad stone like that.'
'No!'
'Why not?'
'It's Stone Age. It has a point. Like an arrow.'
Shell shrugged. 'Doubt it.'
Jimmy wriggled back into his pyjamas. ''Tis. I know it.'
'OK so, it is.' She smiled. 'When you're better, Jimmy, I'll get you a present. From McGraths'.'
'Would you, Shell?'
'I will. What would you like?'
He furrowed up his face to think about it for such a long time Shell thought he'd gone asleep. Then he stared up at her with hungry eyes. 'Shell,' he whispered, 'I'd like a bucket.'
'A bucket?'
'A bucket and spade. For the strand.'
'But you have them already-out the back somewhere.'
'That old bucket's split. And the spade's gone.'
'OK, Jimmy. I'll get you the bucket and spade.' She didn't know where she'd get the money. But she knew she'd done right, because soon after he dropped off to sleep with a peaceful look on his narrow white face. She couldn't sleep herself. She sat by his bed, stroking his thick head of hair. Soon her mam was sitting beside her, an arm around her shoulder. Her soft humming filled the peaceful dark, going up and down the lazy notes of a song Shell couldn't quite remember.
Thirteen
Palm Sunday came and went, with no sign of Father Rose at church. He'd to give the Mass that week down on Goat Island. Monday passed, then Tuesday. By Spy Wednesday, Jimmy had recovered. He ate his breakfast and demanded his present.
Shell remembered the five coins she'd scattered for the poor of the parish in their hour of need. She prayed Jesus to count Jimmy as one of them and went up to the fields to retrieve them. She scrabbled around for ages but found only three of them. She'd priced the bucket and spade at McGraths' already. She hadn't enough.
She searched the house high and low. A ten pence had rolled under the fridge. In the lining of her school bag was another five. She still needed more.
Dad was out collecting. She went into his room. The dressing-table mirrors enticed her over for another game of Eternity, but she resisted them. She crept to the wardrobe and went through his pockets.
She found what she needed and stole it, making the sign of the cross.
She went to the village next, locking Trix and Jimmy into the house so they couldn't run into mischief on the roads. When she explained her errand, they solemnly swore to be good while she was out.
Mr McGrath let her spend a long time choosing. She bought a bucket of apple green and a spade of ocean blue. When she came to pay, he threw in another spade, ladybird red, with a wink. 'Our secret, Shell,' he said, like he had with the bubblegums the week before. She smiled.
Before heading home, she walked up to the church. The side door was open. She crept up into the gallery, sat down and listened hard.
Jesus was somewhere close. The wood groaned again. Light played in the aisles below. She prayed to him to forgive her the theft of money. She prayed for the repose of the souls of Michael Rose and Moira Talent, her own dead mam, and of all the departed. She prayed for the troubles of the world to end. She was still on the last, when voices started up in the vestry. Father Carroll and Father Rose came through into the main body of the church, chatting. They paused by the altar. Shell crouched down behind the balcony.
'Back again, to the time of the purple cloths,' Father Carroll sighed.
'There's always a heaviness at this time of year,' Father Rose agreed.
'Nora has the lilies organized.' Father Carroll went to the lectern and turned a page or two of the Bible. 'Joe Talent's doing the readings.'
'Joe Talent? Again?'
'He reads like a rusty nail, I know. But he'd be hurt if I passed him over.'
A shudder of mirth went through Shell in the gallery. She curled over her knees to press it back down. Her pew creaked.
'It's windy today,' Father Carroll said.
'They're a poor family, the Talents, aren't they?' Father Rose asked. The way he said it made the laughing inside Shell stop.
'The poorest. The father's on the social since his wife died. He's a lost dog without her.'
'When did she die?'
'A year ago last autumn. A lovely woman, was Moira. There was a kindness to her and a voice to charm an angel. He's like a car with no juice without her.' Father Carroll must have walked down the aisle, for his voice grew louder. 'Will I lock the church now?' he mused, more to himself than Father Rose. He was right below Shell. She froze, imagining being locked in the whole day with Jimmy and Trix alone at home.
'I've met the eldest girl,' Father Rose was saying.
'No, I won't,' Father Carroll muttered. 'There might be some poor soul needs a prayer on this holy day...What did you say?'
'Shell. The older Talent girl. I've had a couple of chats with her. She brought the collection over for her father one day last week. She admitted she was mitching school.'
Father Carroll sighed. 'Don't I know. Miss Donoghue over at the national school's been onto me about the younger ones. What can you or I do, but pray?'
'I rang the school.'
'You what?'
'I rang the school. And they rang the father.'
So that was why Dad had insisted they go back to school the last week of term. Father Carroll said nothing but Shell just heard a tctch. He moved away again. She risked sneaking another peak over the edge of the balcony from her hiding place in the gallery. Father Carroll's two hands were clasping the communion r
ails. His knuckles gleamed white.
'I wonder...' Father Rose added. 'I mean-the cut of them-should we not do something?'
Father Carroll's hands dropped to his sides. Father Rose was looking at the crucified Jesus as he spoke. Shell held her breath. There was a current going between them, back and forth, hot and tight, filling the whole church.
'Joe collects for charity most days,' Father Carroll said. 'He sends me in small, regular sums. I'd say he keeps a good bit back.'
Shell bit her thumb to stop herself from making a sound. Dad's thieving was known?
'And I say, let him have it,' Father Carroll continued. 'He collects for the poor and that's who he is. There's nothing wrong with begging, Gabriel. Beggars have always been close to God. Talent's just a beggar of the prouder kind. Good luck to him. That's what I do for the Talents. Before God.'
Father Rose didn't reply. He folded his arms and examined the floor.
Father Carroll continued. 'He spends the money on drink: is that what you're thinking? How should we know or judge if he does? A drop never did any harm.'
'They're not a happy family,' said Father Rose.
'How would you know?'
'I feel it. In my bones.'
'You've only been here a few weeks. You can't know.'
'I do know. From the way Shell is. I'm sure--'
'Sure of what?'
Father Rose shrugged. 'Sure something's not right. I'd have the social services onto them.'
'Shush!' Father Carroll pounded the communion rail. 'You're from a big town. That kind of talk may go down all right where you come from, but not here. In Coolbar we look after our own.'
There was a long silence. A cloud must have passed over the sun because the light in the church dimmed. Then Father Carroll put an arm on Father Rose's shoulder. 'Interfering in such cases may be sinful, Gabriel,' he suggested. 'You were seen giving that young one a lift-I'd advise you not to in future. With the scandal the church has had, we've no cause to be driving around unaccompanied females.'
Father Rose jerked away on the word 'scandal'. He in his turn grasped the altar rail so his knuckles showed. The tables of the moneylenders were about to go over. There was a hissing in Shell's ears. Father Carroll walked slowly back towards the vestry. Father Rose did not follow. At the vestry door Father Carroll turned. 'I mean the warning kindly, Gabriel,' he relented. 'You're still young in your vocation.' He drew an arc in the air. 'Leaving well alone is often wise. Mouthing off to the authorities may be no better than what Judas Iscariot did. Reflect on that. Today of all days.'
