by Siobhan Dowd
His eyes were fixed on the wall where the whiskey had splashed.
'I loved your mam, Shell.'
The light in the room dimmed, as if a cloud had passed the sun. In Shell's mind, the snowflakes were falling upwards, as if going back to the place from which they'd come. Mam was leaving them with silent steps. She and Dad were on their own. The bleakness returned, heavy and still.
Dad's eyes met hers. 'I loved her, Shell.' The wreck of a life was in his face.
'I know, Dad,' Shell said. She was back at the foaming waves, kicking and romping. Ice cream, a penny a lump. 'I know.' A tear slid down her cheek. She reached her hand out towards his. 'But Dad, the confession--'
The door behind her opened. The guard came into the room. 'Molloy's orders,' he said. 'I'm sorry. Time's up.'
Dad stood up. He waved a hand over his face and shook his head. He turned away and walked to the window of frosted glass. She saw his fingers there, going over the reticulations. Up, down, side to side.
'Bye now, Shell,' he said.
The guard waited, coughed.
'Bye, Dad.' His fingers were like the butterflies again, up and down the pane of glass. She saw him nod slightly. He was miles away.
She'd no choice but to go.
Forty-four
The next morning Trix, Jimmy and Shell sat in a heap on the bed cutting up the stories. They'd mushroomed overnight and there was no hiding them in the fire pile. Dead babies littered the counterpane. Superintendent Garda Dermot Molloy asserts...A source close to the family suggests... Trix gathered the shreds up and tossed them over the three of them like confetti. Shell shut her eyes. Somewhere in a Cork laboratory, the babies were side by side on a slab. A man in a mask was doing things to them. She saw syringes, scissors, needles. Thread, tubes, tissues. Four eyes of button-glass blue.
Mrs Duggan had told them not to leave the house. The village was in an uproar.
The sky was clear and still. A low winter sun toppled into the room over the bedclothes.
Shell belly-flopped over the morsels of newsprint.
'Draw me something, Trix. Please. Draw something on my back.'
'What?'
'Anything. Anything you like.'
She felt Trix's fingers going round her lower back then climbing up between her shoulder blades.
'What is it?' Trix challenged. 'Guess.'
'Dunno.'
'Guess.'
'A tree?'
'No.'
'Snakes?'
'No. 'S more than that.'
'Dunno. What?'
'It's the sea. And fishes. And Superintendent Molloy. He's here.' Shell felt Trix's thumbnail on the small of the back. 'At the bottom. Drowned. They're nibbling him up.' Her fingers went up to the shoulder blades. 'And here's the sky. And here's Rosie, sprouting her wings.'
A door slammed below: Mrs Duggan, back from shopping in town.
Shell went downstairs to help her put away the messages. As she entered the kitchen, Mrs Duggan looked up and grimaced. Four carriers of supermarket goods overflowed on the floor.
'That Mrs McGrath,' Mrs Duggan snapped. 'I've had it with her.'
'What's she done?'
'It's not what she's done. It's what she's saying. She's like poison gas.'
A source close to the family.
'What's she saying, so?'
Mrs Duggan picked up a bag and unloaded washing powder, detergent, sponges.
'It's not fit to repeat.'
The pack of sponges fell to the floor. Shell picked them up. She opened the cupboard under the sink and put them away. 'What? What does Mrs McGrath say?'
'You sure you want to know?'
Shell nodded.
'She's boasting she spotted your trouble, ages back.'
Shell remembered the gloating, angry eyes in the dim-lit shop and the way she'd lurched at her father's old coat.
'But it's worse, Shell. She claims to know who the father is. She claims to have seen you together. In "compromising circumstances", as she puts it.'
Shell froze. Naked in Duggans' field. Naked in the waves. Naked in the cave. When did the old crow spot us? When? 'Really, Mrs Duggan?' She kept her voice calm and even. 'Who does she say she saw?'
Mrs Duggan put a joint of gammon in the fridge and slammed the door shut. 'Who? Huh! You won't believe. You just won't believe.'
Declan?
Mrs Duggan leaned against the fridge. 'It'd make a dog laugh.'
'Who, Mrs Duggan?'
'Father Rose. Of all people.'
Shell stared, confounded.
'"Compromising circumstances"? I ask you. She saw him giving you a spin once. On a wet day.'
'Father Rose?' Shell pretended to laugh. She turned away. The slur on him. The slur on his name. The slur on his cloth. It was like accusing Jesus of dallying with the cripple girl.
'Shell,' Mrs Duggan said, 'I don't like to pry. But don't you think...'
'What?'
'If only to stop the gossip. Don't you think you should say who the real father was?'
Shell stared. Shell smells of flea balls...
'I know you're trying to protect him. But Shell, think about it. Does he deserve it?'
Shell's mouth dropped open. No, Mrs Duggan. He doesn't. She shook her head instead and retreated up the stairs. She hounded Trix and Jimmy from the room. She cleared the newspaper shreds. She made the beds. It was lunch time and there were few about: a good time for slipping down to the village if she wanted. She could make herself invisible. The blinds would be down over McGraths', the CLOSED sign hanging on the door. She'd be halfway up the main street with nobody seeing her. Somebody might emerge from Stack's pub but she'd avert her face, and turn up the tree-lined avenue. The Ronans' big pink house would be looming at the top. She'd knock on the door.
Sorry, Mrs Ronan, can I just come in and tell you about your granddaughter, the one I buried the other day.
Mr Ronan, I just thought I'd pop round to let you know. Your son, Declan. He's the man. Not Father Rose.
Good man, young Seamus. How's school? Did you know you were nearly an uncle once?
She'd knock again. The pink house would sit impassive and demure. She'd look at the tall hedgerows Mr Ronan had shaved into a riot of topiary. Castletops, mushroom-shaped trees, a horse's head. His daft garden leprechauns would dot the path and peep from the rockery. She remembered Declan saying how he kept swapping the fellows round when his dad wasn't looking. And how his dad always joked that the leprechauns came alive and moved of their own accord. In the chill air the place would be laughing at her. Somewhere over the western ocean Declan would be bursting his sides, like the sly fellow with the red cap peeping through the pampas grass. Toodletits. You're in a class of your own, Shell.
There'd be no reply. Mr Ronan would be away in Cork City doing his fancy job at the tax office. Mrs Ronan would be down the golf club with the Castlerock ladies. Even if the door had opened, they wouldn't have believed her. Their son with all the points for college, going with the likes of her?
She remembered Declan waving from the car window, a valediction. Over the hills and faraway. They were back in Duggans' field and he was tickling her with the ear of barley. Declan and me, a private club. He'd made her promise not to tell and she'd kept her word. But he was a man with an eye for the main chance. A smooth operator, if ever there was one. If the gossip about Father Rose gets any worse, she decided, I'll tell on you, Declan. Then. Only then.
Forty-five
That Sunday, they didn't want her to go to church, but she insisted. Mrs Duggan squashed them into the car, Shell in front, crammed up with Trix, the three boys and the baby squashed in the back. Mr Duggan walked on ahead. Shell had her crocheted bag of powder-blue slung over her wrist. She'd Je Reviens sprayed on her wrists and lobes. She'd not been to church in months.
They drew up outside. The bell was ringing. All Coolbar was there.
'Are you sure you want to go in?' Mrs Duggan said as the younger ones piled out. 'Yo
u'll get a few stares.'
'I'm sure,' Shell said. If they stare, I'll stare back, she thought. She imagined staring at Mrs McGrath so hard that her hat exploded into smithereens and the feather turned into a squawking duck. Mrs Fallon's grey rinse turned turquoise and she passed flat out on her back. Nora Canterville's home-made consomme, clear as a newborn soul, gushed from her mouth, the onion shreds dribbling from her lips.
As she entered, the harmonium music went awry. The place fell silent. Mrs Duggan led her down the aisle to the front. She saw a hundred fork-prong eyes, noses twitching, hands fluttering: like small animals salivating. Then she heard the chattering: like starlings on a pylon. Don't care. She took her place and straightened her back. She scrutinized her nails. She investigated the contents of her powder-blue bag. Don't give a monkey's.
The music resumed with the entrance hymn. They stood. Father Carroll emerged from the side door. No sign of Father Rose. She felt his eyes latch onto her, so she averted her gaze to the statue of St Theresa. She sucked in her lips. The Mass began.
The three kings drew close to the stable, the time of their epiphany.
At Communion, Theresa Sheehy came up close in the queue, nudging her in the side with an elbow and pointing at her own belly. Shell raised her eyes to heaven and showed her teeth. She turned her head and met the eyes of Mrs McGrath. The woman glanced and looked away, her nose wrinkling up. Shell swallowed the host and sat down. The Quinns passed by, the last in the queue, all excepting Bridie. Of her there was no sign. She remembered what Theresa Sheehy'd told her. They say she's off to her aunt in Kilbran. I'd say she's run away to America. With Declan.
After Mass was ended, she slid past the gossiping crowds and caught up with Mrs Quinn on the road outside. She was walking away from the church fast, yanking two of her younger children along by the crooks of their arms.
'Mrs Quinn,' she called.
Bridie's mother turned and glared. 'Shell Talent. What do you want?'
The woman had a livid maroon scarf over her head, but her dark hair flopped out, bedraggled and damp. The young ones ran on up the hill. She looked at Shell, then looked away as if Shell didn't exist. She made as if to go.
'Mrs Quinn!' Shell touched the woman's arm. 'I just wanted to ask-how's Bridie? I heard she's been away.'
The woman looked as if she'd spit. 'You've surely heard. She's up in Kilbran with my sister May.'
'She's still there?'
'She is. They've a thriving business. Bridie's been gone since the summer, helping out with the B & Bs. It's work experience.'
'Is she well?'
Mrs Quinn sniffed. 'Quite well. We saw her over Christmas. We all went up to May's when school was finished, just for the change. And Bridie was keeping well, thank you. Never better.' The woman scowled. She drew her arm away from Shell's touch and tightened the scarf around her. 'We sent her there to get her away from the likes of you.'
'Me?'
'You're a bad influence, Michelle Talent. A bad influence on her and everyone in Coolbar. If I'd known the kind of things you two got up to. If I'd known earlier, I'd have--'
'What, Mrs Quinn?'
The woman said nothing. Her eyes bored into Shell's as if she was a fiend incarnate. Then they filled suddenly and she turned away. For a moment she stood with her back to Shell, staring at the ground as if searching for something she couldn't find. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands in her raincoat pockets. 'I've the joint to get on,' she muttered and walked away, almost stumbling. She retreated up the hill, just as Bridie had that time with her see-through umbrella. Shell stared after her, confused. Other churchgoers spilled through the gate along the pavement, jostling past her, murmuring things. She moved along the street and climbed into the Duggans' car and waited. Rain had come and gone during the Mass and sprinkled the windows. People passed, squinting in, taking a look, as if she were a prize exhibit. She pouched her lips together and gulped like a goldfish, eyes shut. She remembered Declan imitating her as she sang that time in church. It seemed an age ago. Don't care.
So much for how she'd imagined Bridie, hitching across America, bent on stardom. Or living it up with Declan in New York. Bridie of the 34D bra-cup. Hickory, dickory, Bridie Quinn. But Theresa Sheehy had been wrong. And she'd lied about the dance she'd said she seen her at in August. Bridie and Declan had never rocked and rolled like two cats on a case. It had all been false. Bridie was in Kilbran. Shell was glad. She'd be making the beds, gassing with the guests. Turning the toast, getting up the fries. She'd be bored as hell. She'd be sneaking out at night-times and be down on the main road, thumbing, with stolen notes in her bag, along with fags and gum. Lorries would hammer past. She'd be on the road to the nearest nightspot. Anywhere but Kilbran. A grey old market town if ever there was one, with no life to the place. Hardly the best place for a B & B, let alone in the middle of winter.
She frowned. Jimmy was by the yew tree, fighting with someone. She couldn't see who. Mrs McGrath was by the church gate, gossiping to Mrs Fallon. She was sure she could lip-read 'Father Rose' at the end of every sentence. Bridie faded from her mind. She was back in the garda station again. Was it somebody in Coolbar, Shell? Father Rose was saying. In Coolbar, or even closer? Then Dad, his hands quivering. It goes back to that night. The waking up in an empty house. It was the pink dress, Shell. I'm a mortal sinner.
She opened her eyes. My God. A terrible truth dawned. The village thought it was Father Rose. And Father Rose thought it was Dad. And Dad himself? I did it, Shell. It was my doing. He was by her bed again, groping at the sheets, his eyes half open, half shut. Moira, my Moira. The night of Holy Saturday. She realized then. He'd have woken up on Easter Sunday morning with no memory of the night before, to find himself in her bed. And what would he have thought?
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk, you silly old fool,
If indeed you cannot see
Sure, that's a fine white sow
That my mother sent to me.
A lad from Jimmy's class was staring in, sticking out his tongue. She stared at him without seeing him and he scampered off. Soon afterwards, the car door opened. Jimmy got in along with Liam and John Duggan. Trix followed, huddling up close to Shell in the front.
Then Mrs Duggan. She strapped baby Padraig into his car seat, came around to the front and got in. 'There you are.' She patted Shell's arm. 'Are you all right?'
'Yes, Mrs Duggan. Fine.' You don't have to die to go to hell, Shell. Any fool will take you there.
Mrs Duggan sighed and turned on the ignition. 'Was that a Mass, Shell?' she said in a low voice. 'Or feeding time at the zoo?'
Forty-six
Shell visited Dad the next day, one more time, in hopes of relieving the torment in his mind. Maybe that way he'd retract. He shuffled into the room of frosted glass, taut and fidgety, and sat opposite her, glowering. The guard left them.
'The night of Holy Saturday, Dad,' she whispered.
'Shut it, Shell.'
'Dad.'
He grabbed her cuff. 'Couldn't you have brought a miniature. Just a drop. Like last time? Couldn't you?'
He was in a desperate mood. His eyes were like dirty coins, his lips had yellow cracks in them, his hair was dark with grease.
'You didn't want it last time, Dad. Remember?'
He snarled.
'You threw it at the wall.'
He drummed his fingers on the table. 'Don't remember. Don't remember anything. Christ, I'd murder one.'
'Dad. You must remember. You told me about it yourself. The night of Holy Saturday. You woke up in an empty house, you said. Trix, Jimmy and me. We were gone, you said.'
He stood up, twitching. His fingers on the right hand scratched his left upper arm. He went to the window of frosted glass. He stood there going scratch-scratch as if he'd fleas. He stared at the milk-white glass as if he could see through.
'Remember, Dad? D'you remember?'
'Shut it, Shell. You're a broken record.'
She got up and walked toward
s him. 'Dad.'
'Get away from me, Shell. I'm in no mood for talking.'
'D'you remember the pink dress?'
His toes were tapping now, like he'd a case of magic dancing powder in his shoes. 'Jesus. Would you ever stop?'
'The pink dress, Dad. The one you didn't burn.'
'Stop it, Shell.'
She put a hand out to stop the scratching. 'It wasn't you, Dad.'
He'd shaken her off. His hands were over his ears.
'It wasn't you,' she said louder. 'The night of Holy Saturday. It wasn't you.'
His eyes were screwed up tight, his head was jerking. He'd be speaking in tongues next. He'd be writhing on the floor.
'Dad.' He opened his eyes and she thought he was going to scream. But he didn't. The toes stopped tapping. The fingers stopped scratching. The head stopped jerking.
'What did you just say?' he whispered.
'It wasn't you, Dad.'
'The night of Holy Saturday?'
She shook her head. The tomb was sealed, the world was quiet. 'Nothing happened.' Mam's fingers fluttered past her face as she reached the high note of her song, the swift, pure cry. His eyes half shut, half open. His appalling nakedness. Moira. Don't turn away, lovey, turn back to me. 'You thought I was her, didn't you?'
His hands were at his throat. 'Her eyes, Shell. Following me everywhere.'
