Birdy Flynn

by Helen Donohoe

  The morning lasted for ever. No words went in; all the classroom noises turned into a mushy, swirling muddle in my head. Martin threw an empty can of Top Deck at me. I threw it back. Liam was off sick. Gypsy Girl got sent to the nurse because of pains in her stomach. At first break Mrs Cope was nowhere to be seen. I sat in my usual space and sold my usual earrings. Between lessons I took the long route to each classroom, looking around doorways, wanting her to be there but knowing I would die with nerves if I actually found that she was.

  All day my belly was whirling. At lunchtime I couldn’t eat. I leant against walls and fences and sat on benches and wandered about and smiled and pretended that being on my own was the best experience ever.

  All afternoon I prayed that I would bump into her. I didn’t, and as the bell went for the day’s last lesson I knew that I had to find her. Her classroom was in the English block. I rushed. I ran around the outside of the school to get a glimpse through her classroom window. To see if I had the guts.

  She was there. Tall and graceful and smiling kindly at her class as they all traipsed out. My heart was speeding from the running and every bit of my skin tingled, and when she looked my way I ducked.

  When I stood up to look again, Mrs Cope was arranging exercise books into two neat piles. She knew I was watching her. She got a tissue out from her sleeve and blew her nose. She put the tissue in the bin. She reached back to her desk and put some sunglasses and her newspaper in her bag. She stood upright and stretched; she spun around and looked straight at me. I smiled a horrified smile, wanting to sink into the ground, but she waved and then, with the same hand, she used her finger to say ‘come in’.

  Now’s your chance, I thought over and over. Do it now. She has a cold. She wants to go home.

  As she put on her white leather jacket, I stood in her doorway. The box in my hand felt electric. It burnt my palm deeper the tighter I gripped it. I held back, looked down and kicked the floor.

  She carried on gathering her things.

  I stood still. I was going to let her go. I couldn’t speak. I froze.

  She perched herself against her desk. Then, finally, she said, ‘Well, come in then.’

  Do it now, I told myself. But she looked too quiet. Too calm and still. She was thinking, and I wondered what about. Then she stood up in a burst and slapped her hand down on the books. ‘Are you going to come in?’

  ‘Hello, miss.’ My skin felt on fire.

  ‘How are you today?’ she said, dabbing her nose with another tissue. I wanted her to hand me her bag and ask me for help. I wanted to impress her. ‘No more of that dreadful behaviour, I hope?’

  ‘No. None at all, Mrs Cope.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve made you something, miss.’

  ‘Me? You’ve made me something?’

  ‘This.’ I handed her the purple box. My heart was beating so hard my fingertips throbbed with bubbling blood.

  ‘Goodness, what on earth?’

  ‘For saving me,’ I said, and she looked up and fixed her eyes on me. She didn’t speak or give any signs.

  ‘Well, I’m touched,’ she said, and then her eyes grew big and her smile stretched wide. It felt like finishing an exam and being given top marks. As she opened the box, she raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I make them all the time. For sale,’ I said. ‘I make them out of fuse wire.’ Shut up, you moron, I said to myself. ‘I sprayed yours gold.’ I pointed.

  She nodded. ‘Gosh.’ She stared at them. ‘Thank you. These are very special. Very special.’ She snapped the box shut, put it in her handbag and zipped it up. ‘It’s a very special thought.’ She threw the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. Through the window the sun caught the necklace she was wearing; it was gold and chunky and twisted like a rope. ‘I’m very honoured.’

  ‘Did your husband buy you that necklace?’ The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

  She gave one slight nod. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure they took you ages.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but that’s OK.’

  ‘I’m very chuffed.’ She turned, lifted her books and stepped around me. With her one free hand she touched my shoulder and said, ‘You’ve really made my day.’

  I sprinted home but felt like I was flying. Bits of soil got under my fingernails as I dug in the white plastic pot of hydrangeas and couldn’t find our door keys quick enough.

  ‘What you doing?’ I heard as the garden gate squeaked behind me.

  Eileen shoved me so hard, I almost fell in. She got keys from her handbag and opened the front door.

  ‘Why you home?’ I puffed on last bits of breath.

  ‘I’m sorting stuff for my party,’ she said, as I ran up the stairs.

  My Jacksons tape was already in the cassette player and I pressed rewind to get it to the start. I stood in front of my mirror and puffed my chest out. I looked great, I thought. I didn’t need Martin or any of that lot.

  The first song began, and as the rhythm picked up I lifted my fists and did my boxer pose. To the beat of ‘Can You Feel It’, I threw jabs, hooks and upper cuts, and when I looked at me in the mirror, I thought, Yeah, Birdy, you have got guts.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I announced, using my stapler as a microphone. ‘The crowd are going mad with excitement. They have come from all over the world to see this fight: the tiny terror called Birdy taking on the champion of the world.’

  I stripped off. I kept my vest on and from the back of my wardrobe pulled out a pair of Noely’s boxer shorts.

  ‘This tough, pint-sized fighter walks out into the massive arena to the voice of Michael Jackson.’

  I turned the tape up full blast. I took my navy-blue dressing gown off the door, put it on and wrapped a towel around my neck.

  ‘We see the majestic blue gown that is Birdy Flynn’s uniform.’

  I gave short, sharp punches to the air. Bosh, bosh. I waved and bowed to the four sides of the stadium: my window, my noticeboard, my wardrobe and my mirror. Thousands of people were clapping and screaming as I entered the ring. I climbed on my bed.

  ‘The unbeaten Birdy Flynn.’

  I bounced. The excitement was electric. I took off my dressing gown, still giving out salutes. I made a gum shield with my tongue. I adjusted my shorts, tucked my vest in and shaped my fists into balls like the rounds of boxing gloves. The crowd was hushed and ready, and I stepped into the middle of the ring. Ding-ding. I kept on my toes, protected my face, easy does it. Slow build-up, left swerve, right swerve, don’t get drawn in. I could hear people shouting, ‘Come on, Birdy!’ I wanted to be the King of the Ring. My mind clicked into a view of Mrs Cope’s face, sat on the front row. I saw her smiling. Then laughing. The crowd started laughing.

  I gave a right jab, a left hook, a right hook, bang, bang, bang. I fired like a machine gun. My opponent stood in front of me. I punched him with a clean single smack. He collapsed on to the canvas. On my bed. I knelt down and my arms kept pumping: left, right, left, right, left, left, left, right. He tried to get up. Harder and harder my arms kept hammering, thumping my green velvet headboard. Smack after smack after smack, it whacked against the wall, and with each blow it moaned and said, ‘Please stop’, but I kept punching it harder and faster. ‘Have that!’ I shouted. Boom. ‘Shut up!’ Boom-boom. I punched until my arms turned numb and I heard someone banging on my door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ It was Eileen.

  I scrambled to stand and block the door.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, catching my breath, my heart doing ninety miles an hour.

  ‘What were you hitting?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you OK, Birdy?’

  ‘Yes.’ I coughed.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m brilliant, Eileen. I’m sure.’

  Chapter 6

  One clap and the disco lights came alive. They flashed like magic – yellow, red and green. Dad said computers were
man’s best invention ever, but I thought those disco lights were way more clever. I clapped slow and fast, then fast and slow, and the lights blinked back like they were saying hello.

  Saturday afternoon had finally arrived and Mum was doing the final bits of food in the kitchen.

  ‘Lovely spread, Mum,’ I said as cheerfully as I could. Eileen’s birthday buffet was laid out on Noely’s old snooker table, which had been covered with Nan’s beige tablecloth. ‘It all looks lovely, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, yes, love.’ Mum was concentrating, counting out cocktail sticks.

  The buffet had little sausages on sticks, sausage rolls and crystally Scotch eggs that were still defrosting. At the other end, cubes of cheese were sweating under their plastic covering. There were Mum’s home-made cheese straws, cheese paste and orange cheese balls. I opened the jar of pickled onions using all my muscle.

  Eileen marched through the kitchen in a loose dressing gown that flapped open at the knees and to everyone but her was very embarrassing. She never worried about covering up. She left the bathroom door open and her bras hanging around and, although Dad tutted and grumbled, Mum didn’t seem to mind. Eileen’s body was something she was proud of. Like the bodies on adverts, smooth and curvy and – in all the right places – soft and round.

  I looked down as she stood next to me. I couldn’t help staring at her feet. They were the same as Mum’s. Like the rest of her, they were perfectly fleshy, not bony, with delicate pink skin.

  She stood straight as a lollipop stick to maximise her tallness, and on her head a twisted towel was balancing. Her eyes scanned left to right and up and down, assessing the food display. She held her breath.

  I waited.

  Mum ignored us and kept singing.

  In her right hand, Eileen had Mum’s Lourdes souvenir mug and she plunged it into the crystal glass bowl in the middle of the table. She went deep, up to her wrist, into the fruit punch that looked like watered-down sick. The mug gulped up the liquid, and Eileen took a sip.

  ‘Mum,’ she shouted, ‘how much Bacardi is in this?’

  I asked Eileen if I could taste a bit and she pulled a face, like a bad smell had just drifted in.

  Mum was stood folding napkins by the sink. I could see her through the hatch that connected the dining room to the kitchen. She pulled a wooden spoon from the pocket of her apron, like a soldier drawing a sword, and her slippers slapped across the kitchen floor. She had her don’t-you-dare eyes glaring into us, then staring at the bowl. She stirred the mixture five or six times; a slippery wedge of peach popped to the surface like a goldfish that had just been shot.

  ‘Watch your lip.’ Mum flicked us with fruity Bacardi as she held the spoon up to our faces.

  ‘It’s my eighteenth.’ Eileen made a big protest.

  Mum opened her eyes wide to fake a look of surprise, because her preparations had taken months and we all knew it was Eileen’s birthday all right. We’d had three visits from the mobile hairdresser, and Mum had washed every net curtain twice.

  ‘Shush.’ Mum put the spoon to her lips. ‘No fuss, do you hear?’

  Eileen tutted as she rearranged the Twiglets, and then stood back to inspect the table.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘did you have to make these peppermint creams so bloody bright green?’

  I got a puff of her talc as she swivelled on one foot and I sneezed again.

  Eileen looked disgusted. ‘Is four beanbags enough, Mum?’ she shouted.

  Mum was back in the kitchen.

  ‘Mum, did you hear?’

  I think Mum did, but she was staying clear.

  There were twelve chairs wedged against the walls. Four chairs from our kitchen, Dad got four from one of his pubs and four were from Edna next door. Eileen arranged them so that the heights and colours were mixed. It looked like the worst dentist’s waiting room on the planet.

  Mum’s tall dresser with the glass doors was moved to the garden for the night. The picture of the Pope was taken off the wall, which left four brown lines and an empty hook. On the windowsill, where Mum kept her framed Irish blessing, there was a new china plate with a picture of Princess Diana and Charles’s wedding.

  ‘Why are you wriggling?’ Eileen snapped at me.

  ‘I’m not.’ I could feel an itch between my legs.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Shut up, Eileen.’ I was wearing trousers that cost me 5p in a bring-and-buy sale.

  ‘Don’t embarrass me tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh God, you already are. Stop wriggling.’

  ‘I’m not wriggling. Get lost.’

  ‘Mum, does Birdy have to be here tonight?’

  Mum didn’t answer.

  ‘Mum,’ Eileen shouted, and Mum appeared at the door. ‘It will be too embarrassing,’ Eileen carried on, pointing at me.

  ‘I know,’ Mum said, ‘but I need help.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m embarrassing?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Eileen laughed.

  ‘No, love, of course not.’ Mum moved the bowl of Chipsticks slightly forward.

  ‘I thought you were on a school trip?’ Eileen poked me so quick I had no time to say ‘get lost’.

  ‘It’s next week and I’m not going.’

  ‘You should think about packing,’ Mum said.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. I hated the thought of staying away from home with school people and teachers and getting changed and having showers and sleeping in the same room, and especially when I’d lost my mates.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Eileen suddenly remembered he existed.

  ‘In his shed.’ Mum was back to the kitchen, hiding small bottles of tablets up high, out of reach. ‘He’ll go out, I should think.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Eileen crossed her arms. ‘And seriously, Birdy. None of your grimy friends is coming.’ She looked down to where I was scratching. ‘And what are you going to be wearing?’

  I shrugged and opened the flies on my trousers, so I could get my hand in.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Eileen looked to the ceiling.

  ‘Maybe my police shirt?’ I said, still scratching.

  ‘That fake police top?’ She looked like she would hit me. ‘Oh no, please, no.’

  ‘It’s smart, isn’t it?’ I did my flies up.

  ‘You’re nearly a teenager.’ Eileen raised her voice. ‘Honestly, you are joking me.’

  ‘Mind your noise, you two,’ Mum said as she came back in, clapped her hands and woke the disco lights. ‘Aren’t they pure marvellous.’ We all looked up. ‘Birdy.’ I got a nudge. ‘Go up and bring down my records.’

  ‘What records?’

  ‘In the back of my wardrobe,’ Mum said, and paused. I nodded. ‘Behind the box of shoes.’ She thought for a second. ‘Make sure you get my Stevie Wonder and Boney M.’

  ‘Get my albums as well.’ Eileen grabbed my arm. ‘Make sure you get Kajagoogoo.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Mission accepted and understood.’ I saluted and stood to attention.

  Eileen rolled her eyes. Mum sort of grinned.

  On the front of Mum’s wardrobe, Dad’s suit was hanging up. His best suit was his only suit and Mum aired it once a month. It looked better hanging up than on Dad. He had to roll the sleeves up. He hated it. Whenever there was a funeral or christening or something in court, he couldn’t wait to be home and get it off.

  Mum kept the full outfit together, the light brown jacket and trousers, a shirt the colour of custard when you’ve added too much milk, and a zigzaggy brown and blue tie. I brushed the dust off one of the shoulders and held the material tight. It was rougher than I expected; I had never been that close before. I held the lapel between my finger and thumb and stroked the thickness of it, heavy as a good curtain with neatly woven threads. It smelt of Dad’s aftershave and cigarettes.

  I took it down, the jacket first, and never before had I seen that number of pockets, both inside and out. The inside was smooth and glossy with special thin lines of cotton running ar
ound the edge. It must have taken months to make.

  The sound of Mum’s hoovering hummed downstairs as I took each piece off the hanger. I laid it on the bed in the shape of a human that looked bigger than Dad and I undid my buttons and let my clothes drop to the floor in a heap. Dad’s shirt buttons were stiffer than mine and hurt my fingers as I twisted them open. The collars and cuffs were as hard as card. The trousers were heavy. But they had a perfect back pocket, which I checked for old coins, and they had two ways to fasten the front: a button and a metal hook. I turned the bottoms up and I tightened Dad’s belt as much as I could. The tie felt neat – a proper tie. I could do a Windsor knot without needing a mirror and it cushioned against my throat. As I put on the jacket I felt bigger, stronger and neat. Like before I’d just worn bits and bobs, but in Dad’s suit I was complete.

  I looked down at myself. I was taller. My feet looked further away and my muscles felt thicker, solid as slabs of beef. I buttoned the jacket and rolled up the sleeves and turned towards the mirror, and Mum was staring at me.

  ‘What the . . .?’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’

  I froze.

  ‘You’re supposed to be getting records.’ She sounded frightened, like there was a fire and we had to get out the house. ‘Why are you . . .?’ She lost her words. ‘That’s your father’s only . . .’ She pointed. ‘If you have . . .’ She sounded muddled.

  I tried to take the jacket off. My fingers wouldn’t grip the cloth.

  ‘I hope . . . I hope you haven’t damaged it.’

  I tried to get it back on the hanger but it kept slipping off.

  ‘It’s for best.’

  I stepped out of the trousers.

  ‘He needs it.’

  I undid the tie and stood in front of Mum in my socks and pants and Dad’s custard shirt.

  She couldn’t look at me as she grabbed the hanger and hung up the suit herself. Dad’s shirt stuck to me – my fingers ached from twisting buttons – but Mum snatched at it and almost ripped it off.

  ‘Get dressed,’ she said, talking to the floor.

  She watched for a moment, in a daze, then she snapped out of it, turned to her chest of drawers and pulled the second drawer open. She rummaged, pulling things out, growling like a bear, sounding ratty with herself. She opened her jewellery box.