Birdy Flynn

by Helen Donohoe

  He stumbled up the stairs, talking to himself, fighting with the walls and the banister and Mum’s rubber tree. I held my breath, but he turned on the landing towards the bathroom. The top of the toilet cistern screeched; I waited to hear it smash. But it didn’t. He gushed out a long waterfall of wee, finishing with three short spurts. Something fell, he let out a deep long burp and he staggered out, plonking clumsy feet down as he came towards my bedroom. I’d left it slightly open; he pushed it open more.

  ‘You OK, Birdy?’

  I was facing the wall, concentrating hard on looking asleep; I’d pulled my blanket over me.

  ‘I forgot your chips,’ he said.

  I did some deliberate deep breathing, a fake snore.

  He steadied himself on my desk, which creaked. ‘Birdy. Hey.’ He burped again and cleared his throat. ‘I’m talking to you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said from under the cover.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said it’s OK, Dad. I wasn’t hungry anyhow.’

  ‘OK. That’s good.’ He wobbled as he turned around and hit his head against my wardrobe. He took a step out of the door. He went to close it, but stopped, turned his head back, paused and said, ‘If you let me down again, my child, I’ll break your fucking neck.’

  He shuffled away. I squeezed my Casio to see what the time was. I fixed my eyes on the small numbers, divided by two flashing dots. It took him nine minutes to start snoring and every snort felt like my skin was getting cut.

  I got up and realised my legs were shaking. Walking helped. I went across the landing and into his room. He was spread out on top of his bed, his shoes still on, white spit bubbling in the corner of his mouth. The room already had his rotten smell. I thought of smothering the sound out of him with a pillow and wondered how long it would take, if I was that strong and if I could do it to someone I wasn’t allowed to hate. He moaned out some noises, half-formed words, and I hoped he was dreaming of feeling small and trapped and left alone. But he was probably playing for England in his dream, running around and laughing. His body jerked with a bolt, like electricity. I thought maybe he’d been tripped, and was given a penalty.

  The lights were still on downstairs. I went down, closed the front door as best I could and sat on Mum’s chair in the kitchen. There was no noise, aside from the cooker clock and the hum of our fridge. I wondered what Mum would be doing at work. I could see her in my head. I knew the look of where she worked after Dad drove us there and I saw her through the window. She shooed me away while I was trying to tell her that Dad needed money because he had no tobacco. She was working at a huge metal monster, pulling it down like the world’s biggest sandwich toaster. They were soldiers’ sheets she was pressing. I told Dad that she was nowhere to be seen. The look of her sweating and frightened was scary. I promised myself that I would earn loads of money so Mum could work during the daytime in a shop or a bakery, where people were allowed to talk and be kind and friendly.

  From the cupboard, I got down Mum’s egg cup. I put it at her place on the table, next to her ashtray and radio. I went under the sink to where she stored the secret whiskey behind the bin. I carried it over to the table and filled the egg cup. I put her slippers by her chair, facing outwards. I folded the washing on the radiator with real care. I filled the kettle with water, took her favourite mug from the mug tree, placed it next to the kettle and put a teabag in it. I moved the bowl of sugar to be nearer. I removed the spoon covered in crusty, stained sugar and put a clean teaspoon in there. The smell from the mountain of damp teabags made my stomach turn, so I put them in the bin one by one. The same with the half-smoked roll-ups that were sitting on the edge of the sink. I got the big knife out and put it by the bread bin. I took the butter out of the fridge but put it back again. I checked for milk and two full bottles stood in the fridge door, shining.

  It took a lot of people to work in a dry-cleaning factory. They piled out, lighting cigarettes, nattering, speeding along. I set off from home at a quarter past five and I was at the factory by six o’clock. Sometimes Mum came out at seven. Sometimes eight. But she couldn’t clock off until all her jobs were done and that meant I was never late.

  When I saw her, I waved.

  She lifted her hand but she wasn’t smiling like she usually did when she came out of work and saw me. She ran to get near me and grab me and move me. She said nothing and forgot my kiss as she directed me through the gates with her arm on my elbow.

  A man on a bicycle came up close to us. He hovered; I thought he would say hello and ask was I the Birdy that Mum always talked of? But he shouted, ‘Fucking Paddy’ and spat at us.

  ‘Come on,’ Mum said, speeding me up.

  ‘What? Why did he . . .?’ I pulled away from her towards him. ‘Excuse me,’ I shouted.

  ‘No, Bernice.’ Mum grabbed my jumper and raced us along.

  We lifted our feet into a jog. It shook the chemicals from Mum’s clothes and she hacked and was almost sick from coughing but she wouldn’t let us slow.

  ‘Mum, stop, you can’t breathe.’

  ‘Come on, keep going.’

  ‘Why did he say that?’

  But she didn’t slow down until we got to the bus stop. When we got there, she took a long look around us.

  ‘Why did that man spit at you?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, calming her breathing.

  ‘Mum, why did he say that and spit? I want to know. He can’t do that.’

  ‘Shush.’ She put her finger to her mouth then moved some of the hair on my fringe. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mum. Why?’

  ‘Please, love. Don’t make a fuss. You know some people can be prejudiced,’ Mum said, and I looked at her for clues because there was a limit to the questions she would allow me. Her face gave me no answers though. No more than Mum had always said, which was that some people think all Irish people are trouble. Which was a mystery to me, because all the Irish people I knew just liked a sing-song, cups of tea and food, which was always very peaceful. ‘Why are you here?’ Mum stopped my thoughts.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Oh, Birdy.’ Mum wiped my cheeks with spit on her thumb. She formed a smile. ‘What’s happened to you now? Your face is smudged. Have you been putting my moisturiser on?’

  ‘No, Mum,’ I said.

  She spat on her fingers and rubbed at my cheekbones.

  ‘No, Mum. Get off. Your fingers smell.’

  ‘Can I smell whiskey?’

  ‘You shouldn’t let him say that,’ I said, and I thought about walking off but I had no bus fare and it would be an hour to walk home and I was supposed to be protecting Mum. I crossed my arms. We sat in silence for a while.

  ‘You couldn’t sleep?’

  ‘Yes, I could, but I was awake early,’ I said, and Mum took a good look at me. She looked pale.

  ‘What’s wrong, Birdy?’ she said, and a pain cracked in my chest and I had an urge to cry.

  Do not cry, I told myself. Do not tell Mum what happened. Do not cry.

  ‘I hate this jacket,’ I said.

  ‘You hate it?’ Mum raised her eyebrows and laughed. ‘You love that bloody jacket, Birdy. I’m not keen on it myself.’

  ‘I hate all my clothes.’

  ‘Ah, come on. What is it? Tell me now.’

  ‘And my hair. I hate my hair.’

  Mum looked deep into my face, like she was looking for new freckles. Do not cry, I reminded myself.

  ‘People keep looking at me, Mum.’

  ‘Who’s looking at you?’ She pulled off a loose thread from one of my pockets. ‘No one is looking at you, love.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Ah, don’t be worrying about them.’

  ‘About everyone?’

  ‘Everyone. Someone. No one. Don’t worry about them, love.’ Mum got out her purse.

  ‘They’re staring.’

  ‘Well, look away.’<
br />
  ‘They’d still be staring.’

  ‘Jesus, Birdy, what do you want me to say?’ Mum opened her purse and shook it. ‘We need your bus fare.’ She dug in the folds for coins and she counted them in her palm.

  ‘Have we enough, Mum? I can walk if there isn’t enough. I can walk, I don’t mind.’

  She tucked her hands in her pockets and sighed, tugging her coat in tight. A thin breeze cut across us and across the road; the windows of the small office block shone with the sun getting stronger behind us.

  ‘People used to stare at me and your dad.’

  ‘At you and Dad?’

  ‘People, family even, stopped talking to us. People I didn’t know crossed the street. And, my God, did they stare.’ Mum patted me on the knee. ‘So there you are, you see?’

  I nodded. I didn’t see.

  ‘There’ll be good drying today.’ Mum looked up.

  I nodded again but more slowly.

  A girl crossed the road towards us with giraffe-long legs and a skirt that was tiny. She curved like a violin. We budged up along the bench to let her in. Mum couldn’t stop smiling at her.

  ‘This bus better be on time.’ She turned back to me. ‘You’ve school in half an hour.’

  ‘No way can I go to school, Mum.’

  ‘Behave yourself.’

  ‘No, Mum. Please. I still feel sick. I can feel it coming up. I’m going to be sick right now.’

  ‘Stop it, Bernice.’

  The bus pulled up and Mum let the girl get on first.

  ‘She dresses lovely, doesn’t she,’ Mum said.

  I watched the girl all the way to her seat, then Mum’s elbow snapped me out of it.

  ‘If I haven’t enough for the two of us, you get on and I’ll see you at home.’

  ‘No, Mum.’ I grabbed her arm. ‘No, don’t leave me on my own.’

  ‘OK, love, OK.’

  ‘Please.’ I held on to her elbow.

  ‘OK, OK. I’m sure we’ll be fine.’

  Every face on the bus was looking at us. It was what our town did. Our town had beady eyes, looking for people who didn’t belong. Stray dogs looked frightened in our town, scampering around, looking for the way out. The bus smelt of damp dogs, even in the sun. We squeezed through big bodies spilling off the chairs and found two seats at the back.

  ‘He’s a miserable sod,’ Mum said about the driver, who groaned at her pile of coppers and made some joke about her winning the bingo.

  The bus creaked from the weight of passengers as it pulled along our town’s main road. Nobody spoke or looked around.

  Mum hunched and pulled in her arms like a hibernating hedgehog, like she was taking up the smallest bit of space in the world that she could.

  Each time the bus stopped it threw us forward.

  ‘Jesus, he’s no Stirling Moss,’ Mum said under her breath.

  As the bus chugged along, the words of my next letter went through my head.

  It has come to my attention that my town has far too many roundabouts. They are everywhere. They are made to look pretty with lots of flowers and plants but Mum just stares at them when we go around them on a bus. She goes off to another world that I can’t shake her out of.

  Dad hates them. He says they’re a waste of money and I think he is jealous as they are all bigger than our garden and our house. All the roundabouts are trying to be better than each other.

  But they just make people go round and round in circles. We have hundreds of roundabouts and hundreds of pubs. Lots of them are covered in flowers as well.

  Chapter 9

  You can have a fresh start and have things fall apart, all in the space of a day.

  They were right, Mum and Dad. I decided. They were talking sense. They knew best. That was that. It was me that was mad. They had lived and I had not. I needed to change and do it super quickly. It was my clothes that were wrong. I was nearly thirteen, I dressed like a boy and Mrs Cope felt sorry for me. Or hated me. Or wanted to touch me or scare me, I wasn’t sure what. But if I dressed normal, then all that would stop.

  Edna always said, ‘If after eight o’clock you’re still in your bed, your blood will dry up and you might as well be dead.’ She said, ‘An early start is half the work’, and ‘Good luck follows the courageous.’ So I set my alarm for six o’clock, to give me loads of time to get myself dressed and practise being fearless.

  After Mum went to bed, I spent all of Tuesday preparing, looking through Eileen’s catalogues, trying to learn how girls liked to look. It didn’t help. All the pictures were girls dressed for discos or bed, or to work in a shop. So I settled for the black skirt that was a little bit short, a blouse with silly soft collars but not too many frills, and an enormous baggy jumper that covered the lot. The tights were the strangest thing – I thought my legs would go numb from all the blood getting squashed.

  On Wednesday morning I took light steps down the stairs and could hear them in the kitchen. They were discussing the weather as if Dad was a farmer, not an unemployed welder.

  ‘You’ve not had breakfast, love,’ Mum said as I tried to go straight out the door. ‘No goodbyes either?’ She sounded hurt.

  I stopped. I turned around.

  ‘Good God,’ Mum said, wiping her hands down her apron. She took out a tissue and blew her nose. She twiddled her right earlobe.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  Dad looked up over his Daily Mirror and put his head straight back down.

  ‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’ I wanted to shout.

  Mum’s face moved from fear to delight to fear again, and then to a gentle nod and silent thinking.

  ‘I just remembered, Mum. Can I have that ten pounds?’ I stood in the doorway, hugging my holdall into my belly.

  Mum rolled her cigarette but spilt half her tobacco on the floor with her fingers moving too quickly. She licked the paper and looked back up at me.

  ‘I need to take that ten pounds.’

  ‘Where’s your uniform, Birdy?’ Mum tried to sound breezy.

  ‘I need the money, Mum.’

  ‘You look different, love. Are you not wearing your uniform?’

  ‘This is uniform. We can wear black or blue. Can I have the money? You said I could.’

  ‘Are your clothes not clean?’ Mum gazed at me. ‘Are you going for a new look?’

  ‘Stop looking at me.’ I held my legs close together.

  Dad put his newspaper down. ‘You look very smart, Birdy.’

  ‘Thanks. I need the ten pounds. Please, Mum.’

  ‘Love.’ Mum stepped forward to get a better look. She adjusted my skirt, twisting it slightly so the right bit was at the front.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does Eileen know you’re borrowing her things?’

  ‘I’ll tell her whenever she gets home.’

  ‘OK,’ Mum said, sounding worried.

  The radio did the bleeps.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’m late.’

  ‘Can you walk in those shoes?’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  ‘Bernice, wait,’ she said, but I was on my way. ‘You look lovely,’ I heard her shout as I walked out our front gate.

  Edna was in her front garden, seeing to her geraniums and singing about a land of make-believe. ‘Good morning, my treasure,’ she said without looking up. ‘You smell beautiful, so you do.’ She took a deliberate long breath in. ‘As sweet as one of these flowers here.’

  ‘They smell like potatoes, Edna.’

  ‘Well, anyways. You off to school?’

  ‘I am. See you later.’ I took a step and nearly fell over as one of the shoes sliced into my heel.

  ‘Come here,’ Edna said. She stepped towards me. ‘Come here and let me see you.’ She put her hands on my face and used her fingertips to study my eyes, nose and lips. Then my shoulders. There was no hurrying her when she was doing this. Then, very carefully, while humming a song, she noticed I was wearing a skirt.

  ‘Birdy.’

  ‘See
you later, Edna. I have to go.’

  She grabbed hold of my hand. ‘If the cap doesn’t fit, you don’t have to wear it, love.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, sure a windy day is no good for thatching, love. Is it?’

  ‘It’s sunny today.’

  ‘It is, but –’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ I didn’t have space in my brain to work out Edna’s mystery talk.

  ‘OK, love. I’ll see you later. Good luck how you go.’

  It was a hot morning. I was sweating and the tights were sticking to the flesh of my legs. I tried to take big strides to get some air up the skirt but it held me in, like an elastic band around my knees. I could see the Spacey twins getting in their mum’s yellow Mini Metro. Mrs Spacey gave me her wild happy wave, but she must have known I was late because then I saw a worried look on her face.

  I cut across the dog poo field, forgetting I didn’t have my boots on. I couldn’t walk in the stupid pointy things. They sunk in the soil, slipped off and made my ankles buckle. The scar on my ankle tugged and twisted, but no way was I giving up and going home.

  The roads that led to our school gates were like tunnels of chit-chat, smoking and snogs. I tip-tapped along. I kept my eyes straight ahead, tried to blur out everyone and sang ‘Green Door’, my favourite Shakin’ Stevens song. Every eye in every head was locked on me. Some said nothing; some burst out laughing. I kept walking. ‘Walk tall,’ my nan would say.

  ‘Oooh la la,’ someone shouted.

  I clenched my fist. I told myself not to stop. I thought if I stopped they would all gather round. If I stopped it would be like pigeons swarming you for feed. Or vultures pecking at some dead meat. I walked a bit faster, wishing I could fly. Wishing I could float over all of them, riding on a cool breeze in the sky. But I was on the ground and I was soaked with sweat. The colour I’d smeared on my cheeks was melting; my eyelids were so sticky they stopped blinking. Groups of junior girls put their hands over their mouths to hide their giggles. I felt as flimsy as a stick, because I knew I couldn’t fight no one in case Eileen’s skirt got ripped.