Birdy Flynn

by Helen Donohoe

  ‘I’m getting it cut.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Mum said from the kitchen.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ I asked Edna.

  ‘Better than what, love?’

  ‘Come and sit,’ Mum shouted at us.

  ‘You’re seeming well all the same,’ Edna said as we walked through and sat at the table. ‘The famous wee Birdy.’

  ‘Famous?’ I said, feeling glorious at the thought.

  ‘Edna, will you stop.’ Mum was mashing the life out of a pot of potatoes.

  ‘Of a sort, I might say.’ Edna mulled it over. ‘You’re certainly . . . Well, you’re certainly well known, wouldn’t you say, Martha?’ She sounded nervy.

  ‘Is that good?’ I asked and turned to Mum.

  ‘Get some glasses from the sideboard,’ she said. ‘The Yorkshire Ripper is famous and no one thinks that’s clever.’

  ‘Everything all right, lovey?’ Edna asked Mum.

  ‘Yes, of course, Edna, dear. You know I get flustered when I’ve a big meal to deliver.’

  It was five o’clock when we all sat down to eat. We had Nan’s cotton napkins and some place mats showing Cork’s town centre. Dad ate his food like it was an Olympic sport. He barely said a word apart from asking for mustard and salt.

  ‘Jeepers, Frank,’ Mum said to him. ‘You have an age before the football kicks off.’

  Edna talked in wild sweeps. She waved her arms about and didn’t eat much but smoked cigarettes, one after the other. She ranted about a farm and horses and the injustice of it and how ‘they could go to Hell’. She would ‘take the fellas that run the country and kick them up the balls’.

  Mum tutted and shook her head. ‘It’s awful, Edna, no good at all.’

  ‘But some things are better left unsaid,’ Edna muttered.

  ‘Oh, they are.’ Mum was looking down and cutting her pink boiled bacon into tiny shreds.

  ‘Things are never black or white,’ I said.

  There was quiet for a moment.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Birdy,’ Edna said.

  Then Mum started raging about her cousin Mickey. ‘I tell you, Edna, he cannot look after himself. The kettle looks like he’s mixing cement in it.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘And the rust in his bath. It would turn your stomach.’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘And he’s as pale as the moon.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Edna said. ‘It’s a shame.’

  I listened to them while praying that Mum’s cousin Mickey wouldn’t be moving into our home.

  I wanted to ask Edna why she hadn’t visited me, but there were no gaps for me to speak. I was sure Eileen would be there to see me. I watched out the window for her coming through the gate. I wanted to ask where she was, and ask about my things again, and ask Dad what was wrong and what had been happening. But Mum and Edna kept babbling.

  It could have been the most perfect meal ever. Creamy potatoes with so much butter it melted into your tongue. Great chunks of salty bacon with strong mustard mixed fresh by Mum, and warm bread that smelt of calm. Each time she heard my spoon hit the metal of the pot and the squelch as I scooped up heaps of soft, juicy cabbage, Edna smiled and rubbed my back as if it was the greatest thing ever done by a human.

  ‘Are you looking forward to going back to school?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Manners, please, Bernice.’ Mum raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I want to change my school,’ I said, and there was silence. ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I think it would be good because the teachers at my school are crazy and I want to go to the Catholic school anyway.’

  Dad coughed and nearly choked.

  Mum sat open-mouthed.

  ‘Well, it’s a good –’ Edna started.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dad cut her off.

  After that, the sound of knives and forks scraping plates and mouths chewing meat was only broken by slurps of water. When the quiet got too much, Edna started humming ‘Amazing Grace’ and Mum told her to leave the singing until later.

  ‘When will my room be ready?’ I asked.

  Dad looked up.

  Mum took her plate to the sink.

  ‘A few days,’ he said.

  ‘Why a few days? What sort of paint is it?’

  ‘Are you a professor of paint now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A few days and it’ll be done. I’ve some yellow paint to do your walls.’ He licked his plate, ignoring Mum’s complaints.

  I looked at Mum.

  ‘I worked hard on that room.’ He burped and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  ‘I don’t want yellow in my room.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I liked it dark blue.’ I turned to Mum. ‘Why have you changed it?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The blue was so dark and –’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Birdy, leave your mum. We pay the rent here so we make the decisions.’

  ‘Was the yellow paint the cheapest?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Where’s my things then?’

  ‘I have them put away,’ Mum said with her back to me.

  Dad wiped his hands on the tablecloth. ‘What you got in that tin and those bags anyway?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Go and get them then. Go on. Show us all.’

  Dad thought he was being funny.

  ‘I’ll go and get them.’ He scraped back his chair and stood over the table.

  ‘No.’ I got up.

  ‘Frank,’ Mum said, and he stood back.

  ‘I’m just joking.’ He loosened the belt on his trousers. ‘Calm down, love.’

  ‘Keep the walls white,’ I said. ‘I don’t want yellow.’

  ‘Quieten down,’ Mum said to me. She gave me her keep-the-peace smile.

  I shook my head.

  The grumpy quiet was broken with car doors slamming outside, our gate squeaking open and clinking shut, and then our doorbell going buzz.

  ‘It’s the police,’ Mum said with frozen eyes. She patted down her skirt and coughed to clear her throat.

  The doorbell went again.

  ‘Wait there,’ Mum said as she flattened her hair. ‘No, put the dishes in the sink.’ She took long strides and shouted back to me, ‘And get that kettle boiling.’

  ‘Welcome home, young lady,’ one of the officers said as he walked in and took up half the kitchen floor.

  My skin crawled.

  ‘Please don’t call me that,’ I said. He coughed and, while he thought about his next words, I said, ‘Is it about the cat?’

  ‘Pardon?’ The officer had a painful look.

  ‘The cat?’ Mum snapped.

  ‘What cat?’ Dad mumbled.

  ‘Sorry, no. Of course not.’

  I smiled, but the officers looked annoyed.

  ‘It is about the fight you got yourself into.’ Mum spat out the words. ‘One of the fights.’

  ‘The fight?’ I asked, feeling muddled up.

  ‘Well, what would you call it?’ Mum turned to me, then back to the police. ‘And, no disrespect to you officers, but you grilled Bernice already in the hospital. Three times you were in there to her.’

  ‘Actually, could I talk for a moment, Mrs Flynn?’ The taller, older officer got stern.

  Dad coughed.

  ‘Go on.’ Mum’s face was shiny from sweating and her hands were shaking.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Mrs Flynn.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thank you.’

  ‘Right, OK. Well.’ He paused. ‘We need to know if Bernice can remember any more. About what happened that day.’ He spoke slowly and firmly, like we were stupid, and I wanted them to go away. ‘We need to know what happened to you. At the cemetery.’

  ‘Happened to me?’

  ‘We need to know who did it.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Bernice, will
you listen. This is the police,’ Mum said, then spun around when she remembered she hadn’t made tea.

  ‘You were very seriously assaulted, Bernice. You understand that?’ the officer said.

  ‘Yes.’ I looked closely at his eyes. ‘Of course I do.’

  He kept nodding, waiting for me. I wanted to tell him it was the most stupid question I had ever heard.

  ‘So we need to know who did it.’ He was calm.

  I looked at Mum. She was pouring steaming water.

  ‘Each time we came to see you in hospital, you said you had no memory.’

  ‘It was the Boswell girl, wasn’t it?’ Dad said.

  Edna tutted and grumbled words that no one could understand.

  ‘That has been reported to me,’ the officer added.

  ‘Why are you saying that?’ I said. ‘It wasn’t her.’

  ‘The Boswells have a reputation,’ he carried on, ‘and she was seen at the cemetery.’

  ‘Could a girl cause those injuries?’ Mum asked the officer.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said.

  ‘It wasn’t her,’ I said.

  ‘We want to know who it was, for a start. Generally in this country when a young girl is beaten up, we like to ensure that the guilty party is suitably charged.’

  ‘You’ve asked her.’ Dad broke out of his silence. He faced me. He looked more nervous than Mum. ‘She doesn’t remember. Isn’t that right, Bernice?’ Dad said.

  I nodded. ‘I definitely don’t remember,’ I said in the slow way that the officer had spoken. ‘Anyway, I’m not a grass.’

  ‘This isn’t the bleedin’ Sweeney,’ Mum shouted.

  I wanted Mum to ask me if I was scared. If I wanted us to laugh and not fight. If I wanted to forget everything and bring Murphy back, so I could go back to being one of the boys. Then I would say yes. Then I would smile.

  ‘I told you, I can’t remember.’

  The police officers groaned and sighed and moved to go.

  ‘Have a think for us,’ one of them said.

  They picked up their hats and moved towards the door, then turned. ‘Mr Flynn. Are they your car keys on the windowsill?’

  ‘They’re borrowed,’ Dad said. ‘The brother-in-law parks his van outside our house. I had to move it.’

  ‘Are you driving while banned, Mr Flynn?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Would you mind coming outside for a chat?’ The taller officer held his hand out towards the door.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Please, Mr Flynn.’ The officer waited for Dad to move.

  ‘You arresting me?’

  ‘Can be arranged, sir.’

  ‘Birdy, go upstairs and get my IRA membership card.’

  I looked to see was he joking.

  ‘And my guns.’ Dad nudged me. ‘Go on. Under the bed, they are.’

  The officers said nothing.

  Mum, me and Edna stayed quiet.

  Dad sighed.

  ‘Go on, Frank,’ Mum said in a gentle, low voice.

  Dad slammed his fist down on the table as he stood up. He said the word ‘scumbags’ quietly, so only I could hear.

  Birdy Flynn

  146 Prospect Street

  Middleton

  England

  26 June 1982

  Dear Sir

  I do not understand how the police work. They keep saying that Kat beat me up when it’s obvious she didn’t. They keep saying that Dad is an Irish bomber when he was born in England and is actually a welder.

  If Dad can’t drive his van he can’t do any work. He says he’ll do anything for work but the police won’t let him. If he isn’t working, our house is much worse. When someone stole Dad’s tools, he didn’t tell the police and said I wouldn’t understand. He was right. I didn’t. Except that it’s like when Mum says that it’s better to keep your head down and not say anything.

  I hope Mum and Dad don’t send me away to a boarding school, which is actually a prison. I know that does happen and that they could if they wanted.

  Yours faithfully

  B. Flynn

  The next morning, my thumping heart made me wake too sudden. I sat up and wafted my pyjama top to get cool air to my sticky skin. A yellow blanket was sat on the floor, and I remembered where I was and the night before. I remembered being awake for hours, waiting for Dad to get home, and then getting shouted at for having big ideas of my own.

  I let my legs dangle as I rested on the edge of the bed. My bum felt warm and sweaty. Mum had been in and put my slippers in a place where I could easily slip into them. I ran my fingers over the soft cotton pillowcase. The sheets were cool underneath me and it felt calm and easy until my hand reached the bed’s damp middle. The first time I’d wet the bed for ages.

  The Saturday whiff of fried breakfast sneaked in through the closed door and I took in big lungs of frying black pudding and bacon.

  After a light tap tap, Mum’s smiling face came into the room.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Mum.’

  ‘Did you sleep?’

  ‘I did,’ I said, but then, ‘no. No, actually, I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mum said in the voice of Britain’s nicest mum. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Probably the strange bed.’

  ‘Probably.’ She stepped further into the room. ‘You know, your dad didn’t mean to shout last night. He was angry with the police, not you.’

  She waited for me to speak. I didn’t. I had heard it before.

  ‘And he’s got worries in his head. That’s all.’ She lifted up my chin so she could properly see my face. She tried to not look at the wet on my bed but I could tell that she was struggling. ‘Will I bring you up a butty to have in your room?’

  ‘It’s not my room, Mum.’

  ‘OK, cheeky.’ Her smile was slipping.

  I wanted to ask her, ‘Have you got what you wanted all along? Me in that room, while my room is done up – and what for? Why couldn’t you just leave it the way it was?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’ll be down,’ I said.

  ‘Shall I run a bath?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘OK, love.’ In slow motion she left and closed the door.

  ‘Don’t close the door, Mum.’

  ‘OK.’ She opened it up.

  Eileen’s Girls’ World watched me with her wonky plastic eyes as I pulled off the sheets and piled them on the floor. She was surrounded by brushes and prodding things, tall tins of hairspray like gold and silver rockets, and enough cotton wool to stuff my insides and put me in a museum. There was a dark pink nightdress laid across Eileen’s stool, bobbly and itchy just to look at, with pointless little bows on the sleeves.

  ‘I did try my best,’ I wanted to say to Mum. I looked at Eileen’s aching wardrobe and her shoes, still piled in the same place. ‘I did try and dress like other girls do, and that only made things worse.’

  ‘Bernice, love,’ I heard Mum call.

  I changed my pyjama bottoms for shorts and sat on Eileen’s stool. I picked up the pad of lined paper and Bic pen that I’d used the night before.

  Birdy Flynn

  Back home

  27 June 1982

  Dear Sir

  You should be able to stay in hospital anytime, instead of waiting to get ill.

  I think we should build more hospitals for people to stay in so that they can have peace and quiet. Like when they are sad or when their family are driving them mad.

  Apart from the food – because Mum’s is much better – part of me would like to be in hospital for ever.

  Yours faithfully

  B.O.M. Flynn

  I put it in my pyjama pocket and shouted, ‘I’m coming, Mum,’ as I placed the pen in a drawer.

  The top drawer was crammed with cassettes. The second drawer was stuck; I tugged at it and when it opened a stash of tightly packed envelopes popped up.

  My sister had letters galore. Rolls of envelopes tied up wit
h elastic bands. I took one lot out. The first letters were from Susan, who said in her first line that she had moved to somewhere called Kinloss. I put them back and took out another roll. There were love hearts drawn on each envelope, with S.W.A.L.K. written across the middle. They were from someone called the Ryler. His handwriting was neat; his signature was well practised. He was in love with my sister from what he was saying. As the letters went on, he wrote more and more about how he was missing her. Some of the things were totally embarrassing. Places he wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t nice reading. Some of it was gossip. He wrote about their mate Michelle, who had moved with her family to Grantham. He said in one of the letters that Mr Rice was arrested for drunk driving. Another one was about a holiday in Spain. If he goes on holidays, I thought, he must be OK.

  The last letter I read was about Eileen’s lovely hair at first, then his new car and his tattoo, and then Mrs Cope. I read the words over and over. Mrs Cope. Cope Mrs. Mrs Cope. Seeing her name written down was like being in the room with her. He wrote that she was always his favourite teacher, and he hoped she would be OK. The lines got muddled in my head. He said that she deserved getting an MBE, and he wished he could go with her to meet the Queen. He said he didn’t like her husband and one of her sons was a bully. The words blurred after I read them again and again. The last line said that nobody believed the lies and rumours. I folded the letters up, exactly as I’d found them, and put them back in the drawer.

  There were clean pyjama bottoms on the radiator on the landing and I went to take them into the bathroom, but I stopped. I wanted proper clothes on.

  In my bedroom I opened the wardrobe. It was empty. No clothes. No bags. There was no sign of any of my things. On my desk were the two cards that I’d left in the kitchen. I pulled out my drawers. Empty. My bed was naked – no sheets or covers – and pale except for a water stain across its middle. I got down on my knees; underneath was the same. Nothing. The same carpet. An empty space. No tin. No shoebox. No Sainsbury’s bags tied with extra tight knots. I crawled around the corners of the room. Under my desk. The wardrobe again. Under my bed. It was all the same.