I knew some things were better not said. Like how one day Nan was alive, the next she was dead. Never mind, we were told. She died, that is all. Carry on. She had a weak heart, a broken heart, a failing heart, a big heart, a tough heart. No heart. Not the heart for the fight. Ready to give in. Wanting home. Waving the white hanky, Uncle Barry called it. What-ever that meant, I never got a kiss from Nan again.
Too young to see the box, not allowed in a church, too fragile for the bit when they put her in the ground and covered her with straw and earth. I saw her house without her in it, her furniture, her green and orange wallpaper. Her velvety curtains, double lined to keep the light out. Silver-framed photos across the length of her sideboard: seventeen grandchildren and one great-grandchild. The photo of Noely in his Scout uniform, Eileen as a bridesmaid and me looking furious in a dirty T-shirt and flowery skirt. Mum cleaned Nan’s house from top to bottom, then locked the door behind us. I offered to carry her bag but she whispered, ‘No’. And I remembered it was a windy day because Mum’s tears didn’t flow down – they moved sideways.
My empty belly brought me down from the tree and I headed home, but went the long way. I passed the railway station and watched trains speeding past and then one stopped and people with shopping bags and big smiles piled out. Without thinking, I was walking towards Caswell Street, Kat’s street, where I’d never been before. I knew where it was, on the top of our town’s biggest hill, which got me sweating from the heat and the effort. It was a wide street with trees down the sides. Apart from one or two cars, the street felt like an alarm had gone off and the whole place had been abandoned. Nobody was outside. Everyone was trapped indoors, forced to have their family Sunday, frustrated and bored. I looked into front windows but they all had net curtains – except the one with a white terrier dog, sitting and watching me walk.
I knew it was her street but I didn’t know the number of her house. The thought of her sitting at her bedroom window staring out and seeing me almost fried my mind. If she ran out shouting my name, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I’d suffocate from the surprise, at the shock of something happening exactly as I had dreamt.
‘Well, a chicken doesn’t cook itself’ were the words I heard from Mum as I shoved open our back door. The smell was so gorgeous it made me dizzy and nearly fall over. My shoes took for ever to get off. The kitchen went quiet. I put my shoes neatly in the corner.
They sat like waxworks: Mum, Dad, Eileen and a skinny bloke that I’d never seen before.
‘Birdy.’ Eileen got up and wrapped her arms around me.
‘Where have you been?’ I asked her in my head.
‘This is Gary.’ She pointed.
He held his hand out. I shook it.
‘I’m Birdy,’ I said.
‘How are you feeling?’ Eileen asked.
‘Fine. Have you been busy?’
‘Are you sure?’ She tilted her head, studying me, as if she’d been to evening classes on how to be kind and caring.
I watched Gary. He watched Eileen’s every movement.
‘Where’ve you been then?’ I asked Eileen.
‘A fine question,’ Mum said. And then she said ‘Sit’ while pointing to a chair. She got my dinner from the oven. It was roast chicken, potatoes, stuffing, the lot. ‘How could you leave me on my own?’ she said as she stood over me and put the plate on the table with a thud.
‘This looks lovely.’
‘Bernice.’
‘I didn’t leave you, Mum. I looked for you and I waited. But you were there with everyone, and when I waved nobody noticed.’
‘Where’s this?’ Dad asked.
‘Nowhere, Frank.’ Mum sat back in her chair. ‘So where have you been all this time? You could have been run over or attacked. I didn’t know what to think.’
‘It’s a Sunday.’
‘There’s still muggings on the Holy Day, Bernice.’
‘I’ve been climbing trees.’
I went straight for the marrowfat peas, mushed them into the glistening onion gravy, mixed in mashed potato, scooped and swallowed it and felt it roll down my throat and land in my belly.
‘Climbing bloody trees?’ Dad banged his knife down.
‘Dad,’ Eileen moaned.
I kept eating.
Mum tapped his hand with her fork, leaving gravy juice on his skin, which he licked off.
‘Murphy would have loved a bit of this chicken,’ Eileen said, ‘wouldn’t she, Mum?’ She turned to me, smiling.
‘Why you asking me?’
‘I was asking Mum,’ she said, and Mum nodded in approval.
My food got stuck.
‘Who is Murphy?’ Gary asked nervously.
A roast potato cut against my throat.
‘The family cat,’ Eileen said. ‘This gravy is salty, Mum. Did you put extra salt in it?’
‘I didn’t, love.’
‘Daft bloody moggie,’ Dad said.
‘She belonged to our family, Gary.’ Mum looked up, try-ing to keep her crackly voice level.
‘She belonged to my nan,’ Eileen said to Gary. ‘She went a bit loopy when Nan died.’
Gary nodded. ‘Who did?’ he said.
‘Murphy. The cat. So she lived with our neighbour, but was always wandering off. She was a bit of a mystery.’
Gary tried hard to concentrate.
‘Don’t get upset, Mum.’ Eileen reached across and took her hand. ‘Murphy had a mind of her own.’
‘I know, love.’
‘I’m sure she’ll still turn up,’ Eileen said, and everyone nodded in silence. ‘Maybe she’ll bring us some French bread back from Paris,’ she said, and I wondered when she would stop talking rubbish.
‘Dad, tell us about when you were blown up,’ I said, and Dad looked at me and then looked at Gary.
‘OK.’
‘Oh, Birdy,’ Eileen said, and I felt delighted that my plan had worked.
Dad pointed at me. ‘She were a tiddler – two, maybe three.’
‘Oh, Frank.’ Mum’s body sank back.
‘You had just turned cheeky, Eileen, and Noely had started turning funny.’
‘Funny?’ I said, but Dad pretended he didn’t hear me.
Eileen held her head in her hands. ‘We all know this bloody story.’
‘I was welding some old pipework.’ Dad paused until Gary looked up from his chicken. ‘So. It was a job at the barracks on Victoria Road.’ He put his finger to a scar above his cheek. ‘You see this?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but Dad was looking at Gary.
He nodded politely.
Mum tutted.
‘That was shrapnel flying into me. Could have blinded or killed me, or both.’
‘Small mercies,’ Mum muttered.
‘Everything went a blinding bright yellow.’ Dad stretched his arms out. ‘Like a flash of pure sunbeam. Then pure white.’ I thought of my room. ‘The air hit me like a truck.’
‘Have you swallowed a dictionary?’ Eileen said and expected us to laugh.
‘It threw me against the wall and splinters of glass sprayed all over.’ Dad took a long drink from his pint glass. ‘They got stuck in my lips, the glass splinters. A windscreen wiper hit my shin.’
‘Your shin?’ I said.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Eileen told me.
‘A wing mirror landed at my feet, and’ – Dad raised his eyebrows – ‘a human arm.’
‘An arm?’ Gary said with extra surprise.
‘Oh, Frank. At the dinner table?’
‘With the hand still attached,’ he carried on. ‘A diamond ring on it.’ Dad pointed to the finger on his left hand that usually has the wedding ring. ‘A diamond.’
‘Is that the most important thing?’ Mum said to him.
‘I saw a woman with her dress ripped off. Imagine that. Blown off by the force,’ Dad went on.
‘Blown off?’ I said. ‘From the bomb?’ I hadn’t heard that bit of the story before.
‘Of course it was the
bomb.’
‘Whose bomb was it?’
‘Her lot.’ Dad pointed at Mum.
‘That’s enough, Dad,’ Eileen said.
‘Sounds awful, Mr Flynn,’ Gary chipped in.
‘My lot,’ Mum interrupted, ‘as you put it, built this bloody country.’ She folded her arms.
Dad laughed and spat Guinness across his parsnips. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I could list you plenty of Irish that run this place.’
‘Go on then.’ Dad held his arms out. ‘And Terry Wogan doesn’t count.’
‘OK.’ Mum thought for a minute. ‘Jim Callaghan. That’s an Irish name.’
‘He’s bloody English.’
‘The Beatles are all Irish.’
‘Ian Paisley, how about that one?’ Dad said.
‘Don’t start.’ Mum grabbed her glass and got up from her chair.
‘What’s in a name, eh, Gary?’
‘Yes, Mr Flynn.’
‘The Nolans?’ I said, but nobody heard me.
‘Years of bloody harassment, that’s what.’
‘Can we change the subject, please?’ Mum sat back down.
‘Because of the murdering Fenians.’
‘Frank, please.’
‘The Fenians were soldiers,’ I said, and Dad looked like he would kill me for trying to be clever. ‘I’d like to be one,’ I said and my body tightened, expecting a reaction. ‘They were great fighters,’ I carried on. I knew that Dad would be raging but I kept on talking. ‘Very brave.’ He looked at me with his mouth open wide. ‘I would fight the British if I could be a Fenian.’
‘You’d bloody fight anyone,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t you study History?’ He laid his arms flat on the table, so they didn’t fly across and hit me.
‘I’d like to teach History,’ Gary said before I could say my answer.
Eileen’s face looked shocked.
Mum and Dad almost laughed.
I watched the movement of Gary’s mouth as he rattled off words to try and finish what he’d started. He scratched his half-grown beard while holding his fork and nearly stabbed his eye out. I noticed the stiff brown bristles that poked out of him like bits of brittle metal. While he was talking, I pictured the hole each one must make. I wondered was it painful when they burst through the skin? I held my chin. My skin was too smooth. I wanted it rough. I imagined holes stretching open and the feeling of sandpaper or a brush. Mum gave Gary more meat and a scoop of potatoes. He chewed and talked, and I wondered, Does that make your punctured skin hurt? Like a safety pin punching a hole in paper. Do you feel it when they grow, like new trees sprouting up from the ground? A whole forest he had on him, dark and brittle, tiny burnt stumps. Under his soft mushy lip, he had something like a broom. A stiff outdoors broom. ‘When you suck your bottom lip in, isn’t it sore with scratchy prickles?’ I wanted to ask.
‘Are you the Ryler?’ I asked Gary, to change the subject.
Eileen choked and coughed and banged her ribcage, and Dad jumped up, ran round the table and hit her back. Gary reached his arm across her shoulder; she slowed her sputtering and drank some water.
We waited. She took a long breath.
‘How . . .’ She paused. ‘How do you know that name?’
Blood was rushing upwards in me, but I felt cold, like I’d jumped into deep water.
‘I just do.’
‘How?’ Eileen’s voice clapped like sudden thunder.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘What’s going on?’ Dad said.
Gary scratched his beard again.
‘How, Birdy?’ Eileen barked, and I realised what I’d said and what I’d done.
‘Who is this fella?’ Mum tried to sound cheery.
My mouth moved, but with no words.
‘Not me,’ Gary said.
‘Answer your sister’s question,’ Dad told me.
Although the word ‘sorry’ was waiting to be said, I couldn’t open my mouth.
‘How?’ My sister stood up. ‘I want to know.’ Eileen slammed the table and made Mum jump.
Gary leant back and looked down to his lap.
‘I read it.’ The words fell out.
‘You read my letters?’ She stepped around Gary’s chair and moved to attack me. She grabbed me by my collar. ‘I’m going to kill you, Birdy, you freaky little monster.’
‘But –’
‘Have you been in my room?’
‘Get off.’
‘Have you been in my room?’
‘Eileen,’ Mum shouted, ‘you’re choking your sister.’
‘Sister?’ she shouted. ‘This is my sister?’
‘Get off me,’ I tried to say, but she pulled me up higher and squeezed my collar tighter.
‘Leave her be.’ Mum got up and pulled Eileen off me.
I grabbed at some breath and held my throat.
Gary stared at us.
‘What you looking at?’ I said to him.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Eileen screamed again.
Gary pushed back his chair.
Eileen ran up the stairs.
Dad opened another Guinness.
Mum told Gary not to worry and to come back to the table. He said he’d rather stand for a minute.
‘You’ll have pudding,’ Mum told him before he made his mind up, ‘and I’ll get you a proper drink.’
Dad ate two slices of Arctic Roll, but Gary said he wasn’t hungry. Then he turned down the offer of a cup of tea and told us he should be leaving.
‘What is she doing up there?’ Mum said, piling plates in the sink.
There was no sound, just floorboards creaking. Dad sat silently using matches to pick his teeth.
Then Eileen stormed back into the kitchen. I ducked, but she didn’t go near me. She used her thumb to tell Gary it was time to go.
Dad stood up; Eileen kissed his forehead. She went over to the kettle, where Mum was leaning against the counter. They kissed on the cheek and whispered things for ages. Then they hugged for so long that Gary and me looked away.
Gary shook Mum and Dad’s hands.
‘See you, son,’ Dad said to him, even though he was not Dad’s son, and when I turned to Mum to see if she thought that funny, I caught Eileen staring at me.
‘OK?’ Gary said after a while, to snap Eileen out of day-dreaming.
‘Give us two rings when you’re in,’ Mum said, and Eileen walked straight past me.
The front door slammed.
‘Go to your room,’ Mum said. It was the voice she used when things were unhappy.
‘My room?’
‘Yes, your room.’ She didn’t look up.
I got up and walked out. I stopped halfway up the stairs to give them a chance to call me back. But all I could hear was them talking loud and trying not to shout.
‘Don’t you dare blame me,’ Mum said to him. ‘How dare you?’
‘It’s not a man’s job to deal with that sort of thing.’
‘To bring up his children?’
‘Fathers provide.’
‘Don’t make me laugh, Frank. Jesus Christ.’
‘You need to talk to her.’
‘Stop shouting,’ Mum shouted back. Then she lowered her voice. ‘How did she . . .’ I heard her say, before the kitchen door clicked shut.
Eileen left a note on my bed: Don’t ever touch my stuff. My Daily Telegraphs were thrown across the floor. She’d even pulled out the old ones that I kept stored. My floor looked like the bottom of a rabbit hutch. I got down on my knees and picked all the bits up.
It took for ever to piece all the pages back together, the right dates and the right order, but eventually I had two piles on my desk.
146 Prospect Street
Middleton
England
Dear Sir
I have noticed that the word murderer can mean lots of different things.
Dad says we should bring back hanging for murderers. ‘All of them?’ I say. Some things are even worse than murde
r – if you murdered because you were getting attacked or you were helping someone you loved. Dad says he could murder a pint every day.
Hanging would be killing like murdering and it would be treating humans like dogs. When dogs are ill, you put them down. But some dogs and animals get treated better than children. If cats and dogs could speak, adults would believe them. But they don’t believe children. They don’t listen. They interrupt and usually they have already made their mind up.
I don’t think my town has any real murderers. There are lots of shoplifters and dads who drive when they are drunk, and on the Waterloo Estate flats get burgled a lot, but no one has ever killed anyone.
Mum is always telling me I get away with murder. If I could, I know I would kill Mrs Cope first.
Yours faithfully
B. Flynn
Mum tapped on my door and opened it slightly.
I smiled; she walked in.
‘You need a bath tonight,’ she said, looking down at my desk. She glanced at each article. She said nothing but her face looked puzzled. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Eileen made a right mess,’ I said.
Mum came in and sat on my bed. She was getting herself ready, like she had something to announce.
‘Has Dad gone out?’
‘Yes.’ She shuffled her bum and wiped my lamp with the tissue from her sleeve. ‘We need to tell the police, Bernice.’
‘The police? What about?’
‘Who did that to you in the cemetery.’
‘No.’
‘Bernice.’
‘No, Mum. I don’t want to.’
‘The miners’ strike?’ Mum picked up one of my cuttings. ‘That’s a bit heavy, love.’
I took it back and placed it on its pile.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘I don’t want whoever did it walking around scot-bloody-free.’
‘I’ll be fine, Mum. I can deal with it.’
Birdy Flynn Page 19
