It was sprawled across the floor. I half-expected to see her big baggy handbag breathing as I got up close. Inside were old receipts, cigarette papers, a pouch of Golden Virginia tobacco and, as always, her battered purse. At the bottom was a tiny bottle of Holy Water, loose coins, loose mints, a lipstick, a small plastic comb and a piece of folded paper that had the words: I am blind. Please help me home.
‘Your keys are here,’ I said, ‘and your purse. Do you want your purse?’
‘Check there’s money in it. I had two pound notes at least, and Co-op stamps.’
‘No.’
‘No what?’ Edna asked, but I couldn’t speak.
When I opened her purse, all I could see was a small colour photo of Murphy.
‘Did you say no, Birdy? That bloody woman.’
I took the photo out and handed the purse to Edna. She felt my hand; she held it and wouldn’t release it.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
I stared at Murphy.
‘What’s wrong, Birdy? Tell me.’
‘I think Murphy may be dead.’
Edna’s hand released me. She sat back and upright.
‘She may be,’ Edna whispered. ‘What makes you say that now?’
‘You have her photo. In your purse.’
‘I do. So that’s her dead, now?’
‘I just think –’
‘Go on.’
‘That she’s probably dead and gone.’
‘Come here.’ Edna opened up her arms and I moved forward. I gave her the photo and she held it in her hand. ‘Come on, come on.’ She pressed my cheek on to hers. ‘It will soon be the end,’ she said and she pressed me tighter. ‘A broken heart, so rightly wrong. Sure eaten bread is soon forgotten.’
‘Edna.’ I stood back. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing is nothing.’ She held the small photo between her finger and her thumb.
‘What are you saying?’ I asked and, as if I’d clicked my fingers, she stopped. No words came out, but she was still deep in thought.
When I hoped we were through with it, her eyes let go. Slow tears leaked down her cheeks. I stood watching her in silence. Then she took a deep breath and a tissue from her sleeve and she dabbed her eyes while shaking her head. When she eventually looked up, her grey face had softened to a pinker flush, as if she was in one of those old films where they put the colour in last.
‘Well, Heaven help her, the lovely little scruff.’ She pushed against the arms of her chair to raise herself up and, after straightening her body, she put her palm on my head and held it there. ‘You think she’s gone, Birdy?’
‘I think she probably has.’
‘You’re sounding full of wisdom for your age.’
‘It’s not wisdom, Edna. It’s just that facts are probably facts.’
I had to walk around the block. My head spun like I’d just seen a nasty but funny video and my mind kept replaying Edna’s talking trance back and forth. I hugged my bag like a puppy and, after my legs gave up, I sat on the front wall of a bungalow where Mum knew the family, so I wouldn’t get told to get off.
I opened my bag. My pencil case was there, some old Opal Fruit wrappers, my English homework, my Maths exercise book and a textbook on the British Empire. At the bottom, Murphy’s name tag still looked shiny and silver.
‘You talking to yourself?’ a voice said.
I looked up. It was Kat.
‘What you looking for?’ she asked. The make-up on her skin was too thick. I wanted to tell her not to wear so much, that it was better when her face didn’t crack when she smiled.
‘Mrs Cope stole my bag,’ I said, because I wanted to see Kat’s reaction.
She put her hands in her jacket pockets and wrapped it around herself. She went quiet, but her expression changed. It wasn’t a smile or a frown.
‘And she took all the letters I kept in it.’ I showed Kat the bag was empty.
‘What letters?’
‘Oh, it’s stupid. I write letters about things that annoy me and I wrote lots about her. I was going to send them to someone one day.’
‘Like who?’
‘Don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘But now she’s probably burnt them. She said they were funny when they weren’t funny at all. Not meant to be. Not to me.’ I stopped talking when I saw how fidgety Kat was. She kept shuffling her feet.
‘The police should have them.’
‘But they’re gone,’ I said, and Kat tutted and studied the dust and twigs and flattened chewing gum that was on the ground.
I took a deep breath. ‘She did it to you, didn’t she?’ I said.
‘Stole my bag?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I hate her,’ Kat said, and we both stayed quiet, trying not to think too much. ‘Have you told your mum or dad?’ Kat looked up and asked.
I shook my head and studied her. She didn’t look like someone who didn’t have a mum. I wanted to ask her how long her mum was gone. Two girls pushed prams along the pavement and we stepped aside. Their babies were screaming and we followed them with our eyes.
‘My dad has gone missing,’ I said.
‘No way,’ Kat chuckled. ‘Sorry, it’s not funny.’
‘Well, he didn’t come home last night.’ I put my bag over my shoulder. ‘That’s kind of the same thing.’
The air became hot and heavy. Neither of us knew what to say. We smiled at each other in an awkward way. It would have been easier to walk away, but neither of us wanted to go.
‘I’ve told the police,’ she said.
‘The police?’ I said, saying the word to make it more real.
Kat nodded.
‘About Mrs Cope?’
‘No. God, no. As if they would believe me.’
‘Who then?’ My mind was moving too fast for thinking.
‘Martin,’ she said, and I felt stupid for a moment but then afraid of where things were going. ‘I told the police what he did to you. I had to.’
‘But he’s your brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was grassing him right?’
‘Of course it was, Birdy. How can you say that? I did it for you.’
‘I mean thank you, sorry,’ I said. ‘But what will happen?’ Words came out, but all I could think was: She did it for me. That was the thought that was buzzing about inside my head like a trapped bumblebee.
‘Don’t know.’ Kat shrugged. ‘But I won’t be very popular at home.’
‘Come to my party.’ I put my bag down, took hold of her arms and held her firm. She had to be stood still to fully hear the wonderful idea from me. ‘I’m having a homecoming party on Sunday. Please come.’
‘Homecoming from where?’
‘From hospital, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Kat laughed.
‘Will you come? Go on. It’s on Sunday. It’s only my family.’
She looked frightened at the thought.
‘It’s OK, they’re all – mainly all – lovely.’
Kat looked at me like I was a special painting or a shop window, or like she was in a shop and she couldn’t decide whether to buy the chocolate bar or me. ‘OK,’ she said.
‘Brilliant.’
‘I’ll see you later.’ She stepped around me and I watched her as she walked along the pavement. Before she turned the corner into Barrington Road, she looked back and smiled.
Chapter 16
By Saturday lunchtime, Dad still wasn’t home. No phone call. No police visit.
Mum couldn’t settle. Edna came for a cup of tea. I helped by polishing cutlery and pots and the kettle. Mum jumped each time the letter box rattled. She looked behind cushions and curtains, and the back of the sofa, as if Dad was a lost coin or playing hide-and-seek from her.
All I cared about was what Kat had done. I thought about it over and over. But also what would happen to Martin. Would he go to jail? He seemed, when I saw him, too quiet and soft and fragile. If the police came to visit, to tell u
s about it, should I tell them about Murphy as well?
‘It’s me. I forgot my keys,’ Eileen said through the letter box. ‘Yoo-hoo,’ she shouted.
I went to let her in.
‘Any sign of Dad?’ she said as she walked past me and wrapped her arms around Mum in the world’s longest hug.
‘No,’ Mum said, getting her breath back when Eileen set her free.
Then Eileen turned, and I got a shock as she clasped me tightly as well. So tight and so long that her perfume made my eyes swell.
Mum went back to her baking, mixing with her hands. She talked to herself, saying it was only a few nights that he was gone and any minute he’d be home with dirty hair and no money. ‘Full of regrets and sad stories,’ she said out loud.
‘And a sore head,’ Eileen tried to joke.
‘Yes, dear.’ Mum turned to me. ‘Birdy, what was it again that you said?’
‘To who?’
‘To your own father, Bernice.’
‘I just told him to go. He was embarrassing. You weren’t there.’
‘How hard did Uncle Tommy hit him?’
‘He knocked him out.’
‘So he might have concussion?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Could he walk?’
‘Just about,’ I said, and Mum pushed away her mixing bowl.
‘What do you mean, ‘‘just about’’, Bernice? You never said that before. You said he was fine. What does ‘‘just about’’ mean?’
‘He was wobbly.’
‘Wobbly?’ Eileen snapped. ‘How bloody wobbly?’
‘Eileen, your language. How wobbly was he?’ Mum turned back to me.
‘I don’t know. Ask Aunty Marie.’
‘She has her phone off the hook.’ Mum dusted her hands and put them in her apron pockets.
‘He deserved it.’
‘Bernice. You are talking about your father.’
‘I know.’
‘Mum is serious, Birdy.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But you didn’t hear him. The way he shouted at Mum, what he said about me. He said I dress . . .’ I paused.
‘Yes, go on,’ Eileen said.
‘He said I dress like an Action Man.’ I could tell from Mum and Eileen’s faces that they were holding in a laugh. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘It’s not,’ Mum said and turned her face away.
‘He called me a mongrel.’
‘That’s not funny.’ Eileen put on her serious face.
‘Oh, Bernice,’ Mum said and went back to sucking on her cigarette. ‘You still shouldn’t have called him embarrassing. Not your father. He’s very sensitive, and with concussion –’
A noise came from outside; we all flipped around. Eileen pulled the curtain aside then let it flop back down.
‘What is concussion?’ I said.
‘Birdy,’ Eileen barked. ‘You’ll be getting some.’ Then she put her hand on my arm. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
‘It’s when you get hit so bad you can’t get up,’ Mum said, putting her cigarette down and cracking some eggs. ‘A punch can kill you. Look what happened to that poor boy fighting with Barry McGuigan. Did you see that? And Barry McGuigan is a lovely lad.’
‘Mum, that’s not really helping.’ Eileen was pacing up and down.
‘Did he kill him, Mum?’
‘Was not intended, love. Was never Barry McGuigan’s fault.’
‘How did he kill him?’
‘Shall I phone the hospital, Mum?’ Eileen said, after clipping me on my arm.
‘I’ll never have this baking done.’
‘Mum.’
‘I was going to do scones.’
‘Should I call the hospital?’ Eileen repeated slowly, as if Mum’s hearing had gone. She handed Mum a tissue.
‘OK, love.’ Mum wiped her eyes. ‘You’d better, I suppose.’
While Eileen went to the telephone in the hall, I stood and watched Mum shuffling back and forward, measuring flour, pouring sugar and whacking the spoon around the bowl. There was no music or radio. The windows were closed. The summer outside had gone grey and cold.
‘Shall I get the butter, Mum?’
‘I have it here,’ she said.
I carried on watching. When Mum lifted her head, it was to glance out the window. Then back to the bowl.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have the party, Mum?’ I hated the thought of it.
‘Are you serious?’
‘The weather looks bad.’
‘There’s a good forecast.’
‘Can I have a tablet, Mum?’ I rubbed my belly to soothe the twitching inside.
‘And don’t be trying that auld trick on me.’ She waved her sticky wooden spoon. ‘You are having this bloody party, like it or not.’ She turned back to her mixing. ‘And you’ll bloody enjoy it. After all this effort.’
‘Why’s Eileen being so nice to me?’ I said, but Mum just kept mixing. ‘Why didn’t you tell her how Dad behaved?’
She started muttering recipes and measurements and counting family members on her sticky white fingers.
‘Weren’t you scared?’
‘We haven’t checked the shed.’ Mum’s face lit up like it was a message from God.
‘I did, Mum.’ Eileen walked back in. ‘The hospital has no one called Francis Billy Flynn.’
‘Is that good, would you say?’ Mum looked lost.
‘Unless he’s lying in a ditch somewhere,’ Eileen said. ‘I’ll have another drive around.’
Mum crossed herself, dotting flour on her boobs and her forehead.
Eileen grabbed her keys, nudged me and said, ‘Birdy, help your mum.’
I wondered how.
We stood and watched Eileen leave, then I reached across to Mum’s face and wiped the flour off with my sleeve.
‘I can’t do it,’ I heard Mum scream from the bathroom on Sunday morning.
Then muffled words from Eileen. Then Mum wailing and crying.
I jumped out of bed.
A man was shouting from downstairs, so I went out to the landing.
‘This ham will be dry.’ I looked over the banister. It was only Uncle Brian. ‘I’ve put the plates and bowls on the side.’
‘Thank you, Uncle Brian.’
He winked and I waved, and for a while after he’d closed the front door, everything was quiet. I stood at the window and watched his Capri glide down the road. Mum was right about the weather. The air outside had returned to a hazy, buttery glow.
With a heavy clunk, the bathroom opened and Mum almost fell out. Eileen grabbed hold of her. Mum was throwing her arms about, shaking her head.
‘What’s happened?’ I stepped towards them.
‘Mum’s tired, that’s all,’ Eileen said.
I stood aside. ‘Has Dad . . .?’
‘No, there’s no news.’ Eileen shook her head.
‘Couldn’t you sleep, Mum?’ I leant in to ask, but her eyes looked empty.
‘Mum is going to Mass,’ Eileen said in her no-nonsense way. ‘She’ll feel better after that.’
‘I want to go home,’ Mum said, like a little girl begging her parents.
Eileen rolled her eyes and shuffled her along.
‘Say a prayer in church, Mum,’ I said as she clomped down each stair, gripping the banister tightly.
I said a prayer inside my head that Mum would be OK and get back to being strong.
It got to one o’clock and Eileen got tough.
‘Get down here now, Birdy,’ she shouted.
Mum wasn’t back from Mass and I had stayed in my room writing letters. The Family was due. I was listening for voices downstairs and kept my mind busy with a clothing decision: the choice between my pale blue shirt under a navy blue tank top, or my maroon shirt with the white grandad collar under my grey cardigan with the letter Y stitched on it.
‘Birdy,’ Eileen yelled.
I picked the maroon shirt.
‘I’m coming. No need to shout.’
She gave me loads of jobs to do. I set out the chairs round the garden as neat as I could. I laid out the tartan rug and balanced the new radio on the kitchen window ledge. Eileen put bowls of Hula Hoops and peanuts at places where people might stand.
‘What if Dad doesn’t come?’
‘Doesn’t? What if Dad does come?’ Eileen stopped and said to me. ‘You’d best hope he don’t, Birdy. Dad does not do parties, remember?’ She gave me her raised eyebrows, lifted a plate of sandwiches and carried on. ‘Are you just going to stand there? Birdy, hello. Hello, Birdy. Earth to Birdy.’ Eileen lifted the glass bowl of fruit punch as easy as a bowl of cornflakes. ‘Keep busy,’ she said. ‘Do less thinking.’
Then we both heard Mum’s voice from indoors.
‘Mum,’ I shouted as I ran in and saw her stood by the oven.
Edna was bent over, taking her shoes off.
Eileen flew in behind me.
Mum rolled her shoulders, pulled her arms out and gave me her jacket.
‘Where have you been?’ Eileen roared.
‘Watch your tone. We’ve been to church.’
‘For this long?’
‘What’s the rush? I needed to talk to Father Cooley. Then I called at the cemetery.’ She slid her feet into her slippers.
‘It’s Birdy’s party.’
‘And no one is here yet, so sit yourself down and take the weight off your hair lacquer.’ She rolled her sleeves like she was steadying for a punch-up. ‘And for Christ’s sake,’ she waved us away, ‘put some Irish records on.’
Eileen’s face was twisted with confusion.
Mum inspected the food like we were having a sandwich-making competition.
‘Now. Nothing beats a good walk to clear the head,’ Mum said as she stepped out into the garden. ‘Except a good whiskey.’ She turned to me. ‘Bernice, get me and Edna a whiskey.’
The drinks that I poured were slightly too large but Mum didn’t seem to notice.
‘Thanks, love,’ she said to me, as she clinked her glass with Edna’s.
‘You look better, Mum.’
She drank it down in one go and gave me a wink. ‘I know it . . .’ She paused as the burning whiskey roared down her throat. ‘I know it was Martin, love,’ she said. She nodded. My head nodded with her. ‘That did it, love. That beat you up.’ She leant into me. ‘The little bastard.’ She looked like she had a plan for revenge.
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