‘I will,’ I said, and Mum’s tired face warmed up as the sun moved around outside and took the kitchen from shade into sunlight.
‘So, is that your wee talk done?’
‘Was that why I didn’t have the right stuff for my school trip? Because you couldn’t read the letter?’ I asked, and Mum looked surprised.
‘Yes, love. I suppose it is.’
‘You used to get it right for Noely?’
‘Well, your dad would help me.’ Her voice lifted. ‘He had more energy then. I wouldn’t have to ask – he would just do the reading for me.’
I thought it through and it all made sense.
‘So, do you forgive me, Bernice?’ Mum said, and I didn’t ask what for. I didn’t say, ‘Don’t be daft.’ I just got up out of my chair and gave my mum the biggest hug of her life. I held her so tight. She didn’t cry but she breathed in deep, like with every breath she was setting something free.
‘I’ll teach you to read, Mum.’
‘No. I can’t have that. My own child.’ Mum leant back from me.
‘Please let me. And writing – I’m getting good at it. I’ve written a letter to the Daily Telegraph.’
‘Have you? About what?’
‘It’s. Well. It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Bernice, the not reading and writing doesn’t mean I have no brain.’
‘It’s about teachers.’
‘Oh right.’
‘About how teachers behave. How some can be right vicious. How they all stick together.’
‘That’s a mighty subject. And will they put it in the paper, do you think?’
‘Don’t know. They might though. So I, or we, could write to Noely. I’ll find him, get his address.’
‘Oh, Christ, here we go. Eileen has had her talking hat on.’
‘I’ll go down the library and ask their advice and we can track him down and he’ll start writing back to us.’
I wanted Mum’s smile to say that everything was sorted, that her hero had saved the day. But she laughed.
‘OK, love,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and lighting another cigarette. ‘I hope he’s easier to find than our Murphy.’ Mum chuckled to herself.
I felt as if she’d hit me.
‘Don’t you think, Birdy? Why’ve you gone all quiet on me?’
‘Mum.’
‘Maybe they’re both in Florida, on the beach,’ Mum carried on, thinking she was hilarious. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’ She walked over and put the kettle back on. She leant back against the sink.
‘Mum.’
‘What, love? What’s up?’
I thought about putting some music on, or opening a window.
‘Sit down,’ I said, and she did. The kitchen table had the latest pile of Daily Telegraphs, with pictures of the dead horses sitting on the top.
‘What’s the matter now?’ she asked in a pretend-jokey voice that she couldn’t quite manage.
I got my breathing ready.
‘Mum.’ I sat down beside her.
‘Yes, love,’ she said, growing impatient.
A crashing noise came from next door and we both jumped and Mum got up to go and check, but I asked her to leave it. I could see Murphy’s face. I could hear her squealing.
‘Mum, there is something I have to tell you.’
‘I know, love,’ she said. She let out a slow, deep sigh as her face formed its sympathy smile.
‘You know?’ I said, and she smiled again, with a single nod of her head.
‘A mother knows,’ she said, and that blew my brain. I knew my mum was clever and bright, even if she couldn’t read or write, but now she was telling me she could read my mind.
‘Did you know always? Straight away from when it happened? When I came home with blood on my clothes and my trousers all shredded?’ I said, and then Mum looked panicked.
‘Have you been taking my tablets?’ she said.
‘What is it you know, Mum?’
‘About you.’ She reached over and straightened my collar. ‘Did Eileen buy you this?’
‘She did.’
‘It suits you.’ Her face looked like she was pleased with herself.
‘What’s that got to do with Murphy?’
‘Murphy?’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to say something else.’ She looked disappointed.
We both sat back, exhausted, as if we’d been running for miles. I lost the words that I had half-prepared and I think Mum did as well.
‘Wait there,’ I said and I ran upstairs.
When I came back down, Eileen was stood in the kitchen. She was complaining about the heat, about her shoes being too tight, and anything to stop Mum from starting her questioning. My heart sank. My mind adjusted. I couldn’t be annoyed. If Eileen was there, it was meant to be.
‘You OK?’ Eileen said to me, and I remembered that, when Mum exploded and went to throw me out because of what I’d done and because of all the lies, then, more than ever, I would need my big sister by my side. ‘What’s going on?’ Eileen said, nodding her head towards Mum.
Mum was deep in thought, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table. I realised there was no turning back.
‘Mum, I want to give you that,’ I said, and I handed her Murphy’s name tag.
‘You’re shaking, Birdy. What’s the matter?’ She took it in her hand, and turned it over and over. She studied it like a jewel.
As she stared at the tag, me and Eileen stared at her every movement.
‘It’s the tag from Murphy’s collar,’ Mum said. Her face became twisted.
‘Mum,’ I said, but my shaking got fiercer. My stomach was melting and falling through me. Then, as I began to get the next words out, we heard a gentle tap tap. I froze. I wanted to scream out loud.
‘Get that,’ Mum said, and for the first time ever it was Eileen who had to get up.
‘Come in,’ I could hear Eileen saying, ‘she’s in the kitchen.’
‘Hi, Mrs Flynn.’
‘Hello, love.’
‘Hi, Birdy.’
‘Hi, Kat.’
‘You weren’t at school?’ She looked upset.
I wanted so much to be delighted. I smiled, but couldn’t say a word. All I could think of were the practised words I had running through my head.
‘Are you OK, Birdy?’ She could see me shaking.
All three of them watched me chewing off my fingernails, and waited.
‘What’s happened?’ Mum said.
‘It was me,’ I said, and I half ducked at the thought of the whole world crashing down on my head.
‘What was you?’
‘Murphy.’
‘Murphy was you? How was Murphy you?’ Mum said.
At that point I knew I had to follow it through. I looked to Eileen but she looked baffled, and Kat was looking like she wished she’d not come in.
‘How, Bernice?’ Mum said.
‘I killed her, Mum.’
And instead of ‘fiddlesticks’ or ‘flip’ or ‘fuddlydo’, Mum said, ‘Oh fuck. Not you.’
‘Birdy, what are you on about?’ Eileen grabbed my arm to turn me, to get a better look.
Mum’s face went white; she used her sleeve to wipe her forehead.
‘What is it you’re telling me?’ Mum said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to all three of them. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
Eileen stood with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot nervously.
Kat was silent.
‘No.’ Mum shook her head furiously. ‘No.’ She slammed her hand down on the table.
Kat jumped.
Eileen reached over to Mum and stroked her arm.
‘Just tell me, Birdy,’ Mum said. ‘Tell me how my little Birdy is saying that? Will you please tell me.’ One tear came out of her eye.
I tried to keep breathing. I told myself that I would not cry. You’re not going to cry. You are nearly thirteen.
‘I don’t know how to,’ I said.
Mum sighed and her head slumped into her hands, but then she pushed herself back up. ‘Pretend I’m a priest.’
‘Eh?’
‘What?’ Eileen burst out with a nervous laugh.
‘OK, OK. Just . . .’ She paused. ‘Just finish what you started.’
‘Go on, Birdy,’ Kat said in a soft voice.
‘By the brook,’ I started but stopped. ‘Martin was . . .’ I didn’t want Mum to relive the horror. ‘Martin was teasing her.’ My voice started crackling and my mouth muscles stopped.
I pulled a chair from the table and sat down. Kat sat down too.
‘Martin was teasing her?’ Mum opened her eyes wide. ‘Go on.’
‘The boys, Mum. I’m sorry. They were hurting her.’
‘How were they?’
‘Teasing her. Kicking her. Martin was the worst.’
‘Didn’t you stop him?’
‘It was like those horses in the bomb,’ I said.
‘How?’ Mum was going from impatient to angry. ‘How the Hell, Birdy?’ she said, and I wanted help from Eileen but her face was struggling to understand.
‘Murphy was flat out and in pain and covered in blood.’
‘Good God.’ Mum’s anger stopped. But horror took its place.
‘I should have done something, Mum,’ I said. ‘I think that every day.’ Then I waited and I took a breath. ‘I told Murphy to go home. “Go home,” I said. She would have been safe if she had listened.’
‘She was a cat.’
‘Yes, but aren’t they supposed to be clever?’ I asked.
Mum ignored me.
‘I told her there’d be cream at home, and –’
‘What home?’ Mum said.
‘Here,’ Eileen said as if the answer was obvious.
‘Or next door?’ Mum said. ‘Or your nan’s? Could it be she didn’t know where to go?’
Mum looked out the window and no one in the room knew what to say next. Then Mum snapped back out of her daydream.
‘So what happened next? How did she go from dying to being dead?’
‘I put her out of her misery.’
‘You? Explain that to me.’
‘I held her underwater,’ I said, and my words went deep into Mum’s thoughts and I could see Murphy’s body forming in her head. ‘I didn’t want her to suffer, Mum.’
‘I can’t believe it.’ Eileen’s voice was sad.
‘And her body, Bernice? Did you bury her with dignity?’
‘She got taken away, Mum. By the water. One minute she was there; the next she was gone.’
‘Gone,’ Mum said. ‘The next minute she was gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve told no one? Not one soul?’
‘No. Me and the boys know, that’s all.’
‘You and the boys?’
‘And Kat.’
‘You knew?’ Mum looked appalled.
‘Not everything,’ I said in Kat’s defence.
‘I only got Martin’s side of the story, Mrs Flynn.’
‘And you’ve only just told your mum?’ Mum turned back to me.
I nodded. I waited. Mum’s eyes were full of anger, or grief, or pure fury and disbelief. My heart was hammering and my bones were still shaking. Kat reached across the table and touched my hand. Mum’s eyes followed her. When Eileen tried to speak, Mum put her hand up to stop her. She placed Murphy’s name tag firmly on the table.
‘Well, well,’ Mum started, like she was a judge about to give me my sentence. She coughed, cleared her throat and took a deep breath. She looked me in the eyes, and said, ‘Bless you, child.’ Without moving her eyes, she leant forward and took both my hands in hers. She had a light tremble which matched mine. She held me there, squeezing my hands. Then, slowly, so I could hear every word, she said, ‘Aren’t you the daftest creature alive.’ I took a moment to understand what she had said. ‘But sure,’ she went on, ‘you’re a brave wee beauty of mine.’
‘You don’t hate me?’ I said, and Mum’s eyes filled with water. ‘Mum?’
‘Promise me, Birdy.’ She clasped my hands in her strongest grip. ‘Promise me that you’ll always come home, and whatever your troubles – I don’t care what they are – promise you will always tell me.’
Chapter 19
The Beginning
We spent the rest of the summer sending letters to the Daily Telegraph and waiting, and looking, and doing it again. It was hard each time when we opened the paper and our words never appeared. But we will keep on writing – Kat says we have to persevere. We didn’t tell our parents what Mrs Cope had done. Eileen disagreed but I told her it was up to me. We might one day, if it gets in the paper, or when we’re grown-ups and Mrs Cope is far and gone.
Kat took me to our local library and helped me get my own library tickets so I can borrow four books at a time. It’s like Heaven on earth, full of all sorts of newspapers, not just the Daily Telegraph. There’s magazines that you can read and put back so you don’t need to ask the price and hundreds, maybe thousands, of books: history ones, atlases, stories, poems and books just for children. I’ve used them to help Mum. She hated Mr Men books when we first started, but she got in the spirit and now it’s good fun. I love the cerchunk of the date stamp on the label of my library books. Sometimes the person behind the desk says, ‘There you go, young lady.’ And sometimes, thankfully, they say, ‘There you go, son.’
The librarian showed me directories and a machine with family records on it. It took me ages to realise that all of the names – although loads of them were Irish – were living in Britain, not Ireland, where Noely is. So in Britain, anyway, I didn’t find Noel Patrick Stephen Flynn. But I promised Mum that I wouldn’t stop looking, and she is saving up so me and her can get the ferry back to Dublin.
Edna wanted to go with us. She said she missed the smell of wild horses and turf being cut. Mum said Dublin smells of car fumes and lost souls searching for gold. So Edna said maybe not. She got a new cat though and she called him Precious Emerald.
Dad came home in August, because the North was too cold. He said he needed home comforts as he was getting so old. He’s forty-six and Mum told him that was plenty young enough for climbing ladders and shifting bricks. The first thing he did was mow our lawn and inspect his tomatoes, then he found work down the dairy. It’s only mornings, Monday to Wednesday, but he’s started to wear wellies and a flat cap and we call him Farmer Frankie. There’s been no more bombs so far and no more of Dad’s shouting.
Eileen still works at the bookie’s, but she’s going to night school after she’s had her baby. We had a gathering to say goodbye to Murphy, which was sad but lovely, and Mum says we’ll have the party to top all parties when the precious new baba arrives in our family.
As I’m writing this down, we’re not yet back to school. Our first day back is tomorrow. Kat says I should make up with Martin, that he misses me a lot. But I don’t think I can, and I can’t see how he does. I’ll talk to him and be what Mum calls ‘civil’. I know that he has suffered a lot. But I said to Kat that I have moved on. That I’ve got to find my own path. I don’t know what that is and how I will find it. But I’m going to keep on trying. The Lord loves a trier. It says that above our front door.
I’m still Mum’s hero, or heroine – she uses both words. At first she said it nervously, but now she smiles and says neither is wrong. I’m not embarrassed. Mum looks less worried, and we know life can carry on. She stopped telling me that I need a bra, although I know I will. I will have to deal with everything changing for now, but I hope that, one day, I’ll find out who I want to be. Mum says I can’t leave home for ages yet, but she knows, because she told me, that one day I will want to run free.
Acknowledgements
In 2009 my mum was diagnosed with lung cancer. My world took a serious wobble, but in the depths of her illness she said to me, ‘Will you get on and write that book?’ My mum’s characteristic courage and selflessness through her treatment and recovery have been m
y inspiration. Birdy Flynn is dedicated to her.
I have been blessed by the influence of my friends, my dad and sister and my wonderful extended family who are so full of laughter, love and unflinching belief in me. Special recognition must go to my daughters Orla and Mari. Thank you for your patience – here is our Birdy, finally! In addition, this book would not have happened without Zoe. Thank you also to Tania Glynn, for your immeasurable skill and care in guiding me on this journey.
To make ‘that book’ happen I took a deep breath and applied for the MA in Novel Writing at City University, London. Thank you to Jonathan Myerson for giving me a chance. To Lucy Caldwell, my eternal gratitude for pushing me to be the best I could be and for first spotting Birdy! Thank you also to Sarah Waters for being a calm and inspiring mentor. To my fellow writers, thank you for hearing my pain: Josh Du Sautoy, Michelle Kriedemann, Harkiran Dhindsa, Kirsten Daly, Sarah Grout and Terry Saunders. I’m particularly indebted to Hannah Kohler and Giles Hazelgrove for their endless encouragement, from the very beginning.
The early drafts were given a huge boost by Liz Webb’s insight and energy. Thanks also to Michael Langan, and to those friends, too numerous to mention, who helped me with ‘crowd proofing’.
I’ve learnt so much over my Birdy Flynn years and had the pleasure of working with true professionals. To my agent Silvia Molteni and everyone at PFD, thank you for taking on this rookie! Likewise to Sarah Odedina. To the whole team at Oneworld and Rock the Boat, and in particular to Juliet Mabey, Roisin Heycock, Kate Bland, Madeleine Stevens, Jenny Jacoby and Ed Bettison, a million thank yous and so much more.
A Rock the Boat Book
First published in North America, Great Britain
and Australia by Rock the Boat,
an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2017
This ebook edition published 2017
Copyright © Helen Donohoe 2017
The moral right of Helen Donohoe to be identified as the Author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
Birdy Flynn Page 28
