Like One of the Family

by Nesta Tuomey

  Claire blushed. ‘I must go,’ she said, picking up her schoolbag, aware that since the holidays he had adopted a rather mocking attitude towards her. She suspected it might be to cover his embarrassment but it made her feel uncomfortable and a little sad.

  ‘Bye, Sheena, see you tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Terry called after her in the teasing voice Claire hated. ‘Hurry on home like a good little girl and start your homework or Mama will smack you.’ She ignored him and went to have a word with Jane.

  ‘Stay and have coffee,’ Jane said. She had bought an electric percolator and was loud in its praise. ‘How is school working out?’

  ‘Fine. Mummy is really popular with the class,’ Claire said truthfully. Annette treated them all on a matey, woman to woman basis, and spoke quite openly to them about sex. Not like the other teachers who would have preferred the girls to believe the human race was spawned under a cabbage leaf. Her mother had already given the class her own reading list. Annette had advised them not to neglect D. H. Lawrence, insisting that he was essential reading for a deeper, truer understanding of erotic literature. She was erudite and articulate, even quite witty. Listening to her, Claire had been both proud and embarrassed, and got the feeling she didn’t know her mother at all.

  ‘I didn’t know she was changing schools,’ Jane said.

  ‘Neither did I,’ Claire admitted. ‘Not until she walked into the classroom.’

  ‘That must have been a bit of a bombshell.’

  ‘It certainly was!’

  ‘She’ll be able to give you individual coaching. That should be a big help with your exams coming up.’

  ‘She was always a great reader,’ Jane said thoughtfully. ‘When we were away together in Spain years ago she was never without a book. She sometimes read as she walked along the street. I was terrified she would be knocked down.’

  Claire was reminded of her thirteen-year-old self, walking up the long road from the library, with a pile of books gripped under her arm, another held open before her eyes. Funny, she hadn’t thought she took after Annette in anything.

  ‘I don’t know how I would have coped if my mother had landed in on top of me in my final year at school,’ Jane admitted frankly. ‘Though now that I think about it, she did come into the school once to give a talk. She was a psychiatrist in child-care and a very good one too. I realise that now.’

  Claire had not known this.

  ‘I wish she were still alive,’ Jane said, her face suddenly shadowing. ‘She would have been so good with Ruthie.’

  Claire was silent.

  ‘If only it hadn’t happened,’ Jane said suddenly. ‘Before the holidays Ruthie was just beginning to gain confidence for the first time since...’

  She was unable to finish, but Claire understood she was referring to the terrible manner in which the little girl had witnessed her father’s death three years earlier, right before her eyes. She nodded, feeling a little choked herself.

  Despite her resolution to call more often and play with Ruthie, Claire did not find it easy to make time. She was studying hard now that her Mocks were so close at hand and twenty minute breaks were all she could afford. Barely time to share coffee with Jane and a game of Ludo with Ruthie.

  One evening Jane greeted her with a wan, distracted smile. Ruthie was in the garden with Sheena, pegging clothes on the line, and her querulous demands could be heard in the quiet kitchen. Claire sat down and waited. When Jane had made coffee and placed the mugs before them, Claire felt able to ask, ‘Is anything the matter?’

  Jane sipped her coffee before replying.

  ‘I got a call today at the clinic to go to Ruthie’s school.’ Claire set down her cup and studied her face gravely as Jane began to speak. ‘Sister Dunphy says that Ruthie has become a disruptive element in the classroom. Recently she played one or two unpleasant tricks on her classmates...’ Jane paused and sighed.

  ‘What kind of thing?’ Claire prompted.

  ‘Oh, tacks in another little girl’s sandals, a ripped painting. She said that Ruthie’s written homework is skimpy and untidily presented, and her form teacher suspects her of cheating at a vocabulary test. You know what emphasis the nuns always put on cheating.’ Jane shrugged tiredly. “Simply not done!” is how Sister Dunphy put it.’

  ‘But doesn’t she know what happened in the summer?’

  ‘Yes, she does... and so do all the teachers. Oh, they’re prepared to make great allowances for Ruthie. She has always been popular with them and they are all very sympathetic. In fact, I think they would gladly have turned a blind eye to her naughtiness if they didn’t believe it signalled great inner distress.’ Jane met Claire’s eyes soberly. ‘The nuns believe she’ll ultimately require referral to a child counsellor.’

  They were silent, both viewing this prospect.

  ‘Of course I agree with them,’ Jane broke the silence. ‘Only I don’t want to take the step just yet. I feel if I can hang on until after the twins do the Leaving Cert, I’ll be able to think more clearly.’ Claire nodded, well able to understand this. She was reminded of the time and got to her feet.

  ‘Won’t you wait until Ruthie comes in?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Well...’ Claire looked helplessly at her. ‘I still have trigonometry to do.’

  ‘Off you go then,’ Jane said, giving her a pat. ‘Don’t worry. I understand.’

  As Claire returned home, her relief was mixed with sadness. In the past she had loved being with the little girl. Now it was taking on the aspect of a chore. Claire told herself that any child’s personality would be adversely affected by all Ruthie had been through. With love and understanding she would soon be restored to herself.

  Sometimes Claire wished there was someone she could talk to about Ruthie. Her mother sometimes enquired after the little girl, but she could not bring herself to speak to her about what had happened. Anyway she knew that Annette had enough on her own mind. Ever since Jim had told her that Marissa was expecting a baby and he had begun annulment proceedings, she was acting in a slightly deranged manner.

  Annette seemed to think it was diabolically calculating of Marissa to become pregnant, as though she had deliberately planned it to sink her hooks deeper into Jim. Claire got the impression that Annette felt somehow threatened by the impending birth, as though it effectively relegated her to the role of dowager princess, while Claire and Christopher, one time heirs-apparent to some mythical throne, would now be declared bastards.

  This was taking it a little bit far but in essence seemed to sum up Annette’s attitude. She accused Marissa of bewitching Claire’s father, whom she described as not entirely to blame, just weak and easily led.

  ‘She has a lot to answer for,’ Annette said bitterly. From what Claire had observed, however, her father was equally enamoured with Marissa.

  Claire thought the news that she would soon have a half-sister or half-brother very exciting and wished they lived nearer, so that she might baby-sit for them. Only she supposed her mother would regard it as a betrayal.

  Austin told Annette that he had moved in with his friend of the walking tour and said he would call over some night for his things.

  Annette was out when he came, and beyond telling Austin he could go upstairs, Claire had no conversation with him. Later he rang complaining that half his books were missing. Annette stormed into Claire’s bedroom where she was revising history.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Austin was here?’ She took an angry turn about the room. ‘Not that I give a hang about him or his books,’ she muttered. ‘I should have thrown him and them out long ago. ’

  Claire knew Christopher had been lending them to his classmates but she kept silent, knowing she would be next in the firing line if she said the wrong thing.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m an idiot too?’ Annette said unfairly, and went downstairs to pour herself a drink. God knows how many she had got through during the summer.

  Before long Annette got herself anothe
r lodger. Plump and separated from his wife, Thomas was a journalist in his forties. He moved into the spare room in February on St Valentine’s Day, around the same time that Marissa gave birth to a baby boy.

  Claire wished she could go and live with her father and Marissa and the new baby. Even if the baby cried it would be less distracting than the sound of Thomas’s stereo playing long and late in the next room. Night after night, hour after hour.

  And now it was starting up again.

  Claire lifted her head from her history book and sighed in frustration. She turned back the pages to read the chapter again but her concentration was broken. Her head felt light and insubstantial as bog cotton. She decided to take a break and call over for a chat with Sheena.

  Jane thought the girl was looking paler than usual and noticed how often she rubbed her eyes when reading to Ruthie.

  ‘Have you a headache, Claire?’ she asked her at last.

  ‘A bit of a one,’ Claire admitted. She had a pain over her left eye and felt a little sick. Sometimes there was a shimmer before her eyes and when she tried to read a line, part of it seemed to be missing.

  ‘Mmm. Sounds like migraine,’ Jane diagnosed. ‘I’ll give you something for it.’ Then she remembered that it wasn’t her place to treat Claire without her mother’s knowledge. ‘If it doesn’t get any better,’ she amended.

  It got worse. One day in class Claire was unable to make out the figures on the blackboard. Her head ached from the effort of trying to read the maths teacher’s squiggley writing. The next class was English, usually her best subject. She found she couldn’t make sense of Macduff’s speech. Birthdoms? Foisons? Each word seemed coded with no cipher. When she stood up to recite, she heard her voice echoing in her head as if it belonged to someone else. It was a terrible effort trying to explain to Sister Whelan what was wrong with her. The words came out all funny. She flushed and was silent.

  Jane felt it was time to have a chat with Annette.

  ‘Migraine?’ Annette said. ‘Oh, is that all? I thought it was something serious.’

  ‘It is serious.’ Jane sighed and averted her eyes from the overcrowded clothes horse, on which a man’s outsize black and gold silk underpants hung, partially obscured by a white lace bra. ‘Claire’s studies could be affected.’

  Annette wasn’t listening. ‘Tea okay for you?’ she asked, and not waiting for an answer, swiftly dunked a teabag between mugs.

  Jane left hers untouched. Surely Annette realised that her daughter was doing a very important exam in less than two months and, if she didn’t do really well, had no chance of getting into any decent third-level educational course?

  ‘Look Annette,’ she said, suppressing her annoyance, ‘There’s a safe, effective tablet for migraine. What I’m suggesting is putting Claire on it for a month and see how she goes.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ Annette said.

  ‘One other thing. An important factor with migraine is diet. I can give you a list of the right foods but it’s equally important for Claire to avoid long gaps between meals.’

  Annette sighed. ‘It’s not that simple, Jane. I’m out all day and so is she.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Jane said patiently. ‘Just so long as she gets it when she comes home.’ She began jotting down the kind of nutrition she was talking about.

  Annette nodded obediently. Jane wondered how much, if any, of her advice would be followed.

  The daily tablet had the desired effect. Claire had no more migraine attacks and was able to take the long hours of study in her stride.

  The Mocks turned out to be tougher than anyone expected. Even the brightest girls in the class looked doubtful when they congregated outside the exam room to compare notes, sighing and clutching their foreheads. Poisonous and lethal were the adjectives used. Claire was in despair over the English paper. She had been fairly confident, she told Imelda, until she saw the literature section. Question after question on Saint Joan which she had barely covered. She had been really counting on Friel’s ‘Philadephia, Here I Come!’ She easily identified with Gar’s pain over his father’s inability to express affection .

  With the Mocks behind her Claire felt able to accept her father’s invitation for the weekend, if he didn’t mind her bringing her school-books with her. Her father said that was fine with him though maybe a complete break would do her good. Anyway, he left it up to her.

  Marissa’s baby - for that’s how Claire had come to think of him - was almost three months old. David was tiny, with beautiful grey eyes and a silky thatch of dusky hair. Claire could not decide who he looked like, but he had her father’s eyes which, of course, were hers too.

  Claire was fascinated by the sight of her tiny half-brother clinging limpet-like to the mountainous Marissa. Before marriage she had not appeared overly stout but now she was a solid mass of flesh, with none of the expected ins-and-outs. She was still wearing tent dresses. She was philosophical about her lost figure though and sometimes said with a laugh, ‘Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt,’ displaying an unexpected sense of humour, as well as her learning. When she put David into Claire’s arms, Claire loved the sensation of the baby’s dewy skin against her, although she was terrified of dropping him.

  Her father smilingly watched them as he turned eggs in the pan, cheerfully calling Marissa and herself ‘his girls’. He had opened a bottle of wine in honour of Claire’s visit, although in reality the wine was for Marissa. Jim touched very little drink himself. He didn’t need it, Claire thought. He had Marissa.

  Claire sometimes pondered on Marissa’s attraction for her father. She was so much plainer than Annette, yet her father obviously loved her. Claire came to the conclusion that Marissa might be without physical beauty but she was straightforward and undemanding. On the other hand, Annette was ambitious, devious and capricious. Marissa probably never thought of her work except as a job. Jim obviously found this restful. Claire could understand why. At the same time, Annette was clever and even witty. Marissa would never stand up in front of a class full of sixth year girls, challenging their preconceptions, or blatantly discussing the perils of unprotected sex. Not Marissa. And that’s what her father liked about her.

  Claire did not open her books in the end. The atmosphere in the tiny flat was not conducive to study. Apart from a brief walk with her father along the seafront on Saturday evening she never left the flat.

  When she went home Annette did not ask her about her weekend. Anyway, she had other matters on her mind. Thomas had decided to reunite with his wife and had left suddenly, without paying his rent. Annette regretted not getting the money in advance and swore she wouldn’t be so foolish again. She said that everyone thought she was a soft touch. Well, she was going to toughen up. And about time!

  Her mother was on her third whisky by the time Claire said goodnight and climbed the stairs to bed. She could not help contrasting the two households, the one she had just left, which had been all laughter and love, and the one she had returned to, full of bitterness and recrimination.

  She got out her books to give them a quick glance over before school next day and was all at once struck by how quiet the house was. No stereo blasting out Chris De Burgh or Billy Joel. She felt overwhelming relief that their lodger was gone.

  Exam fever mounted. Claire kept wishing it was all over, that she had done a brilliant exam and got more points than anyone else in her class. Jane laughed when she said this. and Claire had to smile herself. Not that she needed all that many points to do an arts degree, but it was what she wanted to do. The only thing she hadn’t decided on was her subject. English or history? Naturally Annette felt English would be best and Jane agreed with her. At the same time, Claire’s best mark in her Mocks had been for history. It was all very confusing.

  Jane laughed and got up to pour more coffee. Sheena was displaying the McArdle talent for portraiture and had been awarded a scholarship to the Art College. Jane sounded a little sad when she said this, perhaps t
hinking of Hugh.

  Jane said that the letter had arrived from the Art College over a week ago but she still hadn’t told Sheena. If she knew, Sheena wouldn’t do another tap. Anyway, she asked Claire to keep the secret. Claire felt glad for Sheena, but a bit envious too. It must be great to have your career all decided.

  A few days later Claire bumped into Terry as she was going into Sheena’s bedroom, and learned he was practically fixed up too.

  ‘Heard the latest, Claire? I’m going to be a pilot.’

  ‘Since when?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Ages. Right, Sheena?’ Terry turned to his twin who nodded.

  ‘You never said anything before,’ Claire pointed out as she perched on a stool.

  ‘Nothing to say until I get my okay from the Air Corps,’ Terry said cheerfully. ‘But I’ve done a few good interviews and now it depends on my Leaving results.’

  ‘He has to pass Irish,’ Sheena said, making a comical face at Claire, who grinned in sympathy. It was Terry’s worst subject.

  ‘I think I can just about scrape through if I work my head off,’ Terry admitted. ‘I only wish I’d started earlier.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sheena admitted. She cast a hopeless look at the book in front of her.

  Claire thought it seemed a shame not to tell her about the scholarship. Still, she supposed Jane knew what she was doing. Terry ripped a page from Sheena’s rough copy and began folding it to make a paper plane.

  ‘So long as my height isn’t against me,’ he worried. ‘Might be if I opted to become a fighter pilot.’

  Claire had thought height would be an advantage.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  Terry nodded. ‘You could get tangled up with the instrument panel when ejecting, and leave your knee-caps behind.’ He grinned at her dismayed expression.

  ‘Yuck!’ Sheena said. She had given up trying to study and was making herself a paper plane. ‘Not like that.’ Terry refashioned it and dive-bombed it back at her.

  Claire absently watched them. He would make a very dashing pilot, she thought wistfully.