That night, Úna waited in her own room before she crept out across the landing. When she showed up at her parents’ bed, she found her mam lying there wide awake. The duvet was lifted without hesitation; Úna slipped in against the thin and anxious frame. Before they dropped off, they each placed eight fingertips on to one another’s skin. It was a secret ritual they had whenever one of them wasn’t feeling right; an ancient tradition to banish all worries and flinches and stings.
•
The following week, it was time to say goodbye to the Christmas holidays too, which meant that Úna was back to the early starts. The world was still black when she set out, the roads glazed silver with the aftermath of last night’s freeze. She noticed wee prints divoted in the dirt and thought of the fox she sometimes saw in their back garden. Would there be a fresh litter of cubs this year? She considered the question as she buried her hands in her pockets and walked faster, trying to outrun the cold.
The school corridors, by contrast, were baking, the ancient radiators making the strangest noises, though the din from Úna’s classmates was soon so loud it drowned out everything else. Details of festive feasts and present hauls were swapped back and forth all morning until a winner was officially declared—Peadar Noonan with a Super Nintendo! The younger ones boasted about stacks of Pogs and shiny Premier League stickers, while the older gang went in for strawberry lip-glosses and Michael Jackson CDs.
Úna wandered from class to class, yanking down the jumper that kept rising up over her midriff. She was going to need a new one soon. Though really, it was a waste of money since the uniform didn’t even serve its purpose—she still stood out a mile. The weirdo. The first-year freak.
The Butcher’s daughter.
Sometimes it was just funny looks she got, whispers wafting up through the class like a bad smell. Other times the girls would scream when she brushed against them, claiming she had cursed them under her breath. Once, the boys had circled around her, pawing at the tarmac with their shoes, their fingers horns on the side of their heads. Mrs. Donoghue had shown up just before they charged.
At first Úna had been confused—hadn’t her father always told her how important the Butchers were? How integral a role they played in Ireland’s history? So if anything, when her parents decided to stop her home schooling and send her to secondary school, she had thought her new classmates would all be dying to be her friend—angling for invites to Sunday tea to taste her family’s meat and hear their stories. But when the reality had set in, Úna asked her mam why everyone seemed to hate her, and her mam could only garble some excuse about her being “special.” “And ‘special’ isn’t always easy to understand, love, so instead people just push it away.”
“Howdy, cowgirl,” someone called now from the end of the corridor. “What did Santa bring you?”
“Ugh, she probably still believes in him, too.”
“Yeehaw!”
“Or maybe her lot would rather slit poor Rudolph’s neck?”
Úna turned from the laughter—she was used to it by now; didn’t let it upset her. Instead, she distracted herself by trying to guess what her mam might have put in her lunchbox today. She hoped it was tomato and mustard sandwiches, her favourite kind. Sometimes it was so spicy it hurt, and sometimes that was good.
•
After another week, though, Christmas was long forgotten and a fresh distraction had taken hold, because down in the village there had been a new arrival. It was a McDonald’s—the very first in the county—and everyone seemed elated by the news; famished, yes, but also proud as punches that their little corner of countryside muck had been deemed worthy of such a place. The school corridors thrummed with chat about juicy “Big Macs” made out of giant American cows; about ice creams drizzled with caramel sauce. For only a couple of quid you could get a box called a “Happy Meal,” although Úna doubted cheap American meat could make anyone particularly happy.
The teachers tried to remind the students they weren’t actually allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch, but suddenly every afternoon the yard was strewn with wrappers bearing the gaudy yellow Ms. One Tuesday, Úna was wandering behind the prefabs when she saw Mrs. Donoghue and Mr. Feary huddled together sharing a greasy hamburger and a cigarette.
Of course, Úna wasn’t able to find out for herself what all the fuss was about. If you believed in the Butchers you weren’t allowed to eat from places like that—shudder to think how their poor cattle had been killed. Instead, she sat in the corner of the playground and took a bite from her sandwich. Today it was cucumber and cheese—not her favourite combination, but it was better than the mashed-up turnip her mother sometimes tried when everything else was out of season.
As she swallowed, Úna thought of her father. The Butchers would be reaching Tobercurry some time this afternoon (she had learned the ancient route off by heart and back again; had pinned a knackered map on her bedroom wall). There they would visit a farmer named Francine Duff who always got them to slaughter half a dozen shorthorns, then skin and bleed them from half a dozen hooks. Afterwards, Francine Duff would divvy up the cuts of meat between the other families in the area who still believed. Sometimes he let the Butchers sleep in his barn. Sometimes he stood them a pint in the local pub. For whatever reason, in the last couple of years, neither offer had come.
There were about five hundred across the country who still followed the traditional ways; who still chose to heed the ancient curse of the Farmer’s Widow. As for the rest, apparently it was just easier to let the thing die out, Ireland leaving the past behind and finally catching up with the rest of the world. But the way Úna thought about it, without folklore and traditions, surely Ireland didn’t really exist? Surely it might as well just be England or France or anywhere else (give or take an endless soak of rain)? So just as there were those who preserved the country’s mother tongue and those who saved up all the country’s native stories, there were those like her father who devoted their lives to maintaining the country’s old beliefs.
Úna closed her eyes and let the swell of pride rise up. Then she let the secret promise rise up too. Because she had made a vow that as soon as she finished school and became an adult, she was going to devote her life to those old beliefs too.
She hadn’t told anyone—not even her mam—about her plan to become a Butcher. She knew she was still too young (even if she would be a teenager soon; even if she was sprouting new bits by the day). But most of all, she knew she should wait until she had proven herself and shown she could perform a slaughter in the proper way. Of course, to perform a slaughter you needed an animal—how else could you practise for real?—and still the mousetrap was empty every time she checked.
Eventually the afternoon bell thundered out. They had Civics next, which meant talking about the Troubles across the border. According to Mrs. Donoghue, the violence was nearly over. There was something called a “rally” next month for peace. Úna swallowed the last bite of her sandwich, wiped her mouth, and chucked the fist of tinfoil in the bin. As she passed it, she noticed a cardboard burger box poking out with a rim of brown grease. She checked around. No one was looking in her direction, too busy fussing towards the doors, except for the magpie who was perched black-blue and greedy on the fence. She swallowed again as she weighed up the thought. A single magpie. One for sorrow, wasn’t it? Or were the Butchers allowed to believe in sayings like that?
Úna held her breath and reached her fingers inside the box until they encountered the oily remains of a chip. She shoved it into her pocket and ran for her next class. As she hurried past a giant poster in Irish—Lá Fhéile Bríde—she also wondered, since there were mother tongues, did that mean that there were father tongues too? And if so, which was easier for an almost-teenage daughter to learn?
When she arrived home that afternoon, Úna placed the chip in the trap and said a prayer to the Farmer’s Widow. She raised her fingers to her nose, inhaled the salt and grease—just once—before she went to the bathro
om and scrubbed them clean and sore.
She sat on her bed and made a start on her homework. In honour of St. Brigid’s Day they had been asked to do a project on the patron saint. Apparently she had set up loads of communes around Ireland where religious women lived together without any men. Úna thought again of the Butchers’ wives scattered all over the place and wondered if they should form a commune of their own? Although, were eight people even enough for a commune or did you technically need more?
At half past five she went downstairs to help wash and prepare the vegetables for the evening’s stew. She asked her mam their usual dinnertime joke—“What’s the special on the menu tonight?”—and waited for the usual reply:
You’re the special, love!
But for whatever reason her mam must not have heard.
Úna watched her all through the meal and saw she barely ate a bite. True, the concoction wasn’t very tasty—her mam had forgotten to add seasoning—but Úna knew that wasn’t the reason. Her mam was never very hungry when she was in one of her sad moods. Úna already knew she would be served her mother’s untouched portion, cold and slightly congealed, for dinner tomorrow night.
Úna went to bed worried. She lay there for hours unable to sleep. She tried counting sheep and then she tried magpies, but if one was for sorrow she couldn’t remember what eight were supposed to be for.
In the morning, though, things had changed. Úna checked the cupboard on her way to breakfast and saw that a pink tail was waiting. She flicked open the trap and the mouse squeaked “hello” and instantly she felt very special indeed.
All day at school, she could think of nothing else. They submitted their projects and Car McGrath said Brigid was probably a lesbian and everyone sniggered. Úna stared at the clock on the wall, counting minutes instead of animals or birds.
Finally the day had crawled to an end and she was back in her bedroom with the door firmly locked. She surveyed her scene, seven Lego men arranged in a circle around the beast. It had taken her over an hour to get it right. To someone else it might have looked like she was playing a game of “zoo”—like a group of visitors had come to stare at some endangered animal. But this wasn’t a zoo and it certainly wasn’t a game. No, this was something other.
The animal’s squeaks were high-pitched, nasal, almost as if Úna had put a strip of gaffer tape over its mouth as well as across its body. It was pinned tightly to the wooden floorboard. She only hoped the fur wouldn’t dull the stick. The set-up was nearly there, though there was no denying the proportions were a little off. The Lego figures were the problem, their arms so short they had to be stood right up close to reach. Because they all had to be touching the animal when it died—seven yellow hands and Úna’s the eighth, shaking eager by the head. That was the tradition. That was what her father had told her. That was everything.
She took out the knife—it was a paring blade she had filched from the kitchen drawer that afternoon. She held it up to the light and, as the ritual decreed, turned it three times towards her heart. The mouse began to struggle, which made Úna wonder if that meant animals knew about knives, their slashing and their cutting, and if so, what else about humans did they secretly understand? That her father was one of the Butchers? That it was February now, which meant he and the other men would be heading west? That it was crucial Úna got this right if she was ever going to prove she was special enough to join the group too?
Still the claws scrambled for traction on the floorboards. She smoothed down the tape and felt the nano-pump of the mouse’s heart. Next she brought the blade to its neck, the tip parting the fluff to reveal a triangle of pink skin, no different from a human’s, she supposed. Úna felt the pump of her own heart too, but she had to keep calm, to make her movements fluid, just one single slit to let the blood out. She closed her eyes and tried to picture her father doing it with the cows, but when she reached for him all she could feel was the goodbye kiss that was already starting to fade; the ache that wouldn’t pass no matter how many times she traced his route on the map; the sense that—
“Úna?”
The tape ripped free and her eyes opened just in time to see the tail disappear beneath the bed. Úna lunged for it, falling heavily, crashing her nose flat to the floor. She missed.
“Úna? Special delivery!” her mam called through the door.
She lifted her face and checked behind where her fellow Butchers still stood, their expressions gleeful and unchanged.
The door opened. “Úna, love, is everything OK?”
When she rolled over, her mother was standing above her, concern in her voice and something hidden behind her back. Úna sat up, making sure the knife was covered. “I was just playing.” Instantly she regretted how childish it sounded.
Her mam’s smile didn’t seem convinced. “Well, like I said—special delivery.” She took a step back. “What I mean is, love, I bought you a present.”
It was Úna’s turn to look unconvinced—it was still nine months until her thirteenth birthday and she couldn’t recall a present ever being plucked out of thin air. Úna knew it was to do with money—their house had come from her father’s dead parents and their savings from her mother’s dead parents, but after that there was barely any going spare. Úna always wondered how families managed when the parents’ parents were still alive.
She wondered if there was such a thing as a grandmother tongue.
“Ta dah!”
But her wondering was swiped aside now for the big reveal. The uniform looked almost glamorous on its plastic hanger, a tag from the second-hand shop that said it was officially teenager-sized.
Her mam renewed her smile as best she could. “I noticed you had grown a bit big for your old one, so I went into town today. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, but I’ve just . . . Recently I’ve been feeling a bit . . .”
As the sentence stopped, the smile did too. Úna wished it would continue; wished her mother would explain what exactly she had been feeling.
“And I know we’re not due for a couple of weeks, but I thought we could do haircuts tonight, if you liked? Complete your lovely new look?”
Úna felt the cold blade beneath her thigh. Behind her, the Lego faces seemed jeering now, mocking the awkward scene. “I think . . .” she stumbled over the lie. “I might try growing it out for a change.” She knew her mam would see right through it—she had never refused a haircut session in her life. It was another ritual they had, sharp teeth combed across wet scalps; strands slowly snipped away until their heads—their whole beings—felt lighter again.
Her mam, though, only sighed. “Never mind, love.” On her way out she hooked the uniform on the back of the door, which made it look a bit like a hanging body. Úna traced the pleats with her eyes, then felt guilty and glanced away, so it was only by accident that she noticed the blood. There wasn’t much—only a tiny pool on the floor she could blot with her sock—but she supposed it was a start at least.
She gathered the Lego men back into their box and shoved it under her bed. She promised she would try again very soon. That way she could make a case to her father when he came back in June.
She promised she would find a way to fix her mother’s gorgeous smile.
She promised she would become a Butcher yet.
CHAPTER TWO
Grá
County Cavan, March 1996
First she undid the button on her skirt and sashayed her hips to make it fall, then she took off her cotton underwear and threw it in the laundry bin. She dipped her hand to check the temperature. She wanted it even hotter and deeper than usual. A little indulgence, given it was a special occasion.
Grá held her breath.
Forty-one years old today.
The number still sounded like a mistake.
As she waited, she stole a glance at the mirror. She knew she had gotten thin. Her eyes always shone greener directly after she woke, even if she had barely slept the night before. And the more the reflection fogged, the
more another face began to rise up from her memory—one she wasn’t meant to think or talk about. Birthdays always had a habit of bringing it back. Grá supposed it was another, crueller kind of indulgence.
After the taps, the silence was so loud it took a moment to adjust. Grá held her breath and lowered herself in, watching her paleness coming out in blotches. She began with the soap, creaming suds along her clavicle, a waft of rose petals, old-world-smelling and sweet. Her hand went lower over ramps of ribs, down until the pine-needle trail of hairs began. She knew she was alone, so if she wanted to keep going she could. Úna was at school and her husband . . . her husband . . . But there wasn’t so much as a tingle for it, her body far too tense. She worked up another lather and moved on to her calves.
As always, they had made love on Cúch’s last night, but this year neither her heart nor her body had quite been in it. She knew she should have been cheered by his offer.
I could pop back.
Spend a bit of time with you both.
God knows she had been praying for something like it for years.
And yet, the more she replayed his words, the more a tiny part of her had felt pathetic—to be grateful for just a scrap of her husband’s company? Was that really the kind of woman she had become? She had waited for Cúch to finish, then had rolled herself away.
So now she reached her fingers back beneath the surface and reminded herself that she didn’t need him—not really—because after all, she was the one who knew her body best. She felt the water lapping her skin like a tongue, washing away the loneliness and the middle age and the rising sense of unease.
She jolted at the doorbell as if she had been caught outright. She released her fingers and pulled the plug. The water sucked away as if down a throat as she stood, her hair wet against her shoulders, Venus from a half-cracked shell.
The Butchers' Blessing Page 2
