by Oliver Sands
He stood back and inhaled sharply as he looked up at the low blanket of grey overhead.
‘I reckon it’s going to last for a few days at least,’ he had said. ‘What do you reckon, Breeda Looney?’
She lifted her face to the sky and felt the fine mist.
‘I reckon so too, Father.’
He turned with the umbrella and sauntered off towards the double doors at the side of the building.
‘Come on then …’
She scurried after him and they reached the building as the bell began to ring. He held the door for her.
‘Are you going to be alright, Breeda?’
She looked past him into the echoing corridor, where groups of girls were swarming off to their next classes.
‘Mmmmm.’ She had to get to Geography at one of the prefabs.
He said nothing, and she looked back at him. He was mulling something over.
‘Listen, I have a proposal for you, Breeda. While I’m here I’ve been allocated Sister Jacinta’s office on the third floor – God in Heaven only knows how the poor woman managed those stairs all these years. Anyway. I could do with a little help with some paperwork – just filing, filling envelopes, that sort of thing. A few days work. If you were free during your lunch breaks would you have any interest in sparing me a few minutes here and there? You’d be doing me a huge favour …’
He shook his umbrella, stomped his feet, and followed her inside.
Breeda didn’t need to turn around to see the rain-slicked yard, the lonely corners of the veranda, or the sad spot behind the tuck shop.
‘I could manage a few minutes, here and there, yes Father.’
‘Grand. We’ll start tomorrow lunchtime. See you then.’
And with that he walked off down the middle of the corridor, his black cassock parting the tartan skirts, some heads turning to take in this male stranger in their midst. Breeda looked after him, and for the first time in a long while the toxic fog in her mind began to slowly lift.
The next day, at midday, as the girls poured out of English Lit. Breeda held back, took her lunch box from her locker, and then strolled casually along the corridor to the back staircase near the Principal’s office. She glanced over her shoulder and then headed up the stairs. She walked slowly, her hand trailing the glossy wall beneath the handrail. The noise from the girls below died away as she climbed, and by the time she stepped onto the third floor all was whisper-quiet.
‘Come in, come in, Breeda.’
The door was ajar, and he’d heard her approaching. Father Green was standing at a large mahogany desk under a high diamond-paned window which overlooked the gardens. Outside a light rain was falling, and Breeda thought about the sad spot behind the tuck shop. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. The smell of books and furniture polish filled her nose. She hadn’t been in this room before. She instantly liked it.
Father Green was wearing a pair of glasses with thick black frames. Breeda thought he looked a bit like Elvis Costello from her Dad’s vinyl. He took them off and gestured for Breeda to take a seat on the other side of the desk. Her eyes flicked over the various stacks of papers and pages sprawled on top. He laughed.
‘A bit of a mess, isn’t it?’
Breeda smiled but didn’t know what to say. She felt self-conscious, suddenly aware that she was alone in a room with a strange man. He stood up and walked over to the door, as if reading her mind, and opened it a few inches. Then he picked up a tall pile of printed papers and brought them over to Breeda’s side of the desk.
‘These …’ he dropped them in front of her, ‘are what I’d like your help with. I need you to take the names and addresses from each letter, write them on an envelope, then put the letter inside. You’re OK with that?’
Breeda leafed through the first few pages. All of them seemed to have been hand-typed.
‘Sure. Could I borrow a pen please?’
He rifled around in Sister Jacinta’s top drawer until he found a biro.
‘Here you go. I’m a leftie myself, so if I go near a pen it smears everywhere. Not a great skill for addressing envelopes …’
He’d sat now and slurped noisily from a chipped Arsenal mug.
‘Sorry.’
Breeda smiled at him and got on with the job at hand. For the next forty minutes they sat in a comfortable silence. He didn’t pry and she was relieved – she didn’t want him asking why she’d been crying the day before. So that lunchtime she worked steadily through a wedge of letters from the top of the pile. She’d nibbled on her cheese and pickle sandwiches, careful not to drop any crumbs onto the paperwork, and bit her lip every time he slurped from his chipped mug of tea.
The next day as Breeda climbed the back staircase she took the stairs two at a time. She had slept well the night before, and for the first time in ages felt halfway alright. Her feet grew faster on the stairs and she arrived at the office door out of breath. She knocked and entered and sat down at the mahogany desk. On the windowsill she spied a second mug, a teapot and a side plate of shortbread fingers. Father Green was watching her over the top of his glasses.
‘Well, we need to keep our strength up, don’t we? Doing God’s work, and all …’
He filled their two mugs from the pot. Breeda’s had a picture of Lourdes on it. She was a little peeved her mug wasn’t chipped too.
‘Here, I’ll let you do your own milk.’ He handed her a small carton, and then playfully shook the plate of shortbreads in front of her.
‘Thanks, Father.’
‘You’re welcome, Breeda. All OK?’
Ah, here it comes, she thought. A piece of shortbread fell onto her top page and she scooted it off with her hand. She kept her eyes down on her page. ‘Mm-hmm.’
She could sense him looking at her for a moment, considering his next move, then thinking better of it. He grabbed the nearest pile of paperwork and started sorting it into various folders. After a minute, a companionable silence had settled over the room and Breeda slipped her shoes off. The room was quiet but for the slightest tick from his wristwatch.
As her pen formed the curves and angles of parishioners’ names on the envelopes she sat and wondered how it would be to open her heart to him. To take a risk and see if this stranger across from her could help her make sense of everything happening at school and at home. How would it be to pull the stopper from the bottle and lose control of its contents?
She suddenly realised there was no sound from his side of the desk, and she could tell he was looking at her again. He must have been reading her mind. She kept her eyes down, kept her pen moving. She knew he was opening his mouth to say something. She couldn’t do this. She wanted to, but she wasn’t ready, didn’t know how. She grabbed the bundle from her lap and stood quickly, jamming her feet back into her shoes.
‘I better go, Father. I’ve just remembered I have to get all the way over to the prefabs for science.’ She clicked the pen away and was at the door with her bag over her shoulder before she dared look his way. He sat looking back at her, a little baffled.
‘Right so, Breeda. I’ll see you tomorrow?’
She nodded back.
‘By the way - I’m not here on Friday. I have to take the lads down to a quarter final match in Dublin. It’s an all-day thing.’
He seemed to lose himself for a moment, as he sat back in his chair, and turned to look out the window, cracking his knuckles out in front of him. ‘It could be ours this year.’
‘OK, Father. Sure, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you, Breeda.’
Breeda left the door ajar behind her and trailed her fingertips slowly along the wall. She pictured him sitting there on the other side of this wall. A good man, ready and willing to help her. He’d be able to listen. Wasn’t he trained to be? She felt a slight queasiness in her stomach, picturing his face when she told him about how she was bumbling through her crappy life. But here was her chance. As she stepped onto the first stair she promised herself – t
omorrow. That was the deal. Tomorrow.
The next day Father Green was looking in Sister Jacinta’s stationery cupboard for some folders when a walking cane had come clattering out onto the floor. He’d picked it up, hunched himself slightly, and then huffed and puffed past Breeda as she’d tried not to choke on a biscuit. His crunched-up face was Sister Jacinta to a T.
‘Stop, Father!’ Breeda had tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I can’t breathe.’
She had set him off too now, and he couldn’t stay in character through his own laughter. He leaned the stick against the desk. Breeda didn’t want him to stop.
‘God forgive me,’ he said, collecting himself. ‘I reckon I’m going straight to hell, Breeda.’ He suddenly looked slightly abashed, and threw a glance towards the door, open a few inches as usual.
‘Well, three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers and a packet of Jammy Dodgers on Monday should save your soul, Father,’ Breeda replied sotto voce. She marveled at her newfound playfulness, this unexpected cheekiness in her own voice. It felt good.
‘I think we might both be going to hell, with that attitude, Miss Looney. Here …’ he slapped another bunch of papers in front of her. ‘Let’s see how you get on with these …’
Breeda had just dunked her chocolate digestive into her Lourdes mug when a sharp rap came to the door. Father Green got up to answer it, but not before Breeda saw Mrs Shields, the school secretary, peering in at her through the gap. The woman had a queer look on her face, something Breeda didn’t recognize. As Father Green reached the door, momentarily blocking the secretary’s view, Breeda crammed the biscuit into her mouth and slipped her shoes back on.
Outside, in the corridor, a murmur of voices had started up. Father Green opened the door.
‘Ah, Mrs… Shields! And to what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Father Green. Is everything alright?’
‘Oh fine, fine. I’m getting a bit of assistance from Breeda here.’
Father Green stepped to the side.
‘Breeda. Are you alright?’ There was a strange tightness in Mrs Shield’s voice, and when Breeda looked up from her paperwork she noticed a deep furrow in her forehead.
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Shields.’
The secretary stepped back from the door now and beckoned the chaplain toward her. She nodded up the corridor.
‘Father, when you get an opportunity there are quite a few other pupils who would appreciate a moment of your time …’
Father Green followed Mrs Shield’s gaze and appeared momentarily bewildered.
‘Of course, of course …’ He took a moment to gather himself. ‘No problem. Hello ladies. Is it a hand with your homework you’re after? Who’s first? Come in, come in …’
Breeda turned her eyes back to the paperwork in front of her, then glanced up as Father Green walked in with Sharon Doran. Breeda looked up to find that Mrs Shields was still watching her. Lisa Maguire was craning her neck from the corridor, having a good gawp too. Breeda felt a shock of heat rise up through her face. She heard her name and turned back to the desk.
‘Sorry, Father?’
‘I was just saying that will do for today, Breeda. You can run along now. Thanks a million for your help this week. And don’t forget I’m not here tomorrow. I’ll see you next week.’
Mrs Shields had turned her focus back to Father Green now. Breeda sensed a wordless accusation flying through the air towards him. She stole a glance at the man. The confusion had ebbed from his face now, and something else was settling onto it. Breeda realised he was hurt. He was looking back at Mrs Shields, his eyes suddenly sad and his brow heavy. He had taken his seat and was holding out a weary hand for Sharon Doran’s book. Breeda wanted to run to him and hug him.
‘Let’s go, Breeda.’ Mrs Shields clicked her fingers and stood with an arm outheld to shepherd the young girl away. Breeda stepped into the corridor and was hit by the withering looks of contempt from the line of waiting girls. Anne-Marie Carlin was stood there with her jaw set and her arms folded, subtly shaking her head as Breeda slinked past. Lisa Maguire looked Breeda up and down and mouthed the word slut just out of earshot of Mrs Shields. Titters and tuts found their target and Breeda’s eyes blurred as she walked past them and slumped down the staircase after Mrs Shields. She watched the woman’s shoulders as they descended the stairs in front of her. She felt a sudden urge to shake them, to spin this woman around and slap her face. To shout at her with spittle flying that she’d done nothing wrong – that poor Father Green had done nothing wrong. But instead she followed in Mrs Shields’ wake, a pointed silence between them. A confusion of shame weighed heavier and burned hotter with each step Breeda took. There was something filthy about her. Filthy and broken. When they got to the Principal’s office the secretary turned.
‘Breeda. I don’t want you going up there again. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to ask Father Green any questions in class.’
Breeda stood there like a fool, still trying to work out what she’d done wrong.
‘Do you hear me, Breeda?’
Breeda forced herself to look up at the secretary, the glasses too big for her face, the little bleached moustache fooling no one.
‘Yes, Miss.’
Mrs Shields opened her mouth to say something else, then thought better of it.
‘You’d better get to your next class.’ She disappeared back into her office and faded behind the opaque glass door.
Behind her Breeda heard a rustle and turned. Leaning against the wall was Dervil Sneddon. She was pouring the crumbs from a bag of Tayto cheese and onion into her mouth. She scrumpled up the crisp packet and then slowly licked her fingers, all the while keeping her cool gaze on Breeda. A smirk played victorious across her face. She dropped the crisp packet at Breeda’s feet, then turned and walked off, her blonde ponytail dancing behind her.
Chapter 12
You couldn’t get a nicer welcome than a freshly-baked cake, that’s what Margaret Looney used to say. Breeda looked down at the still-warm carrot cake in her basket and allowed a satisfied smile to play over her face as she pedaled on. She had wrapped it neatly in a fresh red and white gingham cloth, a thoughtful little ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ gift for Dervil Sneddon. And Oona had been right, of course. Breeda should just put the whole Mal Looney conundrum out of her mind, for a day or two. Better to let it percolate, to sleep on it, and devise a sensible plan. Besides, something told Breeda that she’d need to tread carefully around Aunt Nora.
An hour or so of baking had been a welcome distraction from the previous twenty-four hours. And now it was good to be out on her bike. It was a beautiful, mild afternoon, and the sun warmed Breeda’s back as she cycled down Main Street and then hung a left past the butchers. An old donkey raised his head and watched Breeda dolefully from his frayed piece of tethered rope, as her tyres hummed past. The village slowly retreated behind her, and as the roadside became less tamed, Breeda could make out glimpses of hawkbit and bindweed, buttercups and asters. Or were they chamomile? Her mother would have known. She pushed on along the quiet country road and looked once more at the gingham peace offering for Dervil in her basket. Breeda Looney was big enough to let bygones be bygones.
After a few minutes the sound of a motor pulled at Breeda’s attention. The road had narrowed and on either side fat hedgerows loomed over her, casting shadows which flickered as she pedaled on. Breeda pulled over to the side of the single lane and steadied herself with a foot on the ground. A motorbike roared around the corner. She spotted the guy before he spotted her; a cliché in black leathers and reflective helmet. He hit his brakes up ahead of her – slowing him marginally – but he was still bombing along as he passed her. Breeda glowered at whoever it was behind the visor as she turned to look at his retreating figure.
Dickhead.
She pushed on, and a moment later came to the crossroads. Up ahead stood Riley’s Hill, and the new home of Dervil Sneddon. Breeda found her pace slowing. The lack of a good night’s
sleep was catching up with her now, and the heat of the day was more than she was used to. Her legs had started to feel heavy and her head was hot under her cycling helmet. But she knew there was something else; a temptation to slow down further, to turn the bike around, no harm done. After all, who would know? But she forced herself on, until she stopped beside an old yew tree at the foot of the driveway up to the house.
A damp strand of hair had licked itself to Breeda’s forehead, and she blew at it in vain as she walked her bike over the cattle-grid and up the steep driveway. Bits of loose gravel crunched underfoot, and she tried not to think of the sweat beads running down her back and sticking her white blouse to her. She glanced up at the house. Everyone in Carrickross knew this place. The guy who’d built it had lost his job in the crash, and every bank had quickly pulled up its drawbridge, cutting off his finance before the house was completed. It had been a dead weight around the poor man’s neck, a fading ‘For Sale’ sign stuck in the ground by the yew tree for close to six years. The symmetrical facade was wide and unfinished, the windows draped with net curtains which gave nothing away. Wires stuck out from holes in the wall where lights were to be fitted near the double-width front door. Breeda could imagine the echoey hard-to-heat rooms inside. Dull sample colors had been painted in patches beside the windows and Breeda could tell already that it was going to be an ugly home, all concrete and driveway and shitty shades of grey. Dervil would have picked it up for a song. To the side of the house a shiny black Range Rover sat regarding her, a guard dog waiting for the kill signal. Breeda looked down to her pannier and frowned at the little carrot cake. She rested the bike against the wall, grabbed the cake, and knocked briskly on the door. It was all going to be fine. Dervil would be delighted to see a blast from the past and to have an old friend in her new town. After all, weren’t they a pair of grown-ups, for goodness sake.
Breeda cocked an ear and heard footsteps – a pair of heels – coming down the hallway. She felt a sharp clench in her bowels, took a step back, and prepared her best smile.
