‘I’m doing you a favour, Clare,’ she says, looking at me. ‘You need to start eating a bit less.’
I stop swinging my legs.
She taps her hips and shakes her head. ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.’ She takes a sip of her hot chocolate. ‘And stop scratching your head.’
‘Sorry.’ I tuck my hands under my legs.
I break the rest of the muffin in two and give the big piece to Thomas, because he’s a growing boy and it doesn’t matter if he has a big piece. I’m a girl, so I have to look after my hips. I take the small bit for myself.
I put it in my mouth. It doesn’t taste that good, now that I know a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips. I chew thirty-four times because I remember Mummy telling me that’s a good trick, and by the time I swallow it’s turned to mush on my tongue.
When we’re ready to go, I stand up and look down at my hips and my legs. I’m sure they’ve got bigger.
JOSEPHINE
18TH JUNE 1980
The tea towel is coarse against my skin. I am drying my hands with it, looking at all the small black balls of burn, when Sean comes in, runs over to me and wraps his arms around my waist.
‘Don’t go, Josephine,’ he says into my chest.
I hold him tight and get the stench of his hair. ‘Your hair stinks,’ I tell him, and we laugh, even though it hurts my throat.
I break away. I want to get out as quick as I can, go running in my nightdress through the door and not come back.
Sean looks up at me with big brown eyes and I hate myself for leaving him.
‘You’ll be good, now, won’t you?’ I straighten his tie.
He nods.
‘You’ll work hard, and you’ll go to college. And as soon as I send you money you’ll come to visit?’ I’m desperate for him to come; to know that he will. It was me who raised him, after all. I remember the day he was born and a shiver runs all the way down my spine.
‘I will, Josephine.’ He throws his arms around me and squeezes tight.
We stay like that for a few seconds until I break away for the last time. I wipe my eyes. ‘Off with you now, or you’ll be late for school,’ I tell him.
‘When will you be back?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know, but remember you can always count on your big sister, wherever I am.’
‘I will,’ he says. He shrugs, too, and I remember when he was small and we were together day in, day out, and he’d copy everything I did. Those were happy times.
‘You little blighter, you.’ I put my hand to my mouth and blow him a kiss.
He slaps his cheek and shrieks, ‘Got it!’ and, with that, he runs off to school.
The curtains are still drawn in my room, but there is enough light to get dressed. The bed is bare; I already stripped it and washed the sheets. The wardrobe stands empty, with its dark knots curling through the rotting wood. I won’t miss this room, where I have slept all my life. With the towel still around me and my back to the door, I get dressed as quickly as I can in case someone comes in. I pull my knickers up and place the triangles of my bra on my breasts and fasten it on my back. I take my good yellow dress with flowers and pull it quickly over my damp skin.
There’s not a sound in the house. They’ll all be about their daily chores. I wonder if anyone will come back to see me off. I scrub my hair with the towel and remember last night, and the songs Daddy and Uncle Patrick were singing. I was sure to stay well away from the pair of them, like I always do when there’s drink flying. There was whiskey and gin and cigars. A real party. Granny and Bernadette came up to the house and a few girls from my secretarial class, which Daddy and Patrick loved. The boys, too. By the end, Daddy was singing rebel songs and the men were all crying with the melancholy that comes with the songs, and the drink. I stayed with the girls, and we had a drink and a bit of craic. Mammy pulled me close to her and whispered in my ear: ‘Off to open your legs for England, are you?’ I nearly died. I looked at her and she was smiling away, so I wasn’t sure if I’d misheard. ‘What?’ I said back, but someone had already called her away.
It’s daylight when I step through the hole in the hedge to go over to Bernadette’s, careful not to catch my dress on the branches. The dewy grass wets my ankles and the light-brown leather of my good shoes quickly turns dark around the toes. In the distance, I can see the long stems dance like thousands of little fairies. I would have loved to be a dancer, or an actress. Maybe in another life. Or maybe in London I’ll be spotted on the street and turned into a film star. I knock on Bernadette’s back door. Her mother opens it.
‘Howareya, Josephine?’ she says.
‘Grand now, Mrs Tolbs,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye to Bernadette.’
‘Bernadette’s not in, love,’ she says, ‘she’s gone to the shop.’
‘To Chase’s?’ I ask, because then I can go and meet her on the way back.
‘No, she’s gone into town.’
I know then she’s lying. Heat pricks at my eyes like a burning poker and I stand and look at her, not knowing what to do. Bernadette is like a sister to me. We’re even closer than me and my own sister.
I turn to go down the path and there’s a creak on the stairs.
‘Mam,’ calls Bernadette from the hall.
Mrs Tolbs, as I call her, nudges her head to the side, as if to say, ‘Go on up with you’, and I run through to the hallway and look up at Bernadette, who is sitting on a step and holding onto the bars of the banister. She looks like she’s seven again.
‘Weren’t you going to say goodbye?’ My voice sounds forlorn, like I’ve already lost her.
She shakes her head, then comes down the stairs and hugs me.
‘Come with me,’ I whisper, but I know she won’t.
‘Josephine, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.’ She holds my hands tight in hers.
‘You’ll be grand, you’ll see,’ I tell her.
For a moment I think maybe her father will die and she’ll be able to join me after all, but then I realize that once he dies, she will be needed at home more than ever. God forgive me for wishing her father dead. Her father who is a lovely man and who has done everything for her, and who drove us to college every morning.
How funny that, after all these years of wishing I was her, with her nice home and her nice parents and her weekends and evenings all to herself, with no one to cook for and no one to look after and no washing up to do, now I am the one getting away and she is jealous of me.
‘You’ll look after my sister, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will,’ she says, laughing.
‘I mean it, Bernadette.’ I tug at her hands with mine, clammy now. ‘You’ll keep an eye on Siobhan for me, won’t you?’
‘I will, don’t worry,’ says Bernadette, and she pats my hands.
*
‘Sorry for fibbing, love,’ Mrs Tolbs says when I’m leaving, ‘but Bernadette was so upset.’
‘That’s all right,’ I tell her. I can see she’s relieved it’s me going and not Bernadette. I’m relieved, too. ‘I’ll always be grateful for everything, Mrs Tolbs,’ I say, giving Bernadette’s hand a squeeze. It was Mrs Tolbs who talked to Mammy and Daddy about me going to morning college to get my secretarial cert. She said they were driving Bernadette, so it would be the same to them to drive me too, and that they’d make lunch for me as well. Mammy slapped me around the face that night and said how dare I take our business outside of the house, but I didn’t do anything. It was all Bernadette.
I turn left at the fork to Granny’s. She hears me coming and lifts the nets and waves. By the time she is holding me at the back door, the howls that come from me sound tortured.
When I’ve calmed down, she smiles. Her pink crinkled eyes go small, like always. ‘My little Josephine,’ she says.
I start again. The snot runs from my nose and she is blurry through the tears. ‘Shhh,’ she soothes.
She is the one who has pai
d for my ticket, given me the money, convinced Mammy and Daddy to let me go.
‘I’ve made you sandwiches, and I’ve got you a Saint Christopher to watch over you,’ she says.
I turn around and she puts it round my neck. It’s a small gold pendant on a fine gold chain.
‘I won’t take it off,’ I say, rubbing it between my finger and my thumb. ‘I’ll keep it with me for ever.’
It’s hard to remember today is a good day when it hurts this much. I only allow myself to look back at Granny when I’ve reached the end of the path, and she is so small in the window that I can only catch the movement of her wave.
I cup my hands around my mouth and take a deep breath in and then I shout as loud as I can, ‘I love you, Granny!’ I stand just a moment longer to wave her goodbye, and head off home.
In the back yard there is no noise, but for the faint, rhythmic swishing of Mammy dipping washing into the basin and pulling it out.
‘Mammy,’ I call. The echo of my voice bounces off the cold, grey cement and the white pebble-dash walls of the house. I walk around the back and she comes into view.
‘Jesus,’ she says, putting her hand to her chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. Fine parting gift that would’ve been.’
‘Sorry.’ I smile sheepishly.
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Well, Brendan’s waiting for you. You’d better hurry on – he hasn’t got all day. Some of us have jobs to keep.’
‘I’ll say goodbye now then, will I?’
A car speeds by on the road. I nod my head instinctively. Hello, how are you? I say in my head, even though I can’t see them. Will it be like this in London, I wonder, everyone knowing everyone and saying hello as you go by?
‘May as well,’ says Mammy. She lets go of the trousers, and they are swallowed up by the soapy water.
I imagine they are a baby drowning. I think of saying things to her, things I have imagined saying for a long time, things I have never dared say to anyone. For a moment I even consider asking what she said last night. I go to kiss her, but she puts her hands up.
‘I won’t get you wet,’ she says. Her front is soaking, as if her breasts are leaking milk, like in the days after she had given birth to Sean. ‘Your daddy has left you some pounds in the kitchen.’
‘Is he here?’ The blood whooshes around my body.
‘No, he had to work early.’
I keep my face like a mask, hard and plastic.
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘You rear your children and then they up and leave.’
I flush with guilt, and with all the words left unsaid, and tell her I will send money soon.
She nods, plunging her hands into the basin of water and dunking the trousers.
‘Will you miss me?’ The words are out before I can catch them. Then, after a moment of silence, ‘Ignore me,’ and I laugh like an eejit.
She wrings the trousers and hangs them on the line, her curly grey hairs twinkling in the early-morning light. For anyone looking on, it would all seem so idyllic.
The excitement sets in on the boat. This is real; it’s really happening, I think, rubbing my pendant between my finger and my thumb. I find a seat over by the window and ask a lady to look after my suitcase while I go out onto the deck. The wind is cold and wet and salty and I hold tight onto the rail, which isn’t as high as I thought it would be. I could just throw myself right off, if I wanted to. I look down, where the sea is murky, slapping against the belly of the boat and coming up in froth and bubbles. Far away, the ripples are blue-green and shiny white under the grey cloudy sky. I try to see where the sea meets the sky, but it’s no use. There’s just a haze of blue-green-grey-black-green-blue.
I breathe the salty sea air in deep, the screams of the seagulls and the shrieks of the children. I watch the people lined up on the deck wave to the port, as the ferry heaves itself into the sea. A loud horn vibrates through the air, through the deck’s floor and through my body, sending the gulls to fly in wild circles.
My tears taste of seaweed. They are not tears of sadness, but tears of joy. Of hope. Of everything waiting for me on the other side. I hold onto the rail to keep steady. When I dare, I release one hand and wave to the crowds. I get carried away and start blowing kisses – sure no one knows that none of my own people are among them. I blow a string of kisses, giddy now, as I say goodbye to Ireland.
When I can’t hold it any longer I go looking for the toilet. The boat sways violently and people are lying like starfish all over the floor, so I tiptoe around their splayed limbs. Near the toilet, I pretend to itch my nose against the stench.
In the cubicle I am careful not to touch the seat or wet my good yellow dress, but the boat shudders and, as I grab the sides of the cubicle, the dress slips from my hands.
Someone groans next door and there’s the gush of liquid. ‘Jesus,’ she says through a blocked nose, and I imagine her wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
I clutch my dress back up and get out as quick as I can. ‘Are you okay in there?’ I ask.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she says.
‘Have you been in there long?’ I ask. I’m dying for a distraction. In the mirror, I can see that I’m red and puffy-faced after the sharp wind. My brown eyes are still watery and my lips are dry.
‘First time?’ she says.
It takes me a few seconds and then it dawns on me that she means to England. ‘Yes – yourself?’
‘Me, too. Where you headed?’
‘London.’
‘No way!’ she says. ‘Me, too!’
‘Get away with you! Whereabouts?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Same as myself! It’s a small world, isn’t it? What’s your name?’
‘Maura. Yours?’
‘Josephine.’ I check my dress; it’s clean. I wait a minute for her to come out, but she tells me she’s not going anywhere until we pull into the port, so I wish her good luck and tell her I’ll look out for her in Shepherd’s Bush.
Back in my seat, I regret not fixing a spot to meet so we could find the coach together from Liverpool to London, or telling her the name of the house I’m going to. We could have been friends.
After the coach journey and two buses, I arrive at the address Mrs Tolbs wrote down for me on a piece of paper, where a friend of hers stayed and where she’s reserved me a room. It’s past midnight on a Thursday. The streets are dark and empty, apart from rows of foreign-looking houses, and again I find myself wishing I wasn’t alone and that me and Maura might have come together. I stand at the door and check the number again. I bless myself and ring the doorbell and start counting. When I reach thirty and no one has come, I shake my head. The voice in my head starts: You fool, you fecking fool. Good for nothing. You really never were good for anything. Your mother was right. She was right all along. It was Granny who was mistaken – believing in you, thinking you were worth something. More fool her. You’re done for now. Wait till you go back with your tail between your legs. How they’ll laugh!
My breath comes short and sharp and I’m struggling to keep the tears back, when there’s a creak of floorboards inside. A moment later the front door opens and a man looks at me, his eyes half-closed and a frown on his face.
I swallow the tears back into my chest. ‘Hello. Sorry to bother you so late. I understand you have a room reserved for me? My name is Josephine.’
He nods and beckons me in. ‘You have passport?’
I nod.
‘Money?’
I nod.
He looks me up and down. ‘I show you room, we sort paper in morning.’ His accent is not English, his skin is brown and he has a wispy beard. His face is kinder than my father’s.
Inside is lit with dull yellow bulbs. A small reception desk sits by the stairs, and we stop there for the man to pick up a key. I follow him up and along the landing to the end, where he stops, unlocks a door and turns to me. ‘Ru
les are,’ he says, ‘no boys, no parties, always pay up front.’ He points out the bathroom, three doors away, and turns on the light in the room.
I nod, then look past him. The walls are yellow from smoke, almost brown around the cornices, but for a square in the middle of the far wall where, I suppose, a picture used to hang. There’s a single bed in one corner, a small cabinet beside it and a chair by the window. A narrow, light-coloured wardrobe stands along another wall beside a small square mirror. Round, blackened circles dot the carpet in front of the window. There are other bare patches, too, in the middle of the floor. Moths. I will have to make sure I keep my suitcase closed or they will have my best clothes.
‘Great, lovely.’ I release a long breath I have been holding in; I mean it.
We bid each other goodnight and he leaves.
I carry my suitcase inside and close and lock the door behind me. Once I’ve turned the key, I try the handle and the door shakes in its frame. I smile. I’ve never been able to lock myself in before.
The mattress is softer than mine at home and I sink right down into it. I rub my hand over the bed, and then I go over to the window to let in some air. I pull the grey net curtain to one side and cup my hands around my eyes, but all I can see is black. I unlatch the window and pull the lower pane upwards. It sticks and I have to make sure I pull it up evenly with each hand. The cold night air whooshes in. It smells different here; the sweet grass smell from back home is gone. The air feels dry on my face. Back on the bed, I sit and cross my legs and get the box of cigarettes that one of the girls gave me last night. There’s a lighter inside. I light the cigarette and breathe in, coughing as the end turns orange. I exhale, watching the smoke shoot from my nostrils and circle in grey wisps in front of my face. I do this until the full moon of the filter is yellow and there is a curling worm of ash, and then realize I have no ashtray. I run to the window and reach outside, stubbing it on the brickwork next to the windowsill, light-headed and giddy.
Her Mother's Daughter Page 2
