I didn’t see him. It was dark. Pitch-black.
He wouldn’t believe me. Sure, who would? My own mother didn’t want to know.
My breathing is quick and shallow as I imagine taking off all the faces I’ve ever worn and showing him my own, raw, swollen face and pink, puffy eyes, which Mammy saw that night when she called me to help her to the toilet, a few days after Sean was born.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked, irritated, thinking I was feeling sorry for myself because I was doing all the housework.
‘Nothing,’ I muttered. Then when she was on the toilet, I started crying. She told me to stop acting the fool and demanded I tell her what was wrong.
‘I’m going to hell,’ I sobbed.
‘Don’t be an eejit.’
‘I am. Something terrible has happened, and I’m going to hell.’
‘Such a drama-queen. Now help me up.’
I got hysterical and my legs gave way, with the pain and the weakness in my body. I cried in a pile in front of her.
‘How dare you?’ she snarled. She grabbed the hair on the back of my head and pulled me upwards. ‘I have just lost a baby, and I have her little brother in the room to look after, and here you are, feeling sorry for yourself, like a spoilt fecking madam.’
I cried out and she pulled my hair harder. ‘But, Mammy…’
‘Now help me off this toilet. You are to keep this house immaculate, cook for your father and your brother and sister, and keep your head down. I don’t want to hear so much as a word from you.’ She gave a last tug to my hair, jerking my head towards her. ‘Do you understand?’ she said, her lips thin and her teeth glistening with spit. I swear I’ve never seen anything that looked so much like a rabid dog before or since.
‘Yes, Mammy.’
She let go of my hair and I stood up, wiped my face dry and helped her back to her room. In bed, I cried myself to sleep. I was already in hell.
*
I’m trembling when the doorbell rings.
‘Josephine, it’s the door!’ calls Joyce.
‘Coming!’ I wipe my face around the eyes and go downstairs.
Michael is standing in the middle of the doorway with a single red rose in his hand. I fling my arms round his shoulders and start crying.
‘Whoa!’ he says, untying my arms from around his neck. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just so lovely.’ I take the rose and hold it in my hands. A thorn pricks my thumb and I lick it.
‘If I’d known it would’ve got that response, I wouldn’t have got it.’
‘It’s lovely, honestly,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just that, it’s my little brother’s birthday next week and it’s got me thinking.’
‘That’s Sean, is it?’
I nod.
He pulls me to him for a hug. ‘When I get homesick I try to focus on what I’ve got, and what I’m building, here with you.’ He takes my hands and kisses them.
I swallow back the rest of my tears, seeing myself curled over on the toilet, flowing away from myself. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’ I lean forward and let him hold me in his arms, where I am safe and the world is in order, even if just for as long as the embrace.
He looks down at me and I kiss him deeper than I ever have before, and he is warm and gentle.
When I pull away, his face is red and I have to wipe his mouth dry. I give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him I’ll get my bag and be down in a minute.
*
We stop off at the post office, where I send the package and letters, and we get on the first bus into town.
‘It looks like it’ll rain,’ says Michael.
‘It’ll hold out,’ I tell him, holding his hand in mine, but just then the sky breaks and large drops fall like pellets on the roof.
‘Do you still want to go?’ His face is all honest and open.
‘I most certainly do!’ I have perked up suddenly and Michael tells me he’s glad, and kisses me on the forehead.
I get off the bus first and run through the rain, holding my jacket over my head like a blanket, not caring about the cold water seeping through my blouse. Michael is behind me but I don’t turn to look for him, I know he’ll come after me, and I run across the road and through the crowd. I jump over a puddle and nearly fall over. Michael catches up with me and we laugh and run together, side-by-side, our faces shiny with water. My make-up must be in streaks down my face.
‘This is crazy!’ he calls over the crackle of the rain and the cars swishing by.
‘It’s brilliant!’ I tell him, and there, in the park, I put my arms down and hold my hands palm-up to the sky and let the water soak all over me. I tilt my head upwards and my hair hangs like a drenched sheet in the back yard. Sometimes I am so tired of playing a role that I am sure I could lie down and just die right there. ‘Michael,’ I say. I take his hand.
‘Yes?’ He looks concerned.
‘There are things.’
He steps towards me and wraps me up in his arms, as if I were a little girl and he was a bear, come to save me from the wolves. He rocks me from one side to the other and I hold him tight.
‘Come on, we’re going to miss it.’ He takes my hand and leads me through the dripping trees towards the palace.
The gilded gates run on, bar after bar, and we join the crowds peering through them at the small, dark windows. Soldiers in red uniforms and huge black furry hats stand dead-still, staring ahead.
A flag billows high in the wind, heavy with rainwater.
‘That means the Queen’s in.’ Michael points in the air.
‘Does it?’
‘It does.’
‘Well, then I’ll have to wave to the Queen,’ I say, waving my hand madly.
We wait with the people gathered with their cameras and their umbrellas, but after a while we’re told that Changing the Guard has been cancelled, due to the weather.
Michael looks disappointed, but I think it’s hysterical and can’t help laughing.
The rain calms to a gentle drizzle and Michael keeps an arm round me as we walk back through the park. He stops at a bench and tells me to sit down, and then he gets down on one knee and says he knows it’s soon, but I’m the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
I put my hands to my face; mascara comes off on my hands. ‘But I’m a mess,’ I say, ‘look at me.’
‘You’re beautiful,’ he says.
‘Am I?’ My lips tremble.
‘Of course you are.’
‘But—’ I begin, wanting to ask if he doesn’t see the black holes in my eyes.
‘Josephine, you would make me the happiest man alive if you would marry me.’ He takes out a box and inside is a gold ring with a small, shining diamond. He slips it on my finger. It’s big for me, but I couldn’t care less. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. Nothing could spoil this absolute joy that I’m feeling, and which I want to hold on to for ever.
I take his face in my hands and kiss him. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I say, kissing him once, twice, three times.
He lifts me up and spins me round. All I can see is his hair that’s gone curly in the rain, and the make-up that has rubbed off onto his face and his dimple, deep now as he smiles at me with loving eyes.
The flat is empty when we get back with a couple of bottles of sparkling wine and crisps and olives, already giddy from the glass we had with our tea and scones. I have a shower and then Michael goes in after me.
I am drying my hair when he comes into my room with a towel around his waist.
He looks at me with those sea-blue eyes of his and his tufts of blondie hair curling towards his face and I smile shyly, but then he walks towards me and the room is too small and I run away to the bathroom.
He knocks on the door and says he is sorry and that he has ruined everything. No, I want to say, but the words won’t come out. All I can do is shake my head that no, he hasn’t ruined anything; that I am the one ruined.
I c
an picture him on the other side of the door, his forehead all creased with concern, and I want to set him free. He deserves someone clean and uncomplicated, not like me. I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Michael, you should go. You don’t want me.’
‘I do, though, I do,’ he says.
‘You don’t, believe me.’
‘I don’t know what has happened,’ he says, ‘but I’m not going anywhere.’
I let out a deep breath of air, realizing that he means it. ‘There are things…’ I say, ‘things… that were done to me. I was a little girl…’ I want to tell him everything, but my throat has already closed up and all I can do is cry quietly because it hurts.
Eventually I open the door and he sits with me on the floor and rocks me in his arms. I fall asleep like that, half on the bathroom mat and half on the cold linoleum floor, and when I wake, he is stroking my face, and peeling off my skin the hair that has stuck to my tears. I have never felt so loved.
‘Who?’ he says after a while.
‘Someone from the town,’ I say, thinking of the belly that pushed down hard on me and stole the air, and so much more, from my body.
I think of the breathing and the footsteps and the smell of whiskey and cigars, the sound of the unbuckling of the belt. I think of things on other days, like when I was pouring them drinks and Daddy said, ‘Look at the arse of it, bigger by the day,’ and Uncle Patrick laughed and slapped me across the backside. ‘She’ll be a fine woman, all right,’ he replied, winking, and I went red with humiliation and the shame and ran out of the room and the house, over to the stream to cry. Or when we were all at the pub one day and Uncle Patrick questioned me in front of everybody about having a boyfriend and how I must have a boyfriend, and Daddy said I better not have a boyfriend, if I knew what was good for me. But that I was so bold he wouldn’t put anything past me. Ah, no doubt she has one hidden somewhere, said Mammy, curling her lips, with all the flirting she does. Or when Daddy clamped his body around mine to file my teeth, digging his knees into me and forcing my mouth open as he breathed into my face.
I relive it all, as I have so many times, trying to find something that gives him away. What I would give to know it wasn’t my daddy. What I would give to undo it altogether.
Michael holds me and doesn’t let go. I never want him to let go. I feel as raw as if I had been turned inside out, at the same time as feeling an odd sense of calm, for the first time in my life.
CLARE
18TH JULY 1997
Thomas climbs to the top and we jump up and down on my bed until we’re out of breath and he has snot running all the way down to his top lip. Then we climb down, me first, then him, so I can hold his bum, and we go over to my calendar. I get the marker and take the lid off and show Thomas which square to write a large X in. He does it big and it goes outside the box, but it doesn’t matter, because the countdown has finished and we’re all going on a summer holiday – like Cliff Richard sings. I sing the words and Thomas joins in and then we jump up and down on the spot. I feel a flutter inside because we’re going to have so much fun and so is Mummy, and that is obviously just what the doctor ordered, Daddy says. I think she just needs a good cuddle from her own mum and then she’ll be as right as rain. That’s what I tell Thomas, but that means I have to explain that ‘as right as rain’ means good and back to normal, not cold and wet in the rain. He doesn’t get it, even though I explain it to him three times.
We’re going to go to the beach to swim in the sea, eat sausage and chips on the pebbles and see our cousins who we haven’t seen for a whole entire year. I’m so excited I could burst and splatter all over our pink room. Our room is pink because I’m a girl and, even though I share with a boy, I’m the Big Sister so I got to choose. When I’m a little bit older I’ll be getting my own room all to myself, and it’ll have even more pink and no boys.
We go through our fluffy rucksacks that look like bears and check we have all our emergency items. Teddy, blanket, reading books, drawing books, felt-tip pens and pencils, and our bottles with the twirly straw that circles all the way up to the top, where you suck from it and watch the drink go round and round, up and down.
Daddy dresses us while Mummy makes sure everything is packed in the big suitcases. Daddy has been staying at home since Mummy hit her head, to look after her and us. Her head is much better now. When we’re at the door ready to go, Daddy brings down the cases one by one and Mummy gives the house a final once-over, making sure all doors and windows are locked, and that the light timer that comes on whenever you want it to is set. That makes it look like we’re in the sitting room or upstairs in our rooms, even though we’re not.
‘Ready, everyone?’ Mummy says.
‘Ready!’ we shout at the same time, jumping up and down. Since Daddy has been staying at home and Mummy has been taking it easy, she is much better and we can shout again.
Mummy pulls us towards her. Me and Thomas wrap our arms around her waist and our hands meet on her bum. It’s so good to have her back.
‘Ready?’ she says once more, kissing me on the head and then bending down to kiss Thomas. She has her make-up on and her hair is all nice and big and wavy and she’s wearing her favourite red mac. She looks like herself again. I squeeze her so tight, and then I check for the bruise on her forehead; it isn’t there any more.
Me and Thomas climb into the back of the car and Mummy drapes the duvet over us, so we’re warm and snuggly. We wiggle our toes until they touch.
Daddy loads up the car and Mummy gets in the front. Then Daddy gets in and puts his belt on. ‘Buckle up, everyone,’ he says, turning to look at us over his shoulder. ‘Off we go!’
‘Yaaay,’ me and Thomas shout when he pulls out – well, I do first and then Thomas copies.
It’s early in the morning before everyone gets up and has their breakfast and leaves their houses, so we’re the only ones on the road. Daddy whizzes along like Superman. It’s still a bit dark, not pitch-black but not bright like the day, either, but I’m so awake that Mummy says my eyes are like saucers. I watch the streets as we fly by and see people put up shutters of shops and others walking along the pavement. I wonder where they’re going. Thomas falls asleep with his feet looped with mine; I stay still, so I don’t wake him. We sail through the streets, and the sun starts to shine over everything, making it all yellow. Then we’re on the motorway and going in one straight line and I gaze out the window at the green, imagining what it will be like on holiday. When my neck starts to hurt from turning my head all the time, Mummy tells me to lie down and get some sleep because we have a long journey ahead of us.
It starts to get bad when we’re in the mountains. Daddy is curving his way through them and we’re slithering like a snake, making S-shapes all the way. My tummy turns and I can’t help it, I’m going to be sick, but before I can say anything, yellow liquid that tastes like old orange juice comes up.
Mummy says, ‘Oh, shit!’ and reaches down to get a bag, but it’s too late and a little squirt goes on the duvet. Then there’s another gurgle in my tummy and Mummy pushes a bag to me from her front seat and I get the next squirt in there.
‘You’re okay,’ Mummy says. ‘Lie down.’
I lie down and it feels a teeny bit better, but my tummy is moving around inside, like I’m on a ride at Alton Towers, one of the scary ones for big children that go round and round and round.
Mummy tells me to sleep. ‘You’re okay,’ she says again.
I breathe in and out as slow as I can, and the last thing I see before I close my eyes are the tall, green mountains that fill my window like giants.
The next time I open them the huge ferry is right there in front of us and we’re in a line of cars waiting to go into its belly. We drive in slowly. Men wave to Daddy to tell him where to go and he follows cars until a man waves him to stop and it’s time to get out. We park and lock up, and me and Thomas take our rucksacks with us. We go up loads of stairs until we get to the deck. Daddy pushes open the door a
nd we go outside where we can see the sea.
I run over to the rail and Thomas follows me. Daddy comes after us and holds on to the top of our coats so we don’t fall over, even though the rail is so high. The big sheet of sea goes on for ever and ever. The wind blows and takes my breath away, and I remember my bad dream and the snakes in the sea going after Mummy. I shiver and hold on tight while I look out to see how far up we are. The snakes will never get Mummy all the way up here. I have to remember to keep an eye out for her just in case. I hope I can shout to warn her, not like in my horrible dream. No matter how much I squint my eyes, I can’t see anything but the sea until it meets the sky, although I can’t work out where. The swish of the waves hits off the boat’s belly, and me and Thomas watch the waves break and the white froth bubble up. Daddy stands behind us holding onto our jackets like we’re puppies and he’s picking us up by our skin. I’ve seen on the TV how you can pick up puppies by their skin but it doesn’t even hurt them.
When the boat moves, the air gets wet and smells of salt, and when I lick my lips they taste of salt-and-vinegar crisps. I take my ponytail out and my hair flies about like mad, and when I turn from one side to the other it swishes around my face. I take Thomas’s hands in mine and we lean our heads back so the wind flies through our hair. Daddy puts his hands through my hair and ruffles it around. I breathe in deep. The snakes will never get us here.
Mummy stands over on the other side of the deck. I can see her back. Her hair sparkles red where the sun hits it and brown where it doesn’t, and it’s blowing in the wind. It must be sticking to her lipstick because she pulls it away. The belt of her red mac is blowing behind her. Just when I think she’ll lose it, she reaches back without looking and ties it round her waist.
Daddy takes us by the hand to a bench and tells us to stay put, and I watch him walk over to her and put his arm around her waist. I wonder if she’ll turn round and kiss him, like in a film, but she doesn’t. She does turn, though, and I can see the side of both their faces while they say something. I decide that they look like the picture of love, right then. Looking at each other and saying something to each other while Daddy holds onto Mummy, protecting her from the snakes, and her hair tickles his face. If I took a picture of them now, it would definitely be one for the wall.
Her Mother's Daughter Page 9
