by P. K . Lynch
‘You should have rung the office,’ he called from the kitchen. ‘I’d have come home.’
‘If I just had a key, you know,’ she replied, without much hope. Not that Danny would begrudge her a key, she was sure, just that he was so preoccupied with other matters.
‘Here we are,’ he said, carrying a tray through. He placed it on the small table between two couches and poured from the teapot. ‘Now then. What’s this all about?’
‘All about? I need a reason to see my son?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
‘My only son now?’
‘Mum.’
She examined the biscuits on offer. She took one and bit in. ‘Oh, these are delicious! What are they?’
He shrugged. ‘Just biscuits from the supermarket, Ma.’
‘You’ll need to show me the packet. Are they from Waitrose?’
‘Probably.’
‘That’s you all over. No scrimping on style. A suit or a biscuit – I always know you’ll choose well. How are the girls?’
‘Aye, they’re all right, Mammy.’ He leaned back on the couch and rubbed his face before snapping forward and announcing his decision to have a drink. ‘Will you have a wee sherry or something?’
‘No, no, I’m fine with tea but you go ahead. You’ve been at work all day.’
He sighed and shook his head, and slapped his thighs with alarming purpose, before looking straight into her eyes. For one horrible second she thought he was about to cry.
‘Go on then, go on.’ She waved her hand, moving hurriedly past the moment. ‘Have your drink,’ she urged. ‘You’ve been working hard. You’ve earned it.’
Danny poured himself a finger of Scotch while Anne nibbled her biscuit.
‘So has Emma done her wee filming bit then?’ she said. ‘That was marvellous, wasn’t it?’
Her eyes flew around the room, anywhere but her son. She felt she had no reason to be there, and was further discomfited by the notion that she needed a reason to be there.
‘Aye, I think so. Seemed to go all right from what I can gather.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Such a talented girl. She was so good in all her school plays, wasn’t she? But going on television! Did she enjoy it? She hasn’t been over to tell me about it.’
‘Sorry, Ma. They’re with me this weekend. I’ll take a run out on Sunday afternoon, if you like?’
‘That would be nice.’ She cut off the sentence too neatly, creating a space in which something was left unsaid. Both sensed it, but neither could guess at the missing words, or even say if they would be kind or cruel.
‘Maybe we’ll take a run out to Loch Lomond or something like that,’ said Danny.
‘Or how about a wee visit to Jude? I don’t get over as often as I’d like, you know. We need to keep her close. I don’t think she’s coping very well.’
A small bitter laugh puffed from his lips. ‘Who is?’ He drained his glass and stood up for another. ‘Sure I can’t persuade you?’
‘Aye, a wee tot. Go on.’
Bottles clinked as Danny rummaged in the back of the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of sherry.
‘Don’t open it just for me,’ she called.
‘Don’t be daft, Ma. I don’t mind.’
‘Thanks, son,’ she said, taking the glass. She sipped and felt herself relax a little. This would warm her up better than the tea would. The damp from the afternoon, followed by the cold hours waiting in the concrete hallway, had taken their toll.
‘To Peter.’ Danny raised his glass and drank it down quickly. Anne was taken aback. It was not like him to dive head first into serious matters. By the time she’d taken in what he’d said, he’d turned away from her and was refilling his glass.
‘Yes,’ she said, hearing a crack in her voice. A biscuit crumb caught in her throat, no doubt. She coughed and raised her glass. ‘To Peter.’
He sat down heavily.
‘I’m sorry, Ma. Losing a child. I should have said it sooner. I’m sorry.’
The sight of him slouching over like that, with his elbows resting on his knees propping the rest of his body up, his eyes pointing towards the floor like someone defeated… it angered her.
‘It’s hard for all of us,’ she said, and was relieved to notice the earlier brokenness had been replaced by a cold, warning tone. ‘But you know, I think Jude will be finding it harder than us. No family of her own to fall back on.’
As long as there was someone else worse off.
Danny glanced up and quickly looked away. His guilty face told Anne he’d barely thought of Jude and Sissy since the day of the funeral.
‘She’s always been a bit… well, ungrounded,’ Anne continued, her sense of purpose returning. ‘All those foster homes, no idea of anything. The way she tied herself to him.’
Danny looked uncomfortable, but before he could speak, she continued.
‘Peter gave her a sense of herself. And then Sissy, of course. But without him, what is she?’
It was true, she realised. She was only discovering it as the words left her mouth. Jude had been barely into her twenties when Peter brought her to visit. A little waif of a thing, the kind of person you hoped your children would keep a distance from. Not that there was anything wrong with them, just that you knew time spent with them would ultimately prove difficult because, perhaps through no fault of their own, life had been hard and created for them a pile of baggage you’d always prayed your own child would avoid.
She tipped back the last of her sherry, placed the glass onto the table beside her tea cup, and looked at him, bright little eyes gleaming from between wrinkled folds.
‘Sissy’s the biggest concern, of course. The age she’s at. So easy to go off the rails. She needs a strong mother, Danny. It’s up to us to make sure she’s got one. It’s what Peter would expect of us.’
Danny had been looking forward to spending the upcoming weekend with his daughters, but it was clear now he’d been selfish, thinking only of himself.
‘Of course, Ma. It’ll be good for the girls to see their cousin. Check in on Jude. That’s a plan. That’s a good plan.’
They said a decade of the rosary together, and then Danny called a taxi and walked Anne down the stairs. Holding an umbrella over her, he helped her into the cab and made sure her seat belt was fastened. Sometimes the arthritis in her fingers was so bad she couldn’t do it herself. Not that she would admit it, of course. You had to keep an eye on her.
‘I told you I’d be fine on the bus,’ she said.
‘Mammy, I don’t want you on the bus. I’m only sorry I can’t drive you myself.’
‘Yes, well.’ Anne raised her eyebrows.
Danny paid the driver – ‘thanks very much, mate’ – and closed the door. The small prickle of pride she felt whenever any of her children took their wallets out softened her as he stepped back onto the pavement and waved as the cab pulled away. In the darkness she could have been a child peeping out of the window, whereas she only saw him grow smaller as the cab pulled away. He stood, shoulders hunched futilely against the rain that came down in sheets. She wanted to scream at him to use the damn umbrella for himself.
CHAPTER SIX
The Visit
On Sunday, Danny’s car pulled up sleek and stealthy as a panther. Sissy only noticed it because she’d been thinking of calling on Cam and looked out the window to check the weather. When she saw the car with its private plate turn into the street, her tummy flipped twice in guilty panic: once for the ostentatious display of wealth which was out of place on their estate, and twice because the house was a disgusting mess.
‘Mum! Uncle Danny’s here!’
She ran through to the kitchen and grabbed a black bin bag. Everything went into it: all the takeaway boxes and junk mail, ashtrays, empty bottles, newspapers. The dishwasher was full, so she tidied the dirty dishes as best she could, sitting plates on top of plates, and cups in cups on top of plates, not noticing the c
lack and clatter as they chipped and broke against each other. The kitchen floor was littered with crumbs and scraps of food that had missed the bin, and brown splash marks where teabags had fallen. Transfixed by the horror of it, she couldn’t avoid the knowledge of how she hated herself. She was rank and rotten and now everyone else would know. The thought forced her to the ground. Using her hands, she gathered up the worst of the mess, shouting for Jude to get up, but quietly, lest the visitor on the street should hear.
Outside, Danny walked round to open the passenger-door. Emma and Lucy hovered in case they could help in any way, and because they dreaded this visit and wanted to put off the moment of again coming face to face with their aunt and cousin’s misery, and the inevitable sensation of discomfort that would follow.
Sissy dropped the mess she’d gathered into the bin, pushing the rubbish so far down it would split the bag and spill everywhere when she finally got round to emptying it. A dart through to the living room to check their guest’s progress told her Danny wasn’t alone. It was far more serious than she’d realised. She took the steps two at a time and pushed Jude’s door open. Her mother appeared to be nothing more than a small hill in the bed.
‘Mum, you have to get up,’ she said, breathless from her cleaning burst. The shape moaned and shifted. Sissy sat on the bed, recognising a pale yellow blanket she thought had been thrown away years ago. It made her go easier. Gently, she patted in the general area of Jude’s shoulder.
‘Mum. Grammy’s here. She’s brought Uncle Danny and Emma and Lucy.’
No response came but she thought she detected a shift from beneath the cover.
‘Mum, please get up. Please.’
The kazoo sounded and Sissy sighed. The bloody doorbell had become an axe over their heads. They couldn’t change it because it reminded them of Peter and happy arguments over how great or awful it was, but much as she and her father had giggled about Jude’s objections to it, there was no denying how wholly inappropriate it was for their new world. Why couldn’t people just leave them alone? Then she wouldn’t have to think about the doorbell at all.
Upon opening the door, Sissy said, ‘What a lovely surprise!’ and then wondered why she sounded like an old lady. Anne was at the front, of course, presented as the main event, an offering. Sissy opened her arms wide, allowing Anne to step forward and kiss her. Danny stood behind her, a towering giant, awkward as a badly placed skyscraper, uneasy in the company of females, even though they were his females, his mother and daughters. Unsure of himself now he couldn’t fall into easy boy talk with his brother, he plastered a smile on his face and squeezed his niece. He ushered Anne inside, leaving Emma and Lucy to slink in behind him, which they did with a shy smile towards their cousin who, through sheer bad luck, had somehow been transformed into an alien creature, a stranger from another world. The space Peter had vacated was real and everywhere.
The guests gathered in the living room and Sissy offered tea, apologising for not having any biscuits. Danny seized his opportunity and was out the door before anyone realised what he was doing.
‘He’s a good boy,’ said Anne. ‘Picks a good biscuit. Where’s your mum?’
‘Uh… I think she’ll be down later,’ Sissy replied. ‘She has stuff to do.’
The guilt of the lie was outweighed by loyalty to her mother, despite them not having spoken a friendly word to each other in days.
Anne sank back into her seat, pulling a cushion across her lap, making Sissy think of a small animal, like a squirrel or dormouse, burrowing into its hole to outlast winter. Once upon a time, her grandmother had seemed like a giant. On Saturdays and some afternoons after school, Sissy had dressed up in her grandmother’s old nightgowns which were kept in a bag in the upstairs hall cupboard. In the majestic company of untouchable holy figurines and under the approving gaze from Jesus on the wall, seven-year-old Sissy traipsed up and down, scarcely believing her grandmother had once worn such items. The yellows, pale blues and pinks, all in sheer fabrics like chiffon, made Sissy feel like a princess, but later on, around the time Sissy began asking disturbing questions like: How can you prove God is real? and How is it fair that unbaptised babies don’t get straight into Heaven? her father had hushed her, and she’d begun to realise that perhaps she had to look after her grandmother just as her grandmother looked after her.
Fifteen long minutes later, Danny returned laden with carrier bags of food, including Coke for the girls, even though their mother didn’t like them to have drinks like that.
‘No wonder you have spots,’ Emma scolded, as Lucy helped herself.
Sissy made tea for Anne and Danny, and offered more every time they put their cups down. Danny drank his in three scalding gulps just so he could say, ‘Yes, please,’ next time she asked. They ate hastily cobbled-together ham sandwiches and marvelled at the multitude of sympathy cards and flowers.
‘People are good,’ said Anne.
When at long last Jude appeared in the doorway she was grey as a ghost, or, as Anne thought, some shell-shocked soldier returning from a terrible place. The guests paused over their sandwiches, lifted their heads in greeting, guilty at being caught in the act of eating, unable to rise easily to embrace their host. Jude sat down in the space clumsily vacated by Lucy and lit up a cigarette. Normally she refrained from smoking indoors when they had company, but today it didn’t even occur to her and no one said she shouldn’t.
Lucy reached to refill her glass.
‘Should you?’ said Emma, in a tone that clearly said she shouldn’t.
‘Just cos you can’t,’ said Lucy, sticky fingers around the neck of the bottle. She turned to the rest of the room and, in a very la-di-dah voice, announced, ‘The camera adds ten pounds, don’t you know.’
‘I don’t sound like that!’ Emma playfully punched her sister’s shoulder.
‘Don’t hit your sister,’ said Anne. Emma immediately curled into herself, eyes wounded, and Sissy was reminded of what it was to feel sympathy for someone other than herself. Danny munched on cupcake after cupcake, seemingly oblivious to events around him.
‘I forgot about your telly job!’ said Sissy brightly, desperate to lift the mood. ‘How was it?’
‘Oh my God, I loved it,’ said Emma.
‘Language, Emma.’ It seemed Danny had half an ear on things after all.
‘Sorry, Daddy,’ Emma replied, before continuing. ‘It. Was. Fab. I had to ride a horse! And my costume…’
As Emma told all about her brief television experience, Sissy had the sensation of moving back from the room. She tried to focus on her cousin’s words but, although she could see her lips moving, she couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. The whole situation had an element of farce about it. Uncle Danny sitting there on the footstool like some oversized toddler, the way his girls didn’t stray too far from his side, how they watched his every move, ready to jump into action the instant he needed anything. Her mother seemed to be operated from afar by some separate entity. There was nothing alive about her. Her arm went up and down ferrying her cigarette between mouth and ashtray, but her eyes were void. She was like a black hole, sucking all the energy out the room, not even pretending to listen. Grammy, however, even though she had nestled herself so deeply down into the armchair, Sissy could tell was plugged into every little thing. In fact, Sissy was sure she could hear a high-pitched hum of energy coming from her. A gentle burp from Lucy, a crumb falling from Danny’s cupcake, a stem of ash teetering on the end of Jude’s cigarette, the number of Mass cards versus ordinary sympathy cards bought in the supermarket – nothing was overlooked – Anne took it all in, and more. It seemed to Sissy that even though she was on the opposite side of the room, somehow her grandmother had managed to crawl across the floor, slip beneath her skin, and read all her thoughts. As a child, she was aware of Grammy’s ability to pinpoint a lie because ‘The flames of Hell burn in your eyes,’ so the sensation of her thoughts and feelings not being her own wasn’t a new experience, just a f
orgotten one.
‘Of course, you’ll have had enough of all that now,’ Anne’s voice drowned out Emma’s speech.
‘What do you mean?’ Emma frowned.
‘It’s all right to have a bit of fun, but you have your studies to think of. You’ll be wanting to concentrate now on what’s really important. Heaven knows we’ve all learned how short life can be. No time for mucking around.’
Emma turned wide-eyed to Danny, who persisted in remaining resolutely unengaged with the room.
‘You’re a bright girl,’ continued Anne. ‘I just don’t want you getting distracted.’
Emma agreed emphatically.
‘Of course, Grammy. I don’t want that either.’ She turned to the rest of the room and said, ‘It was good fun. But not really a practical career choice.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Sissy, trying to be helpful when it became clear no one else would speak.
Emma’s eyes flew to her grandmother.
‘Let me tell you girls something,’ Anne said. ‘I had a friend called Nettie. A long time ago, before I was married. I lived with her and her mother after my father went off. Did I tell you about her?’
The three grandchildren remained silent, having been told about Nettie and ‘Aunt’ Margaret many times.
‘Anyway, Nettie was younger than me by a year or two. Very beautiful. Blonde curls. Kept herself well, you know. Lipstick, stockings, the works. And Nettie was a performer, like you, Emma. A dancer. A great dancer by all accounts. But she had to give it up. Do you know why?’
The three girls shook their heads no.
Anne’s gaze whipped round to catch Emma and hold her there. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘she’d go to these auditions and what would she find? Some fella who didn’t know a thing about dancing, who only wanted good-looking girls on his stage to keep his customers happy. “Show us your legs,” he’d say. “Why do I need to do that?” Nettie would reply. Oh, she wasn’t daft. “You can see I’m a good dancer,” she’d say.’
Anne leaned back and clasped her hands across her middle, satisfied she had her audience’s full attention.
