Bone and Blood

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Bone and Blood Page 13

by Margo Gorman


  Michael’s face floating into her consciousness was a turn-off she didn’t need. With a look of pure fright on his face at her threat to reveal his big secret. It gave her a buzz to have power over him. Did Michael really like older men or did it just happen like that? You could see their eyes light up when they saw each other. Aisling wondered how anyone could miss it. She guessed right away. If only he knew – she was the one with the real secret. She hated her mother’s combination of not saying anything along with the silent warning looks whenever there was a story of someone her age struggling along as a single parent.

  Was Michael afraid their mother would treat his secret like a condition? Or was it the fear of being called a dirty pervert? Knowing Mum, she’d probably do both. First the hysterics, then a bit about how people give gay men such a hard time then after a bit of reflection, ‘How can we put it right?’ Like that time that she was convinced that Michael was traumatised by the suicide of his classmate. Not likely, relieved more like. Ronan was a real bully especially with Michael. Maybe Ronan fancied Michael but couldn’t face up to it. Mum wanted to take Michael to see a psychologist. To go with him too for God’s sake. As if you would tell a psychologist how you really feel with your mother sitting there. Luckily Dad persuaded her out of it. Then after Michael died she blamed Dad for not letting her take him. ‘The trauma was there all the time under the surface.’ It was one of the few times she showed any sign: Michael’s death may not have been an accident after all.

  Older men were a push-over for sex. Their eyes went right down your top if you were showing a bit of tit. Every time she went over to Maeve’s she could see her Dad, Gerry, lick his lips like she was good enough to eat. She should’ve known Maeve would find out in the end. The sex wasn’t worth the loss of her best friend but she’d been attracted by the maturity in him. He made her feel like a woman.

  The BMW and the cocktails in fancy hotels were a turn-on too. She wore her sexiest clothes. The big turn-off was the way he grunted his way to relief with the beer belly weighing her down. Though to be fair to him, he did manage usually to wank her off first. But now no more rubbing off older men’s paunches for her. Better someone she wouldn’t mind waking up beside. Patrice won that round easily. She wished now she had taken her phone to get some sort of photo of Patrice. She’d got closer than she expected. It would have given her satisfaction to replace her sneaky photo of Andrew with his beautiful black shiny face.

  She stood in front of the mirror in the light from the street outside getting her slimmest silhouette, one to make her hips slim and hide her saggy bottom inside the line of her briefs. She took off her bra but left her silky top on and lifted her breasts so that they showed over her top. She giggled at herself, emptying Ireland, her mother, Michael, Gran and the aunt in the other room from her head and filling it with Patrice.

  She got into bed keeping her briefs and top on letting her hands go inside them first. She lay half on her side holding the firm pillow so that her nipples could rub against the silk and cotton contact. Which of them would she use for her DIY? Patrice or Andrew? Or maybe greasy-guts Gerry?

  Not Gerry. She missed Maeve so much and those rows still hurt. At the time it wasn’t such a big deal. Aisling hoped Maeve would get over it. It wasn’t cool to make so much of a fuss about sex. You did it or you didn’t – the virgins or the slags. Simple difference. But amongst the ‘slags’ there were some who just did it at the drop of a hat, some who had done it once when they had one too many so ‘couldn’t care less’ and the rest were more like her: they just didn’t want to be trapped, so they chose who they did it with. Her big mistake was expecting Gerry to have his own condoms.

  Chapter Fourteen – Letters

  Berlin 16th May 1945

  Dear Mary

  I found the letters I never posted to you where I hid them in the wall of the cellar. I’m lucky they were well hidden. I was more foolish than I could have dreamed to write those things then. Lucky too that I didn’t post any of them. Maybe somewhere inside I knew that it would be dangerous but to even write them was foolish beyond measure. It would be strange to post those letters now. It is less than a year ago but seems like an eternity. Reading my account of those times is like reading the life of a stranger. I seem so young and even innocent. My need of someone to talk to then – even on paper – was more important than anything else. It is harder now to pick up a pen and write to you but I force myself. I want to wipe out the last months of the war so I think of you in Leitrim. I spent a hard winter and spring in a workcamp near Berlin, a living hell.

  Now I know more about danger but I care less. The life stirring within me brings a burden of hope mixed with despair. To have a child with no father. I know as my good friend you won’t tell the news until I am ready. I sent a few words to my mother to let her know I am OK but I haven’t told her why I can not even think of coming back to Leitrim. If Irma knew my thoughts of death, she would never have left me. She was a good friend to me these past months and if it wasn’t for her I would be dead.

  I lost another good friend in the camp – an old woman who helped me live through many cruel days. I could still see the grey wisp of her spirit long after in the smoke of the crematorium. Anna didn’t approve of a woman who took her own life by throwing herself onto electric wires. The body was left on the wires for a couple of days to put fear into the rest of us. The first time I looked up and saw the woman there, it made me think of crucifixion. I admired her courage. I wished I could be so brave. God help me and forgive me for these thoughts, sent by the devil in hell himself.

  Anna and I waged our war against the armies of lice and cockroaches brought into our lives by Hitler. At times I felt the lash of the cold shower take me back to Leitrim although even washing outdoors was never as cold as here and summers never as hot as this one.

  Memories of Anna, of Irma and of Leitrim keep me going.

  You can write to me at the same address.

  Your very own, Biddy

  *

  Berlin 17th May 45

  Dear Mary

  Past and present meet as I write to you but they cannot wipe out the place where they took me for those months. I long for someone to talk to in my own tongue so I write again to you, Mary but I don’t know when I will post it. Maybe never. I told my mother I am staying in Delia’s apartment so she can still send to the same address. I know she will tell you so I hope to get news of you soon.

  I hope Irma arrives safely in Vienna. My mind travels with her now. Who knows what she will face in the chaos of these days? Somehow she made me come close to wanting to live again. She wanted me to go to Vienna with her but I feel sick every day now and I want to be here.

  The jar of blackberry jam from my mother’s parcel was in the same hiding place in the cellar. That felt like a miracle – a miracle of hedgerows to the lake with the sun on my back in August before going back to school. Sugar always so precious even then in Ireland. Stirring the precious stuff in the big pan and licking the spoon when Mammy turned her back. Peggy would tell, so I had to be careful of her eyes too. Now, there is not even a ration book between hunger and me. Irma left me the jar to lick clean. It is as clean as if it had been washed.

  Someone has been in my cellar while I have been away but not long enough to find my hiding place. It was in a part of the cellar no-one could use any more. I made it look like another pile of rubble and put a bit of broken lavatory near it so that they would think it was a shit-pit nearby. Even the bit of broken lavatory was still there and my guest used it. He also lit the boiler and boiled it dry. It still boils water but there is a leak. I catch the water and put it in again. We managed to have a real homecoming feast before Irma left. I traded half a pot of my jam for a loaf of bread. We ate more bread for one meal than we ate in a week in that place, topped with the taste of Ireland that spilled from my tongue – a surprise of purple hills, green fields and the kitchen dominated by the hungry black range, I nearly spoilt our sweet feast with salty te
ars when I thought of the generous hands of my mother. I even found a small screw of paper with some tea leaves I had saved from the same parcel – just enough to make some decent strength tea which we watered and watered again just for the pleasure of taking some more and keeping the taste of real tea in our mouths. Black of course, I doubt if I will ever drink tea with milk and sugar again.

  From under another pile of bricks, I found Delia’s china tea-set wrapped in newspaper and bound tight in a small box still untouched. A wedding present of Delia’s – waiting for her return. Whoever was here, he was not a black marketeer or he would have torn the place to bits looking for treasures to trade. Maybe someone travelling onwards? Probably someone with the permission of Herr Schmidt, who is still here and maybe it is thanks to him that I have a home of sorts.

  The tea-set brought back Delia, Dieter and the children. For the first time since I got out, I wondered how they fared. I also found two canteens of cutlery still intact and felt bad about opening one to use it. My blankets were damp and mouldy but they dried a bit in the sharp east wind and we were glad of their steamy heat for the three nights that Irma stayed. We huddled together out of habit and the need for warmth.

  I never thought memories of Ireland would be like heaven compared to this. I was foolish not to leave Berlin when Delia told me too. Now I have to learn to live or die with what is.

  Your friend, Biddy

  *

  24th May 1945

  Dear Mary,

  I am alone now most of the time. Not lonely. There when people were so close, I often felt lonely. Sometimes I don’t care if I never see anyone ever again – even Irma. I’m not even glad to be alive. But I don’t wish myself dead either – not any more. Sometimes I miss you and my life in Ireland. It helps to write to you so I will do it while I am waiting to see what happens next.

  I said I am alone but in fact Herr Schmidt comes to talk and bring me a bunch of soup vegetables from time to time. He whispers stories about the Russians and the black market. He looks at me strangely. I wonder always was it him who told about the dinner parties. Poor Delia probably never found out that it was one of her dinner party guests who caused my arrest. I don’t even remember what he looked like. I remembered his first name, Adam but they would not have believed me if I said I remembered nothing. I wonder if he is alive. When I am no longer hungry, I smile at the thought they took me for a member of the resistance against Hitler and maybe a communist! It is such a relief to be done with the ridiculous Heil Hitler salute. Sometimes I am tempted to do it to Herr Schmidt but I may need his help with my ration book if there are rations again. His warnings about Russians remind me to be careful of the fate worse than death.

  My beautiful Berlin has been turned into a wilderness where I must forage, forever watchful of the Russian bears. Maybe I should have gone with Irma after all. I switch from thinking of the next bite and concentrate on how to stop the cold eating my bones. Maybe I can bake griddle bread if I can find flour and enough fuel for a fire. I will have to use the black market myself if Herr Schmidt doesn’t help me. I have to find something to exchange for some flour and I have to find wood for cooking. My visitor burnt most of the broken bits of furniture. The days are warm and sticky now in Berlin. I cook on the fire at night when I find wood.

  I can’t stand cold anymore. Purgatory for me will always be the memory of cold even the March cold on the march when winter is long over in Ireland. My dreams swing between being frozen to death in the snow and being burnt alive in an oven. Once in the Lager, I got a seat near the stove. It was too hot there for me – nearly as bad as the cold. It dried the raw meat of my hands making the red under skin so stiff that I could hardly bend them. I dream of some cool air – not too hot, not too cold. At least in purgatory there is promise of heaven. Maybe hope of heaven will help me endure. I have no wish to go back to hell where you think there is nothing worse and then you are pushed beyond your worst imaginings.

  I dream of heaven still even if there is no God to take charge of it all. Heaven is a warm bed with clean white sheets after a meal of new potatoes, roast beef, gravy carrots and marrowfat peas soaked overnight and cooked until they are mushy – all eaten from a white tablecloth. Saving space for a warm apple tart and cream after. I will always remember the dishes I heard murmured from other bunks at night. Lessons in German specialities. I still have recipes in my head from Anna. One day I will cook them. I will start with her lentil soup. It should be possible to get hold of the ingredients and I won’t miss the sausage she insists should be added. There I go now – hope comes back in spite of myself. You’d think that it would drive you crazy to think of good things to eat when the hunger was so strong but it was the opposite. Sometimes the feast that we created was almost real – just as long as there was something working in your belly – even the vile turnip water they called soup. With the help of your imagination, you could feel strangely full. Will I ever eat a meal to match those eaten in imagination or taste again morsels as tasty as those shared with Anna or Irma? Who knows? I long now for Gurke, those pickled vegetables. I was so glad Delia hated them so much that they sat in the cellar and I could live on them in the weeks before they came for me.

  Not so long ago, I envied the woman who threw herself onto the electric fence. She wasn’t the first they said. I couldn’t help wondering if it counted as suicide. They say people who commit suicide shouldn’t be buried in consecrated ground at home – taking away your own life takes the power from God’s hands. Even if it were suicide, what sort of God would refuse that woman anything?

  Mary, if I send this letter, you must excuse my meanderings. It would help to hear how things are in Ireland.

  Your friend, Biddy.

  Aisling put down the sheaf of papers. It had become more of a diary and felt more intrusive than reading letters. She felt embarrassed and ashamed. She had told herself it wasn’t personal, it was history but it felt personal now. She lifted her sketch book. Making graphic images of everyday detail made the war more real. Would the cellar be a thread through the story from the green bomb of the Allies to the Russian bears? What about images of Germans?

  Matthias told her that he was fed up with people who seemed to think being German was something to be ashamed of. Even his father and mother blamed his grandparents for letting it happen. Finding other people to blame meant you could ignore the Nazi in yourself. Creating space for neo-Nazis in your own denial. Matthias was a bit of a drama-merchant but Aisling liked his style. She agreed. Why should you take responsibility for something just because it was your country? She had never felt responsible for the IRA or their bombs in her lifetime. It didn’t feel like it had anything to do with her. She didn’t understand it.

  Matthias was better company than Irish men of her age. She thought of him as her best friend. He wasn’t bitchy like her new friends or self-righteous like Maeve. Some people thought they were going out together but there was no sex with Matthias. Matthias was the only one she could tell about the things she’d done to Michael. When he came back she would break her promise to her mother and tell him about the abortion and about Maeve’s dad. She understood Brigitte wanting somebody she trusted to talk to.

  The secrecy of the affair was so sexy at first. The freedom of being grown up, of wanting sex. The joking with him on the stairs. She didn’t think he was really coming on to her. Horsing about a bit as they queued for the bathroom. At first it seemed like an accident when his hand went between her legs. She blushed and he knew. For days afterwards, an image of Gerry was enough to make her feel the wet wantonness in her knickers. Fuck me on the stairs please, please me. She denied all when Maeve teased her about being different. In love? Yes, Yes, Yes and No, No, No see-sawed internally with anticipation. She knew when he offered to give her a lift home there was a possibility.

  Talking music, he was surprised she liked traditional Irish music. He parked up to reach over to the glove compartment to get his phone out to play Iarla Ó’ Lionáird. Touc
hed her knees as if by accident. A bit ridiculous like a B movie but better not giggle like a schoolgirl. She reached for his hand and put it between her legs. She felt his little finger on her clitoris through the damp knickers and squirmed in pleasure. ‘We shouldn’t,’ he said taking his hand away. ‘No we shouldn’t,’ she said and reached over to kiss him knowing her skirt would slide up. ‘Delicious,’ he said and his hand slid down her back over her left buttock to her upper thigh. ‘You know how sexy you are, don’t you?’ he said. ‘But we really shouldn’t,’ and pulled back again.

  ‘You’re a bit of a tease,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t mean to tease you,’ he said.

  He said nothing.

  She said, so don’t. She took his right hand and put it between her thighs again. Just see it as a little gift to me. No strings. Nobody need know. She had planned her clothes in hope of this. Boots and over the knee socks. A skirt riding up her thighs when she sat in the car. Knickers which he could get his hand inside easily. The squirm was completely genuine. She wanted him. She helped him get her knickers off. So easy to come against his finger technique. Moments of being only there moving against his hand. Fresh new wave for fingers in the vagina and maintaining the clitoral climax. Moaning into it.

  ‘Wowee,’ she said when the wave subsided, ‘Thanks for the gift. Finger fucking good.’

  They laughed and she felt safe in the cocoon around them.

  She reached over and slid the zip down on his hard on, loosening his trousers down to get at his balls. She felt his hand then on her neck, gentle pressure down. Oh God, she’d never given a blow job before. What do you do with your teeth? Surprising soft-hardness in her mouth and it was working for him as she sucked. No way was she going to have spunk in her mouth though. Using both hands for pressure. Good luck rather than judgement she grinned to herself as he came all over her hands.

 

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