The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  Jurgen’s vodka stores were depleted. He was none too happy either. I ordered a sparkling mineral water and slumped back into my seat. Johno stopped playing as I sat down, but the reprieve didn’t last.

  “Lads, we’ve a bit of a treat for you,” he said, in that mellow, husky voice. “Haven’t we, Mia?”

  Mia lowered her head and said nothing.

  “We’ve been working on a tune,” he went on. “Hope ye like it.”

  He started to play; the chords were more delicate and gentle than before. Then Mia started to sing. At first, her voice was so low and hesitant that everyone had to lean forward to hear it. After a while, her voice picked up pace and volume. The song was a dirge about a rose that came in springtime; it activated my gag reflex.

  When the song ended, everyone cheered and whooped. Johno leaned over and kissed Mia’s cheek. Mia covered her face with her hands and giggled.

  “Fair play to you, Johno,” shouted one of the Greek Chorus.

  “I saw her first, though, remember.”

  They snorted with laughter; Mia and Johno joined in. As the applause died away, my gag reflex subsided and my mind became clear. It was just part of the act. Had to be. Though I was forced to concede this battle to Mia, the war was not yet won.

  I lay under the tree in the corner of Mrs O’Brien’s living room, breathing in the smell of pine. The branches were covered in lights, red balls and pieces of string that sparkled. The tree was always there at Christmas time. We didn’t have a tree like that at home. Matthew said it was because we were humanists.

  My belly was warm and full, but my legs were restless. I got up and went over to the boys, who were marching their toy soldiers up and down on the carpet.

  “Let’s play,” I said, tugging at their hands.

  “We’re playing soldiers,” they said.

  “That’s boring. I want to play something else.”

  We went into the boys’ bedroom and started jumping on my mattress, making it move up and down. Then the boys decided to launch themselves from the top bunk-bed onto the mattress. There was no space on the floor between them. The boys made pow-pow-pow noises as they landed.

  “We’re bombers,” they cried.

  After a while, I tired of watching them. I climbed up the ladder to the top bunk and hovered at the edge, curling my body up like they did.

  “You can’t,” the boys said. “It’s too far.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  I edged forward and let myself drop. My body flew through the air, very fast. The mattress rose up to meet me. I bounced onto it; my face rubbed against the blanket. Then the boys jumped onto it too, whooping as they went. The mattress rippled under their weight. I giggled. They started tickling me and I squealed with laughter. But then they stopped. When I sat up, Mrs O’Brien was standing at the door. I waited for her to give out about the messy beds. She didn’t like it when we played our jumping game. But she didn’t.

  “Astrid, you’re wanted on the phone,” she said.

  Only grown-ups used the telephone. Matthew didn’t like the telephone; he was always cross with it. Mrs O’Brien didn’t have a telephone, so we went to the cottage next door to use theirs. We didn’t have to walk far, because the next-door cottage was stuck to Mrs O’Brien’s. Their telephone sat on a table near the front door. It was black, like Matthew’s. The family that lived in the cottage stood in a circle around the telephone. The O’Brien boys joined them. Mrs O’Brien placed my hand on the receiver and put her own hand over mine. She helped me lift the receiver and pressed it against my face, adjusting it so that my lips rested against the bottom part. Then she took her hand away. The receiver felt heavy and cold, but my breath warmed the bottom part. I rested my face on it.

  “Say hello,” Mrs O’Brien whispered.

  “Hello,” I repeated.

  “Astrid?”

  A fist formed in my throat, squeezed it tight.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The voice sounded like Matthew’s, except that it cracked in a lot of places. The receiver began to slip away from me. I tried to hold onto it, but it clattered to the ground.

  “It’s all right, pet. I’ve got it,” Mrs O’Brien said.

  She put the receiver in my hand again. This time, I heard a bleeping noise.

  “Matthew?” I whispered.

  But this time there was no voice. Just the bleeping.

  “Not to worry,” said Mrs O’Brien. “He’ll ring again.”

  She took the receiver out of my hand and put it back on top of the telephone. The circle was still behind me; breath blew on my neck. Mrs O’Brien talked to the woman who owned the next door cottage in a low voice.

  “Go on outside and play,” she said. “There’s too many of us in here.”

  The boys moved towards the door with the next-door boys, who were their friends. I stayed where I was.

  “I’ll come and get you if he rings again,” said Mrs O’Brien. “Off you go, pet.”

  She gave me a gentle push on the back. I put on my coat and followed the boys outside. They ran up and down the street with a ball, which moved too fast for me to follow. I walked away from them and stood at the end of the street. They didn’t notice. In my head, Matthew was calling my name. In front of me, there was a bigger road; it was blue with white stripes in the middle. It was the road Matthew and I drove on when we went to Dublin. Matthew’s hospital was in Dublin. If I kept walking along the road, I could find him and explain what happened. My legs pushed me forward, onto the road. I was going on a quest. Viking warriors went on quests to find treasure. But I was going on a quest to find Matthew.

  I walked near the edge of the road, my head down. The road stretched on and on. There were no people on the road and no houses either, only bushes. As I walked, the sky grew darker, until it became black. I put my hands into the pockets of my coat to stop them getting cold, but the air crept under the coat, sending shivers through my body. My legs became heavy; they dragged along the ground. The ground pressed into my shoes, making my feet hot and sore. The heaviness spread through my body and I couldn’t make my legs go any further.

  As I came to a stop, the road became flooded with light. It stung my eyes, like the machines at the clinic. I squeezed them tight shut and covered them with my hand. There was a loud purring sound and warm air brushed against my legs. I thought it must be a cat, but it wasn’t. It was a car. My legs wobbled and I tumbled onto the wet grass. Leaves scratched the back of my neck. Cold water seeped through my dress.

  A dark shape appeared in front of me. It was a ghost. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. There’s no such thing as ghosts, I told myself. Matthew said only simpletons believed in such things. Hands picked me up, began brushing leaves and twigs from my clothes. I stretched out my arms, trying to push the ghost away, but my fingers brushed against wool and the ghost became a person, a man. Energy coursed through my body. I opened my eyes and stood up straight. The man squatted in front of me. Spots danced around his face.

  “I’m looking for my father, Matthew Johnson. Do you know where he is?”

  “You’re Astrid, aren’t you?”

  How did he know my name?

  “I’m Dr Murphy. Do you remember me?”

  I nodded. He was the person Matthew took me to see when I wasn’t well.

  “I need to find Matthew. Do you know where he is?”

  “Well, yes I do, but—”

  “Has he gone to Valhalla to live with my mother?”

  “Not that far.”

  Why was he laughing?

  “Then could you take me to see him?”

  Dr Murphy stopped laughing.

  “I’m afraid I can’t. It’s a very, very long way, even in a car. And much too far to walk.”

  “But I need to tell him so
mething.”

  Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. I had to carry on.

  “It’s late now. He’d be asleep by the time we got there.”

  His voice was gentle. I couldn’t stop shivering, my eyes were full of grit. Drops of water kept running out of my nose. I looked at the ground; my head was too heavy to lift.

  “You must be tired after walking all this way. Why don’t I bring you back to Mrs O’Brien’s?”

  He reached for my hand and led me to his car, where he wiped my nose with a tissue and covered me with a red blanket which scratched my face.

  Light beamed into my eyes; it was softer this time. I was in Mrs O’Brien’s living room. It was filled with people who were all talking at the same time; their voices were too loud. This time, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I was too tired to make a proper crying sound, so I made gulping noises instead.

  Dr Murphy brought me into Mrs O’Brien’s bedroom. He undressed me and put me into bed. I wanted to tell him this wasn’t where I slept, but I couldn’t speak. Mrs O’Brien came in with my pyjamas and a hot water bottle. The shivering slowed down. Mrs O’Brien put a cup in my hands, filled with milk. I didn’t like the milk, but I drank it because it warmed me up. While I drank, Mrs O’Brien rubbed my feet. Her hands were soft and they made my feet tingle. I kept gulping. Matthew wasn’t here. I couldn’t find him. Couldn’t tell him I was sorry for dropping the telephone.

  I let Mrs O’Brien wrap me in her arms. She murmured soft words in my ear and rocked me until the gulping noises stopped and my eyes closed.

  Vitriol & Vodka

  As soon as my preparations for skiing were finished, I cloistered myself with the militaristic beats of Kraftwerk. Mia’s tug on my sleeve was quite insistent that morning, but I still managed to ignore it. That night, we were embarking on an odyssey, venturing beyond the confines of the hotel to a restaurant in the village. This was it. Do or die.

  The sharp focus of my mind was reflected in my skiing. Martin often had occasion to say “That’s the way.” He came from the Matthew school of flattery, but from the tone of his voice, I knew it was high praise.

  The lifts were their usual hideous selves, this time because a wind buffeted them about.

  “Nasty beasts,” Martin said, “but they have to be done.”

  This time, Martin’s interrogation centred on my childhood in Wexford, my unorthodox education, my experiences at college. I no longer bothered to mount a defence against the barrage of questions.

  “Regular Poirot, aren’t you?” I said to him.

  “Well, I was in the force for 25 years.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Jazz laughed like that, but only when we were alone, in the DJ Shack or the studio. The rest of the time he produced his quiet, fit-for-society laugh, though at least he no longer stuffed his hands in his mouth. It was becoming harder to dislodge him from my mind.

  Martin was now giving me a potted autobiography.

  “Anyway, I got my silver jubilee, my pension, all that jazz,” he said. “And I sold off all me worldly goods to come out here and get paid to go skiing.”

  More laughter. It was fortunate that we were close to the top.

  “Pity this has to be our last run,” Martin said to me as I adjusted my shades. “Some of ‘em want to go shopping, so we’re going into Schmullingen. It’s the nearest big town.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  An irritating diversion, but at least it gave me more time to consider my plan of attack. And there was always the lure of bargain shades.

  Schmullingen was Mosenbach with more buildings. The bus took us to the outskirts of the town, where a shopping mall perched near a roundabout. As we stood in front of the shopping centre, a pair of trademark golden arches came into view. McDonalds rated low on my list, but I was never one to turn down an opportunity for chips. Besides, they had good coffee.

  “Happy days,” said the Greek Chorus as we went inside.

  “Do they have those sausage yokes in here? If they do, I’m ordering ‘em.”

  “Why, do they remind you of something?”

  I moved towards the counter, anxious to disengage myself, but the Cabbage Patch Kids were everywhere.

  “I don’t really eat McDonalds,” Mia was saying behind me.

  “Sure they’ve chips,” said Johno.

  I turned to face him, glad of a chance to soften the ground.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  Mia brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “It’s just, you never know if they’ve been cooked in animal fat. I hate being awkward.”

  Liar.

  “I’ll get you some water so,” said Johno. “That shouldn’t have any animal fat in it.”

  We all laughed. Johno was quite a wit, in his earthy way.

  “They’ve got a frankfurter meal here,” Martin said.

  “What a trip.” I grinned. “I’ll have to order that.”

  “Deadly,” said Johno.

  “I wish the menus were more disability-friendly,” Cliona said. “It’s not right to position them so far from the counter.”

  “It’s McDonald’s, Cliona,” I retorted. “Chips and burgers. Even you shouldn’t require an accessible menu for that.”

  Her tut was audible through the 900 bpm gabba house that pumped out of the speakers. My meal appeared on the counter. The fraulein hovered. I always took care to ensure my money was in my hand when I reached a cash register, but now I was caught unawares, distracted by white noise. Gold coins bulged under the leathery skin of my wallet. When I opened it, they merged into each other. I was forced to burrow through the mound of shrapnel.

  “I help you,” said the fraulein.

  “No way,” I muttered.

  I thrust a fistful of coins at her and moved away, ignoring her calls. There was a table near the window. Johno was sitting at it, with Mia in tow. She was proving quite an obstacle to my battle plan, but at least there was space at the table. I couldn’t afford to lose ground at this stage. The rest of the Cabbage Patch Kids arranged themselves at the tables beside ours. Martin came over to our table and sat opposite me.

  “Like the sound of them beats, Astrid?” he asked.

  “Central European delicacy, Complan mixed with speed.”

  Johno gurgled. Mia looked perplexed. Another small advance.

  “No, it’s like the shite they play at that club. What’s the name of it? Near Temple Bar. Cube or Triangle,” Johno said.

  “Prism?” I asked him.

  “That’s it. I was there once. That was enough.”

  “Pity,” I kept my voice light. “Regular haunt of mine.”

  “Might have guessed,” Johno muttered.

  I figured I must have misheard him. After all, the music was quite loud.

  I tucked into my meal. The Greek Chorus were asking each other what they were eating, even though they already knew. One of them was masticating with his mouth open. Gobbets of burger flew out of it. The other shoved his fingers in his mouth and sucked them. Even Johno allowed ketchup to drip down his chin without a care. Feeding time at the zoo.

  One day, we didn’t go to the classroom. The pink ladies told us we were going to the zoo instead. The other girls squealed. I didn’t say anything, but my insides burst with happiness. Maybe Matthew was there, waiting for me.

  But he wasn’t there. A zookeeper met us instead. It wasn’t any of the ones I knew from visits with Matthew. My insides flattened. The zookeeper took us to the places where the animals lived and described them all. I didn’t listen to him; Matthew’s voice blocked him out.

  Near the end of our visit, we went to the Pet’s Corner. Matthew and I never went there; we preferred more exotic creatures. These creatures were
covered in fur and almost all of them were asleep. They lived in cages, or in small pens where they could run around. The zookeeper opened one of the cages and lifted a white ball into his hands. He told us it was a mouse.

  “Anyone like to hold this little fella?” he asked.

  The other girls squealed and clutched each other.

  “I will,” I said.

  “Aren’t you a brave girl?” one of the pink ladies said.

  The other girls’ sounds of disgust came from far away as the zookeeper lowered the mouse into my cupped hands. Its hair felt soft; it was the same colour as mine. When the zookeeper took it away, I kept my hands together, even though they were empty.

  After that, our visit was over. We climbed onto the bus and I pressed my face against the window. The glass was cool. I was in a cage too, except that mine was pink because there was pink everywhere. There were other colours in the school, but pink was the only one I saw. I knew I was going to be in the pink cage forever.

  After lunch, we ventured into the main body of the mall. First, we went to a supermarket. I broke away from the others to purchase a bottle of water and a bottle of vodka, which were instrumental to my plan. Then we did a tour of various tat shops that blurred into each other. I eschewed the shades, which were of the cheap-and-nasty variety. The Cabbage Patch Kids spent a long time fondling the items; every purchase was of great import. The only items that piqued my interest were the baseball caps which hung on a rack. I spun it around and a few hats flew off. When I picked them up, I saw my name on one of them. None of that sort of merchandise ever featured my name. I tucked it under my arm. Then I took a lazy browse through the other hats and stumbled on a Matthau. Pretty close to Matthew, though the idea of Matthew in a baseball hat was so ludicrous I couldn’t help grinning. I gave the rack another savage spin and looked in the ‘G’’s. No Geoffrey. Didn’t know why I even looked.