He slammed the front door and stood for a moment. Then he walked across the street, his teeth clenched together, and flapped the letter-box. This time the door was opened by a man he didn’t know. Dermot cleared his throat.
‘I’d like to see Bobby,’ he said. The man looked at him.
‘Bobby’s dead.’
‘I know.’
The man stepped back then led the way into the hallway. The farmers were now standing at the foot of the stairs. The one with the porous nose was sitting on the bottom step swirling whiskey in his glass.
‘Ah – it’s the boy again,’ he said. The man led the way up the stairs. Dermot excused himself and tried to slip past the sitting farmer. He felt a hand grab his ankle and he nearly fell. The grip was tight and painful. The farmer laughed.
‘I’m only pulling your leg,’ he said. Then he let go. It was like being released from a manacle. Somebody shouted out from the kitchen.
‘A bit of order out there.’
In the bedroom the coffin was laid on the bed, creating its own depression in the white candlewick coverlet. The man stood back with his hands not joined but one holding the other by the wrist. Dermot tried to think of the best thing to do. In a Catholic house he would have knelt, blessed himself and pretended to say a prayer. He could have hidden behind his joined hands. Now he just stared – conscious of the stranger’s eyes on the back of his neck. The dead man’s face was the colour of a mushroom, his nostrils wide black triangles of different sizes. Fuck the Pope and No Surrender. Dermot held his wrist with his other hand and bowed his head. Below the rim of the coffin there was white scalloped paper like inside an expensive box of biscuits. The paper hid almost everything except Bobby’s dead face. Instead of candles the room was full of flowers. The only light came through the drawn paper blinds.
From downstairs came the rattle of the letter-box and the man murmured something and went out. Left alone Dermot inched nearer the coffin. His father was the only dead person he had ever seen. He pulled the scalloped paper back and looked beneath it. Bobby was wearing a dark suit, a white shirt and tie. Where his lapels should have been was his Orange sash – the whole regalia. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Dermot looked up and saw a reflection of himself prying in the dressing-table mirror. He let the scalloped paper drop back into place. Footsteps approached on the stairs.
Two oldish women were shown in by the stranger. One was Mavis Stewart, the other one worked in the papershop. Mavis looked at the corpse and her lower lip trembled and she began to weep. The women stood between Dermot and the door. Tears ran down the woman’s face and she snuffled wetly. The woman from the papershop held onto her and Mavis nuzzled into her shoulder. She kept repeating, ‘Bobby, Bobby – who’ll make us laugh now?’ Dermot edged his way around the bed and stood waiting. The women took no notice. Mavis began to dry her tears with a lavender tissue.
‘I never met a man like him for dancing. He would have danced the legs off you. And he got worse when the rock and roll came in.’ Dermot coughed, hoping they would move and let him pass.
‘And the twist,’ said the woman from the papershop. ‘I think that boy wants out.’
Mavis Stewart said,
‘Sorry love,’ and squeezed close to the bed to let him pass. Dermot nodded to the stranger beside the wardrobe.
‘I’m off.’
‘I’ll show you out.’ The stranger went downstairs with him and went to open the front door. Dermot hesitated.
‘Maybe I’d better say hello to Mrs Blair. Let her see I’ve been up. Seeing Bobby.’
He knocked on the living-room door.
‘Yes? Come on in.’
He opened it. Mrs Blair was still sitting by the fire. She was surrounded by the three farmers. Dermot said,
‘I was just up seeing Mr Blair.’
‘Very good, son. That was nice of you.’ Then her face crumpled and she began to cry. The farmer with the porous nose put a hand on her arm and patted it. Dermot was going to wave but checked his arm in time. He backed into the hallway just as young Cecil appeared out of the kitchen. It was young Cecil who showed Dermot out.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘Again.’
IN BED
THE BUZZER SOUNDED long and hard – a rasp which startled her even though she knew to expect it – maybe because she knew to expect it. She splayed her book on the carpet so as not to lose her place and went across the hall to her daughter’s bedroom – moving quickly because the long buzz created a sense of urgency. The girl was crouched on the bed, her face turned towards the door in panic.
‘Mum, another one,’ she said and pointed to her hand pressed down hard on the pillow.
‘Take it easy. Relax.’ Her mother hurried out of the bedroom and came back with an empty pint glass from the kitchen.
‘How can I relax with a thing like that in bed? It might breed, might be laying eggs.’
‘Wait.’
‘Dad uses a bar of soap. Don’t let it get away.’ The girl’s face was anxious and much whiter than usual. She was wearing pyjama bottoms and a football shirt of red and white hoops. ‘I hate them – I hate them.’ Her voice was shaking. Her mother approached the pillow with the pint glass inverted.
‘Easy now – lift your hand.’
The girl plucked her hand away. The black speck vanished – it was there, then, suddenly, it wasn’t – before the glass could be slammed down. The girl screamed.
‘It’s jumped.’
‘Blast.’
The girl held her hair back from her face, peering down at the surface of the sheet.
‘It’s gone – it’s got away.’
‘Aw no . . .’
‘Oh I hate them, I really hate them.’ The girl’s voice was on the edge of tears. She was shuddering. ‘They make me feel so . . . dirty.’ Her mother bent over and stared closely at the surface of the white sheet, pulling it towards her a little to flatten a wrinkle.
‘Don’t move,’ she whispered. The girl gave a little gasp.
‘Where? Where is it?’
Her mother raised the glass and quickly pressed it down onto the sheet.
‘Gotcha.’
The girl bent over and looked inside. She pulled up her lip in distaste when she saw the black speck.
‘Eucchh.’ It jumped again and she squealed even though it was inside the glass. ‘I’m never going to let that cat in here again. I hate it.’
‘Take over,’ said her mother. ‘Press it down tight. Don’t let it out.’
She went out of the bedroom and her daughter heard her filling a basin with water. She pressed the glass down until her arm ached. The rim of the glass dug into the sheet and made the centre swell like a pin-cushion. The flea disappeared.
‘Oh no. Mum!’ She put her face down close. The black speck reappeared. Her mother came back, forced to take short steps with the weight in the plastic basin. Some of the water slopped over the sides and formed droplets on the carpet.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let me at it.’ She set the basin on the floor and looked around. She took a Get Well card from the mantelpiece and turned it over to the plain white side. Her daughter let go of the glass and the mother began to slide the card beneath it while still pressing down.
‘Don’t let it get away,’ said the girl. She was holding her hair back with a hand on either side of her face. The black speck was flinging itself into the roof of the pint glass.
‘Easy does it.’ Her mother completed sliding the card all the way across. She picked the whole lot up and showed it to the girl. The trapped speck did not move.
‘They’re so thin,’ said the daughter. ‘One-dimensional.’
‘Two-dimensional – that’s so’s they can move through the animal’s fur.’ Her mother squatted down beside the basin and held the glass over the water. ‘I feel like a priestess or a magician or something. A new rite. Releasing the flea. Dahdah.’ She lowered the card partially into the water then withdrew it, leaving the flea floating. They bo
th peered closely at it.
‘Look at the legs – the length of them,’ said the girl, leaning over the side of her bed. Her mother nodded.
‘That’s why they can jump over the Eiffel Tower.’
The flea was in a panic, cycling round the surface of the water, travelling backwards. The girl flopped back on her pillows, panting.
‘Oh God,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘That’s really exhausted me.’
‘Rest for a while.’ The girl nodded. She was very white now.
‘You’ve ruined my card,’ she said. ‘It looks all weepy.’ The water had made the ink run. Her mother patted it dry against the carpet.
‘It’s an old one,’ she said.
‘I like to keep them all. Let me see it.’ Her mother turned over the face of the card and handed it to her. It was a picture of a person in bed covered from head to foot in bandages. ‘Oh, that’s really ancient – two years ago, at least. From Johnny.’ All the volume had drained out of her voice.
Her mother was bent over still staring at the flea.
‘It’s not floating,’ she said. ‘Surface tension. It’s in a kind of dimple on the surface.’ She looked up at her daughter but the girl didn’t move. She just lay there with the card in her hand and her eyes closed. She could hear her breathing through her nose.
With her finger she sank the flea to the bottom of the basin and got up and tip-toed out.
About an hour later the buzzer rasped again and the mother went in.
‘Could I have my tea now?’
‘Anything to eat?’
‘One bit of toast – no marmalade.’
When the supper was made she carried in the tray and set it on the chest of drawers. She pulled her daughter up into a sitting position, and propped her large sitting-up pillow behind her, then put the tray across her knees.
‘Do you want me to stay?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Whatever you like.’ The wind rattled the windows and rain scudded against the panes. Her mother sat down on a bedside chair.
‘It’s a terrible night.’
The girl nodded and sipped her tea. The draught made her mobile rotate. A year ago, when she’d rallied slightly, she’d lain on her side in the darkened room and, with a little help from her father, had made a papier-mâché model of the sun. She was pleased with it. Then she made the earth and moon in the months that followed. When they were all finished she said, ‘And on the seventh month she rested.’ Now the heavenly bodies hung from the ceiling on threads above her bed. ‘Give me something to stare at,’ she’d said. ‘Like a baby in her pram.’ The earth was realistic, with blue oceans and brown-coloured land, but the sun and moon had faces. The yellow sun had spikes radiating from it and half the grey moon’s face was covered in black shadow.
‘How’s our friend getting along?’ said her mother. She looked towards the basin still on the floor.
‘How does anything travel like that? It just hurls itself anywhere. Doesn’t know if it’s going to land in the fire – or my tea or anywhere.’
‘A leap in the dark,’ said her mother and smiled.
‘What a life.’ She bit at the edge of her piece of toast. ‘Well, it’s over now.’
‘So . . .’ Her mother leaned back in the chair and joined her hands behind her head. From the quiet tone of voice the girl knew immediately what was going to be said.
‘This has been a better . . . It’s been a less bad month.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
The girl chewed her toast – then leaned forward to take a sip of the tea. She always drank it hot with very little milk in it.
‘Compared to this time last year,’ said the mother.
The girl’s voice was on the edge of tears so the mother stopped talking. Her daughter rubbed her eyes, then stared straight in front of her, still chewing.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He took your wee sister to the pictures. Just to get out.’
‘What’s the film?’
‘Something in the Odeon. With Matt Dillon in it.’
‘He’s amazing.’
The sun swung almost imperceptibly from side to side. The earth turned slowly to face the moon.
‘Any time we got a flea at home,’ said her mother, ‘it was blamed on the picture house. I used to come up in lumps and Mum’d say, “When were you last at the pictures?” There was never any possibility that you could’ve picked it up in church.’
‘Or school.’ She lifted her tray off her knees and offered it to her mother. ‘I’m too tired. I’ll have to lie down.’ She toppled her sitting-up cushion onto the floor and keeled over flat on the bed. Her mother set the tray on the dressing-table and sat down on the chair again. She said,
‘Take it easy.’
After a moment the girl leaned over and looked at the basin on the floor.
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s still there. Don’t panic.’
‘Give me the backscratcher.’
Her mother handed it to her. It was a stick with a small fake hand at the end of it, the fingers curled up. The girl dipped it into the water and tried to squash the flea between the plastic knuckles and the bottom of the basin.
‘Love . . .’ Again the quiet tone.
‘Talking about it doesn’t change anything.’
‘It gives a purpose. Goals. Something to aim at.’
The girl had turned the plastic hand round and was now trying to cradle the flea in its palm. Every time she brought it to the surface the flea slipped sideways off into the water.
‘What’s the point?’ she said.
‘You’re sick. You’re twenty-one years of age. You’ve improved. Someday you’ll be better. We have to prepare for that. Aim at it.’
‘Huh.’ She rolled her eyes away from her mother and looked up at the papier-mâché globes above her. ‘Improved.’ Her eyes filled with tears. Then she whipped the backscratcher down onto the surface of the water with a slap, splashing it over the carpet. She buried her face in her arm. She was half shouting words, half crying them – this is what talking about it does, she was trying to say. Her mother went to sit on the bed beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. The girl was shuddering and shouting into her hair and the crook of her arm and the tumbled sheets. Her words were wet and distorted.
‘I’m not, I’m not,’ said her mother. ‘Not for one minute am I blaming you. All I’m saying is that this time last year – no, two years ago – you couldn’t get to the bathroom on your own . . .’ The mother held tightly onto her daughter’s shoulder. It was sharp with thinness under the material of the football shirt. Eventually the girl stopped crying. Her mother went to the bathroom and damped a face-cloth with hot water and brought it to her.
‘Crying doesn’t help,’ said the girl. ‘Nothing helps.’ The cloth steamed as it was opened. Her mother massaged her daughter’s face. ‘What time will Dad be back?’
‘Ten? Half ten?’
The girl leaned out of bed, picked up the backscratcher again and began to stir the basin with it.
‘Maybe don’t tell him I was crying.’
‘Okay.’
She withdrew the plastic hand and this time the flea was stuck to the back of it. She brought it up close to her face to inspect it, curling up her lip as she did so. Suddenly it jumped.
‘It’s alive,’ she screamed.
‘I don’t believe it. It can’t be.’
‘It is.’
‘God Almighty.’
Both women squealed and laughed with the shock it had given them.
‘The flea jumped over the moon,’ said the girl and continued to laugh. She lay back on her pillows, her shoulders shaking, her hand over her mouth. Her mother smiled and straightened out the coverlet. She bent over, her eyes only inches above it, staring.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘– let’s take it from the very beginning.’ Her mother searched every visible inch of the coverlet but could see no
thing. ‘Don’t worry – we’ll find it before it finds you. It’s only a matter of time.’ She reached out and with a licked finger touched every speck.
‘No.’
Every black particle.
‘No.’
Any crumb.
‘Definitely not.’
The girl listened to her mother’s voice with closed eyes.
COMPENSATIONS
BEN, THE YOUNGER boy, was copying down the football scores into the sports-page as a voice on the wireless called them out. His brother, Tony, sat with his ear almost against the loudspeaker. The boys’ grandfather was reading the other pages of the paper. Ben felt he could guess the score from the high or low way the announcer said the team’s name. When the results were finished the boys’ grandmother spoke out from the kitchen.
‘Well, Ben?’
‘Where’s the coupon?’
‘It should be behind the clock.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Wait now.’ Grandma, drying her hands, came in and looked in the flap beneath the calendar. ‘Do you think we’ve won?’
‘No chance.’
‘You never know. Somebody has to win them.’
‘It’ll never be us. We never have any luck,’ said Tony and went upstairs.
She found the pools coupon beneath the bowl on the sideboard along with other bits of papers – printed prayers for a speedy recovery, novenas, the bread card – and handed it to Ben. The pools sheet was like the bread card – boxes of ruled blue lines.
She said,
‘Wouldn’t that be the quare surprise for them coming back?’
‘No chance.’
‘They could do with the money after paying for a jaunt like this.’
Ben looked at the grid of eight draws his grandfather had chosen and compared them to the actual results. The old man said it didn’t matter about the teams – he just plumped for the same eight draws every week. Football know-alls never won.
‘The first one’s wrong.’ He handed the results to Granda Coyle with a shrug and a shake of the head. The old man peered down at the sports-page through his glasses. He hadn’t shaved well and had missed sandy white hairs at the corners of his mouth. Ben put the coupon behind the clock and asked,
Collected Stories Page 46
