by Amy Mason
Ida had used the money to buy her bunk beds from Martin’s mother. She’d lugged them, strut by strut, back to the house and spent two days putting them together. She still wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t going to collapse. Not that they were really dangerous – they were so small compared to her that she was able to put one foot flat on the floor while she lay on the top.
For a while Ida sat in the uncomfortable torn-leather armchair rereading Jane Eyre, or trying to, while Bridie changed the rules as she saw fit and Alice didn’t notice and asked seemingly endless questions. Eventually it was too annoying and Ida went up to her room.
There were things she needed to think about anyway.
The problem with Bridie though, was that you couldn’t just ask. She made things up wildly although she swore she didn’t, and was especially likely to if you showed you were interested. If you could get her when she was just drunk enough, three bottles of wine and no spirits, you could sometimes get at what seemed like the truth.
Ida lay on her unmade bed. Her side-lamp was the only light in the room, casting a weak circle onto the flaking ceiling. The sheet had rolled up and an escaped mattress spring scratched her leg. It was all just too uncomfortable.
She gave up, jumped onto the floor, pulled the duvet onto the carpet and lay down there instead. Stretching out her arms she came across fag ends, bits of old sandwich and book after book. At her father and Terri’s flat you could eat your supper off the carpet if you chose to. She picked up a few fag ends, chose the longest and lit it with a stray match that lay under the bed – smoking always helped her to think.
Maybe it didn’t matter why’d they’d gone to the pier, it was bound to be disappointing anyway.
Ida finished her cigarette, got to her feet and climbed onto the small pine chair that stood by her desk. She had the evening off the pub and would use it to drink and smoke and write. Her fingers were tingling and she needed to do something productive. She reached up to the ceiling tile and pulled out her Magical Days Book. She could start by describing their day, or at least the little she could make of it.
Chapter twenty-two
~ 1999 ~
If she was going to look through her mother’s things, properly and without distraction, she needed to do it alone.
Alice wittered on but Ida wouldn’t be swayed and shut herself in their mother’s bedroom, carrying up all the drawers from the dressing table in the study too. Alice was suspicious, Ida knew, worried she was looking for money or anything she could sell, and brought her cup of tea after cup of tea until Ida, frustrated, put an empty drawer up under the door handle, telling Alice that she should go downstairs and put her feet up. Ida could hear the shrill pitch of her sister’s voice as she spoke to Tom in the kitchen. She was obviously annoyed but seemed to have decided this wasn’t an argument worth having.
Ida was almost enjoying herself, surrounded by piles of clutter, the radio on, and a mug of strong tea still warm next to her. She was surprised to realise that perhaps it was the fear she would cry that had previously made her unwilling to sort through her mother’s possessions. Fuck it, she thought. If she couldn’t cry on her own then she was even madder than she’d thought. And she was pretty sure that there was nothing among these theatre programmes, faded photos and old lipsticks that could bring her to tears.
Ida began with the drawers under the bed. There were pink floral sheets in there, gnawed by mice or moths, and Ida removed them, remembering hating them when she was a child. If they hadn’t been in such bad nick she would have almost liked them now, at least the fabric for a dress or a shirt. At the back of the drawers were empty bottles, receipts, tissues, and not much else. If there were any notes of her mother’s, any interesting things, she didn’t keep them there.
She pulled the drawers out and felt the space, shuddering as she found the skeleton of a long dead mouse. Steeling herself she replaced her hand and pulled out what felt like a magazine. She brushed off the dust with her palm and saw it was a catalogue, a Bonhams catalogue – British and Irish Art Sale, 1989. Inside was a folded letter and she opened it at the place it marked. On the page was a painting of her mother, the one they’d had when she was young. It had been a long time since she’d seen it and Ida ran her fingers over the shape of her ma, remembering the feel of the layers of paint and how she’d been both fascinated and embarrassed by the naked breasts. There was a caption underneath the image:
An important painting by Jacob Collins, ‘Untitled’ is one of the highlights of the 20th Century British and Irish art sale, taking place on the 16th November at Bonhams New Bond Street.
Ida opened the letter. It was immaculately typewritten on heavy cream paper, the Bonhams logo raised at the top of the page.
2nd December 1989
Dear Ms Adair
I am writing regarding the recent sale of your painting ‘Untitled’ by Jacob Collins.
As you are aware, the painting sold for £14,000 to a telephone bidder. Please find a statement attached, detailing our commission and charges, and a cheque enclosed.
The buyer, Mrs A. Simpson, requested that I pass on her telephone number, it is 01 552 439.
Many thanks for doing business with Bonhams.
Yours sincerely,
Joseph Hodder
Specialist – Contemporary British and Irish Art
£14,000. That should have been her bloody cash. She supposed her mother would have lived on it for a year or two, spending it on drink. Ida liked to think that if she’d had the money she would have bought a house or something sensible, but the truth was she may well have done the same. If she couldn’t be trusted with fifty quid, what would she do with an amount like that?
Poor old Mrs A Simpson, whatever she’d wanted. She must have been very disappointed to discover that Bridie almost never spoke on the phone.
She felt the carpet behind the other drawer and pulled out a postcard from Peter, ‘The Girl with the Pearl Earring’. On the back was his beautiful, looping handwriting – Ida had forgotten his writing – and a message:
Bet she dropped the other pearl down the lav or swapped it for a G and T.
P x
Her mother had been renowned for losing things, though Ida could hardly imagine how, as Bridie never went anywhere. Ida wondered where all the things were, all those lost earrings and socks, and imagined for a moment that they were under the carpet she was sitting on, filling the gaps under the floor boards and the spaces behind the wallpaper – holding the house up.
She put the sheets and the catalogue back and slid them under the bed. She would leave the mouse there – no need to disturb him. She wiped her dusty hands on her trousers crawled over to the things she’d bought up from her mother’s desk.
She would try not to be distracted by all the rubbish, just throw stuff away, and if she did happen to find anything interesting then there would be no need to share it with her sister. Alice had already had first dibs on most things after all.
There was the sound of a man’s feet on the landing.
“What you doing in there? Wanking? Or are you dead? Shit, probably shouldn’t make jokes.” It was Elliot.
Ida opened the door.
Elliot stood there, his hair messy, his face flushed from walking, the collar of his coat up by his cheeks. He looked sweet and eager and so happy to see her. Ida kissed him on the mouth and he stepped into the room, taking off his coat and dropping it on the bed.
“I thought you were going to leave me with those fucking squares talking about fucking chickpeas or some bollocks,” he said in a loud whisper.
Ida laughed, closed the door, and put the drawer back. “You can stay here and talk to me while I look through things,” she said, sitting on the floor.
“Got you some contraband to cheer you up,” Elliot said, sitting on the bed and reaching inside his coat. He bought out a pack of Lambert a
nd Butler and two Peperamis.
“I thought you’d be cross with me after last night,” Ida said, and kissed his knee, breathing in his strong smell of tobacco and London air.
He lit a cigarette and Ida carried on making piles of the stuff on the floor. Every so often she would find a photograph and look at it for a second; hoping Elliot would express an interest in her as a child. She caught herself doing it and felt ashamed. No wonder he didn’t love her, he could see straight through her. She was an attention-seeking twat.
The theatre programmes were different, as were the photos of her mother’s friends; he was interested in them although he’d often take the piss.
“You could sell some of these for a few quid you know,” he said. “That’s what Tom was saying when we were out.”
“Really?” Ida was surprised. Tom didn’t seem the money-motivated type. “He did mention the original Ida script might be worth something. I don’t want to sell it though. I told him that.” She knew she sounded annoyed and carried on leafing through papers, but couldn’t concentrate. “God, he seems so right-on and responsible, but actually he’s a fame-hungry, money-grabbing…”
“I know. I told him you wouldn’t want to sell anything. Except the painting maybe.”
“Maybe.” Ida had boasted to him about the painting so many times she couldn’t bear to tell him it had already been sold.
“I’d love to see it,” he said.
She didn’t reply.
“Guess what,” he said, “this’ll cheer you up – I’ve got the best bloody gossip ever.” He climbed off the bed and sat opposite her on the floor.
“What?”
He put his hands on her arms forcing her to stop sorting through the papers and look at him. “They haven’t bloody done it.”
“What?” Ida laughed, not quite understanding.
“Shagged! They haven’t shagged! We went for a couple of pints over lunch and Tom let on. He says he supposes it’s because your mother was so ill.”
“Bloody hell,” Ida said, laughing.
“He wanted me to talk about you, in the sack, I could tell he did.”
Ida wasn’t sure that was true, Tom struck her as being far too nice for that. “And did you?” Ida was kind of hoping he had.
“No. Thought you might kill me if I did. Gave the impression you’re a goer though.”
She punched him on the shoulder, aware that she was blushing.
“You’re bright red, you slag!” Elliot said gleefully. “Lucky I came down or Tom would have had his wicked way with you.”
Ida sent Elliot down for food, crackers and cheese, and she could hear Alice’s voice as she tried to convince him they should both come downstairs. Ida knew she’d hate them missing supper, she was so fucking controlling.
He brought up the food and closed the door. From his pocket he took out his tin, picked out some pills and swallowed them without water. Ida didn’t ask what they were. He didn’t offer them to her and she knew it was his way of showing he was trying to be better, that although he needed something small to get by, this wasn’t a time for recreational use. There was weed in the tin though, Ida could smell it.
“Skin up, will you?” she said.
“You sure? I suppose we can do it out the window. Your sister can’t get too cross about that. Hand me something to roach it with though?”
She handed him a seventies copy of Vogue, the last item from her mother’s top drawer.
He lit the joint and walked towards the window, struggling to open the stiff metal catch. Ida stood up, and stamped on her right foot. Her legs had gone to sleep and it was agony. She took a moment, and then, realising she was cold, walked to her mother’s wardrobe and picked out a pale blue cashmere cardigan, felted from washing and full of holes. She tried it on and laughed. “It’s so tight. I feel like the Incredible Hulk.”
Elliot turned, holding out the joint. “You look sexy, like some fifties nympho.”
She reached for a puff and then handed it back. She didn’t need it really, she felt more relaxed about everything with Elliot there, like in some small way he could protect her from the worst of it, and she flicked through her mother’s jumpers with the tips of her fingers.
“She had some lovely stuff. Shame she couldn’t afford dry cleaning or mothballs. Well, she could have afforded them. The older I get, the less money I have, the more I realise she was pretty well off. Only not as well off as she thought she should be. And she liked the decrepit glamour of it all, Miss Havisham chic.”
The sliding door of the wardrobe stuck halfway and Ida nudged it with her elbow. Something was blocking it and she leant down. She pushed the bags and shoes away from the runner but still it wouldn’t work.
“Come here and take this, I’ll do it. You’ve always been crap with stuff like that,” Elliot said.
Ida knew he was right. She lacked patience and she’d end up breaking it. She stood up, walked to the window and took the joint, holding it out of the window as she turned to watch him struggling with the door.
“There’s something stuck,” he said.
He leant further into the cupboard, his arm bent awkwardly as he scrabbled at something with his fingernails.
“There,” he said, pushing the door, hard. In his hand was a big brown envelope, stuffed full. He opened it and began to flick through the contents.
“It’s crap, just bills and receipts but here… a certificate of baptism,” he said, pulling it out and holding it up as he tried to read the handwriting. “I thought you always said your grandpa was some fancy engineer?”
Ida reached down for the certificate. It was crumpled and brown at the edges but in pretty good condition, the slanted black fountain pen faded with age.
The Holy Sacrament of Baptism
St Michael’s R.C Church
This is to certify:
that: Brigid Catherine Adair
child of: Thomas James John-Paul Adair (TINKER)
and Brigid Theresa Catherine Adair formerly O’Donnell
born in: Tipperary
on: 2nd August 1937
baptized on: 20th September 1937
according to the rites of the Roman Catholic Church
by: Rev. Joseph Lehmann
the sponsors being:
Elizabeth O’Donnell
Fidelma Hogan
“Tinker. It does say tinker, doesn’t it?” Ida asked.
“It looks like it,” said Elliot.
“And place of birth. She always said London, but Tipperary? Is that a real place?”
“Ha. Your mother the gypsy – explains a lot about you.” He stuffed the envelope back in the cupboard.
“And look at her birthday. I always thought she was pretty old when she had me... for back then. But she was even older, thirty-two. She’d been married to Da for years. She really put it off,” she said.
“Well she wasn’t the most maternal, was she?”
Ida sat on the floor next to him reading and re-reading the certificate in her hand.
“So she was my age, not twenty-five, when she wrote the play.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Irons,” said Elliot.
It felt like something she should show her sister alone, and Elliot gladly took Tom to the pub.
Alice didn’t take the hint at first and tried to protest, but after a few pointed glances realised something was up.
“You can take my car,” she said to Tom. “Don’t get hammered and smash yourself up.”
“I’ll look after him, you have my word, we won’t get pissed,” Elliot said, winking.
“And don’t go far, maybe just to the Hogshead?” Alice shouted after them as they walked outside.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Tom shouted back. “I love you.”
Alice closed the door and
turned towards Ida. She looked sweet in a green spotty dress and cardie, like some sort of elf, and her un-brushed hair fell in waves round her face. “What is it then? What do you want to talk to me about? There is something isn’t there.”
Ida reached into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out the folded certificate. She handed it to her sister. Alice looked confused and as she unfolded it, her eyes glinting with suspicion.
“It’s nothing bad,” Ida said. “At least I don’t think so.”
“Let’s go into the light,” Alice said, peering at it.
They walked into the sitting room and Alice held it under the standard lamp.
Her brow was creased with concentration. She looked somehow too young to be so worried and under the light her gaunt face looked almost transparent.
“A tinker?” Alice said, looking up. She still looked confused and almost angry as though Ida was playing some kind of trick.
“Yep. Well that’s what it says. And have you seen the place of birth? She wasn’t born in London after all. She is – was – Irish. Properly Irish.” Ida walked behind Alice and looked at it over her shoulder, pointing out the place.
Unexpectedly Alice reached up and touched her hand. “I don’t know why we’re surprised; she always made stuff up. Well, made ‘stories better’ as she said.”
“I know. I get that. But it seems like this is one story she actually made more boring,” Ida said. “Shall we sit down?”
The revelation had been a leveller of sorts, which Ida was surprised about. Neither of them knew much more than the other so they couldn’t claim superiority and apart from a few minor snaps at each other, had remained relatively calm, drinking cups of tea while they tried to work it all out.
They supposed it made sense that she might have hidden her past, gypsies were far from popular even now, but it was hard to see their mother as someone who would have been ashamed – shamelessness had always been one of her dominant traits.
