‘What have you got a puss on ye for?’ her father demanded irritably.
‘I haven’t,’ she said curtly.
‘And that reminds me, Miss, I’ve a few words to say to you.’
‘Whist now, Billy, and eat your dinner,’ Molly said tightly.
Her husband’s face grew red with fury. ‘Are ye telling me to whist in me own house?’ he roared.
‘Billy, Billy, the neighbours will hear you.’ Molly’s face was pinched and white.
‘Bad cess to the bloody neighbours. I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck for any of them,’ he shouted. ‘None of them are good enough to lick my boots. Do you hear me, you stupid bitch?’
‘Eat your dinner, Billy,’ Molly said wearily.
‘Eat me dinner! I don’t want me fuckin’ dinner now! Here’s what you can do with this heap of crap!’ he cursed, picking up his plate and hurling it at the wall. Claire and Molly stared in horror at the lumps of meat and gravy and veg sliding down the wall over the fireplace to mingle with the shattered pieces of one of Molly’s best china plates.
‘And you, you little tinker you.’ He turned and stabbed a finger in Claire’s face. ‘Don’t let me ever hear you back-cheeking any of my friends again. If Mickey Hayes wants a dance with you, you’ll bloody well give him one, or I’ll take me belt to you. God damn you with your bloody airs and graces. I’ve a good mind ta take you out of that convent. All they’re doing is fillin’ your head with notions. It’s out working you should be, and not sponging off me, you lazy little bitch.’ He gave Claire a shove out of his way, glared at his wife and grunted. ‘Call me at six, I’m going to bed. And fix me something decent for me tea!’ Lurching out of the room, he slammed the door behind him.
Claire met her mother’s eyes. ‘Go out for a while, child,’ Molly said weakly. ‘I’ll clean up this mess.’
‘No! I’m not leaving you!’ Claire whispered.
‘Go on with you now. He’ll sleep for the rest of the afternoon,’ her mother instructed firmly.
‘Will you come for a walk, then?’ Claire asked her.
Molly shook her head. ‘I’m tired, dear, I think I’ll have forty winks in my chair, and besides I’ve a bit of mending to do. Go on with you now, go down to Rosie’s!’
Heartsick, Claire let herself out of the cottage. Mounting her bike, she caught Mrs Daly across the road giving her a sympathetic smile. No doubt she had heard the whole episode. With tears of shock, hate and fury blurring her eyes, she cycled along the winding country road that led to Rosie’s house. So engrossed was she in her misery that she never noticed the enormous pothole ahead of her. Before she knew what was happening she was somersaulting over the handlebars of the bike. She hit the ground with a thump and knew no more.
‘Are you all right? Are you hurt? Wake up now!’ A man’s voice was coming at her from a distance. Groggily, she opened her eyes, and just as quickly closed them again as the sky spun crazily. ‘Oh dear,’ she heard the man mutter. She felt arms around her, and a handkerchief wiping something wet and sticky from her face. ‘Wake up like a good young woman!’ the voice said anxiously. Opening her eyes again, Claire saw the concerned face of Sean Moran, one of the village schoolmasters, peering down at her. Once again, dizziness assailed her, and she passed out.
Wednesday 23 December 1970
Claire hummed away to the air of ‘The Yellow Submarine’ as she swept up the mass of black curls at her feet. Boy, was she glad the salon was closed and the last customer finally permed and sent out a new woman. It had been really hectic the last few days but then tomorrow was Christmas Eve and it was only to be expected.
‘Turn down that racket, will you!’ Mrs Molloy, her employer, called to her. That racket! Didn’t Mrs Molloy realize that the Beatles were a group the likes of which the world might never see again. Their break-up had been a tragedy. Rosie and the girls in her old class had been devastated. Turning the dial on the radio a little lower, Claire swept on. Rosie and the girls would be on their holidays, of course. Not like her, up to her eyes. They all envied her her job and wages, but if the truth be known she would have preferred to stay at school and done her Leaving Certificate. Her mother had pleaded with her father to let her finish school but he was having none of it.
‘She can bloody well go out to work. Isn’t her Inter enough for her? It’s not as if she’ll have to work for long. When she finds some fool like me, she can go and get married and raise a family. What the hell will she be needing more schooling for?’ Billy Doyle wanted to know.
‘But Billy, she could go to university! She’s very intelligent. Look how well she did in her exams,’ Molly protested. Claire had got seven honours in the Inter, all grade As.
‘University my hat!’ snorted Billy in derision. ‘Where she’ll get more airs and graces and fancy ideas. Anyway men don’t like blue-stocking women. Let her get to hell out to work and find a man for herself and stop living out of my pocket.’
‘But Bil—’
‘I don’t want to hear another word about it,’ roared Billy, giving his wife a shove as he headed off to the pub.
‘It’s all right, Mum! Honestly! Don’t be upsetting yourself. Please!’ pleaded Claire as she put her arms about her softly crying mother.
‘If only I had a bit of money of my own,’ Molly wept. ‘I’d send you to school and university. I’d make sure you didn’t end up like me.’
‘Ah Mum!’ Claire was crying now. Tears of anger and frustration for her mother whose life was governed by the whims of her drunkard husband. If only she had money she’d take her mother away from Knockross, and away from that bastard who called himself her father.
That had been just over a year ago, and Claire had started the new decade as an apprentice hairdresser with Mrs Molloy in Waterford. Really a lot had happened to her in the last year. She’d grown up. She had taken her mother to Dublin for the day and they’d had a great time. And she had started dating! Two men had kissed her in 1970! – Jim Reid and Sean Moran, who was taking her to the pictures tonight. A dart of sadness struck her as she thought of Jim.
She had met him at a dance to celebrate the New Year and it was the best evening of her life. At first she thought she wouldn’t be able to go. Her father had arrived home polluted and forbidden her to go to the dance. ‘Stay at home and help your mother!’ he ordered before falling in a heap on the kitchen floor. Together, Molly and she had dragged him into the bedroom and managed to get him on to the bed. Molly had taken off his shoes and thrown a quilt over him. The fumes of whiskey were so strong from him that they almost gagged. He had gone on such a bender that Christmas, the worst he had ever been on, and both of them had bruises to prove it.
It had been a nightmare as usual and Claire had been tempted more than once to take a knife and stab the life out of him as he lay in a drunken stupor. She had confessed this temptation in confession once and Father O’Toole had looked at her as if she were insane, and told her that she was in a grave state of mortal sin for harbouring such murderous thoughts. From then on, she kept her murderous thoughts to herself. In fact, if it wasn’t for her mother she would only go to confession once a year as was required for her religious duty. Rosie Lynch had given up going because Father O’Toole had told her that she was leading her boyfriend Finbarr into temptation and that she was ‘an occasion of sin’ for Finbarr.
‘What about Finbarr leading me into temptation?’ Rosie exploded indignantly after confession. Rosie and Claire and some of the other girls had gone down the Rock Road for a sneaky fag in the ten-acre field. ‘That old sourpuss anyway,’ she referred irreverently to the crotchety parish priest. ‘If a woman came near him he’d die of fright! Well, I’m not going to confession again to give him his thrills! Anyway, if I told him the whole truth he’d denounce me from the altar!’
The rest of them were agog.
‘Did you do it?’ Mary Morrissey exclaimed.
Rosie nodded proudly. ‘Last night in the back of his mate’s car.’
&nb
sp; ‘The whole way?’ Sheila Conway stuttered, aghast.
‘The whole way!’ Rosie assured them.
‘What was it like?’ they all chorused excitedly, marvelling at her fearlessness.
‘Oh it was wonderful!’ Rosie couldn’t resist boasting. After all, she was the first of the set to become ‘a woman’. ‘Well it hurt a bit at first and it was a bit messy, but the second time was better,’ she amended honestly.
‘The second time!’ the girls shrieked in admiration. ‘Gosh!’ said Claire, a bit taken aback. They had discussed ‘how far to go’ and ‘going the whole way’ but none of them had ever taken the irreversible step. In fact in Sheila’s and Claire’s case the question was academic as neither of them had a boyfriend.
‘Were you protected?’ Mary Donnelly, the practical one, enquired.
‘Well . . . not really,’ Rosie admitted. ‘But I worked it out. I don’t think it’s my fertile time.’
‘You’re mad!’ expostulated Sheila. ‘What about all those hundreds of thousands of sperm. They swim all over the place and they can live for ages, you know!’
‘I know . . . I know . . . ’ Rosie was a little irritated. ‘Don’t take all the good out of it, Sheila! The next time we’re going to use French letters. Finbarr’s friend is going to get some for him.’
Claire thought Rosie was exceedingly brave. Even with a French letter, she wouldn’t go the whole way, if she was ever lucky enough to be in that position. She’d be petrified of all those sperm. Knowing her luck, one of them would be sure to escape. The thought of her mother’s reaction would be enough of a deterrent for Claire. The shame of her daughter’s unmarried pregnancy would wound Molly, far more than her husband’s drunkenness ever could.
‘Would you say he still respects you?’ Sheila ventured timidly. She had no experience whatsoever of boys.
‘Don’t be daft, Sheila! This is 1969, not 1769. I’m a swinging Sixties girl, heading for the Seventies! Women are equal to men. Ask me if I respect him?’
The girls gazed at her in awe, Rosie was truly superb! A liberated woman. They longed to emulate her.
It was Rosie who had introduced Jim to Claire at the New Year’s Dance. Molly had urged her daughter to go. ‘Don’t mind your father. He’s asleep for the night and he won’t know if you’re here or on the moon! Go now and wear that lovely dress you bought in Dublin!’
Claire hadn’t been very enthusiastic. Her Da had taken all the good out of it as usual. But as she cycled over to Rosie’s with the precious dress in her carrier basket, she began to feel excited. Rosie had invited them all over to her house to get ready and have a cup of tea before they went. Mrs Lynch opened the door to her knock. She was a warm motherly woman, always laughing, and Claire really liked her. ‘Come in Claire, pet. We thought you weren’t coming!’ Martha Lynch exclaimed, drawing her in out of the cold. Rosie’s house was decorated with lights and balloons and decorations. There were always people in at Rosie’s – her brothers and their friends and the neighbours. It was open house at the Lynch’s and Claire envied her friend so badly. She rarely had friends in, afraid her father would arrive in drunk and mortify her and her mother. She wouldn’t have a bit of peace with him.
‘I was a bit delayed,’ she explained.
‘Well run upstairs now and change with the rest of them and come down for a bite of supper before you go,’ Mrs Lynch instructed. The sound of girlish giggles greeted her as she sped up to Rosie’s room. The scent of perfume, make-up and cigarette smoke enveloped her as she opened the door.
‘Claire! come on, where were you?’ exclaimed Rosie, pulling her into the room.
‘Delayed a bit.’ Claire smiled at the sight of Rosie, hair in rollers, white face-mask covering her features so that all that could be seen were two gleaming eyes.
‘Your dad again?’ she enquired sympathetically. Claire nodded.
‘Ah, come on! Forget about him for tonight. We’re going to have a ball! Aren’t we, girls?’
‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’ giggled Mary and Sheila. ‘Tonight’s the night!’
‘Let’s see your dress,’ Rosie urged Claire. ‘I’d love to be left school and earning my own money. Come on, we’re all waiting for you to blow-dry our hair.’
Claire laughed as she unwrapped the dress. Since she had started working in the hairdresser’s, the girls, even Rosie, really looked up to her, and she was always in demand for blow-drying.
‘Oh Claire! It’s fab!’ cried Sheila, using her favourite expression of the moment.
‘Gorgeous!’ agreed Mary.
Claire waited expectantly for Rosie’s comment.
‘Sexy!’ her friend grinned. Claire grinned back. It was a gorgeous dress, a mini in a lovely shade of blue, with a daring sweetheart neckline. Her mother had been a bit dubious about it when she had bought it in Penney’s in Dublin, but seeing that her daughter really liked it, and seeing that it was her own hard-earned money, she hadn’t protested too much. It was the most glamorous dress that Claire had ever owned and it made her feel so sophisticated.
The girls dressed and put on their make-up with lots of giggling and teasing, smoking a shared cigarette and feeling as if they really were sophisticated women of the world. Knockross had never seen anything like them before. At around nine-thirty, they all trooped downstairs to a tasty supper prepared for them by Mrs Lynch, then they all crowded into Mr Lynch’s car. Rosie, her two brothers and the girls drove the half-mile or so to the hall in the village where the dance was being held. Now that she was wearing the mini Claire was beginning to have doubts. It was so short! She hoped to God that Mickey Hayes would not be there.
But there he was, leaning against the door with his pipe clenched between his teeth, his wellingtons polished specially for the occasion. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw Claire, but she ignored him, and Rosie, glaring at him, whispered, ‘Don’t worry! If he takes one step in your direction, he’ll have me to deal with!’
‘What will you do?’ Claire whispered back.
‘I’ll kick him in the goolies!’ Rosie growled. Claire soon forgot him as she and her friends, intent on having a good time, stepped out on to the floor and started to dance to the sound of Big Bob and the Bad Boys, the band for the night. All around the walls and the doors, the men watched, lowering their pints, fuelling their courage to ask for a dance. Old Paudi Leary, a crony of Mickey Hayes, came ambling over to Rosie, as the girls watched giggling.
‘Would ye care to step out?’ The pong of him nearly finished Rosie, who couldn’t help wrinkling her nose.
‘No thank you!’ she said, cool but polite.
‘Huh,’ muttered the pongy one. ‘I suppose a ride’s out of the question then?’
Astounded, the girls gaped at the drunken old bachelor. Then Rosie said furiously, ‘The only ride you’ll get, Paudi Leary, will be in a hearse from Flanagan’s Funeral Parlour, if you don’t get away from us this minute!’ As he shuffled back towards the door, supping his pint, the girls let out a guffaw.
‘You won’t get a better offer tonight, Rosie!’ Sheila spluttered.
‘Shut up, you!’ Rosie grinned, her good humour reasserting itself. They resumed their dancing and a little later, when the slow sets were on, made their way to the bar to try and get a drink. Rosie, sophisticated to the hilt, ordered a vodka. Sheila, a little less brave, daringly ordered a shandy while Claire and Mary, both hating alcohol because of alcoholic parents, stuck to lemonade. Rosie’s brothers and their friends came to join them and then Rosie was introducing Jim Reid to Claire and she found herself staring into a pair of hazel eyes that were smiling into hers.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Jim was asking politely.
Claire, eyeing her empty glass, supposed he would think her an awful fool if she asked for a lemonade at her age so she said just as politely, ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’
‘Ah come on, just one. What are you having? What’s in your glass?’
‘Coke,’ she answered shyly.
> ‘One Coke coming up,’ he said cheerfully. Rosie winked at Claire behind his back and Mary and Sheila positively drooled. Claire’s hands started to sweat, ruining her carefully cultivated woman-of-the-world image. She was disgusted with herself. He was nice, though. A little bit taller than her, with a head of gorgeous black hair that any girl would envy. He had a nice smiling face and he seemed very polite. It took him a while to get through the crush and by that time both Sheila and Mary were being chatted up and Finbarr, Rosie’s boyfriend, had arrived.
‘Here you are.’ Jim handed her the ice-cold Coke and she took a grateful sip.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, wishing she could say something scintillating and witty.
‘Good dance, isn’t it?’ he smiled.
‘Great,’ she agreed.
‘You left school, didn’t you?’ he enquired and she noticed that he too was drinking Coke. Maybe there was Bacardi or something in it, though.
‘Yeah, I did. I just started working as a hair-dresser in Waterford a couple of months back.’
‘Nice!’ He smiled at her.
Claire smiled back. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an apprentice electrician. So if ever you need a plug changed I’m your man.’
‘And if ever you need your hair cut I’m your woman,’ she laughed, feeling more at ease. He really was very easy to talk to and her hands had stopped sweating. The band started to play a slow set and then he was asking her to dance and they were out on the floor and Jim was holding her in his arms. It wasn’t the first time that she had danced with a man but Jim was different. He didn’t maul her or press her against him really tightly, he just held her gently, chatting away the whole time.
‘Don’t you drink?’ he said curiously.
‘No! My dad’s a drinker and it kind of put me off.’
‘Oh I see.’ Jim’s expression was kind. ‘My dad’s a drinker too, I don’t drink either.’
Apartment 3B Page 10
