The Hunger Within

by J. M. Hewitt

  Three plates for the three people seated at the table.

  It’s like I don’t exist, thought Rose as she slowly climbed back upstairs. It’s as though Bronwyn is Connor’s girlfriend and she’s come round for tea.

  Later, much later, Connor had come up to the room.

  “Bronwyn’s bought some cans,” he had said, his face flushed by the good time they were having downstairs without her. “Come and have a drink.”

  Rose had shaken her head.

  He had looked at her for a long moment. And then he had spoken those words that pierced through her heart.

  “You need to make an effort.”

  He had gone back down and Rose had waited patiently for Bronwyn to come up and see her. She would, wouldn’t she? After all, it was Rose that Bronwyn had come to visit, seeing as she barely knew Mary or Connor.

  But Bronwyn hadn’t come upstairs, and when Rose heard movement in the hallway she had gone to the window and peered out into the darkness. In the pale light of the street lamp, Rose saw it was Mary who was seeing Bronwyn out. They spoke for a minute, Mary seemed to be doing most of the talking, Bronwyn nodding her head, before they parted with a wave.

  Rose had crawled under her covers, shaking even though the room was warm. Mary had never spoken to Rose like that, in fact she barely spoke to her at all.

  This morning Rose had worked up the courage to mention that fact to Connor. He was getting ready for work, pulling on his thickest jumper.

  “I tell you, I’m warmer when I working outside doing the bricks, I swear they don’t believe in having the heating on in the office, tight bastards,” he was grumbling.

  “Did your mum get on okay with Bronwyn?” Rose asked, as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom. She wasn’t going to go in, she’d learned her lesson on that subject.

  “Yeah, they had a nice night, I think,” he said, reaching over to grab a second pair of socks to put on before twisting around to look at her. “Why?”

  “She doesn’t really talk to me, your mother, I mean.”

  He had seemed almost angry as he wadded the socks into a ball and threw them in the general direction of the chest of drawers.

  “Maybe she feels the same about you,” he said. “Why don’t you try talking to her?”

  He had left then, giving her upper arm a squeeze as he limped past her. She waited until she heard the front door close and leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t even kiss her goodbye, never before had they parted company with him simply pressing his hand to her arm.

  She heard the clock radio come to life in Mary’s bedroom and Rose hurried down the stairs. If Connor wanted her to make an effort she would.

  She gets the good teabags out of the cupboard, from behind the rows of cans where she knows Mary stashes them. There’s half a loaf left over from the day before, and an unopened jar of locally produced jam. She busies herself, waiting until she hears Mary go into the bathroom and once she can hear the immersion heater gurgling away in the upstairs airing cupboard, she starts to prepare breakfast for Mary.

  Ten minutes later there are footsteps on the stairs, and when Mary doesn’t come into the kitchen Rose opens the door.

  Mary is in the hallway, winding her scarf around her neck.

  “I... I made you a pot of tea,” Rose stutters. “And some toast.”

  Mary looks over at her. To Rose it seems she is about to speak, when she presses her lips firmly together and reaches for her coat. Without a single word, Mary pulls open the front door, retrieves her handbag from where it hangs on the banister, and walks stiffly outside.

  Rose gapes as the door closes behind Mary. She can smell the toast under the grill and she stalks back into the kitchen and pulls out the tray. The bread is charred and blackened and the handle is hot. She flings it into the sink with a cry and sits down at the table to examine her fingers.

  A silver mark has appeared between her thumb and forefinger and she knows it will blister later. She stares at the cuts on her palm from the smashed glass the other evening. With a sob caught in her throat she places her wrist against the teapot, not flinching, but relishing the heat even as her skin screams a message to her brain telling her to stop. As she holds her arm there, her sleeve rides up a little, showing the scratches that she made without consciously thinking the night before, with the letter opener.

  *

  Mary has nowhere to go, but she had heard Rose clattering mugs and plates in the kitchen and knew that the girl would be preparing food for her. She had hid in the bathroom for as long as was acceptable. It niggled at her though, the fact that she was hiding in her own home. She’s lived here for over two decades with Connor, just the two of them, and neither of them have ever hidden from each other. Her home has always been a sanctuary, a shelter away from the troubles outside, a place of occasional laughter and always love along with rest and relaxation.

  This isn’t the first time that she has seen Connor with a girl, of course it isn’t, he is in his twenties, after all. But before she could see them for what they were; an endless parade of short-skirted, big-breasted tarts - good for passing the time over a couple of weeks or a month. And she never begrudged him that, because he was a good looking, red-blooded man, and because he always returned to her, to his mother, the only woman that should ever really matter in a man’s life. Never has she let one stay in her home before though, and she can’t quite believe that Rose is ensconced in her house. It’s dangerous, the longer she stays here, the more chance there is of further attacks.

  But this Rose, there is something troubling about her. Mary has thought about it a lot since she learned of the girl’s existence on the night of the shooting. It’s the plainness of her, with all of the others their intentions and wishes were obvious, there for all to see in their straining bras and painted on their faces along with the slick of lipstick. Because there is nothing obvious in Rose’s exterior, Mary has come to the conclusion there must be something inside her, something very special that is hidden away, not to be noticed by just looking at her. Why else would Connor risk his life by seeing her, and expect his mother to put her up in their home?

  She can’t spend another day with her in the house, skirting around each other, giving side glances and living in awkward silences. When Connor goes to work Mary likes to listen to the radio and potter around the house, not hide in the bathroom, constantly on her guard.

  Mary had checked her reflection in the mirror before exiting the bathroom. She tried to walk quietly downstairs and in the hallway she snatched up her scarf. The kitchen door opened and Rose’s anxious face appeared, talking about tea and toast.

  Mary had been about to reply, to make an excuse that she had to be somewhere but she stopped herself. She needed to up her game, needed to make the girl feel as uncomfortable as possible, so without a word she had put on her coat and walked out of the front door without a backward glance.

  She doesn’t have anywhere to be, she has no friends to speak of that she can call on, and as the cold bites at her she is furious that Rose is left in the nice, warm home and it’s her, Mary, turfed out and tramping the streets of Newry.

  She starts walking, away from the park and towards the quay area. It only takes ten minutes and she finds herself alongside the church of Saint Mary. Outside the gates she grips onto the gold topped black railings and looks through into the graveyard. It’s not her church, hers is Saint Patrick’s, rumoured to be the first Protestant church built in Ireland. But though this one in front of her is Catholic, she prefers it to her own place of worship, because this is where Billy is. She doesn’t come here much, other people seem to find it a comfort to have a marker for their loved ones. Not Mary, she’s never seen it that way. Connor is her marker for the love she lost, not some slab of marble. But she’s here now, and she pushes open the gate and walks past the church, past the graves of the war dead until she stands over the burial site of Billy Dean, Connor’s father.

  There is no mention of their son on th
e headstone, nor the fact that Billy was a father. Of course there wouldn’t be, he didn’t know that she was pregnant when he died. Mary will never forget when she came to his funeral, staying at a respectable distance until all of the other mourners had melted away and she had finally gathered up enough courage to approach Billy’s parents. They were bereft in their grief, barely listening to her as she explained who she was, and what Billy had been to her. They had turned away, Billy’s father’s arm encasing his wife, and Mary had understood, it was all too much, she shouldn’t have done this on the day they buried their son. She left it another six weeks and this time went to their home. It turned out they had heard her words on the day of the funeral, but they shunned her, they chose to ignore her existence and the impending arrival of their only grandchild. She never went to them again and once, she had been in the town centre with Connor and she had seen the mother. Connor was two years old, toddling along, and Mary had seen Billy’s mother first. Instinct told Mary to pick up her son and walk in the other direction, but her heart told her not to. That had surprised her, since the death of Billy and the abandonment of his folk, she had thought her heart was dead but it appeared not. She held little Connor’s hand tight and with her head high she walk past Billy’s mother, fixing her with a stare that was so intense the older woman couldn’t fail to notice it, to feel it.

  Mary had offered her a look which she hoped conveyed everything she meant it to. Look at him, she thought, look at your grandson. See how much he looks like his father? See what you’re missing out on by ignoring this piece of your son?

  She hoped it had worked; she fervently sent a wish that the older Mrs Dean recognised her as the woman who had come begging at her door. She wondered if they ever knew that she had taken their son’s name. Probably, things didn’t stay secret around here.

  Now, over twenty years have passed and never again had she seen Billy’s parents. They would probably be dead now, and for that she is irrationally envious, jealous that they get to see Billy again before she does.

  And as she crouches in front of Billy’s headstone she wonders what would happen if events repeated themselves, and Rose was having a baby. It would be an absolute disaster, and she must not let it get that far. She wonders now if she has more in common with Billy’s parents than any of them ever thought, and suddenly she understands a little of how they must have felt. She rocks back, sits down properly on the damp grass and grips her chest as her heart thuds heavily inside her. How ironic that now, twenty-three years later, she is not seeing the black and white, but all the shades of grey in between.

  Chapter 13

  February 23rd 1981

  When Bronwyn returns from her run she staggers up to the front door on legs that have only started shaking now she has slowed to a walk. Her throat is dry, her breath rasping and despite the dull ache starting in her calves she feels good. A good sort of tired and all she wants is a pint glass filled with water. There will be no wine today.

  She almost changes her mind about the alcohol when she pushes the front door open and sees the envelopes marked with red writing that have been put through the letterbox. In bold print, three of them declare that they are final reminders. She picks them up, takes them through to the kitchen and sitting down at the table she carefully opens them. There is one from the T.V rental company, an electricity bill and a demand for payment of the gas. Final reminders though, that means letters have been sent before but she is certain she hasn’t seen any unpaid bills. It’s her priority, the one single thing she takes pride in, paying her bills when they come in the post.

  Danny must have taken them before she saw them, and she swears softly. She should have known, after all it’s been at least a month that he’s been unemployed. Things have been tight for a long time but now she’s the only one living in the house, she is going to have to shape up. Vaguely she recalls her mother asking if she was okay for money the other day, and she knows that she can ask her, but she doesn’t want to rely on a handout. And if Dan isn’t coming back anytime soon then she needs to take care of herself.

  Alia had a newspaper yesterday, a local one, maybe she should be looking at the classifieds. Pushing the bills to one side she looks around the downstairs of the house, finally locating the copy of The Newry Reporter down the side of the sofa in the living room. She flicks to the job page, grabs a pen and takes the paper back to the kitchen. It’s cleaning jobs, mostly, actually what seems like an abundance of them. Housekeeping she can do, and she circles half a dozen of them. She’ll make the calls now, she decides, while she’s still got her trainers on, and gathering up some coins and taking the newspaper with her, she jogs down to the phone box.

  One of them, a Mr McKeown, head of Windsor Hill Primary School, asks if she could pop along this morning. Bronwyn looks down at her tracksuit and runs her hand through her hair which was definitely in need of a wash. Then she thinks of the red bills and grips the phone tight.

  “I can make it by 10 o’clock, if that’s okay?”

  It was, and she hangs up and runs back to the house, not bothering to phone any of the other advertisements. It’s too far to walk to make it in time, so after a franticly fast hair wash and bath Bronwyn checks the bus timetable that is pinned up on the kitchen wall. There’s a bus at half nine, and Bronwyn checks her watch as she runs upstairs to check her wardrobe. Standing wrapped in the bath towel she surveys her clothes. There is nothing suitable for a job interview, even if it is just for a cleaning position. She hasn’t had cause to wear clothes like that for years.

  “I could so easily forget this and go and buy a bottle instead,” she mutters to herself.

  She digs out a suit, eventually. It’s her funeral outfit, last worn at Dan’s mother’s wake three years ago. They nearly hadn’t gone, after being shuffled between foster homes and child care services all through his childhood, the death of his mother hadn’t been a great loss or a huge shock. Bronwyn shivers standing in her towel as she remembers the tall, thin woman who had abused herself for decades with gin and street drugs. The only surprise had been that she lived as long as she did.

  It is a memory she shouldn’t have allowed herself, because it always causes her a pang of sympathy for Danny. She couldn’t imagine growing up without the constant presence of Alia. And it had been Alia who raised him, really, actually, all three of them; Bronwyn, Dan and Rose. Always, even though Alia herself was a single mother, she always seemed to have enough food to make sure Bronwyn and her two friends got at least one hot meal a day. And Alia’s love had been all that Bronwyn needed, why couldn’t it have been enough for Danny? Why did he feel the need to spend his youth and his twenties chasing after the older men, seeking validation and a sense of belonging?

  She pulls on the suit, wrinkling her nose at her reflection as she grasps the spare material at the front of the trousers. The last time she had worn this she hadn’t been as skinny as she is now.

  She looks at the clock on the nightstand. The time is getting on, and she hurries downstairs, nerves mingled with a shimmer of excitement at the thought of moving on.

  *

  Though it seems to Rose like time has stopped, she knows it hasn’t. It takes her a while but finally she works out that Mary has been gone for almost two hours. The grill tray is still in the sink, the toast, black and cold. The kitchen is a mess with the butter out on the worktop, slowly softening, and the jam alongside it. The teapot is cold now and the kitchen table is smudged with blood.

  Rose pushes herself up and shuffles over to the sink. She washes the blood off her own arm first, and then scrubs at the red stain on the paring knife. She moves the grill and the old pieces of toast, and as she fills up the sink she hears a knock at the front door.

  Rose freezes, stands stock still with her hands in the soapy water. Her hands and wrist sting, jolting her and she yanks her arms up, away from the water, and wipes them on the tea towel. Blood traces are left on the towel but she barely notices as she moves into the hall.

>   The front door is opaque glass, impossible to see through, and Rose begins to shake as she notices a dark shape outside in the porch. The letterbox rattles as it is opened roughly, and then, Rose hears her name.

  It’s Bronwyn, just Bronwyn. Rose opens the door, blinks at her friend.

  “Gosh, you look smart,” Rose says. “Are you coming in?”

  “I had a job interview, just cleaning at the school, but I need to work, I’m broke,” Bronwyn says as she takes in Rose’s appearance. “What happened to you?”

  Rose looks down at the red stained towel. “I had an accident,” she murmurs. “Do you want to come through?”

  Bronwyn follows her through and as they stand in the kitchen, she snatches Rose’s hands up in her own. “How many accidents did you have?”

  Rose pulls out of Bronwyn’s grasp, moves to the sink and turns off the still running tap. She can feel the heat in her face as she yanks her sleeves down over her hands. “It doesn’t matter,” she replies, her tone dull and almost sulky.

  Bronwyn flings her bag onto the table, narrowly missing the trails of blood.

  “You done this to yourself, I know you, I know exactly what happens when you feel this way.”

  Rose rubs at her eyes, she’s so tired. It’s not even lunchtime and she hasn’t exactly had a busy morning, but she feels so weary.

  “And why are you not at work?” snaps Bronwyn. “Have you even called them? If you’re not careful you’ll end up like me, red bills piling up and out looking for cleaning jobs.”

  “I don’t have any bills,” Rose says the words without thinking, only realising how they sound when she catches sight of Bronwyn’s furious expression.

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” Bronwyn crosses her arms and leans back against the counter. “Aren’t we just miss lady-of-the-manor?”

  “Oh, Bron, I didn’t mean it like that,” Rose cries as she reaches for Bronwyn.