A Small Part of Me

by Noelle Harrison

  Aunt Shirley called Tomás an oaf. She was against us but before long we were going steady, and three months later we were engaged. I didn’t just do it to spite her, of course. I had fallen in love. I’m still in love with my husband.

  Tomás drove me all the way to Boyle twice a month and helped me pull out the weeds on my parents’ grave. Then he taught me to drive and let me use his car so that I could go on my own. Tomás told me I was beautiful. He said that I was a true redhead, not like Aunt Shirley, who called me as ginger as the cat. Tomás said I was a pure Celt, with pale skin and green eyes, and he even loved my freckles, begging me not to conceal them any more.

  Tomás has saved me from my brooding. The only way to deal with grief is to keep busy. He has filled my life with activity – a farmer’s wife always has work to do!

  It’s only in the woods that I have time for my thoughts. I talk out loud to the trees. If he saw me he might think I was barking mad, but these conversations are precious to me, a tiny oasis of peace in my busy life.

  I’m not even sure to whom I’m talking. God? My father? My unborn child?

  CHRISTINA

  The midday sun gradually crept across the floorboards, yet Christina remained curled up in the foetal position in Helen’s old bed, looking at the faded photograph on the pillow beside her. She traced her finger yet again over the tall, ghostly figure of her mother, a silhouette against the snow. Did she look like her?

  A blaze of sunlight illuminated the room, distracting her, and Christina looked at the old cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and the dust on the floor. She had never cleaned this place. It was just as Helen had left it. It still smelled faintly of her. Helen used Ponds coconut butter, like Angeline used to. It brought a sense of the familiar to her strange bedroom in the stone cottage two miles down a rutted bog road, five miles west of Oldcastle. This was where she lived now – in her cousin’s discarded house.

  She slowly clambered out of the bed, naked, and opened the skylight. A warm breeze touched her. It really was quite hot.

  She picked up her dress but it was still damp from the lake, so instead she took a giant cardigan from the wardrobe and wrapped it around her.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror. Helen had loads of these things – big, men-sized woollies, probably belonging to her husband. Christina liked them and the way they made her feel – tiny and feline. She never wore stuff like this at home. For a start she never slept naked because Cian always got into the bed with her in the middle of the night, and it didn’t seem appropriate.

  Cian.

  His name choked her. The last time she’d seen him was Sunday night when she had dropped him home. She pressed her thumb into her palm as if she could conjure up his little hand and its warm trust inside hers as she led him up to the door. He never questioned it now and had stopped asking her why she didn’t come home. He was a clever little boy, her boy, and she felt that he could sense her distress.

  He still loved her.

  But maybe one day he wouldn’t. Maybe he might learn to hate her too, like Johnny. Things had never been easy with Johnny, but when he saw her now he looked as if he wanted to spit in her face.

  Christina ran her hands through her hair, pulling the curls until they hurt. She could feel her body trembling, the dryness in her throat, the fear.

  She walked over to the window and opened it wide. The land spread quietly before her and she couldn’t see a single soul. She watched three tiny rabbits as they hopped across the field, each one pausing in relay to sit up like little statues. A fuchsia bush dripped pink and mauve bells, each flower looking extravagant against the dour yard wall. A long-tailed rat dashed into the hedgerow and she could hear the chatter of the birds as it disturbed them. In the distance she could hear a lone car speeding along the main road.

  The world kept on turning, and she could hide from it no longer.

  GRETA

  It snowed last night, and everything was covered by a couple of inches of pure white bliss. This morning Christina and I ran whooping out into the garden, with Tomás running behind us shouting at me to be careful not to slip on the ice. Then the three of us built the most fantastic snowman I’ve ever seen. It was so good that we took photographs of it. The snowman was nearly twice the height of little Christina. He was, of course, big and round and we dressed him up in an old gardening hat of Jim’s, a pair of rubber gloves and a big orange carrot for his nose.

  Afterwards we were very cold indeed, so while Tomás stoked up the fire I made hot chocolate and tried to bake some scones; a disaster as usual. Tomás keeps asking me to get a cook or someone to help in the house, but I would feel like I’ve failed him if we did that. I just have to keep on trying. Poor man, I suppose he’s used to my cooking by now. Christina ate up anyway. I let her dip the scones in golden syrup and then she was all sticky like a little munchkin.

  Later we took down the Christmas tree, which always makes me a little sad. When you’re packing up those decorations Christmas seems so far away again. To think that this time next year there will be a new addition to the family. The baby will be just over three months old then. It’s hard to believe. I put my hand on my stomach and I can feel nothing in there. It’s so tiny now, little more than a seed. Yet I feel different, in my mind.

  Will it change things with Christina? I don’t think so. How could it? The baby will bring us all closer together, make us more of a family.

  I laid hands on Christina tonight. She said her head ached and her little cheeks were so flushed. It was all the excitement, running in and out of the house in the snow. Tomás doesn’t like me to do this because he says that if people knew, well, they’d all be knocking on our door. Tomás is a very private man. My daddy told me I have a gift from God. He said it was because I was born on Good Friday. I don’t know where my talent comes from, but when I see my little one in pain, I need to take it away, so if I can, I will.

  CHRISTINA

  She and Declan had thought they were Romeo and Juliet, so keen were they to flaunt their parents’ rulings. As neighbours, Declan’s father and Christina’s daddy had had a long-standing feud about fences. Declan’s father’s cattle destroyed them and got onto their land, and then there was the fight over who was responsible for repairs and were they in good order in the first place and so on so that over the years the argument had mushroomed to proportions of complete non-communication between the two families. It was against this background that Declan and Christina had sought each other out in the schoolyard, both of them wilful teenagers. And it was by the lake they would meet, even in winter, where they explored each other’s bodies, tucked beneath the gorse bushes so that no one would see them, the pain of a few loose prickles on the skin so worth it. Somehow they kept their clothes on, but one day, before they could stop each other, it had happened. Somehow he had slipped inside her. Was that the day Johnny had been conceived? If not, it hadn’t been long after.

  Christina sighed. What fools they had been. They had still been at school, just kids. Johnny’s age.

  Theirs had been a proper shotgun wedding and an uneasy truce between the two families, her father grimacing as he welcomed Declan into the family.

  Their wedding day had been a drunken one. The tension in the church and at the reception made everyone drink too much, even Angeline. She had been against it, the only one of the ‘adults’ who had advised her not to get married, telling Christina that she was throwing her life away, that she had alternatives.

  Christina had been annoyed with her stepmother then, maybe because deep down she knew she was right. But for the moment, she and Declan were delighted with themselves. No more hiding, no more prickly sessions under the gorse bushes, shivering on the damp grass. What did Angeline know of the world anyway? As far as Christina could remember she had always been there, in the house, first as their housekeeper and then later on becoming her stepmother. How could she have helped her, really? She’d had no alternative. And look what they had done – hadn’t they b
rought an end to that ridiculous feud? Wasn’t their love going to last forever?

  Declan was a hard worker. Those first few months he’d worked morning, noon and night, a lackey for her father. He’d had dreams of his own, but he ignored them and kept on slogging, taking all of her father’s impatience and contrariness on board. Declan had wanted the best for her and the baby.

  Overnight he became a man.

  But he left something behind, his old skin, like a suit of clothes lying on the bank by the lake, a place he had no time to go to any more. The laughing boy full of kisses and surprises was gone. The man who stood before her was different. He had a similar face, but the eyes were lighter blue, more drained, and his chin was hard.

  She had still been a child.

  She danced around Declan, trying to make him smile, and when he didn’t, or wouldn’t, or couldn’t eat the food she made him because he was too tired, she behaved like a baby, hurling herself on the bed, clutching her hideous bump and crying loudly until he came, sat down beside her and put a limp hand on her shoulder, until she could feel the weight of him, his sadness, his entrapment.

  It had terrified her.

  She closed her eyes, and for a moment saw Declan as he had been – too thin for his morning suit, like a child in fancy dress, a grin on him like the cat that got the cream. That had been nearly eighteen years ago now. To think they had lasted that long.

  ‘Chrissie?’ came a voice outside.

  Christina snapped up the blind on the kitchen window. It was well after noon.

  ‘Chrissie, it’s me, Padraig. You told me to come.’

  She had forgotten. She slowly walked across the kitchen floor, her cold soles peeling off each chill tile, and unlatched the door.

  ‘Jesus, Chrissie, are you not even dressed yet?’

  ‘So what? I’ve been busy.’ She walked over to the counter and flicked on the kettle.

  Padraig stood behind her. She could sense him appraising her.

  ‘I always said you had great legs,’ he said, ‘for someone your age.’

  ‘Jesus, Paddy, I’m only thirty-four!’

  ‘Ah, you should see Dee’s – she’s them veiny things already.’

  ‘Lovely, Paddy, I really want to know about your wife’s legs.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He looked crestfallen. He was such an eejit, really, but handsome.

  Padraig smiled at her sheepishly. She had always noticed how good his teeth were. He never smoked and his smile benefited from it, with his two rows of perfect white teeth.

  ‘I brought it, so,’ he said, throwing down a brown envelope on the kitchen table.

  ‘Thanks, Paddy.’ She picked the envelope up and took out some notes.

  ‘It’s a grand,’ he announced proudly.

  ‘Are you sure that’s not too much?’ she said, stuffing the money back into the envelope and leaving it on the table.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t so sure last week when you asked me. But now that we can move some of the cattle around, things are getting better.’ Paddy scratched his head and smiled at her.

  ‘I’ll pay you back, every penny.’

  She spooned some instant coffee into her mug and took out a fresh one for Paddy.

  ‘What do you need it for, Chrissie?’ Padraig asked as she poured boiling water into the mugs.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ She handed him his drink, not daring to look him in the eye.

  ‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’ He lifted her chin with his finger, trying to look at her.

  She sighed, shaking her head and still not catching his eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ she said, then moving away from him, added, ‘I’m just missing my boys.’

  ‘I said it was too harsh. I can’t believe you lost them.’

  She sat down and smiled sadly, looking at the black and white tiles. ‘Ah, Paddy…’ He stood tall in front of her. She wished she could be him, so sure of himself. ‘You’re a good man, Paddy,’ she said, sipping her coffee.

  He smirked.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

  ‘I can see your nipples poking out through the wool. They’re hard.’ He bent down and touched one with his fingertip.

  She pushed him away, reddening. ‘I have to get dressed.’

  ‘Come on, Chrissie, we haven’t done it in months.’

  ‘I told you, it’s over.’ She crossed her legs and wrapped the giant cardigan tighter about her.

  ‘Yeah, but that was because of the case. Now it doesn’t matter. Sure, who’s going to know?’ He grinned at her with his bright, wide smile.

  ‘No, Paddy. I don’t want to.’

  He looked at her for a second, but she turned away and watched a fat bee banging against the windowpane. He coughed and when she swivelled around again, he was no longer smiling.

  ‘Right so,’ he said stiffly, picking up the envelope.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her face dropped in horror.

  ‘Well, if you can’t help me out, maybe I can’t help you. You know that Dee won’t let me touch her any more.’

  ‘Why don’t you force yourself on your wife then? It’s her duty, not mine.’ She spat out the words like a slap.

  Padraig came close, his blue eyes steely. ‘Jesus, you’ve been drinking already. It’s not long past midday and you’re pissed. Look at yourself, Chrissie.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ He made for the door, the envelope in his hand. She needed that money.

  ‘Wait!’

  That first time Paddy had actually cried. They had been in his jeep and he had pulled in off the road. They had sex there and then. It had been hot and crazy, fast and passionate, and afterwards Paddy had sobbed on her shoulder, confessing that Dee hadn’t let him touch her in two years, begging her not to tell anyone, while a floodgate opened in the small of her back and she felt like a torrent of hurt was released.

  It was only a temporary feeling, but completely addictive, and that’s why she had continued sleeping with Paddy. To get that hit, to feel that someone cared.

  He came over now in one big step, pushed the cardigan off her shoulders and lifted her up. With the other hand he cleared the table. The jar of coffee wobbled on the edge and then crashed onto the tiled floor.

  She bit into his neck, trying to summon herself from the past, when just to stand next to him made her feel tight and hot. He was on top of her and the table was hard and unyielding on her back. It was all very uncomfortable.

  She closed her eyes and made a picture in her head. She could see herself running through a meadow with high, long grass and waving trees in a ring around her. It was a nice feeling, her thoughts; they were more real than the sex.

  ‘Oh, baby,’ Paddy said, his voice intruding. When she opened her eyes his face was all squeezed shut, with his chin in the air. She felt sorry for him. He was only lonely too.

  He came, lay on her for only a second and then sat up, pulling her with him. He picked up the cardigan and wrapped it around her, kissing her gently on the lips. He tasted of the land, salty and dense.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He handed her the envelope. ‘I’ll call tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got Cian,’ she replied, getting a dustpan from under the sink and bending down to sweep up the broken jar of coffee.

  ‘Sunday then,’ he said. ‘I’ll come Sunday night, after McGintys, on my way home.’

  ‘Okay.’ She tipped the broken glass into the bucket.

  He ambled to the door and, turning before he went, said, ‘You know, Chrissie, I thought I was in love with you once. Last Christmas I think I might have left Dee for you.’

  Christina shook her head. ‘No you wouldn’t have, Paddy.’

  ‘Well, we’ll never know now,’ he smiled softly. He walked back towards her and reached out his hand to touch her face, but she stepped back. She could smell the bitter scent of coffee.

  ‘Bye, Paddy,’ she said and quickly walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, before
he could say something else.

  In the bedroom Christina stood still, listening to his jeep drive off. She picked up the picture of Johnny and Cian on her bedside locker. Johnny was fifteen in it, and Cian was four. It had been taken the time they all went to Waterworld, and the two boys were standing in the queue outside. They both had baseball caps on and were grinning broadly.

  She remembered that afternoon. It was just after she and Declan had had a terrible row. She didn’t even remember why they’d been arguing, just the row itself, the venom, and throwing herself into it, not even caring that the kids were in the car with them, sitting behind them, frozen and tearful. Declan had been driving across a moor and the rain was lashing on the windscreen. He had swerved off the road and skidded to a halt, jumping out of the car and stomping to a reservoir. Then he had just stripped off and dived into the freezing water. The kids had piled out of the car, delighted at the diversion, laughing and roaring at their father.

  She picked up the photograph of the children and stared at it, the tears welling.

  That was when she should have left. If only she had taken the boys right there and then, everybody would have been on her side.

  But instead she let it fester. Her husband no longer wanted her. And it was like her mother walking out on her all over again.

  GRETA

  I don’t know why they call it morning sickness, for me it’s all day sickness. It’s all I can do to keep a glass of Seven-Up down. Poor Tomás has had to buy up bottles and bottles of it and packets of Tuc biscuits – that’s all I want to eat. At least it’s not jellied eels or something. We still haven’t told Christina, too early yet, or anyone else in the family. We’ve decided to wait twelve weeks first and then it should be safe enough. Tomás has been so good, treating me like a princess and looking after Christina, making her breakfast and taking her to school. I’m so lucky to have him.