The Translation of the Bones

by Francesca Kay

  The uninterrupted day began to seem too long. Do something useful with yourself, Stella admonished sternly. Stop moaning. Think of Mrs. Armitage.

  She decided to do some gardening. The small path at the front could do with weeding. After a while she felt more cheerful. The writhing worms and the shy leaves, the thin tendrils of young roots, earth just beginning to be warm, a counterweight to somber thoughts. There were grape hyacinths, and blossom on the damson.

  In the late afternoon she went for a walk. A lane at the edge of the village led uphill through woods and, on the other side, to a small lake. When she got there the light was fading, the water silvery and still. The trees on the far shore like a bank of smoke or a mass of gauze, still leafless, only the tallest branches distinct against the sky. Two swans drifted close together in the gathering darkness, pale as moth wings, pale as falling snow.

  No one else was there. If there were, would that voice speak? Standing on the lakeshore, with tears in her eyes, Stella called to it. There was no sound, or answer, but on her own, in the silence, after a while, she found a kind of peace.

  Say the word, say the word, Mary-Margaret urged. She was on her knees in the Church of the Sacred Heart, waiting for the morning mass. Wednesday. Three days to go. Last night she dreamed He came to her and kissed her softly; she pressed her fingers to her mouth in memory of Him, touched them to where His mouth had been. He had given her a folded sheet of paper. She opened it and there was writing on it, but she could not read the words.

  She was making herself ready. Most of the day and half the night she spent in prayer. The only time she stopped was when she was with Shamso. Already they had made a routine for themselves. Every day Mrs. Abdi collected Shamso from his nursery and brought him home for lunch. Then she popped him across the corridor to Mary-Margaret. Even though the school holidays had started, the older Abdis had some kind of day care in the afternoon. Only Shamso and the baby didn’t—maybe because they were too young. Mary-Margaret had not understood Mrs. Abdi’s explanation but, in any case, she was more than happy to look after Shamso whenever she was asked. She’d gladly have the whole pack of them, in fact—Samatar, Bahdoon, Sagal, Hodan, and Faduma too—but they had other things to do and, truth to tell, it was Shamso she loved most. He seemed to love her too. Now, when his mum dropped him at Mary-Margaret’s, he didn’t give her so much as a backward glance. Cheerfully as anything he’d scamper up to Mary-Margaret, his little fingers wriggling in the pocket of her fleece, where he knew that she kept sweets for him—chocolate drops or Smarties. As long as he had something in his mouth, Shamso was content.

  Yesterday it had been warm enough to go outside to play. Although Shamso couldn’t walk very far on his little legs and the new baby seemed to have sole use of the buggy, he could just about get to the park. There were swings there, and a pond, with ducks. Mary-Margaret took some scraps of bread. The poor mite didn’t have a clue at first—had he never fed ducks before?—and kept putting the stale crusts in his mouth. So Mary-Margaret broke off some bits and chucked them in the direction of the birds, bringing them at once toward her in a great splash and cluck and clack of wings. And Shamso was thrilled! She had to hold on to him really tightly to stop him throwing himself into the water with the scraps of bread. Gorgeous hair your little boy has, remarked a passing woman, and Mary-Margaret was so proud. She scooped him up and hugged him until he squirmed to be put down; oh he was adorable, so sweet and so delicious.

  This afternoon she would have him again. Excitement swelled up in her like water under pressure—she felt her blood flow faster—her whole world was about to change and it was already filled with love. She was willing and her lamp was full, like the wise virgins’. When the bridegroom came He would not find her wanting. Three more days.

  On her way home she’d nip into the shops and pick up something special. She hadn’t been paying her mum much heed of late. The image of Fidelma wedged into her chair and staring blankly at the window swam to mind. What would her mother like? Mary-Margaret thought of chocolate cake, dark and rich with chocolate-fudge topping. Or those things with layers of custard cream and pastry. White icing on the top. Her mother would love that. You couldn’t fit them in your mouth, all that thick cream oozing out and squishing. Shamso would enjoy one too. Mary-Margaret laughed at the thought of Shamso covered in cream, the doll, the precious poppet.

  Mrs. Armitage was celebrating too. Two weeks today. And for Fraser only one more week, in fact. Then he’d be going to Malta for a debrief, or was it decompression? A week of that, whatever it was, then home. The icing on her cake was that on getting back today, there had been a letter on the doormat. Imagine. She’d crawled in, wearier than usual—it had been a hard day at the depot with two of the regulars off sick and that waste of space who called herself the boss getting her knickers in a twist, and Mrs. Armitage did hope she wasn’t coming down with the same bug. She ached as if she’d gone twelve rounds with Big Frank Bruno.

  Dragging herself up the garden path she’d also hoped that Larry was in but then remembered he had gone to Croydon. A pity. No one could be nicer to come home to than old Larry. He’d have made a cup of tea and given her a neck rub. He was brilliant at that. He’d never been a man exactly liberal with words or given to romantic gestures; it was as if all his sensitivity and love was gathered in his fingers. Magic hands, Mrs. Armitage would tell him. He knew where the pain was without you even telling.

  But just when she was feeling sorry for herself, there was that letter waiting. It wasn’t very long, mind. Weather getting filthy hot, filth’s the word, can’t wait for a real shower, tell Dad mine’s a pint on April the twenty-second!

  It didn’t have to be long. Fraser was like his father, economical with words; the point was that he had written. Those ballpoint letters had been formed by her son’s hand. Mrs. Armitage kissed the paper they were on, feeling a little silly. Then she left the letter on the table in the hall for Larry, and put the kettle on.

  Fidelma and her daughter faced each other over a paper bag of cakes and a bottle of Irish Cream liqueur. For Mary-Margaret, when she shopped, cost was the chief consideration. Ends must be made to meet on income support and a disability allowance, and consequently she was careful. Always bought own-brands and Basics. But once in a while she did leave room for a bottle in her basket. She was drawn to things that reminded her of her heritage, with green fields on the labels and words on them like cream. Cream was a word that tasted of itself, she thought, and filled the mouth exactly like the real thing.

  Mary-Margaret got home just in time for Shamso. Fidelma was asleep, so she hid the cakes away, as a nice surprise. When he arrived, Shamso made quacking noises, to her great delight. Of course then she had to take him to the park. Everything was a new pleasure, when you were with a child. Things you’d seen a million times before—the berries on a dusty bush, a cat on the pavement, a sparrow in a puddle flicking water from its wings—were fresh discoveries to Shamso. Even the lifts in the block excited him. Every time they went in one, Mary-Margaret had to hoist him up and help him push the right button with his finger. It took forever to get to the park because he had to stop and examine everything he saw along the way. He also had a tendency to pick up whatever he found and put it in his mouth, so Mary-Margaret really had to watch him. But she didn’t mind. She had all the time in the world for him, or at least for the moment.

  When they got back from the ducks, Mary-Margaret gave Shamso his pastry slice but Fidelma, who had just eaten a packet of Jaffa Cakes, wasn’t particularly hungry. We’ll save them for tea then, shall we? Mary-Margaret said. Both women watched Shamso eating. He picked up the cake with both hands and rammed it in the general direction of his mouth, leaving more around it than inside, as Mary-Margaret observed. Mrs. Abdi looked surprised to find him quite so sticky when she turned up to take him back. It might be an idea to give me some spare clothes for him, Mary-Margaret suggested, but Mrs. Abdi didn’t understand. Well, I suppose I could have a look in
Oxfam next time I’m there, Mary-Margaret said. It gave her a shiver of pleasure to think of buying clothes for Shamso. Proper little shirts and trousers, not the mismatch of girls’ things he seemed to have. And undershirts. Sweet little warm white undershirts. She would clear out a drawer for him in her bedroom and fill it with a pile of neatly folded, washed and ironed clothes. And nappies? She hadn’t yet had charge of Shamso long enough to need to change one. But it couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

  Now Shamso had gone and the women were alone. My hip is bad today, Fidelma said. Have you got any of that jelly stuff? Mary-Margaret asked. You said it helps?

  Yes. I’ll rub some of it on later. Can’t be bothered now. Sausages?

  And chips? And there’s the cakes. Also, look, wait. She went to the kitchen for the bottle of Irish Cream and gave it with a flourish to her mother.

  What did you buy that for? Fidelma asked. We still have the whiskey.

  It was on offer, Mary-Margaret said. She disliked the harsh taste of the whiskey, the way it made the skin feel rough all the way down your throat. This other kind of drink was softer. Have some, Ma.

  I will, when I have the chips on. Fidelma used her walker to hoist herself out of her chair. Her legs were crampy. She had no need for shoes, only for slippers; even so her feet felt squashed. She sighed.

  It was their agreement that Fidelma cooked and Mary-Margaret did the shopping. She was surprisingly good at it, Fidelma often thought, for a lass who could scarcely count, let alone add up. Well, maybe that was not quite fair. Of course Mary-Margaret could count, and read and write as well; it was just that she was slow, as she had always been; a struggler, she was, at school. Fidelma as a child had been much sharper. She sometimes wondered what she might have done, if she could have stayed at school. Maybe she would have been a writer. She always did like stories, words.

  Fidelma shuffled to the kitchen. It had a window that faced the same way as the main room’s; lights were coming on quickly in the windows of the tower block opposite, one by one, it seemed, a ripple of lights, wimpling like sun on moving water. She put the oil on to heat. The bangers looked too much like bits of her own self for comfort. Clammy, bulging, mottled. She pushed the notion away. They’d be fine when they were done. She sipped the drink that Mary-Margaret poured her.

  The women ate sitting at right angles to each other. Having dished the food onto plates, Fidelma left it in the kitchen and went back to her chair; it was easier to manage if she didn’t have her hands full. Mary-Margaret brought her her plate when she had settled down, then she fetched her own.

  They had the television on but this evening Mary-Margaret was chatty. She poured more of the Irish Cream into her glass. Later I’ll make tea, she said, but this is lovely; it’ll go down very nicely with the vanilla pastry slices.

  It’s pretty, isn’t it, Ireland? Look at these fields, with the cows in them.

  Fidelma laughed. There were no green fields around her when she was a girl. Only the stony hillside and the wild moorland; the sand and the endless sea. But there had been flowers, she remembered, on the hillside. Orchids, meadowsweet and harebells; the white harebells were rarer; finding one was supposed to bring you luck. Well, even if she had stumbled on a field of them, they would not have made a difference, she supposed. After the hillside, the dark streets of the town. Straight lines of sad gray houses, like a row of tombstones, hunched against the rain. And the home the sisters kept the saddest of them all. The biggest too, towering over all the others, blocking out what light there was in the narrow street.

  Any day now Father O’Connor will be back, Mary-Margaret said, out of the blue. He said that he’d be back soon after Easter.

  Fidelma said she had no concern with the whereabouts of the priest. After she spoke she wondered if that was true. He had been away a good six months now; it was just possible she missed him. Although she never asked him to, he turned up once a month or so; we’ve got to stick together, he would say, us exiles.

  An exile. Well so she was, in every way.

  Mary-Margaret went on watching Emmerdale. After a while she said, it’s a bit weird, how we call them Father. I never thought of that before. I mean, you’d call Father Diamond Father even though you’re older than him. Still, it would be even funnier if you called him Son! She laughed at her joke.

  If he was the Pope, you’d have to call him Daddy, Fidelma said. Papa. That’s what the word means.

  Mary-Margaret looked confused. I thought I would have to call him Holiness, she said. Your Holiness. Not Papa!

  She tasted the word again. Papa. I wonder where Shamso’s papa is, she said. Or if he has one. But he must. I mean she is Mrs. Abdi. There has to be a Mr. Abdi too.

  Well, I do hope so, Fidelma said. And her with all those kids.

  Does it make a difference, having lots? So if you have loads of children you have to have a husband but if you have just one . . . ? she stopped. She topped up her glass and Fidelma’s and went to take the empty plates into the kitchen.

  Fidelma sighed again. Mary-Margaret had been an incurious little girl, accepting all that she was told as gospel. I got you all by myself, Fidelma used to tell her and, later, when Mary-Margaret was too old for fairy tales of storks and changelings, she said her dad was dead. As, indeed, he might be, Fidelma told herself in mitigation of the lie; for all she knew, he might be dead.

  Mary-Margaret came back with clean plates for the vanilla slices. They ate them in silence. Waves of sweetness on the tongue, thick white icing, yellow cream, the pastry yielding to the softness of its filling.

  I used to think you were a blessed virgin, Mary-Margaret said suddenly. When I was a tiny child. She licked her fingers to pick up a flake of icing from her plate.

  Fidelma started. Virgin? she said.

  That would have made me a bit like Jesus, Mary-Margaret went on. Born without an earthly father. “How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?” You know. But that was before I understood about you being a widow. The poor widow and her mite.

  I think the mite in that case was a coin, Fidelma said. Sweet Jesus, here she was, this great big lump of a girl, not all that far off now from being a middle-aged woman. Simple, she might be, but not that simple, surely? Couldn’t she put two and two together? She watched enough TV, for goodness sake. Fornication, adultery and incest, everywhere you looked. It was time, Fidelma thought, that Mary-Margaret faced facts.

  I was never married, she said. So I am not a widow. You have to have been a wife first, and I was never that.

  Mary-Margaret looked at her for a while. Then she smiled kindly. It doesn’t matter now, she said. It’s only a shame he died so young, before you could be married.

  She was quiet after that, her attention seemingly held by the television. What about that tea you promised? Fidelma asked her when the program finished. I’m tired, Mary-Margaret said. I’ll make you a cup if you want one but I am off to bed.

  When she had gone, Fidelma turned the television off and sat in darkness. Not for the first time she mourned the absence of a fire. If there were a fire, she would have something to stare at other than the window. She thought of the hearth at home, the scent of it, kept burning night and day although smoored at night with ashes. Every morning her mother would scoop a shovelful of glowing embers from that fire to carry to the range in the next room, a dangerous load, the glint of it, the heat, the gold-vermilion. In this way the fire in the range was resurrected, the other sparking it to life with its dying embers in an everlasting rhythm, as if the two were kin, the open fire the parent of the fire that was pent up in its cast-iron casing. Fire spirits. Guardians of the house.

  She missed them. For its brief warmth she struck a match and lit a cigarette. There was a place in her chest which the smoke rasped. This room, her casing, was a square box merely, lacking internal focus. There were a hundred and ten exactly like it in this tower—five on every story of the twenty-two. Think what chimneys they would have had to build, if they had put a f
ireplace in every flat—chutes deeper than the deepest wells, vertical black tunnels in which a lost child would be trapped forever.

  The inside of her mouth felt as if it had been brushed with fat. She could taste the yellow filling of the cake. It had been kind of Mary-Margaret to buy them. They had never had all that much to say to one another—sometimes Fidelma thought they were less like mother and daughter than like prisoners serving out life sentences in a double cell—but of late the girl had seemed more than usually caught up in her own world.

  Even convicts forced to live as partners in a box six foot by ten must have their secrets. Even if, on the surface, everything was known—each fart, each breath, each mouthful—still no one could make them share the spaces in their heads. Fidelma knew Mary-Margaret’s routines, her likes, her dislikes, but she had small insight into her mind. And Mary-Margaret had still less understanding of Fidelma’s. But no one does, Fidelma thought. No one ever has. Since the early days of childhood, her life had been lived in secrecy and silence, in the private places of her soul, where there was safety, freedom, the infinity of the open sky, the glistening strand, the raging sea. And just as well, these days, when there was nowhere else that she could go, for this fireless room was really nothing other than the grave.

  Secrecy and silence. She thought back to the getting of Mary-Margaret, the twilit times, coupling quickly in his curragh, beached, always with an ear to footsteps on the sand. The smell of salt and fish on him, the taste of salt, and scales like sequins, lodged like fairy coinage underneath his nails. Sticking to her afterward, as if by loving him she might turn into a mackerel or a mermaid, pink flesh quickening to pearl and gray and silver, gleaming in the ripples of the dark.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, Almighty God, the sheer beauty of the thing. How his eyes closed and he gasped, how she hungered and she tightened for him in her secret place, like a creature of the rock pools, an anemone, clinging onto her desire. It was hunger, no other word for it, hunger that you did not know that you could feel until you’d felt it—and then, well then, it never left you. Ah the way a woman aches inside and wants him deeper and, oh God, the helpless shiver when she has him and the shattering delight, spreading out in circles, halos, as if the core of her were liquid and he the stone thrown in it.