‘What kind of troubles?’ Jessie asked.
‘Never you mind,’ and she tapped Jessie’s plate. ‘Waste not, want not. Eat. And by the way, Jess, will you tell me how come your trousers are all torn and covered in mud?’
‘I told you. I fell over, I tripped,’ Jessie said, suddenly busying herself with her eating so she didn’t have to look up.
‘In the garden,’ her father added, rather too hurriedly.
‘So you said, so you said.’ It was quite clear she didn’t believe a word of it.
Jessie’s bedroom was right above the kitchen. She could always hear what was being said downstairs, even if sometimes she didn’t want to. But tonight she did. She knew – everyone on the island knew – the real reason her mother had been over to the mainland. It wasn’t just to fetch cousin Jack from the airport. That was just part of it. She’d been a whole week in Dublin, trying to see the bigwigs in the Dáil, the parliament, about the Big Hill.
Her mother and father rarely talked about the Big Hill in front of her, and Jessie knew why. There wasn’t another thing in the world they ever argued about, just the Big Hill. They would tease one another from time to time, but they would never really argue – not in Jessie’s hearing anyway. They had spats of course, like anyone. Interrupt her father when he was making one of his ‘creatures’ in his shed and there was always trouble. But her mother never dug her heels in, never lost her temper, except when she was defending the Big Hill.
Catherine O’Malley – her mother’s name before she married – was without doubt the most beautiful woman on the island, and therefore the cause of much admiration and envy. She had a mass of shining dark hair and eyes to match. Jessie knew the story well, and she loved to think of it, often. There was hardly a man who hadn’t wanted to marry her mother. She was engaged to Michael Murphy, who owned the salmon farm now and the Big Hill too, when Jimmy Parsons, this ‘blow-in’ from England, this foreigner, this sculptor, came to stay for a summer holiday. He set eyes on Catherine O’Malley, took her fishing one day, married her and never went away.
Everyone knew Michael Murphy was still in high dudgeon about it even all these years later. He was a squat little man and rich as Croesus – the very opposite of her father, who stood nearly two metres in his boots, and hadn’t a penny to his name. He was almost always in his boots too, either out in the fields shepherding his flock or in his shed carving his beloved ‘creatures’ that no one ever seemed to want to buy. He didn’t seem to mind too much, and Jessie didn’t mind at all. They were like family to her. She had given every one of them a name, and when she was little he would tell her stories about them in the dark before she went off to sleep. Her father only took his boots off in the evenings and then his dirty toes would be sticking out of his socks, and he’d be scratching them. He wasn’t perfect, but as a father he was a whole lot better than Michael Murphy would ever have been.
Jessie could picture them downstairs now as she listened to them. He’d be sitting in the rocker, Panda at his feet, and she’d be at the ironing.
‘You haven’t said much,’ she heard him saying.
‘Well, that’s because there’s not a lot to say.’
‘You got to see the minister then, at the Dáil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear that he agrees with you, you and all the others, all except old Mister Barney.’
‘He said no then?’
‘No, Jimmy. He said yes. He said yes to money, yes to destruction, yes to pollution. Oh, he’s a real yes-man.’
‘Well, you did what you could. No one could’ve done more, that’s for sure. So if it’s going to happen, best just to accept it, eh?’
‘Never. Never. I’ll never accept it. I was born here, remember? I grew up on that hill. I dreamed my dreams up there. The place is in my blood. And they want to send bulldozers to cut the top off my mountain, my hill, so that Michael Murphy and his kind can dig out the gold and get rich – as if they’re not rich enough already. Well, they’ll do it over my dead body. And I mean that.’
‘Cath, for God’s sake, why do you go on so? You’ve done what you can. Everyone respects you for it. I do, that’s for sure. But this is the nineteen nineties we’re living in. A hundred and fifty years ago there were over a thousand people living here on Clare, now there’s barely a hundred and twenty. The way things are going, in ten years’ time, there’ll be half that. And why? Because there’s no work here, no money. Bed and breakfast, a few tourists in the summer, sell a lobster or two, but that’s it. There’s nothing here for the young people to stay for. I don’t like Michael Murphy any more than you do but, like him or not, at least he’s brought work to the island. That gold mine will mean work for a generation or more, and money to develop the island.’
‘Oh yes.’ Her mother’s blood was up now. ‘And at what cost? We’ll have streams of arsenic from the mine running down the hill, poisoning our children and our sheep – and that’s what the experts said, not me. They’re kicking old Mister Barney out of his shack, when the poor old man just wants to be left to finish his days in peace. And you know and I know that they won’t employ islanders in the mine. They say they will, but they won’t. People like that never do. They’ll bring in outsiders, blow-ins.’
‘I’m a blow-in, or had you forgotten?’ said her father. There was a silence. ‘Look, Cath,’ he went on, ‘in the last three years, ever since this thing started, we must have been through it a thousand times. You’ve made your point, you’ve argued your case. Your last chance was Dublin. You said so yourself, you said it was the last ditch. For goodness sake, even your own mother says you should give it up.’
‘Don’t you dare use my mother against me!’ Her voice was sharp with anger. ‘What’s happened to you? You’re supposed to be an artist, aren’t you? A thinking man? Can you not see that it’s against nature itself to cut the top off a mountain, any mountain, no matter where, just for a pot of stinking gold. All gold is fool’s gold, don’t you know that? You cut the top off the Big Hill, you dig out whatever’s inside, and you suck out the soul of this place. There’ll be nothing left. What’ll it take to make you see it, Jimmy?’ She cried then and Jessie could see in her mind’s eye her father putting his arms round her and shushing her against his shoulder. ‘I can’t let them do it, Jimmy,’ she wept. ‘I won’t.’
‘I know, I know. But whatever happens, Cath, don’t go hating me for what I think. I’ve been honest with you. I must be honest and say what I think, you know that. We’ve a whole life to lead here, Jess to look after, wood to sculpt and hundreds of silly sheep with their limping feet and their dirty little tails. We mustn’t have this thing between us.’ After that there was a lot of sniffling, and then subdued laughter.
‘And talking of honesty, Jimmy Parsons.’ It was her mother again, happier now, ‘Jess tried the Big Hill again, didn’t she? That’s how she hurt herself, isn’t it?’
‘You can’t stop her, Cath. And what’s more I don’t think we should. All right, so she fell over and hurt herself, but at least she tried. And if that’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. You were forever telling her, remember? “You can do it,” you’d say. “You can do anything you want, if you want it badly enough. Forget about your lousy palsy.” Well, that’s just what she’s doing. She’s set her heart on reaching the top of the Big Hill. She’s a brave little heart and I’m not about to stop her from trying.’
‘How far did she get?’
‘To the top, of course. Doesn’t she always? You know Jessie and her capacity for wishful thinking, for telling stories. But I think maybe she got a lot further up this time. She was so happy, so pleased with herself. Wouldn’t it be just about the best thing in the world if she really made it, if one day she really made it right to the top of the Big Hill?’
‘There you are then, Jimmy,’ said her mother, so softly Jessie could scarcely hear, ‘another reason if you ever needed one, and maybe the best reason, w
hy the Big Hill has to be saved. Call it holy, call it magic, call it what you will, but there is something about that mountain, Jimmy. I can’t describe it. I’ve been up there hundreds of times in my life and you know something? I’ve never once felt alone.’
Listening in her bed, turning her gold earring over and over in her hand, the indisputable evidence that she had indeed reached the summit of the Big Hill that afternoon, Jessie was tempted to go downstairs, burst into the kitchen and tell them the whole story from beginning to end: the climb, the voice, the earring, everything. She was boiling with indignation at her parents’ disbelief, at their lack of faith. Yet she knew there was no point in protesting. She had been caught out often enough before, and by both of them too. She was a good storyteller, but a bad liar because she always went too far, became too fantastical.
Yes, she could dangle the earring in their faces, but what of the rest of the story? Why should they believe her just because she’d found an earring? And were they really likely to believe she had heard a voice, and had a conversation with someone who wasn’t there? She wasn’t even sure she believed it herself. She looked down at the only solid evidence she had. The earring was still wet from Barry’s bowl, so she dried it on her nightie. Downstairs she could hear the television was on. The Big Hill argument was over, till the next time.
She climbed out of bed and sat down in front of her mirror. She held the ring up to her ear and turned sideways to look at herself in profile. She’d try it on. She’d had her ears pierced in Galway the year before. She took out her sleepers. It hurt a little, but she persevered through all the wincing until finally there it was, swinging from her lobe, glowing yellow-gold in the light.
‘Perfect,’ said a voice from behind her, the same voice she’d heard up on the Big Hill. A warm shiver crawled up her back and lifted her hair on her neck. ‘Pretty as a picture. It never looked half as good on me. Maybe one day I’ll find you the other one for the other ear. I’ve got it somewhere. And by the way, who’s that boy in the room next door?’
‘My cousin Jack,’ Jessie breathed. ‘He’s from America.’
‘Well, now there’s a thing,’ came the voice again. ‘America. I’ve been there, you know – a long while back, it’s true, but I’ve been there. Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day, when we know each other better.’
‘I’m not going mad, am I?’ Jessie said. ‘You really are there, aren’t you?’ Jessie shivered. She was suddenly cold.
‘Sure I am, Jessie,’ said the voice, ‘and you’re not at all mad either, I promise you that. It’s just that I want something done and I can’t do it all on my own. I need help. I need a friend or two with a bit of spirit, if you see what I’m saying. In my experience, and I’ve had a fair bit of it in my time, you have to choose your friends very carefully.’
‘But what do you need a friend for?’
‘All in good time, Jessie.’ The voice was fainter now. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’
For just a fleeting moment, there was a fading face in the mirror behind her. Jessie had the impression of a mass of dark dishevelled hair, radiant bright eyes and a ghost of a smile on the woman’s face, not old exactly, not young either; somehow both at the same time. She turned around. The room was quite empty. She could feel there was no one there any more, but she knew for sure that there had been someone, and that whoever she was had gone. She had imagined none of it. She took the earring off, dropped it back into Barry’s bowl and covered it over with the stones. She wiped her hand on her nightie and swung herself into bed.
From next door came a low rhythmic roar. It was some moments before Jessie worked out what it could be. Jack was snoring, just like Panda did, only louder. Suddenly the door opened and her mother stood there, silhouetted against the light.
‘You awake still?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘How’s the bump?’
‘Fine.’
‘Shall I give you a kiss goodnight?’ Her mother sat down on the bed beside her and snuggled her close. ‘Love you both, you know,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘But I’m not going to back down over the Big Hill. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Course.’
She kissed her forehead and sat back up. ‘And don’t worry about Jack. He’s a nice enough boy, you’ll see. He’s not had a happy time, y’know, what with his mother going off like she did, and now his dad not being well. Give him time, there’s a girl.’ She shivered, and looked around her. ‘It’s terrible cold in here,’ she said. ‘Have you had the window open or what?’ Jessie shook her head. Her mother pulled the duvet up to her chin and stood up. ‘Maybe it’s a ghost then,’ she laughed. ‘Always cold, they say, when there’s been ghosts about.’
Suddenly it occurred to Jessie that the face smiling down at her, her mother’s face, was much like the face she had seen in the mirror. They smiled the same smile. They had the same hair, the same mouth even.
‘You weren’t in here a moment ago, were you, Mum?’ she asked.
‘No. Why?’
‘Maybe I dreamed you,’ said Jessie.
‘Maybe you did. Sleep now.’ And she went away, leaving Jessie alone in the dark. I have seen a ghost, Jessie thought. I have heard a ghost. I have felt the cold of a ghost. I should be frightened out of my skin, but I’m not. The snoring next door lulled her into a deep sleep.
Jessie and Jack were walking down the farm lane towards school the next morning, Mole following along behind. ‘You snore, do you know that?’ Jessie said.
‘I do not.’
‘How do you know? If you’re asleep you can’t tell, can you? I heard you.’
‘Well, at least I don’t talk to myself.’
Jessie knew at once what he had overheard. ‘Oh that. I was just talking to a ghost, wasn’t I?’ She said it half to tease, but half because she longed to tell someone, and she knew he wouldn’t believe her. She was right.
He looked down at her and smiled. ‘Oh yeah?’
Jessie shrugged her shoulders. ‘You think what you like. I’m not bothered.’ The school bell was ringing. ‘Sometimes I think Mrs Burke’s a ghost. She sort of floats, and she’s always appearing suddenly out of nowhere.’
‘Who’s Mrs Burke?’
‘She’s my teacher, your teacher now, head teacher too; real old stick. Come on, we’ll be late. And she eats you if you’re late.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, you’re too skinny for her. Mrs Burke, she likes little fat things like me.’ When his smile opened, the sun glinted on his silver brace.
They hurried on, passing the abbey and the church, and then turning up the school lane towards the playground. It was ominously quiet, and Jessie soon saw why. The whole school was waiting for them, staring at them through the playground fence, all silent and wide-eyed.
‘He’s my cousin,’ Jessie announced. ‘He’s called Jack and he’s from America. And you can all stop your gawping so you can.’
4 JAWS
‘WELCOME TO OUR LITTLE SCHOOL, JACK.’ Mrs Burke took her glasses off and laid them on her open Bible, as she always did after morning prayers. ‘I did notice,’ she went on, ‘that there weren’t that many eyes closed during prayers this morning. Now I know that it’s a bit like having someone from another planet, but Jack is only from the United States of America which is just a little way across the ocean from here, that’s all. There’s hardly one of us in this room who hasn’t got an uncle over there, or an aunty or a cousin or whatever. As you see, they have two legs like we do, two arms, a couple of eyes and they even speak the same sort of language, don’t you, Jack?’ Jack tried to smile.
‘So children, we will have no more of the staring, will we? It is not polite and not at all friendly either. Jack is here for our last few weeks of term, and then I believe into the summer holidays as well. So you’ll see plenty of him. And we want him to have fond memories of Clare Island to take back home. So let’s all of us show him just how friendly we can be, shall we?’
Liam Doh
erty took Mrs Burke at her word. In playtime, Liam made a beeline for Jack; and where Liam went, others soon followed. In no time at all, Jack found himself backed up against the playground fence being peppered with questions: about American football and baseball, about cowboys and cops. Liam asked if he could try on his baseball cap and Jack handed it over, a little reluctantly. It was passed around after that, but by the time the bell went for the end of playtime, he had it back again. By now he seemed to be enjoying all this newfound adulation, revelling in it almost, Jessie thought; and she was irritated by that.
Wherever he went, he seemed to be flanked by Liam Doherty and his gang. Marion Murphy seemed to have taken an instant shine to him as well, so she was never too far away either. Jessie kept her distance. Jack seemed to have forgotten that she even existed. For the rest of the day he hardly spoke to her, even at lunch-time. By the afternoon, Jessie was seething inside, and that made her written work even worse than usual.
Jessie was never much good anyway at her writing – that was why she hated doing it. Whatever she did, however hard she tried, her writing always came out all spindly and crooked. Everyone else could do it better, and faster too. Jessie’s hands simply wouldn’t do what her brain told them to do. And it wasn’t just her hands that wouldn’t obey her. It was her toes too. Whenever she tried to write, her toes would curl up under her feet and cramp themselves. She couldn’t stop them. Mrs Burke came and bent over her to see how she was getting on.
‘You’re just going to have to try harder, aren’t you, Jessie?’ She’d said it often enough before, but it still hurt. ‘I mean, just took at that writing. It’s like a demented spider. I’ve told you till I’m blue in the face, hold your pencil this way, with the forefinger pressed down. You can grip it better.’ How would she know what my hands can and can’t do? Jessie thought. Doesn’t she think I want to grip it better? ‘Turn the page and try it again, Jessie.’ Jessie sighed audibly, and with insolent intent. ‘That’ll be quite enough of that, Jessie Parsons. I’m not going to treat you any different from the others. It’s no good you feeling sorry for yourself all your life.’
The Ghost of Grania O'Malley Page 3
