The Butchers

by Ruth Gilligan

  Eventually the potholes began to shrink. They passed some traffic lights and a couple of petrol stations. In the distance, a row of taller buildings rose up, off-white; a grey-black cross atop a Gothic spire. But tallest of all were the yellow cranes from the various building sites that rimmed the edge of the town – construction was under way, modernity overspilling one concrete block at a time. Grá wondered about living right on the frontline where Man and Nature met. She wondered if all borders led, eventually, to war. She thanked the driver as they alighted and wondered, if that was the case, who would win this one in the end.

  ___________

  It was only a Tuesday morning, so she knew that Main Street could have been a whole lot busier, but for them the bustle was more than enough. A busker strummed some acoustic Boyzone. A group of Americans boarded a pleather coach. Something slicked to her ankle. Grá flinched. The plastic bag flew away in a single kick.

  When they reached the charity shop she told Úna that she could choose anything she liked. It was mustier here and quieter – a muffled home away from home. Grá noticed there were only women in the place, so she imagined a world where men got to use and read things first and women could only use and read them after. She fingered the spine-break of an ancient paperback, trying to imagine things any other way.

  She stared at the shelves of chipped knick-knacks, the rows of natty jackets, the faded posters in their frames. There was the Virgin Mary and an old map of Ulster. There was Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Immediately Grá thought of Lena’s love of the old classics, then tried to push her out of her mind. Instead she thought how strange it was to imagine Hepburn, the beautiful idol, now lying six feet under.

  ‘I’ve found it, I’ve found it!’ It wasn’t long until Úna came sprinting back. ‘The lady at the till promises it still works. She said it just needs a new roll of film.’

  Grá heard the joy in her daughter’s voice and saw the glow in her daughter’s face. Eventually, she really would be back to herself. But for now, Grá was distracted by something else, so she placed her hand on the rail. The wheels skidded, threatening to go flying; to send her collapsing to the floor. And she would lie amidst the moth-eaten jumpers for a very long time, wondering how on earth she could have been such a fool. Because for all she knew, her sister could have passed away. For all her idolising, Lena could have already been dead for years, lying six feet under the blackened earth.

  ___________

  Two hours and a sticky bun later, it was time to be heading home. Úna had chosen a Polaroid camera. The irony was almost enough to make Grá smile. They were around the corner from the bus stop with twenty minutes to spare, when Úna pointed out House of Blooms. A sign in the window announced, ‘JUST OPENED’.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Úna, wait.’

  But already the bells above the door were tinkling.

  Inside, the air was moist and sweet. There were freesias and gerbera, purple irises streaked with a yellow so bright they must have nicked it from the sunflowers in the next bucket along. There were things Grá had seen and grown before – great clutches of stock with their heady, synthetic scent – and then there were other things, the magnolia petals thick like expensive paper meant only for fountain-pen ink.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The woman appeared from the back, a bundle of foliage swaddled in her arms. She wore red glasses looped on a chain.

  ‘Just browsing, thanks.’

  ‘Take your time. You’ll see I over-ordered – I wanted to start with a bang, but I’ll be out of business by the end of the week if I let all this go to wilt.’

  Grá felt the ghost of a sales pitch lurking, and yet she was curious. ‘You’re the owner?’

  ‘That’s me.’ The woman placed the leaves on the counter and started ripping off the brown bits. ‘I moved home from Dublin last month. I wanted—’

  ‘I think Mrs P would like these.’ Over on the side, Úna was staring at a swathe of blue nigellas.

  ‘Miss Jekyll,’ both women said at once.

  Grá looked at the stranger.

  ‘I’m Helen,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Grá. And this is my … this is Úna.’

  The bells above the door were tinkling again.

  ___________

  On the journey back they sat right up the front, which meant the rattle was a little better. It also meant they were a little closer to the driver’s radio. The afternoon chat show was a panel of experts, all of them men, all in possession of Dublin accents. Grá held the flowers across her lap, while Úna dozed against the glass.

  Grá felt exhausted herself – it was the reason she rarely made the journey into town. Long walks through borderland fields were one thing, but this required a different breed of energy. When she was just nodding off, though, she heard the announcement and she was wide awake again. She leaned forward from her seat to catch each ominous letter in turn.

  M-B-M.

  It had just been confirmed – the source of BSE in Ireland had been the Meat-and-Bone-Meal all along. Grá’s rattle came back now worse than ever, the death and birth variety both. Because she was seething – hadn’t they outlawed that stuff years ago? Hadn’t they realised it was unnatural, feeding cattle on bits of other cattle? Turning the poor things into cannibals?

  But the men on the radio tried to explain that ‘natural’ hadn’t really come into it – MBM was just a lot cheaper to produce. So somebody (the authorities were launching an investigation into who) had obviously decided to ignore the law and start making it again on the sly – it was just money, the ‘modern’ priority. Grá looked down to her lap where the flowers lay and her empty purse sat nestled beneath. One of the men made a witty remark and the others laughed. Then they finished up – it was time for a bit of music, some American crowd called the Fugees. She recognised it: ‘Killing Me Softly’.

  ___________

  When they got home there was no sign of Cúch and there was no denying Grá’s sense of relief. She knew it was an unnatural thing to feel. Her mouth was dry. She should have ordered a drink in the café – a glass of water wouldn’t have hurt.

  ‘Thanks for today.’

  She felt the wet kiss on her cheek, but by the time she had turned Úna was already halfway up the stairs.

  ‘You sure you’re all right, pet?’

  Úna rolled her eyes. ‘Mam, I’m fine.’ Grá supposed it was a good sign. ‘I’m going to study the instructions.’ She held up the bag with the Polaroid.

  Grá watched her go then looked down. It took a couple of moments to realise the pool of water was from the stems. She knew they were meant to be a gift, but she decided she would put them in a vase for now. It seemed a shame to leave them wrapped in their paper shroud. She ran the tap and fetched the scissors from the drawer, and it was only at the last minute she noticed it. The drop of blood had hardened to black. Her daughter must have cut herself too close.

  I am putting myself forward as a replacement Butcher.

  I have decided I don’t need to be a girl any more.

  Quickly Grá ran the blade under the water, desperate to wash away any trace of that awful evening. She remembered the hairs she had found in the upstairs sink and her hurry to wash them down the drain too. But now she realised she should have kept some of it – should have coiled it up and put it in a locket next to her heart.

  She realised she shouldn’t have married a Butcher.

  She shouldn’t have slept with Ronan.

  She shouldn’t have become such an unnatural mother; such an unnatural wife.

  She placed her hand on her mouth to catch the sob. The gush from the tap almost drowned it out. And the din was so loud she nearly missed the doorbell. She turned off the water and dried her hands on her jeans. She still hadn’t drunk a single thing.

  She wondered if Mrs P had somehow smelled the flowers and known to drop in. She hadn’t really been around to the house since Sol’s death. Grá hadn’t really invited her. Part of Gr
á believed it was just easier for them to go visit the widow, but another part knew it was more complex than that; it was more, really, to do with shame.

  Here is my home with my husband and child.

  Here are the things I have that you don’t.

  Here are the things I have that I don’t deserve.

  ‘Grá?’

  But the woman on the doorstep wasn’t her friend, she was so much more. Or maybe, after all these years, so much less. And there was much less of her now – her body had shrunk, her hair had thinned out – yet it was definitely her, here, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Lena.’

  Her sister checked over her shoulder to where a small blue car sat crooked-parked in the drive. ‘Actually, it’s Eileen now.’

  ___________

  Her guest moved through the hallway slowly, inspecting the rug, the hall table, the wooden banister that led upstairs. Grá wondered whether to call Úna down; whether she had taken her first photograph yet, watching the colours surfacing like a bruise. Back in the kitchen, she used the kettle as an excuse to cross to the other side. The flowers lay splayed along the worktop. But when she turned, Lena – had she really said Eileen? – wasn’t there.

  Grá’s heart leapt.

  ‘It’s lovely.’ Her sister appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Thank you.’ Grá’s heart just about settled. ‘My husband inherited it.’ But then she cut straight to the big question. ‘How the hell did you manage to find it?’ She didn’t have time to wonder why she had said ‘it’ and not ‘me’.

  ‘The Butchers.’ It was only now that Grá noticed Lena was wearing lipstick. It seemed her instinct for glamour hadn’t shrunk a bit. ‘I realised if I spoke to them I could ask if they knew what had become of our family; of you. So I planted the seed with my husband and son, and eventually they invited the Butchers round. Then I got the old lad alone – Sol, is that his name? – and I showed him your photograph. I wasn’t surprised when he knew exactly where you were. I assumed there aren’t that many families left.’

  For all the delight of the coincidence, the deep ache at the mention of Sol, there was one detail of the story Grá noticed most. Your photograph. She turned back to the counter and closed her eyes. Her sister had disappeared twenty-five years ago. Her sister had carried her image with her all that time.

  When the kettle was boiled, they descended to the kitchen chairs clutching their cups. The table was still a solid divide between them. Grá remembered Lena once complaining to their parents about the endless stream of tea.

  Can’t we have coffee for once?

  This isn’t the bloody 1900s.

  It was one of the first signs, maybe, of rebellion.

  Grá wanted to voice the memory, but it seemed such a silly place to start. Or maybe, in a way, too loaded a place. So instead, they sat in silence and held their cups and started nothing at all.

  ‘Did you hear about that clock on the River Liffey?’ It was Lena who finally took the plunge. It wasn’t a silly place, exactly, just an odd one. ‘Counting down to the Millennium? I was listening on the way over – apparently it broke again. The algae keeps playing havoc with the tech.’

  ‘Can they fix it?’ Grá tried.

  ‘I hope so – otherwise we’ll be late.’

  ‘For a very important date.’

  The look between them was more shock than smile.

  ‘So do you live near it, then?’ Grá moved on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clock?’

  ‘God, no. We’re in Monaghan – Fionn’s family farm. Although he has sold off most of the acres by now, so we’re barely a farm at all we’re— What’s so bloody funny?’

  Grá had tried to keep her laughter quiet, but the toll of the day had sapped every trace of restraint. ‘You live on a farm?’ she said. ‘In County Monaghan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All this time?’

  ‘Yes.’ This one had a trace of irritation. And then: ‘Why?’

  But Grá couldn’t answer, because she had doubled over with laughter.

  Here are the things I have that you don’t.

  Here are the things you didn’t have after all.

  ‘Grá, I wrote,’ Lena was sighing now. ‘And I tried to call, but they must have changed the number. I assumed you were just too raging with me to reply.’

  Grá stopped her laughter. Even if she didn’t any more, she knew she had once deserved so much better. ‘I didn’t get anything. Do you have any idea …?’ But she also stopped her anger. It was far too late in the day to be climbing mountains.

  Despite her frailty, her sister was willing to try. ‘Grá, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know it was selfish to leave, but I—’

  ‘Are you still with him, then?’ Grá cut her off with a more gossipy tone. It was the best that she could manage.

  Lena waited, as if deciding whether to protest the evasion. ‘Just about.’ But then it was her turn to laugh. ‘Sure, you know what men are like. Drive you up the bloody wall!’

  And Grá could tell her sister was evading too – covering up for so much else. She couldn’t decide if that made her feel better or worse. ‘You mentioned a son – do you have any other children?’

  ‘No, just Davey. An absolute pet. Mind you, he gets his Leaving Cert results next week, so all being well he’s about to leave me far behind. And what about you? I didn’t have long with Sol, so he didn’t give me much beyond your address. And of course, who you had ended up marrying.’

  ‘Were you surprised?’ For some reason, Grá suddenly felt that the answer mattered.

  Still Lena’s tea lay untouched. ‘You know, in a strange way I think I had a suspicion.’

  Grá nodded, unsure if she believed. ‘Although, the Butchers have just announced they’re shutting down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘After all this time?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Such a shame.’

  ‘I know.’ Even on the third attempt, it didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  Grá blinked. It was the biggest question of all.

  The air around them had grown muggy. She wanted to check the nigellas – the blue would be streaking browner by the minute. She would have to try to resurrect them with a drink of water – them and her both.

  She didn’t even begin to try explaining that Sol was dead.

  ‘I was in town earlier,’ she offered instead. ‘We rarely go in, but I met this woman who had just opened a florist’s. She moved back from Dublin and started it by herself.’ Grá stopped. She wasn’t sure where the strange anecdote had come from.

  She wasn’t sure her sister found it strange. ‘You could do that,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  Lena nodded. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ And yet, it was the first time all day Grá’s chest hadn’t rattled a bit.

  ___________

  After a while, she filled the kettle again and rummaged in the depths of the cupboards. When she pulled out the jar, she saw the coffee granules had caked together, but she chipped some free and placed them, watered, before her sister.

  They laughed the same laugh at the same time.

  Slowly, their conversation grew a little easier – not so much a very important date as just a couple of women having a chat. They discussed childhood holidays to Connemara – how a daring Lena had managed to teach a timid Grá how to swim in the sea. They discussed that new play everyone was talking about – The Beauty Queen of Leenane – and the new Domestic Violence Bill that had come in. It meant a wife could finally take out a barring order against a husband for assault. For the first time, Lena became a little hesitant. Grá let the conversation move on. They discussed the revelation about the MBM, wondering who would stoop so low as to still be making and selling such muck, even when they knew the horrendous consequences. They discussed where they would go on their h
olidays if they ever won the Lotto. Grá surprised herself by saying ‘Japan’. She pictured the cherry blossom in full bloom – it was supposed to take your breath away. She pictured standing in the middle of Tokyo with eight million people racing by.

  But despite their best efforts – despite how their various topics ranged far and wide – still they couldn’t seem to get beyond exactly where they were. Or really, beyond what they were – two women who had long ago made two very different choices; two lives defined by a thing called ‘love’ or was it just ‘men’ or just a desire for escape?

  And did they, after everything, feel free?

  ‘Grá, I’m sick.’

  When Grá looked up at her sister’s sunken face, she saw the remark made perfect sense. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Brain tumour,’ she said. ‘They got it out, but apparently it’ll come back soon enough. In the meantime I take these wretched drugs that are supposed to stop me having fits, but they leave me … I get terrible …’

  As she listened, Grá knew she was supposed to be feeling shock or devastation. Or maybe confusion – a brain tumour at forty-six? – surely that couldn’t be right. But instead she felt a strange relief that that was the reason their reunion had been so awkward; the reason it wasn’t living up to all those years of fantasy. Her sister was sick. The wretched drugs left her … She got terrible …

  Grá felt an urge to ask what words came next.

  ‘And my husband keeps mentioning some fancy clinic down in Dublin, but the doctors haven’t heard of it, so I suspect it’s a bit of wishful thinking on his behalf. Anyway, I thought I better let you know – five per cent of brain tumours are hereditary, apparently – so just in case the bloody thing runs in our family.’

  Grá tried to absorb the information, the grim statistic, the weight of the words ‘our family’, but then she heard the sound of the front door opening and the almost-birthday girl rushing down the stairs. ‘Dad, Dad, look what I got in town!’