He Is Mine and I Have No Other Page 10

  Their car drove past just as I got to the top of our driveway. Then I saw that it was Leon driving. The windscreen wipers swept the sleet away from his face, then blurred it again seconds later. Though I’m sure he saw me – how could he not, me standing there bedraggled, with my clothes all muddy? – he didn’t let on.

  His father was sitting in the back seat gazing over towards my house. I felt ashamed of myself then, and appalled at the same time – that I’d crouched down in a ditch and spied on these people, and that this murderer was peering into my home. I wished the hedgerow was higher so he couldn’t see in. It felt like Leon was playing some kind of sick joke. The whole thing was a sick joke. He was a liar. How could I believe anything? But the thing my mind kept turning back to, funnily, was that Leon could drive. It seemed so odd. I’m not sure why.

  Sometimes I found it hard to walk back into that house of ours. It was always so quiet, even when Mam and Dad and Gran were there. It was a lonely place to step back into. It was worse after Blue. But I was glad that day. The house was warm for once. Every room was warm, even the hallway. I changed out of my wet clothes, plucking little tokens of grass and black twig from my skin and hair, and wrapped a fresh dry towel around my head. I washed the dried blood from my hands. With a needle I got from Mam’s sewing basket I painstakingly removed a small thorn that had lodged itself deep in the soft cushion of flesh at the base of my left thumb. I liked the unflinching pain, the self-inflicted pain that was so unsurprising. And afterwards the emptiness in my head, and the feel of the cold wooden floor on my bare feet, and then the warmth of the fire and the soft carpet in the front room. They were all dozing. I sat close to Mam on the settee, close enough that I could feel the rise and fall of her. The Sound of Music was on the telly.

  I played it over and over in my head. The Child of Prague in the window. That dark house. His quiet steps as he climbed the stairs to his son’s room. The pretty blonde lady sleeping in bed. Him downstairs preparing, before the steps, before the lights went out, before his son slept. His whole body shaking. Her screeching. Like foxes out in the dark. The neighbours’ light going on. The sound of the knife in her skin. The puncturing. His face all lit up with hate. The little boy sleeping. His sweet little face. Blood on the bedclothes and on the carpet. His father tucking him in, saying It’s all right now, son, it’s only a bad dream. And his heavy eyelids drooping again. Her body on the floor, slumped on her front, like she was sunbathing or sleeping. A bubble of spit at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes set on something in the distance. The way the guards must have crouched down by the body, crossed themselves. Avoided making eye contact with the dead woman. And the ambulance men taking her away. The boy on the landing being hushed into a spare bedroom. Their silence. Leon boiling potatoes for his father. His father saying He never is.

  Mam and I were sitting at the kitchen table on St Stephen’s Day morning when it started to snow. Dad had been saying it would for days – standing at the window, saying it’ll snow all right, sure look at that sky. He loved it to snow on his birthday. It was like God letting him know he hadn’t forgotten, sending him the one thing he loved more than most. It didn’t matter that it was a day late.

  ‘Would you look?’ he said, beaming. ‘What did I tell you?’

  We watched the big flakes falling slowly from the sky, sticking to the roof of the shed, the string of clematis branches outside the window, the frozen grass. Mam had her feet up on the chair to relieve her swollen ankles. I sipped my third cup of tea of the morning. Dad leaned on the sill, peering out.

  ‘I’m going out in it,’ he said, and I watched him from the window a few minutes later, his smoky breath in the cold, the flakes sticking to his hair, and him clapping his gloved hands together, everything muffled.

  ‘Do you know, I must ring that brother of mine,’ Mam said, lifting her legs wearily from the chair and heaving herself up. ‘I haven’t even told him the good news.’

  She was slow to walk to the phone, leaf through the address book for his number and pick up the receiver. Reluctant, almost.

  ‘Hello, could I speak to Father Patrick please?’

  ‘Hello, Pat love. How are you? – Happy Christmas to you – good, good – God, that’s great – Did you? – No, not at all – mmmm – Now listen here, love. You won’t believe it, but I’m going to have a baby – Sure, I know – What? – Oh, yes – What?’

  Her voice was shaking.

  ‘You should have told me! When? – What did she say? – Have you got the address? – Okay, hold on till I get a pen.’

  She held the phone between her ear and shoulder while she went through all the pens on the table, scribbling, scratching into the paper until she found one that worked.

  ‘Got one – Right . . . Yes . . . Right so – No, no – Okay. I understand. You’re a busy man – I will, I will. Okay. Bye.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mam?’

  She handed me the piece of paper she’d been scribbling on.

  ‘What’s this? Was he not happy about the baby?’

  I looked at the name on it: ‘Celia’, scrawled over and over, and an address somewhere in England.

  ‘He only went and met her.’

  ‘What?’ I said, putting my hand on her shoulder.

  ‘He went and met her without me. After me pleading with him for years to find her for me and him putting me off. The fucking bollocks.’

  I’d never heard her use language like that before. She had begged him to help her. He was a priest, for God’s sake, he must have access to records. A little girl orphaned out from the convent in town, it couldn’t be that difficult to find her. But he said the records were destroyed in the fire that time, said there was no way of finding out. And the only other two people who might know were long dead.

  ‘He fucking knew where she was. He knew everything . . .’ she said, her eyes welling up with tears. ‘Why would he keep that from me? For Jesus’ sake, Mammy was only a child herself when Celia was born . . . Why couldn’t he accept that? And now he fucking goes and sees her without me.’

  Grandpa hadn’t wanted them to have anything to do with Celia. A shame best kept hid, forgotten about. Uncle Patrick was no different.

  She was shaking. I squeezed her hand in mine, told her to sit down.

  ‘Didn’t you know where she was? Didn’t you know she was in Oxford?’

  ‘Only just recently, when I got that book . . . And I couldn’t figure out how she’d tracked me down . . . But he told me it was best left alone. He told me she wouldn’t want anything to do with us. And I was stupid enough to go along with him. But sure he must have given her the address . . .’

  I couldn’t help thinking that she was a bit stupid. If it was me and I knew I had a sister, I’d have been everywhere looking for her. Down at the convent, or wherever it was they kept records, trying to find out where she was. And especially after she got the book and knew for certain she was in Oxford. All she had to do was look in a phone book. I wouldn’t have cared what my stupid brother thought. Just because he was a priest . . .

  ‘God, Lani, I just felt something,’ she said, putting her hand on her belly.

  ‘I’ll get Dad,’ I said, running out of the room.

  He was round at the front porch, leaning against the wall with both hands, belting the heels of his shoes on the footpath to remove the snow and ice.

  ‘Would you look at that, Lani? The place’ll be covered in no time at all.’

  ‘Dad, the baby’s kicking.’

  It was like a prod with a cattle stick. He grabbed my arm, looked at me agog, and skidded down the hallway, leaving a trail of water on the parquet floor.

  They were hugging each other when I put my head round the door.

  ‘Is it okay if I come in?’

  ‘Of course it is, love.’

  It was like the fluttering of butterfly wings, she said. Only she could feel it. Dad had felt nothing. She was rosy-cheeked, tears streaming down her face. I couldn’t bear to see h
er like that.

  Gran and Felim O’Rourke had known each other to see, Gran told me. I don’t know what prompted her exactly. I suppose she could see I wasn’t right, maybe she recognised something of herself in me. And sure with all the talk of the baby just then . . .

  She and Felim had been practically neighbours, their houses only a couple of fields apart. And their fathers fished together the odd time, and shared a fondness for the drink. Felim helped her with the milk churns one day. He was passing on his bike and saw her struggling to lift them up onto the cart, the milk slopping over the sides and onto her skirt. He dismounted and helped her lift them before her father returned, saying a lady like her shouldn’t be doing a man’s work. She could do it a damn sight better than most men, she told him.

  He asked her if she’d be down at the cross that night with the others, and she said yes she would. They were shy of each other at first, but they ended up staying talking for hours after everyone else had left, until it was dark.

  I asked Gran what they talked about but she couldn’t really remember. ‘Probably silly nonsense,’ she said. ‘Probably we didn’t even make sense.’

  Then he walked her home and kissed her on the cheek.

  She told her mother she’d been helping over at the neighbours’. ‘Haven’t we enough to be getting on with here,’ was her mother’s weary response.

  Every evening after that they’d meet. They took to swimming in the lake together. Felim was a much better swimmer than she was. He was like a fish in the water, she said. He could hold his breath for ages. It’d frighten her sometimes he’d stay under that long. But she got used to it. She started to think he might even be able to breathe under there. Everyone knew that he was the best swimmer in the county. Ever since he was little. She’d stand very still waiting for him to surface, her limbs starting to go wobbly with the cold, and he’d bubble out of the water right behind her, or he’d nibble at the calf of her leg, or pull her under with him sometimes.

  She couldn’t remember rightly how long it was before she realised she was going to have a baby. She was just sixteen. She didn’t say a word to anyone, and she stopped going down to see Felim, though he went on waiting for her every night on the lane.

  She couldn’t hide the bump for long. As soon as they found out, she was sent to her aunt’s in the next county over. That was the only time her father ever belted her, right across the face with his bare hand. He didn’t say a single word to her after that. And her mother could barely look at her. Still, it was better they sent her to her aunt’s than to one of those unmarried mothers’ homes she might never have come out of.

  Her Aunt Bridie was a cleaner up at one of the Big Houses. She was away most of the time, which suited Gran. She was left to keep her house. She’d do the washing, scrub the floors, bake bread, make sure her uncle’s dinner was on the table at six each evening. Right up until she gave birth. Bridie was firm but kind. She made sure she was well fed, and she gave her her own settle by the fire in the kitchen. And Uncle Frank kept himself to himself, which was no bad thing in those times. He had nothing kind to say to her, but nor did he treat her badly. Their own children were away abroad and knew nothing about what was going on.

  The baby girl was born in summer. Gran hadn’t really thought what would happen after that, and her aunt hadn’t said a word about it. She fell in love with that baby straight away. She wasn’t like some mothers who couldn’t bear the sight of this squawking thing that had caused them so much pain. Hers was a quiet wee thing. Which was a good thing, she thought, otherwise it’d have driven her aunt and uncle to despair. Weeks went by, and she grew less and less concerned. She thought her aunt and uncle might just keep her and the child on indefinitely. Or she could take her home and all would be forgiven once they saw that she was the most beautiful child anyone ever set eyes on. She wrote letters to her mother, telling her all about her new baby. How perfect she was, how good-natured, how much she resembled her grandmother. She’d walk for miles to the nearest post office to send the letters. But she never heard anything back.

  She was out in the farm collecting eggs when her uncle took the baby. Bridie wouldn’t tell her where, only that it would be safe and happy, and in God’s hands. Gran carried on at Bridie’s for another while – she didn’t remember how long, weeks, maybe months even. She was no good to her parents in the state she was in. In any case, she wouldn’t leave the house, wouldn’t set foot outside the front door. Not since they’d taken Celia away.

  Maybe if she had she might have been able to get her back.

  They’d brought Celia to the industrial school in town. The infirmary was run by a young nun called Mother Michael. Years later Gran saw the room where she’d been nursed, since turned into a classroom. There was a poster on the wall that said ‘The family who prays together stays together’. Mother Michael pointed to where all the cots used to be. She told her how she used to feed all the babies with mashed egg and potatoes from the same spoon, their mouths open like little scaldíns. She remembered little Celie always being hungrier than the rest of them. She told her how some of the older orphans would dote on the babies, look after them like they were their own. It was that same nun had sent the photograph of Celia to Gran years later, telling her she was happily ‘placed’ with a family in England.

  Mam and Dad were over at the neighbours’ for drinks. I chose the bottle from the drinks cabinet that had been there so long no one would notice it missing. The rim was sticky. And it was sweet, that peach schnapps. I took the bottle and a glass to my room, swigging the first glass fairly quickly, and the second. By the third my head was like lead, but feathery with it. I could see particles move round the room – particles of the room move round the room, like jigsaw pieces. Clearly I could see them, like the jagged little lights that fall in front of your eyes sometimes. My mouth tasted of purple clover. I sucked the air in through pouted lips to savour the cold on the sweet, moist fleshiness of my tongue. I was fearless with love, red-blooded. Blood throbbing in my ears. I peered out into the dark, longing to see Leon peer back in at me. I laughed at my own reflection, my face up close to the mirror. And I danced, bouncing off the walls.

  I kissed the window pane.

  Then I felt the dampness on my chest. I put my hand to my face: it was slippery with tears, and sticky around the corners of my mouth. My nose was streaming. Flopping down on the bed, I sobbed and sobbed until my head hurt. I could barely see I cried so much. This was just what I’d been after. I knew where I was with this.

  ‘Dearest Leon,’ I wrote,

  I’m sorry about that night at the concert. I didn’t mean it. I swear I didn’t. But why did you lie to me? I wouldn’t have minded if you’d told me the truth. I thought you cared about me, and now you’re ignoring me. Have I done something wrong? It hurts so much not to see you, not to talk to you. You should have told me. You did see me on Christmas Day, didn’t you? What am I supposed to do? Do you hate me? I love you. I don’t mind telling you. I love you, I love you, I love you, and you have to trust me. If you can’t trust me then we have nothing. I’m not just some stupid girl. I don’t want you to think that. I know what I want. And you can’t treat me like I don’t exist. Because I do. And I’ll always love you. So you better get used to the idea. And please don’t think I’m a stupid girl, because I’m not. I can’t imagine how difficult things must have been for you, but I’m here if you need me. I want to give myself to you. I want you to have me. I’m all yours. Surely you would have had to tell me some day, or I would have found out somehow? Or was this just some stupid fling? We were just supposed to get off with each other a couple of times and that was it? I don’t understand. Please write. I beg you.

  Love for ever

  Lani

  I woke in the morning to find vomit on my duvet and down the side of the bed. I cleaned up as much as I could, but I’m sure Mam would have smelled it if she’d come in. If she did she never said anything.

  The sound of the knife in her
skin. The Child of Prague in the window. The neighbours’ light going on. His heavy eyelids drooping again. A bubble of spit at the corner of her mouth. His father tucking him in, saying It’s all right now, son, it’s only a bad dream. That dark house. The pretty blonde lady sleeping in bed. His whole body shaking. Her body on the floor, slumped on her front, like she was sunbathing or sleeping. Avoiding making eye contact with the dead woman. Blood on the bedclothes and on the carpet. Him downstairs preparing, before the steps, before the lights went out, before his son slept. Like foxes out in the dark. Her screeching. The little boy sleeping. And the ambulance men taking her away. His face all lit up with hate. The boy on the landing being hushed into a spare bedroom. The puncturing. His father saying He never is. The way the guards must have crouched down by the body, crossed themselves. Their silence. Leon boiling potatoes for his father. His sweet little face. And her eyes set on something in the distance. His quiet steps as he climbed the stairs to his son’s room.

  I lay out in the snow on New Year’s Eve until the cold had seeped into me, until I had become tiny with the cold, brittle-boned. I couldn’t think what else to do. Mar and I hadn’t spoken since that last day before the holidays, and Mam and Dad wouldn’t let me go out. There was no way, they said – not until they were sure they could trust me again. I carried on like someone possessed, told them they were evil, that every other girl in my year would be out that night, that I was old enough to do what I liked. But there was nothing I could do.