A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing (3 page)

We standing and hunkered there on the landing. Me intrigued by my bleeding. Pump skull and brain around is what it felt. You turned your face to the corner. Glowing red and white with welts. Stood there until you managed to pull down all your sobs. I heard you grasp your breathing. Still it.

Took me hot hand to the bathroom then and water on my face. Gentle wiping, saying there now it’s alright. Cleaned blood from me like I saw at school. Head back gulping the thicky flow. Now, you say, we’ll be good. Now we’ll do what we are told. Maybe she’ll forgive us if we’ll be good. Alright? We’ll be good now. I said stupid shit fuck piss cow bitch frigger shiter fucker bitch pig. Stop it, don’t say that you said. You have to be good. I said, she can’t hear you now.

Tomato soup we made. You opened and only tipped a little on the sideboard block. I wiped it in the darkness. We were keeping still as still. Didn’t even turn the light on while you lit the gas. Poured such red soup into that pot. Set it whisper down on the stove. And stirred it with the wooden spoon so we would not scrape. Poured in a white bowl. With a slice of bread. Some kitchen roll folded on the tray. A proper soup spoon by the side plate. I carried it although you were bigger. Not to drop it. I was careful and your hand might slip. Put it down there. On the floor there. Just beside her door. Then you knocked it. Very gentle. Saying Mammy in a whisper here’s your dinner that we made. We had a talk and we’ll be good from now on and do everything you say. All the time. Please don’t send me to handicap school.

Then a wait. We heard her walk across the bedroom floor. Quiet. Foot by foot. And she opened up the door looking all tired out and white. Bent down and lifted it. Saying thank you children. We’ll see in the morning. Go on to bed now. Goodnight.

5

Get up from that bed. Come on we’re late. Ah Mammy. It’ll do you no harm Madam to show the Lord you care. But I feel sick at mass. None of that please. There’s no fresh air in there. Get you your shoes on we haven’t got time for this.

Grannies rap their hearts. I know that from hot mass when they say Jesus’ name. My feet hurt, knees hurt on the kneeler where someone’s foot left shoe dirt there – sorry will you let me through. All the people up and down saying Christ has died Christ has risen Christ will come again. Mammy I can’t see the altar. Lift me up til my legs go dead.

It’s a dangerous place for smacking mass. Any trying to run up the aisle. Get back here. Climbing through the seats ahead. Sorry. Sit down. Sucking tissues or getting under the pew. That’s a good thump in the back. Stand up here and it goes right through your lungs. I like that, to make men from sucked toilet paper. I have plenty and I never clean my nose. Stop that dirty thing. You get it for GI Joe man banging on the floor. But he’s jumping. Ssssh. But Mammy he’s. Ssssh. Jumping off Niagara Falls. Stop. That. Now. Ow. Be quiet I said.

And when we go out all the old ones saying would you look at that, and aren’t they great at their age you can get them to behave at all. At that age mine were up to all sorts. Sure they had my heart broke. She smiles says they’re a handful, but you wouldn’t be without them would you? No. Thanks be to God.

Do you like coming to God’s house? In the car home. Careful. And for this the answer’s yes. Would you not rather be watching the telly? No Mammy I wouldn’t. No.

She offers demure love now and saintly head. Sign of the cross. Kissing beads. And bible stories every day and night. All the eating locusts I liked. Hair shirt sticking in the skin. Devils in the wilderness and stones for bread. A good suffering Jesus. Lank and ribs, tats hanging in his hair. Sore and sticking on the cross even more.

On my own, draw marker on his picture flesh. Quiet or it would be a slapping. Don’t you dare be defacing Our Lord. But I. Blood from this eye. In my own time on the sly she never catch me. Lying on my belly singing When creation was begun god had chosen you to be mother of his blessed son holy Mary full of grace. Stick it in him. I like it hurts so much. His mother is crying to see him. Lovely blood on thorns and scourging is the best thing though this picture doesn’t show his back. Holes of wounds for stabbing in lances or nails. That one is infected. It would be worser than this if they stuck a knife in I’d say. But I didn’t have red felt tip. That got squashed in Tiny Tears’ eye. You did it. Still, good to see him going bloody to death, though pink. Busy I was with a million gushing cuts to draw, make them worser, giving scabs. Where’s the pain in that one? But I’d like to hear him crying, screaming most of all. How bad was it Jesus? Mr Jesus Christ. I thought Christ was his second name. She all the time pointing him out in pictures saying Jesus Christ. Mr Christ. Mrs Christ like Claus. You gone all strange, saw me, said I see what you’re doing. That makes Jesus cry. What? Drawing blood down between his legs. I amn’t. You are. So? It’s dirty. Don’t tell though, sure you won’t tell? I won’t do it again. Alright but you have to say your prayers and remember to tell it when you make your confession or. What? You’ll be going down to the hot place.

6

Down the road had farmer girls who were my class friends. Grease on their lunchboxes they always had. Smell of salad cream. Cheese biscuit stink of a house if I went down to play.

Me and the stink girls when we are playing. We do something else at all. For badness if I stay the night – ach leave her here she’ll do no harm. We’re donned in finest vestments Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck our nylon nighties. Reverend she and Father me. Our altar decked with cotton bud candelabra. That chalice mug with flowers on, the cloth the mat and Jesus wafer cheese and onion. But first my children confess your sins. I am confessee. That is. Fr I do the cornflakes ad. Wag my bum like dogs with tails saying oooooo lovely cornflakes. And cornflakes cannot be a sin. It is though here. Do. Not. Wiggle. Your. Bottom. Like. That. It. Is. A. Sin. For her that admonition was the one they’d use and for my penance didn’t hit too hard. Me. On my legs. But sometimes pull my skirt up because that’s what priests would do. In front of all the people. Then they’d see your knick-knacks. Ten Hail Mary’s and a Glory Be.

Now my children it is time for mass. Sing that song. Through him with him in him in the unity of the Holy Spirit all glory and honour is yours almighty father forever and ever. Say it, this is the body of Christ and eat your crisp. This is the blood of Christ and drink up that thick ribena blood. Don’t spit out. And on her mother push the door we quick disband for blasphemy’s the fatal sin.

But their mother sent our one notes. Give that to your mam a ghrá. Saying we’re The Charismatics. Doing the good work. Doing the good work for Christ Our Lord. And she came one Sunday evening sat praying on me – a great haul for the fishers of men. They were talking for an hour and she said every Thursday then. Six o’clock? Yes. Fine.

They come with fruitcakes. There’s a few little scones there in that tin. She says tell your brother bring in some tea. Put the tray down on the coffee table there, good boy. Isn’t he great? They’re click- clacking by the time you come in. Oh you’d go mad sitting in the house all day on your own. Look at that isn’t he great? Haven’t you him well-trained? Doing great. Are you delighted? Of course you are. He’s a great lad godbepraised. Like mothers they know all the questions and answers before. Knew to pat you. Knew to ask how’s school and who’s your teacher? Making your first holy this year? All that.

They polyester tight-packed womanhood aflower in pink and blue or black and green coats if the day has rain. Their boots in the hallway, crusty with cow dung or wet muck. If in Sunday skirts, every pleat a landscape of their grown-up bodies. Tired. Under- touched. Flesh having run all night after the cows. Flesh carry sacks of turf up lanes from the shed and spurt out child and child and child. Son he has wanted. Girl he did not. Making frys at all hours and smell of cigarettes called fags by them. Lily of the valley and vaseline. This country’s awful in the winter. Brown skin nylons. Leatherette shoes. And they’ll just have a little cup there in their hand. Good for them they like God and Jesus the most. That’s what they come here to say and do. There’s in their bags holy books and books of it. I picked up this one. I’ll lend you that. Now you take this I read it and thought of you. Hold out their palms out and let the spirit in. To save them and to set them free.

Some most are women. In a blue moon a man. I like to eye. Sitting in the corner jugging as I can for all they say is interesting to me. Dress undressing no-neck cindy. Not stopping or I get look at little lugs there listening in. Oh taking it all in that one. Doesn’t miss a thing. Spelling I know but too quick to understand r.u.n.o.f.f with the s.a.c.r.i.s.t.a.n and they are living in s.i.n down in such and such a place. There’s stink girl’s mother and her sister with women’s troubles so peculiar all pointed down and asked and how’s ahem? Ah she’ll not sit down for years. Apparently the smell of it is something wicked but god knows it’s not her fault. Their brother’s second wife – ach the first died leaving five behind. Tell me where’s the sense? They’re wild as wild. As bold as brats. The P.P’s housekeeper – God rest her late husband. A lovely man. She gave him a hard life but sure. Mrs one whose husband ran the AIB. Uppity up in herself – behind palms in the scullery they whisper adding a splash to warm the pot. Great red hat she wears to mass. So we have a look at her and where’s the humility in that? Ah each to their own, they say. Then your woman who bought a knitting machine. A hundred and twenty pounds now where did she… Her little boy. Downs. God love him. She does school jumpers so she can get him toys that are ed-u-cat-ional nod nod. That’s right for God helps those who help themselves. The politician’s wife they’d normally spite but God help us her heart is broke. He’s running about with this one that one. She can’t look down on them. Her vows were sacred and he’ll not get her into mortal sin. Her heart may be pierced with a thousand spears but she’ll offer it as penance that’s a bit proud don’t you think? And the one whose husband’s a desperate drunk. Like his father before him you know the type, vicious. That’d kill you in it by mistake. Her blue eyes. Her black eyes. Is he on the bottle? they say and pray for sometimes giving up and the forgiveness of his sins.

When they get down to the business rosary. Circle. I feel the Holy Spirit close here. Among us. Healing our wounds. Filling us with Christ’s love. Put down that you and come and say your prayers. Speaking through us like the apostles of old. You and me sitting back aching straight in God, thinking cindy’s boobies lie out just there on the floor. Sometimes I’ll do you a foot dance. Jiggery. But you’re not for laughing anymore. Bow your head. You take it for real – I tell you that boy has the makings of a priest. But I will not bother til apparitions approach. Our Lady of Medjugorjie’s message says those awful secrets near. Her vision girls bright views of hell. Their family’s falling in. Those pets those friends. Cold worms of fear. Will that be me? Leave if I can. Run. Sit down Miss and bear witness to their blessed truth.

Picture how she comes. Our Lady in white, when you’re not looking. She beckons you to Christ. Pray to be chosen. To bear her secrets for the world. A dying world. Please don’t to me or catch her floating on the stairway. Reaching out. Howabout stigmata instead? Worse though you’d never go to school again or look at my hands in case I see it. The Holy Spirit’s in me. Not a punishment. It’s a gift. No not like the violin. Any eejit can do that. I feel it aching in my palm but when will the blood burst? Now please Jesus or not at all. Lickety lips of the praying wouldn’t mind if I was one. But they’d all like it for their children. A visionary born from me? You’ll only be able to tell the seasons by the trees Malachi prophesied or Colmcille. And they say the last secret of Fatima is destruction of the church. The Vatican won’t say either way because that’ll be the end of days. Gulp this. But we’ll know anyway from Medjugorjie the day before. Shiver I purple terror high in my throat. The dead will knock your window. Deadly bony spirit hands. They’ll beg for you to save their souls. Open the latch they cry. You will not. Can not. You must turn from them. Away. Shut the curtains. Light a candle and pray for your salvation while the apocalypse blows your door. And if they plead they love you, so much the worse for their souls. Those poor souls howling. Sucked into the forever night. Will you save us Mammy? I’ll say easy children close your eyes for this world is coming to an end. But Mammy it scares me. Well better behave yourself then.

They pray to God and pray and pray for God’s sake to be saved. They’re swaying rolling. Palms out rigid. Letting in the Holy Spirit. Come and make our lives a perfect sacrifice to thee. Russians blowing up the world. Pray for them. For all the Chinese going to hell. For the black pope that’s the last one. Him as well even if he’s next. I nudge. Could Satan be talking through? No. There’s holy water eejit and not much terror in you. You are filling with redemption. But I am for it. Me and my sins. Listen as they do it speaking loud in a thousand tongues. Could Germans understand it maybe French? Sounds A la la ka leash a na to me.

But when they go and it is night I’m a bit heart stopped. Gives chest hurt fright. Make the sign of the cross and I’ll be fine. You’ll be got because you drew on Christ, dirty thing. No if I die before I wake I pray to God my soul to take God bless you me Mammy Granda and Granny and don’t let the end of time be tonight. You say thank you god for being so good and are not afraid of the dark.

If it’s summer before the sun goes down I sometimes leg it from the holy joes. Mammy I have to go toilet and go and run hand-washed to stare into the sun. That’s a good job. That’ll make me a strong one. I heard three times makes you blind. But mine’s in secret so I stare fine for it won’t ever blind me. God holy holying you though. He might be some kind of saint. They have never met your like. Manys a mother would’ve given up hope. Her arm on your shoulder. Her gentle stroke your head. I don’t know where I’d be without him.