A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing (4 page)

I’m just bit on the wild, bit of a pup. Nothing interesting to prick a curate. Not like Hail Mary’s you say as well as Glory be. For fun Father and the souls in purgatory that they be saved – he said to me – now where did he get that but God?

Still. I can leg it down the drain. Inside under Jesus I make my dash out in the rain. Slap mud sandals. Slap mud all up my socks. I’ll skid it. Scutter it. Holding thistles for fairy soup or foxgloves bad luck teacher calling giddy goat or I will tell your mother you were saying shite. Making out curses and people die. I can. Being magic. Saying fucker Christ. Into the fields. My bad words best collection. All the things my mother never taught me. To shit in a field or run in from the rain. So I knew it always then and do it all the time. Oh crouch. Dock leaf. Plopped. True I could be killed for that. Such elicit outdoor. And a white one too. Should not have been licking chalk. I couldn’t bide the loud Do not. Theeverysooften crunchy crunch. And white guilty gums. Poison I know. I’ll die from it. But a little one. Ah a sneaky one and Oh I quail to think of that. You did something you should not have. Chalk’s your downfall. Chalk’s your crime. Day in school I. Didn’t lick the blackboard just my hand. Smacked it palmly on. And sweet chalk powder licky to my tongue. Swoon through lunch know I’ll get caught or Who did that disgusting thing? Where’s the glantóir? Teacher roaring. Who’d dare violate this board? She better confess because I always know. Panic runs lines across my face. I won’t raise my hand. She’ll kill me stone dead. Who did that? Nets not cast wide. The pair of ye, get up.

They trup foot heavy but will not confess. Did you do it? No teacher. You’re lying. I can tell. Ye little tinker bitches. Itinerants, I know to say. Not in my house will you call people tinker Mammy says. No one’s tinker to you Miss. But our teacher does. Always smelly tinkers. Tinkers sit over there for living in caravans and get more walloped than anyone else. There. Always back to ye she says. Troublemakers. She knows them well. I sweat hands knowing I should tell. That love of chalk. Those smear is me. She crack their foreheads hard to each. Crack. Pulled to by the pony plaits with neat grease ribbons. I’m shame to that. They stand gloss-eyed and rub their heads. That’ll learn you. Get out of my sight she says and they reddy stare over the stone school wall. Looking at bushes with snail trails on. Snails at their noses. Snails in their eyes. No Daddy theirs will say don’t to my child. I know that. No Daddy mine. Go on ye so, and trup them down to snuffle lie sore heads on their desks. Noses dripping in their cuffs. Teacher scrubbing hands on a j-cloth. Don’t touch them little scums. I tuck my white hand in to lick at later on. Later. Alligator. Cat.

Not there, I walked around and around. That house had up hill down dale. Steps and mud. Those wellies red. Umbrella. Wondrous being dry. See fat drops plop and run like a river down for flies. Spiders. That time it was always raining. Summer. Spring. I don’t know though when we were or where. Puddles and puddles very good for sailing peanut barge shells over. Like over and over the sea. Or this is Lough Corrib or this is the Nile. I’d like littler men to sail them but. Your soldiers aren’t mine.

And sometimes you have schoolbags. A tie. Little sisters are. Yuck. I hate girls in the schoolyard. But still lie belly on the stairs with me. Who zooms quickest? Face first? Feet? Would you ever mind your brother’s head. Boys on bikes are better and I am left boat floating behind. They always ask what’s the scar in your hair? One threw a stone at your birthday that cut your ear. She grabbed him by the jumper. Little fecker don’t you ever do that again or I’ll. Everyone thinks our mother’s a bit and desperate because where’s the man in that house and who will teach those children right from wrong? Up to all sorts and in my day we were la la la. I’d say that’s what they say.

Strange. Pushed out to the ocean of school. Wave back occasional to her shore. Hi there, Mammy. Never see me more without my secret life again. I spy boy’s urinal. Kill red things on the wall. Snap and broke the elastic waistband of some girl. I’m telling. Her Mam. Mam. Mammy or. You’ll get a thick ear for being noisy. And I never learned times tables. Scaldered to the spot. What’s seven times twelve? Never learned that. Thicko to the front. Face the class. Now for you. Have a smack. Was all that happened for years. And my head is good for secrets. I can bang it on the wall. It takes the nervous out and no one bothers for it at all.

So. This as well when no one looks. Go n’eírí an bóthar leat while the wind be always at your back. Run up the fields. Blink to the house. Go sun blindness. Turn my arse. Lift to fly. Balloon across the earth. Puff ball keep your knick-knacks covered. Belting on the wind me. Beating me at my own game. Scup there skirts and give us a dance. Be pelted by the dark rains. Feet wet like trough. Soak them blue to black through flesh and bone. Scratch my arms on fairy blackthorn. Knee cut rocks for learning how to fly. Whip grass cut hands and lips on a scutch pipe. I’ll call all the fairies and ones living underground. For I know they’re listening. Will give me thorns in my pockets and thorns in my bed. I’ll jig on their houses til my lips turn red. I’ll give you a whirl twirl. A smack on the paddy whack but Get in this house. Get in this house you, always, always comes.

Skating on the beach. I dreamed it. Empty sort on a yellow sky day cliff. In the evening of it. All alone though gulls are there. Cormorants I know. Chicks and hens. Buttery throat calls squawks. Dipping fish out. Wheeling in it turn and dive. Flutter like a panic wings that they would all fall down above me. I hate those bird feet hanging. Rubbery storm air though blowing over the water. Coursing I think. That clouds and wind skiteing sand spray floats of it up. Catching at the back of me. In the bad time of year. This is. Roller-skates. Tying-on ones. Butterfly screw and lace up ones. Heavy and leather over my shoes buckle red ones on. Rollering on the sand front. Going foot to foot to foot to foot. Spinning wheels round digging. Crunch as glass on the axel rod. And then water heaving up behind me. I hear. Fling itself at my legs. Giving a howl out. Drag across the stones. Dragging at me. Drag me in. See the sand dunes. The sting sea grass whipping vicious in the wind. Waves purple chocolate. Snaking at my ankles. Trip me up. Falling on my hands and face. The ocean. Am I drowning? Red knees in my red tights fallen on the foam. I am in it. Gushing back for more of it. The waves are more and rolling over. Back up me. Over me. Soaked and leaden crawling on the dust. My red coat. Sogging. Face down and shrunken in a hood. My faceful of sand. Mouthful of sand. My hands clawing under water tow me out. Heavy head. Heart going mad panic stricken. Saying out. Names. You. You. That type of lung screaming out. Raw and whistle-ish screaming no sound. Expel. Expel it. No one hear me. Struggle. Help me. Gurgle. Glugle. Salted mouth pit. Salted seaweed tongue. Drowning. Gasping. Filled up to the nose and the eyes and the brain. And going cold now. Going under. I am. I am. Going. I am gone. Stop. Up. Breath. Breathe.

Mammy. Cry out. I had a terrible dream. Shush now. She comes. She sits with me down. Those aren’t real love. Just made up in your head that can’t harm you really, now you’re awake. Now there. There now. Nothing bad will ever happen you. Mammy can I sleep in your bed?

In her mother arms I lay feel now and then her jolt awake. Leg jostling. A little snort. A little choke. Her eyelids flicker in the night. All such usual things to me and good to sleep against. She that always keep me safe. Our nylon nighties static cling. Tiny ribbons on the neck and hands. Matching roses. My sunshine. Only. But Mammy leave the hall light on. I need to see it through the dark.

PART II

A GIRL IS

A HALF-FORMED THING

1

The beginning of teens us. Thirteen me fifteen sixteen you. Wave and wave of it hormone over. Like hot flush cold splash down my neck. Spilt with new thoughts, troublesome that is and things that always must be said. Spill it out. Spill it down.

Where’s that father? Mine? Who belonged to was part of me? I think of. Where is he? Imagination of fathers sitting by me on the bed. Stroking my hair you’re my girl, belong to me pet. I have heard of seen those things somewhere on the telly. And I say will you ever tell me what he said about daughters before I was born?

She says I’ve something to tell you after all. Your father’s hmmm. Your father’s, sit down. What? Shush. Dead. A while ago I got a letter from his mother, once it was over and done. She said he took a stroke. Quick. Probate won’t be long. But you never told us? Why didn’t you tell us? There wasn’t much I could say, not like he loved you, us I mean, and now he’s dead. You’re provided for. It’s time to go about our business. What’s that? Moving house. Why? Because he bought this and I don’t want it anymore. But I don’t want to move Mammy. Don’t start. But we’ve always lived here. We’re. Moving. House. Because. That. Is. What. I’d. Like. To. Do. And. If. You. Don’t. Too. Bad. Because. I’m. The. Mother. And. You. Will. Do. What. I. Say. As. Long. As. You. Live. Under. My. Roof. You. Will. Always. Do. What. I. Say. O. Kay.

We scour a house. Sniff all over. See if it’s a good bed down. I don’t understand marching around thinking upstairs downstairs toilets good bad indifferent, that is fungus that’s not foam. Are those rotten windows is there a draft under that door? My ocean insides wallowing about. Look at you you not that bothered, calmer but hear at night you pound the wall saying where’d he go? Where’d he fecking go?

Pack up. Teeth feeling itchy in my head. I’ve eczema, a load of spots, then a bleeding, Jesus, period one day. Thinking, walk around the house at night saying bye to you thing and you and you.

You ripping bookshelves off the wall. Crash it. Throw it on the carpet. Snap. Stop that. Accident I pulled too hard. I’ll pack these, snap these knitting needles of hers. That stinking wedding cake ornaments she has. I’ll break them stick them in her drawer as if she cares as if she’ll see and wonder where it’s from.

Pack it. Throwing out this bike. Was that his? I ask you. Yes you stupid bitch and whose else would it be? Can we keep it? No. His umbrella and binoculars too? I want. Something. Like you knew him, like you know anything or ever saw him even. Give you a slap scratch. But you’ll give me bloody nose if you can, you can’t I can run away.

Box it she says or in a black bag. That his briefcase and letters and magnifying glass and this pen. Whose is it? I ask. Chuck it away she said.

She said I like this place you will. You will. There’s your room. There’s your bed. And don’t you give me a face like that. Get up stairs and make up your beds. Rumble tumble.

Have this yours mine his hers whose that and what’s the matter don’t you care at all? I’m sorry if you feel. Tell me something good that he done once? Your bloody father’s dead and gone. Much good he was he left a will oh don’t worry it’s all for ye not me. Feed you clothe you all that stuff oh yes you’ll be fine but there’s no good old story. I haven’t that to give. Your bastard father. Your bastard. Yours. You and him. Get out of my sight and don’t forget to say your prayers.

Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with thee. Say it. Blessed art thou among women. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.

Holy Mary mother of god pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Do you like that? Do you like the look of that school? There. That’s where you’ll be going. Both. Now. For the first time. Isn’t that nice? At the same time. Yes different years. But still. You’ll mind each other. You’ll mind each other. You will. My family is love.

We sliced through that fug school bus. So misfortunately new. Thicken soup-ish teenage sweat and cigarette boys slop always at the back. Held tight my rucksack filled with rattling tins of pens. Fat drizzle blotch through the polyester skirt I sideways slope to walk in. Felt my hormones long to slink quiet out of these hard eyes. Do not be seen. Do not see me. But I must turn myself to the great face of girls.

Raw red in the cold snow air. Blow puffs of exhalation in tea smelled breath up the window panes and gaggle. Birds and beast they. In damp army jackets and sweat sunk skirts. They’d be faggy if they could. Full of perms and baggy T-shirts. They may wear their shirttails out as I may not. Cerise talons itch for. I am home- style hands still cleaned and trim. Neat on the cuticle. White at the tip. I may not be that girl. And I may not say there are rosary beads slipping in my pocket on my thumb. I have them talisman against all wrong they’ll do me. I know they will.

I be new girl. I could wish to be dead but for the wrong of it. To have to be saying again again where I come from. Who I am. And I’m from some place so much littler than this. That redneck culchie. Backward. Farmyard. I am all these things to the great girl face. Those herd. Such bovine singing heifers. Come don’t hate me. All your walkmans fizz in tune, in time with conversations, pointing graffiti’s on the bus, love this one that one. New girl stinks.

I’ll let my heart walk away. I’ll think of home. I’ll feel all their smells converge around me to that bit I can’t attach. That’s the inside of where they all are. That they have smelled each other all their lives and know the way. And know the way it is. They say I’m proud. Stuck up. I’ll dream myself up above there. The roof of the bus and looking down. I think I’ll see them down there where they fart and blame some other one. Where they itch between their mucky legs. Where clammy thighs catch their tights right in and give them sore spots little ingrown hairs. I see you through those eyes. Antennae. Newness. Shocking as a stranger. I see you. Back, unaware meander arms and legs into the pool of sharks. See them stretch out to snap you. Chew and spit. On that bus. And shout come down here new boy. You, I see, see me but pass off. Climb the ruckle of school bags. Balance yourself on the backs of the chairs. Your feet are drowning when it sets off. Gunk you. Throw you over. With a hard knock on your face. On your knees. Hefty drop from which you can’t get up. Well. No escape from bus muck on your hands. In a slobber on your face. They’re roaring sniffing. See your blood pouring down the aisle to them. Snapping. Chewing at your hands and feet. Ha ha ha breathe out Spastic. Spastic fall over. Can’t spastic walk? I feel you on the inside, that blast of it. Done wrong. I ponder will I help with those new girls around? Their great faces birch derision down. Scalder up my neck my throat to me and my head. I say are you alright in the muffle of my coat hood. Where I can hardly be seen to feel you matter. And you say – spring up – I’m fine. I’m fine. You laugh away think they won’t know it was not fun for you to fall sprawl. Bus bumps. Bus grind over the bridge look out. Turn my head from your catch of throat of tongue, on the wrong part of the word to be free and easy. Hear you shuffle on down to at the back. I know they have you off down there. That you’ll be butt and crib of jokes. I leave you there to your fate and soon. I hear you going all the wellie, telling – no one laughing – tales of where you’re from. They are leery. Laughing underhand at your frizz hair. Your little gut that rolls a bit on your band. That does you down that you don’t see or worry, will be against the cool of them those pitchfork farmer boys with their green wellies on. With their rank stories of strung-up cats and slit-ear pups from that big litter had last spring. They’ll throw a bat against the wall to see if mush flap squeal or die. Stick a blue tit in the range so it will squeak burn. You said tit. Burning tits they like that. And say that word to all the girls if they can. How’s your tits? Have you any eggs you fucking bitch. We are. What are we are doing here? In this place that is full of that. Is over-brimmed of torture.