A Swift Pure Cry (10 page)

'Oh, Mam,' she said out loud.

The sound fell back, dead, into her ribcage. Tears pricked at her and when they fell, she didn't bother to wipe them dry.

'Why did you have to die?'

There was no answer, only the fridge's fretful hum. Maybe the man from Galilee hadn't risen as he should. Maybe he was still cold in the grave, stone dead, just like her mam. An aching chasm yawned inside her, a white-cold loneliness like a distant star. She touched the keys of the piano, pressing them down softly so that they did not play.

'Oh, Mam.'

She heard the bed in the room beyond creak. Dad must have turned in his drunken slumber.

The house pressed in on her. She opened the front door and breathed the dawn air. It was cool and fresh. The copse beckoned at the top of the hill. For want of anything better to do, she started up towards it. The exercise brought a flush back to her cheeks. She drifted through the demure and thoughtful trees. A starling called a downward scale, like a sigh.

She emerged out onto Duggans' field.

A figure was walking up it, coming towards her from Coolbar. As it approached, it grew first darker, then white and grey.

She remembered Mary Magdalene at the tomb and how she'd thought the man she met there was the gardener.

She waited.

Father Rose? she thought when the man's height became clear. Her heart leaped. Light was playing in his hair.

Three startled rabbits bounded away from him as he drew nearer. She recognized him then. It wasn't Father Rose. It was Declan.

'Shell,' he said. He smiled straight into her eyes. He didn't seem to notice she'd been crying. He stretched out his arms to her. 'I knew you'd come.'

Part II
AUTUMN

Seventeen

The sun came down hard overhead. The heat was close and still.

'Who d'you like, Declan? Who d'you like most in the world? Tell me.'

Declan didn't answer. Instead he started tickling her, snapping a stalk of barley and swishing it back and forth over her belly as they lay naked in Duggans' field. The fuzzy prickles made her squirm and giggle. He pinned her down, laying his strong arm across her shoulders, and tickled her harder. She fisted him on the back.

'Stop!' she screeched.

'I'll stop-if you pass me a fag.'

Shell hunted round the ground for the packet of Majors. She eased one out and popped it in Declan's mouth. Then she found his lighter and lit it. Declan took a long drag and crinkled his fingers through her hair. He rolled her onto her side and curled up behind her, fitting his knees snug into the backs of hers. Their assignations were top secret; he'd made her promise to keep them that way.
Declan and me, a private club
, she thought. The tall ears of crop hid them from the world.

'You haven't answered my question,' she reminded him.

'Hmm,' he murmured in her ear. 'You haven't answered mine.'

'You didn't
ask
me a question.'

'I'm asking it now.'

'What then?'

'Who
d'you
like most? In the whole wide world?'

'That was my question.'

'Is it Kevin Dunne in Year Five? Has he his eye on you, the stinky devil?'

She didn't move.

'He's a squint and a case of pimples-but he's forever mouthing off about the girlfriends.'

She shook her head.

'Not Kevin Dunne, so. Is it Mick McGrath?'

'Mick
McGrath
?'

'The son, not the father.'

'He's over in Cashel, boarding, isn't he?'

'He might have had a go in the holidays.'

She shrugged. 'Hardly see him.'

'Not telling then?'

She shook her head.

'If I promise to buy you a present, will you tell me?'

'What present?'

'Whatever you like.'

'Anything?'

'Any whole thing, Shell Talent.'

'Would you buy me a new bra?'

He laughed. 'What size?'

'Dunno. I was thirty-six C before. Think I've grown since.'

'I'd say so. You're a D, if ever I saw one. Or two.'

'Would you give me the money then-if I tell you-who I like most?'

'I would.'

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

She lay still and thought. Then she turned round and whispered in his ear.

'What?' he said. 'Didn't catch it.'

'It's true,' she said out loud. 'He's the one.'

'But I didn't get the name. Whisper it again.'

She leaned over his ear and whispered louder: '
Pistols and Shuttlecocks
.'

'That was nonsense-shocking nonsense, Miss Talent.'

'You weren't listening. I'm not telling again.'

'You're as close as a thicket.'

'You owe me a bra, Declan Ronan.'

'You cheated.'

'You promised.'

'OK, OK. I'll give you a fiver and you can buy one for yourself in town. On one condition.'

'What?'

'You say:
Declan Ronan, I like you more than any whole soul in the whole wide world
. And, you come back here on Thursday for another go.'

'That's two conditions.'

'OK, two conditions. 'S all or nothing.'

She said the words, then she ran her hands over his good, hard bones and flat belly. He'd slithered up onto her before another second passed and gave her a slow kiss.

'And it's a deal,' she murmured. 'About Thursday.'

Afterwards they pulled on their clothes. Declan ruffled her hair and blew on her cheek.

'You're a funny one,' he said. 'You're like a cat that's been dragged backwards through a hedge. You've bits of grass all over.'

'So've you. Only worse. You're like a bird that's had a dust-bath.'

He picked up his jacket and flung it over his shoulder, grinning.

'Don't forget your promise,' she said.

He groaned, but rummaged in his jacket pocket and found the money. 'Make sure it's big enough,' he said, handing it over. 'You're popping out all over in that yoke.'

She folded the money up into a tight cylinder and put it down her front. He laughed and pinched her arm and went on his way. She watched as his tall, raunchy silhouette receded down the summer field, into the fold of slope.

It was only when he'd gone that she realized he'd made her say what he wanted, but had said no such thing to her. She walked along the top of the field and into the copse. The nettles were dying back, and the leaves were brown-edged. Blackberries twinkled in the hedge. They'd been going together for more than four months and he never once said any of the things she wanted to hear. She shook her head, worldly-wise, and patted the place where she'd put his fiver. She smiled. That, she supposed, was the way of boys the world over.

Eighteen

She collected Jimmy and Trix from where they'd spent the day at Duggans' farm. Mrs Duggan was hot and cross, not in her usual humour. She scooted them out of the kitchen. Trix had lost her spade and was bawling mad, but Shell found it for her in the milking parlour. She'd dropped it there when they'd been playing Dead Soldiers on the high bars where the cows were penned in as they were milked. Shell remembered teaching them the game herself. It was her own invention. You hopped up on the bar, one leg in front, one behind. You curled your front ankle around the back knee. You balanced straight and tall. When somebody on another bar winked at you, you went flat over, dead, as if you'd been shot at close range. You stayed upside down, swinging, until all the other soldiers were down and dead like you. You lolled out your tongue and stared like a dead mackerel. If you caught somebody's eye, you could still wink up at them and kill them, even though you were dead yourself.

Trix said the red spade must have dropped from under her arm when Jimmy'd killed her. She slapped Jimmy's backside with it all the way over the fields. Every time she struck, Jimmy squealed like a pig, jumping in the air dementedly, making Trix laugh. Shell's head pounded with the two of them.

There was nobody in when they got back. Dad had gone to the city the day before. He was into the city with his collecting tins most of the week these days, and often stayed overnight. Where, she did not know. He'd been due back two nights ago but still hadn't come.

She fixed tea. She'd rashers in the freezer compartment. She didn't wait for them to defrost, but fried them up along with slabs off the pan loaf.

Perhaps the bus he'd gone in had keeled over on a sharp bend, killing all aboard.

Perhaps he'd thrown himself in the river Lee.

Perhaps a thief had knocked him out and when he'd come round, he'd forgotten who he was.

Perhaps he'd run away, leaving them, and was on the boat over to Swansea.

She smiled at the thoughts, munching her tea. She was hungry. Jimmy and Trix peeled off their rinds and she ate both. When they'd finished, Trix said, good as gold, 'Can I be excused, Shell?'

'You can, both of you.'

They were out of the door like arrows for their evening games.

She cleared up, humming the song her mam had liked, the one about the soldier who promises the girl he'll marry her 'when broken shells make wedding bells'. Shell thought it a romantic idea, that of a bride and groom, and a great wedding party, walking up the avenue to Coolbar church to the tune of jingling shells. She swept the floor, washed the plates, and put everything away. She left the fat in the pan in case Dad turned up.

When everything was done, she sat herself down in his chair to dream of Declan. It was the only armchair in the house. She only ever dared sit there when Dad was far away.

Her arms lay on the rests and she shut her eyes.

Declan was with her again, blowing into her fringe. She hugged herself, eyes shut, imagining every little motion.
You're my love
, he was saying.
We'll get married, Shell, as soon as we've made the bells.

Four months or more, and nobody knew.

Then a cold needle threaded its way through her insides.

The bad thing she tried not to think about from one end of the day to the other came back. It would rush up to her like a bad smell when she wasn't prepared. She'd be crossing the road and freeze in front of an on-coming car. Or she'd be making the scones and realize she'd beaten the dough to glue. And she'd be caught in the middle of the thought like a fly on sticky paper.

The curse hadn't come. Not in ages.

She knew all about the curse. Mam had told her about it a couple of years before she died. Then it started one wet winter day, when her mam was already poorly. She remembered being doubled over, walking in the rain, coming back from school, as the strange pains filled up her belly. She'd shivered. Her legs had felt as if they'd drop off. It was as if a great lump of dough was expanding inside her, giving her a great, dull ache. Her mam had given her pills and supplies and told her what to do. She remembered what her mam had said.

It feels funny, Shell. But it's normal. It's your body, hoping every month for a baby to grow inside of you. I remember Sister Assumpta at my convent school-how we laughed at her behind her back!-calling it 'the tears of a disappointed uterus'. When the baby doesn't happen, your body gives up and lets go. Then it starts over the next month, hoping all over again.

What if the baby does happen? Shell had asked.

The curse doesn't come. It stays up inside of you, making a nice warm lining for your baby to lie in. It's a blessing of nature, Shell. Not something fearful.

Then why's it called the curse? Shell had asked. Mam had tousled her hair.

It's just the way we women like to dramatize things, Shell. We'd a joke at our school: 'What's worse, the curse or no curse?' and the answer was 'Depends if you're married, of curse.'

Shell couldn't remember when her last one was. She scrunched up her face and squeezed tight her eyes. She went back over the summer holidays, the jobs in the week, the Mass-days, the dinners she'd made, the shopping days. She went back through the previous summer term. Sports day. Exam days. The Sacred Heart of Jesus holiday, when they'd had tomato sandwiches and biscuits out on the lawn as a treat at school. Bridie Quinn had gone off to have hers with Theresa Sheehy, ignoring her like she'd done since Easter. She didn't even sit near her on the bus and she'd rebuffed Shell's every effort to make up. The school days had been slow and empty without her. Shell shrugged and cast back her mind through May, then it blurred.

No curse days could she remember.

In the heat of the evening, she listened to the house. Flies buzzed around the flypaper. The far cries of Jimmy and Trix came in from the back field. The clock on the sill ticked. She wished the old Bridie, knowing and pert, could materialize at her side to whisk away her worries.
You're romancing
, she imagined Bridie saying.
You're no more up the spout than Mother Teresa
.