A Swift Pure Cry (5 page)

She took another drag. 'Jakes!' She gave it back. He took three long drags.

'Mam says they're the devil's own curse of a fag. Only sailors and whores smoke them.'

'Whores?' Shell said.

'You know. Ladies of the night.'

'Ladies of the night?'

'Ladies who sell their bodies.'

'Who what?'

'You're having a rise with me, Shell Talent. You know a whore as well as I do.'

She didn't quite, but a small inspiration made her say, 'Like Mary Magdalene, you mean?'

'A whore of the first water.' Declan blew a smoke ring and together they watched it waft into the blue air. 'That reminds me,' he mused. 'I've just read this book my cousin over in London gave me. A big thick book.
The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail
. Not by one scholar, not by two, but by three. And d'you know what they said?'

'What?'

'They said Jesus married your woman, Mary Magdalene.'

Shell's eyes opened wide. 'Never!'

'Too right.
And
they had a child.'

'A child?'

'Yeh. A girl. Apparently after your man Jesus snuffed it, Mary M. ran away with the child and crossed the water. They say she landed in France.'

'In
France
?'

'France.'

Shell imagined a boat landing on a vast tract of empty sand. Mary Magdalene and her toddler climbed over the side and walked silently through the gentle tide towards the whistling dunes, into the new country.

'Maybe she went north to Roskoff harbour,' Declan mused. 'And took the Brittany line over to Cork.'

Shell clouted him. 'You're making it up.'

'No. Honest.' He handed her the fag. This time she declined it, calling to mind the holy abstinence of Father Rose. Declan took another short puff. 'Well, the bit about coming to Ireland I am. But the rest is in that book. They claim the Holy Catholic Apostolic Church covered it up. They're in cahoots with the freemasons.'

They sat together in companionable silence, Declan smoking and Shell thinking about the hidden life of Jesus. She saw him at the carpentry, barefoot, with his small child, a girl, pulling at his robe. Mary Magdalene was kneading the bread for the tea off to one side. His piercing blue eyes looked upon her. He picked up a plane to finish off the surface, murmuring sweet words of love.

'Would you or wouldn't you, Shell Talent?' Declan said suddenly.

'Heh?'

'That's the question I've been asking myself.'

Shell frowned. 'Would I what?'

'You know.' His hand did a few cartwheels in the air. '
That
.'

'What?'

'Was she born yesterday? Go into a field, Shell. With me. Do a Mary Magdalene. Take off your clothes.'

'And why,' Shell said, 'would I do that, Declan Ronan?'

He whistled through his teeth. 'I'd never call you smelly again, Shelly,' he teased.

'You're a right one.' She got up and gave him a kick on the thigh. He caught her ankle again. She looked down on him, lanky and brown, with a curly top and a blue flash for an eye. She pictured them both in Duggans' field with the barley up, stark naked, scooting around on all fours. 'A real, right one,' she snapped, wriggling her ankle.

''S that a yes?' Declan's hand inched up her calf.

'No!'

'You mean it's a no?'

'No.' She slapped his hand away from her leg.

'So it
is
a yes?'

'No, it's no!'

He grinned up at her. 'Only codding,' he says. 'I wouldn't go with you if you were Mary Magdalene herself.' He ground out the fag on a stone before it was spent.

'Bye, then,' Shell said.

'Bye-byes, Shellies,' he sang. He started again:

'
Shell smells like--
'

Then he stopped. He pouted and shrugged, throwing away the fag butt. 'Ah, don't go, Shell. Give us a kiss,' he pleaded. 'Go on. Kiss and make up. I didn't mean what I said.'

A kiss could do no harm, she supposed. She knelt down beside him and pushed out her lips. She closed her eyes.

His hands came round her, one on the back of her neck, the other on the small of her back. His lips came up to hers. She expected a little putter on them, like she gave Trix at night-Jimmy had grown out of them-and when it didn't happen she puttered him instead. But his two hands got tighter and his lips stayed hard on hers, until a soft sliver snaked into her mouth through the crack. She jumped. He didn't let go. He got his tongue further in and ferreted round as if he was looking for a gumboil or sore tooth. The tip of his bumped into the tip of hers. The picture of God bringing life into Adam through a meeting of fingertips flashed through her brain. Lightning forked from her throat to her toes. He let her go.

She jerked back, jellified.

'Not bad,' Declan said. 'For starters.'

She clouted his head and ran.

'Never mind,' he called after her. 'There's always Bridie.

Hickory, dickory

Bridie Quinn

Ring the bell

And let yourself in
,'

he sang. Shell had no idea what he was on about. As she rounded the hut, she saw Bridie herself. She was looking on from a distance with a face to turn milk, then she turned away with a jerk and strode back into the sea of maggot-green. Shell raced off in the other direction, towards the entrance to the school. She didn't stop running until she'd landed safely in her classroom.

The other pupils dribbled in after her. Of Bridie there was no sign. Lessons started. Up and down her trunk, the lightning inside her darted, coming and going all day long.

Nine

The last day of term, Friday, Father Rose came to say Mass in the school hall.

A shaft of light toppled in from the high window. Shell imagined it was Jesus in disguise, gliding down from heaven, straight into the tabernacle. '
Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed
,' the school chorused.

She went up to take the Host. Father Rose placed it upon her outstretched tongue. He loomed tall in his vestment of cream and green.

'Body of Christ,' he said.

She nearly forgot to say
Amen
.

The thin papery wafer went down softly, exploding like fifty fruit-chews in her tarnished soul. She shut her eyes to blot out the sight of Declan Ronan in the white surplice. He was altar boy again. But she kept picturing him with her, scooting around naked in Duggans' field.

When she opened her eyes, the after-Communion silence had descended. Father Rose cleaned the chalice out with a white cloth, handed to him by Declan. Declan was as tall as him. The two's shoulders almost touched. They could have been brother apostles, had Declan an ounce of religion. His altar-boy job was a ruse. His mam and dad drafted him into it when he was seven and knew no better. Now he did it, he said, because he'd always manage a good few swigs of the communion wine in the vestry when no one was looking.

'The Mass is ended, go in peace,' Father Rose said.

'Thanks be to God,' the pupils responded.

They filed out back to class. Soon after, just before lunch, the school finished early for the Easter holidays. Shell got her things and wafted through the noisy throngs of pupils in the corridors and playground in a state of grace.

Out on the street, Bridie Quinn was waiting for her.

She sprang, arms flailing. She tugged at Shell's hair and punched her face.

'You,' she said. 'You.'

Shell put her arms up, thinking of Jesus expelling the fiends from the man possessed.

'Bridie,' she shouted. ''S me. Only me.' She caught Bridie's hand, but Bridie wrenched it back, struck her, and started to cry.

'What's the matter?' Shell said, trying to touch her.

Bridie shoved her off. '
You're
the matter. You. You cheat. You whore. You.'

Shell nearly cried too. 'I'm not.'

'You are,' Bridie said. 'I saw you. Yesterday. Saw you with him. You made him do it. Kiss you. And him going with
me
.' She lunged at Shell's shirt, tearing at it. 'After I'm giving you that bra. I'll have it off you.'

Bridie rained down blows and kicks. A button came off. Shell knelt on the pavement, her hands protecting her head, praying Jesus to make her stop.

He did. Father Rose appeared from nowhere.

'Whoa--' he said. 'What's this?'

Bridie stopped. She gave Shell a final kick and fled.

Shell slowly unfurled. Father Rose's eyebrows rose when he recognized her.

'Shell,' he said, in his thoughtful way. Shell stood up, sorting out her gaping shirt.

'Are you all right?'

She nodded.

'Who was that fighting you?'

She nearly said Bridie Quinn. Then she remembered the years of their friendship. 'Just a girl.'

'Does she often hit you?' he said.

Shell shook her head. 'We're friends really.'

'Sure?'

'Sure.'

They stood on the street. Shell felt a bruise on her elbow coming, where it had hit the pavement. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. Father Rose looked at her with a crinkle in his face, his hand rubbing his stubbly chin. Cars passed. Rain started spitting.

'Come on,' he said. 'I'll give you a spin home.'

'I've to pick up Jimmy and Trix from national school.'

'I'll give you a spin there then.'

He led Shell in silence down the kerb to where his car, an ancient wreck of purple, was parked. 'Don't laugh,' he said as Shell goggled at it.

'I thought it'd be black,' she said.

'Why so?'

'Like your clothes. Or white, maybe. Like your collar.'

'It was a bargain, going for a song. I didn't like the colour at first. But it's grown on me. It gets you noticed.'

'True for you.'

'It's not too lurid, d'you think?'

Shell wasn't sure what lurid meant. She frowned as if considering hard. 'I think it's fine, Father. Like a pop song.'

Father Rose laughed. The rain got harder. 'Come on,' he said. He opened the passenger door, took Shell's school bag from her and built that bridge of his with his spare arm over the door, so she'd to wriggle under it to get in.

'There you go.' He closed the door after her.

On the seat she'd to remove chewing-gum wrappers, a map of Ireland and his driving licence, so as to sit down. She gathered them onto her lap while he rushed round the other side and clambered in, putting her bag in the back. Shell felt as if a massive pony had got on board a wheelbarrow. His hair was brushing the top of the car, his knees were an inch from the steering wheel. 'Now,' he said, closing the door. The sound of the rain changed. It kataplunked on the roof. The warmth of their breath misted the windows.

He started up the engine. It chugged and wheezed, then died.

'Don't do this to me, Jezebel.'

Shell turned and stared. 'Jezebel?'

'It's a joke of a name, I know. But Jezebel she is, for she's a devil in her.'

He tried again. The car spurted, nearly started, died again.

'She hates the damp.'

Third try, the car started. Shell stared at the contents of her lap, wondering what to do with them. Father Rose pulled out, nearly colliding with another car. The side mirrors had water streaming off them. You could hardly see a thing. He didn't seem perturbed. He was trusting to the Lord.

'Will we go the straight road, or round the coast?' he asked.

They'd no car in Shell's house since Mam died. Mam had been the one with the driving licence. Dad owned one years ago, she had heard, but it had been taken from him for reasons Shell didn't know. There was never enough time these days to walk the three miles down to the strand on Goat Island. Mam used to run them there most days in the summer, and-also in the winter-after church on a Sunday. She'd loved to watch the waves rearing high as steeples.

'Let's go the coast road. Please.'

'The coast it is,' said Father Rose. 'If we can see it for the rain.'

They drove through the town. Mrs Fallon, the doctor's wife, waddled down the street with a plastic bag over her head, joining Mrs McGrath under the shelter of the bank doorway. Shell waved at them. They stared after her and Father Rose in open-mouthed surprise as they careered down Main Street in the purple saloon. At the grotto, Father Rose turned left and headed out the C-road. The rain hammered it as they topped the hill. A sheep with a blood-red smear of paint on its side ran out onto the road before them, as if eager to be killed. Father Rose swerved. The sheep leaped back into the open field. 'There but for the grace of God, Shell,' Father Rose said, straightening up. The car jerked into a pothole. Shell's head nearly hit the ceiling. She nearly lost the contents of her lap. She grabbed the licence just as it slipped off her knee.