About Matilda (30 page)

Rita is here. She has one hand on her forehead and the other holding the open door. Uncle Philip is behind her with his two hands frozen to his face peeping at me between the
gaps in his fingers. Rita holds me and I lean against her. There, there, she says like I'm a five-year-old, but I don't care. She strokes my hair and tells me everything is all right. I knew you weren't well. Didn't I say you were pale? Too much orange and crisps, that's what it is. You'll be right in the morning. I rest against her, afraid to let her go, and I promise myself I'll never be alone with him again.

Later, I hear them go to bed and their door close. I'm too scared to sleep. I don't want to wake in the morning with Rita in work and Philip towering over me. I stand at the window and lift up the bottom sash. The icy night air stings my face and turns the room so cold I'm certain even Rita's dead mother has pulled her shawl a little tighter. The hill of Ballybricken is dark and deserted, the only light is from the Gardaí's Barracks on the other side of the hill. There are no stars and no mother to talk to. Just a quarter moon floating above the spire of St John's church. There's no clock in the room, no watch on my hand. The squad car roars out of the Gardaí's Barracks with its blue light flashing and disappears down Patrick Street, then everything goes quiet again. I watch and wait and, when I hear the convent bell ring for morning mass, I run downstairs.

My poncho is hanging in the sitting-room closet. I think about just grabbing it and running, but I'm frozen from standing all night. I pull it on over my head but hear footsteps coming downstairs. Uncle Philip comes in the room in his bare feet and his belt buckle open and tells me to stay. I turn my face from his and try to pass but his arm blocks the door. The veins throb in his arm but his voice is almost sweet.

Come on, Matilda. We'll talk when Rita goes out to work.

I don't want to talk. I have to go, please just let me go.

He takes his arm away to fasten his belt buckle and I try to push past him. He grabs the poncho as if he's playing with me.

Come on. You can stay if you want to.

I don't want to. I want to go home.

I wriggle away from him and nearly knock over the Christmas tree. A Christmas bulb falls to the floor and he crushes it under his foot when he moves to block the door again. I can smell that strange perfume from him again that isn't Rita's. I straighten up and try to look at him straight in the eye, but can't. I'm too ashamed. Too embarrassed over things I've done. But somehow I manage to mutter, if he doesn't let me go I'll tell.

I told you already what would happen.

I don't care. I'll tell Rita. I swear I will.

Ha, she won't believe you either. Don't be stupid.

She will. I know she will. I'll make her believe me. And don't call me stupid either. That's what my father calls me. I'm not stupid.

Off you go then, tell Rita.

He moves away and I hurry towards the hallway, but he runs after me and pulls me back by the hair. I grab his hand and look up. I see his face now. It's almost purple and there's spit at the corners of his mouth. He drags me back to the sitting room and I want to cry out with the pain but I don't want Rita to hear. He lets my hair go and sits on the pink sofa with his head in his hands. I wish he wouldn't do that. I don't know what it means. I never know what to do with people when they're like this. He looks up at me like I think an uncle should look at you, but I'm not sure because I never had uncles like that. His voice is trembling and he's not making any sense. I don't know what he's mumbling. His knees are trembling. I'm trembling. I want to get out of here.

I hear Rita's footsteps on the floorboards upstairs and the wardrobe door closing. Philip's pupils are as big as pennies. His eyeballs wide open. His hand reaches into his back trouser pocket and takes out a five-pound note but I don't want
money. I don't want anything. I don't feel anything. I just see the front door and dawn breaking through the frosted glass. I need to be on the other side of that door. He's still looking up at me with the money in his hand.

I never meant harm, Matilda. You know I didn't. You're just so pretty.

I have to go now.

Take the money. Please, Matilda. I'd feel better.

What do you mean?

I mean, I'd feel better if you just, you know. Here, go on. Take it.

He'd feel better? What does that mean? Fuck him. I don't know where I get the strength but my blood must be on fire because I've said it before I know I've said it.

Fuck off. That's what you can do now. Just go and fuck yourself.

I turn towards the door without looking back and leave him with his money in his hand and his eyeballs rolling and meet Rita coming down the stairs fixing her handbag strap over her shoulder.

You're leaving, Matilda?

I am.

You must feel better.

A little.

You're certain you won't stay?

I'm positive, Rita. But thanks anyway.

I close the front door and sprint down the street and around the corner. I sit on the doorstep of a house with the porch light on and Christmas lights shimmering in the window. It's barely light. I'm too cold to cry. There's a pain between my ears like my tears have frozen at the back of my eyes. Up the street is my grandmother's house. Across the street there's a hypermarket where Denny's meats used to be.

I sit here watching the sun rise above the chimney pots. The milk float comes down the street and the milkman's helper runs from house to house. I better go home. People are passing on the way to town and I don't want anyone to see me like this.

Back in the convent Sonny is pacing up and down the kitchen with his hands clasped behind his back.

What are you doing here, Sonny? Oh Jesus, Sonny, I'm sorry. I forgot.

Never mind that now, Matilda. Get your stuff, quick. The bus is waiting.

I can't, Sonny. I'm knackered. I'm awake all night.

Awake? Was it the nerves or what? Don't answer. You don't have time. You're here now, that's the main thing. You can catch forty winks on the bus.

Couldn't I just give it a miss, Sonny?

Supposin' I have to carry you to Limerick on my shoulders, you're comin' with me. Days like this are rare. These are the days you can look back on and I won't let you throw it away now. What are you smiling at, Matilda? Did I say something funny or what?

I run upstairs. My bed is made; part of me wants to crawl under the covers and cry but I can't lay down feeling sorry for myself. I grab my stuff from my locker and we run for the bus.

It's my last race under fourteen. It's the All-Ireland finals and we're in the relay. Sonny's daughter, Caroline, Lisa Healy and me. Everyone says St Mary's from Limerick will win because they have the best young runner in the country and she looks it. Tall and lean with a long blonde ponytail, doing little run-ups in her navy tracksuit, knowing the world is watching. Her mother and father are standing at the finish, all wrapped
up in their woolly hats and scarves, checking they have enough film in the camera and wondering, Where's the best place to take a picture now, do you think?

Sonny says she's the anchor and that means she's running last and that means I'll be running against her. I know Caroline is fast, maybe the fastest of her group, and Lisa Healy is good too, but I'm petrified. Sonny comes for my tracksuit, looks up at the grey sky, down at the mud, tilts his cap back on his head and walks away whistling. There's a cold wind in my face and fog so thick I can barely make out the hedges. I wish I knew why Sonny was so happy.

I'm standing under a tree with four other girls because there's no point goin' out on to the track, getting wetter, until we see the runners coming through the gate at the top of the field. The girl from St Mary's is standing under another tree, a little away from us, talking to her coach. She's testing the mud with her toe and it doesn't seem to bother her. She looks like she's been getting ready for this all her life and all I want to do is go to bed and cry.

Her coach looks smart in his bright white tracksuit and the gold whistle around his neck and smiling all round him with his big white teeth. You'd never see Sonny in whistles and tracksuits and big white teeth. He wanders around in that overcoat he wears winter and summer, choking on a fag, lucky to have a tooth in his head. Do your best, girl, he says. Don't let yourself down. That's the main thing. Never be less than you are. Still, I see the pride in his eyes when we win. I know it's not for himself and that's what I like about Sonny. Everything is just so simple.

There's a roar. A girl appears at the top gate. She's on her own. I can't see who it is yet. She's too far away and in this fog she'll have to be right on top of me before I know for certain, but I never prayed so hard it's Caroline.

And it is, it's Caroline's red vest coming out of the fog. But there's a girl close behind in blue. I step out onto the track, my heart clattering in my chest and my throat so tight I can barely breathe. Caroline is getting closer, the baton swinging back and forth in her hand. The girl from St Mary's jogs out and stands beside me. Christ she's tall. Everyone says I'm tall but she has legs like a giraffe.

Caroline is closer, so close I can hear her panting and her feet squelching in the mud. She passes the baton to me and I'm off. Go, Matilda, go. I go, but not too fast. There's a long way to race.

I go through the gate at the bottom of the track and into the next field. I hear the cheers for the girl from St Mary's. I'm ahead but not by much and my legs go weaker. There's drizzle blowing in our faces and, when we reach the top of the field, she's right beside me. Though I think I can go faster, I know for certain she can too.

We turn at the oak tree. People are cheering. The ground is heavy, muddy, catching my feet and dragging me in. I slide. I don't fall, but the fright makes me lose stride and I hear her runners squelching in the mud. I feel her beside me, ready to pass. She's waiting her chance, letting me tire, then she'll be gone, the tall girl from St Mary's, the best young runner in the country, against the Shep, the orphan, the retard, and I'm so ashamed. I'll never have what I want. Never have what the girl from St Mary's wakes up to every morning. I'll never have a family. All I'll ever have is a lunatic father and an uncle with a five-pound note.

The tears come to my eyes. Try as I might, I can't hide them. My hand swings back and there's a second when it touches the wrist of the St Mary's girl. We run stride for stride through a muddy lane, people on both sides shouting her on. I could slow down now, let her ahead of me. Let her go so far
ahead nobody would notice who was second. Nobody would blame me for losing to the best young runner in the country. We turn at the bottom of the muddy lane round another oak tree; my shoulder touches her arm. She's toying with me, falling back to tease me, pretending to tire, waiting to take the only thing that's mine. The only thing my father can't touch. My running. There's a voice in my head telling me to fight. You have to fight, Matilda.

I hear Sonny telling me not to let myself down and I remember the pride in his eyes when we win. I fight the tears, the hurt, the mud, the five-pound note. No matter how stupid I look trying to beat the lanky bitch from St Mary's, I can't give up. Sonny and the team need me and nobody ever needed me before. Not for real. Nobody else ever wanted me to be just myself. There's strength in my heart and suddenly it's in my legs again and I'm running above the ground, above the mud, above myself. I look back and, Jesus, the best young runner in the country isn't there anymore. I look ahead to the finish line and see Caroline and Lisa jumping up and down cheering. Sonny's cap is covering his face but I know there's a smile inside him that would dazzle you and it's hard not to smile myself. I know I don't have a family like the Limerick girl or any other girl here but maybe some day I will. I might be covered in mud but inside I feel clean and when I cross that finish line I know this must be what it feels like when you've just come home.

There's still no word from Sheamie. To make things worse, my father could come home from London soon. If I couldn't tell by the evenings getting longer and the swallows that nest under the convent roof swooping over our heads in the playground I could tell by Danny sitting on the stone wall. If Danny even thinks our father is coming, he climbs that wall faster than a nun's confession. Gabriel is dreading it. She's been praying a lot more lately. Praying is important to the nuns. As important as make-up is to the big girls. They always look so different afterwards, and this morning when I tell Gabriel I'm going for a run she looks badly in need of the blusher.

She's sitting at the kitchen table in her new habit. I took me a while to get used to it. Well, actually, it took me a while to get used to the fact Gabriel has legs. It stops just below her knee. And her new veil is short and sits on top of her head and not strapped under her chin like the old one. Her hair is cut short and has a slight curl to it and it's almost as dark as mine. She's reading her prayer book and from the moment she lifts her head to ask, Is there any news of your father, Matilda? to when I answer, Not yet, Mother, even birds sitting on wires stop singing and are stuck there with their beaks open waiting for the answer.

I'm running along the edge of the pavement by the Apple Market when the hand comes out from the crowd. I know that hand better than my own. I know how the long straight fingers stick together and the thumb lies flat across the palm.
The thick knuckles. The strong, sleeveless arm. The clean fingernails. I know that voice it belongs to. If I didn't know what it could do, I'd want to hear it more than anything. If I didn't know how quickly it can change, I couldn't wait to hear it. I'd dream about it. I'd listen to every sweet and beautiful word and love it more than anything.