Carry Me Down (5 page)

‘Can I’ve a word with you?’ I ask.

‘A word?’ she says, as she smiles; some warmth at last.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Right now.’

We go to my bedroom. I get in under the covers, and so does she. We lie on our backs, up close. Her arm is soft against mine, and before long we breathe together. Her long hair tickles my shoulder and her hand touches my thigh. I want to turn around to her, to have her face closer, but first I have to tell her.

‘Granny lied too.’

She rests her head on her hand, and turns to face me.

‘That’s a very serious thing to say,’ she says.

‘Mammy, I know when people are lying. I feel sick and I know it.’ She looks hard at me for a good while and I try not to blink.

‘What lie did Granny tell?’

I explain about the money, but I don’t say that I took any of it for myself. She sits up now, and doesn’t touch me any more. I close my eyes and wait for her to speak.

‘Did you take any money from Granny’s purse?’

‘No, Mammy. Of course not.’

I stop breathing. My heart thumps so hard I can feel it in my ears. Even though I’m nervous I must pay careful attention to how I feel. It will be important for me to know what lying feels like and to record exactly what it does to my body. I don’t want to lie but if we talk about the money then we won’t talk about my gift. If I tell one truth then more important truths won’t come out.

‘Are you sure?’ she asks.

‘Of course I’m sure.’

I can’t look at her when I tell this lie and I frown to make myself look bothered and a bit cross.

‘That’s good to hear,’ she says.

Good to hear
. That’s the same as saying that you know somebody is lying but you like to hear the lie because it makes you feel better than hearing the truth.

‘Good,’ I say.

‘What happens when somebody tells a lie?’ she asks.

‘I feel sick and my ears and neck burn and I notice every single thing that’s happening.’

She stares at the carpet for a while. ‘I want you to promise you won’t say a word to your da or to Granny about this lying business.’

Although she hasn’t told a lie, I know she doesn’t believe me and she’s mostly worried I’ll embarrass myself. She hasn’t asked enough questions and, if she believed me, she would be more
curious. She’s normally a person who asks questions, one after another, and I always answer her questions.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘It’ll be our secret.’

‘Let’s not call it a secret. Let’s just … let’s call it our sleeping dog.’

‘What kind of dog?’

‘A red-snorer with long hairy legs that twitch while he’s sleeping.’

She lies down again. We smile but I want more: I want her to hug me. I lift my arm and put it over her shoulder. She puts her arm around my waist. This hasn’t happened for quite a long time.

‘Close your eyes,’ she says. Once I have closed my eyes, she kisses me on the lips.

‘Keep your eyes closed,’ she says.

‘OK,’ I say.

She runs her hand along my side, and feels my hip, but she stops suddenly, pats me twice, takes her hand back to herself. And then she is up, too fast, out of my warm bed.

‘Goodnight,’ she says.

‘But …’

‘Goodnight.’

I sit up till late reading the library book,
The Truth about Lie Detection
, and with a new pen and a new exercise book I start writing about lies and the way people behave when they lie. I call the book The Gol of Seil and I write about my father’s lie and about my grandmother’s lie and then about my mother’s strange reaction to the truth.

I wonder what will happen when people find out that I have this rare ability? Or when people realise they can’t deceive me? I’ll need to be careful. I’ll need to be very careful.

I get up early and climb the narrow stairs to my parents’ bedroom. My grandfather built this loft because he wanted a room away from the rest of the cottage where he could repair jewellery. It has two big windows and a low ceiling. Granny is the only one who doesn’t have to stoop when she goes through the door.

The door is open just enough for me to see inside. My mother is asleep on her side with her foot poking out from under the eiderdown.

My father is not in the bed. He is sleeping on a mattress on the floor under a brown blanket. He is awake, staring up at the ceiling, or perhaps he is asleep with his eyes open. I’m not sure which.

I stand on my toes and stare for too long and he sees me. He must see me, his eyes meet my eyes, but no other part of his face moves. He does not speak or look like he wants to speak. He stares at me, a long and empty stare, and I still do not know if he is awake or asleep.

‘Why are you on the floor?’ I want to ask, and I would have asked this question last week, but now, somehow, I have lost my nerve, the way I do at school, and I walk backwards, feeling along the wall with my hands until I am out of his sight.

The stairs are narrow and I go down sideways, holding tight to the rail.

I make more noise in the kitchen than usual, and hope that my grandmother will hear me from her bedroom at the other end of the cottage. Before long, she comes in.

‘John!’ she says. ‘It’s half six in the morning.’

‘I was hungry.’

‘You little devil. I thought there was a bandit in the house. Come over here.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, but I don’t go to her.

‘Well, I’m awake now. How about you bring me some tea and sit with me a while?’

I make toast and tea and bring it in to her bedroom.

‘If you’re cold,’ she says, ‘you can pop under the covers.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not cold.’

I sit on the end of her bed and she eats her toast with her mouth wide open, the way she eats everything, as though she has the flu and cannot breathe through her nose.

‘Isn’t it funny,’ I say, ‘how when you have the flu you don’t have a flue to breathe through.’

She pulls her chin in.

‘Like a flue in a chimney …’

‘Oh. I get it now. You’d need to be up nice and early to keep up with you.’

‘But,’ I say, ‘it
is
early!’

She smiles but the smile fades quickly and her ugly mouth turns down again. ‘You like living here with me, don’t you?’ she asks.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s much better than before. I can walk on the path I’ve made through the fields to school and I don’t have to catch the bus.’

‘That’s grand,’ she says.

We sit and eat our toast and do not speak.

I finish my toast and she finishes hers. ‘Some more tea would be lovely now,’ she says.

I fetch the tea and, when I bring it in, I leave the tray on her bed and remain standing.

‘Never stand when you can sit,’ she says.

I sit.

‘Where’s your cup?’

‘I’m not having any.’

I sit and watch.

She slurps her tea and smiles at me. She sticks her tongue out to greet the cup before each sip and, after she sips the tea, she smiles at me.

There is only her slurping, and so much silence between us that, when a lorry passes, I am grateful for the noise and the distraction. I look out the window and watch the lorry as it makes its way slowly down the small road that runs alongside the cottage.

My grandmother drains her second cup and an embarrassing whiff of silage floats through the room.

‘What did you see when you went upstairs before?’ she asks.

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘Did you see your parents in the bed?’

The smell of rotted animal manure or fermented hay has made itself at home in my grandmother’s bedroom and her question seems covered in dirt.

‘Yes. I saw them sleeping.’

‘Were they both sleeping? Sleeping together?’

There is mucus welling in my throat, around the back of my mouth. ‘I saw Da sleeping on the floor,’ I say.

‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘His back is giving him trouble again. Like last year when he slept in the living room for a week. But leave him be. He hates to have sympathy for it. Do you understand me? Don’t talk to him about his back pain, or about his sleeping on the floor. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

She’s lying. There is something happening between my mother and father and I should know what it is.

I go to my room and read the second book I have borrowed from the Wexford library about lie detection. From this book I learn that in ancient China people suspected of lying were asked to spit out a portion of rice. Dry rice indicated the dry mouth of a liar. I wonder if I might ever have an opportunity to use this trick. I make a note of it in The Gol of Seil, which I keep hidden under my mattress, along with the money I took from Granny’s purse.

I now have three headings: Major Lies (Rojam Seil) and Minor Lies (Ronim Seil) and White Lies (Etihw Seil). But white lies backwards isn’t a good word, so I’ve changed white lies to Etuh Seil.

I keep The Gol of Seil under my mattress, and as an extra precaution I also use code names for my family: Mother is Romtha, Father is Hafta, Grandmother is Mogra, Uncle Tony is Tolac, and Uncle Jack is Jatal. Although there are no entries for her yet, Aunty Evelyn is Lonev, and there’s a page headed with her name, Lonev, waiting for the lies she will tell.

It is Sunday, a week since my father lied about the kittens, and I am reading a book about Sherlock Holmes investigating the Jack the Ripper murders.

My mother and father sit with me on the settee and I read parts of the book out loud to them. My father says, ‘It’s ridiculous and anachronistic to have Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper in the same place.’

‘How can it be anachronistic,’ says my mother, ‘when Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character and the other isn’t? A fictional character can live in any time he wants. And besides, I think they were around at the same time.’

‘What does anachronistic mean?’ I ask.

‘It means historically inconsistent,’ says my father. ‘It would be like Jesus Christ sipping Coca Cola before he went on the cross.’

My mother says, ‘I’ll get the dictionary. Let’s see what the dictionary says.’

She leaves. My father stands to move the coals in the fireplace, then leaves, suddenly, without speaking. My mother doesn’t return with the dictionary. I read the book alone

When it’s over, I go to the kitchen. My father is at the kitchen table with my grandmother. I don’t go in. Instead, I stand at the edge of the doorway where they can’t see me.

My grandmother is reading a letter and, when she finishes, she looks up at my father. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ she asks. ‘I wasn’t put on this earth solely for your benefit.’

My father speaks in a low voice. ‘What about John? What about your grandchild?’

My grandmother presses her lips together before speaking.

‘You might be the jew in this family,’ she says. ‘But you’ve no right to be giving out to me about money. And what kind of example are you for your son? A man should earn his keep.’

‘All right, then. I’ll get a job, if that’s what will make you happy. To see me miserable.’

My grandmother holds on to the table. ‘I’m in a fast-sinking boat,’ she says. ‘All day long I can feel it pitching and sagging and taking water. You have no idea what it is to face death. I want to live, but my living is almost done. If I want to spend what my husband left then that’s my right. You will not tell me how to use up my last years.’

‘You asked us to come here.’

‘I invited you to stay until you could find some work and instead you descended on this home like locusts,’ she says, so angry that she spits at him.

My father looks down at his clenched fists.

‘When did I say you could stay here forever?’ she continues. ‘You haven’t worked for three years. Oh yes, so you can do all those tests and puzzles. For what? And all that study, for what? You spend all your time proving you’re clever, and no time putting it to good use!’

Before my father has time to answer, she heaves herself up from the table and walks towards the door. I try to sneak away, but she catches sight of me.

‘Hello, John,’ she says. ‘I thought you were watching the television.’

‘I got hungry,’ I say.

‘Well, so. Out of the way and let the dog see the rabbit.’

She grabs my arm and pulls me aside as though I am a piece of furniture in her path.

I go outside. My mother is getting in the car.

‘Where are you off to?’ she says.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I’m going to get some flour and sugar from Keating’s and I’m feeling too lazy to walk.’

‘Can I come? And then can we get fish ’n’ chips in town?’

She frowns. ‘We can’t do that,’ she says. ‘We won’t have enough time. I need to do some sewing for the puppets this afternoon.’

‘I’ll just come to the shop then.’ I get in the car and we drive towards Keating’s. My arms are hot and my heart is thumping.

‘You don’t want us to do things together any more,’ I say. ‘You’ve changed towards me.’

‘I don’t think I’m the one who’s changed. I think something’s come over you.’

‘Nothing’s come over me,’ I say.

I want her to keep looking at me but I say, ‘Stop looking at me.’

She smiles. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me. We have no secrets.’

‘I heard Granny and Da arguing about money and about us living in her cottage.’

She sighs. ‘Don’t worry about that. That’s not something for you to worry about.’

‘But it sounds serious. She’s going to throw us out.’

My heart thumps hard in my chest and I take a gulp of air to stop it, but it goes on thumping.

‘Your granny has no intention of doing that. People say things they don’t mean when they argue.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘They say more of what they mean.’

I hadn’t planned these words and I wonder if it’s a lie to say something if the words come out before the thought.

‘That’s a big thing to say,’ she says.

‘It’s true,’ I say.

‘Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. In this case, they don’t mean what they say. There is no danger of us being thrown out. Your granny loves you far too much for that and they will make their truce soon enough.’

She’s not lying, and I am calmer. My chest has stopped its hard beating and my palms are dry again. She drives slowly and sings.

‘Do you ever get a thumping heart and sweaty palms?’ I ask.

‘Sometimes. When I’m nervous.’

‘When do you get nervous?’

‘When I’m afraid, I suppose, or feel somebody is watching me like a hawk.’

‘I get nervous when I’m by myself sometimes. Does that ever happen to you?’

‘Not usually,’ she says.

‘Because a person shouldn’t scare their own self?’ I say. ‘Because it takes two people to make one person feel bad?’

‘I suppose.’

We stop at the crossroads and wait for a slow lorry and a tractor to pass. I look out the window at a dog scratching itself against a fence post.

‘That dog is going to cut himself,’ I say.

‘He’ll be all right. He has a thick layer of fur.’

We are quiet for a minute and we watch the dog scratching until he stops and turns to look at us. I wind the window down.

‘Woof,’ I say.

‘Woof, woof,’ says my mother. And the dog looks baffled and walks away.

‘Now,’ she says. ‘I can leave the puppets. Tell me what you’d really like to do. We can’t stay at the crossroads all day. We can
go wherever you like for the whole afternoon. As long as we’re back for tea.’

‘Will we still go to Niagara Falls?’

‘Of course. We’ll go when you’ve finished your Leaving.’

‘I want us to go on my thirteenth birthday,’ I say. ‘When I’m older I might grow out of the idea of going.’

‘That’s not what we’d planned. That’s less than two years from now. It’s a very expensive trip.’

I wonder if ninety pounds would be enough for one ticket. I know that it is at least two weeks’ salary for a man working in a factory.

‘How much would it cost?’

‘Much more than we have.’

‘What if Granny would help to pay?’

‘That’s too much to ask.’

There’s a car behind us, waiting for us to move.

‘But what if she did? What if she gave us the money now before it’s all gone?’

‘I don’t think …’

The driver behind us toots the horn.

‘You haven’t even asked her. What if you promise to ask her?’

‘I could ask her,’ she says, ‘but you mustn’t hound me and you mustn’t hound her. Whatever she says will be final, and I’ll tell you whether it is yes or no, and that’ll be the end of the matter. All right?’

My mother waves the driver to pass and as he passes he shakes his head.

‘Can you imagine?’ I say. ‘Can you imagine the waterfalls and the amusements and the funfairs and Ripley’s and going on a 747?’

‘Try not to get too excited,’ she says, but she seems to be the one who is most happy and excited; her cheeks are flushed and her hands are fidgety on the steering wheel.

She turns left at the crossroad and drives faster again. And as we approach the big house – a mansion – near the road that turns off to Gorey town, she slows down and pulls into the driveway.

‘Why are you stopping?’ I ask.

‘I have an idea,’ she says. ‘I’ve always wanted to look around the grounds. Why don’t we see if we can?’

The big house is well known to everybody who lives in Gorey, and tourists come to look at it and the dark woods that surround it and the rose garden and lake out the back.

The people who own the mansion live in Dublin and come only once or twice a year; they pay groundstaff, gardeners, cleaners, maids and caretakers to keep it in good repair.

‘I want to go inside,’ I say. ‘I want to go inside and see all the rooms.’

She looks at her watch. ‘We’ll see,’ she says.

When my mother says, ‘We’ll see’, it is my cue to think of something far-fetched to say in reply. It is a game of ours; a game only my mother and I play.

‘And I don’t want to be a person any more,’ I say. ‘I want to be a sleeping-in otter that can fly over mountains and eat ice-cream all day.’

‘We’ll see,’ she says and we smile.

We park the car at the gates and walk down the path. The gardener stands near the main entrance, wearing a long green jacket and wellington boots. We walk towards him and he watches us coming and does not speak until we are standing a few feet away. ‘These are private grounds,’ he says.

‘Yes, but my son would like to see inside,’ says my mother. ‘Could he have just a quick peek?’

The gardener wipes his face with the back of his hand. Otherwise he does not move. His blank expression makes him seem more asleep than awake. ‘It’s private property,’ he says, again.

My mother wastes no time. ‘My son is very ill,’ she says. ‘Just a brief look inside.’

She has lied but I have no reaction. It’s the kind of lie many people would call a white lie. But it’s still a lie and it’s told to benefit one and deceive another. Perhaps white lies don’t work in the same way because the person telling them doesn’t feel as anxious or troubled. And yet a white lie could have consequences just as awful as a black lie.

‘And we’ve no mud on our shoes,’ I say. The gardener looks over his shoulder, towards the house, and wipes his face with the back of his other hand, which has a tattoo of a rose on it, and then he reaches for the keys in his pocket.

‘It needs airing anyway,’ he says.

On the way in, I cough a few times, pretending to be sick, and my mother blushes. Her face is redder than I have ever seen it. I look away until she is pale again and then I hold her hand as we walk through the rooms of the mansion. It’s dark and cold inside and smells like Mr Sheen.

The gardener talks about the age of the furniture, and my mother, who is not usually a boring person, asks numbing questions in a strained voice.

‘Are the chandeliers Waterford?’ she asks.

When we are at the kitchen at the back of the mansion, and I know our tour is nearly over, I decide to break away. I turn and go back to the entrance hall. I look around once and then I run up the wide, bare stairs.

When my mother calls out for me I stand against the wall of the first-floor landing. ‘John!’ she shouts. ‘John!’ Then I hear her talking to the gardener and I expect him to come up after me. I mightn’t have much time. I run up three more flights and when I reach the top floor, I am out of breath and nervous, but I go on. I open doors and look inside rooms until I come to one with toys in it. I go in and close the door behind me.

There is a rocking horse and boxes filled with games and two single beds covered with teddy bears and dolls and in front of the fireplace there is a row of milk bottles filled with sand.

There is a model village on a table beneath the open window, with a train station, post office and grocer’s store. As I stand and look, a small gust of air comes through the window of the grocer’s shop, a tiny puff, just like Crito’s breath on the back of my hand.

I am worried that somebody outside will see me through the tall windows. I take the model village from the table and carry it to the corner behind a bed, near the back wall. As I lower the model village to the floor, it buckles in the middle and two small trees come loose. I lower the village to the floor more carefully and put the trees back where I think they belong, then I sit cross-legged on the rug.

There are trains and shops and plastic people and shrubs and dogs. I take the train carriages off the tracks and lay them out in a row.

This is not a model of an Irish village, but a French one; there is a train destined for Pigalle. I play with the train for a while. It has a balcony at the back for passengers to stand on so that they can watch the scenery, and I wonder why our trains don’t have balconies.

I would like to have one of the model trains for myself, but I have nowhere to hide a carriage. I take hold of the stationmaster instead, and put him in the pocket of my anorak. He has a moustache, wears a red cap with a visor, and he stands on a flat piece of green plastic, like the flat bits of plastic my soldiers stand on.

My mother is coming up the stairs, calling my name. I put the model village back on the table and walk down the stairs to meet her.

She is alone.

‘Why did you run away?’

I shrug.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to get the gardener in trouble.’

As we walk down the stairs, I take her hand. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘You’re all right,’ she says.

The gardener walks us to the gate.

‘You shouldn’t have disappeared like that,’ he says. ‘You could get me into a lot of trouble.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to run up and down the stairs. For the fun of it.’

‘Right, so,’ he says. ‘But it’s bad manners to run in a house that doesn’t belong to you.’

‘Sorry,’ I say.

In the car, my mother turns to me. ‘Well, what did you think?’

‘It was great,’ I say. ‘I’m going to live in a mansion one day. Maybe I’ll live in that one.’

‘Maybe you will,’ she says, but I don’t think she believes me.

I am serious. As soon as I say the words I know that they will help what I say become true, so I say them again.

‘I will live in a mansion,’ I say. ‘I know it. I’ll be famous and I’ll be rich. I won’t be any ordinary person. I’ll do something great. I know it.’

We pull into the driveway of Keating’s grocery shop and my mother turns the engine off. I look out through the windscreen. ‘I love you,’ I say.