Departures (17 page)

“But what is it?” she demanded petulantly. “What's going on?”

“Nothing to worry about, luv, it's under control. Now, if you'll excuse us. . . .”

Maureen scanned the length of the empty street. Mrs Mackie's washing spun slowly on the rotary line in her backyard, the breeze lifting the tiny frocks and blouses of her newborn. A child's tricycle stood upturned in mid-repair near the top of the street with one wheel missing, an oversized spanner and a box of screws abandoned beside it. Just below, a brown-and-yellow cat stalked gingerly along the low garden walls towards an overturned bin. Maureen hurried after the two policemen.

“But my husband,” she called, “he wanted fags.”

“Well, I'm sure he'll wait for them,” the second constable said. “Just you wait over there, there's a good lass. Stay well back, please, out of the way.”

“But he was asleep when I left him,” she continued, “he didn't know I'd gone. He could still be in there.”

“No one's in those houses now, luv; everyone's been cleared out. Now you just wait away over there out of the road. As soon as it's safe we'll let you know.”

Maureen turned away, casting about for a place to sit down. He's not in the house, she thought. He could be anywhere, anywhere at all. A number of people had emerged from the houses just beyond the cordon to watch the activity, and for lack of an alternative, she headed their way. Apart from them and a few older residents who had not ventured beyond their front gates, the whole area was deserted. She felt the air growing damp and chill, and even as she approached, one or two people who'd been passing round cigarettes and speculating about the nature of the incident amongst themselves headed back indoors, glancing up at the sky. A pair of soldiers sprang up from their position behind a wall and ran a few paces towards the top of the street. Maureen turned to watch them, her mind on the last time Albert had disappeared. She'd gone round to a friend's house to pass the time. The woman had had her front room redecorated, had offered Maureen her old carpet and suite; they'd just poured the tea when Albert arrived. He'd raised his fist though he had not hit her, then he'd hauled her off across three streets back to their own house.

Someone shouted from the top end of the street and Maureen flinched; a policeman appeared walking swiftly, both hands on his gun. Her eyes were drawn towards a child sitting on the kerb opposite the yellow ribbon, wearing an adult's court shoes and absorbed in the effort of
removing her cardigan. Maureen carried her belongings over and squatted down. The child glanced up with a look of distracted concentration and silently presented the buttons to Maureen for help. She set the milk and the cheese and the other purchases down and took the toddler on her knee, tugging gently at the knitted garment, her eyes watchful for her husband's approach.

Undertow

It was close to September and the date of the wedding when my father started bringing us to Castlerock. After breakfast we'd board the first train from Central Station that went south to Lambeg and Lisburn before turning north and arriving eventually beside the sea. We'd spend the rest of the day there on the rocks above the beach, hurling stones into the oncoming waves and fishing without bait until it was time to catch the last train from Derry home. The train leaned hard into the left shoulder just before the platform came into sight, and as we moved towards the exits to be ready when it stopped, I would watch the reflection of the streetlights on the far side of the Lagan wink on the spiral whenever a fish rose up for air.

What's that flashing? I'd asked my father the first time I'd seen it.

Fairy lights, he answered.

Bullshit, Ricky said, under his breath. He was five years my senior, thirteen and no longer a baby; rebellion came easily to him like a dog. We were fifty yards from the platform and the sign above him told him No, but still he'd thrown his weight against the window, pulled it down and thrust his head out into the wind. He would not take my father's hand as we stepped down from the train.

My mother was sitting at the kitchen table with John-O Noonan when we got home. John-O's fingers were yellow from nailtip to knuckle and his whole hand twitched with
desire; there was no smoking allowed in my mother's house.

It's happened again, she told my father.

Has it indeed? What's it of this time?

I'm flat out of paint, she said, so you'll have to go get some. I won't have that damn thing on the side of my house.

After our tea we went out to look at it. This time they'd painted flags and emblems, and every letter of the words that went with them was outlined in black and at least two feet high. The last time they'd done a map of the country with a pair of armed soldiers on either side, and before that there'd been a bright yellow shield on a powder blue background, and a list of the names of the most recent dead. Each time my mother had covered it over by climbing a stepladder and chucking buckets of paint at the house.

When do they do it, that's what I'd like to know, John-O said. He lived in the house which terraced ours, where he spent his days minding his sister's children and keeping his eye on the Help Wanted columns, in case something came up that my father could do. He shook his head with slow admiration. How the hell do they do it when youse're here all the time?

I wish to God I could catch them at it, my mother said. I don't care who they are. That's the last bit of painting they'd ever do.

It's a real shame, my father said.

Don't start with me, Joe, my mother told him. I've no time for hoods. I'll get that paint myself if I have to.

First thing tomorrow, he answered. The shops'll be closed now, anyway.

The next day my father and I lay on till eleven. My
mother was working at the kitchen table when I went downstairs to make us tea. She'd been working steadily since early that morning but the sound of machinery hadn't disturbed us, because each sequin and pearl was sewn on by hand. By this time the shell of the dress was nearly finished—the bodice and skirt, the two mutton sleeves, the veil, the headdress, and the wide, four-foot train. She had still to complete the undergarments, and she'd promised to hem the girl's linens, embroider their edges, and inscribe the corners with the first letter of her name.

Your brother's gone out, my mother told me, so it's up to you to look after your father. Don't let him come home without that paint. I stood just behind her while the kettle boiled, skewering beads on her upright needle as soon as she'd fastened the previous one. Oh here, listen, she said, and reached under the fabric in search of her purse. The table was lost under cover of satin, a full bolt of chiffon lay unwrapped on the floor, and thick books of patterns sat on each chair, their insides fat with slips of paper, receipts, and newsprint torn into strips to mark a page. A spool of white thread, luv, she said, giving me money, say you want the kind for all types of fabric, and get me at least two hundred yards. I'd ask your daddy but you know he won't do it.

Because I don't think it's right, my father said from the threshold. Taking advantage of a foolish woman when you know rightly there won't be a wedding on the twenty-first. You can't have a wedding without a groom.

More's the pity, my mother said, and unnecessarily switched on her machine.

Well I won't be part of it, my father continued. I will not add to that girl's disappointment.

For God's sake, Joe, my mother said, it's none of my business what they want the clothes for. That girl placed an order same as anyone else.

A wedding gown's different, my father told her. Especially this.

I didn't ask to hear her life's story, Joe, my mother told him, and what she does with her money is her own affair. If she wants to waste it on fortune-tellers that's got nothing to do with me.

I think we are obligated to protect the innocent, my father said quietly.

Fair enough, my mother answered, but only if they're mine. That girl pays good money, in advance and on time. I've got this family to worry about, Joe.

We spoke no more about it, though my father refused to come in the shop with me when I went in to purchase thread. We bought two tins of paint, a tray, and a roller, and were in the sitting room stirring the tins when Ricky came home with a sackful of chestnuts.

How come they're called conkers? I asked my father.

Why d'you think? Ricky said. He took one whose green armoured shell had not yet broken and slapped it, palm open, against his head.

It began with a farmer, my father answered, who owned a good bit of land not far from Mullan Head. He was a man who didn't like to spend money, and it's not like he didn't have it to spend. Every night he sat in the dark so he wouldn't have to run the electric, and all the beasts on his farm had bad teeth and were spindly because he was too cheap to give them a decent feed. Now there was a tree on that land and the farmer didn't like it. Its shade kept him cold, he said, and it made his house dark. He blamed the tree for his own mean nature, and one day he decided, I'll cut the thing down. But the tree saw him
coming with his rolled-up sleeves and his heavy boots and the toothy new saw in his hand. It got so frightened it shook and heaved, and a whole shower of chestnuts fell on the farmer, sticking and pricking him with their rubbery spines. He was so bruised and battered he spent six weeks in hospital, and as soon as he got out he picked up and left. Then a husband and wife with two little children, a boy and a wee girl about your age, came to live in the house. They put a swing on the tree and built a conservatory, and the house is so full of light now that they built a train past it, and if you're a good wee girly this evening and eat all your peas, I'll show you it tomorrow on the way to Castlerock.

Joe, my mother said from the other room. How old is your daughter?

So why don't all trees throw conkers all the time?

Cuz it's all bollocks, that's why, Ricky said. They fall cuz the stems rot, that's why its easy to knock em down.

You know what your problem is, Ricky? my mother called to him.

Humankind had grown impatient, my father answered. The cold facts of science take less time to tell.

.   .   .

The side of our house stayed white for six days. On the morning of the seventh my mother noticed the additional shadow when she stepped outside to bring in the milk.

Joe, she called from the bottom of the stairs, c'mere till you see this.

From the room next to mine I heard my parents' bed creak as my father rolled onto his back and sighed.

Ah, Belle, he said, it's not even seven.

They've left a ladder, my mother said, and I'll tell you right now they're not getting it back.

Not very good, is it? John-O said an hour or so later. Still in his dressing gown and pyjamas, he'd seen our door lying open when he'd let the cat out and had jumped the low fence that ran between us, calling our names as he hurried into the house. My mother, lugging a tarpaulin and paint thinner, had nearly run over him as she backed out the door.

Different artist, my father answered. This wee fella's got no sense of colour.

It's God awful, John-O said. I'm with you, missus—get rid of it. That bloody thing's hard on the eyes.

It's going today, my mother said firmly. I've a girl coming by for a fitting tomorrow, and this will not be the first thing she sees.

What time tomorrow? my father said suddenly.

For a moment my mother looked like she'd bitten her tongue. I know what you're thinking, Joe, she said, and it's not going to happen.

Go on, Belle. What time's she coming?

I should have known you'd pull something like this, my mother said bitterly. Why can't you stay out of it? It's got nothing to do with you.

Right! John-O said. See youse all later.

I just want to talk to her, Belle, that's all.

What for? What good'll it do? She's not getting a refund, you know, even if you do manage to make her change her mind.

C'mon now, folks, John-O said, don't do this outside.

It's not just about money, my father answered. It's her state of mind. What's going to happen to her two weeks from Friday? I'm not convinced she's going to survive.

Alright, Joe, my mother said. I give up. Stay in if you want to tomorrow; just get the hell out of my way today.

There now, John-O said cheerfully, that's better. Youse two had me worried there for a while.

We'd missed the first train to Derry, but we did catch the second. Ricky stayed behind to help my mother; intending to keep the ladder as evidence, she'd said no when he'd asked for it and offered to let him paint the wall instead. When we arrived in Castlerock we headed at once for our regular café, where we each ordered a fish and chip dinner and my father explained why fish had it so bad—because they bore grudges, resenting all those who'd stood on four feet at the birth of Jesus, and the dove for finding the olive branch, and all the rest of the animal kingdom for having a place set aside for them on the ark. It didn't matter that God had conferred on them wisdom, that He'd warned them about the flood in advance. And so they are regularly captured and eaten, they fall ill easily and are tormented by cats, and though they gasp with the effort of trying to buy freedom with the secrets the Almighty had shared, they can never produce the human words necessary, never can make themselves understood. And that, said my father, is apt punishment for arrogance—that they die ignominiously, out of their element, impressive only because of their size.

Then our dinners were ready and he went up to fetch them. He came back with two plates and a plastic lemon, which he set down on the table next to the salt. If Ricky'd been with us he'd have been embarrassed, and my father would have explained yet again how he met my mother. She'd been the new girl at the local chippy where he went occasionally for a take-away, and he'd asked her for a wedge of lemon, which naturally enough the shop didn't have. The dinner rush was at its most frantic when my mother put on her coat and took her umbrella and went
down to a grocer two blocks away to buy my father a bagful of lemons with her own money, because there was something about his face she fancied. At this establishment, my father said as if I'd protested, my custom is valued. Did she really empty them out on top of you? I asked him. Right in my lap, he said. There must have been two or three dozen at least.