The Fall Girl (11 page)

She gives the note to Lesley first, and when she's finished, Lesley giggles louder, clutching her side, and passes it to me. I can just about make it out through my glazed eyes:
At least we'll still have one lopsided pair of tits between the three of us.

Lesley says she has a feeling of déjà vu.

‘That's because it's like the day of the
Feis
all over again,' I tell her as she swipes her nightdress off the mirror.

‘There you are, Frances,' Sandra says, ‘from Nana Mouskouri to Suzie Quatro all in the space of an hour.'

‘Shite!'

‘What's wrong with it?' There's a threat in the manner in which Sandra asks the question.

‘I look like him,' I tell her, pointing at the poster on the wall.

‘David Bowie? Oh, that's cool – so does Suzie Quatro.'

I touch my feathery hair. ‘Jesus!'

‘What?' Lesley asks.

‘It's stiff and sticky.'

‘Like a big mickey,' Sandra shouts, and whoops like a mad banshee.

‘What's like a big mickey?' Keith asks, barging into the bedroom.

‘Her hair,' Sandra laughs. ‘Stiff and sticky.'

‘It's looks wild,' Keith says, smiling at me. ‘Can I leave you home now?'

‘She's not going yet,' Lesley says. ‘Sure you're not?'

I check my watch; it's ten past six. I wonder what my parents are doing at this moment and how they're going to react when I get home.

‘Your mother's gonna kill you now one way or another,' Sandra says, pulling a cigarette from the box. ‘Here, have one of these; it'll calm your nerves.'

Keith says he'll wait for me downstairs. I'm mortified at the thought of being alone with him. He must be at least twenty. I light the cigarette and take a couple of pulls.

‘Would your mother be able to leave me home?' I ask Lesley.

‘Daddy's away in the car,' Sandra says, ‘but don't worry, Keith won't bite you.'

‘OK.' I pull my gabardine from the knob on the wardrobe door. ‘I'd better go.'

‘Scared?' Lesley puts her arm around me.

‘It's Daddy I dread facing the most.'

‘Why, is he a bollocks too?' Sandra asks.

‘No, he's lovely. But he'll be worried sick about me by now.'

‘Just tell him you're fed up of being treated like a two-year-old,' Sandra says. ‘Fuck it, he was young himself once upon a time.'

‘And if your mother as much as lays a finger on you,' Lesley says, ‘clock her.'

It's cold and dark outside. My knees are knocking off one another – more the fear of riding on a motorbike with a fella than the chill. With the helmet on, I feel like an astronaut. I don't know where to rest my feet.

‘Put your arms around my waist and hang on,' Keith shouts back at me as he revs up the bike.

I don't dare. Lesley is standing at the front door shivering and jigging about to keep herself warm.

‘If you don't hang on, you'll fall off,' Keith says, taking my hands and wrapping them around his leathered body.

When he sees my feet dangling, he looks back at me, his eyes smiling through the gap in the helmet.

‘There,' he shouts, pointing to the footrest.

At first, it's like being on a merry-go-round – a gentle breeze in my face. But, once we're out of the town, we're tearing out the road so fast, I'm swallowing great big pockets of air. And although it's almost choking me, I don't want the journey to end: I've never felt so high.

When Keith pulls up on the outskirts of the village, I step off the bike, remove the helmet and hand it to him. He hangs it on the handlebar and says, ‘Come here.'

I think he's expecting a kiss. Why else would he want me to stand close to him? But I don't know how he's going to manage; he still has his helmet on. I step towards him, my lips and tongue suddenly draining of their juices. He pulls off his right glove and tousles my hair.

‘That's better,' he says, ‘the helmet flattened it on you.'

‘Thanks.'

He smirks. ‘You'd better go.'

‘Yeah,' I say, without budging. I'm standing next to him, gawping into his face, still waiting for the kiss.

‘See ya,' he says, turning on the engine and revving up the bike.

‘Bye.'

I walk wobbly-legged down the street, feeling both relieved and disappointed about the kiss that didn't happen.

‘Hello, Mister Scully.' He's closing up the shop.

‘Young Fall, be the hokey!'

I'm glad I've shocked him.

Billy Brady, the village flirt from my class in primary school, is walking towards me.

‘Evening, Red,' he says, and winks.

‘Hiya, Billy.'

‘That's never you, Frances Fall?'

‘Yip,' I say, striding on.

‘Well, fuck me pink.'

He stands looking after me. I throw back my shoulders and toss back my hair.

‘Oh, by the way,' he shouts, ‘your father's been looking for you. I've just seen him driving out the Castleowen road.'

My heart sinks.

‘Shite shite shite,' I whisper, slowing my pace.

If only I had thought of ringing him from Lesley's house and asking him to collect me. I could have talked to him on the way home and explained to him why I've done what I've done.

I've just woken up in a sweat. I thought I heard a baby crying, but there are no babies in here. I must have been dreaming.

My vision is blurred. Indicating, I pull over on to the hard shoulder to dry my eyes and compose myself. I need to keep my wits about me.

When I turn to look at the baby, I find her lying on her back, hands facing upwards, fingers curled like petals on the verge of blooming. As I run my forefinger down her cheek, her lips quiver into what looks like a smile, then purse again into their little bud shape. Such beauty.

I turn off the engine just to gaze at her.

No, Frances, I think, not now. You've no time to brood, you must move on. You've stuff to buy, a hotel to find. Then you'll have time and you can lay her down and brood all night.

As I go to turn the key again, she lets out a sigh, soft as fleece, and I wish I could climb inside her dreams and dissolve.

I let the engine idle, lean back, shut my eyes and listen to her breathing. My face is warm and smiling. Flickering sunrays penetrate my eyelids, splashing yellow streaks across the blackness. I feel weary, but calm. Cars are whizzing by. The whirring sound of the traffic ebbs until it becomes a distant hum and seems like it's oceans away.

I drift off into a warm, easy sleep and sink to the bottom of the ocean. I'm lying on the seabed, watching tiny fish swim above me, circling me like a baby's mobile. Each fish is either
baby-pink or powder-blue. They're blowing bubbles. I reach up and touch a pink one with the tip of my index finger. It falls, flopping on to my stomach like jelly and wriggling about as if it's out of the water and struggling for breath. Frantically, I try to put it back on the revolving mobile, but when I scoop it up, I realize that's it's not a fish at all, but a tiny baby, cold and slimy and slipping from my grasp.

The traffic roars and the fish dart through the water and disappear. I can hear the sharp, shrill cry of a baby, but when I look down, she's no longer in my arms. The water is draining away and the sun is blasting down on me like angry steam.

I wake with a jolt, look behind me and see that the baby's blanket is draped over her erect legs. Inside her mouth is as red as cherries and her lips are vibrating like plucked harp strings. What in God's name is wrong with her now?

I stagger out of the front seat and climb into the back beside her. My hands are shaking. My throat feels dry and acidy. Picking her up out of the carrycot, I see that her baby-gro and the sheet are drenched. After rummaging through the baby bag, I find a clean vest and baby-gro, a nappy and her soother.

‘Good girl, good girl,' I wheeze, my head spinning so fast, I think I'm going to faint.

The soother pacifies her as I cradle her in one arm and pull the wet sheet off the mattress with the other. Then I turn the mattress over, take off my cardigan, spread it across the mattress and lay her down. Bending her limbs very carefully, I strip her down to her nappy. When I lay my hand on her stomach, I notice that her skin is clammy … or is it mine? I don't know, so I blow on her skin anyway to cool her down. She gurgles and shivers, her eyes widening with the cold sensation. I lean over her and blow again, this time on her chest and neck. She shudders and gasps in amazement. A lorry
rattles past, causing the car to shake. The fright urges me to hurry up and move on. Her nappy is heavy and sodden and feels like warm dough. As I peel back the sticky strips to open it, she smiles at me and for a moment I breathe easy.

‘What the – Jesus Christ! You're a boy,' I cry. ‘A boy.'

My face is tingling from perspiration. What have I done? Who is this child? And where is his mother? When I lift the nappy out from under him, his legs flap like socks on a line on a blustery day. I hold his feet in my hands and put them to my damp cheeks.

‘I'm sorry,' I cry over and over, but all he does is smile and gurgle.

If only I could turn back the clock and start the day all over again, I'd choose the silver necklace and not the gold. Then I'd go home, place the necklace in the box at the bottom of my wardrobe, lie down on my bed and watch her dancing in my dreams. I'd see her on a stage, in the spotlight, smiling down at me, sure of my admiration. And I'd smile back, the proud mother in the audience, until sleep would come along and draw the curtains on me.

I don't know what to do next. I dare not think about the trouble I'm in. If I turn on the news, I'll hear all about it, but I don't want to. Not yet, not in the car; not while I'm driving.

Come on, I think, pull yourself together, don't crack up.

I give myself orders and follow them.

Put on his clean nappy. Give him his soother. Get back into the front seat. Dry your tears.

I open the front pocket to get a tissue and find a half-drunk bottle of Ballygowan water. A drink at last; warm but wet. My grateful lips, tongue, throat. Small mercies.

Put on some music, something mellow:
A Woman's Heart
– perfect. Drive to the next town. I'm on the road again.

I walked across the grounds to the chapel today, lit a candle and sat in the back pew. There was an old man doing the Stations of the Cross, rosary beads dangling from his fragile hands. I held my hand to the corner of my left eye. I couldn't say a prayer.

It's just a new hairstyle, I think, walking round the side of the house; no big bloody deal. My footsteps seem louder than usual.

‘Is that you, Frances?' my mother shouts from another room as I step in through the back door.

‘Yeah.'

She comes thundering down the stairs. Straightening my back, I take a deep breath. The kitchen door swings open.

My mother yelps when she sees me and, as if it's a reflexive reaction, whips my face with her rosary beads. She gets me in the corner of my left eye with the crucifix, and now my back's not straight any more and I want to kneel down on the floor and cry.

Hand on my face and bleary-eyed, I try to push past her, but she grabs my sleeve and jostles me, screaming into my face about my father scouring the village for me and ringing the Guards, and her on bended knee praying that I had come to no harm, and then me turning up, bold as brass, looking like a cheap whore.

My courage has deserted me. I don't know what to do. She
won't stop shaking me and screeching in my ear. It's been a few years since she's hit me, but at this moment it feels as though it's the very first time. The fear is back. I try to pull away from her, but ferocity is giving her the upper hand. She sneers at my feeble attempt to push her arm away and again lashes out at me with her beads, this time striking my neck. The sting makes me jolt backwards and I knock my head off the doorframe. Pain pierces through my skull. She's standing in front of me, her hot, red face like a ball of rage. I cannot breathe. I have to put a stop to it – her madness, her yelling, the pain.

‘Fucking bitch,' I howl, grabbing her by her hair and pushing her through to the living-room and up against the back of the sofa. She struggles and tries to unleash herself, dropping her beads in the tussle. When she goes to pick them up, I kick them away. Only when I have to let go of my scream to draw breath do I realize that she is now silent. Her face is white; her eyes are pinched, glistening, like two gashes.

‘How dare you?' she says through constricted lips.

I loosen my grip on her hair and smile, although my face and neck are still burning with pain. I think it's the relief; I've finally done it – stood up to her. And won.

As I head out the living-room door to go up to my bedroom, I step over her rosary beads, stop, turn, and start stamping on them, looking into her face as the beads fall apart beneath my feet. She doesn't move; she's still backed up against the sofa, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth. I don't stop until I see a tear rolling down her cheek. Then I turn and walk out.

About twenty minutes later the phone rings in the hall and I hear my mother tell my father that I'm home, and to hurry back because I've gone berserk and God only knows what I'll do next.

I'm lying on the bed wishing that I'd been born into a
different family, with brothers and sisters who'd do my hair and play their records and fill up the house with noise. The key turns in the front door and before my father even steps inside, my mother is out in the hall crying and saying, ‘Oh, Joe, thank God you're back.'

I think it's a pity that she's not always so grateful to see him when he arrives home after a hard day's work. She's not humming her way through the house now, pretending that she hasn't noticed his presence and waiting for him to break the silence, which he always does in the end.