The Fall Girl (19 page)

‘Well, if you weren't that bothered, why are you still working there after all this time?' She lights the gas ring and puts the saucepan on the flame.

‘Because …' I root in the drawer for tinfoil.

‘Hah!' she sneers. ‘You can't answer me that, can you?'

‘Yes I can,' I tell her, tearing off a piece of foil. ‘It gets me out of the house and away to hell from you for a few hours every day. And yeah, I suppose you're right, I should be very grateful to the wonderful Father Vincent for sparing me the agony of listening to you all day long. In fact, I think I might just kiss his holy arse as soon as he walks through the front door.'

‘Oh, that's typical of you,' she says, nodding, ‘dragging the conversation into the gutter. You always love to use shock tactics, don't you, with your tarty clothes and your foul mouth and your bad attitude. But where has it got you, eh?'

‘Go up to my wardrobe,' I say, pointing to the door, ‘and get me one item of my clothing that you consider tarty. Go on.'

‘I'm not talking about what you wear nowadays.'

‘Oh, I see. So you just want to drag up the past again, is that it?'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘Calling me stupid now, are you? And you think that
I
have a bad attitude.'

‘As usual you're twisting my words, Frances, and well you know it.'

‘How can anyone twist the meaning of “Don't be stupid”?

If I can do that, I'm not so stupid after all.'

‘Oh no, you're a real clever clogs all right,' she says. ‘Look at you – nearly thirty-five years of age, no husband, no children and still dependent on your parents. That's some success story, I must say.'

‘Fuck you, Mother,' I say, looking her right in the eye. ‘You know what? I hate your guts. How does that feel, your only child hating you? That's an equally outstanding success story, don't you think?'

‘If that's how you feel, you know where the door is, don't you?'

‘She really knew how to hit where it hurt.'

‘Pardon?' the bangharda says.

‘My mother knew I couldn't leave.'

‘Leave where?'

‘Home. I tried. I shared a house in Castleowen with a couple of girls for three or four months, but I didn't work out. It's hard to get close to people when you can't tell them what's really going on in your head.'

‘Take it easy,' she says, patting my shoulder.

‘I think the girls got fed up trying to figure me out. When they started ignoring me, I took the hint and packed my bags. I was better off at home, where I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't.'

Most of the Guards are nice to me, especially Sergeant Hennessy. He's not angry with me at all; he says he understands.

‘The baby has been taken to the hospital for a check-up,' he says.

‘But I didn't harm him.'

‘I don't doubt you, Frances, but we have to follow procedures.'

Most of the legal stuff he talks about goes right over my head. I don't care about my rights. I just want to go home.

I answer all their questions – my solicitor's, Sergeant Hennessy's, the bangharda's – and they take endless notes. I tell them everything they want to know. When the interview is over, the bangharda switches off the tape-recorder and my solicitor tells me he'll see me in the morning. As soon as he leaves, Sergeant Hennessy suggests that I ring my father.

‘You might be glad of a friendly face in the courtroom tomorrow, and I'm sure he'd like to be there for you.'

‘No.'

‘Your name will probably be released to the press tomorrow, Frances. You don't want him hearing about your arrest on the one o'clock news, do you?'

‘Oh, God no!' I bite my lip. ‘
You
ring him and tell him what I've done. And if he wants to talk to me after that, then fine, I'll talk to him.'

I become teary as Sergeant Hennessy explains the situation to my father.

‘The poor girl is very distressed, Mister Fall,' he says. ‘What she needs right now is the support of her family. And you, I believe, are the only family she's got.'

He pushes the bridge of his glasses up on his nose. ‘Yes, yes, of course I understand that this must be terribly upsetting for you, but the lassie is in a state of shock herself.'

‘It's OK,' I say, raising my hand, ‘I don't want to talk to him.'

‘Well, you could always ask her that question yourself; she's here beside me,' he says, nodding at me.

I shake my head.

‘He wants to talk to you. It'll be OK,' he says, handing me the phone.

‘Hello, Daddy,' I utter, barely above a whisper. ‘Daddy, are you still there?'

‘Frances, what have you gone and done?' He sounds so old, so feeble.

‘I'm sorry, Daddy.'

‘What in God's name were you thinking of ?'

‘I don't know,' I sob. ‘I really don't know. I just wanted a baby.'

‘So you went out and stole one!'

‘No … yes, I know that's what I did but –'

‘When you spoke to me earlier on, did you have the baby with you?'

‘Yes. He was asleep.'

‘Dear God!' he sighs. ‘Dear, dear God!'

‘It's all right; the baby's fine.'

‘And what about the poor mother – is she fine? Will she ever be fine again?'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't plan it, honest. It just happened.'

‘How could you do that to any mother?'

‘I don't know. I can't explain it. It felt like the right thing to do at the time. But I know now that it wasn't. I never meant to hurt anyone, I swear.'

‘You never do, do you?'

‘Oh, Daddy, if I could turn the clock back …'

‘All I can say to you, Frances, is thank God your poor mother's not around to suffer the shame of this.'

I drop the receiver on the desk and turn away, burying my face in my hands.

My father has already hung up.

‘It'll be the shock,' Sergeant Hennessy says, replacing the receiver. ‘Give him time; he'll come round.'

I have this dream sometimes.

I'm doing a jigsaw puzzle, a thousand pieces. Though it's difficult, I'm making progress. I have all the edges done, lots of background, but in the centre there are holes, people without faces – I don't know what they're thinking – fingers
pointing at blank pieces, hands holding empty spaces. It's almost complete, but I still don't know what the picture is trying to tell me. Frantically, I search every corner of the room for the missing pieces – under the table, behind cushions, in drawers. And then I find the empty box in a cupboard; it's upside-down, so I pull it out and turn it over to look at the lid. I have to see what the picture is supposed to look like. But when I do, the gaps are still there, staring out at me like ghoulish eyes. I shake the empty box and that's when I wake up, every time, still shaking.

It's been lashing rain all day. I haven't been able to get out for my walk and I'm feeling all cooped up. From my window I can see a man dashing from his car towards the front of the building holding a newspaper over his head.

Run run as fast as you can …

It's a dull, drizzly September afternoon. I've just turned seventeen, and I'm in my fifth and final year at secondary school. Lesley and I are propped up on the classroom windowsill during lunch break and, as usual, she has no lunch with her. I offer her a cheese sandwich.

‘They're not slices of bread,' she says, curling her lip, ‘they're slabs. Has your mother never heard of the sliced pan?'

‘You don't want it then?'

‘No, thanks. I'd rather starve.'

I take a bite, more to fill the hole in my stomach than for pleasure.

‘Would you look at that shower of eejits?' Lesley says, looking out of the window at the girls from the cross-country team who are jogging by in their shorts and T-shirts like a posse of drowned rats.

‘Talk about gluttons for punishment,' I say.

‘Jesus! The big rosy cheeks on that Hickey one.'

‘God, yeah, you could fry an egg on them.'

‘Hickey by name, hickey by nature. Look at the legs on her, would ya? All joking aside, I've seen thinner tree trunks.'

‘And that boulder of a backside must weigh a ton,' I say smugly. ‘Any wonder she's paddy last?'

‘No she's not,' Lesley sniggers. ‘Here's Mulcahy coming round the corner.'

‘Gawd, to think that this time last year,
that
was my best friend,' I say, cringing.

‘Move your sweaty arse, ya gom ya,' Lesley shouts, tapping the window.

Kat looks up and gives us a wave. I turn away to laugh. Lesley waves back. When Kat turns the corner and there's nobody left to make fun of, Lesley sighs and says she's bored.

‘Do you want to go down to the bicycle shed for a fag?' I ask her.

‘May as well, I suppose, but let's head over to the refectory first and see if we can scrounge some grub. I'd eat the face off a scabby pig.'

‘But not my cheese sandwich.'

‘Definitely not your cheese sandwich.'

The shortest route to the refectory is across the courtyard from the main doors of the school.

‘Hang on a sec,' Lesley says, sitting down on the steps outside. ‘Here's the bread man. Perfect timing.'

The bread man is a fast-talking, middle-aged, bald man who, for as long as I can remember, has been delivering supplies to the convent every Wednesday between noon and two o'clock. If he happens to arrive during the lunch break, Lesley nicks a handful of goodies from the back of the van while he is carrying in trays of loaves, cakes and buns to the refectory. Luckily for us, he allows Sister Bernadine, the old doting nun, to talk him into having a quick cup of tea before he gets back on the road.

‘One of these days he'll skip the tea and you'll get caught,' I tell Lesley.

‘I don't care. The way I see it is, if the poxy boarders can eat cake, then so can we.'

A few yards away from us, the van pulls up.

‘You do the usual, right?' she says.

‘Right.'

The usual is me keeping an eye on the refectory door and coughing when I hear the bread man saying, ‘That was lovely. Thanks, Sister. It's hard to beat the cuppa tea.'

The van door opens, and a lad of about twenty jumps out.

‘It's a new fella,' I say, digging Lesley in the ribs.

He walks round to the back of the van and opens the door.

‘Would you look at the strut of him?' Lesley says. ‘He thinks he's hot shit.'

Inside the back of the van, he stacks loaves on to a tray.

‘And what's more,' Lesley says, ogling him, ‘
I
think he's hot shit.'

‘What about Buster?' Buster is Lesley's latest boyfriend. He's lasted all of three weeks – a record.

‘Fuck him. You can have him if you like.'

‘But he doesn't fancy me.'

‘He thinks you're good-looking.'

‘Did he say that?'

‘Yeah.'

‘When?'

‘I forget. Now, will you shut up! I'm trying to keep my eye on this fella so's I'll know when to make my move.'

‘You're not going to chance robbing off
him
, are you?' I say, as he steps down from the back of the van.

He notices us watching him and winks.

‘I certainly am,' Lesley says, grinning. ‘And what's more, I'm gonna make sure I get caught.'

‘Are you mad? Why?'

‘Stay there,' she says, running across the courtyard and climbing into the back of the van.

‘If you get caught,' I say, walking towards her, ‘you'll be expelled.' She's leaning against a rack of bread with a jam roll in her hand. ‘Oh shite!' I giggle nervously, ‘here he's coming now.'

‘Hiya,' he says, strolling towards me with a spring in his step.

‘Hello.'

He looks into the back of the van and sees Lesley.

‘What are you doing in there?' He has a strong Northern accent.

‘Having a snack,' Lesley says, tearing the wrapping off the jam roll.

‘Hey,' he says, looking at her in amazement. ‘I hope you're gonna pay for that.'

‘I don't have any cash on me. Is there any other way I can pay you?'

‘You're a cheeky wee mare, aren't you?' he says, jumping into the back of the van beside her.

‘Yeah,' she says, running her finger round the swirl of jam and rubbing it on to the tip of his nose.

‘Ya wee rip ya,' he laughs, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his white coat.

‘Ya wee rip ya,' Lesley imitates his accent.

‘Will you tell her to get out?' he says, looking at me. ‘If them nuns catch her in here, I'll end up getting the sack.'

‘Come on, will you, Lesley?'

‘OK, OK,' she says, lifting another jam roll and jumping out.

‘Gimme that back,' the fella says, holding out his hand. ‘One's enough for youse.'

Lesley stuffs it up her jumper. ‘If you want it, come and get it.'

He shakes his head and starts restacking the tray. ‘Youse convent girls are stone mad, so youse are,' he says. ‘Fucking mental.'

I like him. He's good crack.

‘Where are you from?' Lesley asks.

‘Enniskillen.'

‘Are you orange or green?'

‘Guess.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Johnny.'

‘Mmm. Surname?'

‘Connolly.'

‘Definitely green.'

‘Aye,' he says, stepping down with a trayful of goodies. ‘Now let me past, will ya, before that wee nun in there sends out a search party for me?'

‘I want him, Frances,' Lesley says as soon as he's out of sight.