I hear Bill outside, laughing with John. Smoking, no doubt. I’ve asked him a hundred times not to smoke.
‘I never had a chance to talk to the other two. Are they twins or what?’
‘They could be. Ah, but the child was beautiful, wasn’t she?’
Rather than answering me, she lets a silence sit between us. The sort of silence that anticipates somebody saying something awkward.
I wouldn’t say I’ve taken it too far. She takes a breath in, but lets it out without speaking. She is building up to something. How embarrassing, I really hope I haven’t taken it too far talking about the child. I hope we aren’t about to dredge up all my failings once more. The cleanup is more or less done when she comes out with what she is holding in.
‘Do you think Bill would have a few hours’ work to give Tom? John says he sounds desperate enough.’
All that anticipation, for this? I suppose not everything is about children, having and not having them. I suppose Ciara doesn’t pick up on all these subtleties, the way I would have expected her to by now. Or perhaps she does, and knows better than to mention them.
‘Well, he could probably give him a few hours alright, but not enough work to support the family. I wouldn’t want to insult him.’
‘Sure three of them are adults, can’t they all get a bit of work?’
How easily we move on from the little girl. Although a part of me can’t move on from her. A child without a mother, such a shame.
‘What did you make of your one, Anna?’
Ciara asks me.
‘Era, she seems harmless enough.’
Jack
THE EVENING SKY HAS BEENbrewing all day, and now it sits, lilac and dense on the town. Low and close. It feels like, in a minute, the sky will leak in the window and flood the cottage. The Sacred Heart of Jesus framed next to the door. The flame of his heart. The black inferno in his eyes. And I, every day, scalded by this heat. Tom, every day, blessing himself and sending a kiss to the heart. Anna, sighing into the electric bulb. Peggy sits alongside me, doing her lessons. I want to help her, but she doesn’t seem to need it. But I can no longer let my eyes drift between the impending sky and his burning heart.
‘Explain these sums to me, will you, Peg? You’re a great girl for the maths.’
If I can’t help her, perhaps she can help me. She really is so clever. I hope that it will carry her out of Ballycrea. She is too focused to answer me, it seems.
Anna is huffing her way around the room as though she can hardly breathe. Daddy used to say she was prone to tantrums. You’d think at twenty-six she’d be grown out of that. You’d think at twenty-eight, I’d have the nerve to tell her to cop on. A part of me would like to give her the attention she’s after. I’d like to say what we are all thinking, and shine a hideous spotlight on her. One so bright and so focused, it would reduce her to ash.
Tom sits next to me. She puts a bowl of porridge before him. The same colour as your hair.
‘How’s the head now?’
I ask him, hoping to get away from my own thoughts. Maybe he has something funny to say about last night. Maybe he met some nice people. He’s the one who wanted to go out, after all. But he ignores me. I’ll try Peggy again.
‘Tell us about school, Peg, what kind is your teacher?’
Although she has already told me twice, Tom and Anna don’t seem to have asked her about her new school at all. I want Peggy to feel important, because she is a part of the family. I don’t want her to grow up feeling like a consequence that we were burdened with, the way she is so often treated. I want somebody to talk about something, so that I’m not responsible for my thoughts. Just as she starts to speak, Tom cuts across her.
‘Daddy’s birthday today.’
He says softly, nodding to Anna’s back, he pushes his bowl away and lights a cigarette. I squeeze Peggy’s hand and realise that all day, I didn’t think of Daddy. I forgot. Isn’t that scary? I suppose that’s a part of moving on, isn’t it? I got over Mammy and Daddy at a normal rate, I did. There is so much standing in the way of me getting over you.
I suppose Daddy’s birthday is what’s wrong with Anna. Hopefully now that Tom has mentioned it, the sting has been taken out.
‘That’s right. Bittersweet.’
She says without much feeling, probably just something that she has learned to say. She puts my bowl of porridge down for me.
‘Nearly sixteen years he’s dead, imagine.’
Tom exhales, not caring whether Peggy understands.
